Chapter 2

It was some time before I could sufficiently accustom myself to my new
life in the Isle of Portland to be able to think clearly and distinctly
about the terrible blow that had fallen upon me. In the midst of all the
petty troubles and discomforts of prison existence, I had no leisure at
first fully to realize the fact that I was a convicted felon with
scarcely a hope--not of release; for that I cared little--but of
rehabilitation.

Slowly, however, I began to grow habituated to the new hard life imposed
upon me, and to think in my cell of the web of circumstance which had
woven itself so irresistibly around me.

I had only one hope. Emily knew I was innocent. Emily suspected, like
me, that the Wulfric had been stolen. Emily would do her best, I felt
certain, to heap together fresh evidence, and unravel this mystery to
its very bottom.

Meanwhile, I thanked Heaven for the hard mechanical daily toil of
cutting stone in Portland prison. I was a strong athletic young fellow
enough. I was glad now that I had always loved the river at Oxford; my
arms were stout and muscular. I was able to take my part in the regular
work of the gang to which I belonged. Had it been otherwise--had I been
set down to some quiet sedentary occupation, as first-class
misdemeanants often are, I should have worn my heart out soon with
thinking perpetually of poor Emily's terrible trouble.

When I first came, the Deputy-Governor, knowing my case well (had there
not been leaders about me in all the papers?), very kindly asked me
whether I would wish to be given work in the book-keeping department,
where many educated convicts were employed as clerks and assistants. But
I begged particularly to be put into an outdoor gang, where I might have
to use my limbs constantly, and so keep my mind from eating itself up
with perpetual thinking. The Deputy-Governor immediately consented, and
gave me work in a quarrying gang, at the west end of the island, near
Deadman's Bay on the edge of the Chesil.

For three months I worked hard at learning the trade of a quarryman, and
succeeded far better than any of the other new hands who were set to
learn at the same time with me. Their heart was not in it; mine was.
Anything to escape that gnawing agony.

The other men in the gang were not agreeable or congenial companions.
They taught me their established modes of intercommunication, and told
me several facts about themselves, which did not tend to endear them to
me. One of them, 1247, was put in for the manslaughter of his wife by
kicking; he was a low-browed, brutal London drayman, and he occupied the
next cell to mine, where he disturbed me much in my sleepless nights by
his loud snoring. Another, a much slighter and more intelligent-looking
man, was a skilled burglar, sentenced to fourteen years for "cracking a
crib" in the neighbourhood of Hampstead. A third was a sailor, convicted
of gross cruelty to a defenceless Lascar. They all told me the nature of
their crimes with a brutal frankness which fairly surprised me; but when
I explained to them in return that I had been put in upon a false
accusation, they treated my remarks with a galling contempt that was
absolutely unsupportable. After a short time I ceased to communicate
with my fellow-prisoners in any way, and remained shut up with my own
thoughts in utter isolation.

By-and-by I found that the other men in the same gang were beginning to
dislike me strongly, and that some among them actually whispered to one
another--what they seemed to consider a very strong point indeed against
me--that I must really have been convicted by mistake, and that I was a
regular stuck-up sneaking Methodist. They complained that I worked a
great deal too hard, and so made the other felons seem lazy by
comparison; and they also objected to my prompt obedience to our
warder's commands, as tending to set up an exaggerated and impossible
standard of discipline.

Between this warder and myself, on the other hand, there soon sprang up
a feeling which I might almost describe as one of friendship. Though by
the rules of the establishment we could not communicate with one another
except upon matters of business, I liked him for his uniform courtesy,
kindliness, and forbearance; while I could easily see that he liked me
in return, by contrast with the other men who were under his charge. He
was one of those persons whom some experience of prisons then and since
has led me to believe less rare than most people would imagine--men in
whom the dreary life of a prison warder, instead of engendering hardness
of heart and cold unsympathetic sternness, has engendered a certain
profound tenderness and melancholy of spirit. I grew quite fond of that
one honest warder, among so many coarse and criminal faces; and I found,
on the other hand, that my fellow-prisoners hated me all the more
because, as they expressed it in their own disgusting jargon, I was
sucking up to that confounded dog of a barker. It happened once, when I
was left for a few minutes alone with the warder, that he made an
attempt for a moment, contrary to regulations, to hold a little private
conversation with me.

"1430," he said in a low voice, hardly moving his lips, for fear of
being overlooked, "what is your outside name?"

I answered quietly, without turning to look at him, "Harold Tait."

He gave a little involuntary start. "What!" he cried. "Not him that took
a coin from the British Museum?"

I bridled up angrily. "I did not take it," I cried with all my soul. "I
am innocent, and have been put in here by some terrible error."

He was silent for half a second. Then he said musingly, "Sir, I believe
you. You are speaking the truth. I will do all I can to make things easy
for you."

That was all he said then. But from that day forth he always spoke to me
in private as "Sir," and never again as "1430."

An incident arose at last out of this condition of things which had a
very important effect upon my future position.

One day, about three months after I was committed to prison, we were all
told off as usual to work in a small quarry on the cliff-side
overhanging the long expanse of pebbly beach known as the Chesil. I had
reason to believe afterwards that a large open fishing boat lying upon
the beach below at the moment had been placed there as part of a
concerted scheme by the friends of the Hampstead burglar; and that it
contained ordinary clothing for all the men in our gang, except myself
only. The idea was evidently that the gang should overpower the warder,
seize the boat, change their clothes instantly, taking turns about
meanwhile with the navigation, and make straight off for the shore at
Lulworth, where they could easily disperse without much chance of being
recaptured. But of all this I was of course quite ignorant at the time,
for they had not thought well to intrust their secret to the ears of the
sneaking virtuous Methodist.

A few minutes after we arrived at the quarry, I was working with two
other men at putting a blast in, when I happened to look round quite
accidentally, and to my great horror, saw 1247, the brutal wife-kicker,
standing behind with a huge block of stone in his hands, poised just
above the warder's head, in a threatening attitude. The other men stood
around waiting and watching. I had only just time to cry out in a tone
of alarm, "Take care, warder, he'll murder you!" when the stone
descended upon the warder's head, and he fell at once, bleeding and half
senseless, upon the ground beside me. In a second, while he shrieked and
struggled, the whole gang was pressing savagely and angrily around him.

There was no time to think or hesitate. Before I knew almost what I was
doing, I had seized his gun and ammunition, and, standing over his
prostrate body, I held the men at bay for a single moment. Then 1247
advanced threateningly, and tried to put his foot upon the fallen
warder.

I didn't wait or reflect one solitary second. I drew the trigger, and
fired full upon him. The bang sounded fiercely in my ears, and for a
moment I could see nothing through the smoke of the rifle.

With a terrible shriek he fell in front of me, not dead, but seriously
wounded.

"The boat, the boat," the others cried loudly. "Knock him down! Kill
him! Take the boat, all of you."

At that moment the report of my shot had brought another warder hastily
to the top of the quarry.

"Help, help!" I cried. "Come quick, and save us. These brutes are trying
to murder our warder!"

The man rushed back to call for aid; but the way down the zigzag path
was steep and tortuous, and it was some time before they could manage to
get down and succour us.

Meanwhile the other convicts pressed savagely around us, trying to jump
upon the warder's body and force their way past to the beach beneath us.
I fired again, for the rifle was double-barrelled; but it was impossible
to reload in such a tumult, so, after the next shot, which hit no one,
I laid about me fiercely with the butt end of the gun, and succeeded in
knocking down four of the savages, one after another. By that time the
warders from above had safely reached us, and formed a circle of fixed
bayonets around the rebellious prisoners.

"Thank God!" I cried, flinging down the rifle, and rushing up to the
prostrate warder. "He is still alive. He is breathing! He is breathing!"

"Yes," he murmured in a faint voice, "I am alive, and I thank you for
it. But for you, sir, these fellows here would certainly have murdered
me."

"You are badly wounded yourself, 1430," one of the other warders said to
me, as the rebels were rapidly secured and marched off sullenly back to
prison. "Look, your own arm is bleeding fiercely."

Then for the first time I was aware that I was one mass of wounds from
head to foot, and that I was growing faint from loss of blood. In
defending the fallen warder I had got punched and pummelled on every
side, just the same as one used to get long ago in a bully at football
when I was a boy at Rugby, only much more seriously.

The warders brought down seven stretchers: one for me; one for the
wounded warder; one for 1247, whom I had shot; and four for the convicts
whom I had knocked over with the butt end of the rifle. They carried us
up on them, strongly guarded, in a long procession.

At the door of the infirmary the Governor met us. "1430," he said to me,
in a very kind voice, "you have behaved most admirably. I saw you myself
quite distinctly from my drawing-room windows. Your bravery and
intrepidity are well deserving of the highest recognition."

"Sir," I answered, "I have only tried to do my duty. I couldn't stand by
and see an innocent man murdered by such a pack of bloodthirsty
ruffians."

The Governor turned aside a little surprised. "Who is 1430?" he asked
quietly.

A subordinate, consulting a book, whispered my name and supposed crime
to him confidentially. The Governor nodded twice, and seemed to be
satisfied.

"Sir," the wounded warder said faintly from his stretcher, "1430 is an
innocent man unjustly condemned, if ever there was one."

II.

On the Thursday week following, when my wounds were all getting well,
the whole body of convicts was duly paraded at half-past eleven in front
of the Governor's house.

The Governor came out, holding an official-looking paper in his right
hand. "No. 1430," he said in a loud voice, "stand forward." And I stood
forward.

"No. 1430, I have the pleasant duty of informing you, in face of all
your fellow-prisoners, that your heroism and self-devotion in saving the
life of Warder James Woollacott, when he was attacked and almost
overpowered on the twentieth of this month by a gang of rebellious
convicts, has been reported to Her Majesty's Secretary of State for the
Home Department; and that on his recommendation Her Majesty has been
graciously pleased to grant you a Free Pardon for the remainder of the
time during which you were sentenced to penal servitude."

For a moment I felt quite stunned and speechless. I reeled on my feet so
much that two of the warders jumped forward to support me. It was a
great thing to have at least one's freedom. But in another minute the
real meaning of the thing came clearer upon me, and I recoiled from the
bare sound of those horrid words, a free pardon. I didn't want to be
pardoned like a convicted felon: I wanted to have my innocence proved
before the eyes of all England. For my own sake, and still more for
Emily's sake, rehabilitation was all I cared for.

"Sir," I said, touching my cap respectfully, and saluting the Governor
according to our wonted prison discipline, "I am very greatly obliged to
you for your kindness in having made this representation to the Home
Secretary; but I feel compelled to say I cannot accept a free pardon. I
am wholly guiltless of the crime of which I have been convicted; and I
wish that instead of pardoning me the Home Secretary would give
instructions to the detective police to make a thorough investigation of
the case, with the object of proving my complete innocence. Till that is
done, I prefer to remain an inmate of Portland Prison. What I wish is
not pardon, but to be restored as an honest man to the society of my
equals."

The Governor paused for a moment, and consulted quietly in an undertone
with one or two of his subordinates. Then he turned to me with great
kindness, and said in a loud voice, "No. 1430, I have no power any
longer to detain you in this prison, even if I wished to do so, after
you have once obtained Her Majesty's free pardon. My duty is to dismiss
you at once, in accordance with the terms of this document. However, I
will communicate the substance of your request to the Home Secretary,
with whom such a petition, so made, will doubtless have the full weight
that may rightly attach to it. You must now go with these warders, who
will restore you your own clothes, and then formally set you at liberty.
But if there is anything further you would wish to speak to me about,
you can do so afterward in your private capacity as a free man at two
o'clock in my own office."

I thanked him quietly and then withdrew. At two o'clock I duly presented
myself in ordinary clothes at the Governor's office.

We had a long and confidential interview, in the course of which I was
able to narrate to the Governor at full length all the facts of my
strange story exactly as I have here detailed them. He listened to me
with the greatest interest, checking and confirming my statements at
length by reference to the file of papers brought to him by a clerk.
When I had finished my whole story, he said to me quite simply, "Mr.
Tait, it may be imprudent of me in my position and under such peculiar
circumstances to say so, but I fully and unreservedly believe your
statement. If anything that I can say or do can be of any assistance to
you in proving your innocence, I shall be very happy indeed to exert all
my influence in your favour."

I thanked him warmly with tears in my eyes.

"And there is one point in your story," he went on, "to which I, who
have seen a good deal of such doubtful cases, attach the very highest
importance. You say that gold clippings, pronounced to be similar in
character to the gold Wulfric, were found shortly after by a cleaner at
the Museum on the cocoa-nut matting of the floor where the coin was
examined by you?"

I nodded, blushing crimson. "That," I said, "seems to me the strangest
and most damning circumstance against me in the whole story."

"Precisely," the Governor answered quietly. "And if what you say is the
truth (as I believe it to be), it is also the circumstance which best
gives us a clue to use against the real culprit. The person who stole
the coin was too clever by half, or else not quite clever enough for his
own protection. In manufacturing that last fatal piece of evidence
against you he was also giving you a certain clue to his own identity."

"How so?" I asked, breathless.

"Why, don't you see? The thief must in all probability have been
somebody connected with the Museum. He must have seen you comparing the
Wulfric with your own coin. He must have picked it up and carried it
off secretly at the moment you dropped it. He must have clipped the
coin to manufacture further hostile evidence. And he must have dropped
the clippings afterwards on the cocoa-nut matting in the same gallery on
purpose in order to heighten the suspicion against you."

"You are right," I cried, brightening up at the luminous
suggestion--"you are right, obviously. And there is only one man who
could have seen and heard enough to carry out this abominable
plot--Mactavish!"

"Well, find him out and prove the case against him, Mr. Tait," the
Governor said warmly, "and if you send him here to us I can promise you
that he will be well taken care of."

I bowed and thanked him, and was about to withdraw, but he held out his
hand to me with perfect frankness.

"Mr. Tait," he said, "I can't let you go away so. Let me have your hand
in token that you bear us no grudge for the way we have treated you
during your unfortunate imprisonment, and that I, for my part, am
absolutely satisfied of the truth of your statement."

III.

The moment I arrived in London I drove straight off without delay to
Emily's. I had telegraphed beforehand that I had been granted a free
pardon, but had not stopped to tell her why or under what conditions.

Emily met me in tears in the passage. "Harold! Harold!" she cried,
flinging her arms wildly around me. "Oh, my darling! my darling! how can
I ever say it to you? Mamma says she won't allow me to see you here any
longer."

It was a terrible blow, but I was not unprepared for it. How could I
expect that poor, conventional, commonplace old lady to have any faith
in me after all she had read about me in the newspapers?

"Emily," I said, kissing her over and over again tenderly, "you must
come out with me, then, this very minute, for I want to talk with you
over matters of importance. Whether your mother wishes it or not, you
must come out with me this very minute."

Emily put on her bonnet hastily and walked out with me into the streets
of London. It was growing dark, and the neighbourhood was a very quiet
one; or else perhaps even my own Emily would have felt a little ashamed
of walking about the streets of London with a man whose hair was still
cropped short around his head like a common felon's.

I told her all the story of my release, and Emily listened to it in
profound silence.

"Harold!" she cried, "my darling Harold!" (when I told her the tale of
my desperate battle over the fallen warder), "you are the bravest and
best of men. I knew you would vindicate yourself sooner or later. What
we have to do now is to show that Mactavish stole the Wulfric. I know he
stole it; I read it at the trial in his clean-shaven villain's face. I
shall prove it still, and then you will be justified in the eyes of
everybody."

"But how can we manage to communicate meanwhile, darling?" I cried
eagerly. "If your mother won't allow you to see me, how are we ever to
meet and consult about it?"

"There's only one way, Harold--only one way; and as things now stand you
mustn't think it strange of me to propose it. Harold, you must marry me
immediately, whether mamma will let us or not!"

"Emily!" I cried, "my own darling! your confidence and trust in me makes
me I can't tell you how proud and happy. That you should be willing to
marry me even while I am under such a cloud as this gives me a greater
proof of your love than anything else you could possibly do for me. But,
darling, I am too proud to take you at your word. For your sake, Emily,
I will never marry you until all the world has been compelled
unreservedly to admit my innocence."

Emily blushed and cried a little. "As you will, Harold, dearest," she
answered, trembling, "I can afford to wait for you. I know that in the
end the truth will be established."

IV.

A week or two later I was astonished one morning at receiving a visit in
my London lodgings from the warder Woollacott, whose life I had been
happily instrumental in saving at Portland Prison.

"Well, sir," he said, grasping my hand warmly and gratefully, "you see I
haven't yet entirely recovered from that terrible morning. I shall bear
the marks of it about me for the remainder of my lifetime. The Governor
says I shall never again be fit for duty, so they've pensioned me off
very honourable."

I told him how pleased I was that he should have been liberally treated,
and then we fell into conversation about myself and the means of
re-establishing my perfect innocence.

"Sir," said he, "I shall have plenty of leisure, and shall be
comfortably off now. If there's anything that I can do to be of service
to you in the matter, I shall gladly do it. My time is entirely at your
disposal."

I thanked him warmly, but told him that the affair was already in the
hands of the regular detectives, who had been set to work upon it by the
Governor's influence with the Home Secretary.

By-and-by I happened to mention confidentially to him my suspicions of
the man Mactavish. An idea seemed to occur to the warder suddenly; but
he said not a word to me about it at the time. A few days later,
however, he came back to me quietly and said, in a confidential tone of
voice, "Well, sir, I think we may still manage to square him."

"Square who, Mr. Woollacott? I don't understand you."

"Why, Mactavish, sir. I found out he had a small house near the Museum,
and his wife lets a lodging there for a single man. I've gone and taken
the lodging, and I shall see whether in the course of time something or
other doesn't come out of it."

I smiled and thanked him for his enthusiasm in my cause; but I confess I
didn't see how anything on earth of any use to me was likely to arise
from this strange proceeding on his part.

V.

It was that same week, I believe, that I received two other unexpected
visitors. They came together. One of them was the Superintendent of
Coins at the British Museum; the other was the well-known antiquary and
great authority upon the Anglo-Saxon coinage, Sir Theophilus Wraxton.

"Mr. Tait," the superintendent began, not without some touch of natural
shamefacedness in his voice and manner, "I have reason to believe that I
may possibly have been mistaken in my positive identification of the
coin you showed me that day at the Museum as our own specimen of the
gold Wulfric. If I _was_ mistaken, then I have unintentionally done you
a most grievous wrong; and for that wrong, should my suspicions turn out
ill-founded, I shall owe you the deepest and most heartfelt apologies.
But the only reparation I can possibly make you is the one I am doing
to-day by bringing here my friend Sir Theophilus Wraxton. He has a
communication of some importance to make to you; and if he is right, I
can only beg your pardon most humbly for the error I have committed in
what I believed to be the discharge of my duties."

"Sir," I answered, "I saw at the time you were the victim of a mistake,
as I was the victim of a most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances;
and I bear you no grudge whatsoever for the part you bore in subjecting
me to what is really in itself a most unjust and unfounded suspicion.
You only did what you believed to be your plain duty; and you did it
with marked reluctance, and with every desire to leave me every possible
loophole of escape from what you conceived as a momentary yielding to a
vile temptation. But what is it that Sir Theophilus Wraxton wishes to
tell me?"

"Well, my dear sir," the old gentleman began, warmly, "I haven't the
slightest doubt in the world myself that you have been quite
unwarrantably disbelieved about a plain matter of fact that ought at
once to have been immediately apparent to anybody who knew anything in
the world about the gold Anglo-Saxon coinage. No reflection in the world
upon you, Harbourne, my dear friend--no reflection in the world upon you
in the matter; but you must admit that you've been pig-headedly hasty in
jumping to a conclusion, and ignorantly determined in sticking to it
against better evidence. My dear sir, I haven't the very slightest doubt
in the world that the coin now in the British Museum is _not_ the one
which I have seen there previously, and which I have figured in the
third volume of my 'Early Northumbrian and Mercian Numismatist!' Quite
otherwise; quite otherwise, I assure you."

"How do you recognize that it is different, sir?" I cried excitedly.
"The two coins were struck at just the same mint from the same die, and
I examined them closely together, and saw absolutely no difference
between them, except the dent and the amount of the clipping."

"Quite true, quite true," the old gentleman replied with great
deliberation. "But look here, sir. Here is the drawing I took of the
Museum Wulfric fourteen years ago, for the third volume of my
'Northumbrian Numismatist.' That drawing was made with the aid of
careful measurements, which you will find detailed in the text at page
230. Now, here again is the duplicate Wulfric--permit me to call it
_your_ Wulfric; and if you will compare the two you'll find, I think,
that though your Wulfric is a great deal smaller than the original one,
taken as a whole, yet on one diameter, the diameter from the letter U in
Wulfric to the letter R in Rex, it is nearly an eighth of an inch
broader than the specimen I have there figured. Well, sir, you may cut
as much as you like off a coin, and make it smaller; but hang me if by
cutting away at it for all your lifetime you can make it an eighth of an
inch broader anyhow, in any direction."

I looked immediately at the coin, the drawing, and the measurements in
the book, and saw at a glance that Sir Theophilus was right.

"How on earth did you find it out?" I asked the bland old gentleman,
breathlessly.

"Why, my dear sir, I remembered the old coin perfectly, having been so
very particular in my drawing and measurement; and the moment I clapped
eyes on the other one yesterday, I said to my good friend Harbourne,
here: 'Harbourne,' said I, 'somebody's been changing your Wulfric in the
case over yonder for another specimen.' 'Changing it!' said Harbourne:
'not a bit of it; clipping it, you mean.' 'No, no, my good fellow,' said
I: 'do you suppose I don't know the same coin again when I see it, and
at my time of life too? This is another coin, not the same one clipped.
It's bigger across than the old one from there to there.' 'No, it
isn't,' says he. 'But it is,' I answer. 'Just you look in my
"Northumbrian and Mercian" and see if it isn't so.' 'You must be
mistaken,' says Harbourne. 'If I am, I'll eat my head,' says I. Well,
we get down the 'Numismatist' from the bookshelf then and there; and
sure enough, it turns out just as I told him. Harbourne turned as white
as a ghost, I can tell you, as soon as he discovered it. 'Why,' says he,
'I've sent a poor young fellow off to Portland Prison, only three or
four months ago, for stealing that very Wulfric.' And then he told me
all the story. 'Very well,' said I, 'then the only thing you've got to
do is just to go and call on him to-morrow, and let him know that you've
had it proved to you, fairly proved to you, that this is not the
original Wulfric.'"

"Sir Theophilus," I said, "I'm much obliged to you. What you point out
is by far the most important piece of evidence I've yet had to offer.
Mr. Harbourne, have you kept the gold clippings that were found that
morning on the cocoa-nut matting?"

"I have, Mr. Tait," the superintendent answered anxiously. "And Sir
Theophilus and I have been trying to fit them upon the coin in the
Museum shelves; and I am bound to admit I quite agree with him that they
must have been cut off a specimen decidedly larger in one diameter and
smaller in another than the existing one--in short, that they do not fit
the clipped Wulfric now in the Museum."

VI.

It was just a fortnight later that I received quite unexpectedly a
telegram from Rome directed to me at my London lodgings. I tore it open
hastily; it was signed by Emily, and contained only these few words: "We
have found the Museum Wulfric. The superintendent is coming over to
identify and reclaim it. Can you manage to run across immediately with
him?"

For a moment I was lost in astonishment, delight, and fear. How and why
had Emily gone over to Rome? Who could she have with her to take care
of her and assist her? How on earth had she tracked the missing coin to
its distant hiding-place? It was all a profound mystery to me; and after
my first outburst of joy and gratitude, I began to be afraid that Emily
might have been misled by her eagerness and anxiety into following up
the traces of the wrong coin.

However, I had no choice but to go to Rome and see the matter ended; and
I went alone, wearing out my soul through that long journey with
suspense and fear; for I had not managed to hit upon the superintendent,
who, through his telegram being delivered a little the sooner, had
caught a train six hours earlier than the one I went by.

As I arrived at the Central Station at Rome, I was met, to my surprise,
by a perfect crowd of familiar faces. First, Emily herself rushed to me,
kissed me, and assured me a hundred times over that it was all right,
and that the missing coin was undoubtedly recovered. Then, the
superintendent, more shamefaced than ever, and very grave, but with a
certain moisture in his eyes, confirmed her statement by saying that he
had got the real Museum Wulfric undoubtedly in his pocket. Then Sir
Theophilus, who had actually come across with Lady Wraxton on purpose to
take care of Emily, added his assurances and congratulations. Last of
all, Woollacott, the warder, stepped up to me and said simply, "I'm
glad, sir, that it was through me as it all came out so right and even."

"Tell me how it all happened," I cried, almost faint with joy, and still
wondering whether my innocence had really been proved beyond all fear of
cavil.

Then Woollacott began, and told me briefly the whole story. He had
consulted with the superintendent and Sir Theophilus, without saying a
word to me about it, and had kept a close watch upon all the letters
that came for Mactavish. A rare Anglo-Saxon coin is not a chattel that
one can easily get rid of every day; and Woollacott shrewdly gathered
from what Sir Theophilus had told him that Mactavish (or whoever else
had stolen the coin) would be likely to try to dispose of it as far away
from England as possible, especially after all the comments that had
been made on this particular Wulfric in the English newspapers. So he
took every opportunity of intercepting the postman at the front door,
and looking out for envelopes with foreign postage stamps. At last one
day a letter arrived for Mactavish with an Italian stamp and a
cardinal's red hat stamped like a crest on the flap of the envelope.
Woollacott was certain that things of that sort didn't come to Mactavish
every day about his ordinary business. Braving the penalties for
appropriating a letter, he took the liberty to open this suspicious
communication, and found it was a note from Cardinal Trevelyan, the
Pope's Chamberlain, and a well-known collector of antiquities referring
to early Church history in England, and that it was in reply to an offer
of Mactavish's to send the Cardinal for inspection a rare gold coin not
otherwise specified. The Cardinal expressed his readiness to see the
coin, and to pay a hundred and fifty pounds for it, if it proved to be
rare and genuine as described. Woollacott felt certain that this
communication must refer to the gold Wulfric. He therefore handed the
letter to Mrs. Mactavish when the postman next came his rounds, and
waited to see whether Mactavish any day afterwards went to the post to
register a small box or packet. Meanwhile he communicated with Emily and
the superintendent, being unwilling to buoy me up with a doubtful hope
until he was quite sure that their plan had succeeded. The
superintendent wrote immediately to the Cardinal, mentioning his
suspicions, and received a reply to the effect that he expected a coin
of Wulfric to be sent him shortly. Sir Theophilus, who had been greatly
interested in the question of the coin, kindly offered to take Emily
over to Rome, in order to get the criminating piece, as soon as it
arrived, from Cardinal Trevelyan. That was, in turn, the story that they
all told me, piece by piece, in the Central Station at Rome that
eventful morning.

"And Mactavish?" I asked of the superintendent eagerly.

"Is in custody in London already," he answered somewhat sternly. "I had
a warrant out against him before I left town on this journey."

At the trial the whole case was very clearly proved against him, and my
innocence was fully established before the face of all my
fellow-countrymen. A fortnight later my wife and I were among the rocks
and woods at Ambleside; and when I returned to London, it was to take a
place in the department of coins at the British Museum, which the
superintendent begged of me to accept as some further proof in the eyes
of everybody that the suspicion he had formed in the matter of the
Wulfric was a most unfounded and wholly erroneous one. The coin itself I
kept as a memento of a terrible experience; but I have given up
collecting on my own account entirely, and am quite content nowadays to
bear my share in guarding the national collection from other depredators
of the class of Mactavish.

_MY UNCLE'S WILL._

I.

"My dear Mr. Payne," said my deceased uncle's lawyer with an emphatic
wag of his forefinger, "I assure you there's no help for it. The
language of the will is perfectly simple and explicit. Either you must
do as your late uncle desired, or you must let the property go to the
representative of his deceased wife's family."

"But surely, Blenkinsopp," I said deprecatingly, "we might get the Court
of Chancery to set it aside, as being contrary to public policy, or
something of that sort. I know you can get the Court of Chancery to
affirm almost anything you ask them, especially if it's something a
little abstruse and out of the common; it gratifies the Court's opinion
of its own acumen. Now, clearly, it's contrary to public policy that a
man should go and make his own nephew ridiculous by his last will and
testament, isn't it?"

Mr. Blenkinsopp shook his head vigorously. "Bless my soul, Mr. Payne,"
he answered, helping himself to a comprehensive pinch from his snuff-box
(an odious habit, confined, I believe, at the present day to family
solicitors), "bless my soul, my dear sir, the thing's simply impossible.
Here's your uncle, the late Anthony Aikin, Esquire, deceased, a person
of sound mind and an adult male above the age of twenty-one years--to be
quite accurate, _oetatis suoe_, seventy-eight--makes his will, and
duly attests the same in the presence of two witnesses; everything quite
in order: not a single point open to exception in any way. Well, he
gives and bequeaths to his nephew, Theodore Payne, gentleman--that's
you--after a few unimportant legacies, the bulk of his real and personal
estate, provided only that you adopt the surname of Aikin, prefixed
before and in addition to your own surname of Payne. But,--and this is
very important,--if you don't choose to adopt and use the said surname
of Aikin, in the manner hereinbefore recited, then and in that case, my
dear sir--why, then and in that case, as clear as currant jelly, the
whole said residue of his real and personal estate is to go to the heir
or heirs-at-law of the late Amelia Maria Susannah Aikin, wife of the
said Anthony Aikin, Esquire, deceased. Nothing could be simpler or
plainer in any way, and there's really nothing on earth for you to do
except to choose between the two alternatives so clearly set before you
by your deceased uncle."

"But look here, you know, Blenkinsopp," I said appealingly, "no fellow
can really be expected to go and call himself Aikin-Payne, now can he?
It's positively too ridiculous. Mightn't I stick the Payne before the
Aikin, and call myself Payne-Aikin, eh? That wouldn't be quite so
absurdly suggestive of a perpetual toothache. But Aikin-Payne! Why, the
comic papers would take it up immediately. Every footman in London would
grin audibly when he announced me. I fancy I hear the fellows this very
moment: flinging open the door with a violent attempt at seriousness,
and shouting out, 'Mr. Haching-Pain, ha, ha, ha!' with a loud guffaw
behind the lintel. It would be simply unendurable!"

"My dear sir," answered the unsympathetic Blenkinsopp (most
unsympathetic profession, an attorney's, really), "the law doesn't take
into consideration the question of the probable conduct of footmen. It
must be Aikin-Payne or nothing. I admit the collocation does sound a
little ridiculous, to be sure; but your uncle's will is perfectly
unequivocal upon the subject--in fact, ahem! I drew it up myself, to say
the truth; and unless you call yourself Aikin-Payne, 'in the manner
hereinbefore recited,' then and in that case, observe (there's no
deception), then and in that case the heir or heirs-at-law of the late
Amelia Maria Susannah aforesaid will be entitled to benefit under the
will as fully in every respect as if the property was bequeathed
directly to him, her, or them, by name, and to no other person."

"And who the dickens are these heirs-at-law, Blenkinsopp?" I ventured to
ask after a moment's pause, during which the lawyer had refreshed
himself with another prodigious sniff from his snuff-box.

"Who the dickens are they, Mr. Payne? I should say Mr. Aikin-Payne,
ahem--why, how the dickens should I know, sir? You don't suppose I keep
a genealogical table and full pedigree of all the second cousins of all
my clients hung up conspicuously in some spare corner of my brain, do
you, eh? Upon my soul I really haven't the slightest notion. All I know
about them is that the late Mrs. Amelia Maria Susannah Aikin, deceased,
had one sister, who married somebody or other somewhere, against Mr.
Anthony Aikin's wishes, and that he never had anything further to say to
her at any time. 'But where she's gone and how she fares, nobody knows
and nobody cares,' sir, as the poet justly remarks."

I was not previously acquainted with the poet's striking observation on
this matter, but I didn't stop to ask Mr. Blenkinsopp in what author's
work these stirring lines had originally appeared. I was too much
occupied with other thoughts at that moment to pursue my investigations
into their authorship and authenticity. "Upon my word, Blenkinsopp," I
said, "I've really half a mind to shy the thing up and go on with my
schoolmastering."

Mr. Blenkinsopp shrugged his shoulders. "Believe me, my dear young
friend," he said sententiously, "twelve hundred a year is not to be
sneezed at. Without inquiring too precisely into the exact state of your
existing finances, I should be inclined to say your present engagement
can't be worth to you more than three hundred a year."

I nodded acquiescence. "The exact figure," I murmured.

"And your private means are?"

"Non-existent," I answered frankly.

"Then, my dear sir, excuse such plainness of speech in a man of my
profession; but if you throw it up you will be a perfect fool, sir; a
perfect fool, I assure you."

"But perhaps, Blenkinsopp, the next-of-kin won't step in to claim it!"

"Doesn't matter a bit, my dear fellow. Executors are bound to satisfy
themselves before paying you over your legacy that you have assumed and
will use the name of Aikin before and in addition to your own name of
Payne, in the manner hereinbefore recited. There's no getting over that
in any way."

I sighed aloud. "Twelve hundred a year is certainly very comfortable," I
said. "But it's a confounded bore that one should have a condition
tacked on to it which will make one a laughing-stock for life to all the
buffoons and idiots of one's acquaintance."

Blenkinsopp nodded in modified assent. "After all," he answered, "I
wouldn't mind taking it on the same terms myself."

"Well," said I, "_che sara sara_. If it must be, it must be; and you may
put an advertisement into the _Times_ accordingly. Tell the executors
that I accept the condition."

II.

"I won't stop in town," said I to myself, "to be chaffed by all the
fellows at the club and in the master's room at St. Martin's. I'll run
over on the Continent until the wags (confound them) have forgotten all
about it. I'm a sensitive man, and if there's anything on earth I hate
it's cheap and easy joking and punning on a name or a personal
peculiarity which lays itself open obviously to stupid buffoonery. Of
course I shall chuck up the schoolmastering now;--it's an odious trade
at any time--and I may as well take a pleasant holiday while I'm about
it. Let me see--Nice or Cannes or Florence would be the best thing at
this time of year. Escape the November fogs and January frosts. Let's
make it Cannes, then, and try the first effect of my new name upon the
_corpus vile_ of the Cannois."

So I packed up my portmanteau hurriedly, took the 7.45 to Paris, and
that same evening found myself comfortably ensconced in a _wagon lit_,
making my way as fast as the Lyons line would carry me _en route_ for
the blue Mediterranean.

The Hotel du Paradis at Cannes is a very pleasant and well managed
place, where I succeeded in making myself perfectly at home. I gave my
full name to the _concierge_ boldly. "Thank Heaven," I thought,
"Aikin-Payne will sound to her just as good a label to one's back as
Howard or Cholmondely. She won't see the absurdity of the combination."
She was a fat Vaudoise Swiss by origin, and she took it without moving a
muscle. But she answered me in very tolerable English--me, who thought
my Parisian accent unimpeachable! "Vary well, sirr, your lettares shall
be sent to your apartments." I saw there was the faintest twinkle of a
smile about the corner of her mouth, and I felt that even she, a mere
foreigner, a Swiss _concierge_, perceived at once the incongruity of
the two surnames. Incongruity! that's the worst of it! Would that they
were incongruous! But it's their fatal and obvious congruity with one
another that makes their juxtaposition so ridiculous. Call a man Payne,
and I venture to say, though I was to the manner born, and it's me that
says it as oughtn't to say it, you couldn't find a neater or more
respectable surname in all England: call him plain Aikin, and though
that perhaps is less aristocratic, it's redeemed by all the associations
of childhood with the earliest literature we imbibed through the
innocuous pages of "Evenings at Home:" but join the two together, in the
order of alphabetical precedence, and you get an Aikin-Payne, which is a
thing to make a sensitive man, compelled to bear it for a lifetime, turn
permanently red like a boiled lobster. My uncle must have done it on
purpose, in order to inflict a deadly blow on what he would doubtless
have called my confounded self-conceit!

However, I changed my tourist suit for a black cutaway, and made my way
down to the _salle-a-manger_. The dinner was good in itself, and was
enlivened for me by the presence of an extremely pretty girl of, say
nineteen, who sat just opposite, and whose natural protector I soon
managed to draw casually into a general conversation. I say her natural
protector, because, though I took him at the time for her father, I
discovered afterwards that he was really her uncle. Experience has
taught me that when you sit opposite a pretty girl at an hotel, you
ought not to open fire by directing your observations to herself in
person; you should begin diplomatically by gaining the confidence of her
male relations through the wisdom or the orthodoxy of your political and
social opinions. Mr. Shackleford--that, I found afterwards, was the
uncle's name--happened to be a fiery Tory, while I have the personal
misfortune to be an equally rabid Radical: but on this occasion I
successfully dissembled, acquiescing with vague generality in his
denunciation of my dearest private convictions; and by the end of dinner
we had struck up quite an acquaintance with one another.

"Ruby," said the aunt to the pretty girl, as soon as dinner was over,
"shall we take a stroll out in the gardens?"

Ruby! what a charming name really. I wonder, now, what is her surname?
And what a beautiful graceful figure, as she rises from the table, and
throws her little pale blue Indian silk scarf around her pretty
shoulders! Clearly, Ruby is a person whose acquaintance I ought to
cultivate.

"Uncle won't come, of course," said Ruby, with a pleasant smile (what
teeth!). "The evening air would be too much for him. You know," she
added, looking across to me, "almost everybody at Cannes is in the
invalid line, and mustn't stir out after sunset. Aunt and I are
unfashionable enough to be quite strong, and to go in for a stroll by
moonlight."

"I happen to be equally out of the Cannes fashion," I said, directing my
observation, with great strategic skill, rather to the aunt than to Miss
Ruby in person; "and if you will allow me I should be very glad to
accompany you."

So we turned out on the terrace of the Paradis, and walked among the
date-palms and prickly pears that fill the pretty tropical garden. It
was a lovely moonlight evening in October; and October is still almost a
summer month in the Riviera. The feathery branches of the palms stood
out in clear-cut outline against the pale moonlit sky; the white houses
of Cannes gleamed with that peculiarly soft greenish Mediterranean tint
in the middle distance; and the sea reflected the tremulous shimmer in
the background, between the jagged sierra of the craggy Esterel and the
long low outline of the Ile Ste. Marguerite. Altogether, it was an
ideal poet's evening, the very evening to stroll for the first time with
a beautiful girl through the charmed alleys of a Provencal garden!

Ruby Estcourt--she gave me her name before long--was quite as pleasant
to talk to as she was beautiful and graceful to behold. Fortunately, her
aunt was not one of the race of talkative old ladies, and she left the
mass of the conversation entirely to Ruby and myself. In the course of
half an hour or so spent in pacing up and down that lovely terrace, I
had picked out, bit by bit, all that I most wanted to know about Ruby
Estcourt. She was an orphan, without brothers or sisters, and evidently
without any large share of this world's goods; and she lived with her
aunt and uncle, who were childless people, and who usually spent the
summer in Switzerland, retiring to the Riviera every winter for the
benefit of Mr. Shackleford's remaining lung. Quite simple and unaffected
Ruby seemed, though she had passed most of her lifetime in the
too-knowing atmosphere of Continental hotels, among that cosmopolitan
public which is so very sharp-sighted that it fancies it can see
entirely through such arrant humbug as honour in men and maidenly
reserve in women. Still, from that world Ruby Estcourt had somehow
managed to keep herself quite unspotted; and a simpler, prettier, more
natural little fairy you wouldn't find anywhere in the English villages
of half a dozen counties.

It was all so fresh and delightful to me--the palms, the Mediterranean,
the balmy evening air, the gleaming white town, and pretty Ruby
Estcourt--that I walked up and down on the terrace as long as they would
let me; and I was really sorry when good Mrs. Shackleford at last
suggested that it was surely getting time for uncle's game of cribbage.
As they turned to go, Ruby said good evening, and then, hesitating for a
moment as to my name, said quite simply and naturally, "Why, you haven't
yet told us who you are, have you?"

I coloured a little--happily invisible by moonlight--as I answered,
"That was an omission on my part, certainly. When you told me you were
Miss Estcourt, I ought to have mentioned in return that my own name was
Aikin-Payne, Theodore Aikin-Payne, if you please: may I give you a
card?"

"Aching Pain!" Ruby said, with a smile. "Did I hear you right? Aching
Pain, is it? Oh, what a very funny name!"

I drew myself up as stiffly as I was able. "Not Aching Pain," I said,
with a doleful misgiving in my heart--it was clear everybody would put
that odd misinterpretation upon it for the rest of my days. "Not Aching
Pain, but Aikin-Payne, Miss Estcourt. A-i-k-i-n, Aikin, the Aikins of
Staffordshire; P-a-y-n-e, Payne, the Paynes of Surrey. My original
surname was Payne, a surname that I venture to say I'm a little proud
of; but my uncle, Mr. Aikin, from whom I inherit property," I thought
that was rather a good way of putting it, "wished me to adopt his family
name in addition to my own--in fact, made it a condition, _sine qua
non_, of my receiving the property."

"Payne--Aikin," Ruby said, turning the names over to herself slowly.
"Ah, yes, I see. Excuse my misapprehension, Mr.--Mr. Aikin-Payne. It was
very foolish of me; but really, you know, it _does_ sound so very
ludicrous, doesn't it now?"

I bit my lip, and tried to smile back again. Absurd that a man should be
made miserable about such a trifle; and yet I will freely confess that
at that moment, in spite of my uncle's twelve hundred a year, I felt
utterly wretched. I bowed to pretty little Ruby as well as I was able,
and took a couple more turns by myself hurriedly around the terrace.

Was it only fancy, or did I really detect, as Ruby Estcourt said the two
names over to herself just now, that she seemed to find the combination
a familiar one? I really didn't feel sure about it; but it certainly
did sound as if she had once known something about the Paynes or the
Aikins. Ah, well! there are lots of Paynes and Aikins in the world, no
doubt; but alas! there is only one of them doomed to go through life
with the absurd label of an Aikin-Payne fastened upon his unwilling
shoulders.

III.

"Good morning, Mr.--Mr. Aikin-Payne," said Ruby Estcourt, stumbling
timidly over the name, as we met in the _salle-a-manger_ at breakfast
next day. "I hope you don't feel any the worse for the chilly air last
evening."

I bowed slightly. "You seem to have some difficulty in remembering my
full name, Miss Estcourt," I said suggestively. "Suppose you call me
simply Mr. Payne. I've been accustomed to it till quite lately, and to
tell you the truth, I don't altogether relish the new addition."

"I should think not, indeed," Ruby answered frankly. "I never heard such
a ridiculous combination in all my life before. I'm sure your uncle must
have been a perfect old bear to impose it upon you."

"It was certainly rather cruel of him," I replied, as carelessly as I
could, "or at least rather thoughtless. I dare say, though, the
absurdity of the two names put together never struck him. What are you
going to do with yourselves to-day, Mr. Shackleford? Everybody at Cannes
has nothing to do but to amuse themselves, I suppose?"

Mr. Shackleford answered that they were going to drive over in the
morning to Vallauris, and that if I cared to share a carriage with them,
he would be happy to let me accompany his party. Nothing could have
suited my book better. I was alone, I wanted society and amusement, and
I had never seen a prettier girl than Ruby Estcourt. Here was the very
thing I needed, ready cut out to my hand by propitious fortune. I found
out as time went on that Mr. Shackleford, being a person of limited
income, and a bad walker, had only one desire in life, which was to get
somebody else to pay half his carriage fares for him by arrangement. We
went to a great many places together, and he always divided the expenses
equally between us, although I ought only to have paid a quarter, as his
party consisted of three people, while I was one solitary bachelor. This
apparent anomaly he got over on the ingenious ground that if I had taken
a carriage by myself it would have cost me just twice as much. However,
as I was already decidedly anxious for pretty little Ruby Estcourt's
society, this question of financial detail did not weigh heavily upon
me. Besides, a man who has just come into twelve hundred a year can
afford to be generous in the matter of hackney carriages.

We had a delightful drive along the shore of that beautiful blue gulf to
Vallauris, and another delightful drive back again over the hills to the
Paradis. True, old Mr. Shackleford proved rather a bore through his
anxiety to instruct me in the history and technical nature of keramic
ware in general, and of the Vallauris pottery in particular, when I
wanted rather to be admiring the glimpses of Bordighera and the Cap St.
Martin and the snow-clad summits of the Maritime Alps with Ruby
Estcourt. But in spite of all drawbacks--and old Mr. Shackleford with
his universal information really _was_ a serious drawback--I thoroughly
enjoyed that first morning by the lovely Mediterranean. Ruby herself was
absolutely charming. Such a light, bright, fairy-like little person,
moving among the priceless vases and tazzas at Clement Massier's as if
she were an embodied zephyr, too gentle even to knock them over with a
whiff of her little Rampoor shawl--but there, I can't describe her, and
I won't attempt it. Ruby, looking over my shoulder at this moment, says
I always was an old stupid: so that, you see, closes the question.

An old stupid I certainly was for the next fortnight. Old Mr.
Shackleford, only too glad to have got hold of a willing victim in the
carriage-sharing fraud, dragged me about the country to every available
point of view or object of curiosity within ten miles of the Square
Brougham. Ruby usually accompanied us; and as the two old people
naturally occupied the seat of honour at the back of the carriage, why,
of course Ruby and I had to sit together with our backs to the horses--a
mode of progression which I had never before known to be so agreeable.
Every evening, Ruby and I walked out on the terrace in the moonlight;
and I need hardly say that the moon, in spite of her pretended coldness,
is really the most romantic and sentimental satellite in the whole solar
system. To cut a long story short, by the end of the fortnight I was
very distinctly in love with Ruby; and if you won't think the avowal a
conceited one, I venture to judge by the sequel that Ruby was almost
equally in love with me.

One afternoon, towards the close of my second week at Cannes, Ruby and I
were sitting together on the retired seat in the grounds beside the pond
with the goldfish. It was a delicious sunny afternoon, with the last
touch of southern summer in the air, and Ruby was looking even prettier
than usual, in her brocade pattern print dress, and her little straw hat
with the scarlet poppies. (Ruby always dressed--I may say dresses--in
the very simplest yet most charming fashion). There was something in the
time and place that moved me to make a confession I had for some time
been meditating; so I looked straight in her face, and not being given
to long speeches, I said to her just this, "Ruby, you are the sweetest
girl I ever saw in my life. Will you marry me?"

Ruby only looked at me with a face full of merriment, and burst out
laughing. "Why, Mr. Payne," she said (she had dropped that hideous
prefix long ago), "you've hardly known me yet a fortnight, and here you
come to me with a regular declaration. How can I have had time to think
about my answer to such a point-blank question?"

"If you like, Ruby," I answered, "we can leave it open for a little; but
it occurs to me you might as well say 'yes' at once: for if we leave it
open, common sense teaches me that you probably mean to say yes in the
long-run." And to clench the matter outright, I thought it best to stoop
across and kiss Ruby just once, by way of earnest. Ruby took the kiss
calmly and sedately; so then I knew the matter was practically settled.

"But there's one thing, Mr. Payne, I must really insist upon," Ruby said
very quietly; "and that is that I mustn't be called Mrs. Aikin-Payne. If
I marry you at all, I must marry you as plain Mr. Payne without any
Aikin. So that's clearly understood between us."

Here was a terrible condition indeed! I reasoned with Ruby, I explained
to Ruby, I told Ruby that if she positively insisted upon it I must go
back to my three hundred a year and my paltry schoolmastership, and must
give up my uncle Aikin's money. Ruby would hear of no refusal.

"You have always the alternative of marrying somebody else, you know,
Mr. Payne," she said with her most provoking and bewitching smile; "but
if you really do want to marry me, you know the conditions."

"But, Ruby, you would never care to live upon a miserable pittance of
three hundred a year! I hate the name as much as you do, but I think I
should try to bear it for the sake of twelve hundred a year and perfect
comfort."

No, Ruby was inexorable. "Take me or leave me," she said with provoking
calmness, "but if you take me, give up your uncle's ridiculous
suggestion. You can have three days to make your mind up. Till then, let
us hear no more about the subject."

IV.

During those three days I kept up a brisk fire of telegrams with old
Blenkinsopp in Chancery Lane; and at the end of them I came mournfully
to the conclusion that I must either give up Ruby or give up the twelve
hundred a year. If I had been a hero of romance I should have had no
difficulty at all in deciding the matter: I would have nobly refused the
money off-hand, counting it as mere dross compared with the loving heart
of a beautiful maiden. But unfortunately I am not a hero of romance; I
am only an ordinary graduate of an English university. Under these
circumstances, it did seem to me very hard that I must throw away twelve
hundred a year for a mere sentimental fancy. And yet, on the other hand,
not only did I hate the name myself, but I couldn't bear to impose it on
Ruby; and as to telling Ruby that I wouldn't have her, because I
preferred the money, that was clearly quite impossible. The more I
looked the thing in the face, the more certain it appeared that I must
relinquish my dream of wealth and go back (with Ruby) to my
schoolmastering and my paltry three hundred. After all, lots of other
fellows marry on that sum; and to say the truth, I positively shrank
myself from going through life under the ridiculous guise of an
Aikin-Payne.

The upshot of it all was that at the end of the three days, I took Ruby
a little walk alone among the olive gardens behind the shrubbery.
"Ruby," I said to her, falteringly, "you're the most fantastic,
self-willed, imperious little person I ever met with, and I want to make
just one more appeal to you. Won't you reconsider your decision, and
take me in spite of the surname?"

Ruby grubbed up a little weed with the point of her parasol, and looked
away from me steadfastly as she answered with her immovable and annoying
calmness, "No, Mr. Payne, I really can't reconsider the matter in any
way. It was you who took three days to make your mind up. Have you made
it up yet or not, pray?"

"I _have_ made it up, Ruby."

"And you mean----?" she said interrogatively, with a faint little tremor
in her voice which I had never before noticed, and which thrilled
through me with the ecstasy of a first discovery.

"And I mean," I answered, "to marry you, Ruby, if you will condescend to
take me, and let my Uncle Aikin's money go to Halifax. Can you manage,
Ruby, to be happy, as a poor schoolmaster's wife in a very tiny
cottage?"

To my joy and surprise, Ruby suddenly seized both my hands in hers,
kissed me twice of her own accord, and began to cry as if nothing could
stop her. "Then you do really and truly love me," she said through her
tears, holding fast to my hands all the time; "then you're really
willing to make this great sacrifice for me!"

"Ruby," I said, "my darling, don't excite yourself so. And indeed it
isn't a very great sacrifice either, for I hate the name so much I
hardly know whether I could ever have endured to bear it."

"You shan't bear it," Ruby cried, eagerly, now laughing and clapping her
hands above me. "You shan't bear it, and yet you shall have your Uncle
Aikin's money all the same for all that."

"Why, what on earth do you mean, Ruby?" I asked in amazement. "Surely,
my darling, you can't understand how strict the terms of the will
actually are. I'm afraid you have been deluding yourself into a belief
in some impossible compromise. But you must make your mind up to one
thing at once, that unless I call myself Aikin-Payne, you'll have to
live the rest of your life as a poor schoolmaster's wife. The
next-of-kin will be sharp enough in coming down upon the money."

Ruby looked at me and laughed and clapped her hands again. "But what
would you say, Mr. Payne," she said with a smile that dried up all her
tears, "what would you say if you heard that the next-of-kin was--who do
you think?--why me, sir, me, Ruby Estcourt?"

I could hardly believe my ears. "You, Ruby?" I cried in my astonishment.
"You! How do you know? Are you really sure of it?"

Ruby put a lawyer's letter into my hand, signed by a famous firm in the
city. "Read that," she said simply. I read it through, and saw in a
moment that what Ruby said was the plain truth of it.

"So you want to do your future husband out of the twelve hundred a
year!" I said, smiling and kissing her.

"No," Ruby answered, as she pressed my hand gently. "It shall be settled
on you, since I know you were ready to give it up for my sake. And there
shall be no more Aikin-Paynes henceforth and for ever."

There was never a prettier or more blushing bride than dear little Ruby
that day six weeks.

_THE TWO CARNEGIES._

I.

"Harold," said Ernest Carnegie to his twin-brother at breakfast one
morning, "have you got a tooth aching slightly to-day?"

"Yes, by Jove, I have!" Harold answered, laying down the _Times_, and
looking across the table with interest to his brother; "which one was
yours?"

"The third from the canine on the upper left side," Ernest replied
quickly. "And yours?"

"Let me see. This is the canine, isn't it? One, two, three; yes. The
same, of course. It's really a very singular coincidence. How about the
time? Was that as usual?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. Mine came on the day of the Guthries' hop. I
was down at Brighton that morning. What date? Let me think; why, the
9th, I'm certain. To-day's what, mother?"

"The 23rd," said Harold, glancing for confirmation at the paper. "The
law works itself out once more as regularly as if by machinery. I'm just
a fortnight later than you, Ernest, as always."

Ernest drummed upon the table with his finger for a minute. "I'm afraid
you'll have it rather badly to-day, Harold," he said, after a pause.
"Mine got unbearable towards midday, and if I hadn't had it looked to
in the afternoon, I couldn't have danced a single dance to save my life
that evening. I advise you to go round to the dentist's immediately, and
try to get it stopped before it goes any further."

Harold finished his cup of coffee, and looked out of the window blankly
at the fog outside. "It's an awful thought," he said at last, "this
living, as we two do, by clockwork! Everybody else lives exactly the
same way, but they don't have their attention called to it, as we do.
Just to think that from the day you and I were born, Ernest, it was
written in the very fabric of our constitutions that when we were
twenty-three years and five months old, the third molar in our upper
left jaws should begin to fail us! It's really appalling in its
unanswerable physical fatalism, when ones comes to think upon it."

"So I said to myself at the Guthries', the morning it began to give me a
twinge," said Ernest, in the self-same tone. "It seemed to me such a
terrible idea that in a fortnight's time, as certain as the sun, the
very same tooth in your head would begin to go, as the one that was
going in mine. It's too appalling, really."

"But do you actually mean to say," asked pretty little Nellie Holt, the
visitor, newly come the day before from Cheshire, "that whenever one of
you gets a toothache, the other one gets a toothache in the same tooth a
fortnight later?"

"Not a toothache only," Ernest answered--he was studying for his degree
as a physician, and took this department upon himself as by right--"but
every other disease or ailment whatsoever. We're like two clocks wound
up to strike at fixed moments; only, we're not wound up to strike
exactly together. I'm fourteen days in advance of Harold, so to speak,
and whatever happens to me to-day will happen to him, in all
probability, exactly a fortnight later."

"How very extraordinary!" said Nellie, looking quickly, from one
handsome clear-cut face to its exact counterpart in the other. "And yet
not so extraordinary, after all,--when one comes to think how very much
alike you both are."

"Ah, that's not all," said Ernest, slowly; "it's something that goes a
good deal deeper than that, Miss Holt. Consider that every one of us is
born with a certain fixed and recognizable constitution, which we
inherit from our fathers and mothers. In us, from our birth upward, are
the seeds of certain diseases, the possibilities of certain actions and
achievements. One man is born with hereditary consumption; another man
with hereditary scrofula; a third with hereditary genius or hereditary
drunkenness, each equally innate in the very threads and strands of his
system. And it's all bound to come out, sooner or later, in its own due
and appointed time. Here's a fellow whose father had gout at forty: he's
born with such a constitution that, as the hands on his life-dial reach
forty, out comes the gout in his feet, wherever he may be, as certain as
fate. It's horrible to think of, but it's the truth, and there's no good
in disguising it."

Nellie Holt shuddered slightly. "What a dreadful materialistic creed,
Mr. Carnegie," she said, looking at him with a half-frightened air.
"It's almost as bad as Mohammedan fatalism."

"No, not so bad as that," Ernest Carnegie answered; "not nearly so bad
as that. The Oriental belief holds that powers above you compel your
life against your will: we modern scientific thinkers only hold that
your own inborn constitution determines your whole life for you, will
included. But whether we like it or dislike it, Miss Holt, there are the
facts, and nobody can deny them. If you'd lived with a twin-sister, as
Harold and I have lived together for twenty-three years, you'd see that
the clocks go as they are set, with fixed and predestined regularity.
Twins, you know, are almost exactly alike in all things, and in the
absolute coincidence of their constitutions you can see the inexorable
march of disease, and the inexorable unfolding of the predetermined
life-history far better than in any other conceivable case. I'm a
scientific man myself, you see, and I have such an opportunity of
watching it all as no other man ever yet had before me."

"My dear," said Mrs. Carnegie, the mother, from the head of the table,
"you've no idea how curiously their two lives have always resembled one
other. When they were babies, they were so much alike that we had to tie
red and blue ribbons round their necks to distinguish them. Ernest was
red and Harold blue--no, Ernest was blue and Harold red: at least, I'm
not quite certain which way it was, but I know we have a note of it in
the family Bible, for Mr. Carnegie made it at the time for fear we
should get confused between them when we were bathing them. So we put
the ribbons on the moment they were christened, and never took them both
off together for a second, even to bathe them, so as to prevent
accidents. Well, do you know, dear, from the time they were babies, they
were always alike in everything; but Ernest was always a fortnight
before Harold. He said "Mamma" one day, and just a fortnight later
Harold said the very same word. Then Ernest said "sugar," and so did
Harold in another fortnight. Ernest began to toddle a fortnight the
earliest. They took the whooping cough and the measles in the same
order; and they cut all their teeth so, too, the same teeth first on
each side, and just at a fortnight's distance from one another. It's
really quite an extraordinary coincidence."

"The real difficulty would be," said Harold, "to find anything in which
we didn't exactly resemble one another. Well, now I must be off to this
horrid office with the Pater. Are you ready, Pater? I'll call in at
Estwood's in the course of the morning, Ernest, and tell him to look
after my teeth. I don't want to miss the Balfours' party this evening.
Curious that we should be going to a party this evening too. _That_
isn't fated in our constitutions, anyhow, is it, Ernest? Good morning,
Miss Holt; the first waltz, remember. Come along, Pater." And he went
out, followed immediately by his father.

"I must be going too," said Ernest, looking at his watch; "I have an
appointment with Dowson at Guy's at half-past ten--a very interesting
case: hereditary cataract; three brothers, all of them get it, each as
he reaches twelve years old, and Dowson has performed the operation on
two, and is going to perform it on the other this very day. Good
morning, Miss Holt; the second waltz for me; you won't forget, will
you?"

"How awfully alike they really are, Mrs. Carnegie," said Nellie, as they
were left alone. "I'm sure I shall never be able to tell them apart. I
don't even know their names yet. The one that has just gone out, the one
that's going to be a doctor--that's Mr. Harold, isn't it?"

"Oh no, dear," Mrs. Carnegie answered, putting her arm round Nellie's
waist affectionately, "that's Ernest. Harold's the lawyer. You'll soon
learn the difference between them. You can tell Ernest easily, because
he usually wears a horrid thing for a scarf-pin, an ivory skull and
cross-bones: he wears it, he says, just to distinguish him
professionally from Harold. Indeed, that was partly why Mr. Carnegie was
so anxious that Harold should go into his own office; so as to make a
distinction of profession between them. If Harold had followed his own
bent, he would have been a doctor too; they're both full of what they
call physiological ideas--dreadful things, I think them. But Mr.
Carnegie thought as they were so very much alike already we ought to do
something to give them some individuality, as he says: for if they were
both to be doctors or both solicitors, you know, there'd really be no
knowing them apart, even for ourselves; and I assure you, my dear, as
it is now even they're exactly like one person."

"Are they as alike in character, then, as they are in face?" asked
Nellie.

"Alike in character! My dear, they're absolutely identical. Whatever the
one thinks, or says, or does, the other thinks, says, and does at the
same time, independently. Why, once Ernest went over to Paris for a
week's holiday, while Harold went on some law business of his father's
to Brussels. Would you believe it, when they came back they'd each got a
present for the other. Ernest had seen a particular Indian silver
cigar-case in a shop on the Boulevards, and he brought it home as a
surprise for Harold. Well, Harold had bought an exactly similar one in
the Montagne de la Cour, and brought it home as a surprise for Ernest.
And what was odder still, each of them had had the other's initials
engraved upon the back in some sort of heathenish Oriental characters."

"How very queer," said Nellie. "And yet they seem very fond of one
another. As a rule, one's always told that people who are exactly alike
in character somehow don't get on together."

"My dear child, they're absolutely inseparable. Their devotion to one
another's quite unlimited. You see they've been brought up together,
played together, sympathized with one another in all their troubles and
ailments, and are sure of a response from each other about everything.
It was the greatest trouble of their lives when Mr. Carnegie decided
that Harold must become a solicitor for the sake of the practice. They
couldn't bear at first to be separated all day; and when they got home
in the evening, Ernest from the hospital and Harold from the office,
they met almost like a pair of lovers. They've talked together about
their work so much that Harold knows almost as much medicine now as
Ernest, while Ernest's quite at home, his father declares, in 'Benjamin
on Sales,' and 'Chitty on Contract.' It's quite delightful to see how
fond they are of one another."

At five o'clock Ernest Carnegie returned from his hospital. He brought
two little bunches of flowers with him--some lilies of the valley and a
carnation--and he handed them with a smile, one to his sister and one to
pretty little Nellie. "I thought you'd like them for this evening, Miss
Holt," he said. "I chose a carnation on purpose, because I fancied it
would suit your hair."

"Oh, Ernest," said his sister, "you ought to have got a red camelia.
That's the proper thing for a brunette like Nellie."

"Nonsense, Edie," Ernest answered, "I hate camelias. Ugliest flowers
out: so stiff and artificial. One might as well wear a starchy gauze
thing from the milliner's."

"I'm so glad you brought Nellie Holt a flower. She's a sweet girl,
Ernest, isn't she?" said Mrs. Carnegie a minute or two later, as Edie
and Nelly ran upstairs. "I wish either of you two boys could take a
fancy to a nice girl like her, now."

"My dear mother," Ernest answered, turning up his eyes appealingly. "A
little empty-headed, pink-and-white thing like that! I don't know what
Harold thinks, but she'd never do for me, at any rate. Very pretty to
look at, very timid to talk to, very nice and shrinking, and all that
kind of thing, I grant you; but nothing in her. Whenever I marry, I
shall marry a real live woman, not a dainty piece of delicate empty
drapery."

At six o'clock, Mr. Carnegie and Harold came in from the office. Harold
carried in his hand two little button-hole bouquets, of a few white
lilies and a carnation. "Miss Holt," he said, as he entered the
drawing-room, "I've brought you and Edie a flower to wear at the
Balfours' this evening. This is for you, Edie, with the pale pink; the
dark will suit Miss Holt's hair best."

Edie looked at Ernest, and smiled significantly. "Why didn't you get us
camelias, Harold?" she asked, with a faint touch of mischief in her
tone.

"Camelias! My dear girl, what a question! I gave Miss Holt credit for
better taste than liking camelias. Beastly things, as stiff and
conventional as dahlias or sunflowers. You might just as well have a wax
rose from an artificial flower-maker while you are about it."

Edie laughed and looked at Nellie. "See here," she said, taking up
Ernest's bunches from the little specimen vases where she had put them
to keep them fresh in water, "somebody else has thought of the flowers
already."

Harold laughed, too, a little uneasily. "Aha," he said, "I see Ernest
has been beforehand with me as usual. I'm always a day too late. It
seems to me I'm the Esau of this duet, and Ernest's the Jacob. Well,
Miss Holt, you must take the will for the deed; and after all, one will
do for your dress and the other for your hair, won't they?"

"Harold," said his father, as they went upstairs together to dress for
dinner, "Nellie Holt's a very nice girl, and I've reason to believe--you
know I don't judge these matters without documentary evidence--I have
reason to believe that she'll come into the greater part of old Stanley
Holt's money. She's his favourite niece, and she benefits largely, as I
happen to know, under his will. _Verbum sap._, my dear boy; she's a
pretty girl, and has sweet manners. In my opinion, she'd make----"

"My dear Pater," Harold exclaimed, interrupting him, "for Heaven's sake
don't say so. Pretty enough, I grant you; and no doubt old Stanley
Holt's money would be a very nice thing in its way; but just seriously
consider now, if you were a young man yourself, what on earth could you
see in Nellie Holt to attract your love or admiration? Why, she shrinks
and blushes every time she speaks to you. No, no, whenever I marry I
should like to marry a girl of some presence and some character."

"Well, well," said his father, pausing a second at his bedroom door,
"perhaps if she don't suit you, Harold, she'll suit Ernest."

"I should have thought, Pater, you knew us two better than that by this
time."

"But, my dear Harold, you can't both marry the same woman!"

"No, we can't, Pater, but it's my opinion we shall both fall unanimously
in love with her, at any rate, whenever we happen to see her."

II.

The Balfours were very rich people--city people; "something in the
stockbroking or bankruptcy line, I believe," Ernest Carnegie told Nelly
Holt succinctly as they drove round in the brougham with his sister; and
their dance was of the finest modern moneyed fashion. "Positively reeks
with Peruvian bonds and Deferred Egyptians, doesn't it?" said Harold, as
they went up the big open staircase and through the choice exotic
flowers on the landing. "Old Balfour has so much money, they say, that
if he tries his hardest he can't spend his day's income in the
twenty-four hours. He had a good hard try at it once. Prince of Wales or
somebody came to a concert for some sort of public purpose--hospital, or
something--and old B. got the whole thing up on the tallest possible
scale of expenditure. Spent a week in preparation. Had in dozens of
powdered footmen; ordered palms and orange-trees in boxes from Nice;
hung electric lights all over the drawing-room; offered Pattalini and
Goldoni three times as much for their services as the total receipts for
the charity were worth; and at the end of it all he called in a crack
accountant to reckon up the cost of the entertainment. Well, he found,
with all his efforts, he'd positively lived fifty pounds within his
week's income. Extraordinary, isn't it?"

"Very extraordinary indeed," said Nellie, "if it's quite true, you
know."

"You owe me the first waltz," Harold said, without noticing the
reservation. "Don't forget it, please, Miss Holt."

"I say, Balfour," Ernest Carnegie observed to the son of the house,
shortly after they had entered the ballroom, "who's that beautiful tall
dark girl over there? No, not the pink one, that other girl behind her
in the deep red satin."

"She? oh, she's nothing in particular," Harry Balfour answered
carelessly (the girl in pink was worth eighty thousand, and her figure
cast into the shade all her neighbours in Harry Balfour's arithmetical
eyes). "Her name's Walters, Isabel Walters, daughter of a lawyer
fellow--no offence meant to your profession, Carnegie. Let me see: you
_are_ the lawyer, aren't you? No knowing you two fellows apart, you
know, especially when you've got white ties on."

"No, I'm not the lawyer fellow," Ernest answered quietly; "I'm the
doctor fellow. But it doesn't at all matter; we're used to it. Would you
mind introducing me to Miss Walters?"

"Certainly not. Come along. I believe she's a very nice girl in her way,
you know, and dances capitally; but not exactly in our set, you see; not
exactly in our set."

"I should have guessed as much to look at her," Ernest answered, with a
faint undertone of sarcasm in his voice that was quite thrown away upon
Harry Balfour. And he walked across the room after his host to ask
Isabel Walters for the first waltz.

"Tall," he thought to himself as he looked at her: "dark, fine face,
beautiful figure, large eyes; makes her own dresses; strange sort of
person to meet at the Balfours' dances."

Isabel Walters danced admirably. Isabel Walters talked cleverly. Isabel
Walters had a character and an individuality of her own. In five minutes
she had told Ernest Carnegie that she was the Poor Relation, and in that
quality she was asked once yearly to one of the Balfours' Less
Distinguished dances. "This is a Less Distinguished," she said quickly;
"but I suppose you go to the More Distinguished too?"

"On the contrary," Ernest answered, laughing; "though I didn't know the
nature of the difference before, I've no doubt that I have to thank the
fact of my being Less Distinguished myself for the pleasure of meeting
you here this evening."

Isabel smiled quietly. "It's a family distinction only," she said. "Of
course the Balfours wouldn't like the people they ask to know it. But we
always notice the difference ourselves. My mother, you know, was the
first Mrs. Balfour's half-sister. But in those days, I need hardly tell
you, Mr. Balfour hadn't begun to do great things in Grand Trunk
Preferences. Do you know anything about Grand Trunk Preferences?"

"Absolutely nothing," Ernest replied. "But, to come down to a more
practical question: Are you engaged for the next Lancers?"

"A square dance. Oh, why a square dance? I hate square dances."

"I like them," said Ernest. "You can talk better."

"And yet you waltz capitally. As a rule, I notice the men who like
square dances are the sticks who can't waltz without upsetting one. No,
I'm not engaged for the next Lancers. Yes, with pleasure."

Ernest went off to claim little Nellie Holt from his brother.

"By Jove, Ernest," Harold said, as he met him again a little later in
the evening, "that's a lovely girl you were dancing with just now. Who
is she?"

"A Miss Walters," Ernest answered drily.

"I'll go and get introduced to her," Harold went on, looking at his
brother with a searching glance. "She's the finest girl in the room, and
I should like to dance with her."

"You think so?" said Ernest. And he turned away a little coldly to join
a group of loungers by the doorway.

"This is not _our_ Lancers yet, Mr. Carnegie," Isabel said, as Harold
stalked up to her with her cousin by his side. "Ours is number seven."

"I'm not the same Mr. Carnegie," Harold said, smiling, "though I see I
need no introduction now. I'm number seven's brother, and I've come to
ask whether I may have the pleasure of dancing number six with you."

Isabel looked up at him in doubt. "You are joking, surely," she said.
"You danced with me just now, the first waltz."

"You see my brother over by the door," Harold answered. "But we're quite
accustomed to be taken for one another. Pray don't apologize; we're used
to it."

Before the end of the evening Isabel Walters had danced three times with
Ernest Carnegie, and twice with Harold. Before the end of the evening,
too, Ernest and Harold were both at once deeply in love with her. She
was not perhaps what most men would call a lovable girl; but she was
handsome, clever, dashing, and decidedly original. Now, to both the
Carnegies alike, there was no quality in a woman so admirable as
individuality. Perhaps it was their own absolute identity of tastes and
emotions that made them prize the possession of a distinct personality
by others so highly; but in any case, there was no denying the fact that
they were both head over ears in love with Isabel Walters.

"She's a splendid girl, Edie," said Harold, as he went down with his
sister to the cab in which he was to take her home; "a splendid girl;
just the sort of girl I should like to marry."

"Not so nice by half as Nellie Holt," said Edie simply. "But there,
brothers never do marry the girls their sisters want them to."

"Very unreasonable of the brothers, no doubt," Harold replied, with a
slight curl of his lip: "but possibly explicable upon the ground that a
man prefers choosing a wife who'll suit himself to choosing one who'll
suit his sisters."

"Mother," said Ernest, as he took her down to the brougham, with little
Nellie Holt on his other arm, "that's a splendid girl, that Isabel
Walters. I haven't met such a nice girl as that for a long time."

"I know a great many nicer," his mother answered, glancing half
unconsciously towards Nellie, "but boys never do marry as their parents
would wish them."

"They do not, mother dear," said Ernest quietly. "It's a strange fact,
but I dare say it's partly dependent upon the general principle that a
man is more anxious to live happily with his own wife than to provide a
model daughter-in-law for his father and mother."

"Isabel," Mrs. Walters said to her daughter, as they took their seats in
the cab that was waiting for them at the door, "what on earth did you
mean by dancing five times in one evening with that young man with the
light moustache? And who on earth is he, tell me?"

"He's two people, mamma," Isabel answered seriously; "and I danced three
times with one of him, and twice with the other, I believe; at least so
he told me. His name's Carnegie, and half of him's called Ernest and the
other half Harold, though which I danced with which time I'm sure I
can't tell you. He's a pair of twins, in fact, one a doctor and one a
lawyer; and he talks just the same sort of talk in either case, and is
an extremely nice young man altogether. I really like him immensely."

"Carnegie!" said Mrs. Walters, turning the name over carefully. "Two
young Carnegies! How very remarkable! I remember somebody was speaking
to me about them, and saying they were absolutely indistinguishable.
Not sons of Mr. Carnegie, your uncle's solicitor, are they?"

"Yes; so Harry Balfour told me."

"Then, Isabel, they're very well off, I understand. I hope people won't
think you danced five times in the evening with only one of them. They
ought to wear some distinctive coat or something to prevent
misapprehensions. Which do you like best, the lawyer or the doctor?"

"I like them both exactly the same, mamma. There isn't any difference at
all between them, to like one of them better than the other for. They
both seem very pleasant and very clever. And as I haven't yet discovered
which is which, and didn't know from one time to another which I was
dancing with, I can't possibly tell you which I prefer of two
identicals. And as to coats, mamma, you know you couldn't expect one of
them to wear a grey tweed suit in a ballroom, just to show he isn't the
other one."

In the passage at the Carnegies', Ernest and Harold stopped one moment,
candle in hand, to compare notes with one another before turning into
their bedrooms. There was an odd constraint about their manner to each
other that they had never felt before during their twenty-three years of
life together.

"Well?" said Ernest, inquiringly, looking in a hesitating way at his
brother.

"Well?" Harold echoed, in the same tone.

"What did you think of it all, Harold?"

"I think, Ernest, I shall propose to Miss Walters."

There was a moment's silence, and a black look gathered slowly on Ernest
Carnegie's brow. Then he said very deliberately, "You are in a great
hurry coming to conclusions, Harold. You've seen very little of her yet;
and remember, it was I who first discovered her!"

Harold glanced at him angrily and half contemptuously.

"_You_ discovered her first!" he said. "Yes, and you are always
beforehand with me; but you shall not be beforehand with me this time. I
shall propose to her at once, to prevent your anticipating me. So now
you know my intentions plainly, and you can govern yourself
accordingly."

Ernest looked back at him with a long look from head to foot.

"It is war then," he said, "Harold; war, you will have it? We are
rivals?"

"Yes, rivals," Harold answered; "and war to the knife if so you wish
it."

"War?"

"War!"

"Good night, Harold."

"Good night, Ernest."

And they turned in to their bedrooms, in anger with one another, for the
first time since they had quarrelled in boyish fashion over tops and
marbles years ago together.

III.

That night the two Carnegies slept very little. They were both in love,
very seriously in love; and anybody who has ever been in the same
condition must have noticed that the symptoms, which may have been very
moderate or undecided during the course of the evening, become rapidly
more pronounced and violent as you lie awake in the solitude of your
chamber through the night watches. But more than that, they had both
begun to feel simultaneously the stab of jealousy. Each of them had been
very much taken indeed by Isabel Walters; still, if they had seen no
chance of a rival looming in the distance, they might have been content
to wait a little, to see a little more of her, to make quite sure of
their own affection before plunging headlong into a declaration. After
all, it's very absurd to ask a girl to be your companion for life on the
strength of an acquaintanceship which has extended over the time
occupied by three dances in a single evening. But then, thought each,
there was the chance of Ernest's proposing to her, or of Harold's
proposing to her, before I do. That idea made precipitancy positively
imperative; and by the next morning each of the young men had fully made
up his mind to take the first opportunity of asking Isabella Walters to
be his wife.

Breakfast passed off very silently, neither of the twins speaking much
to one another; but nobody noticed their reticence much; for the morning
after the occasional orgy or dance is apt to prove a very limp affair
indeed in professional homes, where dances are not of nightly
occurrence. After breakfast, Harold went off quickly to the office, and
Ernest, having bespoken a holiday at the hospital, joined his sister and
Nellie Holt in the library.

"Do you know, Ernest," Edie said to him, mindful of her last night's
conversation with her other brother, "I really believe Harold has fallen
desperately in love at first sight with that tall Miss Walters."

"I can easily believe it," Ernest answered testily; "she's very handsome
and very clever."

Edie raised her eyebrows a little. "But it's awfully foolish, Ernest, to
fall in love blindfold in that way, isn't it now?" she said, with a
searching look at her brother. "He can't possibly know what sort of a
girl she really is from half an hour's conversation in a ballroom."

"For my part, I don't at all agree with you, Edie," said Ernest, in his
coldest manner. "I don't believe there's any right way of falling in
love except at first sight. If a girl is going to please you, she ought
to please you instantaneously and instinctively; at least, so I think.
It isn't a thing to be thought about and reasoned about, but a thing to
be felt and apprehended intuitively. I couldn't reason myself into
marrying a girl, and what's more, I don't want to."

He sat down to the table, took out a sheet or two of initialed
notepaper, and began writing a couple of letters. One of them, which he
marked "Private" in the corner, ran as follows:--

"MY DEAR MISS WALTERS,

"Perhaps you will think it very odd of me to venture upon writing
to you on the strength of such a very brief and casual acquaintance
as that begun last night; but I have a particular reason for doing
so, which I think I can justify to you when I see you. You
mentioned to me that you were asked to the Montagus' steam-launch
expedition up the river from Surbiton to-morrow; but I understood
you to say you did not intend to accept the invitation. I write now
to beg of you to be there, as I am going, and I am particularly
anxious to meet you and have a little conversation with you on a
subject of importance. I know you are not a very conventional
person, and therefore I think you will excuse me for asking this
favour of you. Please don't take the trouble to write in reply; but
answer by going to the Montagus', and I shall then be able to
explain this very queer letter. In haste,

"Yours very truly,
"ERNEST CARNEGIE."

He read this note two or three times over to himself, looking not very
well satisfied with its contents; and then at last, with the air of a
man who determines to plunge and stake all upon a single venture, he
folded it up and put it in its envelope. "It'll mystify her a little, no
doubt," he thought to himself; "and being a woman, she'll be naturally
anxious to unravel the mystery. But of course she'll know I mean to make
her an offer, and perhaps she'll think me a perfect idiot for not doing
it outright, instead of beating about the bush in this incomprehensible
fashion. However, it's too cold-blooded, proposing to a girl on paper; I
very much prefer the _viva voce_ system. It's only till to-morrow; and I
doubt if Harold will manage to be beforehand with me in that time. He'll
be deep in business all morning, and have no leisure to think about her.
Anyhow, all's fair in love and war; he said it should be war; and I'll
try to steal a march upon him, for all his lawyer's quibbles and
quiddits."

He took another sheet from his blotting-book, and wrote a second note,
much more rapidly than the first one. It ran after this fashion--

"DEAR MRS. MONTAGU,--

"Will you think it very rude of me if I ask you to let me be one of
your party on your expedition up the river to-morrow? I heard of it
from your son Algernon last night at the Balfours', and I happen to
be _very_ anxious to meet one of the ladies you have invited. Now,
I know you're kindness itself to all your young friends in all
these little matters, and I'm sure you won't be angry with me for
so coolly inviting myself. If I hadn't felt perfect confidence in
your invariable goodness, I wouldn't have ventured to do so. Please
don't answer unless you've no room for me, but expect me to turn up
at half-past two.

"Yours very sincerely,
"ERNEST CARNEGIE.

"P.S.--We might call at Lady Portlebury's lawn, and look over the
conservatories."

"Now, that's bold, but judicious," Ernest said to himself, admiringly,
as he held the letter at arm's-length, after blotting it. "She might
have been angry at my inviting myself, though I don't think she would
be; but I'm sure she'll be only too delighted if I offer to take her
guests over Aunt Portlebury's conservatories. The postscript's a stroke
of genius. What a fuss these people will make, even over the widow of a
stupid old cavalry officer, because her husband happens to have been
knighted. It's all the better that she's a widow, indeed. The delicious
vagueness of the title 'Lady' is certainly one of its chief
recommendations. Sir Antony being out of the way, Mrs. Montagu's guests
can't really tell but that poor dear old Aunt Portlebury may be a real
live Countess." And he folded his second letter up with the full
satisfaction of an approving conscience.

When Isabel Walters received Ernest Carnegie's mysterious note, she was
certainly mystified by it as he had expected, and also not a little
gratified. He meant to propose to her, that was certain; and there was
never a woman in the whole world who was not flattered by a handsome
young man's marked attentions. It was a very queer letter, no doubt; but
it had been written skilfully enough to suit the particular personality
of Isabel Walters: for Ernest Carnegie was a keen judge of character,
and he flattered himself that he knew how to adapt his correspondence to
the particular temperament of the persons he happened to be addressing.
And though Isabel had no very distinct idea of what the two Carnegies
were severally like (it could hardly have been much more distinct if she
had known them both intimately), she felt they were two very
good-looking, agreeable young men, and she was not particularly averse
to the attentions of either. After all, upon what straws we all usually
hang our love-making! We see one another once or twice under
exceptionally deceptive circumstances; we are struck at first sight with
something that attracts us on either side; we find the attraction is
mutual; we flounder at once into a declaration of undying attachment; we
get married, and on the whole we generally find we were right after all,
in spite of our precipitancy, and we live happily ever afterwards. So
it was not really very surprising that Isabel Walters, getting such a
note from one of the two handsome young Mr. Carnegies, should have been
in some doubt which of the two identicals it actually was, and yet
should have felt indefinitely pleased and flattered at the implied
attention. Which was Ernest and which Harold could only mean to her,
when she came to think on it, which was the one she danced with first
last night, and which the one she danced with second. She decided in her
own mind that it would be better for her to go to the Montagus' picnic
to-morrow, but to say nothing about it to her mother. "Mamma wouldn't
understand the letter," she said to herself complacently; "she's so
conventional; and when I come back to-morrow I can tell her one of the
young Carnegies was there, and that he proposed to me. She need never
know there was any appointment."

IV.

At six o'clock, Harold Carnegie returned from the office. He, too, had
been thinking all day of Isabel Walters, and the moment he got home he
went into the library to write a short note to her, before Ernest had,
as usual, forestalled him. As he did so he happened to see a few words
dimly transferred to the paper in the blotting-book. They were in
Ernest's handwriting, and he was quite sure the four first words read,
"My dear Miss Walters." Then Ernest had already been beforehand with
him, after all! But not by a fortnight: that was one good point; not
this time by a fortnight! He would be even with him yet; he would catch
up this anticipatory twin-brother of his, by force or fraud, rather than
let him steal away Isabel Walters from him once and for ever. "All's
fair in love and war," he muttered to himself, taking up the
blotting-book carefully, and tearing out the tell-tale leaf in a
furtive fashion. "Thank Heaven, Ernest writes a thick black hand, the
same as I do; and I shall probably be able to read it by holding it up
to the light." In his own soul Harold Carnegie loathed himself for such
an act of petty meanness; but he did it; with love and jealousy goading
him on, and the fear of his own twin-brother stinging him madly, he did
it; remorsefully and shamefacedly, but still did it.

He took the page up to his own bedroom, and held it up to the
window-pane. Blurred and indistinct, the words nevertheless came out
legibly in patches here and there, so that with a little patient
deciphering Harold could spell out the sense of both letters, though
they crossed one another obliquely at a slight angle. "Very brief and
casual acquaintance ... Montagus' steam-launch expedition up the river
from Surbiton to-morrow ... am going and am particularly anxious to meet
you ... this favour of you...." "So that's his plan, is it?" Harold said
to himself. "Softly, softly, Mr. Ernest, I think I can checkmate you!
What's this in the one to Mrs. Montagu? 'Expect me to turn up at
half-past two.' Aha, I thought so! Checkmate, Mr. Ernest, checkmate: a
scholar's mate for you! He'll be at the hospital till half-past one;
then he'll take the train to Clapham Junction, expecting to catch the
South-Western at 2.10. But to-morrow's the first of the month; the new
time-tables come into force; I've got one and looked it out already. The
South-Western now leaves at 2.4, three minutes before Mr. Ernest's train
arrives at Clapham Junction. I have him now, I have him now, depend upon
it. I'll go down instead of him. I'll get the party under way at once.
I'll monopolize Isabel, pretty Isabel. I'll find my opportunity at Aunt
Portlebury's, and Ernest won't get down to Surbiton till the 2.50 train.
Then he'll find his bird flown already. Aha! that'll make him angry.
Checkmate, my young friend, checkmate. You said it should be war, and
war you shall have it. I thank thee, friend, for teaching me that word.
Rivals now, you said; yes, rivals. 'Dolus an virtus, quis in hoste
requirat?' Why, that comes out of the passage about Androgeos! An omen,
a good omen. There's nothing like war for quickening the intelligence. I
haven't looked at a Virgil since I was in the sixth form; and yet the
line comes back to me now, after five years, as pat as the Catechism."

Chuckling to himself at the fraud to stifle conscience (for he had a
conscience), Harold Carnegie dressed hastily for dinner, and went down
quickly in a state of feverish excitement. Dinner passed off grimly
enough. He knew Ernest had written to Isabel; and Ernest guessed from
the other's excited, triumphant manner (though he tried hard to
dissemble the note of triumph in it) that Harold must have written
too--perhaps forestalling him by a direct proposal. In a dim way Mrs.
Carnegie guessed vaguely that some coldness had arisen between her two
boys, the first time for many years; and so she held her peace for the
most part, or talked in asides to Nellie Holt and her daughter. The
conversation was therefore chiefly delegated to Mr. Carnegie himself,
who discoursed with much animation about the iniquitous nature of the
new act for reducing costs in actions for the recovery of small debts--a
subject calculated to arouse the keenest interest in the minds of Nellie
and Edie.

Next morning, Harold Carnegie started for the office with prospective
victory elate in his very step, and yet with the consciousness of his
own mean action grinding him down to the pavement as he walked along it.
What a dirty, petty, dishonourable subterfuge! and still he would go
through with it. What a self-degrading bit of treachery! and yet he
would carry it out. "Pater," he said, as he walked along, "I mean to
take a holiday this afternoon. I'm going to the Montagus' water-party."

"Very inconvenient, Harold, my boy; 'Wilkins _versus_ the Great Northern
Railway Company' coming on for hearing; and, besides, Ernest's going
there too. They won't want a pair of you, will they?"

"Can't help it, Pater," Harold answered. "I have particular business at
Surbiton, much more important to me than 'Wilkins versus the Great
Northern Railway Company.'"

His father looked at him keenly. "Ha!" he said, "a lady in the case, is
there? Very well, my boy, if you must you must, and that's the end of
it. A young man in love never does make an efficient lawyer. Get it over
quickly, pray; get it over quickly, that's all I beg of you."

"I shall get it over, I promise you," Harold answered, "this very
afternoon."

The father whistled. "Whew," he said, "that's sharp work, too, Harold,
isn't it? You haven't even told me her name yet. This is really very
sudden." But as Harold volunteered no further information, Mr. Carnegie,
who was a shrewd man of the world, held it good policy to ask him
nothing more about it for the present; and so they walked on the rest of
the way to the father's office in unbroken silence.

At one o'clock, Harold shut up his desk at the office and ran down to
Surbiton. At Clapham Junction he kept a sharp look-out for Ernest, but
Ernest was not there. Clearly, as Harold anticipated, he hadn't learnt
the alteration in the time-tables, and wouldn't reach Clapham Junction
till the train for Surbiton had started.

At Surbiton, Harold pushed on arrangements as quickly as possible, and
managed to get the party off before Ernest arrived upon the scene. Mrs.
Montagu, seeing "one of the young Carnegies" duly to hand, and never
having attempted to discriminate between them in any way, was perfectly
happy at the prospect of getting landed at Lady Portlebury's without
any minute investigation of the intricate question of Christian names.
The Montagus were _nouveaux riches_ in the very act of pushing
themselves into fashionable society; and a chance of invading the
Portlebury lawn was extremely welcome to them upon any terms whatsoever.

Isabel Walters was looking charming. A light morning dress became her
even better than the dark red satin of the night before last; and she
smiled at Harold with the smile of a mutual confidence when she took his
hand, in a way that made his heart throb fast within him. From that
moment forward, he forgot Ernest and the unworthy trick he was playing,
and thought wholly and solely of Isabel Walters.

What a handsome young man he was, really, and how cleverly and
brilliantly he talked all the way up to Portlebury Lodge! Everybody
listened to him; he was the life and soul of the party. Isabel felt more
flattered than ever at his marked attention. He was the doctor, wasn't
he? No, the lawyer. Well, really, how impossible it was to distinguish
and remember them. And so well connected, too. If he were to propose to
her, now, she could afford to be so condescending to Amy Balfour.

At Lady Portlebury's lawn the steam-launch halted, and Harold managed to
get Isabel alone among the walks, while his aunt escorted the main body
of visitors thus thrust upon her hands over the conservatories. Eager
and hasty, now, he lost no time in making the best of the situation.

"I guessed as much, of course, from your letter, Mr. Carnegie," Isabel
said, playing with her fan with downcast eyes, as he pressed his offer
upon her; "and I really didn't know whether it was right of me to come
here without showing it to mamma and asking her advice about it. But I'm
quite sure I oughtn't to give you an answer at once, because I've seen
so very little of you. Let us leave the question open for a little.
It's asking so much to ask one for a definite reply on such a very short
acquaintance."

"No, no, Miss Walters," Harold said quickly. "For Heaven's sake, give me
an answer now, I beg of you--I implore you. I must have an answer at
once, immediately. If you can't love me at first sight, for my own
sake--as I loved you the moment I saw you--you can never, never, never
love me! Doubt and hesitation are impossible in true love. Now, or
refuse me for ever! Surely you must know in your own heart whether you
can love me or not; if your heart tells you that you can, then trust
it--trust it--don't argue and reason with it, but say at once you will
make me happy for ever."

"Mr. Carnegie," Isabel said, lifting her eyes for a moment, "I do think,
perhaps--I don't know--but perhaps, after a little while, I could love
you. I like you very much; won't that do for the present? Why are you in
such a hurry for an answer? Why can't you give me a week or two to
decide in?"

"Because," said Harold, desperately, "if I give you a week my brother
will ask you, and perhaps you will marry him instead of me. He's always
before me in everything, and I'm afraid he'll be before me in this. Say
you'll have me, Miss Walters--oh, do say you'll have me, and save me
from the misery of a week's suspense!"

"But, Mr. Carnegie, how can I say anything when I haven't yet made up my
own mind about it? Why, I hardly know you yet from your brother."

"Ah, that's just it," Harold cried, in a voice of positive pain. "You
won't find any difference at all between us, if you come to know us; and
then perhaps you'll be induced to marry my brother. But you know this
much already, that here am I, begging and pleading before you this very
minute, and surely you won't send me away with my prayer unanswered!"

There was such a look of genuine anguish and passion in his face that
Isabel Walters, already strongly prepossessed in his favour, could
resist no longer. She bent her head a little, and whispered very softly,
"I will promise, Mr. Carnegie; I will promise."

Harold seized her hand eagerly, and covered it with kisses. "Isabel," he
cried in a fever of joy, "you have promised. You are mine--mine--mine.
You are mine, now and for ever!"

Isabel bowed her head, and felt a tear standing dimly in her eye, though
she brushed it away hastily. "Yes," she said gently; "I will be yours. I
think--I think--I feel sure I can love you."

Harold took her ungloved hand tenderly in his, and drew a ring off her
finger. "Before I give you mine," he said, "you will let me take this
one? I want it for a keepsake and a memorial."

Isabel whispered, "Yes."

Harold drew another ring from his pocket and slipped it softly on her
third finger. Isabel saw by the glitter that there was a diamond in it.
Harold had bought it the day before for that very purpose. Then he took
from a small box a plain gold locket, with the letter H raised on it. "I
want you to wear this," he said, "as a keepsake for me."

"But why H?" Isabel asked him, looking a little puzzled. "Your name's
Ernest, isn't it?"

Harold smiled as well as he was able. "How absurd it is!" he said, with
an effort at gaiety. "This ridiculous similarity pursues us everywhere.
No, my name's Harold."

Isabel stood for a moment surprised and hesitating. She really hardly
knew for the second which brother she ought to consider herself engaged
to. "Then it wasn't you who wrote to me?" she said, with a tone of some
surprise and a little start of astonishment.

"No, I certainly didn't write to you; but I came here to-day expecting
to see you, and meaning to ask you to be my wife. I learned from my
brother ("there can be no falsehood in putting it that way," he thought
vainly to himself) that you were to be here; and I determined to seize
the opportunity. Ernest meant to have come, too, but I believe he must
have lost the train at Clapham Junction." That was all literally true,
and yet it sounded simple and plausible enough.

Isabel looked at him with a puzzled look, and felt almost compelled to
laugh, the situation was so supremely ridiculous. It took a moment to
think it all out rationally. Yet, after all, though the letter came from
the other brother, Ernest, it was this particular brother, Harold, she
had been talking to and admiring all the day; it was this particular
brother, Harold, who had gained her consent, and whom she had promised
to love and to marry. And at that moment it would have been doing Isabel
Walters an injustice not to admit that in her own soul she did then and
there really love Harold Carnegie.

"Harold," she said slowly, as she took the locket and hung it round her
neck, "Harold. Yes, now I know. Then, Harold Carnegie, I shall take your
locket and wear it always as a keepsake from you." And she looked up at
him with a smile in which there was something more than mere passing
coquettish fancy. You see, he was really terribly in earnest; and the
very fact that he should have been so anxious to anticipate his brother,
and should have anticipated him successfully, made her woman's heart go
forth toward him instinctively. As Harold himself said, he was there
bodily present before her; while Ernest, the writer of the mysterious
letter, was nothing more to her in reality than a name and a shadow.
Harold had asked her, and won her; and she was ready to love and cleave
to Harold from that day forth for that very reason. What woman of them
all has a better reason to give in the last resort for the faith that is
in her?

V.

Meanwhile, at Clapham Junction, Ernest Carnegie had arrived three
minutes too late for the Surbiton train, and had been forced to wait for
the 2.40. Of that he thought little: they would wait for him, he knew,
if they waited an hour; for Mrs. Montagu would not for worlds have
missed the chance of showing her guests round Lady Portlebury's gardens.
So he settled himself down comfortably in the snug corner of his
first-class carriage, and ran down by the later train in perfect
confidence that he would find the steam launch waiting.

"No, sir, they've gone up the river in the launch, sir," said the man
who opened the door for him; "and, I beg pardon, sir, but I thought you
were one of the party."

In a moment Ernest's fancy, quickened by his jealousy, jumped
instinctively at the true meaning of the man's mistake. "What," he said,
"was there a gentleman very like me, in a grey coat and straw hat--same
ribbon as this one?"

"Yes, sir. Exactly, sir. Well, indeed, I should have said it was
yourself, sir; but I suppose it was the other Mr. Carnegie."

"It was!" Ernest answered between his clenched teeth, almost
inarticulate with anger. "It was he. Not a doubt of it. Harold! I see it
all. The treachery--the base treachery! How long have they been gone, I
say? How long, eh?"

"About half an hour, sir; they went up towards Henley, sir."

Ernest Carnegie turned aside, reeling with wrath and indignation.
That his brother, his own familiar twin-brother, should have played
him this abominable, disgraceful trick! The meanness of it! The deceit
of it! The petty spying and letter-opening of it! For somehow or
other--inconceivable how--Harold must have opened his brother's letters.
And then, quick as lightning, for those two brains jumped together, the
thought of the blotting-book flashed across Ernest's mind. Why, he had
noticed this morning that a page was gone out of it. He must have read
the letters. And then the trains! Harold always got a time-table on the
first of each month, with his cursed methodical lawyer ways. And he had
never told him about the change of service. The dirty low trick! The
mean trick! Even to think of it made Ernest Carnegie sick at heart and
bitterly indignant.

In a minute he saw it all and thought it all out. Why did he--how did
he? Why, he knew as clearly as if he could read Harold's thoughts,
exactly how the whole vile plot had first risen upon him, and worked
itself out within his traitorous brain. How? Ah, how? That was the
bitterest, the most horrible, the deadliest part of it all. Ernest
Carnegie knew, because he felt in his own inmost soul that, had he been
put in the same circumstances, he would himself have done exactly as
Harold had done.

Yes, exactly in every respect. Harold must have seen the words in the
blotting-book, "My dear Miss Walters"--Ernest remembered how thickly and
blackly he had written--must have seen those words; and in their present
condition, either of the twins, jealous, angry, suspicious, half driven
by envy of one another out of their moral senses, would have torn out
the page then and there and read it all. He, too, would have kept
silence about the train; he would have gone down to Surbiton; he would
have proposed to Isabel Walters; he would have done in everything
exactly as he knew Harold must have done it; but that did not make his
anger and loathing for his brother any the weaker. On the contrary, it
only made them all the more terrible. His consciousness of his own equal
potential meanness roused his rage against Harold to a white heat. He
would have done the same himself, no doubt; yes; but Harold, the mean,
successful, actually accomplishing villain--Harold had really gone down
and done it all in positive fact and reality.

Flushing scarlet and blanching white alternately with the fierceness of
his anger, Ernest Carnegie turned down, all on fire, to the river's
edge. Should he take a boat and row up after them to prevent the
supplanter at least from proposing to Isabel unopposed? That would at
any rate give him something to do--muscular work for his arms, if
nothing else, to counteract the fire within him; but on second thoughts,
no, it would be quite useless. The steam launch had had a good start of
him, and no oarsman could catch up with it now by any possibility. So he
walked about up and down near the river, chafing in soul and nursing his
wrath against Harold for three long weary hours. And all that time
Harold, false-hearted, fair-spoken, mean-spirited Harold, was enjoying
himself and playing the gallant to Isabel Walters!

Minute by minute the hours wore away, and with every minute Ernest's
indignation grew deeper and deeper. At last he heard the snort of the
steam-launch ploughing its way lustily down the river, and he stood on
the bank waiting for the guilty Harold to disembark.

As Harold stepped from the launch, and gave his hand to Isabel, he saw
the white and bloodless face of his brother looking up at him
contemptuously and coldly from beside the landing. Harold passed ashore
and close by him, but Ernest never spoke a word. He only looked a moment
at Isabel, and said to her with enforced calmness, "You got my letter,
Miss Walters?"

Isabel, hardly comprehending the real solemnity of the occasion,
answered with a light smile, "I did, Mr. Carnegie, but you didn't keep
your appointment. Your brother came, and he has been beforehand with
you." And she touched his hand lightly and went on to join her hostess.

Still Ernest Carnegie said nothing, but walked on, as black as night,
beside his brother. Neither spoke a word; but after the shaking of hands
and farewells were over, both turned together to the railway station.
The carriage was crowded, and so Ernest still held his tongue.

At last, when they reached home and stood in the passage together,
Ernest looked at his brother with a look of withering scorn, and, livid
with anger, found his voice at last.

"Harold Carnegie," he said, in a low husky tone, "you are a mean
intercepter of other men's letters; a sneaking supplanter of other men's
appointments; a cur and a traitor whom I don't wish any longer to
associate with. I know what you have done, and I know how you have done
it. You have kept my engagement with Isabel Walters by reading the
impression of my notes on the blotting-book. You are unfit for a
gentleman to speak to, and I cast you off, now and for ever."

Harold looked at him defiantly, but said never a word.

"Harold Carnegie," Ernest said again, "I could hardly believe your
treachery until it was forced upon me. This is the last time I shall
ever speak to you."

Harold looked at him again, this time perhaps with a tinge of remorse in
his expression, and said nothing but, "Oh, Ernest."

Ernest made a gesture with his hands as though he would repel him.
"Don't come near me," he said; "Harold Carnegie, don't touch me! Don't
call me by my name! I will have nothing more to say or do with you."

Harold turned away in dead silence, and went to his own room, trembling
with conscious humiliation and self-reproach. But he did not attempt to
make the only atonement in his power by giving up Isabel Walters. That
would have been too much for human nature.

VI.

When Harold Carnegie was finally married to Isabel Walters, Ernest
stopped away from the wedding, and would have nothing whatever to say
either to bride or bridegroom. He would leave his unnatural brother, he
said, solely and entirely to the punishment of his own guilty
conscience.

Still, he couldn't rest quiet in his father's house after Harold was
gone, so he took himself small rooms near the hospital, and there he
lived his lonely life entirely by himself, a solitary man, brooding
miserably over his own wrongs and Harold's treachery. There was only one
single woman in the world, he said, with whom he could ever have been
really happy--Isabel Walters: and Harold had stolen Isabel Walters away
from him by the basest treason. Once he could have loved Isabel, and her
only; now, because she was Harold's wife, he bitterly hated her. Yes,
hated her! With a deadly hatred he hated both of them.

Months went by slowly for Ernest Carnegie, in the dull drudgery of his
hopeless professional life, for he cared nothing now for ambition or
advancement; he lived wholly in the past, nursing his wrath, and
devouring his own soul in angry regretfulness. Months went by, and at
last Harold's wife gave birth to a baby--a boy, the exact image of his
father and his uncle. Harold looked at the child in the nurse's arms,
and said remorsefully, "We will call him Ernest. It is all we can do
now, Isabel. We will call him Ernest, after my dear lost brother." So
they called him Ernest, in the faint hope that his uncle's heart might
relent a little; and Harold wrote a letter full of deep and bitter
penitence to his brother, piteously begging his forgiveness for the
grievous wrong he had wickedly and deliberately done him. But Ernest
still nursed his righteous wrath silently in his own bosom, and tore up
the letter into a thousand fragments, unanswered.

When the baby was five months old, Edie Carnegie came round hurriedly
one morning to Ernest's lodgings near the hospital. "Ernest, Ernest,"
she cried, running up the stairs in great haste, "we want you to come
round and see Harold. We're afraid he's very ill. Don't say you won't
come and see him!"

Ernest Carnegie listened and smiled grimly. "Very ill," he muttered,
with a dreadful gleam in his eyes. "Very ill, is he? and I have had
nothing the matter with me! How curious! Very ill! I ought to have had
the same illness a fortnight ago. Ha, ha! The cycle is broken! The
clocks have ceased to strike together! His marriage has altered the run
of his constitution--mine remains the same steady striker as ever. I
thought it would! I thought it would! Perhaps he'll die, now, the mean,
miserable traitor!"

Edie Carnegie looked at him in undisguised horror. "Oh, Ernest," she
cried, with the utmost dismay; "your own brother! Your own brother!
Surely you'll come and see him, and tell us what's the matter."

"Yes, I'll come and see him," Ernest answered, unmoved, taking up his
hat. "I'll come and see him, and find out what's the matter." But there
was an awful air of malicious triumph in his tone, which perfectly
horrified his trembling sister.

When Ernest reached his brother's house, he went at once to Harold's
bedside, and without a word of introduction or recognition he began
inquiring into the nature of his symptoms, exactly as he would have done
with any unknown and ordinary patient. Harold told him them all, simply
and straightforwardly, without any more preface than he would have used
with any other doctor. When Ernest had finished his diagnosis, he leaned
back carelessly in his easy chair, folded his arms sternly, and said in
a perfectly cold, clear, remorseless voice, "Ah, I thought so; yes, yes,
I thought so. It's a serious functional disorder of the heart; and
there's very little hope indeed that you'll ever recover from it. No
hope at all, I may say; no hope at all, I'm certain. The thing has been
creeping upon you, creeping upon you, evidently, for a year past, and it
has gone too far now to leave the faintest hope of ultimate recovery."

Isabel burst into tears at the words--calmly spoken as though they were
perfectly indifferent to both speaker and hearers; but Harold only rose
up fiercely in the bed, and cried in a tone of the most imploring agony,
"Oh, Ernest, Ernest, if I must die, for Heaven's sake, before I die, say
you forgive me, do say, do say you forgive me. Oh, Ernest, dear Ernest,
dear brother Ernest, for the sake of our long, happy friendship, for the
sake of the days when we loved one another with a love passing the love
of women, do, do say you will at last forgive me."

Ernest rose and fumbled nervously for a second with the edge of his hat.
"Harold Carnegie," he said at last, in a voice trembling with
excitement, "I can never forgive you. You acted a mean, dirty part, and
I can never forgive you. Heaven may, perhaps it will; but as for me, I
can never, never, never forgive you!"

Harold fell back feebly and wearily upon the pillows. "Ernest, Ernest,"
he cried, gasping, "you might forgive me! you ought to forgive me! you
must forgive me! and I'll tell you why. I didn't want to say it, but now
you force me. I know it as well as if I'd seen you do it. In my place, I
know to a certainty, Ernest, you'd have done exactly as I did. Ernest
Carnegie, you can't look me straight in the face and tell me that you
wouldn't have acted exactly as I did."

That terrible unspoken truth, long known, but never confessed, even to
himself, struck like a knife on Ernest's heart. He raised his hat
blindly, and walked with unsteady steps out of the sick-room. At that
moment, his own conscience smote him with awful vividness. Looking into
the inmost recesses of his angry heart, he felt with a shudder that
Harold had spoken the simple truth, and he dared not lie by
contradicting him. In Harold's place he would have done exactly as
Harold did! And that was just what made his deathless anger burn all the
more fiercely and fervidly against his brother!

Groping his way down the stairs alone in a stunned and dazzled fashion,
Ernest Carnegie went home in his agony to his lonely lodgings, and sat
there solitary with his own tempestuous thoughts for the next
eight-and-forty hours. He did not undress or lie down to sleep, though
he dozed a little at times uneasily in his big arm-chair; he did not eat
or drink much; he merely paced up and down his room feverishly, and sent
his boy round at intervals of an hour or two to know how the doctor
thought Mr. Harold Carnegie was getting on. The boy returned every time
with uniformly worse and worse reports. Ernest rubbed his hands in
horrid exultation: "Ah," he said to himself, eagerly, "he will die! he
will die! he will pay the penalty of his dirty treachery! He has brought
it all upon himself by marrying that wicked woman! He deserves it every
bit for his mean conduct."

On the third morning, Edie came round again, this time with her mother.
Both had tears in their eyes, and they implored Ernest with sobs and
entreaties to come round and see Harold once more before he died. Harold
was raving and crying for him in his weakness and delirium. But Ernest
was like adamant. He would not go to see him, he said, not if they went
down bodily on their knees before him.

At midday, the boy went again, and stayed a little longer than usual.
When he returned, he brought back word that Mr. Harold Carnegie had died
just as the clock was striking the hour. Ernest listened with a look of
terror and dismay, and then broke down into a terrible fit of sobbing
and weeping. When Edie came round a little later to tell him that all
was over, she found him crying like a child in his own easy chair, and
muttering to himself in a broken fashion how dearly he and Harold had
loved one another years ago, when they were both happy children
together.

Edie took him round to his brother's house, and there, over the deaf and
blind face that lay cold upon the pillows, he cried the cry that he
would not cry over his living, imploring brother. "Oh, Harold, Harold,"
he groaned in his broken agony, "I forgive you, I forgive you. I too
sinned as you did. What you would do, I would do. It was bound up in
both our natures. In your place I would have done as you did. But now
the curse of Cain is upon me! A worse curse than Cain's is upon me! I
have more than killed my brother!"

For a day or two Ernest went back, heart-broken, to his father's house,
and slept once more in the old room where he used to sleep so long, next
door to Harold's. At the end of three days, he woke once from one of his
short snatches of sleep with a strange fluttering feeling in his left
side. He knew in a moment what it was. It was the same disease that
Harold had died of.

"Thank Heaven!" he said to himself eagerly, "thank Heaven, thank Heaven
for that! Then I didn't wholly kill him! His blood isn't all upon my
poor unhappy head. After all, his marriage didn't quite upset the
harmony of the two clocks; it only made the slower one catch up for a
while and pass the faster. I'm a fortnight later in striking than Harold
this time; that's all. In three days more the clock will run down, and I
shall die as he did."

And, true to time, in three days more, as the clock struck twelve,
Ernest Carnegie died as his brother Harold had done before him, with the
agonized cry for forgiveness trembling on his fevered lips--who knows
whether answered or unanswered?

_OLGA DAVIDOFF'S HUSBAND._

I.

Tobolsk, though a Siberian metropolis, is really a very pleasant place
to pass a winter in. Like the western American cities, where everybody
has made his money easily and spends it easily, it positively bubbles
over with bad champagne, cheap culture, advanced thought, French
romances, and all the other most recent products of human industry and
ingenuity. Everybody eats _pate de foie gras_, quotes Hartmann and
Herbert Spencer, uses electric bells, believes in woman's rights,
possesses profound views about the future of Asia, and had a grandfather
who was a savage Samoyede or an ignorant Buriat. Society is extremely
cultivated, and if you scratch it ever so little, you see the Tartar.
Nevertheless, it considers itself the only really polite and enlightened
community on the whole face of this evolving terrestrial planet.

The Davidoffs, however, who belonged to the most advanced section of
mercantile society in all Tobolsk, were not originally Siberians, or
even Russians, by birth or nationality. Old Mr. Davidoff, the
grandfather, who founded the fortunes of the family in St. Petersburg,
was a Welsh Davids; and he had altered his name by the timely addition
of a Slavonic suffix in order to conciliate the national
susceptibilities of Orthodox Russia. His son, Dimitri, whom for the
same reason he had christened in honour of a Russian saint, removed the
Russian branch of the house to Tobolsk (they were in the Siberian
fur-trade), and there marrying a German lady of the name of Freytag, had
one daughter and heiress, Olga Davidoff, the acknowledged belle of
Tobolskan society. It was generally understood in Tobolsk that the
Davidoffs were descended from Welsh princes (as may very likely have
been the case--though one would really like to know what has become of
all the descendants of Welsh subjects), if indeed they were not even
remotely connected with the Prince of Wales himself in person.

The winter of 1873 (as everybody will remember) was a very cold one
throughout Siberia. The rivers froze unusually early, and troikas had
entirely superseded torosses on all the roads as early as the very
beginning of October. Still, Tobolsk was exceedingly gay for all that;
in the warm houses of the great merchants, with their tropical plants
kept at summer heat by stoves and flues all the year round, nobody
noticed the exceptional rigour of that severe season. Balls and dances
followed one another in quick succession, and Olga Davidoff, just
twenty, enjoyed herself as she had never before done in all her
lifetime. It was such a change to come to the concentrated gaities and
delights of Tobolsk after six years of old Miss Waterlow's Establishment
for Young Ladies, at The Laurels, Clapham.

That winter, for the first time, Baron Niaz, the Buriat, came to
Tobolsk.

Exquisitely polished in manners, and very handsome in face and bearing,
there was nothing of the Tartar anywhere visible about Baron Niaz. He
had been brought up in Paris, at a fashionable Lycee, and he spoke
French with perfect fluency, as well as with some native sparkle and
genuine cleverness. His taste in music was unimpeachable: even Madame
Davidoff, _nee_ Freytag, candidly admitted that his performances upon
the violin were singularly brilliant, profound, and appreciative.
Moreover, though a Buriat chief, he was a most undoubted nobleman: at
the Governor's parties he took rank, by patent of the Emperor Nicholas,
as a real Russian baron of the first water. To be sure, he was nominally
a Tartar; but what of that? His mother and his grandmother, he declared,
had both been Russian ladies; and you had only to look at him to see
that there was scarcely a drop of Tartar blood still remaining anywhere
in him. If the half-caste negro is a brown mulatto, the quarter-caste a
light quadroon, and the next remove a practically white octoroon, surely
Baron Niaz, in spite of his remote Buriat great-grandfathers, might well
pass for an ordinary everyday civilized Russian.

Olga Davidoff was fairly fascinated by the accomplished young baron. She
met him everywhere, and he paid her always the most marked and
flattering attention. He was a Buriat, to be sure: but at Tobolsk, you
know----. Well, one mustn't be too particular about these little
questions of origin in an Asiatic city.

It was at the Governor's dance, just before Christmas, that the Baron
got his first good chance of talking with her for ten minutes alone
among the fan palms and yuccas in the big conservatory. There was a seat
in the far corner beside the flowering oleander, where the Baron led her
after the fourth waltz, and leant over her respectfully as she played
with her Chinese fan, half trembling at the declaration she knew he was
on the point of making to her.

"Mademoiselle Davidoff," the Baron began in French, with a lingering
cadence as he pronounced her name, and a faint tremor in his voice that
thrilled responsively through her inmost being; "Mademoiselle Davidoff,
I have been waiting long for this opportunity of speaking to you alone,
because I have something of some importance--to me at least,
mademoiselle--about which I wish to confer with you. Mademoiselle, will
you do me the honour to listen to me patiently a minute or two? The
matter about which I wish to speak to you is one that may concern
yourself, too, more closely than you at first imagine."

What a funny way to begin proposing to one! Olga Davidoff's heart beat
violently as she answered as unconcernedly as possible, "I shall be
glad, M. le Baron, I'm sure, to listen to any communication that you may
wish to make to me."

"Mademoiselle," the young man went on almost timidly--how handsome he
looked as he stood there bending over her in his semi-barbaric Tartar
uniform!--"mademoiselle, the village where I live in our own country is
a lonely one among the high mountains. You do not know the Buriat
country--it is wild, savage, rugged, pine-clad, snow-clad, solitary,
inaccessible, but very beautiful. Even the Russians do not love it; but
we love it, we others, who are to the manner born. We breathe there the
air of liberty, and we prefer our own brawling streams and sheer
precipices to all the artificial stifling civilization of Paris and St.
Petersburg."

Olga looked at him and smiled quietly. She saw at once how he wished to
break it to her, and held her peace like a wise maiden.

"Yes, mademoiselle," the young man went on, flooding her each moment
with the flashing light from his great luminous eyes; "my village in the
Buriat country lies high up beside the eternal snows. But though we live
alone there, so far from civilization that we seldom see even a passing
traveller, our life is not devoid of its own delights and its own
interests. I have my own people all around me; I live in my village as a
little prince among his own subjects. My people are few, but they are
very faithful. Mademoiselle has been educated in England, I believe?"

"Yes," Olga answered. "In London, M. le Baron. I am of English
parentage, and my father sent me there to keep up the connection with
his old fatherland, where one branch of our House is still established."

"Then, mademoiselle, you will doubtless have read the tales of Walter
Scott?"

Olga smiled curiously. "Yes," she said, amused at his _naivete_, "I have
certainly read them." She began to think that after all the handsome
young Buriat couldn't mean really to propose to her.

"Well, you know, in that case, what was the life of a Highland chieftain
in Scotland, when the Highland chieftains were still practically all but
independent. That, mademoiselle, is exactly the life of a modern Buriat
nobleman under the Russian empire. He has his own little territory and
his own little people; he lives among them in his own little antiquated
fortress; he acknowledges nominally the sovereignty of the most orthodox
Czar, and even perhaps exchanges for a Russian title the Tartar
chieftainship handed down to him in unbroken succession from his
earliest forefathers. But in all the rest he still remains essentially
independent. He rules over a little principality of his own, and cares
not a fig in his own heart for czar, or governor, or general, or
minister."

"This is rather treasonable talk for the Governor's palace," Olga put
in, smiling quietly. "If we were not already in Tobolsk we might both,
perhaps, imagine we should be sent to Siberia."

The Baron laughed, and showed his two rows of pearly white teeth to the
best advantage. "They might send me to the mines," he said, "for aught I
care, mademoiselle. I could get away easily enough from village to
village to my own country; and once there, it would be easier for the
Czar to take Constantinople and Bagdad and Calcutta than to track and
dislodge Alexander Niaz in his mountain fortress."

Alexander Niaz! Olga noted the name to herself hurriedly. He was
converted then! he was an orthodox Christian! That at least was a good
thing, for so many of these Buriats are still nothing more than the most
degraded Schamanists and heathens!

"But, mademoiselle," the young man went on again, playing more nervously
now than ever with the jewelled hilt of his dress sword, "there is one
thing still wanting to my happiness among our beautiful Siberian
mountains. I have no lovely chatelaine to help me guard my little feudal
castle. Mademoiselle, the Buriat women are not fit allies for a man who
has been brought up among the civilization and the learning of the great
Western cities. He needs a companion who can sympathize with his higher
tastes: who can speak with him of books, of life, of art, of music. Our
Buriat women are mere household drudges; to marry one of them would be
utterly impossible. Mademoiselle, my father and my grandfather came away
from their native wilds to seek a lady who would condescend to love
them, in the polite society of Tobolsk. I have gone farther afield: I
have sought in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, St. Petersburg. But I saw no lady
to whose heart my heart responded, till I came back once more to old
Tobolsk. There, mademoiselle, there I saw one whom I recognized at once
as fashioned for me by heaven. Mademoiselle Davidoff,--I tremble to ask
you, but--I love you,--will you share my exile?"

Olga looked at the handsome young man with unconcealed joy and
admiration. "Your exile!" she murmured softly, to gain time for a
moment. "And why your exile, M. le Baron?"

"Mademoiselle," the young Buriat continued very earnestly, "I do not
wish to woo or wed you under false pretences. Before you give me an
answer, you must understand to what sort of life it is that I venture to
invite you. Our mountains are very lonely: to live there would be
indeed an exile to you, accustomed to the gaieties and the vortex of
London." (Olga smiled quietly to herself, as she thought for a second of
the little drawing-room at The Laurels, Clapham.) "But if you can
consent to live in it with me, I will do my best to make it as easy for
you as possible. You shall have music, books, papers, amusements--but
not society--during the six months of summer which we must necessarily
pass at my mountain village; you shall visit Tobolsk, Moscow,
Petersburg, London--which you will--during the six months of holiday in
winter; above all, you shall have the undying love and devotion of one
who has never loved another woman--Alexander Niaz.... Mademoiselle, you
see the conditions. Can you accept them? Can you condescend of your
goodness to love me--to marry me?"

Olga Davidoff lifted her fan with an effort and answered faintly, "M. le
Baron, you are very flattering. I--I will try my best to deserve your
goodness."

Niaz took her pretty little hand in his with old-fashioned politeness,
and raised it chivalrously to his trembling lips. "Mademoiselle," he
said, "you have made me eternally happy. My life shall be passed in
trying to prove my gratitude to you for this condescension."

"I think," Olga answered, shaking from head to foot, "I think, M. le
Baron, you had better take me back into the next room to my mother."

II.

Olga Davidoff's wedding was one of the most brilliant social successes
of that Tobolsk season. Davidoff pere surpassed himself in the
costliness of his exotics, the magnificence of his presents, the
reckless abundance of his Veuve Clicquot. Madame Davidoff successfully
caught the Governor and the General, and the English traveller from
India _via_ the Himalayas. The Baron looked as gorgeous as he was
handsome in his half Russian, half Tartar uniform and his Oriental
display of pearls and diamonds. Olga herself was the prettiest and most
blushing bride ever seen in Tobolsk, a simple English girl, fresh from
the proprieties of The Laurels at Clapham, among all that curious mixed
cosmopolitan society of semi-civilized Siberians, Catholic Poles, and
orthodox Russians.

As soon as the wedding was fairly over, the bride and bridegroom started
off by toross to make their way across the southern plateau to the
Baron's village.

It was a long and dreary drive, that wedding tour, in a jolting carriage
over Siberian roads, resting at wayside posting-houses, bad enough while
they were still on the main line of the Imperial mails, but degenerating
into true Central-Asian caravanserais when once they had got off the
beaten track into the wild neighbourhood of the Baron's village.
Nevertheless, Olga Davidoff bore up against the troubles and discomforts
of the journey with a brave heart, for was not the Baron always by her
side? and who could be kinder, or gentler, or more thoughtful than her
Buriat husband? Yes, it was a long and hard journey, up among those
border mountains of the Chinese and Tibetan frontier; but Olga felt at
home at last when, after three weeks of incessant jolting, they arrived
at the Buriat mountain stronghold, under cover of the night; and Niaz
led her straightway to her own pretty little European boudoir, which he
had prepared for her beforehand at immense expense and trouble in his
upland village.

The moment they entered, Olga saw a pretty little room, papered and
carpeted in English fashion, with a small piano over in the corner, a
lamp burning brightly on the tiny side-table, and a roaring fire of logs
blazing and crackling upon the simple stone hearth. A book or two lay
upon the shelf at the side: she glanced casually at their titles as she
passed, and saw that they were some of Tourgenieff's latest novels, a
paper-covered Zola fresh from Paris, a volume each of Tennyson,
Browning, Carlyle, and Swinburne, a Demidoff, an Emile Augier, a _Revue
des Deux Mondes_, and a late number of an English magazine. She valued
these things at once for their own sakes, but still more because she
felt instinctively that Niaz had taken the trouble to get them there for
her beforehand in this remote and uncivilized corner. She turned to the
piano: a light piece by Sullivan lay open before her, and a number of
airs from Chopin, Schubert, and Mendelssohn were scattered loosely on
the top one above the other. Her heart was too full to utter a word, but
she went straight up to her husband, threw her arms tenderly around his
neck, and kissed him with the utmost fervour. Niaz smoothed her wavy
fair hair gently with his hand, and his eyes sparkled with conscious
pleasure as he returned her caress and kissed her forehead.

After a while, they went into the next room to dinner--a small hall,
somewhat barbaric in type, but not ill-furnished; and Olga noticed that
the two or three servants were very fierce and savage-looking Buriats of
the most pronounced Tartar type. The dinner was a plain one, plainly
served, of rough country hospitality; but the appointments were all
European, and, though simple, good and sufficient. Niaz had said so much
to her of the discomforts of his mountain stronghold that Olga was quite
delighted to find things on the whole so comparatively civilized, clean,
and European.

A few days' sojourn in the fort--it was rather that than a castle or a
village--showed Olga pretty clearly what sort of life she was henceforth
to expect. Her husband's subjects numbered about a hundred and fifty
(with as many more women and children); they rendered him the most
implicit obedience, and they evidently looked upon him entirely as a
superior being. They were trained to a military discipline, and
regularly drilled every morning by Niaz in the queer old semi-Chinese
courtyard of the mouldering castle. Olga was so accustomed to a Russian
military _regime_ that this circumstance never struck her as being
anything extraordinary; she regarded it only as part of the Baron's
ancestral habits as a practically independent Tartar chieftain.

Week after week rolled away at the fort, and though Olga had absolutely
no one to whom she could speak except her own husband (for the Buriats
knew no Russian save the word of command), she didn't find time hang
heavily on her hands in the quaint, old-fashioned village. The walks and
rides about were really delightful; the scenery was grand and beautiful
to the last degree; the Chinese-looking houses and Tartar dress were odd
and picturesque, like a scene in a theatre. It was all so absurdly
romantic. After all, Olga said to herself with a smile more than once,
it isn't half bad being married to a Tartar chieftain up in the border
mountains, when you actually come to try it. Only, she confessed in her
own heart that she would probably always be very glad when the winter
came again, and she got back from these mountain solitudes to the
congenial gaiety of Tobolsk or Petersburg.

And Niaz--well, Niaz loved her distractedly. No husband on earth could
possibly love a woman better.

Still, Olga could never understand why he sometimes had to leave her for
three or four days together, and why during his absence, when she was
left all alone at night in the solitary fort with those dreadful
Buriats, they kept watch and ward so carefully all the time, and seemed
so relieved when Niaz came back again. But whenever she asked him about
it, Niaz only looked grave and anxious, and replied with a would-be
careless wave of the hand that part of his duty was to guard the
frontier, and that the Czar had not conferred a title and an order upon
him for nothing. Olga felt frightened and disquieted on all such
occasions, but somehow felt, from Niaz's manner, that she must not
question him further upon the matter.

One day, after one of these occasional excursions, Niaz came back in
high spirits, and kissed her more tenderly and affectionately than ever.
After dinner, he read to her out of a book of French poems a grand piece
of Victor Hugo's, and then made her sit down to the piano and play him
his favourite air from _Der Freischuetz_ twice over. When she had
finished, he leant back in his chair and murmured quietly in French
(which they always spoke together), "And this is in the mountains of
Tartary! One would say a soiree of St. Petersburg or of Paris."

Olga turned and looked at him softly. "What is the time, dearest Niaz?"
she said with a smile. "Shall I be able to play you still that dance of
Pinsuti's?"

Niaz pulled out his watch and answered quickly, "Only ten o'clock,
darling. You have plenty of time still."

Something in the look of the watch he held in his hand struck Olga as
queer and unfamiliar. She glanced at it sideways, and noticed hurriedly
that Niaz was trying to replace it unobserved in his waistcoat pocket.
"I haven't seen that watch before," she said suddenly; "let me look at
it, dear, will you?"

Niaz drew it out and handed it to her with affected nonchalance; but in
the undercurrent of his expression Olga caught a glimpse of a hang-dog
look she had never before observed in it. She turned over the watch and
looked on the back. To her immense surprise, it bore the initials "F. de
K." engraved upon the cover.

"These letters don't belong to you, Niaz," she said, scanning it
curiously.

Niaz moved uneasily in his chair. "No," he answered, "not to me, Olga.
It's--it's an old family relic--an heirloom, in fact. It belonged to my
mother's mother. She was--a Mademoiselle de Kerouac, I believe, from
Morbihan, in Brittany."

Olga's eyes looked him through and through with a strange new-born
suspicion. What could it all mean? She knew he was telling her a
falsehood. Had the watch belonged--to some other lady? What was the
meaning of his continued absences? Could he----but no. It was a man's
watch, not a lady's. And if so--why, if so, then Niaz had clearly told
her a falsehood in that too, and must be trying to conceal something
about it.

That night, for the first time, Olga Davidoff began to distrust her
Buriat husband.

Next morning, getting up a little early and walking on the parapet of
the queer old fortress, she saw Niaz in the court below, jumping and
stamping in a furious temper upon something on the ground. To her
horror, she saw that his face was all hideously distorted by anger, and
that as he raged and stamped the Tartar cast in his features, never
before visible, came out quite clearly and distinctly. Olga looked on,
and trembled violently, but dared not speak to him.

A few minutes later Niaz came in to breakfast, gay as usual, with a
fresh flower stuck prettily in the button-hole of his undress coat and a
smile playing unconcernedly around the clear-cut corners of his handsome
thin-lipped mouth.

"Niaz," his wife said to him anxiously, "where is the watch you showed
me last night?"

His face never altered for a moment as he replied, with the same bland
and innocent smile as ever, "My darling, I have broken it all to little
pieces. I saw it annoyed you in some way when I showed it to you
yesterday, and this morning I took it out accidentally in the lower
courtyard. The sight of it put me in a violent temper. 'Cursed thing,' I
said, 'you shall never again step in so cruelly between me and my
darling. There, take that, and that, and that, rascal!' and I stamped
it to pieces underfoot in the courtyard."

Olga turned pale, and looked at him horrified. He smiled again, and took
her wee hand tenderly in his. "Little one," he said, "you needn't be
afraid; it's only our quick Buriat fashion. We lose our tempers
sometimes, but it is soon over. It is nothing. A little whirlwind--and,
pouf, it passes."

"But, Niaz, you said it was a family heirloom!"

"Well, darling, and for your sake I ground it to powder. Voila, tout!
Come, no more about it; it isn't worth the trouble. Let us go to
breakfast."

III.

Some days later Niaz went on an expedition again, "on the Czar's service
for the protection of the frontier," and took more than half his
able-bodied Tartars on the journey with him. Olga had never felt so
lonely before, surrounded now by doubt and mystery in that awful
solitary stronghold. The broken watch weighed gloomily upon her
frightened spirits.

Niaz was gone for three days, as often happened, and on the fourth
night, after she had retired to her lonely bedroom, she felt sure she
heard his voice speaking low somewhere in the courtyard.

At the sound she sprang from her bed and went to the window. Yes, there,
down in the far corner of the yard, without lights or noise, and
treading cautiously, she saw Niaz and his men filing quietly in through
the dim gloom, and bringing with them a number of boxes.

Her heart beat fast. Could it be some kind of smuggling? They lay so
near the passes into Turkestan and China, and she knew that the merchant
track from Yarkand to Semi-palatinsk crossed the frontier not far from
Niaz's village.

Huddling on her dress hastily, she issued out alone and terrified, into
the dark courtyard, and sought over the whole place in the black night
for sight of Niaz. She could find him nowhere.

At last she mounted the staircase to the mouldering rampart. Generally
the Tartar guards kept watch there constantly, but to-night the whole
place seemed somehow utterly deserted. She groped her way along till she
reached the far corner by a patch of ground which Niaz had told her was
the Tartar burial-place.

There she came suddenly upon a great crowd of men below on the plain,
running about and shouting wildly, with links and torches. Niaz stood in
the midst, erect and military, with his Russian uniform gleaming
fitfully in the flickering torchlight. In front of him six Turcoman
merchants, with their hands bound behind their backs, knelt upon the
ground, and beside him two Tartars held by either arm a man in European
dress, whom Olga recognized at once as the English traveller from India
by way of the Himalayas. Her heart stood still within her with terror,
and she hung there, mute and unseen, upon the rampart above, wondering
what in Heaven's name this extraordinary scene was going to end in. What
could it mean? What could Niaz be doing in it? Great God, it was too
horrible!

A Tartar came forward quietly from the crowd with a curved sword. At a
word from Niaz he raised the sword aloft in the air. One second it
glanced bright in the torchlight; the next second a Turcoman's head lay
rolling in the dust, and a little torrent of blood spurted suddenly from
the still kneeling corpse. Olga opened her mouth to scream at the horrid
sight, but happily her voice at once forsook her as in a dream, and she
stood fixed to the spot in a perfect fascination of awe and terror.

Then the Tartar moved on, obedient to a word and a nod from Niaz, and
raised his sword again above the second Turcoman. In a moment, the
second head too rolled down quietly beside the other. Without a
minute's delay, as though it formed part of his everyday business, the
practised headsman went on quietly to the next in order, and did not
stop till all six heads lay grim and ghastly scattered about unheeded in
the dust together. Olga shut her eyes, sickening, but still could not
scream for very horror.

Next, Niaz turned to the English traveller, and said something to him in
his politest manner. Olga couldn't catch the words themselves because of
the distance, but she saw from his gestures that he was apologizing to
the Englishman for his rough treatment. The Englishman in reply drew out
and handed to Niaz a small canvas bag, a purse, and a watch. Niaz took
them, bowing politely. "Hands off," he cried to the Tartars in Russian,
and they loosed their prisoner. Then he made a sign, and the Englishman
knelt. In a minute more his head lay rolling in the dust below, and
Niaz, with a placid smile upon his handsome face, turned to give orders
to the surrounding Tartars.

Olga could stand it no more. She dared not scream or let herself be
seen; but she turned round, sick at heart, and groped her way, half
paralyzed by fear, along the mouldering rampart, and then turned in at
last to her own bedroom, where she flung herself upon the bed in her
clothes, and lay, tearless but terrified, the whole night through in
blinding misery.

She did not need to have it all explained to her. Niaz was nothing more,
after all, than a savage Buriat robber chieftain.

IV.

What a terribly long hypocrisy and suspense those six weeks of dreary
waiting, before an answer to her letter could come from Tobolsk, and the
Governor could send a detachment of the military to rescue her from this
nest of murderous banditti!

How Olga hated herself for still pretending to keep on terms with Niaz!
How she loathed and detested the man with whom she must yet live as wife
for that endless time till the day of her delivery!

And Niaz couldn't help seeing that her manner was changed towards him,
though he flattered himself that she had as yet only a bare suspicion,
and no real knowledge of the horrible truth. What a sad thing that she
should ever even have suspected it! What a pity if he could not keep her
here to soothe and lighten his winter solitude!--for he loved her: yes,
he really loved her, and he needed sympathy and companionship in all the
best and highest instincts of his inner nature. These Buriats, what were
they? a miserable set of brutal savages: mere hard-working robbers and
murderers, good enough for the practical rough work of everyday life
(such as knocking Turcoman merchants on the head), but utterly incapable
of appreciating or sympathizing with the better tastes of civilized
humanity. It was a hard calling, that of chieftain to these Tartar
wretches, especially for a man of musical culture brought up in Paris;
and he had hoped that Olga might have helped him through with it by her
friendly companionship. Not, of course, that he ever expected to be able
to tell her the whole truth: women will be women; and coming to a rough
country, they can't understand the necessities laid upon one for rough
dealing. No, he could never have expected her to relish the full details
of a borderer's profession, but he was vexed that she should already
begin to suspect its nature on so very short an acquaintance. He had
told her he was like a Highland chieftain of the old times: did she
suppose that the Rob Roys and Roderick Dhus of real life used to treat
their Lowland captives with rose-water and chivalry? After all, women
have really no idea of how things must be managed in the stern realities
of actual existence.

So the six weeks passed slowly away, and Olga waited and watched, with
smiles on her lips, in mute terror.

At last, one day, in broad daylight, without a moment's warning, or a
single premonitory symptom, Olga saw the courtyard suddenly filled with
men in Russian uniforms, and a friend of hers, a major of infantry at
Tobolsk, rushing in at the head of his soldiers upon the Tartar barrack.

In one second, as if by magic, the courtyard had changed into a roaring
battlefield, the Cossacks were firing at the Tartars, and the Tartars
were firing at the Cossacks. There was a din of guns and a smoke of
gunpowder; and high above all, in the Buriat language, she heard the
voice of Niaz, frantically encouraging his men to action, and shouting
to them with wild energy in incomprehensible gutturals.

The surprise had been so complete that almost before Olga realized the
situation the firing began to die away. The fort was carried, and Niaz
and his men stood, disarmed and sullen, with bleeding faces, in the
midst of a hastily formed square of stout Cossacks, among the dead and
dying strewn upon the ground.

Handsome as ever, but how she hated him!

His arm was wounded; and the Russian surgeon led him aside to bind it
up. To Olga's amazement, while the surgeon was actually engaged in
binding it, Niaz turned upon him like a savage dog, and bit his arm till
the teeth met fiercely in the very middle. She shut her eyes, and half
fainted with disgust and horror.

The surgeon shook him off, with an oath; and two Cossacks, coming up
hastily, bound his hands behind his back, and tied his legs, quite
regardless of his wounded condition.

Meanwhile, the Russian major had sought out Olga, "Madame la Baronne,"
he said respectfully, "I congratulate you upon your safety and your
recovered freedom. Your father is with us; he will soon be here. Your
letter reached him safely, in spite of its roundabout direction; and the
Governor of Tobolsk despatched us at once upon this errand of release.
Baron Niaz had long been suspected: your letter removed all doubts upon
the subject."

A minute or two later, the Cossacks marched their prisoners out of the
courtyard, two and two, into the great hall of the stronghold.

"I wish to bid farewell to my wife," Niaz cried to the major, in a loud
voice. "I shall be sent to the mines, I suppose, and I shall never see
her again in this world most probably."

The major allowed him to come near within speaking distance, under guard
of two Cossacks.

"Madame la Baronne," he hissed out between his clenched teeth, "this is
your hand. It was your hand that you gave me in marriage; it was your
hand that wrote to betray me. Believe me, madame, come what may, your
hand shall pay the penalty."

So much he said, passionately indeed, but with the offended dignity of a
civilized being. Then the Tartar in him broke through the thin veneer of
European culture, and he lolled his tongue out at her in savage
derision, with a hideous menacing leer like an untamed barbarian. Till
that moment, in spite of the horrible massacre she had seen with her own
eyes, Olga had never suspected what profound depths of vulgar savagery
lay unperceived beneath Alexander Niaz's handsome and aristocratic
European features.

One more word he uttered coarsely: a word of foul reproach unfit to be
repeated, which made Olga's cheek turn crimson with wrath and
indignation even in that supreme moment of conflicting passions. She
buried her face between her two hands wildly, and burst into a sudden
flood of uncontrollable tears.

"March him away," cried the major in a stern voice. And they marched him
away, still mocking, with the other prisoners.

That was the last Olga Davidoff then saw of her Buriat husband.

V.

After Niaz had been tried and condemned for robbery and murder, and sent
with the usual Russian clemency to the mines of Oukboul, Olga Davidoff
could not bear any longer to live at Tobolsk. It was partly terror,
partly shame, partly pride; but Tobolsk or even St. Petersburg she felt
to be henceforth utterly impossible for her.

So she determined to go back to her kinsfolk in that dear old quiet
England, where there are no Nihilists, and no Tartars, and no exiles,
and where everybody lived so placidly and demurely. She looked back now
upon The Laurels, Clapham, as the ideal home of repose and happiness.

It was not at Clapham, however, that Madame Niaz (as she still called
herself) settled down, but in a quiet little Kentish village, where the
London branch of the Davids family had retired to spend their Russian
money.

Frank Davids, the son of the house, was Olga's second cousin; and when
Olga had taken the pretty little rose-covered cottage at the end of the
village, Frank Davids found few things more pleasant in life than to
drop in of an afternoon and have a chat with his Russian kinswoman. Olga
lived there alone with her companion, and in spite of the terrible
scenes she had so lately gone through, she was still a girl, very young,
very attractive, and very pretty.

What a wonderfully different life, the lawn-tennis with Frank and the
curate and the Davids girls up at the big house, from the terror and
isolation of the Buriat stronghold! Under the soothing influence of
that placid existence, Olga Davidoff began at last almost to outlive the
lasting effects of that one great horror. Stamped as it was into the
very fabric of her being, she felt it now less poignantly than of old,
and sometimes for an hour or two she even ventured to be careless and
happy.

Yet all the time the awful spectre of that robber and murderer Niaz, who
was nevertheless still her wedded husband, rose up before her, day and
night, to prevent her happiness from being ever more than momentary.

And Frank, too, was such a nice, good fellow! Frank had heard from
Madame Davidoff all her story (for madame had come over to see Olga
fairly settled), and he pitied her for her sad romance in such a kind,
brotherly fashion.

Once, and once only, Frank said a word to her that was not exactly
brotherly. They were walking together down the footpath by the mill, and
Olga had been talking to him about that great terror, when Frank asked
her, in a quiet voice, "Olga, why don't you try to get a divorce from
that horrible Niaz?"

Olga looked at him in blank astonishment, and asked in return, "Why,
Frank, what would be the use of that? It would never blot out the memory
of the past, or make that wretch any the less my wedded husband."

"But, Olga, you need a protector sorely. You need somebody to soothe and
remove your lasting terror. And I think I know some one, Olga,--I know
some one who would give his whole life to save you, dearest, from a
single day's fear or unhappiness."

Olga looked up at him like a startled child. "Frank," she cried, "dear,
dear Frank, you good cousin, never say again another word like that, or
you will make me afraid to walk with you or talk with you any longer.
You are the one friend I have whom I can trust and confide in: don't
drive me away by talking to me of what is so impossible. I hate the
man: I loathe and abhor him with all my heart; but I can never forget
that he is still my husband. I have made my choice, and I must abide by
it. Frank, Frank, promise me,--promise me, that you will never again
speak upon the subject."

Frank's face grew saddened in a moment with a terrible sadness; but he
said in a firm voice, "I promise," and he never broke his word from that
day onward.

VI.

Three years passed away quietly in the Kentish village, and every day
Olga's unreasoning terror of Niaz grew gradually fainter and fainter. If
she had known that Niaz had escaped from the mines, after eight months'
imprisonment, and made his way by means of his Tartar friends across the
passes to Tibet and Calcutta, she would not have allowed the sense of
security to grow so strong upon her.

Meanwhile Frank, often in London, had picked up the acquaintance of a
certain M. de Vouillemont, a French gentleman much about at the clubs,
of whose delightful manners and wide acquaintance with the world and men
he was never tired of talking to Olga. "A most charming man, indeed, De
Vouillemont, and very anxious to come down here and see Hazelhurst.
Besides, Olga, he has been even in Russia, and he knows how to talk
admirably about everybody and everything. I've asked him down for Friday
evening. Now, do, like a good girl, break your rule for once, and come
and dine with us, although there's to be a stranger. It's only one, you
know, and the girls would be so delighted if you'd help entertain him,
for he speaks hardly any English, and their French, poor things, is
horribly insular and boarding-schooly."

At last, with much reluctance, Olga consented, and on the Friday she
went up to the big house at eight punctually.

Mrs. Davids and the girls were not yet in the drawing-room when she
arrived; but M. de Vouillemont had dressed early, and was standing with
his back to the room, looking intently at some pictures on the wall, as
Olga entered.

As she came in, and the servant shut the door behind her, the stranger
turned slowly. In a moment she recognized him. His complexion was
disguised, so as to make him look darker than before; his black
moustache was shaved off; his hair was differently cut and dressed; but
still, as he looked her in the face, she knew him at once. It was
Alexander Niaz!

Petrified with fear, she could neither fly nor scream. She stood still
in the middle of the drawing-room, and stared at him fixedly in an agony
of terror.

Niaz had evidently tracked her down, and come prepared for his horrid
revenge. Without a moment's delay, his face underwent a hideous change,
and from the cultivated European gentleman in evening clothes that he
looked when she entered, he was transformed as if by magic into a
grinning, gibbering Tartar savage, with his tongue lolling out once
more, as of old in Siberia, in hateful derision of her speechless
terror.

Seizing her roughly by the arm, he dragged her after him, not so much
unresisting as rigid with horror, to the open fireplace. A marble fender
ran around the tiled hearth. Laying her down upon the rug as if she were
dead, he placed her small right hand with savage glee upon that
ready-made block, and then proceeded deliberately to take out a small
steel hatchet from inside his evening coat. Olga was too terrified even
to withdraw her hand. He raised the axe on high--it flashed a second in
the air--a smart throb of pain--a dreadful crunching of bone and
sinew--and Olga's hand fell white and lifeless upon the tiled
hearthplace. Without stopping to look at her for a second, he took it
up brutally in his own, and flung it with a horrible oath into the
blazing fire.

At that moment, the door opened, and Frank entered.

Olga, lying faint and bleeding on the hearth rug, was just able to look
up at him imploringly and utter in a sharp cry of alarm the one word
"Niaz."

Frank sprang upon him like an angry lion.

"I told her her hand should pay the penalty," the Tartar cried, with a
horrible joy bursting wildly from his livid features; "and now it burns
in the fire over yonder, as she herself shall burn next minute for ever
and ever in fire and brimstone."

As he spoke he drew a pistol from his pocket, and pointed it at her with
his finger on the trigger.

Next moment, before he could fire, Frank had seized his hand, flung the
pistol to the farther end of the drawing-room, and forced the Tartar
down upon the floor in a terrible life-and-death struggle.

Niaz's face, already livid, grew purpler and purpler as they wrestled
with one another on the carpet in that deadly effort. His wrath and
vindictiveness gave a mad energy to his limbs and muscles. Should he be
baulked of his fair revenge at last? Should the woman who had betrayed
him escape scot-free with just the loss of a hand, and he himself merely
exchange a Siberian for an English prison? No, no, never! by St.
Nicholas, never! Ha, madame! I will murder you both! The pistol! the
pistol! A thousand devils! let me go! I will kill you yet! I will kill
you! I will kill you! Then he gasped, and grew blacker and
purpler--blacker and purpler--blacker--blacker--blacker--ever blacker.
Presently he gasped again. Frank's hand was now upon his mumbling
throat. They rolled over and over in their frantic struggles. Then a
long, slow inspiration. After that, his muscles relaxed. Frank loosed
him a little, but knelt upon his breast heavily still, lest he should
rise again in another paroxysm. But no: he lay quite motionless--quite
motionless, and never stirred a single finger.

Frank felt his heart--no movement; his pulse--quite quiet; his lips--not
a breath perceptible! Then he rose, faint and staggoring, and rang for
the servants.

When the doctor came hurriedly from the village to bandage up the
Russian lady's arm, he immediately pronounced that M. de Vouillemont was
dead--stone dead--not a doubt about it. Probably apoplexy under stress
of violent emotion.

The inquest was a good deal hushed up, owing to the exceedingly painful
circumstances of the case; and to this day very few people about Torquay
(where she now lives) know how Mrs. Frank Davids, the quiet lady who
dresses herself always in black, and has such a beautiful softened
half-frightened expression, came to lose her right hand. But everybody
knows that Mr. Davids is tenderness itself to her, and that she loves
him in return with the most absolute and childlike devotion.

It was worth cutting off her right hand, after all, to be rid of that
awful spectre of Niaz, and to have gained the peaceful love of Frank
Davids.

_JOHN CANN'S TREASURE._

Cecil Mitford sat at a desk in the Record Office with a stained and
tattered sheet of dark dirty-brown antique paper spread before him in
triumph, and with an eager air of anxious inquiry speaking forth from
every line in his white face and every convulsive twitch at the
irrepressible corners of his firm pallid mouth. Yes, there was no doubt
at all about it; the piece of torn and greasy paper which he had at last
discovered was nothing more or less than John Cann's missing letter. For
two years Cecil Mitford had given up all his spare time, day and night,
to the search for that lost fragment of crabbed seventeenth-century
handwriting; and now at length, after so many disappointments and so
much fruitless anxious hunting, the clue to the secret of John Cann's
treasure was lying there positively before him. The young man's hand
trembled violently as he held the paper fast unopened in his feverish
grasp, and read upon its back the autograph endorsement of Charles the
Second's Secretary of State--"Letter in cypher from Io. Cann, the noted
Buccaneer, to his brother Will'm, intercepted at Port Royal by his
Ma'ties command, and despatched by General Ed. D'Oyley, his Ma'ties
Captain-Gen'l and Governor-in-Chief of the Island of Jamaica, to me,
H. NICHOLAS." That was it, beyond the shadow of a doubt; and though
Cecil Mitford had still to apply to the cypher John Cann's own written
key, and to find out the precise import of the directions it contained,
he felt at that moment that the secret was now at last virtually
discovered, and that John Cann's untold thousands of buried wealth were
potentially his very own already.

He was only a clerk in the Colonial Office, was Cecil Mitford, on a
beggarly income of a hundred and eighty a year--how small it seemed now,
when John Cann's money was actually floating before his mind's eye; but
he had brains and industry and enterprise after a fitful adventurous
fashion of his own; and he had made up his mind years before that he
would find out the secret of John Cann's buried treasure, if he had to
spend half a lifetime on the almost hopeless quest. As a boy, Cecil
Mitford had been brought up at his father's rectory on the slopes of
Dartmoor, and there he had played from his babyhood upward among the
rugged granite boulders of John Cann's rocks, and had heard from the
farm labourers and the other children around the romantic but perfectly
historical legend of John Cann's treasure. Unknown and incredible sums
in Mexican doubloons and Spanish dollars lay guarded by a strong oaken
chest in a cavern on the hilltop, long since filled up with flints and
mould from the neighbouring summits. To that secure hiding-place the
great buccaneer had committed the hoard gathered in his numberless
piratical expeditions, burying all together under the shadow of a petty
porphyritic tor that overhangs the green valley of Bovey Tracy. Beside
the bare rocks that mark the site, a perfectly distinct pathway is worn
by footsteps into the granite platform underfoot; and that path, little
Cecil Mitford had heard with childish awe and wonder, was cut out by the
pacing up and down of old John Cann himself, mounting guard in the
darkness and solitude over the countless treasure that he had hidden
away in the recesses of the pixies' hole beneath.

As young Mitford grew up to man's estate, this story of John Cann's
treasure haunted his quick imagination for many years with wonderful
vividness. When he first came up to London, after his father's death,
and took his paltry clerkship in the Colonial Office--how he hated the
place, with its monotonous drudgery, while John Cann's wealth was only
waiting for him to take it and floating visibly before his prophetic
eyes!--the story began for a while to fade out under the disillusioning
realities of respectable poverty and a petty Government post. But before
he had been many months in the West India department (he had a small
room on the third floor, overlooking Downing Street) a casual discovery
made in overhauling the archives of the office suddenly revived the
boyish dream with all the added realism and cool intensity of maturer
years. He came across a letter from John Cann himself to the Protector
Oliver, detailing the particulars of a fierce irregular engagement with
a Spanish privateer, in which the Spaniard had been captured with much
booty, and his vessel duly sold to the highest bidder in Port Royal
harbour. This curious coincidence gave a great shock of surprise to
young Mitford. John Cann, then, was no mythical prehistoric hero, no
fairy-king or pixy or barrow-haunter of the popular fancy, but an actual
genuine historical figure, who corresponded about his daring exploits
with no less a personage than Oliver himself! From that moment forth,
Cecil Mitford gave himself up almost entirely to tracing out the
forgotten history of the old buccaneer. He allowed no peace to the
learned person who took care of the State Papers of the Commonwealth at
the Record Office, and he established private relations, by letter, with
two or three clerks in the Colonial Secretary's Office at Kingston,
Jamaica, whom he induced to help him in reconstructing the lost story of
John Cann's life.

Bit by bit Cecil Mitford had slowly pieced together a wonderful mass of
information, buried under piles of ragged manuscript and weary reams of
dusty documents, about the days and doings of that ancient terror of the
Spanish Main. John Cann was a Devonshire lad, of the rollicking, roving
seventeenth century, born and bred at Bovey Tracy, on the flanks of
Dartmoor, the last survivor of those sea-dogs of Devon who had sallied
forth to conquer and explore a new Continent under the guidance of
Drake, and Raleigh, and Frobisher, and Hawkins. As a boy, he had sailed
with his father in a ship that bore the Queen's letters of marque and
reprisal against the Spanish galleons; in his middle life, he had lived
a strange roaming existence--half pirate and half privateer, intent upon
securing the Protestant religion and punishing the King's enemies by
robbing wealthy Spanish skippers and cutting off the recusant noses of
vile Papistical Cuban slave traders; in his latter days, the fierce,
half-savage old mariner had relapsed into sheer robbery, and had been
hunted down as a public enemy by the Lord Protector's servants, or later
still by the Captains-General and Governors-in-Chief of his Most Sacred
Majesty's Dominions in the West Indies. For what was legitimate warfare
in the spacious days of great Elizabeth, had come to be regarded in the
degenerate reign of Charles II. as rank piracy.

One other thing Cecil Mitford had discovered, with absolute certainty;
and that was that in the summer of 1660, "the year of his Ma'tie's
most happy restoration," as John Cann himself phrased it, the persecuted
and much misunderstood old buccaneer had paid a secret visit to England,
and had brought with him the whole hoard which he had accumulated during
sixty years of lawful or unlawful piracy in the West Indies and the
Spanish Main. Concerning this hoard, which he had concealed somewhere in
Devonshire, he kept up a brisk vernacular correspondence in cypher with
his brother William, at Tavistock; and the key to that cypher, marked
outside "A clew to my Bro. John's secret writing," Cecil Mitford had
been fortunate enough to unearth among the undigested masses of the
Record Office. But one letter, the last and most important of the whole
series, containing as he believed the actual statement of the
hiding-place, had long evaded all his research: and that was the letter
which, now at last, after months and months of patient inquiry, lay
unfolded before his dazzled eyes on the little desk in his accustomed
corner. It had somehow been folded up by mistake in the papers relating
to the charge against Cyriack Skinner, of complicity in the Rye House
Plot. How it got there nobody knows, and probably nobody but Cecil
Mitford himself could ever have succeeded in solving the mystery.

As he gazed, trembling, at the precious piece of dusty much-creased
paper, scribbled over in the unlettered schoolboy hand of the wild old
sea-dog, Cecil Mitford could hardly restrain himself for a moment from
uttering a cry. Untold wealth swam before his eyes: he could marry Ethel
now, and let her drive in her own carriage! Ah, what he would give if he
might only shout in his triumph. He couldn't even read the words, he was
so excited. But after a minute or two, he recovered his composure
sufficiently to begin deciphering the crabbed writing, which constant
practice and familiarity with the system enabled him to do immediately,
without even referring to the key. And this was what, with a few
minutes' inspection, Cecil Mitford slowly spelled out of the dirty
manuscript:--

"From Jamaica. This 23rd day of Jan'y,
"in the Yeare of our Lord 1663.

"My deare Bro.,--I did not think to have written you againe, after
the scurvie Trick you have played me in disclosing my Affairs to
that meddlesome Knight that calls himself the King's Secretary: but
in truth your last Letter hath so moved me by your Vileness that I
must needs reply thereto with all Expedicion. These are to assure
you, then, that let you pray how you may, or gloze over your base
treatment with fine cozening Words and fair Promises, you shall
have neither lot nor scot in my Threasure, which is indeed as you
surmise hidden away in England, but the Secret whereof I shall
impart neither to you nor to no man. I have give commands,
therefore that the Paper whereunto I have committed the place of
its hiding shall be buried with my own Body (when God please) in
the grave-yarde at Port Royal in this Island: so that you shall
never be bettered one Penny by your most Damnable Treachery and
Double-facedness. For I know you, my deare Bro., in very truth for
a prating Coxcomb, a scurvie cowardlie Knave, and a lying Thief of
other Men's Reputations. Therefore, no more herewith from your very
humble Ser'vt., and Loving Bro.,

"IOHN CANN, Capt'n"

Cecil Mitford laid the paper down as he finished reading it with a face
even whiter and paler than before, and with the muscles of his mouth
trembling violently with suppressed emotion. At the exact second when he
felt sure he had discovered the momentous secret, it had slipped
mysteriously through his very fingers, and seemed now to float away into
the remote distance, almost as far from his eager grasp as ever. Even
there, in the musty Record Office, before all the clerks and scholars
who were sitting about working carelessly at their desks at mere
dilettante historical problems--the stupid prigs, how he hated them!--he
could hardly restrain the expression of his pent-up feelings at that
bitter disappointment in the very hour of his fancied triumph. Jamaica!
How absolutely distant and unapproachable it sounded! How hopeless the
attempt to follow up the clue! How utterly his day-dream had been dashed
to the ground in those three minutes of silent deciphering! He felt as
if the solid earth was reeling beneath him, and he would have given the
whole world if he could have put his face between his two hands on the
desk and cried like a woman before the whole Record Office.

For half an hour by the clock he sat there dazed and motionless, gazing
in a blank disappointed fashion at the sheet of coffee-coloured paper in
front of him. It was late, and workers were dropping away one after
another from the scantily peopled desks. But Cecil Mitford took no
notice of them: he merely sat with his arms folded, and gazed
abstractedly at that disappointing, disheartening, irretrievable piece
of crabbed writing. At last an assistant came up and gently touched his
arm. "We're going to close now, sir," he said in his unfeeling official
tone--just as if it were a mere bit of historical inquiry he was
after--"and I shall be obliged if you'll put back the manuscripts you've
been consulting into F. 27." Cecil Mitford rose mechanically and sorted
out the Cyriack Skinner papers into their proper places. Then he laid
them quietly on the shelf, and walked out into the streets of London,
for the moment a broken-hearted man.

But as he walked home alone that clear warm summer evening, and felt the
cool breeze blowing against his forehead, he began to reflect to himself
that, after all, all was not lost; that in fact things really stood
better with him now than they had stood that very morning, before he
lighted upon John Cann's last letter. He had not discovered the actual
hiding-place of the hoard, to be sure, but he now knew on John Cann's
own indisputable authority, first, that there really was a hidden
treasure; second, that the hiding-place was really in England; and
third, that full particulars as to the spot where it was buried might be
found in John Cann's own coffin at Port Royal, Jamaica. It was a risky
and difficult thing to open a coffin, no doubt; but it was not
impossible. No, not impossible. On the whole, putting one thing with
another, in spite of his terrible galling disappointment, he was really
nearer to the recovery of the treasure now than he had ever been in his
life before. Till to-day, the final clue was missing; to-day, it had
been found. It was a difficult and dangerous clue to follow, but still
it had been found.

And yet, setting aside the question of desecrating a grave, how all but
impossible it was for him to get to Jamaica! His small funds had long
ago been exhausted in prosecuting the research, and he had nothing on
earth to live upon now but his wretched salary. Even if he could get
three or six months' leave from the Colonial Office, which was highly
improbable, how could he ever raise the necessary money for his passage
out and home, as well as for the delicate and doubtful operation of
searching for documents in John Cann's coffin? It was tantalising, it
was horrible, it was unendurable; but here, with the secret actually
luring him on to discover it, he was to be foiled and baffled at the
last moment by a mere paltry, petty, foolish consideration of two
hundred pounds! Two hundred pounds! How utterly ludicrous! Why, John
Cann's treasure would make him a man of fabulous wealth for a whole
lifetime, and he was to be prevented from realizing it by a wretched
matter of two hundred pounds! He would do anything to get it--for a
loan, a mere loan; to be repaid with cent. per cent. interest; but where
in the world, where in the world, was he ever to get it from?

And then, quick as lightning, the true solution of the whole difficulty
flashed at once across his excited brain. He could borrow all the money
if he chose from Ethel! Poor little Ethel; she hadn't much of her own;
but she had just enough to live very quietly upon with her Aunt Emily;
and, thank Heaven, it wasn't tied up with any of those bothering,
meddling three-per-cent.-loving trustees! She had her little all at her
own disposal, and he could surely get two or three hundred pounds from
her to secure for them both the boundless buried wealth of John Cann's
treasure.

Should he make her a confidante outright, and tell her what it was that
he wanted the money for? No, that would be impossible, for though she
had heard all about John Cann over and over again, she had not faith
enough in the treasure--women are so unpractical--to hazard her little
scrap of money on it; of that he felt certain. She would go and ask old
Mr. Cartwright's opinion; and old Mr. Cartwright was one of those
penny-wise, purblind, unimaginative old gentlemen who will never believe
in anything until they've seen it. Yet here was John Cann's money going
a-begging, so to speak, and only waiting for him and Ethel to come and
enjoy it. Cecil had no patience with those stupid, stick-in-the-mud,
timid people who can see no further than their own noses. For Ethel's
own sake he would borrow two or three hundred pounds from her, one way
or another, and she would easily forgive him the harmless little
deception when he paid her back a hundredfold out of John Cann's
boundless treasure.

II.

That very evening, without a minute's delay, Cecil determined to go
round and have a talk with Ethel Sunderland. "Strike while the iron's
hot," he said to himself. "There isn't a minute to be lost; for who
knows but somebody else may find John Cann's treasure before I do?"

Ethel opened the door to him herself; theirs was an old engagement of
long standing, after the usual Government clerk's fashion; and Aunt
Emily didn't stand out so stiffly as many old maids do for the regular
proprieties. Very pretty Ethel looked with her pale face and the red
ribbon in her hair; very pretty, but Cecil feared, as he looked into
her dark hazel eyes, a little wearied and worn-out, for it was her
music-lesson day, as he well remembered. Her music-lesson day! Ethel
Sutherland to give music-lessons to some wretched squealing children at
the West-end, when all John Cann's wealth was lying there, uncounted,
only waiting for him and her to take it and enjoy it! The bare thought
was a perfect purgatory to him. He must get that two hundred pounds
to-night, or give up the enterprise altogether.

"Well, Ethel darling," he said tenderly, taking her pretty little hand
in his; "you look tired, dearest. Those horrid children have been
bothering you again. How I wish we were married, and you were well out
of it!"

Ethel smiled a quiet smile of resignation. "They _are_ rather trying,
Cecil," she said gently, "especially on days when one has got a
headache; but, after all, I'm very glad to have the work to do; it helps
such a lot to eke out our little income. We have so _very_ little, you
know, even for two lonely women to live upon in simple little lodgings
like these, that I'm thankful I can do something to help dear Aunt
Emily, who's really goodness itself. You see, after all, I get very well
paid indeed for the lessons."

"Ethel," Cecil Mitford said suddenly, thinking it better to dash at once
into the midst of business; "I've come round this evening to talk with
you about a means by which you can add a great deal with perfect safety
to your little income. Not by lessons, Ethel darling; not by lessons. I
can't bear to see you working away the pretty tips off those dear little
fingers of yours with strumming scales on the piano for a lot of stupid,
gawky school-girls; it's by a much simpler way than that; I know of a
perfectly safe investment for that three hundred that you've got in New
Zealand Four per Cents. Can you not have heard that New Zealand
securities are in a very shaky way just at present?"

"Very shaky, Cecil?" Ethel answered in surprise. "Why, Mr. Cartwright
told me only a week ago they were as safe as the Bank of England!"

"Mr. Cartwright's an ignorant old martinet," Cecil replied vigorously.
"He thinks because the stock's inscribed and the dividends are payable
in Threadneedle Street that the colony of New Zealand's perfectly
solvent. Now, I'm in the Colonial Office, and I know a great deal better
than that. New Zealand has over-borrowed, I assure you; quite
over-borrowed; and a serious fall is certain to come sooner or later.
Mark my words, Ethel darling; if you don't sell out those New Zealand
Fours, you'll find your three hundred has sunk to a hundred and fifty in
rather less than half no time!"

Ethel hesitated, and looked at him in astonishment. "That's very queer,"
she said, "for Mr. Cartwright wants me to sell out my little bit of
Midland and put it all into the same New Zealands. He says they're so
safe and pay so well."

"Mr. Cartwright indeed!" Cecil cried contemptuously. "What means on
earth has he of knowing? Didn't he advise you to buy nothing but three
per cents., and then let you get some Portuguese Threes at fifty, which
are really sixes, and exceedingly doubtful securities? What's the use of
trusting a man like that, I should like to know? No, Ethel, if you'll be
guided by me--and I have special opportunities of knowing about these
things at the Colonial Office--you'll sell out your New Zealands, and
put them into a much better investment that I can tell you about. And if
I were you, I'd say nothing about it to Mr. Cartwright."

"But, Cecil, I never did anything in business before without consulting
him! I should be afraid of going quite wrong."

Cecil took her hand in his with real tenderness. Though he was trying to
deceive her--for her own good--he loved her dearly in his heart of
hearts, and hated himself for the deception he was remorsefully
practising upon her. Yet, for her sake, he would go through with it.
"You must get accustomed to trusting me instead of him, darling," he
said softly. "When you are mine for ever, as I hope you will be soon,
you will take my advice, of course, in all such matters, won't you? And
you may as well begin by taking it now. I have great hopes, Ethel, that
before very long my circumstances will be so much improved that I shall
be able to marry you--I hardly know how quickly; perhaps even before
next Christmas. But meanwhile, darling, I have something to break to you
that I dare say will grieve you a little for the moment, though it's for
your ultimate good, birdie--for your ultimate good. The Colonial Office
people have selected me to go to Jamaica on some confidential Government
business, which may keep me there for three months or so. It's a
dreadful thing to be away from you so long, Ethel; but if I manage the
business successfully--and I shall, I know--I shall get promoted when I
come back, well promoted, perhaps to the chief clerkship in the
Department; and then we could marry comfortably almost at once."

"To Jamaica! Oh, Cecil! How awfully far! And suppose you were to get
yellow fever or something."

"But I won't, Ethel; I promise you I won't, and I'll guarantee it with a
kiss, birdie; so now, that's settled. And then, consider the promotion!
Only three months, probably, and when I come back, we can be actually
married. It's a wonderful stroke of luck, and I only heard of it this
morning. I couldn't rest till I came and told you."

Ethel wiped a tear away silently, and only answered, "If you're glad,
Cecil dearest, I'm glad too."

"Well now, Ethel," Cecil Mitford went on as gaily as he could, "that
brings me up to the second point. I want you to sell out these wretched
New Zealands, so as to take the money with me to invest on good
mortgages in Jamaica. My experience in West Indian matters--after three
years in the Department--will enable me to lay it out for you at nine
per cent.--nine per cent., observe, Ethel,--on absolute security of
landed property. Planters want money to improve their estates, and can't
get it at less than that rate. Your three hundred would bring you in
twenty-seven pounds, Ethel; twenty-seven pounds is a lot of money!"

What could poor Ethel do? In his plausible, affectionate manner--and all
for her own good, too--Cecil talked her over quickly between love and
business experience, coaxing kisses and nine per cent. interest,
endearing names and knowledge of West Indian affairs, till helpless
little Ethel willingly promised to give up her poor little three
hundred, and even arranged to meet Cecil secretly on Thursday at the
Bank of England, about Colonial Office dinner-hour, to effect the
transfer on her own account, without saying a single word about it to
Aunt Emily or Mr. Cartwright. Cecil's conscience--for he _had_ a
conscience, though he did his best to stifle it--gave him a bitter
twinge every now and then, as one question after another drove him time
after time into a fresh bit of deceit; but he tried to smile and smile
and be a villain as unconcernedly and lightly as possible. Once only
towards the end of the evening, when everything was settled, and Cecil
had talked about his passage, and the important business with which he
was entrusted, at full length, a gleam of suspicion seemed to flash for
a single second across poor Ethel's deluded little brains.
Jamaica--promotion--three hundred pounds--it was all so sudden and so
connected; could Cecil himself be trying to deceive her, and using her
money for his wild treasure hunt? The doubt was horrible, degrading,
unworthy of her or him; and yet somehow for a single moment she could
not help half-unconsciously entertaining it.

"Cecil," she said, hesitating, and looking into the very depths of his
truthful blue eyes; "you're not concealing anything from me, are you?
It's not some journey connected with John Cann?"

Cecil coughed and cleared his throat uneasily, but by a great effort he
kept his truthful blue eyes still fixed steadily on hers. (He would have
given the world if he might have turned them away, but that would have
been to throw up the game incontinently.) "My darling Ethel," he said
evasively, "how on earth could the Colonial Office have anything to do
with John Cann?"

"Answer me 'yes' or 'no,' Cecil. Do please answer me 'yes' or 'no.'"

Cecil kept his eyes still fixed immovably on hers, and without a
moment's hesitation answered quickly "no." It was an awful wrench, and
his lips could hardly frame the horrid falsehood, but for Ethel's sake
he answered "no."

"Then I know I can trust you, Cecil," she said, laying her head for
forgiveness on his shoulder. "Oh, how wrong it was of me to doubt you
for a second!"

Cecil sighed uneasily, and kissed her white forehead without a single
word.

"After all," he thought to himself, as he walked back to his lonely
lodgings late that evening, "I need never tell her anything about it. I
can pretend, when I've actually got John Cann's treasure, that I came
across the clue accidently while I was in Jamaica; and I can lay out
three hundred of it there in mortgages; and she need never know a single
word about my innocent little deception. But indeed in the pride and
delight of so much money, all our own, she'll probably never think at
all of her poor little paltry three hundred."

III.

It was an awfully long time, that eighteen days at sea, on the Royal
Mail Steamship _Don_, bound for Kingston, Jamaica, with John Cann's
secret for ever on one's mind, and nothing to do all day, by way of
outlet for one's burning energy, but to look, hour after hour, at the
monotonous face of the seething water. But at last the journey was over;
and before Cecil Mitford had been twenty-four hours at Date Tree Hall,
the chief hotel in Kingston, he had already hired a boat and sailed
across the baking hot harbour to Port Royal, to look in the dreary,
sandy cemetery for any sign or token of John Cann's grave.

An old grey-haired negro, digging at a fresh grave, had charge of the
cemetery, and to him Cecil Mitford at once addressed himself, to find
out whether any tombstone about the place bore the name of John Cann.
The old man turned the name over carefully in his stolid brains, and
then shook his heavy grey head with a decided negative. "Massa John
Cann, sah," he said dubiously, "Massa John Cann; it don't nobody buried
here by de name ob Massa John Cann. I sartin, sah, becase I's sexton in
dis here cemetry dese fifty year, an' I know de grabe ob ebbery buckra
gentleman dat ebber buried here since I fuss came."

Cecil Mitford tossed his head angrily. "Since _you_ first came, my good
man," he said with deep contempt. "Since you first came! Why, John Cann
was buried here ages and ages before you yourself were ever born or
thought of."

The old negro looked up at him inquiringly. There is nothing a negro
hates like contempt; and he answered back with a disdainful tone, "Den I
can find out if him ebber was buried here at all, as well as you, sah.
We has register here, we don't ignorant heathen. I has register in de
church ob every pusson dat ebber buried in dis cemetry from de berry
beginnin--from de year ob de great earthquake itself. What year dis
Massa John Cann him die, now? What year him die?"

Cecil pricked up his ears at the mention of the register, and answered
eagerly, "In the year 1669."

The old negro sat down quietly on a flat tomb, and answered with a smile
of malicious triumph, "Den you is ignorant know-nuffin pusson for a
buckra gentleman, for true, sah, if you tink you will find him grabe in
dis here cemetry. Don't you nebber read your history book, dat all Port
Royal drowned in de great earthquake ob de year 1692? We has register
here for ebbery year, from de year 1692 downward; but de grabes, and de
cemetry, and de register, from de year 1692 upward, him all swallowed up
entirely in de great earthquake, bress de Lord!"

Cecil Mitford felt the earth shivering beneath him at that moment, as
verily as the Port Royal folk had felt it shiver in 1692. He clutched at
the headstone to keep him from falling, and sat down hazily on the flat
tomb, beside the grey-headed old negro, like one unmanned and utterly
disheartened. It was all only too true. With his intimate knowledge of
John Cann's life, and of West Indian affairs generally, how on earth
could he ever have overlooked it? John Cann's grave lay buried five
fathoms deep, no doubt, under the blue waters of the Caribbean. And it
was for this that he had madly thrown up his Colonial Office
appointment, for this that he had wasted Ethel's money, for this that he
had burdened his conscience with a world of lies; all to find in the end
that John Cann's secret was hidden under five fathoms of tropical
lagoon, among the scattered and waterlogged ruins of Old Port Royal. His
fortitude forsook him for a single moment, and burying his face in his
two hands, there, under the sweltering midday heat of that deadly
sandbank, he broke down utterly, and sobbed like a child before the very
eyes of the now softened old negro sexton.

IV.

It was not for long, however. Cecil Mitford had at least one strong
quality--indomitable energy and perseverance. All was not yet lost: if
need were, he would hunt for John Cann's tomb in the very submerged
ruins of Old Port Royal. He looked up once more at the puzzled negro,
and tried to bear this bitter downfall of all his hopes with manful
resignation.

At that very moment, a tall and commanding-looking man, of about sixty,
with white hair but erect figure, walked slowly from the cocoa-nut grove
on the sand-spit into the dense and tangled precincts of the cemetery.
He was a brown man, a mulatto apparently, but his look and bearing
showed him at once to be a person of education and distinction in his
own fashion. The old sexton rose up respectfully as the stranger
approached, and said to him in a very different tone from that in which
he had addressed Cecil Mitford, "Marnin, sah; marnin, Mr. Barclay. Dis
here buckra gentleman from Englan', him come 'quiring in de cemetry
after de grabe of pusson dat dead before de great earthquake. What for
him come here like-a-dat on fool's errand, eh, sah? What for him not
larn before him come dat Port Royal all gone drowned in de year 1692?"

The new-comer raised his hat slightly to Cecil Mitford, and spoke at
once in the grave gentle voice of an educated and cultivated mulatto.
"You wanted some antiquarian information about the island, sir; some
facts about some one who died before the Port Royal earthquake? You have
luckily stumbled across the right man to help you; for I think if
anything can be recovered about anybody in Jamaica, I can aid you in
recovering it. Whose grave did you want to see?"

Cecil hardly waited to thank the polite stranger, but blurted out at
once, "The grave of John Cann, who died in 1669."

The stranger smiled quietly. "What! John Cann, the famous buccaneer?" he
said, with evident delight. "Are you interested in John Cann?"

"I am," Cecil answered hastily. "Do you know anything about him?"

"I know all about him," the tall mulatto replied. "All about him in
every way. He was not buried at Port Royal at all. He intended to be,
and gave orders to that effect; but his servants had him buried quietly
elsewhere, on account of some dispute with the Governor of the time
being, about some paper which he desired to have placed in his coffin."

"Where, where?" Cecil Mitford gasped out eagerly, clutching at this
fresh straw with all the anxiety of a drowning man.

"At Spanish Town," the stranger answered calmly. "I know his grave there
well to the present day. If you are interested in Jamaican antiquities,
and would like to come over and see it, I shall be happy to show you the
tomb. That is my name." And he handed Cecil Mitford his card, with all
the courteous dignity of a born gentleman.

Cecil took the card and read the name on it: "The Hon. Charles Barclay,
Leigh Caymanas, Spanish Town." How his heart bounded again that minute!
Proof was accumulating on proof, and luck on luck! After all, he had
tracked down John Cann's grave; and the paper was really there, buried
in his coffin. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his
damp brow with a feeling of unspeakable relief. Ethel was saved, and
they might still enjoy John Cann's treasure.

Mr. Barclay sat down beside him on the stone slab, and began talking
over all he knew about John Cann's life and actions. Cecil affected to
be interested in all he said, though really he could think of one thing
only: the treasure, the treasure, the treasure. But he managed also to
let Mr. Barclay see how much he too knew about the old buccaneer: and
Mr. Barclay, who was a simple-minded learned enthusiast for all that
concerned the antiquities of his native island, was so won over by this
display of local knowledge on the part of a stranger and an Englishman,
that he ended by inviting Cecil over to his house at Spanish Town, to
stop as long as he was able. Cecil gladly accepted the invitation, and
that very afternoon, with a beating heart, he took his place in the
lumbering train that carried him over to the final goal of his Jamaican
expedition.

V.

In a corner of the Cathedral graveyard at Spanish Town, overhung by a
big spreading mango tree, and thickly covered by prickly scrub of agave
and cactus, the white-haired old mulatto gentleman led Cecil Mitford up
to a water-worn and weathered stone, on which a few crumbling letters
alone were still visible. Cecil kneeled down on the bare ground,
regardless of the sharp cactus spines that stung and tore his flesh, and
began clearing the moss and lichen away from the neglected monument.
Yes, his host was right! right, right, right, indubitably. The first two
letters were IO, then a blank where others were obliterated, and then
came ANN. That stood clearly for IOHN CANN. And below he could slowly
make out the words, "Born at ... vey Tra ... Devon...." with an
illegible date, "Died at P ... Royal, May 12, 1669." Oh, great heavens,
yes. John Cann's grave! John Cann's grave! John Cann's grave! Beyond
any shadow or suspicion of mistake, John Cann and his precious secret
lay buried below that mouldering tombstone.

That very evening Cecil Mitford sought out and found the Spanish Town
gravedigger. He was a solemn-looking middle-aged black man, with a keen
smart face, not the wrong sort of man, Cecil Mitford felt sure, for such
a job as the one he contemplated. Cecil didn't beat about the bush or
temporise with him in any way. He went straight to the point, and asked
the man outright whether he would undertake to open John Cann's grave,
and find a paper that was hidden in the coffin. The gravedigger stared
at him, and answered slowly, "I don't like de job, sah; I don't like de
job. Perhaps Massa John Cann's ghost, him come and trouble me for dat: I
don't going to do it. What you gib me, sah; how much you gib me?"

Cecil opened his purse and took out of it ten gold sovereigns. "I will
give you that," he said, "if you can get me the paper out of John Cann's
coffin."

The negro's eyes glistened, but he answered carelessly, "I don't tink I
can do it. I don't want to open grabe by night, and if I open him by
day, de magistrates dem will hab me up for desecration ob interment. But
I can do dis for you, sah. If you like to wait till some buckra
gentleman die--John Cann grabe among de white man side in de
grabeyard--I will dig grabe alongside ob John Cann one day, so let you
come yourself in de night and take what you like out ob him coffin. I
don't go meddle with coffin myself, to make de John Cann duppy trouble
me, and magistrate send me off about me business."

It was a risky thing to do, certainly, but Cecil Mitford closed with it,
and promised the man ten pounds if ever he could recover John Cann's
paper. And then he settled down quietly at Leigh Caymanas with his
friendly host, waiting with eager, anxious expectation--till some white
person should die at Spanish Town.

What an endless aimless time it seemed to wait before anybody could be
comfortably buried! Black people died by the score, of course: there was
a small-pox epidemic on, and they went to wakes over one another's dead
bodies in wretched hovels among the back alleys, and caught the
infection and sickened and died as fast as the wildest imagination could
wish them: but then, they were buried apart by themselves in the pauper
part of the Cathedral cemetery. Still, no white man caught the
small-pox, and few mulattoes: they had all been vaccinated, and nobody
got ill except the poorest negroes. Cecil Mitford waited with almost
fiendish eagerness to hear that some prominent white man was dead or
dying.

A month, six weeks, two months, went slowly past, and still nobody of
consequence in all Spanish Town fell ill or sickened. Talk about
tropical diseases! why, the place was abominably, atrociously,
outrageously healthy. Cecil Mitford fretted and fumed and worried by
himself, wondering whether he would be kept there for ever and ever,
waiting till some useless nobody chose to die. The worst of it all was,
he could tell nobody his troubles: he had to pretend to look unconcerned
and interested, and listen to all old Mr. Barclay's stories about
Maroons and buccaneers as if he really enjoyed them.

At last, after Cecil had been two full months at Spanish Town, he heard
one morning with grim satisfaction that yellow fever had broken out at
Port Antonio. Now, yellow fever, as he knew full well, attacks only
white men, or men of white blood: and Cecil felt sure that before long
there would be somebody white dead in Spanish Town. Not that he was
really wicked or malevolent or even unfeeling at heart; but his wild
desire to discover John Cann's treasure had now overridden every better
instinct of his nature, and had enslaved him, body and soul, till he
could think of nothing in any light save that of its bearing on his one
mad imagination. So he waited a little longer, still more eagerly than
before, till yellow fever should come to Spanish Town.

Sure enough the fever did come in good time, and the very first person
who sickened with it was Cecil Mitford. That was a contingency he had
never dreamt of, and for the time being it drove John Cann's treasure
almost out of his fevered memory. Yet not entirely, even so, for in his
delirium he raved of John Cann and his doubloons till good old Mr.
Barclay, nursing at his bedside like a woman, as a tender-hearted
mulatto always will nurse any casual young white man, shook his head to
himself and muttered gloomily that poor Mr. Mitford had overworked his
brain sadly in his minute historical investigations.

For ten days Cecil Mitford hovered fitfully between life and death, and
for ten days good old Mr. Barclay waited on him, morning, noon, and
night, as devotedly as any mother could wait upon her first-born. At the
end of that time he began to mend slowly; and as soon as the crisis was
over he forgot forthwith all about his illness, and thought once more of
nothing on earth save only John Cann's treasure. Was anybody else ill of
the fever in Spanish Town? Yes, two, but not dangerously. Cecil's face
fell at that saving clause, and in his heart he almost ventured to wish
it had been otherwise. He was no murderer, even in thought; but John
Cann's treasure! John Cann's treasure! John Cann's treasure! What would
not a man venture to do or pray, in order that he might become the
possessor of John Cann's treasure!

As Cecil began to mend, a curious thing happened at Leigh Caymanas,
contrary to almost all the previous medical experience of the whole
Island. Mr. Barclay, though a full mulatto of half black blood, suddenly
sickened with the yellow fever. He had worn himself out with nursing
Cecil, and the virus seemed to have got into his blood in a way that it
would never have done under other circumstances. And when the doctor
came to see him, he declared at once that the symptoms were very
serious. Cecil hated and loathed himself for the thought; and yet, in a
horrid, indefinite way he gloated over the possibility of his kind and
hospitable friend's dying. Mr. Barclay had tended him so carefully that
he almost loved him; and yet, with John Cann's treasure before his very
eyes, in a dim, uncertain, awful fashion, he almost looked forward to
his dying. But where would he be buried? that was the question. Not,
surely, among the poor black people in the pauper corner. A man of his
host's distinction and position would certainly deserve a place among
the most exalted white graves--near the body of Governor Modyford, and
not far from the tomb of John Cann himself.

Day after day Mr. Barclay sank slowly but surely, and Cecil, weak and
hardly convalescent himself, sat watching by his bedside, and nursing
him as tenderly as the good brown man had nursed Cecil himself in his
turn a week earlier. The young clerk was no hard-hearted wretch who
could see a kind entertainer die without a single passing pang; he felt
for the grey old mulatto as deeply as he could have felt for his own
brother, if he had had one. Every time there was a sign of suffering or
feebleness, it went to Cecil's heart like a knife--the very knowledge
that on one side of his nature he wished the man to die made him all the
more anxious and careful on the other side to do everything he could to
save him, if possible, or at least to alleviate his sufferings. Poor old
man! it was horrible to see him lying there, parched with fever and
dying by inches; but then--John Cann's treasure! John Cann's treasure!
John Cann's treasure! every shade that passed over the good mulatto's
face brought Cecil Mitford a single step nearer to the final enjoyment
of John Cann's treasure.

VI.

On the evening when the Hon. Charles Barclay died, Cecil Mitford went
out, for the first time after his terrible illness, to speak a few words
in private with the negro sexton. He found the man lounging in the soft
dust outside his hut, and ready enough to find a place for the corpse
(which would be buried next morning, with the ordinary tropical haste),
close beside the spot actually occupied by John Cann's coffin. All the
rest, the sexton said with a horrid grin, he would leave to Cecil.

At twelve o'clock of a dark moonless night, Cecil Mitford, still weak
and ill, but trembling only from the remains of his fever, set out
stealthily from the dead man's low bungalow in the outskirts of Spanish
Town, and walked on alone through the unlighted, unpaved streets of the
sleeping city to the Cathedral precinct. Not a soul met or passed him on
the way through the lonely alleys; not a solitary candle burned anywhere
in a single window. He carried only a little dark lantern in his hand,
and a very small pick that he had borrowed that same afternoon from the
negro sexton. Stumbling along through the unfamiliar lanes, he saw at
last the great black mass of the gaunt ungainly Cathedral, standing out
dimly against the hardly less black abyss of night that formed the
solemn background. But Cecil Mitford was not awed by place or season; he
could think only of one subject, John Cann's treasure. He groped his way
easily through scrub and monuments to the far corner of the churchyard;
and there, close by a fresh and open grave he saw the well-remembered,
half-effaced letters that marked the mouldering upright slab as John
Cann's gravestone. Without a moment's delay, without a touch of
hesitation, without a single tinge of womanish weakness, he jumped down
boldly into the open grave and turned the light side of his little
lantern in the direction of John Cann's undesecrated coffin.

A few strokes of the pick soon loosened the intervening earth
sufficiently to let him get at a wooden plank on the nearer side of the
coffin. It had mouldered away with damp and age till it was all quite
soft and pliable; and he broke through it with his hand alone, and saw
lying within a heap of huddled bones, which he knew at once for John
Cann's skeleton. Under any other circumstances, such a sight, seen in
the dead of night, with all the awesome accessories of time and place,
would have chilled and appalled Cecil Mitford's nervous blood; but he
thought nothing of it all now; his whole soul was entirely concentrated
on a single idea--the search for the missing paper. Leaning over toward
the breach he had made into John Cann's grave, he began groping about
with his right hand on the floor of the coffin. After a moment's search
his fingers came across a small rusty metal object, clasped, apparently,
in the bony hand of the skeleton. He drew it eagerly out; it was a steel
snuff-box. Prising open the corroded hinge with his pocket-knife, he
found inside a small scrap of dry paper. His fingers trembled as he held
it to the dark lantern; oh heavens, success! success! it was, it
was--the missing document!

He knew it in a moment by the handwriting and the cypher! He couldn't
wait to read it till he went home to the dead man's house; so he curled
himself up cautiously in Charles Barclay's open grave, and proceeded to
decipher the crabbed manuscript as well as he was able by the lurid
light of the lantern. Yes, yes, it was all right: it told him with
minute and unmistakable detail the exact spot in the valley of the Bovey
where John Cann's treasure lay securely hidden. Not at John Cann's rocks
on the hilltop, as the local legend untruly affirmed--John Cann had not
been such an unguarded fool as to whisper to the idle gossips of Bovey
the spot where he had really buried his precious doubloons--but down in
the valley by a bend of the river, at a point that Cecil Mitford had
known well from his childhood upward. Hurrah! hurrah! the secret was
unearthed at last, and he had nothing more to do than to go home to
England and proceed to dig up John Cann's treasure!

So he cautiously replaced the loose earth on the side of the grave, and
walked back, this time bold and erect, with his dark lantern openly
displayed (for it mattered little now who watched or followed him), to
dead Charles Barclay's lonely bungalow. The black servants were crooning
and wailing over their master's body, and nobody took much notice of the
white visitor. If they had, Cecil Mitford would have cared but little,
so long as he carried John Cann's last dying directions safely folded in
his leather pocket-book.

Next day, Cecil Mitford stood once more as a chief mourner beside the
grave he had sat in that night so strangely by himself: and before the
week was over, he had taken his passage for England in the Royal Mail
Steamer _Tagus_, and was leaving the cocoa-nut groves of Port Royal well
behind him on the port side. Before him lay the open sea, and beyond it,
England, Ethel, and John Cann's treasure.

VII.

It had been a long job after all to arrange fully the needful
preliminaries for the actual search after John Cann's buried doubloons.
First of all, there was Ethel's interest to pay, and a horrid story for
Cecil to concoct--all false, of course, worse luck to it--about how he
had managed to invest her poor three hundred to the best advantage. Then
there was another story to make good about three months' extra leave
from the Colonial Office. Next came the question of buying the land
where John Cann's treasure lay hidden, and this was really a matter of
very exceptional and peculiar difficulty. The owner--pig-headed
fellow!--didn't want to sell, no matter how much he was offered, because
the corner contained a clump of trees that made a specially pretty
element in the view from his dining-room windows. His dining-room
windows, forsooth! What on earth could it matter, when John Cann's
treasure was at stake, whether anything at all was visible or otherwise
from his miserable dining-room windows? Cecil was positively appalled at
the obstinacy and narrow-mindedness of the poor squireen, who could
think of nothing at all in the whole world but his own ridiculous
antiquated windows. However, in the end, by making his bid high enough,
he was able to induce this obstructive old curmudgeon to part with his
triangular little corner of land in the bend of the river. Even so,
there was the question of payment: absurd as it seemed, with all John
Cann's money almost in his hands, Cecil was obliged to worry and bother
and lie and intrigue for weeks together in order to get that paltry
little sum in hard cash for the matter of payment. Still, he raised it
in the end: raised it by inducing Ethel to sell out the remainder of her
poor small fortune, and cajoling Aunt Emily into putting her name to a
bill of sale for her few worthless bits of old-fashioned furniture. At
last, after many delays and vexatious troubles, Cecil found himself the
actual possessor of the corner of land wherein lay buried John Cann's
treasure.

The very first day that Cecil Mitford could call that coveted piece of
ground his own, he could not restrain his eagerness (though he knew it
was imprudent in a land where the unjust law of treasure-trove
prevails), but he must then and there begin covertly digging under the
shadow of the three big willow trees, in the bend of the river. He had
eyed and measured the bearings so carefully already that he knew the
very spot to a nail's breadth where John Cann's treasure was actually
hidden. He set to work digging with a little pick as confidently as if
he had already seen the doubloons lying there in the strong box that he
knew enclosed them. Four feet deep he dug, as John Cann's instructions
told him; and then, true to the inch, his pick struck against a solid
oaken box, well secured with clamps of iron. Cecil cleared all the dirt
away from the top, carefully, not hurriedly, and tried with all his
might to lift the box out, but all in vain. It was far too heavy, of
course, for one man's arms to raise: all that weight of gold and silver
must be ever so much more than a single pair of hands could possibly
manage. He must try to open the lid alone, so as to take the gold out, a
bit at a time, and carry it away with him now and again, as he was able,
covering the place up carefully in between, for fear of the Treasury and
the Lord of the Manor. How abominably unjust it seemed to him at that
moment--the legal claim of those two indolent hostile powers! to think
that after he, Cecil Mitford, had borne the brunt of the labour in
adventurously hunting up the whole trail of John Cann's secret, two idle
irresponsible participators should come in at the end, if they could, to
profit entirely by _his_ ingenuity and _his_ exertions!

At last, by a great effort, he forced the rusty lock open, and looked
eagerly into the strong oak chest. How his heart beat with slow, deep
throbs at that supreme moment, not with suspense, for he _knew_ he
should find the money, but with the final realization of a great hope
long deferred! Yes, there it lay, in very truth, all before him--great
shining coins of old Spanish gold--gold, gold, gold, arranged in long
rows, one coin after another, over the whole surface of the broad oak
box. He had found it, he had found it, he had really found it! After so
much toilsome hunting, after so much vain endeavour, after so many
heart-breaking disappointments, John Cann's treasure in very truth lay
open there actually before him!

For a few minutes, eager and frightened as he was, Cecil Mitford did not
dare even to touch the precious pieces. In the greatness of his joy, in
the fierce rush of his overpowering emotions, he had no time to think of
mere base everyday gold and silver. It was the future and the ideal that
he beheld, not the piled-up heaps of filthy lucre. Ethel was his, wealth
was his, honour was his! He would be a rich man and a great man now and
henceforth for ever! Oh, how he hugged himself in his heart on the wise
successful fraud by which he had induced Ethel to advance him the few
wretched hundreds he needed for his ever-memorable Jamaican journey! How
he praised to himself his own courage, and ingenuity, and determination,
and inexhaustible patience! How he laughed down that foolish conscience
of his that would fain have dissuaded him from his master-stroke of
genius. He deserved it all, he deserved it all! Other men would have
flinched before the risk and expense of the voyage to Jamaica, would
have given up the scent for a fool's errand in the cemetery at Port
Royal, would have shrunk from ransacking John Cann's grave at dead of
night in the Cathedral precincts at Spanish Town, would have feared to
buy the high-priced corner of land at Bovey Tracy on a pure imaginative
speculation. But he, Cecil Mitford, had had the boldness and the
cleverness to do it every bit, and now, wisdom was justified of all her
children. He sat for five minutes in profound meditation on the edge of
the little pit he had dug, gloating dreamily over the broad gold pieces,
and inwardly admiring his own bravery and foresight and indomitable
resolution. What a magnificent man he really was--a worthy successor of
those great freebooting, buccaneering, filibustering Devonians of the
grand Elizabethan era! To think that the worky-day modern world should
ever have tried to doom him, Cecil Mitford, with his splendid enterprise
and glorious potentialities, to a hundred and eighty a year and a
routine clerkship at the Colonial Office!

After a while, however, mere numerical cupidity began to get the better
of this heroic mood, and Cecil Mitford turned somewhat languidly to the
vulgar task of counting the rows of doubloons. He counted up the
foremost row carefully, and then for the first time perceived, to his
intense surprise, that the row behind was not gold, but mere silver
Mexican pistoles. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the fact was
unmistakable; there was only one row of yellow gold in the top layer,
and all the rest was merely bright and glittering silver. Strange that
John Cann should have put coins of such small value near the top of his
box: the rest of the gold must certainly be in successive layers down
further. He lifted up the big gold doubloons in the first row, and then,
to his blank horror and amazement, came to--not more gold, not more
silver, but--but--but--ay, incredible as it seemed, appalling,
horrifying--a wooden bottom!

Had John Cann, in his care and anxiety, put a layer of solid oak between
each layer of gold and silver? Hardly that, the oak was too thick. In a
moment Cecil Mitford had taken out all the coins of the first tier, and
laid bare the oaken bottom. A few blows of the pick loosened the earth
around, and then, oh horror, oh ghastly disappointment, oh unspeakable
heart-sickening revelation, the whole box came out entire. It was only
two inches deep altogether, including the cover--it was, in fact, a mere
shallow tray or saucer, something like the sort of thin wooden boxes in
which sets of dessert-knives or fish-knives are usually sold for wedding
presents!

For the space of three seconds Cecil Mitford could not believe his eyes,
and then, with a sudden flash of awful vividness, the whole terrible
truth flashed at once across his staggering brain. He had found John
Cann's treasure indeed--the John Cann's treasure of base actual reality;
but the John Cann's treasure of his fervid imagination, the John Cann's
treasure he had dreamt of from his boyhood upward, the John Cann's
treasure he had risked all to find and to win, did not exist, could not
exist, and never had existed at all anywhere! It was all a horrible,
incredible, unthinkable delusion! The hideous fictions he had told would
every one be now discovered; Ethel would be ruined; Aunt Emily would be
ruined; and they would both know him, not only for a fool, a dreamer,
and a visionary, but also for a gambler, a thief, and a liar.

In his black despair he jumped down into the shallow hole once more, and
began a second time to count slowly over the accursed dollars. The whole
miserable sum--the untold wealth of John Cann's treasure--would amount
altogether to about two hundred and twenty pounds of modern sterling
English money. Cecil Mitford tore his hair as he counted it in impotent
self punishment; two hundred and twenty pounds, and he had expected at
least as many thousands! He saw it all in a moment. His wild fancy had
mistaken the poor outcast hunted-down pirate for a sort of ideal
criminal millionaire; he had erected the ignorant, persecuted John Cann
of real life, who fled from the king's justice to a nest of chartered
outlaws in Jamaica, into a great successful naval commander, like the
Drake or Hawkins of actual history. The whole truth about the wretched
solitary old robber burst in upon him now with startling vividness; he
saw him hugging his paltry two hundred pounds to his miserly old bosom,
crossing the sea with it stealthily from Jamaica, burying it secretly in
a hole in the ground at Bovey, quarrelling about it with his peasant
relations in England, as the poor will often quarrel about mere trifles
of money, and dying at last with the secret of that wretched sum hidden
in the snuff-box that he clutched with fierce energy even in his
lifeless skeleton fingers. It was all clear, horribly, irretrievably,
unmistakably clear to him now; and the John Cann that he had once
followed through so many chances and changes had faded away at once into
absolute nothingness, now and for ever!

If Cecil Mitford had known a little less about John Cann's life and
exploits he might still perhaps have buoyed himself up with the vain
hope that all the treasure was not yet unearthed--that there were more
boxes still buried in the ground, more doubloons still hidden further
down in the unexplored bosom of the little three-cornered field. But the
words of John Cann's own dying directions were too explicit and clear to
admit of any such gloss or false interpretation. "In a strong oaken
chest, bound round with iron, and buried at four feet of depth in the
south-western angle of the Home Croft, at Bovey," said the document,
plainly; there was no possibility of making two out of it in any way.
Indeed, in that single minute, Cecil Mitford's mind had undergone a
total revolution, and he saw the John Cann myth for the first time in
his life now in its true colours. The bubble had burst, the halo had
vanished, the phantom had faded away, and the miserable squalid miserly
reality stood before him with all its vulgar nakedness in their place.
The whole panorama of John Cann's life, as he knew it intimately in all
its details, passed before his mind's eye like a vivid picture, no
longer in the brilliant hues of boyish romance, but in the dingy sordid
tones of sober fact. He had given up all that was worth having in this
world for the sake of a poor gipsy pirate's penny-saving hoard.

A weaker man would have swallowed the disappointment or kept the
delusion still to his dying day. Cecil Mitford was made of stronger
mould. The ideal John Cann's treasure had taken possession of him, body
and soul; and now that John Cann's treasure had faded into utter
nonentity--a paltry two hundred pounds--the whole solid earth had failed
beneath his feet, and nothing was left before him but a mighty blank. A
mighty blank. Blank, blank, blank. Cecil Mitford sat there on the edge
of the pit, with his legs dangling over into the hollow where John
Cann's treasure had never been, gazing blankly out into a blank sky,
with staring blank eyeballs that looked straight ahead into infinite
space and saw utterly nothing.

How long he sat there no one knows; but late at night, when the people
at the Red Lion began to miss their guest, and turned out in a body to
hunt for him in the corner field, they found him sitting still on the
edge of the pit he had dug for the grave of his own hopes, and gazing
still with listless eyes into blank vacancy. A box of loose coin lay
idly scattered on the ground beside him. The poor gentleman had been
struck crazy, they whispered to one another; and so indeed he had: not
raving mad with acute insanity, but blankly, hopelessly, and helplessly
imbecile. With the loss of John Cann's treasure the whole universe had
faded out for him into abject nihilism. They carried him home to the inn
between them on their arms, and put him to bed carefully in the old
bedroom, as one might put a new-born baby.

The Lord of the Manor, when he came to hear the whole pitiful story,
would have nothing to do with the wretched doubloons; the curse of blood
was upon them, he said, and worse than that; so the Treasury, which has
no sentiments and no conscience, came in at the end for what little
there was of John Cann's unholy treasure.

VIII.

In the County Pauper Lunatic Asylum for Devon there was one quiet
impassive patient, who was always pointed out to horror-loving visitors,
because he had once been a gentleman, and had a strange romance hanging
to him still, even in that dreary refuge of the destitute insane. The
lady whom he had loved and robbed--all for her own good--had followed
him down from London to Devonshire; and she and her aunt kept a small
school, after some struggling fashion, in the town close by, where many
kind-hearted squires of the neighbourhood sent their little girls, while
they were still very little, for the sake of charity, and for pity of
the sad, sad story. One day a week there was a whole holiday--Wednesday
it was--for that was visiting day at the County Asylum; and then Ethel
Sutherland, dressed in deep mourning, walked round with her aunt to the
gloomy gateway at ten o'clock, and sat as long as she was allowed with
the faded image of Cecil Mitford, holding his listless hand clasped hard
in her pale white fingers, and looking with sad eager anxious eyes for
any gleam of passing recognition in his. Alas, the gleam never came
(perhaps it was better so), Cecil Mitford looked always straight before
him at the blank whitewashed walls, and saw nothing, heard nothing,
thought of nothing, from week's end to week's end.

Ethel had forgiven him all; what will not a loving woman forgive? Nay,
more, had found excuses and palliations for him, which quite glossed
over his crime and his folly. He must have been losing his reason long
before he ever went to Jamaica, she said; for in his right mind he would
never have tried to deceive her or himself in the way he had done. Did
he not fancy he was sent out by the Colonial Office, when he had really
gone without leave or mission? And did he not persuade her to give up
her money to him for investment, and after all never invest it? What
greater proofs of insanity could you have than those? And then that
dreadful fever at Spanish Town, and the shock of losing his kind
entertainer, worn out with nursing him, had quite completed the downfall
of his reason. So Ethel Sutherland, in her pure beautiful woman's soul,
went on believing, as steadfastly as ever, in the faith and the goodness
of that Cecil Mitford that had never been. _His_ ideal had faded out
before the first touch of disillusioning fact; _hers_ persisted still,
in spite of all the rudest assaults that the plainest facts could make
upon it. Thank heaven for that wonderful idealising power of a good
woman, which enables her to walk unsullied through this sordid world,
unknowing and unseeing.

At last one night, one terrible windy night in December, Ethel
Sutherland was wakened from her sleep in the quiet little school-house
by a fearful glare falling fiercely upon her bedroom window. She jumped
up hastily and rushed to the little casement to look out towards the
place whence the glare came. One thought alone rose instinctively in her
white little mind--Could it be at Cecil's Asylum? Oh, horror, yes; the
whole building was in flames, and if Cecil were taken--even poor mad
imbecile Cecil--what, what on earth would then be left her?

Huddling on a few things hastily, anyhow, Ethel rushed out wildly into
the street, and ran with incredible speed where all the crowd of the
town was running together, towards the blazing Asylum. The mob knew her
at once, and recognized her sad claim; they made a little lane down the
surging mass for her to pass through, till she stood beside the very
firemen at the base of the gateway. It was an awful sight--poor mad
wretches raving and imploring at the windows, while the firemen plied
their hose and brought their escapes to bear as best they were able on
one menaced tier after another. But Ethel saw or heard nothing, save in
one third floor window of the right wing, where Cecil Mitford stood, no
longer speechless and imbecile, but calling loudly for help, and
flinging his eager arms wildly about him. The shock had brought him back
his reason, for the moment at least: oh, thank God, thank God, he saw
her, he saw her!

With a sudden wild cry Ethel burst from the firemen who tried to hold
her back, leaped into the burning building and tore up the blazing
stairs, blinded and scorched, but by some miracle not quite suffocated,
till she reached the stone landing on the third story. Turning along the
well-known corridor, now filled with black wreaths of stifling smoke,
she reached at last Cecil's ward, and flung herself madly, wildly into
his circling arms. For a moment they both forgot the awful death that
girt them round on every side, and Cecil, rising one second superior to
himself, cried only "Ethel, Ethel, Ethel, I love you; forgive me!" Ethel
pressed his hand in hers gently, and answered in an agony of joy, "There
is nothing to forgive, Cecil; I can die happy now, now that I have once
more heard you say you love me, you love me."

Hand in hand they turned back towards the blazing staircase, and reached
the window at the end where the firemen were now bringing their
escape-ladder to bear on the third story. The men below beckoned them to
come near and climb out on to the ladder, but just at that moment
something behind seemed incomprehensibly to fascinate and delay Cecil,
so that he would not move a step nearer, though Ethel led him on with
all her might. She looked back to see what could be the reason, and
beheld the floor behind them rent by the flames, and a great gap
spreading downward to the treasurer's room. On the tiled floor a few
dozen pence and shillings and other coins lay, white with heat, among
the glowing rubbish; and the whole mass, glittering like gold in the
fierce glare, seemed some fiery cave filled to the brim with fabulous
wealth. Cecil's eye was riveted upon the yawning gap, and the corners of
his mouth twitched horribly as he gazed with intense interest upon the
red cinders and white hot coin beneath him. Instinctively Ethel felt at
once that all was lost, and that the old mania was once more upon him.
Clasping her arm tight round his waist, while the firemen below shouted
to her to leave him and come down as she valued her life, she made one
desperate effort to drag him by main force to the head of the ladder.
But Cecil, strong man that he was, threw her weak little arm impetuously
away, as he might have thrown a two-year-old baby's, and cried to her in
a voice trembling with excitement, "See, see, Ethel, at last, at last;
there it is, there it is in good earnest. JOHN CANN'S TREASURE!"

Ethel seized his arm imploringly once more. "This way, darling," she
cried, in a voice choked by sobs and half stifled with the smoke. "This
way to the ladder."

But Cecil broke from her fiercely, with a wild light in his big blue
eyes, and shouting aloud, "The treasure, the treasure!" leaped with
awful energy into the very centre of the seething fiery abyss. Ethel
fell, fainting with terror and choked by the flames, on to the burning
floor of the third story. The firemen, watching from below, declared
next day that that crazy madman must have died stifled before he touched
the heap of white hot ruins in the central shell, and the poor lady was
insensible or dead with asphyxia full ten minutes before the flames
swept past the spot where her lifeless body was lying immovable.

_ISALINE AND I._

I.

"Well, Mademoiselle Isaline," I said, strolling out into the garden,
"and who is the young _cavalier_ with the black moustache?"

"What, monsieur," answered Isaline; "you have seen him? You have been
watching from your window? We did not know you had returned from the
Aiguille."

"Oh, yes, I've been back for more than an hour," I replied; "the snow
was so deep on the Col that I gave it up at last, and made up my mind
not to try it without a guide."

"I am so glad," Isaline said demurely. "I had such fears for monsieur.
The Aiguille is dangerous, though it isn't very high, and I had been
very distractedly anxious till monsieur returned."

"Thanks, mademoiselle," I answered, with a little bow. "Your solicitude
for my safety flatters me immensely. But you haven't told me yet who is
the gentleman with the black moustache."

Isaline smiled. "His name is M. Claude," she said; "M. Claude Tirard,
you know; but we don't use surnames much among ourselves in the Pays de
Vaud. He is the schoolmaster of the commune."

"M. Claude is a very happy man, then," I put in. "I envy his good
fortune."

Isaline blushed a pretty blush. "On the contrary," she answered, "he has
just been declaring himself the most miserable of all mankind. He says
his life is not worth having."

"They always say that under those peculiar circumstances," I said.
"Believe me, mademoiselle, there are a great many men who would be glad
to exchange their own indifferently tolerable lot for M. Claude's
unendurable misery."

Isaline said nothing, but she looked at me with a peculiar inquiring
look, as if she would very much like to know exactly what I meant by it,
and how much I meant it.

And what _did_ I mean by it? Not very much after all, I imagine; for
when it comes to retrospect, which one of us is any good at analyzing
his own motives? The fact is, Isaline was a very pretty little girl, and
I had nothing else to do, and I might just as well make myself agreeable
to her as gain the reputation of being a bear of an Englishman. Besides,
if there was the safeguard of M. Claude, a real indigenous suitor, in
the background, there wasn't much danger of my polite attentions being
misunderstood.

However, I haven't yet told you how I came to find myself on the farm at
Les Pentes at all. This, then, is how it all came about. I was sick of
the Temple; I had spent four or five briefless years in lounging about
Brick Court and dropping in casually at important cases, just to let the
world see I was the proud possessor of a well-curled wig; but even a wig
(which suits my complexion admirably) palls after five years, and I said
to myself that I would really cut London altogether, and live upon my
means somewhere on the Continent. Very small means, to be sure, but
still enough to pull through upon in Switzerland or the Black Forest.
So, just by way of experiment as to how I liked it, I packed up my
fishing-rod and my portmanteau (the first the most important), took the
7.18 express from the Gare de Lyon for Geneva, and found myself next
afternoon comfortably seated on the verandah of my favourite hotel at
Vevay. The lake is delightful, that we all know; but I wanted to get
somewhere where there was a little fishing; so I struck back at once
into the mountain country round Chateau d'Oex and Les Avants, and came
soon upon the exact thing I wanted at Les Pentes.

Picture to yourself a great amphitheatre of open alp or mountain pasture
in the foreground, with peaks covered by vivid green pines in the middle
distance, and a background of pretty aiguilles, naked at their base, but
clad near the summit with frozen masses of sparkling ice. Put into the
midst of the amphitheatre a clear green-and-white torrent, with a church
surrounded by a few wooden farmhouses on its slope, and there you have
the commune of Les Pentes. But what was most delightful of all was this,
that there was no hotel, no _pension_, not even a regular lodging-house.
I was the first stranger to discover the capabilities of the village,
and I was free to exploit them for my own private advantage. By a stroke
of luck, it so happened that M. Clairon, the richest farmer of the
place, with a pretty old-fashioned Vaudois farmhouse, and a pretty,
dainty little Vaudoise daughter, was actually willing to take me in for
a mere song per week. I jumped at the chance; and the same day saw me
duly installed in a pretty little room, under the eaves of the pretty
little farmhouse, and with the pretty little daughter politely attending
to all my wants.

Do you know those old-fashioned Vaudois houses, with their big
gable-ends, their deep-thatched roofs, their cobs of maize, and smoked
hams, and other rural wealth, hanging out ostentatiously under the
protecting ledges? If you don't, you can't imagine what a delightful
time I had of it at Les Pentes. The farm was a large one for the Pays
de Vaud, and M. Clairon actually kept two servants; but madame would
have been scandalized at the idea of letting "that Sara" or "that
Lisette" wait upon the English voyager; and the consequence was that
Mademoiselle Isaline herself always came to answer my little tinkling
hand-bell. It was a trifle awkward, for Mademoiselle Isaline was too
much of a young lady not to be treated with deferential politeness; and
yet there is a certain difficulty in being deferentially polite to the
person who lays your table for dinner. However, I made the best of it,
and I'm bound to say I managed to get along very comfortably.

Isaline was one of those pretty, plump, laughing-eyed, dimple-cheeked,
dark little girls that you hardly ever see anywhere outside the Pays de
Vaud. It was almost impossible to look at her without smiling; I'm sure
it was quite impossible for her to look at any one else and not smile at
them. She wore the prettiest little Vaudois caps you ever saw in your
life; and she looked so coquettish in them that you must have been very
hard-hearted indeed if you did not straightway fall head over ears in
love with her at first sight. Besides, she had been to school at
Lausanne, and spoke such pretty, delicate, musical French. Now, my good
mother thought badly of my French accent; and when I told her I meant to
spend a summer month or two in western Switzerland, she said to me, "I
_do_ hope, Charlie dear, you will miss no opportunity of conversing with
the people, and improving yourself in colloquial French a little." I am
certainly the most dutiful of sons, and I solemnly assure you that
whenever I was not fishing or climbing I missed no opportunity
whatsoever of conversing with pretty little Isaline.

"Mademoiselle Isaline," I said on this particular afternoon, "I should
much like a cup of tea; can Sara bring me one out here in the garden?"

"Perfectly, monsieur; I will bring you out the little table on to the
grass plot," said Isaline. "That will arrange things for you much more
pleasantly."

"Not for worlds," I said, running in to get it myself; but Isaline had
darted into the house before me, and brought it out with her own white
little hands on to the tiny lawn. Then she went in again, and soon
reappeared with a Japanese tray--bought at Montreux specially in my
honour--and a set of the funniest little old China tea-things ever
beheld in a London bric-a-brac cabinet.

"Won't you sit and take a cup with me, mademoiselle?" I asked.

"_Ma foi_, monsieur," answered Isaline, blushing again, "I have never
tasted any except as _pthisane_. But you other English drink it so,
don't you? I will try it, for the rest: one learns always."

I poured her out a cup, and creamed it with some of that delicious
Vaudois cream (no cream in the world so good as what you get in the Pays
de Vaud--you see I am an enthusiast for my adopted country--but that is
anticipating matters), and handed it over to her for her approval. She
tasted it with a little _moue_. English-women don't make the _moue_, so,
though I like sticking to my mother tongue, I confess my inability to
translate the word. "Brrrr," she said. "Do you English like that stuff!
Well, one must accommodate one's self to it, I suppose;" and to do her
justice, she proceeded to accommodate herself to it with such
distinguished success that she asked me soon for another cup, and drank
it off without even a murmur.

"And this M. Claude, then," I asked; "he is a friend of yours? Eh?"

"Passably," she answered, colouring slightly. "You see, we have not much
society at Les Pontes. He comes from the Normal School at Geneva. He is
instructed, a man of education. We see few such here. What would you
have?" She said it apologetically, as though she thought she was bound
to excuse herself for having made M. Claude's acquaintance.

"But you like him very much?"

"Like him? Well, yes; I liked him always well enough. Bat he is too
haughty. He gives himself airs. To-day he is angry with me. He has no
right to be angry with me."

"Mademoiselle," I said, "have you ever read our Shakespeare?"

"Oh, yes, in English I have read him. I can read English well enough,
though I speak but a little."

"And have you read the 'Tempest'?"

"How? Ariel, Ferdinand, Miranda, Caliban? Oh, yes. It is beautiful."

"Well, mademoiselle," I said, "do you remember how Miranda first saw
Ferdinand?"

She smiled and blushed again--she was such a little blusher. "I know
what you would say," she said. "You English are blunt. You talk to young
ladies so strangely."

"Well, Mademoiselle Isaline, it seems to me that you at Les Pentes are
like Miranda on the island. You see nobody, and there is nobody here to
see you. You must not go and fall in love, like Miranda, with the very
first man you happen to meet with, because he comes from the Normal
School at Geneva. There are plenty of men in the world, believe me,
beside M. Claude."

"Ah, but Miranda and Ferdinand both loved one another," said Isaline
archly; "and they were married, and both lived happily ever afterward."
I saw at once she was trying to pique me.

"How do you know that?" I asked. "It doesn't say so in the play. For all
I know, Ferdinand lost the crown of Naples through a revolution, and
went and settled down at a country school in Savoy or somewhere, and
took to drinking, and became brutally unsociable, and made Miranda's
life a toil and a burden to her. At any rate, I'm sure of one thing; he
wasn't worthy of her."

What made me go on in this stupid way? I'm sure I don't know. I
certainly didn't mean to marry Isaline myself: ... at least, not
definitely: and yet when you are sitting down at tea on a rustic garden
seat, with a pretty girl in a charming white crimped cap beside you, and
you get a chance of insinuating that other fellows don't think quite as
much of her as you do, it isn't human nature to let slip the opportunity
of insinuating it.

"But you don't know M. Claude," said Isaline practically, "and so you
can't tell whether _he_ is worthy of _me_ or not."

"I'm perfectly certain," I answered, "that he can't be, even though he
were a very paragon of virtue, learning, and manly beauty."

"If monsieur talks in that way," said Isaline, "I shall have to go back
at once to mamma."

"Wait a moment," I said, "and I will talk however you wish me. You know,
you agree to give me instruction in conversational French. That
naturally includes lessons in conversation with ladies of exceptional
personal attractions. I must practise for every possible circumstance of
life.... So you have read Shakespeare, then. And any other English
books?"

"Oh, many. Scott, and Dickens, and all, except Byron. My papa says a
young lady must not read Byron. But I have read what he has said of our
lake, in a book of extracts. It is a great pleasure to me to look down
among the vines and chestnuts, there, and to think that our lake, which
gleams so blue and beautiful below, is the most famous in poetry of all
lakes. You know, Jean Jacques says, 'Mon lac est le premier,' and so it
is."

"Then you have read Jean Jacques too?"

"Oh, mon Dieu, no. My papa says a young lady must especially not read
Jean Jacques. But I know something about him--so much as is
_convenable_. Hold here! do you see that clump of trees down there by
the lake, just above Clarens? That is Julie's grove--'le bosquet de
Julie' we call it. There isn't a spot along the lake that is not thus
famous, that has not its memories and its associations. It is for that
that I could not choose ever to leave the dear old Pays de Vaud."

"You would not like to live in England, then?" I asked. (What a fool I
was, to be sure.)

"Oh, ma foi, no. That would make one too much shiver, with your chills,
and your fogs, and your winters. I could not stand it. It is cold here,
but at any rate it is sunny.... Well, at least, it would not be
pleasant.... But, after all, that depends.... You have the sun, too,
sometimes, don't you?"

"Isaline!" cried madame from the window. "I want you to come and help me
pick over the gooseberries!" And, to say the truth, I thought it quite
time she should go.

II.

A week later, I met M. Claude again. He was a very nice young fellow,
there was not a doubt of that. He was intelligent, well educated, manly,
with all the honest, sturdy, independent Swiss nature clearly visible in
his frank, bright, open face. I have seldom met a man whom I liked
better at first sight than M. Claude, and after he had gone away I felt
more than a little ashamed of myself to think I had been half trying to
steal away Isaline's heart from this good fellow, without really having
any deliberate design upon it myself. It began to strike me that I had
been doing a very dirty, shabby thing.

"Charlie, my boy," I said to myself, as I sat fishing with bottom bait
and dangling my legs over the edge of a pool, "you've been flirting with
this pretty little Swiss girl; and what's worse, you've been flirting in
a very bad sort of way. She's got a lover of her own; and you've been
trying to make her feel dissatisfied with him, for no earthly reason.
You've taken advantage of your position and your fancied London airs and
graces to run down by implication a good fellow who really loves her and
would probably make her an excellent husband. Don't let this occur
again, sir." And having thus virtuously resolved, of course I went away
and flirted with Isaline next morning as vigorously as ever.

During the following fortnight, M. Claude came often, and I could not
disguise from myself the fact that M. Claude did not quite like me. This
was odd, for I liked him very much. I suppose he took me for a potential
rival: men are so jealous when they are in love. Besides, I observed
that Isaline tried not to be thrown too much with him alone; tried to
include me in the party wherever she went with him. Also, I will freely
confess that I felt myself every day more fond of Isaline's society, and
I half fancied I caught myself trepidating a little inwardly now and
then when she happened to come up to me. Absurd to be so susceptible;
but such is man.

One lovely day about this time I set out once more to try my hand (or
rather my feet) alone upon the Aiguille. Isaline put me up a nice little
light lunch in my knapsack, and insisted upon seeing that my alpenstock
was firmly shod, and my pedestrian boots in due climbing order. In fact,
she loudly lamented my perversity in attempting to make the ascent
without a guide; and she must even needs walk with me as far as the
little bridge over the torrent beside the snow line, to point me out the
road the guides generally took to the platform at the summit. For
myself, I was a practised mountaineer, and felt no fear for the result.
As I left her for the ice, she stood a long time looking and waving me
the right road with her little pocket-handkerchief; while as long as I
could hear her voice she kept on exhorting me to be very careful. "Ah,
if monsieur would only have taken a guide! You don't know how dangerous
that little Aiguille really is."

The sun was shining brightly on the snow; the view across the valley of
the Rhone towards the snowy Alps beyond was exquisite; and the giants of
the Bernese Oberland stood out in gloriously brilliant outline on the
other side against the clear blue summer sky. I went on alone, enjoying
myself hugely in my own quiet fashion, and watching Isaline as she made
her way slowly along the green path, looking round often and again, till
she disappeared in the shadow of the pinewood that girt round the tiny
village. On, farther still, up and up and up, over soft snow for the
most part; with very little ice, till at last, after three hours' hard
climbing, I stood on the very summit of the pretty Aiguille. It was not
very high, but it commanded a magnificent view over either side--the
Alps on one hand, the counterchain of the Oberland on the other, and the
blue lake gleaming and glowing through all its length in its green
valley between them. There I sat down on the pure snow in the glittering
sunlight, and ate the lunch that Isaline had provided for me, with much
gusto. Unfortunately, I also drank the pint of white wine from the head
of the lake--Yvorne, we call it, and I grow it now in my own vineyard at
Pic de la Baume--but that is anticipating again: as good a light wine as
you will get anywhere in Europe in these depressing days of blight and
phylloxera. Now, a pint of _vin du pays_ is not too much under ordinary
circumstances for a strong young man in vigorous health, doing a hard
day's muscular work with legs, arms, and sinews: but mountain air is
thin and exhilarating in itself, and it lends a point to a half-bottle
of Yvorne which the wine's own body does not by any means usually
possess. I don't mean to say so much light wine does one any positive
harm; but it makes one more careless and easy-going; gives one a false
sense of security, and entices one into paying less heed to one's
footsteps or to suspicious-looking bits of doubtful ice.

Well, after lunch I took a good look at the view with my field-glass;
and when I turned it towards Les Pentes I could make out our farmhouse
distinctly, and even saw Isaline standing on the balcony looking towards
the Aiguille. My heart jumped a little when I thought that she was
probably looking for me. Then I wound my way down again, not by
retracing my steps, but by trying a new path, which seemed to me a more
practicable one. It was not the one Isaline had pointed out, but it
appeared to go more directly, and to avoid one or two of the very worst
rough-and-tumble pieces.

I was making my way back, merrily enough, when suddenly I happened to
step on a little bit of loose ice, which slid beneath my feet in a very
uncomfortable manner. Before I knew where I was, I felt myself sliding
rapidly on, with the ice clinging to my heel; and while I was vainly
trying to dig my alpenstock into a firm snowbank, I became conscious for
a moment of a sort of dim indefinite blank. It was followed by a
sensation of empty space; and then I knew I was falling over the edge of
something.

Whrrr, whrrr, whrrr, went the air at my ear for a moment; and the next
thing I knew was a jar of pain, and a consciousness of being enveloped
in something very soft. The jar took away all other feeling for a few
seconds; I only knew I was stunned and badly hurt. After a time, I began
to be capable of trying to realize the position; and when I opened my
eyes and looked around me, I recognized that I was lying on my back, and
that there was a pervading sensation of whiteness everywhere about. In
point of fact, I was buried in snow. I tried to move, and to get on my
legs again, but two things very effectually prevented me. In the first
place, I could not stir my legs without giving myself the most intense
pain in my spine; and in the second place, when I did stir them I
brought them into contact on the one hand with a solid wall of rock, and
on the other hand with vacant space, or at least with very soft snow
unsupported by a rocky bottom. Gradually, by feeling about with my arms,
I began exactly to realize the gravity of the position. I had fallen
over a precipice, and had lighted on a snow-covered ledge half-way down.
My back was very badly hurt, and I dared not struggle up on to my legs
for fear of falling off the ledge again on the other side. Besides, I
was half smothered in the snow, and even if anybody ever came to look
for me (which they would not probably do till to-morrow) they would not
be able to see me, because of the deep-covering drifts. If I was not
extricated that night, I should probably freeze to death before morning,
especially after my pint of wine. "Confound that Yvorne!" I said to
myself savagely. "If ever I get out of this scrape I'll never touch a
drop of the stuff again as long as I live." I regret to say that I have
since broken that solemn promise twice daily for the past three years.

My one hope was that Isaline might possibly be surprised at my delay in
returning, and might send out one of the guides to find me.

So there I lay a long time, unable even to get out of the snow, and with
every movement causing me a horrid pain in my injured back. Still, I
kept on moving my legs every now and then to make the pain shoot, and so
prevent myself from feeling drowsy. The snow half suffocated me, and I
could only breathe with difficulty. At last, slowly, I began to lose
consciousness, and presently I suppose I fell asleep. To fall asleep in
the snow is the first stage of freezing to death.

III.

Noises above me, I think, on the edge of the precipice. Something coming
down, oh, how slowly. Something comes, and fumbles about a yard or so
away. Then I cry out feebly, and the something approaches. M. Claude's
hearty voice calls out cheerily, "Enfin, le voila!" and I am saved.

They let down ropes and pulled me up to the top of the little crag,
clumsily, so as to cause me great pain: and then three men carried me
home to the farmhouse on a stretcher. M. Claude was one of the three,
the others were labourers from the village.

"How did you know I was lost, M. Claude?" I asked feebly, as they
carried me along on the level.

He did not answer for a moment; then he said, rather gloomily, in
German, "The Fraeulein was watching you with a telescope from Les
Pentes." He did not say Fraeulein Isaline, and I knew why at once: he did
not wish the other carriers to know what he was talking about.

"And she told you?" I said, in German too.

"She sent me. I did not come of my own accord. I came under orders." He
spoke sternly, hissing out his gutturals in an angry voice.

"M. Claude," I said, "I have done very wrong, and I ask your
forgiveness. You have saved my life, and I owe you a debt of gratitude
for it. I will leave Les Pentes and the Fraeulein to-morrow, or at least
as soon as I can safely be moved."

He shook his head bitterly. "It is no use now," he answered, with a
sigh; "the Fraeulein does not wish for me. I have asked her, and she has
refused me. And she has been watching you up and down the Aiguille the
whole day with a telescope. When she saw you had fallen, she rushed out
like one distracted, and came to tell me at the school in the village.
It is no use, you have beaten me."

"M. Claude," I said, "I will plead for you. I have done you wrong, and I
ask your forgiveness."

"I owe you no ill-will," he replied, in his honest, straightforward,
Swiss manner. "It is not your fault if you too have fallen in love with
her. How could any man help it? Living in the same house with her, too!
Allons," he went on in French, resuming his alternative tongue (for he
spoke both equally), "we must get on quick and send for the doctor from
Glion to see you."

By the time we reached the farmhouse, I had satisfied myself that there
was nothing very serious the matter with me after all. The soft snow had
broken the force of the concussion. I had strained my spine a good deal,
and hurt the tendons of the thighs and back, but had not broken any
bones, nor injured any vital organ. So when they laid me on the
old-fashioned sofa in my little sitting-room, lighted a fire in the wide
hearth, and covered me over with a few rugs, I felt comparatively happy
and comfortable under the circumstances. The doctor was sent for in hot
haste; but on his arrival, he confirmed my own view of the case, and
declared I only needed rest and quiet and a little arnica.

I was rather distressed, however, when madame came up to see me an hour
later, and assured me that she and monsieur thought I ought to be moved
down as soon as possible into more comfortable apartments at Lausanne,
where I could secure better attendance. I saw in a moment what that
meant: they wanted to get me away from Isaline. "There are no more
comfortable quarters in all Switzerland, I am sure, madame," I said: but
madame was inflexible. There was an English doctor at Lausanne, and to
Lausanne accordingly I must go. Evidently, it had just begun to strike
those two good simple people that Isaline and I could just conceivably
manage to fall in love with one another.

Might I ask for Mademoiselle Isaline to bring me up a cup of tea? Yes,
Isaline would bring it in a minute. And when she came in, those usually
laughing black eyes obviously red with crying, I felt my heart sink
within me when I thought of my promise to M. Claude; while I began to be
vaguely conscious that I was really and truly very much in love with
pretty little Isaline on my own account.

She laid the tray on the small table by the sofa, and was going to leave
the room immediately. "Mademoiselle Isaline," I said, trying to raise
myself, and falling back again in pain, "won't you sit with me a little
while? I want to talk with you."

"My mamma said I must come away at once," Isaline replied demurely. "She
is without doubt busy and wants my aid." And she turned to go towards
the door.

"Oh, do come back, mademoiselle," I cried, raising myself again, and
giving myself, oh, such a wrench in the spine: "don't you see how much
it hurts me to sit up?"

She turned back, indecisively, and sat down in the big chair just beyond
the table, handing me the cup, and helping me to cream and sugar. I
plunged at once _in medias res_.

"You have been crying, mademoiselle," I said, "and I think I can guess
the reason. M. Claude has told me something about it. He has asked you
for your hand, and you have refused him. Is it not so?" This was a
little bit of hypocrisy on my part, I confess, for I knew what she had
been crying about perfectly: but I wished to be loyal to M. Claude.

Isaline blushed and laughed. "I do not cry for M. Claude," she said. "I
may have other matters of my own to cry about. But M. Claude is very
free with his confidences, if he tells such things to a stranger."

"Listen to me, Mademoiselle Isaline," I said. "Your father and mother
have asked me to leave here to-morrow and go down to Lausanne. I shall
probably never see you again. But before I go, I want to plead with you
for M. Claude. He has saved my life, and I owe him much gratitude. He
loves you; he is a brave man, a good man, a true and earnest man; why
will you not marry him? I feel sure he is a noble fellow, and he will
make you a tender husband. Will you not think better of your decision? I
cannot bear to leave Les Pentes till I know that you have made him
happy."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"And you go away to-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow."

"Oh, monsieur!"

There isn't much in those two words; but they may be pronounced with a
good deal of difference in the intonation; and Isaline's intonation did
not leave one in much doubt as to how she used them. Her eyes filled
again with tears, and she half started up to go. Ingrate and wretch that
I was, forgetful of my promise to M. Claude, my eyes filled
responsively, and I jumped to catch her and keep her from going, of
course at the expense of another dreadful wrench to my poor back.
"Isaline," I cried, unconsciously dropping the mademoiselle, and letting
her see my brimming eyelids far too obviously, "Isaline, do wait awhile,
I implore you, I beseech you! I have something to say to you."

She seated herself once more in the big chair. "Well, mon pauvre
monsieur," she cried, "what is it?"

"Isaline," I began, trying it over again; "why won't you marry M.
Claude?"

"Oh, that again. Well," answered Isaline boldly, "because I do not love
him, and I love somebody else. You should not ask a young lady about
these matters. In Switzerland, we do not think it _comme il faut_."

"But," I went on, "why do you not love M. Claude? He has every good
quality, and----"

"Every good quality, and--he bores me," answered Isaline. "Monsieur,"
she went on archly, "you were asking me the other day what books I had
read in English. Well, I have read Longfellow. Do you remember Miles
Standish?"

I saw what she was driving at, and laughed in spite of myself. "Yes," I
said, "I know what you mean. When John Alden is pleading with Priscilla
on behalf of Miles Standish, Priscilla cuts him short by saying----"

Isaline finished the quotation herself in her own pretty clipped
English, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"

I laughed. She laughed. We both looked at one another; and the next
thing I remember was that I had drawn down Isaline's plump little face
close to mine, and was kissing it vigorously, in spite of an acute
darting pain at each kiss all along my spine and into my marrow-bones.
Poor M. Claude was utterly forgotten.

In twenty minutes I had explained my whole position to Isaline: and in
twenty minutes more, I had monsieur and madame up to explain it all to
them in their turn. Monsieur listened carefully while I told him that I
was an English advocate in no practice to speak of; that I had a few
hundreds a year of my own, partly dependent upon my mother; that I had
thoughts of settling down permanently in Switzerland; and that Isaline
was willing, with her parents' consent, to share my modest competence.
Monsieur replied with true Swiss caution that he would inquire into my
statements, and that if they proved to be as represented, and if I
obtained in turn my mother's consent, he would be happy to hand me over
Isaline. "Toutefois," he added quietly, "it will be perhaps better to
rescind your journey to Lausanne. The Glion doctor is, after all, a
sufficiently skilful one." So I waited on in peace at Les Pontes.

Madame had insisted upon telegraphing the news of my accident to my
mother, lest it should reach her first in the papers ("Je suis mere
moi-meme, monsieur," she said, in justification of her conduct). And
next morning we got a telegram in reply from my mother, who evidently
imagined she must hurry over at once if she wished to see her son alive,
or at least must nurse him through a long and dangerous illness.
Considering the injuries were a matter of about three days' sofa, in all
probability, this haste was a little overdone. However, she would arrive
by the very first _rapide_ from Paris; and on the whole I was not sorry,
for I was half afraid she might set her face against my marrying "a
foreigner," but I felt quite sure any one who once saw Isaline could
never resist her.

That afternoon, when school was over, M. Claude dropped in to see how I
was getting on. I felt more like a thief at that moment than I ever felt
in my whole life before or since. I knew I must tell him the simple
truth; but I didn't know how to face it. However, as soon as I began, he
saved me the trouble by saying, "You need not mind explaining.
Mademoiselle Isaline has told me all. Yon did your best for me, I feel
sure; but she loves you, and she does not love me. We cannot help these
things; they come and go without our being able to govern them. I am
sorry, more than sorry; but I thank you for your kind offices.
Mademoiselle Isaline tells me you said all you could on my behalf, and
nothing on your own. Accept my congratulations on having secured the
love of the sweetest girl in all Switzerland." And he shook my hand with
an honest heartiness that cost me several more twinges both in the spine
and the half-guilty conscience. Yet, after all, it was not my fault.

"Monsieur Claude," I said, "you are an honest fellow, and a noble
fellow, and I trust you will still let me be your friend."

"Naturally," answered M. Claude, in his frank way. "I have only done my
duty. You have been the lucky one, but I must not bear you a grudge for
that; though it has cost my heart a hard struggle;" and, as he spoke,
the tears came for a moment in his honest blue eyes, though he tried to
brush them away unseen.

"Monsieur Claude," I said, "you are too generous to me. I can never
forgive myself for this."

Before many days my mother came to hand duly; and though her social
prejudices were just a trifle shocked, at first, by the farmhouse, with
its hams and maize, which I had found so picturesque, I judged rightly
that Isaline would soon make an easy conquest of her. My mother readily
admitted that my accent had improved audibly to the naked ear; that
Isaline's manners were simply perfect; that she was a dear, pretty,
captivating little thing; and that on the whole she saw no objections,
save one possible one, to my marriage. "Of course, Charlie," she said,
"the Clairons are Protestants; because, otherwise, I could never think
of giving my consent."

This was a poser in its way; for though I knew the village lay just on
the borderland, and some of the people were Catholics while others were
Reformed, I had not the remotest notion to which of the two churches
Isaline belonged. "Upon my soul, mother dear," I said, "it has never
struck me to inquire into Isaline's private abstract opinion on the
subject of the Pope's infallibility or the Geneva Confession. You see,
after all, it could hardly be regarded as an important or authoritative
one. However, I'll go at once and find out."

Happily, as it turned out, the Clairons were Reformed, and so my
mother's one objection fell to the ground immediately. M. Clairon's
inquiries were also satisfactory; and the final result was that Isaline
and I were to be quietly married before the end of the summer. The good
father had a nice little vineyard estate at Pic de la Baume, which he
proposed I should undertake to cultivate; and my mother waited to see
us installed in one of the prettiest little toy chalets to be seen
anywhere at the Villeneuve end of the lovely lake. A happier or sweeter
bride than Isaline I defy the whole world, now or ever, to produce.

From the day of our wedding, almost, Isaline made it the business of her
life to discover a fitting wife for good M. Claude; and in the end she
succeeded in discovering, I will freely admit (since Isaline is not
jealous), the second prettiest and second nicest girl in the whole Pays
de Vaud. And what is more, she succeeded also in getting M. Claude to
fall head over ears in love with her at first sight; to propose to her
at the end of a week; and to be accepted with effusion by Annette
herself, and with coldness by her papa, who thought the question of
means a trifle unsatisfactory. But Isaline and I arranged that Claude
should come into partnership in our vineyard business on easy terms, and
give up schoolmastering for ever; and the consequence is that he and his
wife have now got the companion chalet to ours, and between our two
local connections, in Switzerland and England, we are doing one of the
best trades in the new export wine traffic of any firm along the lake.
Of course we have given up growing Yvorne, except for our own use,
confining ourselves entirely to a high-priced vintage-wine, with very
careful culture, for our English business: and I take this opportunity
of recommending our famous phylloxera-proof white Pic de la Baume,
London Agents ----. But Isaline says that looks too much like an
advertisement, so I leave off. Still, I can't help saying that a dearer
little wife than Isaline, or a better partner than Claude, never yet
fell to any man's lot. They certainly are an excellent people, these
Vaudois, and I think you would say so too if only you knew them as well
as I do.

_PROFESSOR MILLITER'S DILEMMA._

The Gospel Evangelists were naturally very proud of Professor Milliter.
A small and despised sect, with not many great, not many rich, not many
noble among them, they could comfort themselves at least with the
reflection that they numbered in their fold one of the most learned and
justly famous of modern English scientific thinkers. It is true, their
place of meeting at Mortiscombe was but an upper chamber in a small
cottage; their local congregation consisted of hardly more than three
score members; and their nickname among their orthodox churchy
neighbours was the very opprobrious and very ridiculous one of "the
Shivering Ranters." Still, the Gospel Evangelists felt it was a great
privilege to be permitted the ministrations of so learned and eloquent a
preacher as Professor Milliter. The rector of the parish was an Oxford
M.A., of the usual decorously stereotyped conventional pattern; but in
point even of earthly knowledge and earthly consideration, said the
congregation at Patmos Chapel, "he is not worthy to unloose the latchet
of our pastor's shoe." For Professor Milliter was universally allowed to
be the greatest living authority in England on comparative anatomy, the
rising successor of Cuvier, and Owen, and Milne-Edwards, and Carpenter,
in the general knowledge of animal structure.

Mortiscombe, as everybody knows, is the favourite little suburban
watering-place, close by the busy streets and noisy wharves of a great
English manufacturing centre. It is at Mortiscombe that the Western
Counties College of Science is situated, away from the smoke and bustle
of the whirring city: and it was in the Western Counties College of
Science that Cyril Milliter ably filled the newly founded chair of
Comparative Anatomy. When he was first appointed, indeed, people
grumbled a little at the idea of a Professor at the College undertaking
every Sunday to preach in a common conventicle to a low assembly of
vulgar fanatics, as in their charitable Christian fashion they loved to
call the Gospel Evangelists. But Cyril Milliter was a man of character
and determination: he had fully made up his own mind upon theological
questions; and having once cast in his lot with the obscure sect of
Gospel Evangelists, to which his parents had belonged before him, he was
not to be turned aside from his purpose by the coarse gibes of the
ordinary public or the cynical incredulity of more cultivated but
scarcely more tolerant polite society. "Not a Gospel Evangelist really
and truly: you must surely be joking, Mr. Milliter," young ladies said
to him at evening parties with undisguised astonishment; "why, they're
just a lot of ignorant mill-hands, you know, who meet together in an
upper room somewhere down in Ford's Passage to hear sermons from some
ignorant lay preacher."

"Quite so," Cyril Milliter would answer quietly; "and _I_ am the
ignorant lay preacher who has been appointed to deliver those sermons to
them. I was brought up among the Gospel Evangelists as a child, and now
that I am a man my mature judgment has made me still continue among
them."

Mortiscombe is well known to be a very advanced and liberal-minded
place; so, after a time, people ceased to talk about the curious
singularity of Cyril Milliter's Sunday occupation. All through the week
the young professor lectured to his class on dry bones and the other
cheerful stock-in-trade of his own department; and on Sundays he walked
down erect, Bible in hand, to his little meeting-room, and there
fervently expounded the Word, as it approved itself to his soul and
conscience, before the handful of earnest artisans who composed his
faithful but scanty congregation. A fiery and enthusiastic preacher was
Cyril Milliter, devoured with zeal for what seemed to him the right
doctrine. "There is only one thing worth living for in this fallen
world," he used to say to his little group of attentive hearers, "and
that is Truth. Truth, as it reveals itself in the book of nature, must
be our quest during the working week: Truth, as it reveals itself in the
written Word, must be our quest on these happy blessed seventh-day
Sabbaths." There was a high eager light in his eye as he spoke, mingled
with a clear intellectual honesty in his sharply cut features, which
gave at once the stamp of reality to that plain profession of his
simple, manly, earnest creed.

One other subject, however, beside the pursuit of truth, just at that
moment deeply interested Cyril Milliter; and that subject assumed bodily
form in the pretty little person of Netta Leaworthy. Right in front of
Cyril, as he expounded the Word every Sunday morning, sat a modest,
demure, dimpled English girl, with a complexion like a blushing
apple-blossom, and a mouth like the sunny side of a white-heart cherry.
She was only the daughter of an intelligent mill-hand, a foreman at one
of the great factories in the neighbouring city, was dainty,
whitefingered, sweet-voiced little Netta; but there was a Puritan
freshness and demureness and simplicity about her that fairly won the
heart of the enthusiastic young professor. Society at Mortiscombe had
made itself most agreeable to Cyril Milliter, in spite of his
heterodoxy, as Society always does to eligible young bachelors of good
education; and it had thrown its daughters decorously in his way, by
asking him to all its dinners, dances, and at-homes, with most profuse
and urgent hospitality. But in spite of all the wiles of the most
experienced among Society's mothers, Cyril Milliter had positively had
the bad taste to fix his choice at last upon nobody better than simple,
unaffected, charming little Netta.

For one sunny Sunday morning, after worship, Cyril had turned out into
the fields behind the Common, for a quiet stroll among the birds and
flowers: when, close by the stile in the upper meadow, he came
unexpectedly upon Netta Leaworthy, alone upon the grass with her own
fancies. She was pulling an ox-eye daisy carelessly to pieces as he
passed, and he stopped a minute unperceived beside the hedge, to watch
her deft fingers taking out one ray after another quickly from the
blossom to the words of a foolish childish charm. Netta blushed crimson
when she saw she was observed at that silly pastime, and Cyril thought
to himself he had never seen anything in his life more lovely than the
blushing girl at that moment. Learned and educated as he was, he had
sprung himself from among the ranks of the many, and his heart was with
them still rather than with the rich, the noble, and the mighty. "I will
never marry among the daughters of Heth," he said to himself gently, as
he paused beside her: "I will take to myself rather a wife and a
helpmate from among the Lord's own chosen people."

"Ah, Miss Leaworthy," he went on aloud, smiling sympathetically at her
embarrassment, "you are following up the last relics of a dying
superstition, are you? 'One for money, two for health, Three for love,
and four for wealth.' Is that how the old saw goes? I thought so. And
which of the four blessings now has your daisy promised you I wonder?"

The tone he spoke in was so very different from that which he had just
been using in the chapel at worship that Netta felt instinctively what
it foreboded; and her heart fluttered tremulously as she answered in the
quietest voice she could command, "I haven't finished it yet, Mr.
Milliter; I have made five rounds already, and have a lot of rays left
still in the middle of the daisy."

Cyril took it from her, laughingly, and went on with the rhyme--his
conscience upbraiding him in an undertone of feeling meanwhile for such
an unworthy paltering with old-world superstition--till he had gone
twice round the spell, and finished abruptly with "Three for love!"
"Love it is!" he cried gaily. "A good omen! Miss Leaworthy, we none of
us love superstition: but perhaps after all it is something more than
that; there may be a Hand guiding us from above, even in these everyday
trifles! We must never forget, you know, that every hair of our heads is
numbered."

Netta's heart fluttered still more violently within her as he looked at
her so closely. Could it be that really, in spite of everything, the
great, learned, good, clever young professor was going to ask her to be
his wife? Netta had listened to him with joy Sunday after Sunday from
his simple platform pulpit, and had felt in her heart that no man never
expounded the gospel of love as beautifully as he did. She had fancied
sometimes--girls cannot help fancying, be they as modest and retiring as
they may--that he really did like her just a little. And she--she had
admired and wondered at him from a distance. But she could hardly
believe even now that that little vague day-dream which had sometimes
floated faintly before her eyes was going to be actually realized in
good earnest. She could answer nothing, her heart beat so; but she
looked down to the ground with a flushed and frightened look which was
more eloquent in its pretty simplicity than all the resources of the
most copious language.

Cyril Milliter's mind, however, was pretty well made up already on this
important matter, and he had been waiting long for just such an
opportunity of asking Netta whether she could love him. And now, even
without asking her, he could feel at once by some subtle inner sense
that his eager question was answered beforehand, and that modest,
maidenly little Netta Leaworthy was quite prepared to love him dearly.

For a moment he stood there looking at her intently, and neither of them
spoke. Then Netta raised her eyes from the ground for a second's flash;
and Cyril's glance caught hers one instant before she bent them down
again in haste to play nervously with the mangled daisy. "Netta," he
said, the name thrilling through his very marrow as he uttered it,
"Netta, I love you."

She stood irresolute for a while, listening to the beating of her own
heart, and then her eye caught his once more, timidly, but she spoke
never a syllable.

Cyril took her wee white hand in his--a lady's hand, if ever you saw
one--and raised it with chivalrous tenderness to his lips. Netta allowed
him to raise it and kiss it without resistance. "Then you will let me
love you?" he asked quickly. Netta still did not answer, but throwing
herself back on the bank by the hedgerow began to cry like a frightened
child.

Cyril sat down, all tremulous beside her, took the white hand unresisted
in his, and said to her gently, "Oh, Netta, what is this for?"

Then Netta answered with an effort, through her tears, "Mr. Milliter,
Mr. Milliter, how can you ever tell me of this?"

"Why not, Netta? Why not, my darling? May I not ask you to be my wife?
Will you have me, Netta?"

Netta looked at him timidly, with another blush, and said slowly, "No,
Mr. Milliter; I cannot. I must not."

"Why not, Netta? Oh, why not? Tell me a reason."

"Because it wouldn't be right. Because it wouldn't be fair to you.
Because it wouldn't be true of me. You ought to marry a lady--some
one in your own rank of life, you know. It would be wrong to tie
your future down to a poor nameless nobody like me, when you might
marry--marry--almost any lady you chose in all Mortiscombe."

"Netta, you pain me. You are wronging me. You know I care nothing for
such gewgaws as birth or wealth or rank or station. I would not marry
one of those ladies even if she asked me. And, as to my own position in
life, why, Netta, my position is yours. My parents were poor God-fearing
people, like your parents; and if you will not love me, then, Netta,
Netta, I say it solemnly, I will never, never marry anybody."

Netta answered never a word; but, as any other good girl would do in her
place, once more burst into a flood of tears, and looked at him
earnestly from her swimming eyes in speechless doubt and trepidation.

Perhaps it was wrong of Cyril Milliter--on a Sunday, and in the public
pathway too--but he simply put his strong arm gently round her waist,
and kissed her a dozen times over fervidly without let or hindrance.

Then Netta put him away from her, not too hastily, but with a lingering
hesitation, and said once more, "But, Mr. Milliter, I can never marry
you. You will repent of this yourself by-and-by at your leisure. Just
think, how could I ever marry you, when I should always be too
frightened of you to call you anything but 'Mr. Milliter!'"

"Why, Netta," cried the young professor, with a merry laugh, "if that's
all, you'll soon learn to call me, 'Cyril.'"

"To call you 'Cyril,' Mr. Milliter! Oh dear, no, never. Why, I've looked
at you so often in meeting, and felt so afraid of you, because you were
so learned, and wise, and terrible: and I'm sure I should never learn to
call you by your Christian name, whatever happened."

"And as you can't do that, you won't marry me! I'm delighted to hear it,
Netta--delighted to hear it; for if that's the best reason you can
conjure up against the match, I don't think, little one, I shall find it
very hard to talk you over."

"But, Mr. Milliter, are you quite sure you won't regret it yourself
hereafter? Are you quite sure you won't repent, when you find Society
doesn't treat you as it did, for my sake? Are you quite sure nothing
will rise up hereafter between us, no spectre of class difference, or
class prejudice, to divide our lives and make us unhappy?"

"Never!" Cyril Milliter answered, seizing both her hands in his eagerly,
and looking up with an instinctive glance to the open heaven above them
as witness. "Never, Netta, as long as I live and you live, shall any
shadow of such thought step in for one moment to put us asunder."

And Netta, too proud and pleased to plead against her own heart any
longer, let him kiss her once again a lover's kiss, and pressed his hand
in answer timidly, and walked back with him blushing towards
Mortiscombe, his affianced bride before the face of high heaven.

When Society at Mortiscombe first learnt that that clever young
Professor Milliter was really going to marry the daughter of some
factory foreman, Society commented frankly upon the matter according to
the various idiosyncrasies and temperaments of its component members.
Some of it was incredulous; some of it was shocked; some of it was
cynical; some of it was satirical; and some of it, shame to say, was
spitefully free with suggested explanations for such very strange and
unbecoming conduct. But Cyril Milliter himself was such a transparently
honest and straightforward man, that, whenever the subject was alluded
to in his presence, he shamed the cynicism and the spitefulness of
Society by answering simply, "Yes, I'm going to marry a Miss Leaworthy,
a very good and sweet girl, the daughter of the foreman at the Tube
Works, who is a great friend of mine and a member of my little Sunday
congregation." And, somehow, when once Cyril Milliter had said that in
his quiet natural way to anybody, however cynical, the somebody never
cared to talk any more gossip thenceforward for ever on the subject of
the professor's forthcoming marriage.

Indeed, so fully did the young professor manage to carry public
sentiment with him in the end, that when the wedding-day actually
arrived, almost every carriage in all Mortiscombe was drawn up at the
doors of the small chapel where the ceremony was performed; and young
Mrs. Milliter had more callers during the first fortnight after her
honeymoon than she knew well how to accommodate in their tiny
drawing-room. In these matters, Society never takes any middle course.
Either it disapproves of a "mixed marriage" altogether, in which case it
crushes the unfortunate offender sternly under its iron heel; or else it
rapturously adopts the bride into its own magic circle, in which case
she immediately becomes a distinct somebody, in virtue of the very
difference of original rank, and is invited everywhere with
_empressement_ as a perfect acquisition to the local community. This
last was what happened with poor simple blushing little Netta, who found
herself after a while so completely championed by all Mortiscombe that
she soon fell into her natural place in the college circle as if to the
manner born. All nice girls, of whatever class, are potentially ladies
(which is more than one can honestly say for all women of the upper
ranks), and after a very short time Netta became one of the most popular
young married women in all Mortiscombe. When once Society had got over
its first disappointment because Cyril Milliter had not rather married
one of its own number, it took to Netta with the greatest cordiality.
After all, there is something so very romantic, you know, in a gentleman
marrying a foreman's daughter; and something so very nice and liberal,
too, in one's own determination to treat her accordingly in every way
like a perfect equal.

And yet, happy as she was, Netta could never be absolutely free from a
pressing fear, a doubt that Cyril might not repent his choice, and feel
sorry in the end for not having married a real lady. That fear pursued
her through all her little triumph, and almost succeeded in making her
half jealous of Cyril whenever she saw him talking at all earnestly (and
he was very apt to be earnest) with other women. "They know so much more
than I do," she thought to herself often; "he must feel so much more at
home with them, naturally, and be able to talk to them about so many
things that he can never possibly talk about with poor little me." Poor
girl, it never even occurred to her that from the higher standpoint of a
really learned man like Cyril Milliter the petty smattering of French
and strumming of the piano, wherein alone these grand girls actually
differed from her, were mere useless surface accomplishments, in no way
affecting the inner intelligence or culture, which were the only things
that Cyril regarded in any serious light as worthy of respect or
admiration. As a matter of fact, Netta had learnt infinitely more from
her Bible, her English books, her own heart, and surrounding nature,
than any of these well-educated girls had learnt from their
parrot-trained governesses; and she was infinitely better fitted than
any of them to be a life companion for such a man as Cyril Milliter.

For the first seven or eight months of Netta's married life all went
smoothly enough with the young professor and his pretty wife. But at the
end of that time an event came about which gave Netta a great deal of
unhappiness, and caused her for the very first time since she had ever
known him to have serious doubts about Cyril's affection. And this was
just how it all happened.

One Sunday morning, in the upper chamber at Patmos, Cyril had announced
himself to preach a discourse in opposition to sundry wicked scientific
theories which were then just beginning seriously to convulse the little
world of religious Mortiscombe. Those were the days when Darwin's
doctrine of evolution had lately managed to filter down little by
little to the level of unintelligent society; and the inquiring
working-men who made up Cyril Milliter's little congregation in the
upper chamber were all eagerly reading the "Origin of Species" and the
"Descent of Man." As for Cyril himself, in his austere fashion, he
doubted whether any good could come even of considering such heterodox
opinions. They were plainly opposed to the Truth, he held, both to the
Truth as expressed in the written Word, and to the Truth as he himself
clearly read it in the great open book of nature. This evolution they
talked about so glibly was a dream, a romance, a mere baseless figment
of the poor fallible human imagination; all the plain facts of science
and of revelation were utterly irreconcilable with it, and in five
years' time it would be comfortably dead and buried for ever, side by
side with a great load of such other vague and hypothetical rubbish. He
could hardly understand, for his part, how sensible men could bother
their heads about such nonsense for a single moment. Still, as many of
his little flock had gone to hear a brilliant young lecturer who came
down from London last week to expound the new doctrine at the Literary
and Philosophical Institute, and as they had been much shaken in their
faith by the lecturer's sophistical arguments and obvious
misrepresentations of scientific principles, he would just lay before
them plainly what science had to say in opposition to these fantastic
and immature theorists. So on Sunday morning next, with Bible in one
hand and roll of carefully executed diagrams in the other (for Cyril
Milliter was no conventional formalist, afraid of shocking the sense of
propriety in his congregation), he went down in militant guise to the
upper chamber and delivered a fervent discourse, intended to smite the
Darwinians hip and thigh with the arms of the Truth--both Scriptural and
scientific--to slay the sophists outright with the sword of the Lord and
of Gideon.

Cyril took for his text a single clause from the twenty-first verse of
the first chapter of Genesis--"Every winged fowl after his kind." That,
he said impressively, was the eternal and immutable Truth upon the
matter. He would confine his attention that morning entirely to this one
aspect of the case--the creation of the class of birds. "In the
beginning," the Word told us, every species of bird had been created as
we now see it, perfect and fully organized after its own kind. There was
no room here for their boasted "development," or their hypothetical
"evolution." The Darwinians would fain force upon them some old wife's
tale about a monstrous lizard which gradually acquired wings and
feathers, till at last, by some quaint Ovidian metamorphosis (into such
childish heathenism had we finally relapsed), it grew slowly into the
outward semblance of a crow or an ostrich. But that was not what the
Truth told them. On the fourth day of creation, simultaneously with the
fish and every living creature that moveth in the ocean, the waters
brought forth "fowl that might fly above the earth in the open firmament
of heaven." Such on this subject was the plain and incontrovertible
statement of the inspired writer in the holy Scripture.

And now, how did science confirm this statement, and scatter at once to
the winds the foolish, brain-spun cobwebs of our windy, vaporous, modern
evolutionists? These diagrams which he held before him would
sufficiently answer that important question. He would show them that
there was no real community of structure in any way between the two
classes of birds and reptiles. Let them observe the tail, the wings, the
feathers, the breast-bone, the entire anatomy, and they would see at
once that Darwin's ridiculous, ill-digested theory was wholly opposed to
all the plain and demonstrable facts of nature. It was a very learned
discourse, certainly; very crushing, very overwhelming, very convincing
(when you heard one side only), and not Netta alone, but the whole
congregation of intelligent, inquiring artisans as well, was utterly
carried away by its logic, its clearness, and its eloquent rhetoric.
Last of all, Cyril Milliter raised his two white hands solemnly before
him, and uttered thus his final peroration.

"In conclusion, what proof can they offer us of their astounding
assertions?" he asked, almost contemptuously. "Have they a single fact,
a single jot or tittle of evidence to put in on this matter, as against
the universal voice of authoritative science, from the days of
Aristotle, of Linnaeus, or of Cuvier, to the days of Owen, of Lyell, and
of Carpenter? Not one! Whenever they can show me, living or fossil, an
organism which unites in itself in any degree whatsoever the
characteristics of birds and reptiles--an organism which has at once
teeth and feathers; or which has a long lizard-like tail and true wings;
or which combines the anatomical peculiarities I have here assigned to
the one class with the anatomical peculiarities I have here assigned to
the other: then, and then only, will I willingly accede to their absurd
hypothesis. But they have not done it. They cannot do it. They will
never do it. A great gulf eternally separates the two classes. A vast
gap intervenes impassably between them. That gulf will never be
lessened, that gap will never be bridged over, until Truth is finally
confounded with falsehood, and the plain facts of nature and the Word
are utterly forgotten in favour of the miserable, inconsistent figments
of the poor fallible human imagination."

As they walked home from worship that morning, Netta felt she had never
before so greatly admired and wondered at her husband. How utterly he
had crushed the feeble theory of these fanciful system-mongers, how
clearly he had shown the absolute folly of their presumptuous and
arrogant nonsense! Netta could not avoid telling him so, with a flush of
honest pride in her beautiful face: and Cyril flushed back immediately
with conscious pleasure at her wifely trust and confidence. But he was
tired with the effort, he said, and must go for a little walk alone in
the afternoon: a walk among the fields and the Downs, where he could
commune by himself with the sights and sounds of truth-telling nature.
Netta was half-piqued, indeed, that he should wish even so to go without
her; but she said nothing: and so after their early dinner, Cyril
started away abstractedly by himself, and took the lane behind the
village that led up by steep inclines on to the heavy moorland with its
fresh bracken and its purple heather.

As he walked along hastily, his mind all fiery-full of bones and
fossils, he came at last to the oolite quarry on the broken hillside.
Feeling tired, he turned in to rest awhile in the shade on one of the
great blocks of building stone hewn out by the workmen; and by way of
occupation he began to grub away with his knife, half-unconsciously as
he sat, at a long flat slab of slaty shale that projected a little from
the sheer face of the fresh cutting. As he did so, he saw marks of
something very like a bird's feather on its upper surface. The sight
certainly surprised him a little. "Birds in the oolite," he said to
himself quickly; "it's quite impossible! Birds in the oolite! this is
quite a new departure. Besides, such a soft thing as a feather could
never conceivably be preserved in the form of a fossil."

Still, the queer object interested him languidly, by its odd and timely
connection with the subject of his morning sermon; and he looked at it
again a little more closely. By Jove, yes, it was a feather, not a doubt
in the world of that now; he could see distinctly the central shaft of a
tail-quill, and the little barbed branches given off regularly on either
side of it. The shale on which it was impressed was a soft, light-brown
mudstone; in fact, a fragment of lithographic slate, exactly like that
employed by lithographers for making pictures. He could easily see how
the thing had happened; the bird had fallen into the soft mud, long ages
since, before the shale had hardened, and the form of its feathers had
been distinctly nature-printed, while it was still moist, upon its
plastic surface. But a bird in the oolite! that was a real discovery;
and, as the Gospel Evangelists were no Sabbatarians, Cyril did not
scruple in the pursuit of Truth to dig away at the thin slab with his
knife, till he egged it out of the rock by dexterous side pressure, and
laid it triumphantly down at last for further examination on the big
stone that stood before him.

Gazing in the first delight of discovery at his unexpected treasure, he
saw in a moment that it was a very complete and exquisitely printed
fossil. So perfect a pictorial representation of an extinct animal he
had never seen before in his whole lifetime; and for the first moment or
two he had no time to do anything else but admire silently the exquisite
delicacy and extraordinary detail of this natural etching. But after a
minute, the professional interest again asserted itself, and he began to
look more carefully into the general nature of its curious and
unfamiliar anatomical structure.

As he looked, Cyril Milliter felt a horrible misgiving arise suddenly
within him. The creature at which he was gazing so intently was not a
bird, it was a lizard. And yet--no--it was not a lizard--it was a bird.
"Why--these are surely feathers--yes, tail feathers--quite
unmistakable.... But they are not arranged in a regular fan; the quills
stand in pairs, one on each side of each joint in a long tail, for all
the world exactly like a lizard's.... Still, it must be a bird; for,
see, these are wings ... and that is certainly a bird's claw.... But
here's the head; great heavens! what's this?... A jaw, with teeth in
it...." Cyril Milliter leaned back, distractedly, and held his beating
forehead between his two pale hands. To most scientific men it would
have been merely the discovery of an interesting intermediate
organism--something sure to make the reputation of a comparative
anatomist; to him, it was an awful and sudden blow dealt unexpectedly
from the most deadly quarter at all his deepest and most sacred
principles. Religion, honour, Truth, the very fundamental basis of the
universe itself--all that makes life worth living for, all that makes
the world endurable--was bound up implicitly that moment for Cyril
Milliter in the simple question whether the shadowy creature, printed in
faint grey outline on the slab of shaly oolite before him, was or was
not half bird and half lizard.

It may have been foolish of him: it may have been wrong: it may have
been madness almost; but at that instant he felt dazzled and stunned by
the crushing weight of the blow thus unexpectedly dealt at his whole
preconceived theory of things, and at his entire mental scheme of
science and theology. The universe seemed to swim aimlessly before him:
he felt the solid ground knocked at once from beneath his feet, and
found himself in one moment suspended alone above an awful abyss, a
seething and tossing abyss of murky chaos. He had pinned all his
tottering faith absolutely on that single frail support; and now the
support had given way irretrievably beneath him, and blank atheism,
nihilism, utter nothingness, stared him desperately in the face. In one
minute, while he held his head tight between his two palms to keep it
from bursting, and looked with a dull, glazed, vacant eye at the ghastly
thing before him--only a few indistinct fossil bones, but to him the
horridest sight he had ever beheld--a whole world of ideas crowded
itself on the instant into his teeming, swimming brain. If we could
compress an infinity of thought into a single second, said Shelley once,
that second would be eternity; and on the brink of such a compressed
eternity Cyril Milliter was then idly sitting. It seemed to him, as he
clasped his forehead tighter and tighter, that the Truth which he had
been seeking, and for which he had been working and fighting so long,
revealed itself to him now and there, at last, in concrete form, as a
visible and tangible Lie. It was no mere petrified lizard that he saw
beneath his eyes, but a whole ruined and shattered system of philosophic
theology. His cosmogony was gone; his cosmos itself was dispersed and
disjointed; creation, nay, the Creator Himself, seemed to fade away
slowly into nonentity before him. He beheld dimly an awful vision of a
great nebulous mist, drifting idly before the angry storm-cyclones of
the masterless universe--drifting without a God or a ruler to guide it;
bringing forth shapeless monstrosities one after another on its wrinkled
surface; pregnant with ravine, and rapine, and cruelty; vast, powerful,
illimitable, awful; but without one ray of light, one gleam of love, one
hope of mercy, one hint of divine purpose anywhere to redeem it. It was
the pessimistic nightmare of a Lucretian system, translated hastily into
terms of Cyril Milliter's own tottering and fading theosophy.

He took the thing up again into his trembling hands, and examined it a
second time more closely. No, there could be no shadow of a doubt about
it: his professional skill and knowledge told him that much in a single
moment. Nor could he temporize and palter with the discovery, as some of
his elder brethren would have been tempted to do; his brain was too
young, and fresh, and vigorous, and logical not to permit of ready
modification before the evidence of new facts. Come what might, he must
be loyal to the Truth. This thing, this horrid thing that he held
visibly before him, was a fact, a positive fact: a set of real bones,
representing a real animal, that had once lived and breathed and flown
about veritably upon this planet of ours, and that was yet neither a
true bird nor a true lizard, but a half-way house and intermediate link
between those two now widely divergent classes. Cyril Milliter's mind
was at once too honest and too intelligent to leave room for any doubts,
or evasions, or prevarications with itself upon that fundamental
subject. He saw quite clearly and instantly that it was the very thing
the possibility of whose existence he had so stoutly denied that
self-same morning. And he could not go back upon his own words,
"Whenever they show me an organism which unites in itself the
characteristics of birds and reptiles, then, and then only, will I
accede to their absurd hypothesis." The organism he had asked for lay
now before him, and he knew himself in fact a converted evolutionist,
encumbered with all the other hideous corollaries which his own peculiar
logic had been accustomed to tack on mentally to that hated creed. He
almost felt as if he ought in pure consistency to go off at once and
murder somebody, as the practical outcome of his own theories. For had
he not often boldly asserted that evolutionism was inconsistent with
Theism, and that without Theism, any real morality or any true
right-doing of any kind was absolutely impossible?

At last, after long sitting and anxious pondering, Cyril Milliter rose
to go home, carrying a heavy heart along with him. And then the question
began to press itself practically upon him, What could he ever do with
this horrible discovery? His first impulse was to dash the thing to
pieces against the rock, and go away stealthily, saying naught about the
matter to any man. But his inborn reverence for the Truth made him
shrink back in horror, a moment later, from this suggestion of Satan, as
he thought it--this wicked notion of suppressing a most important and
conclusive piece of scientific evidence. His next idea was simply to
leave it where it was, thus shuffling off the responsibility of
publishing it or destroying it upon the next comer who chanced by
accident to enter the quarry. After all, he said to himself,
hypocritically, he wasn't absolutely bound to tell anybody else a word
about it; he could leave it there, and it would be in much the same
position, as far as science was concerned, as it would have been if he
hadn't happened to catch sight of it accidentally as it lay that morning
in the mother stone. But again his conscience told him next moment that
such casuistry was dishonest and unworthy; he had found the thing, and,
come what might, he ought to abide by the awful consequences. If he left
it lying there in the quarry, one of the workmen would probably smash it
up carelessly with a blow of his pick to-morrow morning--this unique
survivor of a forgotten world--and to abandon it to such a fate as that
would be at least as wicked as to break it to pieces himself of set
purpose, besides being a great deal more sneakish and cowardly. No,
whatever else he did, it was at any rate his plain duty to preserve the
specimen, and to prevent it from being carelessly or wilfully destroyed.

On the other hand, he couldn't bear, either, to display it openly, and
thereby become, as the matter envisaged itself to his mind, a direct
preacher of evolutionism--that is to say, of irreligion and immorality.
With what face could he ever rise and exhibit at a scientific meeting
this evident proof that the whole universe was a black chaos, a gross
materialistic blunder, a festering mass of blank corruption, without
purpose, soul, or informing righteousness? His entire moral being rose
up within him in bitter revolt at the bare notion of such cold-blooded
treachery. To give a long-winded Latin classificatory name, forsooth, to
a thing that would destroy the faith of ages! At last, after long
pondering, he determined to carry the slab carefully home inside his
coat, and hide it away sedulously for the present in the cupboard of his
little physiological laboratory. He would think the matter over, he
would take time to consider, he would ask humbly for light and guidance.
But of whom? Well, well, at any rate, there was no necessity for
precipitate action. To Cyril Milliter's excited fancy, the whole future
of human thought and belief seemed bound up inextricably at that moment
in the little slab of lithographic slate that lay before him; and he
felt that he need be in no hurry to let loose the demon of scepticism
and sin (as it appeared to him) into the peaceful midst of a still
happily trusting and unsuspecting humanity.

He put his hand into his pocket, casually, to pull out his handkerchief
for a covering to the thing, and, as he did so, his fingers happened to
touch the familiar clasp of his little pocket Bible. The touch thrilled
him strangely, and inspired him at once with a fresh courage. After all,
he had the Truth there also, and he couldn't surely be doing wrong in
consulting its best and most lasting interests. It was for the sake of
the Truth that he meant for the present to conceal his compromising
fossil. So he wrapped up the slab as far as he was able in his
handkerchief, and hid it away, rather clumsily, under the left side of
his coat. It bulged a little, no doubt; but by keeping his arm flat to
his side he was able to cover it over decently somehow. Thus he walked
back quickly to Mortiscombe, feeling more like a thief with a stolen
purse in his pocket than he had ever before felt in the whole course of
his earthly existence.

When he reached his own house, he would not ring, lest Netta should run
to open the door for him, and throw her arms round him, and feel the
horrid thing (how could he show it even to Netta after this morning's
sermon?), but he went round to the back door, opened it softly, and
glided as quietly as he could into the laboratory. Not show it to
Netta--that was bad: he had always hitherto shown her and told her
absolutely everything. How about the Truth? He was doing this, he
believed, for the Truth's sake; and yet, the very first thing that it
imposed upon him was the necessity for an ugly bit of unwonted
concealment. Not without many misgivings, but convinced on the whole
that he was acting for the best, he locked the slab of oolite up,
hurriedly and furtively, in the corner cupboard.

He had hardly got it safely locked up out of sight, and seated himself
as carelessly as he could in his easy chair, when Netta knocked softly
at the door. She always knocked before entering, by force of habit, for
when Cyril was performing delicate experiments it often disturbed him,
or spoilt the result, to have the door opened suddenly. Netta had seen
him coming, and wondered why he had slunk round by the back door: now
she wondered still more why he did not "report himself," as he used to
call it, by running to kiss her and announce his return.

"Come in," he said gravely, in answer to the knock; and Netta entered.

Cyril jumped up and kissed her tenderly, but her quick woman's eye saw
at once that there was something serious the matter. "You didn't ring,
Cyril darling," she said, half reproachfully, "and you didn't come to
kiss your wifie."

"No," Cyril answered, trying to look quite at his ease (a thing at which
the most innocent man in the world is always the worst possible
performer), "I was in a hurry to get back here, as there was something
in the way of my work I wanted particularly to see about."

"Why, Cyril," Netta answered in surprise; "your work! It's Sunday."

Cyril blushed crimson. "So it is," he answered hastily; "upon my word,
I'd quite forgotten it. Goodness gracious, Netta, shall I have to go
down to meeting and preach again to those people this evening?"

"Preach again? Of course you will, Cyril. You always do, dear, don't
you?"

Cyril started back with a sigh. "I can't go to-night, Netta darling," he
said wearily. "I can't preach to-night. I'm too tired and out of
sorts--I'm not at all in the humour for preaching. We must send down
somehow or other, and put off the brethren."

Netta looked at him in blank dismay. She felt in her heart there was
something wrong, but she wouldn't for worlds ask Cyril what it was,
unless he chose to tell her of his own accord. Still, she couldn't help
reading in his eyes that there was something the matter: and the more
she looked into them, the more poor Cyril winced and blinked and looked
the other way in the vain attempt to seem unconcerned at her searching
scrutiny. "I'll send Mary down with a little written notice," she said
at last, "to fix on the door: 'Mr. Milliter regrets he will be unable,
through indisposition, to attend worship at Patmos this evening.' Will
that do, Cyril?"

"Yes," he answered uneasily. "That'll do, darling. I don't feel quite
well, I'm afraid, somehow, after my unusual exertions this morning."

Netta looked at him hard, but said nothing.

They went into the drawing-room and for a while they both pretended to
be reading. Then the maid brought up the little tea-tray, and Cyril was
obliged to lay down the book he had been using as a screen for his
crimson face, and to look once more straight across the room at Netta.

"Cyril," the little wife began again, as she took over his cup of tea to
his easy chair by the bow window, and set it down quietly on the tiny
round table beside him, "where did you go this afternoon?"

"On the Downs, darling."

"And whom did you meet there?"

"Nobody, Netta."

"Nobody, Cyril?"

"No, nobody."

Netta knew she could trust his word implicitly, and asked him no
further. Still, a dreadful cloud was slowly rising up before her. She
felt too much confidence in Cyril to be really jealous of him in any
serious way; but her fears, womanlike, took that personal shape in
which she fancied somebody or something must be weaning away her
husband's love gradually from her. Had he seen some girl at a distance
on the Downs, some one of the Mortiscombe ladies, with whom perhaps he
had had some little flirtation in the days gone by--some lady whom he
thought now would have made him a more suitable, companionable wife than
poor little Netta? Had he wandered about alone, saying to himself that
he had thrown himself away, and sacrificed his future prospects for a
pure, romantic boyish fancy? Had he got tired of her little, simple,
homely ways? Had he come back to the house, heartsick and disappointed,
and gone by himself into the working laboratory on purpose to avoid her?
Why was he so silent? Why did he seem so preoccupied? Why would he not
look her straight in the face? Cyril could have done nothing to be
ashamed of, that Netta felt quite sure about, but why did he behave as
if he was ashamed of himself--as if there was something or other in his
mind he couldn't tell her?

Meanwhile, poor Cyril was not less unhappy, though in a very different
and more masculine fashion. He wasn't thinking so much of Netta (except
when she looked at him so hard and curiously), but of the broken gods of
his poor little scientific and theological pantheon. He was passing
through a tempest of doubt and hesitation, compelled to conceal it under
the calm demeanour of everyday life. That horrid, wicked,
system-destroying fossil was never for a moment out of his mind. At
times he hated and loathed the godless thing with all the concentrated
force of his ardent nature. Ought he to harbour it under the shelter of
his hospitable roof? Ought he to give it the deadly chance of bearing
its terrible witness before the eyes of an innocent world? Ought he not
to get up rather in the dead of night, and burn it to ashes or grind it
to powder--a cruel, wicked, deceiving, anti-scriptural fossil that it
was? Then again at other times the love of Truth came uppermost once
more to chill his fiery indignation. Could the eternal hills lie to him?
Could the evidence of his own senses deceive him? Was not the creature
there palpably and visibly present, a veritable record of real
existence; and ought he not loyally and reverently to accept its
evidence, at whatever violence to his own most cherished and sacred
convictions? If the universe was in reality quite other than what he had
always hitherto thought it; if the doctrines he had first learned and
then taught as certain and holy were proved by plain facts to be mere
ancient and fading delusions, was it not his bounden duty manfully to
resign his life-long day-dream, and to accept the Truth as it now
presented itself to him by the infallible evidence of mute nature, that
cannot possibly or conceivably lie to us?

The evening wore away slowly, and Cyril and Netta said little to one
another, each absorbed in their own thoughts and doubts and
perplexities. At last bedtime came, but not much sleep for either. Cyril
lay awake, looking out into the darkness which seemed now to involve the
whole physical and spiritual world; seeing in fancy a vast chaotic
clashing universe, battling and colliding for ever against itself,
without one ray of hope, or light, or gladness left in it anywhere.
Netta lay awake, too, wondering what could have come over Cyril; and
seeing nothing but a darkened world, in which Cyril's love was taken
away from her, and all was cold, and dull, and cheerless. Each in
imagination had lost the keystone of their own particular special
universe.

Throughout the next week, Cyril went on mechanically with his daily
work, but struggling all the time against the dreadful doubt that was
rising now irresistibly within him. Whenever he came home from college,
he went straight to his laboratory, locked the door, and took the
skeleton out of the cupboard. It was only a very small skeleton indeed,
and a fossil one at that; but if it had been a murdered man, and he the
murderer, it could hardly have weighed more terribly than it actually
did upon Cyril Milliter's mind and conscience. Yet it somehow fascinated
him; and in all his spare time he was working away at the comparative
anatomy of his singular specimen. He had no doubts at all about it now:
he knew it perfectly for what it was--an intermediate form between birds
and reptiles. Meanwhile, he could not dare to talk about it even to
Netta; and Netta, though the feeling that there was something wrong
somewhere deepened upon her daily, would not say a word upon the subject
to Cyril. But she had discovered one thing--that the secret, whatever it
was, lay closed up in the laboratory cupboard; and as her fears
exaggerated her doubts, she grew afraid at last almost to enter the room
which held that terrible, unspeakable mystery.

Thus more than a fortnight passed away, and Cyril and Netta grew daily
less and less at home with one another. At last, one evening, when Cyril
seemed gloomier and more silent than ever, Netta could bear the suspense
no longer. Rising up hastily from her seat, without one word of warning,
she went over to her husband with a half-despairing gesture of alarm,
and, flinging her arms around him with desperate force, she cried
passionately through her blinding tears, "Cyril, Cyril, Cyril, you
_must_ tell me all about it."

"About what, darling?" Cyril asked, trembling with half-conscious
hypocrisy, for he knew in his heart at once what she meant as well as
she did.

"Cyril," she cried again, looking him straight in the face steadily,
"you have a secret that you will not tell me."

"Darling," he answered, smoothing her hair tenderly with his hand, "it
is no secret. It is nothing. You would think nothing of it if you knew.
It's the merest trifle possible. But I can't tell you. I can _not_ tell
you."

"But you must, Cyril," Netta cried bitterly. "You had never any secret
from me, I know, till that dreadful Sunday, when you went out alone, and
wouldn't even let me go with you. Then you came back stealthily by the
back door, and never told me. And you brought something with you: of
that I'm certain. And you've got the something locked up carefully in
the laboratory cupboard. I don't know how I found it all out exactly,
but I have found it out, and I can't bear the suspense any longer, and
so you _must_ tell me all about it. Oh, Cyril, dear Cyril, do, do tell
me all about it!"

Cyril faltered--faltered visibly; but even so, he dare not tell her. His
own faith was going too terribly fast already; could he let hers go too,
in one dreadful collapse and confusion? It never occurred to him that
the fossil would mean little or nothing to poor Netta; he couldn't help
thinking of it as though every human being on earth would regard it with
the same serious solemnity and awe as he himself did. "I cannot tell
you, Netta," he said, very gently but very firmly. "No, I dare not tell
you. Some day, perhaps, but not now. I must not tell you."

The answer roused all Netta's worst fears more terribly than ever. For a
moment she almost began to doubt Cyril. In her terror and perplexity she
was still too proud to ask him further; and she went back from her
husband, feeling stung and repulsed by his cruel answer, and made as
though she did not care at all for his strange refusal. She took up a
scientific paper from the heap on the table, and pretended to begin
reading it. Cyril rose and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away
with an impatient gesture. "Never," she said haughtily. "Never, Cyril,
until you choose to tell me your private secret."

Cyril sank back gloomily into his chair, folded his hands into one
another in a despondent fashion, and looked hard at the vacant ceiling
without uttering a single word.

As Netta held the paper aimlessly before her that minute, by the merest
chance her eye happened to fall upon her husband's name printed in the
article that lay open casually at the middle page. Even at that supreme
moment of chagrin and torturing doubt, she could not pass by Cyril's
name in print without stopping to read what was said about him. As she
did so, she saw that the article began by hostile criticism of the
position he had taken up on the distinction between birds and reptiles
in a recent paper contributed to the Transactions of the Linnaean
Society. She rose from her place silently, put the paper into his hands
and pointed to the paragraph with her white forefinger, but never
uttered a single syllable. Cyril took it from her mechanically, and read
on, not half thinking what he was reading, till he came to a passage
which attracted his attention perforce, because it ran somewhat after
this fashion--

"Professor Milliter would have written a little less confidently had he
been aware that almost while his words were passing through the press a
very singular discovery bearing upon this exact subject was being laid
before the Academy of Sciences at Berlin. Dr. Hermann von Meyer has just
exhibited to that body a slab of lithographic slate from the famous
oolitic quarry at Solenhofen, containing the impression of a most
remarkable organism, which he has named _Archaeopteryx lithographica_.
This extraordinary creature has the feathers of a bird with the tail of
a lizard; it is entirely destitute of an _os coccygis_; it has
apparently two conical teeth in the upper jaw; and its foot is that of a
characteristic percher." And so forth for more than a column, full of
those minute anatomical points which Cyril had himself carefully noticed
in the anatomy of his own English specimen.

As he read and re-read that awful paragraph, Netta looking on at him
half angrily all the time, he grew more and more certain every moment
that the German professor had simultaneously made the very same
discovery as himself. He drew a long sigh of relief. The worst was over;
the murder was out, then; it was not to be he who should bear the
responsibility of publishing to the world the existence and
peculiarities of that wicked and hateful fossil. A cold-blooded German
geologist had done so already, with no more trace of remorse and
punctiliousness in the business than if it had been the merest old
oyster-shell or spider or commonplace cockroach! He could hardly keep in
his excited feelings; the strain of personal responsibility at least was
lightened; and though the universe remained as black as ever, he could
at any rate wash his own hands of the horrid creature. Unmanly as it may
seem, he burst suddenly into tears, and stepped across the room to throw
his arms round Netta's neck. To his surprise--for he scarcely remembered
that she could not yet realize the situation--Netta repelled him with
both hands stretched angrily before her, palm outwards.

"Netta," he said, imploringly, recognizing immediately what it was she
meant, "come with me now into the laboratory, and see what it is that I
have got in the cupboard."

Netta, all trembling and wondering, followed him in a perfect flutter of
doubt and anxiety. Cyril slowly unlocked the cupboard, then unfastened a
small drawer, and last of all took out a long flat object, wrapped up
mysteriously in a clean handkerchief. He laid it down reluctantly upon
the table, and Netta, amazed and puzzled, beheld a small smooth slab of
soft clay-stone, scored with what seemed like the fossil marks of a few
insignificant bones and feathers. The little woman drew a long breath.

"Well, Cyril?" she said interrogatively, looking at it in a dubious
mood.

"Why, Netta," cried her husband, half angry at her incomprehensible
calmness, "don't you see what it is? It's terrible, terrible!"

"A fossil, Cyril, isn't it? A bird, I should say."

"No, not a bird, Netta; nor yet a lizard; but that half-way thing, that
intermediate link you read about just now over yonder in the paper."

"But why do you hide it, Cyril? You haven't taken it anywhere from a
museum."

"Oh, Netta! Don't you understand? Don't you see the implications? It's a
creature, half bird and half reptile, and it proves, absolutely proves,
Netta, beyond the faintest possibility of a doubt, that the
evolutionists are quite right--quite scientific. And if it once comes to
be generally recognized, I don't know, I'm sure, what is ever to become
of religion and of science. We shall every one of us have to go and turn
evolutionists!"

It is very sad to relate, but poor Netta, her pent-up feelings all let
loose by the smallness of the evil, as it seemed to her, actually began
to smile, and then to laugh merrily, in the very face of this awful
revelation. "Then you haven't really got tired of me, Cyril?" she cried
eagerly. "You're not in love with somebody else? You don't regret ever
having married me?"

Cyril stared at her in mute surprise. What possible connection could
these questions have with the momentous principles bound up implicitly
in the nature-printed skeleton of _Archaeopteryx lithographica_? It was a
moment or so before he could grasp the association of ideas in her
womanly little brain, and understand the real origin of her natural
wife-like fears and hesitations.

"Oh, Cyril," she said again, after a minute's pause, looking at the
tell-tale fossil with another bright girlish smile, "is it only that?
Only that wretched little creature? Oh, darling, I am so happy!" And she
threw her arms around his neck of her own accord, and kissed him
fervently twice or thrice over.

Cyril was pleased indeed that she had recovered her trust in him so
readily, but amazed beyond measure that she could look at that horrible
anti-scriptural fossil absolutely without the slightest symptom of
flinching. "What a blessed thing it must be," he thought to himself, "to
be born a woman! Here's the whole universe going to rack and ruin,
physically and spiritually, before her very eyes, and she doesn't care a
fig as soon as she's quite satisfied in her own mind that her own
particular husband hasn't incomprehensibly fallen in love with one or
other of the Mortiscombe ladies!" It was gratifying to his personal
feelings, doubtless; but it wasn't at all complimentary, one must admit,
to the general constitution of the universe.

"What ought I to do with it, Netta?" he asked her simply, pointing to
the fossil; glad to have any companionship, even if so unsympathetic, in
his hitherto unspoken doubts and difficulties.

"Do with it? Why, show it to the Geological Society, of course, Cyril.
It's the Truth, you know, dearest, and why on earth should you wish to
conceal it? The Truth shall make you perfect."

Cyril looked at her with mingled astonishment and admiration. "Oh,
Netta," he answered, sighing profoundly, "if only I could take it as
quietly as you do! If only I had faith as a grain of mustard-seed! But I
have been reduced almost to abject despair by this crushing piece of
deadly evidence. It seems to me to proclaim aloud that the evolutionists
are all completely right at bottom, and that everything we have ever
loved and cherished and hoped for, turns out an utter and absolute
delusion."

"Then I should say you were still bound, for all that, to accept the
evidence," said Netta quietly. "However, for my part, I may be very
stupid and silly, and all that sort of thing, you know, but it doesn't
seem to me as if it really mattered twopence either way."

Cyril looked at her again with fresh admiration. That was a point of
view that had not yet even occurred to him as within the bounds of
possibility. He had gone on repeating over and over again to his
congregation and to himself that if evolution were true, religion and
morality were mere phantoms, until at last he had ceased to think any
other proposition on the subject could be even thinkable. That a man
might instantly accept the evidence of his strange fossil, and yet be
after all an indifferent honest citizen in spite of it, was an idea that
had really never yet presented itself to him. And he blushed now to
think that, in spite of all his frequent professions of utter fidelity,
Netta had proved herself at last more loyal to the Truth in both aspects
than he himself had done. Her simple little womanly faith had never
faltered for a moment in either direction.

That night was a very happy one for Netta: it was a somewhat happier one
than of late, even for Cyril. He had got rid of the cloud between
himself and his wife: he had made at least one person a confidante of
his horrid secret: and, above all, he had learnt that some bold and
ruthless German geologist had taken off his own shoulders the
responsibility of announcing the dreadful discovery.

Still, it was some time before Cyril quite recovered from the gloomy
view of things generally into which his chance unearthing of the strange
fossil had temporarily thrown him. Two things mainly contributed to this
result.

The first was that a few Sundays later he made up his mind he ought in
common honesty to exhibit his compromising fossil to the congregation in
the upper chamber, and make a public recantation of his recent confident
but untenable statements. He did so with much misgiving, impelled by a
growing belief that after all he must trust everything implicitly to the
Truth. It cost him a pang, too, to go back upon his own deliberate
words, so lately spoken; but he faced it out, for the Truth's sake, like
an honest man, as he had always tried to be--save for those few days
when the wicked little slab of slate lay carefully hidden away in the
inmost recesses of the laboratory cupboard. To his immense surprise,
once more, the brethren seemed to think little more of it than Netta
herself had done. Perhaps they were not so logical or thorough-going as
the young professor: perhaps they had more of unquestioning faith:
perhaps they had less of solid dogmatic leaven; but in any case they
seemed singularly little troubled by the new and startling geological
discovery. However, they were all much struck by the professor's honesty
of purpose in making a straightforward recantation of his admitted
blunder; he had acted honest and honourable, they said, like a man, and
they liked him better for it in the end, than if he'd preached, and
hedged, and shilly-shallied to them about it for a whole year of Sundays
together. Now, the mere fact that his good congregation didn't mind the
fossil much reacted healthily on Cyril Milliter, who began to suspect
that perhaps after all he had been exaggerating the religious importance
of speculative opinions on the precise nature of the cosmogony.

The second thing was that, shortly after the great discovery, he
happened to make the acquaintance of the brilliant young evolutionist
from London, and found to his surprise that on the whole most of their
opinions agreed with remarkable unanimity. True, the young evolutionist
was not a Gospel Evangelist, and did not feel any profound interest in
the literal or mystical interpretation of the first chapter of Genesis.
But in all essentials he was as deeply spiritual as Cyril Milliter
himself; and the more Cyril saw of him and talked with him, the more did
he begin to suspect that the truth may in reality have many facets, and
that all men may not happen to see it in exactly the self-same aspect.
It dawned upon him slowly that all the illumination in the world might
not be entirely confined to the narrow circle of the Gospel
Evangelists. Even those terrible evolutionists themselves, it seemed,
were not necessarily wholly given over to cutting throats or robbing
churches. They might have their desires and aspirations, their faith and
their hope and their charity, exactly like other people, only perhaps in
a slightly different and more definite direction. In the end, Cyril and
his former bugbear became bosom friends, and both worked together
amicably side by side in the self-same laboratory at the College of
Science.

To this day, Professor Milliter still continues to preach weekly to the
Gospel Evangelists, though both he and they have broadened a good deal,
in a gradual and almost imperceptible fashion, with the general
broadening of ideas and opinions that has been taking place by slow
degrees around us during the last two decades. His views are no doubt a
good deal less dogmatic and a good deal more wide and liberal now than
formerly. Netta and he live happily and usefully together; and over the
mantelpiece of his neat little study, in the cottage at Mortiscombe,
stands a slab of polished slate containing a very interesting oolitic
fossil, of which the professor has learnt at last to be extremely proud,
the first discovered and most perfect existing specimen of _Archaeopteryx
lithographica_. He can hardly resist a quiet smile himself, nowadays,
when he remembers how he once kept that harmless piece of pictured stone
wrapt up carefully in a folded handkerchief in his laboratory cupboard
for some weeks together, as though it had been a highly dangerous and
very explosive lump of moral dynamite, calculated to effect at one fell
swoop the complete religious and ethical disintegration of the entire
divine universe.

_IN STRICT CONFIDENCE._

I.

Harry Pallant was never more desperately in love with his wife Louie
than on the night of that delightful dance at the Vernon Ogilvies'. She
wore her pale blue satin, with the low bodice, and her pretty necklet of
rough amber in natural lumps, which her husband had given her for a
birthday present just three days earlier. Harry wasn't rich, and he
wasn't able to do everything that he could have wished for Louie--a
young barrister, with no briefs to speak of, even if he ekes out his
petty professional income with literary work, can't afford to spend very
much in the way of personal adornment upon the ladies of his family--but
he loved his pretty little wife dearly, and nothing pleased him better
than to see Louie admired as she ought to be by other people. And that
evening, to be sure, she was looking her very sweetest and prettiest.
Flushed a little with unwonted excitement, in the glow of an innocent
girlish flirtation, as she stood there talking to Hugh Ogilvie in the
dim recess by the door of the conservatory, Harry, watching her
unobserved from a nook of the refreshment-room, thought he had never in
his life seen her look more beautiful or more becomingly animated.
Animation suited Louie Pallant, and Hugh Ogilvie thought so too, as he
half whispered his meaningless compliments in her dainty little ear, and
noted the blush that rose quickly to her soft cheek, and the sudden
droop of her long eyelashes above her great open hazel-grey eyes.

"Hugh's saying something pretty to Louie, I'm sure," Harry thought to
himself with a smile of pleasure, as he looked across at the sweet
little graceful girlish figure. "I can see it at once in her face, and
in her hands, playing so nervously with the edge of her fan. Dear child,
how she lets one read in her eyes and cheeks her every tiny passing
feeling! Her pretty wee mouth is like an open book! Hugh's telling her
confidentially now that she's the belle of the evening. And so she is;
there's not a doubt about it. Not a girl in the place fit to hold a
candle to my Louie; especially when she blushes--she's sweet when she
blushes. Now she's colouring up again. By Jove, yes, he must be
positively making love to her. There's nothing I enjoy so much as seeing
Louie enjoying herself, and being made much of. Too many girls, bright
young girls, when they marry early, as Louie has done, settle down at
once into household drudges, and never seem to get any happiness worth
mentioning out of their lives in any way. I won't let it be so with
Louie. Dear little soul, she shall flit about as much as she likes, and
enjoy herself as the fancy seizes her, like a little butterfly, just
like a butterfly. I love to see it!" And he hugged one clasped hand upon
the other silently.

Whence the astute reader will readily infer that Harry Pallant was still
more or less in love with his wife Louie, although they had been married
for five years and upwards.

Presently Louie and Hugh went back into the ballroom, and for the first
time Harry noticed that the music had struck up some minutes since for
the next waltz, for which he was engaged to Hugh's sister, Mrs. Wetherby
Ferrand. He started hastily at the accusing sound, for in watching his
wife he had forgotten his partner. Returning at once in search of Mrs.
Ferrand, he found her sitting disconsolate in a corner waiting for him,
and looking (as was natural) not altogether pleased at his ungallant
treatment.

"So you've come at last, Harry!" Mrs. Ferrand said, with evident pique.
They had been friends from childhood, and knew one another well enough
to use both their Christian names and the critical freedom of old
intimacy.

"Yes, Dora, I've come at last," Harry answered, with an apologetic bow,
as he offered her his arm, "and I'm so sorry I've kept you waiting; but
the fact is I was watching Louie. She's been dancing with Hugh, and she
looks perfectly charming, I think, this evening."

Mrs. Ferrand bit her lip. "She does," she answered coldly, with half a
pout. "And you were so busy watching her, it seems, you forgot all about
_me_, Harry."

Harry laughed. "It was pardonable under the circumstances, you know,
Dora," he said lightly. "If it had been the other way, now, Louie might
have had some excuse for being jealous."

"Who said I was jealous?" Mrs. Ferrand cried, colouring up. "Jealous of
you, indeed! What right have I got to be jealous of you, Harry? She may
dance with Hugh all night long, for all I care for it. She's danced with
him now three times already, and I dare say she'll dance with him as
often again. You men are too conceited. You always think every woman on
earth is just madly in love with you."

"My dear child," Harry answered, with a faint curl of his lip, "you
quite misunderstand me. Heaven knows I at least am not conceited. What
on earth have I got to be conceited of? I never thought any woman was in
love with me in all my life except Louie; and what in the name of
goodness even she can find to fall in love with in me--a fellow like
me--positively passes my humble comprehension."

"She's going to dance the next waltz but one with Hugh, he tells me,"
Mrs. Ferrand replied drily, as if changing the conversation.

"Is she? Hugh's an excellent fellow," Harry answered carelessly, resting
for a moment a little aside from the throng, and singling out Louie at
once with his eye among the whirling dancers. "Ah, there she is, over
yonder. Do you see?--there, with that Captain Vandeleur. How sweetly she
dances, Dora! And how splendidly she carries herself! I declare, she's
the very gracefullest girl in all the room here."

Mrs. Ferrand dropped half a mock curtsey. "A polite partner would have
said 'bar one,' Harry," she murmured petulantly. "How awfully in love
with her you are, my dear boy. It must be nice to have a man so
perfectly devoted to one.... And I don't believe either she half
appreciates you. Some women would give their very eyes, do you know, to
be as much loved by any man as she's loved by you, Harry." And she
looked at him significantly.

"Well, but Ferrand----"

"Ah, poor Wetherby! Yes, yes; of course, of course, I quite agree with
you. You're always right, Harry. Poor Wetherby is the worthiest of men,
and in his own way does his very best, no doubt, to make me happy. But
there is devotion and devotion, Harry. _Il y a fagots et fagots._ Poor
dear Wetherby is no more capable----"

"Dora, Dora, for Heaven's sake, I beg of you, no confidences. As a legal
man, I must deprecate all confidences, otherwise than strictly in the
way of business. What got us first into this absurd groove, I wonder? Oh
yes, I remember--Louie's dancing. Shall we go on again? You must have
got your breath by this time. Why, what's the matter, Dora? You look
quite pale and flurried."

"Nothing, Harry. Nothing--nothing, I assure you. Not quite so tight,
please; go quietly--I'm rather tired.... Yes, that'll do, thank you.
The room's so very hot and close this evening. I can hardly breathe, I
feel so stifled. Tight-lacing, I suppose poor dear Wetherby would say. I
declare, Louie isn't dancing any longer. How very odd! She's gone back
again now to sit by Hugh there. What on earth can be the reason, I
wonder!"

"Captain Vandeleur's such an awfully bad waltzer, you know," Harry
answered unconcernedly. "I dare say she was glad enough to make some
excuse or other to get away from him. The room's so very hot and
stifling."

"Oh, you think so," and Dora Ferrand gave a quiet little smile, as one
who sees clearly below the surface. "I dare say. And she's not sorry
either to find some good reason for another ten minutes' chat with Hugh,
I fancy."

But Harry, in his innocence, never noticed her plain insinuation. "He's
as blind as a bat," Dora Ferrand thought to herself, half
contemptuously. "Just like poor dear Wetherby! Poor dear Wetherby never
suspects anything! And that girl Louie doesn't half appreciate Harry
either. Just like me, I suppose, with that poor dear stupid old
stockbroker. Stockbroker, indeed! What in the name of all that's
sensible could ever have induced me to go and marry a blind old stick of
a wealthy stockbroker? If Harry and I had only our lives to live
again--but there, what's the use of bothering one's head about it? We've
only got one life apiece, and that we generally begin by making a mull
of."

II.

Three days later Harry Pallant went down as usual to his rooms in the
Temple, and set to work upon his daily labour. The first envelope he
opened of the batch upon his table was from the editor of the _Young
People's Monitor_. It contained the week's correspondence. Harry
Pallant glanced over the contents hastily, and singled out a few
enclosures from the big budget with languid curiosity.

Of course everybody knows the _Young People's Monitor_. It is one of the
most successful among the penny weeklies, and in addition to its
sensational stories and moral essays, it gives advice gratis to all and
sundry in its correspondence columns upon every conceivable subject that
our common peccant or ignorant humanity can possibly inquire about. Now,
Harry Pallant happened to be the particular person employed by the
editor of this omniscient journal to supply the answers to the weekly
shoals of anxious interrogators _de omni scibili_. His legal learning
came in handy for the purpose, and being a practised London journalist
as well, his knowledge of life stood him in good stead at this strange
piece of literary craftsmanship. But the whole affair was "in strict
confidence," as the _Monitor_ announced. It was a point of honour
between himself and the editor that the secret of the correspondence
column should be jealously guarded from all and several; so Harry
Pallant, accustomed, lawyer-like, to keeping secrets, had never
mentioned his connection with the _Monitor_ in this matter even to
Louie. It came as part of his week's work at his chambers in the Temple,
and it was duly finished and sent off to press, without note or comment,
on the same day, in true business-like barrister fashion.

The first letter that Harry opened and listlessly glanced through with
his experienced eye was one of the staple _Monitor_ kind--Stella or
Euphemia had quarrelled, in a moment of pique, with her lover, and was
now dying of anxiety to regain his affections. Harry scribbled a few
words of kindly chaff and sound advice in reply upon a blank sheet of
virgin foolscap, and tossed the torn fragments of letter number one into
the capacious mouth of his waste-paper basket.

The second letter requested the editor's candid opinion upon a short
set of amateur verses therewith enclosed. Harry's candid opinion,
muttered to himself beneath his moustache, was too unparliamentary for
insertion in full; but he toned its verbal expression down a little in
his written copy, and passed on hastily to the others in order.

"Camilla" would like to know, in strict confidence (thrice underlined),
what is the editor's opinion of her style of handwriting. "A Draper's
Assistant" is desirous to learn how the words "heterogeneous" and
"Beethoven" are usually pronounced in the best society. "Senex," having
had a slight difference as to the buttered toast with his present
landlady (in whose house he has lodged for forty years), would be glad
of any advice as to how, at his age, he is to do without her. "H. J. K."
has just read with much surprise a worthless pamphlet, proving that the
inhabitants of the northern divisions of Staffordshire and Warwickshire
are the lost Ten Tribes of Israel, and cannot imagine how this reckless
assertion can be scripturally reconciled with the plain statements of
the prophet Habakkuk, which show that the descendants of Manasseh are
really to be looked for in the county of Sligo. And so forth, though
every variety of male feebleness and feminine futility, in answer to all
which Harry turned off his hasty rejoinder with the dexterous ease
acquired of long practice and familiar experience.

At last he came in due course to a small white envelope, of better paper
and style than the others, marked "17" in red pencil on the back in the
formal hand of the systematic editor. He turned it over with mechanical
carelessness. To his immense amusement and no little surprise, he saw at
once, by the writing of the address, that the note came from his own
Louie!

What could Louie have to ask of advice or information from the anonymous
editor of the _Young People's Monitor_?

He stood for a moment, with a quiet smile playing about his lips,
thinking to himself that he had often wondered whether he should ever
get a letter thus incognito from any person among his private
acquaintances. And now he had got one from Louie herself. How very
funny! How truly ridiculous! And how odd too that she shouldn't even
have told him beforehand she was going to write for counsel or
assistance to the _Young People's Monitor_!

And then a strange doubt flashed idly for a moment across his mind--a
doubt that he felt immediately ashamed of. What possible subject could
there be on which Louie could want advice and aid from an editor, a
stranger, an unknown and anonymous impersonal entity, rather than from
him, Harry, her own husband, her natural guide, assistant, and
counsellor? It was odd, very odd--nay, even disquieting. Harry hardly
knew what to make of the unexpected episode.

But next moment he had dismissed his doubts, though he stood still
toying with the unopened envelope. He was half afraid to look inside it.
Louie had only written, he felt sure, about some feminine trifle or
other, some foolish point of petty etiquette--how to fold napkins
mitre-fashion, or whether "P.P.O." cards should be turned down at the
upper right or the lower left-hand corner--some absurd detail about
which she would have laughed outright at his personal opinion, but would
defer at once to the dignity of print, and the expressed verdict of the
_Young People's Monitor_. So great is the power of printer's ink, that
if you say a thing face to face, your own wife even will take no notice
of it; but if you set it up in type anonymously, she, and the world at
large to boot, will treat it like an inspired oracle in stone fallen
down direct from the seventh heaven.

And yet somehow Harry Pallant couldn't make up his mind at once to break
open the tiny envelope of that mysterious, incomprehensible letter.

At last he broke it, and read it hurriedly. As he did so a terrible,
ominous pang came across his heart, and the writing, familiar as it was,
swam illegibly in dancing lines before his strained and aching vision.

"Dear Mr. Editor," the letter began, somewhat shakily, "you give
your advice and assistance to many people. Will you give it to me?
Will you help me? Will you save me?

"This is my position. I was married young to a man I did not love,
but liked and respected. I thought love would come afterwards. It
never came. On the contrary, the longer I have lived with him the
less I care for him. Not that he is unkind to me--he is good enough
and generous enough in all conscience; but he inspires me with no
affection and no enthusiasm. Till lately this was all I felt. I did
not love him, but I jogged along comfortably somehow.

"Now, however, I find to my dismay that I am in love--not with him,
but with another man a hundred times more congenial to my tastes
and feelings in every way. I have done no wrong, but I think of him
and live in him all my time. I cannot for a moment dismiss him from
my thoughts. Oh, what am I to do? Tell me, help me!

"I can never love my husband--of that I am certain. I can never
leave off loving the other--of that I am still more confident. Can
you advise me? Can you relieve me? This torture is too terrible. It
is killing me--killing me.

"Yours ever, in strict confidence,
"EGERIA."

Harry Pallant gazed at that awful accusing letter in blank horror and
speechless bewilderment. He could not even cry or groan. He could not
utter a word or shed a tear. The shock was so sudden, so crushing, so
unexpected, so irretrievable!

He had never till that moment in the faintest degree doubted that Louie
loved him as he loved her--devotedly, distractedly.

Why, that very morning, before he came away on his journey to the
Temple, Louie had kissed him so tenderly and affectionately, and called
him "darling," and wished he hadn't always to go to that horrid City.
How the memory stung him!

Yes; that was the hardest thought of all. If Louie wrote it, Louie was a
hypocrite. Not only did she not now love him--not only had she never
loved him, but, lowest depth of misery and shame, she had pretended to
love him when in her heart of hearts she hated and despised him. He
couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. In her own words, it was
too terrible!

If Louie wrote it? He turned the letter over once more. Ah, yes, there
was no denying it. It was Louie's handwriting--Louie's, Louie's. His
brain reeled, but he could not doubt it or palter over it for a moment.
Not even disguised--her very own handwriting. It was the seal of doom
for him, yet he could not even pretend to disbelieve it.

He sat there long, incapable of realizing the full horror of that
crushing, destroying, annihilating disclosure. It was useless trying to
realize it--thank God for that! It so dazed and stunned and staggered
and bewildered him that he fell for a time into a sort of hopeless
lethargy, and felt and saw and thought of nothing.

At last he roused himself. He must go out. He rose from the table by the
dingy window, took up his hat dreamily in his hand, and walked down the
stairs, out of the gateway, and into the full tide of life and bustle in
busy Fleet Street.

The cooler air upon his forehead and the sight of so many hurrying,
active figures sobered and steadied him. He walked with rapid strides as
far as Charing Cross Station, and then back again. After that, he came
into his chambers once more, sat down resolutely at his table by
himself, and began to write in a trembling shaky hand his answer to
"Egeria."

How often he had written a different answer to just the same type of
tragic little letter--an answer of the commonplace conventional
morality, a small set sermon on the duties of wives and the rights of
husbands--as though there was nothing more in that fearful disclosure
than the merest fancy; and now, when at last it touched himself, how
profoundly awful in their mockery of the truth those baldly respectable
answers seemed to him!

"EGERIA.--Your letter shall be treated, as you wish, in strict
confidence. No one but ourselves shall ever know of it. You need
not fear that H. P. will any longer prove a trouble to you. By the
time you read this you will have learnt, or will shortly learn,
that he is not in a position to cause you further discomfort. This
is the only intimation you will receive of his intention. You will
understand what it all means soon after you read this
communication."

He rang the hand-bell on the table for his boy, put the answers into a
long blue envelope, and said mechanically in a dry voice, "To the _Young
People's Monitor_. For press immediately." The boy nodded a mute assent,
and took them off to the office in silent obedience.

As soon as he was gone Harry Pallant locked the door, flung himself upon
the table with his head buried madly in his arms, and sobbed aloud in
terrible despondency. He had found at least the relief of tears.

There was only one comfort. He was fully insured, and Hugh Ogilvie was a
rich man. Louie at least would be well provided for. He cared for
nothing except for Louie. If Louie was happier--happier without him,
what further need had he got for living?

He had never thought before of Hugh, but now, now, Dora's words came
back to him at once, and he saw it all--he saw it all plainly.

Heaven be praised, they had no children! If they had had children--well,
well, as things now stood, he could do what was best for Louie's
happiness.

III.

For the next two days Louie could not imagine what sudden change had
come so inexplicably over Harry Pallant. He was quite as tender and as
gentle as ever, but so silent, sad, and incomprehensible. Louie coaxed
him and petted him in vain; the more she made of him the more Harry
seemed to retreat within himself, and the less could she understand what
on earth he was thinking of.

On the Thursday night, when Harry came back from his work in the City,
he said to Louie in an off-hand tone, "Louie, I think of running down
to-morrow to dear old Bilborough."

"What for, darling?"

"Well, you know, I've been fearfully out of sorts lately--worried or
something--and I think three or four days at the seaside would be all
the better for me--and for you too, darling. Let's go to the Red Lion,
Louie. I've telegraphed down to-night for rooms, and I dare say--I shall
get rid there of whatever's troubling me."

The Red Lion at Bilborough was the hotel at which they had passed their
honeymoon, and where they had often gone at various times since for
their summer holiday. Louie was delighted at the proposed trip, and
smoothed her husband's hair softly with her hand.

"My darling," she said, "I'm so glad you're going there. I've noticed
for the last few days you looked fagged and worried. But Bilborough's
just the right place. Bilborough always sets you up again."

Harry smiled a faint, unhappy smile. "I've no doubt," he answered
evasively, "I shall leave all my trouble behind at Bilborough."

They started by the early train next day, Louie hastily packing their
little portmanteau overnight, and got down to Bilborough before noon. As
soon as they were fairly settled in at the Lion, Harry kissed his wife
tenderly, and, with a quiet persistence in his voice said, on a sudden,
"Louie, I think I shall go and have a swim before lunch-time."

"A swim, Harry! So soon?--already?"

"Yes," Harry answered, with a twitching mouth, and looking at her
nervously. "There's nothing like a swim you know, Louie, to wash away
the cobwebs of London."

"Well, don't be long, darling," Louie said, with some undisguised
anxiety. "I've ordered lunch, remember, for one."

"For one, Louie?" Harry cried with a start. "Why for one, dearest? I
don't understand you.... Oh, I see. How very stupid of me! Yes, yes,
I'll be back by one o'clock.... That is to say, if I'm not back, don't
you wait lunch for me."

He moved uneasily to the door, and then he turned back again with a
timid glance, and drew a newspaper slowly from his pocket. "I've brought
down this morning's _Young People's Monitor_ with me, Louie," he said,
in a tremulous voice, after a short pause. "I know you sometimes like to
see it."

He watched her narrowly to observe the effect, but Louie took it from
him without a visible tremor. "Oh, I'm so glad, Harry," she said in her
natural tone, without betraying the least excitement. "How awfully kind
of you to get it for me! There's something in it I wanted to see about."

Something in it she wanted to see about! Harry's heart stood still for a
second within him! What duplicity! What temerity! What a terrible
mixture of seeming goodness and perfect composure! And yet it was Louie,
and he couldn't help loving her! He kissed her once more--a long, hard
kiss--upon the forehead, and went out, leaving her there with the paper
clasped tightly in her small white fingers. Though she said nothing he
could see that her fingers trembled as she held it. Yes yes, there could
be no doubt about it; she was eagerly expecting the answer--the fatal
answer--the answer to "Egeria" in the correspondence column.

IV.

Louie stood long at the window, with the paper still clutched eagerly in
her hand, afraid to open it and read the answer, and yet longing to know
what the _Young People's Monitor_ had to say in reply to "Egeria." So
she watched Harry go down to the bathing machines and enter one--it was
still early in the season, and he had no need to wait; and then she
watched them turning the windlass and letting it run down upon the
shelving beach; and then she watched Harry swimming out and stemming the
waves in his bold, manly fashion--he was a splendid swimmer; and after
that, unable any longer to restrain her curiosity, she tore the paper
open with her finger, and glanced down the correspondence column till
she reached the expected answer to "Egeria."

She read it over wondering and trembling, with a sudden awful sense of
the editor's omniscience as she saw the letters "H. P."--her husband's
initials--Harry Pallant. "H. P.!" what could he mean by it? And then a
vague dread came across her soul. What could "Egeria" and the editor of
the _Young People's Monitor_ have to do with Harry Pallant?

She read it over again and again. How terrifying! how mysterious! how
dimly incomprehensible! Who on earth could have told the editor--that
impersonal entity--that "Egeria's" letter had any connection with her
own husband, Harry Pallant? And yet he must have known it--evidently
known it. And she herself had never suspected the allusion. Yes, yes, it
was clear to her now; the man about whom "Egeria" had written was
Harry--Harry--Harry--Harry. Could it have been that that had so troubled
him of late? She couldn't bear to distrust Harry; but it must have been
that, and nothing else. Harry was in love with Dora Ferrand; or, if not,
Dora Ferrand was in love with Harry, and Harry knew it, and was afraid
he might yield to her, and had ran away from her accordingly. He had
come to Bilborough on purpose to escape her--to drag himself away from
her--to try to forget her. Oh, Harry, Harry!--and she loved him so
truly. To think he should deceive her--to think he should keep anything
from her! It was too terrible--too terrible! She couldn't bear to think
it, and yet the evidence forced it upon her.

But how did the editor ever come to know about it? And what was this
mysterious, awful message that he gave Dora about Harry Pallant?

"You need not fear that H. P. will any longer prove a trouble to you."
Why? Did Harry mean to leave London altogether? Was he afraid to trust
himself there with Dora Ferrand? Did he fear that she would steal his
heart in spite of him? Oh, Dora, Dora! the shameless creature! When
Louie came to think it all over, her effrontery and her wickedness were
absolutely appalling.

She sat there long, turning the paper over helplessly in her hand,
reading its words every way but the right way, pondering over what Harry
had said to her that morning, putting her own interpretation upon
everything, and forgetting even to unpack her things and make herself
ready for lunch in the coffee-room.

Presently, a crowd upon the beach below languidly attracted her passing
attention. The coastguard from the look-out was gesticulating
frantically, and a group of sailors were seizing in haste upon a boat on
the foreshore. They launched it hurriedly and pulled with all their
might outward, the people on the beach gathering thicker meanwhile, and
all looking eagerly towards some invisible object far out to sea, in the
direction of the Race with the dangerous current. Louie's heart sank
ominously within her. At that very moment the chambermaid of the hotel
rushed in with a pale face, and cried out in merciless haste, "Oh,
ma'am, Mrs. Pallant! quick! quick!--he's drowning! he's drowning! Mr.
Pallant's swum too far out, and's got into the Race, and they've put the
boat off to try and save him!"

In a second, half the truth flashed terribly upon Louie Pallant's
distracted intelligence. She saw that it was Harry himself who wrote the
correspondence for the _Young People's Monitor_, and that he had swum
out to sea of his own accord to the end of his tether, on purpose to
drown himself as if by accident. But she didn't yet perceive, obvious as
it seemed, that Harry thought she herself had written "Egeria's" letter
in her own person. She thought still he was in love with Dora, and had
drowned himself because he couldn't tear himself away from her for ever.

V.

They brought Harry Pallant ashore, cold and lifeless, and carried him up
in haste to the hotel. There the village doctor saw him at once, and
detected a faint tremor of the heart. At the end of an hour the lungs
began to act faintly of themselves, and the heart beat a little in some
feeble fashion.

With care Harry Pallant came round, but it took a week or two before he
was himself again, and Louie nursed him meanwhile in fear and
trembling, with breathless agony. She had one consolation--Harry loved
her. In the long nights the whole truth dawned upon her, clear and
certain. She saw how Harry had opened the letter, had jumped at once to
the natural conclusion, and had tried to drown himself in order to
release her. Oh, why had he not trusted her? Why had he not asked her? A
woman naturally thinks like that; a man knows in his own soul that a man
could never possibly do so.

She dared not tell him yet, for fear of a relapse. She could only wait
and watch, and nurse him tenderly. And all the time she knew he
distrusted her--knew he thought her a hypocrite and a traitor. For
Harry's sake she had to bear it.

At last, one day, when he was getting very much stronger, and could sit
up in a chair and look bitterly out at the sea, she said to him in a
gentle voice, very tentatively, "Harry, Dora Ferrand and her husband
have gone to spend the summer in Norway."

Harry groaned. "How do you know?" he asked. "Has Hugh written to you?
What is it to us? Who told you about it?"

Louie bit her lip hard to keep back the tears. "Dora telegraphed to me
herself," she answered softly. "She telegraphed to me as soon as
ever"--she hesitated a moment--"as soon as ever she saw your answer to
her in the _Monitor_."

Harry's face grew white with horror. "My answer to _her_!" he cried in a
ghastly voice, not caring to ask at the moment how Louie came to know it
was he who wrote the answers in the _Young People's Monitor_. "My answer
to _you_, you mean, Louie. It was your letter--yours, not Dora's. You
can't deceive me. I read it myself. My poor child, I saw your
handwriting."

It was an awful thing that, in spite of all, he must have it out with
her against his will; but he would not flinch from it--he would settle
it then and there, once and for ever. She had introduced it herself; she
had brought it down upon her own head. He would not flinch from it. It
was his duty to tell her.

Louie laid her hand upon his arm. He did not try to cast it off.
"Harry," she said, imploringly, persuasively, "there is a terrible
mistake here--a terrible misunderstanding. It was unavoidable; you could
not possibly have thought otherwise. But oh, Harry, if you knew the
suffering you have brought upon me, you would not speak so, darling--you
would not speak so."

Harry turned towards her passionately and eagerly. "Then you didn't want
me to die, Louie?" he cried in a hoarse voice. "You didn't really want
to get rid of me?"

Louie withdrew her hand hastily as if she had been stung. "Harry," she
gasped, as well as she was able, "you misunderstood that letter
altogether. It was not mine--it was Dora Ferrand's. Dora wrote it, and I
only copied it. If you will listen a minute I will tell you all, all
about it."

Harry flung himself back half incredulously on his chair, but with a
new-born hope lighting up in part the gloom of his recovered existence.

"I went over to Dora Ferrand's the day after the Ogilvies' dance," Louie
began tremulously, "and I found Dora sitting in her boudoir writing a
letter. I walked up without being announced, and when Dora saw me she
screamed a little, and then she grew as red as fire, and burst out
crying, and tried to hide the letter she was writing. So I went up to
her and began to soothe her, and asked her what it was, and wanted to
read it. And Dora cried for a long time, and wouldn't tell me, and was
dreadfully penitent, and said she was very, very miserable. So I said,
'Dora, is there anything wrong between you and Mr. Ferrand?' And she
said, 'Nothing, Louie; I give you my word of honour, nothing. Poor
Wetherby's as kind to me as anybody could be. But----' And then she
began crying again as if her heart would burst, worse than ever. And I
took her head on my shoulder, and said to her, 'Dora, is it that you
feel you don't love him?' And Dora was in a dreadfully penitent fit, and
she flung herself away from me, and said to me, 'Oh, Louie, don't touch
me! Don't kiss me! Don't come near me! I'm not fit to associate with a
girl like you, dear.... Oh, Louie, I don't love him; and--what's
worse--I love somebody else, darling.' Well, then, of course, I was
horribly shocked, and I said, 'Dora, Dora, this is awfully wicked of
you!' And Dora cried worse than before, and sobbed away, and wouldn't be
comforted. And there was a copy of the _Monitor_ lying on the table, and
I saw it open at the correspondence, and I said, 'Were you writing for
advice to the _Monitor_, Dora?' And she looked up and nodded 'Yes.' So I
coaxed her and begged her to show me the letter, and at last she showed
it to me; but she wouldn't tell me who she was in love with, Harry; and,
oh, Harry, my darling, my darling, I never so much as dreamt of its
being you, dear--the thought never even crossed my mind. I ran over
everybody I could imagine she'd taken a fancy to, but I never for a
moment thought of you, darling. I suppose, Harry, I loved you too dearly
even to suspect it. And then, I dare say, Dora saw I didn't suspect it;
but, anyhow, she went on and finished the letter--it was nearly done
when I came in to her--and after that she said she couldn't bear to send
it in her own handwriting, for fear anybody should know her and
recognize it. So I said if she liked I'd copy it out for her, for by
that time I was crying just as hard as she was, and so sorry for her and
for poor Mr. Ferrand; and it never struck me that anybody could ever
possibly think that I wrote it about myself. And--and--and that's all,
Harry."

Harry listened, conscience-smitten, to the artless recital, which bore
its own truth on the very surface of it, as it fell from Louie's
trembling lips, and then he held her off at arm's length when she tried
to fall upon his neck and kiss him, whispering in a loud undertone, "Oh,
Louie, Louie, don't, don't! I don't deserve it! I have been too
wicked--too mistrustful!"

Louie drew forth a letter from her pocket and handed it to him silently.
It was in Dora's handwriting. He read it through in breathless anxiety.

"Louie,--I dare not call you anything else now. You know it all by
this time. We have heard about Harry's accident from your sister.
Nobody but ourselves knows it was not an accident. And I have seen
the answer in the _Monitor_. Of course Harry wrote it. I see it all
now. You can never forgive me. It is I who have brought all this
misery upon you. I am a wretched woman. Do not reproach me--I
reproach myself more bitterly than anything you could say would
ever reproach me. But don't forgive me and pity me either. If you
forgive me I shall have to kill myself. It's all over now. I will
do the only thing that remains for me--keep out of your way and his
for ever. Poor Wetherby is going to take me for the summer to
Norway, as I telegraphed to you. We are just starting. When we
return we shall winter in Italy. I will leave London in future
altogether. Nobody but our three selves need ever know or suspect
the reason. Harry will recover, and you two will be happy yet. But
I--I shall be as miserable for ever, as I truly deserve to be.

"Your wretched friend,
"D. F."

Harry crumpled up the letter bitterly in his hand. "Poor soul," he said.
"Louie, I forgive her. Can I myself ever hope for forgiveness?"

Louie flung herself fiercely upon him. "My darling," she cried, "we will
always trust one another in future. You couldn't help it, Harry. It was
impossible for you to have judged otherwise. But oh, my darling, what I
have suffered! Let us forgive her. Harry, and let us love one another
better now."

_THE SEARCH PARTY'S FIND._

I can stand it no longer. I must put down my confession on paper, since
there is no living creature left to whom I can confess it.

The snow is drifting fiercer than ever to-day against the cabin; the
last biscuit is almost finished; my fingers are so pinched with cold I
can hardly grasp the pen to write with. But I _will_ write, I must
write, and I am writing. I cannot die with the dreadful story
unconfessed upon my conscience.

It was only an accident, most of you who read this confession perhaps
will say; but in my own heart I know better than that--I know it was a
murder, a wicked murder.

Still, though my hands are very numb, and my head swimming wildly with
delirium, I will try to be coherent, and to tell my story clearly and
collectedly.

* * * * *

I was appointed surgeon of the _Cotopaxi_ in June, 1880. I had reasons
of my own--sad reasons--for wishing to join an Arctic expedition. I
didn't join it, as most of the other men did, from pure love of danger
and adventure. I am not a man to care for that sort of thing on its own
account. I joined it because of a terrible disappointment.

For two years I had been engaged to Dora--I needn't call her anything
but Dora; my brother, to whom I wish this paper sent, but whom I
daren't address as "Dear Arthur"--how could I, a murderer?--will know
well enough who I mean; and as to other people, it isn't needful they
should know anything about it. But whoever you are, whoever finds this
paper, I beg of you, I implore you, I adjure you, do not tell a word of
it to Dora. I cannot die unconfessed, but I cannot let the confession
reach _her_; if it does, I know the double shock will kill her. Keep it
from her. Tell her only he is dead--dead at his post, like a brave man,
on the _Cotopaxi_ exploring expedition. For mercy's sake don't tell her
that he was murdered, and that I murdered him.

I had been engaged, I said, two years to Dora. She lived in Arthur's
parish, and I loved her--yes, in those days I loved her purely,
devotedly, innocently. I was innocent then myself, and I really believe
good and well-meaning. I should have been genuinely horrified and
indignant if anybody had ventured to say that I should end by committing
a murder.

It was a great grief to me when I had to leave Arthur's parish, and my
father's parish before him, to go up to London and take a post as
surgeon to a small hospital. I couldn't bear being so far away from
Dora. And at first Dora wrote to me almost every day with the greatest
affection. (Heaven forgive me, if I still venture to call her Dora! her,
so good and pure and beautiful, and I, a murderer.) But, after a while,
I noticed slowly that Dora's tone seemed to grow colder and colder, and
her letters less and less frequent. Why she should have begun to cease
loving me, I cannot imagine; perhaps she had a premonition of what
possibility of wickedness was really in me. At any rate, her coldness
grew at last so marked that I wrote and asked Arthur whether he could
explain it. Arthur answered me, a little regretfully, and with brotherly
affection (he is a good fellow, Arthur), that he thought he could. He
feared--it was painful to say so--but he feared Dora was beginning to
love a newer lover. A young man had lately come to the village of whom
she had seen a great deal, and who was very handsome and brave and
fascinating. Arthur was afraid he could not conceal from me his
impression that Dora and the stranger were very much taken with one
another.

At last, one morning, a letter came to me from Dora. I can put it in
here, because I carried it away with me when I went to Hammerfest to
join the _Cotopaxi_, and ever since I have kept it sadly in my private
pocket-book.

"Dear Ernest" (she had always called me Ernest since we had been
children together, and she couldn't leave it off even now when she
was writing to let me know she no longer loved me), "Can you
forgive me for what I am going to tell you? I thought I loved you
till lately; but then I had never discovered what love really
meant. I have discovered it now, and I find that, after all, I only
liked you very sincerely. You will have guessed before this that I
love somebody else, who loves me in return with all the strength of
his whole nature. I have made a grievous mistake, which I know will
render you terribly unhappy. But it is better so than to marry a
man whom I do not really love with all my heart and soul and
affection; better in the end, I am sure, for both of us. I am too
much ashamed of myself to write more to you. Can you forgive me?

"Yours,
"DORA."

I could not forgive her then, though I loved her too much to be angry; I
was only broken-hearted--thoroughly stunned and broken-hearted. I can
forgive her now, but she can never forgive me, Heaven help me!

I only wanted to get away, anywhere, anywhere, and forget all about it
in a life of danger. So I asked for the post of surgeon to Sir Paxton
Bateman's _Cotopaxi_ expedition a few weeks afterwards. They wanted a
man who knew something about natural history and deep-sea dredging, and
they took me on at once, on the recommendation of a well-known man of
science!

The very day I joined the ship at Hammerfest, in August, I noticed
immediately there was one man on board whose mere face and bearing and
manner were at first sight excessively objectionable to me. He was a
handsome young fellow enough--one Harry Lemarchant, who had been a
planter in Queensland, and who, after being burned up with three years
of tropical sunshine was anxious to cool himself apparently by a long
winter of Arctic gloom. Handsome as he was, with his black moustache and
big dark eyes rolling restlessly, I took an instantaneous dislike to his
cruel thin lip and cold proud mouth the moment I looked upon him. If I
had been wise, I would have drawn back from the expedition at once. It
is a foolish thing to bind one's self down to a voyage of that sort
unless you are perfectly sure beforehand that you have at least no
instinctive hatred of any one among your messmates in that long forced
companionship. But I wasn't wise, and I went on with him.

From the first moment, even before I had spoken to him, I disliked
Lemarchant; very soon I grew to hate him. He seemed to me the most
recklessly cruel and devilish creature (God forgive me that I should say
it!) I had ever met with in my whole lifetime. On an Arctic expedition,
a man's true nature soon comes out--mine did certainly--and he lets his
companions know more about his inner self in six weeks than they could
possibly learn about him in years of intercourse under other
circumstances. And the second night I was on board the _Cotopaxi_ I
learnt enough to make my blood run cold about Harry Lemarchant's ideas
and feelings.

We were all sitting on deck together, those of us who were not on duty,
and listening to yarns from one another, as idle men will, when the
conversation happened accidentally to turn on Queensland, and Lemarchant
began to enlighten us about his own doings when he was in the colony. He
boasted a great deal about his prowess as a disperser of the black
fellows, which he seemed to consider a very noble sort of occupation.
There was nobody in the colony, he said, who had ever dispersed so many
blacks as he had; and he'd like to be back there, dispersing again, for,
in the matter of sport, it beat kangaroo-hunting, or any other kind of
shooting he had ever yet tried his hand at, all to pieces.

The second-lieutenant, Hepworth Paterson, a nice kind-hearted young
Scotchman, looked up at him a little curiously, and said, "Why, what do
you mean by dispersing, Lemarchant? Driving them off into the bush, I
suppose: isn't that it? Not much fun in that, that I can see, scattering
a lot of poor helpless black naked savages."

Lemarchant curled his lip contemptuously (he didn't think much of
Paterson, because his father was said to be a Glasgow grocer), and
answered in his rapid, dare-devil fashion: "No fun! Isn't there, just!
that's all you know about it, my good fellow. Now I'll give you one
example. One day, the inspector came in and told us there were a lot of
blacks camping out on our estate down by the Warramidgee river. So we
jumped on our horses like a shot, went down there immediately, and began
dispersing them. We didn't fire at them, because the grass and ferns and
things were very high, and we might have wasted our ammunition; but we
went at them with native spears, just for all the world like
pig-sticking. You should have seen those black fellows run for their
lives through the long grass--men, women, and little ones together. We
rode after them, full pelt; and as we came up with them, one by one, we
just rolled them over, helter-skelter, as if they'd been antelopes or
bears or something. By-and-by, after a good long charge or two, we'd
cleared the place of the big blacks altogether; but the gins and the
children, some of them, lay lurking in among the grass, you know, and
wouldn't come out and give us fair sport, as they ought to have done,
out in the open: children will pack, you see, whenever they're hard
driven, exactly like grouse, after a month or two's steady shooting.
Well, to make them start and show game, of course we just put a match to
the grass; and in a minute the whole thing was in a blaze, right down
the corner to the two rivers. So we turned our horses into the stream,
and rode alongside, half a dozen of us on each river; and every now and
then, one of the young ones would break cover, and slide out quietly
into the stream, and try to swim across without being perceived, and get
clean away into the back country. Then we just made a dash at them with
the pig-spears; and sometimes they'd dive--and precious good divers they
are, too, those Queenslanders, I can tell you; but we waited around till
they came up again, and then we stuck them as sure as houses. That's
what we call dispersing the natives over in Queensland: extending the
blessings of civilization to the unsettled parts of the back country."

He laughed a pleasant laugh to himself quietly as he finished this
atrocious, devilish story, and showed his white teeth all in a row, as
if he thought the whole reminiscence exceedingly amusing.

Of course, we were all simply speechless with horror and astonishment.
Such deliberate brutal murderousness--gracious heavens! what am I
saying? I had half forgotten for the moment that I, too, am a murderer.

"But what had the black fellows done to you?" Paterson asked with a tone
of natural loathing, after we had all sat silent and horror-stricken in
a circle for a moment. "I suppose they'd been behaving awfully badly to
some white people somewhere--massacring women or something--to get your
blood up to such a horrid piece of butchery."

Lemarchant laughed again, a quiet chuckle of conscious superiority, and
only answered: "Behaving badly! Massacring white women! Lord bless your
heart, I'd like to see them! Why, the wretched creatures wouldn't ever
dare to do it. Oh, no, nothing of that sort, I can tell you. And our
blood wasn't up either. We went in for it just by way of something to
do, and to keep our hands in. Of course you can't allow a lot of lazy
hulking blacks to go knocking around in the neighbourhood of an estate,
stealing your fowls and fruit and so forth, without let or hindrance.
It's the custom in Queensland to disperse the black fellows. I've often
been out riding with a friend, and I've seen a nigger skulking about
somewhere down in a hollow among the tree-ferns; and I've just drawn my
six-shooter, and said to my friend, 'You see me disperse that confounded
nigger!' and I've dispersed him right off--into little pieces, too, you
may take your oath upon it."

"But do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lemarchant," Paterson said, looking a
deal more puzzled and shocked, "that these poor creatures had been doing
absolutely nothing?"

"Well, now, that's the way of all you home-sticking sentimentalists,"
Lemarchant went on, with an ugly simper. "You want to push on the
outskirts of civilization and to see the world colonized, but you're too
squeamish to listen to anything about the only practicable civilizing
and colonizing agencies. It's the struggle for existence, don't you see:
the plain outcome of all the best modern scientific theories. The black
man has got to go to the wall; the white man, with his superior moral
and intellectual nature, has got to push him there. At bottom, it's
nothing more than civilization. Shoot 'em off at once, I say, and get
rid of 'em forthwith and for ever."

"Why," I said, looking at him, with my disgust speaking in my face
(Heaven forgive me!), "I call it nothing less than murder."

Lemarchant laughed, and lit his cigar; but after that, somehow, the
other men didn't much care to talk to him in an ordinary way more than
was necessary for the carrying out of the ship's business.

And yet he was a very gentlemanly fellow, I must admit, and well read
and decently educated. Only there seemed to be a certain natural
brutality about him, under a thin veneer of culture and good breeding,
that repelled us all dreadfully from the moment we saw him. I dare say
we shouldn't have noticed it so much if we hadn't been thrown together
so closely as men are on an Arctic voyage, but then and there it was
positively unendurable. We none of us held any communications with him
whenever we could help it; and he soon saw that we all of us thoroughly
disliked and distrusted him.

That only made him reckless and defiant. He knew he was bound to go the
journey through with us now, and he set to work deliberately to shock
and horrify us. Whether all the stories he told us by the ward-room fire
in the evenings were true or not, I can't tell you--I don't believe they
all were; but at any rate he made them seem as brutal and disgusting as
the most loathsome details could possibly make them. He was always
apologizing--nay, glorying--in bloodshed and slaughter, which he used to
defend with a show of cultivated reasoning that made the naked brutality
of his stories seem all the more awful and unpardonable at bottom. And
yet one couldn't deny, all the time, that there was a grace of manner
and a show of polite feeling about him which gave him a certain external
pleasantness, in spite of everything. He was always boasting that women
liked him; and I could easily understand how a great many women who saw
him only with his company manners might even think him brave and
handsome and very chivalrous.

I won't go into the details of the expedition. They will be found fully
and officially narrated in the log, which I have hidden in the captain's
box in the hut beside the captain's body. I need only mention here the
circumstances immediately connected with the main matter of this
confession.

* * * * *

One day, a little while before we got jammed into the ice off the Liakov
Islands, Lemarchant was up on deck with me, helping me to remove from
the net the creatures that we had dredged up in our shallow soundings.
As he stooped to pick out a _Leptocardium boreale_, I happened to
observe that a gold locket had fallen out of the front of his waistcoat,
and showed a lock of hair on its exposed surface. Lemarchant noticed it
too, and with an awkward laugh put it back hurriedly. "My little girl's
keepsake!" he said in a tone that seemed to me disagreeably flippant
about such a subject. "She gave it to me just before I set off on my way
to Hammerfest."

I started in some astonishment. He had a little girl then--a sweetheart
he meant, obviously. If so, Heaven help her! poor soul, Heaven help her!
For any woman to be tied for life to such a creature as that was really
quite too horrible. I didn't even like to think upon it.

I don't know what devil prompted me, for I seldom spoke to him, even
when we were told off on duty together; but I said at last, after a
moment's pause, "If you are engaged to be married, as I suppose you are
from what you say, I wonder you could bear to come away on such a long
business as this, when you couldn't get a word or a letter from the lady
you're engaged to for a whole winter."

He went on picking out the shells and weeds as he answered in a
careless, jaunty tone, "Why, to tell you the truth, Doctor, that was
just about the very meaning of it. We're going to be married next
summer, you see, and for reasons of her papa's--the deuce knows
what!--my little girl couldn't possibly be allowed to marry one week
sooner. There I'd been, knocking about and spooning with her violently
for three months nearly; and the more I spooned, and the more tired I
got of it, the more she expected me to go on spooning. Well, I'm not the
sort of man to stand billing and cooing for a whole year together. At
last the thing grew monotonous. I wanted to get an excuse to go off
somewhere, where there was some sort of fun going on, till summer came,
and we could get spliced properly (for she's got some tin, too, and I
didn't want to throw her over); but I felt that if I'd got to keep on
spooning and spooning for a whole winter, without intermission, the
thing would really be one too many for me, and I should have to give it
up from sheer weariness. So I heard of this precious expedition, which
is just the sort of adventure I like; I wrote and volunteered for it;
and then I managed to make my little girl and her dear papa believe that
as I was an officer in the naval reserve I was compelled to go when
asked, willy-nilly. 'It's only for half a year, you know, darling,' and
all that sort of thing--you understand the line of country; and
meanwhile I'm saved the bother of ever writing to her, or getting any
letters from her either, which is almost in its way an equal nuisance."

"I see," said I shortly. "Not to put too fine a point upon it, you
simply lied to her."

"Upon my soul," he answered, showing his teeth again, but this time by
no means pleasantly, "you fellows on the _Cotopaxi_ are really the
sternest set of moralists I ever met with outside a book of sermons or a
Surrey melodrama. You ought all to have been parsons, every man Jack of
you; that's just about what you're fit for."

* * * * *

On the fourteenth of September we got jammed in the ice, and the
_Cotopaxi_ went to pieces. You will find in the captain's log how part
of us walked across the pack to the Liakov Islands, and settled
ourselves here on Point Sibiriakoff in winter quarters. As to what
became of the other party, which went southwards to the mouth of the
Lena, I know nothing.

It was a hard winter, but by the aid of our stores and an occasional
walrus shot by one of the blue-jackets, we managed to get along till
March without serious illness. Then, one day, after a spell of terrible
frost and snow, the Captain came to me, and said, "Doctor, I wish you'd
come and see Lemarchant, in the other hut here. I'm afraid he's got a
bad fever."

I went to see him. So he had. A raging fever.

Fumbling about among his clothes to lay him down comfortably on the
bearskin (for of course we had saved no bedding from the wreck), I
happened to knock out once more the same locket that I had seen when he
was emptying the drag-net. There was a photograph in it of a young lady.
The seal-oil lamp didn't give very much light in the dark hut (it was
still the long winter night on the Liakov Islands), but even so I
couldn't help seeing and recognizing the young lady's features. Great
Heaven support me! uphold me! I reeled with horror and amazement. It was
Dora.

Yes; his little girl, that he spoke of so carelessly, that he lied to so
easily, that he meant to marry so cruelly, was my Dora.

I had pitied the woman who was to be Harry Lemarchant's wife even when I
didn't know who she was in any way; I pitied her terribly, with all my
heart, when I knew that she was Dora--my own Dora. If I have become a
murderer, after all, it was to save Dora--to save Dora from that
unutterable, abominable ruffian.

I clutched the photograph in the locket eagerly, and held it up to the
man's eyes. He opened them dreamily. "Is that the lady you are going to
marry?" I asked him, with all the boiling indignation of that terrible
discovery seething and burning in my very face.

He smiled, and took it all in in half a minute. "It is," he answered, in
spite of the fever, with all his old dare-devil carelessness. "And now I
recollect they told me the fellow she was engaged to was a doctor in
London, and a brother of the parson. By Jove, I never thought of it
before that your name, too, was actually Robinson. That's the worst of
having such a deuced common name as yours; no one ever dreams of
recognizing your relations. Hang it all, if you're the man, I suppose
now, out of revenge, you'll be wanting next to go and poison me."

"You judge others by yourself, I'm afraid," I answered sternly. Oh, how
the words seem to rise up in judgment against me at last, now the
dreadful thing is all over!

I doctored him as well as I was able, hoping all the time in my inmost
soul (for I will confess all now) that he would never recover. Already
in wish I had become a murderer. It was too horrible to think that such
a man as that should marry Dora. I had loved her once and I loved her
still; I love her now; I shall always love her. Murderer as I am, I say
it nevertheless, I shall always love her.

But at last, to my grief and disappointment, the man began to mend and
get better. My doctoring had done him good; and the sailors, though even
they did not love him, had shot him once or twice a small bird, of which
we made fresh soup that seemed to revive him. Yes, yes, he was coming
round; and my cursed medicines had done it all. He was getting well, and
he would still go back to marry Dora.

The very idea put me into such a fever of terror and excitement that at
last I began to exhibit the same symptoms as Lemarchant himself had
done. The Captain saw I was sickening, and feared the fever might prove
an epidemic. It wasn't: I knew that. Mine was brain, Lemarchant's was
intermittent; but the Captain insisted upon disbelieving me. So he put
me and Lemarchant into the same hut, and made all the others clear out,
so as to turn it into a sort of temporary hospital.

Every night I put out from the medicine-chest two quinine powders
apiece, for myself and Lemarchant.

One night, it was the 7th of April (I can't forget it), I woke feebly
from my feverish sleep, and noticed in a faint sort of fashion that
Lemarchant was moving about restlessly in the cabin.

"Lemarchant," I cried authoritatively (for as surgeon I was, of course,
responsible for the health of the expedition), "go back and lie down
upon your bearskin this minute! You're a great deal too weak to go
getting anything for yourself as yet. Go back this minute, sir, and if
you want anything, I'll pull the string, and Paterson'll come and see
what you're after." For we had fixed up a string between the two huts,
tied to a box at the end, as a rough means of communication.

"All right, old fellow," he answered, more cordially than I had ever yet
heard him speak to me. "It's all square, I assure you. I was only seeing
whether you were quite warm and comfortable on your rug there."

"Perhaps," I thought, "the care I've taken of him has made him really
feel a little grateful to me." So I dozed off and thought nothing more
at the moment about it.

Presently, I heard a noise again, and woke up quietly, without starting,
but just opened my eyes and peered about as well as the dim light of the
little oil-lamp would allow me.

To my great surprise, I could make out somehow that Lemarchant was
meddling with the bottles in the medicine-chest.

"Perhaps," thought I again, "he wants another dose of quinine. Anyhow,
I'm too tired and sleepy to ask him anything just now about it."

I knew he hated me, and I knew he was unscrupulous, but it didn't occur
to me to think he would poison the man who had just helped him through a
dangerous fever.

At four I woke, as I always did, and proceeded to take one of my
powders. Curiously enough, before I tasted it, the grain appeared to me
to be rather coarser and more granular than the quinine I had originally
put there. I took a pinch between my finger and thumb, and placed it on
my tongue by way of testing it. Instead of being bitter, the powder, I
found, was insipid and almost tasteless.

Could I possibly in my fever and delirium (though I had not consciously
been delirious) have put some other powder instead of the quinine into
the two papers? The bare idea made me tremble with horror. If so, I
might have poisoned Lemarchant, who had taken one of his powders
already, and was now sleeping quietly upon his bearskin. At least, I
thought so.

Glancing accidentally to his place that moment, I was vaguely conscious
that he was not really sleeping, but lying with his eyes held half open,
gazing at me cautiously and furtively through his closed eyelids.

Then the horrid truth flashed suddenly across me. Lemarchant was trying
to poison me.

Yes, he had always hated me; and now that he knew I was Dora's discarded
lover, he hated me worse than ever. He had got up and taken a bottle
from the medicine-chest, I felt certain, and put something else instead
of my quinine inside my paper.

I knew his eyes were fixed upon me then, and for the moment I
dissembled. I turned round and pretended to swallow the contents of the
packet, and then lay down upon my rug as if nothing unusual had
happened. The fever was burning me fiercely, but I lay awake, kept up
by the excitement, till I saw that he was really asleep, and then I once
more undid the paper.

Looking at it closely by the light of the lamp, I saw a finer powder
sticking closely to the folded edges. I wetted my finger, put it down
and tasted it. Yes, that was quite bitter. That was quinine, not a doubt
about it.

I saw at once what Lemarchant had done. He had emptied out the quinine
and replaced it by some other white powder, probably arsenic. But a
little of the quinine still adhered to the folds in the paper, because
he had been obliged to substitute it hurriedly; and that at once proved
that it was no mistake of my own, but that Lemarchant had really made
the deliberate attempt to poison me.

This is a confession, and a confession only, so I shall make no effort
in any way to exculpate myself for the horrid crime I committed the next
moment. True, I was wild with fever and delirium; I was maddened with
the thought that this wretched man would marry Dora; I was horrified at
the idea of sleeping in the same room with him any longer. But still, I
acknowledge it now, face to face with a lonely death upon this frozen
island, it was murder--wilful murder. I meant to poison him, and I did
it.

"He has set this powder for me, the villain," I said to myself, "and now
I shall make him take it without knowing it. How do I know that it's
arsenic or anything else to do him any harm? His blood be upon his own
head, for aught I know about it. What I put there was simply quinine. If
anybody has changed it, he has changed it himself. The pit that he dug
for another, he himself shall fall therein."

I wouldn't even test it, for fear I should find it was arsenic, and be
unable to give it to him innocently and harmlessly.

I rose up and went over to Lemarchant's side. Horror of horrors, he was
sleeping soundly! Yes, the man had tried to poison me; and when he
thought he had seen me swallow his poisonous powder, so callous and
hardened was his nature that he didn't even lie awake to watch the
effect of it. He had dropped off soundly, as if nothing had happened,
and was sleeping now, to all appearance, the sleep of innocence. Being
convalescent, in fact, and therefore in need of rest, he slept with
unusual soundness.

I laid the altered powder quietly by his pillow, took away his that I
had laid out in readiness for him, and crept back to my own place
noiselessly. There I lay awake, hot and feverish, wondering to myself
hour after hour when he would ever wake and take it.

At last he woke, and looked over towards me with unusual interest.
"Hullo, Doctor," he said quite genially, "how are you this morning, eh?
getting on well, I hope." It was the first time during all my illness
that he had ever inquired after me.

I lied to him deliberately to keep the delusion up. "I have a terrible
grinding pain in my chest," I said, pretending to writhe. I had sunk to
his level, it seems. I was a liar and a murderer.

He looked quite gay over it, and laughed. "It's nothing," he said,
grinning horribly. "It's a good symptom. I felt just like that myself,
my dear fellow, when I was beginning to recover."

Then I knew he had tried to poison me, and I felt no remorse for my
terrible action. It was a good deed to prevent such a man as that from
ever carrying away Dora--my Dora--into a horrid slavery. Sooner than
that he should marry Dora, I would poison him--I would poison him a
thousand times over.

He sat up, took the spoon full of treacle, and poured the powder as
usual into the very middle of it. I watched him take it off at a single
gulp without perceiving the difference, and then I sank back exhausted
upon my roll of sealskins.

* * * * *

All that day I was very ill; and Lemarchant, lying tossing beside me,
groaned and moaned in a fearful fashion. At last the truth seemed to
dawn upon him gradually, and he cried aloud to me: "Doctor, Doctor,
quick, for Heaven's sake! you must get me out an antidote. The powders
must have got mixed up somehow, and you've given me arsenic instead of
quinine, I'm certain."

"Not a bit of it, Lemarchant," I said, with some devilish malice; "I've
given you one of my own packets, that was lying here beside my pillow."

He turned as white as a sheet the moment he heard that, and gasped out
horribly, "That--that--why, that was arsenic!" But he never explained in
a single word how he knew it, or where it came from. I knew. I needed no
explanation, and I wanted no lies, so I didn't question him.

I treated him as well as I could for arsenic poisoning, without saying a
word to the captain and the other men about it; for if he died, I said,
it would be by his own act, and if my skill could still avail, he should
have the benefit of it; but the poison had had full time to work before
I gave him the antidote, and he died by seven o'clock that night in
fearful agonies.

Then I knew that I was really a murderer.

My fingers are beginning to get horribly numb, and I'm afraid I shan't
be able to write much longer. I must be quick about it, if I want to
finish this confession.

* * * * *

After that came my retribution. I have been punished for it, and
punished terribly.

As soon as they all heard Lemarchant was dead--a severe relapse, I
called it--they set to work to carry him out and lay him somewhere. Then
for the first time the idea flashed across my mind that they couldn't
possibly bury him. The ice was too deep everywhere, and underneath it
lay the solid rock of the bare granite islands. There was no snow even,
for the wind swept it away as it fell, and we couldn't so much as
decently cover him. There was nothing for it but to lay him out upon the
icy surface.

So we carried the stark frozen body, with its hideous staring eyes wide
open, out by the jutting point of rock behind the hut, and there we
placed it, dressed and upright. We stood it up against the point exactly
as if it were alive, and by-and-by the snow came and froze it to the
rock; and there it stands to this moment, glaring for ever fiercely upon
me.

Whenever I went in or out of the hut, for three long months, that
hideous thing stood there staring me in the face with mute indignation.
At night, when I tried to sleep, the murdered man stood there still in
the darkness beside me. O God! I dared not say a word to anybody: but I
trembled every time I passed it, and I knew what it was to be a
murderer.

In May, the sun came back again, but still no open water for our one
boat. In June, we had the long day, but no open water. The captain began
to get impatient and despondent, as you will read in the log: he was
afraid now we might never get a chance of making the mouth of the Lena.

By-and-by, the scurvy came (I have no time now for details, my hands are
so cramped with cold), and then we began to run short of provisions.
Soon I had them all down upon my hands, and presently we had to place
Paterson's corpse beside Lemarchant's on the little headland. Then they
sank, one after another--sank of cold and hunger, as you will read in
the log--till I alone, who wanted least to live, was the last left
living.

I was left alone with those nine corpses propped up awfully against the
naked rock, and one of the nine the man I had murdered.

May Heaven forgive me for that terrible crime; and for pity's sake,
whoever you may be, keep it from Dora--keep it from Dora!

My brother's address is in my pocket-book.

The fever and remorse alone have given me strength to hold the pen. My
hands are quite numbed now. I can write no longer.

* * * * *

There the manuscript ended. Heaven knows what effect it may have upon
all of you, who read it quietly at home in your own easy-chairs in
England; but we of the search party, who took those almost illegible
sheets of shaky writing from the cold fingers of the one solitary corpse
within the frozen cabin on the Liakov Islands--we read them through with
such a mingled thrill of awe and horror and sympathy and pity as no one
can fully understand who has not been upon an Arctic expedition. And
when we gathered our sad burdens up to take them off for burial at home,
the corpse to which we gave the most reverent attention was certainly
that of the self-accused murderer.

_HARRY'S INHERITANCE._

I.

Colonel Sir Thomas Woolrych, K.C.B. (retired list), was a soldier of the
old school, much attached to pipe-clay and purchase, and with a low
opinion of competitive examinations, the first six books of Euclid, the
local military centres, the territorial titles of regiments, the latest
regulation pattern in half-dress buttons, and most other confounded
new-fangled radical fal-lal and trumpery in general. Sir Thomas believed
as firmly in the wisdom of our ancestors as he distrusted the wisdom of
our nearest descendants, now just attaining to years of maturity and
indiscretion. Especially had he a marked dislike for this nasty modern
shopkeeping habit of leaving all your loose money lying idly at your
banker's, and paying everybody with a dirty little bit of crumpled
paper, instead of pulling out a handful of gold, magnificently, from
your trousers pocket, and flinging the sovereigns boldly down before you
upon the counter like an officer and a gentleman. Why should you let one
of those bloated, overfed, lazy banker-fellows grow rich out of
borrowing your money from you for nothing, without so much as a
thank-you, and lending it out again to some other poor devil of a
tradesman (probably in difficulties) at seven per cent. on short
discount? No, no; that was not the way Sir Thomas Woolrych had been
accustomed to live when he was an ensign (sub-lieutenant they positively
call it nowadays) at Ahmednuggur, in the North-West Provinces. In those
days, my dear sir, a man drew his monthly screw by pay-warrant, took the
rupees in solid cash, locked them up carefully in the desk in his
bungalow, helped himself liberally to them while they lasted, and gave
IOU's for any little trifle of cards or horses he might happen to have
let himself in for meanwhile with his brother-officers. IOU's are of
course a gentlemanly and recognized form of monetary engagement, but for
bankers' cheques Sir Thomas positively felt little less than contempt
and loathing.

Nevertheless, in his comfortable villa in the park at Cheltenham (called
Futteypoor Lodge, after that famous engagement during the Mutiny which
gave the Colonel his regiment and his K.C.B.-ship) he stood one evening
looking curiously at his big devonport, and muttered to himself with
more than one most military oath, "Hanged if I don't think I shall
positively be compelled to patronize these banker-fellows after all.
Somebody must have been helping himself again to some of my sovereigns."

Sir Thomas was not by nature a suspicious man--he was too frank and
open-hearted himself to think ill easily of others--but he couldn't
avoid feeling certain that somebody had been tampering unjustifiably
with the contents of his devonport. He counted the rows of sovereigns
over once more, very carefully; then he checked the number taken out by
the entry in his pocket-book; and then he leaned back in his chair with
a puzzled look, took a meditative puff or two at the stump of his cigar,
and blew out the smoke, in a long curl that left a sort of pout upon his
heavily moustached lip as soon as he had finished. Not a doubt in the
world about it--somebody must have helped himself again to a dozen
sovereigns.

It was a hateful thing to put a watch upon your servants and dependents,
but Sir Thomas felt he must really do it. He reckoned up the long rows
a third time with military precision, entered the particulars once more
most accurately in his pocket-book, sighed a deep sigh of regret at the
distasteful occupation, and locked up the devonport at last with the air
of a man who resigns himself unwillingly to a most unpleasant duty. Then
he threw away the fag-end of the smoked-out cigar, and went up slowly to
dress for dinner.

Sir Thomas's household consisted entirely of himself and his nephew
Harry, for he had never been married, and he regarded all womankind
alike from afar off, with a quaint, respectful, old-world chivalry; but
he made a point of dressing scrupulously every day for dinner, even when
alone, as a decorous formality due to himself, his servants, society,
the military profession, and the _convenances_ in general. If he and his
nephew dined together they dressed for one another; if they dined
separately they dressed all the same, for the sake of the institution.
When a man once consents to eat his evening meal in a blue tie and a
morning cutaway, there's no drawing a line until you finally find him an
advanced republican and an accomplice of those dreadful War Office
people who are bent upon allowing the service to go to the devil. If
Colonel Sir Thomas Woolrych, K.C.B., had for a single night been guilty
of such abominable laxity, the whole fabric of society would have
tottered to its base, and gods and footmen would have felt instinctively
that it was all up with the British constitution.

"Harry," Sir Thomas said, as soon they sat down to dinner together, "are
you going out anywhere this evening, my boy?"

Harry looked up a little surlily, and answered after a moment's
hesitation, "Why, yes, uncle, I thought--I thought of going round and
having a game of billiards with Tom Whitmarsh."

Sir Thomas cleared his throat, and hemmed dubiously. "In that case," he
said at last, after a short pause, "I think I'll go down to the club
myself and have a rubber. Wilkins, the carriage at half-past nine. I'm
sorry, Harry, you're going out this evening."

"Why so, uncle? It's only just round to the Whitmarshes', you know."

Sir Thomas shut one eye and glanced with the other at the light through
his glass of sherry, held up between finger and thumb critically and
suspiciously. "A man may disapprove _in toto_ of the present system of
competitive examinations for the army," he said slowly; "for my part, I
certainly do, and I make no secret of it; admitting a lot of butchers
and bakers and candlestick makers plump into the highest ranks of the
service: no tone, no character, no position, no gentlemanly feeling; a
great mistake--a great mistake; I told them so at the time. I said to
them, 'Gentlemen, you are simply ruining the service.' But they took no
notice of me; and what's the consequence? Competitive examination has
been the ruin of the service, exactly as I told them. Began with that;
then abolition of purchase; then local centres; then that abominable
strap with the slip buckle--there, there, Harry, upon my soul, my boy, I
can't bear to think of it. But a man may be opposed, as I said, to the
whole present system of competitive examination, and yet, while that
system still unfortunately continues to exist (that is to say, until a
European War convinces all sensible people of the confounded folly of
it), he may feel that his own young men, who are reading up for a direct
commission, ought to be trying their hardest to get as much of this
nonsensical humbug into their heads as possible during the time just
before their own examinations. Now, Harry, I'm afraid you're not reading
quite as hard as you ought to be doing. The crammer's all very well in
his way, of course, but depend upon it, the crammer by himself won't get
you through it. What's needed is private study."

Harry turned his handsome dark eyes upon his uncle--a very dark, almost
gipsy-looking face altogether, Harry's--and answered deprecatingly,
"Well, sir, and don't I go in for private study? Didn't I read up
_Samson Agonistes_ all by myself right through yesterday?"

"I don't know what Samson Something-or-other is," the old gentleman
replied testily. "What the dickens has Samson Something-or-other got to
do with the preparation of a military man, I should like to know, sir?"

"It's the English Literature book for the exam., you know," Harry
answered, with a quiet smile. "We've got to get it up, you see, with all
the allusions and what-you-may-call-its, for direct commission. It's a
sort of a play, I think I should call it, by John Milton."

"Oh, it's the English Literature, is it?" the old Colonel went on,
somewhat mollified. "In my time, Harry, we weren't expected to know
anything about English literature. The Articles of War, and the
Officer's Companion, By Authority, that was the kind of literature we
used to be examined in. But nowadays they expect a soldier to be read up
in Samson Something-or-other, do they really? Well, well, let them have
their fad, let them have their fad, poor creatures. Still, Harry, I'm
very much afraid you're wasting your time, and your money also. If I
thought you only went to the Whitmarshes' to see Miss Milly, now, I
shouldn't mind so much about it. Miss Milly is a very charming, sweet
young creature, certainly--extremely pretty, too, extremely pretty--I
don't deny it. You're young yet to go making yourself agreeable, my boy,
to a pretty girl like that; you ought to wait for that sort of thing
till you've got your majority, or at least, your company--a young man
reading for direct commission has no business to go stuffing his head
cram full with love and nonsense. No, no; he should leave it all free
for fortification, and the general instructions, and Samson
Something-or-other, if soldiers can't be made nowadays without English
literature. But still, I don't so much object to that, I say--a sweet
girl, certainly, Miss Milly--what I do object to is your knocking about
so much at billiard-rooms, and so forth, with that young fellow
Whitmarsh. Not a very nice young fellow, or a good companion for you
either, Harry. I'm afraid, I'm afraid, my boy, he makes you spend a
great deal too much money."

"I've never yet had to ask you to increase my allowance, sir," the young
man answered haughtily, with a curious glance sideways at his uncle.

"Wilkins," Sir Thomas put in, with a nod to the butler, "go down and
bring up a bottle of the old Madeira. Harry, my boy, don't let us
discuss questions of this sort before the servants. My boy, I've never
kept you short of money in any way, I hope; and if I ever do, I trust
you'll tell me of it, tell me of it immediately."

Harry's dark cheeks burned bright for a moment, but he answered never a
single word, and went on eating his dinner silently, with a very
hang-dog look indeed upon his handsome features.

II.

At half-past nine Sir Thomas drove down to the club, and, when he
reached the door, dismissed the coachman. "I shall walk back, Morton,"
he said. "I shan't want you again this evening. Don't let them sit up
for me. I mayn't be home till two in the morning."

But as soon as the coachman had had full time to get back again in
perfect safety, Sir Thomas walked straight down the club steps once
more, and up the Promenade, and all the way to Futteypoor Lodge. When he
got there, he opened the door silently with his latch-key, shut it again
without the slightest noise, and walked on tip-toe into the library. It
was an awkward sort of thing to do, certainly, but Sir Thomas was
convinced in his own mind that he ought to do it. He wheeled an easy
chair into the recess by the window, in front of which the curtains were
drawn, arranged the folds so that he could see easily into the room by
the slit between them, and sat down patiently to explore this mystery to
the very bottom.

Sir Thomas was extremely loth in his own mind to suspect anybody; and
yet it was quite clear that some one or other must have taken the
missing sovereigns. Twice over money had been extracted. It couldn't
have been cook, of that he felt certain; nor Wilkins either. Very
respectable woman, cook--very respectable butler, Wilkins. Not Morton;
oh dear no, quite impossible, certainly not Morton. Not the housemaid,
or the boy: obviously neither; well-conducted young people, every one of
them. But who the dickens could it be then? for certainly somebody had
taken the money. The good old Colonel felt in his heart that for the
sake of everybody's peace of mind it was his bounden duty to discover
the real culprit before saying a single word to anybody about it.

There was something very ridiculous, of course, not to say undignified
and absurd, in the idea of an elderly field officer, late in Her
Majesty's service, sitting thus for hour after hour stealthily behind
his own curtains, in the dark, as if he were a thief or a burglar,
waiting to see whether anybody came to open his devonport. Sir Thomas
grew decidedly wearied as he watched and waited, and but for his strong
sense of the duty imposed upon him of tracking the guilty person, he
would once or twice in the course of the evening have given up the quest
from sheer disgust and annoyance at the absurdity of the position. But
no; he must find out who had done it: so there he sat, as motionless as
a cat watching a mouse-hole, with his eye turned always in the direction
of the devonport, through the slight slit between the folded curtains.

Ten o'clock struck upon the clock on the mantelpiece--half-past
ten--eleven. Sir Thomas stretched his legs, yawned, and muttered
audibly, "Confounded slow, really." Half-past eleven. Sir Thomas went
over noiselessly to the side table, where the decanters were standing,
and helped himself to a brandy and seltzer, squeezing down the cork of
the bottle carefully with his thumb, to prevent its popping, till all
the gas had escaped piecemeal. Then he crept back, still noiselessly,
feeling more like a convicted thief himself than a Knight Commander of
the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, and wondering when the deuce this
pilfering lock-breaker was going to begin his nightly depredations. Not
till after Harry came back most likely. The thief, whoever he or she
was, would probably be afraid to venture into the library while there
was still a chance of Harry returning unexpectedly and disturbing the
whole procedure. But when once Harry had gone to bed, they would all
have heard from Morton that Sir Thomas was going to be out late, and the
thief would then doubtless seize so good an opportunity of helping
himself unperceived to the counted sovereigns.

About half past eleven, there was a sound of steps upon the garden-walk,
and Harry's voice could be heard audibly through the half-open window.
The colonel caught the very words against his will. Harry was talking
with Tom Whitmarsh, who had walked round to see him home; his voice was
a little thick, as if with wine, and he seemed terribly excited (to
judge by his accent) about something or other that had just happened.

"Good night, Tom," the young man was saying, with an outward show of
carelessness barely concealing a great deal of underlying irritation.
"I'll pay you up what I lost to-morrow or the next day. You shall have
your money, don't be afraid about it."

"Oh, it's all right," Tom Whitmarsh's voice answered in an off-hand
fashion. "Pay me whenever you like, you know, Woolrych. It doesn't
matter to me when you pay me, this year or next year, so long as I get
it sooner or later."

Sir Thomas listened with a sinking heart. "Play," he thought to himself.
"Play, play, play, already! It was his father's curse, poor fellow, and
I hope it won't be Harry's. It's some comfort to think, anyhow, that
it's only billiards."

"Well, good night, Tom," Harry went on, ringing the bell as he spoke.

"Good night, Harry. I hope next time the cards won't go so persistently
against you."

The cards! Phew! That was bad indeed. Sir Thomas started. He didn't
object to a quiet after-dinner rubber on his own account, naturally: but
this wasn't whist; oh, no; nothing of the sort. This was evidently
serious playing. He drew a long breath, and felt he must talk very
decidedly about the matter to Harry to-morrow morning.

"Is my uncle home yet, Wilkins?"

"No, sir; he said he wouldn't be back probably till two o'clock, and we
wasn't to sit up for him."

"All right then. Give me a light for a minute in the library. I'll take
a seltzer before I go upstairs, just to steady me."

Sir Thomas almost laughed outright. This was really too ridiculous.
Suppose, after all the waiting, Harry was to come over and discover him
sitting there in the darkness by the window, what a pretty figure he
would cut before him. And besides, the whole thing would have to come
out then, and after all the thief would never be discovered and
punished. The Colonel grew hot and red in the face, and began to wish to
goodness he hadn't in the first place let himself in, in any way, for
this ridiculous amateur detective business.

But Harry drank his seltzer standing by the side table, with no brandy,
either; that was a good thing, no brandy. If he'd taken brandy, too, in
his present excited condition, when he'd already certainly had quite as
much as was at all good for him, Sir Thomas would have been justly and
seriously angry. But, after all, Harry was a good boy at bottom, and
knew how to avoid such ugly habits. He took his seltzer and his bedroom
candle. Wilkins turned out the light in the room, and Harry went
upstairs by himself immediately.

Then Wilkins turned the key in the library door, and the old gentleman
began to reflect that this was really a most uncomfortable position for
him to be left in. Suppose they locked him in there till to-morrow
morning! Ah! happy thought; if the worst came to the worst he could get
out of the library window and let himself in at the front door by means
of his latch-key.

The servants all filed upstairs, one by one, in an irregular procession;
their feet died away gradually upon the upper landings, and a solemn
silence came at last over the whole household. Sir Thomas's heart began
to beat faster: the excitement of plot interest was growing stronger
upon him. This was the time the thief would surely choose to open the
devonport. He should know now within twenty minutes which it was of all
his people, whom he trusted so implicitly, that was really robbing him.

And he treated them all so kindly, too. Ha, the rascal! he should catch
it well, that he should, whoever he was, as soon as ever Sir Thomas
discovered him.

Not if it were Wilkins, though; not if it were Wilkins. Sir Thomas hoped
it wasn't really that excellent fellow Wilkins. A good old tried and
trusty servant. If any unexpected financial difficulties----

Hush, hush! Quietly now. A step upon the landing.

Coming down noiselessly, noiselessly, noiselessly. Not Wilkins; not
heavy enough for him, surely; no, no, a woman's step, so very light, so
light and noiseless. Sir Thomas really hoped in his heart it wasn't that
pretty delicate-looking girl, the new housemaid. If it was, by Jove,
yes, he'd give her a good lecture then and there, that very minute,
about it, offer to pay her passage quietly out to Canada, and--recommend
her to get married decently, to some good young fellow, on the earliest
possible opportunity.

The key turned once more in the lock, and then the door opened
stealthily. Somebody glided like a ghost into the middle of the room.
Sir Thomas, gazing intently through the slit in the curtains, murmured
to himself that now at last he should fairly discover the confounded
rascal.

Ha! How absurd! He could hardly help laughing once more at the
ridiculous collapse to his high-wrought expectations. And yet he
restrained himself. It was only Harry! Harry come down, candle in hand,
no doubt to get another glass of seltzer. The Colonel hoped not with
brandy. No; not with brandy. He put the glass up to his dry lips--Sir
Thomas could see they were dry and feverish even from that distance;
horrid thing, this gambling!--and he drained it off at a gulp, like a
thirsty man who has tasted no liquor since early morning.

Then he took up his candle again, and turned--not to the door. Oh, no.
The old gentleman watched him now with singular curiosity, for he was
walking not to the door, but over in the direction of the suspected
devonport. Sir Thomas could hardly even then guess at the truth. It
wasn't, no it wasn't, it couldn't be Harry! not Harry that ... that
borrowed the money!

The young man took a piece of stout wire from his pocket with a terrible
look of despair and agony. Sir Thomas's heart melted within him as he
beheld it. He twisted the wire about in the lock with a dexterous
pressure, and it opened easily. Sir Thomas looked on, and the tears rose
into his eyes slowly by instinct; but he said never a word, and watched
intently. Harry held the lid of the devonport open for a moment with one
hand, and looked at the rows of counted gold within. The fingers of the
other hand rose slowly and remorsefully up to the edge of the desk, and
there hovered in an undecided fashion. Sir Thomas watched still, with
his heart breaking. Then for a second Harry paused. He held back his
hand and appeared to deliberate. Something within seemed to have
affected him deeply. Sir Thomas, though a plain old soldier, could read
his face well enough to know what it was; he was thinking of the kind
words his uncle had said to him that very evening as they sat together
down there at dinner.

For half a minute the suspense was terrible. Then, with a sudden
impulse, Harry shut the lid of the devonport down hastily; flung the
wire with a gesture of horror and remorse into the fireplace; took up
his candle wildly in his hand; and rushed from the room and up the
stairs, leaving the door open behind him.

Then Sir Thomas rose slowly from his seat in the window corner; lighted
the gas in the centre burner; unlocked the devonport, with tears still
trickling slowly down his face; counted all the money over carefully to
make quite certain; found it absolutely untouched; and flung himself
down upon his knees wildly, between shame, and fear, and relief, and
misery. What he said or what he thought in that terrible moment of
conflicting passions is best not here described or written; but when he
rose again his eyes were glistening, more with forgiveness than with
horror (anger there never had been); and being an old-fashioned old
gentleman, he took down his big Bible from the shelf, just to reassure
himself about a text which he thought he remembered somewhere in Luke:
"Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over
ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance." "Ah, yes," he
said to himself; "he repented; he repented. He didn't take it. He felt
he couldn't after what I said to him." And then, with the tears still
rolling silently down his bronzed checks, he went up stairs to bed, but
not to sleep; for he lay restless on his pillow all night through with
that one terrible discovery weighing like lead upon his tender old
bosom.

III.

Next morning, after breakfast, Sir Thomas said in a quiet tone of
command to Harry, "My boy, I want to speak to you for a few minutes in
the library."

Harry's cheek grew deadly pale and he caught his breath with difficulty,
but he followed his uncle into the library without a word, and took his
seat at the table opposite him.

"Harry," the old soldier began, as quietly as he was able, after an
awkward pause, "I want to tell you a little--a little about your father
and mother."

Harry's face suddenly changed from white to crimson, for he felt sure
now that what Sir Thomas was going to talk about was not the loss of the
money from the devonport a week earlier; and on the other hand, though
he knew absolutely nothing about his own birth and parentage, he knew at
least that there must have been some sort of mystery in the matter, or
else his uncle would surely long since have spoken to him quite freely
of his father and mother.

"My dear boy," the Colonel went on again, in a tremulous voice, "I think
the time has now come when I ought to tell you that you and I are no
relations by blood; you are--you are my nephew by adoption only."

Harry gave a sudden start of surprise, but said nothing.

"The way it all came about," Sir Thomas went on, playing nervously with
his watch-chain, "was just this. I was in India during the Mutiny, as
you know, and while I was stationed at Boolundshahr, in the North-West
Provinces, just before those confounded niggers--I mean to say, before
the sepoys revolted, your father was adjutant of my regiment at the
same station. He and your mother--well, Harry, your mother lived in a
small bungalow near the cantonments, and there you were born; why,
exactly eight months before the affair at Meerut, you know--the
beginning of the Mutiny. Your father, I'm sorry to say, was a man very
much given to high play--in short, if you'll excuse my putting it so, my
boy, a regular gambler. He owed money to almost every man in the
regiment, and amongst others, if I must tell you the whole truth, to me.
In those days I sometimes played rather high myself, Harry; not so high
as your poor father, my boy, for I was always prudent, but a great deal
higher than a young man in a marching regiment has any right to do--a
great deal higher. I left off playing immediately after what I'm just
going to tell you; and from that day to this, Harry, I've never touched
a card, except for whist or cribbage, and never will do, my boy, if I
live to be as old as Methuselah."

The old man paused and wiped his brow for a second with his capacious
handkerchief, while Harry's eyes, cast down upon the ground, began to
fill rapidly with something or other that he couldn't for the life of
him manage to keep out of them.

"On the night before the news from Meerut arrived," the old soldier went
on once more, with his eye turned half away from the trembling lad, "we
played together in the major's rooms, your father and I, with a few
others; and before the end of the evening your father had lost a large
sum to one of his brother-officers. When we'd finished playing, he came
to me to my quarters, and he said 'Woolrych, this is a bad job. I
haven't got anything to pay McGregor with.'

"'All right, Walpole,' I answered him--your father's name was Captain
Walpole, Harry--'I'll lend you whatever's necessary.'

"'No, no, my dear fellow,' he said, 'I won't borrow and only get myself
into worse trouble. I'll take a shorter and easier way out of it all,
you may depend upon it.'

"At the moment I hadn't the slightest idea what he meant, and so I said
no more to him just then about it. But three minutes after he left my
quarters I heard a loud cry, and saw your father in the moonlight out in
the compound. He had a pistol in his hand. Next moment, the report of a
shot sounded loudly down below in the compound, and I rushed out at once
to see what on earth could be matter.

"Your father was lying in a pool of blood, just underneath a big
mango-tree beside the door, with his left jaw shattered to pieces, and
his brain pierced through and through from one side to the other by a
bullet from the pistol.

"He was dead--stone dead. There was no good doctoring him. We took him
up and carried him into the surgeon's room, and none of us had the
courage all that night to tell your mother.

"Next day, news came of the rising at Meerut.

"That same night, while we were all keeping watch and mounting guard,
expecting our men would follow the example of their companions at
head-quarters, there was a sudden din and tumult in the lines, about
nine in the evening, when the word was given to turn in, and McGregor,
coming past me, shouted at the top of his voice, 'It's all up, Woolrych.
These black devils have broken loose at last, and they're going to fire
the officers' quarters.'

"Well, Harry, my boy, I needn't tell you all about it at full length
to-day; but in the end, as you know, we fought the men for our own
lives, and held our ground until the detachment came from Etawah to
relieve us. However, before we could get to the Bibi's bungalow--the
sepoys used to call your mother the Bibi, Harry--those black devils had
broken in there, and when next morning early I burst into the ruined
place, with three men of the 47th and a faithful havildar, we found
your poor mother--well, there, Harry, I can't bear to think of it, even
now, my boy: but she was dead, too, quite dead, with a hundred
sabre-cuts all over her poor blood-stained, hacked-about body. And in
the corner, under the cradle, the eight-month-old baby was lying and
crying--crying bitterly; that was you, Harry."

The young man listened intently, with a face now once more ashy white,
but still he answered absolutely nothing.

"I took you in my arms, my boy," the old Colonel continued in a softer
tone; "and as you were left all alone in the bungalow there, with no
living soul to love or care for you, I carried you away in my arms
myself, to my own quarters. All through the rest of that terrible
campaign I kept you with me, and while I was fighting at Futteypoor, a
native ayah was in charge of you for me. Your poor father had owed me a
trifling debt, and I took you as payment in full, and have kept you with
me as my nephew ever since. That is all your history, Harry."

The young man drew a deep breath, and looked across curiously to the
bronzed face of the simple old officer. Then he asked, a little huskily,
"And why didn't my father's or mother's relations reclaim me, sir? Do
they know that I am still living?"

Sir Thomas coughed, and twirled his watch-chain more nervously and
uneasily than ever. "Well, you see, my boy," he answered at last, after
a long pause, "your mother--I must tell you the whole truth now,
Harry--your mother was a Eurasian, a half-caste lady--very light, almost
white, but still a half-caste, you know, and--and--well, your father's
family--didn't exactly acknowledge the relationship, Harry."

Harry's face burnt crimson once more, and the hot blood rushed madly to
his cheeks, for he felt in a moment the full force of the meaning that
the Colonel wrapped up so awkwardly in that one short embarrassed
sentence.

There was another long pause, during which Harry kept his burning eyes
fixed fast upon Sir Thomas, and Sir Thomas looked down uncomfortably at
his boots and said nothing. Then the young man found voice again feebly
to ask, almost in a whisper, one final question.

"Had you ... had you any particular reason for telling me this story
about my birth and my parents at this exact time ... just now, uncle?"

"I had, Harry. I--I have rather suspected of late ... that ... that you
are falling somehow into ... into your poor father's unhappy vice of
gambling. My boy, my boy, if you inherit his failings in that direction,
I hope his end will be some warning to you to desist immediately."

"And had you ... any reason to suspect me of ... of any other fault ...
of ... of any graver fault ... of anything really very serious, uncle?"

The Colonel held his head between his hands, and answered very slowly,
as if the words were wrung from him by torture: "If you hadn't yourself
asked me the question point-blank, Harry, I would never have told you
anything about it. Yes, my boy, my dear boy, my poor boy; I know it all
... all ... all ... absolutely."

Harry lifted up his voice in one loud cry and wail of horror, and darted
out of the room without another syllable.

"I know that cry," the Colonel said in his own heart, trembling. "I have
heard it before! It's the very cry poor Walpole gave that night at
Boolundshahr, just before he went out and shot himself!"

IV.

Harry had rushed out into the garden; of that, Sir Thomas felt certain.
He followed him hastily, and saw him by the seat under the lime-trees in
the far corner; he had something heavy in his right hand. Sir Thomas
came closer and saw to his alarm and horror that it was indeed the small
revolver from the old pistol-stand on the wall of the vestibule.

Even as the poor old soldier gazed, half petrified, the lad pushed a
cartridge home feverishly into one of the chambers, and raised the
weapon, with a stern resolution, up to his temple. Sir Thomas recognized
in that very moment of awe and terror that it was the exact attitude and
action of Harry's dead father. The entire character and tragedy seemed
to have handed itself down directly from father to son without a single
change of detail or circumstance.

The old man darted forward with surprising haste, and caught Harry's
hand just as the finger rested upon the trigger.

"My boy! my boy!" he cried, wrenching the revolver easily from his
trembling grasp, and flinging it, with a great curve, to the other end
of the garden. "Not that way! Not that way! I haven't reproached you
with one word, Harry; but this is a bad return, indeed, for a life
devoted to you. Oh, Harry! Harry! not by shuffling off your
responsibilities and running away from them like a coward, not by that
can you ever mend matters in the state you have got them into, but by
living on, and fighting against your evil impulses and conquering them
like a man--that's the way, the right way, to get the better of them.
Promise me, Harry, promise me, my boy, that whatever comes you won't
make away with yourself, as your father did; for my sake, live on and do
better. I'm an old man, an old man, Harry, and I have but you in the
world to care for or think about. Don't let me be shamed in my old age
by seeing the boy I have brought up and loved as a son dying in
disgrace, a poltroon and a coward. Stand by your guns, my boy; stand by
your guns, and fight it out to the last minute."

Harry's arm fell powerless to his side, and he broke down utterly, in
his shame and self-abasement flinging himself wildly upon the seat
beneath the lime-trees and covering his face with his hands to hide the
hot tears that were bursting forth in a feverish torrent.

"I will go," he said at last, in a choking voice, "I will go, uncle, and
talk to Milly."

"Do," the Colonel said, soothing his arm tenderly. "Do, my boy. She's a
good girl, and she'll advise you rightly. Go and speak to her; but
before you go, promise me, promise me."

Harry rose, and tried to shake off Sir Thomas's heavy hand, laid with a
fatherly pressure upon his struggling shoulder. But he couldn't; the old
soldier was still too strong for him. "Promise me," he said once more
caressingly, "promise me; promise me!"

Harry hesitated for a second, in his troubled mind; then, with an
effort, he answered slowly, "I promise, uncle."

Sir Thomas released him, and he rushed wildly away. "Remember," the
Colonel cried aloud, as he went in at the open folding windows,
"remember, Harry, you are on your honour. If you break parole I shall
think very badly, very badly indeed, of you."

But as the old man turned back sadly into his lonely library, he thought
to himself, "I wonder whether I oughtn't to have dealt more harshly with
him! I wonder whether I was right in letting him off so easily for two
such extremely--such extremely grave breaches of military discipline!"

V.

"Then you think, Milly, that's what I ought to do? You think I'd better
go and never come back again till I feel quite sure of myself?"

"I think so, Harry, I think so.... I think so.... And yet ... it's very
hard not to see you for so long, Harry."

"But I shall write to you every day, Milly, however long it may be; and
if I conquer myself, why, then, Milly, I shall feel I can come back fit
to marry you. I'm not fit now, and unless I feel that I've put myself
straight with you and my uncle, I'll never come back again--never,
never, never!"

Milly's lip trembled, but she only answered bravely, "That's well,
Harry; for then you'll make all the more effort, and for my sake I'm
sure you'll conquer. But, Harry, I wish before you go you'd tell me
plainly what else it is that you've been doing besides playing and
losing your uncle's money."

"Oh, Milly, Milly, I can't--I mustn't. If I were to tell you that you
could never again respect me--you could never love me."

Milly was a wise girl, and pressed him no further. After all, there are
some things it is better for none of us to know about one another, and
this thing was just one of them.

So Harry Walpole went away from Cheltenham, nobody knew whither, except
Milly; not daring to confide the secret of his whereabouts even to his
uncle, nor seeing that sole friend once more before he went, but going
away that very night, on his own resources, to seek his own fortune as
best he might in the great world of London. "Tell my uncle why I have
gone," he said to Milly; "that it is in order to conquer myself; and
tell him that I'll write to you constantly, and that you will let him
know from time to time whether I am well and making progress."

It was a hard time for poor old Sir Thomas, no doubt, those four years
that Harry was away from him, he knew not where, and he was left alone
by himself in his dreary home; but he felt it was best so; he knew Harry
was trying to conquer himself. How Harry lived or what he was doing he
never heard; but once or twice Milly hinted to him that Harry seemed
sorely in want of money, and Sir Thomas gave her some to send him, and
every time it was at once returned, with a very firm but gentle message
from Harry to say that he was able, happily, to do without it, and would
not further trouble his uncle. It was only from Milly that Sir Thomas
could learn anything about his dear boy, and he saw her and asked her
about him so often that he learned at last to love her like a daughter.

Four years rolled slowly away, and at the end of them Sir Thomas was one
day sitting in his little library, somewhat disconsolate, and reflecting
to himself that he ought to have somebody living with him at his time of
life, when suddenly there came a ring and a knock that made him start
with surprise and pleasure, for he recognized them at once as being
Harry's. Next moment, the servant brought him a card, on which was
engraved in small letters, "Dr. H. Walpole," and down in the left-hand
corner, "Surrey Hospital."

Sir Thomas turned the card over and over with a momentary feeling of
disappointment, for he had somehow fancied to himself that Harry had
gone off covering himself with glory among Zulus or Afghans, and he
couldn't help feeling that beside that romantic dream of soldierly
rehabilitation a plain doctor's life was absurdly prosaic. Next moment,
Harry himself was grasping his hand warmly, and prose and poetry were
alike forgotten in that one vivid all-absorbing delight of his boy
recovered.

As soon as the first flush of excitement was fairly over, and Harry had
cried regretfully, "Why, uncle, how much older you're looking!" and Sir
Thomas had exclaimed in his fatherly joy, "Why, Harry, my boy, what a
fine fellow you've turned out, God bless me!" Harry took a little bank
bag of sovereigns from his coat pocket and laid it down, very red, upon
the corner of the table. "These are yours, uncle," he said simply.

Sir Thomas's first impulse was to say, "No, no, my boy; keep them, keep
them, and let us forget all about it," but he checked himself just in
time, for he saw that the best thing all round was to take them quietly
and trouble poor Harry no more with the recollection. "Thank you, my
boy," the old soldier answered, taking them up and pocketing them as
though it were merely the repayment of an ordinary debt. ("The School
for the Orphan Children of Officers in the Army will be all the richer
for it," he thought to himself) "And now tell me, Harry, how have you
been living, and what have you been doing ever since I last saw you?"

"Uncle," Harry cried--he hadn't unlearnt to think of him and call him by
that fond old name, then--"uncle, I've been conquering myself. From the
day I left you I've never touched a card once--not once, uncle."

"Except, I suppose, for a quiet rubber?" the old Colonel put in softly.

"Not even for a rubber, uncle," Harry answered, half smiling; "nor a cue
nor a dice-box either, nor anything like them. I've determined to steer
clear of all the dangers that surround me by inheritance, and I'm not
going to begin again as long as I live, uncle."

"That's well, Harry, that's well. And you didn't go in for a direct
commission, then? I was in hopes, my boy, that you would still, in spite
of everything, go into the Queen's service."

Harry's face fell a little. "Uncle," he said, "I'm sorry to have
disappointed you; sorry to have been compelled to run counter to any
little ambitions you might have had for me in that respect; but I felt,
after all you told me that day, that the army would be a very dangerous
profession for me; and though I didn't want to be a coward and run away
from danger, I didn't want to be foolhardy and heedlessly expose myself
to it. So I thought on the whole it would be wiser for me to give up the
direct commission business altogether, and go in at once for being a
doctor. It was safer, and therefore better in the end both for me and
for you, uncle."

Sir Thomas took the young man's hand once more, and pressed it gently
with a fatherly pressure. "My boy," he said, "you are right, quite
right--a great deal more right, indeed, than I was. But how on earth
have you found money to keep yourself alive and pay for your education
all these years--tell me Harry?"

Harry's face flushed up again, this time with honest pride, as he
answered bravely, "I've earned enough by teaching and drawing to pay my
way the whole time, till I got qualified. I've been qualified now for
nine months, and got a post as house-surgeon at our hospital; but I've
waited to come and tell you till I'd saved up that money, you know, out
of my salary, and now I'm coming back to settle down in practice here,
uncle."

Sir Thomas said nothing, but he rose from his chair and took both
Harry's hands in his with tears. For a few minutes, he looked at him
tenderly and admiringly, then he said in his simple way, "God bless you!
God bless you! I couldn't have done it myself, my boy. I couldn't have
done it myself, Harry."

There was a minute's pause, and then Sir Thomas began again, "What a
secretive little girl that dear little Miss Milly must be, never to have
told me a word of all this, Harry. She kept as quiet about all details
as if she was sworn to the utmost secrecy."

Harry rose and opened the library door. "Milly!" he called out, and a
light little figure glided in from the drawing-room opposite.

"We expect to be married in three weeks, uncle--as soon as the banns can
be published," Harry went on, presenting his future wife as it were to
the Colonel. "Milly's money will just be enough for us to live upon
until I can scrape together a practice, and she has confidence enough
in me to believe that in the end I shall manage to get one."

Sir Thomas drew her down to his chair and kissed her forehead. "Milly,"
he said, softly, "you have chosen well. Harry, you have done wisely. I
shall have two children now instead of one. If you are to live near me I
shall be very happy. But, Harry, you have proved yourself well. Now you
must let me buy you a practice."

THE END.

_September_, 1886.