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LEISURE HOURS SERIES.
---------------------
THE SHIELD OF LOVE



BY
B. L. FARJEON



NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1891






COPYRIGHT, 1891,
BY
HENRY HOLT & CO.



THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,
RAHWAY, N. J.






CONTENTS.

CHAPTER
      I. In which some particulars are given of the Fox-Cordery
            family.
     II. Poor Cinderella.
    III. A family discussion.
     IV. Wherein Cinderella asserts herself.
      V. In which John Dixon informs Mr. Fox-Cordery
            that he has seen a ghost.
     VI. In which we make the acquaintance of Rathbeal.
    VII. Billy turns the corner.
   VIII. The gambler's confession.
     IX. Mr. Fox-Cordery is not easy in his mind.
      X. In which Mr. Fox-Cordery meets with a repulse.
     XI. Little Prue.
    XII. "DRIP--DRIP--DRIP!"
   XIII. In which Rathbeal makes a winning move.
    XIV. Do you remember Billy's last prayer?
     XV. Friends in Council.
    XVI. Mr. Fox-Cordery's master-stroke.
   XVII. Retribution.






THE SHIELD OF LOVE.




CHAPTER I.
In which some particulars are given of the Fox-Cordery Family.


This is not exactly a story of Cinderella, although a modern
Cinderella--of whom there are a great many more in our social life
than people wot of--plays her modest part therein; and the allusion to
one of the world's prettiest fairy-tales is apposite enough because
her Prince, an ordinary English gentleman prosaically named John
Dixon, was first drawn to her by the pity which stirs every honest
heart when innocence and helplessness are imposed upon. Pity became
presently sweetened by affection, and subsequently glorified by love,
which, at the opening of our story, awaited its little plot of
fresh-smelling earth to put forth its leaves, the healthy flourishing
of which has raised to the dignity of a heavenly poem that most
beautiful of all words, Home.

Her Christian name was Charlotte, her surname Fox-Cordery, and she had
a mother and a brother. These, from the time her likeness to
Cinderella commenced, comprised the household.

Had it occurred to a stranger who gazed for the first time upon Mr.
and Miss Fox-Cordery, as they sat in the living-room of the
Fox-Cordery establishment, that for some private reason the brother
and sister had dressed in each other's clothes, he might well have
been excused the fancy. It was not that the lady was so much like a
gentleman, but that the gentleman was so much like a lady; and a
closer inspection would certainly have caused the stranger to do
justice at least to Miss Fox-Cordery. She was the taller and stouter
of the twain, and yet not too tall or stout for grace and beauty of an
attractive kind. There was some color in her face, his was perfectly
pallid, bearing the peculiar hue observable in waxwork figures; her
eyes were black, his blue; her hair was brown, his sandy; and the
waxwork suggestion was strengthened by his whiskers and mustache,
which had a ludicrous air of having been stuck on. There was a
cheerful energy in her movements which was conspicuously absent in
his, and her voice had a musical ring in it, while his was languid and
deliberate. She was his junior by a good ten years, her age being
twenty-eight, but had he proclaimed himself no more than thirty, only
those who were better informed would have disputed the statement. When
men and women reach middle age the desire to appear younger than they
are is a pardonable weakness, and it was to the advantage of Mr.
Fox-Cordery that it was less difficult for him than for most of us to
maintain the harmless fiction.

This was not the only bubble which Mr. Fox-Cordery was ready to
encourage in order to deceive the world. His infantile face, his
appealing blue eyes, his smooth voice, were traps which brought many
unwary persons to grief. Nature plays numberless astonishing tricks,
but few more astonishing than that which rendered the contrast between
the outer and inner Mr. Fox-Cordery even more startling than that
which existed in the physical characteristics of this brother and
sister.

There were other contrasts which it may be as well to mention. As
brother and sister they were of equal social rank, but the equality
was not exhibited in their attire. Mr. Fox-Cordery would have been
judged to be a man of wealth, rich enough to afford himself all the
luxuries of life; Charlotte would have been judged a young woman who
had to struggle hard for a living, which, indeed, was not far from the
truth, for she was made to earn her bread and butter, if ever woman
was. Her clothing was common and coarse, and barely sufficient, the
length of her frock being more suitable to a girl of fifteen than to a
woman of twenty-eight. This was not altogether a drawback, for
Charlotte had shapely feet and ankles, but they would have been seen
to better advantage in neat boots or shoes than in the worn-out,
down-at-heels slippers she wore. Depend upon it she did not wear them
from choice, for every right-minded woman takes a proper pride in her
boots and shoes, and in her stockings, gloves, and hats. The slippers
worn at the present moment by Charlotte were the only available
coverings for her feet she had. True, there was a pair of boots in the
house which would fit no other feet than hers, but they were locked up
in her mother's wardrobe. Then her stockings. Those she had on were of
an exceedingly rusty black, and had been darned and darned till
scarcely a vestige of their original self remained. Another and a
better pair she ought to have had the right to call her own, and these
were in the house, keeping company with her boots. In her poorly
furnished bedroom you would have searched in vain for hat or gloves;
these were likewise under lock and key, with a decent frock and mantle
she was allowed to wear on special occasions, at the will of her
taskmasters. So that she was considerably worse off in these respects
than many a poor woman who lives with her husband and children in a
garret.

But for all this Charlotte was a pleasant picture to gaze upon, albeit
just now her features wore rather a grave expression. She had not an
ornament on her person, not a brooch or a ring, but her hair was
luxuriant and abundant, and was carefully brushed and coiled; her neck
was white, and her figure graceful; and though in a couple of years
she would be in her thirties, there was a youthfulness in her
appearance which can only be accounted for by her fortunate
inheritance of a cheerful spirit, of which, drudge as she was, her
mother and her brother could not rob her.

This precious inheritance she derived from her father, who had
transmitted to her all that was spiritually best in his nature: and
nothing else. It was not because he did not love his daughter that she
was left unendowed, but because of a fatal delay in the disposition of
his world's goods. Procrastination may be likened to an air-gun
carrying a deadly bullet. Mr. Fox-Cordery, the younger, "took" after
his mother. Occasionally in life these discrepant characteristics are
found grouped together in one family, the founders of which, by some
strange chance, have become united, instead of flying from each other,
as do certain violently antagonistic chemicals when an attempt is made
to unite them in a friendly partnership. The human repulsion occurs
afterward, when it is too late to repair the evil. If marriages are
made in heaven, as some foolish people are in the habit of asserting,
heaven owes poor mortality a debt it can never repay.

Far different from Charlotte's was Mr. Fox-Cordery's appearance. As to
attire it was resplendent and magnificent, if these terms may be
applied to a mortal of such small proportions. He was excruciatingly
careful in the combing and brushing of his hair, but in the effect
produced he could not reach her point of excellence, and this drawback
he inwardly construed into a wrong inflicted upon him by her. He often
struck a mental balance after this fashion, and brought unsuspecting
persons in his debt. Moreover, he would have liked to change skins
with her, and give her his waxy hue for her pearly whiteness. Could
the exchange have been effected by force he would have had it done. At
an early stage of manhood he had been at great pains to impart an
upward curly twist to his little mustache, in the hope of acquiring a
military air, but the attempt was not successful, and his barber,
after long travail, had given it up in despair, and had advised him to
train his mustache in the way it was inclined to go.

"Let it droop, sir," said the barber, "it will look beautiful so.
There's a sentiment in a drooping mustache that always attracts the
sex."

The argument was irresistible, and Mr. Fox-Cordery's little mustache
was allowed to droop and to grow long; and it certainly did impart to
his countenance a dreaminess of expression which its wearer regarded
as a partial compensation for the disappointment of his young
ambition. No man in the world ever bestowed more attention upon his
person, or took greater pains to make himself pleasing in the sight of
his fellow-creatures, than did Mr. Fox-Cordery; and this labor of love
was undertaken partly from vanity, partly from cunning. A good
appearance deceived the world; it put people off their guard; if you
wished to gain a point it was half the battle. He spent hours every
week with his tailor, the best in London, discussing fits and
fashions, trying on coats, vests, and trousers, ripping and unripping
to conquer a crease, and suggesting a little more padding here, and a
trifle less there. His hats and boots were marvels of polish, his
shirts and handkerchiefs of the finest texture, his neckties marvels,
his silk socks and underwear dainty and elegant, and his pins and,
rings would have passed muster with the most censorious of fashion's
votaries. He was spick and span from the crown of his head to the
soles of his feet. As he walked along the streets, picking his way
carefully, or sat in his chair with his small legs crossed, he was a
perfect little model of a man, in animated pallid waxwork. He
preferred to sit instead of stand; being long-waisted it gave
beholders a false impression of his height.

From his cradle he had been his mother's idol and his father's terror.
Mrs. Fox-Cordery ruled the roost, and her husband, preferring peace to
constant warfare, gave the reins into her hands, and allowed her to do
exactly as she pleased. This meant doing everything that would give
pleasure to the Fox-Cordery heir, who soon discovered his power and
made use of it to his own advantage. What a tyrant in the domestic
circle was the little mannikin! The choicest tidbits at meals, the
food he liked best, the coolest place in summer, and warmest in
winter, all were conceded to him. He tortured birds and cats openly,
and pinched servants on the sly. The good-tempered, cheerful-hearted
father used to gaze in wonder at his son, and speculate ruefully upon
the kind of man he was likely to grow into.

When young Fox-Cordery was near his eleventh birthday Charlotte was
born, and as the mother held the son to her heart, so did the father
hold the daughter to his. They became comrades, father and daughter on
one side, mother and son on the other, with no sympathies in common.
Mr. Fox-Cordery took his little daughter for long rides and walks,
told her fairy stories, and gave her country feasts; and it is hard to
say who enjoyed them most.

The introduction of Charlotte into young Fox-Cordery's life afforded
him new sources of delight. He pinched her on the sly as he pinched
the servants, he pulled her ears, he slapped her face, and the wonder
of it was that Charlotte never complained. Her patience and submission
did not soften him; he tyrannized over her the more. Hearing his
father say that Charlotte ought to have a doll, he said that he would
buy her one, and the father was pleased at this prompting of
affection. Obtaining a sum of money from his mother, young Fox-Cordery
put half of it into his pocket, and expended the other half in the
purchase of a doll with a woebegone visage, dressed in deep mourning.
Presenting it to his sister he explained that the doll had lost
everybody belonging to her, and was the most wretched and miserable
doll in existence.

"She will die soon," he said, "and then I will give you a coffin."

But the young villain's purpose was foiled by Charlotte's sweet
disposition. The poor doll, being alone in the world, needed sympathy
and consolation, and Charlotte wept over her, and kissed and fondled
her, and did everything in her power to make her forget her sorrows.
Eventually Charlotte's father suggested that the doll had been in
mourning long enough and he had her dressed like a bride, and restored
to joy and society; but this so enraged young Fox-Cordery that he got
up in the night and tore the bridal dress to shreds, and chopped the
doll into little pieces.

The fond companionship between Mr. Fox-Cordery and his daughter did
not last very long. Before Charlotte was seven years old her father
died. On his deathbed the thought occurred to him that his daughter
was unprovided for.

His will, made shortly after his marriage, when he was still in
ignorance of his wife's true character, left everything unreservedly
to her; and now, when he was passing into the valley of the Shadow of
Death, he trembled for his darling Charlotte's future. The illness by
which he was stricken down had been sudden and unexpected, and he had
not troubled to alter his will, being confident that many years of
life were before him. And now there was little time left. But he lived
still; he could repair the error; he yet could make provision for his
little girl. Lying helpless, almost speechless, on his bed, he
motioned to his wife, and made her understand that he wished to see
his lawyer. She understood more; she divined his purpose. She had read
the will, by which she would become the sole inheritor of his
fortune--she and her son, for all she had would be his. Should she
allow her beloved Fox to be robbed, and should she assist in
despoiling him? Her mind was quickly made up.

"I will send for the lawyer," she said to her husband.

"At once, at once!"

"Yes, at once."

A day passed.

"Has the lawyer come?" whispered the dying man to his wife.

"He was in the country when I wrote yesterday," she replied. "He
returns to-morrow morning, and will be here then."

"There must be no delay," said he.

His wife nodded, and bade him be easy in his mind.

"Excitement is bad for you," she said. "The lawyer is sure to come."

He knew that it would be dangerous for him to agitate himself, and he
fell asleep, holding the hand of his darling child. In the night he
awoke, and prayed for a few days of life, and that his senses would
not forsake him before the end came. His wife, awake in the adjoining
room, prayed also, but it will be charitable to draw a veil over her
during those silent hours.

Another day passed, and again he asked for his lawyer.

"He called," said his wife, "but you were asleep, and I would not have
you disturbed."

It was false; she had not written to the lawyer.

That night the dying man knew that his minutes were numbered, and that
he would not see another sunrise in this world. Speech had deserted
him; he was helpless, powerless. He looked piteously at his wife, who
would not admit any person into the room but herself, with the
exception of her children and the doctor. She answered his look with a
smile, and with false tenderness smoothed his pillow. The following
morning the doctor called again, and as he stood by the patient's
bedside observed him making some feeble signs which he could not
understand. Appealing to Mrs. Fox-Cordery, she interpreted the signs
to him.

"He wishes to know the worse," she said.

The doctor beckoned her out of the room, and told her she must prepare
for it.

"Soon?" she inquired, with her handkerchief to her dry eyes.

"Before midnight," he said gravely, and left her to her grief.

She did not deprive her husband of his last sad comfort; she brought
their daughter to him, and placed her by his side. Mrs. Fox-Cordery
remained in the room, watching the clock. "Before midnight, before
midnight," she whispered to herself a score of times.

The prince of the house, soon to be king, came to wish his father
farewell. There was not speck or spot upon the young man, who had been
from home all day, and had just returned. During this fatal illness he
had been very little with his father.

"What is the use of my sitting mum chance by his bedside?" he said to
his mother. "I can't do him any good; and I don't think he cares for
me much. All he thinks of is that brat."

Charlotte was the brat, and she gazed with large solemn eyes upon her
brother as he now entered the chamber of death. He was dressed in the
height of fashion, and he did not remove his gloves as he pressed his
father's clammy hand, and brushed with careless lips the forehead upon
which the dews of death were gathering. Then he wiped his mouth with
his perfumed handkerchief, and longed to get out of the room to smoke.
The father turned his dim eyes upon the fashionably attired young man,
standing there so neat and trim and fresh, as if newly turned out of a
bandbox, and from him to Charlotte in an old cotton dress, her hair in
disorder, and her face stained with tears. Maybe a premonition of his
little girl's future darkened his last moments, but he was too feeble
to express it. Needless to dwell upon the scene, pregnant and
suggestive as it was. The doctor's prediction was verified; when the
bells tolled the midnight hour Mr. Fox-Cordery had gone to his rest,
and Charlotte was friendless in her mother's house.




CHAPTER II.
Poor Cinderella.


Then commenced a new life for the girl; she became a drudge, and was
made to do servants' work, and to feel that there was no love for her
beneath the roof that sheltered her. She accepted the position
unmurmuringly, and slaved and toiled with a willing spirit. Early in
the morning, while her tyrants were snug abed, she was up and doing,
and though she never succeeded in pleasing them and was conscious that
she had done her best, she bore their scolding and fault-finding
without a word of remonstrance. They gave her no schooling, and yet
she learned to read and write, and to speak good English. There were
hidden forces in the girl which caused her to supply, by unwearying
industry, the deficiencies of her education. Hard as was her life she
had compensations, which sprang from the sweetness of her nature.

Her early acquaintance with errand boys and tradesmen's apprentices
led her into the path strewn with lowly flowers. She became familiar
with the struggles of the poor, and, sympathizing with them, she
performed many acts of kindness which brought happiness to her young
heart; and though from those who should have shown her affection she
received constant rebuffs, she was not soured by them.

The treatment she and her brother met with in the home in which they
each had an equal right, and should have had an equal share, was of a
painfully distinctive character. Nothing was good enough for him;
anything was good enough for her. Very well; she ministered to him
without repining. He and his mother took their pleasures together, and
Charlotte was never invited to join them, and never asked to be
invited. There was no interchange of confidences between them. They
had secrets which they kept from her; she had secrets which she kept
from them. Those shared by Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother savored of
meanness and trickery; Charlotte's were sweet and charitable. They did
not open their hearts to her because of the fear that she might rebel
against the injustice which was being inflicted upon her; she did not
open her heart to them because she felt that they would not sympathize
with her. They would have turned up their noses at the poor flowers
she cherished, and would have striven to pluck them from her--and,
indeed, the attempt was made, fortunately without success.

Charlotte's practical acquaintance with kitchen work, and the
economical spirit in which she was enjoined by her mother to carry out
her duties, taught her the value of scraps of food, a proper
understanding of which would do a great many worthy people no harm.
Recognizing that the smallest morsels could be turned to good account,
she allowed nothing to be thrown away or wasted. Even the crumbs would
furnish meals for birds, and they were garnered with affectionate
care. She was well repaid in winter and early spring for her kindness
to the feathered creatures, some of which she believed really grew to
know her, and it is a fact that none were frightened of her. Many
pretty little episodes grew out of this association which was the
cause of genuine pleasure to Charlotte, and she discovered in these
lowly ways of life treasures which such lofty people as her mother and
brother never dreamed of. If she had authority nowhere else in her
home she had some in the kitchen, so every scrap of food was looked
after, collected, and given to pensioners who were truly grateful for
them. These pensioners were all small children, waifs of the gutters,
of whom there are shoals in every great city. Thus it will be seen
that the position assigned to Charlotte by her mother and brother
ennobled and enriched her spiritually; it brought into play her best
and sweetest qualities.

Her charities were dispensed with forethought and wisdom, and Mr.
Fox-Cordery took no greater pains in the adornment of his person than
Charlotte did to make her scraps of food palatable to the stomachs of
her little pensioners. With half an onion, nicely shredded, and the
end of a stray carrot, she produced of these scraps a stew which did
her infinite credit as a cook of odds and ends; and it was a sight
worth seeing to watch her preparing such a savory meal for the
bare-footed youngsters who came at nightfall to the kitchen entrance
of her home.

When these proceedings were discovered by her mother she was ordered
to discontinue them, but in this one instance she showed a spirit of
rebellion, and maintained her right to give away the leavings instead
of throwing them into the dustbin. That she was allowed to have her
way was perhaps the only concession made to her in her servitude.

For an offense of another kind, however, she was made to pay dearly.

She obtained permission one evening to go out for a walk, an hour to
the minute being allowed her. On these occasions, which were rare, she
always chose the poorer thoroughfares for her rambles, and as she now
strolled through a narrow street she came upon a woman, with a baby in
her arms, sitting on a doorstep. Pity for the wan face, of which she
caught just one glance, caused Charlotte to stop and speak to the
woman. The poor creature was in the last stage of want and
destitution, and Charlotte's heart bled as she listened to the tale of
woe. The wail of the hungry babe sent a shiver through the
sympathizing girl. She could not bear to leave the sufferers, and yet
what good could be done by remaining? She had not a penny to give
them. Charlotte never had any money of her own, it being part of the
system by which her life was ruled to keep her absolutely penniless.
She learned from the poor woman that every article of clothing she
possessed that could with decency be dispensed with had found its way
to the pawn-shop.

"See," said the wretched creature, raising her ragged frock.

It was all there was on her body.

The pitiful revelation inspired Charlotte. She had on a flannel and a
cotton petticoat. Stepping aside into the shadow of an open door she
loosened the strings of her petticoats, and they slipped to the
ground.

"Take these," said the young girl, and ran home as fast as she could.

She was a few minutes behind her time, and her mother was on the watch
for her. Upon Charlotte making her appearance she was informed that
she would never be allowed out again, and she stood quietly by without
uttering a word of expostulation. The scene ended by Charlotte being
ordered instantly to bed, and to secure obedience Mrs. Fox-Cordery
accompanied her daughter to her bedroom. There, on undressing, the
loss of the two petticoats was discovered. Mrs. Fox-Cordery demanded
an explanation and it was given to her, and the result was that every
article of Charlotte's clothing was taken from her room, and locked in
her mother's wardrobe. There was not so much as a lace or a piece of
tape left. But, stripped as she was of every possession, Charlotte, as
she lay in the darkness and silence of her dark room, was not sorry
for her charitable deed. She thought of the poor woman and her babe,
and was glad that they had something to eat; and she was sure, if the
same thing occurred again, that she would act as she had already done.

The next morning early, Mrs. Fox-Cordery unlocked the door of her
daughter's bedroom, and entered with a bundle of clothes in her arms.
Though it was imperative that Charlotte should be punished for her bad
behavior, there was work in the kitchen to do, and the girl was not to
be allowed to dawdle all day in bed because she had misconducted
herself. That would be a reward, not a punishment.

"Your brother and I have been talking about you," said Mrs.
Fox-Cordery. "He is shocked at your behavior. If you have the least
sense of what is right you will beg him to forgive you."

"Why should I do that?" asked Charlotte, pondering a little upon the
problem presented to her. "I have not hurt him in any way."

"Did you not hear me say," exclaimed Mrs. Fox-Cordery, frowning, "that
he is shocked at your behavior? Is that not hurting him?"

"Not that I can see, mother," replied Charlotte. "I cannot help it if
he looks upon what I have done in a wrong light."

"In a wrong light, Miss Impertinence!" cried Mrs. Fox-Cordery. "The
view your brother takes of a thing is always right."

"If you will give me my clothes," said Charlotte, with pardonable
evasion, "I will get up."

"You will get up when I order you, and not before. I am speaking to
you by your brother's instructions, and we will have this matter out,
once and for all."

Charlotte lay silent. It did not appear to her that she had anything
to defend, and she instinctively felt that the most prudent course was
to say as little as possible.

"Will you tell your brother that you are sorry for what you have done,
or shall I?"

"I am not sorry, mother."

Mrs. Fox-Cordery was rather staggered by this reply.

"There is an absence of moral perception in you," she said severely,
"that will lead to bad results. If you were not my daughter I should
call in a policeman."

Charlotte opened her eyes wide, and she shivered slightly. She was
neither a theorist nor a logician; she never debated with herself
whether a contemplated action was right or wrong; she simply did what
her nature guided her to do. A policeman in her eyes was a
blue-frocked, helmeted creature who held unknown terrors in his hand,
which he meted out to those who had been guilty of some dreadful
action. Of what dreadful action had she been guilty that her mother
should drag a policeman into the conversation? It was this reflection
that caused her to shiver.

"You gave away last night," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery, regarding the
symptom of fear with satisfaction, "what did not belong to you."

"My clothes are my own," pleaded Charlotte.

"They are not your own. They represent property, and every description
of property in this family belongs to me and to your brother. The
clothes you wear are lent to you for the time being, and by disposing
of them as you have done you have committed a theft. You are sharp
enough, I presume, to know what a theft is."

"Yes," said Charlotte. Monstrous as was the proposition, she was
unable to advance any argument in confutation.

"That we do not punish you as you deserve," pursued Mrs. Fox-Cordery,
"is entirely due to your brother's mercy. We will take care that you
do not repeat the offense. Such clothes as you are permitted to wear
will be given to you as occasion requires; and everything will be
marked in my name--you shall do the marking yourself--in proof that
nothing belongs to you. Dress yourself now, and go to your work."

"Mother," said Charlotte, getting out of bed, opening her little chest
of drawers, and looking round the room, "you have taken everything
away from me."

"Yes, everything."

"But something is mine, mother."

"Nothing is yours."

"Father gave me his picture; let me have that back."

"You will have nothing back. We will see how you behave in the future,
and you will be treated accordingly. Before you go downstairs pray for
a more thankful heart, and for sufficient sense to make you appreciate
our goodness. Have you any message to send to your brother?"

"No, mother."

"As I supposed. It is a mystery to me how I ever came to have such a
child."

Charlotte said her prayers before she left her bedroom; her father had
taught her to do so, night and morning; but she did not pray for a
more thankful heart, nor for sense to make her appreciative of the
goodness of the family tyrants. Perhaps she was dull; perhaps she
failed to discover cause for gratitude; certain it is that she was
selfish enough to pray for her father's picture back, a prayer that
was never answered. And it is also certain that she had a wonderful
power of endurance, which enabled her to bear the heavy burden of
domestic tyranny, and even to be happy under it.

From that morning she was practically a prisoner in her home, and the
course of her daily life was measured out to her, as it were, from
hour to hour. And still she preserved her cheerfulness and sweetness
and snatched some gleams of sunshine from her gloomy surroundings.

A brighter gleam shone upon her when, a woman of twenty-five, she made
the acquaintance of John Dixon, who for twelve months or so came
regularly to the house on business of a confidential nature with Mr.
Fox-Cordery. This business connection was broken violently and
abruptly, but not before the star of love was shining in Charlotte's
heart; and when her lover was turned from the door she bade him
good-by with a smile, for she felt that he would be true to her
through weal or woe.




CHAPTER III.
A Family Discussion.


Charlotte sat at the window, darning stockings; Mr. Fox-Cordery sat at
the table killing flies.

There are more ways than one of killing flies, and there is something
to be said about the pastime on the score of taste. The method adopted
by Mr. Fox-Cordery  was peculiar and original. He had before him a
tumbler and a bottle, and he was smoking a cigar. The tumbler was
inverted, and into it the operator had inveigled a large number of
flies, which he stupefied with smoke. The cigar he was smoking was a
particularly fragrant one, and the flies could not therefore complain
that they were being shabbily treated. When they were rendered
completely helpless he transferred them to the bottle, taking the
greatest possible care to keep it corked after each fresh importation,
in order that the prisoners should not have the opportunity of
escaping in any chance moment of restored animation. By this means Mr.
Fox-Cordery had collected some hundreds of flies, whose dazed
flutterings and twitchings he watched with languorous interest, his
air being that of a man whose thoughts were running upon other matters
almost, if not quite, as important as this. He continued at his
occupation until the tumbler was empty and the bottle nearly full; and
then he threw the stump of his cigar out of window, and, with a smart
wrench at the cork, put the bottle on the mantelshelf. He rose, and
stood beside his sister.

"Did Mr. Dixon give you no inkling of what he wanted to see me about?"
he asked, in his low, languid voice.

"None whatever," replied Charlotte, drawing the stocking she was
darning from her left hand, and stretching it this way and that, to
assure herself that the work was well done. They were her own
stockings she was mending, and Heaven knows how many times they had
gone through the process.

"And you did not inquire?"

"I did not inquire."

Some note in her voice struck Mr. Fox-Cordery as new and strange, and
he regarded her more attentively.

"The old affair, I suppose," he said maliciously.

"If you mean that Mr. Dixon has any intention of reopening the subject
with you," said Charlotte, laying aside the sorely-darned stocking and
taking up its fellow, "you are mistaken."

Perhaps the act of stooping had brought the blood to her face, for
there was a flush upon it when she lifted her head.

"It is not often that I am."

"Yet it may happen."

The flush in her face had died away, and she was now gravely attending
to her work.

Mr. Fox-Cordery pulled down the ends of his little silky mustache. "Be
careful how you address me, Charlotte. It is a long time since you and
Mr. Dixon met."

"No; we have seen each other several times this past year."

"You made no mention to me of these meetings."

"There was no reason why I should, Fox."

"Did you inform mother?"

"That is an unnecessary question. Had I informed her you would not
have remained in ignorance. Mother keeps nothing from you."

"You have grown into a particularly intelligent young woman," he said,
and added spitefully, "Well, not exactly a young woman----" pausing to
note the effect of the shot.

"I am twenty-eight," said Charlotte, in her usual tone, "and you, Fox,
will be forty soon."

Her shot told better than his. "We will not continue the
conversation," he said shortly.

"As you please, Fox."

He stepped to the fireplace, gave the bottle of flies a violent shake,
looked at Charlotte as if he would have liked to serve her the same,
and then resumed his place by the window, and drummed upon a pane.

"Mr. Dixon's visit here was a presumption. How dare he intrude himself
into this house?"

"Settle it when he calls again," said Charlotte. "He came to see you
upon some business or other."

"Which you insist upon concealing from me."

"Indeed I do not. I cannot tell you what I do not know."

"At three o'clock, you say?"

"Yes, at three o'clock."

"I will consider whether he shall be admitted. Don't move, Charlotte."

There was a fly on her hair, which he caught with a lightning sweep of
his hand. As he thrust his unfortunate prisoner into the bottle he
chuckled at the expression of disgust on Charlotte's face. The fly
disposed of, he said:

"Mother shall judge whether you are right or wrong."

"Don't put yourself to unnecessary trouble," said Charlotte. "I can
tell you beforehand how she will decide."

The entrance of Mrs. Fox-Cordery did not cause her to raise her head;
she proceeded with her darning, and awaited the attack of the combined
forces. A singular resemblance existed between mother and son. Her
face, like his, was of the hue of pallid wax, her eyes were blue, her
hair sandy, and she spoke in a low and languid voice. She held an open
letter in her hand.

"Here is a house that will suit you, my love," she said, holding out
the letter to him. "It faces the river; there is a nice piece of
meadow-land, and a lawn, and a garden with flowers and fruit trees. It
stands alone in its own grounds, and there is a little arm of the
river you may almost call your own, with a rustic bridge stretching to
the opposite bank. The terms are rather high, twelve guineas a week
for not less than three months, paid in advance, but I think we must
go and see it. I should say it is exactly the place to suit your
purpose."

Charlotte listened in wonder. This contemplated removal to a house
near the river was new to her--and what scheme was Fox engaged upon
that would be furthered by a proceeding so entirely novel? Mr.
Fox-Cordery put the letter in his pocket without reading it, and said
in a displeased tone:

"We will speak of it by and by."

Mrs. Fox-Cordery glanced sharply from her son to her daughter.

"Charlotte, what have you been doing to annoy Fox?"

"Nothing," replied Charlotte.

"She can prevaricate, you know, mother," observed Mr. Fox-Cordery
quietly.

"Of course she can prevaricate. Have we not had innumerable instances
of it?"

"I will finish my work in my own room," said Charlotte rising.

"Do not stir," commanded Mrs. Fox-Cordery, "till permission is given
you. Fox, my love, what has she done?"

"Mr. Dixon has paid a visit to Charlotte in this house."

"Impossible!"

"Fox has stated what is not correct," said Charlotte, resuming her
seat and her work. "Mr. Dixon called to see Fox."

"That is her version," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "She seeks to excuse
herself by throwing it upon me."

"Your conduct is disgraceful," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery to her daughter,
"and I am ashamed of you."

"I have done nothing disgraceful," retorted Charlotte, "and I am not
ashamed of myself."

Mrs. Fox-Cordery stared at her in astonishment, and Mr. Fox-Cordery
nodded his head two or three times, and said:

"You observe a change in Charlotte. There was a time when she would
not have dared to put her will in opposition to ours, but I think I
shall be found equal to my duty as master of this house. I do not say
I am perfect, but I know of what I am capable. I have had my crosses
and disappointments; I have had my sorrows. I have them still. Let us,
at least, have harmony in our home."

"Amen!" intoned Mrs. Fox-Cordery, with a reproachful look at
Charlotte.

"There is but one way," continued Mr. Fox-Cordery, "to secure this
harmony. By obedience to orders. I am the head of this house and
family, and I will not be thwarted or slighted."

"I will support you, my love," said his mother, "in all ways."

"I never for a moment doubted you, mother. We will not be uncharitable
to Charlotte; we will be, as we have ever been, tender and considerate
toward her. She inherits a family characteristic which she turns to a
wrong account. Tenacity is an excellent quality, but when it is in
alliance with intense selfishness, it is productive of great mischief.
I am not a hard man; my nature is tender and susceptible, and I am
easily led. Convince me that I am wrong in any impression I have
formed, and I yield instantly. I learn from Charlotte, mother, that
she has been in the habit of meeting Mr. Dixon during the last year in
a clandestine and secret manner."

Before Mrs. Fox-Cordery could express her horror at this revelation,
Charlotte interposed:

"Fox is misrepresenting me. What I told him was that Mr. Dixon and I
have seen each other several times. We have not met secretly or
clandestinely."

"You met without our knowledge or sanction," said Mr. Fox-Cordery,
"and it comes to the same thing."

"Quite the same thing," assented his mother.

"_I_ never equivocate," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, in his most amiable
tone, "_I_ am never evasive. When Mr. Dixon was on friendly terms with
us, he was admitted freely into our family circle, and was made
welcome. For reasons which I need not enter into I was compelled to
sunder all association with him, and to forbid him the house. You,
mother, knowing my character, will know whether I was justified or
not."

"Who should know you better than your mother?" said Mrs. Fox-Cordery
fondly. "I am not acquainted with your reasons, but I am satisfied
that they were just. Have you yet to learn, Charlotte, that your
brother is the soul of honor and justice?"

Mr. Fox-Cordery waited for Charlotte's indorsement, but she was
obstinately silent, and he proceeded:

"It would have been natural, in the attitude I was compelled to assume
toward Mr. Dixon, that every member of my family should have had
confidence in me, for I was working in their interest. Unfortunately,
it was not so; Charlotte stood aloof, probably because I had
discovered that a secret understanding existed between her and Mr.
Dixon."

"There was none," said Charlotte indignantly. "What was known to Mr.
Dixon and myself was known to you and mother. I see no reason to be
ashamed of the avowal that we loved each other."

"The avowal is coarse and indelicate," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery, with a
frown.

Mr. Fox-Cordery held out his hands, palms upward, as expressing, "What
can one expect of a person so wrong-headed as Charlotte?"

"I trust," said Charlotte, with a bright blush on her face, "that the
confession of an honest attachment is not a disgrace. You used to
speak in the highest terms of Mr. Dixon."

"We live to be deceived," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, sadly surveying the
ceiling, "to find our confidence abused. We create an ideal, and
discover, too late, that we have been worshiping a mask, the removal
of which sends a shudder through our"--he could not find the word he
wanted, so he added--"system."

His mother's eyes were fixed admiringly upon him, but there was no
admiration in Charlotte's face as, with her hand to her heart, she
said boldly:

"You are fond of using fine phrases, Fox, but I do not think you
believe in them."

"I am not to be deterred by insults from doing my duty," he replied.
"Mr. Dixon asked permission to pay his addresses to you, and, as your
natural guardians and protectors, we refused. That should have put an
end to the affair."

"I should be justified in asking you," said Charlotte, "whether you
think other persons have feelings as well as yourself. If I were to
interfere in your love matters I wonder what you would say."

"The cases are different," said Mr. Fox-Cordery pathetically. "I am a
man; you are a woman."

"Yes," said Charlotte, with bitterness, "I am a woman, and am
therefore expected to sacrifice myself. Have you finished, Fox?"

"There is only this to say. It is your mother's command, and mine,
that the intimacy between you and Mr. Dixon shall cease. We will not
allow it to continue."

He gave his mother a prompting glance.

"Your brother has expressed it correctly," she said. "We will not
receive Mr. Dixon into our family. He is an utterly objectionable
person, and we will have nothing to do with him. If you have a grain
of decent feeling in you, you will obey. Now you can go to your room."




CHAPTER IV.
Wherein Cinderella Asserts Herself.


CHARLOTTE rose, work in hand, and went toward the door, they following
her with their eyes, desiring her obedience and approving of it, and
yet curious to ascertain what was passing in her mind. For that she
was unusually stirred was evident from her manner, which was that of
one who had been beaten down all her life, and in whom the seeds of
rebellion were struggling to force themselves into light. Suddenly she
turned and faced them, and they saw in her eyes the spirit of a brave
resolve.

"You have spoken plainly to me," she said. "I must speak plainly to
you."

"Go to your room this instant," sternly said her mother.

That the hard cold voice should have given her fresh courage, was a
novel experience to them; generally it compelled obedience, but now it
had failed. It seemed, indeed, as if she had burst the bonds of
oppression which had held her fast for so many years.

"Not till I have said what I have to say, mother. It is something you
ought to hear." She paused a moment before she continued. "It is three
years ago this very day since we had our last conversation about Mr.
Dixon."

"Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Fox-Cordery, and would have expressed herself
more violently had not her son restrained her with a warning look,
which meant, "Let her go on; she will be sure to commit herself."

"Mr. Dixon was in the habit for some time of coming regularly to the
house, and his visits formed the pleasantest remembrances in my life,
with the exception of the happy years when my dear father was alive."

"Your dear father, indeed!" was Mrs. Fox-Cordery's scornful comment.

"From the date of my dear father's death," said Charlotte steadily;
she was speaking now calmly and resolutely, "Mr. Dixon is the only
gentleman who has shown me any consideration, and who has made me feel
that I have some claim to a higher position in this house than that of
a menial. I am ignorant of the nature of his business with Fox----"

"I will enlighten you," interposed Mr. Fox-Cordery; "he was in my
employ, a paid servant."

"He served you faithfully, I am sure; it is not in his nature to be
otherwise than faithful in all that he undertakes. He was received
here as an equal, and he treated me as such. Neither you nor my mother
ever did. I have no memory of one kind look I have received from
either of you; and it is hardly to be wondered at that I should have
felt grateful to the gentleman who spoke to me in a kind and gentle
voice, and who showed in his manner toward me that he regarded me as a
lady. He awoke within me a sense of self-respect which might have
slept till I was an old woman, whose life, since the death of my
father, had never been brightened by a ray of love. He awoke within
me, also, a sense of shame; and I saw how humiliating it was that I
should be dressed as I am dressed now, in clothes which a common
servant would be ashamed to wear. But I had no choice. You gave me
food, and you gave me nothing else, not even thanks. You pay your
servants wages; you might have paid me something so that I could have
bought clothes in which I should not feel degraded. I have not a
shilling I can call my own----"

"Don't stop me, Fox," cried Mrs. Fox-Cordery, thoroughly enraged; "I
must speak! You shameless creature, how dare you utter these
falsehoods? You have a beautiful gown, and a hat, and boots, and
everything a woman can wish for; and you stand there, and deny it to
my face!"

"I do deny it, mother. Are these things really mine? If they are, why
do you keep them locked up in your wardrobe, and why do you allow me
to wear them only when I go out with you, or when any particular
visitor comes to the house?"

"Because you are not fit to be trusted, you ungrateful child!"

"No, mother, it is not that. You allow me to put them on sometimes
because you cannot with decency allow me to be seen as I am. You
forget, mother; you have told me over and over again that the clothes
I wear--even those I have on now--are not my own, and are only lent to
me."

"And so they are. It was not your money that paid for them."

"It could not well have been, seeing I never had any. Will you give
them to me to-day, so that I may put them on, and not feel ashamed
when I look in the glass?"

"To enable you to go flaunting about, and disgracing yourself and us?
No, I will not."

"You are at your shifty tricks again, Charlotte," said Mr.
Fox-Cordery. "Finish with your Mr. Dixon."

"Yes, I will do so if you will let me. All the time he was visiting
here you said nothing to me to show you did not wish me to be intimate
with him."

"We were not aware of what was going on," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery.

"We concealed nothing from you. Three years ago he asked me to be his
wife. I answered gladly, yes, and wondered what he could see in me to
stoop so low."

"Upon my word!" ejaculated her mother. "And this from a Fox-Cordery!"

"He explained that he was not in good circumstances, and that I would
have to wait till he could furnish a home. I said that I would wait
for him all my life, and so we were engaged. Then he went from me to
you, Fox, and to mother, and asked for your consent."

"And it so happened," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "that it was the very day
on which I discovered that he was not fit to be trusted."

"He is above doing a dishonorable action," said Charlotte, with
generous warmth, "and whatever it was you discovered it was not to his
discredit."

"That is as good as saying," cried Mrs. Fox-Cordery, advancing a step
toward Charlotte, and would have advanced farther if her son had not
laid his hand upon her arm, "that the discovery your brother speaks of
was to _his_ discredit, and that it was _he_ who was guilty of a
dishonorable action. You shall be punished for making these
comparisons between your brother and such a creature as Mr. Dixon. My
dear Fox, have we not heard enough?"

"No," replied Mr. Fox-Cordery, smiling blandly upon his sister. "We
must not give Charlotte the opportunity of saying that she is unfairly
treated. Speak freely, Charlotte; you are unbosoming yourself to your
best friends. Do not be afraid. We will protect and take care of you.
Charlotte harbors none but the most affectionate feelings for us,
mother. If in a moment of excitement she says something that is not
exactly loving and dutiful, we will excuse her. She will be sorry for
it afterward, and that shall be her punishment. Go on, my dear."

"It is scarcely possible," said Charlotte, with a look of repugnance
at her brother, "that we can be always right, not even the best of us;
sometimes we are mistaken in our judgment, and Fox is when he speaks
harshly of Mr. Dixon."

"Convince me of it, my dear," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, nodding genially
at her, "and I will make the handsomest apology to him. I will have it
written out and illuminated, and he shall hang it, framed, in his
room. You cannot complain that I am unfair, after that."

"I was not present when Mr. Dixon spoke to you about our engagement,
but I heard high words pass between you."

"Listening at keyholes!" exclaimed Mrs. Fox-Cordery  scornfully. "What
next?"

"No, no, mother," expostulated Mr. Fox-Cordery; "be just. It was quite
natural that Charlotte should listen. Everybody would not have done
so, but then Charlotte is not everybody."

"My happiness was at stake," said Charlotte, "and I was anxious."

"You hear, mother. Charlotte was anxious."

"I was not eavesdropping," said Charlotte. "I was downstairs, and your
voices forced themselves upon me. Shortly afterward Mr. Dixon came
down and told me that there had been a disagreeable scene between you,
and that you would not listen to what he had to say about our
engagement. 'But I will not give you up,' he said, 'unless you turn
away from me.' I answered that it depended upon him, and that I should
be very unhappy if our engagement were broken. He said it should not
be broken, and that if I would remain true to him he would remain true
to me."

"It has a pastoral sound," observed Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Such charming
simplicity!"

"He suggested that, before he left the house, we should speak to you
together of an agreement we had entered into, and we came up to you.
You cannot have forgotten what passed at that interview."

"You were informed that we would not sanction the engagement."

"And Mr. Dixon, speaking for himself and for me, told you that we held
to it, and that we had agreed not to think seriously of marriage for
three years, during which time he hoped to so improve his position
that he would be able to make a home for me. We bound ourselves to
this in your presence, and Mr. Dixon said that he would not visit the
house without some strong inducement. He has not done so. When he
calls this afternoon you will learn why he has come now. During these
three years we have corresponded, and have met occasionally in the
streets, and have spoken together."

"I believe," remarked Mr. Fox-Cordery, "that servants and their young
men are in the habit of meeting in this way."

"I have been no better than a servant," retorted Charlotte, "and many
a poor girl has left service to enter into a happy marriage."

"As you are going to do?"

"I do not know. What I wish you and mother to understand is that the
three years have expired, and that we do not consider ourselves bound
to you any longer."

"Never in the whole course of my life," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery, "did I
listen to anything so unladylike and indelicate."

"What it is necessary for you to understand," said Mr. Fox-Cordery,
"is that Mr. Dixon will not be permitted to visit you here."

"He will not come to see me here."

"Where, then?"

"I prefer not to tell you."

"You have some idea of a place of meeting?"

"I have something better than an idea, Fox; I have almost a hope."

He repeated her words thoughtfully, "almost a hope," and fixed his
eyes upon her face; but he could not read there what he desired to
read.

"Have you given any consideration," he asked, "to your circumstances?
Do you think that any man would receive you--as you are?"

It was a cruel taunt, and she felt it.

"Yes, I have thought of it," she answered sadly, "and it is a deep
trouble to me. If I dared to make an appeal to you----"

"Make it," he said, during the pause that ensued.

"I am your sister, Fox. I have done nothing to disgrace you--nothing
of which I should be ashamed. If Mr. Dixon tells me he has a home
ready for me, how can I go to him--as I am?"

She looked down at her feet, she spread out her hands piteously, and
the tears started to her eyes.

"Well?"

"I think," she said, in an imploring tone, "if father could have seen
the future he would have made some provision for me, ever so little,
that would enable me to enter a home of my own in a creditable
manner."

"What is it, dear Charlotte, that you wish me to do for you?"

"Give me a little money, Fox, to buy a few decent clothes for myself."

"In other words," he said, "furnish you with the means to act in
direct opposition to our wishes, to what we are convinced is best for
your welfare."

"It is a hard way of expressing it, Fox."

"It is the correct way, Charlotte. I perceive that you are speaking
more humbly now. You are not so defiant. You recognize, after all,
that you cannot exactly do without us."

"You are my brother. Mother has only you and me."

"Your brother," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery, in a tone of relentless
severity, "has been a blessing to me. It is more than I can say of
you."

"I have worked hard, mother; I have had few pleasures; I have not cost
you much."

"You have cost us too much. We have been overindulgent to you, and in
return you insult your brother and set yourself in direct opposition
to us. When your father died he left his property wisely. He knew you
were not to be trusted; he knew that your ungrateful, willful nature
would bring irreparable mischief upon us if it were left uncontrolled.
He said as much to me. 'Charlotte will need a strong hand over her,'
he said, 'to prevent her bringing shame to your door.'"

"No, no, mother!"

"His very words. I have never repeated them to you because I wished to
spare your feelings. 'To prevent her bringing shame to your door. Keep
a strict watch over her for all your sakes.' We have done so in
fulfillment of our duty, and now it has come to this."

Mr. Fox-Cordery knew that these words had never been uttered by his
father, and that there was not a grain of truth in them, but he
thoroughly approved of the unworthy device. When he was working to
gain a point, there was no trick that was not justifiable in his eyes;
and although upon the present occasion he did not exhibit any
consciousness of his mother's duplicity, neither of them was deceived
by it or ashamed of it.

Charlotte was dismayed by this pretended voice from the grave. Was it
possible that it could be true? Had the words really been spoken by
the kind father who had left with her a cherished memory of kindness
and love? But her experience of her mother was of such a nature that
the doubt did not remain long to torture her. She swept it away; and
except for the brief period of pain it caused her, it passed, and left
no sting behind. She turned to her brother for a response to her
appeal.

"Is the hope you referred to," he asked, "the hope of getting money
out of me?"

"No," she replied.

"Oblige me by informing me what it is."

"Not till you answer me," she said firmly.

"Take your answer, then. You shall not have a farthing, not one
farthing. Now for your hope, please."

"Will nothing move you, Fox?"

"Nothing."

"You leave me no alternative; I must appeal elsewhere. I think I know
someone who will extend a helping hand to me. On the few occasions she
has been here, and on which you have allowed me to see her, she has
spoken to me with such unvarying kindness that I feel confident she
will assist me. She has a tender heart, I am sure, and she will feel
for me. I hope you will be happy with her; I hope it from my
heart----"

She was not allowed to finish. Her brother, striding forward, seized
her by the wrist so fiercely that she gave utterance to a cry of pain.
The next moment she released herself--not a difficult matter, for,
woman as she was, her strength exceeded his. Mr. Fox-Cordery had so
effectually schooled himself that he had an almost perfect command
over his features, and it was seldom that he was so forgetful as to
show the fury of his soul. Even now, when a tempest was raging within
him, there was little indication of it in his face, and but for the
glittering of his blue eyes there was no evidence of his agitation. In
a cold voice he said:

"No further subterfuge. Name the lady."

"Mrs. Grantham."

Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother exchanged glances.

"Do you mean," he asked, "that you would go to her and beg?"

"I would go to her," replied Charlotte, "and relate the story of my
life--of my outward and inward life, Fox--from beginning to end. If I
do, it will be you who drive me to it."

"We now fully realize, my dear mother," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, seating
himself and crossing his legs, "Charlotte's character. At length she
has revealed her true nature."

"I have nourished a serpent in my bosom," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery.

"She would destroy the hope of my life," continued Mr. Fox-Cordery;
"she would blight my happiness forever. Knowing that I love the lady
she has named, and that it is the one wish of my heart to make her my
wife, she would deliberately blacken my character with her lies, and,
under the pretense of a womanly appeal to that lady's feelings, would
do her best to wreck my future."

"If my cause is not a just one," said Charlotte, "no appeal of mine
will avail with Mrs. Grantham. God forbid that I should step between
you and her; but I have my future to look to, as you have yours, and I
am weary of the life I have led. A happier life is offered to me, and
I cannot relinquish it at your bidding without an effort. If I tamely
submitted to your will I should be unworthy of the gentleman who has
honored me with his love."

"We will leave that gentleman, as you call him, out of the question.
The contention lies between you and me, and I am free to confess that
you have the advantage of me. I am no match for you, Charlotte. You
are far too clever and cunning for me, and the feelings I entertain
for the lady whose name has been dragged into this unhappy discussion
place me at your mercy. I have made no secret of these feelings; I
have foolishly bared my breast to you and you tread upon it. I yield;
I hold out a flag of truce. You will give me time to consider your
proposition? It comes upon me as a surprise, you know. I was not
prepared for it."

"Yes, Fox, I will give you time," said Charlotte, somewhat bewildered
at finding herself master of the situation. She had not expected so
sudden a victory. "But there is one thing I wish you would ask mother
to do at once."

"What is it, Charlotte?"

"Let me have my clothes that are in her wardrobe. I am wretched and
miserable in these."

"You will give them to her, mother," said Mr. Fox-Cordery; and his
mother, taking the cue, replied:

"She can have them; I have only kept them in my room to take proper
care of them."

"There, Charlotte, you have nothing now to complain of."

"But you have not answered me yet, Fox," said Charlotte, resolved not
to lose sight of the main point.

"About the money you ask for? May I inquire if you are in a great
hurry to get married?"

"I am not in a great hurry, Fox," said Charlotte rather awkwardly. "It
rests with Mr. Dixon."

"What does he say about it?"

"He thinks we might get married in two or three months."

"There is no particular hurry, then; we have time before us to conquer
the repugnance we feel toward him. After all, it will make you happier
if you marry with our sanction."

"Much happier, Fox."

"Mother and I will talk over the matter together dispassionately, and
if we can bring ourselves to look upon him with friendly eyes we will
do so. That is fair speaking, is it not?"

"Yes," said Charlotte, hesitating a little, "I think so."

She was drifting from the advantageous position she had gained, and
she was weakly sensible of it; but her brother's manner was so
conciliatory, and her own desire for peace so strong, that she could
scarcely help herself.

"The money you require is not required immediately, and just now I am
rather embarrassed with calls upon me. You would not wish to injure me
financially, Charlotte?"

"No, Fox; indeed I would not."

"Everything will come right," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "In a month or two
I hope to set myself straight. Meanwhile, as we have agreed, we will
enter into a truce. There shall be no more unpleasantnesses between
us. We have had a family disagreement, that is all; I blow it away."
He made a motion with his lips, as though he were blowing away a
cloud. "So, for two months, we will say nothing more concerning the
affair. If you have had something to complain of in the past, it is
perhaps due to the anxieties by which I have been overwhelmed. You do
not know what a man's troubles are, fighting with the world and with
people who are trying to get the advantage of him. Be thankful that
you are a woman, and are spared these trials. You shall have nothing
to complain of in the future."

"Thank you, Fox."

"I have your promise, Charlotte, that the matter shall rest for two
months, when, no doubt, you will have everything you wish for."

"Yes, I promise," said Charlotte, feeling rather helpless.

"And you will say nothing to Mrs. Grantham about our little
disagreement till that time has expired, when there will be no
occasion whatever to humiliate yourself and us? That, of course, is
agreed."

"Yes, Fox."

"It is a sacred promise, mind."

"I have given it, and I will keep to it."

"Very well; we are good friends again, and always shall be. By the
way, Charlotte, I am going to take a house on the Thames for the
summer months."

"I heard mother mention it."

"Partly to give you some pleasure and relaxation. We will have
pleasant times there."

"I hope so, Fox."

"Mother," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, as if the idea had just occurred to
him, instead of having been in his mind for several weeks, "you might
invite Mrs. Grantham to pay us a visit there, and to remain with us a
little while. It will be company for Charlotte."

"I will write to-day if you wish, my love," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery,
responding to his suggestion immediately, as she always did. These two
perfectly understood each other.

"Not to-day, mother; we must wait till I have taken the house. The one
you spoke of will do capitally, if it answers to the description in
the letter. And, Charlotte, when mother writes to Mrs. Grantham, you
might write also, saying how glad you will be if she comes to us--a
nice letter, Charlotte, with as many pretty things in it as you can
think of. You see the confidence I place in you, my dear."

"I will write when you tell me, Fox. It will be a great pleasure to me
if she comes."

"That is what I want--to give you as much pleasure as possible. Now,
my dear, go to your room. I am very glad our little misunderstanding
has ended so amicably."

He smiled affection upon Charlotte, and she left mother and son
together. For a few moments there was silence--he chewing the cud of
savage reflection, she throbbing with affection for him and with anger
at her daughter's presumption.

"What made you so smooth with her, Fox?" asked Mrs. Fox-Cordery.

"It was the only way to muzzle her," he replied. "If she had done what
she threatened it would have ruined all."

"She would never have dared," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery.

"She would have dared, egged on by that scoundrel Dixon, and by her
love for him."

"Love!" muttered Mrs. Fox-Cordery, contemptuously.

"Or what she fancies is love; but I think she really loves the man,
and I know what love will dare."

"For Heaven's sake," exclaimed Mrs. Fox-Cordery, "don't institute
comparisons between you and her! She is not fit to black your shoes."

"She has polished them often enough," he remarked grimly; "but that is
coming to an end now. A good job; I'm sick of the sight of her; I'm
sick of myself; I'm sick of everything, and everybody."

"Not everybody, my love," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder
fondly.

He shook her off, and she did not murmur. They resembled each other
most wonderfully, but there was a marked difference in the quality of
their affection. She--cold, hard, and ungenerous to all but him--was
nobler than he, for she was ready and willing to sacrifice herself for
him. It had been so from his birth, and her love had grown into a
passion which nothing could affect, not even ingratitude and
indifference from the son she adored. In her eyes he was a paragon;
his vices were virtues, his meanness commendable, his trickery the
proof of an ingenious mind. He could do no wrong. Quick to discover
the least sign of turpitude in others, she discerned none in him; she
was morally blind to his defects, and the last thing she would have
believed him capable of was the Judas kiss.

Far different was it with him. He was conscious of all his mother's
faults, and he excused her for none. His absorbing vanity so clouded
his mind that it was only the baser qualities of those with whom he
was associated that forced themselves upon his attention, and these
being immediately accepted the door was closed upon the least
attribute which rendered them worthy of respect and esteem. His
chronic suspicion of his fellow-creatures did not spring from his
intellect, but from those lower conditions of the affections in which
the basest qualities of mankind occupy the prominent places.
Theophrastus says that the suspicious man imputes a fraudulent
intention to everyone with whom he has to do, and this was the case
with Mr. Fox-Cordery, who viewed his mother--the one being in the
world who, though he stood universally condemned and execrated,
would have shed the last drop of her blood in his defense and
vindication--in the same light as he viewed those who were as ready to
spurn him in the day of his prosperity as in the day of his downfall,
should such a day ever dawn upon him.

"Follow my lead," he said to his mother, "in your treatment of
Charlotte. She has declared war, and war it shall be, though she shall
not see it till the proper time. Just now she is necessary to me.
Strange as it may sound, her good word will be of assistance to me
with Mrs. Grantham. I cannot account for it, and I am not going to
trouble myself about it; the only thing that troubles me is that the
lady I have loved for so many years should still hold off, should
still refuse to speak the word that will make me happy. What am I
taking a country house for except to further the dearest wish of my
heart? I think of no one but her; I dream of no one but her. She was
snatched from me once, and I had to bear it; and then fortune declared
itself in my favor, and still I could not obtain the prize I have been
so long working for."

"You are a model of constancy, my love," said his mother,
affectionately and admiringly. "No woman in the world is good enough
for my dear son."

"Perhaps not, perhaps not," he muttered; "but I will die before I am
thwarted. When did I give up an object upon which I set my heart?
Never, and I will not give up this. Mark the hour that makes Mrs.
Grantham my wife, and you will see me a changed man. She shall be my
slave then, as I am hers now. During her visit to us I will conquer
her irresolution, her obstinacy. Let Charlotte understand that her
happiness depends upon mine; that will win her completely to my side.
I will be the most affectionate of brothers; you shall be the most
affectionate of mothers. Charlotte will say to herself, 'I have been
mistaken in them; it is I who have been at fault all these years.'
This will tell in my favor when she and Mrs. Grantham are talking
together confidentially. We rob her, you see, of her power of
detraction. You, I know, will do your best, and Charlotte shall do her
best instead of her worst. She has defied me; she shall be made to pay
for it. I have her promise for two months, and she is at my mercy. Do
you understand now why I was so smooth with her?"

"Yes, my love. Depend upon me to do everything in my power."

"Before those two months have gone Mrs. Grantham and I shall be man
and wife; and then, mother, Charlotte may go to the----"

"Exactly so, my love," said his mother.




CHAPTER V.
In which John Dixon informs Mr. Fox-Cordery
that he has seen a Ghost.


It is an article of belief that every Englishman's private residence
must include an apartment which, by a polite fiction, is denominated a
study. This apartment, which generally smells of musty bones, is, as a
rule, extremely small, extremely dark, and extremely useless. Dust
lies thick upon the shabby furniture, by reason of the housemaid never
being allowed to enter it with duster and broom; and the few volumes
on the shelves of the parody of a bookcase lean against each other at
a drunken angle, with a dissipated air of books that have lost all
respect for themselves. To add to the conspicuous cheerlessness of the
room, its one insufficient window looks out upon a dreary back wall, a
constant contemplation of which would be likely to drive a man's
thoughts in the direction of suicide. Provided with the necessary
cupboard, no more suitable hiding-place could be found for the
proverbial family skeleton, without which no well-regulated
establishment can be said to be complete.

Into such an apartment was John Dixon shown when he was informed that
Mr. Fox-Cordery would receive him.

This cold welcome was a sufficient indication that the master of the
house did not regard his visitor in the light of a friend; but, clear
as was the fact to John Dixon, it did not disturb him. With his
rubicund face, his bright eyes, and his genial manners, he presented
the appearance of a man not easily disturbed, of a man who accepted
the rubs of life with equanimity, and made the best of them. He was in
his prime, a well-built gentleman, with nothing particularly serious
on his conscience, and when Mr. Fox-Cordery entered the room the
advantage was on John Dixon's side, physically and morally.

They glanced at each other inquiringly, and with a certain curiosity,
for it was long since they had met face to face. Mr. Fox-Cordery was
disappointed; he had hoped to see signs of wear and tear in his old
friend, in the shape of crows'-feet, wrinkles, and gray hairs, but
none were visible. On the contrary, there was an assertion of robust
youth and good health about John Dixon which gave positive pain to Mr.
Fox-Cordery.

"Good-day, Fox," said John Dixon cordially.

Mr. Fox-Cordery did not respond to the salutation. Stiffening his
little body--an action which brought a broad smile to John Dixon's
lips--he said in his iciest tone:

"To what may I ascribe the----"

"The honor of this visit," broke in John Dixon heartily. "I'll come to
it soon. You don't seem comfortable, Fox."

"Whether I am comfortable or not," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, who would
have administered a dose of poison to his visitor with the greatest
pleasure in life, "cannot possibly concern or interest you."

"Oh! but I beg your pardon. Everything appertaining to Charlotte's
brother must concern and interest me. It stands to reason. We shall
one day be brothers-in-law. Brothers-in-law! Good Lord! Don't shift
your legs so, Fox. Keep still and straight, as you were a moment ago.
To a little man like you repose is invaluable."

"Your familiarity, Mr. Dixon----"

"Come, come," interrupted John Dixon, with a genial shake of his head;
"why not John? I shall not take offense at it."

"Have you paid me an unwelcome visit to force a quarrel upon me?"

"By no means. I know that my visit is an unwelcome one. You don't like
my company, Fox."

"Your room would be preferable."

"It is a treat to hear something honest from you. There, there, man,
don't fume! You can't alter me any more than I can alter you. What is
bred in the bone, you know. And let me tell you, Fox, you can't expect
to have everything your own way. Who plays at bowls must be prepared
for rubbers."

"Let me tell _you_, Mr. Dixon," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, becoming
suddenly calm, "that I will submit to none of your impertinence."

He was about to continue in this strain when he suddenly recollected
that he had assumed a new attitude toward Charlotte, and that, if her
lover represented to her that he had been insulted by him, it might
interfere with his plans. It was advisable, therefore, that not a word
that passed at the present interview should reach Charlotte's ears,
and he saw a way to compass this. Changing front instantly, he said
slyly:

"I should like to know if we are speaking in confidence?"

"In strict confidence," said John Dixon readily. "For your sake, Fox,
not for mine."

"Never mind for whose sake. You have your opinions, I have mine. I
take your word, and shall be outspoken with you. You had the
presumption to pay a visit to my sister this morning----"

"No, no, Fox, to you; though I must confess I was delighted to see
her, and have a chat with her."

"It was for that purpose you came. As we have met in perfect
confidence, and as nothing that we say to each other will be repeated
by either of us outside this room--that is a perfectly honorable
engagement, is it not?"

"It is on my side," said John Dixon gravely.

"I have bound myself, Mr. Dixon, and am therefore free to warn you
that you must cease from persecuting Charlotte with your addresses. I
speak in her name."

"Not true, Fox; you speak in your own. Why, if she herself uttered
those words to me I should not believe they came from her heart; I
should know that you forced her to speak them. But there is no fear of
anything of that sort occurring. Charlotte and I understand each
other; and, oppressed and ground down as she has been in your house,
she has a higher courage than you give her credit for. I am proud of
having won her love, and I will make her a happy woman, as truly as I
stand here. However, it is not to tell you what you already know that
I have come to see you; it is for a different reason altogether."

"You speak defiantly, Mr. Dixon. It is not the way to conciliate me."

"Conciliate you! I am not such an ass as to try. I will try my own
way. If I can manage it, you shall fear me."

"If you can manage it!" said Mr. Fox-Cordery, a little uneasy at his
visitor's confident tone. "Yes, if you can manage it. I should imagine
you will find it a difficult task. If you think you can frighten me by
your bullying you are mistaken."

"Oh! I don't want to frighten you. I am going to play my cards openly,
knowing perfectly well that you will not expose one of yours. Shall we
proceed to business?"

"Say what you have to say," exclaimed Mr. Fox-Cordery  blandly, "and
the devil take you!"

John Dixon laughed.

"When you speak softly, Fox, you are most deadly. It was just the same
when you, I, and Robert Grantham were at school together in the
country. Poor Bob! What a careless, reckless, generous fellow he was!
What a tool he was in your hands, and how you worked him and played
upon him!"

"You lie," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, in a passionless voice.

Few persons acquainted with him would have suspected how deeply he was
agitated by this reference to his old schoolmate.

"The scapegoat of the school," proceeded John Dixon, as if Mr.
Fox-Cordery had not spoken. "As easily led as a fly in harness. We
three were differently circumstanced. My people were poor, and could
allow me very little pocket-money; Bob Grantham's people were rich,
and he had a liberal supply. What your people allowed you no one knew.
You kept your affairs very secret, Fox; you were always a sly, vain,
cautious customer. Poor Bob was the soul of frankness; he made no
secret of anything, not even of his weaknesses, which he laughed at as
freely as some others did. Regularly every fourth Monday his foolish
people sent him ten pounds, and quite as regularly on the very next
day he had not a penny of his ten pounds left. Where did his money go
to? Who, in the course of a few short hours, had got hold of it? Some
said he gave it away to any poor man or woman he happened to meet.
Some said he chucked it into the pond out of dare-devilry. When he was
questioned, he turned it off with a laugh. You used to be asked about
it, and you used to answer, 'How should I know?' It was a mystery, and
Bob never blabbed--nor did you, Fox!"

"How could I supply information," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "upon a matter
so mysterious; and what is the meaning of all this rhodomontade?"

"I suppose," continued John Dixon, still as if Mr. Fox-Cordery had not
spoken, "that most boys set up for themselves a code of honor which
they stick to, more or less, according to their idea of things. I
remember I did; I am quite sure poor Bob Grantham did; I don't know
whether you did, because you were so secretive, so very secretive. I
leave you out, Fox, for a cogent reason. I guess, as our American
cousins say, you are not in it when I speak of honor; and in making
this observation you will perceive that I have no desire to conciliate
you or to win your favor. Now, old fellow, there were only three boys
in the whole of that school--and there were thirty-five of us--who
knew what became of Bob Grantham's money."

"Three persons!"

"Just three persons, and no more. The first was poor Bob himself, the
second was Fox-Cordery, the third was John Dixon."

"Indeed! You?"

"I, on the honor of a gentleman."

Mr. Fox-Cordery's lips curled in derision as he remarked:

"No man in the world would give you the credit of being one. And pray,
where did Mr. Grantham's money go to?"

"Into your pockets, Fox, as regularly as a clockwork machine."

"A precious secret, truly," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, flicking a speck of
dust off his sleeve, "and a most valuable one for you to have
preserved all these years. I presume if a man, or a schoolboy, is weak
enough to lend his money he has a right to receive it back."

"An indubitable right; but in this case there is no question of
borrowing and paying back. Would you like to hear how I came into a
knowledge of this mystery?"

"I have no desire; it is quite immaterial to me."

"It was an accidental discovery. You and Bob Grantham were bosom
friends. It was touching to observe how deeply attached you were to
him; and, in these circumstances, any friendship he formed being on
his part sincere, it was natural that you should be much in each
other's society. Now, it was noticeable that every fourth Monday
evening you and he disappeared for an hour or two, and it was for this
reason that you used to be asked what Bob Grantham did with the ten
pounds he received regularly on that day. On one of these Monday
evenings I happened to be taking a lonely walk in a pretty bit of
forest about two miles from the schoolhouse. There was a nook in the
forest which was very secluded, and one had to go out of one's way to
get to it. I went out of my way on that particular Monday evening, not
because I wanted to reach this secluded nook, because I did not know
of it, but aimlessly and without any special purpose. I heard voices,
and peeping through a cluster of trees, I saw you and Bob sitting on
the grass, playing cards. A white handkerchief was spread between you,
and on this handkerchief were the stakes you were playing for--Bob's
money and your own. I waited, and observed. Sovereign after sovereign
went into your pocket. You were quiet, and cool, and bland, as you are
now, though I dare say something is passing inside of you. What a rare
power you have of concealing your feelings, Fox! Some people might
envy you; I don't. Bob Grantham, all the time he was losing, laughed
and joked, and bore his losses like a man; and he kept on losing till
he was cleaned out. Then he rose, and laughingly said: 'You will give
me my revenge, Fox?' 'When you like, old fellow,' you answered; 'what
bad luck you have.' 'Oh, it will turn,' he said; 'all you've got to do
is to stick to it.' That is how I discovered where poor Bob's money
went to, Fox."

"Well, and what of it?" said Mr. Fox-Cordery, with a sneer. "He was
fond of a game of cards, and he played and lost. That there was
nothing wrong in it was proved by your silence. And that is what you
have come here to-day to tell me! You are a fool for your pains, John
Dixon."

"I was silent," said John Dixon, "because Bob pledged me to secrecy.
My intention was to expose you to the whole school, and so put an end
to--what shall we call it? Robbery?"

"You would not dare to make that charge against me in public. There
are no witnesses present, and you, therefore, know you are protected
against an action for libel."

"You are losing sight of your compact of silence, Fox. Tiled in as we
are, we can call each other what names we please, and there is no
obligation upon us to be choice in our language. Pull yourself
together, my little man; I have no desire to take you at a
disadvantage. What do you say, now, to our agreeing that this meeting
shall not be confidential, and that when we part we shall each of us
be free to reveal what passes?"

"My word once given," replied Mr. Fox-Cordery, putting on his loftiest
air, "I never depart from it."

"For all that," said John Dixon, "I will give you the opportunity of
challenging me in public, and of seeing whether I will not give you
the chance of bringing an action for libel against me. Having made up
my mind what to do I considered it right to tell Bob of my intention.
He turned white with anger; he called me a treacherous dog; he said
that I had sneaked my way into a secret which had nothing whatever to
do with me, and that I should be playing a base part by revealing it.
We had some warm words about you, Fox, and he defended you tooth and
nail. Upon my word, after our quarrel I had a greater admiration for
poor Bob than ever. The end of it was that he bound me down, upon
honor, to keep the secret from any but our three selves, and that is
why it never leaked out."

"Mr. Grantham had his good points," observed Mr. Fox-Cordery; "there
was something of the gentleman in him; that is why I chummed with him.
May I inquire how it was that, entertaining such an opinion of me,
you, a good many years after we all left school, accepted the offer of
employment I made you--which never would have been made, I need hardly
say, if I had known you then as I know you now?"

"I was down in the world; things had gone badly with me, and it was
necessary for me to get something to do without delay. You are aware
that I have an old mother to support: and when needs must--I need not
finish the old saying. When, meeting by chance, as we did, you made me
the offer, I did not tell you I was in low water, or you would have
screwed me down without mercy. I intended to remain with you only long
enough to save a few pounds, but getting to know Charlotte, and
growing fond of her, I could not tear myself away from her. I will
continue the story of poor Bob. The discovery I made did not alter
things in the least; it rather improved them for you. Bob and you
became more and more attached to each other, and you left school firm
friends. I never could understand what he saw in you, but you have the
faculty of inspiring confidence in some people--worse luck for them in
the long run."

"I am waiting for your insults to come to an end," said Mr.
Fox-Cordery, "and to have the pleasure of hearing the street door
close on you."

"All in good time, Fox; I told you I should not try conciliatory
methods. Our school-days over, we lost sight of each other, that is to
say, I lost sight of you and Bob, and what I have now to speak of has
come to my knowledge in various ways. After leaving school a series of
family adventures befell Robert Grantham. His parents died, his elder
brother died, a rich uncle died, and to Bob's share fell a larger
fortune than he expected to inherit. His good luck must have
bewildered him, for he appointed you his agent. The next point of
interest to touch upon is the introduction of a lady in your lives.
Her maiden name, Lucy Sutherland. Correct me if I am making any
misstatement."

"I decline to make myself responsible for any statement of yours,
whether it be correct or otherwise. Your introduction of this lady's
name is a gross impertinence."

"Not at all; it belongs to the story, which, without it, is
incomplete. I have not the pleasure of this lady's acquaintance, and,
to my knowledge, have never seen her, but I have heard of her, through
you and Charlotte."

"Through me!"

"To be sure," continued John Dixon, "you never mentioned her to me by
that name, but by the name she now bears, Mrs. Grantham. Probably you
would never have mentioned her to me at all had it not been that she
was concerned in the business you set me to do during my service with
you. You had the management of her financial affairs, as you had the
management of her husband's. But I am running ahead of my story. As a
maiden lady she had many suitors, which is not to be wondered at, for
though she had terrible anxieties and trials she is still, as I learn
from Charlotte, very beautiful, and as good as she is beautiful. I
trust Charlotte's judgment in this as in all things. Only two of these
suitors for her hand did Miss Sutherland smile upon. One was poor Bob
Grantham, the other yourself. But you did not hold an equal place in
her regard. She smiled upon poor Bob because she loved him, she smiled
upon you because you were the bosom friend of the gentleman she loved.
Into the sincerity of your feelings for her I do not inquire; I pass
over what does not concern me, and I come to the commencement of an
important chapter in this lady's life, which opens with her marriage
with Robert Grantham."

"You pass over what does not concern you," said Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"What, then, is your object in dragging the lady's name into the
conversation?"

"You will learn presently. The chapter opens brightly, but we have
only to turn a leaf and we see clouds gathering. Mark you; from all I
can gather these two loved each other with a very perfect love; but
poor Bob had one besetting vice which darkened his life and hers, and
which eventually ruined both. He was an inveterate gamester. The seeds
of this vice, which you helped to nourish in our school days, were
firmly implanted in him when he grew to manhood. He was, as I have
already said, weak, and easily led, and no doubt the harpies who are
always on the watch for such as he encouraged him and fattened upon
him. He had not the strength to withstand temptation, and he fell
lower and lower. Observe, Fox, that in the narration of the story I am
merely giving you a plain recital of facts."

"Or what you suppose to be facts," interrupted Mr. Fox-Cordery.

"A plain recital of facts," repeated John Dixon, "the truth of which
can be substantiated. I do not ask you whether you took a hand in poor
Bob's ruin, and profited by it. That some harpies did is not to be
doubted, because in the end poor Bob lost every penny of his fortune,
which all found its way into their pockets, as the weak schoolboy's
ten pounds found their way regularly every month into yours. I do not
seek to excuse poor Bob; there is a thin line which separates weakness
and folly from sin, and Bob was one of the many who stepped over this
line. I have reflected deeply upon his wretched history. Knowing the
goodness of his heart and the sweetness of his disposition, I have
wondered how he could have been so blind as not to see that he was
breaking the heart of the woman he loved and had sworn to protect; her
nature must also have been one of rare goodness that she did not force
it upon him, that she did not take the strongest means to show him the
miserable pit he was digging for them. I have wondered, too, how,
through another influence than that of his wife, he himself should not
have awakened from his fatal infatuation. They had a child, a little
girl, and his instinctive tenderness for children should have stepped
in to save him. I am not myself a gambler, and I cannot realize the
complete power which the vice obtains over a man's moral perception,
sapping all that is noble and worthy in him, and destroying all the
finer instincts of his nature. Happily Mrs. Grantham had a fortune in
her own right over which her husband had no control; some portion of
it went, I believe, to save him from disgrace--and then the end came.
I have related the story in its broad outlines; there must have been
scenes of agony between husband and wife of which I know nothing, but
it is not difficult to imagine them. During the whole of these
miserable years, Fox, you remained the close friend and associate of
this unhappy couple, and you know what the end of it was."

"What I know I know," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and I do not propose to
enlist you in my confidence."

"I do not ask you to do so. It was probably during these years that
Mrs. Grantham learned to rely upon you and to trust to your counsel
and judgment. You have maintained your position to this day."

"Well?"

"In the course of the business I transacted for you I became somewhat
familiar with Mrs. Grantham's pecuniary affairs. You are, in a certain
sense, her trustee and guardian; you have the management of her little
fortune; it was partly with respect to the investments you made for
her that we severed our connection."

"That I dismissed you from my service," corrected Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"You had the presumption to suppose that you had the right to
interfere in my management. I opened your eyes to your position, and
sent you packing."

"As it suited me to accept employment when you offered it to me, so it
suited me to leave your service at the time I did. A better situation
was open to me, with the prospect of a future partnership. On the day
I left you I went to my new situation, and have been in it ever since.
In a short time I shall become a partner in the firm of Paxton and
Freshfield, solicitors, Bedford Row."

"It is not of the slightest interest to me, Mr. Dixon, whether you
become a partner in this firm or go to the dogs. I can forecast which
of the two is the more likely."

"Had you the disposition of my future I know pretty well what it would
be; but I promise you disappointment. Although you take no interest in
the circumstances of my becoming a partner in Paxton and Freshfield I
will leave our address with you, in case you may wish to consult me."

He laid a card upon the table, of which Mr. Fox-Cordery  took no
notice.

"This, then," he said, "is the reason of your intrusion. To solicit my
patronage? You would have made a good commercial traveler."

"You are miles from the truth. I do not think we would undertake your
business. I leave my card for private, not for professional reasons.
What I have stated to you leads directly to the object of my visit. I
have hitherto asked you no questions; perhaps you will not object to
my asking you one or two now?"

"Say what you please. I can answer or not, at my discretion."

"Entirely so; and pray take it from me that I am not here in a
professional capacity, but solely as a private individual who will
certainly at no distant date be a member of your family, whether you
like it or not; or," he added, with a slight laugh, "whether I like it
or not. In conveying to you my regret that I shall have a relationship
thrust upon me which I would very gladly dispense with, my reference
is not to Charlotte. A relationship to you, apart from other
considerations, is no credit; but, so far as Charlotte and I are
concerned, I would prefer it without the additional drawback of a
public scandal. Many singular pieces of business fall into the hands
of Paxton and Freshfield. One of such a nature came into the office a
short time since, but it was not brought before my notice till to-day.
Have you seen the _Times_ this morning?"

"I decline to answer idle questions."

"Whether you have seen it or not, an advertisement in its personal
columns has certainly escaped your attention, or you would not have
met this particular question so calmly. The advertisement, as you will
see--I have brought the paper with me--was inserted by my firm. It
will interest you to read it."

He took the _Times_ from his pocket, and offered it to Mr.
Fox-Cordery, pointing to the advertisement of which he spoke; Mr.
Fox-Cordery hesitated a moment, and then, paper in hand, stepped to
the dusty window, and read the advertisement, which ran as follows:


If Mr. Robert Grantham, born in Leamington, Warwickshire, will call
upon Messrs. Paxton and Freshfield, solicitors, Bedford Row, London,
he will hear of something to his advantage.


To read so short an advertisement would occupy a man scarcely half a
minute, but Mr. Fox-Cordery stood for several minutes at the window,
with his back turned to John Dixon. Perhaps there was something in the
prospect of the dreary back wall that interested him, for he stood
quite still, and did not speak. His contemplation at an end, he faced
his visitor, and handed back the paper.

"Have you anything to remark?" inquired John Dixon.

"Nothing."

"Close as wax, Fox, as usual. When I read the advertisement this
morning it gave me a strange turn, and I came direct to your house to
speak to you about it. Before I did so, I made myself acquainted with
the nature of the business concerning which our firm desires to see
Mr. Robert Grantham. It is a simple matter enough. An old lady has
died in Leamington; she was aunt to poor Bob, and she has left him a
small legacy of two hundred pounds. Not a fortune, but a useful sum to
a man in low water."

"You are talking rubbish," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "You know perfectly
well that it is throwing money away to put such an advertisement in
the papers. Is it in other papers as well as the _Times?_"

"Ah, ha, friend Fox!" said John Dixon. "Caught tripping for once.
Actually betraying interest in the object of my visit, when
indifference was your proper cue! No, it is not in other papers; the
whole of the small legacy must not be eaten up in expenses. Had I been
informed of this business before the insertion of the advertisement
even in one paper, I should have suggested to Paxton and Freshfield
the advisability of a little delay until I had made certain inquiries.
Lawyers are practical people, and they would have recognized the
absurdity of inviting by public proclamation a visit from a ghost.
There is no mistake, I suppose, about poor Bob being dead?"

"You know he is dead."

"Softly, Fox, softly. I know nothing of poor Bob except what I have
gathered from you. If Mrs. Grantham is a widow, why of course Robert
Grantham is a dead man; if she is not a widow, why of course Robert
Grantham is alive, and you stand small chance of stepping into his
shoes, which I believe you are eager to do. It is hardly likely that
she has seen the advertisement, but it must be brought to her notice
very soon."

"By whom?"

"Naturally, in the first place, by you, as her business agent,
because, in the event of Bob being dead, the legacy will fall to his
heirs. Failing you, naturally by Paxton and Freshfield, who have this
inconsiderable business in hand, and whose duty it is to attend to it.
Probably we shall await some communication from you or Mrs. Grantham
upon the matter. It may be that Paxton and Freshfield will expect
something from you in the shape of a document, such, for instance, as
proof of poor Bob's death; and they might consider it advisable to ask
for certain particulars, such as the place and date of his death,
where buried, etcetera. All of which you will be able to supply, being
positive that Mrs. Grantham is a widow. Now, Fox, I have still a word
or two to say to you in private. Call it an adventure, an impression,
what you will; it occurred to me, and it would be unfair to keep it
from Charlotte's brother. Until to-day I have not mentioned it to a
soul. We have passed through a hard winter, as you know, and have
established a record in fogs. I do not remember a year in which we
have had so many foggy days and nights, and the month of March usurped
the especial privilege of the month of November. I cannot recall the
precise date, but it was about the middle of March when I walked from
the Strand into Regent Street by way of the Seven Dials. It was one of
the foggiest nights we had, and I had to be careful how I picked my
steps. Men walked a yard or two ahead of you, and you could not see
their faces, could scarcely distinguish their forms; but quite close,
elbow to elbow, as it were, you might by chance catch a momentary
glance of a face. A flash, and it was gone, swallowed up in Egyptian
darkness. Two men passed me arm-in-arm, and, looking up, I could have
sworn that I saw the face of Robert Grantham's ghost. I turned to
follow it, but it was gone. That is all, Fox; I thought you would like
to know."

If a face of the pallid hue of Mr. Fox-Cordery's could be said to grow
white, it may be said of his at this revelation; otherwise he betrayed
no sign of agitation. He made no comment upon it, and asked no
questions; but the indefinite change of color did not escape John
Dixon's observation.

"It is a pleasure to know that you have emptied your budget," he said.
"Good-morning, Mr. Dixon."

"Good-morning, Fox," said John Dixon. "You will probably acknowledge
that I had a sufficient reason for paying you this visit."

He did not wait for the acknowledgment, but took his departure without
another word.

Mr. Fox-Cordery stood motionless by the window. There was writing on
the dreary back wall, invisible to all eyes but his.

"If he has betrayed me!" he muttered; "if he has betrayed me!" and
pursued his thought no further in spoken words.

A quarter of an hour afterward he went to his mother.

"Have you given Charlotte her clothes?" he asked.

"Not yet, Fox," she replied. "What did that man want with you?"

"That man is my enemy!" he said, with fury in his voice and face; "my
bitter enemy. Go, and give Charlotte her clothes immediately. And,
mother, take her out and buy her one or two nicknacks--a silver brooch
for a few shillings, a bit of ribbon. Be sweet to her. Curse her and
him! Be sweet to her, and say I gave you the money to buy the
presents. We need her on our side more than ever. Don't stop to argue
with me; do as I bid you!"

"I will obey you in everything, my love," she said, gazing at him
solicitously.

He motioned her away, and she stole from the room, wishing she
possessed the malignant power to strike his enemy dead at her feet.




CHAPTER VI.
In which we make the acquaintance of Rathbeal.


That same night, as Big Ben was striking the hour of nine, Mr.
Fox-Cordery, spick and span as usual, and with not a visible crease
upon him, crossed Westminster Bridge, Kennington way, bent on an
errand of importance, and plunged into the melancholy thoroughfares
which beset, but cannot be said to adorn, that sad-colored
neighborhood. In some quarters of London the houses have a peculiarly
forlorn appearance, as though life at its best were a poor thing, and
not worth troubling about. If general cheerlessness and despondency
had been the aim of the builders and speculators responsible for their
distinguishing characteristics, they may be complimented upon their
success, but certainly not upon their taste. It is as easy to make
houses pretty as to make them ugly, and curves are no more difficult
to compass than angles; facts which have not established themselves in
the consciousness of the average Englishman, who remains stupidly
content with dull, leaden-looking surfaces, and a pernicious
uniformity of front--which may account for the dejection of visage to
be met with in such streets as Mr. Fox-Cordery was traversing.

He paid no attention to the typical signs, animate or inanimate, he
met with on his road, but walked straight on till he arrived at a
three-storied house, in the windows of which not a glimmer of light
was to be seen. Striking a match, he held it up to the knocker of the
street door, beneath which the number of the house was painted in
fast-fading figures; and convincing himself with some difficulty that
he had reached his destination, he put his hand to the knocker to
summon the inmates. But the knocker had seen its best days, and was
almost past knocking. Rust and age had so stiffened its joints that it
required a determined effort to move it from its cushion; and being
moved, there it stuck in mid-air, obstinately declining to perform its
office.

Failing to produce a sound that would have any effect upon human ears,
Mr. Fox-Cordery turned his attention to the bells, of which there were
six or seven. As there was no indication of the particular bell which
would serve him, he pulled them all, one after the other. Some were
mute, some gave forth the faintest tinkle, and one remained in his
hand, refusing to come farther forward or to go back; the result of
his pulling being that not the slightest attention was paid to the
summons by anyone in the house. The appearance of a hobbledehoy
promised to be of assistance to him. This hobbledehoy was a stripling
of same thirteen summers; his shirt-sleeves turned(?) up, and he
carried in his hand a pewter pot of beer which he occasionally put his
lips, not daring to go deeper than the froth, from fear of
consequences from the lawful owner.

"Mr. Rathbeal lives here, doesn't he?" inquired Mr. Fox-Cordery.

The hobbledehoy surveyed the gentleman, and became instantly lost in
admiration. Such a vision of perfect dressing had probably never
presented itself to him before. Open-mouthed he gazed and worshiped.
Mr. Fox-Cordery aroused him from his dream by repeating the question.

"Lots o' people lives 'ere," he replied. "Who's Mr. What's-his-name,
when he's at 'ome, and does 'is mother know he's out when he ain't?"

Mr. Fox-Cordery spelt the name, letter by letter--"R-a-t-h-b-e-a-l."

"Don't know the gent," said the hobbledehoy. "Is he a sport?"

No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say he was a sport.

"Is he a coster?"

No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say he was a coster.

"Is it sweeps?"

No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say it was sweeps.

"Give it up," said the hobbledehoy. "Arsk me another."

Another did not readily present itself to Mr. Fox-Cordery's usually
fertile mind, and he stood irresolute.

"I tell yer wot," suggested the hobbledehoy. "Give me tuppence, and
I'll go through the lot."

With a wry face, Mr. Fox-Cordery produced the coppers, which the
hobbledehoy spun in the air, and pocketed. Then he conscientiously
went through the list of the inmates of the house from basement to
attic, Mr. Fox-Cordery shaking his head at each introduction.

"There's the gent with the 'air on," he said, in conclusion; "and that
finishes it."

Mr. Fox-Cordery's face lighted up.

"Long gray hair?" he asked.

"Yes," replied the hobbledehoy. "Could make a pair of wigs out of it."

"Down to here?" asked Mr. Fox-Cordery, with his hand at his breast.

"That's the wery identical. Looks like the Wizard of the North. Long
legs and arms, face like a lion."

"That is the person I want," said Mr. Fox-Cordery.

"Third floor back," said the hobbledehoy; and, with the virtuous
feeling of a boy who has earned his pennies, he walked into the house,
with his head up; whereby Mr. Fox-Cordery learned that knockers and
bells were superfluities, and that anyone was free of the street door,
and could obtain entrance by a simple push. Following the instruction,
he mounted the stairs slowly, lighting matches as he ascended to save
himself from falling into a chance trap; a necessary precaution, for
the passages were pitch dark, and the balustrades and staircases
generally in a tumbledown, rickety condition. The third floor was the
top of the house, and comprised one front and one back room. He
knocked at the latter without eliciting a response, and knocked again
with the same result. Then he turned the handle, which yielded to his
pressure, and entered.

The room was as dark as the passages, and Mr. Fox-Cordery, after
calling in vain, "Here, you, Rathbeal, you!" had recourse to his
matchbox again; and seeing the end of a candle in a tall candlestick
of curious shape upon the table, he lighted it and looked around. From
the moment of his entering the room he had been conscious of a faint
odor, rather disturbing to his senses, and now, as he looked around,
he satisfied himself as to the cause. On a quaintly carved bracket
were a bottle and a small box. The bottle was empty, but there was a
little opium in the box.

"At his old game," he muttered. "Why doesn't it kill him? But I
wouldn't have him die yet. I must first screw the truth out of him."

By "him" he meant the tenant of the room, who lay on a narrow bed
asleep. Before disturbing him, Mr. Fox-Cordery devoted attention to
the articles by which he was surrounded. The furniture of this humble
attic was extraordinary of its kind, and had probably been picked up
at odd times, in one auction-room and another. On the floor was an old
Oriental rug, worn quite threadbare; the two chairs were antiques; the
carved legs of the table represented the legs of fabulous animals;
even the fire-irons were old-fashioned. There were several brackets on
the walls, carved by the sleeping man, showing a quaint turn of fancy;
and on each bracket rested an article of taste, here a small Eastern
vase, here a twisted bottle, here the model of a serpent standing
upright on two human legs. A dealer in old curiosities would not have
given more than a sovereign or two for all the furniture and ornaments
in the room, for none of them were of any particular value. But the
collection was a remarkable one to be found in an attic in such a
neighborhood; and, if it denoted nothing else, was an indication that
the proprietor was not of the common order of English workingmen, such
as one would have expected to occupy the apartment; if, indeed, he was
an Englishman at all.

Mr. Fox-Cordery was not a gentleman of artistic taste, and he turned
up his nose and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously at these
belongings. Then he devoted a few moments more to an examination of
the room, opening drawers without hesitation, and running his eyes
over some manuscripts on the table. The written characters of these
manuscripts were exquisite, albeit somewhat needlessly fantastic here
and there: and the manuscripts themselves furnished a clew to the
occupation of the tenant, which was that of a copyist. There were no
paintings or engravings on the walls, which, however, were not
entirely devoid of pictorial embellishment. Four neatly cut pieces
of drawing-paper were tacked thereon--north, south, east, and
west--bearing each a couplet beautifully written within an illuminated
scroll. The colors of the scrolls were green and gold, and the verses
were written in shining Indian ink.

On the tablet on the north wall the lines ran:


He whose soul by love is quickened, never can to death be hurled;
Written is my life immortal in the records of the world.


On the south wall:


Oh, heart! thy springtime has gone by, and at life's flowers has
   failed thy aim.
Gray-headed man, seek virtue now; gain honor and a spotless name.


On the west wall:


Now on the rose's palm the cup with limpid wine is brimming,
And with a hundred thousand tongues the bird her praise is hymning.


On the east wall:


If all upon the earth arise to injure myself or my friend,
The Lord, who redresses wrong, shall avenge us all in the end.


Mr. Fox-Cordery's judgment upon these couplets was that the writer's
brain was softening; and considering that he had wasted sufficient
time in making discoveries of no value, he stepped to the narrow bed,
and contemplated the sleeper. The contrast between the two men was
noteworthy, but it was the good or bad fortune of Mr. Fox-Cordery
always to furnish a contrast of more or less interest when he stood
side by side with his fellow-men. At this moment his clean, pallid
face, with its carefully arranged hair and drooping mustache, wore an
ugly expression singularly at odds with his diminutive stature.

It is not pleasant for a man with a thorough belief in his own
supremacy to suspect that he has been tricked by one whom he gauges to
be of meaner capacity than himself; but this had been Mr.
Fox-Cordery's suspicion since his interview with John Dixon, and he
had come hither either to verify or falsify it. The sleeper's age
could not have been less than sixty years; he was a large-limbed man,
six feet in height, and proportionately broad and massive. His
full-fleshed eyelids with their shaggy eyebrows, his abundant tangled
hair, and the noble gray beard descending to his breast, denoted a
being of power and sensibility; and though he lay full length and
unconscious beneath the little man who was gazing wrathfully upon him,
he seemed to tower majestically above the pygmy form. Mr. Fox-Cordery
shook the sleeper violently, and called:

"Rathbeal, you scoundrel; just you wake up! Do you hear? No shamming!
Wake up!"

Rathbeal slowly opened his eyes, which like his hair were gray, and
fixed them upon Mr. Fox-Cordery. Recognition of his unexpected visitor
did not immediately come to him, and he continued to gaze in silence
upon the intruder. Half asleep and half awake as he was, there was a
magnetic quality in his eyes which did not tend to put Mr. Fox-Cordery
at his ease; and in order to make a proper assertion of himself, he
said, in a bullying tone:

"When you have had your stare out, perhaps you'll let me know."

The voice assisted Rathbeal, who, closing his eyes and with a subtle
smile on his lips, murmured, in perfect English:


   "The enemy thy secret sought to gain:
    A hand unseen repelled the beast profane."


"Beast yourself!" retorted Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Here, no going off to
sleep again! You're wanted, particularly wanted; and I don't intend to
stand any of your infernal nonsense!"

But these lordly words, peremptorily uttered, did not seem to produce
their intended effect, for Rathbeal, still with closed eyes, murmured:


   "Be my deeds or good or evil, look thou to thyself alone;
    All men, when their work is ended, reap the harvest they have
          sown."


The couplet, being of the order of those affixed to the walls,
conveyed no definite idea, and certainly no satisfaction, to Mr.
Fox-Cordery's mind. He cried masterfully:

"Are you going to get up or not? I've something to say to you; and
you've got to hear it, if I stay all night."

Then Rathbeal opened his eyes again, and there was recognition in
them, as he said courteously:

"Ah, Mr. Fox-Cordery, your pardon; I was scarcely awake. You have
taken me from the land of dreams. It is the first time you have
honored me in this apartment. To see you here is a surprise."

"I dare say," chuckled Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and not an agreeable one
either. Eh, old man?"

"If it were not agreeable," said Rathbeal, spreading out his hands,
which were large and shapely, and in keeping with his general
appearance, "I should not confess it. You are my guest."

"Guest be hanged!" exclaimed Mr. Fox-Cordery, resenting the suggestion
as claiming equality with him. "Do you think I have come to partake of
your hospitality? Not by a long way. Are you awake yet?"

"Wide, very wide," replied Rathbeal, rising calmly from his bed. "I
have been in the spirit"--he consulted a silver watch--"nine hours. If
you had not aroused me I should have been by this time conscious.
Excuse me; I have no other apartment." There was a small shut-up
washstand in a corner, and he opened it, and pouring out water, laved
his hands. When he had dried them he combed out his noble beard with
his fingers, and said, "I am now ready for work."

"People, as a rule, leave off at this hour," remarked Mr. Fox-Cordery,
who for reasons of his own, which had suggested themselves since he
entered the room, did not intend to rush into his grievance. Under any
circumstances he might not have done so, absorbing as it was, for it
was his method to lead up to a subject artfully in the endeavor to
gain some advantage beforehand.

"I commence at this hour," said Rathbeal, "and work through the night.
You have something to say to me?"

"A good deal, and you'll need all your wits. I say, you, Rathbeal,
what are you?" His eyes wandered about the room, and gave point to his
inquiry. "I have known you a pretty long time, but I have never been
able to make up my mind about you. Not that I have troubled myself
particularly; but since I have been here I have grown curious. That's
frank, isn't it?"

"Very. What am I? You open up a vast field. What is man? Who has been
sufficiently wise to answer the question? What is man? What is life?
Some say a dream, and that it commences with death. Some say that the
soul of man exists long before the man is born, and that it is
enshrined in a human body for the purpose of overcoming the
temptations and debasing influences of the material life. Successful,
it earns its place in celestial abodes, Unsuccessful, it is forever
damned."

"You think yourself precious clever," sneered Mr. Fox-Cordery.

"No, I am an enigma to myself, as all reflective men must be."

"Reflective men!" exclaimed Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Hear him!"

"One thing I know," said Rathbeal, ignoring the taunt. "You, I, and
all lesser and greater mortals, are part of a system."

"Hang your system, and your palaver with it! I'll tell you in a minute
or two what I came here for, but I shall be obliged if you will first
tell me something of yourself. I have the right to know your history."

"I have no objection. You wish to learn my personal history. It is
soon told."

"None of your lies, you know; I shall spot them if you try to deceive
me. I am as wide awake as you are."

"Wider, far wider. You have the wisdom of the serpent."

"Here, I say," cried Mr. Fox-Cordery, "none of your abuse. What do you
mean by that?"

"You should receive it as a compliment." He pointed to the figure of a
serpent on human legs standing on a bracket. "I compare you to the
serpent in admiration. Shall I commence at the beginning of my life?"

"Commence where you like, only cut it short."

"My father was a Persian; my mother also. They came to England to save
their lives. One week longer in Persia, and they would have been
slain."

"A pity."

"That they did not remain in their native land? That they were not
slain? Perhaps. Who shall say? But there is a fate. Who shall resist
it? Safe in England, where I was born a week after their arrival, my
parents lived till I was a youth. They imbued me with their spirit. As
you see." He waved his hand around. "I live by the art of my pen. That
is all."

"Quite enough; it is plain there is no getting anything out of you.
Now, listen to me. You accepted a commission from me, which you led me
to believe you fulfilled. If it is not fulfilled you practiced a fraud
upon me for which the law can punish you."

"I am acquainted with the English law. I have a perception of a
higher--the divine law. We will proceed fairly, for you have spoken of
a serious business. Many years ago you desired some parchments copied,
and, hearing I had some skill with the pen, you sought me out. I
performed the work you intrusted to me, and from time to time you
favored me with further orders. The engagement ended; you needed my
pen no more. But you deemed me worthy to undertake a commission of
another nature. You had a friend, or a foe, who was suffering, and
whose presence in England was inconvenient to you."

"Lie number one," said Mr. Fox-Cordery.

"It is a true interpretation. You came to me and said, 'This man is
dying; I wish his last hours to be peaceful. There are memories here
that torture him. Make friends with him. Opium will relieve him;
ardent spirits will assuage his pain; travel will beguile his senses.
His constitution is broken. Go with him to Paris; I will allow you a
small monthly stipend, and, when his pain is over, you shall have a
certain sum for your labor.'"

"Lies, and lies, and yet more lies," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, watching
Rathbeal's face warily. "You have a fine stock of them, and of all
colors and shapes. Why, you would come out first in a competition."

"You compliment me," said Rathbeal, with a gentle smile. "Did those
words exist only in my imagination? Yet, as you unfolded your wishes
to me, halting and hesitating with a coward's reserve, I thought I
heard them spoken. 'Do I know the unfortunate man?' I inquired, 'of
whom you are so considerate, toward whom you are so mercifully
inclined.' You replied that it was hardly likely, and you mentioned
him by name. No, I had never heard of the gentleman. 'I must see him
first,' I said, 'before giving you an answer.' You instructed me how
to find him, and I sought him out, and made the acquaintance of a
being racked with a mortal sorrow. You came to me the following day
for an answer; I informed you that you had come too soon, and that I
had not decided. 'Be speedy,' you urged. 'I am anxious to get the man
out of my sight.'"

"Still another lie," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Not a word you have quoted
was ever spoken by me."

"My imagination again," said Rathbeal, with the same gentle smile;
"and yet they are in my mind. Perhaps I translated your thoughts as
you went on. After a fortnight had passed I consented to your wishes,
and your friend, or your foe, left England for the Continent in my
company. It was expressly stipulated by you that no mention should be
made by me of your goodness, and that if he asked for the name of the
friend who was befriending him I was to answer guardedly that you
wished to preserve it secret. Only once did he refer to you, and then
not by name; but I understood him to say that he knew to whom he was
indebted, and that there was only one man in the world who had not
deserted him in his downfall."

"May I inquire," asked Mr. Fox-Cordery, "whether your companion let
you into the secrets of his life--for we all have secrets, you know."

"Yes, every man, high and low. He did not; he preserved absolute
silence respecting his history. We remained on the Continent a
considerable time, supporting ourselves partly by your benefactions,
partly by copying manuscripts, an art I taught him. I learned to love
the gentleman to whom you had introduced me for some evil purpose of
your own----"

"For an evil purpose! You are raving!"

"For some evil purpose of your own, which I could no more fathom than
I could the nature of the sorrow that was consuming him. 'Try opium,'
I said to him, 'it will help you to forget.' He refused. 'I will allow
myself no indulgence.' And this, indeed, was true to the letter. He
lived upon water and a bare crust. So did the monks of old, but their
lives were less holy than his, for it was only of themselves and their
own souls they thought, while he, with no concern for his own welfare,
temporal or spiritual, thought only of others, and applied every
leisure hour and every spare coin to their relief and consolation. He
was a singular mixture of qualities----"

"Spare me your moralizings," interrupted Mr. Fox-Cordery. "I knew what
he was, long before you set eyes on him. Keep to the main road."

"In the life of every man," said Rathbeal, "though he be evil and
corrupt, there are byways wherein flowers may be found, and it was of
such byways I was about to speak in the life of this man of sorrow,
who was neither evil nor corrupt; but I perceive you do not care to
hear what I can say to his credit, so I will keep to the main road, as
you bid me. There dwelt in my mind during all the time we spent in
foreign lands the words you addressed to me: 'When you tell me that I
shall be troubled with him no more, you will lighten my heart.'"

"How many more versions are you going to give," said Mr. Fox-Cordery,
"of what I never said to you? You are a liar, self-confessed."

"Is that so? And yet, shrewd sir, I insist that the words are not of
my sole coining. At length I was in a position to inform you that your
desire was accomplished, and that your friend, or your foe, would
trouble you no more; and so, upon my return to England--with the
payment of a smaller sum than I expected from you, for you made
deductions--all business between us came to an end. Upon your entrance
into this room to-night I remarked that your presence was a surprise
to me. I did not expect you, and I am puzzled to know how you
discovered where I lodge."

"When I weave a web, Rathbeal," chuckled Mr. Fox-Cordery, "nothing
ever escapes from it."

"An unfortunate figure of speech," said Rathbeal impressively, "for
you liken yourself to a human spider. But there are other webs than
those that mortals weave. Fate is ever at work; it is at work now,
weaving a mesh for you, in spots invisible to you, in men and women
who are strangers to you, and you shall no more escape from it than
you shall escape from death when your allotted hour comes."

"Oh, I daresay. Go and frighten babies with your balderdash. What I
have come to know is, whether you have obtained money from me under
false pretenses. It is an offense for which the law provides----"

A movement on the part of his companion prevented him from finishing
the sentence. Rathbeal had risen from his chair, and was standing by
the door in the act of listening, and Mr. Fox-Cordery did not observe
that he had slipped the key out of the lock. He was about to rise and
throw open the door, in the hope of making a discovery which would
bring confusion upon Rathbeal, when the latter, by a sudden and rapid
movement, quitted the room. Mr. Fox-Cordery turned the handle of the
door, with the intention of following him.

"Hanged if the beggar hasn't locked me in!" he cried, in
consternation. "Here, you, Rathbeal, you! Play me any of your tricks,
and I'll have the law of you! If you don't open the door this instant
I'll call the police!"

No answer was made to the threat, and Mr. Fox-Cordery, seriously
alarmed that he had fallen into a trap, and unable to open the door,
though he shook it furiously, lifted the window-sash to call for help,
but the room was at the back of the house, and when he put his head
out of the window he could not pierce the dense darkness into which he
peered. He screamed out nevertheless, and was answered by a touch upon
his shoulder which caused him to tremble in every limb and to give
utterance to a cry of fear. Turning, he saw Rathbeal smiling upon him.

"My shrewd sir," said Rathbeal, "what alarms you?"

Mr. Fox-Cordery recovered his courage instantly.

"Confound you!" he blustered. "What do you mean by locking me in?"

"Locking you in!" exclaimed Rathbeal, pointing to the key in the lock.
"You are dreaming. I thought I heard a visitor ascending the stairs,
and as I was sure you did not wish for the presence of a third party
till our interview was over I went out to dismiss him."

"Or her," suggested Mr. Fox-Cordery, with malicious emphasis.

"Or her, if you will. Sit down and compose yourself. You were saying
when I left the room that I had obtained money from you on false
pretenses, and that it is an offense for which the law provides. It is
doubtless the case--not that I have obtained your money falsely, but
that the law could punish me if I had. Explain yourself. You came
hither to speak to me, and yet it is I who have chiefly spoken. You
have heard me; let me hear you."

"What I want to know," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and what I will know, is
whether you have given me false information."

"Upon what subject, shrewd sir?"

"Upon the subject you have been speaking of."

"You must be more explicit. If I choose not to admit that I understand
you when you speak in vague terms it is because of the attitude you
have assumed toward me, which you will excuse me for remarking is
deficient in politeness. Speak clearly, shrewd sir, and you shall have
like for like. I will not be behindhand with you in frankness."

"All right. I wished to serve a friend who was in a bad way. He was
broken down, and needed change of air and scene; I provided the means,
and sent you with him as a companion who might have a beneficial
effect upon him. I did not expect him to recover; he was too far gone,
his health being completely shattered. As a matter of course I did not
wish the thing to go on forever, and I desired to be kept posted how
it progressed, and, if it came to the worst, to be informed at the
earliest moment. You informed me that all was over, that my poor
friend was dead, and I paid you handsomely for your personal attention
to the matter. Am I to understand that the information you gave me was
true?"

"I pin you to greater clearness, shrewd sir, or you will obtain no
answer from me."

"The devil seize you! Is it true that the man I speak of is dead?"

"Did I so inform you?"

"You did."

"I have no recollection of it. You have my letter. Produce it. The
written words are--I can recall them--'Rest content. Your desire is
compassed; you will be troubled no more.' Pay a little attention now
to me, shrewd sir. You have spoken to me in unmannerly fashion; you
have threatened me with the law. I despise your threats; I despise
you. Profit by a lesson it will be well for you to learn in this
humble room. Never make an enemy of a man, not even of the meanest
man. You never know when he may help to strike you down. When I worked
for you as a copyist you formed an estimate of my character upon
grounds shaped by yourself for your own private purposes--purposes
into which, up to the present moment, I have made no active inquiry,
though I have pondered upon them. I do not engage myself to be in the
future so practically incurious and retiring."

"Bully away," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, inwardly boiling over with rage.
"I have nothing to fear from you."

"You said to yourself, 'Here is a man of foreign origin who will do
anything for money,' and this opinion emboldened you to proceed with a
scheme which needed an unscrupulous agent, such as you supposed me to
be, to insure success. Unsolicited you introduced your scheme to me,
not in plain words, for which you could be made directly accountable,
but in veiled allusions and metaphors which needed intellectual power
to comprehend. Intellect is required for the success of base as well
as of worthy ends. Your mock compassion amazed me, and I made a mental
study of you, as of something new--a confession which perhaps will
surprise you. Not I the dupe, shrewd sir, but you. Men of my nation
have a habit of expressing themselves in metaphor, and are taught to
grasp a meaning, not from what is said, but from what is not said; and
I, though I have never been in my parents' native land, acquired this
habit from them. I divined your wish, but saw not, and see not now,
the springs which prompted it. Plainly, it was a crime you proposed to
me, and left the means at my discretion; and after making the
acquaintance of the gentleman whose end you hired me to compass, I
accepted the commission, nothing being farther from my mind than to
assist in its accomplishment. Not I, but fortune, favored you. You
were troubled by a mortal's existence; you were released from your
trouble, and your end was attained. Thus much I tell you, and will
tell you no more. Be content, and go."

"Come now," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, drawing a long breath of relief,
"you have talked a lot of infernal bosh, and told any number of lies;
but I will excuse you for everything if you will inform me where it
took place."

"Not one word will I add to those I have already spoken."

"Hang it! I have a right to know. You could be forced to tell!"

"Make the attempt. For the second time, I bid you go."

He threw open the door, and stood aside to give his visitor
unobstructed passage. Recognizing the uselessness of remaining any
longer, Mr. Fox-Cordery laughed insolently in Rathbeal's face, and,
feeling his way down the dark stairs, reached the lower landing in
safety, and passed into the street.

Although he was not in the most amiable of humors, his mind was
greatly relieved. Robert Grantham was dead. Of that he had been
assured by Rathbeal; not, certainly, in such plain words as he would
have preferred to hear, but in terms that left no doubt in his mind.

"I put his back up," he muttered, as he walked along, "and that is why
he wouldn't speak out. Besides, he wasn't going to criminate himself.
I was an idiot to take the trouble I did over the affair. Grantham was
quite broken down at the time, and couldn't have lasted long under any
circumstances. There isn't an office in England that would have taken
a year's insurance on his life. He was done for; death was in his
face. They have all played into my hands, every one of them."

But notwithstanding the relief he experienced, the events of the day
were not of a nature to afford him pleasant reflection. He had been
three times defied. First by Charlotte, then by John Dixon, then by
Rathbeal. Charlotte he did not fear as an enemy; despite her outbreak,
he had been too long accustomed to dominate her to be apprehensive of
her. She was in his power, and had pledged herself to silence for two
months. John Dixon and Rathbeal stood on a different platform; but
even from them he had little if anything to fear. As to John Dixon's
account of having seen Robert Grantham's face in a fog, he snapped his
fingers at it. It was, at best, a clumsy invention; had he been in
Dixon's place, he would have done better. His enemies had put him on
his guard--that was all the good they had done for themselves.

When he reached the middle of Westminster Bridge, he paused and looked
down into the water. The darkness had lifted a little, and a few stars
had come out and were reflected in the river. The lamps upon the banks
formed a long line of restless, shifting light, converging to a point
in the far distance. An imaginative mind could have woven rare fancies
out of the glimmering sheen in the river's heart, which seemed to
pulse with spiritual life. Cathedral aisles, with dusky processions
winding between, descending into the depths to make room for those
that crowded behind. Lights upon a distant battlefield, a confused
tangle of horses and fighting men, the wounded and dying crawling into
the deep shades. A wash of the waves, and a wild _mèlée_ of dancers
was created, lasting but a moment--as, indeed, did all the
pictures,--and separating into peaceable units with the broadening out
of the water. A ripple, almost musical in its poetic silence, bearing
bride and bridegroom to love and joy. A band of rioters, upheaving,
with waving limbs inextricably mingled, replaced by an orderly line of
hooded monks, gliding on with folded arms.

None of these pictures presented themselves to Mr. Fox-Cordery's
imagination. He saw only two figures in the water: one of a dead man
floating onward to oblivion; the other of a woman with peaceful,
shining face, inviting him, with smiling eyes, to come to her embrace.
The wish was father to the thought, and the figures were there as he
had conjured them up. The face of the dead man brought no remorse to
his soul; he was susceptible only of those affections in which his own
personal safety and his own personal desires were concerned. It was
for the death of this man and the possession of this woman that he had
schemed and toiled. The man he hated, and had pursued to his ruin; the
woman he loved and would have bartered his soul for. His passion for
her had grown to such a pitch as to make him reckless of consequences;
or, more properly speaking, blind to them. Had she yielded to his
wooing in years gone by, he would have made a slave of her, and have
tyrannized over her as he did over all with whom he had dealings. But
she had not favored him, except in the way of friendship, and had
given herself to the man he hated and despised. It can scarcely be
said that a nature so mean and cruel as his was capable of pure and
honest love; but passion and baffled desire took the place of love,
and had obtained such complete possession of his senses that he was
not master of himself where she was concerned. At his age the fever of
the blood should have been cooled, but opposition and disappointment
had produced a kind of frenzy in him; and, in addition, he had always
been a law unto himself, ready to put his foot upon the neck of any
living creature who ventured to obstruct his lightest wish.

A black cloud blotted out the stars; the beautiful face disappeared.
Awaking from his reverie, Mr. Fox-Cordery proceeded to cross the
bridge. Staggering toward him in the opposite direction was a lad in
the last stage of want and destitution; a large-eyed, white-faced lad
literally clothed in rags. His trousers were held up by a piece of
knotted string, crossing his breast and back; he had no cap on his
matted hair; his naked toes peeped out of his boots. That he was faint
and ill was evident from his staggering gait, and indeed he hardly
knew where he was going, so genuinely desperate was his forlorn
condition. It chanced that he stumbled against the dapper form of Mr.
Fox-Cordery, who, crying, "What's your game, you young ruffian?" gave
him a brutal push, and sent him reeling into the road. The lad had no
strength to save himself from falling. Gasping for breath, he clutched
at the air, and fell, spinning, upon the stones. Passing callously on,
Mr. Fox-Cordery did not observe, and was not observed by a man who,
seeing the lad fall, ran forward to assist him. Stooping and raising
the lad's head, the man looked into his face.

"Why, Billy!" cried the man compassionately.

The lad opened his eyes, smiled faintly, and answered, "Yes, it's me,
Mr. Gran "; and then the dark clouds seemed to fall upon him, and he
lay limp and insensible in the man's arms.




CHAPTER VII.
Billy turns the Corner.


Robert Grantham for a moment was undecided what to do. No one was near
them; he and Billy were just then alone on the bridge. Resolving upon
his course of action, he raised Billy in his arms and walked with his
burden toward Rathbeal's lodging. Billy was nothing of a weight for a
man to carry, being but skin and bone, and Grantham experienced no
difficulty in the execution of the merciful task he had taken upon
himself. He was not troubled by inquiries from the few persons he
encountered. A policeman looked after them, but as Grantham made no
appeal to him, and there was no evidence of the law being broken, he
turned and resumed his beat. Robert Grantham was a quarter of an hour
walking to the house in which Rathbeal lodged. Without hesitating, he
pushed the street door open, and ascended the stairs. Rathbeal heard
him coming up, and waited for him on the landing.

"What have you got there?" he asked.

"A lump of misery," replied Grantham.

Rathbeal made way for his friend, who entered the room and laid Billy
on the bed. Then he examined the lad to see if any bones were broken,
Rathbeal, better skilled than he, assisting him.

"Where did you find him, Robert?"

"On Westminster Bridge. He must have stumbled against someone who
pushed him off into the road, where he fell fainting. I have known the
poor little fellow for months, but I have not seen him for the last
three or four weeks. I wondered what had become of him."

"Where do his people live?"

"Heaven knows! He has none, I believe; or at all events, none who care
to look after him. He is a waif of the streets, not an uncommon growth
in London."

"You have been good to him?"

"I have given him bread sometimes, when I had it to give; and the last
time I met him I took him home with me, and made up a bed on the floor
for him. He remained with me a week, and then he unaccountably
disappeared. What is to be done? He does not recover. He is not dead,
thank God! There is a faint beat of the heart."

Rathbeal produced a bottle in which there was some brandy. He
moistened the lad's lips with the spirit, and poured a few drops,
diluted with water, down his throat. Still the lad did not open his
eyes.

"Have you anything to eat in the cupboard?" asked Robert Grantham.

"There is a little bread and meat," said Rathbeal.

"He looks scarcely strong enough to be able to masticate hard food.
Make some water hot, Rathbeal. I will go and get a packet of oatmeal;
a basin of gruel will be the best thing for him."

"Wait a minute, Robert." Rathbeal devoted a few moments to the lad,
and added gravely: "On the opposite side of the road, half a dozen
doors down, there is a poor man's doctor. Ask him to come up at once
and see the boy."

"I will;" and meeting Rathbeal's eyes, he said, "Do you fear there is
any danger?"

"Yes. I have some medical skill, as you know; but I do not hold a
diploma. It will be advisable that a doctor should see the poor boy."

Robert Grantham nodded, and took from his pocket all the money it
contained--one sixpence and a few coppers. Rathbeal handed him five
shillings.

"Thank you, Rathbeal," said Grantham, and ran down the stairs. In less
than ten minutes he was back, with a packet of oatmeal, and
accompanied by the doctor. While the doctor examined the lad, Rathbeal
busied himself in the preparation of the gruel, the kettle, already
nearly boiling, standing on a little gas-stove.

"Yes," said the doctor, noticing the preparation; "it will be the
proper food to give him when he comes to his senses. Put a teaspoonful
of brandy in it. A son of yours?"

"No," answered Grantham; "my friend, Mr. Rathbeal, has never seen him
before. I found him in this condition in the street."

"Where are his parents?"

"I do not know, nor whether he has any."

"But you must have had some previous knowledge of him," said the
doctor, looking with curiosity at Grantham.

"Oh, yes. I met him by chance some months since, when he was in want
of food, and we struck up an acquaintance. Is he in danger?"

"He may not live through the night." He put up his hand; Billy was
coughing, and a little pink foam gathered about his lips, which the
doctor wiped away. "Exposure and want have reduced him to this state.
He has been suffering a long time, and his strength is completely
wasted. Had he been attended to months ago, there would have been a
chance for him. Listen!" Billy was coughing again, a faint, wasting
cough, painful to hear. "I can do very little. I will send you a
bottle of medicine, which may give him temporary relief; and I will
come again about midnight, if you wish."

"I shall feel obliged to you. We shall be here all night. Should he
have brandy after he has taken the gruel?"

"A few drops now and then will do him no harm. He needs all the
strength you can put into him. Endeavor to get from him some
information about his relatives, and go for them."

"Would it be best to take him to a hospital?"

"He should not be removed; he will not trouble you long."

"It is more a grief than a trouble."

"I understand. See, he is coming to. How do you feel now, my little
man?"

"_I_ don' know," murmured Billy. "There's somethink 'ere." He moved
his hand feebly to his chest. "Is that you, Mr. Gran? Where am I?"

"With good friends, Billy."

"You've allus been that to me, sir."

"Now try and eat a little of this," said Grantham, raising the lad
gently in his arms.

Billy, with a grateful smile, managed to get two or three spoonfuls
down, and then sank back on the bed.

"Do not force him," said the doctor. "Where do you live, Billy?"

"I don't know--anywhere."

"But try and remember."

"I can't remember nothink--only Mr. Gran. It ain't likely I'll forgit
'im. Thank yer kindly, sir, for wot you've done for me; there ain't
many like yer."

He closed his eyes, and appeared to sleep.

"I will see him again at midnight," said the doctor, and stepped
softly from the room.

Rathbeal cleared the table, and arranged some manuscripts.

"We may as well work while we watch, Robert. These must be copied by
the morning."

He spoke in a whisper, and, sitting down, commenced to write. Grantham
lingered awhile by the bedside, and as Billy did not stir, presently
joined his friend, and proceeded with his copying. He did not observe
that Billy, when he left his side, slyly opened his eyes, and gazed
upon him with a look of grateful, pathetic love. Every time Grantham
turned to him he closed his eyes, in order that it should be supposed
he was sleeping. The writing proceeded almost in silence, the friends
only exchanging brief, necessary words relating to their work. Now and
then Grantham rose and went to the bedside, and when the bottle of
medicine arrived he laid his hand gently on Billy's shoulder.

"Yes, Mr. Gran," said the lad, "I'm awake."

"Take this, Billy; it will do you good."

"Nothink'll do me good, sir; but I'll take it. I _did_ want to see
you before I went where I'm going to."

"There, there, my dear boy," said Robert Grantham, "you must not
exhaust yourself by talking too much. You have taken the medicine
bravely. Now try and swallow a spoonful of gruel."

He had kept it hot for the lad on the gas-stove.

"Thank you, Mr. Gran, I'll try; but I _should_ like to know where I'm
going to."

"If you do not get well, Billy, you will be in a better place than
this."

"Glad to 'ear it, sir; though luck's agin me. Yer didn't think it bad
o' me to cut away from yer so sly, did yer?"

"No, my lad, no; but what made you go?"

"I'll tell yer 'ow it was, sir. I didn't want to take the bread out of
yer mouth, and I found out I was doing it, without yer ever saying a
word about it. There was the last day I was with yer, Mr. Gran; you
'ad dry bread, I 'ad treacle on mine; yer give me a cup 'o broth, and
water was good enough for you. At supper you didn't take a bite of
anythink, while I was tucking away like one o'clock. 'It's time for
you to cut yer lucky, Billy,' I sed; and I did."

"Foolish lad! foolish lad!" said Robert Grantham, smoothing Billy's
hair. "Where did you go to?"

"I don' know, Mr. Gran--into the country somewhere; but I didn't 'ave
better luck there than 'ere, sir. I was took bad, and I was told I was
dying; but I got better, Mr. Gran, and strong enough to walk back to
London. I only come to-night, sir. When I was bad in the country, an
old woman sed I was done for, and that if I didn't pray for salvation
I should go to--you know where, sir. She give me a ha'penny, and sed,
'Now, you go away and pray as 'ard as yer can.' But I didn't think
that'd do me any good, and ses I to myself, 'I'll toss up for it.
Heads, salwation; tails, t'other.' I sent the ha'penny spinning, and
down it come--tails, t'other. Jest like my luck, wasn't it, Mr. Gran?"

"Billy," said Robert Grantham earnestly, "you must drive that notion
out of your head. We are all equal in the sight of God----"

"Oh, are we, Mr. Gran? That's a 'ard notion, as yer call it, to drive
out o' my head, and I don't think I've got time for it. Beggin' yer
pardon, sir."

Rathbeal, pen in hand, stopped in his work, and listened to the
conversation.

"I tell you we are all equal in the eyes of God--rich and poor, high
and low. The prayers of a poor boy reach God's ears as readily as the
prayers of a rich man."

"If _you_ prayed, Mr. Gran," said Billy, "Gawd'd listen to yer.
Per'aps yer wouldn't mind praying for me a bit."

Robert Grantham covered his eyes with his hand.

"'Ave I 'urt yer, sir?" moaned Billy. "Don't say I've 'urt yer!"

"No, my boy, no. If I had as little to answer for as you----" He
paused awhile. "Your state is not of your own creating, Billy."

"No, sir; I don't know as it is. I couldn't 'elp bein' wot I am."

"There are many who could not say as much, who walk into sin with
their eyes wide open--Billy!"

The lad was seized with a sudden paroxysm of coughing, which lasted
several minutes. The fit over, he lay back exhausted, the red foam
issuing from his mouth. It was no time for exhortation. Robert
Grantham cleared the fatal sign from the sufferer's mouth, and patted
Billy's hand and stroked his face pitifully. Billy's lips touched the
consoling hand.

"Thank yer, sir. Let me lay still a bit."

The men resumed their work, and the boy was quiet. At midnight the
doctor called again.

"As I feared," he said, apart to Robert Grantham; "he will last but a
few hours."

Robert Grantham asked him what his fee was. The doctor shook his head,
and said:

"I have done nothing; I could do nothing. Permit me to play my humble
part in your kind charity. Good-night."

He shook hands with them, put Billy in an easy position, and left
them.

"It isn't altogether a bad world, Robert," observed Rathbeal.

"It is what we make it," replied Robert Grantham, with a heavy sigh.

"That will not apply to the poor outcast lying there," said Rathbeal,
looking at Billy.

"True, true," rejoined Grantham. "I was thinking of my own life."

Rathbeal had the intention, when Mr. Fox-Cordery left him, of saying
something about his visit, but this sad adventure had put it out of
his head. He thought of his intention now, when Robert Grantham said
the world was what we made it; and he resolved that before many days
had passed he would invite his friend's confidence in a direct way. In
the presence of death he could not do so, and he set the matter aside
for the present.

Their copying was finished at three o'clock, and Rathbeal gathered the
pages, and put them in order. There had been no apparent change in the
lad, but the solemnity of the scene impressed the men deeply. The
house was very quiet, and no sound came to them from the street. They
had endeavored, without success, to obtain from Billy some information
of his relations. Either he did not or would not understand them, for
he gave them no intelligible replies to their questions. They decided
to make another effort during the next interval of consciousness, and,
sitting by his bedside, they watched their opportunity. It came as
Rathbeal's watch pointed to the hour of four. Billy raised his lids;
his hands moved feebly. The men inclined their ears. Rathbeal left it
to Robert Grantham to speak.

"Billy!"

"Yes, Mr. Gran; yes, sir."

"I want you, for my sake, to try and remember. You had a father and
mother?"

"Yes, Mr. Gran, a long time ago."

"Where are they?"

"I don' know, sir."

"Is it very long since you saw them?"

"Oh, ever so long!"

"But there must be someone--an aunt or uncle."

"Nobody, nobody!"

"Try, Billy; try to recollect--for my sake, remember."

"Yes, sir; yes, Mr. Gran, I'll try."

But he seemed to forget it immediately, for he said nothing more.

It must have been half-an-hour after this that Rathbeal touched Robert
Grantham's arm impressively. The dews of death were on Billy's
forehead, and his lips were moving.

"Prue, little Prue!" he murmured.

"A girl's pet name, probably," whispered Rathbeal in Robert Grantham's
ear.

"Yes, Billy, yes," prompted Grantham; "who is little Prue?"

"Sweethearts we wos. Little Prue! little Prue!"

At this dying boy's mouth Fate was weaving its web; and some miles
away Mr. Fox-Cordery was dreaming of the woman he loved and the friend
he had ruined.

"Where does she live, Billy?"

"We wos sweethearts. I liked little Prue."

"Try and remember where she lives, Billy."

"Is that you speaking, Mr. Gran?"

"Yes, my boy. Do you understand what I say?"

"I don' know. 'Now you go away and pray as 'ard as ever yer can,' the
old woman ses, and I goes away and tosses up for it. 'Eads, salwation;
tails, t'other. And down it comes--tails. Just like my luck. But
there's something I _do_ want to pray for! It's all I can do for 'im,
and he ses Gawd'll 'ear a pore boy. So 'ere goes. Where's my ha'penny
to toss with? No, I don't mean that. I mean Gawd, are yer listenin'?"

"Say your prayer, Billy," whispered Grantham, seeing that the lad's
last moments had come; "God is listening to you."

"O Lawd Gawd!" prayed Billy, pausing painfully between each word;
"give Mr. Gran all he wants, and a bit over. Look out! I am going to
turn the corner."

A few moments afterward Billy had turned the corner, and was traveling
on the road of Eternity, with angels smiling on him.




CHAPTER VIII.
The Gambler's Confession.


"You have asked me two or three times lately, my dear Rathbeal," wrote
Robert Grantham, "to relate to you the story of my life, and you have
mysteriously hinted that it might be in your power to render me a
valuable service, and perhaps to restore the happiness which it was
evident to you I had lost. I did not respond to your friendly
advances, in which there was a note of affection which touched me
deeply; but it seems to me now churlish to refuse the confidence you
ask for. It was not because I doubt you that I remained silent. I have
long known that I possess in you a friend whose feelings for me are
truly sincere, and who would be only too willing to make any personal
sacrifice in his power to console and comfort me in my misery. That,
indeed, you have already done; and although I can never repay the debt
of gratitude I owe you, rest assured, dear friend, that I am deeply
sensible of your sympathetic offices. But you can go no farther than
this. All your wisdom and goodness would not avail to fulfill the
hopes you entertain for my future. So far as I am personally and
selfishly concerned I have no earthly future. I shaped my course, and
marched straight on--deaf to the dictates of conscience, blind to
virtue and suffering--so steeped in the vice that enslaved me, that it
was only when the fell destroyer Death took from me the treasures
which should have been my redemption, that the consciousness of my
wrong-doing rushed upon me, and stabbed me to the heart. It was then
too late for repentance, too late to fall upon my knees and pray for
mercy and forgiveness. I deserved my punishment, and I bowed my head
to it, not with meekness and resignation, but with a bitterness and
scorn for myself which words are powerless to portray.

"I cannot recall when it was that I first became a gamester, but it
was during my school-days that my evil genius obtained a mastery over
me that I did not shake off until it had compassed my ruin and the
ruin of innocent beings I should have cherished and protected. In the
school I went to I had a friend and comrade, a lad of amiable parts
and qualities, with whom I chiefly associated; and somehow it happened
that he and I fell into the habit of playing cards for our
pocket-money. I was not even then a fortunate player, but the loss of
my few shillings was amply repaid by the delight I took in these games
of chance. There were occasions when my friend reproved me for my
infatuation, but I would not listen to him, and I made it a point of
honor with him that he should give me opportunities of regaining the
money I had lost. Not that I had any great desire to win my money
back; it was play I craved for. He was much more concerned at my
losses than myself; and I remember once that he offered to return all
he had won, which, of course, I would not listen to.

"When, school-days over, I commenced to live the life of a man, I
sought places and opportunities for pursuing my favorite pastime. I
became a member of private clubs established for the gratification of
enthusiasts like myself, and there I lost my money and enjoyed myself
to my heart's content. I never questioned myself as to the morality of
my passion, and whether I won or lost was almost a matter of
indifference to me, so far as the actual value of the money I left
behind me, or took away with me, was concerned. I had ample means, for
more than one fortune was bequeathed to me; and I continued on the
fatal road I had entered with so much zeal, and never once thought of
turning back. At this period of my life the vice harmed no one but
myself. If it had, I might have reflected; but how dare I make this
lame excuse for my sinful conduct when I know that in after times it
did affect others, and that even then I did not turn back?

"My friendship and intimacy with my schoolmate continued, and he often
accompanied me to my favorite haunts, and gambled a little, but not to
the same extent as I did, and with better luck. He accompanied me to
France and Italy, where I found ample scope for indulgence in my
besetting vice. By this time my schoolmate and I were bosom friends
and inseparable; and when he remonstrated with me on my last night's
losses, I used to laugh at him, and to challenge him there and then to
sit down with me to a game of chance, saying, 'Someone must win my
money, why not you?' And our intimacy was of such a nature that he
could not refuse, though his compliance was not too readily given. At
the Continental gaming-tables he would be my banker when I was cleaned
out, and one day he suggested that he should act as a kind of steward
of my fortune, which was still considerable. I consented gladly
enough, for I had no head for figures, and he saved me a world of
trouble. Then something took place which ought to have saved me, had
not my besetting vice taken such absolute possession of me as to
deprive me completely of moral control. I met a young and beautiful
girl, and fell in love with her. My love was returned, and in a few
months afterward she became my wife.

"Surely that should have opened my eyes to my folly, if anything
could. A sweet and pure influence was by my side; and it is true that
for a little while my mad course was checked. I was happy in my wife's
society, as no man could fail to be who enjoyed the heaven of her
love. A sweeter, nobler lady never drew breath. I tremble with shame
as I write of her; I shudder with remorse as I think of the fate to
which I brought her. For we had not been married many months before my
evil genius began to haunt and tempt me. Understand that I should not
then have spoken of my vice as an evil genius. I saw no evil in it,
and I thought I had a right to pursue my pleasure; and so I began
gradually to neglect my home, and to resume my old pursuit.

"My angel wife did not complain; she bore my neglect with sweetness
and patience--smiling upon me when I left her side, smiling upon me
when I returned. She had no knowledge of my secret; she did not see
her fatal rival at my elbow wooing me away from her pure
companionship. Some unrecognized feeling of shame kept me from
exposing my degrading weakness to her. She devoted herself to her
child, and by a thousand innocent arts--they make my heart bleed as I
think of them--strove to win me more constantly to her side.

"Yes, Rathbeal, we had a child, a sweet flower from heaven, whose
grace and beauty should have opened my eyes to my sin. Do not think
that I did not love them. When I was with them, when I held my sweet
little girl on my lap and felt her little hands upon my face, I
thanked God for giving me a treasure so lovely and fair. Then my wife
would timidly ask me whether I would not remain at home that night,
and my evil genius would tempt me so sorely that I had not the
strength to resist. It is a shameful confession, but having commenced
I will go through with it to the bitter end; and if it lose me your
friendship, if you turn from me in scorn for my folly and weakness, I
must accept it as a part of my punishment.

"My angel wife suffered, and her sufferings increased as time went on.
I did not see it then; I do now. She grew thin and pale, believing
that I no longer loved her, believing that I repented my union with
her. What else could she believe as she saw the ties of home weakening
day by day? There are women who, in such a strait, would have
challenged the man boldly, but she was not one of these. Her nature
was too pliant and gentle, and terrible must have been her grief as
she felt the rock she depended upon for protection and support
crumbling away at her touch.

"My luck never varied. Occasionally, it is true, I won small sums, but
these were invariably counterbalanced shortly afterward by heavier
losses. The consequence was that the inroads upon my fortune became
too serious to be overlooked. I asked my friend and steward for a
large sum of money to pay a gambling debt; he looked grave. I inquired
why he was so serious, and he invited me to look over the accounts. I
did so; and though I could not understand the array of figures he
placed before me, I saw clearly that my large fortune was almost
entirely gone.

"'I have warned you,' said my friend, 'time after time; I could do no
more.'

"'Spare me your reproaches,' I said. 'You have been a good friend, and
I have paid no heed to your warnings. Wind up my affairs, and tell me
how much I have left.'

"The following day he informed me that I still had three thousand
pounds I could call my own.

"'Would you like a check for it?' he asked.

"I answered, 'Yes,' and he gave it to me.

"'And here,' he said, 'my stewardship ends. You must give me a full
quittance of all accounts between us.'

"I drew up the paper at his dictation. He preferred, he said, that the
quittance should be in my own handwriting; and when he had done I
added words of thanks for the services he had rendered me, and signed
the document.

"That night he accompanied me to a club, and watched my play. I won
five hundred pounds, and we walked away together, late in the morning,
in the highest spirits. He parted from me at the door of my house.

"'Will you play to-morrow night?' he asked.

"'Of course I shall play to-morrow night," I replied, 'and every night
after that. I will get back every shilling I have lost. Look at what I
have done already; I have won five hundred pounds.'

"'It is your only chance of saving your wife and child from beggary,'
he said.

"I thought of his words as I stepped softly into the house: 'My only
chance of saving my wife and child from beggary.' It was true. It was
a duty I owed to them to continue to play and win back the fortune I
had lost. It was not my money; it was theirs. I was their only
dependence. Yes, they should not say in the future that I had ruined
their lives. Luck must change; it had commenced to smile upon me.
There entered into my soul that night, Rathbeal, the spirit of greed.
I had been too careless hitherto, too unmindful as to whether I won or
lost. Hereafter I would be more careful; I would be cunning, as the
men I played with were. I would invent a system which would break them
and every man I played with. Tired as I was, I sat down and began to
calculate chances. A newspaper was on the table, and when I had jotted
down some columns of figures, and, aided by my recollection of certain
bets I had made a night or two before, proved that had I played wisely
I ought to have won instead of lost, I took up the newspaper, and
carelessly ran my eyes down its columns. They stopped at an account of
an Englishman's marvelous winnings at Monte Carlo--forty thousand
pounds in three days. I pondered over it. If he, why not I? I would go
and get my money back there. Sometimes in the haunts I frequented
money ran short; men, winning, would leave with their gains, and there
was no one left to play with except the losers, and I knew from
experience how desperate that chance was. At Monte Carlo there was
unlimited money. You could continue playing as long as you liked, and
go away with your winnings in your pockets in hard cash. Witness this
Englishman with his forty thousand pounds in three days. But it would
be as well to take a large sum of money with me. I had over three
thousand pounds; I would make it into ten here, and then would go to
Monte Carlo to wrest back my fortune. My mind made up, I crept to my
bedroom. My wife was there, sleeping as I thought. In an adjoining
room slept my little girl, Clair. Standing at the bedside of my wife I
observed--shame upon me! for the first time with any consciousness
that I was the cause of the change--how white and thin she had become.
The sight of her wan face, and of her lovely lashes still moist with
the tears she had shed, cut me like a knife. I did not dare to kiss
her; I feared that she would awake and see my face, for I had looked
at it in the glass, and was shocked at my haggard appearance. I
stepped softly into the adjoining room where our little Clair was
sleeping. She was rosy with health and young life, her red lips
parted, showing her pearly teeth, her hair in clustering curls about
her brow. Her I did not fear that I should awake, her slumbers were so
profound, and I stooped and kissed her.

"'Robert!' said my wife.

"She had been awake when I entered her room, but had not opened her
eyes lest she should offend me. Hearing me go into our child's
bedroom, she had risen quietly and followed me.

"'Lucy!' I replied, my hands upon her shoulders.

"She fell into my arms, weeping, but no sound escaped her. Clair slept
and must not be disturbed.

"I drew her into our bedroom, and closed the door upon Clair.

"'What is the matter, Lucy?' I asked. 'Are you not well?'

"She lifted her wet eyes with a sad wonder in them.

"'Did you not know, Robert?'

"'Know! What?'

"'That the doctor has been attending me lately,' she answered. 'Do not
let it trouble you, dear. You also are not well. How changed you are!
how changed! There is something on your mind, my dear."

"She did not say this in reproach, but in loving entreaty and pity;
and though she did not directly ask me to confide in her, I understood
her appeal. But I did not dare to confess my folly and my shame. I had
kept my secret well, and she did not suspect it. No, I would not
expose my degradation to her and my child. Perhaps, when I had won
back the fortune I had lost, when I could say, 'I have not completely
ruined your future,' then I might find courage to tell her all. But
now, when I was nearly beggared and fortune was in my grasp, I must be
silent; my secret must be kept from her.

"'It is nothing, Lucy,' I said; 'nothing. What does the doctor say?'

"She withdrew from my embrace, and said, coldly I thought:

"'I am not very well; that is all, Robert.'

"Nothing more passed between us that night. I believed--because I
wished to believe--that there was nothing serious the matter with her;
and if I was right in my conjecture that she was cold to me, it sprang
probably because I would not confess what was weighing on my mind.

"How shall I describe the events of the next few weeks? Night after
night I went from my home and kept out, often till daylight,
endeavoring to wrest my losses from my fellow-gamesters. My wife did
not ask me now to remain with her; she did not complain, and no
further reference was made to the doctor. This was a comfort to me. If
there had been anything to be really alarmed at I should not have been
kept in ignorance of it. So I went blindly on, greedy now for money,
chafing at my losses, suspecting all around me, and yet continuing to
play till I had completely beggared myself. My companions did not
know. It was not likely I was going to confess to them that if I lost
I had not the means of paying. They continued to play with me, and I
got in their debt, inventing excuses for being short of money. It was
only temporary, I said; I should be in funds very soon. Do you see,
Rathbeal, how low I had fallen?

"A sharper experience was to be mine. I lost a large sum and my paper
was out for two thousand pounds. It was a debt of honor and must be
paid. The misery of it was that I had perfected a system at roulette,
which, with money at my command, could not possibly fail; and I had no
means at my disposal to go to Monte Carlo, where unlimited wealth was
awaiting me. It would be necessary to break up my home, but even that
would not supply me with sufficient funds to pay my debts of honor and
go to Monte Carlo. There was but one course open to me. My wife had a
small private fortune of her own; I would ask her to advance me a
portion of it as a loan which I would soon repay. I broached the
subject to her.

"'It is only temporary,' I said, annoyed with myself that they should
be the same words I had used to the men who held my paper.

"'You know how much I have, Robert,' she said, averting her eyes from
me. 'It is Clair's more than mine. She must not be left penniless. I
do not think you ought to ask me for so large a sum.'

"I mentioned a lower sum, and she said:

"'Yes, Robert, you can have that. Do not ask me for more.'

"I felt humiliated at this bargaining, and angry with her for her
coldness and want of sympathy with me. I summoned up a false courage,
and said it was likely that I should have to break up our home. She
expressed no surprise.

"'In a little while, Lucy,' I said,' I will provide you with a
better.'

"She did not wish for a better, she said; she could be happy in the
humblest cottage, if---- And then she paused and sighed, and I saw the
tears in her eyes. I took her hand; she gently withdrew it.

"'I intended to tell you something to-day,' she said. 'My health has
broken down. The doctor says I must leave England as soon as possible
if I wish to live. I do wish to live, for my dear Clair's sake.'

"'Not for mine, Lucy?'

"I saw a struggle going on within her, but she sighed heavily again,
and did not reply.

"'I am grieved to hear the doctor's report,' I said. 'May he not be
mistaken?'

"'He is not mistaken. If I remain here I shall die.'

"'Where does he tell you to go to?'

"'To some village in the south of France, near the sea, where there is
perfect quiet, where there are few people and no excitement.'

"Such a place, I thought, would be death to me, with the plan I had in
my head of my projected venture at Monte Carlo.

"'Very well, Lucy,' I said; 'if it must be, it must be. I will join
you there.'

"'You cannot go with us?'

"'Not immediately. I have something of the utmost importance to attend
to elsewhere. It will not occupy me long, and then I will come to
you.'

"'I did not expect you would accompany us,' she said.

"Not once had she looked at me or turned toward me. The impression her
conduct made upon me was not so strong then as afterward, when I awoke
from my dream of wealth, and when Fate dealt me the fatal stroke.

"We parted. I received the money I asked her to lend me from her
little fortune, and we parted. I stood on the platform with her and
our Clair; my faithful friend and once steward stood a little apart
from us. He had offered to go with them to Dover, and his services had
been accepted. It was impossible for me to go even so far. My
creditors were clamoring, and I had arranged to meet a broker at my
house, to sell him everything in it, and to get the money immediately
from him. If my debts of honor were not paid that evening, I was
threatened with public exposure. Therefore it was imperative that I
should stay in London. It was then my intention to proceed immediately
to Monte Carlo, to commence operations; and, my fortune restored to
me, to join my dear wife, and commence a new life.

"Of all this she, of course, knew nothing. Ignorant of the real cause
of my downfall, how could she have divined the truth? Had there been
that confidence between us which should exist between man and wife, I
might at this moment be different from what I am. I should not be, as
I am, bowed down with a sense of guilt from which my soul can never be
cleansed. It was not she who was at fault, but I. Had I confided to
her, had she been really aware where and in what company I spent my
nights, she would have been spared the agony of a belief which, out of
charity to me, she would not shame me and herself by revealing. So we
two stood on the platform bidding a cold farewell to each other, each
tortured by a secret we dared not confess. I kissed her, and kissed my
sweet Clair.

"'Do come with us, papa!' said Clair, nestling in my arms.

"My wife looked up into my face appealingly. In that one moment, had I
seized the opportunity, there was still a chance of redemption.

"'Robert!' she said, involuntarily raising her hands and clasping
them.

"Ah, if I had met her appeal! If I had said: 'Do not go by this train;
I will confess everything to you!' But the prompting did not come to
me; if it had, I should have disregarded it.

"'I cannot come with you, Clair,' I said; 'I have such a deal to do
before I leave London.'

"'Poor papa!' she said. 'That is why you keep out so late at night.
Poor papa!'

"My wife turned her head from us, but I saw the scarlet blush on her
face, which I attributed to her displeasure at my refusal. Or was it
that she suspected my secret?

"'You have not betrayed me?' I said apart to my friend. 'She does not
know how I have lost my fortune, and what has brought me to this?'

"'On my honor, no,' he answered. 'She has not the least suspicion of
your stupid infatuation.'

"'You will not call it stupid in three or four weeks,' I said.

"'It is not possible for your system to fail?' he questioned.

"'There isn't the remotest possibility of it,' I replied. 'Clever
people think that everything has been found out about figures and
chances. I am going to show them something new.'

"The whistle sounded; the guard bade the passengers take their places.
I walked along the platform as the train moved away. Clair waved her
handkerchief to me; my friend nodded good-by; my wife did not raise
her head to look at me.

"I hastened back to my house, and found the broker there. He was a
wealthy dealer, and was going through the rooms when I entered,
appraising everything and putting down figures. I accompanied him from
one room to another, and we smoked as he made his calculations. I was
impatient and unhappy, but he would not be hurried. He opened the door
of my wife's morning-room; I pulled him back.

"'Not this room?' he asked.

"'Pshaw!' I said. 'Everything must go.'

"There were some small things in the room which seemed to me to have
so close a personal relation to my wife that I was angry to see him
handle them. Why had she not taken these things away with her? She
might have spared me the reproach. I walked out of the room while he
valued them.

"At length his catalogue was ended.

"'You want the money immediately?' he asked.

"'Immediately,' I replied.

"'A check will do, of course.'

"'No, I must have cash.'

"'That will make a slight difference,' he said, and he named the
amount he was willing to give me. It was less than I anticipated, but
the business worried me, and I agreed. Saying he would return in an
hour and complete the bargain, he left me.

"I was alone in the house to which I had brought my wife, a bride. All
the servants had been paid off, and had left. I had arranged this
because I could not endure that they should see the sacrifice I was
making. Memories of the past rushed upon me--of my young wife's
delight as I took her through the rooms, of the fond endearments at my
cleverness and forethought, of the happy evening we passed, sitting in
the gloaming and talking of the future. Alas, the future! How fearful
the contrast between my young bride's fond imaginings and the reality!
In solitary communing I strolled through the rooms and marked each
spot and each article hallowed by some cherished recollection. The
piano at which she used to sit and sing in the early days of our
marriage, the window from which we used to watch the sunset, the small
articles on her dressing-table--there seemed to be a living spirit in
them that greeted me reproachfully, and asked, 'Why have you done
this? Why have you blighted that fair young life?' Our Clair was born
in the house. The cot in which she slept was there, her favorite
child-pictures hung upon the wall. What pangs went through me as I
surveyed the wreck of bright hopes! 'But I will atone for it,' I said
inwardly. 'When fortune is mine once more I will confess all, and ask
my dear wife's forgiveness. Then, then for the happy future!' No
warning whispers reached me. No voice cried,' Sinner and fool! You
have done what can never be undone. Not only fortune, but love, is
lost forever!'

"If I dwell upon these small matters, Rathbeal, it is because the
impressions of that lonely hour are as strong within me now as then,
and because they are pregnant with an awful lesson.

"The hour over, the broker returned with wagons and men. As he paid me
the money his workmen commenced to remove the furniture. I left the
house to their mercies, and went to meet the men to whom I was
indebted. I paid them to the last shilling, and, honor satisfied, was
master of a sum sufficiently large, I thought, to carry on my
operations at Monte Carlo. I played at the club that night, and lost a
few pounds. It did not affect me; I was rather glad, indeed, for it
pointed to the road where wealth awaited me. I had taken a bed in a
hotel, but an impulse seized me to visit my house once more. It was
two in the morning when I turned the key and lit the hall gas. My
footsteps resounded on the dusky passages. The broker had been
expeditious; everything in the house was removed, and I seemed to be
walking through a hollow grave--but it was a grave, haunted by ghostly
shadows, eloquent with accusing voices. I shut my eyes, I put my hands
to my ears, but I still saw the ghostly shadows and heard the accusing
voices. I rushed from the house, conscience-stricken and appalled.

"The next morning my courage returned; the sun shone brightly, and I
had money, and my system, in my pocket. Away, then, to Monte Carlo, to
redeem the past!

"I did not commence immediately; I studied the tables, the croupiers,
the players, and I spent several hours in going over the figures and
combinations I had prepared. Then I took the plunge.

"As is frequently the case, I was successful at first; in four days I
doubled my capital. My friend came to see me, as I had requested him
to do, to give me news of my wife. She had not written to me, and I
asked him the reason; he said he was not acquainted with the reason,
and he asked me how I was progressing. I showed him, exultingly, what
I had done; he expressed surprise and satisfaction.

"'How long will it take you to accomplish your aim?' he asked.

"'If I play as I am playing now," I replied, 'some two or three weeks.
If I play more boldly, a week may accomplish it.'

"'Why not play boldly?' he suggested.

"I had half intended to do so, and his words encouraged me. We went to
the tables together, and I began to plunge. Before I left the rooms I
had lost all I had won, and some part of the money I had brought with
me. I pretended to make light of it.

"'These adverse combinations occasionally occur," I said, 'but they
right themselves infallibly if you hold on. It is only a temporary
repulse.'

"But though I spoke confidently my heart was fainting within me.
Theory is one thing, practice another. We can be very bold on paper,
but when we are fighting with the enemy we feel his blows.

"The next day my friend accompanied me again to the tables, With all
my boasting I had not the daring to risk my capital in half-a-dozen
bold coups; I put on much smaller sums, and I had the mortification of
learning that my want of courage prevented me from winning what I
ought to have done.

"'You see,' I said to my friend. 'Faint heart never succeeded yet. But
it is only a little time lost, and it proves the certainty of my
calculations.'

"He had to leave me that evening, and he made me promise that I would
write to him daily of my progress. As he was going to see my wife, I
gave him a letter to her, in which I begged her to write to me at
Monte Carlo. He said he would deliver the letter, and it was not until
some time afterward that I recalled his manner as being somewhat
strained.

"The story of the next few days is soon told. Hope, despair; hope
again, followed by despair. I came down to my last hundred pounds.
Over and over again, in the solitude of my room, I proved to myself
how weak I had been in not doing this or that at the right moment;
over and over again I proved to my own misery that it was due to my
own lack of courage that I had not won back my fortune. I conned the
numbers I had written down as they were called out. 'Fool, fool,
fool!' I cried, striking my forehead. 'Wretched, contemptible coward!'
I rose in the morning haggard and weary; I had not slept a moment all
the night. There was still a chance left: I had a hundred pounds; I
would play on a lower martingale, and as I won I would increase it. I
did so. That day I remained at the tables ten hours without rising
from the seat I had secured. I won, I lost, I won again, I lost again.
A few minutes before the rooms closed I had followed my system to a
point whereat, after a series of losses, it needed but a large amount
to be staked to get all back again. I had this amount before me. On
previous occasions I had drawn back at such a critical juncture, and
had suffered for it by hearing the number called which, in its various
winning chances, would have recouped, with large profit, all that had
been lost in the series. I would not be guilty of this cowardice
again. With a trembling hand I put every franc I had on the various
chances which were certain this time to win. The number was called.
Great God! I was beggared! Without a word I rose and went to my hotel.

"Can you imagine the torments of hell, Rathbeal? I suffered them then.
But there was worse in store for me.

"Figures, figures, figures, red and black, living figures that moved,
that spoke, that glared and mocked me--the voices of the croupiers,
the exclamations of the gamesters, the rattle of the money--curses and
benedictions--now surrounded by a blaze of light, now plunged into
black darkness--painted women, men with hideous faces, lips that
smiled and derided--these were the images that haunted me in the
night. I had drunk brandy, contrary to my usual habit, for I was never
fond of drink, and my brain was burning. From time to time I dozed,
and scarcely knew whether I was awake or asleep, whether what I saw
were phantoms or actual forms of things. Was that a knock at my door?
Was that the voice of a waiter speaking to me outside? I did not
answer; I did not move. What mattered anything now? If the door
opened, it could signify nothing to me; if some person entered and
went away, there was no interest in the movements to beguile me from
the tortures I was suffering. Ruin and I were company enough.

"The sun was streaming into my room long before I rose; when I got out
of bed I staggered like a drunken man, though, except for the delirium
of my senses, I was perfectly sober. It was not till I had washed and
dressed that I observed a letter upon my table. Taking it up, I saw
that it was in the handwriting of my wife.

"I hardly dared to open it; by my own act I had destroyed any claim to
her affection. I had brought deep unhappiness upon her; I had
systematically neglected her; I had lost the home which should have
been hers; I had taken our child's money, and could not return it. But
the letter must be read. With trembling hands I unfastened the
envelope, and drew forth the sheet.

"It bore neither date nor address. I have the letter by me now, and I
copy it word for word:


"I can bear my agony in silence no longer. I write to you, I speak to
you, for the last time. This is my last farewell to him I loved, to
the father of my child, to the husband who should have been my shield.

"Do you remember the words you addressed to me when we were married?
'I love you,' you said, 'I am your husband and lover. Nothing shall
ever harm or wound you. I am your shield--the shield of love.'

"With what fondness I used to repeat these words to myself! My shield!
My shield of love! Side by side with my worship of the Eternal did I
worship you, as the realization of a young girl's happiest dreams; my
joy, my hope, my shield of love!

"Slowly, slowly did I awake from my dream. I would not, I could not,
believe what you were showing me day by day, but the terrible truth
forced itself upon me with power so resistless, with conviction so
absolute, that I could no longer refuse to believe. How bitter was the
knowledge, how bitter, how bitter!

"I gave you all my love. But for your own actions it would never have
wavered. O Richard! if in a moment of temptation you had turned to me,
I might have been your shield, as you promised to be mine!

"I know your secret. I have known it for years--for long, bitter
years. I cannot blame myself that I did not satisfy your expectations.
All that a loving woman could do I did to retain your love. I hid
nothing from you; I strove with all my might to make your home
pleasant and attractive to you; what power lay within me to keep you
faithful to the vows we pledged was exercised by me to the utmost of
my abilities. I used to say to myself, 'What can I do to win my
husband's society and confidence? How can I act so that he shall not
continue to grow weary of me?' You will never know how hard I strove,
you will never know the tears I shed as I slowly recognized that my
shield of love was a mockery, and that there was as little loving
meaning in your declaration as if it had been uttered by a deadly
enemy.

"Yes, Richard, I know your secret; I know that you have not been
faithful to me; I know that for years your heart has been given to
another. I cannot say that I hope you will be happy with her who
occupies my place. At this solemn moment I will not be guilty of a
subterfuge. The issue lies in God's hand, not in mine, nor in yours.

"I should not address this farewell to you if it were not that I feel
I have not long to live. It is grief that is killing me, not a mortal
disease which doctors can minister to.

"It is with distinct purpose that I put no address to this farewell. I
have left the place I went to when you bade me good-by in London, and
it is my desire that you shall not know where I am, that you shall not
come to me. Remorse may touch your soul, and you may wish to come; but
it would not be a sincere wish, springing, as it must, from a sudden
false feeling of compassion in which there is no truth or depth. How
could I believe what you said, after all the years of suffering I have
gone through? And as a wife I must preserve my self-respect. Coming to
me from a woman for whom you deserted me, I would not receive you. It
is long since I bade farewell to happiness. I now bid farewell to you."


"That was all. Many times did I pause to question myself, and to read
again, in doubt whether I had mistaken the words. That the accusation
my wife brought against me was untrue you may believe, Rathbeal. No
woman had won me from her side, and I was so far innocent. That,
ignorant of the true cause of my neglect, she may have had grounds for
suspicion, I could well believe, but she seemed to speak with
something more than suspicion. Who had maligned me? Who had played me
false? And for what purpose?

"I could think of no one. At times during my degraded career in London
I had had disagreements with the men I played with, but I could not
convict one of them with any degree of certainty.

"The postmark on the envelope was Paris, and there was but one means
of ascertaining my wife's address--through the only friend I had in
the world. To go to her, beggared as I was, would be adding shame to
shame. Besides, I could not pay my hotel bill. But still it impressed
itself upon me as an imperative duty that I should find her and make
full confession; and then to bid her farewell forever.

"I wrote to my friend, to his address in London; I made a strong
appeal to him, and informed him of the position I was in. He wrote
back after a delay of two days; he said he had something of a very
grave nature to attend to that would take him from England, and he
could not, therefore, come to me at once. When he saw me he would
inform me why he could not come earlier. I was to remain where I was
till he arrived; he would be responsible for my hotel bill; I was not
to trouble myself about that. I learned from the landlord that he had
received a letter from my friend, making himself responsible for my
debt to him.

"'You have had a turn of ill luck at the tables,' said the landlord.
'It is the way with most gentlemen; but sometimes a turn comes the
other way.' He appeared perfectly satisfied, but I could not help
feeling that he regarded me as a personal hostage for the amount of
the bill.

"I wrote again to my friend, imploring him not to delay, and this time
I received no answer to my letter. I supposed he had left England on
the business he referred to, and in my helpless position I was
compelled to wait and eat my heart away.

"Ten days elapsed before he came; he was dressed in mourning, and was
sad and anxious, as though he had passed through some deep trouble.

"'It was impossible for me to get here before,' he said gravely.

"I nodded impatiently, and then, with an awkward, consciousness that
something was due to him, I touched his black coat.

"'You have had a loss," I said.

"'You will hear sad news presently,' he answered, 'and you must
prepare yourself for it. But tell me first of your troubles here. I
was so harassed and grieved at the time your letter arrived that I
hardly understood it; and then I laid it aside and could not find it
again.'

"Curbing my impatience, for he insisted upon my exposing the full
extent of my misfortunes, I related to him briefly the result of my
mad venture.

"'And you are utterly ruined?' he said.

"'Utterly, utterly ruined,' I replied. 'Enough of myself for the
present. Tell me of my wife.'

"His countenance fell. There was a significance in his manner which
profoundly agitated me. Eager for an answer, and dreading it, I asked
him why he did not speak.

"'It is cruel,' he murmured, his face still averted from me, 'at such
a time, when you have lost every hope in life, to say what I have come
to say. We will speak together to-morrow.'

"'We will speak together now!' I cried, seizing him by the arm, and
compelling him to turn toward me. 'Do you think that anything you can
say, any message you may bring from her, can add to the misery and
degradation of my position? Tell me of my wife!'

"'How can I speak?' he murmured. 'What can I say?'

"'Speak the truth,' I said, 'and do not spare me. I deserve no mercy.
I had none upon her; I cannot expect her to have any upon me. But an
imputation has been cast upon me, an infamous, revolting imputation,
and I must clear myself of it. That done, I shall not care what
becomes of me. I have not told you of the last letter I received from
her, the only letter she has written to me since we parted. In that
letter she brings a horrible charge against me, instigated by some
villain who bears me ill will, and I insist upon my right to defend
myself.'

"I would have said more, but my emotion overpowered me.

"'She will not hear you,' said my friend sadly.

"'She has told me so in her letter,' I replied; 'but you can give me
her address, and I will write to her.'

"'It will be useless,' he said, 'quite useless, I grieve to say.'

"'You mean that she will return the letter to me unopened; but I will
not rest until she receives my denial of the crime of which she
believes me guilty.'

"'She will never receive it,' he said in a solemn tone. 'Cannot you
guess the truth?'

"'Good God!' I cried, a despairing light breaking upon me.

"'I can keep it from you no longer,' said my friend; 'sooner or later
it must be spoken. She had been for a long time in bad health, as you
know; it was impossible to disguise it--her state was serious. The
only hope for her lay in a change of climate and in perfect freedom
from mental anxiety. In my answer to your letter informing me of your
misfortunes at this fatal place I told you I had something of a grave
nature to attend to. It concerned your wife. A secret sorrow which she
did not impart to me had aggravated her condition, which had become so
alarming that the doctor held out no hope of recovery. She had another
terrible grief to contend with. Your child--but I cannot go on.'

"'You must go on. My wife--my Clair!----'

"He assisted me to a seat; I was too weak to stand.

"'Go on,' I muttered. 'Go on. All must be told--all, all! Do not
spare me. Let me know the worst.'

"'Grave symptoms had developed themselves in Clair,' he continued,
'and it was feared that she would share the fate that awaited your
wife. In these distressing circumstances she called upon me, and I
went to her without delay. I was shocked at her appearance. Death was
in her face; death was in the face of your child! I begged her to let
me send for you. She would not hear of it; it terrified me to hear the
vehemence of her refusal. "He shall not look upon me again, dead or
alive!" she cried. "He shall not look upon my child! We are parted for
ever and ever!" The doctor, coming in at that moment, warned me that
opposition to anything upon which she had set her heart would snap the
frail cord that bound her to life. "She can survive but a short time,"
he said. "In mercy to her, let her last moments be peaceful." What
could I say--what could I do but obey?'

"My friend waited for my answer. 'You did what was right,' I murmured,
racked with anguish. 'Was she at this time in the village she went to
when we parted?'

"'She had removed from it without my knowledge, in order that you
should not find her. It grieves me to make these revelations to you,
but the time has gone by for concealment. Clair died first. Her death
was painless.'

"'Did she not speak? Did she not ask for me?'

"'She spoke no word that I could hear. She passed away with her lips
to her mother's face. "I am glad my Clair has gone first," your wife
said. "It would have pained me to leave her alone in this cruel world.
She is safe now; she has not lived to have her heart broken. She is
waiting for me, and I shall join her soon--very soon!" I remained with
her to the last. Believe me when I say I would have written to you had
she not bound me by a solemn obligation which I dared not break. She
demanded an oath from me, and to ease her aching heart I gave it. I
could not, I could not refuse her. She died on the following day. Your
wife and child lie in one grave.'

"'Where?' I found voice to ask.

"'I dare not tell you. Not for any worldly consideration will I be
false to the dead. Again she made me swear that absolute secrecy
should be preserved as to her last resting-place. "I should not rest
in my grave," she said, "if my husband stood above it." I implore you
not to press me, for I will not, I cannot be false to my trust. Alas,
that I should be compelled to say this to the friend of my youth! You
know the worst now. There is nothing more to tell.'

"It was just; it was what I had earned. Of what avail would tears have
been, shed over the cold earth that covered the forms of my wife and
child? I had tortured them for years, and I was justly punished.

"'She sent me no message?' I asked, after a long pause.

"'None; and she made no distinct complaint against you. All that she
said was that her heart was broken, and that she left the world
gladly. It is the saddest of news, but we reap as we sow.'

"I acknowledged it. As I had sown, so had I reaped. What better
harvest could I have expected? Desolate and alone I stood upon the
shore, without kith or kin. It was with a stern satisfaction that I
thought I should not remain long on earth. It was truly my impression
at that time; I had the firmest belief that my hours were numbered.

"'You will make no attempt,' said my friend, 'to discover where they
are laid?'

"'Her wishes shall be respected,' I said gloomily. 'I could have
brought no comfort to her or to my child had they lived. I will not
disturb them now they are gone.'

"'It is due from you, I think,' he said, and presently added, 'What
will you do now?'

"'With my life?' I asked; and then I told him what I believed, that I
had not long to live. 'But for the short time that yet remains to me I
cut myself entirely away from all personal associations with men and
women whom I have known. I renounce even the name I bear, to avoid
recognition, and shall assume another. I am as one who has died, and
who commences life anew. If by my actions during the days that yet may
be mine I can atone in some small measure for the guilt that lies upon
my soul, such atonements shall be made. It is likely I may not reside
in England; the recollections that would force themselves upon me
there would be too painful to bear.'

"He approved of my resolution, and offered to render me some small
regular assistance to assist me to live. I accepted it after some
hesitation; he had made money out of me while acting as my steward,
and I thought he could afford it. Should I find myself master of more
than would be requisite for the barest necessaries, I would devote it
to the children of misery in memory of my wife, who had a charitable
heart, and was always giving to the poor. But what sweet virtue could
be named that did not grace her soul?

"You know now, Rathbeal, how it was that I did not bear my own name
when you first became acquainted with me. It was by chance that you
made this discovery, and it was partly because I felt that there was a
cowardice in the subterfuge, and that I was practicing it to avoid the
moral punishment I had earned, that when we were together abroad I
resumed my own. There was no need to make my friend acquainted with
this, and it is probable that he is in ignorance of it to this day. It
does not in any way concern him. I have cut myself away from him as I
have done from every person who knew me during my wife's lifetime. The
motive that induced me to request you to inform him that he would be
troubled with me no more was this: I had to some extent bound myself
to him not to return to England, and when I resolved to do so in your
company I felt that I was partially violating that understanding.
Consequently I determined to sever all personal relations between him
and myself. He has not sought me, nor shall I ever seek him. Our ways
of life lie widely apart, and it is hardly likely we shall ever meet
again. He believes me probably to be dead; let him rest in this
belief.

"I have nothing to add, Rathbeal, to this lengthy confession. You know
the worst of me. If you condemn me be silent, it will be charitable.
If I am still allowed to retain your friendship, it will ease my
heart.

   "Robert Grantham."




CHAPTER IX.
Mr. Fox-Cordery is not easy in his mind.


In a state of deep dissatisfaction with the world in general, Mr.
Fox-Cordery paced the lawn fronting the country house he had taken on
the banks of the Thames. He was smoking one of his fragrant cigars,
but it had no soothing effect upon him; a common weed of British make
would have afforded him as much gratification. He was perplexed and
annoyed, and was growing savage; and yet he had cause, if not for
gratitude--of which it may be doubted whether he was capable--at least
for self-congratulation.

To commence with the credit side of his ledger, here he was
comfortably installed in the house facing the river of which we have
heard his mother speak, with its piece of meadow-land, and its lawn,
and its garden of fruit and flowers, and its rustic bridge stretching
to a bank on the opposite side. This bridge, being erected over an
inlet, did not interfere with the traffic of the river proper, and was
a decided attraction to the summer residence which Mr. Fox-Cordery
had taken to carry out a long cherished design. The arm of water it
spanned was deep, and upon it was floating a gayly-painted boat,
bearing in gilt letters the name, "Lucy and Clair." He had so
christened it in honor of the guests he was entertaining, Mrs.
Grantham and her little daughter. He had intended to call it simply
"Lucy"; but love is sometimes wanting in boldness, and for this
reason, or because he was not sure of his ground, he had associated
the names of mother and daughter, which he considered the lady he was
scheming to win could not but regard as a delicate mark of attention.

To go on with, his mind was more at ease with respect to the fate of
the friend he had betrayed than it had been on the day of his
interviews with John Dixon and Rathbeal. Six weeks had passed by and
he had not seen or heard from John Dixon: a distinct proof that that
astute person had been gasconading when he spoke of having caught a
glimpse of Robert Grantham's face on a foggy night in March. Mr.
Fox-Cordery had arrived at the conclusion that the tale was a clumsy
invention, introduced for the purpose of winning compliance with John
Dixon's suit for the hand of his sister Charlotte.

"Dixon thought I would strike my flag," he reasoned, "and that I would
implore him to take Charlotte at once, and a handsome dowry with her,
as the price of his silence. A likely thing when he had nothing to
sell but an empty tale!" Of the legacy he had heard nothing more. Mrs.
Grantham had not seen the advertisement in the _Times_, the paper
being one which she did not read, nor had she been approached by the
lawyers with respect to it, as had been threatened by John Dixon.
"Lawyers don't part with money too readily," again reasoned Mr.
Fox-Cordery, "when once it gets into their clutches. I know their
tricks."

Then, Charlotte was behaving admirably. She and Mrs. Grantham and
Clair were constantly together, Mr. Fox-Cordery believed that his
sister was doing something--perhaps in an indirect way, but that was
of no account--to advance his cause. And yet that cause was making no
progress. It was unaccountable, and he was moodily reflecting upon
this as he paced the lawn and smoked his cigar.

On the debit side of the ledger were some ridiculous, though
mysterious, eccentricities on the part of Rathbeal. Rathbeal did not
appear personally, but he kept himself in Mr. Fox-Cordery's mind by a
series of written and pictorial communications. These, carefully
sealed, were addressed to Mr. Fox-Cordery's London residence, and were
forwarded on to his suburban home. He destroyed them, wrathfully,
almost as soon as he received them, but it was an additional annoyance
that he could not forget them after they were destroyed; indeed, the
impression they produced was so strong that they were the cause of
many fantastic and disturbing dreams from which he would awake in
perturbation. The peculiar nature of these communications will be seen
from the following examples:


"When you weave a web, shrewd sir," wrote Rathbeal, quoting an
observation made by Mr. Fox-Cordery in the course of their recent
interview, "nothing ever escapes from it.

           (Signed) "Rathbeal."


Beneath these words was the picture of a large web, in a corner of
which lurked a spider, bearing an unmistakable likeness to Mr.
Fox-Cordery. A number of unfortunate creatures, with human faces,
struggled in the meshes. The face of one figure, designated Fate, was
hidden, purposely it seemed.

Again, after an interval of a few days:


"There are other webs than those that mortals weave," wrote Rathbeal,
quoting his reply to Mr. Fox-Cordery's observation. "Fate is ever at
work.

           (Signed) "Rathbeal."


Beneath this was the same web, but this time Mr. Fox-Cordery was in
the meshes, struggling in terror to release himself; while in the
corner lurked the figure of Fate, still with its face hidden.

"The man is crazy," was Mr. Fox-Cordery's comment, "or in his dotage."

Nevertheless he could not banish these sketches from his mind, and he
found himself wondering who the figure with his hidden face was
intended to represent.

At intervals came couplets of verse:


The bark we steer has stranded. O breeze, auspicious swell:
We yet may see once more the friend we love so well.


"For auspicious," wrote Rathbeal, "read malefic. For love, read hate."

At another time:

    Better the drunkard void of fraud and wiles
    Than virtue's braggart who by fraud beguiles.


Another post brought:


   What serves thy armor 'gainst Fate's arrows fierce?
   What serves thy shield if Destiny transpierce?


Had Mr. Fox-Cordery not been sensible of the advisability of silence
he might have taken fighting notice of these missives, which, in their
frequency, savored of persecution. He was tempted, as his eyes fell
upon the familiar writing on the envelope, to tear and burn it,
unopened, but he had not the nerve to do this; he was possessed with a
strange fear that it might contain some news of importance to himself,
and thus he was made to contribute to his own uneasiness.

But these were small matters in comparison with the one desire of
which he had become the slave. In the retreat he had chosen he had
hoped to attain his wish, and to win from Mrs. Grantham a promise that
she would become his wife. Long as he had loved her, he had not had
the courage to speak to her openly. Many times had he approached the
boundary line which stood between friendship and love, and had never
dared to cross it. Something in her manner, which he could not define
or satisfactorily explain to himself, deterred him; and he lacked the
gamester's mettle to risk his all upon the hazard of the die. He
argued with himself that she could scarcely mistake the meaning of the
attentions he was paying her during this visit. Daily offerings of
flowers, a constant ministering to her pleasure, fulfillment of any
wish she expressed, the most careful attention to the adornment of his
small person, a display of amiability to her, to Charlotte and his
mother, and even to the servants who waited on them--all these efforts
seemed to be thrown away upon her. As has been stated, he was growing
savage to find his meaning thus misunderstood, his desire thus
frustrated. Had he seen her while he was restlessly and moodily pacing
the lawn and been able to read what was passing within her, he might
have arrived at a better understanding of the position of affairs; and
had he witnessed a scene which was presently to take place between
Mrs. Grantham and his sister Charlotte, it would not have assisted in
comforting him.

Mrs. Grantham was alone in her room. It was Charlotte's birthday, and
she was looking in her trunk for a gift she designed to give her
friend, a brooch of turquoise and pearls which she herself had worn as
a young girl. The brooch was in a desk which lay at the bottom of the
trunk, and it was seldom she opened it, for it contained mementos of
the past which it pained her to handle; but they were dear to her
despite the pain they caused her, and she would not have parted with
them for untold gold. Lifting the desk from the trunk, she rose with
it in her hands and seated herself at a table.

The deep sorrow of her life had left its traces on her face, had
touched her eyes with an abiding sadness; but a delicate beauty dwelt
there still. Charlotte, who had insisted upon being her handmaiden,
and had begged to be allowed to attend her when she retired to bed,
would comment admiringly upon the graces of her person, comments which
Mrs. Grantham would receive with gentle deprecation. Until late years
Charlotte had known nothing of Mrs. Grantham, and was even now as
ignorant of her history as she was of the close association which had
existed between her and her brother. During the present visit a fond
confidence was established between the women, and each knew that in
the other she possessed a true and faithful friend. But Mrs. Grantham
had not admitted Charlotte into the secrets of her married life. The
anguish and indignation which had tortured her soul when she learned
from Mr. Fox-Cordery that her husband was unfaithful to her had long
since passed away. Death had consecrated her grief, and had robbed it
of its bitter sting.

Mrs. Grantham unlocked her desk. In a small box, at the top of two or
three packets of letters, were the brooch and a few ornaments she used
to wear in happier days. She placed the brooch aside, and taking out
the other articles of jewelry, gazed at them with yearning tenderness.
They were chiefly gifts which her husband had given her during their
courtship and the first few months of their marriage. Since she had
received the news of her husband's death from the lips of Mr.
Fox-Cordery she had not worn an ornament he had given her; and the
only ring upon her fingers was her wedding ring, which had never been
removed. But she had preserved them all, even the smallest article,
and every letter he had written to her was in the desk, carefully
folded and preserved. An impulse stirred her to untie the packets and
read the endearing words he had addressed to her, and for a moment she
was inclined to yield to it, but she went no farther than to place her
fingers on the ribbon which held them together. With a sigh she
replaced the packets in the desk, but not before she had put her lips
to them. Her husband, living, had sorely wronged her, but when she
heard that he was dead she forgave him, and did not thereafter allow
her thoughts to dwell upon any remembrances of him that were not
tender and kind. He had sinned, and had suffered for his sin. She
could not carry resentment beyond the grave. And he was the father of
her child, the sweetest hope the world contained for her.

When her trunk was repacked the turquoise and pearl brooch was not the
only ornament she had retained, There was a ring of gold set with one
black pearl which her husband used to wear. One day she had expressed
admiration of it, and he had had it made smaller for her. She put it
on her finger now, and pressed her lips to it. As she did so her eyes
filled with tears.

"May I come in?"

It was Charlotte's voice, following a tap at the door.

"Yes, come in, dear."

Charlotte entered, a different young woman from the last occasion upon
which we saw her. She was neatly dressed, and her eyes were sparkling
and her face radiant.

"A happy birthday to you, dear," said Mrs. Grantham. "Let me fasten
this on."

Charlotte had never possessed a gold ornament of any kind, and her
eyes fairly danced as she looked at herself in the glass.

"For me, Mrs. Grantham? Really for me?"

"Yes, dear. It was one I used to wear when I was a girl, and I thought
you would like it."

"Like it! I shall love it all my life. Do you know, Mrs. Grantham, it
is the first brooch I have ever had!"

"You don't mean that? And you twenty-nine to-day!"

"Yes, I am not a girl, as you were when you wore it. I am not at all
sorry to be twenty-nine, for I think no one is happier than I am."

The fact is Charlotte had received this morning the tenderest letter
from John Dixon, wishing her happiness and every good on earth, He had
bought a birthday gift for her (said John Dixon), but it had required
a little alteration, and to his annoyance the man who was making the
alteration had disappointed him; but he was after him like a tiger
(said John Dixon), and she should have the token that very morning, or
he would know the reason why. John Dixon always wrote to Charlotte in
good spirits, and in this birthday letter he was at his blithest.

"It takes very little to make you happy," observed Mrs. Grantham,
looking rather thoughtfully at Charlotte, who was exhibiting, not the
pleasure of a woman at her gift, but the delight of a child.

"Do you call this very little?" asked Charlotte, gayly. "I call it a
great deal."

"Charlotte," said Mrs. Grantham, "did not your mother or your brother
ever give you a brooch, or a bracelet, or any little thing of the
kind?"

Charlotte was on her guard instantly. She had felt during the past few
weeks that much depended upon her mother and brother, and that they
expected her to speak of them at their best. Therefore she was
uncertain what to say in answer to Mrs. Grantham's straight question.

"But tell me, dear," urged Mrs. Grantham, "did you never have such a
gift?"

"Do not ask me," replied Charlotte. "I must not say anything unkind."

"It is an answer, dear," said Mrs. Grantham, with a pitying smile. "I
have noticed that you never wear the smallest ornament."

"Nor do you; only your wedding ring. And now I declare you have
another ring on! Is it a pearl?"

"Yes, Charlotte. It is a ring my husband gave me. I have not worn any
jewels since his death, but I have a number in my desk."

"And you have put it on to-day in remembrance."

"Yes, dear, in remembrance."

She was on the point of saying that she did not wish to continue the
subject, but she was reminded that this would afford Charlotte a valid
excuse for not giving her some information which she was now desirous
to obtain. She had not been quite oblivious of the attentions which
Mr. Fox-Cordery was paying her, and although she had marked out her
course of life, she had lately become not only curious concerning him,
but doubtful. Upon her first introduction to Charlotte she had
observed the menial dress the young woman wore, and the want of
affection displayed toward her in her home. Mr. Fox-Cordery and his
mother had not been careful to disguise their feelings in her
presence, and it was pity and sympathy for Charlotte which had
attracted her. She afterward learned to love Charlotte for her own
sake, and it was chiefly because of Charlotte's pleadings that she had
been induced to accept the invitation which led to her present visit.
And in this closer association she had grown to love the young woman
more.

Never before had Charlotte the opportunity of unbosoming herself to
one of her own sex, to one in whom she felt she could confide. In
their walks together, she and her little Clair and Charlotte, constant
evidences of Charlotte's kindness of heart and humane instincts had
presented themselves to her, and she more than once suspected that
here was a well which never yet had had free play. The information
that this little brooch was the first gift of any value that Charlotte
could call her own caused her to reflect. That a being so tender and
kind should be treated with so much neglect gave her a shock.

"Dear Mrs. Grantham," said Charlotte, "how you must have suffered when
you lost your dear husband! I can imagine it. I should wish to die."

"There was my little Clair left to me, dear; and life means, not love
alone, but duty. I am glad I lived to take care of my child. Do you
expect to be married soon, Charlotte?"

"Some time this year, I think."

"When in your position, dear, one thinks one generally knows. I should
not be a false prophet if I said for certain this year."

"I think it will be."

"I have not seen your intended, dear."

"He is noble and good," said Charlotte, enthusiastically.

"And loves you with his whole heart, as you love him."

"Yes, it is truly so."

The women kissed each other.

"You must introduce me to him," said Mrs. Grantham, "when he comes to
London."

"Oh, but he is in London," said Charlotte simply. "He lives here."

Mrs. Grantham looked at her in astonishment.

"But why does he not visit you?"

Charlotte's face grew scarlet; she dared not answer the question.

"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Grantham, pitying her confusion; "but
you understand that I wish to know him, for your sake."

"I understand. Mrs. Grantham, I ought not to keep anything from you.
The reason why Mr. Dixon does not come to see me here, is that he and
my brother are not exactly friends. They had a disagreement in
business, and that is how the trouble occurred. Do not say anything to
my brother about it; it might make him angry."

"With me, dear?"

"Oh, no," said Charlotte, without thinking, "he could not be angry
with you."

"With you, then?" said Mrs. Grantham, her mind half on Charlotte and
half on herself.

"I don't know how it is," said Charlotte, in a tone of distress, "but
I seem to be saying things I ought not to speak of. If I were clever
it would not happen."

"You are clever, dear, and you are good; that is why I love you."

"If I only thought that what I have said without intending it, and
what perhaps I have made you think without intending it, wouldn't make
you run away from us----"

"I will not run away, Charlotte. If you wish it, I will stay as long
as I have promised."

"I do wish it; with all my heart I wish it. I never had a friend like
you; I never had a sister----"

But here Charlotte quite broke down; her sobs would not allow her to
proceed.

"There, there, dear," said Mrs. Grantham, soothing her. "Tears on your
birthday! Why, Charlotte, what are you thinking of? And with a true
friend by your side----!"

"I know, I know," murmured Charlotte. "I am very ungrateful."

"You are a dear, loveable young woman, and you have won my heart. And
who knows whether I may not be able to help you just where you most
need help? There is a knock at the door. Don't move; no one must catch
you crying, or they will have a bad opinion of me. I will go and see
who it is."

It was a maid with a little parcel for Charlotte.

"I was to give it to Miss Fox-Cordery at once, ma'am," said the maid,
"and I was told she was in your room."

"She is here," said Mrs. Grantham, "and she shall have it
immediately."

The maid departed, and Mrs. Grantham locked the door, so as to be
secure from intrusion.

"Something for you, dear. I guess a birthday present."

"Oh!" cried Charlotte eagerly, starting to her feet and holding out
her hand.

"The question is, from whom," said Mrs. Grantham, with tender
playfulness.

"I know!" said Charlotte, still more eagerly.

"From your brother?"

Charlotte shook her head rather sadly.

"From your mother?"

Another sad shake of Charlotte's head.

"They have given you something already, perhaps!"

"No, Mrs. Grantham; I do not expect anything from them. They do not
make birthday presents."

"Don't think I want to tease you; I only want to find out how I can
best serve you. I will not keep you in suspense any longer. Here it
is, dear."

Charlotte opened the packet clumsily, her fingers trembled so, and
disclosed a tiny note and a small jewel case. The note ran:


My Dear Charlotte: Accept this, with my fond and constant love. Ever
yours,                   John.


The jewel case contained a ring of diamonds. The tears that glistened
now in Charlotte's eyes were tears of joy.

"An engagement ring, I should say," said Mrs. Grantham, gayly. "I want
more than ever to be friends with John. And it fits perfectly. Now,
how did John manage that?" Her mood changed from gayety to tender
solicitude. She drew Charlotte to her side. "I wish you a happy life,
dear. Take a piece of advice from a friend who has had experiences:
When you are married have no secrets from your husband. Trust him
unreservedly; conceal nothing from him. If you note any change in him
that causes you uneasiness do not brood over it in silence; ask him
frankly the reason, and if he is reluctant to give it, implore him to
confide in you. In married life there is no true happiness unless full
confidence exists between husband and wife. And if the man is true and
the woman is true, they should be to each other a shield of love, a
protection against evil, a solace in the hour of sorrow."

"I will remember what you say, Mrs. Grantham. I hope Fox will not be
displeased. He is not friends with John, and I have never worn a ring;
and this is so grand and beautiful----"

"Never meet trouble, dear. Perhaps I shall have an opportunity of
saying something to your brother to-day."

Charlotte looked at her and hesitated; there was something on her
tongue to which she did not venture to give utterance. Knowing it was
her brother's wish to make Mrs. Grantham his wife, she wondered
whether any words to that end had passed between them. To call Mrs.
Grantham sister would be a great happiness to her, but she trembled to
think of the price at which that happiness would be bought. The
oppression to which she herself had been subjected in her home since
her father's death rose before her. Was such a fate in store for Mrs.
Grantham? Was it not her duty to warn her? But she dared not speak;
she could only hope that nothing had been settled, and that her dear
friend would be spared unhappiness.

"Of what are you thinking, dear?" asked Mrs. Grantham, perceiving that
a struggle was going on in Charlotte's heart.

"Of nothing," Charlotte replied, and inwardly prayed for courage to
warn her before it was too late.




CHAPTER X.
In which Mr. Fox-Cordery meets with a repulse.


Shortly afterward Mr. Fox-Cordery saw Mrs. Grantham issue from the
house and advance toward him. With conspicuous gallantry he went to
meet her, and raised his hat. He was careful to omit no form of
politeness and attention to establish himself in her regard.

"I have come especially to have a chat with you," said Mrs. Grantham,
declining the arm he offered her. "Such old friends as ourselves need
not stand upon ceremony."

Mr. Fox-Cordery looked upon this as a promising opening.

"There is something I wish to say to you," he said boldly and
tenderly, "if you will listen to me."

"Certainly I will listen to you. Is it about business?"

"It is of far more importance than business," he replied, with a
significance of tone that could not fail to convey some perception of
his meaning.

She paused awhile before she spoke again, and then seemed to have
arrived at a decision.

"I wish to say a word about your sister."

"Dear Charlotte!" he murmured, and could not have said anything, nor
uttered what he said in a tone that would have been more fatal to his
cause, even if she were willing to listen to it favorably. He had been
his own enemy, and had forged the weapon that was to strike him down;
for it was Mrs. Grantham's insight into the life Charlotte must have
led with him and her mother that had made her reflect upon the true
nature of the man who had been for so many years her husband's friend
and her own. The closer intimacy of the last few weeks had served him
ill. Mrs. Grantham was a lady of much sweetness, but the trials she
had passed through had taught her to observe and sometimes to suspect.

"To-day is Charlotte's birthday," she said.

"Charlotte's birthday!" he exclaimed. "How could we have overlooked
it? Charlotte's birthday! Why so it is! I must wish her every
happiness." He began to pick some flowers. "For Charlotte," he said.

"She will appreciate them. I have grown very fond of your sister."

"You could not say anything to make me happier--except----"

She nipped his tenderly suggested exception in the bud by continuing:

"She has the most amiable nature in the world--"

"No, no," he protested; "not the _most_ amiable nature in the world."

"And is so sweet-tempered and self-sacrificing--"

"She shares the best qualities of our family," he managed to get in.

"That I am as anxious for her happiness as you yourself can be. She
has had two birthday presents, which have given her great pleasure,
one especially." ("Confound her!" was Mr. Fox-Cordery's thought, as he
bent over a dwarf rose tree. "Who has been making her birthday
presents?") "I have given her a poor little brooch"--("That is one of
the presents," thought Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and Clair has given her the
other. Of course, of course." He was content that the gifts should
have come from Mrs. Grantham and her little girl)--"and Mr. Dixon,"
continued Mrs. Grantham, "sent her an engagement ring."

Mr. Fox-Cordery looked suddenly up.

"Mr. Dixon!" he cried. "An engagement ring!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Grantham, ignoring his surprise, "a very beautiful
ring. It is set with diamonds, and Charlotte, you may depend, put it
on her finger at once. She must never take it off, at least till she
is married. We foolish women, you know, have superstitions."

"Charlotte has been telling you a great deal about Mr. Dixon," said
Mr. Fox-Cordery, striving to speak amiably, and not succeeding.

"Not a great deal; very little, indeed. It is only because I would
have an answer to my questions that I learned anything at all. I have
a common failing of my sex: I am intensely curious. And I am really
annoyed, taking the interest I do in your sister, that I have not yet
been introduced to Mr. Dixon. How is it that I have not been
introduced to Mr. Dixon? Put a little forget-me-not in your posy; it
means remembrance."

He obeyed her, and then took the bull by the horns.

"Mrs. Grantham," he said, "inspired by a hope I have entertained for
many years, you must not remain in ignorance of our family secrets. I
do not blame Charlotte for speaking to you about Mr. Dixon----"

"No," she gently interposed, "you must not blame her. We chat together
every night before we retire, and little things come out in our
conversation. If you must blame anybody, blame me, for it is entirely
my fault that I know anything of her engagement. I teased it out of
her."

"I regarded it as a family secret," he said. "The fact is--it pains me
to make the statement--that neither my mother nor I quite approve of
Mr. Dixon. You do not know him, and I do not wish to say anything
against him. We are more likely to form a correct estimate of his
character than Charlotte. We have a wider experience of human nature."

"Granted. But Charlotte has set her heart upon him, and he appears to
have a very sincere love for her. But I am wrong, perhaps, in
presuming to interfere in a matter which you say is a family secret. I
was not aware of it when I commenced to speak to you. Forgive me."

"Dear Mrs. Grantham," he said, "do not distress me by saying that you
are wrong. You are right, entirely right, in everything you do. I only
wished to explain to you why it is that Mr. Dixon does not visit us.
We have Charlotte's interests at heart, and if she insists upon having
her way we shall not thwart her. Our hope will be that her marriage
will turn out better than we anticipate. It is true that we put her
upon probation for a time. We desired her--you can ask her for
confirmation of my statement--to wait for two months before she
finally committed herself, and she consented to do so. And now, Mrs.
Grantham----"

"Pardon me," interrupted Mrs. Grantham; "let me justify myself
completely. In speaking to you about your sister, I was prompted by my
affection for her; she is not a young girl, and can to some extent
judge for herself. We will not discuss Mr. Dixon, who is represented
to me in two opposite lights. Let us hope for the best, and that her
union with that gentleman will be a happy one. My own married life
taught me much that brought sadness to my heart; I will pray that no
shadow shall rest upon hers. But my sorrows have been softened by
time, and I have a heavenly consolation in the love of my child, to
whom, since I lost my husband, I have consecrated my life."

"Let that life," he said grandiloquently, "be consecrated to make
another happy, as well as your darling child."

"No," she said firmly; "I am fixed in my resolve to form no other
ties. Mr. Fox-Cordery, it would be a mere pretense for me to say I do
not understand you. I beg you to go no farther--to say nothing more.
You were my husband's friend; you are mine. Let us remain friends."

"But, dear Mrs. Grantham," he stammered, enraged and confounded at
this unexpected repulse, "surely you must have seen, you must have
known--the devotion of years----"

Either inability to proceed, or an expression in her face, restrained
him here.

"Do not say what cannot be unsaid or forgotten. It will be best for
both of us. Clair and I have been very happy during our visit. If you
wish to drive us away----"

"No, no!" he cried; "you are cruel to make the suggestion. I do not
deserve such a return. My mother would look upon it as an affront; and
Charlotte--you love Charlotte----"

He hardly knew what to say in his confusion; but he felt it would be
quite fatal to his hopes if he lost his present hold upon her.

"You do not deserve such a return," she said; "and not for worlds
would I wound your mother's feelings or yours. It was only an hour ago
that I promised Charlotte not to curtail my visit; and I will promise
you, if you will engage not to reopen the subject. Let us forget what
has passed. Shall we exchange promises?"

She held out her hand, and he deluded himself into the belief that he
saw signs of softening in her face. As he took her hand his native
cunning and coolness returned to him, and he was more than ever
determined that she should not slip from him. He would be her master
yet, and she should pay for her treatment of him. Even as he held her
hand in his, the skeleton of a scheme to force her compliance
presented itself to his mind, fertile in schemes and snares.

"I am almost inclined to be jealous of dear Clair," he said, in a
plaintive tone, "for she seems to stand in the way of my happiness."

"You must not say that. If it were not for her, I might not be living
this day. Through her, I saw my duty clear before me. I live only for
her and for her happiness. It is an understanding, then?"

"Yes," he said, "it is an understanding. Excuse me now; I will go and
give these flowers to Charlotte."

But he did nothing of the kind. He walked away, and when he was sure
that no one saw him he tore the posy to pieces, and trod savagely upon
the fragments, stamping at the same time upon every living thing
beneath him that caught his eye. Such acts of destruction and cruelty
always afforded him satisfaction, and after a few minutes so occupied
he devoted himself more calmly to the difficulties of his position.
Gradually a scheme formed itself in his mind, and he smiled at the
thought that it would lead him to victory. He recalled the words Mrs.
Grantham had spoken:

"The love of her child is a heavenly consolation to her, and she has
consecrated her life to the brat. She lives only for Clair's
happiness. If I prove to her how that happiness is imperiled, and that
her infernal consecration will land her in the gutter .... Yes, I see
my way; I see my way!"

But he saw not the Nemesis that was following his footsteps, born of a
base action he had committed without ruth or remorse. He thought it
was dead and buried, and that a woman he had wronged--not the only
one--was happily lost to him, if not to the world. Neither did he
bestow a thought upon Robert Grantham, nor upon the double deceit he
had practiced upon husband and wife. In fancied security he paced a
secluded path, meditating upon the new lie which would bring Mrs.
Grantham to her knees, for the sake of the child she loved so well.




CHAPTER XI.
Little Prue.


Who Roxy was, what was his occupation, and whether he lived in a
bygone age or was living at the present day, are matters which are not
pertinent to our story, the course of which brings us, in a remote and
indirect manner, to the knowledge that such a being once existed, or
exists now. That he was responsible for the miserable dozen tenements
known as "Roxy's Rents" may be accepted, as may be also the undoubted
reason for his giving them the eccentric name they bore; the rents of
the hovels he erected being lawfully his, if he could find tenants to
occupy them.

A stranger to the wretched ways of life of thousands upon thousands of
poor people in such a city as London might reasonably have doubted the
wisdom of spending money in the erection of such hovels; but Roxy knew
what he was about when he went into the speculation. A comprehensive
knowledge of humanity's outcasts had taught him that the more dismal
and wretched the habitations, the more likely it was that there would
be numerous applicants for the shelter they afforded; and his wisdom
was proved by the result, not a room in Roxy's Rents ever being empty
longer than a day or two. The narrow blind alley lined by the hovels,
half a dozen on each side, may be found to-day in all its desolation
or wretchedness in the south of London, by any person with a leaning
to such explorations. It is well known to the police, who seldom have
occasion to go there, because, strangely enough, it is chiefly
tenanted by people who work hard for a living, often without obtaining
it.

Roxy himself, or his agent, who collects the rents regularly every
Saturday night from eight o'clock till past midnight, is very
particular in his choice of tenants, which he is able to be by reason
of the delectable tenements being in demand. There are numbers of
landlords in more favored localities who would like to stand in Roxy's
shoes in this respect. The alley is some eight feet wide, and its one
architectural embellishment is a kind of hood at its entrance, the
only use of which is to deepen its darkness by day and night. There is
no public lamp in Roxy's Rents, nor near it in the street, very little
wider than the alley, in which it forms a slit; therefore the darkness
is very decided in its character on foggy days and moonless nights.
This has never been a subject of complaint on the part of the
residents or the parish authorities--officers who, as a rule, have an
objection to stir up muddy waters: by which inaction they show their
respect for an ancient proverb, the vulgar version of which is, "Let
sleeping dogs lie." To one of the hovels in Roxy's Rents the course of
our story takes us.

The room is on the ground floor, the time is night, the persons
in it are a woman and her child. The woman's name is Flower; the name
of her child, a girl of eight or nine, is Prue, generally called
"Little Prue." The apartment is used for every kind of living
purpose--working, cooking, eating, and sleeping, It is furnished with
an ordinary stove, one bed on the floor in a corner (a bedstead being
a luxury beyond the means of the family), two wooden chairs, a child's
low chair, the seat of which once was cane but now is hollow, a deal
table, a few kitchen utensils, and very little else. On the
mantelshelf are two or three cracked cups and saucers, a penny, and a
much-faded photograph of two young women, with, their arms round each
other's waists. There is a family likeness in their faces, and one
bears a faint resemblance to Mrs. Flower. The paper on the walls hangs
loose, and the walls themselves reek with moisture; the plaster on the
ceiling has dropped in places, and bare rafters are visible. Not a
palatial abode, but the Flowers have lived there for years, and it
forms their Home--a mocking parody on a time-honored song. Mrs. Flower
is standing at the table, ironing clothes. She takes in washing when
she can get it to do, having but few garments of her own to wash.

Mrs. Flower was working with a will, putting her whole soul into the
iron. The apartment was chiefly in shadow, the only light being that
from one tallow dip, twelve to the pound. The candle was on the table,
being necessary for the woman's work, and its rays did not reach
Little Prue, who sat in the low hollow-seated chair by the bed. Mrs.
Flower enlivened her toil by singing, or rather humming with bated
breath, a most lugubrious air for which she was famous in her maiden
days, but then it used to be given forth with more spirit than she put
into it now. Occasionally she turned to her child, who was sitting
quite still with her eyes closed. There was a faint sickly smell of
scorching in the room, proceeding from a wisp of carpet on the floor
before the fire, upon which Mrs. Flower tested her hot irons. It had
served this purpose so long that it was scorched almost to tinder.
Presently the woman broke off in her melancholy singing, and called
softly:

"Prue!" No answer coming, she called again, "Prue!"

"Yes, mother," said the child, opening her eyes. Her voice was weak,
as might have been expected from a child with a face so pale and limbs
so thin.

"I thought you were asleep, Prue."

"So I was, mother. Why didn't you let me be?"

"Dreaming of things?"

"Oh, of sech things, mother! I was 'aving a feast of sheep's
trotters." Mrs. Flower sighed. "There was a 'ole pile of 'em, and the
'ot pie man was giving pies away. I was just reaching out my 'and for
one."

"Never mind, never mind," said Mrs. Flower, rather fretfully. "You
talk as if I could get blood out of a stone."

"Do I, mother? I didn't know. I _am_ 'ungry!"

"What's the use of worriting? Didn't I promise you should have some
supper? I'm going to ask Mrs. Fry to pay me for the washing when I
take it home. I do hope she won't say there's anything missing. She
always does; and when I ask her to look over the things again, she
sends word she can't till the morning. That's how she puts me off time
after time; but I'll be extra particular to-night. Three dozen at one
and nine--that's five and three. She don't often give out so much;
that's luck for us, Prue."

"I say, mother?"

"Well?"

"D'yer think father'll come 'ome? I 'ope he won't."

"He won't come home while he's got a copper in his pocket, that you
may depend on. Go to sleep again, child, till I've finished."

But Little Prue, now wide awake, made no attempt to obey. Rising to
her feet, she stealthily drew one of the large wooden chairs to the
mantelshelf, and, mounting, craned her neck. The shelf was high, and
Prue was a very small child. It was only by tiptoeing, and running the
danger of tumbling into the fire, that she ascertained what she wished
to know. Stepping down like a cat, she crept to her mother's side.

"There's a penny on the mantelpiece, mother."

"Don't worry; how can I get on with my work if you do? It's father's
penny, for his supper beer; he put it there before he went out, so
that he couldn't spend it till he came home." Aside she said, with a
sidelong look of pity at Prue, "I daren't touch it!"

"I'm so 'ungry, mother!" pleaded Prue, plucking her mother's gown. "My
inside's grinding away like one o'clock."

Mrs. Flower was seized with a fit of irresolution, and she muttered,
"If I look sharp, I shall be back with the washing money before he
comes in." Stepping quickly to the fireplace, she took the penny from
the mantel, and thrust it into Prue's hand. "There; go and get a
penn'orth of peas-pudding."

"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Little Prue joyfully, and was running out,
when the door was blocked by the form of her father, who had returned
sooner than he was expected.

Mr. Flower was slightly intoxicated--his normal state. However much he
drank, he never got beyond a certain stage of drunkenness; by reason,
probably, of his being so thoroughly seasoned.

"Hallo, hallo!" he cried, grasping his little girl by the shoulder.
"Is the house on fire? Where are _you_ off to in such a hurry?"

"Nowhere, father," replied Prue, slipping her hand with the penny in
it behind her back.

"Nowhere, eh? You're in a precious pelt to get there. What have you
got in your hand?"

"Nothink, father!"

"Nothink, father!" he mocked, eyeing Prue with something more than
suspicion.

"No, father. Wish I may die if I 'ave!"

Without more ado, Mr. Flower seized the little hand and, wresting the
tightly-clenched fingers open, extracted the penny. Looking toward the
mantelshelf, he said:

"Stealing my money, eh, you young rat? Who learnt you to tell lies?"

"You did!" replied Mrs. Flower, stepping between them. She had
finished her washing, and was putting it together while this scene was
proceeding. "You did, you drunken vagabond!"

"You shut up! As for you," he said, throwing Prue violently on the
bed; "you stop where you are, or I'll break every bone in your body!"

"Lay a finger on her," cried Mrs. Flower fiercely, "and I'll throw the
iron at your head! Don't mind him, Prue; I'll soon be back."

"Ah, you'd better!" said Mr. Flower, with a brutal laugh at his wife,
who was looking at him in anger. "What are you staring at?"

"At you."

"Well, and what do you make of me?"

"What I've made of you ever since the day I married you."

"For better or worse, eh?"

"For worse, every minute of my life," she retorted. "I wonder why the
Lord allows some people to live."

"Here, that's enough of your mag, with your Lord and your Lord! What's
your Lord done for me? Off you go, now!"

But Mrs. Flower was not so easily disposed of.

"Have you brought home any money?" she asked.

"Money! How should I get money?"

"Why work for it, like other men, you----" She repressed herself, and,
with a flaming face, arranged the clothes she had washed.

"Work for it!" he cried, with a laugh, and immediately afterward
turned savage. "Well, ain't I willing?"

"Yes, you show yourself willing," said Mrs. Flower, bitterly; "hanging
round public-houses, and loafing from morning to night!"

"Think I'm going to work for a tanner an hour?" demanded Mr. Flower.
"Not me! I'll have my rights, I will!"

"While we starve!"

"Starve! When you can get washing to do, and live on the fat of the
land! If I was a woman, I'd rejoice in such clean work."

"And don't I do it? Haven't I sat up night after night, wearing my
fingers to the bone for you?"

"For me? Oh, oh! I like that!"

"Yes, for you," repeated Mrs. Flower, thoroughly roused. "And what's
the good of it all? You drink away every penny I earn, you sot; and
you call yourself a man!"

"I'll call you something, if you don't cut your stick! I wonder what I
married you for?"

"I'll tell you. You married me to make me work for you; and you're not
the only one that speaks soft to a woman till he's got her in his
clutches. There ought to be a law for such as you."

"Law! Talk of what you understand. There was your sister Martha. Ah,
she was a girl! Such eyes--such skin--such lips!" He smacked his own,
in his desire to further aggravate her. "I was real nuts on her; and
I'd have had her instead of you, if she hadn't took up with a swell. I
hope she's found out her mistake by this time."

"I dare say she has. We all do, whether we're married or not." She
turned to Little Prue, who sat dumb during the scene, which presented
no features of novelty to her; from her earliest remembrance she had
been a witness of such. "I shan't be gone long," she whispered,
kissing the child, "and then you shall have some supper."

"Mind you get the money for the washing, and bring it straight
home!"--called Mr. Flower after her as she left the room. "Selfish
cat!" He slammed the door to. "Never thinks of anyone but
herself--never thinks of me! What are you sniveling at?" Prue, now
that her mother had gone, began to cry. "Come here; I've got something
to say to you. Ain't I your father?"

"Yes, father."

"And a good father?"

"Yes, father."

"And a kind father?"

"Yes, father."

"Very well, then. How old are you?"

"I don't know, father."

"You don't know, father! You're old enough to get your own living, and
here you are passing your days in idleness and plenty. D'you see
these!" He pulled some boxes of matches from his pocket.

"Yes, father."

"What are they?"

"Matches, father."

"Count 'em. D'you hear me? Count 'em." The child was reeling, and he
shook her straight. "Count 'em."

"One--two--three--four--five--six."

"Six it is. Now, you've got to go out with these six boxes of matches,
and bring home tenpence for 'em. How are you going to do it, eh?"

"I don't know, father."

"Don't give me any more of your don't knows. You've got no more sense
than your mother; but I'm not going to let you grow up as idle and
selfish as she is--not if I know it, I ain't. Stop your blubbering,
and listen to me. You go to Charing Cross Station, you do, where all
the lights are, and where everybody's happy. What are you shaking your
head for?"

"I don't know--I mean, I can't find my way, father."

"I shall have to take you there; I'm only fit to be a slave. There
you'll stand, with the lights shining on you. That'll be nice, won't
it?"

"Yes, father."

"Nice and warm; and you get it for nothing, all for nothing. There's a
treat I'm giving you! You stand in the gutter, mind that; and you
ain't to look happy and bright. You're to try all you know to look
miserable and hungry. Do you hear?"

"I'll try to, father."

"Ah, you'd better, or it'll be the worse for you! When an old gent or
an old lady gives you a penny, don't you offer 'em a box; there's a
lot of mean beasts that'd take it. You hold the boxes tight, and you
bring me back not less than a bob for the six--not less than a bob,
mind!"

"Yes, father."

"Here, I'll give you a lesson. Blest if we don't have a rehearsal!
Stand there, in the gutter, and look miserable. I'm a gent. Hold out
your hand. 'Here's a penny for you, little girl.' Take it--quick! and
hold on tight to the matches. The gent goes away. I'm an old lady. 'My
poor child, what brings you out at such an hour?' What do you say to
the kind old lady?"

"Father sent me out, please; and told me to stand in the gutter----"

"Shut up! You're a born fool! What you say is this. Just you repeat
after me. 'Kind lady----'"

"'Kind lady!'"

"'Father's dead----'"

"'Father's dead!'"

"'And mother's laying ill of a fever----'"

"'And mother's laying ill of a fever!'"

"'And baby's dying----'"

"'And baby's dying!'"

"''Cause we ain't had nothing to eat since yesterday----'"

"''Cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!'"

"That's more like it. And then you can begin to cry. Have you got that
in your head?"

"Yes, father."

"Come along, then, and step out. I'll keep my eye on you to see how
you do it."

Taking Little Prue by the hand, he led her out of Roxy's Rents into
the wider thoroughfares, to play her part in the sad drama of poverty
that runs its everlasting course from year's end to year's end in this
City of Unrest.




CHAPTER XII.
"Drip-Drip-Drip!"


As they issued from the hooded portal of Roxy's Rents, a woe-stricken
woman approached the alley, and looked wearily around. Dark as was the
night, and though years had passed since she had visited the locality,
she had found her way without inquiry; but her steps faltered at the
entrance to the narrow court, and her manner was that of one who was
uncertain of the errand she had undertaken. To resolve her doubts, she
accosted a young girl about to pass her:

"This is Roxy's Rents, isn't it?"

"Yes," replied the girl.

"Can you tell me if Mrs. Flower lives here?"

"Yes, the last house but one on the right; front room, ground floor."

"Is she at home, do you know?"

"I don't know."

"Thank you."

The girl went her way, singing; she was in her spring. The woman
entered the alley, sighing; winter had come upon her too soon. When
she arrived at the last house but one on the right, she seemed to be
glad to see the glimmering of a light through the torn blind on the
front window. The street door stood open, and she stepped into the
dark passage, and paused before the door of the room in which Mrs.
Flower lived.

"Janey!" she called, and listened for the answer. None reaching her
ear, she entered without further ceremony. The candle, which Mr.
Flower had inadvertently left alight, was burnt nearly to its socket,
and the woman shivered as she noted the unmistakable signs of
privation in the room.

"It _is_ Janey's place, I suppose!" she said, and looking toward the
mantelshelf, saw there the faded photograph of herself and sister.
"Yes, it's all right." She took down the photograph, and gazed at it
with a curl of her lip as rueful as it was bitter. "Here we are
together, Janey and me, before . . . ." A shudder served to complete
the sentence. "How well I remember the day this was taken! We had a
week at the seaside, and stood together on the sands, as happy as
birds. The sun was shining, the children were playing and laughing. If
I had known--if I had known! I never see children laughing now, and I
sometimes wonder if the sun ever comes out. I was good-looking then,
and nicely dressed, and no one could say anything against me. But
what's the use of thinking about it? Thinking won't alter it."

She had contracted a habit of speaking to herself, and was scarcely
conscious that she was uttering audible words.

"I don't mean to stand it long," she said presently. "I've come to
London for something, and if he doesn't do what he ought to, I'll put
an end to it. As I'm a living woman, I'll put an end to it! I don't
care much which way it is. I've nothing to live for now!"

She sat down and covered her face with her hands; the candle had been
spluttering and, being now at its last gasp, went out. The woman was
left in darkness. It suited her mood. The sound of water slowly
dropping outside attracted her attention. She removed her hands from
her face, and listened; as she listened she followed the rhythm with
the sound of her voice.

"Drip, drip drip! Drip, drip, drip!"

The pattering of the drops and her accompaniment fascinated her.

"Drip, drip, drip!" she continued to murmur, and did not stop till
another sound diverted her attention. The door of the room was sharply
opened, and Mrs. Flower entered. The woman stirred in her chair.

"Is that you, Prue?" asked Mrs. Flower. "Stop a minute; I'll get a
light."

"No," replied the woman, "it isn't Prue."

"My God!" cried Mrs. Flower, "whose voice is that?"

She groped for the end of a candle, and lit it; holding it up, she
looked at her visitor, who had risen, and was facing her.

"Martha!"

"Yes, Janey, it's me. You're not glad to see me, I dare say, after all
these years."

"How can you say that? How long have you been here, and where's Prue?"

"I've been here--I don't know how long, and there was no one in the
room when I came in. Who's Prue?"

"My little girl. Where can she have got to? I forgot, Janey. I didn't
have a baby when----" She paused.

"Finish it," said Martha. "When I ran away and disgraced myself."

"O Martha!" said Mrs. Fowler, throwing her arms round her sister and
kissing her, "don't think I'm hard on you. God knows I've no call to
be hard on anyone, least of all on you. We all make mistakes."

"And have got to pay for them. Thank you for your welcome, Janey; it's
more than I deserve."

"You're my sister, and I love you, Martha. Sit down, sit down, and
tell me everything. How often I've wondered what had become of you!
But I'm worried about Prue. I left her here with her father when I
went out."

"Your husband's alive. That's a comfort."

"Is it? You wouldn't say so if he was yours. I suppose he's taken her
into the streets with him. He's done it before, and got her to beg for
him, the brute! It's no use my going out to find her; I shouldn't know
where to look."

"That tells a tale, and I am sorry for you, Janey. I mightn't have
come if I'd known; but I'd nowhere else to go to."

"Of course you came here. What a time it is since we saw each other!"

"We haven't improved much, either of us," said Martha. "I was hoping
you were better off."

"I might have been if my husband was a man. The truth must be told: I
couldn't be worse off than I am, I left my Prue hungry, and promised
her some supper. I take in washing, Martha, and there was five
shillings due to me, but the woman wouldn't pay me to-night; I've got
to wait till to-morrow, so Prue will have to go to sleep on an empty
stomach. It's hard lines on a sickly child, but what can I do?"

"I can't assist you, Janey. I've spent my last penny."

"There's no help for it, then; we're in the same boat. But tell me
where you've been all these years."

"In Manchester. It's a puzzle to me how I got here, but I made up my
mind to come to London, to try and screw something out of the man who
took me away from home. I've got his address, and I went to his house
this afternoon. He was away in the country, they told me, but I
couldn't get them to tell me where. There was a man saw me standing at
his door after they'd shut it in my face, and he came up and asked if
he could do anything for me, and whether I would mind telling him what
I wanted with Mr. Fox-Cordery, for that's the name of the villain that
deceived me, but I said it was no business of his, and I walked away,
and left him looking after me. I wandered about till it was dark, and
then I thought I'd come and ask you to let me sleep here to-night.
Must I turn out?"

"How can you ask such a thing? You're welcome to stop if you don't
mind. This is the only room we've got, and I can't give you anything
to eat because the cupboard's as empty as my pocket."

"Oh, I'm used to that! Your heart isn't changed, Janey."

"I couldn't be hard to you if I tried; and I'm not going to
try. In Manchester you've been? You disappeared so suddenly and
mysteriously----"

"Yes, yes; but we were carrying on together long before I went away.
He wanted to get me out of London, away from him, you know: he was
tired of me, and I wasn't in the best of tempers; he got frightened a
bit, I think, because I said if he threw me over I'd have him up at
the police court when my baby was born. He's a very respectable
man--oh, very respectable!--and looks as soft and speaks as soft as if
butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But he's clever, and cunning, and
sly, for all that, and he talked me over. I was to go away from
London, and he was to allow me so much a week. He did for a little
while, and sent it on to me in Manchester. Janey, when he first
pretended to get fond of me he promised to marry me."

"Yes, they all do that, and women are fools enough to believe em."

"I was, and I used to remind him of his promise. That was while I was
in London. When I was in Manchester he thought himself safe. Then my
baby came, and it cost him a little. I had to write to him for every
shilling almost, and he'd send me a postal order without a word of
writing to say who it came from. That made me wild, and I wrote and
said if he didn't write me proper letters I'd come back to London and
worry his life out of him. That pulled him up, and he did write, but
he never signed his name. He just put 'F.' at the bottom of his
letters; I've got them in my pocket, every one of them. Well, then I
got a situation as a shop-woman--they didn't know I had a baby, and I
didn't tell them, you may be sure--and I put by a shilling or two. It
was wanted, because his money dropped off. I lost my situation, and
then I frightened him into coming to Manchester to see me. He was as
soft and smooth as ever, and he swore to me that I should never want;
he took his oath on it, and I told him if he didn't keep it I'd make
it hot for him. Janey, you don't know the promises that man made to me
when we first came together; it was a long time before I could bring
myself to like him, but he spoke so fair that at last I gave way. And
he played me false, after all. Don't think that I wanted to sponge on
him; if I could have got my own living in an honest way.--and I never
intend to get it any other way; I'm not thoroughly bad, Janey--I
wouldn't have troubled him; but I couldn't. I have been in such
misery, that if it had not been for my child I should have made away
with myself long ago; but nothing keeps me back now. I have lost my
child; it was buried by the parish."

"Hush, Martha, hush!"

"It's no use talking to me, Janey. I can't live this life any longer;
and if the man that's brought me to it won't help me, I've made up my
mind what to do. Nothing can change it--nothing. Look at me; I've
hardly a rag to my back. It's a rosy look-out, to-morrow is. If I had
decent clothes and a pound in my pocket, I might get into service; but
who'd take me as I am?"

"You are changed from what you were, Martha; you used to be as merry
as a lark."

"The lark's taken out of me long ago, and you haven't much of it left
in you that I can see. I don't know that you're any better off than
me, though you _are_ a respectable married woman; you've had to pay
for your respectability. Much comfort it brings you, according to your
own reckoning! What water is that dripping outside?"

She asked this question in the dark; the candle had gone out, and Mrs.
Flower had no more.

"The water-butt leaks."

"Drip, drip, drip--and then it becomes a large pool--I see it
spreading out--large enough to drown one's self in!"

"Martha!"

"Which would be best, Janey? That or what I shall be forced into if no
one helps me? Supposing I'm alive! There it goes--drip, drip, drip! It
might be drops of blood. There isn't a sheet of water I've seen since
my child died that hasn't seemed to draw me to it, that hasn't
whispered, 'Come, and end it!' When you wake up of a morning
sometimes, aren't you sorry?"

"I am, God help me!"

"You've had a long sleep, and you've been happy; and you wake up--to
this! Wouldn't it be better never to wake up? Drip, drip, drip! It's
singing 'Come, come, come!' It drips just to that tune." She began to
sing softly, with a pause between each word, to keep time to the
water, "Come--come--come! Let me alone, Janey; don't lay hands on me.
I'm all right for a day or two--I won't say for how much longer. I'll
try and get some sleep."




CHAPTER XIII.
In which Rathbeal makes a winning Move.


On this same day Rathbeal had met with adventures. There was a coffee
shop in his neighborhood to which he was in the habit of going, two or
three times a week, to have a cup of coffee and play a game of chess
with the hoary proprietor.

It belonged to a class of shops which once were a favorite resort for
working people, but are now fast dying out; they are only to be found
in second-class neighborhoods, and seem, as it were, to be striving to
keep themselves out of sight, with a painful consciousness that they
are relics of a bygone age, and have no business to be in existence.
It cannot be said that they die hard, for there is a patient and sad
resignation in their appearance, which in its humbleness and abasement
is almost pathetic. The interior of these shops is as shabby and
uninviting as their exterior. There are the narrow boxes which cramp
the legs to sit in, the tables are bare of covering, the knives and
forks are of ancient fashion, the crockery is in its last stage, and
the once brilliant luster of the dominoes has quite disappeared,
double one especially looking up with two hollow dead white eyes which
cannot but have an inexpressibly depressing influence upon the
players. The draughts and chessmen with their one wooden board are in
a like condition of decay, and the games played thereon are the
reverse of lively. There is another peculiarity which forces itself
upon the attention. All the newspapers are old, some dating back
several weeks, and they are allowed to lie about till they are in a
condition so disgraceful that they are fit for nothing but lighting
fires. These newspapers are never bought on the day of issue, but
considerably later on, at less than a quarter their original price.
Thus it was that in the coffee shop to which Rathbeal was in the habit
of resorting there were always to be found two or three copies of the
_Times_, of dates varying from one to two months ago.

On the day in question, Rathbeal, while the hoary proprietor was
fetching the chessmen and board, happened to take up one of these
sheets and run his eyes down the columns. It was not news he was
glancing at, but advertisements, and he was conning the first page of
the newspaper. When the proprietor of the shop took his seat opposite
to him and arranged his men, Rathbeal, folding the paper neatly, laid
it beside him on the table. Then he proceeded to place his warriors,
and the game was commenced. The proprietor was a slow player, Rathbeal
moved very quickly; thus it was that he had plenty of leisure to
glance from time to time at the newspaper by his side. "Check," he
called, and turned his eyes upon the paper. A sudden color flushed
into his face, caused by an advertisement he had up to this time
overlooked. This was what he read:


If Mr. Robert Grantham, born in Leamington, Warwickshire, will call
upon Messrs. Paxton and Freshfield, solicitors, Bedford Row, London,
he will hear of something to his advantage.


Rising hastily, he upset the chessboard. The proprietor looked up in
surprise.

"Your game," said Rathbeal, and then consulted the date of the
newspaper. It was nearly seven weeks old. Permission being given to
him to make a cutting from the paper, he cut out the advertisement
very neatly, and asked the proprietor whether he had a London
Directory in the shop.

"I have one," said the proprietor, "but it is twelve years old."

"That will do," said Rathbeal. "Lawyers are rocks."

Turning over the pages of the Directory, he found the number in
Bedford Row at which Paxton and Freshfield carried on their practice.
Wishing the proprietor good-day, he left the shop, and went straight
to Robert Grantham's lodging. Grantham was at home.

"I have something to ask you, Robert," he said, without beating about
the bush. "Were you born in Leamington?"

"Yes," replied Grantham.

"Leamington in Warwickshire?"

"Yes."

"Then this concerns you," said Rathbeal, and handed him the cutting.

The expression on Robert Grantham's face was not one of pleasure; to
be thus publicly advertised for seemed to cause him discomfort. He
read the advertisement, and offered no remark upon it.

"It was by chance," said Rathbeal, "using your own term, for I do not
admit that chance is a factor in our lives, that I came across it. The
paper I cut it from is nearly two months old. What are you going to do
about it?"

"Nothing," said Grantham.

"Something to your advantage, it says. That sounds like money. You
cannot afford to neglect it, Robert."

"I would rather have nothing to do with it."

"Gently, friend. How much coin have you in your pocket at the present
moment?"

"Two small silver pieces and a few pennies. To be exact, one shilling
and tenpence."

"Your rent is due to-morrow."

"I shall earn it."

"Do not be too sure. If this advertisement means money for you, it
becomes your duty to claim it."

"How so?"

"Remember the penance you imposed upon yourself. You would spend for
your own necessities only what was requisite for the plainest food;
any money you had remaining should be devoted to the children of
misery. You have nobly carried out your resolution. Do you consider
you have atoned for the sins and errors of the past?"

"I could not atone for them if I lived twice my allotted span."

"Then the right is not yours to throw away this money. It belongs, not
to you, but to the poor, whose sufferings it would alleviate. Neglect
of the opportunity which now presents itself would become a crime. And
why do you desire to let the matter rest? To save yourself a possible
personal annoyance, you shrink from publicity; you tremble at the idea
that some old friend or acquaintance may learn that you still live. I
did not think you capable of such weakness."

"I am reproved, Rathbeal; but still I would rather not appear in the
matter until the last moment, until it is certain that my appearance
is necessary, and would benefit others. Will you take this office of
friendship upon yourself, and make inquiries for me at the lawyer's?"

"Willingly, if you will give me full powers. I must be prepared to
show that I am acting for you."

"Draw up a paper, Rathbeal. I will sign whatever you write."

In his neat handwriting Rathbeal drew out something in the shape of a
power of attorney, which Robert Grantham signed. Before he went upon
his mission Rathbeal made an appointment to meet Grantham at nine
o'clock that night; the appointment would have been made for an
earlier hour, but Grantham had some copying to finish and deliver, and
the work could not be neglected.

When Rathbeal arrived at the offices of Paxton and Freshfield he asked
to see one of the principals, and he heard a clerk tell another to see
if Mr. Dixon was in. Mr. Dixon was not in, but Mr. Paxton was, and
would see Mr. Rathbeal.

"I have come about this advertisement," he said, showing the cutting
to an old gentleman wearing gold spectacles.

Mr. Paxton glanced at the advertisement, and said:

"Our partner, Mr. Dixon, has taken it in hand; he will return at four
o'clock."

"I will wait for him," said Rathbeal, "but meanwhile you can perhaps
give me some information concerning it."

"I know very little about it," said the lawyer, cautiously. "Mr. Dixon
is in possession of the full particulars. You are not Mr. Grantham?"
He referred to the card Rathbeal had sent in.

"No, I am Mr. Grantham's friend and agent. I have authority to act for
him." He produced the document Grantham had signed. "It is drawn out
and signed to-day, you see."

"I see. How is it that so long a time has elapsed before answering the
advertisement?"

"It only came to Mr. Grantham's knowledge a couple of hours ago. Would
you object to inform me whether it is really something to his
advantage, whether it means money?"

"There is a small legacy left to Mr. Grantham, I believe, which he can
obtain if the proofs are clear."

A clerk knocked at the door, and entered. "Mr. Dixon has come in,
sir."

"Show this gentleman to his room."

Being introduced to Mr. Dixon, Rathbeal opened up his business, and
observed signs of agitation in John Dixon's face, which he construed
unfavorably. With the signed document before him--which he examined,
Rathbeal thought, with suspicious attention--John Dixon schooled
himself presently to a more strictly professional method, but he did
not immediately make any observation.

"The document is genuine, sir," said Rathbeal. "It was signed in my
presence."

"Upon that point," said John Dixon, with studious brows, "I must be
quite certain. You are a stranger to me, and your name is strange; and
you bring me startling news, Mr. Rathbeal. Why did not Mr. Grantham
come himself? Are you aware that it is believed by his friends that he
is dead?"

"I know that it was his wish to be thought so, and I am acquainted
with his reasons for a course of conduct which, without proper
explanation, must be viewed with mistrust. As to the trouble I am
taking, it is, I assure you, sir, not actuated by selfish motives. He
has a strong disinclination to appear personally in the matter, and
his motives could only be disclosed to friends in whom he has the most
thorough confidence. I can satisfy you as to my respectability----"

"I throw no doubt upon it, Mr. Rathbeal: you do not seem to understand
that the intervention of a second party is quite useless. The
principal must appear himself."

"I accept your word, sir, but I would ask you whether the affair could
not be conducted confidentially--without publicity, I mean. I have
learnt that a small legacy has been left to Mr. Grantham. However
small it is, it will be of great value to him: he is very poor, as I
am myself."

John Dixon did a singular thing here. Motioning Rathbeal not to
proceed at present, he arranged the papers on his table, put others in
a desk, which he locked, opened a shut-up washstand and laved his
hands, brushed his hair, put on his hat, and then asked Rathbeal to
give him the favor of his company in his private chambers, which were
situated in Craven Street, Strand. Rathbeal consenting, they walked
together from the office, and John Dixon called a cab, in which they
rode to Craven Street. On the road Rathbeal would have continued to
speak of the mission he had undertaken, but John Dixon said, "Wait
till we get to my rooms; these confounded wheels make conversation
difficult." His voice, as he made this observation, was entirely
different from the professional voice he had adopted in the office;
there was a frank heartiness in it which attracted Rathbeal favorably,
and he deferred to his companion's wish and said nothing more till
they arrived at Craven Street.

"Sit down, Mr. Rathbeal," said John Dixon. "Let me offer you a cigar.
Now we can speak openly; I am no longer a lawyer; I am Robert
Grantham's friend. You look surprised. I have a very close interest in
the news you have brought me, and if you have spoken the truth--pardon
me for saying this; I am justified by the nature of the
circumstances--I may be able to serve him, and shall be glad to do so.
If I understand aright, you and he are intimate friends."

"We have been intimate friends for years. There is no man living for
whom I have a greater affection."

"You state that the signature to the document empowering you to act
for him is in his handwriting."

"I saw him write it."

"This very day?"

"This very day. The date is on the paper."

"Could you take me to him?"

"I could, but I would not do so without his permission."

"We are both on guard, as it were, Mr. Rathbeal. I was Robert
Grantham's schoolfellow."

"That is a piece of news," said Rathbeal, and added significantly, "He
had other schoolfellows."

"Shall we say one especially?"

"Yes, we will say that."

"Whose name you know?"

"Whose name I know."

"I am tempted to make a curious proposition to you, which if you
accede to, and it turns out successful, may satisfy each of us that we
may work together on behalf of one whose career has been unfortunate
and unhappy."

"Make your proposition, sir."

"One other of Robert Grantham's schoolfellows has been referred to. We
will each write down his name on separate pieces of paper, which we
will exchange. If the name is the same, we can proceed with our
conversation with less reserve."

"I agree, sir," said Rathbeal, and wrote the name that was in his
mind.

John Dixon did the same, and when they exchanged papers they saw that
the name they had penciled was "Fox-Cordery."

"Could we exchange opinions of this gentleman on the same plan?" asked
John Dixon.

"I will give you mine, sir, byword of mouth. The gentleman, as you
call him, is a reptile in human shape. To touch his hand in friendship
is a degradation."

"The terms are strong, but he has proved deserving of them. The
peculiar circumstances of my connection with him would have made the
expression of my opinion more temperate. You must be aware of the
imperative necessity of carrying the disclosure of the existence of
Robert Grantham to other ears, even though he persists in keeping
himself in concealment."

"No, sir, I am aware of no such necessity," said Rathbeal. "For
reasons best known to himself, Mr. Fox-Cordery desired the death of
Mr. Grantham. Some short time since, disturbed probably by something
that had come to his ears, he paid me a visit to assure himself that
Mr. Grantham was not of this world. I refused to betray the confidence
reposed in me by my friend, and Mr. Fox-Cordery went away no wiser,
for any information he received from me, than he came."

"Are you quite honest," said John Dixon rather sternly, "in saying
that you are not aware of the necessity for Mr. Grantham making his
existence known to certain persons?"

"Perfectly honest, sir. Mr. Grantham is alone in the world; no one has
the least claim upon him, and whatever judgment you may pass upon him,
he has a distinct right to do as he pleases with himself and his
identity."

"Have you no thought for his wife and child?" asked John Dixon. "Do
you really maintain that a husband and a father has the right to
assist by his own premeditated action in the lie that his wife is a
widow and his child an orphan?"

"I should be sorry to maintain an assumption so monstrous. We cannot
assist each other by playing at cross-purposes, which is what we
appear to be doing. Mr. Grantham, I repeat, is alone in the world. He
has no wife and child."

"He has no wife and child!" exclaimed John Dixon, in amazement.

"Unhappily, he has lost them, and it is the distressing circumstances
of this sad loss that has made him what he is--an outcast on the face
of the earth. As we have gone so far, sir, I may tell you that Mr.
Grantham has no secrets from me. He has revealed to me all the
sorrowful circumstances of his life, and he has drained the bitter cup
of agony and remorse. I trust to you, sir, to keep this confidence
sacred. You have wrung it out of me, and it must go no farther. If Mr.
Grantham consents to see you, and if then he confides to you what he
has confided to me, you will receive from him a full verification of
my statements. Will you now, sir, give me the particulars of the
legacy that has been left to him?"

It was impossible for John Dixon to doubt that Rathbeal was speaking
without guile or deceit. His manly, sympathetic voice, the frankness
of his manner, and his honest look carried conviction with them.

"We will speak of the legacy presently," he said. "There is a mystery
here which must first be cleared up. From whom did you receive the
information that Mr. Robert Grantham's wife and child were dead?"

"From his own lips."

"How did he obtain the information?"

"It came through Mr. Fox-Cordery."

"Do you tell me this seriously," asked John Dixon, pale with
excitement, "or are you inventing a fantastic and horrible tale for
some purpose of your own?"

"I have no purpose of my own to serve," replied Rathbeal. "I am here
to serve a noble and suffering man, who erred grievously in years gone
by, and who is now passing his life in the work of expiation. Your
words, your manner, point to a mystery indeed--a mystery it is out of
my power to pierce. I scarcely know what to say, what to think. You
could not demand from me a sacrifice I would be unwilling to make if I
could assist in bringing comfort to my friend's heart. Trust me, sir;
I am worthy of trust. Do not speak to me in metaphor; but explain to
me the meaning of words I cannot at present understand."

During the last few moments there had dawned upon John Dixon a light
in which Mr. Fox-Cordery's villainous duplicity was to some extent
made clear, and he resolved to avail himself of Rathbeal's assistance
to bring him to justice. A husband who believed that those he loved
were in their grave, a wife who believed herself widowed, a child who
believed she was an orphan--the figures of these three wronged beings
rose before him, and appealed to him to take up their cause and bring
the truth to light.

"If I were to tell you," he said slowly, "that I have this day written
to Robert Grantham's wife, informing her of the legacy left to her
husband, and asking for her instructions thereon, what would you say?"

Hitherto Rathbeal had preserved his calmness, but it was his turn now
to exhibit agitation.

"You have written to Robert Grantham's wife!" he exclaimed. "To Robert
Grantham's wife, who is in her grave!"

"She lives," said John Dixon, "and is now, with her child, in Mr.
Fox-Cordery's house."

"The child's name, Clair?"

"The child's name, Clair," said John Dixon. "The time for concealment
is over; plain-speaking is now the order of the day, and Justice our
watchword. Tell me all you know; you shall receive a like confidence
from me."

Thereupon the men related to each other all they knew of husband,
wife, and child; and when their stories were told Mr. Fox-Cordery's
wiles were fully exposed. Uncertain on the spur of the moment what
action it was advisable to take, they pledged each other to secrecy
for two days, by which time they would have devised a plan to unmask
the traitor. Their reason for resolving not to communicate their
discoveries immediately to Robert Grantham was that they feared he
would do some rash action which would put Mr. Fox-Cordery on his
guard, and give him an opportunity to crawl out of the net he had
woven around these innocent beings, and which now was closing round
himself. Cooler brains than his should devise a fitting means of
exposure, and should bring retribution upon the traitor and schemer.
This decided, they talked of minor matters affecting the main issue.
John Dixon expressed a wish to see Robert Grantham without himself
being seen--for even now at odd moments a kind of wondering doubt
stole upon him whether all he had heard was true--and Rathbeal, ripe
in expedients, suggested the way to this.

"At ten o'clock to-night," he said, "come to the entrance to Charing
Cross Station, and I will pass you in the company of Robert Grantham;
then you will have an opportunity of seeing him. Do not accost us; but
having satisfied yourself, take your departure. I can easily manage to
bring Grantham to the spot, and to-morrow I will call upon you at any
hour you name."

Upon this understanding they separated, Rathbeal well satisfied with
his day's work, and glowing with anticipation of the enemy's
overthrow.

"You do wrong to make enemies, shrewd sir" (thus his thoughts ran);
"they are more zealous against you, more determined for victory, when
they scent the coming battle. You are a fool, shrewd sir, for all your
cleverness. Your sun is setting, and you see not the shadows beyond.
But the veil shall soon be drawn by willing hands. With what truth
could Robert say:


  "I, as thou knowest, went forth, and my heart with sorrow oppressed,
   Where ruthless Fate had bestowed what I needed for life and rest.


We are but instruments in the hands of Fate. Sooner or later the ax
shall fall."

He had an idle hour before his appointment with Robert Grantham, and
instinctively he had turned his steps in the direction of Mr.
Fox-Cordery's house. As he walked on the opposite side of the street
he saw a miserably-clad woman, whose face, equally with her dress, was
a melancholy index to her woeful state, standing at the door,
exchanging words with a servant who had responded to her knock.
Crossing the road, he heard something of what was passing between
them, and learned that Mr. Fox-Cordery was in the country. Closer
contact with the woman disclosed more plainly to him that she was
destitute and in sore trouble, and he was particularly struck at the
half-defiant and wholly reckless tone in which she spoke. The door was
shut upon her, and she was left standing in the street. Then he
observed that she directed a threatening and despairing look at the
house; and, as she was walking slowly away, he went up and asked her
if he could be of any assistance to her, and whether she would tell
him what she wanted with Mr. Fox-Cordery. It was Martha he accosted,
but she would have nothing to say to him. Bidding him sullenly to mind
his own business, she quickened her steps to a run and disappeared. He
reproached himself afterward for not hastening after her, and tempting
her with a bribe; for he felt that the woman had some bitter grievance
against Mr. Fox-Cordery, and that she could have been of assistance in
bringing him to bay. But he shrugged his shoulders, muttering "What
is, is; what will be, will be," and followed in the direction she had
taken, without, however, seeing her again.




CHAPTER XIV.
Do you remember Billy's last prayer?


At ten o'clock that night Rathbeal and Robert Grantham were at Charing
Cross Station, as he had engaged they should be. He had no difficulty
in wooing Grantham to the neighborhood, in which they had taken many a
stroll on leisure nights. He had given his friend an unfaithful
version of his interview with the lawyers, saying there was a
difficulty in obtaining the information he required, and that he was
to call upon them again to-morrow.

"There is a small sum of money attaching to the business," he said,
"but we must wait for the precise particulars. It is likely you will
have to put in an appearance."

"I will do whatever you advise," said Grantham, "but assist in keeping
me out of it till the last moment."

Rathbeal promised, and they strolled to and fro, westward to Trafalgar
Square, eastward not farther than Buckingham Street, conversing, as
was their wont, on the typical signs of life that thronged this
limited space. Robert Grantham was always deeply impressed by these
signs which, in their contrasts of joy and misery, and of wealth and
poverty, furnish pregnant pictures of the extremes of human existence.
Grantham was saying something to this effect when he paused before a
white-faced, raggedly-dressed child--no other than Little Prue--who
had some boxes of matches in her hands, and was saying to a woman who
had also paused to observe her:

"Kind lady! Father's dead, and mother's laying ill of a fever, and
baby's dying 'cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!"

The woman gave Little Prue a penny, and the next moment a man stepped
to her side and snatched the penny from her hand, the child making no
objection.

"A suggestive scene," said Rathbeal. "The brute is the girl's father,
I suppose, and she stands there in the gutter by his directions,
probably repeating the speech he has drilled into her. Does not such a
picture tempt you not to give? Is it not almost a justification for
the existence of institutions which contend that beggary is a
preventable disease?"

"Not in my eyes," replied Robert Grantham. "I have no sympathy with
anti-natural societies, organized for the suppression of benevolent
impulse. The endeavor to deaden charitable feeling, and to inculcate
into kindly-hearted people that pity must be guided by a kind of
mathematical teaching, is a deplorable mistake. Carry such a teaching
out to its natural end, and the sweetest influences of our nature
would be lost. Seeing what I have seen, I would not give to that poor
child, but I would take her away from the brute: and the first thing I
would do would be to set her down before a hot, wholesome meal. Poor
little waif! See, Rathbeal, the brute is on the watch on the opposite
side. Now, if Providence would take him in hand, and deal out to him
what he deserves, we might give the child a foretaste of heaven."

Rathbeal, looking to the opposite side of the road, saw John Dixon
approaching them, and in order that he should have a clear view of
Grantham he took his friend's arm, and proceeded onward a few yards to
a spot which was brilliantly lighted up. John Dixon passed them
slowly, and exchanged a look of recognition with Rathbeal, which
Grantham did not observe.

"It is time to get home," said Rathbeal, who, now that John Dixon was
gone, saw no reason to linger.

"A moment, Rathbeal," said Grantham. "I can't get that child out of my
head. Is there no way of doing her an act of kindness without the
intervention of the brute?"

Little Prue had just finished another appeal in a weak, languid voice,
addressed to no one in particular. She appeared to be dazed as the
words dropped slowly from her bloodless lips. She could scarcely keep
her eyes open; her frail body began to sway.

"She is fainting," said Rathbeal hurriedly; "the child is overpowered
by want and fatigue."

The brute on the opposite side saw this also, and he started forward,
not impelled by pity, but with the intention of keeping Little Prue's
strength in her by means of threats. A judgment fell upon him. It was
as if Providence had heard what Robert Grantham said, and had taken
him in hand; for as he was crossing the road in haste he got tangled
in a conflict of cabs and omnibuses, and was knocked to the ground.
Rathbeal darted forward to see what had happened to him, while
Grantham, taking Little Prue's hand, said some gentle words to her,
which she was too exhausted to understand. A great crowd had assembled
on the spot where the brute had fallen, and Rathbeal, returning,
whispered to Grantham that he had been run over.

"What are they doing with him?" asked Grantham.

"They are carrying him to Charing Cross Hospital."

"He will be all right there. If we want to inquire after him we can do
so to-morrow. Let us look after the child."

She needed looking after; but for Grantham's sustaining arm she would
have sunk into the gutter.

"I know the hospital to take her to," said Grantham, "and the medicine
she needs."

With Little Prue in his arms, he plunged into a narrow street,
accompanied by Rathbeal, and entered a common restaurant, where he
ordered a pot of tea, bread and butter, and a chop. The swift motion
through the air had done something to revive Little Prue, the tea and
food did the rest; and presently she was eating and drinking as only
one who was famished could. The men looked on in wondering pity, and
did not interrupt her engrossing labors. It was not until nature was
satisfied that she thought of her father; a look of terror flashed
into her eyes.

"What's the matter, child?" asked Robert Grantham.

"Father'll be the death of me!" she replied.

"Don't be frightened; he will not hurt you."

"Are you sure, sir? You don't know father!"

"I am quite sure; we have seen him."

This satisfied Little Prue, and the look of terror changed to one of
gratitude.

"Thank yer kindly, sir," she said. "I think I should 'ave died if I
'adn't 'ad somethink to eat. It's a long time since I had sech a
tuck-out. I couldn't eat another mouthful if I tried."

"And now, child, tell us where you live, and whether you have a
mother."

"Oh, yes, sir, I've got a mother; and I live in Roxy's Rents."

"I've heard of the place," said Rathbeal; "it's in Lambeth. We will
see the little one home."

"Thank yer, sir. I don't think I could find my way without father.
Oh!" she cried, looking about distressfully, "where's my matches?"

They had dropped from her hands when she was falling, and the friends
had not stopped to pick them up.

"Never mind your matches."

"But father'll wollup me if I don't sell 'em before I go 'ome! I can't
go 'ome till I've got a shilling!"

"You shall have the shilling. Here it is. We will take care of it till
we get to Roxy's Rents, and you shall give it to your mother. What is
your name, child?"

"Prue, sir; Little Prue."

Robert Grantham laid his hand on Rathbeal's arm.

"Little Prue!" he said. "That is poor Billy's sweetheart, that he
spoke of with his dying breath."

He addressed the child:

"Did you know a poor boy called Billy?"

"Oh, yes, sir; we used to play together. He sed he'd marry me when he
grew up, if he could get a suit of clothes. What's become of Billy,
sir? I ain't seen 'im for a long time."

"He is happier than he was, my child," said Grantham; "all his
troubles are over."

"I'm glad to 'ear that, sir. I wish mine and mother's was."

"They will be, one day. Now, child, we must be moving."

Little Prue rose and put her hand in Grantham's and they left the
restaurant. They rode to Lambeth by 'bus and tram, and then, being in
streets familiar to her, Little Prue conducted them to Roxy's Rents.
Her mother's room was in darkness.

"Are yer coming in, sir?"

"Yes; we will see your mother before we leave you."

"Mother, mother!" cried Prue, opening the door.

Mrs. Flower started up and, running to the door, caught her child in
her arms.

"O Prue, Prue! where have you been? I was afraid you were lost!"

"I should 'ave been, mother, if it 'adn't been for the gentlemen."

"The gentlemen?"

She could not see them.

"Do not be alarmed," said Robert Grantham. "Your little one was not
well, and we brought her home. She is all right now."

"You're very good, sir; I'm ever so much obliged to you."

"Oh, mother, I've 'ad sech a supper! Did yer get the money for the
washing?"

She was accustomed to take her part in these domestic matters, which
were, in a sense, vital.

"Don't worry, child, before the gentlemen."

"But did yer, mother?" persisted Little Prue, thinking of the chances
of food for to-morrow.

"No. There, child, let me alone."

"Have you a candle in the place?" asked Grantham, suspecting the state
of affairs.

"No, sir. I am really ashamed----"

"We owe your little one a shilling for some matches," said Grantham,
pitying her confusion, and slipping the money into her hand. "Is it
too late to buy some candles?"

He would have taken his departure under these awkward circumstances,
but he considered it his duty to tell Mrs. Flower of the accident that
had happened to her husband.

"One of the lodgers will sell me one, sir, if you don't mind waiting."

"We will wait."

"Martha!" called Mrs. Flower; but Martha was asleep, and did not
speak. "It's my sister, sir; I thought she might be awake. I won't be
gone a minute."

She ran to another room, and obtaining the candle, returned with it
alight. Her visitors sighed at the misery it displayed. Martha's arms
were spread upon the table, and her head rested upon them. Prue pulled
her mother's dress.

"Who is she, mother?"

"Your aunt Martha."

Prue went to the sleeping woman, and tried to get a glimpse of her
face.

"I have bad news to tell you about your husband," said Grantham,
speaking low, so that the child should not hear. "He has met with an
accident, and has been taken to Charing Cross Hospital."

He broke the news to her in a gentle voice, and she received it
without emotion. Her husband had crushed all love for him from her
breast long since, and she had felt for years that it would be a happy
release if he were dead.

"Is he much hurt, sir?" she asked, with tearless eyes.

"I do not know. He was knocked down by a cab, and was carried to the
hospital at once. He will be better cared for there than here."

"Yes, sir; I have no money to pay for doctors. Did Prue see the
accident?"

"She knows nothing of it."

"Drip--drip--drip! Oh, God! will it never stop?"

It was Martha who was speaking. The men were awed by the despairing
voice.

"It's my sister, sir; I told you, I think. She came upon me quite
sudden to-night. I haven't seen her for years. She's in trouble.
Martha, Martha!"

She shook the woman, who started wildly to her feet and looked this
way and that with swift glances, more like a hunted animal than a
human creature.

Rathbeal uttered an exclamation. It was the woman he had seen that
afternoon standing at Mr. Fox-Cordery's door.

"Fate!" he said, and advanced toward her.

A violent spasm of fear seized Martha, and shook her in every limb.
Crazed perhaps by her dreams, or terrified by the suspicion of a
hidden evil in the appearance of Rathbeal, whom she instantly
recognized, and who must have tracked her down for some new
oppression, she retreated as he advanced, and watching her
opportunity, rushed past him from the room, and flew into the dark
shelter of the streets. They gazed after her in astonishment, and then
followed her into the alley, and thence into the wider thoroughfare,
but they saw no trace of her.

"Her troubles have driven her mad," said Mrs. Flower, "and no wonder.
How she's lived through them is a mystery. She's in such a state that
I'm afraid she'll do herself a mischief."

"I intended her no harm," said Rathbeal. "I saw her once before
to-day, and if my suspicions are well founded, it may be in my power
to render her a service, even to obtain some kind of justice for her,
if her troubles are caused by a man."

"A man, you call him!" said Mrs. Flower, with bitter emphasis.

"Do you know him?"

"I heard his name for the first time to-night."

"Is it Fox-Cordery?"

In the dark he felt Robert Grantham give a start, and he pressed his
arm as a warning to be silent.

"That's the villain that's brought her to this; that took her away
from her home and disgraced her, and then left her to starve. If
there's justice in heaven, he ought to be made suffer for it."

"There's justice in heaven," said Rathbeal, "and it shall overtake
him. Your sister needs a man to champion her cause; I offer myself as
that man. Without a powerful defender, the reptile who has brought
this misery upon her will spurn and laugh at her. It is too late to
talk together to-night; your child is waiting for you, and your sister
may return at any moment. After a night's rest, she will listen to
me--will believe in me. May I call upon you to-morrow morning early?"

"Yes, sir, as early as you like. I get up at six. You speak fair, and
you've been kind to Prue. God bless you for your goodness! I shall
have to go to the hospital in the morning, but I'll wait at home till
ten for you."

"Very well. Meanwhile, this may be of service to you."

He gave her two shillings, and wishing her goodnight, the friends took
their departure.

"What does all this mean, Rathbeal?" asked Robert Grantham. "I am
wrapt in mystery."

"You trust me, Robert?"

"I would trust you with my life."

"Then believe that I have my reasons for keeping silence to-night.
Before long the mystery shall be explained to you. I am working for
your happiness, Robert."

"For my happiness?" echoed Grantham, with a groan.

"You are not a skeptic? You believe in eternal mercy and justice?"

"I do, God help me!"

"Hold fast to that belief. The clouds are breaking, and I see a light
shining on your life. Do you remember poor Billy's last prayer?' O
Lord God, give Mr. Gran all he wants, and a bit over!' The Lord of the
Universe heard that prayer. Ask me no questions, but before you go to
bed to-night pray with a thankful heart; for the age of miracles is
not yet over, Robert, my friend."




CHAPTER XV.
Friends in Council.


Rathbeal presented himself at Mrs. Flower's room as the clock struck
nine. In anticipation of his visit, the woman had "tidied" up the
apartment, and Little Prue looked quite neat, with her hands and face
washed, and her hair properly combed and brushed. Rathbeal's two
shillings had enabled them to have a sufficient breakfast, and the
child, naturally shy, raised her eyes gratefully to her benefactor.

"Well, little one," he said, pinching her cheek, "do you feel better
this morning?"

"Oh, ever so much, sir!" replied Little Prue.

He looked round for Martha, and Mrs. Flower told him sorrowfully that
her sister had not come back.

"I shall be worried out of my life till I see her, sir," she said.

"We will try and find her for you," he said. "And now tell me
everything you know concerning her."

She related all that she had learned from Martha; and when she had
done he plied her with questions, which she answered freely. Having
obtained all the information it was in her power to give him, and
leaving his address with her, he rode to Craven Street, his
appointment with John Dixon having been made for an early hour. He was
received with cordiality all John Dixon's suspicions being now quite
dispelled.

"I recognized Robert Grantham the moment I saw him," he said, "thanks
to his wearing no hair on his face; but it bears the marks of deep
suffering."

"He has passed through the fire," said Rathbeal. "I have more news for
you. Another weapon against Mr. Fox-Cordery is placed in our hands."

With that he gave an account of his adventures with Martha and Little
Prue, to which John Dixon listened with grave attention, and then said
he had also news to impart.

"It will be necessary, I think," he said, "to strike earlier than we
expected. You will be surprised to hear that I expect shortly to be
connected with Mr. Fox-Cordery by marriage. I have no wish to spare
him on that account, but for the sake of my intended wife I should
wish, if possible, to avoid a public exposure. Justice must be done to
Robert Grantham and his wife and child--that is imperative; and if we
can compel Mr. Fox-Cordery privately to make some reparation to the
poor woman who has so strangely been introduced into this bad
business, so much the better. It is likely, however, that she will
disappear from the scene; my opinion is that she will not return to
her sister. So far as she is concerned, there is no law to touch her
betrayer: her case, unhappily, is a common one, and he can snap his
fingers at her; and, moreover, if she personally annoy him, he can
prosecute her. But he may be willing to sacrifice something to prevent
his name being dragged into the papers. As for any punishment he may
have incurred for his infamous conduct toward the Granthams, the
choice of visiting it upon him must be left to your friend. Speaking
as a lawyer, we have no standing in the matter: it is not us he has
wronged; we are simple lookers on."

"May I ask how you expect to be connected with Mr. Fox-Cordery by
marriage?"

"There is now no secret about it. He has a sister, whom he has
oppressed after his own brutal fashion since she was a child. That two
natures so opposite as theirs should be born of the same parents is a
mystery beyond my comprehension, but so it is. She is the
personification of sweetness and charity, but I will not dilate upon
her virtues. It is enough that I am engaged to be married to her, and
that the engagement is viewed with intense dislike by her brother and
her mother, both of whom would, I have not the least doubt, he
rejoiced to hear that I had met my death in a railway accident or by
some equally agreeable means. It is, I believe, chiefly because of her
liking for my intended wife that Mrs. Grantham accepted the invitation
of Mr. Fox-Cordery to become a guest in the house by the river which
he has taken for the summer months. Besides, you must bear in mind
that he is Mrs. Grantham's business agent, and that she is ignorant of
his true character. I have an idea that her eyes are being opened, for
I have received a letter from my intended this morning in which she
informs me that Mrs. Grantham is in great trouble, and wishes to
consult me privately. She asks me to meet her to-night near her
brother's house, when I shall hear what the trouble is. I am prepared
for some fresh villainy on the part of Mr. Fox-Cordery, who has
entertained a passion for Mrs. Grantham for years. He knew her in her
maiden days, and would have paid open suit to her, but her love was
given to Robert Grantham."

"Do you tell me that he desires to marry her now?"

"I understand from Charlotte--the name of my intended; I cannot speak
of her as Miss Fox-Cordery, there is something hateful in the
name--that it is his ardent wish, and that he has set his heart
upon it. That may be the reason for his taking the house by the river
and for his wish to make Mrs. Grantham his guest there. Part of a
plan--and his plans are generally well laid. He hoped to bring his
suit to a happy ending, for him, before the termination of her visit."

"But Robert Grantham lives!" exclaimed Rathbeal.

"He believes him to be dead, remember; you yourself told me so."

"Yes, yes; I was forgetting for the moment. I see now why he came to
me; the motive of all his actions is clear. But this must not be
allowed to go on any longer. In justice to her, in justice to Robert,
the truth must no longer be withheld."

"My own opinion: there has been but little time lost; it is only
yesterday that you and I first met. My idea is, to bring matters to a
conclusion this very night. I shall go to meet my intended, and hear
what she has to say. I am not sure whether Mrs. Grantham will be with
her. If she is not, I will not leave without an interview in which she
shall learn the solemn truth. It will be a difficult task to prepare
her for it, but it is a duty that must be performed. Meanwhile you
must prepare Robert Grantham for the wonderful happiness in store for
him. Do you think it advisable that we shall go down together?"

"It will be best; and on our way we can determine upon our course of
action. I imagine that we shall have to keep in the background until
we receive an intimation from you to appear; but we can talk of all
that by-and-by. I have paved the way with Robert already, and he is
now impatiently awaiting me. Ah-ha! Mr. Fox-Cordery, when you weave a
web, nothing ever escapes from it! A stronger hand than yours has
woven for you a web, and scattered yours to the four winds of heaven.
I have tortured him already with letters, trusting to Fate to aid me,
and he stands, unmasked, defeated, disgraced for evermore."

This outburst was enigmatical to John Dixon, but time was too valuable
for him to ask for an explanation. There was much to do, and every
minute of the day would be occupied. He made an appointment to meet
Rathbeal and Grantham in the evening, and they parted to go upon their
separate tasks.




CHAPTER XVI
Mr. Fox-Cordery's Master-Stroke.


Mr. Fox-Cordery had made the move he had thought of to insure success.
On the morning of the day that Charlotte wrote to John Dixon to come
to her, he sent word to Mrs. Grantham that he wished to see her upon
business of importance, either in his room or hers. She sent word back
that she would see him in her apartment, and he went there to deal a
master-stroke. Her child Clair was with her, and Charlotte also; and
he drew Clair to him, and spent a few moments in endearments which
manifestly did not give the girl any pleasure. He had not succeeded in
making himself a favorite with her, and as soon as she could she
escaped from him and ran to her mother's side. He was quite aware that
Clair was not fond of him, but he made no protest; the future should
pay him for all. Mrs. Grantham and Charlotte were both employed in
needlework, and they did not lay it aside when he entered.

"Charlotte!" he said, sternly.

"Yes, Fox," she answered.

He motioned with his head to the door, indicating that she was to
leave the room. Charlotte rose immediately.

"Where are you going, Charlotte?" asked Mrs. Grantham.

He replied for her.

"I wish to speak to you alone," he said. "Take Clair with you,
Charlotte, and go and gather some flowers."

"You can speak before them," said Mrs. Grantham; "they will be very
quiet."

"Yes, mamma," said Clair, "we will be very quiet."

"What I have to say is for your ears alone," he said, and he motioned
again to the door. The masterfulness of the order did not escape Mrs.
Grantham. She moved her chair to the window, which looked out upon the
lawn, and from which she could also see the bridge.

"Go with Charlotte, my dear," she said to Clair, "but keep on the
lawn, so that I can see you."

"Yes, mamma."

"My dear Mrs. Grantham," commenced Mr. Fox-Cordery, in a bland voice
of false pity, "I have deplorable news to convey to you. A short time
since, when I had the honor of making a proposal to you----"

The look she gave him stopped him. "If you are about to renew that
proposal, Mr. Fox-Cordery, I must ask you to go no further. I gave you
my answer then; it would be my answer now."

"I am unfortunate in my choice of words," he said, losing the guard he
had kept upon himself during her visit. "I did not wish to shock you
too suddenly by disclosing abruptly what it is my duty, as your man of
business, to disclose."

"To shock me too suddenly!" she said, pausing in her work.

"It was my desire. Believe me, I am your friend, as I have ever been;
make any call you like upon me, and you will not find me unwilling to
respond. But to come down so low in the world, to lose one's all, to
be suddenly beggared----"

He put his hand to his eyes, and watched slyly through his fingers.
Her work dropped into her lap; her mouth trembled, but she did not
speak.

"It might have been borne with resignation," he continued, "if one did
not have a beloved child to care for and protect from the hardships of
a cruel world. In your place I can imagine how it would affect me, how
I should tremble at what is before me. Love is all-powerful, but there
are circumstances in which it brings inexpressible grief to the heart.
How shall I tell you? I cannot, I cannot!"

He rose from his chair, and paced the room with downcast head, but he
kept his stealthy watch upon her face all the time. He was
disconcerted that she did not speak, that she uttered no cry of alarm.
He expected her to assist him through the scene he had acted to
himself a dozen times. He had put words into her mouth, natural words
which should by rights have been spoken in the broken periods of his
revelation; but she sat quite silent, waiting for him to proceed.

"Still, it must be told, and should have been told before. I grieve to
say that you have lost your fortune, and that, unless you have
resources with which I am unacquainted--and with all my heart I hope
you have--your future and the future of your dear child is totally
unprovided for."

And having come to this termination, he threw himself into his chair
with the air of a man whose own hopes and prospects were utterly
blighted. She found her voice.

"How have I lost my fortune, sir?" she asked with dry lips. Her throat
was parched, and her husky voice had a note of pain in it which
satisfied him that he had succeeded in terrifying her. "You had the
sole control of it."

"Alas, yes! How ardently do I wish that it had been in the control of
another man, to whom you were indifferent, and who could have told you
calmly what it shakes me to the soul to tell! I have also lost, but I
can afford it; it is only a portion of my fortune that has gone down
in wreck. I have still a competence left that makes me independent of
the buffets of the world, that enables me to provide a home for those
I love."

"I fail to understand you, sir," she said, glancing from the window at
her child, who was walking on the lawn with Charlotte, and who, seeing
her mother looking at her, smiled and kissed her hand to her. "You
have not yet informed me how I have lost my fortune."

"You made investments----"

"Acting upon your advice, sir."

"True; I believed my advice to be good, and I invested part of my
money also in the same stocks and shares. Unhappily the papers you
have signed----"

"Always by your directions, sir. You informed me that the investments
were good, and that I need have no anxiety."

"I cannot deny it; I was wrong, foolishly, madly wrong. I thought your
fortune would be doubled, trebled. It has turned out disastrously,
every shilling you possessed is lost. And, unhappily, as I was saying,
the papers you have signed have involved you beyond the extent of your
means. It racks me to think of what is before you, unless you accept
the assistance which a friend is ready to tender you. A life of
poverty, of privation for you and your dear child--it maddens me to
think of it!"

"For how long have you known this?" she asked faintly.

It was the question he wished her to put to him.

"I knew it," he said humbly, "when I made the proposal which you
rejected. I knew then that you were ruined, and it was my desire to
spare you. Had you answered as my heart led me to hope you would have
done, I still should have kept the secret from your knowledge until
the day that made you mine, to love, to shelter, to protect. It is the
truth, dear Mrs. Grantham--it is the truth, on the word of an
honorable gentleman."

He put his hand to his heart, and sighed heavily.

"I cannot but believe you," said Mrs. Grantham, pondering more upon
his manner than the words he uttered; it seemed to her as if a light
had suddenly descended upon her, through which she saw for the first
time the true character of the man she had trusted. "I cannot but
believe you when you tell me I am ruined, and that starvation lies
before me and my child."

"Alas!" he put in here. "Your child, your dear Clair!"

"I had no understanding of business, and I relied implicitly upon you.
I never questioned, never for a moment doubted."

"Nor I," he murmured. "Am I not a sufferer, like yourself? Does that
not prove how confident I was that I was acting for the best? Call me
foolish, headstrong, if you will; inflict any penance you please upon
me, and I am by your side to bear it."

She shivered inwardly at the insidious tenderness he threw into his
voice, but she was at the same time careful to conceal this feeling.
She was in his power; her whole future was in his hands, and with it
the future of her beloved Clair. She had no other friend; she could
not think of another being in the world whom she could ask for help at
this critical juncture. It seemed as if the very bread she and her
child ate from this day forth might depend upon him who had brought
ruin upon them.

"Yes," he continued, "I will not desert you. A single word from your
lips, and your misfortune will become a blessing."

"Is nothing left, sir?" she asked. "Have I really lost everything?"

"You are cruel to make me repeat what I have said, what I have
endeavored to make clear to you. You have not only lost everything,
but are responsible for obligations it is, I am afraid, out of your
power to discharge. Mrs. Grantham, will you listen to me?"

"I have listened patiently, sir. Have you any other misfortunes to
make clear to me?"

"None, I am thankful to say. You know all; there is nothing to add to
the sad news I have been compelled to impart. Think only of yourself
and your dear child."

"I am thinking of her, sir."

"She is not strong; she has not been accustomed to endure poverty. Can
we not save her from its stings? Is it not a duty?"

"To me, sir, a sacred duty, if I can see a way."

"Let me show you the way," he said eagerly. "Dear Mrs. Grantham, my
feelings are unchanged. Even in your maiden days I loved you, but
stifled my love and kept it buried in my breast when I saw that
another had taken the place it was the wish of my heart to occupy. You
gave to another the love for which I yearned, and I looked on and
suffered in silence. Is not my devotion worthy of a reward? It is in
your power to bestow it; it is in your power to save dear Clair from a
life of misery. I renew the offer I made you. Promise to become my
wife, and the grievous loss you have sustained need not give you a
moment's anxiety."

The artificial modulation of his tones, his elaborate actions, and his
evident desire to impress her with a sense of the nobility of his
offer, filled her with a kind of loathing for him. It was as though he
held out an iron chain, and warned her that if she refused to be bound
she was condemning her child to poverty and despair. But agonizing as
was this reflection, she could not speak the words he wished to hear;
she felt that she _must_ have time to think.

"What you have told me," she said, "is so unexpected, I was so little
prepared for it, that it would not be fair to answer you immediately.
My mind is confused; pray do not press me; in a little while I shall
be calmer, and then----"

"And then," he said, taking up her words and thinking the battle won,
"you will see that it is the only road of happiness left open to you,
and you will give me a favorable answer. We will tread this road
together, and enjoy life's pleasures. Shall we say this evening?" She
shook her head. "To-morrow, then?"

"Give me another day," she pleaded.

"Till the day after to-morrow, by all means," he said gayly. "It would
be ungallant to refuse. But, dear Mrs. Grantham--may I not rather say
dear Lucy?--it must be positively the day after to-morrow. I shall
count the minutes. To be long in your society in a state of suspense,
or in the knowledge that you refuse to be mine, would be more than I
can bear."

She silently construed these words; they conveyed a threat. If in two
days she did not give him a favorable answer, she and Clair would have
to leave the house at once, and go forth into the world, stripped and
beggared.

"And now I will leave you," he said, taking her hand and kissing it.
"Do not look at the cloud, dear Lucy--look only at the silver lining."

He was about to go, when she said:

"Mr. Fox-Cordery, if I wish to speak to a friend, can I do so here, in
your house?"

"Why, surely here," he replied, wondering who the friend could be, and
feeling it would be best for him that the meeting should be an open
and not a secret one. "Where else but in the home in which you are
mistress?"

She thanked him, and he kissed her hand again, and looked
languishingly at her lips, and then left her to her reflections.

She locked her door, and devoted herself to a consideration of her
despairing position. She tried in vain to recollect what papers she
had signed; there had been many from time to time, and she had had
such confidence in the man who had managed her husband's affairs, and
since his death had managed hers, that when he said, "Put your name
here, where my finger is, Mrs. Grantham," she had grown into the habit
of obeying without reading what she signed. The longer she thought,
the more she grew confused. There was but little time for decision,
scarcely two days. Where could she turn for counsel? Where could she
find a friend who might be able to point out a way of escape? She
stood at the window as she asked these questions of herself, and as
her eyes wandered over the prospect they lighted upon Charlotte. The
moment they did so she thought of John Dixon. The questions were
answered. She would implore Charlotte to bring about an interview with
him.

Under ordinary circumstances she would not have dreamt of asking a
sister of Mr. Fox-Cordery to assist her in opposing his wishes, but
the circumstances were not ordinary. These last few days Mr.
Fox-Cordery and his mother had thrown off the mask in their treatment
of Charlotte, and Mrs. Grantham had noticed with pain the complete
want of affection they displayed. She had spoken sympathetically to
Charlotte of this altered behavior, and Charlotte had answered wearily
that she had been accustomed to it all her life. The pitiful
confession made Mrs. Grantham very tender toward her, and she consoled
Charlotte with much feeling. Then Charlotte poured forth her full
heart, and it needed but little persuasion to cause her to relate the
story of her lifelong oppression. The bond of affection which united
the women was drawn still closer, and they exchanged confidences
without reserve. Now, in her own hour of trouble, Mrs. Grantham sought
Charlotte, and confided to her the full extent of the misfortune that
had overtaken her.

"If I could see your John," she said, "he might be able to advise me
perhaps."

"I will write to him," said Charlotte impulsively; "he will come at
once."

And so it was arranged. A little later, Mrs. Grantham said:

"I must not anger your brother by meeting John secretly. You shall
meet him, and ask him to come and speak to me here in my own room."

"But may he?" inquired Charlotte.

"Your brother has given me permission to receive in this house any
friend I wish to consult. There is no one else in the world whose
advice I can rely upon; I am sure your John is a true and sincere
gentleman. Will it make any difference to you, Charlotte, if your
brother discovers that you have assisted to bring about this meeting?"

"None," replied Charlotte, in a decided tone. "I ought to know him by
this time. He made me a half-promise that he would give me a little
money to buy a few clothes, but the way he has behaved to me lately
proves that he has no intention of helping me. I shall have to go to
John as I am."

Then the women spent an hour in mutual consolation, and exchanged vows
that nothing should ever weaken their affection for each other.

"John will be your true friend," said Charlotte, "remember that. You
may believe every word he says. Oh, my dear, I hope things will turn
out better than they look!"

"I put my trust in God," said Mrs. Grantham solemnly, and, clasping
her hands, raised her eyes in silent prayer.




CHAPTER XVII.
Retribution.


At five o'clock in the evening Robert Grantham and Rathbeal joined
John Dixon in his rooms in Craven Street. The revelation which
Rathbeal had made to Grantham had produced a marked change in him.
With wonder and incredulity had he listened at first to the strange
story, but his friend's impressive earnestness had gradually convinced
him that it was no fable which Rathbeal was relating. The first force
of his emotions spent, hope, humility, and thankfulness were expressed
in his face. It seemed to him that the meeting between him and his
wife, which Rathbeal had promised should take place that night, was
like the meeting of two spirits that had been wandering for ages in
darkness. It was not without fear that he looked forward to it. The
sense of the wrong he had inflicted upon the woman he had vowed to
cherish and protect was as strong within him now as it had been
through all these years, from the day upon which he heard that she was
dead. Would she accept his assurance that he had not been false to
her, would she believe in his repentance, would she forgive him?

"I ask but that," he said to Rathbeal, "and then I shall be
content to go my way, and spend the rest of my life in the task of
self-purification."

"Hope for something better," Rathbeal replied: "for a reunion of
hearts, for a good woman's full forgiveness, and forgetfulness of the
errors of the past. The clouds have not lifted only to deceive. There
is a bright future before you, my friend."

"My future is in God's hands," said Grantham.

"He will direct your wife aright. Hope and believe."

In this spirit they wended their way to John Dixon's rooms.

Grantham and he had not met since they left school, but he received
his old schoolfellow as though there had been no break in their early
association. They shook hands warmly, and the look that passed between
Rathbeal and John Dixon told the latter that the truth had been
revealed to the wronged man. They wasted no time in idle conversation,
but started immediately on their journey.

For a reason which he did not divulge to his companions, John Dixon
had elected to drive to Mr. Fox-Cordery's summer residence; he had a
vague idea that occasion might arise to render it necessary that he
should run off with Charlotte that very night; if so, there was a
carriage, with a pair of smart horses, at his command. The coachman he
had engaged had received his instructions, and when they got out of
the tangle of the crowded thoroughfares the horses galloped freely
along the road. While they proceed upon their way some information
must be given of Martha's movements.

She had rushed from her sister's room in a state of delirium. Her
privations and sufferings, and the conflicting emotions which tortured
her, had destroyed her mental balance, and she was not responsible for
her actions. She had no settled notion where she was going; the only
motive by which she was guided was her desire to escape from her
fellow-creatures. Instinctively she chose the least frequented roads,
and she stumbled blindly on till she was out of London streets. She
had no food, and no money to purchase it, but she scarcely felt her
hunger. One dominant idea possessed her--under the floating clouds and
with silence all around her, she heard the drip of water. It pierced
the air, it made itself felt as well as heard. Drip, drip, drip! The
sound wooed her on toward the valley of the Thames, and unconsciously
she pursued a route which had been familiar to her in her girlhood's
days. She walked all that night, and through the whole of the
following day, compelled to stop now and again for rest, but doing so
always when there was a danger of her being accosted by persons who
approached her from an opposite direction. Rathbeal, had he been
acquainted with her movements, would have answered the question
whether it was chance or fate that took her in the direction of Mr.
Fox-Cordery's house. When night came on again she was wandering along
the banks of the Thames, within a short distance of the man who had
wrecked her life. She knew that she had reached her haven, and she
only waited for the moment to put her desperate resolve into
execution. The water looked so peaceful and shining! The tide silently
lapped the shore, but she heard the drip, drip, drip of the water.
Death held out its arms to her, and invited her to its embrace. It was
a starlight night, but she saw no stars in heaven. The moon sailed on,
but she saw no light. "I shall soon be at rest." That was her thought,
if it can be said that she thought at all.

The occupants of a carriage, drawn by a pair of smart horses, saw the
figure of a woman moving slowly on toward the little rustic bridge
which stretched from Mr. Fox-Cordery's lawn to the opposite bank. They
took no notice of her, being entirely occupied with the important
mission upon which they were engaged. They had remarked that it was
fortunate the night was so fine. Could they have heard the sound that
sounded like a death-knell in Martha's ears, they might have changed
their minds, and recognized that no night could be fine which bore so
despairing a message to a mortal's ears. Drip, drip, drip! "I am
coming," whispered Martha to her soul. "I am coming. The water is deep
beneath that bridge!"

At nine o'clock Robert Grantham and his companions reached their
destination. The coachman drew up at an inn, and the men alighted.

"Now," said John Dixon, as they strolled toward Mr. Fox-Cordery's
house, "we must be guided by Charlotte's instructions. The night is so
clear that we shall be able to see each other from a distance. You
must not be in sight when Charlotte comes; I must explain matters to
her. The bank by that bridge stands high. Go there and remain till you
hear from me. Before I enter the house I shall have a word to say as
to the method of our proceedings. Someone is coming toward us. Yes, it
is Charlotte. Go at once, and keep wide of her."

They obeyed, and walked toward the bridge. Martha was on the opposite
side, and perceiving men approaching, she crouched down and waited.

"John," said Charlotte, in a low, clear voice.

"Charlotte!"

Only a moment for a loving embrace, and then they began to converse.
What they said to each other did not occupy many minutes. John Dixon
left her standing alone, and went to his friends.

"I am going to the house," he said, "and am to speak to Mrs.
Grantham"--how Robert trembled at the utterance of the name!--"in her
room. That is her window; there is a light in the room. If I come to
the window and wave a white handkerchief, follow me into the house
without question. Allow no one to stop you. I do not know how long I
may be there, but I will bring matters to an issue as soon as
possible."

They nodded compliance, and Robert Grantham breathed a prayer. Then
John Dixon rejoined Charlotte, and they entered the house.

Martha, crouching by the bridge, heard nothing of this. All she heard
was the drip of water; all she saw were the dark shadows of men on the
opposite side. They would soon be gone, and then, and then----

Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother, being closeted together, were not
aware of the entrance of John Dixon. Unobstructed he ascended the
stairs to the first floor, and was conducted to the presence of Mrs.
Grantham.

What she had to disclose to him, and what he had to disclose to her,
is already known to the reader. She told her story first, and John
Dixon said that, from his knowledge of Mr. Fox-Cordery, he was more
than inclined to believe that her agent had been false to his trust.
He informed her that he had gained an insight into her affairs during
the time he had served Mr. Fox-Cordery, and that their disagreement
had arisen partly from a remonstrance he had made as to his employer's
management of certain speculations.

"My impression was then," said John Dixon, "that Mr. Fox-Cordery was
exceeding his powers, and that in case of a loss he could be made
responsible for it."

"God bless you for those words!" exclaimed Mrs. Grantham. "The thought
of being forced into marriage with him makes me shudder. But what can
I do? To see my child in want of food would break my heart."

"There is no question of a marriage with him," said John Dixon
gravely; his own task was approaching. "It is impossible. I will tell
you why presently, Mrs. Grantham. You will need all your strength. It
is not on your affairs alone that I am here to-night. Before I say
what I am come to say, let us finish with Mr. Fox-Cordery. I am a
partner in a respectable firm of solicitors, and my advice is that you
place your business affairs in our hands. We shall demand papers, and
a strict investigation; and I think I can promise you that we shall be
able to save something substantial for you. Are you agreeable to this
course?"

"Yes, dear friend, yes."

"Then I understand from this moment I am empowered to act for you?"

"It is so," she replied, and thanked Heaven for having sent her this
friend and comforter.

"Thank Charlotte also," he said.

Then he began to speak of the important branch of his visit to her.
Delicately and gently he led up to it; with the tenderness of a true
and tender-hearted man he brought the solemn truth before her. With
dilating eyes and throbbing breast she listened to the wonderful
revelation, and to the description of the life her husband had led
since he had received the false news of her death. Much of this he had
learned from Rathbeal, who had armed him with the truth; and as he
went on the scales fell from her eyes, and she saw with the eyes of
her heart the man she had loved, weak, erring, and misguided, but now
truly repentant and reformed, and not the guilty being she had been
led by Mr. Fox-Cordery to believe he was. She had no thought for the
wretch who had worked out his infamous design; she thought only that
Robert was true to her, and that her dear child was not fatherless.
John Dixon gave her time for this to sink into her mind, and then told
her that her husband had accompanied him, and was waiting outside for
the signal of joy.

"I will go to him! I will go to him!" she cried.

But John Dixon restrained her.

"Let him come into the house," he said. "Let your enemy know that he
is here, and that his schemes are foiled. Remember, I am your adviser.
Be guided by me."'

Trembling in every limb, she went to the window and opened it.

"Shall I give him the signal?" asked John Dixon.

"No; I will do it," she replied, and, reaching forth, waved the white
flag of love and forgiveness.

Robert Grantham, his eyes fixed in painful anxiety upon the window,
was the first to see the signal. With a gasp of joy he started for the
house, and Rathbeal, whose attention just then had been diverted by
the figure of Martha crouching by the bridge, hearing his footsteps,
turned to follow him. At the moment of his doing so, Martha, seeing
them walk away, crept on to the bridge and leaned over. Suddenly she
straightened herself, and raising her arms aloft, whispered softly,
"I'm coming--I'm coming!" and let herself fall into the water. The
heavy splash, accompanied by a muffled scream, reached Rathbeal's ears
before he had proceeded twenty yards. Turning to the bridge, and
missing the figure of the crouching woman, he instinctively divined
what had happened.

"Don't stop for me," he cried hurriedly to Grantham. "I'll follow
you."

Then he ran back to the bridge.

Robert Grantham did not hear him, so absorbed was he in the supreme
moment that was approaching. Had a storm burst upon him, he would
scarcely have been conscious of it. Who was that standing at the
window, waving the handkerchief! It was not John Dixon. His eyes were
dim, his heart palpitated violently, as he fancied he recognized the
form of his wife. If it were so, indeed his hope was answered. He was
met at the door by Charlotte, who led him to the room above. Standing
upon the threshold he saw his wife looking with wistful yearning
toward him--toward her husband who, after these long years, had come
to her, as it were, from the grave. They were spellbound for a few
moments, incapable of speech or motion, each gazing upon the other for
a sign.

John Dixon stepped noiselessly to Charlotte's side, and the lovers
left the room hand in hand, closing the door gently behind them.

Husband and wife, so strangely reunited, were alone.

She was the first to move. Bending forward, she held out her arms, and
her eyes shone with ineffable love; with a sob he advanced, and fell
upon his knees before her. Sinking into a chair, she drew his head to
her breast and folded her arms around him.

Let the veil fall upon those sacred minutes. Aching hearts were eased,
faith was restored, and Love shed its holy light upon Lucy and Robert.

"Our child!" he whispered. "Our Clair!"

"I will take you to her," she said, and led him to the bed where Clair
was sleeping.

Meanwhile Rathbeal, hastening to the bridge, saw his suspicions
confirmed by the death-bubbles rising to the surface of the water.
With the energy and rapidity of a young man, he tore off his coat and
waistcoat, and plunged into the river. He was a grand swimmer, and he
did not lose his self-possession. He had eyes in his hands and
fingers, and when, after some time had elapsed, he grasped a woman's
hair, he struck out for the bank, and reaching it in safety, drew the
woman after him. She lay inanimate upon the bank, and, clearing his
eyes of the water, he knelt down to ascertain if he had rescued her in
time to save her. He put his ear to her heart, his mouth to her mouth,
but she gave no sign of life. The moon, which had been hidden behind a
cloud, now sailed forth into the clearer space of heaven, and its
beams illumined the woman's face.

"It is Martha!" he cried, and without a moment's hesitation he caught
her up in his arms and ran with her to the house.

Mr. Fox-Cordery, closeted with his mother in a room on the ground
floor, heard sounds upon the stairs which had a disturbing effect upon
him. The sounds were those of strange footsteps and whispering voices.
Opening the door quickly he saw, by the light of the hall-lamp, John
Dixon and Charlotte coming down--John with his arm round Charlotte's
waist, she inclining tenderly toward the man she loved.

"You here!" cried Mr. Fox-Cordery.

"You behold no spirit," replied John Dixon, releasing Charlotte, and
placing her behind him; "I am honest flesh and blood."

Mr. Fox-Cordery, his mother now by his side, looked from John Dixon to
Charlotte with a spiteful venom in his eyes which found vent in his
voice.

"You drab!" he cried. "You low-minded hussy! And you, you sneak and
rogue! Have you conspired to rob the house? I'll have the law of you;
you shall stand in the dock together. Curse the pair of you!"

"Easy, easy," said John Dixon, calm and composed. "Don't talk so
freely of law and docks. And don't forget that curses come home to
roost."

Other sounds from the first floor distracted Mr. Fox-Cordery.

"Is there a gang of you here? Whose steps are those above? Mother,
alarm the house. Call up the servants, and send for the police."

"Aye, do," said John Dixon, as Mrs. Fox-Cordery pulled the bell with
violence, "and let them see and hear what you shall see and hear.
Don't be frightened, Charlotte. The truth must out now."

Mr. Fox-Cordery's pallid lips quivered, and he started back with a
smothered shriek. Robert Grantham and his wife appeared at the top of
the stairs, and as they slowly descended he retreated step by step,
and seized his mother's arm.

"Be quiet, can't you?" he hissed. "Go and send the servants away. We
do not want them. Say it was a mistake--a false alarm--anything--but
keep them in their rooms!"

Retribution stared him in the face. The edifice he had built up with
so much care had toppled over, and he was entangled in the ruins. It
was well for them that he had no weapon in his hands, for coward as he
was, his frenzy would have impelled him to use it upon them.

"I am here," said John Dixon, "by the permission you gave to Mrs.
Grantham, and I am armed with authority to act for her. You see, I
have not come alone."

"You devil! you devil!" muttered Mr. Fox-Cordery, through the foam
that gathered about his mouth.

"Say nothing more to him, Mr. Dixon," said Robert Grantham, who had
reached the foot of the stairs. "The truth has been brought to light,
and his unutterable villainy is fully exposed. Leave to the future
what is yet to be done. Lucy, go and dress our child. We quit this
house within the hour. Do not fear; no one shall follow you."

Mrs. Grantham went upstairs to Clair, and she had scarcely reached the
room when the street door was burst open, and Rathbeal appeared with
Martha in his arms.

"This poor woman threw herself into the water," said Rathbeal. "Tired
of life, she sought the peace of death in the river. Give way, Mr.
Fox-Cordery; she must be attended to without delay. Obstruct us, and
the crime of murder will be on your soul!" He beat Mr. Fox-Cordery
back into the room, and laid his burden down on the floor. "You see
who it is!"

"She is a stranger to me," muttered Mr. Fox-Cordery, his heart
quaking with fear.

"False! You know her well. If she is dead you will be made
responsible; for you and no other drove her to her death!"

It was no time to bandy further words. Assisted by Charlotte and John
Dixon, he set to work in the task of bringing respiration into the
inanimate form, Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother standing silently by,
while Robert Grantham guarded the staircase. Their efforts were
successful. In a quarter of an hour Martha gave faint signs of life,
and they redoubled their efforts. Martha opened her eyes, and they
fell upon Mr. Fox-Cordery.

"That man! that monster!" she murmured, and would have risen, but her
strength failed her.

"Rest--rest," said Rathbeal soothingly. "Justice shall be done. You
are with friends who will not desert you." Returned to Mr.
Fox-Cordery. "Have you no word to speak to your victim?"

"I have no knowledge of her," replied Mr. Fox-Cordery. "You are mad,
all of you, and are in a league against me."

"You ruined and betrayed her," said Rathbeal, "and then left her to
starve. Is it true, Martha?"

"It is true," she moaned. "God have pity upon me, it is true!"

"Liars--liars!" cried Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Liars all!"

"She speaks God's truth, and it shall be made known to man," said
Rathbeal.

He did not scruple to search the room for spirits, and he found some
in a sideboard.

"Drink," he whispered to her, "and remember that you have met with
friends. You shall not be left to starve. We will take care of her,
will we not, Mr. Dixon?"

"I take the charge of her upon myself," said John Dixon. "She shall
have the chance of living a respectable life."

"Robert!" said Mrs. Grantham, in a gentle tone. She was standing by
his side, holding Clair by the hand. Seeing the woman on the floor she
started forward. "Oh, can I do anything? Poor creature! poor
creature!"

"We can do all that is required," said John Dixon. "She is getting
better already. Go with your husband and child to the inn where we put
up the horses. Mr. Grantham knows the way. We will join you there as
soon as possible."

Charlotte whispered a few words in his ear.

"Take Charlotte with you, please. She must not sleep another night
beneath her brother's roof. Go, my dear."

"Remain here!" cried Mrs. Fox-Cordery, speaking for the first time. "I
command you!"

But Charlotte paid no heed to her. Accompanied by her friends, she
left her brother's home, never to return.


But little remains to be told. Baffled and defeated, Mr. Fox-Cordery
was compelled to sue for mercy, and it was granted to him under
certain conditions, in which, be sure, Martha was not forgotten. His
accounts were submitted to a searching investigation, and, as John
Dixon had anticipated, it was discovered that only a portion of Mrs.
Grantham's fortune was lost. Sufficient was left to enable her and her
husband and child to live in comfort. Purified by his sufferings,
Robert Grantham was the tenderest of husbands and fathers, and he and
those dear to him commenced their new life of love and joy, humbly
grateful to God for the blessings he had in store for them.

Neither were Little Prue and her mother forgotten. Each of those who
are worthy of our esteem contributed something toward a fund which
helped them on in the hard battle they were fighting.

A month later our friends were assembled at the wedding of Charlotte
and John Dixon. The ceremony over, the newly-married couple bade their
friends good-by for a little while. They were to start at once upon
their honeymoon.

"It is a comfort," said Rathbeal, shaking John heartily by the hand,
"in our travels through life to meet with a man. I have met with two."

"I shall never forget," said John, apart to Mrs. Grantham, "nor will
Charlotte, some words of affection you once addressed to her. We know
them by heart: 'If the man is true,' you said, 'and the woman is true,
they should be to each other a shield of love, a protection against
evil, a solace in the hour of sorrow.' Charlotte and I will be to each
other a Shield of Love. Thank you for those words, and God bless you
and yours."

The last kisses were exchanged.

"God protect you, dear Charlotte," said Mrs. Grantham, pressing the
bride to her heart. "A happy life is before you."

"And before you, dear Mrs. Grantham," said Charlotte, hardly able to
see for the tears in her eyes.

"Yes, my dear. The clouds have passed away. Come, my child; come, dear
Robert!"