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Transcriber's Note:

Parochial, older style and alternative spelling
has been left as it appears in the original.




    THE
    GIANT'S ROBE
    BY
    F. ANSTEY

    AUTHOR OF 'VICE-VERSA'




            'Now does he feel his title
    Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
    Upon a dwarfish thief'--_Macbeth_


    _THIRD EDITION_

    LONDON
    SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE
    1884

    [_All rights reserved_]




PREFACE.


It has been my intention from the first to take this opportunity of
stating that, if I am indebted to any previous work for the central
idea of a stolen manuscript, such obligation should be ascribed to a
short tale, published some time ago in one of the Christmas
numbers--the only story upon the subject which I have read at present.

It was the story of a German student who, having found in the library
of his university an old scientific manuscript, by a writer long since
dead and forgotten, produced it as his own; and it is so probable that
the recollection of this incident became quite unconsciously the germ
of the present book that, although the matter is not of general
importance, I feel it only fair to mention it here.

I trust, nevertheless, that it is not necessary to insist upon any
claim to the average degree of originality; for if the book does not
bear the traces of honest and independent work, that is a defect which
is scarcely likely to be removed by the most eloquent and
argumentative of prefaces.


     CONTENTS.

     CHAPTER                                         PAGE

          I. AN INTERCESSOR                             1
         II. A LAST WALK                               15
        III. GOOD-BYE                                  23
         IV. MALAKOFF TERRACE                          36
          V. NEIGHBOURS                                52
         VI. SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR                    64
        VII. IN THE FOG                                69
       VIII. BAD NEWS                                  82
         IX. A TURNING-POINT                           90
          X. REPENTE TURPISSIMUS                      103
         XI. REVOLT                                   110
        XII. LAUNCHED                                 124
       XIII. A 'THORN AND FLOWER PIECE'               133
        XIV. IN THE SPRING                            148
         XV. HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A DISCOVERY          158
        XVI. A CHANGE OF FRONT                        170
       XVII. IN WHICH MARK MAKES AN ENEMY AND
                 RECOVERS A FRIEND                    177
      XVIII. A DINNER PARTY                           186
        XIX. DOLLY'S DELIVERANCE                      194
         XX. A DECLARATION--OF WAR                    197
        XXI. A PARLEY WITH THE ENEMY                  208
       XXII. STRIKING THE TRAIL                       216
      XXIII. PIANO PRACTICE                           221
       XXIV. A MEETING IN GERMANY                     232
        XXV. MABEL'S ANSWER                           240
       XXVI. VISITS OF CEREMONY                       251
      XXVII. CLEAR SKY--AND A THUNDERBOLT             256
     XXVIII. MARK KNOWS THE WORST                     262
       XXIX. ON BOARD THE 'COROMANDEL'                273
        XXX. THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS                 288
       XXXI. AGAG                                     301
      XXXII. AT WASTWATER                             311
     XXXIII. IN SUSPENSE                              323
      XXXIV. ON THE LAUFENPLATZ                       335
       XXXV. MISSED FIRE                              345
      XXXVI. LITTLE RIFTS                             349
     XXXVII. MARK ACCEPTS A DISAGREEABLE DUTY         358
    XXXVIII. HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A PALPABLE HIT       366
      XXXIX. CAFFYN SPRINGS HIS MINE                  383
         XL. THE EFFECTS OF AN EXPLOSION              401
        XLI. A FINAL VICTORY                          420
       XLII. FROM THE GRAVE                           435
             CONCLUSION                               437




THE GIANT'S ROBE.




CHAPTER I.

AN INTERCESSOR.


In the heart of the City, but fended off from the roar and rattle of
traffic by a ring of shops, and under the shadow of a smoke-begrimed
classical church, stands--or rather stood, for they have removed it
recently--the large public school of St. Peter's.

Entering the heavy old gate, against which the shops on both sides
huddled close, you passed into the atmosphere of scholastic calm
which, during working hours, pervades most places of education, and
saw a long plain block of buildings, within which it was hard to
believe, so deep was the silence, that some hundreds of boys were
collected.

Even if you went down the broad stair to the school entrance and along
the basement, where the bulk of the class-rooms was situated, there
was only a faint hum to be heard from behind the numerous doors--until
the red-waistcoated porter came out of his lodge and rang the big bell
which told that the day's work was over.

Then nervous people who found themselves by any chance in the long
dark corridors experienced an unpleasant sensation, as of a demon host
in high spirits being suddenly let loose to do their will. The
outburst was generally preceded by a dull murmur and rustle, which
lasted for a few minutes after the clang of the bell had died
away--then door after door opened and hordes of boys plunged out with
wild shrieks of liberty, to scamper madly down the echoing flagstones.

For half an hour after that the place was a Babel of unearthly yells,
whistles, and scraps of popular songs, with occasional charges and
scuffles and a constant tramp of feet.

The higher forms on both the classical and modern sides took no part
of course in these exuberances, and went soberly home in twos or
threes, as became 'fellows in the Sixth.' But they were in the
minority, and the Lower School boys and the 'Remove'--that bodyguard
of strong limbs and thick heads which it seemed hopeless to remove any
higher--were quite capable of supplying unaided all the noise that
might be considered necessary; and, as there was no ill-humour and
little roughness in their japes, they were very wisely allowed to let
their steam off without interference. It did not last very long,
though it died out gradually enough: first the songs and whistles
became more isolated and distinct, and the hallooing and tramping less
continued, until the _charivari_ toned down almost entirely, the
frightened silence came stealing back again, and the only sounds at
last were the hurried run of the delinquents who had been 'run in' to
the detention room, the slow footsteps of some of the masters, and the
brooms of the old ladies who were cleaning up.

Such was the case at St. Peter's when this story begins. The stream of
boys with shiny black bags had poured out through the gate and swelled
the great human river; some of them were perhaps already at home and
enlivening their families with the day's experiences, and those who
had further to go were probably beguiling the tedium of travel by
piling one another up in struggling heaps on the floors of various
railway carriages, for the entertainment of those privileged to be
their fellow-passengers.

Halfway down the main corridor I have mentioned was the 'Middle-Third'
class-room, a big square room with dingy cream- walls, high
windows darkened with soot, and a small stained writing-table at one
end, surrounded on three sides by ranks of rugged seasoned forms and
sloping desks; round the walls were varnished lockers with a number
painted on the lid of each, and a big square stove stood in one
corner.

The only person in the room just then was the form-master, Mark
Ashburn; and he was proposing to leave it almost immediately, for the
close air and the strain of keeping order all day had given him a
headache, and he was thinking that before walking homeward he would
amuse himself with a magazine, or a gossip in the masters' room.

Mark Ashburn was a young man, almost the youngest on the school staff,
and very decidedly the best-looking. He was tall and well made, with
black hair and eloquent dark eyes, which had the gift of expressing
rather more than a rigid examination would have found inside him--just
now, for example, a sentimental observer would have read in their
glance round the bare deserted room the passionate protest of a soul
conscious of genius against the hard fate which had placed him there,
whereas he was in reality merely wondering whose hat that was on the
row of pegs opposite.

But if Mark was not a genius, there was a brilliancy in his manner
that had something very captivating about it; an easy confidence in
himself, that had the more merit because it had hitherto met with
extremely small encouragement.

He dressed carefully, which was not without effect upon his class, for
boys, without being overscrupulous in the matter of their own costume,
are apt to be critical of the garments of those in authority over
them. To them he was 'an awful swell'; though he was not actually
overdressed--it was only that he liked to walk home along Piccadilly
with the air of a man who had just left his club and had nothing
particular to do.

He was not unpopular with his boys: he did not care twopence about any
of them, but he felt it pleasant to be popular, and his careless
good-nature secured that result without much effort on his part. They
had a great respect for his acquirements too, speaking of him among
themselves as 'jolly clever when he liked to show it'; for Mark was
not above giving occasional indications of deep learning which were
highly impressive. He went out of his way to do it, and was probably
aware that the learning thus suggested would not stand any very severe
test; but then there was no one there to apply it.

Any curiosity as to the last hat and coat on the wall was satisfied
while he still sat at his desk, for the door, with its upper panels of
corrugated glass protected by stout wire network--no needless
precaution there--opened just then, and a small boy appeared, looking
rather pale and uncomfortable, and holding a long sheet of blue
foolscap in one hand.

'Hullo, Langton,' said Mark, as he saw him; 'so it's you; why, haven't
you gone yet, eh? How's that?'

'Please sir,' began the boy, dolorously, 'I've got into an awful
row--I'm run in, sir.'

'Ah!' said Mark; 'sorry for you--what is it?'

'Well, I didn't do anything,' said he. 'It was like this. I was going
along the passage, and just passing Old Jemmy's--I mean Mr.
Shelford's--door, and it was open. And there was a fellow standing
outside, a bigger fellow than me, and he caught hold of me by the
collar and ran me right in and shut the door and bolted. And Mr.
Shelford came at me and boxed my ears, and said it wasn't the first
time, and I should have a detention card for it. And so he gave me
this, and I'm to go up to the Doctor with it and get it signed when
it's done!'

And the boy held out the paper, at the top of which Mark read in old
Shelford's tremulous hand--'Langton. 100 lines for outrageous
impertinence. J. Shelford.'

'If I go up, you know, sir,' said the boy, with a trembling lip, 'I'm
safe for a swishing.'

'Well, I'm afraid you are,' agreed Mark, 'but you'd better make haste,
hadn't you? or they'll close the Detention Room, and you'll only be
worse off for waiting, you see.'

Mark was really rather sorry for him, though he had, as has been said,
no great liking for boys; but this particular one, a round-faced,
freckled boy, with honest eyes and a certain refinement in his voice
and bearing that somehow suggested that he had a mother or sister who
was a gentlewoman, was less objectionable to Mark than his fellows.
Still he could not enter into his feelings sufficiently to guess why
he was being appealed to in this way.

Young Langton half turned to go, dejectedly enough; then he came back
and said, 'Please, sir, can't you help me? I shouldn't mind the--the
swishing so much if I'd done anything. But I haven't.'

'What can I do?' asked Mark.

'If you wouldn't mind speaking to Mr. Shelford for me--he'd listen to
you, and he won't to me.'

'He will have gone by this time,' objected Mark.

'Not if you make haste,' said the boy, eagerly.

Mark was rather flattered by this confidence in his persuasive powers:
he liked the idea, too, of posing as the protector of his class, and
the good-natured element in him made him the readier to yield.

'Well, we'll have a shot at it, Langton,' he said. 'I doubt if it's
much good, you know, but here goes--when you get in, hold your tongue
and keep in the background--leave it to me.'

So they went out into the long passage with its whitewashed walls and
rows of doors on each side, and black barrel-vaulting above; at the
end the glimmer of light came through the iron bars of the doorway,
which had a prison-like suggestion about them, and the reflectors of
the unlighted gas lamps that projected here and there along the
corridor gave back the glimmer as a tiny spark in the centre of each
metal disc.

Mark stopped at the door of the Upper Fourth Classroom, which was Mr.
Shelford's, and went in. It was a plain room, not unlike his own, but
rather smaller; it had a dais with a somewhat larger desk for the
master, and a different arrangement of the benches and lockers, but
it was quite as gloomy, with an outlook into a grim area giving a
glimpse of the pavement and railings above.

Mr. Shelford was evidently just going, for as they came in he had put
a very large hat on the back of his head, and was winding a long grey
comforter round his throat; but he took off the hat courteously as he
saw Mark. He was a little old man, with a high brick-red colour on his
smooth, scarcely wrinkled cheeks, a big aquiline nose, a wide
thin-lipped mouth, and sharp little grey eyes, which he cocked
sideways at one like an angry parrot.

Langton retired to a form out of hearing, and sat down on one end of
it, nursing his detention paper anxiously.

'Well, Ashburn,' began the Reverend James Shelford, 'is there anything
I can do for _you_?'

'Why,' said Mark, 'the fact is, I----'

'Eh, what?' said the elder. 'Wait a minute--there's that impident
fellow back again! I thought I'd seen the last of him. Here, you sir,
didn't I send you up for a flogging?'

'I--I believe you did, sir,' said Langton with extreme deference.

'Well, why ain't you _getting_ that flogging--eh, sir? No impidence,
now--just tell me, why ain't you being flogged? You ought to be in the
middle of it now!'

'Well, you see,' said Mark, 'he's one of _my_ boys----'

'I don't care whose boy he is,' said the other, testily; 'he's an
impident fellow, sir.'

'I don't think he is, really,' said Mark.

'D'ye know what he did, then? Came whooping and shouting and
hullabalooing into my room, for all the world as if it was his own
nursery, sir. He's _always_ doing it!'

'I never did it before,' protested Langton, 'and it wasn't my fault
this time.'

'Wasn't your fault! You haven't got St. Vitus' dance, have you? I
never heard there were any Tarantula spiders here. You don't go
dancing into the Doctor's room, do you? _He'll_ give you a dancing
lesson!' said the old gentleman, sitting down again to chuckle, and
looking very like Mr. Punch.

'No, but allow me,' put in Mark; 'I assure you this boy is----'

'I know what you're going to tell me--he's a model boy, of course.
It's singular what shoals of model boys _do_ come dancing in here
under some irresistible impulse after school. I'll put a stop to it
now I've caught one. You don't know 'em as well as I do, sir, you
don't know 'em--they're all impident and all liars--some are cleverer
at it than others, and that's all.'

'I'm afraid that's true enough,' said Mark, who did not like being
considered inexperienced.

'Yes, it's cruel work having to do with boys, sir--cruel and
thankless. If ever I try to help a boy in my class I think is trying
to get on and please me, what does he do? Turn round and play me some
scurvy trick, just to prove to the others he's not currying favour.
And then they insult me--why, that very boy has been and shouted
"Shellfish" through my keyhole many a time, I'll warrant!'

'I think you're mistaken,' said Mark, soothingly.

'You do? I'll ask him. Here, d'ye mean to tell me you never called out
"Shellfish" or--or other opprobrious epithets into my door, sir?' And
he inclined his ear for the answer with his eyes fixed on the boy's
face.

'Not "Shellfish,"' said the boy; 'I did "Prawn" once. But that was
long ago.'

Mark gave him up then, with a little contempt for such injudicious
candour.

'Oh!' said Mr. Shelford, catching him, but not ungently, by the ear.
'"Prawn," eh? "Prawn"; hear that, Ashburn? Perhaps you wouldn't mind
telling me _why_ "Prawn"?'

A natural tendency of the youthful mind to comparative physiology had
discovered a fancied resemblance which justified any graceful
personalities of this kind; but Langton probably felt that candour had
its limits, and that this was a question that required judgment in
dealing with it.

'Because--because I've heard other fellows call you that,' he
replied.

'Ah, and why do _they_ call me Prawn, eh?'

'I never heard them give any reason,' said the boy, diplomatically.

Mr. Shelford let the boy go with another chuckle, and Langton retired
to his form again out of earshot.

'Yes, Ashburn,' said old Jemmy, 'that's the name they have for me--one
of 'em. "Prawn" and "Shellfish"--they yell it out after me as I'm
going home, and then run away. And I've had to bear it thirty years.'

'Young ruffians!' said Mark, as if the sobriquets were wholly unknown
to the masters' room.

'Ah, they do though; and the other day, when my monitor opened the
desk in the morning, there was a great impident kitten staring me in
the face. He'd put it in there himself, I dare say, to annoy me.'

He did not add that he had sent out for some milk for the intruder,
and had nursed it on his old knees during morning school, after which
he showed it out with every consideration for its feelings; but it was
the case nevertheless, for his years amongst boys had still left a
soft place in his heart, though he got little credit for it.

'Yes, it's a wearing life, sir, a wearing life,' he went on with less
heat, 'hearing generations of stoopid boys all blundering at the same
stiff places, and worrying over the same old passages. I'm getting
very tired of it; I'm an old man now. "Occidit miseros crambe"--eh,
you know how it goes on?'

'Yes, yes,' said Mark, 'quite so,'--though he had but a dim
recollection of the line in question.

'Talking of verses,' said the other, 'I hear we're to have the
pleasure of seeing one of your productions on Speech-night this year.
Is that so?'

'I was not aware anything was settled,' said Mark, flushing with
pleasure. 'I did lay a little thing of my own, a sort of allegorical
Christmas piece--a _masque_, don't you know--before the Doctor and the
Speeches Committee, but I haven't heard anything definite yet.'

'Oh, perhaps I'm premature,' said Mr. Shelford; 'perhaps I'm
premature.'

'Do you mind telling me if you've heard anything said about it?' asked
Mark, thoroughly interested.

'I did hear some talk about it in the luncheon hour. You weren't in
the room, I believe, but I think they were to come to a decision this
afternoon.'

'Then it will be all over by now,' said Mark; 'there may be a note on
my desk about it. I--I think I'll go and see, if you'll excuse me.'

And he left the room hastily, quite forgetting his original purpose in
entering: something much more important to him than whether a boy
should be flogged or not, when he had no doubt richly deserved it, was
pending just then, and he could not rest until he knew the result.

For Mark had always longed for renown of some sort, and for the last
few years literary distinction had seemed the most open to him. He had
sought it by more ambitious attempts, but even the laurels which the
performance of a piece of his by boy-actors on a Speech-day might
bring him had become desirable; and though he had written and
submitted his work confidently and carelessly enough, he found himself
not a little anxious and excited as the time for a decision drew near.

It was a small thing; but if it did nothing else it would procure him
a modified fame in the school and the masters' room, and Mark Ashburn
had never felt resigned to be a nonentity anywhere.

Little wonder, then, that Langton's extremity faded out of his mind as
he hurried back to his class-room, leaving that unlucky small boy
still in his captor's clutches.

The old clergyman put on the big hat again when Mark had gone, and
stood up peering over the desk at his prisoner.

'Well, if you don't want to be locked up here all night, you'd better
be off,' he remarked.

'To the Detention Room, sir?' faltered the boy.

'You know the way, I believe? If not, I can show you,' said the old
gentleman politely.

'But really and truly,' pleaded Langton, 'I didn't do anything this
time. I was shoved in.'

'Who shoved you in? Come, you know well enough; you're going to lie, I
can see. Who was he?'

It is not improbable that Langton _was_ going to lie that time--his
code allowed it--but he felt checked somehow. 'Well, I only know the
fellow by name,' he said at last.

'Well, and _what's_ his name? Out with it; I'll give him a detention
card instead.'

'I can't tell you that,' said the boy in a lower voice.

'And why not, ye impident fellow? You've just said you knew it. Why
not?'

'Because it would be sneakish,' said Langton boldly.

'Oh, "sneakish," would it?' said old Jemmy. '"Sneakish," eh? Well,
well, I'm getting old, I forget these things. Perhaps it would. I
don't know what it is to insult an old man--that's fair enough, I dare
say. And so you want me to let you off being whipped, eh?'

'Yes, when I've done nothing.'

'And if I let you off you'll come gallopading in here as lively as
ever to-morrow, calling out "Shellfish"--no, I forgot--"Prawn's"
_your_ favourite epithet, ain't it?--calling out "Prawn" under my very
nose.'

'No, I shan't,' said the boy.

'Well, I'll take your word for it, whatever that's worth,' and he tore
up the compromising paper. 'Run off home to your tea, and don't bother
me any more.'

Langton escaped, full of an awed joy at his wonderful escape, and old
Mr. Shelford locked his desk, got out the big hook-nosed umbrella,
which had contracted a strong resemblance to himself, and went too.

'That's a nice boy,' he muttered--'wouldn't tell tales, wouldn't he?
But I dare say he was taking me in all the time. He'll be able to tell
the other young scamps how neatly he got over "old Jemmy." I don't
think he will, though. I can still tell when a boy's lying--I've had
plenty of opportunities.'

Meanwhile Mark had gone back to his class-room. One of the porters
ran after him with a note, and he opened it eagerly, only to be
disappointed, for it was not from the committee. It was dated from
Lincoln's Inn, and came from his friend Holroyd.

   'Dear Ashburn,' the note ran, 'don't forget your promise
   to look in here on your way home. You know it's the last
   time we shall walk back together, and there's a favour I
   want to ask of you before saying good-bye. I shall be at
   chambers till five, as I am putting my things together.'

'I will go round presently,' he thought. 'I must say good-bye some
time to-day, and it will be a bore to turn out after dinner.'

As he stood reading the note, young Langton passed him, bag in hand,
with a bright and grateful face.

'Please, sir,' he said, saluting him, 'thanks awfully for getting Mr.
Shelford to let me off; he wouldn't have done it but for you.'

'Oh, ah,' said Mark, suddenly remembering his errand of mercy, 'to be
sure, yes. So, he has let you off, has he? Well, I'm very glad I was
of use to you, Langton. It was a hard fight, wasn't it? That's enough,
get along home, and let me find you better up in your Nepos than you
were yesterday.'

Beyond giving the boy his company in facing his judge for the second
time, Mark, as will have been observed, had not been a very energetic
advocate; but as Langton was evidently unaware of the fact, Mark
himself was the last person to allude to it. Gratitude, whether earned
or not, was gratitude, and always worth accepting.

'By Jove,' he thought to himself with half-ashamed amusement, 'I
forgot all about the little beggar; left him to the tender mercies of
old Prawn. All's well that ends well, anyhow!'

As he stood by the _grille_ at the porter's lodge, the old Prawn
himself passed slowly out, with his shoulders bent, and his old eyes
staring straight before him with an absent, lack-lustre expression in
them. Perhaps he was thinking that life might have been more cheerful
for him if his wife Mary had lived, and he had had her and boys like
that young Langton to meet him when his wearisome day was over,
instead of being childless and a widower, and returning to the lonely,
dingy house which he occupied as the incumbent of a musty church hard
by.

Whatever he thought of, he was too engaged to notice Mark, who
followed him with his eyes as he slowly worked his way up the flight
of stone steps which led to the street level. 'Shall I ever come to
that?' he thought. 'If I stay here all my life, I _may_. Ah, there's
Gilbertson--he can tell me about this Speech-day business.'

Gilbertson was a fellow-master, and one of the committee for arranging
the Speech-day entertainment. For the rest he was a nervously fussy
little man, and met Mark with evident embarrassment.

'Well, Gilbertson,' said Mark, as unconcernedly as he could, 'settled
your programme yet?'

'Er--oh yes, quite settled--quite, that is, not definitely as yet.'

'And--my little production?'

'Oh, ah, to be sure, yes, your little production. We all liked it very
much--oh, exceedingly so--the Doctor especially--charmed with it, my
dear Ashburn, charmed!'

'Very glad to hear it,' said Mark, with a sudden thrill; 'and--and
have you decided to take it, then?'

'Well,' said Mr. Gilbertson, looking at the pavement all round him,
'you see, the fact is, the Doctor thought, and some of us thought so
too, that a piece to be acted by boys should have a leetle more--eh?
and not quite so much--so much of what yours has, and a few of those
little natural touches, you know--but you see what I mean, don't you?'

'It would be a capital piece with half that in it,' said Mark, trying
to preserve his temper, 'but I could easily alter it, you know,
Gilbertson.'

'No, no,' said Gilbertson, eagerly, 'you mustn't think of it; you'd
spoil it; we couldn't hear of it, and--and it won't be necessary to
trouble you. Because, you see, the Doctor thought it was a little
long, and not quite light enough; and not exactly the sort of thing
we want, but we all admired it.'

'But it won't do? Is that what you mean?'

'Why--er--nothing definite at present. We are going to write you a
letter about it. Good-bye, good-bye! Got a train to catch at Ludgate
Hill.'

And he bustled away, glad to escape, for he had not counted upon
having to announce a rejection in person.

Mark stood looking after him, with a slightly dazed feeling. _That_
was over, then. He had written works which he felt persuaded had only
to become known to bring him fame; but for all that it seemed that he
was not considered worthy to entertain a Speech-night audience at a
London public school.

Hitherto Mark's life had contained more of failure than success. From
St. Peter's he had gone to a crammer's to be prepared for the Indian
Civil Service, and an easy pass had been anticipated for him even at
the first trial. Unfortunately, however, his name came out low down on
the list--a disaster which he felt must be wiped out at all hazards,
and, happening to hear of an open scholarship that was to be competed
for at a Cambridge college, he tried for it, and this time was
successful. A well-to-do uncle, who had undertaken the expenses
hitherto, was now induced to consent to the abandonment of the Civil
Service in favour of a University career, and Mark entered upon it
accordingly with fair prospects of distinction, if he read with even
ordinary steadiness.

This he had done during his first year, though he managed to get a
fair share of enjoyment out of his life, but then something happened
to change the whole current of his ambitions--he composed a college
skit which brought him considerable local renown, and from that moment
was sought as a contributor to sundry of those ephemeral undergraduate
periodicals which, in their short life, are so universally reviled and
so eagerly read.

Mark's productions, imitative and crude as they necessarily were, had
admirers who strengthened his own conviction that literature was his
destiny; the tripos faded into the background, replaced by the more
splendid vision of seeing an accepted article from his pen in a real
London magazine; he gave frantic chase to the will o' the wisp of
literary fame, which so many pursue all their lives in vain, fortunate
if it comes at last to flicker for awhile over their graves.

With Mark the results were what might have been expected: his papers
in his second year examinations were so bad that he received a solemn
warning that his scholarship was in some danger, though he was not
actually deprived of it, and finally, instead of the good class his
tutor had once expected, he took a low third, and left Cambridge in
almost as bad a plight as Arthur Pendennis.

Now he had found himself forced to accept a third-form mastership in
his old school, where it seemed that, if he was no longer a disciple,
he was scarcely a prophet.

But all this had only fanned his ambition. He would show the world
there was something in him still; and he began to send up articles to
various London magazines, and to keep them going like a juggler's
oranges, until his productions obtained a fair circulation, in
manuscript.

Now and then a paper of his did gain the honours of publication, so
that his disease did not die out, as happens with some. He went on,
writing whatever came into his head, and putting his ideas out in
every variety of literary mould--from a blank-verse tragedy to a
sonnet, and a three-volume novel to a society paragraph--with equal
ardour and facility, and very little success.

For he believed in himself implicitly. At present he was still before
the outwork of prejudice which must be stormed by every conscript in
the army of literature: that he would carry it eventually he did not
doubt. But this disappointment about, the committee hit him hard for a
moment; it seemed like a forecast of a greater disaster. Mark,
however, was of a sanguine temperament, and it did not take him long
to remount his own pedestal. 'After all,' he thought, 'what does it
matter? If my "Sweet Bells Jangled" is only taken, I shan't care
about anything else. And there is some of my best work in that, too.
I'll go round to Holroyd, and forget this business.'




CHAPTER II.

A LAST WALK.


Mark turned in from Chancery Lane under the old gateway, and went to
one of the staircase doorways with the old curly eighteenth-century
numerals cut on the centre stone of the arch and painted black. The
days of these picturesque old dark-red buildings, with their
small-paned dusty windows, their turrets and angles, and other little
architectural surprises and inconveniences, are already numbered. Soon
the sharp outline of their old gables and chimneys will cut the sky no
longer; but some unpractical persons will be found who, although (or
it may be _because_) they did not occupy them, will see them fall with
a pang, and remember them with a kindly regret.

A gas jet was glimmering here and there behind the slits of dusty
glass in the turret staircase as Mark came in, although it was
scarcely dusk in the outer world; for Old Square is generally a little
in advance in this respect. He passed the door laden with names and
shining black plates announcing removals, till he came to an entrance
on the second floor, where one of the names on a dingy ledge above the
door was 'Mr. Vincent Holroyd.'

If Mark had been hitherto a failure, Vincent Holroyd could not be
pronounced a success. He had been, certainly, more distinguished at
college; but after taking his degree, reading for the Bar, and being
called, three years had passed in forced inactivity--not, perhaps, an
altogether unprecedented circumstance in a young barrister's career,
but with the unpleasant probability, in his case, of a continued
brieflessness. A dry and reserved manner, due to a secret shyness, had
kept away many whose friendship might have been useful to him; and,
though he was aware of this, he could not overcome the feeling; he was
a lonely man, and had become enamoured of his loneliness. Of the
interest popularly believed to be indispensable to a barrister he
could command none, and, with more than the average amount of ability,
the opportunity for displaying it was denied him; so that when he was
suddenly called upon to leave England for an indefinite time, he was
able to abandon prospects that were not brilliant without any
particular reluctance.

Mark found him tying up his few books and effects in the one chamber
which he had sub-rented, a little panelled room looking out on
Chancery Lane, and painted the pea-green colour which, with a sickly
buff, seem set apart for professional decoration.

His face, which was dark and somewhat plain, with large, strong
features, had a pleasant look on it as he turned to meet Mark. 'I'm
glad you could come,' he said. 'I thought we'd walk back together for
the last time. I shall be ready in one minute. I'm only getting my law
books together.'

'You're not going to take them out to Ceylon with you, then?'

'Not now. Brandon--my landlord, you know--will let me keep them here
till I send for them. I've just seen him. Shall we go now?'

They passed out through the dingy, gas-lit clerk's room, and Holroyd
stopped for a minute to speak to the clerk, a mild, pale man, who was
neatly copying out an opinion at the foot of a case. 'Good-bye,
Tucker,' he said, 'I don't suppose I shall see you again for some
time.'

'Good-bye, Mr. 'Olroyd, sir. Very sorry to lose you. I hope you'll
have a pleasant voy'ge, and get on over there, sir, better than you've
done 'ere, sir.'

The clerk spoke with a queer mixture of patronage and deference: the
deference was his ordinary manner with his employer in chief, a
successful Chancery junior, and the patronage was caused by a pitying
contempt he felt for a young man who had not got on.

'That 'Olroyd'll never do anything at the Bar,' he used to say when
comparing notes with his friend the clerk to the opposite set of
chambers. 'He's got no push, and he's got no manner, and there ain't
nobody at his back. What he ever come to the Bar for at all, _I_ don't
know!'

There were some directions to be given as to letters and papers, which
the mild clerk received with as much gravity as though he were not
inwardly thinking, 'I'd eat all the papers as ever come in for _you_,
and want dinner after 'em.' And then Holroyd left his chambers for the
last time, and he and Mark went down the rickety winding stair, and
out under the colonnade of the Vice-Chancellors' courts, at the closed
doors of which a few clerks and reporters were copying down the cause
list for the next day.

They struck across Lincoln's Inn Fields and Long Acre, towards
Piccadilly and Hyde Park. It was by no means a typical November
afternoon: the sky was a delicate blue and the air mild, with just
enough of autumn keenness in it to remind one, not unpleasantly, of
the real time of year.

'Well,' said Holroyd, rather sadly, 'you and I won't walk together
like this again for a long time.'

'I suppose not,' said Mark, with a regret that sounded a little
formal, for their approaching separation did not, as a matter of fact,
make him particularly unhappy.

Holroyd had always cared for him much more than he had cared for
Holroyd, for whom Mark's friendship had been a matter of circumstance
rather than deliberate preference. They had been quartered in the same
lodgings at Cambridge, and had afterwards 'kept' on the same staircase
in college, which had led to a more or less daily companionship, a
sort of intimacy that is not always strong enough to bear
transplantation to town.

Holroyd had taken care that it should survive their college days; for
he had an odd liking for Mark, in spite of a tolerably clear insight
into his character. Mark had a way of inspiring friendships without
much effort on his part, and this undemonstrative, self-contained man
felt an affection for him which was stronger than he ever allowed
himself to show.

Mark, for his part, had begun to feel an increasing constraint in the
company of a friend who had an unpleasantly keen eye for his weak
points, and with whom he was always conscious of a certain inferiority
which, as he could discover no reason for it, galled his vanity the
more.

His careless tone wounded Holroyd, who had hoped for some warmer
response; and they walked on in silence until they turned into Hyde
Park and crossed to Rotten Row, when Mark said, 'By the way, Vincent,
wasn't there something you wanted to speak to me about?'

'I wanted to ask a favour of you; it won't give you much trouble,'
said Holroyd.

'Oh, in that case, if it's anything I _can_ do, you know--but what is
it?'

'Well,' said Holroyd, 'the fact is--I never told a soul till now--but
I've written a book.'

'Never mind, old boy,' said Mark, with a light laugh; for the
confession, or perhaps a certain embarrassment with which it was made,
seemed to put Holroyd more on a level with himself. 'So have lots of
fellows, and no one thinks any the worse of them--unless they print
it. Is it a law book?'

'Not exactly,' said Holroyd; 'it's a romance.'

'A romance!' cried Mark. 'You!'

'Yes,' said Holroyd, 'I. I've always been something of a dreamer, and
I amused myself by putting one of my dreams down on paper. I wasn't
disturbed.'

'You've been called though, haven't you?'

'I never got up,' said Holroyd, with a rather melancholy grimace. 'I
began well enough. I used to come up to chambers by ten and leave at
half-past six, after noting up reports and text-books all day; but no
solicitor seemed struck by my industry. Then I sat in court and took
down judgments most elaborately, but no leader ever asked _me_ to take
notes for him, and I never got a chance of suggesting anything to the
court as _amicus curiae_, for both the Vice-Chancellors seemed able to
get along pretty well without me. Then I got tired of that, and
somehow this book got into my head, and I couldn't rest till I'd got
it out again. It's finished now, and I'm lonely again.'

'And you want me to run my eye over it and lick it into shape a
little?' asked Mark.

'Not quite that,' said Holroyd; 'it must stand as it is. What I'm
going to ask you is this: I don't know any fellow I would care to ask
but yourself. I want it published. I shall be out of England, probably
with plenty of other matters to occupy me for some time. I want you to
look after the manuscript for me while I'm away. Do you mind taking
the trouble?'

'Not a bit, old fellow,' said Mark, 'no trouble in the world; only
tying up the parcel each time, sending it off again. Well, I didn't
mean that; but it's no trouble, really.'

'I dare say you won't be called upon to see it through the press,'
said Holroyd; 'but if such a thing as an acceptance should happen, I
should like you to make all the arrangements. You've had some
experience in these things, and I haven't, and I shall be away too.'

'I'll do the best I can,' said Mark. 'What sort of a book is it?'

'It's a romance, as I said,' said Holroyd. 'I don't know that I can
describe it more exactly: it----'

'Oh, it doesn't matter,' interrupted Mark. 'I can read it some time.
What have you called it?'

'"Glamour,"' said Holroyd, still with a sensitive shrinking at having
to reveal what had long been a cherished secret.

'It isn't a society novel, I suppose?'

'No,' said Holroyd. 'I'm not much of a society man; I go out very
little.'

'But you ought to, you know: you'll find people very glad to see you
if you only cultivate them.'

There was something, however, in Mark's manner of saying this that
suggested a consciousness that this might be a purely personal
experience.

'Shall I?' said Holroyd. 'I don't know. People are kind enough, but
they can only be really glad to see any one who is able to amuse them
or interest them, and that's natural enough. I can't flatter myself
that I'm particularly interesting or amusing; any way, it's too late
to think about that now.'

'You won't be able to do the hermit much over in Ceylon, will you?'

'I don't know. My father's plantation is in rather a remote part of
the island. I don't think he has ever been very intimate with the
other planters near him, and as I left the place when I was a child I
have fewer friends there than here even. But there will be plenty to
do if I am to learn the business, as he seems to wish.'

'Did he never think of having you over before?'

'He wanted me to come over and practise at the Colombo Bar, but that
was soon after I was called, and I preferred to try my fortune in
England first. I was the second son, you see, and while my brother
John was alive I was left pretty well to my own devices. I went, as
you know, to Colombo in my second Long, but only for a few weeks of
course, and my father and I didn't get on together somehow. But he's
ill now, and poor John died of dysentery, and he's alone, so even if I
had had any practice to leave I could hardly refuse to go out to him.
As it is, as far as that is concerned, I have nothing to keep me.'

They were walking down Rotten Row as Holroyd said this, with the dull
leaden surface of the Serpentine on their right, and away to the left,
across the tan and the grey sward, the Cavalry Barracks, with their
long narrow rows of gleaming windows. Up the long convex surface of
the Row a faint white mist was crawling, and a solitary,
spectral-looking horseman was cantering noiselessly out of it towards
them. The evening had almost begun; the sky had changed to a delicate
green tint, merged towards the west in a dusky crocus, against which
the Memorial spire stood out sharp and black; from South Kensington
came the sound of a church bell calling for some evening service.

'Doesn't that bell remind you somehow of Cambridge days?' said Mark.
'I could almost fancy we were walking up again from the boats, and
that was the chapel bell ringing.'

'I wish we were,' said Holroyd with a sigh: 'they were good old times,
and they will never come back.'

'You're very low, old fellow,' said Mark, 'for a man going back to his
native country.'

'Ah, but I don't feel as if it was my native country, you see. I've
lived here so long. And no one knows me out there except my poor old
father, and we're almost strangers. I'm leaving the few people I care
for behind me.'

'Oh, it will be all right,' said Mark, with the comfortable view one
takes of another's future; 'you'll get on well enough. We shall have
you a rich coffee planter, or a Deputy Judge Advocate, in no time.
_Any_ fellow has a chance out there. And you'll soon make friends in a
place like that.'

'I like my friends ready-made, I think,' said Holroyd; 'but one must
make the best of it, I suppose.'

They had come to the end of the Row; the gates of Kensington Gardens
were locked, and behind the bars a policeman was watching them
suspiciously, as if he suspected they might attempt a forcible entry.

'Well,' said Mark, stopping, 'I suppose you turn off here?' Holroyd
would have been willing to go on with him as far as Kensington had
Mark proposed it, but he gave no sign of desiring this, so his
friend's pride kept him silent too.

'One word more about the--the book,' he said. 'I may put your name and
address on the title-page, then? It goes off to Chilton and Fladgate
to-night.'

'Oh yes, of course,' said Mark, 'put whatever you like.'

'I've not given them my real name, and, if anything comes of it, I
should like that kept a secret.'

'Just as you please; but why?'

'If I keep on at the Bar, a novel, whether it's a success or not, is
not the best bait for briefs,' said Holroyd; 'and besides, if I am to
get a slating, I'd rather have it under an _alias_, don't you see? So
the only name on the title-page is "Vincent Beauchamp."'

'Very well,' said Mark, 'none shall know till you choose to tell them,
and, if anything has to be done about the book, I'll see to it with
pleasure, and write to you when it's settled. So you can make your
mind easy about _that_.'

'Thanks,' said Holroyd; 'and now, good-bye, Mark.'

There was real feeling in his voice, and Mark himself caught something
of it as he took the hand Vincent held out.

'Good-bye, old boy,' he said. 'Take care of yourself--pleasant voyage
and good luck. You're no letter-writer, I know, but you'll drop me a
line now and then, I hope. What's the name of the ship you go out in?'

'The "Mangalore." She leaves the Docks to-morrow. Good-bye for the
present, Mark. We shall see one another again, I hope. Don't forget
all about me before that.'

'No, no,' said Mark; 'we've been friends too long for that.'

One more good-bye, a momentary English awkwardness in getting away
from one another, and they parted, Holroyd walking towards Bayswater
across the bridge, and Mark making for Queen's Gate and Kensington.

Mark looked after his friend's tall strong figure for a moment before
it disappeared in the dark. 'Well, I've seen the last of him,' he
thought. 'Poor old Holroyd! to think of his having written a
book--he's one of those unlucky beggars who never make a hit at
anything. I expect I shall have some trouble about it by-and-by.'

Holroyd walked on with a heavier heart. 'He won't miss me,' he told
himself. 'Will Mabel say good-bye like that?'




CHAPTER III.

GOOD-BYE.


On the same afternoon in which we have seen Mark and Vincent walk home
together for the last time, Mrs. Langton and her eldest daughter Mabel
were sitting in the pretty drawing-room of their house in Kensington
Park Gardens.

Mrs. Langton was the wife of a successful Q.C. at the Chancery Bar,
and one of those elegantly languid women with a manner charming enough
to conceal a slight shallowness of mind and character; she was pretty
still, and an invalid at all times when indisposition was not
positively inconvenient.

It was one of her 'at home' days, but fewer people than usual had made
their appearance, and these had filtered away early, leaving traces of
their presence behind them in the confidential grouping of seats and
the teacups left high and dry in various parts of the room.

Mrs. Langton was leaning luxuriously back in a low soft chair, lazily
watching the firebeams glisten through the stained-glass screen, and
Mabel was on a couch near the window trying to read a magazine by the
fading light.

'Hadn't you better ring for the lamps, Mabel?' suggested her mother.
'You can't possibly see to read by this light, and it's so trying for
the eyes. I suppose no one else will call now, but it's very strange
that Vincent should not have come to say good-bye.'

'Vincent doesn't care about "at homes,"' said Mabel.

'Still, not to say good-bye--after knowing us so long, too! and I'm
sure we've tried to show him every kindness. Your father was always
having solicitors to meet him at dinner, and it was never any use; and
he sails to-morrow. I think he _might_ have found time to come!'

'So do I,' agreed Mabel. 'It's not like Vincent, though he was always
shy and odd in some things. He hasn't been to see us nearly so much
lately, but I can't believe he will really go away without a word.'

Mrs. Langton yawned delicately. 'It would not surprise me, I must
say,' she said. 'When a young man sets himself----' but whatever she
was going to say was broken off by the entrance of her youngest
daughter Dolly, with the German governess, followed by the man bearing
rose-shaded lamps.

Dolly was a vivacious child of about nine, with golden locks which had
a pretty ripple in them, and deep long-lashed eyes that promised to be
dangerous one day. 'We took Frisk out without the leash, mummy,' she
cried, 'and when we got into Westbourne Grove he ran away. Wasn't it
too bad of him?'

'Never mind, darling, he'll come back quite safe--he always does.'

'Ah, but it's his running away that I mind,' said Dolly; 'and you know
what a dreadful state he always _will_ come back in. He must be cured
of doing it somehow.'

'Talk to him very seriously about it, Dolly,' said Mabel.

'I've tried that--and he only cringes and goes and does it again
directly he's washed. I know what I'll do, Mabel. When he comes back
this time, he shall have a jolly good whacking!'

'My _dear_ child,' cried Mrs. Langton, 'what a dreadful expression!'

'Colin says it,' said Dolly, though she was quite aware that Colin was
hardly a purist in his expressions.

'Colin says a good many things that are not pretty in a little girl's
mouth.'

'So he does,' said Dolly cheerfully. 'I wonder if he knows? I'll go
and tell him of it--he's come home.' And she ran off just as the
door-bell rang.

'Mabel, I really think that must be some one else coming to call after
all. Do you know, I feel so tired and it's so late that I think I will
leave you and Fraeulein to talk to them. Papa and I are going out to
dinner to-night, and I must rest a little before I begin to dress.
I'll run away while I can.'

Mrs. Langton fluttered gracefully out of the room as the butler
crossed the hall to open the door, evidently to a visitor, and
presently Mabel heard 'Mr. Holroyd' announced.

'So you really have come after all,' said Mabel, holding out her hand
with a pretty smile of welcome. 'Mamma and I thought you meant to go
away without a word.'

'You might have known me better than that,' said Holroyd.

'But when your last afternoon in England was nearly over and no sign
of you, there _was_ some excuse for thinking so; but you have come at
last, so we won't scold you. Will you have some tea? It isn't very
warm, I'm afraid, but you are so very late, you know. Ring, and you
shall have some fit to drink.'

Vincent accepted tea, chiefly because he wanted to be waited upon once
more by her with the playful, gracious manner, just tinged with
affectionate mockery, which he knew so well; and then he talked to her
and Fraeulein Mozer, with a heavy sense of the unsatisfactory nature of
this triangular conversation for a parting interview.

The governess felt this too. She had had a shrewd suspicion for some
time of the state of Holroyd's feelings towards Mabel, and felt a
sentimental pity for him, condemned as he was to disguise them under
ordinary afternoon conversation.

'He is going away,' she thought; 'but he shall have his chance, the
poor young man. You will not think it very rude, Mr. Holroyd,' she
said, rising: 'it will not disturb you if I practise? There is a piece
which I am to play at a school concert to-morrow, and do not yet know
it.'

'Vincent won't mind, Ottilia dear,' said Mabel. 'Will you, Vincent?'
So the governess went to the further room where the piano stood, and
was soon performing a conveniently noisy German march. Vincent sat
still for some moments watching Mabel. He wished to keep in his memory
the impression of her face as he saw it then, lighted up by the soft
glow of the heavily shaded lamp at her elbow; a spirited and yet
tender face, with dark-grey eyes, a sensitive, beautiful mouth, and
brown hair with threads of gold in it which gleamed in the lamplight
as she turned her graceful head.

He knew it would fade only too soon, as often happens with the face we
best love and have reason chiefly to remember. Others will rise
unbidden with the vividness of a photograph, but the _one_ face eludes
us more and more, till no effort of the mind will call it up with any
distinctness.

Mabel was the first to speak. 'Are you _very_ fond of music, Vincent?'
she said a little maliciously. 'Would you rather be allowed to listen
in peace, or talk? You _may_ talk, you know.'

'I came late on purpose to see as much of you as possible,' said poor
Vincent. 'This is the last time I shall be able to talk to you for so
long.'

'I know,' said Mabel, simply; 'I'm very sorry, Vincent.' But there was
only a frank friendliness in her eyes as she spoke, nothing more, and
Vincent knew it.

'So am I,' he said. 'Do you know, Mabel, I have no photograph of you.
Will you give me one to take away with me?'

'Of course, if I have one,' she said, as she went to a table for an
album. 'Oh, Vincent, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid there's not one left.
But I can give you one of mother and father and Dolly, and I think
Colin too.'

'I should like all those very much,' said Vincent, who could not
accept this offer as a perfect substitute, 'but can't you find one of
yourself, not even an old one?'

'I think I can give you one after all,' said Mabel; 'wait a minute.'
And as she came back after a minute's absence she said, 'Here's one I
had promised to Gilda Featherstone, but Gilda can wait and you can't.
I'll give you an envelope to put them all in, and then we will talk.
Tell me first how long you are going to be away?'

'No longer than I can help,' said Vincent, 'but it depends on so many
things.'

'But you will write to us, won't you?'

'Will you answer if I do?'

'Of course,' said Mabel. 'Don't you remember when I was a little girl,
and used to write to you at school, and at Trinity too? I was always a
better correspondent than you were, Vincent.'

Just then Dolly came, holding a cage of lovebirds. 'Champion said you
were here,' she began. 'Vincent, wait till I put Jachin and Boaz down.
Now you can kiss me. I knew you wouldn't go away without saying
good-bye to me. You haven't seen my birds, have you? Papa gave them to
me. They're such chilly birds, I've brought them in here to get warm.'

'They're very much alike,' said Vincent, looking into the cage, upon
which each bird instantly tried to hide its head in the sand
underneath the other.

'They're exactly the same,' said Dolly, 'so I never know which is
Jachin and which is Boaz; but they don't know their own names, and if
they did they wouldn't answer to them, so it doesn't matter so very
much after all, _does_ it?'

As it never occurred to Dolly that anybody could have the bad taste to
prefer any one else's conversation to her own, she took entire
possession of Vincent, throwing herself into the couch nearest to him,
and pouring out her views on lovebirds generally to his absent ear.

'They don't know me yet,' she concluded, 'but then I've only had them
six months. Do you know, Harold Caffyn says they're little humbugs,
and kiss one another only when people look at them. I _have_ caught
them fighting dreadfully myself. I don't think lovebirds ought to
fight. Do you? Oh, and Harold says that when one dies I ought to time
the other and see how long it takes him to pine away; but Harold is
always saying horrid things like that.'

'Dolly dear,' cried the governess from the inner room, 'will you run
and ask Colin if he has taken away the metronome to the schoolroom?'

Dolly danced out to hunt for that prosaic instrument in a desultory
way, and then forget it in some dispute with Colin, who generally
welcomed any distraction whilst preparing his school-work--a result
which Fraeulein Mozer probably took into account, particularly as she
had the metronome by her side at the time. 'Poor Mr. Vincent!' she
thought; 'he has not come to talk with Dolly of lovebirds.'

'You will be sure to write and tell us all about yourself,' said
Mabel. 'What do you mean to do out there, Vincent?'

'Turn coffee-planter, perhaps,' he said gloomily.

'Oh, Vincent!' she said reproachfully, 'you used to be so ambitious.
Don't you remember how we settled once that you were going to be
famous? You can't be very famous by coffee-planting, can you?'

'If I do that, it is only because I see nothing else to do. But I am
ambitious still, Mabel. I shall not be content with that, if a certain
venture of mine is successful enough to give me hopes of anything
better. But it's a very big "if" at present.'

'What is the venture?' said Mabel. 'Tell me, Vincent; you used to tell
me everything once.'

Vincent had very few traces of his tropical extraction in his nature,
and his caution and reserve would have made him disposed to wait at
least until his book were safe in the haven of printer's ink before
confessing that he was an author.

But Mabel's appeal scattered all his prudence. He had written with
Mabel as his public; with the chief hope in his mind that some day she
would see his work and say that it was well done. He felt a strong
impulse to confide in her now, and have the comfort of her sympathy
and encouragement to carry away with him.

If he had been able to tell her then of his book, and his plans
respecting it, Mabel might have looked upon him with a new interest,
and much that followed in her life might have been prevented. But he
hesitated for a moment, and while he hesitated a second interruption
took place. The opportunity was gone, and, like most opportunities in
conversation, once missed was gone for ever. The irrepressible Dolly
was the innocent instrument: she came in with a big portfolio of black
and white papers, which she put down on a chair. 'I can't find the
metronome anywhere, Fraeulein,' she said. 'I've been talking to Colin:
he wants you to come and say good-bye before you go, Vincent. Colin
says he nearly got "swished" to-day, only his master begged him off
because he'd done nothing at all really. Wasn't it nice of him? Ask
him to tell you about it. Oh, and, Vincent, I want your head for my
album. May I cut it out?'

'I want it, myself, Dolly, please,' said Vincent; 'I don't think I can
do without it just yet.'

'I don't mean your real head,' said Dolly, 'I believe you know
that--it's only the outline I want!'

'It isn't a very dreadful operation, Vincent,' said Mabel. 'Dolly has
been victimising all her friends lately, but she doesn't hurt them.'

'Very well, Dolly, I consent,' said Vincent; 'only be gentle with me.'

'Sit down here on this chair against the wall,' said Dolly,
imperiously. 'Mabel, please take the shade off the lamp and put it
over here.' She armed herself with a pencil and a large sheet of white
paper as she spoke. 'Now, Vincent, put yourself so that your shadow
comes just here, and keep perfectly still. Don't move, or talk, or
anything, or your profile will be spoilt!'

'I feel very nervous, Dolly,' said Vincent, sitting down obediently.

'What a coward you must be! Why, one of the boys at Colin's school
said he rather liked it. Will you hold his head steady, Mabel,
please?--no, you hold the paper up while I trace.'

Vincent sat still while Mabel leaned over the back of his chair, with
one hand lightly touching his shoulder, while her soft hair swept
across his cheek now and then. Long after--as long as he lived, in
fact--he remembered those moments with a thrill.

'Now I have done, Vincent,' cried Dolly, triumphantly, after some
laborious tracing on the paper. 'You haven't got _much_ of a profile,
but it will be exactly like you when I've cut it out. There!' she
said, as she held up a life-size head cut out in curling black paper;
'don't you think it's like you, yourself?'

'I don't know,' said Vincent, inspecting it rather dubiously, 'but I
must say I hope it isn't.'

'I'll give you a copy to take away with you,' said Dolly, generously,
as she cut out another black head with her deft little hands. 'There,
that's for you, Vincent--you won't give it away, _will_ you?'

'Shall I promise to wear it always next to my heart, Dolly?'

Dolly considered this question. 'I think you'd better not,' she said
at last: 'it would keep you warm certainly, but I'm afraid the black
comes off--you must have it mounted on cardboard and framed, you
know.'

At this point Mrs. Langton came rustling down, and Vincent rose to
meet her, with a desperate hope that he would be asked to spend the
whole of his last evening with them--a hope that was doomed to
disappointment.

'My dear Vincent,' she said, holding out both her hands, 'so you've
come after all. Really, I was quite afraid you'd forgotten us. Why
didn't somebody tell me Vincent was here, Mabel? I would have hurried
over my dressing to come down. It's so very provoking, Vincent, but I
have to say good-bye in a hurry. My husband and I are going out to
dinner, and he wouldn't come home to change, so he will dress at his
chambers, and I have to go up and fetch him. And it's so late, and
they dine so ridiculously early where we're going, and he's sure to
keep me waiting such a time, I mustn't lose another minute. Will you
see me to the carriage, Vincent? Thanks. Has Marshall put the
footwarmer in, and is the drugget down? Then we'll go, please; and I
wish you every success in--over there, you know, and you must be
careful of yourself and bring home a nice wife.--Lincoln's Inn, tell
him, please.--Good-bye, Vincent, good-bye!'

And she smiled affectionately and waved her long-gloved hand behind
the window as the carriage rolled off, and all the time he knew that
it would not distress her if she never saw him again.

He went slowly back to the warm drawing-room, with its delicate
perfume of violets. He had no excuse for lingering there any
longer--he must say his last words to Mabel and go. But before he
could make up his mind to this another visitor was announced, who must
have come up almost as Mrs. Langton had driven off.

'Mr. Caffyn,' said Champion, imposingly, who had a graceful way of
handing dishes and a dignified deference in his bow which in his own
opinion excused certain attacks of solemn speechlessness and
eccentricity of gait that occasionally overcame him.

A tall, graceful young man came in, with an air of calm and ease that
was in the slightest degree exaggerated. He had short light hair,
well-shaped eyes, which were keen and rather cold, and a firm,
thin-lipped mouth; his voice, which he had under perfect control, was
clear and pleasant.

'Do you mean this for an afternoon call, Harold?' asked Mabel, who did
not seem altogether pleased at his arrival.

'Yes, we're not at home now, are we Mabel?' put in audacious Dolly.

'I was kept rather late at rehearsal, and I had to dine afterwards,'
explained Caffyn; 'but I shouldn't have come in if I had not had a
commission to perform. When I have done it you can send me away.'

Harold Caffyn was a relation of Mrs. Langton's. His father was high up
in the consular service abroad, and he himself had lately gone on the
stage, finding it more attractive than the Foreign Office, for which
he had been originally intended. He had had no reason as yet to regret
his apostasy, for he had obtained almost at once an engagement in a
leading West-end theatre, while his social prospects had not been
materially affected by the change; partly because the world has become
more liberal of late in these matters, and partly because he had
contrived to gain a tolerably secure position in it already, by the
help of a pleasant manner and the musical and dramatic accomplishments
which had led him to adopt the stage as his profession.

Like Holroyd, he had known Mabel from a child, and as she grew up had
felt her attraction too much for his peace of mind. His one misgiving
in going on the stage had been lest it should lessen his chance of
finding favour with her.

This fear proved groundless: Mabel had not altered to him in the
least. But his successes as an amateur had not followed him to the
public stage; he had not as yet been entrusted with any but very minor
_roles_, and was already disenchanted enough with his profession to be
willing to give it up on very moderate provocation.

'Why, Holroyd, I didn't see you over there. How are you?' he said
cordially, though his secret feelings were anything but cordial, for
he had long seen reason to consider Vincent as a possible rival.

'Vincent has come to say good-bye,' explained Dolly. 'He's going to
India to-morrow.'

'Good-bye!' said Caffyn, his face clearing: 'that's rather sudden,
isn't it, Holroyd? Well, I'm very glad I am able to say good-bye too'
(as there is no doubt Caffyn was). 'You never told me you were off so
soon.'

Holroyd had known Caffyn for several years: they had frequently met in
that house, and, though there was little in common between them, their
relations had always been friendly.

'It was rather sudden,' Holroyd said, 'and we haven't met lately.'

'And you're off to-morrow, eh? I'm sorry. We might have managed a
parting dinner before you went--it must be kept till you come back.'

'What was the commission, Harold?' asked Mabel.

'Oh, ah! I met my uncle to-day, and he told me to find out if you
would be able to run down to Chigbourne one Saturday till Monday soon.
I suppose you won't. He's a dear old boy, but he's rather a dull old
pump to stay two whole days with.'

'You forget he's Dolly's godfather,' said Mabel.

'And he's my uncle,' said Caffyn; 'but he's not a bit the livelier for
that, you know. You're asked, too Juggins.' (Juggins was a name he had
for Dolly, whom he found pleasure in teasing, and who was not deeply
attached to him.)

'Would you like to go, Dolly, if mother says yes?' asked Mabel.

'Is Harold going?' said Dolly.

'Harold does not happen to be asked, my Juggins,' said that gentleman
blandly.

'Then we'll go, Mabel, and I shall take Frisk, because Uncle Anthony
hasn't seen him for a long time.'

Holroyd saw no use in staying longer. He went into the schoolroom to
see Colin, who was as sorry to say good-bye as the pile of
school-books in front of him allowed, and then he returned to take
leave of the others. The governess read in his face that her
well-meant services had been of no avail, and sighed compassionately
as she shook hands. Dolly nestled against him and cried a little, and
the cool Harold felt so strongly that he could afford to be generous
now, that he was genial and almost affectionate in his good wishes.

His face clouded, however, when Mabel said 'Don't ring, Ottilia. I
will go to the door with Vincent--it's the last time.' 'I wonder if
she cares about the fellow!' he thought uneasily.

'You won't forget to write to us as soon as you can, Vincent?' said
Mabel, as they stood in the hall together. 'We shall be thinking of
you so often, and wondering what you are doing, and how you are.'

The hall of a London house is perhaps hardly the place for
love-passages--there is something fatally ludicrous about a
declaration amongst the hats and umbrellas. In spite of a
consciousness of this, however, Vincent felt a passionate impulse
even then, at that eleventh hour, to tell Mabel something of what was
in his heart.

But he kept silence: a surer instinct warned him that he had delayed
too long to have any chance of success then. It was the fact that
Mabel had no suspicion of the real nature of his feelings, and he was
right in concluding as he did that to avow it then would come upon her
as a shock for which she was unprepared.

Fraeulein Mozer's inclination to a sentimental view of life, and
Caffyn's tendency to see a rival in every one, had quickened their
insight respectively; but Mabel herself, though girls are seldom the
last to discover such symptoms, had never thought of Vincent as a
possible lover, for which his own undemonstrative manner and
procrastination were chiefly to blame.

He had shrunk from betraying his feelings before. 'She can never care
for me,' he had thought; 'I have done nothing to deserve her--I am
nobody,' and this had urged him on to do something which might qualify
him in his own eyes, until which he had steadily kept his own counsel
and seen her as seldom as possible.

Then he had written his book; and though he was not such a fool as to
imagine that any woman's heart could be approached through print
alone, he could not help feeling on revising his work that he had done
that which, if successful, would remove something of his own
unworthiness, and might give him a new recommendation to a girl of
Mabel's literary sympathy.

But then his father's summons to Ceylon had come--he was compelled to
obey, and now he had to tear himself away with his secret still
untold, and trust to time and absence (who are remarkably overrated as
advocates by the way) to plead for him.

He felt the full bitterness of this as he held both her hands and
looked down on her fair face with the sweet eyes that shone with a
sister's--but only a sister's--affection. 'She would have loved me in
time,' he thought; 'but the time may never come now.'

He did not trust himself to say much: he might have asked and
obtained a kiss, as an almost brother who was going far away, but to
him that would have been the hollowest mockery.

Suppressed emotion made him abrupt and almost cold, he let her hands
drop suddenly, and with nothing more than a broken 'God bless you,
Mabel, good-bye, dear, good-bye!' he left the house hurriedly, and the
moment after he was alone on the hill with his heartache.

'So he's gone!' remarked Caffyn, as she re-entered the drawing-room
after lingering a few moments in the empty hall. 'What a dear, dull
old plodder it is, isn't it? He'll do much better at planting coffee
than he ever did at law--at least, it's to be hoped so!'

'You are very fond of calling other people dull, Harold,' said Mabel,
with a displeased contraction of her eyebrows. 'Vincent is not in the
least dull: you only speak of him like that because you don't
understand him.'

'I didn't say it disparagingly,' said Caffyn. 'I rather admire
dulness; it's so restful. But as you say, Mabel, I dare say I don't
understand him: he really doesn't give a fellow a fair chance. As far
as I know him, I _do_ like him uncommonly; but, at the same time, I
must confess he has always given me the impression of being, don't you
know, just a trifle heavy. But very likely I'm wrong.'

'Very likely indeed,' said Mabel, closing the subject. But Caffyn had
not spoken undesignedly, and had risked offending her for the moment
for the sake of producing the effect he wanted; and he was not
altogether unsuccessful. 'Was Harold right?' she thought later.
'Vincent is very quiet, but I always thought there was power of some
sort behind; and yet--would it not have shown itself before now? But
if poor Vincent _is_ only dull, it will make no difference to me; I
shall like him just as much.'

But, for all that, the suggestion very effectually prevented all
danger of Vincent's becoming idealised by distance into something more
interesting than a brother--which was, indeed, the reason why Caffyn
made it.

Vincent himself, meanwhile, unaware--as all of us would pray to be
kept unaware--of the portrait of himself, by a friend, which was being
exhibited to the girl he loved, was walking down Ladbroke Hill to
spend the remainder of his last evening in England in loneliness at
his rooms; for he had no heart for anything else.

It was dark by that time. Above him was a clear, steel-blue sky; in
front, across the hollow, rose Campden Hill, a dim, dark mass,
twinkling with lights. By the square at his side a German band was
playing the garden music from 'Faust,' with no more regard for
expression and tunefulness than a German band is ever capable of; but
distance softened the harshness and imperfection of their rendering,
and Siebel's air seemed to Vincent the expression of his own
passionate, unrequited devotion.

'I would do anything for her,' he said, half aloud, 'and yet I dared
not tell her then.... But if I ever come back to her again--before it
is too late--she shall know all she is and always will be to me. I
will wait and hope for that.'




CHAPTER IV.

MALAKOFF TERRACE.


After parting from Vincent at the end of Rotten Row, Mark Ashburn
continued his walk alone through Kensington High Street and onwards,
until he came to one of those quiet streets which serve as a sort of
backwater to the main stream of traffic, and, turning down this, it
was not long before he reached a row of small three-story houses, with
their lower parts cased in stucco, but the rest allowed to remain in
the original yellow-brown brick, which time had mellowed to a pleasant
warm tone. 'Malakoff Terrace,' as the place had been christened (and
the title was a tolerable index of its date), was rather less
depressing in appearance than many of its more modern neighbours, with
their dismal monotony and pretentiousness. It faced a well-kept
enclosure, with trim lawns and beds, and across the compact laurel
hedges in the little front gardens a curious passer-by might catch
glimpses of various interiors which in nearly every case left him with
an impression of cosy comfort. The outline of the terrace was broken
here and there by little verandahs protecting the shallow balconies
and painted a deep Indian-red or sap-green, which in summer time were
gay with flowers and creepers, and one seldom passed there then on
warm and drowsy afternoons without undergoing a well-sustained fire
from quite a masked battery of pianos, served from behind the
fluttering white curtains at most of the long open windows on the
first floor.

Even in winter and at night the terrace was cheerful, with its variety
of striped and  blinds and curtains at the illuminated
windows; and where blinds and curtains were undrawn and the little
front rooms left unlighted, the firelight flickering within on shining
bookcases and picture frames was no less pleasantly suggestive. Still,
in every neighbourhood there will always be some houses whose
exteriors are severely unattractive; without being poverty-stricken,
they seem to belong to people indifferent to all but the absolutely
essential, and incapable of surrounding themselves with any of the
characteristic contrivances that most homes which are more than mere
lodgings amass almost unconsciously. It was before a house of this
latter kind that Mark stopped--a house with nothing in the shape of a
verandah to relieve its formality. Behind its front railings there
were no trim laurel bushes--only an uncomfortable bed of equal parts
of mould and broken red tiles, in which a withered juniper was dying
hard; at the windows were no bright curtain-folds or hanging baskets
of trailing fern to give a touch of colour, but dusty wire blinds and
hangings of a faded drab.

It was not a boarding-house, but the home in which Mark Ashburn lived
with his family, who, if they were not precisely gay, were as
respectable as any in the terrace, which is better in some respects
than mere gaiety.

He found them all sitting down to dinner in the back parlour, a
square little room with a grey paper of a large and hideous design.
His mother, a stout lady with a frosty complexion, a cold grey eye,
and an injured expression about the mouth and brow, was serving out
soup with a touch of the relieving officer in her manner; opposite to
her was her husband, a mild little man in habitually low spirits; and
the rest of the family, Mark's two sisters, Martha and Trixie, and his
younger brother, Cuthbert, were in their respective places.

Mrs. Ashburn looked up severely as he came in. 'You are late again,
Mark,' she said; 'while you are under this roof' (Mrs. Ashburn was
fond of referring to the roof) 'your father and I expect you to
conform to the rules of the house.'

'Well, you see, mother,' explained Mark, sitting down and unfolding
his napkin, 'it was a fine afternoon, so I thought I would walk home
with a friend.'

'There is a time for walking home with a friend, and a time for
dinner,' observed his mother, with the air of quoting something
Scriptural.

'And I've mixed them, mother? So I have; I'm sorry, and I won't do it
again. There, will that do?'

'Make haste and eat your soup, Mark, and don't keep us all waiting for
you.'

Mrs. Ashburn had never quite realised that her family had grown up.
She still talked to Mark as she had done when he was a careless
schoolboy at St. Peter's; she still tried to enforce little moral
lessons and even petty restrictions upon her family generally; and
though she had been long reduced to blank cartridges, it worried them.

The ideal family circle, on re-assembling at the close of the day,
celebrate their reunion with an increasing flow of lively
conversation; those who have been out into the great world describe
their personal experiences, and the scenes, tragic or humorous, which
they have severally witnessed during the day; and when these are
exhausted, the female members take up the tale and relate the humbler
incidents of domestic life, and so the hours pass till bedtime.

Such circles are in all sincerity to be congratulated; but it is to be
feared that in the majority of cases the conversation of a family
whose members meet every day is apt, among themselves, to become
frightfully monosyllabic. It was certainly so with the Ashburns. Mark
and Trixie sometimes felt the silences too oppressive to be borne, and
made desperate attempts at establishing a general discussion on
something or anything; but it was difficult to select a topic that
could not be brought down by an axiom from Mrs. Ashburn, which
disposed of the whole subject in very early infancy. Cuthbert
generally came back from the office tired and somewhat sulky; Martha's
temper was not to be depended upon of an evening; and Mr. Ashburn
himself rarely contributed more than a heavy sigh to the common stock
of conversation.

Under these circumstances it will be readily believed that Mark's
'Evenings at Home' were by no means brilliant. He sometimes wondered
himself why he had borne them so long; and if he had been able to
procure comfortable lodgings at as cheap a rate as it cost him to live
at home, he would probably have taken an early opportunity of bursting
the bonds of the family dulness. But his salary was not large, his
habits were expensive, and he stayed on.

The beginning of this particular evening did not promise any marked
increase in the general liveliness. Mrs. Ashburn announced
lugubriously to all whom it might concern that she had eaten no lunch;
Martha mentioned that a Miss Hornblower had called that
afternoon--which produced no sensation, though Cuthbert seemed for a
moment inclined to ask who Miss Hornblower might happen to be, till he
remembered in time that he really did not care, and saved himself the
trouble. Then Trixie made a well-meant, but rather too obvious, effort
to allure him to talk by an inquiry (which had become something of a
formula) whether he had 'seen any one' that day, to which Cuthbert
replied that he had noticed one or two people hanging about the City;
and Martha observed that she was glad to see he still kept up his
jokes, moving him to confess sardonically that he knew he was a funny
dog, but when he saw them all--and particularly Martha--rollicking
round him, he could not help bubbling over with merriment himself.

Mrs. Ashburn caught the reply, and said severely: 'I do _not_ think,
Cuthbert, that either I or your father have ever set you the example
of "rollicking," as you call it, at this table. Decent mirth and a
cheerful tone of conversation we have always encouraged. I don't know
why you should receive a mother's remarks with laughter. It is not
respectful of you, Cuthbert, I must say!'

Mrs. Ashburn would probably have proceeded to further defend herself
and family from the charge of rollicking, and to draw uncomplimentary
parallels from the Proverbs between the laughter of certain persons
and the crackling of thorns under a pot, when a timely diversion was
effected by a sounding knock at the little front door. The maid put
down the dish she was handing and vanished; after which there were
sounds of a large body entering the passage, and a loud voice
exclaiming, 'All in, hey? and at dinner, are they? Very well, my dear;
tell 'em I'm here. I know my way in.'

'It's Uncle Solomon!' went round the table. They refrained from any
outward expression of joy, because they were naturally a quiet family.

'Well,' said Mrs. Ashburn, who seemed to put her own construction on
this reserve, 'and I'm sure if there is any table at which my only
brother Solomon should be a welcome guest, it's _this_ table.'

'Quite so, my dear; quite so,' said Mr. Ashburn, hastily. 'He was here
last week; but we're all glad to see him at any time, I'm sure.'

'I hope so, indeed! Go in, Trixie, and help your uncle off with his
coat,' for there were snorting and puffing signs from the next room,
as if their relative were in difficulties; but before Trixie could
rise the voice was heard again, 'That's it, Ann, thanky--you're called
Ann, aren't you? I thought so. Ah, how's the baker, Ann--wasn't it
the baker I caught down the airy now? _wasn't_ it, hey?'

And then a large red-faced person came in, with a puffy important
mouth, a fringe of whiskers meeting under his chin, and what Trixie,
in speaking privately of her relative's personal appearance, described
as 'little piggy eyes,' which had, however, a twinkle of a rather
primitive kind of humour in them.

Solomon Lightowler was a brother of Mrs. Ashburn's, a retired business
man, who had amassed a considerable fortune in the hardware trade.

He was a widower and without children, and it was he who, fired with
the ambition of placing a nephew in the Indian Civil Service as a
rising monument to his uncle's perception, had sent Mark to the
crammer's--for Mr. Ashburn's position in the Inland Revenue Office
would scarcely have warranted such an outlay.

Mark's performances at his first examination, as has been said, had
not been calculated to encourage his uncle's hopes, but the latter had
been slightly mollified by his nephew's spirit in carrying off the
Cambridge scholarship soon afterwards, and with the idea of having one
more attempt to 'see his money back,' Mr. Lightowler had consented to
keep him for the necessary time at the University. When that
experiment also had ended in disaster, Uncle Solomon seemed at one
time to have given him up in disgust, only reserving himself, as the
sole value for his money, the liberty of reproach, and Mark was of
opinion that he had already gone far towards recouping himself in this
respect alone.

'Hah! phew--you're very hot in here!' he remarked, as an agreeable
opening--he felt himself rich enough to be able to remark on other
people's atmospheres; but Cuthbert expressed a _sotto voce_ wish that
his uncle were exposed to an even higher temperature.

'We can't all live in country houses, Solomon,' said his sister, 'and
a small room soon gets warm to any one coming in from the cold air.'

'Warm!' said Mr. Lightowler, with a snort; 'I should think you must
all of you be fired like a set of pots! I don't care where I sit, so
long as I'm well away from the fire. I'll come by you, Trixie,
eh--you'll take care of your uncle, won't you?'

Trixie was a handsome girl of about eighteen, with abundant auburn
hair, which was never quite in good order, and pretty hands of which
most girls would have been more careful; she had developed a limp
taste for art of late, finding drawing outlines at an art school less
irksome than assisting in the housekeeping at home. Uncle Solomon
always alarmed her because she never knew what he would say next; but
as it was a family rule to be civil to him, she made room for him with
great apparent alacrity.

'And how are you all, boys and girls, eh?' asked Uncle Solomon, when
he was comfortably seated; 'Mark, you've got fuller in the waist of
late; you don't take 'alf enough exercise. Cuthbert, lad, you're
looking very sallow under the eyes--smoking and late hours, _that's_
the way with all the young men nowadays! Why don't you talk to him,
eh, Matthew? I should if he was a boy o' mine. Well, Martha, has any
nice young man asked you to name a day yet?--he's a long time coming
forward, Martha, that nice young man; why, let me see, Jane, she must
be getting on now for--she was born in the year fifty-four, was
it?--four it was; it was in the war time, I remember, and you wanted
her christened Alma, but I said an uncommon name is all very well if
she grows up good-looking, but if she's plain it only sounds
ridiklous; so, very fortunately as things turn out, you had her
christened Martha. There's nothing to bite your lips over, my dear; no
one blames you for it, we can't be all born 'andsome. It's Trixie here
who gets all the love-letters, isn't it, Trixie?--ah, I _thought_ I
should see a blush if I looked! Who is it now, Trixie, and where do we
meet him, and when is the wedding? Come, tell your old uncle.'

'Don't put such nonsense into the child's head, Solomon,' said his
sister, in a slightly scandalised tone.

'That would be coals to Newcastle with a vengeance,' he chuckled; 'but
you mustn't mind my going on--that's my way; if people don't like it I
can't help it, but I always speak right out.'

'Which is the reason we love him,' came in a stage aside from
Cuthbert, who took advantage of a slight deafness in one of his
uncle's ears.

'Well, Mr. Schoolmaster,' said the latter, working round to Mark
again, 'and how are _you_ gettin' on? If you'd worked harder at
College and done me credit, you'd 'a' been a feller of your college,
or a judge in an Indian court, by this time, instead of birching
naughty little boys.'

'It's a detail,' said Mark; 'but I don't interfere in that
department.'

'Well, you _are_ young to be trusted with a birch. I'm glad they look
at things that way. If _you're_ satisfied with yourself, I suppose I
ought to be, though I did look forward once to seeing a nephew of mine
famous. You've '_ad_ all your fame at Cambridge, with your papers, and
your poems, and your College skits--a nice snug little fame all to
yourself.'

Martha tittered acidly at this light badinage, but it brought a pained
look into Trixie's large brown eyes, who thought it was a shame that
poor Mark should never be allowed to hear the last of his Cambridge
_fiasco_.

Even Mrs. Ashburn seemed anxious to shield Mark. 'Ah, Solomon,' she
said, 'Mark sees his folly now; he knows how wrong he was to spend his
time in idle scribbling to amuse thoughtless young men, when he ought
to have studied hard and shown his gratitude to you for all you have
done for him.'

'Well, I've been a good friend to him, Jane, and I could have been a
better if he'd proved deserving. I'm not one to grudge any expense.
And if I thought, even now, that he'd really given up his
scribbling----'

Mark thought it prudent to equivocate: 'Even if I wished to write,
uncle,' he said, 'what with my school-work, and what with reading for
the Bar, I should not have much time for it; but mother is right, I
_do_ see my folly now.'

This pleased Uncle Solomon, who still clung to the fragments of his
belief in Mark's ability, and had been gratified upon his joining one
of the Inns of Court by the prospect of having a nephew who at least
would have the title of barrister; he relaxed at once: 'Well, well,
let bygones be bygones, you may be a credit to me yet. And now I think
of it, come down and stay Sunday at "The Woodbines" soon, will you?
it'll be a rest for you, and I want you to see some of that 'Umpage's
goings on at the church.' (Uncle Solomon not unfrequently dropped an
'h,' but with a deliberation that seemed to say that he was quite
aware it was there, but did not consider it advisable to recognise it
just then.) 'He's quite got round the Vicar; made him have flowers and
a great brass cross and candles on the Communion table, and 'Umpage
all the time a feller with no more religion inside him than'--here he
looked round the table for a comparison--'ah, than that jug has! He's
talked the Vicar into getting them little bags for collections now,
all because he was jealous at the clerk's putting the plate inside my
pew reg'lar for _me_ to hold. It isn't that I care about 'olding a
plate, but to see 'Umpage smirking round with one of them red velvet
bags makes me downright sick--they'll drive me to go over and be a
Baptist one of these fine days.'

'You don't like Mr. Humpage, do you, uncle?' said Trixie.

''Umpage and me are not friendly--though contiguous,' said he; 'but as
for liking, I neither like nor dislike the man; we 'old no
intercourse, beyond looking the other way in church and 'aving words
across the fence when his fowls break through into my garden--he won't
have the hole seen to, so I shall get it done myself and send the bill
in to him--that's what _I_ shall do.--A letter for you, Matthew? read
away, don't mind me,' for the maid had come in meanwhile with a
letter, which Matthew Ashburn opened and began to read at this
permission.

Presently he rubbed his forehead perplexedly: 'I can't make head or
tail of it,' he said feebly; 'I don't know who they are, or what they
write all this to _me_ for!'

''And it over to me, Matthew; let's see if _I_ can make it any plainer
for you,' said his brother-in-law, persuaded that to his powerful mind
few things could long remain a mystery.

He took the letter, solemnly settled his double eyeglasses well down
on his broad nose, coughed importantly, and began to read: 'Dear Sir,'
he began in a tone of expounding wisdom--'well, that's straightforward
enough--Dear Sir, we have given our best consideration to the--hey!'
(here his face began to grow less confident) 'the sweet--what?--ah,
sweet bells, sweet bells jangled. What have you been jangling _your_
bells about, eh, Matthew?'

'I think they're mad,' said poor Mr. Ashburn; 'the bells in this house
are all right, I think, my dear?'

'I'm not aware that any of them are out of order; they rehung the bell
in the area the other day--it's some mistake,' said Mrs. Ashburn.

'Which,' continued Uncle Solomon, 'you 'ave been good enough to submit
to us (pretty good that for a bell-'anger, hey?) We regret, however,
to say that we do not find ourselves in a position to make any
overtures to you in the matter. Well,' he said, though not very
confidently, 'you've been writing to your landlord about the fixtures,
and these are his lawyers writing back--isn't _that_ it now?'

'What should I write to _him_ for?' said Mr. Ashburn; 'that's not it,
Solomon--go on, it gets worse by-and-by!'

'Your one fair daughter also (hullo, Trixie!) we find ourselves
compelled to decline, although with more reluctance; but, in spite of
some considerable merits, there is a slight roughness (why, her
complexion's clear enough!), together with a certain immaturity and
total lack of form and motive (you _are_ giddy, you know, Trixie, I
always told you so), which are in our opinion sufficient to prevent us
from making any proposals to you in the matter.'

Uncle Solomon laid down the letter at this point, and looked around
open-mouthed: 'I thought I could make out most things,' he said; 'but
this is rather beyond me, I must say.'

''Ere are these people--what's their names? Leadbitter and Gandy (who
I take it are in the gas-fitting and decorating line)--writing to say
in the same breath that they can't come and see to your bells, and
they don't want to marry your daughter. Who asked them?--you ain't
come down so low in the world to go and offer Trixie to a gas-fitter,
I should 'ope, Matthew!--and yet what else _does_ it mean--tell me
that, and I'll thank you.'

'Don't ask _me_,' said the unhappy father; 'they're perfect
strangers.'

'Trixie, you know nothing about it, I hope?' said Mrs. Ashburn, rather
suspiciously.

'No, ma dear,' said Trixie; 'but I don't want to marry either Mr.
Leadbitter or Mr. Gandy.'

The situation had become too much for Mark; at first he had hoped that
by holding his tongue he might escape being detected, while the
rejection of both the novels from which he had hoped so much was a
heavy blow which he felt he could scarcely bear in public; but they
seemed so determined to sift the matter to the end that he decided to
enlighten them at once, since it must be only a question of time.

But his voice was choked and his face crimson as he said, 'I think
perhaps I can explain it.'

'You!' they all cried, while Uncle Solomon added something about
'young men having grown cleverer since his young days.'

'Yes, that letter is addressed to me--M. Ashburn, you see, stands for
Mark, not Matthew. It's from--from a firm of publishers,' said the
unlucky Mark, speaking very hoarsely; 'I sent them two novels of
mine--one was called "One Fair Daughter," and the other "Sweet Bells
Jangled"--and they, they won't take them--that's all.'

There was a 'sensation,' as reporters say, at this announcement:
Martha gave a sour little laugh of disgust; Cuthbert looked as if he
thought a good deal which brotherly feeling forbade him to put in
words; but Trixie tried to take Mark's hand under the table--he
shrank from all sympathy, however, at such a moment, and shook her off
impatiently, and all she could do was to keep her eyes in pity from
his face.

Mrs. Ashburn gave a tragic groan and shook her head: to her a young
man who was capable of writing novels was lost; she had a wholesome
horror of all fiction, having come from a race of Dissenters of the
strict old-fashioned class, whose prejudices her hard dull nature had
retained in all their strength. Her husband, without any very clear
views of his own, thought as she did as soon as he knew her opinions,
and they all left it to Mr. Lightowler to interpret the 'evident sense
of the house.'

He expanded himself imposingly, calling up his bitterest powers of
satire to do justice to the occasion: 'So _that's_ all, is it?' he
said; 'ah, and quite enough, too, _I_ should think; so it was the
bells on _your_ cap that were jingling all the time?'

'Since you put it in that pleasant way,' said Mark, 'I suppose it
was.'

'And that's how you've been studying for the Bar of evenings, this is
the way you've overcome your fondness for scribbling nonsense? I've
spent all the money I've laid out on you' (it was a way of his to talk
as if Mark had been a building estate), 'I've given you a good
education, all to 'ave you writing novels and get 'em "returned with
thanks!"--you might have done that much without going to College!'

'Every writer of any note has had novels declined at some time,' said
Mark.

'Well,' said Uncle Solomon, ponderously, 'if that's all, you've made a
capital start. You can set up as a big littery pot at once, _you_ can,
with a brace of 'em. I 'ope you're satisfied with all this, Jane, I'm
sure?'

'It's no use saying anything,' she said; 'but it's a bad return after
all your kindness to him.'

'A return with thanks,' put in Cuthbert, who was not without some
enjoyment of Mark's discomfiture; he had long had a certain contempt
for his elder brother as a much overrated man, and he felt, with
perfect justice, that had Fortune made him his uncle's favourite, he
had brains which would have enabled him to succeed where Mark had
failed; but he had been obliged to leave school early for a City
office, which had gone some way towards souring him.

'There's an old Latin proverb,' said Mr. Ashburn, with a feeling that
it was his turn--'an old Latin proverb, "_Nec suetonius ultra
crepitam_."'

'No, excuse me, you 'aven't _quite_ got it, Matthew,' said his
brother-in-law, patronisingly; 'you're very near it, though. It runs,
if I don't make a mistake, "Ne plus ultra sutorius (not
_suetonius_--_he_ was a Roman emperor)--crepitam," a favourite remark
of the poet Cicero--"Cobbler stick to your last," as _we_ have it more
neatly. But your father's right on the main point, Mark. I don't say
you need stick to the schoolmastering, unless you choose. I'll see you
started at the Bar; I came this very evening to 'ave a talk with you
on that. But what do you want to go and lower yourself by literature
for? There's a littery man down at our place, a poor feller that
writes for the "Chigbourne and Lamford Gazette," and gets my gardener
to let him take the measure of my gooseberries; he's got a hat on him
my scarecrow wouldn't be seen in. That's what you'll come to!'

'There's some difference,' said Mark, getting roused, 'between the
reporter of a country paper and a novelist.'

'There's a difference between you and him,' retorted his uncle; 'he
gets what he writes put in and paid so much a line for--_you_ don't.
That's all the difference _I_ can see.'

'But when the books are accepted, they will be paid for,' said Mark,
'and well paid for too.'

'I always thought that dog and the shadow must ha' been a puppy, and
now I know it,' said his uncle, irritably. 'Now look here, Mark, let's
have no more nonsense about it. I said I came here to have a little
talk with you, and though things are not what I expected, 'ave it I
will. When I saw you last, I thought you were trying to raise yourself
by your own efforts and studying law, and I said to myself, "I'll
give him another chance." It seems now that was all talk; but I'll
give you the chance for all that. If you like to take it, well and
good; if not, I've done with you this time once for all. You go on and
work 'ard at this Law till you've served your time out, or kept your
terms, or whatever they call it, and when you get called you can give
'em notice to quit at your school. _I'll_ pay your fees and see you
started in chambers till you're able to run alone. Only, and mind
this, no more of your scribbling--drop that littery rubbish once for
all, and I stand by you; go on at it, and I leave you to go to the
dogs your own way. That's my offer, and I mean it.'

There are few things so unpleasantly corrective to one's self-esteem
as a letter of rejection such as had come to Mark--the refusal of the
school committee was insignificant in comparison; only those who have
yielded to the subtle temptation to submit manuscript to an editor or
a publisher's reader, and have seen it return in dishonour, can quite
realise the dull anguish of it, the wild, impotent rebellion that
follows, and the stunned sense that all one's ideas will have somehow
to be readjusted; perhaps an artist whose pictures are not hung feels
something of it, but there one's wounded vanity can more easily find
salves.

Mark felt the blow very keenly; for weeks he had been building hopes
on these unfortunate manuscripts of his; he had sent both to a firm
under whose auspices he was particularly anxious to come before the
world, in the hope that one at least would find favour with them, and
now the two had been unequivocally declined; for a moment his
confidence in himself was shaken, and he almost accepted the verdict.

And yet he hesitated still: the publisher might be wrong; he had heard
of books riding out several such storms and sailing in triumphantly at
last. There was Carlyle, there was Charlotte Bronte, and other
instances occurred to him. And he longed for speedy fame, and the law
was a long avenue to it.

'You hear what your uncle says?' said his mother. 'Surely you won't
refuse a chance like this.'

'Yes, he will,' said Martha. 'Mark would rather write novels than
work, wouldn't you, Mark? It must be so amusing to write things which
will never be read, I'm sure.'

'Leave Mark alone, Martha,' said Trixie. 'It's a shame--it is.'

'I don't know why you should all be down on me like this,' said Mark;
'there's nothing positively immoral in writing books--at least when it
never goes any further. But I daresay you're right, and I believe
_you_ mean to be kind at any rate, uncle. I'll take your offer. I'll
read steadily, and get called, and see if I'm good for anything at the
Bar, since it seems I'm good for nothing else.'

'And you'll give up the writing, hey?' said his uncle.

'Oh, yes,' said Mark, irritably, 'anything you please. I'm a reformed
character; I'll take the pledge to abstain from ink in all forms if
you like.' It was not a very gracious way of accepting what was by no
means an unhandsome offer; but he was jarred and worried, and scarcely
knew what he said.

Mr. Lightowler was not sensitive, and was too satisfied at having
gained his object to cavil at Mark's manner of yielding. 'Very well;
that's settled,' he said. 'I'm glad you've come to your senses, I'm
sure. We'll have you on the Woolsack yet, and we'll say no more about
the other business.'

'And now,' said Mark, with a forced smile, 'I think I'll say good
night. I'll go and attack the law-books while I'm in the humour for
them.'

Upstairs in his room he got out his few elementary text-books, and
began to read with a sort of sullen determination; but he had not gone
very far in the 'descent of an estate-tail,' before he shut the book
up in a passion: 'I can't read to-night,' he said savagely; 'it isn't
easy to hug my chains all at once; it will be a long time before I
come out strong on estates-tail. If Holroyd (who says he _likes_ the
jargon) can't get a living by it, there's not much hope for me. I
loathe it! I'm sure I had a chance with those books of mine, too; but
that's all over. I must burn them, I suppose---- Who's there?' for
there was a tap at the door.

'It's me, Mark--Trixie--let me in.' Mark rose and opened the door to
Trixie, in a loose morning wrapper. 'Mark, I'm so sorry, dear,' she
said softly.

'Sorry! you ought to rejoice, Trixie,' said Mark, with a bitter laugh.
'I'm a brand from the burning--a repentant novelist, I've seen my
errors and am going to turn Lord Chancellor.'

'You mustn't be angry with them,' said Trixie. 'Dear ma is very
strict; but then she is so anxious to see you making a living, Mark,
and you know they don't give you very much at St. Peter's. And Martha
and Cuthbert can't help saying disagreeable things. Don't you think,
perhaps,' she added timidly, 'that it's better for you to give up
thinking about writing any more?'

'Well, I've done it, Trixie, at any rate. I'm not so bad as that
fellow Delobelle, in "Fromont Jeune," with his "Je n'ai pas le droit
de renoncer au theatre!" am I? I've renounced _my_ stage. I'm a good
little boy, and won't make a mess with nasty ink and pens any more.
When I get those confounded books back they shall go into the fire--by
Jove they shall!'

'No, Mark, don't, it would be such a pity,' cried Trixie. 'I'm sure
they were beautifully written; quite as well as some that get printed.
I wish you could write novels and be Lord Chancellor too, Mark.'

'Bring out Acts in three volumes, and edit Judicature Rules in fancy
covers for railway reading? It would be very nice, Trixie, wouldn't
it? But I'm afraid it wouldn't do, even if I wrote them in secret,
under the Woolsack. If I write anything now, it must be a smart spicy
quarto on Bankruptcy, or a rattling digest on the Law of Settlement
and Highways. My fictions will be all legal ones.'

'I know you will do your best,' said Trixie, simply.

Mark dreamed that night--much as other disappointed literary aspirants
have dreamed before him--that a second letter had come from the
publishers, stating that they had reconsidered their decision, and
offering repentantly to publish both novels on fabulous terms. He was
just rushing to call Trixie, and tell her the good news, when the
dream faded, and he awoke to the consciousness of his very different
circumstances.

Literature had jilted him. The Law was to be his mistress henceforth:
a bony and parchment-faced _innamorata_, with a horsehair wig; and he
thought of the task of wooing her with a shudder.




CHAPTER V.

NEIGHBOURS.


More than a week had passed since the scene in Malakoff Terrace
described in my last chapter--a week spent by Mark in the drudgery of
school work, which had grown more distasteful than ever now he could
indulge in no golden dreams of a glorious deliverance; for he could
not accept his new prospects as an adequate substitute, and was
beginning to regret his abandonment of his true ambitions with a
longing that was almost fierce.

He had gone down to 'The Woodbines,' his uncle's villa at Chigbourne,
in pursuance of the invitation given him; and Mr. Lightowler's
undisguised recovery of the feeling of proprietorship in him, and his
repeated incitements to pursue his studies with unwearying ardour,
only increased Mark's disgust with himself and his future, as he
walked along the lanes with his relative towards the little church
beyond the village on the last Sunday in November.

It was a bright clear frosty day, with a scarlet sun glowing through
dun- clouds, and a pale blue sky beyond the haze above their
heads; the country landscape had suggestions of Christmas cheeriness,
impossible enough to Londoners who cannot hope to share in
country-house revels _a la_ Mr. Caldecott, but vaguely exhilarating
notwithstanding.

Mark knew that his Christmas would be passed in town with his family,
who would keep it, as they observed Sunday, and refrain from any
attempt at seasonable jollity; yet he began to feel elated by its
approach, or the weather, or some instinct of youth and health which
set his blood tingling and drove away his dissatisfaction with every
step he took.

Uncle Solomon had come out in broadcloth, and a large hat with such an
ecclesiastical brim that it influenced his conversation, causing it to
be more appropriate than Sunday talk will sometimes be, even amongst
the best people. He discoursed of Ritualism, and deplored the hold it
had acquired on the vicar, and the secret manoeuvres of the detested
Humpage in the vestry.

'I was brought up a Baptist,' he said, 'and I'd go back to 'em now, if
I didn't know how they'd all crow about it; and they're a poor lot at
Little Bethel, too, not a penny-piece among 'em.'

'When we get into the church,' he continued, 'you give a look left of
the chancel, close by the door where the shelf is with the
poor-loaves. You'll see a painted winder there which that 'Umpage got
put up to his aunt--that's his ostentation, that is. I don't believe
he ever _had_ an aunt; but I don't wish to judge him. Only you look at
that window, and tell me how it strikes you afterwards. He's got the
artist to do him as the Good Samaritan there! I call it
scandalous!--there's no mistake about it; the 'air's not the same
colour, and the Eastern robes hide it a bit; but he's there for all
that. I don't relish seeing 'Umpage figurin' away in painted glass and
a great gaudy turban every time I look up, he's quite aggravating
enough in his pew. If I chose to go to the expense, _I_ could put up a
winder too, and 'ave myself done.'

'As a saint?' suggested Mark.

'Never you mind. If I liked to be a saint on glass I could, I
suppose--I'm a churchwarden, and there's no reason why 'Umpage should
'ave all the painted winders to himself; but I shouldn't care to make
myself so conspicuous. 'Umpage, now, he likes that sort of thing.'

This brought them to the church, a perpendicular building with a
decidedly 'Early English' smell in it, and Uncle Solomon led the way
to his pew, stopping to nudge Mark as they passed the memorial to his
enemy's meretricious aunt; he nudged him again presently, after he had
retired behind the ecclesiastical hat and emerged again to deal out
some very large prayer and hymn books as if they were cards.

'That's him--that's 'Umpage,' he said in a loud whisper.

Mark looked up in time to see an old gentleman advance to the door of
the pew in front of them--a formidable-looking old gentleman, with a
sallow face, long iron-grey locks, full grey eyes, a hook-nose, and
prominent teeth under a yellowish-grey moustache and beard.

He felt a sudden shame, for behind Mr. Humpage came a pretty child
with long floating light hair, with a staid fresh-faced woman in grey,
and last a girl of about nineteen or twenty, who seemed to have caught
the very audible whisper, for she glanced in its direction as she
passed in with the slightest possible gleam of amused surprise in her
eyes and a lifting of her delicate eyebrows.

A loud intoned 'Amen' came from the vestry just then, the organ played
a voluntary, and the vicar and curate marched in at the end of a
procession of little surpliced country boys, whose boots made a very
undevotional clatter over the brasses and flagstones.

As a Low Churchman Mr. Lightowler protested against this processional
pomp by a loud snort, which expression of opinion he repeated at any
tendency to genuflexion on the part of the clergyman during the
service, until the little girl turned round and gazed at him with
large concerned eyes, as if she thought he must be either very devout
or extremely unwell.

Mark heard little of the service; he was dimly aware of his uncle
singing all the psalms and responses with a lusty tunelessness, and
coming to fearful grief in gallant attempts to follow the shrill
little choristers over a difficult country of turns and flourishes. He
explained afterwards that he liked to set an example of 'joining in.'

But Mark saw little else but the soft shining knot of hair against the
dark sables of the hat and tippet of his beautiful neighbour, and a
glimpse of her delicate profile now and then, as she turned to find
the places for her little sister, who invariably disdained assistance
as long as possible. He began to speculate idly on her probable
character. Was she proud?--there was a shade of disdain about her
smile when he first saw her. Self-willed?--the turn of her graceful
head was slightly imperious. She could be tender with it all--he
inferred that from the confidence with which the child nestled against
her as the sermon began, and the gentle protecting hand that drew her
closer still.

Mark had been in and out of love several times in his life; his last
affair had been with a pretty, shallow flirt with a clever manner
picked up at secondhand, and though she had come to the end of her
_repertoire_ and ceased to amuse or interest him long before they
parted by mutual consent, he chose to believe his heart for ever
blighted and proof against all other women, so that he was naturally
in the most favourable condition for falling an easy victim.

He thought he had never seen any one quite like this girl, so
perfectly natural and unaffected, and yet with such an indefinable air
of distinction in her least movement. What poems, what books might not
be written, with such an influence to inspire them, and then Mark
recollected with a pang that he had done with all that for ever now.
That most delicate form of homage would be beyond his power, even if
he ever had the opportunity of paying it, and the thought did not tend
to reconcile him to his lot.

Would chance ever bring him within the sphere of his new-found
divinity? Most probably not. Life has so many of these tantalising
half-glimpses, which are never anything more. 'If she is Humpage's
daughter,' he thought, 'I'm afraid it's hopeless; but she shall not
pass out of my life if I can help it!' and so he dreamed through the
sermon, with the vicar's high cracked voice forming a gentle clacking
accompaniment, which he quite missed when the benediction came upon
him unexpectedly.

They came out of church into bright November sunshine; the sun had
disengaged itself now from the dun clouds, melted the haze, and
tempered the air almost to the warmth of early spring. Mark looked
round for Mr. Humpage and his party, but without success; they had
lingered behind, perhaps, as he could not help fearing, designedly. He
determined, however, to find out what he could about them, and
approached the subject diplomatically.

'I saw the window,' he began; 'that was the Good Samaritan in front,
of course. I recognised him by the likeness at once.'

'He took care it should be like,' said Uncle Solomon, with a
contemptuous sniff.

'That was his family with him, I suppose?' Mark asked carelessly.

''Umpage is a bachelor, or gives himself out for such,' said his
uncle, charitably.

'Then those young ladies--are they residents here?'

'Which young ladies?'

'In his pew,' said Mark, a little impatiently, 'the little girl with
the long hair, and--and the other one?'

'You don't go to church to stare about you, do you? _I_ didn't take
any notice of them; they're strangers here--friends of 'Umpage, I
daresay. That was his sister in grey; she keeps house for him, and
they say he leads her a pretty life with his tempers. Did you see that
old woman behind in a black coalscuttle? That was old widow Barnjum;
keeps a sweetstuff shop down in the village. I've seen her that far in
liquor sometimes she can't find her way about and 'as to be taken 'ome
in a barrow. You wouldn't think it to look at her, would you? I shall
give the vicar the 'int to tell old John Barker he ought to stay away
till he's got over that cough of his; it's enough to make anybody ill
to listen to him. I've a good mind to tell him of it myself; and I
will, too, if I come across him. The Colonel wasn't in church again.
They tell me he's turned Atheist, and loafs about all Sunday with a
gun. I've seen him myself driving a dog-cart Sunday afternoons in a
pot 'at, and I knew then what would come of that. Here we are again!'
he said, as they reached the palings of 'The Woodbines.' 'We'll just
stroll round to get an appetite for dinner before we go in.'

Uncle Solomon led the way into the stables, where he lingered to slap
his mare on the back and brag about her, and then Mark had to be
introduced to the pig. 'What I call a 'andsome pig, yer know,' he
remarked; 'a perfect picture, he is' (a picture that needed cleaning,
Mark thought)--'you come down to me in another three weeks or so, and
we'll try a bit off of that chap'--an observation which seemed to
strike the pig as in very indifferent taste, for he shook his ears,
grunted, and retired to his sty in a pointed manner.

After that there was plenty to do and see before Mark was allowed to
dine: Lassie, the colley, had to be unfastened for a run about the
'grounds,' of which a mechanical mouse might have made the tour in
five minutes; there was a stone obelisk to be inspected that Uncle
Solomon had bought a bargain at a sale and set up at a corner of the
lawn inscribed with the names of his favourites living and dead--a
remarkably scratch team, by the way; then he read out sonorous
versions of the Latin names of most of his shrubs, which occupied a
considerable time until, at last, by way of the kitchen-garden and
strawberry beds, they came to a little pond and rustic summer-house,
near which the boundary fence was unconcealed by any trees or shrubs.

'See that gap?' said Mr. Lightowler, pointing to a paling of which the
lower half was torn away; 'that's where 'Umpage's blathering old
gander gets through. I 'ate the sight of the beast, and I'd sooner
'ave a traction-engine running about my beds than him! I've spoke
about it to 'Umpage till I'm tired, and I shall 'ave to take the law
into my own hands soon, I know I shall. There was Wilcox, my gardener,
said something about some way he had to serve him out--but it's come
to nothing. And now we'll go in for a wash before dinner.'

Uncle Solomon was a widower; a niece of his late wife generally lived
with him and superintended his domestic affairs--an elderly person,
colourless and cold, who, however, had a proper sense of her position
as a decayed relative on the wife's side, and made him negatively
comfortable; she was away just then, which was partly the reason why
Mark had been invited to bear his uncle company.

They dined in a warm little room, furnished plainly but well; and
after dinner Uncle Solomon gave Mark a cigar, and took down a volume
of American Commentaries on the Epistles, which he used to give a
Sunday tone to his nap; but before it could take effect, there were
sounds faintly audible through the closed windows, as of people
talking at the end of the grounds.

Mr. Lightowler opened his drooping eyelids: 'There's some one in my
garden,' he said. 'I must go out and put a stop to that--some of those
urchins out of the village--they're always at it!'

He put on an old garden-hat and sallied out, followed by Mark: 'The
voices seem to come down from 'Umpage's way, but there's no one to be
seen,' he said, as they went along. 'Yes, there is, though; there's
'Umpage himself and his friends looking across the fence at something!
What does he want to go staring on to _my_ land for--like his
confounded impudence!'

When they drew a little nearer, he stopped short and, turning to Mark
with a face purple with anger, said, 'Well, of all the impudence--if
he isn't egging on that infernal gander now--put him through the 'ole
himself, I daresay!'

On arriving at the scene, Mark saw the formidable old gentleman of
that morning glaring angrily over the fence; by his side was the fair
and slender girl he had seen in church, while at intervals her little
sister's wondering face appeared above the top of the palings, a small
dog uttering short sharp barks and yelps behind her.

They were all looking at a large grey gander, which was unquestionably
trespassing at that moment; but it was unjust to say, as Mr.
Lightowler had said, that they were giving it any encouragement; the
prevailing anxiety seemed to be to recover it, but as the fence was
not low, and Mr. Humpage not young enough to care to scale it, they
were obliged to wait the good pleasure of the bird.

And Mark soon observed that the misguided bird was not in a condition
to be easily prevailed upon, being in a very advanced stage of solemn
intoxication; it was tacking about the path with an erratic
stateliness, its neck stretched defiantly, and its choked sleepy
cackle said, 'You lemme 'lone now, I'm all ri', walk shtraight enough
'fiwan'to!' as plainly as bird-language could render it.

As Uncle Solomon bore down on it, it put on an air of elaborate
indifference, meant to conceal a retreat to the gap by which it had
entered, and began to waddle with excessive dignity in that direction,
but from the way in which it repeatedly aimed itself at the intact
portions of the paling, it seemed reasonable to infer that it was
under a not infrequent optical illusion.

Mr. Lightowler gave a short and rather savage laugh. 'Wilcox _has_
done it, then!' he said. Mark threw away his cigar, and slightly
lifted his hat as he came up: he felt somewhat ashamed and strongly
tempted to laugh at the same time; he dared not look at the face of
Mr. Humpage's companion, and kept in the background as a dispassionate
spectator.

Mr. Lightowler evidently had made up his mind to be as offensive as
possible. 'Afternoon, Mr. 'Umpage,' he began; 'I think I've 'ad the
pleasure of seeing this bird of yours before; he's good enough to come
in odd times and assist my gardener; you'll excuse me for making the
remark, however, but when he's like this I think he ought to be kep'
indoors.'

'This is disgraceful, sir,' the other gentleman retorted, galled by
this irony; 'disgraceful!'

'It's not pretty in a gander, I must say,' agreed Uncle Solomon,
wilfully misunderstanding. 'Does it often forget itself in this way,
now?'

'Poor dear goose,' chanted the little girl, reappearing at this
juncture, 'it's _so_ giddy; is it ill, godpa?'

'Run away, Dolly,' said Mr. Humpage; 'it's no sight for you; run
away.'

'Then Frisk mustn't look either; come away, Frisk,' and Dolly vanished
again.

When she had gone, the old gentleman said, with a dangerous smile that
showed all his teeth, 'Now, Mr. Lightowler, I think I'm indebted to
you for the abominable treatment of this bird?'

'Somebody's been treating it, it's very plain,' said the other,
looking at the bird, which was making a feeble attempt to spread out
its wings and screech contemptuously at the universe.

'You're equivocating, sir; do you think I can't see that poison has
been laid in your grounds for this unhappy bird?'

'_It's_ 'appy enough; don't you be uneasy, Mr. 'Umpage, there's been
no worse poison given to it than some of my old Glenlivat,' said Mr.
Lightowler; 'and, let me tell you, it's not every man, let alone every
gander, as gets the luck to taste that. My gardener must have laid
some of it down for--for agricultural purposes, and your bird, comin'
in through the 'ole (as you may p'raps remember I've spoke to you
about before), has bin makin' a little too free with it, that's all.
It's welcome as the flowers in May to it, only don't blame me if your
bird is laid up with a bad 'eadache by-and-by, not that there's an
'eadache in the whole cask.'

At this point Mark could not resist a glance at the fair face across
the fence. In spite of her feminine compassion for the bird and
respect for its proprietor, Mabel had not been able to overcome a
sense of the absurdity of the scene, with the two angry old gentlemen
wrangling across the fence over an intoxicated gander; the face Mark
saw was rippling with subdued amusement, and her dark grey eyes met
his for an instant with an electric flash of understanding; then she
turned away with a slight increase of colour in her cheeks. 'I'm going
in, Uncle Anthony,' she said; 'do come, too, as soon as you can; don't
quarrel about it any more--ask them to give you back the poor goose,
and I'll take it into the yard again; it ought to go at once.'

'Let me manage it my own way,' said Mr. Humpage, testily. 'May I
trouble you, Mr. Lightowler, to kindly hand me over that bird--when
you have quite finished with it?' he added.

'That bird has been taking such a fancy to my manure heap that I'll
ask to be excused,' said Mr. Lightowler. 'If you was to whistle to it
now I might 'ead it through the 'ole; but it always finds it a good
deal easier to come through than it does to come back, even when it's
sober. I'm afraid you'll have to wait till it comes round a bit.'

At this the gander lurched against a half-buried flower pot, and
rolled helplessly over with its eyes closed. 'Oh, the poor thing,'
cried Mabel, 'it's dying!'

'Do you see that?' demanded its owner, furiously; 'it's dying, and
you've had it poisoned, sir; that soaked bread was put there by you or
your orders--and, by the Lord, you shall pay for it!'

'I never ordered or put it there either,' said his enemy doggedly.

'We shall see about that--we shall see,' said Mr. Humpage; 'you can
say that by-and-by.'

'It's no good losing your temper, now--keep cool, can't you?' roared
Uncle Solomon.

'It's likely to make a man cool, isn't it? to come for a quiet stroll
on Sunday afternoon, and find that his gander has been decoyed into a
neighbour's garden and induced to poison itself with whisky?'

'Decoyed? I like that! pretty innercent, that bird of yours! too timid
to come in without a reg'lar invitation, wasn't he?' jeered Mr.
Lightowler; 'quite 'ad to press him to step in and do the garden up a
bit. You and your gander!'

Mabel had already escaped; Mark remained trying to persuade his uncle
to come away before the matter ceased to be farcical.

'I shall take this matter up, sir! I shall take it up!' said Mr.
Humpage, in a white rage; 'and I don't think it will do you credit as
a churchwarden, let me tell you!'

'Don't you go bringing that in here, now!' retorted Uncle Solomon.
'I'll not be spoken to as a churchwarden by you, Mr. 'Umpage, sir, of
all parties!'

'You'll not be spoken to by anybody very soon--at any rate, as a
churchwarden. I mean to bring this affair before the magistrates. I
shall take out a summons against you for unlawfully ill-treating and
abusing my gander, sir!'

'I tell you I never ill-treated him; as for abuse, I don't say. But
that's neither here nor there. He ain't so thin-skinned as all that,
your gander ain't. And if I choose to put whisky, or brandy, or
champagne-cup about my grounds, I'm not obliged to consult your
ridik'lous gander, I _do_ hope. _I_ didn't ask him to sample 'em. I
don't care a brass button for your summonses. You can summon me till
you're black in the face!'

But in spite of these brave words Mr. Lightowler was really not a
little alarmed by the threat.

'We shall see about that,' said the other again, viciously. 'And now,
once more, will you give me back my poor bird?'

Mark thought it had gone far enough. He took up the heavy bird, which
made some maudlin objections, and carried it gingerly to the fence.
'Here's the victim, Mr. Humpage,' he said lightly. 'I think it will be
itself again in a couple of hours or so. And now, perhaps, we can let
the matter drop for the present.'

The old gentleman glared at Mark as he received his bird: 'I don't
know who you may be, young sir, or what share you've had in this
disgraceful business. If I trace it to you, you shall repent of it, I
promise you! I don't wish to have any further communication with you
or your friend, who's old enough to know his duty better as a
neighbour and a Christian. You will let him know, with my compliments,
that he'll hear more of this.'

He retired with the outraged bird under his arm, leaving Uncle
Solomon, who had of course heard his parting words, looking rather
ruefully at his nephew.

'It's all very well for you to laugh,' he said to Mark, as they turned
to go into the house again; 'but let me tell you if that hot-tempered
old idiot goes and brings all this up at Petty Sessions, it may be an
awkward affair for me. He's been a lawyer, has 'Umpage, and he'll do
his worst. A pretty thing to 'ave my name in all the papers about 'ere
as torturing a goose! I dessay they'll try and make out that I poured
the whisky down the brute's throat. It's Wilcox's doings, and none of
mine; but they'll put it all on me. I'll drive over to Green &
Ferret's to-morrow, and see how I stand. You've studied the law. What
do _you_ think about it, come? Can he touch me, eh? But he hasn't got
a leg to stand on, like his gander--it's all nonsense, _ain't_ it?'

If there had ever been a chance, Mark thought bitterly, after
comforting his uncle as well as his very moderate acquaintance with
the law permitted, of anything like intimacy between himself and the
girl whose face had fascinated him so strangely, it was gone now: that
bird of evil omen had baulked his hopes as effectually as its
ancestors frustrated the aspiring Gaul.

The dusk was drawing on as they walked across the lawn, from which the
russet glow of the sunset had almost faded; the commonplace villa
before them was tinted with violet, and in the west the hedges and
trees formed an intricate silhouette against a background of ruddy
gold and pale lemon; one or two flamingo- clouds still floated
languidly higher up in a greenish blue sky; over everything the peace
and calm had settled that mark the close of a perfect autumn day, with
the additional stillness which always makes itself perceptible on a
Sunday.

Mark felt the influence of it all, and was vaguely comforted--he
remembered the passing interchange of glances across the fence, and it
consoled him.

At supper that evening his uncle, too, recovered his spirits: 'If he
brings a summons, they'll dismiss it,' he said confidently; 'but he
knows better than that as a lawyer--if he does, he'll find the laugh
turned against him, hey? I'm not answerable for what Wilcox chooses to
do without my orders. I never told him he wasn't to--but that ain't
like telling him to go and do it, is it now? And where's the cruelty,
either?--a blend like that, too. Just try a glass, now, and say what
you think--he'll be dropping in for more of it if he's the bird _I_
take him for!'

But as they were going upstairs to bed, he stopped at the head of the
staircase and said to Mark, 'Before I forget it, you remind me to get
Wilcox to find out, quietly, the first thing to-morrow, how that
gander is.'




CHAPTER VI.

SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR.


When Mark awoke next morning the weather had undergone one of those
sudden and complete changes which form one of the chief attractions of
our climate; there had been a frost, and with it a thin white mist,
which threw its clinging veil over the landscape; the few trees which
were near enough to be seen were covered with a kind of thick grey
vegetation, that gave them a spectral resemblance to their summer
selves. Breakfast was early, as Mark had to be down at St. Peter's as
soon after morning chapel as possible, and he came down shivering to
find his uncle already seated. 'The dog-cart will be round in five
minutes,' said the latter gentleman, with his mouth full; 'so make the
most of your time. You'll have a cold drive. I'll take you over to the
station myself, and go on and see Ferret after.'

The too-zealous Wilcox brought the trap round. ''Ave you been round to
see about that bird next door?' Mr. Lightowler asked rather
anxiously, as the man stood by the mare's head. 'Yessir,' said Wilcox,
with a grin; 'I went and saw Mr. 'Umpage's man, and he say the old
gander was werry bad when they got 'im 'ome, but he ain't any the
worse for what he 'ad this mornin', sir; though the man, he dew say as
the gander seem a bit sorry for 'isself tew. They tough old birds 'a'
got strong 'eads, sir; _I_ knowed it 'ud do him no 'arm, bless ye!'

'Well, don't you go trying it again, Wilcox, that's all. Mind what I
say,' said Uncle Solomon, with visible relief, 'else you and me'll
'ave words and part. Let her go,' and they drove off.

He gave Mark much good advice on the way, such as wealthy uncles seem
to secrete and exude almost unconsciously, as toads yield moisture;
but Mark paid only a moderate degree of attention to it as they spun
past the low dim edges; he hardly noticed what could be seen along the
road even, which was not much--a gable-end or a haystack starting out
for an instant from the fog, or a shadowy labourer letting himself
through a gate--he was thinking of the girl whose eyes had met his the
afternoon before.

He had dreamed of her all that night--a confused ridiculous dream, but
with a charm about it which was lingering still; he thought they had
met and understood one another at once, and he had taken her to the
village church where he had first seen her, and they had a private
box, and Uncle Solomon took the chair, while old Mr. Shelford, Trixie,
and young Langton were all in the choir, which was more like an
orchestra. It was not particularly connected or reverent, but she had
not been included in the general travesty--his sleeping brain had
respected her image even in its waywardness, and presented it as vivid
and charming as in life, so that the dream with all its absurdity
seemed to have brought her nearer to him, and he could not resist the
fancy that _she_ might have some recollection of it too.

A low hum in the still air, and distant reports and choked railway
whistles told them they were near the station, but the fog had grown
so much denser that there was no other indication of it, until Mr.
Lightowler brought up sharply opposite the end of an inclined covered
staircase, which seemed to spring out of nothing and lead nowhere,
where they left the dog-cart in charge of a flyman and went up to the
platform.

There a few old gentlemen with rosy faces were stamping up and down
and slapping their chests, exchanging their 'Raw morning this, sir's,'
'Ah, it is indeed's,' with an air of good men bearing up under an
undeserved persecution.

'Sharp morning this to stand about in,' said Uncle Solomon; 'let's go
into the waiting-room, there's a fire there.' The waiting-room was the
usual drab little room, with a bottle of water and tumblers on a bare
stained table, and local advertisements on the dingy walls; the gas
was lighted, and flickered in a sickly white fishtail flame, but the
fire was blazing cheerfully, giving a sheen to the silver-grey fur of
a child in a crimson plush hat who stood before it embracing a small
round basket out of which a Skye terrier's head was peering
inquisitively.

The firelight shone, too, on the graceful form of a girl, who was
bending towards it holding out her slender hands to the blaze. Mark
scarcely needed to glance at the face she turned towards the newcomers
to recognise that fortune had allowed him one more chance: Mr.
Humpage's visitors were evidently returning to town by the same train
as himself, and the old gentleman in person was standing with his back
to them examining a time-table on the wall.

Uncle Solomon, in his relief at Wilcox's information that morning, did
not perceive any awkwardness in the encounter, but moved about and
coughed noisily, as if anxious to attract his enemy's attention. Mark
felt considerably embarrassed, dreading a scene; but he glanced as
often as he dared at the lady of his thoughts, who was drawing on her
gloves again with a dainty deliberation.

'Godpapa,' said the little girl, suddenly, 'you never told me if Frisk
had been good. Has he?'

'So good that he kept me awake thinking of him all night,' said the
old gentleman drily, without turning.

'Did he howl, godpapa? He does sometimes when he's left out in the
garden, you know.'

'He did,' said Mr. Humpage. 'Oh, yes--he howled; he's a clever dog at
that.'

'And you really _like_ him to?' said Dolly. 'Some people don't.'

'Narrow-minded of 'em, very,' growled the old gentleman.

'Isn't it?' said Dolly, innocently. 'Well, I'm glad _you_ like it,
godpapa, because now I shall bring him to see you again. When there's
a moon he can howl much louder. I'll bring him when the next moon
comes, shall I?'

'We'll see, Chuckie, we'll see. I shouldn't like to keep him sitting
up all night to howl on my account; it wouldn't be good for his
health. But the very next blue moon we have down in these parts, I'll
send up for him--I promise you that.'

Dolly was evidently about to inquire searchingly into the nature of
this local phenomenon, but before she could begin the old gentleman
turned and saw that they were not alone.

'Mornin', Mr. 'Umpage,' said Uncle Solomon, clearing his throat; and
Mark felt a pang of regret for the lost aspirate.

'Good morning to you, sir,' said the other, distantly.

The elder girl returned the bow which Mark risked, though without
giving any sign of remembrance; but Dolly remarked audibly, 'Why,
that's the old man next door that gave your goose something to make it
giddy, isn't it, godpapa?'

'I hope,' said Uncle Solomon, 'that now you've had time to think over
what 'appened yesterday afternoon, you'll see that you went too far in
using the terms that fell from you, more particularly as the bird's as
well as ever, from what I hear this morning?'

'I don't wish to reopen that affair at present,' said the other,
stiffly.

'Well, I've heard about enough of it, too; so if you'll own you used
language that was unwarrantable, I'm willing to say no more about it
for my part.'

'I've no doubt you are, Mr. Lightowler, but you must excuse me from
entering into any conversation on the subject. I can't dismiss it as
lightly as you seem to do--and, in short, I don't mean to discuss it
here, sir.'

'Very well, just as you please. I only meant to be neighbourly--but it
don't signify. I can keep myself _to_ myself as well as other parties,
I daresay.'

'Then have the goodness to do it, Mr. Lightowler. Mabel, the train is
due now. Get your wraps and things and come along.'

He walked fiercely past the indignant Uncle Solomon, followed by Mabel
and Dolly, the former of whom seemed a little ashamed of Mr. Humpage's
behaviour, for she kept her eyes lowered as she passed Mark, while
Dolly looked up at him with childish curiosity.

'Confound these old fools!' thought Mark, angrily; 'what do they want
to squabble for in this ridiculous way? Why, if they had only been on
decent terms, I might have been introduced to her--to Mabel--by this
time; we might even have travelled up to town together.'

'Regular old Tartar, that!' said his uncle, under his breath. 'I
believe he'll try and have the law of me now. Let him--_I_ don't care!
Here's your train at last. You won't be in by the time-table this
morning with all this fog about.'

Mark got into a compartment next to that in which Mr. Humpage had put
Mabel and her sister; it was as near as he dared to venture. He could
hear Mabel's clear soft voice saying the usual last words at the
carriage window, while Uncle Solomon was repeating his exhortations to
study and abstinence from any 'littery nonsense.'

Then the train, after one or two false starts on the greasy rails,
moved out, and Mark had a parting glimpse of the neighbours turning
sharply round on the platform with an elaborate affectation of being
utter strangers.

He had no paper to amuse him, for the station was not important enough
for a bookstall, and there was nothing to be seen out of the windows,
which were silvered with frozen moisture. He had the compartment to
himself, and lay back looking up rather sentimentally at the
bull's-eye, through which he heard occasional snatches of Dolly's
imperious treble.

'I know her name now,' he thought, with a quite unreasonable
joy--'Mabel. I shall remember that. I wonder if they are going all the
way to town, and if I could offer to be of any use to them at King's
Cross? At all events, I shall see her once more then.'

It was not a very long journey from Chigbourne to the terminus, but,
as will be seen hereafter, it was destined to be a land mark in the
lives of both Mark and Mabel, though the meeting he looked forward to
at the end of it never took place.




CHAPTER VII.

IN THE FOG.


Mark was roused from his reverie in the railway carriage by the fact
that the train, after slackening speed rather suddenly, had come to a
dead standstill. 'Surely we can't be in already,' he said to himself,
wondering at the way in which his thoughts had outstripped the time.
But on looking out he found that he was mistaken--they were certainly
not near the metropolis as yet, nor did they appear to have stopped at
any station, though from the blank white fog which reigned all around,
and drifted in curling wreaths through the window he had let down, it
was difficult to make very sure of this.

Along the whole length of the train conversation, no longer drowned by
the motion, rose and fell in a kind of drone, out of which occasional
scraps of talk from the nearer carriages were more distinctly audible,
until there came a general lull as each party gave way to the
temptation of listening to the other--for the dullest talk has an
extraordinary piquancy under these circumstances, either because the
speakers, being unseen, appeal to our imagination, or because they do
not suppose that they are being so generally overheard.

But by-and-by it seemed to be universally felt that the stoppage was
an unusual one, and windows went down with a clatter along the
carriages while heads were put out inquiringly. Every kind of voice
demanded to be told where they were, and why they were stopping, and
what the deuce the Company meant by it--inquiries met by a guard, who
walked slowly along the line, with the diplomatic evasiveness which
marks the official dislike to admit any possible hitch in the
arrangements.

'Yes,' he said, stolidly; 'there might be a bit of a stoppage like;
they'd be going on presently; he couldn't say how long that would be;
something had gone wrong with the engine; it was nothing serious; he
didn't exactly know what.'

But he was met just under Mark's window by the guard from the break at
the end of the train, when a hurried conference took place, in which
there was no stolidity on either side. 'Run back as quick as you can
and set the detonators--there ain't a minute to lose, she may be down
on us any time, and she'll never see the other signals this weather.
I'd get 'em all out of the train if I was you, mate--they ain't safe
where they are as it is, that they ain't!'

The one guard ran back to his break, and then on to set the
fog-signals, while the other went to warn the passengers. 'All get out
'ere, please; all get out!' he shouted.

There was the usual obstructive person in the train who required to be
logically convinced first of the necessity for disturbing himself; he
put his head angrily out of a window near Mark's: 'Here, guard!' he
shouted importantly; 'what's all this? _Why_ am I to get out?'
'Because you'd better,' said the guard, shortly. 'But why--where's the
platform? I insist on being taken to a platform--I'm not going to
break my leg getting out here.' Several people, who had half opened
their doors, paused on the steps at this, as if recalled to a sense of
their personal dignity. 'Do as you please, sir,' said the official;
'the engine's broke down, and we may be run into any minute in this
fog; but if you'd be more comfortable up there----' There was no want
of alacrity after that, the obstructive man being the first down; all
the rosy-faced gentlemen hopped out, some of the younger ones still
grasping half-played hands of 'Nap' or 'Loo,' and made the best of
their way down the embankment, and several old ladies were got out in
various stages of flutter, narrowly escaping sprained ankles in the
descent.

Mark, who had seen his opportunity from the first, had rushed to the
door of the next compartment, caught Dolly in his arms as she jumped
down, and, hardly believing in his own good fortune, held Mabel's hand
in his for one happy moment as she stepped from the high and awkward
footboard.

'Down the <DW72>, quick,' he cried to them; 'get as far from the line
as you can in case of a smash.'

Mabel turned a little pale, for she had not understood till then that
there was any real danger. 'Keep close to me, Dolly,' she said, as
they went down the <DW72>; 'we're safe here.'

The fog had gathered thick down in the meadows, and nothing could be
seen of the abandoned train when they had gone a few paces from the
foot of the embankment; the passengers were moving about in excited
groups, not knowing what horrors they might not be obliged to witness
in the next few minutes. The excitement increased as one of them
declared he could hear the noise of an approaching train. 'Only just
in time--God help them if they don't pull up!' cried some, and a woman
hoped that 'the poor driver and stoker were not on the engine.'

Dolly heard this and broke from Mabel with a loud cry--'Mabel, we've
left Frisk!' she sobbed; 'he'll be killed--oh, my dog will be
killed--he mustn't be left behind!'

And, to Mark's horror, she turned back, evidently with the idea of
making for the point of danger; he ran after her and caught the little
silvery-grey form fast in his arms. 'Let me go!' cried Dolly,
struggling; 'I must get him back--oh, I must!'

'He'll have jumped out by this time--he's quite safe,' said Mark in
her ear.

'He was sound asleep in his basket, he'll never wake if I don't call
to him--why do you hold me? I tell you I _will_ go!' persisted Dolly.

'No, Dolly, no,' said Mabel, bending over her; 'it's too late--it's
hard to leave him, but we must hope for the best.' She was crying,
too, for the poor doomed dog as she spoke.

Mark was hardly a man from whom anything heroic could be very
confidently expected; he was no more unselfish than the generality of
young men; as a rule he disliked personally inconveniencing himself
for other people, and in cooler moments, or without the stimulus of
Mabel's presence, he would certainly have seen no necessity to run the
risk of a painful death for the sake of a dog.

But Mabel was there, and the desire of distinguishing himself in her
eyes made a temporary hero out of materials which at first sight were
not promising. He was physically fearless enough, and given to acting
on impulses without counting the consequences; the impulse seized him
now to attempt to rescue this dog, and he obeyed it blindly.

'Wait here,' he said to Mabel; 'I'll go back for him.'

'Oh, no--no,' she cried; 'it may cost you your life!'

'Don't stop him, Mabel,' entreated Dolly; 'he is going to save my
dog.'

Mark had gone already, and was half-way up the <DW72>, slippery as it
was, with the grass clumped and matted together by the frost, and
scored in long brown tracks by the feet that had just descended it.

Mabel was left to console and encourage the weeping Dolly as best she
might, with a terrible suspense weighing on her own heart the while,
not altogether on Frisk's account. At the point where the train had
broken down, the line took a bold curve, and now they could hear,
apparently close upon them, the roar of a fast train sweeping round
through the fog; there were some faint explosions, hoarse shouting, a
long screeching whistle,--and after that the dull shock of a
collision; but nothing could be seen from where they stood, and for
some moments Mabel remained motionless, almost paralysed by the fear
of what might be hidden behind the fog curtain.

Mark clambered painfully up the glistening embankment, hoping to reach
the motionless carriages and escape with his object effected before
the train he could hear in the distance ground into them with a
hideous crash.

He knew his danger, but, to do him justice, he scarcely gave it a
thought--any possible suffering seemed as remote and inconsiderable
just then as the chance of a broken leg or collar-bone had been to him
when running for a touchdown in his football days; the one idea that
filled his brain was to return to Mabel triumphant with the rescued
dog in his arms, and he had room for no others.

He went as directly as he could to the part of the train in which was
the carriage he had occupied, and found it without much difficulty
when he was near enough to make out forms through the fog; the door of
Mabel's compartment was open, and, as he sprang up the footboard, he
heard the train behind rattling down on him with its whistle
screeching infernally, and for the first time felt an uneasy
recollection of the horribly fantastic injuries described in accounts
of so many railway collisions.

But there was no time to think of this; at the other end of the
carriage was the little round wicker-basket he had seen in Dolly's
hands at the Chigbourne waiting-room, and in it was the terrier,
sleeping soundly as she had anticipated. He caught up the little
drowsy beast, which growled ungratefully, and turned to leap down with
it to the ballast, when there was a sharp concussion, which sent a
jangling forward shock, increasing in violence as it went, along the
standing train, and threw him violently against the partition of the
compartment.

Meanwhile the passengers of the first train, now that the worst was
apparently over, and the faint shouts and screams from the embankment
had calmed down, began to make their way in the direction of the
sounds, and Mabel, holding Dolly fast by the hand, forced herself to
follow them, though she was sick and faint with the dread of what she
might see.

The first thing they saw was a crowd of eager, excited faces, all
questioning and accusing the badgered officials of both trains at the
same time. 'Why was an empty train left on the rails unprotected in
this way? they might have been all killed.--It was culpable negligence
all round, and there should be an inquiry--they would insist on an
inquiry--they would report this to the traffic manager,' and so on.

The faces looked pale and ghastly enough in the fog, but all the
speakers were evidently sound in wind and limb, and, as far as could
be seen, neither train had left the rails--but where was the young man
who had volunteered to recover the dog? 'Oh, Mabel,' cried Dolly,
again and again. 'Frisk is killed, I'm sure of it, or he'd come to
me--something has happened--ask, do ask.'

But Mabel dared not, for fear of hearing that a life had been nobly
and uselessly sacrificed; she could only press through the crowd with
the object of making her way to the carriage where the suspense would
be ended.

'There's someone in one of the carriages!' she heard a voice saying as
she got nearer, and her heart beat faster; and then the crowd parted
somehow, and she saw Mark Ashburn come out of it towards her, with a
dazed, scared smile on his pale face, and the little trembling dog
safe under one arm.

Fortunately for Mark, the fog-signals had been set in time to do their
work, and the second train was fitted with powerful brakes which, but
for the state of the rails, would have brought it to without any
collision at all; as it was, the shock had not been severe enough to
damage the rolling-stock to any greater extent than twisting or
straining a buffer or coupling-chain here and there, though it had
thrown him against the corner of the net-rail with sufficient violence
to slightly graze his forehead, and leave him stunned and a little
faint for a few moments.

After sitting down for a short time to recover himself, he picked up
the terrier from the cushions on which it was crouching and shivering,
having dropped from his hand at the concussion, and feeling himself
still rather giddy and sick, got down amongst the astonished crowd,
and came towards Mabel and Dolly as we have seen.

It was the best moment, as he thought afterwards, in his life. Every
one, probably, with any imagination at all likes to conceive himself
at times as the performer of some heroic action extorting the
admiration he longs for from some particular pair of eyes, but
opportunities for thus distinguishing oneself are sadly rare nowadays,
and often when they come are missed, or, if grasped with success, the
fair eyes are looking another way and never see it.

But Mark had a satisfied sense of appearing to the utmost advantage as
he met the little girl and placed the dog in her arms. 'There's your
dog; he's quite safe, only a little frightened,' he said, with a
pleasant sympathy in his voice.

Dolly was too overcome for words; she caught Frisk up with her eyes
swimming, and ran away with him to pour her self-reproach and relief
into his pricked ears, without making any attempt to express her
thanks to his rescuer. Her sister, however, made him ample amends.

'How can we thank you?' she said, with a quiver in her voice and an
involuntary admiration in her eyes; 'it was so very, very brave of
you--you might have been killed!'

'I thought at first it was going to be rather a bad smash,' said
Mark--he could not resist the impulse now to make all the capital he
could out of what he had done--'I was knocked down--and--and
unconscious for a little while after it; but I'm not much hurt, as you
see. I don't _think_ I'm any the worse for it, and at all events your
little sister's dog isn't--and that's the main point, isn't it?' he
added, with a feeling that his words were equal to the occasion.

'Indeed it isn't,' said Mabel warmly; 'if you had been seriously hurt
I should never have forgiven myself for letting you go--but are you
sure you feel no pain anywhere?'

'Well,' he admitted, 'I fancy I was cut a little about the head' (he
was afraid she might not have noticed this), 'but that's a trifle.'

'There is a cut on your forehead,' said Mabel; 'it has been bleeding,
but I think it has stopped now. Let me bind it up for you in case it
should break out again.'

It was in truth a very small cut, and had hardly bled at all, but Mark
made light of it elaborately, as the surest means of keeping her
interest alive. 'I am afraid it must be giving you pain,' she said,
with a pretty, anxious concern in her eyes as she spoke; and Mark
protested that the pain was nothing--which was the exact truth,
although he had no intention of being taken literally.

They had gone down the embankment again and were slowly crossing the
dim field in which they had first taken refuge. No one was in sight,
the other passengers being still engaged in comparing notes or
browbeating the unhappy guards above; and as Mark glanced at his
companion he saw that her thoughts had ceased to busy themselves about
him, while her eyes were trying to pierce the gloom which surrounded
her.

'I was looking for my little sister,' she exclaimed, answering the
question in his eyes. 'She ran off with the dog you brought back to
her, and it is so easy to lose oneself here. I must find out where she
is--oh, you are ill!' she broke off suddenly, as Mark staggered and
half fell.

'Only a slight giddiness,' he said; 'if--if I could sit down somewhere
for a moment--is that a stile over there?'

'It looks like one. Can you get so far without help?' she said
compassionately. 'Will you lean on me?'

He seemed to her like some young knight who had been wounded, as it
were, in her cause, and deserved all the care she could give him.

'If you will be so very good,' said Mark. He felt himself a humbug,
for he could have leaped the stile with ease at that very moment. He
had very little excuse for practising in this way on her womanly
sympathy, except that he dreaded to lose her just yet, and found such
a subtle intoxication in being tended like this by a girl from whom an
hour ago he had scarcely hoped to win another careless glance; if he
exaggerated his symptoms, as it is to be feared he did, there may be
some who will forgive him under the circumstances.

So he allowed Mabel to guide him to the stile, and sat down on one of
its rotten cross-planks while she poured _eau-de-Cologne_ or some
essence of the kind on a handkerchief, and ordered him to bathe his
forehead with it. They seemed isolated there together on the patch of
hoary grass by a narrow black ditch half hidden in rank weeds, which
alone could be distinguished in the prevailing yellowish whiteness,
and Mark desired nothing better at that moment.

'I wonder,' said Mabel, 'if there's a doctor amongst the passengers.
There must be, I should think. I am sure you ought to see one. Let me
see if I can find one and bring him to you.'

But Mark declared he was quite himself again, and would have begged
her not to leave him if he had dared; and as there really did not seem
to be anything serious the matter, Mabel's uneasiness about Dolly
returned. 'I can't rest till I find her,' she said, 'and if you really
are strong again, will you help me? She cannot have gone very far.'

Mark, only too glad of any pretence to remain with her, volunteered
willingly.

'Then will you go round the field that way,' she said, 'and I will go
this, and we will meet here again?'

'Don't you think,' said Mark, who had not been prepared for this,
'that if--she might not know _me_, you see--I mean if I was not with
you?'

'Yes, she will,' said Mabel impatiently; 'Dolly won't forget you after
what you have done, and we are losing time. Go round by there, and
call her now and then; if she is here she will come, and if not then
we will try the next field.'

She went off herself as she spoke, and Mark had nothing for it but to
obey, as she so evidently expected to be obeyed. He went round the
field, calling out the child's name now and then, feeling rather
forlorn and ridiculous as his voice went out unanswered on the raw
air. Presently a burly figure, grotesquely magnified by the mist, came
towards him, and resolved itself into an ordinary guard.

'You one of the gentlemen in my train, sir?' he said, 'the train as
broke down, that is?'

'Yes,' said Mark; 'why?'

''Cause we've got the engine put to rights, sir; nothing much the
matter with her, there wasn't, and we're goin' on directly, sir; I'm
gettin' all my passengers together.'

Mark was in no hurry to leave that field, but his time was not his
own; he ought to have been at St. Peter's long ago, and was bound to
take the first opportunity of getting back. It would not be pleasant,
as it was, to have to go and fetch down his class from the sixth form
room, where the headmaster had probably given them a temporary asylum.

He had never forgotten a morning on which he had overslept himself,
and the mortification he had felt at the Doctor's blandly polite but
cutting reception of his apologies. He had a better excuse this time,
but even that would not bear overtaxing.

He hesitated a moment, however. 'I'll go in a minute,' he said, 'but
there's a lady and a little girl with a dog somewhere about. They
mustn't be left behind. Wait while I go and tell them, will you?'

'Never you fear, sir,' said the guard, 'we won't go without them, but
I'll call 'em; they'll mind me more than they will you, beggin' your
pardon, sir, and you'd better run on, as time's short, and keep places
for 'em. You leave it all to me; I'll take care on 'em.'

Mark heard faint barks across the hedge in the direction Mabel had
taken. The child was evidently found. The best thing, he thought, to
do now was to secure an empty compartment, and with that idea, and
perhaps a little from that instinctive obedience to anything in a
uniform which is a characteristic of the average respectable
Englishman, he let himself be persuaded by the guard, and went back to
the train.

To his great joy he found that the compartment Mabel had occupied had
no one in it; he stood waiting by the door for Mabel and her sister to
come up, with eager anticipations of a delightful conclusion to his
journey. 'Perhaps she will tell me who she is,' he thought; 'at all
events she will ask me who _I_ am. How little I hoped for this
yesterday!'

He was interrupted by a guard--another guard, a sour-looking man with
a grizzled beard, who was in charge of the front van. 'Get in, sir, if
you mean to travel by this 'ere train,' he said.

'I'm waiting for a young lady,' said Mark, rather ingenuously, but it
slipped out almost without his knowledge. 'The other guard promised
me----'

'I don't know nothing about no young ladies,' said the guard
obdurately; 'but if you mean my mate, he's just give me the signal
from his end, and if you don't want to be left be'ind you'd better
take your seat while you can, sir, and pretty sharp, too.'

There was nothing else to do; he could not search for Mabel along the
train; he must wait till they got to King's Cross; but he took his
seat reluctantly and with a heavy disappointment, thinking what a fool
he had been to let himself be persuaded by the burly guard. 'But for
that, _she_ might have been sitting opposite to me now!' he thought
bitterly. 'What a fool I was to leave her. How pretty she looked when
she wanted me to see a doctor; how charming she is altogether! Am I in
love with her already? Of course I am; who wouldn't be? I shall see
her again. She will speak to me once more, and, after all, things
might be worse. I couldn't have counted on _that_ when we started.'

And he tried to console himself with this, feeling an impatient anger
at the slow pace of the train as it crept cautiously on towards the
goal of his hopes. But the breakdown had not happened very far from
town, and, tedious as the time seemed to Mark, it was not actually
long before the colour of the atmosphere (there was no other
indication) proved that they were nearing the terminus.

It changed by slow gradations from its original yellow-whiteness to
mustard colour, from that to a smoky lurid red, and from red to
stinging, choking iron-grey, and the iron-grey pall was in full
possession of King's Cross, where the sickly moonlight of the electric
lamps could only clear small halos immediately around their globes.

Mark sprang out before the train had stopped; he strained his eyes in
watching for the form he hoped to see there, but in vain; there were
no signs in all that bustle of Mabel or Dolly, or the little dog to
whom he owed so much.

He sought out the guard who had deluded him and found him
superintending the clearing of the luggage van. He hardly knew whether
it was merely a fancy that the official, after making a half-step
forward to meet him, and fumbling in all his pockets, turned away
again as if anxious to avoid meeting his eye.

Mark forced him to meet him, however, willing or not. 'Where is the
lady?' he said sharply. 'You left her behind after all, it seems?'

'It wasn't my fault, sir,' said the guard wheezily, 'nor it wasn't the
lady's fault, leastways on'y the little lady's, sir. Both on us tried
all we could, but the little missy, her with the tarrier dawg, was
nervous-like with it all, and wouldn't hear of getting in the train
again; so the young lady, she said, seeing as they was so near London,
they could get a fly or a cab or summat, and go on in that.'

'And--did she give you no message for me?' said Mark.

There was such evident expectation in his face that the guard seemed
afraid to disappoint it. 'I was to give you her respecks and
compliments,' he said slowly--'or was it her love, now?' he
substituted quickly, after a glance at Mark's face, 'and you was not
to be in a way about her, and she'd be seein' of you again before very
long, and----'

'That's all a lie, you know,' said Mark, calmly.

'Well, then, she didn't say nothing, if that warn't it,' said the
guard, doggedly.

'Did she--did she leave any directions about luggage or anything?'
said Mark.

'Brown portmanty to go in the left-luggage room till called for,' said
the guard. 'Anything else I can do for you, sir; no? Good mornin',
then, and thanky, sir!'

'Never did such a thing as that in my life afore,' he muttered, as he
went back to his van; 'to go and lose a bit o' paper with writing on
it, d'reckly I got it, too; I'm afraid my head's a-leavin' me; they
ain't keepin' company, that's plain. I made a mess o' that, or he
wouldn't have wanted her direction. _I_ saw what he was up to--well,
they'd make a good-looking pair. I'm sorry I lost that there paper;
but it warn't no use a-tellin' of him.'

As for Mark, this lame and impotent conclusion brought back all his
depression again. 'She never even asked my name!' he thought,
bitterly. 'I risked my life for her--it _was_ for her, and she knew
it: but she has forgotten that already. I've lost her for ever this
time; she may not even live in London, and if she did I've no clue to
tell me where, and if I had I don't exactly see what use it would be;
I won't think about her--yes, I will, she can't prevent me from doing
that, at any rate!'

By this time he had left the City station of the Metropolitan Railway,
and was going back to his underground labours at St. Peter's, where he
was soon engaged in trying to establish something like discipline in
his class, which the dark brown fog seemed to have inspired with
unaccountable liveliness. His short holiday had not served to rest and
invigorate him as much as might have been expected; it had left him
consumed with a hopeless longing for something unattainable. His
thirst for distinction had returned in an aggravated form, and he had
cut himself off now from the only means of slaking it. As that day
wore on, and with each day that succeeded it, he felt a wearier
disgust with himself and his surroundings.




CHAPTER VIII.

BAD NEWS.


It was Christmas week, and Mrs. Langton and her daughters were
sitting, late one afternoon, in the drawing-room where we saw them
first. Dolly was on a low stool at her mother's feet, submitting, not
too willingly, to have the bow in her hair smoothed and arranged for
her. 'It _must_ be all right now, mother!' she said, breaking away
rebelliously at last.

'It's worse than ever, Dolly,' said Mrs. Langton plaintively; 'it's
slipped over to the left now!'

'But it doesn't matter, it never will keep straight long.'

'Well, if you _like_ to run about like a little wild child,' was the
resigned answer.

'Little wild children don't wear bows in their hair; they wear--well,
they don't wear anything they've got to be careful and tidy about. I
think that must be rather nice,' said Dolly, turning round from where
she knelt on the hearthrug. 'Wake up, Frisk, and be good-tempered
directly. Mother, on Christmas Day I'm going to tie a Christmas card
round Frisk's neck, and send him into papa's dressing-room to wish him
a Merry Christmas, the first thing in the morning--you won't tell him
before the time, will you?'

'Not if you don't wish it, darling,' said Mrs. Langton, placidly.

'I mightn't have had him to tie a card to,' said Dolly, taking the dog
up and hugging him fondly, 'if that gentleman had not fetched him out
of the train for me; and I never said "thank you" to him either. I
forgot somehow, and when I remembered he was gone. Should you think he
will come to see me, Mabel; you told him that mother would be glad to
thank him some time, didn't you, on the paper you gave the guard for
him?'

'Yes, Dolly,' said Mabel, turning her head a little away; 'but you see
he hasn't come yet.'

'My dear,' said her mother, 'really I think he shows better taste in
keeping away; there was no necessity to send him a message at all, and
I hope he won't take any advantage of it. Thanking people is so
tiresome and, after all, they never think you have said enough about
it. It was very kind of the young man, of course, very--though I can't
say I ever quite understood what it was he did--it was something in a
fog, I know,' she concluded vaguely.

'We told you all about it, mother,' explained Dolly; 'I'll tell you
all over again. There was a fog and our train stopped, and we all got
out, and I left Frisk behind, and there he was in the carriage all
alone, and then the gentleman ran back and got him out and brought him
to me. And another train came up behind and stopped too.'

'Dolly tells it rather tamely,' said Mabel, her cheeks flushing again.
'At the time he ran back for the dog, we could all hear the other
train rushing up in the fog, mamma, and nobody knew whether there
might not be a frightful collision in another minute.'

'Then I think it was an extremely rash thing for him to do, my dear;
and if I were his mother I should be very angry with him.'

'He was very good-looking, wasn't he, Mabel?' said Dolly,
irrelevantly.

'Was he, Dolly? Well, yes, I suppose he was, rather,' said Mabel, with
much outward indifference, and an inward and very vivid picture of
Mark's face as he leaned by the stile, his fine eyes imploring her not
to leave him.

'Well, perhaps, he doesn't care about being thanked, or doesn't want
to see us again,' said Dolly; 'if he did, he'd call, you know; you
wrote the address on the paper.'

Mabel had already arrived at the same conclusion, and was secretly a
little piqued and hurt by it; she had gone slightly out of her way to
give him an opportunity of seeing her again if he wished, and he had
not chosen to take advantage of it; it had not seriously disturbed her
peace of mind, but her pride was wounded notwithstanding. At times she
was ready to believe that there had been some mistake or miscarriage
with her message, otherwise it was strange that the admiration which
it had not been difficult to read in his eyes should have evaporated
in this way.

'Why, here's papa--home already!' cried Dolly, as the door opened and
a tall man entered. 'How do you do, papa? you've rumpled my bow--you
didn't think I _meant_ it, did you? you can do it again if you
like--_I_ don't mind a bit; mother does.'

He had duly returned the affectionate hug with which Dolly had greeted
him, but now he put her aside with a rather preoccupied air, and went
to his wife's chair, kissing the smooth forehead she presented, still
absently.

'You are early, Gerald,' she said; 'did the courts rise sooner
to-day?'

'No,' he said conscientiously, 'it's the Vacation now--I left chambers
as soon as I could get away,' and he was folding and unfolding the
evening paper he had brought in with him, as he stood silent before
the fire.

Mr. Langton was not much over fifty, and a handsome man still, with
full clear eyes, a well-cut chin and mouth, iron-grey whiskers, and a
florid complexion which years spent in stifling law-courts and dust
and black laden chambers had not done much to tone down. Young
barristers and solicitors' clerks were apt to consider him rather a
formidable personage in Lincoln's Inn; and he was certainly imposing
as he rustled along New Square or Chancery Lane, his brows knitted, a
look of solemn importance about his tightly-closed lips, and his silk
gown curving out behind him like a great black sail. He had little
imperious ways in court, too, of beckoning a client to come to him
from the well, or of waving back a timid junior who had plucked his
gown to draw his attention to some suggestion with a brusque 'Not
now--I can't hear that now!' which suggested immeasurable gulfs
between himself and them. But at home he unbent, a little consciously,
perhaps, but he did unbend--being proud and fond of his children, who
at least stood in no fear of him. Long years of successful practice
had had a certain narrowing effect upon him; the things of his
profession were almost foremost in his mind now, and when he travelled
away from them he was duller than he once promised to be--his humour
had slowly dwindled down until he had just sufficient for ordinary
professional purposes, and none at all for private consumption.

In his favour it may be added that he was genial to all whom he did
not consider his inferiors, a good though not a demonstrative husband;
that as a lawyer he was learned without the least pedantry; and that
he was a Bencher of his Inn, where he frequently dined, and a Member
of Parliament, where he never spoke, even on legal matters.

Mabel's quick eyes were the first to notice a shade on his face and a
constraint in his manner; she went to his side and said in an
undertone, 'You are not feeling ill, papa, are you, or has anything
worried you to-day?'

'I am quite well. I have news to tell you presently,' he said in the
same tone.

'Come and see my Christmas cards before I do them up,' said Dolly from
a side-table; 'I'm going to send one to each of my friends, except
Clara Haycraft, or if I _do_ send her one,' she added thoughtfully,
'it will be only a penny one, and I shall write her name on the back
so that she can't use it again. Clara has not behaved at all well to
me lately. If I sent one to Vincent now, papa, would he get it in
time?'

'No--no,' said her father, a little sharply, 'and look here, Pussy,
run away now and see how Colin is getting on.'

'And come back and tell you?' inquired Dolly; 'very well, papa.'

'Don't come back till I send for you,' he said. 'Mind that now, Dolly,
stay in the schoolroom.'

He shut the door carefully after her, and then, turning to his wife
and daughter, he said, 'You haven't either of you seen the papers
to-day, I suppose?'

'No,' said Mrs. Langton; 'you know I never read daily papers. Gerald,'
she cried suddenly, with a light coming into her eyes, 'is another
judge dead?' Visions of her husband on the Bench, a town-house in a
more central part of London, an increase of social consideration for
herself and daughters, began to float into her brain.

       *       *       *       *       *

'It's not that--if there was, I'm not likely to be offered a judgeship
just yet; it's not good news, Belle, I'm afraid it's very bad,' he
said warningly, 'very bad indeed.'

'Oh, papa,' cried Mabel, 'please don't break it to us--tell it at
once, whatever it is!'

'You must let me choose my own course, my dear; I am coming to the
point at once. The "Globe" has a telegram from Lloyd's agent reporting
the total loss of the "Mangalore."'

'Vincent's ship!' said Mabel. 'Is--is he saved?'

'We cannot be certain of anything just yet--and--and these disasters
are generally exaggerated in the first accounts, but I'm afraid there
is very grave reason to fear that the poor boy went down with her--not
many passengers were on board at the time, and only four or five of
them were saved, and they are women. We can hope for the best still,
but I cannot after reading the particulars feel any confidence myself.
I made inquiries at the owners' offices this afternoon, but they could
tell me very little just yet, though they will have fuller information
by to-morrow--but from what they did say I cannot feel very hopeful.'

Mabel hid her face, trying to realise that the man who had sat
opposite to her there scarcely a month ago, with the strange, almost
prophetic, sadness in his eyes, was lying somewhere still and white,
fathoms deep under the sea--she was too stunned for tears just yet.

'Gerald,' said Mrs. Langton, 'Vincent is drowned--I'm sure of it. I
feel this will be a terrible shock to me by-and-by; I don't know when
I shall get over it--poor, poor dear fellow! To think that the last
time I saw him was that evening we dined at the Gordons'--you
remember, Gerald, a dull dinner--and he saw me into the carriage, and
stood there on the pavement saying good-bye!' Mrs. Langton seemed to
consider that these circumstances had a deep pathos of their own; she
pressed her eyes daintily with her handkerchief before she could go
on. 'Why didn't he sail by one of the safe lines?' she murmured; 'the
P. and O. never lost a single life; he might have gone in one of them
and been alive now!'

'My dear Belle,' said her husband, 'we can't foresee these things,
it--it _was_ to be, I suppose.'

'Is nothing more known?' said Mabel, with a strong effort to control
her voice.

'Here is the account--stay, I can give you the effect of it. It was in
the Indian Ocean, not long after leaving Bombay, somewhere off the
Malabar coast; and the ship seems to have grazed a sunken reef, which
ripped a fearful hole in her side, without stopping her course. They
were not near enough to the land to hope to reverse the engines and
back her on shore at full speed. She began to settle down fast by the
head, and their only chance was in the boats, which unfortunately had
nearly all become jammed in the davits. Every one appears to have
behaved admirably. They managed at last to launch one of the boats,
and to put the women into it; and they were trying to get out the
others, when the vessel went down suddenly, not a quarter of an hour
after striking the reef.'

'Vincent could swim, papa,' said Mabel, with gleaming eyes.

'He was not a first-rate swimmer,' said Mr. Langton, 'I remember that,
and even a first-rate swimmer would have found it hard work to reach
the shore, if he had not been drawn down with the ship, as seems to
have been the fate of most of the poor fellows. Still of course there
is always hope.'

'And he is dead! Vincent dead! It seems so hard, so very, very sad,'
said Mabel, and began to cry softly.

'Cry, darling,' said Mrs. Langton, 'it will do you good. I'm sure I
wish _I_ could cry like that, it would be such a relief. But you know
papa says we may hope yet; we won't give up all hope till we're
obliged to; we must be brave. You really don't care about coming in to
dinner? You won't have a little something sent up to your room? Well,
I feel as if food would choke me myself, but I must go in to keep papa
company. Will you tell this sad news to Dolly and Colin, and ask
Fraeulein to keep them with her till bedtime? I can't bear to see them
just yet.'

Mr. Langton's decorous concern did not interfere with his appetite,
and Mrs. Langton seemed rather relieved at being able to postpone her
grief for the present, and so Mabel was left to break the disaster,
and the fate there was too much reason to fear for Vincent, to her
younger brother and sister--a painful task, for Holroyd had been very
dear to all three of them. Fraeulein Mozer, too, wept with a more than
sentimental sorrow for the young man she had tried to help, who would
need her assistance never again.

The tidings had reached Mark early that same afternoon. He was walking
home through the City from some 'holiday-classes' he had been
superintending at St. Peter's, when the heading 'Loss of a passenger
steamer with ---- lives' on the contents-sheets of the evening papers
caught his eye, and led him, when established with a 'Globe' in one of
the Underground Railway carriages, to turn with a languid interest to
the details. He started when he saw the name of the vessel, and all
his indifference left him as he hurriedly read the various accounts of
the disaster, and looked in vain for Vincent's name amongst the
survivors.

The next day he, too, went up to the owners' offices to make
inquiries, and by that time full information had come in, which left
it impossible that any but those who had come ashore in the long-boat
could have escaped from the ship. They had remained near the scene of
the wreck for some time, but without picking up more than one or two
of the crew; the rest must all have been sucked down with the ship,
which sank with terrible suddenness at the last.

Vincent was certainly not amongst those in the boat, while, as
appeared from the agent's list, he was evidently on board when the
ship left Bombay. It was possible to hope no longer after that, and
Mark left the offices with the knowledge that Holroyd and he had
indeed taken their last walk together; that he would see his face and
take his hand no more.

It came to him with a shock, the unavoidable shock which a man feels
when he has suddenly to associate the idea of death with one with whom
he has had any intimacy. He told himself he was sorry, and for a
moment Vincent's fate seemed somehow to throw a sort of halo round his
memory, but very soon the sorrow faded, until at last it became little
more than an uneasy consciousness that he ought to be miserable and
was not.

Genuine grief will no more come at command than genuine joy, and so
Mark found, not without some self-reproach; he even began to read 'In
Memoriam' again with the idea of making that the keynote for his
emotions, but the passionate yearning of that lament was pitched too
high for him, and he never finished it. He recognised that he could
not think of his lost friend in the way their long intimacy seemed to
demand, and solved the difficulty by not thinking of him at all,
compounding for his debt of inward mourning by wearing a black tie,
which, as he was fond of a touch of colour in his costume, and as the
emblem in question was not strictly required of him, he looked upon
as, so to speak, a fairly respectable dividend.

Caffyn heard the news with a certain satisfaction. A formidable rival
had been swept out of his path, and he could speak of him now without
any temptation to depreciate his merits, so much so that when he took
an opportunity one day of referring to his loss, he did it so
delicately that Mabel was touched, and liked him better for this
indication of feeling than she had ever been able to do before.

Her own sorrow was genuine enough, requiring no artificial stimulus
and no outward tokens to keep it alive, and if Vincent could have been
assured of this it would have reconciled him to all else. No
callousness nor forgetfulness on the part of others could have had
power to wound him so long as he should live on in the memory of the
girl he had loved.

But it is better far for those who are gone that they should be
impervious alike to our indifference and our grief, for the truest
grief will be insensibly deadened by time, and could not long console
the least exacting for the ever-widening oblivion.




CHAPTER IX.

A TURNING-POINT.


Mark came down to the little back parlour at Malakoff Terrace one dull
January morning to find the family already assembled there, with the
exception of Mrs. Ashburn, who was breakfasting in bed--an unusual
indulgence for her.

'Mark,' said Trixie, as she leaned back in her chair, and put up her
face for his morning greeting, 'there's a letter for you on your
plate.'

It was not difficult to observe a suppressed excitement amongst all
the younger members of his family concerning this letter; they had
finished their breakfast and fallen into some curious speculations as
to Mark's correspondent before he came in. Now three pairs of eyes
were watching him as he strolled up to his seat; Mr. Ashburn alone
seemed unconscious or indifferent.

Of late Mark had not had very many letters, and this particular one
bore the name of 'Chilton & Fladgate' on the flap of the envelope. The
Ashburns were not a literary family, but they knew this as the name of
a well-known firm of publishers, and it had roused their curiosity.

Mark read the name too. For a moment it gave him a throb of
excitement, the idea coming to him that, somehow, the letter concerned
his own unfortunate manuscripts. It was true that he had never had any
communication with this particular firm, but these wild vague
impressions are often independent of actual fact; he took it up and
half began to open it.

Then he remembered what it probably was, and, partly with the object
of preserving Vincent's secret still as far as possible, but chiefly,
it must be owned, from a malicious pleasure he took in disappointing
the expectation he saw around him, put the letter still unopened in
his pocket.

'Why don't you open it?' asked Trixie impatiently, who was cherishing
the hope that some magnificent literary success had come at last to
her favourite brother.

'Manners,' explained Mark, laconically.

'Nonsense,' said Trixie, 'you don't treat us with such ceremony as all
that.'

'Not lately,' said Mark; 'that's how it is--it's bad for a family to
get lax in these little matters of mutual courtesy. I'm going to see
if I can't raise your tone--this is the beginning.'

'I'm sure we're very much obliged to you,' from Martha; 'I'm quite
satisfied with my own tone, it's quite high enough for me, thank you.'

'Yes, I forgot,' said Mark, 'I've heard it very high indeed sometimes.
I wronged you, Martha. Still, you know, we might (all except _you_,
Martha) be more polite to one another without causing ourselves any
internal injury, mightn't we?'

'Well, Mark,' said Trixie, 'all you have to do is to ask our leave to
open the letter, if you're really so particular.'

'Is that in the Etiquette Book?' inquired Mark.

'Don't be ridiculous--why _don't_ you ask our leave?'

'I suppose because I want to eat my breakfast--nothing is so
prejudicial, my love, to the furtherance of the digestive process as
the habit of reading at meals, any medical man will tell you that.'

'Perhaps,' suggested Martha, 'Mark has excellent reasons for
preferring to read his letter alone.'

'Do you know, Martha,' said Mark, 'I really think there's something in
that?'

'So do I,' said Martha, 'more than you would care for us to know,
evidently; but don't be afraid, Mark, whether it's a bill, or a
love-letter, or another publisher's rejection; we don't want to know
your secrets--do we, Cuthbert?'

'Very amiable of you to say so,' said Mark. 'Then I shan't annoy you
if I keep my letter to myself, shall I? Because I rather thought of
doing it.'

'Eh? doing what? What is Mark saying about a letter?' broke in Mr.
Ashburn. He had a way of striking suddenly like this into
conversations.

'Somebody has written me a letter, father,' said Mark; 'I was telling
Martha I thought I should read it--presently.'

But even when he was alone he felt in no hurry to possess himself of
the contents. 'I expect it's the usual thing,' he thought. 'Poor
Vincent is out of all that now. Let's see how they let him down!' and
he read:--

    'DEAR SIR,--We have read the romance entitled "Glamour"
    which you have done us the honour to forward some time
    since. It is a work which appears to us to possess
    decided originality and merit, and which may be received
    with marked favour by the public, while it can hardly
    fail in any case to obtain a reception which will
    probably encourage its author to further efforts. Of
    course, there is a certain risk attending its reception
    which renders it impossible for us to offer such terms
    for a first book as may be legitimately demanded
    hereafter for a second production by the same pen. We
    will give you ...' (and here followed the terms, which
    struck Mark as fairly liberal for a first book by an
    unknown author). 'Should you accept our offer, will you
    do us the favour to call upon us here at your earliest
    convenience, when all preliminary matters can be discussed.
                    'We are, &c.,
                          'CHILTON & FLADGATE.'

Mark ran hurriedly through this letter with a feeling, first of
incredulous wonder, then of angry protest against the bull-headed
manner in which Fortune had dealt out this favour.

Vincent had been saved the dreary delays, the disappointments and
discouragements, which are the lot of most first books; he had won a
hearing at once--and where was the use of it? no praise or fame among
men could reach him now.

If he had been alive, Mark thought bitterly; if a letter like this
would have rescued him from all he detested, and thrown open to him
the one career for which he had any ambition, he might have waited for
it long and vainly enough. But he began by being indifferent, and, if
Fortune had required any other inducement to shower her gifts on him,
his death had supplied it.

He chafed over this as he went up to the City, for there was another
holiday-class that day at St. Peter's; he thought of it at intervals
during the morning, and always resentfully. What increased his
irritation above everything was the fact that the publishers evidently
regarded _him_ as the author of the book, and he would have the
distasteful task put upon him of enlightening them.

When the day's duties were over he found himself putting on his hat
and coat in company with the Rev. Mr. Shelford, who was also in charge
of one of the classes formed for the relief of parents and the
performance of holiday work, and the two walked out together; Mark
intending to call at once and explain his position to Messrs. Chilton
& Fladgate.

'What are you going to do with yourself, Ashburn, now?' said Mr.
Shelford in his abrupt way as they went along. 'Going to be a
schoolmaster and live on the _crambe repetita_ all your life, hey?'

'I don't know,' said Mark sullenly; 'very likely.'

'Take my advice (I'm old enough to offer it unasked); give yourself a
chance while you can of a future which won't cramp and sour and wear
you as this will. If you feel any interest in the boys----'

'Which I don't,' put in Mark.

'Exactly, which you don't--but if you did--I remember _I_ did once, in
some of 'em, and helped 'em on, and spoke to the headmaster about 'em,
and so on. Well, they'll pass out of your class and look another way
when they meet you afterwards. As for the dullards, they'll be always
with you, like the poor, down at the bottom like a sediment, sir, and
much too heavy to stir up! I can't manage 'em now, and my temper gets
the better of me, God forgive me for it, and I say things I'm sorry
for and that don't do me or them any good, and they laugh at me. But
I've got my parish to look after; it's not a large one, but it acts as
an antidote. You're not even in orders, so there's no help for you
_that_ way; and the day will come when the strain gets too much for
you, and you'll throw the whole thing up in disgust, and find yourself
forced to go through the same thing somewhere else, or begin the world
in some other capacity. Choose some line in which hard work and
endurance for years will bring you in a more substantial reward than
that.'

'Well,' said Mark, for whom this gloomy view of his prospects
reflected his own forebodings, 'I am reading for the Bar. I went up
for my call-examination the other day.'

'Ah, is that so? I'm glad to hear of it; a fine profession, sir;
constant variety and excitement--for the pleader, that is to say' (Mr.
Shelford shared the lay impression that pleading was a form of
passionate appeal to judge and jurymen), 'and of course you would
plead in court. The law has some handsome prizes in its disposal, too.
But you should have an attorney or two to push you on, they say.
Perhaps you can count on that?'

'I wish I could,' said Mark, 'but the fact is my ambition doesn't lie
in a legal direction at all. I don't care very much about the Bar.'

'Do you care very much about anything? Does your ambition lie
anywhere?'

'Not now; it did once--literature, you know; but that's all over.'

'I remember, to be sure. They rejected that Christmas piece of yours,
didn't they? Well, if you've no genuine talent for it, the sooner you
find it out the better for you. If you feel you've something inside of
you that must out in chapters and volumes, it generally comes, and all
the discouragement in the world won't keep it down. It's like those
stories of demoniacal possession in the "Anatomy"--you know your
Burton, I daresay? Some of the possessed brought "globes of hair" and
"such-like baggage" out of themselves, but others "stones with
inscriptions." If the demon gets too strong for you, try and produce a
stone with a good readable inscription on it--not three globes of hair
for the circulating libraries.'

'We shall see,' said Mark laughing. 'I must leave you here. I have an
appointment with Chilton & Fladgate just by.'

'Ay, ay,' said the old gentleman, wagging his head; 'publishers,
aren't they? Don't tell me your ambition's dead if it's taken you as
far as that. But I won't ask any more questions. I shall hope to be
able to congratulate you shortly. I won't keep you away from your
publishers any longer.'

'They are not my publishers yet,' said Mark; 'they have made me some
proposals, but I have not accepted them at present.'

He knew what a false impression this would leave with his companion,
bare statement of fact as it was, but he made it deliberately, feeling
almost as much flattered by the unconscious increase of consideration
in the other's voice and manner as if there had been the slightest
foundation for it.

They said good-bye, and the old clergyman went on and was swallowed up
in the crowd, thinking as he went, 'Publishing, eh? a good firm, too.
I don't think he could afford to do it at his own expense. Perhaps
there's more ballast in him after all than I gave him credit for. I
can't help liking the young fellow somehow, too. I should like to see
him make a good start.'

Mark, having sent up his name by one of the clerks behind the imposing
mahogany counters, was shown through various swinging glass doors into
a waiting-room, where the magazines and books symmetrically arranged
on the table gave a certain flavour of dentistry to the place.

Mark turned them over with a quite unreasonable nervousness, but the
fact was he shrank from what he considered the humiliation of
explaining that he was a mere agent; it occurred to him for the first
time, too, that Holroyd's death might possibly complicate matters, and
he felt a vague anger against his dead friend for leaving him in such
a position.

The clerk returned with a message that Mr. Fladgate would be happy to
see Mark at once, and so he followed upstairs and along passages with
glimpses through open doors of rooms full of clerks and desks, until
they came to a certain room into which Mark was shown--a small room
with a considerable litter of large wicker trays filled with proofs,
packets and rolls of manuscripts of all sizes, and piles of books and
periodicals, in the midst of which Mr. Fladgate was sitting with his
back to the light, which was admitted through windows of ground-glass.

He rose and came forward to meet Mark, and Mark saw a little
reddish-haired and whiskered man, with quick eyes, and a curious
perpendicular fold in the forehead above a short, blunt nose, a mobile
mouth, and a pleasantly impulsive manner.

'How do you do, Mr. Beauchamp?' he said heartily, using the _nom de
plume_ with an air of implied compliment; 'and so you've made up your
mind to entrust yourself to us, have you? That's right. I don't think
you'll find any reason to regret it, I don't indeed.'

Mark said he was sure of that.

'Well, now, as to the book,' continued Mr. Fladgate; 'I've had the
pleasure of looking through it myself, as well as Mr. Blackshaw, our
reader, and I must tell you that I agree with him in considering that
you have written a very remarkable book. As we told you, you know, it
may or may not prove a pecuniary success, but, however that may be, my
opinion of it will remain the same; it ought, in my judgment, to
ensure you a certain standing at once--at once.'

Mark heard this with a pang of jealousy. Long before, he had dreamed
of just such an interview, in which he should be addressed in some
such manner--his dream was being fulfilled now with relentless
mockery!

'But there is a risk,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'a decided risk, which
brings me to the subject of terms. Are you satisfied with the offer we
made to you? You see that a first book----'

'Excuse me for one moment,' said Mark desperately, 'I'm afraid you
imagine that--that _I_ wrote the book?'

'That certainly was my impression,' said Mr. Fladgate, with a humorous
light in his eye; 'the only address on the manuscript was yours, and I
came to the not unnatural conclusion that Mr. Ashburn and Mr.
Beauchamp were one and the same. Am I to understand that is _not_ the
case?'

'The book,' said Mark--what it cost him to say this,--'the book was
written by a friend of mine, who went abroad some time ago.'

'Indeed? Well, we should prefer to treat with him in person, of
course, if possible.'

'It isn't possible,' said Mark, 'my friend was lost at sea, but he
asked me to represent him in this matter, and I believe I know his
wishes.'

'I've no doubt of it; but you see, Mr.--Mr. Ashburn, this must be
considered a little. I suppose you have some authority from him in
writing, to satisfy us (merely as a matter of business) that we are
dealing with the right person?'

'I have not indeed,' said Mark, 'my friend was very anxious to retain
his incognito.'

'He must have been--very much so,' said Mr. Fladgate, coughing; 'well,
perhaps you can bring me some writing of his to that effect? You may
have it among your papers, eh?'

'No,' said Mark, 'my friend did not think it necessary to give me
one--he was anxious to----'

'Oh, quite so--then you can procure me a line or two perhaps?'

'I told you that my friend was dead,' said Mark a little impatiently.

'Ah, so you did, to be sure, I forgot. I thought--but no matter. Well,
Mr. Ashburn, if you can't say anything more than this--anything, you
understand, which puts you in a position to treat with us, I'm
afraid--I'm _afraid_ I must ask time to think over this. If your
friend is really dead, I suppose your authority is determined.
Perhaps, however, his--ahem--anxiety to preserve his incognito has led
him to allow this rumour of his death to be circulated?'

'I don't think that is likely,' said Mark, wondering at an
undercurrent of meaning in the publisher's tone, a meaning which had
nothing sinister in it, and yet seemed urging him to contradict
himself for some reason.

'That is your last word, then?' said Mr. Fladgate, and there was a
sharp inflection as of disappointment and irritation in his voice, and
the fold in his forehead deepened.

'It must be,' said Mark, rising, 'I have kept you too long already.'

'If you really _must_ go,' said Mr. Fladgate, not using the words in
their conventional sense of polite dismissal. 'But, Mr. Ashburn, are
you quite sure that this interview might not be saved from coming to
nothing, as it seems about to do? Might not a word or two from you set
things right again? I don't wish to force you to tell me anything you
would rather keep concealed--but really, this story you tell about a
Mr. Vincent Beauchamp who is dead only ties our hands, you
understand--ties our hands!'

'If so,' said Mark, uncomfortably, 'I can only say I am very sorry for
it--I don't see how I can help it.'

He was beginning to feel that this business of Holroyd's had given him
quite trouble enough.

'Now, Mr. Ashburn, as I said before, I should be the last man to
press you--but really, you know, _really_--this is a trifle absurd! I
think you might be a little more frank with me, I do indeed. There is
no reason why you should not trust me!'

Was this man tempting him, thought Mark. Could he be so anxious to
bring out this book that he was actually trying to induce him to
fabricate some story which would get over the difficulties that had
arisen?

As a mere matter of fact, it may be almost unnecessary to mention that
no such idea had occurred to worthy Mr. Fladgate, who, though he
certainly was anxious to secure the book if he could, by any
legitimate means, was anything but a publishing Mephistopheles. He had
an object, however, in making this last appeal for confidence, as will
appear immediately; but, innocent as it was, Mark's imagination
conjured up a bland demon tempting him to some act of unspeakable
perfidy; he trembled--but not with horror. 'What do you mean?' he
stammered.

Mr. Fladgate gave a glance of keen amusement at the pale troubled face
of the young man before him. 'What do I mean?' he repeated. 'Come,
I've known sensitive women try to conceal their identity, and even
their sex, from their own publishers; I've known men even persuade
themselves they didn't care for notoriety--but such a determined
instance of what I must take leave to call the literary ostrich I
don't think I ever _did_ meet before! I never met a writer so
desperately anxious to remain unknown that he would rather take his
manuscript back than risk his secret with his own publisher. But don't
you see that you have raised (I don't use the term in the least
offensively) the mask, so to speak--you should have sent somebody else
here to-day if you wished to keep me in the dark. I've not been in
business all these years, Mr. Ashburn, without gaining a little
experience. I think, I _do_ think, I am able to know an author when I
see him--we are all liable to error, but I am very much mistaken if
this Mr. Vincent Beauchamp (who was so unfortunately lost at sea) is
not to be recovered alive by a little judicious dredging. Do think if
you can't produce him; come, he's not in very deep water--bring him
up, Mr. Ashburn, bring him up!'

'You make this very difficult for me,' said Mark, in a low voice; he
knew now how greatly he had misjudged the man, who had spoken with
such an innocent, amiable pride in his own surprising discernment; he
also felt how easy and how safe it would be to take advantage of this
misunderstanding, and what a new future it might open to him--but he
was struggling still against the temptation so unconsciously held out
to him.

'I might retort that, I think. Now, be reasonable, Mr. Ashburn. I
assure you the writer, whoever he may be, has no cause to be ashamed
of the book--the time will come when he will probably be willing
enough to own it. Still, if he wishes to keep his real name secret, I
tell him, through you, that he may surely be content to trust that to
us. We have kept such secrets before--not very long, to be sure, as a
general rule; but then that was because the authors usually relieved
us from the trouble--the veil was never lifted by us.'

'I think you said,' began Mark, as if thinking aloud, 'that other
works by--by the same author would be sure of acceptance?'

'I should be very glad to have an opportunity, in time, of producing
another book by Mr. Vincent Beauchamp--but Mr. Beauchamp, as you
explained, is unhappily no more. Perhaps these are earlier manuscripts
of his?'

Mark had been seized with the desire of making one more attempt, in
spite of his promise to his uncle, to launch those unhappy paper ships
of his--'Sweet Bells Jangled' and 'One Fair Daughter.' For an instant
it occurred to him that he might answer this last question in the
affirmative; he had little doubt that if he did his books would meet
with a very different reception from that of Messrs. Leadbitter and
Gandy; still, that would only benefit Holroyd--not himself, and then
he recollected, only just in time, that the difference in handwriting
(which was very considerable) would betray him. He looked confused and
said nothing.

Mr. Fladgate's patience began to tire. 'We don't seem to be making any
way, do we?' he said, with rather affected pleasantry. 'I'm afraid I
must ask you to come to a decision on this without any more delay.
Here is the manuscript you sent us. If the real author is dead we are
compelled to return it with much regret. If you can tell me anything
which does away with the difficulty, this is the time to tell it. Of
course you will do exactly as you please, but after what you have
chosen to tell us we can hardly see our way, as I said, to treat with
you without some further explanation. Come, Mr. Ashburn, am I to have
it or not?'

'Give me a little time,' said Mark faintly, and the publisher, as he
had expected, read the signs of wavering in his face, though it was
not of the nature he believed it to be.

Mark sat down again and rested his chin on his hand, with his face
turned away from the other's eyes. A conflict was going on within him
such as he had never been called upon to fight before, and he had only
a very few minutes allowed him to fight it.

Perhaps in these crises a man does not always arrange pros and cons to
contend for him in the severely logical manner with which we find him
doing it in print. The forces on the enemy's side can generally be
induced to desert. All the advantages which would follow if he once
allowed himself to humour the publisher's mistake were very
prominently before Mark's mind--the dangers and difficulties kept in
the background. He was incapable of considering the matter coolly; he
felt an overmastering impulse upon him, and he had never trained
himself to resist his impulses for very long. There was very little of
logical balancing going on in his brain; it began to seem terribly,
fatally easy to carry out this imposition. The fraud itself grew less
ugly and more harmless every instant.

He saw his own books, so long kept out in the cold by ignorant
prejudice, accepted on the strength of Holroyd's 'Glamour,' and, once
fairly before the public, taking the foremost rank in triumph and
rapidly eclipsing their forerunner. He would be appreciated at last,
delivered from the life he hated, able to lead the existence he longed
for. All he wanted was a hearing; there seemed no other way to obtain
it; he had no time to lose. How could it injure Holroyd? He had not
cared for fame in life; would he miss it after his death? The
publishers might be mistaken; the book might be unnoticed altogether;
_he_ might prove to be the injured person.

But, as Mr. Fladgate seemed convinced of its merit, as he would
evidently take anything alleged to come from the same source without a
very severe scrutiny, there was nothing for it but to risk this
contingency.

Mark was convinced that publishers were influenced entirely by
unreasoning prejudices; he thoroughly believed that his works would
carry all before them if any firm could once overcome their repugnance
to his powerful originality, and here was one firm at least prepared
to lay that aside at a word from him. Why should he let it go unsaid?

The money transactions caused him the most hesitation. If he took
money for another man's work, there was a name, and a very ugly name,
for that. But he would _not_ keep it. As soon as he learnt the names
of Holroyd's legal representatives, whoever they might be, he would
pay the money over to them without mentioning the exact manner in
which it had become due. In time, when he had achieved a reputation
for himself, he could give back the name he had borrowed for a
time--at least he told himself he could do so.

He stood in no danger of detection, or, if he did, it was very slight.
Vincent was not the man to confide in more than one person; he had
owned as much. He had been reticent enough to conceal his real surname
from his publishers, and now he could never reveal the truth.

All this rushed through his mind in a hurried, confused form; all his
little vanities and harmless affectations and encouragements of false
impressions had made him the less capable of resisting now.

'Well?' said Mr. Fladgate at last.

Mark's heart beat fast. He turned round and faced the publisher. 'I
suppose I had better trust you,' he said awkwardly, and with a sort of
shamefaced constraint that was admirably in keeping with his
confession, though not artificial.

'I think so. Then you are the man--this book "Glamour"'s your own
work?'

'If you must have it--yes,' said Mark desperately.

The words were spoken now, and for good or ill he must abide by them
henceforth to the end.




CHAPTER X.

REPENTE TURPISSIMUS.


No sooner had Mark declared himself the author of his dead friend's
book than he would have given anything to recall his words, not so
much from conscience (though he did feel he had suddenly developed
into a surprisingly finished scoundrel), as from a fear that his lie
might after all be detected. He sat staring stupidly at Mr. Fladgate,
who patted him on the shoulder with well-meant encouragement; he had
never seen quite so coy an author before. 'I'm very glad to make Mr.
Vincent Beauchamp's acquaintance--at last,' he said, beaming with
honest pride at the success of his tactics, 'and now we can come to
terms again.'

He did not find Mark more difficult to deal with than most budding
authors, and in this case Mark was morbidly anxious to get the money
part of the transaction over as soon as possible; he could not decide
whether his conscience would be better or worse satisfied if he
insisted on the best pecuniary terms he could obtain, so in his
indecision he took the easier course of agreeing to everything.

'About the title now?' said Mr. Fladgate, when the terms had been
reduced to a formal memorandum. 'I don't think I quite like your
present one; too moonshiny, eh?'

Mark owned that it did sound a little moonshiny.

'I think, too, I rather think, there's something very like it out
already, and that may lead to unpleasantness, you know. Now, can you
suggest something else which will give a general idea of the nature of
the book?'

As Mark had absolutely no idea what the book was about, he could not.

'Well, Mr. Blackshaw suggested something like "Enchantment," or
"Witchery."'

'I don't care about either of those,' said Mark, who found this sort
of dissembling unexpectedly easy.

'No,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'No. I think you're right. Now, I had a
notion--I don't know what you will think of it--but I thought you
might call it "A Modern Merlin," eh?'

'"A Modern Merlin,"' repeated Mark thoughtfully.

'Yes, it's not _quite_ the right thing, perhaps, but it's taking, I
think, taking.'

Mark said it was taking.

'Of course _your_ hero is not exactly a magician, but it brings in the
"Vivien" part of the story, don't you see?' Of course Mark did not
see, but he thought it best to agree. 'Well,' continued Mr. Fladgate,
who was secretly rather proud of his title, 'how does it strike you
now? it seems to me as good a title as we are likely to hit upon.'

After all, Mark thought, what did it matter? it wasn't his book,
except in name. 'I think it's excellent,' he said, 'excellent; and, by
the way, Mr. Fladgate,' he added, 'I should like to change the _nom de
plume_: it's a whim of mine, perhaps, but there's another I've been
thinking lately I should like better.'

'By all means,' said the other, taking up a pencil to make the
necessary alteration on the manuscript, 'but why not use your real
name? I prophesy you'll be proud of that book some day; think over
it.'

'No,' said Mark, 'I don't wish my real name to appear just yet' (he
hardly knew why; perhaps a lingering sense of shame held him back from
this more open dishonesty). 'Will you strike out "Vincent Beauchamp,"
and put in "Cyril Ernstone," please?' For 'Cyril Ernstone' had been
the pseudonym which he had chosen long ago for himself, and he wished
to be able to use it now, since he must not use his own.

'Very well, then, we may consider that settled. We think of bringing
out the book as soon as possible, without waiting for the spring
season; it will go to press at once and we will send you the proofs as
soon as we get them in.'

'There's one thing, perhaps, I'd better mention,' said Mark suddenly;
after he had turned to go a new danger had occurred to him, 'the
handwriting of the manuscript is not mine. I--I thought it as well to
tell you that beforehand; it might lead to mistakes. I had it copied
out for me by--by a friend.'

Mr. Fladgate burst out laughing. 'Pardon me,' he said, when he had
finished, 'but really I couldn't help it, you do seem to have been so
bent on hoodwinking us.'

'And yet you have found me out, you see,' said Mark, with a very
unmirthful smile.

Mr. Fladgate smiled, too, making a little gesture of his hand,
thinking very possibly that few precautions could be proof against his
sagacity, and they parted.

Mark went down the stairs and through the clerks' room into the
street, with a dazed and rather awestruck feeling upon him. He hardly
realised the treachery he had been guilty of, the temptation had burst
upon him so suddenly, his fall had been made so easy for him, that he
scarcely felt his dishonour, nor was he likely to feel it very keenly
so long as only good results should flow from it. But he was vaguely
conscious that he was not the same Mark Ashburn who had parted from
old Shelford not an hour ago in the street there; he was a man with a
new hope in his breast, and it might be a new fear, but the hope was
near and bright, the fear shadowy and remote as yet: he had only to
keep his own counsel and be patient for a while, and the course of
events would assuredly bring him the stake he had played so high for.

At home that evening he took down his manuscript novels (which of
course he had _not_ burnt) and read them again carefully. Yes; there
was power in them, he felt it, a copious flow of words, sparkling wit,
and melting pathos. The white heat at which the lines were written
surprised even himself. It was humiliating to think that without the
subterfuge that had been forced upon him he might have found it
impossible to find publishers who would appreciate these merits, for
after Messrs. Leadbitter & Gandy's refusal he had recognised this to
the full; but now, at least, they were insured against any such fate.
A careful reading was absolutely necessary to a proper estimation of
them, and a careful reading they had never had as yet, and would
receive at last, or, if they did not, it would only be because the
reputation he had appropriated would procure them a ready acceptance
without any such preliminary ordeal. The great point gained was that
they would be published, and after that he feared nothing.

If anything whispered to him that he might have accomplished even this
by honourable means; that in time and with economy he could have
produced them at his own expense; that perhaps a little more
perseverance might even have discovered a firm with sufficient faith
to take the risk upon themselves; if these doubts suggested themselves
to him he had little difficulty in arguing them down. They might have
had some weight once, but they came too late; the thing was done now
and could never be recalled; his whole interest lay in persuading
himself that what he had done was the only thing that could be done,
unless he was content to resign his ambition for ever, and Mark
succeeded in persuading himself of this.

Very soon his chief feeling was one of impatience for Holroyd's book
to come out and make way for his own: then any self-reproach he might
still feel would be drowned in a sense of triumph which would justify
the means he had taken; so he waited eagerly for the arrival of the
first proofs.

They arrived at last. As he came back one evening to Malakoff Terrace,
Trixie ran to meet him, holding up two tightly rolled parcels, with a
great curiosity in her eyes. 'They came this afternoon,' she
whispered, 'and oh, Mark, I couldn't help it; I tore one end a little
and peeped; are they really part of a book--is it _yours_?'

Mark thought he had better accustom himself to this kind of thing as
early as possible. 'Yes, Trixie,' he said, 'they're the first proofs
of my book.'

'O-oh!' cried Trixie, with a gasp of delight, 'not "Sweet Bells
Jangled," Mark?'

'No, _not_ "Sweet Bells Jangled," it--it's a book you don't know
about--a little thing I don't expect very much from, but my publishers
seem to like it, and I can follow it up with the "Bells" afterwards.'

He was turning over the rough greyish pages as he spoke, and Trixie
was peeping greedily at them, too, with her pretty chin dug into his
shoulder.

'And did you really write all that?' she said; 'how interesting it
looks, you clever boy! You _might_ have told me you were doing it,
though. What's it about?'

'How can I tell you before I know myself,' said Mark, quite forgetting
himself in his impatience. 'I--I mean, Trixie, that I can't correct
these proofs as they ought to be corrected while you stay here
chattering.'

'I'll go in a minute, Mark; but you won't have time to correct them
before dinner, you know. When did you write it?'

'What _does_ it matter when I wrote it!' said Mark irritably; 'if it
hadn't been written the proofs wouldn't be here, would they? Is there
anything else you would like to know--_how_ I wrote it, where I wrote
it, why I wrote it? You seem to think it a most extraordinary thing
that anything I write should be printed at all, Trixie.'

'I don't know why you should speak like that, Mark,' said Trixie,
rather hurt; 'you know a little while ago you never expected such a
thing yourself. I can't help wanting to know all I can about it. What
_will_ you say to Uncle Solomon?' she added, with a little quiver of
laughter in her voice. 'You promised him to give up literature, you
know.'

'Don't you remember the Arab gentleman in the poem?' said Mark
lightly. 'He agreed to sell his steed, but when the time came it
didn't come off--he didn't come off, either--_he_ "flung them back
their gold," and rode away. I shall fling Uncle Solomon back _his_
gold, metaphorically, and gallop off on my Pegasus.'

'Ma won't like that,' prophesied Trixie, shaking her head wisely.

'No; mother objects to that kind of horse-exercise, and, ahem, Trixie,
it might be as well to say nothing about it to any of them just at
present. There will only be a fuss about it, and I can't stand that.'

Trixie promised silence. 'I'm so glad about it, though, you can't
think, Mark,' she said; 'and this isn't one of your _great_ books,
either, you said, didn't you?'

'No,' said Mark; 'it's not one of _them_. I haven't put my best work
into it.'

'You put your best work into the two that came back, didn't you?'
asked Trixie naively. 'But they won't come back any more, will they?
They'll be glad of them if this is a success.'

'Fladgate will be glad of them, I fancy, in any case. I've got a
chance at last, Trixie. A chance at last!'

Later that night he locked himself in the room which he used as a
sitting-room and bedroom combined, and set himself, not without
repugnance, to go steadily through the proofs, and make the
acquaintance of the work he had made his own.

Much has been said of the delight with which an author reads his first
proofs, and possibly the sensation is a wholly pleasurable one to
some; to others it is not without its drawbacks. Ideas that seemed
vivid and bright enough when they were penned have a bald tame look in
the new form in which they come back. The writer finds himself
judging the work as a stranger's, and forming the worst opinions of
it. He sees hideous gaps and crudities beyond all power of correction,
and for the first time, perhaps, since he learned that his manuscript
was accepted, his self-doubts return to him.

But Mark's feelings were much more complicated than this; all the
gratified pride of an author was naturally denied to him, and it was
thoroughly distasteful to him to carry out his scheme of deception by
such sordid details as the necessary corrections of printers' errors.

But he was anxiously eager to find out what kind of a literary
bantling was this which he had fathered so fraudulently; he had
claimed it in blind reliance on the publisher's evident
enthusiasm--had he made a mistake after all? What if it proved
something which could do him no credit whatever--a trap into which his
ambition had led him! The thought that this might be so made him very
uneasy. Poor Holroyd, he thought, was a very good fellow--an excellent
fellow, but not exactly the man to write a book of extraordinary
merit--clever, perhaps, but clever in an unobtrusive way--and Mark's
tendency was to judge, as he expected to be judged himself, by
outsides.

With these misgivings crowded upon him, he sat down to read the
opening chapters; he was not likely to be much overcome by admiration
in any case, for his habitual attitude in studying even the greatest
works was critical, as he felt the presence of eccentricities or
shortcomings which he himself would have avoided.

But at least, as he read on, his greatest anxiety was set at rest--if
he could judge by the instalment before him, and the book was not in
any danger of coming absolutely to grief--it would do his reputation
no harm. It was not, to be sure, the sort of book he would have
written himself, as he affected the cynical mode of treatment and the
indiscriminate satire which a rather young writer feels instinctively
that the world expects from him. Still, it was not so bad. It was
slightly dreamy and mystical in parts, the work of a man who had lived
more amongst books than in the world, but some of the passages glowed
with the rich imagery of a true poet, and here and there were
indications of a quiet and cultivated humour which would recommend
itself to all who do not consider the humorous element in literature
as uncanny, if not personally offensive. The situations were strong,
too, and as nearly new as situations can be and retain any probability
in this over-plagiarised world; and at least one of the characters was
obviously studied from life with a true and tender observation.

All of this Mark did not see, nor was he capable of seeing, but he
thought that, with a little 'weeding' and 'writing-up,' the book would
do, and set himself to supply what was wanting with a laudable
self-devotion. His general plan of accomplishing this may be described
here once for all.

He freshened up chapters with touches of satire, and gave them a more
scholarly air by liberal allusions to the classics; he rewrote some of
the more descriptive and romantic passages, putting his finest and
most florid epithets into them with what he felt was very like
disinterestedness, and a reckless waste of good material. And he cut
down the dialogue in places, or gave it a more colloquial turn, so as
to suit the tastes of the average reader, and he worked up some of the
crises which struck him as inadequately treated.

After that he felt much easier; either considering that these
improvements constituted a sort of atonement, or that they removed any
chance of failure. As this book was to go forth and herald his own, it
was vitally important that it should make as imposing an appearance as
possible.




CHAPTER XI.

REVOLT.


One afternoon, early in the year, Mark had betaken himself to the
'Cock,' where he was to lunch with his uncle by appointment before
going with him to the steward's office of his Inn to pay his fees for
the privilege of being called to the Bar. For Mark had duly presented
himself for the not very searching ordeal by which the public is
guaranteed against the incompetence of practitioners, and, rather to
his own surprise, had not been required to try again. 'Call night' was
announced in the windows of the law wig-makers, and Uncle Solomon, in
high delight, resolved that his nephew should join the next batch of
barristers, had appointed this day for choosing the wig and gown and
settling all other preliminaries--he had been so much pleased, in
fact, as to inclose a handsome cheque in the letter which conveyed his
desires.

So Mark waited by the hoardings of the New Law Courts, until his
relative should join him. Mark was not at ease--he was nerving himself
to make a statement which he felt would come upon his uncle as a far
from gratifying surprise--he had put it off from time to time, out of
weakness, or, as he had told himself, from diplomacy. Now he could do
so no longer. Uncle Solomon had hinted terrible things in his letter
of a certain brief with which his own solicitor was to entrust the
brand-new barrister the morning after his call! But for this, Mark
might have let things drift, as he would strongly have preferred to
do, but this threat of immediate employment drove him to declare
himself. He firmly believed that his true vocation was the one he had
secured at such cost to his self-respect; he was willing enough to
bear the title of barrister, but he had no intention of devoting
himself seriously to the profession; he saw little more attraction in
the Bar than in teaching, and the most self-confident man might have
recoiled at having work thrust into his hands before he had undergone
the slightest practical training for conducting it. And Mark's
imagination saw his first brief bringing others in its train, until he
should sink in a sea of blue foolscap, helpless and entangled in
clinging tentacles of red-tape. Perhaps this was a groundless alarm,
but he had planned out a particular career for himself, a career of
going about and observing (and it is well known that what a man of
genius calls 'observing' is uncommonly like ordinary people's
enjoyment), being famous and flattered, and sitting down in moments of
inspiration to compose with a clear head and a mind unhampered by all
other considerations. Now the responsibility of legal work _would_
hamper him--he felt his muse to be of that jealous disposition which
will suffer no rival--if he meant to be free at all, he must strike
the blow at once. And so, as has been said, he was not at his ease.

Mr. Lightowler appeared as St. Clement Danes struck half-past one; he
was in high good-humour, jubilant, and ruddy. 'Well, Master
Barrister,' he said, chuckling; 'to think o' my living to see you
figurin' about in a wig and gown--you must cut off that moustache of
yours, though, Mark: none of the young barrister fellows I see goin'
up in the train of a mornin' wear 'em. I'm told the judges don't
consider too much 'air respectful, hey? Well, s'pose we go in and have
a bit of something, eh? The "Cock" is it? Ah, I haven't been in
here--I haven't been in here not since I was a young man "on the
road," as we used to call it. I don't mean I was ever in the Dick
Turpin line, but a commercial gentleman, you know. Well, I've made my
way since. You'll have to make yours, with more help than I ever had,
though.'

Mark led the way up a steep little passage and into the well-known
room, with its boxes darkened by age, its saw-dusted floor and quaint
carved Jacobean mantelpiece. He chose a compartment well down at the
bottom of the room.

'What's your partickler preference, eh?' said Uncle Solomon, rather as
if he was treating a schoolboy. 'What's their speciality 'ere, now?
Well, you can give me,' he added to the waiter, with the manner of a
man conferring a particular favour, 'you can give me a chump chop,
underdone, and a sausage. And bring this young gentleman the same. I
don't care about anything 'eavier at this time o' day,' he explained.

Mark talked on all kinds of topics with desperate brilliancy for some
time; he wanted time before approaching _the_ subject.

Uncle Solomon broached it for him. 'You'll want a regler set o'
chambers by-and-by,' he said; 'I've seen a room down Middle Temple
Lane that'll do for you for the present. When the briefs begin to come
in, we'll see about something better. I was talkin' about you to
Ferret the other day,' he went on. 'It'll be all right; he's goin' to
instruct their London agent to send you in a little something that you
can try your 'prentice hand at directly. Isn't _that_ be'aving like an
uncle to you, eh? I hope you will go and do me credit over it; that's
the only way you can pay me back a little--I ask but that of you,
Mark.'

For all his bumptiousness and despotism, there was a real kindness,
possibly not of the purest and most unselfish order, but still
kindness in his manner, and Mark felt a pang at having to reward it as
he must.

The meal was over now, and Uncle Solomon was finishing the glass of
whisky and water before him. 'Well,' he said, as he set it down, 'we'd
better be off to the place where I'm to pay the fees for you. Ah, what
you young fellows cost to start nowadays!'

'That's it,' said Mark; 'I--I would rather not cost you anything,
uncle.'

'It's rather late in the day to be partickler about that, _I_ should
say.'

'It is. I feel that; but I mean, I don't want to cost you any _more_.'

'What d'ye mean by that?'

'I mean that I don't care about being called to the Bar at present.'

'Don't you? Well, I do, so let that be enough for you. If I'm willing
to pay, I don't see what you 'ave to say against it. All _you've_ got
to do is to work.'

'Uncle,' said Mark in a low voice, 'I must tell you what I feel about
this. I--I don't want to cause you to spend your money on false
pretences.'

'You'd better not: that's all I can tell you!'

'Precisely,' said Mark; 'so I'll be quite frank with you beforehand.
If you set your mind on it, I will take my call to the Bar.'

'_Will_ yer, though? That's very affable of you, now!'

'Yes, I will; but I shall never practise; if Ferret's agent sends me
this brief, I shall decline it.'

'I would; that's the way to get on at the Bar; you're a sharp feller,
_you_ are!'

'I don't want to get on at the Bar. I don't mean to take it up; there,
if you choose to be angry, I can't help it. I've told you.'

'Then may I take the liberty of inquirin' _'ow_ you purpose to live?'
demanded Uncle Solomon.

'I mean to live by literature,' said Mark; 'I know I promised I
wouldn't write any more: well, as far as that goes, I've kept my word;
but--but a former book of mine has been accepted on very liberal
terms, I see my way now to making a living by my pen, and though I'm
sorry, of course, if it disappoints you, I mean to choose my life for
myself, while I can.'

It must be highly annoying when one has, after infinite labour,
succeeded in converting a clown, to see him come to chapel with a
red-hot poker and his pockets full of stolen sausages; but even that
shock is nothing to Uncle Solomon's.

He turned deadly pale and sank back in the box, glaring at Mark and
opening his mouth once or twice with a fish-like action, but without
speaking. When he could articulate, he called the waiter, giving Mark
reason for a moment to fear that he was going to pour out his rage and
disappointment into the ears of one of the smug and active attendants.

'Take for me and this young man, will yer?' was all he said, however.
When the waiter had reckoned up the sum in the time-honoured manner
and departed, Uncle Solomon turned and began to struggle into his
great-coat. 'Let me help you,' said Mark, but Mr. Lightowler
indignantly jerked himself away. 'I don't want to be helped into my
coat by you,' he said; 'you've helped me into my grave by what you've
done this day, you have; let that be sufficient for you!'

When he had rendered himself rather conspicuous by his ineffectual
attempts to put on the coat, and was reduced to accept the assistance
of two waiters who shook him into it obsequiously, he came back to the
box where Mark was sitting in a relieved but still vaguely
uncomfortable frame of mind.

'I don't want to 'ave many words with you about this,' he began with a
sternness that was not unimpressive. 'If I was to let myself out in
'ere, I should go too far. I'll only just tell you this much; this is
the second time you've played me this trick, and it's the last! I
warned you before that I should have done with you if you did it
again: you'll 'ave no more chances like the last, so mind that. Take
care of that cheque, you needn't fear I shall stop it, but you won't
get many more out o' me. And now I'll bid you good-day, young
gentleman; I'm goin' to Kensington, and then I shall do a little
littery composing on my own account, since it's so pop'lar, and get
Ferret to help me with it. I'm not one of your littery men, but I
dessey I can compose something yet that'll be read some day with a
good deal of interest; it won't be pleasant reading for you, though, I
can tell yer!'

He went noisily out, the waiters staring after him and the people
looking up from their boxes as he passed, and Mark was left to his own
reflections, which were of a mixed order.

He had accomplished his main object--his slavery was over, and he felt
an indescribable relief at the thought; still, he could not avoid the
suspicion that his freedom might have been dearly purchased. His
uncle's words had pointed to a state of things in which he would have
benefited to a considerable extent under his will, and that was over
now. Would it not have been worth while to endure a little longer--but
Mark felt strongly that it would not. With such prospects as he now
saw opening before him, the idea of submitting himself to an old man's
ambitious whims for the sake of a reward which might, after all, be
withheld at last was utterly revolting. He felt a certain excitement,
too, at the idea of conquering the world single-handed.

When he left the 'Cock' he walked slowly and irresolutely down the
Strand. 'If I go home now I shall find _him_ blustering there. I don't
feel equal to any more of him just now,' he thought.

He had no club to go to at that time, so he went and read the papers,
and drank coffee at a cigar divan until it was late enough to dine,
and after dinner tried to drown his care by going to see one of those
anomalous productions--a 'three-act burlesque'--at a neighbouring
theatre, which he sat through with a growing gloom, in spite of the
pretty faces and graceful dances which have now, with some rare
exceptions, made plot and humour so unnecessary. Each leading member
of the clever company danced his or her special _pas seul_ as if for a
competitive examination, but left him unthrilled amidst all the
enthusiasm that thundered from most parts of the house. It is true
that there were faces there--and young men's faces--quite as solemn as
his own, but then theirs was the solemnity of an enjoyment too deep
for expression, while Mark's face was blank from a depression he could
not shake off.

He went away at the end of the second act with a confused recollection
of glowing groups of silk-clad figures, forming up into a tableau for
no obvious dramatic reason, and, thinking it better to face his family
before the morning, went straight home to Malakoff Terrace. He could
not help a slight nervousness as he opened the gate and went up the
narrow path of flagstones. The lower window was dark, but there were
no lights in the upper rooms, so that he guessed that the family had
not retired. Mrs. Ashburn was entirely opposed to the latch-key as a
domestic implement, and had sternly refused to allow such a thing to
pass her threshold, so that Mark refrained from making use of the
key--which of course he had--in all cases where it was not absolutely
necessary, and he knocked and rang now.

Trixie came to the door and let him in. 'They've sent Ann to bed,' she
whispered, 'but ma and pa are sitting up for you.'

'Are they though?' said Mark grimly, as he hung up his hat.

'Yes,' said Trixie; 'come in here for a minute, Mark, while I tell you
all about it. Uncle Solomon has been here this afternoon and stayed to
dinner and he's been saying, oh, such dreadful things about you. Why
weren't you here?'

'I thought I should enjoy my dinner more if I dined out,' said Mark.
'Well, and what's the end of it all, Trixie?'

'I'm sure I don't know what it will be. Uncle Solomon actually wanted
me to come and live with him at Chigbourne, and said he would make it
worth my while in the end, if I would promise not to have anything
more to do with you.'

'Ah, and when are you going?' said Mark, with a cynicism that was only
on the surface.

'When!' said Trixie indignantly, 'why, never. Horrid old man! As if I
cared about his money! I told him what I thought about things, and I
think I made him angrier. I hope so, I'm sure.'

'Did he make the same offer to Martha or Cuthbert?' asked Mark; 'and
were they indignant too?'

'They weren't asked. I don't think Uncle Solomon cares about them
much; _you're_ his favourite, Mark.'

'Yes, _I'm_ his favourite,' said Mark; 'but I'm not proud, Trixie.
Besides, I rather think all that is over now.'

Here the door of the next room opened, and Mrs. Ashburn's voice was
heard saying, 'Trixie, tell your brother Mark that, if he is in a
condition to be spoken to, his father and I have something to say to
him at once.'

'Encouraging that,' said Mark. 'Well, Trixie, here goes. You'd better
go to bed. I'm afraid we are going to have a scene in there.'

He went in with a rather overdone cheerfulness. 'Well, mother,' he
began, attempting to kiss her, 'I didn't dine at home to-night
because----'

'I know why you didn't dine at home,' she said. 'I wish for no kisses
from you, Mark. We have seen your uncle.'

'So have I,' said Mark; 'I lunched with him.'

'It is useless to trifle now,' she said; 'we know all.'

'I assure you I _did_ lunch with him; we had chops,' said Mark, who
sometimes found the bland and childlike manner very useful in these
emergencies. It did not serve him then, however.

'How could you deceive your uncle in such a manner?' she resumed.

'I didn't. I _un_deceived him.'

'You have disappointed all his plans for you; thrown up the Bar, your
position at St. Peter's, all your prospects in life--and for what?'

'For fun, of course, mother. I don't know what I'm fit for or what I
want; it's pure idiotic recklessness, isn't it?'

'It is; but don't talk to me in that ribald tone, Mark; I have enough
to bear as it is. Once for all I ask you, Is it true what my brother
tells me, that you have returned to the mire like the sow in the
Scriptures; that you are going to let your name be connected
with--with a novel, after all you have promised?'

'Quite true,' said Mark; 'I hope to be connected with many novels.'

'Mark,' said his mother, 'you know what I think about that. I implore
you to pause while there's time still, before doing what you can never
recall. It's not only from worldly motives that I ask it. Surely you
can sacrifice a contemptible vanity to your duty towards your mother.
I may be wrong in my prejudices, but still I have a right to expect
you to regard them. I ask you once more to withdraw from this. Are you
going to refuse me?'

Mrs. Ashburn's harsh tones carried a very genuine feeling and concern.
She truly believed that the paths of fiction would lead to her son's
spiritual as well as his material ruin, and Mark had sense enough to
recognise the reality of this belief of hers, and drop the levity he
had assumed for defensive purposes.

His father had, as usual, taken no part in the interview; he sat
looking dolefully at the fire, as if anxious to remain neutral as long
as possible; he had long been a mere suzerain, and, like some other
suzerains, felt a very modified resentment at a rebellion against an
authority that was only nominally his own.

So Mark addressed himself to his mother only. 'I'm sorry if it grieves
you, mother,' he said, gently enough; 'but you really must let me go
my own way in this--it is no use at all asking me to withdraw now....
I have gone too far.... Some day you will see that I was not so very
foolish after all. I promise you that. Wouldn't you rather think of me
as living the life I could be happy in--being famous, perhaps, even,
some day--than dragging out my days in a school or slaving at a
profession I can never care for? Of course you would! And a novel
isn't such an awful thing, if you could only bring yourself to think
so. You never will read one, you know, so you can't be a very
impartial judge.'

Mrs. Ashburn read very little of any literature; what she did read
being chiefly the sermons and biographies of Dissenting divines, and
she had never felt any desire to stimulate her imagination by anything
much more exciting, especially by accounts of things that never
happened, and were consequently untruthful. Her extreme horror of
fiction was a form of bigotry now almost extinct, but she had grown up
in it and retained it in all the old Puritan vigour.

She showed no signs of being at all impressed by Mark's remonstrance;
her eyes were severely cold, and her voice measured and loud as she
replied, without looking at him.

'You won't make me change my opinion in the least, Mark, if you were
to talk till daylight. If you set yourself against my wishes in this,
we have quite made up our minds how to act, have we not, Matthew?'

'Yes, quite,' said Mr. Ashburn, uneasily, 'quite; but I hope, Mark,
my boy, I hope you won't cross your mother in this, when you see how
strongly she feels about it. I want to keep my children about me while
I can; I don't wish anyone to go if it can be arranged--if it can be
arranged.'

'Do you mean, mother, that if I don't do as Uncle Solomon and you
wish, I am to go?' asked Mark.

'I do,' said his mother. 'I won't encourage any son of mine against my
conscience and my principles. If you choose to live a life of
frivolity and idleness, you shall not lead it under my roof; so you
know what to expect if you persist in disobeying me--us, I mean.'

'I think I had better go,' said Mark; 'I don't quite see what enormity
I have been guilty of, but if you look at things in that light, there
is no more to be said. I have chosen my life, and I don't mean to go
back from it. I will see about finding lodgings as soon as I can, and
you shall not be troubled with me any longer than I can help.'

'Mark, don't be headstrong--don't let your passion get the better of
you!' cried his mother, moved out of all her stoniness--for she had
not quite expected this, believing that the amount of Mark's salary
and his expenses made him practically dependent on her. She had
forgotten his uncle's cheque, and did not believe in any serious
profits to be gained from literature.

'I'm not in the least angry,' he said; 'I don't wish to go, if you
wish me to stay, but if you meant what you said just now, I have no
choice.'

His mother was much too proud to weaken her authority by retracting.
She still hoped that he would yield if she remained firm, but yielding
was out of the question with Mark then, and, besides, independence had
its charms, though he would not have been the first to loosen the tie.

'Blame your wicked pride and selfishness, Mark, not your mother, who
is only anxious for your good. Go, if you will, but don't dare to
expect a blessing on your disobedience.'

'Do you say go, too, father?' said Mark.

'You hear what your mother says. What else can I say?' he answered
feebly; 'it's very painful to me--all this--but you must take your own
course.'

'I see I must,' said Mark, and left the room.

'You've been very hard with the boy, Jane,' said her husband, when
they were alone, and she had sat for some time with a book open but
unread before her; 'I really do think you've been very hard.'

'Do you want to encourage him against his mother?' she asked.

'No, no, you know I don't, Jane. Anything you think right--but I think
you were hard.'

'If I was, it was for his good,' she said; 'I have done what I thought
right, and we have sat up long enough. We can do no good by talking
over it any more, Matthew. Perhaps Mark will think differently
to-morrow.'

Trixie had been waiting for Mark in the adjoining room into which she
beckoned him as he passed the door. 'How did it end?' she whispered.
'You were very quiet in there; is it settled?'

'Yes, it's settled,' he said, 'I'm to go, Trixie; I shall have to
shift for myself. They won't have me here any longer!'

'Oh, Mark!' cried Trixie. 'Take me with you, do, it will be so horrid
at home with only Martha and Cuthbert. You and I always got on
together; let me come too!'

'I can't,' said Mark, 'not yet--by-and-by, perhaps, Trixie, when I'm a
rich man, you know, we can manage it--just now I shall hardly be able
to keep myself.'

'I'll work hard at my drawing and get into the Academy. I've begun
features already, and I shall soon get into the antique--then we can
be famous together, you know.'

'We shall see,' said Mark; 'and in the meantime, Trixie, I think we
had better both go to bed.'

When he was alone again and had time to think over the day which had
proved so eventful, he could not find it in him to regret what had
happened. He had got rid of Uncle Solomon, he had cast off the wig
and gown which were to him as the garb of slavery, and the petty
restraints of his home life were gone as well; he had no sentimental
feelings about his banishment, the bosom of his family had not been a
very appreciative or sympathetic one, and he had always intended to go
forth from it as soon as he could afford it.

If he had really committed the offence for which he was to be driven
from home, he could have considered himself a most interesting martyr;
he did his best to do so as it was, but not with complete success.
Betraying a dead man's trust is scarcely heroic, and even Mark felt
that dimly, and could not dwell on his ill-treatment as he would
dearly like to have done.

But there was something exciting for him, notwithstanding, in the
future; he was to go out into the world and shift for himself, and
conquer; he would have a part, and it might be a difficult one, to
play for a season; but after that he could resume his own character
and take the place he meant to fill in the world, feeling at last that
the applause he won was his by right.

Vincent Holroyd had been unselfish in life; Mark had always recognised
that trait in his character, though the liking he had for the man had
not been much the stronger on that account--if now Vincent could see
any brief and fleeting fame which his book might gain used as the
stepping-stone to his friend's advancement, surely, Mark told himself,
he would scarcely grudge it.

But he hardly cared to justify to himself what he had done by any
casuistry of this kind; he preferred to shut his eyes resolutely to
the morality of the thing; he might have acted like the basest
scoundrel, very likely he had. Still, no one did, no one need, suspect
him. All he had to do was to make the best use of the advantage he had
snatched; when he could feel that he had done that, then he would feel
justified; meanwhile he must put up with a few natural twinges of
conscience now and then, when he was not feeling well.

The next morning breakfast passed without any reference to the scene
of the night before; Martha and Cuthbert both knew of what had
happened, but kept silence, and if Mrs. Ashburn had any hopes that
Mark would recant, she was disappointed.

That evening he informed them that he had taken rooms, and should not
remain at Malakoff Terrace for more than a few days longer; his
announcement being met by a grim 'Very well, Mark, just as you
please,' from his mother; and though her heart sank at his words, and
her last hope of prevailing died away, she never returned to the
charge in any way, recognising that it was useless.

When the day for his departure came, there were no scenes; even
Trixie, who felt it most, was calm, for, after all, Mark would not be
so very far away, he had said she might come and see him sometimes;
the other two were civil, and cold, there being that curious latent
antipathy between them and him which sometimes exists between members
of a family.

Mr. Ashburn had mumbled his good-byes with a touch of emotion and even
shame in his manner as he shuffled away to his office. 'I don't want
you to feel we've cast you off,' he had said nervously. 'Your mother
says rather more than she exactly feels at times; but it's better for
you to go, my boy, better for all parties concerned. Only, if you find
yourself in--in any difficulties, come back to us, or--that is,' he
amended, 'write, or come to me at the office, that will be better,
perhaps.'

But Mrs. Ashburn's last words were, 'Good-bye, Mark. I never thought
to part with a son of mine in anger; we may never meet again, but you
may live to be sorry for the grief you have caused your mother, when
you stand one day over her grave.'

This would have been more impressive if Mrs. Ashburn had not been so
much addicted to indulging in such doleful predictions on less
adequate occasions that she had discounted much of the effect that
properly belonged to them; even as it was, however, they cut Mark for
the moment; he half offered to embrace his mother, but she made no
response, and after waiting for a while, and finding that she made no
sign, he went out with a slight shrug of expostulation.

When he had left the room, she half rose as if to follow, but stopped
half way irresolute, while the cab which he had engaged to take
himself and his luggage to his new quarters drove off, and then she
went upstairs and shut herself in her bedroom for half-an-hour, and
the maid, who was 'doing the rooms' hard by, reported afterwards to
the cook that she had 'heard missus takin' on awful in there,
a-sobbin', and groanin', and prayin' she was, all together like, it
quite upset her to 'ear it.'

There were no traces of emotion on her face, however, when she came
down again, and only an additional shade of grimness in her voice and
manner to tell of the half-hour's agony in which her mother's heart
had warred against her pride and her principles.




CHAPTER XII.

LAUNCHED.


Mark had now cut himself adrift and established himself in rooms in
one of the small streets about Connaught Square, where he waited for
his schemes to accomplish themselves. He still retained his mastership
at St. Peter's, although he hoped to be able to throw that up as soon
as he could do so with any prudence, and the time that was not
occupied by his school duties he devoted to the perfecting of his
friend's work. It was hardly a labour of love, and he came to it with
an ever-increasing weariness; all the tedious toiling through piles of
proofs and revised proofs, the weeding out of ingenious perversions
which seemed to possess a hydra-like power of multiplication after the
first eradication, began to inspire him with an infinite loathing of
this book which was his and not his own.

It had never interested him; he had never been able to feel the
slightest admiration for any part of it, and at times he ceased to
believe in it altogether, and think that, after all, he had
transgressed to no purpose, and that his own book would have been a
stronger staff to lean upon than this reed he had borrowed. But he had
to go on with it now, and trust to his good-luck for the consequences;
but still there were moments when he trembled at what he had done, and
could not bear to be so constantly reminded of it.

There was a little story in the book which one of the subordinate
characters told to a child, the distressing history of a small sugar
prince on a Twelfth-cake, who believed himself to be a fairy and was
taken tenderly away from a children's party by a little girl who, as
the prince supposed, would restore him somehow to his proper position
in Fairyland; instead of which, however, she took him home to an
ordinary nursery and ate him.

Mark was doubtful of the wisdom of retaining this story in the book at
all--it seemed to him out of place there--but as he had some scruples
about cutting it out, he allowed it to remain, a decision which was
not without after-effect upon his fortunes.

The title of the book underwent one more change, for Mr. Fladgate's
mind misgave him at the last moment as to his own first suggestion,
and it was finally settled that the book should be called 'Illusion,'
which suited Mark quite as well as anything else.

And so in due time Mark read, with a certain curious thrill, the
announcement that 'Illusion,' a romance by Cyril Ernstone, was 'now
ready at all libraries;' he sent no presentation copies, not even to
Trixie--he had thought of doing so, but when it came to the point he
could not.

It was early one Saturday afternoon in March, Mark had walked back by
a long round from the school to his lodgings through the parks, and
the flower-beds were gay with the lilac, yellow and white of crocus
and snowdrop, the smoke-blackened twigs were studded with tiny spikes
of tender green, and the air was warm and subtly aromatic with the
promise of spring--even in the muddy tainted streets the Lent-lilies
and narcissus flowers in the street-sellers' baskets gave touches of
passing sweetness to the breeze.

Mark felt a longing to get further away from the town and enjoy what
remained of the afternoon on higher ground and in purer air; he would
go up to Hampstead, he thought, and see the lights sweeping over the
rusty bracken on the heath, or walk down over Highgate Hill, and past
the quaint old brick houses with their high-trim laurel hedges and
their last century wrought-iron gateways and lamps in which the light
of other days no longer burns.

But he did not go to either place that afternoon, for when he ran up
to his rooms to change his hat and coat, he saw that on his table
which made him forget his purpose altogether. It was a packet inclosed
in a wrapper which bore the name of his publishers on the outside, and
he knew at once before opening it that it contained reviews. He tore
off the wrapper eagerly, for now at last he would learn whether he had
made a bold and successful stroke, or only a frightful mistake.

Beginners have taken up reviews before now, cowering in anticipation
before the curse of Balaam, to receive an unexpected benediction; but
perhaps no one could be quite so unprepared for this pleasant form of
surprise as Mark, for others have written the works that are
criticised, and though they may have worked themselves up into a
surface ferment of doubt and humility, deep down in their hearts there
is a wonderfully calm acceptance, after the first shock, of the most
extravagant eulogy.

The opening paragraphs of the first critique were enough to relieve
Mark's main anxiety; Holroyd's book was not a failure--there could be
no doubt of that--it was treated with respectful consideration as the
work of a man who was entitled to be taken seriously; if reviews had
any influence (and it can scarcely be questioned that a favourable
review has much) this one alone could not fail to bring 'Illusion' its
fair share of attention.

Mark laid down the first paper with a sense of triumph. If a very
ordinary book like poor Holroyd's was received in this way, what
might he not expect when he produced his own!

Then he took up the next. Here the critic was more measured in his
praise. The book he pronounced to be on the whole a good and very
nearly a great one, a fine conception fairly worked out, but there was
too strong a tendency in parts to a certain dreamy mysticism (here
Mark began to regret that he had not been more careful over the
proofs), while the general tone was a little too metaphysical, and the
whole marred by even more serious blemishes.

'The author,' continued the reviewer, 'whose style is for the most
part easy and dignified, with a praiseworthy absence of all inflation
or bombast, seems at times to have been smitten by a fatal desire to
"split the ears of the groundlings" and produce an impression by showy
parades of a not overwhelmingly profound scholarship; and the effect
of these contrasts would be grotesque in the extreme, were it not
absolutely painful in a work of such high average merit. What, for
instance, will be thought of the taste of a writer who could close a
really pathetic scene of estrangement between the lovers by such a
sentence as the following?...'

The sentence which followed was one of those which Mark had felt it
due to himself to interpolate. This was but one example, said the
inexorable critic, there were other instances more flagrant still--and
in all of these the astonished Mark recognised his own improvements!

To say that this was for the moment an exceedingly unpleasant shock to
his self-satisfaction is to state a sufficiently obvious fact; but
Mark's character must have been very imperfectly indicated if it
surprises anyone to hear that it did not take him long to recover from
the blow.

Perhaps he had been wrong in grafting his own strong individuality on
an entirely foreign trunk--he had not been careful enough to harmonise
the two styles--it was merely an odd coincidence that the reviewer,
struck naturally enough by the disparity, should have pitched upon
_him_ as the offender. By-and-by he grew to believe it a positive
compliment that the reviewer (no doubt a dull person) had simply
singled out for disapproval all the passages which were out of his
depth--if there had been nothing remarkable about them, they would not
have been noticed at all.

And so, as it is a remarkable peculiarity in the mind of man, that it
can frequently be set at ease by some self-constructed theory which
would not bear its own examination for a minute--as if a quack were to
treat himself with his own bread-pills and feel better--Mark, having
convinced himself that the reviewer was a crass fool whose praise and
blame were to be read conversely, found the wound to his self-love
begin to heal from that moment.

That same Saturday afternoon Mabel was sitting in the little room at
the back of the house, in which she received her own particular
friends, wrote her letters, and read; just then she was engaged in the
latter occupation, for the books had come in from the library that
day, and she had sat down after luncheon to skim them through before
selecting any which seemed worth more careful reading.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mabel had grown to be fastidious in the matter of fiction, the natural
result of a sense of humour combined with an instinctive appreciation
of style. There had been a time of course, when, released from the
strict censorship of a boarding-school under which all novels on the
very lengthy _index expurgatorius_ had to be read in delicious
stealth, she had devoured eagerly any literature which was in bright
covers and three volumes--but that time was past now.

She could not cry over cheap pathos, or laugh at secondhand humour, or
shudder at sham cynicism any longer--desperate escapes and rescues
moved her not, and she had wearied of beautiful wicked fiends and
effeminate golden-haired guardsmen, who hold a Titanic strength in
reserve as their one practical joke, but the liberty she had enjoyed
had done her no particular harm, even if many mothers might have
thought it their duty to restrict it, which Mrs. Langton was too
languid or had too much confidence in her daughter to think of
attempting.

Mabel had only returned to the works of the great masters of this
century with an appreciation heightened by contrast, and though her
new delight in them did not blind her--as why should it?--to the
lesser lights in whom something may be found to learn or enjoy, she
now had standards by which she could form her opinions of them.

Amongst the books sent in that week was 'Illusion,' a romance by Cyril
Ernstone, and Mabel had looked at its neat grey-green covers and red
lettering with a little curiosity, for somebody had spoken of it to
her the day before, and she took it up with the intention of reading a
chapter or two before going out with her racket into the square, where
the tennis season had already set in on the level corner of the lawn.

But the afternoon wore on, and she remained by the window in a low
wicker chair, indifferent to the spring sunshine outside, to the
attractions of lawn tennis, or the occasional sounds of callers,
reading on with parted lips and an occasional little musical laugh or
involuntary sigh, as Holroyd had once dreamed of seeing his book read
by her.

His strong and self-contained nature had unfolded all its deepest
tenderness and most cherished fancies in that his first book, and the
pages had the interest of a confession. Mabel felt that personal
affection for the unknown writer which to have aroused must be the
crown of crowns to those who love their art.

The faults of style and errors of taste here and there which jarred
upon her were still too rare or too foreign to the general tone of the
book to prejudice her seriously, and she put down the book half
finished, not from weariness but with an unusual desire to economise
the pleasure it gave her.

'I wonder what "Cyril Ernstone" is like,' she thought, half
unconsciously.

Perhaps, by the way, a popular but plain author who finds it
necessary to cultivate society, would discover, if he would go about
veiled or engage a better-looking man to personate him, a speedy
increase in the circulation of his next work, and, if at all sensitive
as to his own shortcomings, he would certainly be spared a
considerable amount of pain, for it is trying for a man who rather
enjoys being idolised to be compelled to act as his own iconoclast.

While Mabel was speculating on the personal appearance of the author
of 'Illusion,' Dolly darted in suddenly. 'Oh, there you are, Mabel,'
she said, 'how lazy of you! Mother thought you were playing tennis,
and some people have called, and she and I had to do all the talking
to them!'

'Come and rest then, Dolly,' said Mabel, putting an arm up and drawing
her down to a low stool by her chair.

'I've got my new sash on,' said Dolly warningly.

'I'll be careful,' said Mabel, 'and I've found a little story in this
book I am going to read to you, Dolly, if you care about it.'

'Not a long story, is it, Mab?' inquired Dolly rather dubiously. But
she finally settled herself comfortably down to listen, with her
bright little face laid against Mabel's side, while she read the
melancholy fate of the sugar fairy prince.

Dolly heard it all out in silence, and with a growing trouble in her
eyes. When it was all over, and the heartless mortal princess had
swallowed the sugar prince, she turned half away and said softly,
'Mabel, that was _me_.'

Mabel laughed. 'What _do_ you mean, Dolly?' she said.

'I thought he was plain sugar,' Dolly protested piteously; 'how was I
to know? I never heard of sugar fairies before. And he did look pretty
at first, but I spilt some tea over him, and the colour got all mixed
up, just as the story says it did, and so I ate him.'

'It's only a story, Dolly, you know; you needn't make yourself unhappy
about it--it isn't true really.'

'But it must be true, it's all put down exactly as it happened.... And
it was me.... I've eaten up a real fairy prince.... Mabel, I'm a
greedy pig. If I hadn't done it, perhaps we could have got him out of
the sugar somehow, and then Colin and I would have had a live fairy to
play with. That's what he expected me to do, and I ate him instead. I
know he was a fairy, Mabel, he tasted so nice.... Poor, poor little
prince!'

Dolly was so evidently distressed that Mabel tried hard to convince
her that the story was about another little girl, the prince was only
a sugar one, and so on; but she did not succeed, until the idea struck
her that a writer whose book seemed to indicate a sympathetic nature
would not object to the trouble of removing the childish fears he had
aroused, and she said: 'Listen, Dolly; suppose you write a letter to
Mr. Ernstone--at his publishers', you know--I'll show you how to
address it, but you must write the rest yourself, and ask him to tell
you if the sugar prince was really a fairy, and then you will know all
about it; but my own belief is, Dolly, that there aren't any
fairies--now, at any rate.'

'If there weren't,' argued Dolly, 'people wouldn't write books about
them. I've seen pictures of them lots of times.'

'And they dance in rows at the pantomime, don't they, Dolly?' said
Mabel.

'Oh, I know _those_ aren't fairies--only thin little girls,' said
Dolly contemptuously. 'I'm not a baby, Mabel, but I _would_ write to
Mr.--what you said just now--only I hate letter-writing so--ink is
such blotty, messy stuff--and I daresay he wouldn't answer after all.'

'Try him, dear,' said Mabel.

Dolly looked obstinate and said nothing just then, and Mabel did not
think it well to refer to the matter again. But the next week, from
certain little affectations of tremendous mystery on Dolly's part, and
the absence of the library copy of 'Illusion' from the morning-room
during one whole afternoon, after which it reappeared in a state of
preternatural inkiness, Mabel had a suspicion that her suggestion was
not so disregarded as it had seemed.

And a few days afterwards Mark found on his breakfast table an
envelope from his publisher, which proved to contain a letter directed
to 'Mr. Ciril Ernstone,' at the office. The letter was written in a
round childish hand, with scrapings here and there to record the fall
of a vanquished blot.

   'Dear Mr. Ciril Ernstone,' it ran, 'I want you to tell me
   how you knew that I ate that sugar prince in your story,
   and if you meant me really. Perhaps you made that part of
   it up, or else it was some other girl, but please write
   and tell me who it was and all about it, because I do so
   hate to think I've eaten up a real fairy without knowing
   it.--DOROTHY MARGARET LANGTON.'

This poor little letter made Mark very angry; if he had written the
story he would, of course, have been amused if not pleased by the
naive testimony to his power; but, as it was, it annoyed him to a
quite unreasonable extent.

He threw Dolly's note pettishly across the table; 'I wish I had cut
that sugar prince story out; _I_ can't tell the child anything about
it. Langton, too--wonder if it's any relation to my Langton--sister of
his, perhaps--_he_ lives at Notting Hill somewhere. Well, I won't
write; if I do I shall put my foot in it somehow.... It's quite likely
that Vincent knew this child. She can't be seriously unhappy about
such a piece of nonsense, and if she is, it's not _my_ fault.'

Mark had never quite lost the memory of that morning in the fog, his
brief meeting with Mabel, and the untimely parting by the hedge.
Subsequent events had naturally done something to efface the
impression which her charm and grace had made upon him then; but even
yet he saw her face at times as clearly as ever, and suffered once
more the dull pain he had felt when he first knew that she had gone
from him without leaving him the faintest hope of being ever
privileged to know her more intimately or even see her again.

Sometimes, when he dreamed most wildly of the brilliant future that
was to come to him, he saw himself, as the author of several famous
and successful works (amongst which 'Illusion' was entirely obscured),
meeting her once more, and marking his sense of her past ingratitude
by a studied coldness. But this was a possibility that never, even in
his most sanguine moments, was other than remote.

If he had but known it, there had long been close at hand--in the
shape of young Langton--a means which, judiciously managed, might have
brought that part of his dream to pass immediately, and now he had
that which would realise it even more surely and effectually.

But he did not know, and let the appeal lie unanswered that was due to
Mabel's suggestion--'the moral of which,' as Alice's Duchess might
say, is that one should never neglect a child's letter.




CHAPTER XIII.

A 'THORN AND FLOWER PIECE.'


'Illusion' had not been very long published before Mark began to have
uncomfortable anticipations that it might be on the way to achieve an
unexpected success, and he was nearer the truth in this than he
himself believed as yet. It might not become popular in the wider and
coarser sense of the word, being somewhat over the heads of the large
class who read fiction for the 'story;' it might never find its way to
railway bookstalls (though even this, as will appear, befell it in
time,) or be considered a profitable subject for Transatlantic piracy;
but it was already gaining recognition as a book that people of any
culture should, for their own sakes, at least assume to have read and
appreciated.

Mark was hailed by many judges of such things as a new and powerful
thinker, who had chosen to veil his theories under the garb of
romance, and if the theory was dissented from in some quarters, the
power and charm of the book were universally admitted. At dinner
parties, and in all circles where literature is discussed at all,
'Illusion' was becoming a standard topic; friendships were cemented
and intimacies dissolved over it; it became a kind of 'shibboleth.'

At first Mark had little opportunity of realising this to the full
extent, for he went out seldom if at all. There had been a time in his
life--before he had left Cambridge, that is--when he had mixed more in
society; his undergraduate friends had been proud to present to their
family circle a man with his reputation for general brilliancy, and so
his engagements in the vacations had been frequent. But this did not
last; from a feeling that his own domestic surroundings would scarcely
bear out a vaguely magnificent way he had of alluding to his 'place'
and his 'people'--a way which was not so much deliberate imposition as
a habit caught from associates richer and higher up in the social
scale--from this feeling, he never offered to return any of these
hospitalities, and though this was not rigorously expected of him, it
did serve to prevent any one of his numerous acquaintanceships from
ripening into something more. When the crash came, and it was
generally discovered that the reputed brilliant man of his year was a
very ordinary failure, Mark found himself speedily forgotten, and in
the first soreness of disappointment was not sorry to remain in
obscurity for a season.

But now a reaction in his favour was setting in; his publishers were
already talking of a second edition of 'Illusion,' and he received,
under his name of 'Cyril Ernstone,' countless letters of
congratulation and kindly criticism, all so pleasantly and cordially
worded, that each successive note made him angrier, the only one that
consoled him at all being a communication in a female hand which
abused the book and its writer in the most unmeasured terms. For his
correspondent's estimate of the work was the one which he had a secret
wish to see more prevalent (so long, of course, as it did not
interfere with the success of his scheme), and he could almost have
written to thank her--had she not, by some unfortunate oversight,
forgotten to append her name and address.

The next stage in the career of the book was a discovery on someone's
part that the name of its author was an assumed one, and although
there are many who would as little think of looking for the name of
the man who wrote the play they see or the book they read as they
would for that of the locomotive behind which they travel, there are
still circles for whom the first two matters at least possess an
interest.

And so several set out to run the actual author to earth, well assured
that, as is fabled of the fox, he himself would enjoy the sport as
much as his pursuers; and it is the fact that Mark might have given
them a much longer run had he been anxious to do so, but, though he
regretted it afterwards, the fruits of popularity were too desirable
to be foregone.

There were some false cries at first. A 'London correspondent' knew
for a fact that the book was written by an old lady at a lunatic
asylum in her lucid intervals; while a ladies' journal had heard that
the author was a common carpenter and entirely self-educated; and
there were other similar discoveries. But before they had time to
circulate widely, it became somehow common knowledge that the author
was a young schoolmaster, and that his real name was Mark Ashburn.

And Mark at once began to reap the benefit. His old friends sought him
out once more; men who had passed him in the streets with a careless
nod that was almost as bad as a cut direct, or without even the
smallest acknowledgment that a time had been when they were
inseparables, now found time to stop him and ask if the rumours of his
_debut_ in literature were really true.

By-and-by cards began to line his mantelpiece as in the old days; he
went out once more, and met everywhere the kindness and courtesy that
the world of London, whatever may be said against it, is never chary
of showing towards the most insignificant person who has once had the
good fortune to arouse its interest.

Mark liked it all at first, but as he saw the book growing more and
more in favour, and the honours paid to himself increasing, he began
to be uneasy at his own success.

He would not have objected to the book's securing a moderate degree of
attention, so as to prepare the public mind for the blaze of intellect
he had in reserve for it--that he had expected, or at least hoped
for--but the mischief of this ridiculous enthusiasm which everyone he
met seemed to be affecting over this book of Holroyd's was that it
made an anticlimax only too possible when his own should see the
light.

Mark heard compliments and thanks with much the annoyance a practised
_raconteur_ must feel with the feeble listener who laughs heartily,
while the point of the story he is being told is still in perspective.

And soon he wished heartily that the halo he felt was burning round
his undeserving head could be moderated or put out, like a lamp--it
was such an inconvenience. He could never escape from Holroyd's book;
people _would_ talk to him about it.

Sooner or later, while talking to the most charming persons, just when
he was feeling himself conversationally at his very best, he would see
the symptoms he dreaded warning him that the one fatal topic was about
to be introduced, which seemed to have the effect of paralysing his
brain. He would struggle hard against it, making frantic efforts to
turn the subject, and doubling with infinite dexterity; but generally
his interlocutor was not to be put off, 'running cunning,' as it were,
like a greyhound dead to sporting instincts, and fixing him at once
with a 'Now, Mr. Ashburn, you really must allow me to express to you
some of the pleasure and instruction I have received from your book,'
and so on; and then Mark found himself forced to listen with ghastly
smiles of sham gratification to the praises of his rival, as he now
felt Holroyd was after all becoming, and had to discuss with the air
of a creator this book which he had never cared to understand, and
soon came cordially to detest.

If he had been the real author, all this would of course have been
delightful to him; it was all so kind and so evidently sincere for the
most part, that only a very priggish or cynical person could have
affected to undervalue it, and any other, even if he felt it
overstrained now and then, would have enjoyed it frankly while it
lasted, remembering that, in the nature of things, it could not last
very long.

But unfortunately, Mark had not written 'Illusion,' which made all the
difference. No author could have shrunk more sensitively in his inmost
soul than he did from the praise of his fellow-men, and his modesty
would have been more generally remarked had he not been wise enough to
perceive that modesty, in a man, is a virtue with a dangerous streak
of the ridiculous about it.

And so he braced himself to go through with it and play out his part.
It would not be for long; soon he would have his own book to be
complimented upon and to explain. Meanwhile he worked hard at
'Illusion,' until he came to have a considerable surface acquaintance
with it; he knew the names of all the more important characters in it
now, and hardly ever mixed them up; he worked out most of the
allusions, and made a careful analysis of the plot and pedigrees of
some of the families. It was much harder work than reading law, and
quite as distasteful; but then it had to be done if he meant to
preserve appearances at all.

His fame had penetrated to St. Peter's, where his fellow-masters
treated him with an unaccustomed deference, only partially veiled by
mild _badinage_ on the part of the younger men; while even the boys
were vaguely aware that he had distinguished himself in the outer
world, and Mark found his authority much easier to maintain.

'How's that young rascal--what's his name? Langton?--the little scamp
who said he called me "Prawn," but not "Shellfish," the impident
fellow! How's _he_ getting on, hey?' said Mr. Shelford to Mark one day
about this time.

Mark replied that the boy had left his form now, but that he heard he
was doing well, and had begun to acquire the graceful art of
verse-making. 'Verse-making? ay, ay; is he indeed? You know, Ashburn,
I often think it's a good thing there are none of the old Romans alive
now. They weren't a yumorous nation, taken as a whole; but I fancy
some of our prize Latin verses would set the stiffest of 'em
sniggering. And we laugh at "Baboo English," as they call it! But you
tell Langton from me, when you see him, that if he likes to try his
hand at a set of elegiacs on a poor old cat of mine that died the
other day, I'll look 'em over if he brings them to me after school
some day, and if they're what I consider worthy of the deceased's many
virtues, I'll find some way of rewarding him. She was a black Persian
and her name was "Jinks," but he'll find it Latinise well as "Jinxia,"
tell him. And now I think of it,' he added, 'I never congratulated you
on the effort of _your_ muse. It's not often I read these things now,
but I took your book up, and--maybe I'm too candid in telling you
so--but it fairly surprised me. I'd no idea you had it in you.'

Mark found it difficult to hit the right expression of countenance at
such a compliment, but he did it. 'There are some very fine things in
that book, sir,' continued Mr. Shelford, 'some very noble words;
remarkable for so young a man as you must be. You have lived, Ashburn,
it's easy to see that!'

'Oh, well,' said Mark, 'I--I've knocked about, you know.'

'Ah, and you've knocked something into you, too, which is more to the
purpose. I'd like to know now when you found time to construct your
theories of life and conduct.'

Mark began to find this embarrassing; he said he had hit upon them at
odd times ('_very_ odd times,' he could not help remembering), and
shifted his ground a little uneasily, but he was held fast by the
buttonhole. 'They're remarkably sound and striking, I must say that,
and your story is interesting, too. I found myself looking at the
end, sir, ha, ha! to see what became of your characters. Ah, I _knew_
there was something I wanted to ask you. There's a heading you've got
for one of your chapters, a quotation from some Latin author, which I
can't place to my satisfaction; I mean that one beginning "_Non terret
principes_."'

'Oh, _that_ one?' repeated Mark blankly.

'Yes, it reads to me like later Latin; where did you take it from? One
of the Fathers?'

'One of them, I forget which,' said Mark quickly, wishing he had cut
the quotations out.

'That _aegritudo_, now, "aegritudo superveniens," you know--how do you
understand that?'

Mark had never troubled himself to understand it at all, so he stared
at his interrogator in rather a lost way.

'I mean, do you take it as of the mind or body (that's what made me
fancy it must be later Latin). And then there's the _correxit_?'

Mark admitted that there was the 'correxit.' 'It's mind,' he said
quickly. 'Oh, decidedly the mind, _not_ body, and--er--I think that's
my 'bus passing. I'll say good-bye;' and he escaped with a weary
conviction that he must devote yet more study to the detested
'Illusion.'

This is only a sample of the petty vexations to which he had exposed
himself. He had taken over a business which he did not understand, and
naturally found the technicalities troublesome, for though, as has
been seen, his own tendencies were literary, he had not soared so high
as a philosophical romance, while his scholarship, more brilliant than
profound, was not always equal to the 'unseen passages' from
out-of-the-way authors with which Holroyd had embellished his
chapters.

But a little more care made him feel easier on this score, and then
there were many compensations; for one unexpected piece of good
fortune, which will be recorded presently, he had mainly to thank his
friend's book.

He had met an old acquaintance of his, a certain young Herbert
Featherstone, who had on any previous chance encounter seemed
affected by a kind of trance, during which his eyes lost all power of
vision, but was now completely recovered, so much so indeed as to
greet Mark with a quite unexpected warmth.

Was it true that he had written this new book? What was its
name--'Delusion' or something? Fellows were saying he had; hadn't read
it himself; his mother and sister had; said it was a devilish good
book, too. Where was he hanging out now, and what was he doing on the
10th? Could he come to a little dance his people had that night? Very
well, then, he should have a card.

Mark was slightly inclined to let the other understand that he knew
the worth of this resuscitated friendliness, but he refrained. He knew
of the Featherstones as wealthy people, with the reputation of giving
the pleasantest entertainments in London. He had his way to make in
the world, and could not afford, he thought, to neglect these
opportunities. So he went to the dance and, as he happened to dance
well, enjoyed himself, in spite of the fact that two of his partners
had read 'Illusion,' and knew him as the author of it. They were both
pretty and charming girls, but Mark did not enjoy either of those
particular valses. In the course of the evening he had a brief
conversation with his hostess, and was fortunate enough to produce a
favourable impression. Mrs. Featherstone was literary herself, as a
reputedly strong-minded lady who had once written two particularly
weak-minded novels would necessarily be. She liked to have a few
rising young literary men in her train, with whom she might discuss
subjects loftier than ordinary society cares to grasp; but she was
careful at the same time that her daughter should not share too
frequently in these intellectual privileges, for Gilda Featherstone
was very handsome, and literary men are as impressionable as other
people.

Mark called one Saturday afternoon at the Featherstones' house in
Grosvenor Place, as he had been expressly invited to do on the
occasion of the dance, and found Mrs. Featherstone at home. It was not
her regular day, and she received him alone, though Mark heard voices
and laughter now and then from behind the hangings which concealed
the end room of the long suite.

'And now let us talk about your delightful "Illusion," Mr. Ernstone,'
she said graciously. 'Do you know, I felt when I read your book that
some of my innermost thoughts, my highest aspirations, had been put
into words--and _such_ words--for me! It was soul speaking to soul,
and you get that in so few novels, you know! What a rapture literary
creation is! Don't you feel that? I am sure, even in my own poor
little way--you must know that _I_ have scribbled once upon a
time--even in my own experience, I know what a state of excitement I
got into over my own stories. One's characters get to be actual living
companions to one; they act by themselves, and all one has to do is
just to sit by and look on, and describe.'

This seemed to Mark to prove a vividness of imagination on Mrs.
Featherstone's part to which her literary productions had not, so far
as he knew, done full credit. But he was equal to the occasion.

'Your characters, Mrs. Featherstone, are companions to many more than
their creator. I must confess that I, for one, fell hopelessly in love
with your Gwendoline Vane, in "Mammon and Moonshine."' Mark had once
read a slashing review of a flabby little novel with a wooden heroine
of that name, and turned it to good account now, after his fashion.

'Now, how nice of you to say that,' she said, highly pleased. 'I am
very fond of Gwendoline myself--my ideal, you know. I won't quote that
about "praise from Sir Hubert," because it's so very trite, but I feel
it. But do you _really_ like Gwendoline better than my Magdalen
Harwood, in "Strawberries and Cream."'

Here Mark got into deep water once more; but he was no mean
conversational swimmer, and reached dry land without any unseemly
floundering.

'It has been suggested to me, do you know,' she said when her own
works had been at last disposed of, 'that your "Illusion" would make
such an admirable play; the central motive really so dramatic. Of
course one would have to leave the philosophy out, and all the
beautiful reflections, but the story would be left. Have you ever
thought of dramatising it yourself, Mr. Ashburn?'

Mark had not. 'Ah, well,' she said, 'if ever I have time again to give
to literature, I shall ask your permission to let me see what _I_ can
do with it. I have written some little charades for drawing-room
theatricals, you know, so I am not _quite_ without experience.'

Mark, wondering inwardly how Holroyd would relish this proposal if he
were alive, said that he was sure the story would gain by her
treatment; and presently she proposed that they should go to the
further room and see 'how the young people were getting on,' which
Mark received with an immense relief, and followed her through the
_portiere_ to the inner room, in which, as will be seen, an unexpected
stroke of good fortune was to befall him.

They found the young people, with a married sister of Mrs.
Featherstone, sitting round a small table on which was a heap of
_cartes-de-visite_, as they used to be called for no very obvious
reason.

Gilda Featherstone, a lively brunette, with the manner of a young lady
accustomed to her own way, looked up from the table to welcome Mark.
'You've caught us all at a very frivolous game, Mr. Ashburn. I hope
you won't be shocked. We've all had our feelings outraged at least
once, so we're going to stop now, while we're still on speaking
terms.'

'But what is it?' said Mrs. Featherstone. 'It isn't cards, Gilda
dearest, is it?'

'No, mother, not quite; very nearly though. Mr. Caffyn showed it us;
_he_ calls it "photo-nap."'

'Let me explain, Mrs. Featherstone,' said Caffyn, who liked to drop in
at Grosvenor Place occasionally, where he was on terms of some
intimacy. 'I don't know if you're acquainted with the game of "nap"?'
Mrs. Featherstone shook her head, not too amiably, for she had been
growing alarmed of late by a habit her daughter had acquired of
mentioning or quoting this versatile young man whom her husband
persisted so blindly in encouraging. 'Ah!' said Caffyn, unabashed.
'Well, anyway, this is modelled on it. We take out a selection of
photographs, the oldest preferred, shuffle them, and deal round five
photographs to each player, and the ugliest card in each round takes
the trick.'

'I call it a most ill-natured game,' said the aunt, who had seen an
old and unrecognised portrait of herself and the likenesses of several
of her husband's family (a plain one) voted the master-cards.

'Oh, so much _must_ be said for it,' said Caffyn; 'it isn't a game to
be played everywhere, of course; but it gives great scope for the
emotions. Think of the pleasure of gaining a trick with the portrait
of your dearest friend, and then it's such a capital way of
ascertaining your own and others' precise positions in the beauty
scale, and all the plain people acquire quite a new value as
picture-cards.'

He had played his own very cautiously, having found his amusement in
watching the various revelations of pique and vanity amongst the
others, and so could speak with security.

'My brothers _all_ took tricks,' said one young lady, who had
inherited her mother's delicate beauty, while the rest of the family
resembled a singularly unhandsome father--which enabled her to speak
without very deep resentment.

'So did poor dear papa,' said Gilda, 'but that was the one taken in
fancy dress, and he _would_ go as _Dante_.'

'Nothing could stand against Gurgoyle,' observed Caffyn. 'He was a
sure ace every time. He'll be glad to know he was such a success. You
must tell him, Miss Featherstone.'

'Now I won't have poor Mr. Gurgoyle made fun of,' said Mrs.
Featherstone, but with a considerable return of amiability. 'People
always tell me that with all his plainness he's the most amusing young
man in town, though I confess I never could see any signs of it
myself.'

The fact was that an unlucky epigram by the Mr. Gurgoyle in question
at Mrs. Featherstone's expense, which of course had found its way to
her, had produced a coolness on her part, as Caffyn was perfectly well
aware.

'"_Ars est celare artem_," as Mr. Bancroft remarks at the Haymarket,'
he said lightly. 'Gurgoyle is one of those people who is always put
down as witty till he has the indiscretion to try. _Then_ they put him
down some other way.'

'But why is he considered witty then, if he isn't?' asked Gilda
Featherstone.

'I don't know. I suppose because we like to think Nature makes these
compensations sometimes, but Gurgoyle must have put her out of temper
at the very beginning. She's done nothing in that way for _him_.'

Mrs. Featherstone, although aware that the verdict on the absent
Gurgoyle was far from being a just one, was not altogether above being
pleased by it, and showed it by a manner many degrees more thawed than
that she had originally prescribed to herself in dealing with this
very ineligible young actor.

'Mr. Ashburn,' said Miss Featherstone, after one or two glances in the
direction of Caffyn, who was absorbed in following up the advantage he
had gained with her mother, 'will you come and help me to put these
photos back? There are lots of Bertie's Cambridge friends here, and
you can tell me who those I don't know are.'

So Mark followed her to a side table, and then came the stroke of good
fortune which has been spoken of; for, as he was replacing the
likenesses in the albums in the order they were given to him, he was
given one at the sight of which he could not avoid a slight start. It
was a _vignette_, very delicately and artistically executed, of a
girl's head, and as he looked, hardly daring to believe in such a
coincidence, he was almost certain that the pure brow, with the
tendrils of soft hair curling above it, the deep clear eyes, and the
mouth which for all its sweetness had the possibility of disdain in
its curves, were those of no other than the girl he had met months
ago, and had almost resigned himself never to meet again.

His voice trembled a little with excitement as he said 'May I ask the
name of this lady?'

'That is Mabel Langton. _I_ think she's perfectly lovely; don't you?
She was to have been at our dance the other night, and then you would
have seen her. But she couldn't come at the last moment.'

'I think I have met Miss Langton,' said Mark, beginning to see now all
that he had gained by learning this simple surname. 'Hasn't she a
little sister called Dorothy?'

'Dolly? Oh yes. Sweetly pretty child--terribly spoilt. I think she
will put dear Mabel quite in the shade by the time she comes out; her
features are so much more regular. Yes; I see you know _our_ Mabel
Langton. And now, _do_ tell me, Mr. Ashburn, because of course you can
read people's characters so clearly, you know, what do _you_ think of
Mabel, really and truly?'

Miss Featherstone was fond of getting her views on the characters of
her friends revised and corrected for her by competent male opinion,
but it was sometimes embarrassing to be appealed to in this way, while
only a very unsophisticated person would permit himself to be entirely
candid, either in praise or detraction.

'Well, really,' said Mark, 'you see, I have only met her once in my
life.'

'Oh, but that must be quite enough for _you_, Mr. Ashburn! And Mabel
Langton is always such a puzzle to me. I never can quite make up my
mind if she is really as sweet as she seems. Sometimes I fancy I have
noticed--and yet I can't be sure--I've heard people say that she's
just the least bit, not exactly conceited, perhaps, but too inclined
to trust her own opinion about things and snub people who won't agree
with her. But she isn't, is she? I always say that is _quite_ a wrong
idea about her. Still perhaps---- Oh, wouldn't you like to know Mr.
Caffyn? He is very clever and amusing, you know, and has just gone on
the stage, but he's not as good there as we all thought he would be.
He's coming this way now.' Here Caffyn strolled leisurely towards
them, and the introduction was made. 'Of course you have heard of Mr.
Ashburn's great book, "Illusion"?' Gilda Featherstone said, as she
mentioned Mark's name.

'Heard of nothing else lately,' said Caffyn. 'After which I am ashamed
to have to own I haven't read it, but it's the disgraceful truth.'

Mark felt the danger of being betrayed by a speech like this into
saying something too hideously fatuous, over the memory of which he
would grow hot with shame in the night-watches, so he contented
himself with an indulgent smile, perhaps, in default of some
impossible combination of wit and modesty, his best available
resource.

Besides, the new acquaintance made him strangely uneasy; he felt
warned to avoid him by one of those odd instincts which (although we
scarcely ever obey them) are surely given us for our protection; he
could not meet the cold light eyes which seemed to search him through
and through.

'Mr. Ashburn and I were just discussing somebody's character,' said
Miss Featherstone, by way of ending an awkward pause.

'Poor somebody!' drawled Caffyn, with an easy impertinence which he
had induced many girls, and Gilda amongst them, to tolerate, if not
admire.

'You need not pity her,' said Gilda, indignantly; 'we were _defending_
her.'

'Ah!' said Caffyn, 'from one another.'

'No, we were not; and if you are going to be cynical, and satirical,
and all that, you can go away. Well, sit down, then, and behave
yourself. What, must you go, Mr. Ashburn? Good-bye, then. Mr. Caffyn,
I want you to tell me what you _really_ think about----'

Mark heard no more than this; he was glad to escape, to get away from
Caffyn's scrutiny. 'He looked as if he knew I was a humbug!' he
thought afterwards; and also to think at his leisure over this new
discovery, and all it meant for him.

He knew her name now; he saw a prospect of meeting her at some time
or other in the house he had just left; but perhaps he might not even
have to wait for that.

This little girl, whose childish letter he had tossed aside a few days
since in his blindness, who else could she be but the owner of the dog
after which he had clambered up the railway <DW72>? And he had actually
been about to neglect her appeal!

Well, he would write now. Who could say what might not come of it? At
all events, _she_ would read his letter.

That letter gave Mark an infinite deal of trouble. After attentively
reading the little story to which it referred, he sat down to write,
and tore up sheet after sheet in disgust, for he had never given much
study to the childish understanding, with its unexpected deeps and
shallows, and found the task of writing down to it go much against the
grain. But the desire of satisfying a more fastidious critic than
Dolly gave him at last a kind of inspiration, and the letter he did
send, with some misgiving, could hardly have been better written for
the particular purpose.

He was pleasantly reassured as to this a day or two later by another
little note from Dolly, asking him to come to tea at Kensington Park
Gardens on any afternoon except Monday or Thursday, and adding
(evidently by external suggestion) that her mother and sister would be
pleased to make his acquaintance.

Mark read this with a thrill of eager joy. What he had longed for had
come to pass, then; he was to see her, speak with her, once more. At
least he was indebted to 'Illusion' for this result, which a few
months since seemed of all things the most unlikely. This time,
perhaps, she would not leave him without a word or sign, as when last
they met; he might be allowed to come again; even in time to know her
intimately.

And he welcomed this piece of good fortune as a happy omen for the
future.




CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE SPRING.


Mark lost no time in obeying Dolly's summons, and it was with an
exhilaration a little tempered by a nervousness to which he was not
usually subject that he leaped into the dipping and lurching hansom
that was to carry him to Kensington Park Gardens.

As Mark drove through the Park across the Serpentine, and saw the
black branches of the trees looking as if they had all been sprinkled
with a feathery green powder, and noticed the new delicacy in the
bright-hued grass, he hailed these signs as fresh confirmation of the
approach of summer--a summer that might prove a golden one for him.

But as he drew nearer Notting Hill, his spirits sank again. What if
this opportunity were to collapse as hopelessly as the first? Mabel
would of course have forgotten him--would she let him drop
indifferently as before? He felt far from hopeful as he rang the bell.

He asked for Miss Dorothy Langton, giving his name as 'Mr. Ernstone,'
and was shown into a little room filled with the pretty contrivances
which the modern young lady collects around her. He found Dolly there
alone, in a very stately and self-possessed mood.

'You can bring up tea here, Champion,' she said, 'and some
tea-cake--_you_ like tea-cake of course,' she said to Mark, with
something of afterthought. 'Mother and Mabel are out, calling or
something,' she added, 'so we shall be quite alone. And now sit down
there in that chair and tell me everything you know about fairies.'

Mark's heart sank--this was not at all what he had hoped for; but
Dolly had thrown herself back in her own chair, with such evident
expectation, and a persuasion that she had got hold of an authority on
fairy-lore, that he did not dare to expostulate--although in truth
his acquaintance with the subject was decidedly limited.

'You can begin now,' said Dolly calmly, as Mark stared blankly into
his hat.

'Well,' he said, 'what do you want to know about them?'

'_All_ about them,' said Dolly, with the air of a little person
accustomed to instant obedience; Mark's letter had not quite dispelled
her doubts, and she wanted to be quite certain that such cases as that
of the sugar prince were by no means common.

'Well,' said Mark again, clearing his throat, 'they dance round in
rings, you know, and live inside flowers, and play tricks with
people--that is,' he added, with a sort of idea that he must not
encourage superstition, 'they did once--of course there are no such
things now.'

'Then how was it that that little girl you knew--who was not me--ate
one up?'

'He was the last one,' said Mark.

'But how did he get turned into sugar? Had he done anything wrong?'

'That's how it was.'

'What was it--he hadn't told a story, had he?'

'It's exactly what he _had_ done,' said Mark, accepting this solution
gratefully; 'an _awful_ story!'

'What was the story?' Dolly demanded at this, and Mark floundered on,
beginning to consider Dolly, for all her pretty looks and ways, a
decided little nuisance.

'He--he said the Queen of the Fairies squinted,' he stammered in his
extremity.

'Then it was she who turned him into sugar?'

'Of course it was,' said Mark.

'But you said he was the last fairy left!' persisted the terrible
Dolly.

'Did I?' said Mark miserably; 'I mean the last but one--she was the
_other_.'

'Then who was there to tell the story to?' Dolly cross-examined, and
Mark quailed, feeling that any more explanation would probably land
him in worse difficulties.

'I don't think you know very much about it, after all,' she said with
severity. 'I suppose you put all you knew into the story. But you're
quite sure there was no fairy inside the figure _I_ ate, aren't you?'

'Oh yes,' said Mark, 'I--I happen to know that.'

'_That's_ all right, then,' said Dolly, with a little sigh of relief.
'Was that the only fairy story you know?'

'Yes,' Mark hastened to explain, in deadly fear lest he might be
called upon for another.

'Oh,' said Dolly, 'then we'd better have tea'--for the door had
opened.

'It's not Champion after all,' she cried; 'it's Mabel. I never heard
you come back, Mabel.'

And Mark turned to realise his dearest hopes and find himself face to
face once more with Mabel.

She came in, looking even lovelier, he thought, in her fresh spring
toilette than in the winter furs she had worn when he had seen her
last, bent down to kiss Dolly, and then glanced at him with the light
of recognition coming into her grey eyes.

'This is Mr. Ernstone, Mab,' said Dolly.

The pink in Mabel's cheeks deepened slightly; the author of the book
which had stirred her so unusually was the young man who had not
thought it worth his while to see any more of them. Probably had he
known who had written to him, he would not have been there now, and
this gave a certain distance to her manner as she spoke.

'We have met before, Mr. Ernstone,' she said, giving him her ungloved
hand. 'Very likely you have forgotten when and how, but I am sure
Dolly had not, had you, Dolly?'

But Dolly had, having been too much engrossed with her dog on the day
of the breakdown to notice appearances, even of his preserver, very
particularly. '_When_ did I see him before, Mabel?' she whispered.

'Oh, Dolly, ungrateful child! don't you remember who brought Frisk out
of the train for you that day in the fog?' But Dolly hung her head and
drooped her long lashes, twining her fingers with one of those sudden
attacks of awkwardness that sometimes seize the most self-possessed
children. 'You never thanked him then, you know,' continued Mabel;
'aren't you going to say a word to him now?'

'Thank you very much for saving my dog,' murmured Dolly, very quickly
and without looking at him; when Mabel, seeing that she was not at her
ease, suggested that she should run and fetch Frisk to return thanks
in person, which Dolly accepted gladly as permission to escape.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mark had risen, of course, at Mabel's entrance, and was standing at
one corner of the curtained mantelpiece; Mabel was at the other,
absently smoothing the fringe with delicate curves of her hand and
with her eyes bent on the rug at her feet. Both were silent for a few
moments. Mark had felt the coldness in her manner. 'She remembers how
shabbily she treated me,' he thought, 'and she's too proud to show
it.'

'You must forgive Dolly,' said Mabel at last, thinking that if Mark
meant to be stiff and disagreeable, there was no need at least for the
interview to be made ridiculous. 'Children have short memories--for
faces only, I hope, not kindnesses. But if you had cared to be thanked
we should have seen you before.'

'Rather cool that,' Mark thought. 'I am only surprised,' he said,
'that _you_ should remember it; you gave me more thanks than I
deserved at the time. Still, as I had no opportunity of learning your
name or where you lived--if you recollect we parted very suddenly, and
you gave me no permission----'

'But I sent a line to you by the guard,' she said; 'I gave you our
address and asked you to call and see my mother, and let Dolly thank
you properly.'

She was not proud and ungracious after all, then. He felt a great joy
at the thought, and shame, too, for having so misjudged her. 'If I had
ever received it,' he said, 'I hope you will believe that you would
have seen me before this; but I asked for news of you from that burly
old impostor of a guard, and he--he gave me no intelligible message'
(Mark remembered suddenly the official's extempore effort), 'and
certainly nothing in writing.'

Mark's words were evidently sincere, and as she heard them, the
coldness and constraint died out of Mabel's face, the slight
misunderstanding between them was over.

'After all, you are here, in spite of guards,' she said, with a gay
little laugh. 'And now we have even more to be grateful to you for.'
And then, simply and frankly, she told him of the pleasure 'Illusion'
had given her, while, at her gracious words, Mark felt almost for the
first time the full meanness of his fraud, and wished, as he had
certainly never wished before, that he had indeed written the book.

But this only made him shrink from the subject; he acknowledged what
she said in a few formal words, and attempted to turn the
conversation, more abruptly than he had done for some time on such
occasions. Mabel was of opinion, and with perfect justice, that even
genius itself would scarcely be warranted in treating her approval in
this summary fashion, and felt slightly inclined to resent it, even
while excusing it to herself as the unintentional _gaucherie_ of an
over-modest man.

'I ought to have remembered perhaps,' she said, with a touch of pique
in her voice, 'that you must long ago have tired of hearing such
things.'

He had indeed, but he saw that his brusqueness had annoyed her, and
hastened to explain. 'You must not think that is so,' he said, very
earnestly; 'only, there is praise one cannot trust oneself to listen
to long----'

'And it really makes you uncomfortable to be talked to about
"Illusion"?' said Mabel.

'I will be quite frank, Miss Langton,' said Mark (and he really felt
that he must for his own peace of mind convince her of this);
'_really_ it does. Because, you see, I feel all the time--I hope, that
is--that I can do much better work in the future.'

'And we have all been admiring in the wrong place? I see,' said Mabel,
with apparent innocence, but a rather dangerous gleam in her eyes.

'Oh, I know it sounds conceited,' said Mark, 'but the real truth is,
that when I hear such kind things said about a work which--which gave
me so very little trouble to produce, it makes me a little
uncomfortable sometimes, because (you know how perversely things
happen sometimes), because I can't help a sort of fear that my next
book, to which I really am giving serious labour, may be utterly
unnoticed, or--or worse!'

There was no possibility of mistaking this for mock-modesty, and
though Mabel thought such sensitiveness rather overstrained, she liked
him for it notwithstanding.

'I think you need not fear that,' she said; 'but you shall not be made
uncomfortable any more. And you are writing another book? May I ask
you about that, or is that another indiscretion?'

Mark was only too delighted to be able to talk about a book which he
really _had_ written; it was at least a change; and he plunged into
the subject with much zest. 'It deals with things and men,' he
concluded, 'on rather a larger scale than "Illusion" has done. I have
tried to keep it clear of all commonplace characters.'

'But then it will not be quite so lifelike, will it?' suggested Mabel;
'and in "Illusion" you made even commonplace characters interesting.'

'That is very well,' he said, a little impatiently, 'for a book which
does not aim at the first rank. It is easy enough to register exactly
what happens around one. Anybody who keeps a diary can do that. The
highest fiction should idealise.'

'I'm afraid I prefer the other fiction, then,' said Mabel. 'I like to
sympathise with the characters, and you can't sympathise with an ideal
hero and heroine. I hope you will let your heroine have one or two
little weaknesses, Mr. Ernstone.'

'Now you are laughing at me,' said Mark, more humbly. 'I must leave
you to judge between the two books, and if I can only win your
approval, Miss Langton, I shall prize it more than I dare to say.'

'If it is at all like "Illusion----" Oh, I forgot,' Mabel broke off
suddenly. 'That is forbidden ground, isn't it? And now, will you come
into the drawing-room and be introduced to my mother? We shall find
some tea there.'

Mrs. Langton was a little sleepy after a long afternoon of
card-leaving and call-paying, but she was sufficiently awake to be
gracious when she had quite understood who Mark was.

'So very kind of you to write to my little daughter about such
nonsense,' she said. 'Of course I don't mean that the story itself was
anything of the kind, but little girls have such silly fancies--at
least mine seem to have. _You_, were just the same at Dolly's age,
Mabel.... Now _I_ never recollect worrying myself about such ideas....
I'm sure I don't know how they get it. But I hear it is such a
wonderful book you have written, Mr. Ernstone. I've not read it yet.
My wretched health, you know. But really, when I think how clever you
must be, I feel quite afraid to talk to you. I always consider it must
require so _much_ cleverness and--and perseverance--you know, to write
_any_ book.'

'Oh, Mabel, only think,' cried Dolly, now quite herself again, from
one of the window-seats, 'Frisk has run away again, and been out ever
since yesterday morning. I forgot that just now. So Mr. Ernstone can't
see him after all!'

And Mabel explained to her mother that they had recognised in the
author of 'Illusion' the unknown rescuer of Dolly's dog.

'You mustn't risk such a valuable life as yours is now any more,' said
Mrs. Langton, after purring out thanks which were hazily expressed,
owing to an imperfect recollection of the circumstances. 'You must be
more selfish after this, for other people's sakes.'

'I'm afraid such consideration would not be quite understood,' said
Mark, laughing.

'Oh, you must expect to be misunderstood, else there would be no merit
in it, would there?' said Mrs. Langton, not too lucidly. 'Dolly, my
pet, there's something scratching outside the door. Run and see what
it is.'

Mark rose and opened the door, and presently a ridiculous little
draggled object, as black as a cinder, its long hair caked and clotted
with dried mud, shuffled into the room with the evident intention of
sneaking into a warm corner without attracting public notice--an
intention promptly foiled by the indignant Dolly.

'O-oh!' she cried; 'it's Frisk. Look at him, everybody--_do_ look at
him.'

The unhappy animal backed into the corner by the door with his eyes on
Dolly's, and made a conscience-stricken attempt to sit up and wave one
paw in deprecation, doubtless prepared with a plausible explanation of
his singular appearance, which much resembled that of 'Mr. Dolls'
returning to Jenny Wren after a long course of 'three-penn'orths.'

'Aren't you ashamed of yourself?' demanded Dolly. '(Don't laugh, Mr.
Ernstone, _please_--it encourages him so.) Oh, I believe you're the
very worst dog in Notting Hill.'

The possessor of that bad eminence sat and shivered, as if engaged in
a rough calculation of his chances of a whipping; but Dolly governed
him on these occasions chiefly by the moral sanction--an immunity he
owed to his condition.

'And this,' said Dolly, scathingly, 'this is the dog you saved from
the train, Mr. Ernstone! There's gratitude! The next time he shall be
left to be killed--he's not worth saving!'

Either the announcement or the suspense, according as one's estimate
of his intellectual powers may vary, made the culprit snuffle
dolefully, and after Dolly had made a few further uncomplimentary
observations on the general vileness of his conduct and the extreme
uncleanliness of his person, which he heard abjectly, he was dismissed
with his tail well under him, probably to meditate that if he did not
wish to rejoin his race altogether, he really would have to pull up.

Soon after this sounds were heard in the hall, as of a hat being
pitched into a corner, and a bag with some heavy objects in it
slammed on a table to a whistling accompaniment. 'That's Colin,' said
Dolly, confidentially. 'Mother says he ought to be getting more repose
of manner, but he hasn't begun yet.'

And soon after Colin himself made his appearance. 'Hullo, Mabel!
Hullo, mother! Yes, I've washed my hands and I've brushed my hair.
It's _all_ right, really. Well, Dolly. What, Mr. Ashburn here!' he
broke off, staring a little as he went up to shake hands with Mark.

'I ought to have explained, perhaps,' said Mark. 'Ernstone is only the
name I write under. And I had the pleasure of having your son in my
form at St. Peter's for some time. Hadn't I, Colin?'

'Yes, sir,' said Colin, shyly, still rather overcome by so unexpected
an apparition, and thinking this would be something to tell 'the
fellows' next day.

Mabel laughed merrily. 'Mr. Ashburn, I wonder how many more people you
will turn out to be!' she said. 'If you knew how afraid I was of you
when I used to help Colin with his Latin exercises, and how angry when
you found me out in any mistakes! I pictured you as a very awful
personage indeed.'

'So I am,' said Mark, 'officially. I'm sure your brother will agree to
that.'

'I don't think he will,' said Mabel. 'He was so sorry when they moved
him out of your form, that you can't have been so very bad.'

'I liked being in the Middle Third, sir,' said Colin, regaining
confidence. 'It was much better fun than old--I mean Mr. Blatherwick's
is. I wish I was back again--for _some_ things,' he qualified
conscientiously.

When the time came to take his leave, Mrs. Langton asked for his
address, with a view to an invitation at no distant time. A young man,
already a sort of celebrity, and quite presentable on other accounts,
would be useful at dances, while he might serve to leaven some of her
husband's slightly heavy professional dinners.

Mabel gave him her hand at parting with an air of entire friendliness
and good understanding which she did not usually display on so short
a probation. But she liked this Mr. Ashburn already, who on the last
time she had met him had figured as a kind of hero, who was the
'swell' master for whom, without having seen him, she had caught
something of Colin's boyish admiration, and who, lastly, had stirred
and roused her imagination through the work of his own.

Perhaps, after all, he was a little conceited, but then it was not an
offensive conceit, but one born of a confidence in himself which was
fairly justified. She had not liked his manner of disparaging his
first work, and she rather distrusted his idealising theories; still,
she knew that clever people often find it difficult to do justice to
their ideas in words. He _might_ produce a work which would take rank
with the very greatest, and till then she could admire what he had
already accomplished.

And besides he was good-looking--very good-looking; his dark eyes had
expressed a very evident satisfaction at being there and talking to
her--which of course was in his favour; his manner was bright and
pleasant: and so Mabel found it agreeable to listen to her mother's
praise of their departed visitor.

'A very charming young man, my dear. You've only to look at him to see
he's a true genius; and so unaffected and pleasant with it all. Quite
an acquisition, really.'

'_I_ found him, mother,' interrupted Dolly; 'he wouldn't have come but
for me. But I'm rather disappointed in him myself; he didn't seem to
care to talk to _me_ much; and I don't believe he knows much about
fairies.'

'Don't be ungrateful, Dolly,' said Mabel. 'Who saved Frisk for you?'

'Oh, _he_ did; I know all that; but not because he liked Frisk, or me
either. It was because--I don't know _why_ it was because.'

'Because he is a good young man, I suppose,' said Mrs. Langton
instructively.

'No, it wasn't that; he doesn't look so _very_ good; not so good as
poor Vincent did; more good than Harold, though. But he doesn't care
about dogs, and he doesn't care about me, and I don't care about
him!' concluded Dolly, rather defiantly.

As for Mark, he left the house thoroughly and helplessly in love. As
he walked back to his rooms he found a dreamy pleasure in recalling
the different stages of the interview. Mabel's slender figure as she
stood opposite him by the mantelpiece, her reserve at first, and the
manner in which it had thawed to a frank and gracious interest; the
suspicion of a critical but not unkindly mockery in her eyes and tone
at times--it all came back to him with a vividness that rendered him
deaf and blind to his actual surroundings. He saw again the group in
the dim, violet-scented drawing-room, the handsome languid woman
murmuring her pleasant commonplaces, and the pretty child lecturing
the prodigal dog, and still felt the warm light touch of Mabel's hand
as it had lain in his for an instant at parting.

This time, too, the parting was not without hope; he might look
forward to seeing her again after this. A summer of golden dreams and
fancies had indeed begun for him from that day, and as he thought
again that he owed these high privileges to 'Illusion,' events seemed
more than ever to be justifying an act which was fast becoming as
remote and unreproachful as acts will, when the dread of
discovery--that great awakener of conscience--is sleeping too.




CHAPTER XV.

HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A DISCOVERY.


Harold Caffyn had not found much improvement in his professional
prospects since we first made his acquaintance; his disenchantment was
in fact becoming complete. He had taken to the stage at first in
reliance on the extravagant eulogies of friends, forgetting that the
standard for amateurs in any form of art is not a high one, and he
was very soon brought to his proper level. A good appearance and
complete self-possession were about his sole qualifications, unless we
add the voice and manner of a man in good society, which are not by
any means the distinctive advantages that they were a few years ago.
The general verdict of his fellow-professionals was, 'Clever enough,
but no actor,' and he was without the sympathy or imagination to
identify himself completely with any character and feelings opposed to
his own; he had obtained one distinct success, and one only--at a
_matinee_, when a new comedy was presented in which a part of some
consequence had been entrusted to him. He was cast for a cool and
cynical adventurer, with a considerable dash of the villain in him,
and played it admirably, winning very favourable notices from the
press, although the comedy itself resulted as is not infrequent with
_matinees_, in a dismal fiasco. However, the _matinee_ proved for a
time of immense service to him in the profession, and even led to his
being chosen by his manager to represent the hero of the next
production at his own theatre--a poetical drama which had excited
great interest before its appearance--and if Caffyn could only have
made his mark in it, his position would have been assured from that
moment. But the part was one of rather strained sentiment, and he
could not, rather than would not, make it effective. In spite of
himself, his manner suggested rather than concealed any extravagances
in the dialogue, and, worse still, gave the impression that he was
himself contemptuously conscious of them; the consequence being that
he repelled the sympathies of his audience to a degree that very
nearly proved fatal to the play. After that unlucky first night the
part was taken from him, and his engagement, which terminated shortly
afterwards, was not renewed.

Caffyn was not the man to overcome his deficiencies by hard and
patient toil; he had counted upon an easy life with immediate
triumphs, and the reality baffled and disheartened him. He might soon
have slid into the lounging life of a man about town, with a moderate
income, expensive tastes, and no occupation, and from that perhaps
even to shady and questionable walks of life. But he had an object
still in keeping his head above the social waters, and the object was
Mabel Langton.

He had long felt that there was a secret antagonism on her side
towards himself, which at first he had found amusement in provoking to
an occasional outburst, but was soon piqued into trying to overcome
and disarm, and the unexpected difficulty of this had produced in him
a state of mind as nearly approaching love as he was capable of.

He longed for the time when his wounded pride would be salved by the
consciousness that he had at last obtained the mastery of this wayward
nature, when he would be able to pay off the long score of slights and
disdains which he had come to exaggerate morbidly; he was resolved to
conquer her sooner or later in defiance of all obstacles, and he had
found few natures capable of resisting him long after he had set
himself seriously to subdue them.

But Mabel had been long in showing any sign of yielding. For some time
after the loss of the 'Mangalore' she had been depressed and silent to
a degree which persuaded Caffyn that his old jealousy of Holroyd was
well-grounded, and when she recovered her spirits somewhat, while she
was willing to listen and laugh or talk to him, there was always the
suggestion of an armistice in her manner, and any attempt on his part
to lead the conversation to something beyond mere badinage was sure to
be adroitly parried or severely put down, as her mood varied.

Quite recently, however, there had been a slight change for the
better; she had seemed more pleased to see him, and had shown more
sympathy and interest in his doings. This was since his one success at
the _matinee_, and he told himself triumphantly that she had at last
recognised his power; that the long siege was nearly over.

He would have been much less complacent had he known the truth, which
was this. At the _matinee_ Mabel had certainly been at first surprised
almost to admiration by an unexpected display of force on Caffyn's
part. But as the piece went on, she could not resist an impression
that this was not acting, but rather an unconscious revelation of his
secret self; the footlights seemed to be bringing out the hidden
character of the man as though it had been written on him in
sympathetic ink.

As she leaned back in the corner of the box he had sent them, she
began to remember little traits of boyish malice and cruelty. Had they
worked out of his nature, as such strains sometimes will, or was this
stage adventurer, cold-blooded, unscrupulous, with a vein of
diabolical humour in his malevolence, the real Harold Caffyn?

And then she had seen the injustice of this and felt almost ashamed of
her thoughts, and with the wish to make some sort of reparation, and
perhaps the consciousness that she had not given him many
opportunities of showing her his better side, her manner towards him
had softened appreciably.

Caffyn only saw the effects, and argued favourably from them. 'Now
that fellow Holroyd is happily out of the way,' he thought, 'she
doesn't care for anybody in particular. I've only to wait.'

There were considerations other than love or pride which made the
marriage a desirable one to him. Mabel's father was a rich man, and
Mabel herself was entitled independently to a considerable sum on
coming of age. He could hardly do better for himself than by making
such a match, even from the pecuniary point of view.

And so he looked about him anxiously for some opening more suitable to
his talent than the stage-door, for he was quite aware that at present
Mabel's father, whatever Mabel herself might think, would scarcely
consider him a desirable _parti_.

Caffyn had been lucky enough to impress a business friend of his with
a firm conviction of his talents for business and management, and this
had led to a proposal that he should leave the stage and join him,
with a prospect of a partnership should the alliance prove a success.

The business was a flourishing one, and the friend a young man who had
but recently succeeded to the complete control of it, while Caffyn had
succeeded somehow in acquiring a tolerably complete control of _him_.
So the prospect was really an attractive one, and he felt that now at
last he might consider the worst obstacles to his success with Mabel
were disposed of.

He had plenty of leisure time on his hands at present, and thought he
would call at Kensington Park Gardens one afternoon, and try the
effect of telling Mabel of his prospects. She had been so cordial and
sympathetic of late that it would be strange if she did not express
some sort of pleasure, and it would be for him to decide then whether
or not his time had come to speak of his hopes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. and Miss Langton were out, he was told at the door. 'Miss Dolly
was in,' added Champion, to whom Caffyn was well known.

'Then I'll see Miss Dolly,' said Caffyn, thinking that he might be
able to pass the time until Mabel's return. 'In the morning-room is
she? All right.'

He walked in alone, to find Dolly engaged in tearing off the postage
stamp from a letter. 'Hallo, Miss Juggins, what mischief are you up to
now?' he began, as he stood in the doorway.

'It's not mischief at all,' said Dolly, hardly deigning to look up
from her occupation. 'What have you come in for, Harold?'

'For the pleasure of your conversation,' said Caffyn. 'You know you
always enjoy a talk with me, Dolly.' (Dolly made a little mouth at
this.) 'But what are you doing with those scissors and that envelope,
if I'm not indiscreet in asking?'

Dolly was in a subdued and repentant mood just then, for she had been
so unlucky as to offend Colin the day before, and he had not yet
forgiven her. It had happened in this way. It had been a half-holiday,
and Colin had brought home an especial friend of his to spend the
afternoon, to be shown his treasures and, in particular, to give his
opinion as an expert on the merits of Colin's collection of foreign
postage-stamps.

Unhappily for Colin's purpose, however, Dolly had completely enslaved
the friend from the outset. Charmed by his sudden interest in the most
unboyish topics, she had carried him off to see her doll's house, and,
in spite of Colin's grumbling dissuasion, the base friend had gone
meekly. Worse still, he had remained up there listening to Dolly's
personal anecdotes and reminiscences and seeing Frisk put through his
performances, until it was too late to do anything like justice to the
stamp album, over which Colin had been sulkily fuming below, divided
between hospitality and impatience.

Dolly had been perfectly guiltless of the least touch of coquetry in
thus monopolising the visitor, for she was not precocious in this
respect, and was merely delighted to find a boy who, unlike Colin,
would condescend to sympathise with her pursuits; but perhaps the boy
himself, a susceptible youth, found Dolly's animated face and eager
confidences more attractive than the rarest postal issues.

When he had gone, Colin's pent-up indignation burst out on the
unsuspecting Dolly. She had done it on purpose. She knew Dickinson
major came to see his stamps. What did _he_ care about her rubbishy
dolls? And there she had kept him up in the nursery for hours wasting
his time! It was too bad of her, and so on, until she wept with grief
and penitence.

And now she was seizing the opportunity of purchasing his forgiveness
by an act of atonement in kind, in securing what seemed to her to be
probably a stamp of some unknown value--to a boy. But she did not tell
all this to Caffyn.

'Do you know about stamps--is this a rare one?' she said, and brought
the stamp she had removed to Caffyn. The postmark had obliterated the
name upon it.

'Let's look at the letter,' said Caffyn; and Dolly put it in his
hand.

He took it to the window, and gave a slight start. 'When did this
come?' he said sharply.

'Just now,' said Dolly; 'a minute or two before you came. I heard the
postman, and I ran out into the hall to see the letters drop in the
box, and then I saw this one with the stamp, and the box wasn't
locked, so I took it out and tore the stamp off. Why do you look like
that, Harold? It's only for Mabel, and she won't mind.'

Caffyn was still at the window; he had just received a highly
unpleasant shock, and was trying to get over it and adjust himself to
the facts revealed by what he held in his hand.

The letter was from India, bore a Colombo postmark, and was in Vincent
Holroyd's hand, which Caffyn happened to know; if further proof were
required he had it by pressing the thin paper of the envelope against
the inclosure beneath, when several words became distinctly legible,
besides those visible already through the gap left by the stamp. Thus
he read, 'Shall not write again till you----' and lower down Holroyd's
full signature.

And the letter had that moment arrived. He saw no other possible
conclusion than that, by some extraordinary chance, Holroyd had
escaped the fate which was supposed to have befallen him. He was
alive; a more dangerous rival after this than ever. This letter might
even contain a proposal!

'No use speaking to Mabel after she has once seen this. Confound the
fellow! Why the deuce couldn't he stay in the sea? It's just my
infernal luck!'

As he thought of the change this letter would work in his prospects,
and his own complete powerlessness to prevent it, the gloom and
perplexity on his face deepened. He had been congratulating himself on
the removal of this particular man as a providential arrangement made
with some regard to his own convenience. And to see him resuscitated,
at that time of all others, was hard indeed to bear. And yet what
could he do?

As Caffyn stood by the window with Holroyd's letter in his hand, he
felt an insane temptation for a moment to destroy or retain it. Time
was everything just then, and even without the fragment he had been
able to read, he could, from his knowledge of the writer, conclude
with tolerable certainty that he would not write again without having
received an answer to his first letter. 'If I was only alone with it!'
he thought impatiently. But he was a prudent young man, and perfectly
aware of the consequences of purloining correspondence; and besides,
there was Dolly to be reckoned with--she alone had seen the thing as
yet. But then she _had_ seen it, and was not more likely to hold her
tongue about that than any other given subject. No, he could do
nothing; he must let things take their own course and be hanged to
them!

His gloomy face filled Dolly with a sudden fear; she forgot her
dislike, and came timidly up to him and touched his arm. 'What's the
matter, Harold?' she faltered. 'Mabel won't be angry. I--I haven't
done anything _wrong_, have I, Harold?'

He came out of his reverie to see her upturned face raised to his--and
started; his active brain had in that instant decided on a desperate
expedient, suggested by the sight of the trouble in her eyes. 'By
Jove, I'll try!' he thought; 'it's worth it--she's such a child--I may
manage it yet!'

'Wrong!' he said impressively, 'it's worse than that. My poor Dolly,
didn't you really know what you were doing?'

'N--no,' said Dolly; 'Harold, don't tease me--don't tell me what isn't
true ... it--it frightens me so!'

'My dear child, what can I tell you? Surely you know that what you did
was stealing?'

'Stealing!' echoed Dolly, with great surprised eyes. 'Oh, no,
Harold--not _stealing_. Why, of course I shall tell Mabel, and ask her
for the stamp afterwards--only if I hadn't torn it off first, she
might throw it away before I could ask, you know!'

'I'm afraid it was stealing all the same,' said Caffyn, affecting a
sorrowfully compassionate tone; 'nothing can alter that now, Dolly.'

'Mabel won't be angry with me for that, I know,' said Dolly; 'she will
see how it was really.'

'If it was only Mabel,' said Caffyn, 'we should have no reason to
fear; but Mabel can't do anything for you, poor Dolly! It's the _law_
that punishes these things. You know what law is?--the police, and the
judges.'

The piteous change in the child's face, the dark eyes brimming with
rising tears, and the little mouth drawn and trembling, might have
touched some men; indeed, even Caffyn felt a languid compunction for
what he was doing. But his only chance lay in working upon her fears;
he could not afford to be sentimental just then, and so he went on,
carefully calculating each word.

'Oh, I won't believe it,' cried Dolly, with a last despairing effort
to resist the effect his grave pity was producing; 'I can't. Harold,
you're trying to frighten me. I'm not frightened a bit. _Say_ you are
only in fun!'

But Caffyn turned away in well-feigned distress. 'Do I look as if it
was fun, Dolly?' he asked, with an effective quiver in his low voice;
he had never acted so well as this before. 'Is that this morning's
paper over there?' he asked, with a sudden recollection, as he saw the
sheet on a little round wicker table. 'Fetch it, Dolly, will you?'

'I must manage the obstinate little witch somehow,' he thought
impatiently, and turned to the police reports, where he remembered
that morning to have read the case of an unhappy postman who had
stolen stamps from the letters entrusted to him.

He found it now and read it aloud to her. 'If you don't believe me,'
he added, 'look for yourself--you can read. Do you see now--those
stamps were marked. Well, isn't _this_ one marked?'

'Oh, it is!' cried Dolly, 'marked all over! Yes, I do believe you now,
Harold. But what shall I do? I know--I'll tell papa--he won't let me
go to prison!'

'Why, papa's a lawyer--you know that,' said Caffyn; 'he has to _help_
the law--not hinder it. Whatever you do, I shouldn't advise you to
tell him, or he would be obliged to do his duty. You don't want to be
shut up for years all alone in a dark prison, do you, Dolly? And yet,
if what you've done is once found out, nothing can help you--not your
father, not your mamma--not Mabel herself--the law's too strong for
them all!'

This strange and horrible idea of an unknown power into whose clutches
she had suddenly fallen, and from which even love and home were unable
to shield her, drove the poor child almost frantic; she clung to him
convulsively, with her face white as death, terrified beyond tears.
'Harold!' she cried, seizing his hand in both hers, 'you won't let
them! I--I can't go to prison, and leave them all. I don't like the
dark. I _couldn't_ stay in it till I was grown up, and never see Mabel
or Colin or anybody. Tell me what to do--only tell me, and I'll do
it!'

Again some quite advanced scoundrels might have hesitated to cast so
fearful a shadow over a child's bright life, and the necessity annoyed
Caffyn to some extent, but his game was nearly won--there would not be
much more of it.

'I mustn't _do_ anything for you,' he said; 'if I did my duty, I
should have to give you up to---- No, it's all right, Dolly, I should
never dream of doing that. But I can do no more. Still, if you choose,
you can help _yourself_--and I promise to say nothing about it.'

'How do you mean?' said Dolly; 'if--if I stuck it together and left
it?'

'Do you think that wouldn't be seen? It would, though! No, Dolly, if
anyone but you and I catches sight of that letter, it will all be
found out--must be!'

'Do you mean?--oh, no, Harold, I couldn't _burn_ it!'

There was a fire in the grate, for the morning, in spite of the
season, had been chilly.

'Don't suppose _I_ advise you to burn it,' said Caffyn. 'It's a bad
business from beginning to end--it's wrong (at least it isn't right)
to burn the letter. Only--there's no other way, if you want to keep
out of prison. And if you make up your mind to burn it, Dolly, why you
can rely on me to keep the secret. _I_ don't want to see a poor
little girl shut up in prison if I can help it, _I_ can tell you. But
do as you like about it, Dolly; I mustn't interfere.'

Dolly could bear it no more; she snatched the flimsy foreign paper,
tore it across and flung it into the heart of the fire. Then, as the
flames began to play round the edges, she repented, and made a wild
dart forward to recover the letter. 'It's Mabel's,' she cried; 'I'm
afraid to burn it--I'm afraid!'

But Caffyn caught her, and held her little trembling hands fast in his
cool grasp, while the letter that Holroyd had written in Ceylon with
such wild secret hopes flared away to a speckled grey rag, and floated
lightly up the chimney. 'Too late now, Dolly!' he said, with a ring of
triumph in his voice. 'You would only have blistered those pretty
little fingers of yours, my child. And now,' he said, indicating the
scrap of paper which bore the stamp, 'if you'll take my advice, you'll
send that thing after the other.'

For the sake of this paltry bit of  paper Dolly had done it
all, and now that must go!--she had not even purchased Colin's
forgiveness by her wrong--and this last drop in her cup was perhaps
the bitterest. She dropped the stamp guiltily between two red-hot
coals, watched that too as it burnt, and then threw herself into an
arm-chair and sobbed in passionate remorse.

'Oh, why did I do it?' she wailed; 'why did you make me do it,
Harold?'

'Come, Dolly, I like that,' said Caffyn, who saw the necessity for
having this understood at once. '_I_ made you do nothing, if you
please--it was all done before I came in. I may think you were very
sensible in getting rid of the letter in that way--I do--but you did
it of your own accord--remember that.'

'I was quite good half an hour ago,' moaned the child, 'and now I'm a
wicked girl--a--a thief! No one will speak to me any more--they'll
send me to prison!'

'Now don't talk nonsense,' said Caffyn, a little alarmed, not having
expected a child to have such strong feelings about anything. 'And
for goodness' sake don't cry like that--there's nothing to cry about
_now_.... You're perfectly safe as long as you hold your tongue. You
don't suppose I shall tell of you, do you?' (and it really was highly
improbable). 'There's nothing to show what you've done. And--and you
didn't mean to do anything bad, I know _that_, of course. You needn't
make yourself wretched about it. It's only the way the law looks at
stealing stamps, you know. Come, I must be off now; can't wait for
Mabel any longer. But I must see a smile before I go--just a little
one, Juggins--to thank me for helping you out of your scrape, eh?'
(Dolly's mouth relaxed in a very faint smile.) 'That's right--now
you're feeling jolly again; cheer up, you can trust me, you know.' And
he went out, feeling tolerably secure of her silence.

'It's rough on her, poor little thing!' he soliloquised as he walked
briskly away; 'but she'll forget all about it soon enough--children
do. And what the deuce could I do? No, I'm glad I looked in just then.
Our resuscitated friend won't write again for a month or two--and by
that time it will be too late. And if this business comes out (which I
don't imagine it ever will) _I've_ done nothing anyone could lay hold
of. I was very careful about that. I must have it out with Mabel as
soon as I can now--there's nothing to be gained by waiting!'

_Would_ Dolly forget all about it? She did not like Harold Caffyn, but
it never occurred to her to disbelieve the terrible things he had told
her. She was firmly convinced that she had done something which, if
known, would cut her off completely from home and sympathy and love;
she who had hardly known more than a five minutes' sorrow in her happy
innocent little life, believed herself a guilty thing with a secret.
Henceforth in the shadows there would lurk something more dreadful
even than the bogeys with which some foolish nursemaids people shadows
for their charges--the gigantic hand of the law, ready to drag her off
at any moment from all she loved. And there seemed no help for her
anywhere--for had not Harold said that if her father or anyone were
to know, they would be obliged to give her up to punishment.

Perhaps if Caffyn had been capable of fully realising what a deadly
poison he had been instilling into this poor child's mind, he might
have softened matters a little more (provided his object could have
been equally well attained thereby), and that is all that can be said
for him. But, as it was, he only saw that he must make as deep an
impression as he could for the moment, and never doubted that she
would forget his words as soon as he should himself.

But if there was some want of thought in the evil he had done, the
want of thought in this case arose from a constitutional want of
heart.




CHAPTER XVI.

A CHANGE OF FRONT.


'Well, Jane,' said Mr. Lightowler one evening, when he had invited
himself to dine and sleep at the house in Malakoff Terrace, 'I suppose
you haven't heard anything of that grand young gentleman of yours
yet?'

The Ashburns, with the single exception of Trixie, had remained
obstinately indifferent to the celebrity which Mark had so suddenly
obtained; it did not occur to most of them indeed that distinction was
possible in the course he had taken. Perhaps many of Mahomet's
relations thought it a pity that he should abandon his excellent
prospects in the caravan business (where he was making himself so much
respected), for the precarious and unremunerative career of a prophet.

Trixie, however, had followed the book's career with wondering
delight; she had bought a copy for herself, Mark not having found
himself equal to sending her one, and she had eagerly collected
reviews and allusions of all kinds, and tried hard to induce Martha
at least to read the book.

Martha had coldly declined. She had something of her mother's hard,
unimaginative nature, and read but little fiction; and besides, having
from the first sided strongly against Mark, she would not compromise
her dignity now by betraying so much interest in his performances.
Cuthbert read the book, but in secret, and as he said nothing to its
discredit, it may be presumed that he could find no particular fault
with it. Mrs. Ashburn would have felt almost inclined, had she known
the book was in the house, to order it to be put away from among them
like an evil thing, so strong was her prejudice; and her husband,
whatever he felt, expressed no interest or curiosity on the subject.

So at Mr. Lightowler's question, which was put more as a vent for his
own outraged feelings than any real desire for information, Mrs.
Ashburn's face assumed its grimmest and coldest expression as she
replied--'No, Solomon. Mark has chosen his own road--we neither have
nor expect to have any news of him. At this very moment he may be
bitterly repenting his folly and disobedience somewhere.'

Upon which Cuthbert observed that he considered that extremely
probable, and Mr. Ashburn found courage to ask a question. 'I--I
suppose he hasn't come or written to _you_ yet, Solomon?' he said.

'No, Matthew,' said his brother-in-law, 'he has not. I'd just like to
see him coming to me; he wouldn't come twice, I can tell him! No, I
tell you, as I told him, I've done with him. When a young man repays
all I've spent on him with base ingratitude like that, I wash my hands
of him--I say deliberately--I wash my 'ands. Why, he might have worked
on at his law, and I'd a' set him up and put him in the way of making
his living in a few years; made him a credit to all connected with
him, I would! But he's chosen to turn a low scribbler, and starve in a
garret, which he'll come to soon enough, and that's what I get for
trying to help a nephew. Well, it will be a lesson to me, I know
that. Young men have gone off since my young days; a lazy, selfish,
conceited lot they are, all of 'em.'

'Not _all_, Solomon,' said his sister. 'I'm sure there are young men
still who--Cuthbert, _how_ long was it you stayed at the office after
hours to make up your books? Of his own free will, too, Solomon! And
_he's_ never had anyone to encourage him, or help him on, poor boy!'

Mrs. Ashburn was not without hopes that her brother might be brought
to understand in time that the family did not end with Mark, but she
might have spared her pains just then.

'Oh,' he said, with a rather contemptuous toss of the head, 'I wasn't
hinting. I've nothing partickler against him--_he's_ steady enough, I
dessay. One of the other kind's enough in a small family, in all
conscience! Ah, Jane, if ever a man was regularly taken in by a boy, I
was by his brother Mark--a bright, smart, clever young chap he was as
I'd wish to see. Give that feller an education and put him to a
profession, thinks I, and he'll be a credit to you some of these days.
And see what's come of it!'

'It's very sad--very sad for all of us, I'm sure,' sighed Mrs.
Ashburn.

At this, Trixie, who had been listening to it all with hot cheeks and
trembling lips, could hold out no longer.

'You talk of Mark--Uncle and all of you,' she said, looking prettier
for her indignation, 'as if he was a disgrace to us all! You seem to
think he's starving somewhere in a garret, and unknown to everybody.
But he's nothing of the sort--he's famous already, whether you believe
it or not. You ought to be proud of him.'

'Beatrix, you forget yourself,' said her mother; 'before your uncle,
too.'

'I can't help it,' said Trixie; 'there's no one to speak up for poor
Mark but me, ma, and I must. And it's all quite true. I hear all about
books and things from--at the Art School where I go, and Mark's book
is being talked about _everywhere_! And you needn't be afraid of his
coming to you for money, Uncle, for I was told that Mark will be able
to get as much money as ever he likes for his next books; he will be
quite rich, and all just by writing! And nobody but you here seems to
think the worse of him for what he has done! I'll show you what the
papers say about him presently. Why, even _your_ paper, ma, the
"Weekly Horeb," has a long article praising Mark's book this week, so
I should think it can't be so very wicked. Wait a minute, and you
shall see!'

And Trixie burst impetuously out of the room to fetch the book in
which she had pasted the reviews, leaving the others in a rather
crestfallen condition, Uncle Solomon especially looking straight in
front of him with a fish-like stare, being engaged in trying to
assimilate the very novel ideas of a literary career which had just
been put before him.

Mrs. Ashburn muttered something about Trixie being always headstrong
and never given to serious things, but even she was a little shaken by
the unexpected testimony of her favourite oracle, the 'Horeb.'

'Look here, Uncle,' said Trixie, returning with the book and laying it
down open before him. 'See what the ---- says, and the ----; oh, and
all of them!'

'_I_ don't want to see 'em,' he said, sulkily pushing the book from
him. 'Take the things away, child; who cares what they say? They're
all at the same scribbling business themselves; o' course they'd crack
up one another.'

But he listened with a dull, glazed look in his eyes, and a grunt now
and then, while she read extracts aloud, until by-and-by, in spite of
his efforts to repress it, a kind of hard grin of satisfaction began
to widen his mouth.

'Where's this precious book to be got?' he said at last.

'Are you so sure he's disgraced you, _now_, Uncle?' demanded Trixie
triumphantly.

'Men's praise is of little value,' said Mrs. Ashburn, harshly. 'Your
uncle and we look at what Mark has done from the Christian's
standpoint.'

'Well, look here, y' know. Suppose we go into the matter now; let's
talk it out a bit,' said Uncle Solomon, coming out of a second brown
study. 'What 'ave you got against Mark?'

'What have I got against him, Solomon?' echoed his sister in supreme
amazement.

'Yes; what's he done to set you all shaking your heads at?'

'Why, surely there's no need to tell you? Well, first there's his
ingratitude to _you_, after all you've done for him!'

'Put me out of the question!' said Mr. Lightowler, with a magnanimous
sweep of his hand, 'I can take care of myself, I should 'ope. What _I_
want to get at is what he's done to _you_. What do _you_ accuse the
boy of doing, Matthew, eh?'

Poor little Mr. Ashburn seemed completely overwhelmed by this sudden
demand on him. 'I? oh, I--well, Jane has strong views, you know,
Solomon, decided opinions on these subjects, and--and so have I!' he
concluded feebly.

'Um,' said Mr. Lightowler, half to himself, 'shouldn't a' thought that
was what's the matter with _you_! Well, Jane, then I come back to you.
What's he done? Come, he hasn't robbed a church, or forged a cheque,
has he?'

'If you wish me to tell you what you know perfectly well already, he
has, in defiance of what he knows I feel on this subject, connected
himself with a thing I strongly disapprove of--a light-minded
fiction.'

'Now you know, Jane, that's all your confounded--I'm speaking to you
as a brother, you know--your confounded narrer-minded nonsense!
Supposing he has written a "light-minded fiction," as you call it,
where's the harm of it?'

'With the early training you received together with me, Solomon, I
wonder you can ask! You know very well what would have been thought of
reading, to say nothing of writing, a novel in our young days. And it
cuts me to the heart to think that a son of mine should place another
stumbling-block in the hands of youth.'

'Stumbling grandmother!' cried Mr. Lightowler. 'In our young days, as
you say, we didn't go to playhouses, and only read good and improving
books, and a dull time we 'ad of it! I don't read novels myself now,
having other things to think about. But the world's gone round since
then, Jane. Even chapel-folk read these light-minded fictions
nowadays, and don't seem to be stumblin' about more than usual.'

'If they take no harm, their own consciences must be their guide; but
I've a right to judge for myself as well as they, I think, Solomon.'

'Exactly, but not for them too--that's what _you're_ doin', Jane. Who
the dickens are you, to go about groaning that Mark's a prodigal son,
or a lost sheep, or a goat, or one of those uncomplimentary animals,
all because he's written a book that everyone else is praising? Why
are you to be right and all the rest of the world wrong, I'd like to
know? Here you've gone and hunted the lad out of the house, without
ever consulting _me_ (who, I think, Jane, I _do_ think, have acted so
as to deserve to be considered and consulted in the matter), and all
for what?'

'I'm sure, Solomon,' said Mrs. Ashburn, with one or two hard sniffs
which were her nearest approach to public emotion; 'I'm sure I never
expected this from you, and you were quite as angry with Mark as any
of us.'

'Because I didn't know all--I was kep' in the dark. From what you said
I didn't know but what he'd written some rubbish which wouldn't keep
him in bread and cheese for a fortnight, and leave him as unknown as
it found him. Naterally I didn't care about _that_, when I'd hoped
he'd be a credit to me. But it appears he _is_ being a credit to
me--he's making his fortune, getting famous, setting the upper circles
talking of him. I thought Sir Andrew, up at the Manor House, was
a-chaffing me the other day when he began complimenting me on my
nephew, and I answered him precious short; but I begin to think now as
he meant it, and I went and made a fool of myself! All I ever asked of
Mark was to be a credit to me, and so long as he goes and is a credit
to me, what do I care how he does it? Not _that_!'

At sentiments of such unhoped-for breadth, Trixie was so far carried
away with delight and gratitude as to throw her arms round her uncle's
puffy red neck, and bestow two or three warm kisses upon him. 'Then
you won't give him up after all, will you, Uncle?' she cried; '_you_
don't think him a disgrace to you!'

Uncle Solomon looked round him with the sense that he was coming out
uncommonly well. 'There's no narrermindedness about _me_, Trixie, my
girl,' he said; 'I never have said, nor I don't say now, that I have
given your brother Mark up; he chose not to take the advantages I
offered him, and I don't deny feeling put out by it. But what's done
can't be helped. I shall give a look into this book of his, and if I
see nothing to disapprove of in it, why I shall let him know he can
still look to his old uncle if he wants anything. I don't say more
than that at present. But I do think, Jane, that you've been too 'ard
on the boy. We can't be all such partickler Baptists as _you_ are, yer
know!'

'I'm glad to hear you say that, Solomon,' quavered Mr. Ashburn;
'because I said as much to Jane (if you recollect my mentioning it, my
dear?) at the time; but she has decided views, and she thought
otherwise.'

The unfortunate Jane, seeing herself deserted on all sides, began to
qualify, not sorry in her inmost heart to be able to think more
leniently, since the 'Weekly Horeb' sanctioned it, of her son's act of
independence.

'I may have acted on imperfect knowledge,' she said; 'I may have been
too hasty in concluding that Mark had only written some worldly and
frivolous love-tale to keep minds from dwelling on higher subjects. If
so, I'm willing to own it, and if Mark was to come to me----'

But Mr. Lightowler did not care to lose his monopoly of magnanimity in
this way. 'That comes too late now, Jane,' he said; 'he won't come
back to you now, after the way you've treated him. You've taken your
line, and you'll have to keep to it. But he shan't lose by that while
_I_ live--or afterwards, for that matter--he was always more of a son
to me than ever you made of him!'

And when he went to bed, after some elaboration of his views on the
question, he left the family, with one exception, to the highly
unsatisfactory reflection that they had cut themselves off from all
right to feel proud and gratified at Mark's renown, and that the
breach between them was too wide now to be bridged.




CHAPTER XVII.

IN WHICH MARK MAKES AN ENEMY AND RECOVERS A FRIEND.


Mark's fame was still increasing, and he began to have proofs of this
in a pleasanter and more substantial form than empty compliment. He
was constantly receiving letters from editors or publishers inviting
him to write for them, and offering terms which exceeded his highest
expectations. Several of these proposals--all the more tempting ones,
in fact--he accepted at once; not that he had anything by him in
manuscript just then of the kind required from him, but he felt a
vague sense of power to turn out something very fine indeed, long
before the time appointed for the fulfilment of his promises.

But, so far, he had not done any regular literary work since his
defection: he was still at St. Peter's, which occupied most of his
time, but somehow, now that he could devote his evenings without
scruple to the delights of composition, those delights seemed to have
lost their keenness, and besides, he had begun to go out a great deal.

He had plenty of time before him, however, and his prospects were
excellent; he was sure of considerable sums under his many agreements
as soon as he had leisure to set to work. There could be no greater
mistake than for a young writer to flood the market from his
inkstand--a reflection which comforted Mark for a rather long and
unexpected season of drought.

Chilton and Fladgate had begun to sound him respecting a second book,
but Mark could not yet decide whether to make his _coup_ with 'One
Fair Daughter' or 'Sweet Bells Jangled.' At first he had been
feverishly anxious to get a book out which should be legitimately his
own as soon as possible, but now, when the time had come, he hung
back.

He did not exactly feel any misgivings as to their merits, but he
could not help seeing that with every day it was becoming more and
more difficult to put 'Illusion' completely in the shade, and that if
he meant to effect this, he could afford to neglect no precautions.
New and brilliant ideas, necessitating the entire reconstruction of
the plots, were constantly occurring to him, and he set impulsively to
work, shifting and interpolating, polishing and repolishing, until he
must have invested his work with a dazzling glitter--and yet he could
not bring himself to part with it.

He was engaged in this manner one Wednesday afternoon in his rooms,
when he heard a slow heavy step coming up the stairs, followed by a
sharp rap at the door of his bedroom, which adjoined his sitting-room.
He shouted to the stranger to come in, and an old gentleman entered
presently by the door connecting the two rooms, in whom he recognised
Mr. Lightowler's irascible neighbour. He stood there for a few moments
without a word, evidently overcome by anger, which Mark supposed was
due to annoyance at having first blundered into the bedroom. 'It's old
Humpage,' he thought. 'What can he want with _me_?' The other found
words at last, beginning with a deadly politeness. 'I see I am in the
presence of the right person,' he began. 'I have come to ask you a
plain question.' Here he took something from his coat-tail pocket, and
threw it on the table before Mark--it was a copy of 'Illusion.' 'I am
told you are in the best position to give me information on the
subject. Will you kindly give me the name--the _real_ name--of the
author of this book? I have reasons, valid reasons for requiring it.'
And he glared down at Mark, who had a sudden and disagreeable
sensation as if his heart had just turned a somersault. Could this
terrible old person have detected him, and if so what would become of
him?

Instinct rather than reason kept him from betraying himself by words.
'Th-that's a rather extraordinary question, sir,' he gasped faintly.

'Perhaps it is,' said the other; 'but I've asked it, and I want an
answer.'

'If the author of the book,' said Mark, 'had wished his real name to
be known, I suppose he would have printed it.'

'Have the goodness not to equivocate with me, sir. It's quite useless,
as you will understand when I tell you that I happen to _know_'--(he
repeated this with withering scorn)--'I happen to know the name of the
real author of this--this precious production. I had it, let me tell
you, on very excellent authority.'

'Who told you?' said Mark, and his voice seemed to him to come from
down stairs. Had Holroyd made a confidant of this angry old gentleman?

'A gentleman whose relation I think you have the privilege to be, sir.
Come, you see _I_ know you, Mr.--Mr. Cyril Ernstone,' he sneered. 'Are
you prepared to deny it?'

Mark drew a long sweet breath of relief. What a fright he had had!
This old gentleman evidently supposed he had unearthed a great
literary secret; but why had it made him so angry?

'Certainly not,' he replied, firm and composed again now. 'I _am_ Mr.
Cyril Ernstone. I'm very sorry if it annoys you.'

'It _does_ annoy me, sir. I have a right to be annoyed, and you know
the reason well enough!'

'Do you know,' said Mark languidly, 'I'm really afraid I don't.'

'Then I'll tell you, sir. In this novel of yours you've put a
character called--wait a bit--ah, yes, called Blackshaw, a retired
country solicitor, sir.'

'Very likely,' said Mark, who had been getting rather rusty with
'Illusion' of late.

'_I'm_ a retired country solicitor, sir! You've made him a man of low
character; you show him up all through the book as perpetually mixing
in petty squabbles, sir; on one occasion you actually allow him to get
drunk Now what do you mean by it?'

'Good heavens,' said Mark, with a laugh, 'you don't seriously mean to
tell me you consider all this personal?'

'I do very seriously mean to tell you so, young gentleman,' said Mr.
Humpage, showing his teeth with a kind of snarl.

'There are people who will see personalities in a proposition of
Euclid,' said Mark, now completely himself again, and rather amused by
the scene; 'I should think you must be one of them, Mr. Humpage. Will
it comfort you if I let you know that I--that this book was written
months before I first had the pleasure of seeing you.'

'No, sir, not at all. That only shows me more clearly what I knew
already. That there has been another hand at work here. I see that
uncle of yours behind your back here.'

'Do you though?' said Mark. 'He's not considered literary as a general
rule.'

'Oh, he's quite literary enough to be libellous. Just cast your eye
over this copy. Your uncle sent this to me as a present, the first
work of his nephew. I thought at first he was trying to be friendly
again, till I opened the book! Just look at it, sir!' And the old man
fumbled through the leaves with his trembling hands. 'Here's a passage
where your solicitor is guilty of a bit of sharp practice--underlined
by your precious uncle! And here he sets two parties by the
ears--underlined by your uncle, in red ink, sir; and it's like that
all through the book. _Now_ what do you say?'

'What _can_ I say?' said Mark, with a shrug. 'You must really go and
fight it out with my uncle; if he is foolish enough to insult you,
that's not exactly a reason for coming here to roar at _me_.'

'You're as bad as he is, every bit. I had him up at sessions over that
gander, and he hasn't forgotten it. You had a hand in that affair,
too, I remember. Your victim, sir, was never the same bird
again--you'll be pleased to hear that--never the same bird again!'

'Very much to its credit, I'm sure,' said Mark. 'But oblige me by not
calling it _my_ victim. I don't suppose you'll believe me, but the one
offence is as imaginary as the other.'

'I _don't_ believe you, sir. I consider that to recommend yourself to
your highly respectable uncle, you have deliberately set yourself to
blacken my character, which may bear comparison with your own, let me
tell you. No words can do justice to such baseness as that!'

'I agree with you. If I had done such a thing no words could; but as I
happen to be quite blameless of the least idea of hurting your
feelings, I'm beginning to be rather tired of this, you see, Mr.
Humpage.'

'I'm going, sir, I'm going. I've nearly said my say. You have not
altered my opinion in the least. I'm not blind, and I saw your face
change when you saw me. You were _afraid_ of me. You know you were.
What reason but one could you have for that?'

Of course Mark could have explained even this rather suspicious
appearance, but then he would not have improved matters very much; and
so, like many better men, he had to submit to be cruelly
misunderstood, when a word might have saved him, although in his case
silence was neither quixotic nor heroic.

'I can only say again,' he replied in his haughtiest manner, 'that
when this book was written, I had never seen you, nor even heard of
your existence. If you don't believe me, I can't help it.'

'You've got your own uncle and your own manner to thank for it if I
don't believe you, and I don't. There are ways of juggling with words
to make them cover anything, and from all I know of you, you are
likely enough to be apt at that sort of thing. I've come here to tell
you what I think of you, and I mean to do it before I go. You've
abused such talents as you've been gifted with, sir; gone out of your
way to attack a man who never did you any harm. You're a hired
literary assassin--that's my opinion of you! I'm not going to take any
legal proceeding against you--I'm not such a fool. If I was a younger
man, I might take the law, in the shape of a stout horse-whip, into my
own hands; as it is, I leave you to go your own way, unpunished by me.
Only, mark my words--you'll come to no good. There's a rough sort of
justice in this world, whatever may be said, and a beginning like
yours will bring its own reward. Some day, sir, you'll be found out
for what you are! That's what I came to say!'

And he turned on his heel and marched downstairs, leaving Mark with a
superstitious fear at his heart at his last words, and some annoyance
with Holroyd for having exposed him to this, and even with himself for
turning craven at the first panic.

'I must look up that infernal book again!' he thought. 'Holroyd may
have libelled half London in it for all I know.'

Now it may be as well to state here that Vincent Holroyd was as
guiltless as Mark himself of any intention to portray Mr. Humpage in
the pages of 'Illusion'; he had indeed heard of him from the Langtons,
but the resemblances in the imaginary solicitor to Dolly's godfather
were few and trivial enough, and, like most of such half-unconscious
reminiscences, required the aid of a malicious dulness to pass as
anything more than mere coincidences.

But the next day, while Mark was thinking apprehensively of 'Illusion'
as a perfect mine of personalities, the heavy steps were heard again
in the passage and up the staircase; he sighed wearily, thinking that
perhaps the outraged Mr. Humpage had remembered something more
offensive, and had called again to give him the benefit of it.

However, this time the visitor was Mr. Solomon Lightowler, who stood
in the doorway with what he meant to be a reassuring smile on his
face--though, owing to a certain want of flexibility in his uncle's
features, Mark misunderstood it.

'Oh, it's you, is it?' he said bitterly. 'Come in, Uncle, _come_ in.
You undertook when I saw you last never to speak to me again, but _I_
don't mind if you don't. I had a thorough good blackguarding yesterday
from your friend Humpage, so I've got my hand in. Will you curse me
sitting down or standing? The other one stood!'

'No, no, it ain't that, my boy. I don't want to use 'ard words. I've
come to say, let bygones be bygones. Mark, my boy, I'm _proud_ of
yer!'

'What, of a literary man! My dear uncle, you can't be well--or you've
lost money.'

'I'm much as usual, thanky, and I haven't lost any money that I know
of, and--and I _mean_ it, Mark, I've read your book.'

'I know you have--so has Humpage,' said Mark.

Uncle Solomon chuckled. 'You made some smart 'its at 'Umpage,' he
said. 'When I first saw there was a country solicitor in the book, I
said to myself, "That's goin' to be 'Umpage," and you 'ad him fine, I
_will_ say that. I never thought to be so pleased with yer.'

'You need not have shown your pleasure by sending him a marked copy.'

'I was afraid he wouldn't see it if I didn't,' explained Mr.
Lightowler, 'and I owed him one over that gander, which he summonsed
me for, and got his summons dismissed for his trouble. But I've not
forgotten it. P'r'aps it was going rather far to mark the places; but
there, I couldn't 'elp it.'

'Well, I suppose you know that amounts to libel?' said Mark, either
from too hazy a recollection of the law on the subject of
'publication' or the desire to give his uncle a lesson.

'Libel! Why, I never wrote anything--only underlined a passage 'ere
and there. You don't call that libelling!'

'A judge might, and, any way, Uncle, it's deuced unpleasant for _me_.
He was here abusing me all the afternoon--when I never had any idea of
putting the hot-headed old idiot into a book. It's too bad--it really
is!'

''Umpage won't law me--he's had enough of that. Don't you be afraid,
and don't show yourself poor-spirited. You've done me a good turn by
showing up 'Umpage as what I believe him to be--what's the good of
pretending you never meant it--to me? You don't know how pleased
you've made me. It's made a great difference in _your_ prospects,
young man, I can tell yer!'

'So you told me at the "Cock,"' said Mark.

'I don't mean that way, this time. I dessay I spoke rather 'asty then;
I didn't know what sort of littery line you were going to take up
with, but if you go on as you've begun, you're all right. And when I
have a nephew that makes people talk about him and shows up them that
makes themselves unpleasant as neighbours, why, what I say is, Make
the most of him! And that brings me to what I've come about. How are
you off in the matter o' money, hey?'

Mark was already beginning to feel rather anxious about his expenses.
His uncle's cheque was by this time nearly exhausted, his salary at
St. Peter's was not high and, as he had already sent in his
resignation, that source of income would dry up very shortly. He had
the money paid him for 'Illusion,' but that of course he could not
use; he had not sunk low enough for that, though he had no clear ideas
what to do with it. He would receive handsome sums for his next two
novels, but that would not be for some time, and meanwhile his
expenses had increased with his new life to a degree that surprised
himself, for Mark was not a young man of provident habits.

So he gave his uncle to understand that, though he expected to be paid
some heavy sums in a few months, his purse was somewhat light at
present.

'Why didn't you come to me?' cried his uncle; 'you might a' known _I_
shouldn't have stinted you. You've never found me near with you. And
now you're getting a big littery pot, and going about among the nobs
as I see your name with, why, you must keep up the position you've
made--and you shall too! You're quite right to drop the
schoolmastering, since you make more money with your scribbling. Your
time's valuable now. Set to and scribble away while you're the
fashion; make your 'ay while the sun shines, my boy. I'll see yer
through it. I want you to do me credit. I want everyone to know that
you're not like some of these poor devils, but have got a rich old
uncle at your back. You let 'em know that, will yer?'

And, quite in the manner of the traditional stage uncle, he produced
his cheque book and wrote a cheque for a handsome sum, intimating that
that would be Mark's quarterly allowance while he continued to do him
credit, and until he should be independent of it. Mark was almost too
astounded for thanks at first by such very unexpected liberality, and
something, too, in the old man's coarse satisfaction jarred on him and
made him ashamed of himself. But he contrived to express his gratitude
at last.

'It's all right,' said Uncle Solomon; 'I don't grudge it yer. You just
go on as you've begun.' ('I hope that doesn't mean "making more hits
at Humpage,"' thought Mark.) 'You thought you could do without me, but
you see you can't; and look here, make a friend of me after this, d'ye
hear? Don't do nothing without my advice. I'm a bit older than you
are, and p'r'aps I can give you a wrinkle or two, even about littery
matters, though you mayn't think it. You needn't a' been afraid your
uncle would cast you off, Mark--so long as you're doing well. As I
told your mother the other day, there's nothing narrerminded about me,
and if you feel you've a call to write, why, I don't think the worse
of you for it. I'm not _that_ kind of man.'

And after many more speeches of this kind, in the course of which he
fully persuaded himself, and very nearly his nephew, that his views
had been of this broad nature from the beginning, and were entirely
uninfluenced by events, he left Mark to think over this new turn of
fortune's wheel, by which he had provoked a bitter foe and regained a
powerful protector, without deserving one more than the other.

He thought lightly enough of the first interview now; it was cheaply
bought at the price of the other. 'And after all,' he said to himself,
'what man has no enemies?'

But only those whose past is quite stainless, or quite stained, can
afford to hold their enemies in calm indifference, and although Mark
never knew how old Mr. Humpage's enmity was destined to affect him, it
was not without influence on his fortunes.




CHAPTER XVIII.

A DINNER PARTY.


Mrs. Langton did not forget Mark; and before many days had gone by
since his call, he received an invitation to dine at Kensington Park
Gardens on a certain Saturday, to which he counted the days like a
schoolboy. The hour came at last, and he found himself in the pretty
drawing-room once more. There were people there already; a stout judge
and his pretty daughter, a meek but eminent conveyancer with a
gorgeous wife, and a distinguished professor with a bland subtle
smile, a gentle voice and a dangerous eye. Other guests came in
afterwards, but Mark hardly saw them. He talked a little to Mrs.
Langton, and Mrs. Langton talked considerably to him during the first
few minutes after his entrance, but his thoughts kept wandering, like
his eyes, to Mabel as she moved from group to group in her character
of supplementary hostess, for Mrs. Langton's health did not allow her
to exert herself on these occasions.

Mabel was looking very lovely that evening, in some soft light dress
of pale rose, with a trail of pure white buds and flowers at her
shoulder. Mark watched her as she went about, now listening with
pretty submission to the gorgeous woman in the ruby velvet and the
diamond star, who was laying down some 'little new law' of her own,
now demurely acknowledging the old judge's semi-paternal compliments,
audaciously rallying the learned professor, or laughing brightly at
something a spoony-looking, fair-haired youth was saying to her.

Somehow she seemed to Mark to be further removed than ever from him;
he was nothing to her amongst all these people; she had not even
noticed him yet. He began to be jealous of the judge, and the
professor too, and absolutely to hate the spoony youth.

But she came to him at last. Perhaps she had seen him from the first,
and felt his dark eyes following her with that pathetic look they had
whenever things were not going perfectly well with him. She came now,
and was pleased to be gracious to him for a few minutes, till dinner
was announced.

Mark heard it with a pang. Now they would be separated, of course; he
would be given to the ruby woman, or that tall, keen-faced girl with
the _pince-nez_; he would be lucky if he got two minutes' conversation
with Mabel in the drawing-room later on. But he waited for
instructions resignedly.

'Didn't papa tell you?' she said; 'you are to take me in--if you
will?' If he would! He felt a thrill as her light fingers rested on
his arm; he could scarcely believe his own good fortune, even when he
found himself seated next to her as the general rustle subsided, and
might accept the delightful certainty that she would be there by his
side for the next two hours at least.

He forgot to consult his _menu_; he had no very distinct idea of what
he ate or drank, or what was going on around him, at least as long as
Mabel talked to him. They were just outside the radius of the big
centre lamp, and that and the talk around them produced a sort of
semi-privacy.

The spoony young man was at Mabel's right hand, to be sure, but he
had been sent in with the keen-faced young lady who came from Girton,
where it was well known that the marks she had gained in one of the
great Triposes under the old order, would--but for her sex--have
placed her very high indeed in the class list. Somebody had told the
young man of this, and, as he was from Cambridge too, but had never
been placed anywhere except in one or two walking races at Fenner's,
it had damped him too much for conversation just yet.

'Have you been down to Chigbourne lately?' Mabel asked Mark suddenly,
and her smile and manner showed him that she remembered their first
meeting. He took this opportunity of disclaiming all share in the
treatment of the unfortunate gander, and was assured that it was quite
unnecessary to do so.

'I wish your uncle, Mr. Humpage, thought with you,' he said ruefully,
'but he has quite made up his mind that I am a villain of the deepest
dye;' and then, encouraged to confide in her, he told the story of the
old gentleman's furious entry and accusation.

Mabel looked rather grave. 'How could he get such an idea into his
head?' she said.

'I'm afraid _my_ uncle had something to do with that,' said Mark, and
explained Mr. Lightowler's conduct.

'It's very silly of both of them,' she said; 'and then to drag _you_
into the quarrel, too! You know, old Mr. Humpage is not really my
uncle--only one of those relations that sound like a prize puzzle when
you try to make them out. Dolly always calls him Uncle Anthony--he's
her godfather. But I wish you hadn't offended him, Mr. Ashburn, I do
really. I've heard he can be a very bitter enemy. He has been a very
good friend to papa; I believe he gave him almost the very first brief
he ever had; and he's kind to all of us. But it's dangerous to offend
him. Perhaps you will meet him here some day,' she added, 'and then we
may be able to make him see how mistaken he has been.'

'How kind of you to care about it!' said he, and his eyes spoke his
gratitude for the frank interest she had taken in his fortunes.

'Of course I care,' said Mabel, looking down as she spoke. 'I can't
bear to see anyone I like and respect--as I do poor Uncle
Anthony--persist in misjudging _anybody_ like that.'

Mark had hoped more from the beginning of this speech than the
conclusion quite bore out, but it was delightful to hear her talking
something more than society nothings to him. However, that was ended
for the present by the sudden irruption of the spoony young man into
the conversation; he had come out very shattered from a desperate
intellectual conflict with the young lady from Girton, to whom he had
ventured on a remark which, as he made it, had seemed to him likely to
turn out brilliant. 'You know,' he had announced solemnly, 'opinions
may differ, but in these things I must say I don't think the
exception's _always_ the rule--eh? don't you find that?' And his
neighbour replied that she thought he had hit upon a profound
philosophical truth, and then spoilt it by laughing. After which the
young man, thinking internally 'it _sounded_ all right, wonder if it
was such bosh as she seems to think,' had fled to Mabel for sanctuary
and plunged into an account of his University disasters.

'I should have floored my "General" all right, you know,' he said,
'only I went in for too much poetry.'

'Poetry?' echoed Mabel, with a slight involuntary accent of surprise.

'Rhymes, you know, not regular poetry!'

'But, Mr. Pidgely, I don't quite see; why can't you floor generals
with rhymes which are not regular poetry? Are they so particular in
the army?'

'It isn't an army exam.; it's at Cambridge; and the rhymes are all the
chief tips done into poetry--like "Paley" rhymes, y' know. Paley
rhymes give you, for instance, all the miracles or all the parables
right off in about four lines of gibberish, and you learn the
gibberish and then you're all right. I got through my Little-go that
way, but I couldn't the General. Fact is, my coach gave me too _many_
rhymes!'

'And couldn't you recollect the--the tips without rhymes?'

'Couldn't remember _with_ 'em,' he said. 'I could have corked down the
verses all right enough, but the beggars won't take them. I forgot
what they were all about, so I had to show up blank papers. And I'd
stayed up all one Long too!'

'Working?' asked Mabel, with some sympathy.

'Well--and cricketing,' he said ingenuously. 'I call it a swindle.'

'He talks quite a dialect of his own,' thought Mabel surprised.
'Vincent didn't. I wonder if Mr. Ashburn can.'

Mr. Ashburn, after a short period of enforced silence spent in
uncharitable feelings respecting fair-haired Mr. Pidgely, had been
suddenly attacked by the lady on his left, a plump lady with queer
comic inflections in her voice, the least touch of brogue, and a
reputation for daring originality.

'I suppose now,' she began, 'ye've read the new book they're talking
so much about--this "Illusion"? And h'wat's your private opinion? I
wonder if I'll find a man with the courage to agree with me, for _I_
said when I'd come to the last page, "Well, they may say what they
like, but I never read such weary rubbish in all me life," and I never
did!'

Mark laughed--he could not help it--but it was a laugh of real
enjoyment, without the slightest trace of pique or wounded vanity in
it. 'I'll make a confession,' he said. 'I do think myself that the
book has been luckier than it deserves--only, as the--the man who
wrote it is a--a very old friend of mine--you see, I mustn't join in
abusing it.'

Mabel heard this and liked Mark the better for it. 'I suppose he
couldn't do anything else very well without making a scene,' she
thought, 'but he did it very nicely. I hope that woman will find out
who he is though; it will be a lesson to her!' Here Mabel was not
quite fair, perhaps, for the lady had a right to her opinion, and
anything is better than humbug. But she was very needlessly pitying
Mark for having to listen to such unpalatable candour, little dreaming
how welcome it was to him, or how grateful he felt to his critic. When
Mark was free again, after an animated discussion with his candid
neighbour, in which each had amused the other and both were on the way
to becoming intimate, he found the spoony youth finishing the
description of a new figure he had seen in a _cotillon_. 'You all sit
down on chairs, don't you know,' he was saying, 'and then the rest
come through doors;' and Mabel said, with a spice of malice (for she
was being excessively bored), that that must be very pretty and
original.

Mr. Langton was chatting ponderously at his end of the table, and Mrs.
Langton was being interested at hers by an account the judge's lady
was giving of a _protege_ of hers, an imbecile, who made his living by
calling neighbours who had to be up early.

'Perhaps it's prejudice,' said Mrs. Langton, 'but I do _not_ think I
should like to be called by an _idiot_; he might turn into a maniac
some day. They do quite suddenly at times, don't they?' she added,
appealing to the professor, 'and that wouldn't be _nice_, you know, if
he did. What _would_ you do?' she inquired generally.

'Shouldn't get up,' said a rising young barrister.

'_I_ should--under the bed, and scream,' said the lively young lady he
had taken down. And so for some minutes that end of the table applied
itself zealously to solving the difficult problem of the proper course
to take on being called early by a raving maniac.

Meanwhile Mabel had succeeded in dropping poor Mr. Pidgely and
resuming conversation with Mark; this time on ordinary topics--pictures,
books, theatres, and people (especially people); he talked well, and
the sympathy between them increased.

Then as the dessert was being taken round, Dolly and Colin came in.
'_I've_ had ices, Mabel,' said the latter confidentially in her ear
as he passed her chair on his way to his mother; but Dolly stole
quietly in and sat down by her father's side without a word.

'Do you notice any difference in my sister Dolly?' Mabel asked Mark,
with a little anxious line on her forehead.

'She is not looking at all well,' said Mark, following the direction
of her glance. There certainly was a change in Dolly; she had lost all
her usual animation, and sat there silent and constrained, leaving the
delicacies with which her father had loaded her plate untouched, and
starting nervously whenever he spoke to her. When good-natured Mr.
Pidgely displayed his one accomplishment of fashioning a galloping pig
out of orange-peel for her amusement, she seemed almost touched by his
offering, instead of slightly offended, as the natural Dolly would
have been.

'I don't think she is ill,' said Mabel, 'though I was uneasy about
that at first. Fraeulein and I fancy she must be worrying herself about
something, but we can't get her to say what it is, and I don't like to
tease her; very likely she is afraid of being laughed at if she tells
anybody. But I do so wish I could find out; children can make
themselves so terribly wretched over mere trifles sometimes.'

But the hour of 'bereavement,' as Mr. Du Maurier calls it, had come;
gloves were being drawn on, the signal was given. Mr. Pidgely, after
first carefully barricading the path on his side of the table with his
chair, opened the door, and the men, left to themselves, dropped their
hypocritical mask of resigned regret as the handle turned on Mrs.
Langton's train, and settled down with something very like relief.

Mark, of course, could not share this, though it is to be feared that
even he found some consolation in his cigarette; the sound of Mabel's
voice had not ceased to ring in his ears when her father took him by
the arm and led him up to be introduced to the professor, who was
standing before a picture. The man of science seemed at first a
little astonished at having an ordinary young man presented to him in
this way, but when his host explained that Mark was the author of the
book of which the professor had been speaking so highly, his manner
changed, and he overwhelmed him with his courtly compliments, while
the other guests gathered gradually nearer, envying the fortunate
object of so marked a distinction.

But the object himself was horribly uncomfortable; for it appeared
that the professor in reading 'Illusion' had been greatly struck by a
brilliant simile drawn from some recent scientific discoveries with
which he had had some connection, and had even discovered in some
passages what he pronounced to be the germ of a striking theory that
had already suggested itself to his own brain, and he was consequently
very anxious to find out exactly what was in Mark's mind when he
wrote. Before Mark knew where he was, he found himself let in for a
scientific discussion with one of the leading authorities on the
subject, while nearly everyone was listening with interest for his
explanation. His forehead grew damp and cold with the horror of the
situation--he almost lost his head, for he knew very little about
science. Thanks, however, to his recent industry, he kept some
recollection of the passages in question, and without any clear idea
of what he was going to say, plunged desperately into a long and
complicated explanation. He talked the wildest nonsense, but with such
confidence that everyone in the room but the professor was impressed.
Mark had the mortification of seeing, as the great man heard him out
with a quiet dry smile, and a look in his grey eyes which he did not
at all like, that he was found out. But the professor only said at the
end, 'Well, that's very interesting, Mr. Ashburn, very interesting
indeed--you have given me a really considerable insight into
your--ah--mental process.' And for the rest of the evening he talked
to his host. As he drove home with his wife that night, however, his
disappointment found vent: 'Never been so taken in in my life,' he
remarked; 'I did think from his book that that young Ernstone and I
would have something in common; but I tried him but got nothing out
of him but rubbish; probably got the whole thing up out of some
British Association speech and forgotten it! I hate your shallow
fellows, and 'pon my word I felt strongly inclined to show him up,
only I didn't care to annoy Langton!'

'I'm glad you didn't, dear,' said his wife; 'I don't think
dinner-parties are good places to show people up in, and really Mr.
Ernstone, or Ashburn, whatever his name is, struck me as being so very
charming--perhaps you expected too much from him.'

'H'm, I shall know better another time,' he said.

But the incident, even as it was, left Mark with an uncomfortable
feeling that his evening had somehow been spoilt, particularly as he
did not succeed in getting any further conversation with Mabel in the
drawing-room afterwards to make him forget the unpleasantness. Vincent
Holroyd's work was still proving itself in some measure an avenger of
his wrongs.




CHAPTER XIX.

DOLLY'S DELIVERANCE.


About a week after the dinner recorded in the last chapter, Mark
repaired to the house in Kensington Park Gardens to call as in duty
bound, though, as he had not been able to find out on what afternoon
he would be sure of finding Mrs. Langton at home, he was obliged to
leave this to chance. He was admitted, however--not by the stately
Champion, but by Colin, who had seen him from the window and hastened
to intercept him.

'Mabel's at home, somewhere,' he said, 'but will you come in and speak
to Dolly first? She's crying awfully about something, and she won't
tell me what. Perhaps she'd tell you. And do come, sir, please; it's
no fun when she's like that, and she's always doing it now!' For Colin
had an unlimited belief, founded as he thought on experience, in the
persuasive powers of his former master.

Mark had his doubts as to the strict propriety of acceding to this
request--at all events until it had been sanctioned by some higher
authority than Colin--but then he remembered Mabel's anxiety on the
night of the dinner; if he could only set this child's mind at ease,
would not that excuse any breach of conventionality--would it not win
a word of gratitude from her sister? He could surely take a little
risk and trouble for such a reward as that; and so, with his usual
easy confidence, he accepted a task which was to cost him dear enough.
'You'd better leave me to manage this, young man,' he said at the
door. 'Run off to your sister Mabel and explain things, tell her where
I am and why, you know.' And he went into the library alone. Dolly was
crouching there in an arm-chair, worn out by sobbing and the weight of
a terror she dared not speak of, which had broken her down at last.
Mark, who was good-natured enough in his careless way, was touched by
the utter abandonment of her grief; for the first time he began to
think it must be something graver than a mere childish trouble, and,
apart from all personal motives, longed sincerely to do something, if
he could, to restore Dolly to her old childish self. He forgot
everything but that, and the unselfish sympathy he felt gave him a
tact and gentleness with which few who knew him best would have
credited him. Gradually, for at first she would say nothing, and
turned away in lonely hopelessness, he got her to confess that she was
very unhappy; that she had done something which she must never, never
tell to anybody.

Then she started up with a flushed face and implored him to go away
and leave her. '_Don't_ make me tell you!' she begged piteously. 'Oh,
I know you mean to be kind, I _do_ like you now--only I can't tell
you, really. Please, _please_ go away--I'm so afraid of telling you.'

'But why?' said Mark. 'I'm not very good myself, Dolly--you need not
be afraid of me.'

'It isn't that,' said Dolly, with a shudder; 'but _he_ said if I told
anyone they would have to send me to prison.'

'Who dared to tell you a wicked lie like that?' said Mark indignantly,
all the manhood in him roused by the stupid cruelty of it. 'It wasn't
Colin, was it, Dolly?'

'No, not Colin; it was Harold--Harold Caffyn. Oh, Mr. Ashburn,' she
said, with a sudden gleam of hope, 'wasn't it _true_? He said papa was
a lawyer, and would have to help the law to punish me----'

'The infernal scoundrel!' muttered Mark to himself, but he saw that he
was getting to the bottom of the mystery at last. 'So he told you
that, did he?' he continued; 'did he say it to tease you, Dolly?'

'I don't know. He often used to tease, but never like that before, and
I _did_ do it--only I never never meant it.'

'Now listen to me, Dolly,' said Mark. 'If all you are afraid of is
being sent to prison, you needn't think any more about it. You can
trust me, can't you? You know I wouldn't deceive you. Well, I tell you
that you can't have done anything that you would be sent to prison
for--that's all nonsense. Do you understand? Harold Caffyn said that
to frighten you. No one in the world would ever dream of sending you
to prison, whatever you'd done. Are you satisfied now?'

Rather to Mark's embarrassment, she threw her arms round his neck in a
fit of half-hysterical joy and relief. 'Tell me again,' she cried;
'you're _sure_ it's true--they can't send me to prison? Oh, I don't
care now. I am so glad you came--so glad. I _will_ tell you all about
it now. I want to!'

But some instinct kept Mark from hearing this confession; he had
overcome the main difficulty--the rest was better left in more
delicate hands than his, he thought. So he said, 'Never mind about
telling me, Dolly; I'm sure it wasn't anything very bad. But suppose
you go and find Mabel, and tell her; then you'll be quite happy
again.'

'Will _you_ come too?' asked Dolly, whose heart was now completely
won.

So Mark and she went hand-in-hand to the little boudoir at the back of
the house where they had had their first talk about fairies, and found
Mabel in her favourite chair by the window; she looked round with a
sudden increase of colour as she saw Mark.

'I mustn't stay,' he said, after shaking hands. 'I ought not to come
at all, I'm afraid, but I've brought a young lady who has a most
tremendous secret to confess, which she's been making herself, and you
too, unhappy about all this time. She has come to find out if it's
really anything so very awful after all.'

And he left them together. It was hard to go away after seeing so
little of Mabel, but it was a sacrifice she was capable of
appreciating.




CHAPTER XX.

A DECLARATION--OF WAR.


On the morning of the day which witnessed Dolly's happy deliverance
from the terrors which had haunted her so long, Mabel had received a
note from Harold Caffyn. He had something to say to her, he wrote,
which could be delayed no longer--he could not be happy until he had
spoken. If he were to call some time the next morning, would she see
him--alone?

These words she read at first in their most obvious sense, for she had
been suspecting for some time that an interview of this kind was
coming, and even felt a little sorry for Harold, of whom she was
beginning to think more kindly. So she wrote a few carefully worded
lines, in which she tried to prepare him as much as possible for the
only answer she could give, but before her letter was sent Dolly had
told her story of innocent guilt.

Mabel read his note again and tore up her reply with burning cheeks.
She _must_ have misunderstood him--it could not be _that_; he must
have felt driven to repair by confession the harm he had done. And
she wrote instead--'I shall be very willing to hear anything you may
have to say,' and took the note herself to the pillar-box on the hill.

Harold found her answer on returning late that night to his room, and
saw nothing in it to justify any alarm. 'It's not precisely gushing,'
he said to himself, 'but she couldn't very well say more just yet. I
think I am pretty safe.' So the next morning he stepped from his
hansom to the Langtons' door, leisurely and coolly enough. Perhaps his
heart was beating a little faster, but only with excitement and
anticipation of victory, for after Mabel's note he could feel no
serious doubts.

He was shown into the little boudoir looking out on the square, but
she was not there to receive him--she even allowed him to wait a few
minutes, which amused him. 'How like a woman!' he thought. 'She can't
resist keeping me on the tenterhooks a little, even now.' There was a
light step outside, she had come at last, and he started to his feet
as the door opened. 'Mabel!' he cried--he had meant to add 'my
darling'--but something in her face warned him not to appear too sure
of her yet.

She was standing at some distance from him, with one hand lightly
resting on a little table; her face was paler than usual, she seemed
rather to avoid looking at him, while she did not offer to take his
outstretched hand. Still he was not precisely alarmed by all this.
Whatever she felt, she was not the girl to throw herself at any
fellow's head; she was proud and he must be humble--for the present.

'You had something to say to me--Harold?' With what a pretty shy
hesitation she spoke his name now, he thought, with none of the
sisterly frankness he had found so tantalising; and how delicious she
was as she stood there in her fresh white morning dress. There was a
delightful piquancy in this assumed coldness of hers--a woman's dainty
device to delay and heighten the moment of surrender! He longed to
sweep away all her pretty defences, to take her to his arms and make
her own that she was his for ever. But somehow he felt a little
afraid of her; he must proceed with caution. 'Yes,' he said, 'there is
something I must say to you--you will give me a hearing, Mabel, won't
you?'

'I told you I would hear you. I hope you will say something to make me
think of you differently.'

He did not understand this exactly, but it did not sound precisely
encouraging.

'I hoped you didn't think me a very bad sort of fellow,' he said. And
then, as she made no answer, he plunged at once into his declaration.
He was a cold lover on the stage, but practice had at least given him
fluency, and now he was very much in earnest--he had never known till
then all that she was to him: there was real passion in his voice, and
a restrained power which might have moved her once.

But Mabel heard him to the end only because she felt unable to stop
him without losing control over herself. She felt the influence of his
will, but it made her the more thankful that she had so powerful a
safeguard against it.

He finished and she still made no response, and he began to feel
decidedly awkward; but when at last she turned her face to him,
although her eyes were bright, it was not with the passion he had
hoped to read there.

'And it really was that, after all!' she said bitterly. 'Do you know,
I expected something very different.'

'I said what I feel. I might have said it better perhaps,' he
retorted, 'but at least tell me what you expected me to say, and I
will say that.'

'Yes, I will tell you. I expected an explanation.'

'An explanation!' he repeated blankly; 'of what?'

'Is there nothing you can remember which might call for some excuse if
you found I had heard of it? I will give you every chance, Harold.
Think--is there nothing?'

Caffyn had forgotten the stamp episode as soon as possible, as a
disagreeable expedient to which he had been obliged to resort, and
which had served its end, and so he honestly misunderstood this
question.

'Upon my soul, no,' he said earnestly. 'I don't pretend to have been
any better than my neighbours, but since I began to think of you, I
never cared about any other woman. If you've been told any silly
gossip----'

Mabel laughed, but not merrily. 'Oh, it is not _that_--really it did
not occur to me to be jealous at any time--especially now. Harold,
Dolly has told me everything about that letter,' she added, as he
still looked doubtful.

He understood now at all events, and took a step back as if to avoid a
blow. _Everything!_ his brain seemed dulled for an instant by those
words; he thought that he had said enough to prevent the child from
breathing a syllable about that unlucky letter, and now Mabel knew
'everything!'

But he recovered his power of thought almost directly, feeling that
this was no time to lose his head. 'I suppose I'm expected to show
some emotion,' he said lightly; 'it's evidently something quite too
terrible. But I'm afraid _I_ want an explanation this time.'

'I think not, but you shall have it. I know that you came in and found
that poor child tearing off the stamp from some old envelope of mine,
and had the wickedness to tell her she had been stealing. Do you deny
it?'

'Some old envelope!' The worst of Caffyn's fear vanished when he heard
that. She did not know that it contained an unread letter then; she
did not guess--how could she, when Dolly herself did not know
it--where the letter had come from. He might appease her yet!

Caffyn's first inference, it may be said, was correct; in Dolly's mind
her guilt had consisted in stealing a marked stamp, and her hurried
and confused confession had, quite innocently and unconsciously, left
Mabel ignorant of the real extent and importance of what seemed to her
a quite imaginary offence.

'Deny it!' he said, 'of course not; I remember joking her a little
over something of the sort. Is _that_ all this tremendous indignation
is about--a joke?'

'A joke!' she said indignantly; 'you will not make anyone but
yourself merry over jokes like that. You set to work deliberately to
frighten her; you did it so thoroughly that she has been wretched for
days and days, ill and miserable with the dread of being sent to
prison. You _did_ threaten her with a prison, Harold; you told her she
must even be afraid of her own father--of all of us.... Who can tell
what she has been suffering, all alone, my poor little Dolly! And you
dare to call that a joke!'

'I never thought she would take it all so literally,' he said.

'Oh, you are not stupid, Harold; only a cruel fool could have thought
he was doing no harm. And you have seen her since again and again; you
must have noticed how changed she was, and yet you had no pity on her!
Can't you really see what a thing you have been doing? Do you often
amuse yourself in that way, and with children?'

'Hang it, Mabel,' said Caffyn uneasily, 'you're very hard on me!'

'Why were you hard on my darling Dolly?' Mabel demanded. 'What had she
done to you--how could you find pleasure in torturing her? Do you hate
children--or only Dolly?'

He made a little gesture of impatient helplessness. 'Oh, if you mean
to go on asking questions like that--' he said, 'of course I don't
hate your poor little sister. I tell you I'm sorry she took it
seriously--very sorry. And--and, if there's anything I can do to make
it up to her somehow; any--any amends, you know----'

The hardship, as he felt at the time, of his peculiar position was
that it obliged him to offer such a lame excuse for his treatment of
Dolly. Without the motive he had had for his conduct, it must seem
dictated by some morbid impulse of cruelty--whereas, of course, he had
acted quite dispassionately, under the pressure of a necessity--which,
however, it was impossible to explain to Mabel.

'I suppose "amends" mean caramels or chocolates,' said Mabel;
'chocolates to compensate for making a child shrink for days from
those who loved her! She was fretting herself ill, and we could do
nothing for her: a very little more and it might have killed her.
Perhaps your sense of humour would have been satisfied by that? If it
had not been for a friend--almost a stranger--who was able to see what
we were all blind to, that a coward had been practising on her fears,
we might never have guessed the truth till--till it was too late!'

'I see now,' he said; 'I thought there must be someone at the bottom
of this; someone who, for purposes of his own, has contrived to put
things in the worst light for me. If you can condescend to listen to
slanderers, Mabel, I shall certainly not condescend to defend myself.'

'Oh, I will tell you his name,' she said, 'and then even you will have
to own that he had no motive for doing what he did but natural
goodness and kindness. I doubt even if he has ever met you in his
life; the man who rescued our Dolly from what you had made her is Mr.
Mark Ashburn, the author of 'Illusion' (her expression softened
slightly, from the gratitude she felt, as she spoke his name, and
Caffyn noted it). 'If you think he would stoop to slander _you_---- But
what is the use of talking like that? You have owned it all. No
slander could make it any worse than it is!'

'If you think as badly of me as that,' said Caffyn, who had grown
deadly pale, 'we can meet no more, even as acquaintances.'

'That would be my own wish,' she replied.

'Do you mean,' he asked huskily, 'that--that everything is to be over
between us? Has it really come to that, Mabel?'

'I did not know that there ever was anything between us, as you call
it,' she said. 'But of course, after this, friendship is impossible.
We cannot help meeting. I shall not even tell my mother of this, for
Dolly's sake, and so this house will still be open to you. But if you
force me to protect Dolly or myself, you will come here no more.'

Her scornful indifference only filled him with a more furious desire
to triumph over it; he had felt so secure of her that morning, and now
she had placed this immeasurable distance between them. He had never
felt the full power of her beauty till then, as she stood there with
that haughty pose of the head and the calm contempt in her eyes; he
had seen her in most moods--playfully perverse, coldly civil, and
unaffectedly gracious and gentle--and in none of them had she made his
heart ache with the mad passion that mastered him now.

'It shall not end like this!' he said violently; 'I won't let you make
a mountain of a molehill in this way, Mabel, because it suits you to
do so. You have no right to judge me by what a child chooses to
imagine I said!'

'I judge you by the effects of what you did say. I can remember very
well that you had a cruel tongue as a boy--you are quite able to
torture a child with it still.'

'It is your tongue that is cruel!' he retorted; 'but you shall be just
to me. I love you, Mabel--whether you like it or not--you shall not
throw me off like this. Do you hear? You liked me well enough before
all this! I will force you to think better of me; you shall own it
one day. No, I'm mad to talk like this--I only ask you to forgive
me--to let me hope still!'

He came forward as he spoke and tried to take her hands, but she put
them quickly behind her. 'Don't dare to come nearer!' she said; 'I
thought I had made you feel something of what I think of you. What can
I say more? Hope! do you think I could ever trust a man capable of
such deliberate wickedness as you have shown by that single action?--a
kind of malice that I hardly think can be human. No, you had better
not hope for that. As for forgiving you, I can't even do that now;
some day, perhaps, when Dolly has quite forgotten, I may be able to
forget too, but not till then. Have I made you understand yet? Is that
enough?'

Caffyn was still standing where she had checked his advance; his face
was very grey and drawn, and his eyes were fixed on the Eastern rug at
his feet. He gave a short savage laugh. 'Well, yes,' he said, 'I
think perhaps I _have_ had enough at last. You have been kind enough
to put your remarks very plainly. I hope, for your own sake, I may
never have a chance of making you any return for all this.'

'I hope so too,' she said; 'I think you would use it.'

'Thanks for your good opinion,' he said, as he went to the door. 'I
shall do my best, if the time comes, to deserve it.'

She had never faltered during the whole of this interview. A righteous
anger had given her courage to declare all the scorn and indignation
she felt. But now, as the front door closed upon him, the strength
that had sustained her so long gave way all at once; she sank
trembling into one of the low cushioned chairs, and presently the
reaction completed itself in tears, which she had not quite repressed
when Dolly came in to look for her.

'Has he gone?' she began; and then, as she saw her sister's face,
'Mabel! Harold hasn't been bullying _you_?'

'No, darling, no,' said Mabel, putting her arms round Dolly's waist.
'It's silly of me to cry, isn't it? for Harold will not trouble either
of us again after this.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Harold was striding furiously down the other side of the
hill in the direction of Kensal Green, paying very little heed where
his steps might be leading him, in the dull rage which made his brain
whirl.

Mabel's soft and musical voice, for it had not ceased to be that, even
when her indignation was at its highest, rang still in his ears. He
could not forget her bitter scornful speeches; they were lashing and
stinging him to the soul.

He had indeed been hoist with his own petard; the very adroitness with
which he had contrived to get rid of an inconvenient rival had only
served to destroy his own chances for ever.

He knew that never again would Mabel suffer him to approach her on the
old friendly footing--it would be much if she could bring herself to
treat him with ordinary civility--he had lost her for ever, and hated
her accordingly from the bottom of his heart. 'If I can ever humble
you as you have humbled me to-day, God help you, my charming Mabel!'
he said to himself. 'To think that that little fool of a child should
have let out everything, at the very moment when I had the game in my
own hands! I have to thank that distinguished novelist, Mr. Mark
Ashburn, for that, though; _he_ must trouble himself to put his spoke
in my wheel, must he? I shan't forget it. I owe you one for that, my
illustrious friend, and you're the sort of creditor I generally _do_
pay in the long run.'

Only one thing gave him a gleam--not of comfort, precisely, but gloomy
satisfaction; his manoeuvre with the letter had at least succeeded
in keeping Holroyd apart from Mabel. 'He's just the fellow to think
he's jilted, and give her up without another line,' he thought;
'shouldn't wonder if he married out there. Miss Mabel won't have
_everything_ her own way!'

He walked on, past the huge gasometers and furnaces of the Gas
Company, and over the railway and canal bridges, to the Harrow Road,
when he turned mechanically to the right. His eyes saw nothing--neither
the sluggish barges gliding through the greasy black stream on his
right, nor the doleful string of hearses and mourning coaches which
passed him on their way to or from the cemetery. It was with some
surprise that, as he began to take note of his surroundings again, he
found himself in Bayswater, and not far from his own rooms. He thought
he might as well return to them as not, and as he reached the terrace
in which he had taken lodgings, he saw a figure coming towards him
that seemed familiar, and in whom, as he drew nearer, he recognised
his uncle, Mr. Antony Humpage. He was in no mood to talk about
indifferent topics just then, and if his respected uncle had only had
his back instead of his face towards him, Caffyn would have made no
great effort to attract his attention. As it was, he gave him the
heartiest and most dutiful of welcomes. 'You don't mean to say you've
actually been looking me up?' he began; 'how lucky that I came up
just then--another second or two and I should have missed you. Come
in, and let me give you some lunch?'

'No, my boy, I can't stay long. I was in the neighbourhood on
business, and I thought I'd see if you were at home. I won't come up
again now, I must get back to my station. I waited for some time in
those luxurious apartments of yours, you see, thinking you might come
in. Suppose you walk a little way back with me, eh? if you've no
better engagement.'

'Couldn't have a better one,' said Caffyn, inwardly chafing; but he
always made a point of obliging his uncle, and for once he had no
reason to consider his time thrown away. For, as they walked on
together in the direction of the Edgware Road, where the old gentleman
intended to take the Underground to King's Cross, Mr. Humpage, after
some desultory conversation on various subjects, said suddenly, 'By
the way, you know a good many of these writing fellows, Harold--have
you ever come across one called Mark Ashburn?'

'I've met him once,' said Caffyn, and his brows contracted. 'Wrote
this new book, "Illusion," didn't he?'

'Yes, he did--confound him!' said the other warmly, and then launched
into the history of his wrongs. 'Perhaps I oughtn't to say it at my
age,' he concluded, 'but I hate that fellow!'

'Do you though?' said Caffyn with a laugh; 'it's a singular
coincidence, but so do I.'

'There's something wrong about him, too,' continued the old man; 'he's
got a secret.'

('So have most of us!' thought his nephew.) 'But what makes you think
so?' he asked aloud, and waited for the answer with some interest.

'I saw it in the fellow's face; no young man with a clear record ever
has such a look as he had when I came in. He was green with fear, sir;
perfectly green!'

'Is that all?' and Caffyn was slightly disappointed. 'You know, I
don't think much of that. He might have taken you for a dun, or an
indignant parent, or something of that sort; he may be one of those
nervous fellows who start at anything, and you came there on purpose
to give him a rowing, didn't you?'

'Don't talk to me,' said the old man impatiently; 'there's not much
nervousness about _him_--he's as cool and impudent a rascal as ever I
saw when he's nothing to fear. It was guilt, sir, guilt. You remember
that picture of the Railway Station, and the look on the forger's face
when the detectives lay hold of him at the carriage door? I saw that
very look on young Ashburn's face before I'd spoken a dozen words.'

'What were the words?' said Caffyn. 'Proceed, good uncle, as we say in
our profession; you interest me much!'

'I'm sure I forget what I said--I was out of temper, I remember that.
I think I began by asking him for the real name of the author of the
book.'

Again Caffyn was disappointed. 'Of course he was in a funk then; he
knew he had put you into it. So you say at least; I've not read the
book myself.'

'It wasn't that at all, I tell you,' persisted the old man
obstinately; 'you weren't there, and I was. D'ye think I don't know
better than you? He's not the man to care for that. When he found what
I'd really come about he was cool enough. No, no, he's robbed, or
forged, or something, at some time or other, take my word for it--and
I only hope I shall live to see it brought home to him!'

'I hope it will _find_ him at home when it is,' said Caffyn; 'these
things generally find the culprits "out" in more senses than one, to
use an old Joe Miller. He would look extremely well in the Old Bailey
dock. But this is Utopian, Uncle.'

'Well--we shall see. I turn off here, so good-bye. If you meet that
libelling scoundrel again, you remember what I've told you.'

'Yes, I will,' thought Caffyn as he walked back alone. 'I must know
more of my dear Ashburn; and if there happens to be a screw loose
anywhere in my dear Ashburn's past, I shall do my humble best to give
it a turn or two. It's a charming amusement to unmask the perfidious
villain, as I suppose I must call myself after to-day, but it was
hardly safe to do it if he has his reasons for wearing a domino
himself. If I could only think that excellent uncle of mine had not
found a mare's nest! And if I can only put that screw on!'




CHAPTER XXI.

A PARLEY WITH THE ENEMY.


Mr. Fladgate was one of those domestically inclined bachelors who are
never really at ease in rooms or chambers, and whose tastes lead them,
as soon as they possess the necessary means, to set up a substantial
and well-regulated household of their own. He had a large
old-fashioned house in the neighbourhood of Russell Square, where he
entertained rather frequently in a solid unpretentious fashion. At his
Sunday dinners especially, one or two of the minor celebrities of the
day were generally to be met, and it was to one of these gatherings
that Mark was invited, as one of the natural consequences of the
success of 'Illusion.' He found himself, on arriving, in company with
several faces familiar to him from photographs, and heard names
announced which were already common property. There were some there
who had been famous once and were already beginning to be forgotten,
others now obscure who were destined to be famous some day, and a few,
and these by no means the least gifted, who neither had been nor would
be famous at any time. There were two or three constellations of some
magnitude on this occasion, surrounded by a kind of 'milky way' of
minor stars, amongst which the bar, the studios, and the stage were
all more or less represented.

Mark, as a rising man who had yet to justify a first success, occupied
a position somewhere between the greater and lesser division, and Mr.
Fladgate took care to make him known to many of the leading men in
the room, by whom he found himself welcomed with cordial
encouragement.

Presently, when he had shifted for a moment out of the nearest focus
of conversation, his host, who had been 'distributing himself,' as the
French say, amongst the various knots of talkers, came bustling up to
him. 'Er--Mr. Ashburn,' he began, 'I want you to know a very clever
young fellow here--known him from a boy--he's on the stage now, and
going to surprise us all some of these days. You'll like him. Come
along and I'll introduce him to you; he's very anxious to know _you_.'
And when Mark had followed him as he threaded his way across the room,
he found himself hurriedly introduced to the man with the cold light
eyes whom he had met at the Featherstones' on the day when he had
recognised Mabel Langton's portrait. Mr. Fladgate had already bustled
away again, and the two were left together in a corner of the room.
Dolly's revelations of the terrorism this man had exercised over her
had strengthened the prejudice and dislike Mark had felt on their
first meeting; he felt angry and a little uncomfortable now, at being
forced to come in contact with him, but there was no way of avoiding
it just then, and Caffyn himself was perfectly at his ease.

'I think we have met before--at Grosvenor Place,' he began blandly;
'but I dare say you have forgotten.'

'No,' said Mark, 'I remember you very well; and besides,' he added,
with a significance that he hoped would not be thrown away, 'I have
been hearing a good deal about you lately from the Langtons--from Miss
Langton, that is.'

'Ah!' said Caffyn; 'that would be flattering to most men, but when one
has the bad luck, like myself, to displease such a very impulsive
young lady as Miss Langton, the less she mentions you the better.'

'I may as well say,' returned Mark coldly, 'that, as to that
particular affair in which you were concerned, whatever my opinions
are, I formed them without assistance.'

'And you don't care to have them unsettled again by any plea for the
defence? That's very natural. Well, with Miss Langton's remarks to
guide me, I think I can guess what your own opinion of me is likely to
be just now. And I'm going to ask you, as a mere matter of fair play,
to hear my side of the question. You think that's very ridiculous, of
course?'

'I think we can do no good by discussing it any farther,' said Mark;
'we had better let the matter drop.'

'But you see,' urged Caffyn, 'as it is, the matter _has_ dropped--on
me, and really I do think that you, who I understand were the
means--of course from the best possible motives--of exposing me as a
designing villain, might give me an opportunity of defending myself. I
took the liberty of getting Fladgate to bring us together, expressly
because I can't be comfortable while I know you have your present
impressions of me. I don't expect to persuade Miss Langton to have a
little charity--she's a woman; but I hoped you at least would give me
a hearing.'

Mark felt some of his prejudice leaving him already; Caffyn had not
the air of a man who had been detected in a course of secret tyranny.
There was something flattering, too, in his evident wish to recover
Mark's good opinion; he certainly ought to hear both sides before
judging so harshly. Perhaps, after all, they had been making a little
too much of this business. 'Well,' he said at last, 'I should be very
glad if I could think things were not as bad as they seem. I will hear
anything you would like to say about it.'

'Quite the high moral censor,' thought the other savagely. 'Confound
his condescension!'

'I was sure you would give me a chance of putting myself right,' he
said, 'but I can't do it now. They're going down to dinner; we will
talk it over afterwards.'

At dinner conversation was lively and well sustained, though perhaps
not quite so sparkling as might have been expected from such an
assembly. As a rule, those who talked most and best were the men who
still had their reputation to make, and many of the great men there
seemed content to expose themselves to such brilliancy as there was
around them, as if silently absorbing it for future reproduction, by
some process analogous to the action of luminous paint.

Caffyn was placed at some distance from Mark, and as, after dinner, he
was entreated to sit down to the piano, which stood in a corner of the
room to which they had adjourned for cigars and coffee, it was some
time before their conversation was resumed.

Caffyn was at his best as he sat there rippling out snatches of
operatic _morceaux_, and turning round with a smile to know if they
were recognised. His performance was not remarkable for accuracy, as
he had never troubled himself to study music, or anything else,
seriously, but it was effective enough with a non-critical audience;
his voice, too, when he sang, though scarcely strong enough to fill a
room of much larger size, was pleasant and not untrained, and it was
some time before he was permitted to leave the music-stool.

He rattled off a rollicking hunting song, full of gaiety and _verve_,
and followed it up with a little pathetic ballad, sung with an accent
of real feeling (he could throw more emotion into his singing than his
acting), while, although it was after dinner, the room was hushed
until the last notes had died away, and when he rose at length with a
laughing plea of exhaustion, he was instantly surrounded by a buzz of
genuine gratitude. Mark heard all this, and the last remnants of his
dislike and distrust vanished; it seemed impossible that this man,
with the sympathetic voice, and the personal charm which was felt by
most of those present, could be capable of finding pleasure in working
on a child's terrors. So that when Caffyn, disengaging himself at
length from the rest, made his way to where Mark was sitting, the
latter felt this almost as a distinction, and made room for him with
cordiality. Somebody was at the piano again, but as all around were
talking, the most confidential conversations could be carried on in
perfect security, and Caffyn, seating himself next to Mark, set
himself to remove all prejudices.

He put his case very well, without obsequiousness or temper, appealing
to Mark as a fellow man-of-the-world against a girl's rash judgment.
'You know,' he said, in the course of his arguments, 'I'm not really
an incarnate fiend in private life. Miss Langton is quite convinced I
am. I believe I saw her looking suspiciously at my boots the other
day; but then she's a trifle hard on me. My worst fault is that I
don't happen to understand children. I'd got into a way of saying
extravagant things; you know the way one does talk rubbish to
children; well, of joking in that sort of way with little
What's-her-name. She always seemed to understand it well enough, and I
should have thought she was old enough to see the simpler kind of
joke, at all events. One day I chanced to chaff her about a stamp she
took off some envelope. Well, I daresay I said something about
stealing and prisons, all in fun, of course, never dreaming she would
think any more about it. A fortnight afterwards, suddenly there's a
tremendous hullabaloo. You began it. Oh, I know it was natural enough,
but you did begin it. You see the child looking pale and seedy, and
say at once, "something on her mind." Well, I don't know, and she
might have been such a little idiot as to take a chance word _au grand
serieux_; it might have been something else on her mind; or she
mightn't have had anything on her mind at all. Anyway, she tells you a
long story about prisons, and how one Harold Caffyn had told her she
would go there, and so on, and you, with that vivid imagination of
yours, conjure up a tearful picture of a diabolical young man (me, you
know) coldly gloating over the terrors of a poor little innocent
ignorant child, eh? (Miss Dolly's nearly ten, and anything but
backward for her age; but that's of no consequence.) Well, then you go
and impart some of your generous indignation to Miss Langton; she
takes it in a very aggravated form, and gives it to me. Upon my word,
I think I've had rather hard lines!'

Mark really felt a little remorseful just then, but he made one more
attempt to maintain his high ground. 'I don't know that I should have
thought so much of the joke itself,' he said, 'but you carried it on
so long; you saw her brooding over it and getting worse and worse, and
yet you never said a word to undeceive the poor child!'

'Now, you know, with all respect to you, Ashburn,' said Caffyn, who
was gradually losing all ceremony, 'that about seeing her brooding is
rubbish--pure rubbish! I saw the child, I suppose, now and again; but
I didn't notice her particularly, and if I had, I don't exactly know
how to detect the signs of brooding. How do you tell it from
indigestion? and how are you to guess what the brooding is about? I
tell you I'd forgotten the whole thing. And _that_ was what all your
righteous wrath was based upon, was it? Well, it's very delightful, no
doubt, to figure as a knight-errant, or a champion, and all that kind
of thing--particularly when you make your own dragon--but when you
come prancing down and spit some unlucky lizard, it's rather a cheap
triumph. But there, I forgive you. You've made a little mistake which
has played the very deuce with me at Kensington Park Gardens. It's too
late to alter that now, and if I can only make you see that there has
been a mistake, and I'm not one of the venomous sort of reptiles after
all, why, I suppose I must be content with that!'

He succeeded in giving Mark an uneasy impression that he had made a
fool of himself. He had quite lost the feeling of superiority under
the tone of half-humorous, half-bitter remonstrance which Caffyn had
chosen to take, and was chiefly anxious now to make the other forget
his share in the matter. 'Perhaps I was too ready to put the worst
construction on what I heard,' he said apologetically, 'but after what
you've told me, why----'

'Well, we'll say no more about it,' said Caffyn; 'you understand me
now, and that's all _I_ cared about.' ('You may be a great genius, my
friend,' he was thinking, 'but it's not so very difficult to get round
you, after all!') 'Look here,' he continued, 'will you come and see me
one of these days--it would be a great kindness to me. I've got rooms
in Kremlin Road, Bayswater, No. 72.'

Mark changed countenance very slightly as he heard the address--it had
been Holroyd's. There was nothing in that to alarm him, and yet he
could not resist a superstitious terror at the coincidence. Caffyn
noticed the effect directly. 'Do you know Kremlin Road?' he said.

Something made Mark anxious to explain the emotion he felt he had
given way to. 'Yes,' he said, 'a--a very old friend of mine had
lodgings at that very house. He was lost at sea, so when you mentioned
the place I----'

'I see,' said Caffyn. 'Of course. Was your friend Vincent Holroyd, I
wonder?'

'You knew him?' cried Mark; 'you!'

('Got the Railway Station effect that _time_!' thought Caffyn. 'I
begin to believe my dear uncle touched a weak spot after all. If he
_has_ a secret, it's ten to one Holroyd knew it--knows it, by Jove!')

'Oh, yes, I knew poor old Holroyd,' he said; 'that's how I came to
take his rooms. Sad thing, his going down like that, wasn't it? It
must have been a great shock for you--I can see you haven't got over
it even yet.'

'No,' stammered Mark, 'no--yes, I felt it a great deal. I--I didn't
know you were a friend of his, too; did--did you know him well?'

'Very well; in fact I don't fancy he had any secrets from me.'

Like lightning the thought flashed across Mark's mind, what if Caffyn
had been entrusted with Holroyd's literary projects? But he remembered
the next moment that Holroyd had expressly said that he had never told
a soul of his cherished work until that last evening in Rotten Row.
Caffyn had lied, but with a purpose, and as the result confirmed his
suspicions he changed the subject, and was amused at Mark's evident
relief.

Towards the end of the evening Mr. Fladgate came up in his amiable way
and laid his hand jocularly on Caffyn's shoulder. 'Let me give you a
word of advice,' he said laughing; 'don't talk to Mr. Ashburn here
about his book.'

'Shouldn't presume to,' said Caffyn. 'But do you come down so heavily
on ignorant admiration, Ashburn, eh?'

'Oh, it isn't that,' said Mr. Fladgate; 'it's his confounded modesty.
I shall be afraid to tell him when we think about bringing out another
edition. I really believe he'd like never to hear of it again!'

Mark felt himself flush. 'Come,' he said, with a nervous laugh, 'I'm
not so bad as all that!'

'Oh, you're beginning to stand fire better. But (it's such a good
story you _must_ let me tell it, Mr. Ashburn, particularly as it only
does you credit). Well, he was so ashamed of having it known that he
was the author of "Illusion," that he actually took the trouble to get
the manuscript all copied out in a different hand! Thought he'd take
me in that way, but he didn't. No, no, as you young fellows say, I
"spotted" him directly; eh, Mr. Ashburn?'

'I'm afraid it's time for me to be off,' said Mark, dreading further
revelations, and too nervous to see that they could do him no possible
harm. But the fact was, Caffyn's presence filled him with a vague
alarm which he could not shake off.

Good-natured Mr. Fladgate was afraid he had offended him. 'I do hope
you weren't annoyed at my mentioning that about the manuscript?' he
said, as he accompanied Mark to the door. 'It struck me as so curious,
considering the success the book has had, that I really couldn't
resist telling it.'

'No, no,' said Mark, 'it's all right; I didn't mind in the least.
I--I'm not ashamed of it!'

'Why, of course not,' said his host; 'it will be something for your
biographer to record, eh? You won't have another cigar to take you
home? Well, good-night.'

'Good-night,' said Mark, and added some words of thanks for a pleasant
evening.

_Had_ he had such a pleasant evening? he asked himself, as he walked
home alone in the warm night air. He had been well treated by
everybody, and there had been men present whose attention was a
distinction in itself, and yet he felt an uneasiness which he found it
difficult to trace back to any particular cause. He decided at last
that he was annoyed to find that the casual mention of Holroyd's name
should still have power to discompose him--that was a weakness which
he must set himself to overcome.

At the same time no one could possibly discover his secret; there was
no harm done. And before he reached his lodgings, he decided that the
evening had been pleasant enough.




CHAPTER XXII.

STRIKING THE TRAIL.


It was Sunday once more--a bright morning in June--and Caffyn was
sitting over his late breakfast and the 'Observer' in his rooms at
Bayswater. He was in a somewhat gloomy and despondent frame of mind,
for nothing seemed to have gone well with him since his disastrous
reception in Mabel's boudoir. His magnificent prospects in commerce
had suddenly melted away into thin air, for his confiding friend and
intending partner had very inconsiderately developed symptoms of a
premature insanity, and was now 'under restraint.' He himself was in
debt to a considerable extent; his father had firmly refused to
increase what in his opinion was a handsome allowance; and Caffyn had
been obliged to go to a theatrical agent with a view of returning to
the boards, while no opening he thought it worth his while to accept
had as yet presented itself.

Mabel had not relented in the least. He had met her once or twice at
the Featherstones' and, although she had not treated him with any open
coolness, he felt that henceforth there must be an impassable barrier
between them. Now and then, even while she forced herself in public to
listen to him, the invincible horror and repugnance she felt would be
suddenly revealed by a chance look or intonation--and he saw it and
writhed in secret. And yet he went everywhere that there was a
possibility of meeting her, with a restless impulse of self-torture,
while his hate grew more intense day by day.

And all this he owed to Mark Ashburn--a fact which Harold Caffyn was
not the man to forget. He had been careful to cultivate him, had found
out his address and paid him one or two visits, in which he had
managed to increase the intimacy between them.

Mark was now entirely at his ease with him. His air of superiority had
been finally dropped on the evening of Mr. Fladgate's dinner, and he
seemed flattered by the assiduity with which Caffyn courted his
society. Still, if he had a secret, it was his own still. Caffyn
watched in vain for the look of sudden terror which he had once
succeeded in surprising. At times he began to fear that it was some
involuntary nervous contraction from which his own hopes had led him
to infer the worst, for he was aware that countenances are not always
to be depended upon; that a nervous temperament will sometimes betray
all the signs of guilt from the mere consciousness that guilt is
suspected. If that was the case here, he felt himself powerless. It is
only in melodramas that a well-conducted person can be steeped in
crime, and he did not see his way very clearly to accomplishing that
difficult and dangerous feat with Mark Ashburn.

So he hated Mark more intensely at the thought that, after all, his
past might be a blameless one. But even if this were not so, and he
had a secret after all, it might be long enough before some fortunate
chance gave Caffyn the necessary clue to it. Well, he would wait and
watch as patiently as he might till then, and however long the
opportunity might be in coming, when it came at last it should not
find him too indifferent or reluctant to make use of it.

While he thought out his position somewhat to this effect, his
landlady appeared to clear away the breakfast things; she was a
landlady of the better class, a motherly old soul who prided herself
upon making her lodgers comfortable, and had higher views than many of
her kind on the subjects of cookery and attendance. She had come to
entertain a great respect for Caffyn, although at first, when she had
discovered that he was 'one of them play-actors,' she had not been
able to refrain from misgivings. Her notions of actors were chiefly
drawn from the ramping and roaring performers at minor theatres, and
the seedy blue-chinned individuals she had observed hanging about
their stage-doors; and the modern comedian was altogether beyond her
experience.

So when she found that her new lodger was 'quite the gentleman, and
that partickler about his linen, and always civil and pleasant-spoken,
and going about as neat as a new pin, and yet with a way about him as
you could see he wouldn't stand no nonsense,' her prejudices were
entirely conquered.

'Good morning, Mr. Caffyn, sir,' she began; 'I come up to clear away
your breakfast, if you're quite done. Sarah Ann she's gone to chapel,
which she's a Primitive Methodist, she _says_, though she can't never
tell me so much as the text when she come back, and I tell her, "My
good gal," I ses to her, "what _do_ you go to chapel for?" and it's my
belief that as often as not she don't go near it. But there, Mr.
Caffyn, if a gal does her work about the 'ouse of a week, as I will
say for Sarah Ann----'

Caffyn groaned. Good Mrs. Binney had a way of coming in to discourse
on things in general, and it was always extremely difficult to get rid
of her. She did not run down on this occasion until after an
exhaustive catalogue, _a la_ Mrs. Lirriper, of the manners and customs
of a whole dynasty of maids-of-all-work, when she began to clear his
breakfast-table. He was congratulating himself on her final departure,
when she returned with a bundle of papers in her hand. 'I've been
meanin' to speak to you about these, this ever such a time,' she said.
'Binney, he said as I'd better, seeing as you've got his very rooms,
and me not liking to burn 'em, and the maids that careless about
papers and that, and not a line from him since he left.'

'It would certainly be better not to burn the rooms, unless they're
insured, Mrs. Binney, and I should be inclined to prefer their not
being burnt while I'm in them, unless you make a point of it,' said
Caffyn mildly.

'Lor, Mr. Caffyn, who was talking of burnin' rooms? You do talk so
ridiklus. It's these loose papers of Mr. 'Olroyd's as I came to speak
to you about, you bein' a friend of his, and they lyin' a burden on my
mind for many a day, and litterin' up all the place, and so afraid I
am as Sarah Ann'll take and light the fire with 'em one of these
mornings, and who knows whether they're not of value, and if so what
should I say if he came and asked me for 'em back again?'

'Well, he won't do that, Mrs. Binney, if it's true that he was drowned
in the "Mangalore," will he?'

'Drowned! and me never to hear it till this day. It's quite took me
aback. Poor dear gentleman, what an end for him--to go out all that
way only to be drowned! I do seem to be told of nothing but deaths and
dying this morning, for Binney's just 'eard that poor old Mr. Tapling,
at No. 5 opposite, was took off at last quite sudden late last night,
and he'd had a dropsy for years, and swell up he would into all manner
o' shapes as I've seen him doin' of it myself!'

'Well, I'll look over the papers for you, Mrs. Binney,' interrupted
Caffyn. 'I don't suppose there's anything of much importance, but I
can tell you what ought to be kept.' He would have solved her
difficulties by advising her to burn the whole of them, but for some
vague idea that he might be able to discover something amongst all
these documents which would throw some light upon Holroyd's relations
with Mark.

So when Mrs. Binney was at last prevailed on to leave him in peace, he
sat down with the sheaf of miscellaneous papers she had left him, and
began to examine them without much hope of discovering anything to the
purpose.

They seemed to be the accumulations of some years. There were rough
drafts of Latin and Greek verses, outlines for essays, and hasty
jottings of University and Temple lectures--memorials of Holroyd's
undergraduate and law-student days. Then came notes scribbled down in
court with a blunt corroded quill on borrowed scraps of paper, and
elaborate analyses of leading cases and Acts of Parliament, which
belonged to the period of zeal which had followed his call to the Bar.

He turned all these over carelessly enough, until he came upon some
sheets fastened together with a metal clip. 'This does not look like
law,' he said half aloud. '"Glamour--romance by Vincent Beauchamp."
Beauchamp was his second name, I think. So he wrote romances, did he,
poor devil! This looks like the scaffolding for one, anyway; let's
have a look at it. List of characters: Beaumelle Marston; I've come
across that name somewhere lately, I know; Lieutenant-Colonel
Duncombe; why, I know that gentleman, too! Was this ever published?
Here's the argument.' He read and re-read it carefully, and then went
to a bookshelf and took down a book with the Grosvenor Library label;
it was a copy of 'Illusion,' by Cyril Ernstone.

With that by his side he turned over the rest of Holroyd's papers, and
found more traces of some projected literary work; skeleton scenes,
headings for chapters, and even a few of the opening pages, with some
marginal alterations in red ink, all of which he eagerly compared with
the printed work before him.

Then he rose and paced excitedly up and down his room. 'Is _this_ his
secret?' he thought. 'If I could only be sure of it! It seems too good
to be true ... they might have collaborated, or the other might have
made him a present of a plot, or even borrowed some notions from
him.... And yet there are some things that look uncommonly suspicious.
Why should he look so odd at the mere mention of Holroyd's name? Why
did he get the manuscript recopied? Was it modesty--or something else?
And why does one name only appear on the title-page, and our dear
friend take all the credit to himself? There's something fishy about
it all, and I mean to get at it. Job was perfectly correct. It _is_
rash for an enemy to put his name to a book--especially some other
fellow's book. Mr. Mark Ashburn and I must have a little private
conversation together, in which I shall see how much I remember of the
action of the common pump.'

He sat down and wrote a genial little note, asking Mark, if he had no
better engagement, to come round and dine quietly with him at the
house in Kremlin Road that evening, gave it to his landlord with
directions to take a cab to Mark's rooms, and if he could, bring back
an answer, after which he waited patiently for his messenger's return.

Binney returned in the course of an hour or so, having found Mark in,
and brought a note which Caffyn tore open impatiently. 'I have a
friend coming to dinner to-night, Mr. Binney,' he said, turning round
with his pleasant smile when he had read the answer. 'It's Sunday, I
know, but Mrs. Binney won't mind for once, and tell her she must do
her very best; I want to give my friend a little surprise.'




CHAPTER XXIII.

PIANO PRACTICE.


Caffyn was conscious of a certain excitement that Sunday evening as he
waited for Mark Ashburn's arrival. He felt that he might be standing
on the threshold of a chamber containing the secret of the other's
life--the key of which that very evening might deliver into his hands.
He was too cautious to jump at hasty conclusions; he wished before
deciding upon any plan of action to be practically certain of his
facts; a little skilful manipulation, however, would most probably
settle the question one way or the other, and if the result verified
his suspicions he thought he would know how to make use of his
advantage. There is a passage in the 'Autocrat of the Breakfast Table'
where the author, in talking of the key to the side-door by which
every person's feelings may be entered, goes on to say, 'If nature or
accident has put one of these keys into the hands of a person who has
the torturing instinct, I can only solemnly pronounce the words that
justice utters over its doomed victims, "The Lord have mercy on your
soul!"' There, it is true, the key in question unlocks the delicate
instrument of the nervous system, and not necessarily a Bluebeard's
chamber of guilt; but where the latter is also the case to some extent
the remark by no means loses in significance, and if any man had the
torturing instinct to perfection, Caffyn might be said to be that
individual. There was nothing he would enjoy more than practising upon
a human piano and putting it hopelessly out of tune; but pleasant as
this was, he felt he might have to exercise some self-denial here, at
all events for the present, lest his instrument should become restive
and escape before he had quite made up his mind what air he could best
play upon it.

In the meantime Mark was preparing to keep the appointment in the
pleasantest and most unsuspecting frame of mind. After answering
Caffyn's note he had met the Langtons as they came out of church and
returned with them to lunch. Dolly was herself again now, her haunting
fears forgotten with the happy ease of childhood, and Mabel had made
Mark feel something of the gratitude she felt to him for his share in
bringing this about. He had gone on to one or two other houses, and
had been kindly received everywhere, and now he was looking forward to
a quiet little dinner with the full expectation of a worthy finish to
a pleasant day. Even when he mounted the stairs of the house which had
been once familiar to him, and stood in Holroyd's old rooms, he was
scarcely affected by any unpleasant associations. For one thing, he
was beginning to have his conscience tolerably well in hand; for
another, the interior of the rooms was completely transformed since he
had seen them last.

Then they were simply the furnished apartments of a man who cared but
little for his personal well-being; now, when he passed round the
handsome Japanese screen by the door, he saw an interior marked by a
studied elegance and luxury. The common lodging-house fireplace was
concealed by an elaborate oak over-mantel, with brass plaques and blue
china; the walls were covered with a delicate blue-green paper and
hung with expensive etchings and autotype drawings of an aesthetically
erotic character; small tables and deep luxurious chairs were
scattered about, and near the screen stood a piano and a low stand
with peacock's feathers arranged in a pale blue crackle jar. In spite
of the pipes and riding-whips on the racks, the place was more like a
woman's boudoir than a man's room, and there were traces in its
arrangements of an eye to effect which gave it the air of a
well-staged scene in a modern comedy.

It looked very attractive, softly lit as it was by shaded candles in
sconces and a porcelain lamp with a crimson shade, which was placed on
the small oval table near the fern-filled fireplace; and as Mark
placed himself in a low steamer chair and waited for his host to make
his appearance, he felt as if he was going to enjoy himself.

'I shall have my rooms done up something in this way,' he thought,
'when _my_ book comes out.' The blinds were half drawn and the windows
opened wide to the sultry air, and while he waited he could hear the
bells from neighbouring steeples calling in every tone, from harsh
command to persuasive invitation, to the evening services.

Presently Caffyn lounged in through the hangings which protected his
bedroom door. 'Sorry you found me unready,' he said; 'I got in late
from the club somehow, but they'll bring us up some dinner presently.
Looking at that thing, eh?' he asked, as he saw Mark's eye rest on a
small high-heeled satin slipper in a glass case which stood on a
bracket near him. 'That was Kitty Bessborough's once--you remember
Kitty Bessborough, of course? She gave it to me just before she went
out on that American tour, and got killed in some big railway smash
somewhere, poor little woman! I'll tell you some day how she came to
make me a present of it. Here's Binney with the soup now.'

Mrs. Binney sent up a perfect dinner, at which her husband assisted in
a swallow-tailed coat and white tie, a concession he would not have
made for every lodger, and Caffyn played the host to perfection,
though with every course he asked himself inwardly, 'Shall I open fire
on him yet?' and still he delayed.

At last he judged that his time had come; Binney had brought up coffee
and left them alone. 'You sit down there and make yourself at home,'
said Caffyn genially, thrusting Mark down into a big saddle-bag
arm-chair ('where I can see your confounded face,' he added inwardly).
'Try one of these cigars--they're not bad; and now we can talk
comfortably. I tell you what I want to talk about,' he said presently,
and a queer smile flitted across his face; 'I want to talk about that
book of yours. Oh, I know you want to fight shy of it, but I don't
care. It isn't often I have a celebrated author to dine with me, and
if you didn't wish to hear it talked about you shouldn't have written
it, you know. I want you to tell me a few facts I can retail to people
on the best authority, don't you know; so you must just make up your
mind to conquer that modesty of yours for once, old fellow, and
gratify my impertinent curiosity.'

Mark was feeling so much at ease with himself and Caffyn that even
this proposition was not very terrible to him just then. 'All right,'
he said lazily; 'what do you want to know first?'

'That's right. Well, first, I must tell you I've read the book. I'd
like to say how much I was struck by it if I might.'

'I'm very glad you liked it,' said Mark.

'Like it?' echoed Caffyn; 'my dear fellow, I haven't been so moved by
anything for years. The thought you've crammed into that book, the
learning, the passion and feeling of the thing! I envy you for being
able to feel you have produced it all.' ('That ought to fetch him,' he
thought.)

'Oh, as for that,' said Mark with a shrug, and left his remark
unfinished, but without, as the other noticed, betraying any
particular discomposure.

'Do you remember, now,' pursued Caffyn, 'how the central idea first
occurred to you?'

But here again he drew a blank, for Mark had long ago found it
expedient to concoct a circumstantial account of how and when the
central idea had first occurred to him.

'Well, I'll tell you,' he said. 'It shows how oddly these things are
brought about. I was walking down Palace Gardens one afternoon....'
and he told the history of the conception of 'Illusion' in his best
manner, until Caffyn raged internally.

'You brazen humbug!' he thought; 'to sit there and tell that string of
lies to _me_!' When it was finished he remarked, 'Well, that's very
interesting; and I have your permission to tell that again, eh?'

'Certainly, my dear fellow,' said Mark, with a wave of his hand. His
cigar was a really excellent one, and he thought he would try another
presently.

('We must try him again,' thought Caffyn; 'he's deeper than I gave him
credit for being.')

'I'll tell you an odd criticism I heard the other day. I was talking
to little Mrs. Bismuth--you know Mrs. Bismuth by name? Some fellow has
just taken the "Charivari" for her. Well, she goes in for letters a
little as well as the drama, reads no end of light literature since
she gave up tights for drawing-room comedy, and she would have it that
she seemed to recognise two distinct styles in the book, as if two
pens had been at work on it.'

('Now I may find out if that really was the case after all,' he was
thinking.) 'I thought you'd be amused with that,' he added, after a
pause. Mark really did seem amused; he laughed a little.

'Mrs. Bismuth is a charming actress,' he said, 'but she'd better read
either a little more or a little less light literature before she goes
in for tracing differences in style. You can tell her, with my
compliments, that a good many pens were at work on it, but only one
brain. Where is it your matches live?'

'I can't draw him,' thought Caffyn. 'What an actor the fellow is! And
yet, if it was all aboveboard, he wouldn't have said that! and I've
got Holroyd's handwriting, which is pretty strong evidence against
him. But I want more, and I'll have it.'

He strolled up to the mantelpiece to light a cigarette, for which
purpose he removed the shade from one of the candles, throwing a
stronger light on his friend's face, and then, pausing with the
cigarette still unlighted between his fingers, he asked suddenly: 'By
the way, Fladgate said some other fellow wrote the book for you the
other day!' That shot at least told; every vestige of colour left
Mark's face, he half rose from his chair, and then sat down again as
he retorted sharply: 'Fladgate said that! What the devil are you
talking about...? What fellow?'

'Why, you were there when he said it. Some amanuensis you gave the
manuscript to.'

The colour came back in rather an increased quantity to Mark's cheeks.
What a nervous fool he was! 'Oh, ah--_that_ fellow!' he said; 'I
remember now. Yes, I was absurdly anxious to remain unknown, you see,
in those days, and--and I rather wanted to put something in the way of
a poor fellow who got his living by copying manuscripts; and so, you
see----'

'I see,' said Caffyn. 'What was his name?'

'His name?' repeated Mark, who had not expected this and had no name
ready for such immediate use. 'Let me see; I almost forget. It began
with a B I know; Brown--Brune--something like that--I really don't
recollect just now. But the fact is,' he added with a desperate
recourse to detail, 'the first time I saw the beggar he looked so hard
up, dressed in----' ('Buckram!' thought Caffyn, but he said
nothing)--'in rags, you know, that I felt it would be quite a charity
to employ him.'

'So it is,' agreed Caffyn. 'Did he write a good hand? I might be able
to give him some work myself in copying out parts.'

'Oh, he'd be useless for that!' put in Mark with some alarm; 'he wrote
a wretched hand.'

'Well, but in the cause of charity, you know,' rejoined Caffyn, with
inward delight. 'Hang it, Ashburn, why shouldn't _I_ do an unselfish
thing as well as you? What's the fellow's address?'

'He--he's emigrated,' said Mark; 'you'd find it rather difficult to
come across him now.'

'Should I?' Caffyn returned; 'well, I daresay I should.'

And Mark rose and went to one of the windows for some air. He remained
there for a short time looking idly down the darkening street. A
chapel opposite was just discharging its congregation, and he found
entertainment in watching the long lighted ground-glass windows, as a
string of grotesque silhouettes filed slowly across them, like a
shadow pantomime turned serious.

When he was tired of that and turned away from the blue-grey dusk, the
luxurious comfort of the room struck him afresh. 'You've made yourself
uncommonly comfortable here,' he said appreciatively, as he settled
down again in his velvet-pile chair.

'Well, I flatter myself I've improved the look of the place since you
saw it last. Poor Holroyd, you see, never cared to go in for this kind
of thing. Queer reserved fellow, wasn't he?'

'Very,' said Mark; and then, with the perverse impulse which drives us
to test dangerous ice, he added: 'Didn't you say, though, the other
evening that he had no secrets from you?' ('Trying to pump _me_, are
you?' thought the other; 'but you don't!') 'Did I?' he answered,
'sometimes I fancy, now and then, that I knew less of him than I
thought I did. For instance, he was very busy for a long time before
he left England over something or other, but he never told me what it
was. I used to catch him writing notes and making extracts and so
on.... _You_ were a great friend of his, Ashburn, weren't you? Do you
happen to know whether he was engaged on some work which would account
for that, now? Did he ever mention to you that he was writing a book,
for instance?'

'Never,' said Mark; 'did he--did he hint that to you?'

'Never got a word out of him; but I daresay you, who knew him best,
will laugh when I tell you this, I always had my suspicions that he
was writing a novel.'

'A novel?' echoed Mark; 'Holroyd! Excuse me, my dear fellow, I really
can't help laughing--it does seem such a comic idea.'

And he laughed boisterously, overcome by the humour of the notion,
until Caffyn said: 'Well, I didn't know him as well as you did, I
suppose, but I shouldn't have thought it was so devilish funny as all
that!' For Caffyn was a little irritated that the other should believe
him to be duped by all this, and that he could not venture as yet to
undeceive him. It made him viciously inclined to jerk the string
harder yet, and watch Mark's contortions.

'He wasn't that sort of man,' said Mark, when he had had his laugh
out; 'poor dear old fellow, he'd have been as amused at the idea as I
am.'

'But this success of yours would have pleased him, wouldn't it?' said
Caffyn.

For a moment Mark was cut as deeply by this as the speaker intended;
he could give no other answer than a sigh, which was perfectly
genuine. Caffyn affected to take this as an expression of incredulity.
'Surely you don't doubt that!' he said; 'why, Holroyd would have been
as glad as if he had written the book himself. If he could come back
to us again, you would see that I am right. What a meeting it would
be, if one could only bring it about!'

'It's no use talking like that,' said Mark rather sharply. 'Holroyd's
dead, poor fellow, at the bottom of the Indian Ocean somewhere. We
shall never meet again.'

'But,' said Caffyn, with his eyes greedily watching Mark's face, 'even
these things happen sometimes; he may come back to congratulate you
still.'

'How do you mean? He's drowned, I tell you ... the dead never come
back!'

'The _dead_ don't,' returned Caffyn significantly.

'Do you--you don't mean to tell me he's _alive_!'

'If I were to say _yes_?' said Caffyn, 'I wonder how you would take
it.'

If he had any doubts still remaining, the manner in which Mark
received these words removed them. He fell back in his seat with a
gasp and turned a ghastly lead colour; then, with an evident effort,
he leaned forward again, clutching the arms of the chair, and his
voice was hoarse and choked when he was able to make use of it. 'You
have heard something,' he said. 'What is it? Why can't you tell it?
Out with it, man! For God's sake, don't--don't play with me like
this!'

Caffyn felt a wild exultation he had the greatest difficulty in
repressing. He could not resist enjoying Mark's evident agony a little
longer. 'Don't excite yourself, my dear fellow,' he said calmly. 'I
oughtn't to have said anything about it.'

'I'm not excited,' said Mark; 'see--I'm quite cool ... tell me--all
you know. He--he's alive then ... you have heard from him? I--I can
bear it.'

'No, no,' said Caffyn; 'you're deceiving yourself. You mustn't let
yourself hope, Ashburn. I have never heard from him from that day to
this. You know yourself that he was not in any of the boats; there's
no real chance of his having survived.'

For it was not his policy to alarm Mark too far, and least of all to
show his hand so early. His experiment had been successful; he now
knew all he wanted, and was satisfied with that. Mark's face relaxed
into an expression of supreme relief; then it became suspicious again
as he asked, almost in a whisper, 'I thought that--but then, why did
you say all that about the dead--about coming back?'

'You mustn't be angry if I tell you. I didn't know you cared so much
about him, or I wouldn't have done it. You know what some literary
fellow--is it Tennyson?--says somewhere about our showing a precious
cold shoulder to the dead if they were injudicious enough to turn up
again; those aren't the exact words, but that's the idea. Well, I was
thinking whether, if a fellow like poor Holroyd were to come back now,
he'd find anyone to care a pin about him, and, as you were his closest
friend, I thought I'd try how _you_ took it. It was thoughtless, I
know. I never dreamed it would affect you in this way; you're as white
as chalk still--it's quite knocked you over. I'm really very sorry!'

'It was not a friendly thing to do,' said Mark, recovering himself.
'It was not kind, when one has known a man so long, and believed him
dead, and then to be made to believe that he is still alive,
it--it----. You can't wonder if I look rather shaken.'

'I don't,' said Caffyn; 'I quite understand. He is not quite forgotten
after all, then? He still has a faithful friend in you to remember
him; and he's been dead six months? How many of us can hope for that?
You must have been very fond of him.'

'Very,' said Mark, with a sad self-loathing as he spoke the lie. 'I
shall never see anyone like him--never!'

('How well he does it, after all!' thought Caffyn. 'I shall have
plenty of sport with him.') 'Would it give you any comfort to talk
about him now and then,' he suggested, 'with one who knew him, too,
though not as well perhaps as you did?'

'Thanks!' said Mark, 'I think it would some day, but not yet. I don't
feel quite up to it at present.'

'Well,' said the other, with a wholly private grin, 'I won't distress
you by talking of him till you introduce the subject; and you quite
forgive me for saying what I did, don't you?'

'Quite,' said Mark. 'And now I think I'll say good-night!'

The horror of those few moments in which he had seen detection staring
him in the face still clung to him as he walked back to his lodgings.
He cursed his folly in ever having exposed himself to such tremendous
risks, until he remembered that, after all, his situation remained the
same. He had merely been frightened with false fire. If he had not
been very sure that the dead would never rise to denounce him, he
would not have done what he had done. How could Vincent Holroyd have
escaped? Still, it was an ugly thought, and it followed him to his
pillow that night and gave him fearful dreams. He was in a large
gathering, and Mabel was there, too; he could see her at the other end
of an immense hall, and through the crowd Holroyd was slowly, steadily
making his way to her side, and Mark knew his object; it was to
denounce _him_. If he could only reach him first, he felt that somehow
he could prevent him from attaining his end, and he made frantic
efforts to do so; but always the crowd hedged him in and blocked his
way with a stupid impassibility, and he struggled madly, but all in
vain. Holroyd drew nearer and nearer Mabel, with that stern set
purpose in his face, while Mark himself was powerless to move or
speak. And so the dream dragged itself on all through the night.

He had some thoughts, on waking, of setting his fears to rest for ever
by making some further inquiries, but when he read once more the
various accounts he had preserved of the shipwreck, he convinced
himself willingly enough that nothing of the kind was necessary. He
could dismiss the matter from his mind once for all, and by
breakfast-time he was himself again.

Caffyn, now that his wildest hopes of revenge were realised, and he
saw himself in a position to make terrible reprisals for the injury
Mark Ashburn had done him, revelled in a delicious sense of power, the
only drawback to his complete enjoyment of the situation being his
uncertainty as to the precise way of turning his knowledge to the best
account.

Should he turn upon Mark suddenly with the intimation that he had
found him out, without mentioning as yet that Holroyd was in the land
of the living? There would be exquisite pleasure in that, and what a
field for the utmost ingenuity of malice in constant reminders of the
hold he possessed, in veiled threats, and vague mocking promises of
secrecy! Could any enemy desire a more poignant retribution? He longed
to do all this, and no one could have done it better; but he was
habitually inclined to mistrust his first impulses, and he feared lest
his victim might grow weary of writhing; he might be driven to
despair, to premature confession, flight--suicide, perhaps. He was
just the man to die by his own hand and leave a letter cursing him as
his torturer, to be read at the inquest and get into all the papers.
No, he would not go too far; for the present he decided to leave Mark
in happy ignorance of the ruin tottering above him. He would wait
until he was even more prosperous, more celebrated, before taking any
decisive steps. There was little fear that he would see his revenge
some day, and meanwhile he must be content with such satisfaction as
he could enjoy in secret.

'I must put up with the fellow a little longer,' he thought. 'We will
go on mourning our dear lost friend together until I can arrange a
meeting somehow. A telegram or letter to the Ceylon plantation will
fetch him at any time, and I don't care about doing my charming Mabel
such a good turn as bringing him back to her just yet. I wonder how my
worthy plagiarist is feeling after last night. I think I will go round
and have a look at him.'




CHAPTER XXIV.

A MEETING IN GERMANY.


The summer went by, and Mark's anticipations of happiness were as
nearly borne out as such anticipations ever are. He and Mabel met
constantly. He saw her in the Row with her father and Dolly--and
sometimes had the bliss of exchanging a few words across the
railings--at dances and tennis-parties, and in most of the less
exclusive events of the season, while every interview left him more
deeply infatuated. She seemed always glad to see and talk with him,
allowing herself to express a decided interest in his doings, and
never once throwing on him the burden of a conversational deadlift in
the manner with which a girl knows how to discourage all but the
dullest of bores. Now and then, indeed, when Mark's conversation
showed symptoms of the occasional inanity common to most men who talk
much, she did not spare him; but this was due to a jealous anxiety on
her part that he should keep up to his own standard, and if she had
not liked him she would not have taken the trouble. He took her light
shafts so patiently and good-humouredly, too, that she was generally
seized by a contrition which expressed itself in renewed graciousness.
Already she had come to notice his arrival on lawns or in
drawing-rooms, and caught herself remembering his looks and words
after their meeting.

He was still busy with 'Sweet Bells Jangled,' for he had now decided
to make his _coup_ with that, but in other respects he was
unproductive. He had begun several little things in pursuance of his
engagements, but somehow he did not get on with them, and had to lay
them aside until the intellectual thaw he expected. Pecuniarily his
position was much improved; his uncle had kept his word, and put an
allowance at his disposal which made him tolerably easy about his
future. He removed to more fashionable quarters in South Audley
Street, and led the easy existence there he had long coveted. Still
Mr. Lightowler was an unpleasantly constant bluebottle in his
ointment. He came up regularly from Chigbourne to inspect him,
generally with literary advice and the latest scandal about his
detested neighbour, which he thought might be 'worked up into
something.' He had discovered the Row as an afternoon lounge where his
nephew ought to show himself 'among the swells,' and he insisted, in
spite of all Mark's attempts at evasion, in walking him about there.
Mark was not perhaps exactly ashamed of the man whose favours he was
accepting, at least he did not own as much even to himself, but there
were times when, as he met the surprised glances of people he knew
slightly, he could have wished that his loud-voiced and unpresentable
relative had not got quite such a tight hold of his arm.

At a hint from Trixie he had tendered the olive-branch to his family,
which they accepted rather as if it had been something he had asked
them to hold for him, and without the slightest approach to anything
like a scene. Trixie had, of course, been in communication with him
from the first, and kept her satisfaction to herself; Mr. Ashburn was
too timid, and his wife too majestic, to betray emotion, while the
other two were slightly disappointed. The virtuous members of a family
are not always best pleased to see the prodigal at any time, and it is
particularly disconcerting to find that the supposed outcast has been
living on veal instead of husks during his absence, and associating
rather with lions than swine. Mark was not offended at his reception,
however, he felt himself independent now; but his easy temper made him
anxious to be at peace with them, and if they were not exactly
effusive, they made no further pretence of disapproval, and the
reconciliation was perfectly genuine as far as it went.

'I am going to see you to the gate, Mark,' Trixie announced, as he
rose to go. It was not a long or a perilous journey, but she had an
object in accompanying him down the little flagged path. 'I've got
something to tell you,' she said, as they stood by the iron gate in
the hot August night. 'I wish I knew how to begin.... Mark--how would
you like a--a new brother, because I'm going to give you one?'

'Thanks very much, Trixie,' said Mark, 'but I think I can get along
without another of them.'

'Ah, but Jack would be a _nice_ one,' said Trixie.

Mark remembered then that he had noticed a decided improvement in her
dress and appearance. 'And who is this Jack whom you're so
disinterestedly going to make me a present of?' he asked.

'Jack is one of the masters at the Art School,' said Trixie; 'he's
awfully handsome--not in your style, but fair, with a longer
moustache, and he's too clever almost to live. He had one picture in
the Grosvenor this year, in the little room, down by the bottom
somewhere, but he hasn't sold it. And when I first went to the School
all the girls declared he came round to me twice as much as he did to
them, and they made themselves perfectly horrid about it; so I had to
ask him not to come so often, and he didn't--for a time. Then one day
he asked me if I would rather he never came to me at all, and--and I
couldn't say yes, and so somehow we got engaged. Ma's furious about
it, and so is Martha; but then, ma has never seen Jack----'

'And Martha _has_? I see!' put in Mark.

'Jack knows a lot about literature; he admires "Illusion" immensely,
Mark,' added Trixie, thinking in her innocence that this would enlist
his sympathy at once. 'He wants to know you dreadfully.'

'Well, Trixie,' said Mark paternally, 'you must bring him to see me.
We mustn't have you doing anything imprudent, you know. Let me see
what I think of him. I hope he's a good fellow?'

'Oh, he _is_,' said Trixie; 'if you could only see some of his
sketches!'

A day or two later, Mark had an opportunity of meeting his intending
brother-in-law, of whom he found no particular reason to disapprove,
though he secretly thought him a slightly commonplace young man, and
too inclined to be familiar with himself; and shortly after he started
for the Black Forest, whither Caffyn had prevailed upon him to be his
companion. He thought it would be amusing and serve to keep his
vengeance alive to have his intended victim always at hand, but the
result did not quite come up to his hopes. Mark had so lulled his
fears to rest that the most artfully planned introduction of Holroyd's
name failed to disturb him. He thought chiefly during their wanderings
of Mabel, and her smile and words at parting, and in this occupation
he was so pleasantly absorbed that it was impossible to rouse him by
any means short of the rudest awakening. And by-and-by a curious
change took place in Caffyn's feelings towards him; in spite of
himself the virulence of his hatred began to abate. Time and change of
scene were proving more powerful than he had anticipated; away from
Mabel, his hatred, even of her, flagged more and more with every day,
and he was disarmed as against Mark by the evident pleasure the latter
took in his society, for the most objectionable persons become more
bearable when we discover that they have a high opinion of us--it is
such a redeeming touch in their nature. And besides, with all the
reason Caffyn had for cherishing a grudge against Mark, somehow, as
they became more intimate, he slid gradually into a half-contemptuous
and half-affectionate tolerance. He began to think that he would find
satisfaction in standing by and letting events work themselves out; he
would let this poor fellow enjoy his fool's paradise as long as might
be. No doubt, the luxury of secretively enjoying the situation had a
great deal to do with this generosity of his, but the fact remains
that, for some reason, he was passing from an enemy to a neutral, and
might on occasion even become an ally, if nothing occurred to fan his
hatred to flame in the meanwhile.

Towards the end of their tour, they arrived at Triberg late one
Saturday evening, and on the Sunday, Caffyn, having risen late and
finding that Mark had breakfasted and gone out alone, was climbing the
path by the waterfall, when, on one of the bridges which span the
cascade, he saw a girl's figure leaning listlessly over the rough
rail. It was Gilda Featherstone, and he thought he could detect an
additional tinge in her cheeks and a light in her eyes as he came
towards her. Her father and mother were in one of the shelters above,
and Mrs. Featherstone's greeting when she recognised him was the
reverse of cordial. This young man might not have followed them there,
but it looked extremely like it, and if she could not order him out of
the Black Forest as if she had taken it for the summer, she would at
least give him no encouragement to stay.

Unfortunately, her husband behaved with an irritating effusiveness; he
liked Caffyn, and besides, had not seen an Englishman to talk to
familiarly for some days. They were going home next day, he had better
come with them. Well, if he could not do that (Mrs. Featherstone
having interposed icily, 'Mr. Caffyn has just told you, Robert, that
he is with a friend!') he must come to them the moment he returned to
England, and they would give him some shooting. Mrs. Featherstone had
to hear this invitation and Caffyn's instant acceptance of it with
what philosophy she might. It was useless to remonstrate with her
husband on his blindness, he had democratic views which might even
bear a practical test, and she could only trust to chance and her
mother-wit to prevent any calamity; but she was unusually silent as
they walked down the winding path back to the hotel where they were
all staying.

There was a midday _table d'hote_, where the proprietor, a most
imposing and almost pontifical personage, officiated as at a religious
ceremonial, solemnly ladling out the soup to devout waiters as if he
were blessing each portion, after which he stood by and contented
himself with lending his countenance (at a rather high rate of
interest) to the meal. Caffyn's chair was placed next to Gilda's, and
they kept up a continuous flow of conversation. Mark saw them both
looking at him at one time, and wondered at the sudden change in
Caffyn's face, which (unless his fancy misled him) had a frown on it
that was almost threatening. But he was not allowed much time to
speculate on the causes, for Mrs. Featherstone (perhaps to emphasise
her disapproval of his companion) distinguished Mark by engrossing his
entire attention.

That afternoon Mark was sitting outside the hotel, taking his coffee
at one of the little round iron tables, by the inevitable trio of
scrubby orange trees in green tubs, when Caffyn, whom he had not seen
since leaving the table, came up and sat down beside him without a
word.

'Have you come out for some coffee?' asked Mark.

'No,' said Caffyn shortly, 'I came out to have a few words with you.'

The Featherstones had all gone off to attend the English afternoon
service; there was no one very near them, though in the one broad
street there was a certain gentle animation, of townspeople
promenading up and down in Sunday array, spectacled young officers,
with slender waists and neat uniforms, swaggering about; a portly and
gorgeous crier in a green uniform, ringing his bell over a departed
purse; little old walnut-faced women, sitting patiently by their
fruitstalls, and a band of local firemen in very baggy tunics, the
smallest men of whom had crept inside the biggest silver helmets,
preparing to execute a selection of airs.

'You look uncommonly serious about something, old fellow,' said Mark,
laughing lightly; 'what is it?'

'This,' said Caffyn, with a smouldering fire in his voice and eyes;
'I've just been told that you--_you_ are engaged to Mabel Langton. Is
it true?'

Mark was not displeased. This coupling of Mabel's name with his, even
though by a mere rumour, sent a delicious thrill through him; it
seemed to bring his sweetest hopes nearer realisation. The gay little
street vanished for an instant, and he was holding Mabel's hand in the
violet-scented drawing-room, but he came to himself almost directly
with a start.

'Who told you that?' he said, flushing slightly.

'Never mind who told me. Is it true? I--I warn you not to trifle with
me.'

'What on earth is the matter with you?' said Mark. 'No, it's not true;
as far as I know at present, there is not the remotest possibility of
such a thing coming to pass.'

'But you would make it possible if you could, eh?' asked Caffyn.

'I don't want to hurt your feelings, Caffyn,' said Mark, 'but really
you're going a little too far. And even if I had been engaged to Miss
Langton (which is very far from the case), I don't exactly see what
right you have, after--under the circumstances, you know--to go in for
the fire-eating business.'

'You mean I'm out of the running, whoever wins?' said Caffyn. 'I
daresay you're right; I'm not aware that I ever entered for the prize.
But never mind that. She has taken a dislike to me, but I may be
allowed to feel an interest in her still, I suppose. I should like to
see her happy, and if you could tell me that you were the man, why
then----'

'Well?' said Mark, as the other paused with a curious smile.

'Why, then I should feel at ease about her, don't you know,' he said
gently.

'I only wish I could ease your mind for you in that way,' said Mark,
'but it's too soon for that yet.'

'You _do_ mean to ask her, then?' said Caffyn, with his eyes on the
little brown-and-yellow imperial _postwagen_ which had just rattled up
to the hotel, and the driver of which, in his very unbecoming glazed
billycock hat with the featherbrush plume, was then cumbrously
descending from his box. Mark had not meant to confide in Caffyn at
all; he had only known him a short time, and, although their intimacy
had grown so rapidly, with a little more reflection he might have
shrunk from talking of Mabel to one whom, rightly or wrongly, she held
in abhorrence. But then Caffyn was so sympathetic, so subdued; the
temptation to talk of his love to somebody was so strong, that he did
not try to resist it.

'Yes, I do,' he said, and his dark eyes were soft and dreamy as he
spoke, 'some day ... if I dare. And if she says what I hope she will
say, I shall come to you, old fellow, for congratulations.'

He looked round, but Caffyn had started up abruptly and he was alone.
'Very odd of him,' thought Mark, until he saw him meeting the
Featherstones on their way back from the service.

Some minutes later, as Gilda and Caffyn were in a corner of the
exhibition of carved work at the lower end of the town, she took
advantage of the blaring of two big orchestral Black Forest organs,
each performing a different overture, and of the innumerable cuckoo
cries from the serried rows of clocks on the walls, to go back to
their conversation at the _table d'hote_. 'Have you asked him yet?
Mabel is not engaged to him after all?' (her face fell as she gathered
this). 'It is all a mistake, then? Of course it was a great relief to
_you_ to hear that?'

'Was it?' was Caffyn's rejoinder; 'why?'

'Why? Because--oh, of course you would be relieved to hear it!' and
Gilda made a little attempt to laugh.

'Shall I tell you something?' he said gravely. 'Do you know that I've
just begun to think nothing would give me greater satisfaction now
than to hear that the rumour you told me of was an accomplished fact.'

'And that Mabel was engaged to Mr. Ashburn? Do you really _mean_ it?'
cried Gilda, and her face cleared again.

'I really mean it,' said Caffyn smiling; and it is just possible that
he really did.

'Gilda, you're not helping me in the least!' said Mrs. Featherstone,
coming up at this juncture; 'and there's your father threatening to
get that big clock with a horrid cuckoo in it for the hall at the
Grange. Come and tell him, if he _must_ have one, to buy one of the
long plain ones.' And Gilda went obediently, for she could feel an
interest in clocks and carvings now.




CHAPTER XXV.

MABEL'S ANSWER.


The wet autumn had merged into a premature season of fog and slush,
while a violent gale had stripped off the leaves long before their
time. Winter was at hand, and already one or two of the hardier
Christmas annuals, fresh from editorial forcing-houses, had blossomed
on the bookstalls, and a few masks and Roman candles, misled by
appearances, had stolen into humble shop-fronts long before November
had begun. All the workers (except the junior clerks in offices, who
were now receiving permission to enjoy their annual fortnight) were
returning, and even idlers, who had no country-house hospitality to
give or receive, were glad to escape some of their burden amongst the
mild distractions of a winter in town. Mrs. Langton, who detested the
country, had persuaded her husband to let their place 'Glenthorne' for
the last two winters, and she and her daughter had already returned to
Kensington Park Gardens after a round of visits, leaving Mr. Langton
to enjoy a little more shooting before the Courts reopened.

Caffyn was now away at the Featherstones' country seat, somewhere in
the Midlands, and Mark, who remained in town after their return from
Germany, had taken the earliest opportunity of calling on the
Langtons, when Mabel seemed more frankly glad to see him than he had
dared to hope, and in one short half-hour the understanding between
them had advanced several months. She showed the greatest interest in
his wanderings, and he described the various petty adventures in his
most effective manner, until even Mrs. Langton was roused to a little
indulgent laughter. When Dolly came in later, Mark was embraced
enthusiastically. 'I was so afraid you wouldn't be back in time for my
party,' she said. 'You will come--now won't you? It's to-morrow week;
my birthday, you know.' And of course Mark was delighted to promise to
come, as Mabel seconded the invitation.

'We're quite at a loss to know how to amuse the children,' she said a
little later. 'Perhaps you can help us to an idea?'

'We could have the Performing Pigmies,' said Mrs. Langton, 'but the
boys might tread on them, and that would be so expensive, you know.'

'Don't have any performing things, mother,' pleaded Dolly; 'have only
dancing.'

'Most of the boys hate dancing,' said Mabel.

'Some of them don't a bit,' urged Dolly, 'and those who do can stay
away; _I_ don't want them. But don't have entertainments; they always
leave a horrid mess that takes hours to clear away after them.'

'It's all very well for you, Dolly,' said Mabel, laughing, 'but I
shall have to keep the boys in order; and last time they played at
robbers, tramping about all over the house, and when everyone had gone
there was one of them left behind upstairs, Mr. Ashburn, howling to be
let out of the cupboard!'

'Bobby Fraser, that was,' said Dolly; 'stupid little duffer. We won't
have him this time. And, mother darling, I want to dance _all_ the
time; and it's my own party. Dancing is enough--it is _really_,' she
pleaded in a pretty frenzy of impatience. And Dolly got her own way as
usual.

Mabel was a little surprised at her own pleasure in seeing Mark again.
She had looked forward to meeting him, but without being prepared for
the wild joy that sprang up in her heart as he pressed her hand, and
with that unmistakable delight in his eyes at being in her presence.
'Do I care for him as much as that?' she asked herself, and the
question answered itself as such questions do.

Mark was his own master now, for he had given up his appointment at
St. Peter's, although Mr. Shelford strongly advised him to go in for
some regular profession besides literature.

'There'll come a day,' he told him, 'when you've played out all your
tunes and your barrel is worn smooth, and no one will throw you any
more coppers. Then you'll want a regular employment to fall back upon.
Why don't you get called?'

'Because I don't want to be tied down,' said Mark. 'I want to go about
and study character. I want to enjoy my life while I can.'

'So did the grasshopper,' said Mr. Shelford.

'You don't believe in me, I know,' said Mark. 'You think I shall never
do anything like "Illusion" again. Well, I believe in myself. I think
my tunes will last out my life at all events. I really work
uncommonly hard. I have two novels ready for the press at this
moment, which is pretty well for a mere grasshopper.'

'But wearing for a mere barrel-organ,' said the old gentleman. 'Be
careful; don't write too much. The public never forgive a
disappointment. Whatever you do, give them of your best.'

And shortly after this conversation Mark left his novel, 'Sweet Bells
Jangled,' with Chilton and Fladgate, mentioning terms which even to
himself seemed slightly exorbitant. He had a note from the firm in the
course of a day or two, appointing an interview, and on going up to
the publishing office found both of the partners waiting to receive
him. Mr. Chilton was a spare angular man, who confined himself chiefly
to the purely financial department.

'We have decided to accept your terms, subject to a few modifications
which we can discuss presently,' he said.

'You think the book is likely to be a success?' asked Mark, unable to
control his anxiety.

'Any work by the author of "Illusion" is sure to command attention,'
said Mr. Chilton.

'But you like the subject?' pursued Mark.

Mr. Chilton coughed. 'I can express no opinion,' he said. 'I don't
profess to be a judge of these matters. Fladgate has read the book; he
will tell you what he thinks about it.'

But Mr. Fladgate remained silent, and Mark, much as he longed to press
him, was too proud to do so. However, as the firm demanded a rather
considerable reduction of the original terms, Mr. Fladgate, in
explanation, admitted at length that he did _not_ consider 'Sweet
Bells Jangled' altogether up to the standard of Mark's first work, and
intimated that it would not be advisable to risk bringing it out
before the spring season.

'I see,' said Mark, nettled; 'you are not particularly hopeful about
it?'

'Oh,' said Mr. Fladgate, with a wave of his hand, 'I wouldn't say
that. Chance has a good deal to do with these affairs--a good deal to
do. I confess I miss some of the qualities that charmed me in your
"Illusion." It reads to me, if I may say so, like an earlier effort, a
much earlier effort; but it may hit the popular taste for all that;
and it is certainly in quite a different vein.'

Mark came away rather depressed, but he soon persuaded himself that a
publisher was a not infallible judge of literary merit; and then, the
firm had every object in depreciating the work whilst negotiations
were proceeding. For all that he felt uncomfortable now and then, and
he had not wholly got rid of his depression by the time of Dolly's
birthday party.

On his arrival, he found that Dolly's wish had been gratified. Dancing
was the main attraction, and in the principal room were the usual
iron-fisted pianist and red-faced cornet-player, who should be such
profound moralists with all their nightly experiences; and dainty
little girls were whirling round with the fortunate boys who had elder
sisters at home to bully them into acquiring the mysteries of the
valse, while the less favoured stood in doorways gibing with the
scornfulness of envy.

The least observing might trace the course of several naive
preferences and innocent flirtations during the earlier part of the
evening. Big bright-faced boys in devoted attendance on shy and
unconscious small maidens many years their juniors, and, _en
revanche_, determined little ladies triumphantly towing about smaller
boys, who seemed sometimes elated, but mostly resigned, while one
youthful misogynist openly rebelled and fled to Mabel for protection,
declaring ungallantly that he would rather be 'at home in bed than
bothered like that any longer.'

Dolly was enjoying herself amazingly, dancing chiefly, however, with
her dearest girl friend for the time being, since none of the boys
danced well enough to please either of them. And besides, boys rather
bored Dolly, to whom dancing, as yet, was merely a particularly
delightful form of exercise, and who had no precocious tendencies to
coquetry. She deigned to dance once with Mark, after which he did his
duty by trotting out a succession of calm and self-possessed little
girls, who were as unchildlike as if they had been out for a season or
two. Then he thought he might reward himself by going to look for
Mabel, whom he found in one of the lower rooms endeavouring to amuse
the smaller and non-dancing members of the company. She was standing
under the centre lamp, flushed and laughing, with two or three
children clinging to her dress, and met his amused and admiring eyes
with a little gesture of comic despair.

'We've played all the games that were ever invented,' she said; 'and
now some of them are getting rough and the rest cross, and there's
half an hour before supper, and I don't in the least know what to do
with them till then.'

'Shall I see what _I_ can do with them?' said Mark rather rashly.

'Oh, if you would it would be so kind of you. I'm afraid you don't
know what you are exposing yourself to.'

Mark, not being devoted to children, felt more than a little dubious
himself; but he wanted to be associated with her in something, and
volunteered manfully.

'Look here,' he began, as they all stood about staring at him, 'Miss
Langton's a little tired. I--I am going to play with you a little now.
What shall we have, eh? Blind man's buff?'

But they had had that, and presently one small boy, bolder than the
rest, said, 'Play at being Jumbo'--a proposal which seemed generally
popular.

'Then may I leave you here?' said Mabel. 'I must go and speak to
mother about something. Don't let them be too tiresome.'

This was by no means what Mark had bargained for; but he found himself
deserted and reduced to 'play at being Jumbo' with the best possible
grace. It was a simple but severe game, consisting in the performer of
the principal _role_--who was Mark himself on this occasion--going
down on his hands and knees and staggering about the carpet, while
everyone else who could find room climbed on his back and thumped him
on the head. At last, in self-defence, he was obliged to get rid of
them by intimating that he had gone mad, when he had to justify his
words by careering round the room trumpeting fiercely, while the
children scuttled away before him in an ecstasy of sham terror. At
first Mark was profoundly miserable, and even glad that Mabel had not
remained to witness his humiliation; but by-and-by he began to enter
into the spirit of the thing, and had entirely forgotten his dignity
by the time Mabel reappeared. Caffyn (who had now returned from the
Featherstones', and had received an invitation from Mrs. Langton in
Mabel's absence: 'We've known him from a boy, my dear,' the former had
said in justification, 'and he can recite some things to keep the
children quiet, you know') stood in the doorway behind her, and looked
on with a smile of pity, but she saw nothing ridiculous in Mark just
then (and, as he was probably aware, he could stand such tests better
than most men). She only thought that his willingness to sacrifice
himself for others was a pleasant trait in his character.

'Don't get up, Ashburn; it's delightful to see you making yourself so
hot, my dear fellow,' said Caffyn. 'One doesn't get the chance of
seeing a successful author ramping about on all fours every day.'

'I _can't_ get up,' said Mark; and in fact a small but unpleasantly
sturdy boy had pounced on him as he paused for breath, and, with the
sense that he was doing something courageous, was in course of taming
the elephant with a hearth-brush.

'What a shame!' cried Mabel. 'Tommy, you horrid boy, you're hurting
Mr. Ashburn.' And the hearth-brush was certainly coming down with
considerable vigour on the small of the amateur elephant's back.

'I think myself,' gasped Mark, 'that I could bear being shipped off to
America now.'

'Yes, indeed,' she said compassionately; 'you mustn't be tormented any
more. Tommy, let the poor elephant alone; you've tamed him very
nicely.'

'Jumbo had his hind legs tied,' urged Tommy, who had a taste for
realism.

'I don't think that will be necessary,' objected Mark. 'I'm
beautifully tame now, Master Tommy; observe the mildness of my eye.'

'The game's over now,' said Mabel with decision. 'There, Mr. Ashburn,
your elephant life is over. Tommy, come and button my glove for me,
like a dear fellow. How dreadfully hot you are! And now Mr. Caffyn is
going to recite something; come upstairs, all of you, and listen.'

For Mrs. Langton had begged him to do something to amuse the children.
'I don't want them to dance too much,' she had said. 'If you could
manage to cool them down before supper.'

'_I'll_ cool them down!' said Caffyn to himself, with one of his
peculiar impulses to safe and secret malevolence. 'If you will get
them all together, dear Mrs. Langton,' he replied, 'I'll see what I
can do.' And accordingly he entertained them with a harrowing little
poem about a poor child dying of starvation in a garret, and dreaming
of wealthier and happier children enjoying themselves at parties,
which made all the children uncomfortable, and some of the less stolid
ones cry. And then he told them a ghost story, crammed with ingenious
horrors, which followed most of them home to bed.

Mabel listened in burning indignation; she would have liked to stop
him, but grown-up persons were beginning to filter in, and she was
afraid of making anything like a scene by interfering. However, when
he came up blandly after the performance she let him see her opinion
of it.

'Oh, they like to have their flesh creep,' he said with a shrug; 'it's
one of the luxuries of youth.'

'It isn't a wholesome one,' said she; 'but I know you have your own
theories of the proper way to amuse a child.' She felt a revival of
her disgust for the sly treachery he had revealed once before. He gave
her a cold keen glance, and the lines round his mouth tightened for an
instant.

'You haven't forgiven me, then?' he said.

'I can't forget,' she answered in a low voice.

'We both have good memories, it seems,' he retorted with a short
laugh as he held up a curtain for her to pass, and turned away.

It was after supper, and most of the children had been weeded out to
be replaced by children of a larger growth. Mark came up to Mabel as
she stood by the doorway while the musicians were playing the first
few bars of a waltz, and each couple was waiting for some other to
begin before them. 'You promised me a dance,' he said, 'in reward for
my agility as an elephant. Aren't your duties over now?'

'I think everybody knows everybody now, and no one is sitting out,'
said Mabel. 'But really I would rather not dance just yet; I'm a
little tired.' For the Fraeulein was still away with her family in
Germany, and most of the work had fallen upon Mabel, who was feeling
some need of a rest. Mark did not try to persuade her.

'You must be,' he agreed. 'Will you--do you mind sitting this dance
out with me?'

She made no objection, and they were presently sitting together under
the soft light of the ribbed Chinese lanterns in a fernery at the back
of the rooms.

'When we go back,' said Mabel, 'I want to introduce you to a Miss
Torrington, a great admirer of your book. But you don't care for such
things, do you?'

'I wish with all my soul I might never hear of the book again,' said
Mark gloomily. 'I--I beg your pardon! It sounds ungrateful. And
yet--if you knew--if you only knew!' He was in one of his despondent
moods just then, when his skeleton came out of the cupboard and
gibbered at him. What right had he, with this fraud on his soul, to be
admitted even to the ordinary friendship of a sweet and noble girl?
What would she say to him if she knew? And for a moment he felt a mad
impulse to tell her.

'I wish you would tell me,' she said gently, as if answering the
impulse. But the suggestion, put into words, sobered him. She would
despise him; she must. He could not bear to see his shame reflected in
her eyes. So he told her half-truths only.

'It is only that I am so tired of being tied to a book,' he said
passionately. 'Tied? I _am_ a book. Everyone I meet sees in me, not a
man to be judged and liked for himself, but something to criticise and
flatter and compare with the nature he revealed in print.'

Half truth as this was, it was more sincere than such confidences are
apt to be.

'Your book is you, or a part of you,' said Mabel. 'It seems so absurd
that you should be jealous of it.'

'I am,' he said. 'Not so much with others, but when I am with you it
tortures me. When you show me any kindness I think, "She would not say
that, she would not do this, if I were not the author of 'Illusion.'
She honours the book, not you--only the book!"'

'How unjust!' said Mabel. She could not think it a perverted form of
diseased vanity. He plainly undervalued his work himself, and its
popularity was a real vexation to him. She could only be sorry for
him.

'But I see proof of it in others every now and then,' continued Mark,
'people who do not connect me at first with "Cyril Ernstone." Only the
other day some of them went so far as to apologise for having snubbed
me "before they knew who I was." I don't complain of that, of
course--I'm not such an idiot; but it does make me doubtful of the
other extreme. And I cannot bear the doubt in your case!'

His eyes were raised pleadingly to hers. He seemed longing, and yet
dreading, to speak more plainly. Mabel's heart beat quicker; there was
a subtle, delicious flattery in such self-abasement before her of a
man she admired so much. Would he say more then, or would he wait? As
far as she knew her own mind, she hoped he would wait a little longer.
She said nothing, being perhaps afraid of saying too much. 'Yet I know
it will be so,' said Mark; 'the book will be forgotten with the next
literary sensation, and I shall drop under with it. You will see me
about less often, till one day you pass me in the street and wonder
who I am, and if you ever met me at all.'

'I don't think I ever gave you the right to say that,' she said,
wounded at his tone, 'and you ought to know that I should not do
anything of the sort.'

'Will you tell me this,' he said, and his voice trembled with anxiety,
'if--if I had not written this book which was happy enough to give you
some pleasure--if I had met you simply as Mark Ashburn, a man who had
never written a line in his life, would you have been the same to me?
Would you have felt even such interest in me as I like to think
sometimes you do feel? Try to give me an answer.... You don't know how
much it will mean to me.'

Mabel took refuge in the impersonal. 'Of course,' she said, 'one often
likes a person one never saw very much for something he has done; but
I think if you ever do meet him and then don't like him for himself,
you dislike him all the more for disappointing you. It's a kind of
reaction, I suppose.'

'Tell me this too,' Mark entreated, 'is--is that _my_ case?'

'If it had been,' she said softly, 'do you think I should have said
that?'

Something in her tone gave Mark courage to dare everything.

'Then you do care for me a little?' he cried. 'Mabel, I can speak now.
I loved you ever since I first saw you in that old country church. I
never meant to tell you so soon, but I can't help it. I want you--I
can't live without you! Will you come to me, Mabel?'

She put both hands trustfully in his as she said, 'Yes, Mark,' and
without any more words just then on either side, their troth was
plighted. He was still holding the hands she had resigned to him,
hardly daring as yet to believe in this realisation of his dearest
hopes, when someone stepped quickly in through the light curtains. It
was Caffyn, and he put up his eyeglass to conceal a slight start as he
saw who were there.

'Sent to look for somebody's fan; told it was left on the folding
chair. Ah, sorry to trouble you, Ashburn; that's it behind you; I
won't say I found you sitting on it.' And he went out with his prize.

'I think, after that,' said Mabel, with a little laugh, though she was
annoyed too, 'you had better take me back again.'

And Mark obeyed, feeling that the unromantic interruption had
effectually broken the spell. Fortunately it had happened after, and
not before his fate had been decided.

The evening was over, and he was waiting to recover his hat and
overcoat when he was joined by Caffyn. 'Umbrella missing?' began the
latter; 'mine is, like the departed Christians on the tombstones, you
know, "not lost--but gone before." Are you going my way? Come on
then.'

When they were outside in the moonlight, he took Mark's arm and said,
'You've got something to tell me, haven't you?'

'I told you I should come to you for congratulations when we were at
Triberg,' said Mark, 'but I never hoped to be able to come so soon.
She has said "Yes," old fellow. I can't trust myself to talk about it
just yet, but I can't help telling you that.'

Caffyn clapped him on the back with a shout of rather wild laughter.
'What a fortunate beggar you are!' he said; 'fame, fortune--and now a
charming girl to crown it all. You'll be rousing the envy of the gods
soon, you know--unless you're careful!'




CHAPTER XXVI.

VISITS OF CEREMONY.


Mr. Langton, on being informed that Mark Ashburn proposed to become
his son-in-law, took a painfully prosaic view of the matter: 'I can
quite understand the fascination of a literary career to a young man,'
he had observed to Mark in the course of a trying interview; 'indeed,
when I was younger I was frequently suspected myself of contributing
to "Punch;" but I always saw where that would lead me, and, as a
matter of fact, I never did indulge my inclinations in that
direction,' he added, with the complacency of a St. Anthony. 'And the
fact is, I wish my son-in-law to have a more assured position: you
see, at present you have only written one book--oh, I am quite aware
that "Illusion" was well received--remarkably so, indeed; but then it
remains to be proved whether you can follow up your success, and--and,
in short, while that is uncertain I can't consent to any engagement;
you really must not ask me to do so.' And in this determination he was
firm for some time, even though secretly impressed on hearing of the
sum for which Mark had already disposed of his forthcoming novel, and
which represented, indeed, a very fair year's income. It was Uncle
Solomon, after all, that proved the heavy piece of ordnance which
turned the position at the crisis; he was flattered when his nephew
took him into his confidence, and pleased that he should have 'looked
so high,' which motives combined to induce him to offer his influence.
It was a somewhat desperate remedy, and Mark had his doubts of the
impression likely to be produced by such a relative, but it worked
unexpectedly well. Mr. Lightowler was too cautious to commit himself
to any definite promise, but he made it abundantly clear that he was a
'warm' man, and that Mark was his favourite nephew, for whom he was
doing something as it was, and might do more if he continued to behave
himself. After the interview in which this was ascertained, Mr.
Langton began to think that his daughter might do worse than marry
this young Ashburn after all. Mrs. Langton had liked Mark from the
first in her languid way, and the fact that he had 'expectations'
decided her to support his cause; he was not a brilliant _parti_, of
course, but at least he was more eligible than the young men who had
been exciting her maternal alarm of late. And under her grandfather's
will Mabel would be entitled on her marriage or coming of age to a sum
which would keep her in comfort whatever happened.

All these considerations had their effect, and Mr. Langton, seeing how
deeply his daughter's heart was concerned, withdrew his opposition,
and even allowed himself to be persuaded that there was no reason for
a long engagement, and that the marriage might be fixed to take place
early in the following spring. He only made two stipulations: one,
that Mark should insure his life in the usual manner; and the other,
that he should abandon his _nom de plume_ at once, and in the next
edition of "Illusion," and in all future writings, use the name which
was his by birth. 'I don't like _aliases_,' he said; 'if you win a
reputation, it seems to me your wife and family should have the
benefit of it;' and Mark agreed to both conditions with equal
cheerfulness.

Mr. Humpage, as may be imagined, was not best pleased to hear of the
engagement; he wrote a letter of solemn warning to Mabel and her
father, and, this being disregarded, he nursed his resentment in
offended silence. If Harold Caffyn was polite enough when in his
uncle's company to affect to share his indignation to the full,
elsewhere he accepted Mark's good fortune with cheerful indifference;
he could meet Mabel with perfect equanimity, and listen to her
mother's somewhat discursive eulogies of her future son-in-law with
patience, if not entire assent. Since his autumn visit to the
Featherstones, there had been changes in his position which may have
been enough to account for his philosophy; he had gained the
merchant's good opinion to such an extent that the latter, in defiance
of his wife's cautions, had taken the unusual step of proposing that
the young actor should give up the stage and occupy a recently vacated
desk in Mr. Featherstone's own palatial City offices. Even if his
stage ambition had not cooled long since, Caffyn was not the man to
neglect such a chance as this; he accepted gratefully, and already the
merchant saw his selection, unlikely as it had seemed at first,
beginning to be justified by his _protege's_ clear head and command of
languages, while Gilda's satisfaction at the change was at least equal
to her father's. And so, whether Harold was softened by his own
prosperity, and whether other hopes or distractions came between him
and his former passion for revenge, he remained impassive throughout
all the preparations for a marriage which he could have prevented had
he chosen. At Triberg the thought that Mark (who had, as he
considered, been the chief means of ruining his hopes of Mabel) was to
be his successful rival had for an instant revived the old spirit; but
now he could face the fact with positive contentment, and his feeling
towards Mark was rather one of contemptuous amusement than of any
actual hostility.

Mark's introduction of Mabel to his family had not been altogether a
success; he regretted that he had carelessly forgotten to prepare them
for his visit as soon as he pulled the bell-handle by the gate, and
caught a glimpse of scared faces at one or two of the windows,
followed by sounds from within of wild scurry and confusion--'like a
lot of confounded rabbits!' he thought to himself in disgust. Then
they had been kept waiting in a chilly little drawing-room, containing
an assortment of atrocities in glass, china, worsted, and wax, until
Mark moved restlessly about in his nervous irritation, and Mabel felt
her heart sink in spite of her love; she had not expected to find
Mark's people in luxurious surroundings, but she was unprepared for
anything quite so hideous as that room. When Mrs. Ashburn, who had
felt that this was an occasion for some attention to toilette, made
her appearance, it was hardly a reassuring one: she was not exactly
vulgar perhaps, but she was hard, Mabel thought, narrow and ungenial;
but the fact was that the consciousness of having been taken unawares
robbed her welcome of any cordiality which it might otherwise have
possessed. She inferred from her first glance at Mabel's pretty
walking costume a fondness for dress and extravagance, which branded
her at once as a 'worldling,' between whom and herself there could be
nothing in common--in which last opinion she was most probably right,
as all Mabel's efforts to sustain a conversation could not save it
from frequent lapses. Martha, from shyness as much as stiffness, sat
by in almost complete silence; and though Trixie, the only other
member of the family who appeared, was evidently won at once by
Mabel's appearance, and did all she could to cover the others'
shortcomings, she was not sufficiently at her ease to break the chill;
and Mark, angry and ashamed as he was, felt paralysed himself under
its influence.

On the way back he was unusually silent, from a fear of the impression
such an ordeal as she had gone through must have left upon Mabel; and
the fact that she did not refer to the interview herself did not
reassure him. He need not have been afraid, however; she was not in
the least deterred by what she had seen. The sight of the home in
which he had been brought up had filled her with a loving pity,
suggesting as it did the petty constraints and miseries, the
unloveliness of all surroundings, and the total want of appreciation
which he must have endured there. And yet all this had not soured him;
in spite of it he had produced a great book, strong, yet refined and
tender, and free from any taint of narrowness or cynicism. As she
thought of this and glanced at Mark's handsome face, so bright and
animated in general, but clouded now with the melancholy which his
fine eyes could express at times, she longed to say something to
relieve it, and yet shrank from being the first to speak in her fear
of jarring him.

Mark spoke at last. 'Well, Mabel,' he said, looking down at her with a
rather doubtful smile, 'I told you that my mother was a--a little
peculiar.'

'Yes,' said Mabel frankly; 'we didn't quite get on together, did we,
Mark? We shall some day, perhaps; and even if not--I shall have you!'
And she laid her hand on his sleeve with a look of perfect
understanding and contentment which, little as he deserved it, chased
away all his fears.




CHAPTER XXVII.

CLEAR SKY--AND A THUNDERBOLT.


'Has any one,' asks George Eliot, in 'Middlemarch,' 'ever pinched into
its pilulous smallness the cobweb of pre-matrimonial acquaintance?'
And, to press the metaphor, the cobweb, as far as Mark and Mabel were
concerned, brilliantly as it shone in all its silken iridescence,
would have rolled up into a particularly small pill. Mark was anxious
that his engagement should be as short as possible, chiefly from an
uneasy fear that his great happiness might elude him after all. The
idea of losing Mabel became day by day, as he knew her better, a more
intolerable torture, and he could not rest until all danger of that
was at an end. Mabel had no fears of a future in which Mark would be
by her side; and if she was not blind to some little weaknesses in his
character, they did not affect her love and admiration in the
least--she was well content that her hero should not be unpleasantly
perfect. And the weeks slipped by, until Easter, which fell early that
year, had come and gone; the arrangements for the wedding were all
completed, and Mark began to breathe more freely as he saw his
suspense drawing to a happy end.

It was a bleak day towards the end of March, and Mark was walking
across the Park and Gardens from his rooms in South Audley Street to
Malakoff Terrace, charged with a little note from Mabel to Trixie, to
which he was to bring back an answer; for, although Mabel had not made
much progress in the affections of the rest of the Ashburn household,
a warm friendship had sprung up already between herself and Mark's
youngest sister--the only one of them who seemed to appreciate and
love him as he deserved. He felt buoyant and happy as he walked
briskly on, with the blustering north-easter at his back seeming to
clear his horizon of the last clouds which had darkened it. A very
few days more and Mabel would be his own--beyond the power of man to
sunder! and soon, too, he would be able to salve the wound which still
rankled in his conscience--he would have a book of his own. 'Sweet
Bells Jangled' was to appear almost immediately, and he had come to
have high hopes of it; it looked most imposing in proof--it was so
much longer than 'Illusion;' he had worked up a series of such
overwhelming effects in it; its pages contained matter to please every
variety of taste--flippancy and learning, sensation and sentiment,
careful dissection of character and audacious definition and
epigram--failure seemed to him almost impossible. And when he could
feel able to lay claim legitimately to the title of genius, surely
then the memory of his fraud would cease to reproach him--the means
would be justified by the result. He amused himself by composing
various critiques on the book (all of course highly eulogistic), and
thus pleasantly occupied the way until he gained the cheerful
Kensington High Street, the first half of which seems to belong to
some bright little market town many miles further from Charing Cross.
In the road by the kerbstone he passed a street singer, a poor old
creature in a sun-bonnet, with sharp features that had been handsome
once, and brilliant dark eyes, who was standing there unregarded,
singing some long-forgotten song with the remnants of a voice. Mark's
happiness impelled him to put some silver into her hand, and he felt a
half-superstitious satisfaction as he heard the blessing she called
down on him--as if she might have influence.

No one was at home at Malakoff Terrace but Trixie, whom he found
busily engaged in copying an immense plaster nose. 'Jack says I must
practise harder at features before I try the antique,' she explained,
'and so he gave me this nose; it's his first present, and considered a
very fine cast, Jack says.'

'Never saw a finer nose anywhere,' said Mark--'looks as if it had been
forced, eh, Trixie?'

'Mark, don't!' cried Trixie, shocked at this irreverence; 'it's
_David's_--Michael Angelo's David!' He gave her Mabel's note. 'I
can't write back because my hands are all charcoaly,' she explained;
'but you can say, "My love, and I will if I possibly can;" and, oh
yes, tell her I had a letter from _him_ this morning.'

'Meaning Jack?' said Mark. 'All right, and--oh, I say, Trixie, why
won't the governor and mater come to my wedding?'

'It's all ma,' said Trixie; 'she says she should only feel herself out
of place at a fashionable wedding, and she's better away.'

'It's to be a very quiet affair, though, thank Heaven!' observed Mark.

'Yes, but don't you see what she really wants is to be able to feel
injured by being out of it all--if she can, she'll persuade herself in
time that she never was invited at all; you know what dear ma is!'

'Well,' said Mark, with considerable resignation, 'she must do as she
pleases, of course. Have you got anything else to tell me, Trixie,
because I shall have to be going soon?'

'You mustn't go till I've given you something that came for you--oh, a
long time ago, when ma was ill. You see, it was like this: ma had her
breakfast in bed, and there was a tray put down on the slab where it
was, and it was sticky underneath or something, and so it stuck to the
bottom, and the tray wasn't wanted again, and Ann, of course, didn't
choose to wash it, so she only found it yesterday and brought it to
me.'

'Trixie,' said Mark, 'I can't follow all those "its." I gather that
I'm entitled to something sticky, but I haven't a notion what. Hadn't
you better get it, whatever it happens to be?'

'Why, it's a letter of course, goose!' said Trixie. 'I told you _that_
the very first thing: wait here, and I'll bring it to you.'

So Mark waited patiently in the homely little back parlour, where he
had prepared his work as a schoolboy in the old days, where he had
smoked his first cigar in his first Cambridge vacation. He smiled as
he thought how purely intellectual his enjoyment of that cigar had
been, and how for the first time he had appreciated the meaning of
'the bitter end;' he was smiling still when Trixie returned.

'Whom do you know in India, Mark?' she said curiously; 'perhaps it's
some admirer who's read the book. I hope it's nothing really
important; if it is, it wasn't our fault that--Mark, you're not _ill_,
are you?'

'No,' said Mark, placing himself with his back to the light, and
stuffing the letter, after one hasty glance at the direction, unopened
into his pocket. 'Of course not--why should I be?'

'Is there anything in the letter to worry you?' persisted Trixie. 'It
can't be a bill, can it?'

'Never mind what it is,' said Mark; 'have you got the keys? I--I
should like a glass of wine.'

'Ma left the keys in the cupboard,' said Trixie; 'how lucky! port or
sherry, Mark?'

'Brandy, if there is any,' he said, with an effort.

'Brandy! oh, Mark, have you taken to drinking spirits, and so early in
the morning?' she asked, with an anxious misgiving that perhaps that
was _de rigueur_ with all literary men.

'No, no, don't be absurd. I want some just now, and quick, do you
hear? I caught a chill walking across,' he explained.

'You had better try to eat something with it, then,' she advised;
'have some cake?'

'Do you want to make me ill in earnest?' he retorted peevishly,
thrusting away the brown cake, with a stale flavour of cupboard about
it, with which Trixie tried to tempt him; 'there, it's all
right--there's nothing the matter, I tell you.' And he poured out the
brandy and drank it. There was a kind of comfort, or rather
distraction, in the mere physical sensation to his palate; he thought
he understood why some men took to drinking. 'Ha!' and he made a
melancholy attempt at the sigh of satisfaction which some people think
expected of them after spirits. 'Now I'm a man again, Trixie; that
has driven off the chill. I'll be off now.'

'Are you _sure_ you're quite well again?' she said anxiously. 'Very
well, then I shan't see you again till you're in church next Tuesday;
and oh, Mark, I do so hope you'll be very, very happy!' He was on the
door-step by this time, and made no reply, while he kept his face
turned from her.

'Good-bye, then,' she said; 'you won't forget my message to Mabel,
will you?'

'Let me see, what was it?' he said. 'Ah, I remember; your love, and
you will if you can, eh?'

'Yes, and say I've had a letter from him this morning,' she added.

He gave a strange laugh, and then, as he turned, she saw how ghastly
and drawn his face looked.

'Have you though?' he said wildly; 'so have I, Trixie, so have I!' And
before she could ask any further questions he was gone.

He walked blindly up the little street and into the main road again,
unable at first to think with any clearness: he had not read the
letter; the stamp and handwriting on the envelope were enough for him.
The bolt had fallen from a clear sky, the thing he had only thought of
as a nightmare had really happened--the sea had given up its dead! He
went on; there was the same old woman in the sun-bonnet, still
crooning the same song; he laughed bitterly to think of the difference
in his own life since he had last seen her--only a short half-hour
ago. He passed the parish church, from which a wedding party was just
driving, while the bells clashed merrily under the graceful spire--no
wedding bells would ever clash for him now. But he must read that
letter and know the worst. Holroyd was alive--that he knew; but had he
found him out? did that envelope contain bitter denunciations of his
treachery? Perhaps he had already exposed him! he could not rest until
he knew how this might be, and yet he dared not read his letter in the
street. He thought he would find out a quiet spot in Kensington
Gardens and read it there; alone--quite alone. He hurried on, with a
dull irritation that the High Street should be so long and so crowded,
and that everybody should make such a point of getting in the way; the
shock had affected his body as well as his mind; he was cold to the
bones, and felt a dull numbing pressure on the top of his head; and
yet he welcomed these symptoms, too, with an odd satisfaction; they
seemed to entitle him to some sympathy. He reached the Gardens at
last, but when he had turned in at the little postern door near the
'King's Arms,' he could not prevail upon himself to open the
letter--he tore it half open and put it back irresolutely; he must
find a seat and sit down. He struck up the hill, with the wind in his
teeth now, until he came to the Round Pond, where there was quite a
miniature sea breaking on the southwestern rim of the basin; a small
boy was watching a solitary ship labouring far out in the centre, and
Mark stood and watched it too, mechanically, till he turned away at
last with a nervous start of impatience. Once he had sailed ships on
those waters; what would he not give if those days could come back to
him again, or if even he could go back these past few months to the
time when his conscience was clear and he feared no man! But the past
was irrevocable; he had been guilty of this reckless, foolish fraud,
and now the consequences were upon him! He walked restlessly on under
the bare tossing branches, looking through the black trunks and across
the paths glimmering white in the blue-grey distance for a seat where
he might be safe from interruption, until at last he discovered a
clumsy wooden bench, scored and slashed with the sand-ingrained
initials of a quarter of a century's idleness, a seat of the old
uncomfortable pattern gradually dying out from the walks. He could
wait no longer, and was hurrying forward to secure it, when he was
hailed by some one approaching by one of the Bayswater paths, and
found that he had been recognised by Harold Caffyn.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

MARK KNOWS THE WORST.


To avoid Caffyn was out of the question, and so Mark waited for him
with as much self-control as he could muster, as he strolled leisurely
up. Caffyn's quick eye saw at once that something unusual had
happened, and he resolved to find out what that was before they
parted. 'Thought it must be you,' he began; 'so you've come out here
to meditate on your coming happiness, have you? Come along and pour
out some of your raptures, it will do you good; and you don't know
what a listener I can be.'

'Not now,' said Mark uneasily; 'I--I think I would rather be alone.'

'Nonsense!' said Caffyn briskly; 'you don't really mean that, I know.
Why, I'm going away to-morrow to the lakes. I must have a little talk
with you before I go.'

'What are you going there for?' said Mark, without much show of
interest.

'My health, my boy; old Featherstone has let me out for a fortnight's
run, and I'm going to see what mountain air can do for me.'

'And where are you going now?' asked Mark.

'Now? Well, I _was_ going across to see if the Featherstones would
give me some lunch, but I'm in no hurry. I'll go wherever _you_ want
to go.'

'Thanks,' said Mark, 'but--but I won't take you out of your way.'

'It's not taking me out of my way a bit. I assure you, my boy, and we
haven't had a talk together for ages, so come along.'

'I can't,' said Mark, more uncomfortably still. 'I have some--some
business which I must see to alone.'

'Odd sort of place this for business! No, no, Master Mark, it won't
do; I've got you, and I mean to stick to you; you know what a tactless
beggar I can be when I like. Seriously, do you think I can't see
there's something wrong? I'm hanged if I think it's safe to let you go
about alone while you're looking like this; it isn't any--any hitch at
Kensington Park Gardens, is it?' and there was a real anxiety in his
tone as he asked this.

'No,' said Mark shortly, 'it's not that.'

'Have you got into any trouble, then, any scrape you don't see your
way out of? You might do worse than tell me all about it.'

'There's nothing to tell,' said Mark, goaded past prudence by this
persistence; 'it's only a letter, a rather important letter, which I
brought out here to read quietly.'

'Why the deuce couldn't you say so before?' cried Caffyn. '_I_ won't
interrupt you; read your letter by all means, and I'll walk up and
down here till you're ready for me--only don't make me think _you_
want to cut me; you might wait till you're married for that, and you
ought to know very well (if you don't) why I've been obliged, as it
is, to decline the invitation to the marriage feast.'

Mark saw that for some reason Caffyn did not mean to be shaken off
just then, and, as he could bear the suspense no longer, and knew that
to walk about with Caffyn and talk indifferently of his coming
happiness with that letter unread in his pocket would drive him mad,
he had no choice but to accept the compromise. So he went to the bench
and began to open the letter with trembling hands, while Caffyn paced
up and down at a discreet distance. 'I see what it is now,' he
thought, as he noticed the foreign envelope, 'I'm uncommonly glad I
came up just then. Will he go through with it after this? Will he tell
me anything, I wonder? Very little, I fancy, of what I know already.
We shall see.'

This was the letter which Mark read, while the northeast wind roared
through the boughs overhead, driving the gritty shell-dust in his
face, and making the thin paper in his fingers flap with its vicious
jerks:--

                   'Talipot Bungalow, Newera Ellia, Ceylon.

    'MY DEAR MARK,--I am not going to reproach you for your
    long silence, as I dare say you waited for me to write
    first. I have been intending to write again and again,
    and have been continually prevented, but I hardly
    expected to hear from you unless you had anything of
    importance to tell me. Something, however, has just come
    to my knowledge here which makes me fancy that you might
    have other reasons for not writing.' ('What does he mean
    by that?' thought Mark, in sudden terror, and for a
    moment dared not read on.) 'Have you by some strange
    chance been led to believe that I was on board the
    unfortunate "Mangalore" at the time of the disaster?
    because I see, on looking over some old Indian papers at
    the club here, that my name appears on the list of
    missing. As a matter of fact, I left the ship at Bombay.
    I had arranged to spend a day or two with some people,
    old friends of my father's, who have a villa on the
    Malabar Hill, but on my arrival there found a telegram
    from Ceylon, warning me to lose no time if I wished to
    see my father alive. The "Mangalore" was to stop several
    more days at Bombay, and I decided to go on at once
    overland to Madras and take my chance there of a steamer
    for Colombo, leaving my hosts to send down word to the
    ship of my change of plan. I can only suppose that there
    was some misunderstanding about this, and even then I
    cannot understand how the steward could have returned me
    as on board under the circumstances; but if only the
    mistake has given you no distress it is not of much
    consequence, as I wrote since my arrival here to the
    only other quarter in which the report might have caused
    alarm. To continue my story, I was fortunate enough to
    catch a boat at Madras, and so reached Colombo some time
    before the "Mangalore" was due there, and as I went on
    at once to Yatagalla, it is not to be wondered at if in
    that remote part of the country--up in Oudapusilava, in
    the hill district--it was long before I even heard of
    the wreck. There was not much society there, as you may
    imagine, the neighbouring estates being mostly held by
    native planters or managers, with whom my father had
    never, even when well, been at all intimate. Well, my
    poor father rallied a little and lingered for some time
    after my arrival. His condition required my constant
    care, and I hope I was able to be of some comfort to
    him. When he died I thought it best to do what I could,
    with the overseer's assistance, to carry on the
    plantation until there was a good opportunity of
    disposing of it, and for a time it did seem as if my
    efforts were going to be rewarded--the life was hard and
    lonely enough, but it had its charms for a solitary man
    like myself. Then everything seemed to go wrong at once.
    We had a bad season to begin with, and next fungus
    suddenly showed itself on the estate, and soon spread to
    such an extent that as a coffee plantation the place is
    quite worthless now, though I dare say they will be able
    to grow tea or cinchona on it. I have done with
    Yatagalla myself, having just succeeded in getting rid
    of it; naturally, not for a very large price per acre,
    but still I shall have enough altogether to live upon if
    I decide to carry on my old profession, or to start me
    fairly in some other line. But I am coming home first.
    (I can't call this island, lovely as most of it is,
    home.) There is nothing to keep me here any longer
    except my health, which has been anything but good for
    the last few months. I have been down with fever after
    fever; and this place, which I was ordered to as a
    health resort, is too damp and chilly to get really well
    in. So I shall make an effort to leave in about a
    fortnight by the P. and O. "Coromandel," which they tell
    me is a comfortable boat. After my experience of the
    "Mangalore" I prefer to trust this time to the regular
    "liners." I write this chiefly to ask you to do me a
    kindness if you possibly can. I have a sort of longing
    to see a friendly face on landing, and lately I have
    come to persuade myself that after all you may have good
    news to meet me with. Can you come? I have no
    time-tables here, but I calculate that the ship will
    reach Plymouth some time during the Easter holidays, so
    that, even if you are still at St. Peter's, your school
    duties will not prevent your coming. You can easily get
    the exact time we arrive by inquiring at the P. and O.
    offices in Leadenhall Street. We shall meet so soon now
    that I need write no more. As it is there is another
    letter I must write--if I can, for you would hardly
    believe how difficult I find it to write at all in my
    present state, though a sea voyage will set me up
    again.'

The letter ended rather abruptly, the writing becoming almost
illegible towards the close, as if the writer's strength had gradually
failed him. Mark came to the end with a feeling that was almost
relief; his chief dread had been to hear that he was found out, and
that his exposure might be made public before he could make Mabel his
own. It was terrible to know that the man he had injured was alive,
but still it was something that he was still unaware of his injury; it
was a respite, and, to a man of Mark's temperament, that was much.
Even if Holroyd were strong enough to take his passage by the
'Coromandel,' he could hardly be in England for at least another
fortnight, and long before he arrived at Plymouth the wedding would
have taken place. And in a fortnight he might be able to hit upon
something to soften some of the worst aspects of his fraud; the change
in the title of the book, in the _nom de plume_, and even the
alterations of the text might be explained; but then there was that
fatal concession of allowing his real name to appear: it was, he knew,
to be placed on the title-page of the latest edition--would there be
time to suppress that? This occurred to him but vaguely, for it seemed
just then as if, when Mabel were once his wife, no calamity could have
power to harm him, and now nothing Holroyd could do would prevent the
marriage. After that the Deluge!

So he was almost his usual self as he rose and came towards Caffyn;
his hand, however, still trembled a little, causing him to bungle in
replacing the letter and drop the envelope, which the other
obligingly picked up and restored to him.

'Ashburn, my dear fellow,' he began, as they walked on together, 'I
hope you won't think me impertinent, but I couldn't help seeing the
writing on that envelope, and it seems to me I knew it once, and
yet--do you mind telling me if it's from any one I know?'

Mark would of course have preferred to say nothing, but it seemed best
on the whole to avoid suspicion by telling the truth. Caffyn, as a
friend of Vincent's, would hear it before long; it might look odd if
he made any secret of it now, and so he told the tale of the escape
much as the letter had given it. His companion was delighted, he
laughed with pleasure, and congratulated Mark on the joy he supposed
him to feel, until the latter could hardly bear it.

'Who would have hoped for this,' he said, 'when we were talking about
the dead coming to life some time ago, eh? and yet it's
happened--poor, dear old Vincent! And did you say he is coming home
soon?'

'Very soon; in about a fortnight,' said Mark; 'he--he wants me to go
down to Plymouth and meet him, but of course I can't do that.'

'A fortnight!' cried Caffyn. 'Capital! But how do you make it out,
though?'

'Easily,' said Mark; 'he talks of coming by the "Coromandel" and
starting about a fortnight after he wrote--so----'

'I see,' said Caffyn; 'I suppose you've looked at the date? No? Then
let me--look here, it's more than five weeks old--look at the
postmark--why, it's been in England nearly a fortnight!'

'It was delayed at my people's,' said Mark, not seeing the importance
of this at first, 'that's how it was.'

'But--but don't you see?' Caffyn said, excitedly for him, 'if he
really has sailed by this "Coromandel," he must be very near now. He
might even be in Plymouth by this time.'

'Good God!' groaned Mark, losing all control as the truth flashed
upon him while the grey grass heaved under his unstable feet.

Caffyn was watching him, with a certain curiosity which was not
without a malicious amusement. 'You didn't expect that,' he said.
'It's capital, isn't it?'

'Capital!' murmured Mark.

'He'll be in time for your wedding,' pursued Caffyn.

'Yes,' said Mark heavily, 'he'll be in time for that now.'

Yes, his doom was advancing upon him fast, and he must wait patiently
for it to fall; he was tied down, without possibility of escape,
unless he abandoned all hope of Mabel. Perhaps he might as well do
that first as last.

'Well,' said Caffyn, 'what are you going to do about it?'

'Do?' echoed Mark. 'What can I do? I shall see him soon enough, I
suppose.'

'That's a composed way of expecting a long-lost friend certainly,'
said Caffyn, laughing.

'Can't you understand,' retorted Mark, 'that--that, situated as I am
... coming at such a time as this ... even a man's dearest friend
might be--might be----'

'Rather in the way? Why, of course, I never thought of that--shows how
dull I'm getting! He _will_ be in the way--deucedly in the way, if he
comes! After all, though, he may _not_ come!'

'Let us find out,' said Mark; 'surely there's some way of finding
out.'

'Oh yes,' said Caffyn. 'I dare say they can tell us at the offices.
We'll have a cab and drive there now, and then we shall know what to
do. Leadenhall Street, isn't it?'

They walked sharply across to the Bayswater Road, where they could get
a hansom; and as they drove along towards the City, Mark's hopes began
to rise. Perhaps Holroyd was not on board the 'Coromandel'--and then
he tried to prepare himself for the contrary. How should he receive
Vincent when he came? for of course he would seek him out at once.
The desperate idea of throwing himself on his friend's mercy occurred
to him; if he could be the first to tell Holroyd the truth, surely he
would consent to arrange the matter without any open scandal! He would
not wish to ruin him so long as he received his own again. Both Caffyn
and Mark were very silent during that long and wearisome drive, with
its frequent blocks in the crowded City thoroughfares; and when they
arrived at last at the courtyard in front of the offices, Mark said to
his companion, '_You_ manage this, will you?' for he felt quite
unequal to the task himself.

They had to wait some time at a broad mahogany counter before a clerk
was at liberty to attend to them, for the office was full of people
making various inquiries or paying passage money. Mark cursed the
deliberation with which the man before them was choosing his berth on
the cabin plan submitted to him; but at last the precautions against
the screw and the engines and the kitchens were all taken, and the
clerk proceeded to answer Caffyn's questions in the fullest and most
obliging manner. He went with them to the telegram boards by the
doors, and after consulting a despatch announcing the 'Coromandel's'
departure from Gibraltar, said that she would probably be at Plymouth
by the next evening, or early on the following morning.

'Now find out if _he's_ on board her,' said Mark; and his heart almost
stopped when the clerk came back with a list of passengers and ran his
finger down the names.

'V. B. Holroyd--is that your friend? If you think of meeting him at
Plymouth, you have only to see our agents there, and they will let you
know when the tender goes out to take the passengers ashore.'

After that Mark made his way out blindly, followed by Caffyn. 'Let us
talk here; it's quieter,' said the latter when they were in the
courtyard again.

'What's the good of talking?' said Mark.

'Don't you think you ought to go down to Plymouth?' suggested Caffyn.

'No,' said Mark, 'I don't. How can I, now?'

'Oh, I know you're wanted for exhibition, and all that, but you could
plead business for one day.'

'What is the use?' said Mark. 'He will come to me as soon as he gets
to town.'

'No, he won't, my boy,' said Caffyn; 'he will go and see the Langtons
even before such a devoted friend as you are. Didn't you know he was
like one of the family there?'

'I have heard them mention him,' said the unhappy Mark, on whom a
dreadful vision had flashed of Holroyd learning the truth by some
innocent remark of Mabel's. 'I--I didn't know they were intimate.'

'Oh, yes,' said Caffyn; 'they'll make a tremendous fuss over him. Now
look here, my dear fellow, let's talk this over without any confounded
sentiment. Here's your wedding at hand, and here's a long-lost
intimate friend about to turn up in the midst of it. You'd very much
prefer him to stay away; there's nothing to be ashamed of in that. I
should myself if I were in your shoes. No fellow cares about playing
second fiddle at his own wedding. Now, I've got a little suggestion to
make. I was going down to Wastwater to-morrow, but I wouldn't much
mind waiting another day if I could only get a fellow to come with me.
I always liked Holroyd, you know--capital good chap he is, and if you
leave me to manage him, I believe I could get him to come. I own I
rather funk Wastwater all alone at this time of year.'

'He wouldn't go,' said Mark hopelessly.

'He would go there as readily as anywhere else, if you left it to me.
I tell you what,' he added, as if the idea had just occurred to him,
'suppose _I_ go down to Plymouth and catch him there? I don't mind the
journey a bit.'

'No,' said Mark; '_I_ am going to meet him. I must be the first to see
him. After that, if he likes to go away with you, he can.'

'Then you _are_ going down after all?' said Caffyn. 'What are you
going to say to him?'

'That is my affair,' said Mark.

'Oh, I beg pardon! I only meant that if you say anything to him about
this wedding, or even let him think the Langtons are in town, I may as
well give up any idea of getting him to come away with me. Look here!
you might do me a good turn, particularly when you know you won't be
sorry to get him off your hands yourself. Tell him you're going abroad
in a day or two (that's true; you're going to Switzerland for your
honeymoon, you know), and let him think the Langtons are away
somewhere on the Continent. It's all for his good; he'll want mountain
air and a cheerful companion like me to put him right again. He'll be
the first to laugh at an innocent little deception like that.'

But Mark had done with deceptions, as he told himself. 'I shall tell
him what I think he ought to know,' he said firmly, and Caffyn, with
all his keenness, mistook the purpose in his mind.

'I'll take that for an answer,' he said, 'and I shan't leave town
to-morrow on the chance of his being able to go.' And so they parted.

'Ought I to have let him see that I knew?' Caffyn was thinking when he
was alone again. 'No, I don't want to frighten him. I think he will
play my game without it.'

Mark went back to the Langtons and dined there. Afterwards he told
Mabel privately that he would be obliged to leave town for a day or
two on pressing business. There was no mistaking his extreme
reluctance to go, and she understood that only the sternest necessity
took him away at such a time, trusting him too entirely to ask any
questions.

But as they parted she said, 'It's only for two days, Mark, isn't it?'

'Only for two days,' he answered.

'And soon we shall be together--you and I--for all our lives,' she
said softly, with a great happiness in her low tones. 'I ought to be
able to give you up for just two days, Mark!'

Before those two days were over, he thought, she might give him up for
ever! and the thought that this was possible made it difficult for him
to part as if all were well. He went back and passed a sleepless
night, thinking over the humiliating task he had set himself. His only
chance of keeping Mabel now lay in making a full confession to Holroyd
of his perfidy; he would offer a complete restitution in time. He
would plead so earnestly that his friend _must_ forgive him, or at
least consent to stay his hand for the present. He would humble
himself to any extent, if that would keep him from losing Mabel
altogether--anything but that. If he lost her now, the thought of the
happiness he had missed so narrowly would drive him mad.

It was a miserably cold day when he left Paddington, and he shivered
under his rug as he sat in the train. He could hardly bear the
cheerful talk of meeting or parting friends at the various stations at
which the train stopped. He would have welcomed a collision which
would deal him a swift and painless death, and free him from the
misery he had brought upon himself. He would have been glad, like the
lover in 'The Last Ride Together'--although for very different
reasons--if the world could end that day, and his guilt be swallowed
up in the sum of iniquity. But no collision occurred, and (as it is
perhaps unnecessary to add) the universe did not gratify him by
dissolving on that occasion. The train brought him safely to the
Plymouth platform, and left him there to face his difficulty alone. It
was about six o'clock in the evening, and he lost no time in inquiring
at his hotel for the P. and O. agents, and in making his way to their
offices up the stony streets and along a quiet lane over the hill by
Hoegate. He was received with courtesy and told all that he wished to
know. The 'Coromandel' was not in yet; would not be in now until after
dark--if then. They would send him word if the tender was to go out
the next morning, said the agent as he wrote him the necessary order
to go on board her. After that Mark went back to the hotel and
dined--or rather attempted to dine--in the big coffee-room by the side
of a blazing fire that was powerless to thaw the cold about his heart,
and then he retired to the smoking-room, which he had all to himself,
and where he sat staring grimly at the leather benches and cold
marble-topped tables around him, while he could hear muffled music and
applause from the theatre hard by, varied by the click of the balls in
the billiard-room at the end of the corridor. Presently the waiter
announced a messenger for him, and on going out into the hall he found
a man of seafaring appearance, who brought him a card stating that the
tender would leave the Millbay Pier at six the next morning, by which
time the 'Coromandel' would most probably be in. Mark went up to his
bedroom that night as to a condemned cell; he dreaded another night of
sleepless tossing. Sleep came to him, however, merciful and dreamless,
as it will sometimes to those in desperate case, but he yielded to it
with terror as he felt it coming upon him--for it brought the morning
nearer.




CHAPTER XXIX.

ON BOARD THE 'COROMANDEL.'


It was quite dark the next morning when the hammering of the 'boots'
outside the door roused Mark to a miserable sense of the unwelcome
duty before him. He dressed by candlelight, and, groping his way down
the silent staircase, hunted about in the shuttered coffee-room for
the coat and hat he had left there, and went shivering out into the
main street, from which he turned up the hill towards the Hoe. The day
had dawned by that time, and the sky was a gloomy grey, varied towards
the horizon by stormy gleams of yellow; the prim clean streets were
deserted, save by an occasional workman going to his labours with a
heavy tramp echoing on the wet flags. Mark went along by terraces of
lodging-houses, where the placards of 'apartments' had an especially
forlorn and futile look against the drawn blinds, and from the areas
of which the exhalations, confined during the night, rose in
perceptible contrast with the fresh morning air. Then he found
himself upon the Hoe, with its broad asphalt promenades and rows of
hotels and terraces, rain-washed, silent, and cold, and descending the
winding series of steps, he made his way to the Millbay Pier, and
entered the Custom House gates. Waiting about the wharf was a little
knot of people, apparently bound on much the same errand as
himself--although in far higher spirits. Their cheerfulness (probably
a trifle aggravated by the consciousness of being up so early) jarred
upon him, and he went on past them to the place where two small
steamers were lying.

'One of 'em's a-goin' out to the "Coromandel" presently,' said a
sailor in answer to his question; 'you'd better wait till the agent's
down, or you may be took out to the wrong ship--for there's two
expected, but they ain't neither of 'em in yet. Ah!' as a gun was
heard outside, 'that'll be the "Coromandel" signallin' now.'

'That ain't her,' said another man, who was leaning over the side of
one of the tenders, 'that's the t'other one--the "Emu;" the
"Coromandel's" a three-master, _she_ is.'

'Tom knows the "Coromandel,"--don't ye, Tom? Let Tom alone for knowing
the "Coromandel!"' said the first sailor--a remark which apparently
was rich in hidden suggestion, for they both laughed very heartily.

Presently the agent appeared, and Mark, having satisfied himself that
there was no danger of being taken out to the wrong vessel (for, much
as he dreaded meeting Holroyd, he dreaded missing him even more), went
on board one of the tenders, which soon after began to move out into
the dull green water. Now that he was committed to the ordeal his
terrors rose again; he almost wished that he had made a mistake after
all, and was being taken out to meet the wrong P. and O. The horrible
fear possessed him that Holroyd might in some way have learned his
secret on the voyage home. Suppose, for instance, a fellow-passenger
possessed a copy of 'Illusion,' and chanced to lend it to him--what
should he do if his friend were to meet him with a stern and
contemptuous repulse, rendering all conciliation out of the question?
Tortured by speculations like these, he kept nervously away from the
others on board, and paced restlessly up and down near the bows; he
saw nothing consciously then, but afterwards every detail of those
terrible ten minutes came back to him vividly, down to the lights
still hanging in the rigging of the vessels in harbour, and the hoarse
cries of the men in a brown-sailed lugger gliding past them out to
sea. Out by the bar there was a light haze, in the midst of which lay
the long black hull of the 'Coromandel,' and to this the tender worked
round in a tedious curve preparatory to lying alongside. As they
passed under the stern Mark nerved himself to look amongst the few
figures at the gangway for the face he feared--but Holroyd was not
amongst them. After several unsuccessful attempts of a Lascar to catch
the rope thrown from the tender, accompanied by some remarks in a
foreign language on his part which _may_ have been offered in polite
excuse for his awkwardness, the rope was secured at length, the tender
brought against the vessel's side, and the gangway lashed across. Then
followed a short delay, during which the P. and O. captain, in
rough-weather costume, conversed with the agent across the rails with
a certain condescension.

'Thick as a hedge outside,' Mark heard him say; 'haven't turned in all
night. What are we all waiting for now? Here, quartermaster, just ask
the doctor to step forward, will you?'

Somehow, at the mention of the doctor, Holroyd's allusions to his
illness recurred to Mark's mind, and hopes he dared not confess even
to himself, so base and vile were they, rose in his heart.

'Here's the doctor; clean bill of health, eh, doctor?' asked the
agent--and Mark held his breath for the answer.

'All well on board.'

'Tumble in, then;' and there was an instant rush across the gangway.
Mark followed some of the crowd down into the saloon, where the
steward was laying breakfast, but he could not see Holroyd there
either, and for a few minutes was pent up in a corner in the general
bustle which prevailed. There were glad greetings going on all around
him, confused questions and answers, rapid directions to which no one
had time to attend, and now and then an angry exclamation over the
eagerly read letters: 'And where's mother living now?' 'We've lost
that 7.40 express all through that infernal tender!' 'Look here, don't
take that bag up on deck to get wet, d'ye hear?' 'Jolly to be back in
the old place again, eh?' 'I wish I'd never left it--that d----d
scoundrel has gone and thrown all those six houses into Chancery!' and
so on, those of the passengers who were not talking or reading being
engaged in filling up the telegraph forms brought on board for their
convenience. Mark extricated himself from the hubbub as soon as he
could, and got hold of the steward. There was a gentleman on board of
the name of Holroyd; he seemed well enough, as far as the steward
knew, though a bit poorly when he first came aboard, to be sure; he
was in his berth just then getting his things together to go ashore,
but he'd be up on deck directly. Half sick and half glad at this
additional delay, Mark left the saloon and lingered listlessly about
above, watching the Lascars hauling up baggage from the hold--they
would have been interesting enough to him at any other time, with
their seamed bilious complexions of every degree of swarthiness, set
off by the touches of colour in their sashes and head coverings, their
strange cries and still more uncouth jocularity--but he soon tired of
them, and wandered aft, where the steamer-chairs, their usefulness at
an end for that voyage, were huddled together dripping and forlorn on
the damp red deck. He was still standing by them, idly turning over
the labels attached to their backs, and reading the names thereon
without the slightest real curiosity, when he heard a well-remembered
voice behind him crying, 'Mark, my dear old fellow, so you've come
after all! I was half afraid you wouldn't think it worth your while. I
can't tell you how glad I am to see you!' And he turned with a guilty
start to face the man he had wronged.

'Evidently,' thought Mark, 'he knows nothing yet, or he wouldn't meet
me like this!' and he gripped the cordial hand held out to him with
convulsive force; his face was white and his lips trembled, he could
not speak.

Such unexpected emotion on his part touched and gratified Holroyd, who
patted him on the shoulder affectionately. 'It's all right, old boy, I
understand,' he said; 'so you _did_ think I was gone after all? Well,
this is a greater pleasure to me than ever it can be to you.'

'I never expected to see you again,' said Mark, as soon as he could
speak; 'even now I can hardly believe it.'

'I'm quite real, however,' said Holroyd, laughing; 'there's more of me
now than when they carried me on board from Colombo; don't look so
alarmed--the voyage has brought me round again, I'm my old self
again.'

As a matter of fact there was a great change in him; his bearded face,
still burnt by the Ceylon sun, was lined and wasted, his expression
had lost its old dreaminess, and when he did not smile, was sterner
and more set than it had been; his manner, as Mark noticed later, had
a new firmness and decision; he looked a man who could be mercilessly
severe in a just cause, and even his evident affection was powerless
to reassure Mark.

The hatches had by this time been closed over the hold again and the
crane unshipped, the warning bell was ringing for the departure of the
tender, though the passengers still lingered till the last minute, as
if a little reluctant, after all, to desert the good ship that had
been their whole world of late; the reigning beauty of the voyage, who
was to remain with the vessel until her arrival at Gravesend, was
receiving her last compliments during prolonged and complicated
leave-takings, in which, however, the exhilaration of most of her
courtiers--now that their leave or furlough was really about to
begin--was too irrepressible for sentiment. A last delay at the
gangway, where the captain and ship's officers were being overwhelmed
with thanks and friendly good-byes, and then the deck was cleared at
last, the gangway taken in and the rail refastened, and, as the
tender steamed off, all the jokes and allusions which formed the
accumulated wit of the voyage flashed out with a brief and final
brilliancy, until the hearty cheering given and returned drowned them
for ever.

On the tender, such acquaintances as Holroyd had made during the
voyage gave Mark no chance of private conversation with him, and even
when they had landed and cleared the Custom House, Mark made no use of
his opportunity; he knew he must speak soon, but he could not tell him
just then, and accordingly put off the evil hour by affecting an
intense interest in the minor incidents of the voyage, and in
Vincent's experiences of a planter's life. It was the same in the
hotel coffee-room, where some of the 'Coromandel's' passengers were
breakfasting near them, and the conversation became general; after
breakfast, however, Mark proposed to spend some time in seeing the
place, an arrangement which he thought would lead the way to
confession. But Holroyd would not hear of this; he seemed possessed by
a feverish impatience to get to London without delay, and very soon
they were pacing the Plymouth railway platform together, waiting for
the up train, Mark oppressed by the gloomy conviction that if he did
not speak soon, the favourable moment would pass away, never to
return.

'Where do you think of going to first when you get in?' he asked, in
dread of the answer.

'I don't know,' said Holroyd; 'the Great Western, I suppose--it's the
nearest.'

'You mustn't go to an hotel,' said Mark; 'won't you come to my rooms?
I don't live with my people any longer, you know, and I can easily put
you up.' He was thinking that this arrangement would give him a little
more time for his confession.

'Thanks,' said Holroyd gratefully; 'it's very kind of you to think of
that, old fellow; I will come to you, then--but there is a house I
must go to as soon as we get in: you won't mind if I run away for an
hour or two, will you?'

Mark remembered what Caffyn had said. 'There will be plenty of time
for that to-morrow, won't there?' he said nervously.

'No,' said Holroyd impatiently; 'I can't wait. I daren't. I have let
so much time go by already--you will understand when I tell you all
about it, Mark. I can't rest till I know whether there is still a
chance of happiness left for me, or--or whether I have come too late
and the dream is over.'

In that letter which had fallen into Caffyn's hands Holroyd had told
Mabel the love he had concealed so long; he had begged her not to
decide too hastily; he would wait any time for her answer, he said, if
she did not feel able to give it at once; and in the meantime she
should be troubled by no further importunities on his part. This was
not, perhaps, the most judicious promise to make; he had given it from
an impulse of consideration for her, being well aware that she had
never looked upon him as a possible lover, and that his declaration
would come upon her with a certain shock. Perhaps, too, he wanted to
leave himself a margin of hope as long as possible to make his exile
endurable; since for months, if no answer came back to him, he could
cheat himself with the thought that such silence was favourable in
itself; but even when he came to regret his promise, he shrank from
risking all by breaking it. Then came his long illness, and the
discovery at Newera Ellia; for the first time he thought that there
might be other explanations of the delay, and while he was writing the
letter which had come to Mark, he resolved to make one more appeal to
Mabel, since it might be that his first by some evil chance had failed
to reach her. That second appeal, however, was never made. Before he
could do more than begin it, the fever he had never wholly shaken off
seized him again and laid him helpless, until, when he was able to
write once more, he was already on his way to plead for himself. But
the dread lest his own punctilious folly and timidity had closed the
way to his heart's desire had grown deeper and deeper, and he felt an
impulse now which was stronger than his natural reserve to speak of it
to some one.

'Yes,' he continued, 'she may have thought I was drowned, as you did;
perhaps she has never dreamed how much she is to me: if I could only
hope to tell her that even now!'

'Do you mind telling me her name?' said Mark, with a deadly foreboding
of what was coming.

'Did I never speak of the Langtons to you?' said Holroyd. 'I think I
must have done so. She is a Miss Langton. Mabel, her name is' (he
dwelt on the name with a lover's tenderness). 'Some day if--if it is
all well, you may see her, I hope. Oddly enough, I believe she has
heard your name rather often; she has a small brother who used to be
in your form at St. Peter's; did I never tell you?'

'Never,' said Mark. He felt that fate was too hard for him; he had
honestly meant to confess all up to that moment, he had thought to
found his strongest plea for forbearance on his approaching marriage.
How could he do that now? what mercy could he expect from a rival? He
was lost if he was mad enough to arm Holroyd with such a weapon; he
was lost in any case, for it was certain that the weapon would not lie
hidden long; there were four days still before the wedding--time
enough for the mine to explode! What could he do? how could he keep
the other in the dark, or get rid of him, before he could do any harm?
And then Caffyn's suggestions came back to him. Was it possible to
make use of Caffyn's desire for a travelling companion, and turn it to
his own purpose? If Caffyn was so anxious to have Holroyd with him in
the Lakes, why not let him? It was a desperate chance enough, but it
was the only one left to him; if it failed, it would ruin him, but
that would certainly happen if he let things take their course; if it
succeeded, Mabel would at least be his. His resolution was taken in an
instant, and carried out with a strategy that gave him a miserable
surprise at finding himself so thorough a Judas. 'By the way,' he
said, 'I've just thought of something. Harold Caffyn is a friend of
mine. I know he wants to see you again, and he could tell you all you
want to hear about--about the Langtons, I've heard _him_ mention them
often enough; you see you don't even know where they are yet. I'll
wire and ask him to meet us at my rooms, shall I?'

'That's a capital idea!' cried Holroyd. 'Caffyn is sure to know; do it
at once, like a good fellow.'

'You stay here then, and look out for the train,' said Mark, as he
hurried to the telegraph office, leaving Holroyd thinking how
thoughtful and considerate his once selfish friend had become. Mark
sent the telegram, which ended, 'He knows nothing as yet. I leave him
to you.'

When he returned he found that Holroyd had secured an empty
compartment in the train which was preparing to start, and Mark got in
with a heavy apprehension of the danger of a long journey alone with
Holroyd. He tried to avoid conversation by sheltering himself behind a
local journal, while at every stoppage he prayed that a stranger might
come to his rescue. He read nothing until a paragraph, copied from a
London literary paper, caught his eye. 'We understand,' the paragraph
ran, 'that the new novel by the author of "Illusion," Mr. Cyril
Ernstone (or rather Mr. Mark Ashburn, as he has now declared himself),
will be published early in the present spring, and it is rumoured that
the second work will show a marked advance on its predecessor.' It was
merely the usual puff preliminary, though Mark took it as a
prediction, and at any other time would have glowed with anticipated
triumph. Now it only struck him with terror. Was it in Holroyd's paper
too? Suppose he asked to look at Mark's, and saw it there, and
questioned him, as of course he would! What should he say? Thinking to
avoid this as far as possible, he crumpled up the tell-tale paper and
hurled it out of window; but his act had precisely the opposite
effect, for Holroyd took it as an indication that his companion was
ready for conversation, and put down the paper he had been pretending
to read.

'Mark,' he began with a slight hesitation, and with his first words
Mark knew that the question was coming which he dreaded more than
anything; he had no notion how he should reply to it, beyond a
general impression that he would have to lie, and lie hard.

'Mark,' said Holroyd again, 'I didn't like to worry you about it
before, I thought perhaps you would speak of it first; but--but have
you never heard anything more of that ambitious attempt of mine at a
novel? You needn't mind telling me.'

'I--I _can't_ tell you,' Mark said, looking away out of the window.

'I don't expect anything good,' said Holroyd; 'I never thought--why
should I be such a humbug! I _did_ think sometimes--more lately
perhaps--that it wouldn't be an utter failure. I see I was wrong.
Well, if I was ambitious, it was rather for her than myself; and if
she cares for me, what else matters to either of us? Tell me all about
it.'

'You--you remember what happened to the first volume of the "French
Revolution"?' began Mark.

'Go on,' said Holroyd.

'It--the book--_yours_, I mean,' said Mark (he could not remember the
original title), 'was burnt.'

'Where? at the office? Did they write and tell you so? had they read
it?'

Mark felt he was among pitfalls.

'Not at the office,' he said; 'at my rooms--my old rooms.'

'It came back, then?'

'Yes, it came back. There--there was no letter with it; the girl at
the lodgings found the manuscript lying about. She--she burnt it.'

The lies sprang in ready succession from his brain at the critical
moment, without any other preparation than the emergency--as lies did
with Mark Ashburn; till lately he had hoped that the truth might come,
and he loathed himself now for this fresh piece of treachery, but it
had saved him for the present, and he could not abandon it.

'I thought it would at least have been safe with you,' said Holroyd,
'if you--no, my dear fellow, I didn't mean to reproach you. I can see
how cut up you are about it; and, after all, it--it was only a
rejected manuscript--the girl only hastened its course a little.
Carlyle rewrote his work; but then I'm not Carlyle. We won't say
anything any more about it, eh, old fellow? It's only one dream over.'

Mark was seized with a remorse which almost drove him to confess all
and take the consequences; but Holroyd had sunk back to his position
by the window again, and there was a fixed frown on his face which,
although it only arose from painful thought, effectually deterred Mark
from speaking. He felt now that everything depended on Caffyn. He sat
looking furtively at the other now and then, and thinking what
terrible reproaches those firm lips might utter; how differently the
sad, kind eyes might regard him before long, and once more he longed
for a railroad crash which would set him free from his tangled life.
The journey ended at last, and they drove to South Audley Street.
Vincent was very silent; in spite of his philosophical bearing, he
felt the blow deeply. He had come back with ideas of a possible
literary career before him, and it was hard to resign them all at
once. It was rather late in the afternoon when they arrived, and
Caffyn was there to receive them; he was delighted to welcome Holroyd,
and his cordiality restored the other to cheerfulness; it is so
pleasant to find that one is not forgotten--and so rare. When Vincent
had gone upstairs to see his sleeping-room, Caffyn turned to Mark:
there was a kind of grin on his face, and yet a certain admiration
too.

'I got your telegram,' he said. 'So--so you've brought yourself to
part with him after all?'

'I thought over what you said,' returned Mark, 'and--and he told me
something which would make it very awkward and--and painful for him,
and for myself too, if he remained.'

'You haven't told him anything, then, still?'

'Nothing,' said Mark.

'Then,' said Caffyn, 'I think I shall not be alone at Wastwater after
all, if you'll only let me manage.'

Was Mark at all surprised at the languid Harold Caffyn exerting
himself in this way? If he was, he was too grateful for the phenomenon
to care very much about seeking to explain it. Caffyn was a friend of
his, he had divined that Holroyd's return was inconvenient: very
likely he had known of Vincent's hopeless attachment for Mabel, and he
was plainly anxious to get a companion at the Lakes; anyone of these
was motive enough. Soon after, Holroyd joined them in the
sitting-room. Caffyn, after more warm congratulations and eager
questioning, broached the Wastwater scheme. 'You may as well,' he
concluded, 'London's beastly at this time of year. You're looking as
if the voyage hadn't done you much good, too, and it will be grand on
the mountains just now; come with me by the early train to-morrow,
you've no packing to do. I'm sure we shall pull together all right.'

'I'm sure, of that,' said Vincent; 'and if I had nothing to keep me in
town--but I've not seen the Langtons yet, you know. And, by-the-bye,
you can tell me where I shall find them now. I suppose they have not
moved?'

'Now I've got you!' laughed Caffyn; 'if the Langtons are the only
obstacle, you can't go and see them, for the very good reason that
they're away--abroad somewhere!'

'Are they all there?'

'Every one of 'em; even the father, I fancy, just now.'

'Do you know when they're likely to be back?'

'Haven't heard,' said Caffyn calmly; 'they must come back soon, you
see, for the lovely Mabel's wedding.'

Mark held his breath as he listened; what was Caffyn going to say
next? Vincent's face altered suddenly.

'Then Mabel--Miss Langton, is going to be married?' he asked in a
curiously quiet tone.

'Rather,' said Caffyn; 'brilliant match in its way, I understand. Not
much money on his side, but one of the coming literary fellows, and
all that kind of thing, you know; just the man for that sort of girl.
Didn't you know about it?'

'No,' said Holroyd uneasily; he was standing with his elbow on the
mantelpiece, with his face turned from the other two; 'I didn't
know--what is his name?'

'Upon my soul I forget--heard it somewhere.--Ashburn, you don't happen
to know it, do you?'

'I!' cried Mark, shrinking; 'no, I--I haven't heard.'

'Well,' continued Caffyn, 'it isn't of much consequence, is it? I
shall hit upon it soon, I dare say. They say she's deucedly fond of
him, though. Can't fancy disdainful Miss Mabel condescending to be
deucedly fond of any one--but so they tell me. And I say, Holroyd, to
come back to the point, is there any reason why you should stay in
town?'

'None,' said Holroyd, with pain ringing in his voice, 'none in the
world why I should stay anywhere now.'

'Well, won't you come with me? I start the first thing to-morrow--it
will do you good.'

'It's kind of you to ask,' said Vincent, 'but I can't desert Ashburn
in that way after he took the trouble to come down and meet me; we've
not seen one another for so long,--have we, Mark?'

Caffyn smiled in spite of himself. 'Why, didn't he tell you?' he said;
'he's arranged to go abroad himself in a day or two.'

Vincent glanced round at Mark, who stood there the personification of
embarrassment and shame. 'I see,' he said, with a change in his voice,
'I shall only be in the way here, then.' Mark said nothing--he could
not. 'Well, Caffyn, I'll come with you; the Lakes will do as well as
any other place for the short time I shall be in England.'

'Then you haven't come home for good?' inquired Caffyn.

'For good? no--not exactly,' he replied bitterly; 'plantation life has
unsettled me, you see. I shall have to go back to it.'

'To Ceylon!' cried Mark, with hopes that had grown quite suddenly. Was
it, could it be possible that the threatened storm was going to pass
away--not for a time, but altogether?

'Anywhere,' said Holroyd! 'what does it matter?'

'There's a man I know,' observed Caffyn, 'who's going out to a coffee
estate somewhere in Southern India, the Annamalli Hills, I think he
said; he was wanting some one with a little experience to go out with
him the other day. He's a rattling good fellow too--Gilroy, his name
is. I don't know if you'd care to meet him. You might think it good
enough to join him, at all events for a trial.'

'Yes,' said Holroyd, listlessly, 'I may as well see him.'

'Well,' said Caffyn, 'he's at Liverpool just now, I believe. I can
write to him and tell him about you, and ask him to come over and meet
us somewhere, and then you could settle all about it, you know, if you
liked the look of him.'

'It's very good of you to take all this trouble,' said Vincent
gratefully.

'Bosh!' said Caffyn, using that modern form for polite repudiation of
gratitude--'no trouble at all; looks rather as if I wanted to get rid
of you, don't you know--Gilroy's going out so very soon.'

'Is he?' said Vincent. He had no suspicions; Mabel's engagement seemed
only too probable, and he knew that he had never had any claim upon
her; but for all that, he had no intention of taking the fact entirely
upon trust; he would not leave England till he had seen her and
learned from her own lips that he must give up hope for ever; after
that the sooner he went the better.

'You needn't go out with him unless you want to--you might join him
later there; but of course you wouldn't take anything for granted,
nothing. Still, if you _did_ care to go out at once, I suppose you've
nothing in the way of preparations to hinder you, eh?'

'No,' said Vincent; 'it would only be transferring my trunks from one
ship to another; but I--I don't feel well enough to go out just yet.'

'Of course not,' said Caffyn; 'you must have a week or two of mountain
air first, then you'll be ready to go anywhere; but I must have you at
Wastwater,' he added, with a laughing look of intelligence at Mark,
whose soul rose against all this duplicity--and subsided again.

How wonderfully everything was working out! Unless some fatality
interposed between then and the next morning, the man he dreaded would
be safely buried in the wildest part of the Lake District--he might
even go off to India again and never learn the wrong he had suffered!
At all events, Mark was saved for a time. He was thankful, deeply
thankful now that he had resisted that mad impulse to confession.

Vincent had dropped into an arm-chair with his back to the window,
brooding over his shattered ambitions; all his proud self-confidence
in his ability to win fame for the woman he loved was gone now; he
felt that he had neither the strength nor the motive to try again.
If--if this he had heard was true, he must be an exile, with lower
aims and a blanker life than those he had once hoped for.

All at once Mark, as he stood at the window with Caffyn, stepped back
with a look of helpless terror.

'What the deuce is it now?' said the other under his breath.

Mark caught Caffyn's elbow with a fierce grip; a carriage had driven
up; they could see it plainly still in the afternoon light, which had
only just begun to fade.

'Do you see?' muttered Mark thickly. 'She's in it; she looked up--and
saw _me_!'

Caffyn himself was evidently disturbed. 'Not, not Mabel?' he
whispered. 'Worse! it's Dolly--and _she'll_ come up. She'll see
_him_!'

The two stood there staring blankly at each other, while Holroyd was
still too absorbed to have the least suspicion that the future
happiness or misery of himself and others was trembling just then in
the balance.




CHAPTER XXX.

THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS.


Dolly's mere appearance in the room would lead Vincent to suspect that
he had been deceived; her first words would almost inevitably expose
the fraud. She was coming up, nevertheless, and Mark felt powerless to
prevent her--he could only indulge himself in inwardly cursing
Caffyn's ingenuity and his own weakness for having brought him to such
a pass as this. Caffyn was shaken for the moment, but he soon
recovered himself. 'Keep cool, will you,' he whispered (he might have
shouted, for Vincent saw and heard nothing just then): 'you stay here
and keep _him_ amused--don't let him go near the window!' Then he
added aloud, 'I'll go and see if I can find that Bradshaw. Almost
certain I didn't bring it with me; but if you saw it there, why'--and
he was gone.

Mark caught up a paper with a rapid, 'Oh! I say, Vincent, _did_ you
see this correspondence about competitive examinations? Of course you
haven't, though--just listen then, it's rather amusing!' and he began
to read with desperate animation a string of letters on a subject
which, in the absence of worthier sport, was just then being trailed
before the public. The newspaper hid his face, and while he read he
could strain his ears for the first sign of Dolly's approach. She had
seen him, he was sure, and she would insist upon coming up--she was so
fond of him! He wished now he had gone down himself instead of leaving
it to Caffyn.

Meanwhile the latter had rushed down in time to wave back the maid who
was coming to the door, and which he opened himself. Dolly was
standing there alone on the doorsteps. She had prepared a polite
little formula for the servant, and was therefore disappointed to see
Caffyn.

'Why, it's _you_!' she said, in rather an injured tone.

'You never expected such luck as that, did you?' said Caffyn. 'Is
there anything I can do for your ladyship?'

'Mabel asked me to drive round this way and ask if Mark has come back.
There's Fraeulein in the carriage too, but I wanted to ask all by
myself.'

'Pray step this way,' said Caffyn, leading the way with mock
politeness to a little sitting-room on the ground floor.

'I can't stay long,' said Dolly. 'Mark isn't here--I saw his face at
the window upstairs. Mabel told me to see if he was quite well, and I
want to ask him how he is and where he's been.'

'Afraid you can't see him just now,' said Caffyn, 'he's got some one
with him he hasn't seen for a long time--we mustn't disturb him; tell
Mabel he'll come to-morrow and he's quite well.'

Dolly was preparing to go, when she discovered some portmanteaus and
boxes in a corner. 'What a funny box, with all those red tickets on
it!' she said. 'Oh, and a big white helmet--it's green inside. Is Mark
going to be married in _that_ thing, Harold?'--all at once she stopped
short in her examination. 'Why--why, they've got poor Vincent's name
on them! they _have_--look!' And Caffyn realised that he had been too
ingenious: he had forgotten all about this luggage in showing Dolly to
that room, in his fear lest her voice should be too audible in the
passage.

'There, there--you're keeping Fraeulein waiting all this time. Never
mind about the luggage,' he said hurriedly. 'Good-bye, Dolly; sorry
you can't stop.'

'But I _can_ stop,' objected Dolly, who was not easily got rid of at
the best of times. 'Harold, I'm sure that dear Vincent has come alive
again--_he's_ the somebody Mark hasn't seen for a long time.... Oh, if
it really _is_ ... I must go and see!'

Caffyn saw his best course now was the hazardous one of telling the
truth. 'Well,' he said, 'as it happens, you're right. Vincent was
_not_ drowned, and he is here--but I don't advise you to go to see him
for all that.'

'Why?' said Dolly, with her joy suddenly checked--she scarcely knew
why.

'He's in a fearful rage with you just now,' said Caffyn; 'he's found
out about that letter--that letter you burnt.'

'Mabel said I was never to worry about that horrid letter any
more--and I'm not going to--so it's no use your trying to make me,'
said Dolly defiantly. And then, as her fears grew, she added, 'What
about that letter?'

'Well,' said Caffyn, 'it appears that the letter you tore the stamp
off was from Vincent (it had a foreign stamp, I remember), and it was
very important. He never got an answer, and he found out somehow that
it was because you burnt it--and then--my goodness, Dolly, what a rage
he was in!'

'I don't care,' said Dolly. 'Mabel will tell Vincent how it was--_she_
knows.'

'Ah, but you see she _don't_ know,' said Caffyn. 'Do you suppose if
she had known who the letter was from and what it was about she would
have taken it so quietly? Why, she thinks it was only an old envelope
you burnt--I heard her say so--you know she still believes Vincent is
dead. She doesn't know the truth yet, but Vincent will tell her. Are
you coming up to see him?'

'No,' said Dolly, trembling; 'I--I think I won't--not to-day.'

'Wise child!' said Caffyn, approvingly. 'Between ourselves, Dolly,
poor Vincent has come back in such a queer state that he's not fit to
see anyone just yet, and we're dreadfully afraid of his meeting Mabel
and frightening her.'

'Oh, don't let him come--don't!' cried terrified Dolly.

'Well, I tell you what we've done--I got Mark to agree to it--we
haven't told him that you're any of you at home at all; he thinks
you're all away, and he's coming with me into the country to-morrow;
so, unless you tell Mabel you've seen him----'

'Oh, but I won't; I don't _want_ her to know--not now!' said Dolly.
'Oh, and I was so glad when I first heard of it! Is he--is he _very_
angry, Harold?'

'I don't advise you to come near him just yet,' he said. 'You won't
tell Fraeulein, of course? I'll see you to the carriage ... how do,
Fraeulein? Home, I suppose?' And the last thing he saw was Dolly's
frightened glance up at the window as the carriage drove off. 'She
won't tell _this_ time,' he said to himself.

And indeed poor Dolly was silent enough all the way home, and met
Fraeulein Moser's placid stream of talk with short and absent answers.
That evening, however, in the schoolroom, she roused herself to
express a sudden interest in Colin's stamp album, which she coaxed him
to show her.

As he was turning over the pages, one by one, she stopped him
suddenly. 'What is that one?' she said, pointing out a green-
stamp amongst the colonial varieties.

'Can't you read?' said Colin, a little contemptuously, even while
regarding this healthy interest as a decided sign of grace in a girl:
'there's "Ceylon Postage" on the top, isn't there? It isn't rare,
though--twenty-four cents--I gave twopence for it; but I've had much
more expensive ones, only I swopped them. If you _want_ to see a rare
one, here's a Virgin Islands down here----'

'I think I'll see the rest another time, Colin, thanks,' said Dolly;
'I'm tired now.'

'I mayn't have time to show you another day,' said Colin, 'so you'd
better----' But Dolly had gone--her passion for information having
flickered out as suddenly as it rose. She knew that English-looking
green stamp well enough; there had been dreadful days once when it had
seemed always floating before her eyes, the thing which might send her
to prison; she was much older now, of course, and knew better; but,
for all that, it had not quite lost its power to plague her yet.

For, this time at least, she was sure that Harold had not been
teasing; she _had_ burnt the letter, and it came from Ceylon; Vincent
must have written it, and he had come back and meant to scold her--she
had cried so when she heard he was drowned, and now she was afraid to
see him--a shadow she dared not speak of had once more fallen across
her life!

Caffyn came up with a Bradshaw in his hand. 'Had a hunt after it, I
can tell you,' he said; 'and then your old landlady and I had a little
chat--I couldn't get away from her. Aren't you fellows ready for some
dinner?' And the relief with which Mark had seen the carriage roll
away below had really given him something of an appetite.

Before dinner, however, Mark took Caffyn up into his bedroom under the
pretence of washing his hands, but with the real object of preventing
a hideous possibility which--for his fears quickened his
foresight--had just occurred to him. 'If you don't mind,' he began
awkwardly, 'I--I'd rather you didn't mention that I had written--I
mean, that you didn't say anything about "Illusion," you know.'

Caffyn's face remained unchanged. 'Certainly, if you wish it,' he
said; 'but why? Is this more of your modesty?'

'No,' said Mark, weakly, 'no; not exactly modesty; but, the fact is, I
find that Holroyd has been going in for the same sort of thing
himself, and--and not successfully; and so I shouldn't like to----'

'Quite so,' agreed Caffyn. 'Now, really, that's very nice and
considerate of you to think of that, Ashburn. I like to see that sort
of thing in a fellow, you know; shows he isn't spoilt by success!
Well, you can rely on me--I won't breathe a word to suggest your being
in any way connected with pen and ink.'

'Thanks,' said Mark, gratefully; 'I know you won't,' and they went
down.

Mark could not but feel degraded in his own eyes by all this
hypocrisy; but it was so necessary, and was answering its purpose so
well, that his mental suffering was less than might have been
expected.

At dinner he felt himself able, now that his fears were removed, to
encourage conversation, and drew from Holroyd particulars of his
Ceylon life, which supplied them with topics for that evening, and
prevented the meal from becoming absolutely dull, even though it was
at no time remarkable for festivity.

'I tell you what I can't quite understand,' said Caffyn on one
occasion. 'Why did you let us all go on believing that you were
drowned on the "Mangalore" when a letter or two would have put it all
right?'

'I did write one letter home,' said Holroyd, with a faint red tingeing
his brown cheeks. 'I might have written to Mark, I know; but I waited
to hear from him first, and then one thing after another prevented me.
It was only when I sent down to Colombo, months afterwards, for my
heavy baggage, that I heard what had happened to the ship.'

'Well,' observed Caffyn, 'you might have written then.'

'I know that,' said Holroyd: 'the fact is, though, that I never
thought it possible, after going off the ship, as I did at Bombay,
that I could be reported amongst the missing. As soon as I discovered
that that was so, I wrote. No doubt I ought to have written before;
still, when you have a large estate on your hands, and you feel your
health gradually going, and failure coming closer and closer, you
don't feel a strong inclination for correspondence.'

He fell back into a moody silence again. Perhaps, after all, his
silence had arisen from other causes still; perhaps, as his health
declined, he had come to find a morbid satisfaction in the idea that
he was alone--forgotten by those he cared for--until his very
isolation had become dear to him. He had been a fool--he knew that
now--his two friends had mourned him sincerely, and would have been
overjoyed to hear that he was alive. He had wronged them--what if he
had wronged Mabel too? Another had won her, but had not his own false
delicacy and perverted pride caused him to miss the happiness he
hungered for? 'At all events,' he thought, 'I won't whine about it.
Before I go out again I will know the worst. If the other man is a
good fellow, and will make her happy, I can bear it.' But deep down in
his heart a spark of hope glimmered still.

'Well, I must be going,' said Caffyn, breaking in on his reverie.
'I've got to pack before I go to bed. Look here, Vincent' (and he
consulted the Bradshaw as he spoke), 'there's a train at ten in the
morning, from Euston; gets in to Drigg late at night; we can sleep
there, and drive over to Wastwater next day. Will that do you?'

'It's rather sudden,' said Holroyd, hesitating.

'Oh, come, old fellow, you're not going to back out of it now. I've
stayed over a day on the chance of bringing you; you promised to come
just now; there's nothing to keep you, and I've set my heart on having
you.'

'Then I'll come,' said Holroyd. 'We'll meet on the platform
to-morrow.'

Mark breathed more freely again. He accompanied Caffyn down to the
front door, and then, as they stood for a moment in the little passage
dimly lighted by a feeble kerosene lamp on a bracket, each looked at
the other strangely.

'Well,' said Caffyn, with a light laugh, 'I hope you are satisfied:
he'll be well out of the way for at least a fortnight, and, if this
Gilroy business comes off, he may be taken off your hands altogether
before you come back.'

'I know,' said Mark, 'you've been awfully kind about it; the--the only
thing I can't understand is, _why_ you're taking all this trouble.'
For this was beginning to exercise his mind at last.

'Oh,' said Caffyn, 'is _that_ it? Well, I don't mind telling you--I
like you, my boy, and if anything I can do will save you a little
worry and give me a companion in my loneliness into the bargain (mind,
I don't say that hasn't something to do with it), why, I'm delighted
to do it. But if you'd rather see some more of him before he goes out
again, there's no hurry. Gilroy will wait, and I won't say any more
about it.'

'It--it seems a good opening,' said Mark hastily, not without shame at
himself; 'perhaps the sooner it is arranged the better, don't you
think?'

Caffyn laughed again. 'You old humbug!' he said. 'Why don't you tell
the truth? You've found out he's a defeated rival, and you don't care
about having him sitting sighing on the door-step of that little house
in--where is it?--on Campden Hill! Well, don't be alarmed; I think
he'll go, and I promise you I won't try to prevent him if he's keen on
it.'

He laughed aloud once or twice as he walked home. Mark's tender
solicitude for his friend's future tickled his sense of humour. 'And
the funniest thing about it is,' he thought, 'that I'm going to help
the humbug!'

Mark was up early the next morning, and hurried Holroyd over his
breakfast as much as he dared. He had a ghastly fear of missing the
train, in consequence of which they arrived at Euston at least half an
hour before the time of starting. Caffyn was not on the platform, and
Mark began to dread his being too late. 'And then,' he thought with a
shudder, 'I shall have him on my hands for another whole day. Another
day of this would drive me mad! And I _must_ see Mabel this morning.'
The luggage had been duly labelled, and there was nothing to do but to
wander up and down the platform, Mark feeling oppressed by a sinking
premonition of disaster whenever he loosed his hold of Holroyd's arm
for a moment. He was waiting while the latter bought a paper at the
bookstall, when suddenly he felt himself slapped heavily on the back
by some one behind him, and heard a voice at whose well-known accents
he very nearly fell down with horror. It was his terrible uncle!

''Ullo, you know, this won't do, young fellow; what's all this?' he
began, too evidently bursting with the badinage which every Benedick
must endure. 'Why, you ain't going for your honeymoon before the
wedding?--that's suspicious-lookin', that is!'

'No, no, it's all right,' said Mark, trembling; 'how do you do, uncle?
I--I'd rather you didn't talk about--about that here--not quite so
loud!'

'Well, I don't know what there is in that to be ashamed of,' said his
uncle; 'and if I mayn't be allowed to talk about a wedding--which but
for me, mind yer, would a' been long enough in coming about--p'raps
you'll tell me who is; and, as to talking loud, I'm not aware that I'm
any louder than usual. What are you looking like that for? Hang me if
I don't think there's something in this I ought to see to!' he broke
out, with a sudden change of face, as his shrewd little eyes fell on
Holroyd's rug, which Mark was carrying for the moment. 'Mark, for all
your cleverness, you're a slippery feller--I always felt that about
you. You're up to something now--you're meaning to play a trick on one
that trusts you, and I won't have it--do you hear me?--I tell you I
won't have it!'

'What do you mean?' faltered Mark. For the instant he thought himself
detected, and did not pause to think how improbable this was.

'_You_ know what I mean. I'm not going to stand by and see you ruin
yourself. You shan't set a foot in the train if I have to knock you
down and set on you myself! If' (and his voice shook here)--'if you've
got into any mess--and it's money--I'll clear you this time, whatever
it costs me, but you shan't run away from that dear girl that you're
promised to--I'm d----d if you do!'

Mark laughed naturally and easily enough.

'Did you think I was going to run away then--from _Mabel_?'

'You tell me what you're doing 'ere at this time o' day, then,' said
his uncle, only partially reassured. 'What's that you're carrying?'

'This? My friend's rug. I'm seeing a friend off--that's all. If you do
not believe me, I'll show you the friend.' As he looked back at the
bookstall he saw something which stiffened him once more with helpless
horror: the man at the stall was trying to persuade Holroyd to buy a
book for the journey--he was just dusting one now, a volume in a
greenish cover with bold crimson lettering, before recommending it;
and the book was a copy of the latest edition of 'Illusion,' the
edition which bore Mark's name on the title-page! In his despair Mark
did the very last thing he would otherwise have done--he rushed up to
Holroyd and caught his arm. 'I say, old fellow, don't let them talk
you into buying any of that rubbish. Look here, I--I want to introduce
you to my uncle!'

'I wasn't asking the gentleman to buy no rubbish,' said the man at the
bookstall, resenting the imputation. 'This is a book which is 'aving a
large sale just now: we've sold as many as'--but here Mark succeeded
in getting Vincent away and bringing him up to Mr. Lightowler.

'How are you, sir?' began that gentleman, with a touch of
condescension in his manner. 'So it's only you that's goin' off? Well,
that's a relief to my mind, I can tell yer; for when I saw Mark 'ere
with that rug, I somehow got it into my mind that _he_ was goin' to
make a run for it. And there 'ud be a pretty thing for all
parties--hey?'

'Your nephew very kindly came to see me off, that's all,' said
Holroyd.

'Oh,' said Uncle Solomon, with a tolerant wave of his hand, 'I don't
object to that, yer know, I've no objections to that--not that I don't
think (between ourselves, mind yer) that he mightn't p'raps he better
employed just now;' and here, to Mark's horror, he winked with much
humorous suggestiveness at both of them.

'That is very likely,' said Holroyd.

'What I mean by saying he might be "better employed,"' continued Uncle
Solomon, 'is that when----'

'Yes, yes, uncle,' Mark hastened to interpose, 'but on special
occasions like these one can leave one's duties for a while.'

'Now there I think you make your mistake--you make too sure, Mark. I
tell you (and I think your friend 'ere will bear me out in this) that,
in your situation, it don't _do_ to go leaving 'em in the lurch too
often--it don't _do_!' Mark could stand no more of this.

'A _lurch_ now,' he said--'what an odd expression that is! Do you
know, I've often tried to picture to myself what kind of a thing a
lurch may be. I always fancy it must be a sort of a deep hole. Have
_you_ any idea, Vincent?' Mark would have been too thankful to have
been able to drop his uncle down a lurch of that description
occasionally, particularly when he chose, as he did on this occasion,
to take offence at his nephew's levity.

'Lurch is a good old English word, let me tell yer, Mr. Schoolmaster
that was,' he broke in; 'and if I'd done as many a man in my position
would, and left _you_ in the lurch a few months ago, where would you
ha' been?--that's what I'd like to know! For I must tell yer, Mr.
Holroyd, that that feller came to me with a precious long face, and
says he, "Uncle," he says, "I want you to----"'

Mark felt that in another moment the whole story of his uncle's
intervention at Kensington Park Gardens would burst upon Holroyd with
the force of a revelation, and he was at the end of his resources.
_Where_ was Caffyn all this time? How could he be so careless as to be
late?

'I--I don't think it's quite fair to tell all that,' he expostulated
weakly.

'Fair!' said Uncle Solomon. 'I made no secrecy over it. I did nothing
to be ashamed of and hush up, and it's no disgrace to you that I can
see to be helped by an uncle that can afford it. Well, as I was
saying, Mark came to me----'

Here a small Juggernaut car in the shape of a high-piled truck came
rolling down on them with a shout of, 'By your leave there, by your
leave!' from the unseen porter behind. Mark drew Vincent sharply
aside, and then saw Caffyn coming quickly towards them through the
crowd, and forgot the torpedo his uncle was doing his best to launch:
he felt that with Caffyn came safety. Caffyn, who had evidently been
hurrying, gave a sharp glance at the clock: 'Sorry to be late,' he
said, as he shook hands. 'Binny fetched me a hansom with a wobbling
old animal in it that ran down like a top when we'd got half-way; and
of course the main road was up for the last mile--however, I've just
done it. Come along, Holroyd, I've got a carriage.' And the three men
went off together, leaving Mr. Lightowler behind in a decidedly huffy
frame of mind.

'Good-bye, Mark,' said Vincent affectionately before he got in. 'We've
not had time to see much of one another, have we? I can't say how glad
I am, though, even to have had that. I shall try not to leave England
without seeing you once more; but, if we don't meet again, then
good-bye and God bless you, old boy! Write to me from abroad, and tell
me where you are. We mustn't lose touch of one another again--eh?'

'Good-bye,' said Caffyn, in a hurried voice before he followed. 'I've
got your Swiss address, haven't I? and if--if anything happens, you
shall hear from me.'

The next minute Mark stood back, and as the long line of
chocolate-and-white carriages rolled gently past he caught his last
sight of Vincent's face, with the look on it that he could not hope to
see again. He saw Caffyn too, who gave him a cool side-jerk of the
head at parting, with a smile which, when Mark recollected it later,
seemed to account for some of the uneasiness he felt. But, after all,
this desperate plan had prospered, thanks to Caffyn's unconscious
assistance. If Vincent had been gagged and bound and kept in a dungeon
cell till the wedding was over, he could hardly be more harmless than
he would be at Wastwater. Two more days--only two more--and the
calamity he dreaded even more than exposure would be averted for
ever--none but he would call Mabel Langton his wife! Thinking this as
he left the platform, he ran up against his uncle, whom he had
completely forgotten: he was harmless now as a safety match bereft of
its box, and Mark need fear him no longer. 'Why, there you are,
uncle--eh?' he said, with much innocent satisfaction. 'I couldn't
think where you'd got to.'

'Oh, I dessay,' growled Mr. Lightowler, 'and your friend nearly lost
the train lookin' for me, didn't he? I'm not to be got over by soft
speakin', Mark, and I'm sharp enough to see where I'm not wanted. I
must say, though, that that feller, if he's one of your friends, might
a' shown me a little more common respect, knowing 'oo I was, instead
o' bolting away while I was talkin' to him, for all the world as if he
wanted to get rid of me.'

Mark saw that his uncle was seriously annoyed, and hastened to soothe
his ruffled dignity--a task which was by no means easy.

'It isn't as if I needed to talk to him either,' he persisted. 'I've a
friend of my own to see off, that's why I'm here at this time
(Liverpool _he's_ goin' to),' he added, with some obscure sense of
superiority implied in this fact; 'and let me tell you, he's a man
that's looked up to by every one there, is Budkin, and'll be mayor
before he dies! And another thing let me say to you, Mark. In the
course of my life I've picked up, 'ere and there, some slight
knowledge of human character, and I read faces as easy as print. Now I
don't like the look of that friend of yours.'

'Do you mean Caffyn?' asked Mark.

'I don't know _him_; no, I mean that down-lookin' chap you introduced
to me--'Olroyd, isn't it? Well, don't you have too much to do with
him--there's something in his eye I don't fancy; he ain't to be
trusted, and you mind what I say.'

'Well,' said Mark, 'I can promise you that I shall see no more of him
than I can help in future, if that's any relief to your mind.'

'You stick to that then, and--'ullo, there is Budkin come at last! You
come along with me and I'll introduce you (he's not what you call a
refined sort of feller, yer know,' he explained forbearingly, 'but
still we've always been friends in a way); you can't stop? Must go
back to Miss Mabel, hey? Well, well, I won't keep yer; good-bye till
the day after to-morrow then, and don't you forgit what you'd 'a been
if you'd been thrown on the world without an uncle--there'd be no
pretty Miss Mabel for you then, whatever you may think about it, young
chap!'

When Mark made his appearance at Kensington Park Gardens again, Dolly
watched his face anxiously, longing to ask if Vincent had really gone
at last, but somehow she was afraid. And so, as the time went by, and
no Vincent Holroyd came to the door to denounce her, she took comfort
and never knew how her fears were shared by her new brother-in-law.




CHAPTER XXXI.

AGAG.


At a certain point between Basle and Schaffhausen, the Rhine, after
winding in wide curves through low green meadows fringed with poplars,
suddenly finds itself contracted to a narrow and precipitous channel,
down which it foams with a continuous musical roar. On the rocks
forming this channel, connected by a quaint old bridge, stand the twin
towns, Gross and Klein Laufingen. Of the two there can be no question
which has the superior dignity, for, while Klein Laufingen (which
belongs to Baden) is all comprised in a single narrow street ending in
a massive gatehouse, Gross Laufingen, which stands in Swiss territory,
boasts at least two streets and a half, besides the advantages of a
public platz that can scarcely be smaller than an average London back
garden, a church with a handsome cupola and blue and gold-faced clock,
and the ruins of what was once an Austrian stronghold crowning the
hill around which the roofs are clustered, with a withered tree on the
ragged top of its solitary tall grey tower. Gross Laufingen has seen
more stirring times than at present: it was a thriving post town once,
a halting-place for all the diligences. Napoleon passed through it,
too, on his way to Moscow, and on the roof of an old tower outside the
gate is still to be seen a grotesque metal profile, riddled with the
bullets of French conscripts, who made a target of it in sport or
insult, when a halt was called. Now the place is sleepy and quiet
enough: there are no diligences to rattle and lumber over the stones,
and the most warlike spectacle there is provided by the Swiss
militiamen as they march in periodically from the neighbouring
villages to have their arms inspected, singing choruses all the way.
There is a railway, it is true, on the Klein Laufingen bank, but a
railway where the little station and mouth of the tunnel have been so
ornamentally treated that at a slight distance a train coming in
irresistibly suggests one of those working models set in motion by
either a dropped penny or the fraudulent action of the human breath,
as conscience permits. So innocent an affair is powerless to corrupt
Laufingen, and has brought as yet but few foreigners to its gates.
English, Russian, and American tourists may perhaps exclaim admiringly
as the trains stop, affording a momentary view of the little town
grouped compactly on the rocks with the blue-green cataract rushing
by--but they are bound for Schaffhausen or the Black Forest or
Constance, and cannot break the journey--so the hosts of personally
conducted ones pass Laufingen by, and Laufingen seems upon the whole
resigned to its obscurity. But Mark Ashburn, at least, had felt its
gentle attractions, having come upon it almost by accident, as he
returned alone from the Black Forest after the tour with Caffyn. His
thoughts were constantly of Mabel Langton at that time, and he found a
dreamy pleasure in the idea of coming to Laufingen some day when she
should be his companion, which made him look upon everything he saw
merely as a background for her fair face. It had seemed a very
hopeless dream then, and yet a few months more and the dream had come
to pass. He was at Laufingen once again, and Mabel was by his side.

The long nightmare of those days before the wedding was over at last.
He had not dared to feel secure, even in the church, so strong was his
presentiment of evil. But nothing had happened, the words were spoken
which made Mabel his own, and neither man nor angel intervened. And
now a week had gone by, during which nothing from without had
threatened his happiness; and for a time, as he resolutely shut his
eyes to all but the present, he had been supremely happy. Then by
degrees the fox revived and began to gnaw once more. His soul sickened
as he remembered in what a Fool's Paradise he was living. Unless
Holroyd decided to leave England at once with this young Gilroy of
whom Caffyn had spoken--a stranger--he would certainly learn how he
had been tricked with regard to Mabel's marriage, and this would lead
him on to the full discovery of his wrongs. In his mad determination
to win her at all costs, Mark had disregarded everything but the
immediate future. If shame and misery were to come upon him, he had
told himself, he would at least have the memory of a period of perfect
bliss to console him--he might lose all else, but Mabel could not be
taken from him. But now, as she took no pains to hide the content
which filled her heart, he would scarcely bear to meet her sweet grey
eyes for the thought that soon the love he read in them would change
to aversion and cold contempt, and each dainty caress was charged for
him with a ferocious irony. He knew at last his miserable selfishness
in having linked her lot with his, and there were times when in his
torture he longed for courage to tell her all, and put an end with his
own hand to a happiness which was to him the bitterest of delusions.
But he dared not; he had had such marvellous escapes already that he
clung to the hope that some miracle might save him yet.

And this was Mark's condition on the morning when this chapter finds
him. There is a certain retreat which the town would seem to have
provided for the express benefit of lovers--a rustic arbour on a
little mount near the railway station overlooking the Rhine Fall. The
surly, red-bearded signalman who watched over the striped barrier at
the level crossing by the tunnel had understood the case from the
first, and (not altogether from disinterested motives, perhaps) would
hasten to the station as soon as he saw the young couple crossing the
bridge and fetch the key of the little wooden gate which kept off all
unlicensed intruders.

It was on this mount that Mark stood now with Mabel by his side,
looking down on the scene below. Spring had only just set in, and the
stunted acacia trees along the road to the bridge were still bare, and
had the appearance of distorted candelabra; the poplars showed only
the mistiest green as yet, the elms were leafless, and the
horse-chestnuts had not unfolded a single one of their crumpled claws.
But the day was warm and bright, the sky a faint blue, with a few
pinkish-white clouds shaded with dove colour near the horizon, pigeons
were fluttering round the lichened piers of the old bridge, which cast
a broad band of purple on the bright green water, and the cuckoo was
calling incessantly from the distant woods. Opposite were the tall
houses, tinted in faint pink and grey and cream colour, with their
crazy wooden balconies overhanging the rocks, and above the
high-pitched brown roofs rose the church and the square tree-crowned
ruin, behind which was a background of pine-covered hills, where the
snow still lay amongst the trunks in a silver graining on the dark red
soil. Such life as the little place could boast was in full stir;
every now and then an ox-cart or a little hooded gig would pass along
the bridge, and townsmen in brown straw hats would meet half-way with
elaborate salutations and linger long to gossip, and bare-headed girls
with long plaited pigtails present their baskets and bundles to be
peered into or prodded suspiciously by the customs officer stationed
at the Baden frontier-post, striped in brilliant crimson and yellow,
like a giant sugarstick. Over on the little Laufenplatz children were
playing about amongst the big iron salmon cages, and old people were
sitting in the sunshine on the seats by the fountain, where from time
to time a woman would fill her shining tin pails, or a man come to
rinse out a tall wooden funnel before strapping it on his back. Down
on the rocks below, in a little green cradle swinging over the
torrent, sat a man busy with his pipe and newspaper, which he
occasionally left to haul up and examine the big salmon nets by the
aid of the complicated rigging of masts and yards at his side.

'How charming it all is!' said Mabel, turning her bright face to Mark.
'I am so glad we didn't let ourselves be talked into going anywhere
else. Mamma thought we were mad to come here so early in the year. I
think she fancied it was somewhere in the heart of the Alps, though,
and I never expected anything like this myself?'

'How would you like to stay out here more than a month, Mabel--all the
summer, perhaps?' he asked.

'It would be delightful, for some things,' she said, 'but I think I
shall be willing to go back when the end of the month comes, Mark; we
_must_, you know; our house will be ready for us, and then there is
your work waiting for you, you know you would never write a line here,
you are so disgracefully idle!'

'I--I was only joking,' he said (although his expression was far from
jocular); 'we will enjoy all this while we can, and when--when the end
comes we can remember how happy we were!'

'When the end of this comes we shall only be beginning to be very
happy in another way at home in our own pretty house, Mark. I'm not in
the least afraid of the future. Are you?'

He drew her slight form towards him and pressed her to his heart with
a fervour in which there was despair as well as love.

'Do you think I could be afraid of any future, so long as you were
part of it, my darling?' he said. 'It is only the fear of losing you
that comes over me sometimes!'

'You silly boy!' said Mabel, looking up at his overcast face with a
little tender laugh. 'I never knew you could be so sentimental. I am
quite well, and I don't mean to die as long as you want me to take
care of you!'

He dreaded to lose her by a parting far bitterer than death; but he
had said too much already, and only smiled sadly to himself at the
thought of the ghastly mockery which the memory of her words now
might have for him in a day or two. She was daintily rearranging the
violets in his buttonhole, and he caught the slender white hands in
his, and, lifting them to his lips, kissed them with a passionate
humility. A little while, perhaps, and those dear hands would never
again thrill warm in his grasp as he felt them now!

'I'm afraid,' said Mabel a little later, 'you're letting yourself be
worried still by something. Is it the new book? Are you getting
impatient to hear about it?'

'I did expect some letters before this,' replied Mark (he was indeed
fast growing desperate at Caffyn's silence); 'but I dare say
everything is going on well.'

'The train from Basle came in just as we got here,' said Mabel. 'See,
there is the postman crossing the bridge now; I'm getting anxious too,
Mark, I can't think why I have had no letters from home lately. I hope
it is nothing to do with Dolly. She was looking quite ill when we went
away, almost as she did--oh, Mark, if I thought Harold had dared to
frighten her again!'

Mark remembered that afternoon in South Audley Street. He had never
sought to know why Dolly had gone away so obediently, but now he felt
a new uneasiness; he had never meant her to be frightened; he would
see into it if he ever came home again.

'I don't think he would do such a thing now,' he said, and tried to
believe so himself. 'I always thought, you know, Mabel, you were
rather hard on him about that affair.'

'I can never change my mind about it,' said Mabel.

'When you are angry, do you never forgive?' asked Mark.

'I could never forgive treachery,' she said. 'Dolly believed every
word he said, and he knew it and played on her trust in him for some
horrible pleasure I suppose he found in it. No, I can never forgive
him for that, Mark, never!'

He turned away with a spasm of conscience. If Caffyn had been a
traitor, what was he?

He was roused from a gloomy reverie by Mabel's light touch on his arm.
'Look, Mark,' she cried, 'there is something you wanted to
see--there's a timber raft coming down the river.'

For within the last few days the Rhine had risen sufficiently to make
it possible to send the timber down the stream, instead of by the long
and costly transport overland, and as she spoke the compact mass of
pine trunks lashed together came slowly round the bend of the river,
gradually increasing in pace until it shot the arch of the bridge and
plunged through the boiling white rapids, while the raft broke up with
a dull thunder followed by sharp reports as the more slender trunks
snapped with the strain.

Mark looked on with a sombre fascination, as if the raft typified his
life's happiness, till it was all over, and some of the trunks,
carried by a cross current into a little creek, had been pulled in to
the shore with long hooks, and the rest had floated on again in placid
procession, their scraped wet edges gleaming in the sunlight.

As he turned towards the town again, he saw the porter of their hotel
crossing the bridge, with the director's little son, a sturdy
flaxen-haired boy of about four, running by his side. They passed
through the covered part of the bridge and were hidden for an instant,
and then turned up the road towards the station.

'They are coming this way,' said Mabel. 'I do believe little Max is
bringing me a letter, the darling! I'll run down to the gate and give
him a kiss for it.'

For the child's stolid shyness had soon given way to Mabel's advances,
and now he would run along the hotel corridors after her like a little
dog, and his greatest delight was to be allowed to take her letters to
her. They were close to the mount now, the porter in his green baize
apron and official flat cap, and little Max in his speckled blue
blouse, trotting along to keep up, and waving the envelope he held in
his brown fist. Mark could see from where he stood that it was not a
letter that the child was carrying.

'It's a telegram, Mabel,' he said, disturbed, though there was no
particular cause as yet for being so.

Mabel instantly concluded the worst. 'I knew it,' she said, and the
colour left her cheeks and she caught at the rough wooden rail for
support. 'Dolly is ill.... Go down and see what it is.... I'm afraid!'

Mark ran down to the gate, and took the telegram away from little Max,
whose mouth trembled piteously at not being allowed to deliver it in
person to the pretty English lady, and--scarcely waiting to hear the
porter's explanation that as he had to come up to the station he had
brought the message with him, knowing that he would probably find the
English couple in their favourite retreat--he tore open the envelope
as he went up the winding path. The first thing that met him was the
heading: _From H. Caffyn, Pillar Hotel, Wastwater_, and he dared not
go on. Something very serious must have happened, since Caffyn had
sent a telegram! Before he could read further Mabel came down to meet
him.

'It _is_ Dolly, then!' she cried as she saw Mark's face. 'Oh, let us
go back at once, Mark, let us go back!'

'It's not from home,' said Mark: 'it's private; go up again, Mabel, I
will come to you presently.'

Mabel turned without a word, wounded that he should have troubles
which she might not share with him.

When Mark read the telegram he could scarcely believe his eyes at
first. Could it really be that the miracle had happened? For the words
ran, '_H. of his own accord decided to leave England without further
delay. Started yesterday._' That could only mean one thing after what
Caffyn had said when they met last. Vincent had gone with Gilroy. In
India he would be comparatively harmless; it would be even possible
now to carry out some scheme by which the book could be restored
without scandal. At last the danger was past! He crumpled up the
telegram and threw it away, and then sprang up to rejoin Mabel, whose
fears vanished as she met his radiant look. 'I hope I didn't frighten
you, darling,' he said. 'It was a business telegram, about which I
was getting anxious. I was really afraid to read it for a time; but
it's all right, it's good news, Mabel. You don't know what a relief it
is to me! And now what shall we do? I feel as if I couldn't stay up
here any longer. Shall we go and explore the surrounding country? It
won't tire you?'

Mabel was ready to agree to anything in her delight at seeing Mark his
old self again, and they went up the narrow street of Klein Laufingen,
and through the gatehouse out upon the long white tree-bordered main
road, from which they struck into a narrow path which led through the
woods to the villages scattered here and there on the distant green
<DW72>s.

Mark felt an exquisite happiness as they walked on; the black veil
which clouded the landscape was rent. Nature had abandoned her irony.
As he walked through the pine-woods and saw the solemn cathedral
dimness suddenly chased away as the sunbeams stole down the stately
aisles, dappling the red trunks with golden patches and lighting the
brilliant emeralds of the moss below, he almost felt it as intended in
delicate allusion to the dissipation of his own gloom. Mabel was by
his side, and he need tremble no longer at the thought of resigning
the sweet companionship, he could listen while she confided her plans
and hopes for the future, with no inward foreboding that a day would
scatter them to the winds! His old careless gaiety came back as they
sat at lunch together in the long low room of an old village inn,
while Mabel herself forgot her anxiety about Dolly and caught the
infection of his high spirits. They walked back through little groups
of low white houses, where the air was sweet with the smell of pine
and cattle, and the men were splitting firewood and women gossiping at
the doors, and then across the fields, where the peasants looked up to
mutter a gruffly civil '_G'n Abend_' as they turned the ox-plough at
the end of the furrow. Now and then they came upon one of the large
crucifixes common in the district, and stopped to examine the curious
collection of painted wooden emblems grouped around the central
figure, or passed a wayside shrine like a large alcove, with a woman
or child kneeling before the gaudily  images, but not too
absorbed in prayer to cast a glance in the direction of the footsteps.

The sun had set when they reached the old gatehouse again, and saw
through its archway the narrow little street with its irregular
outlines in bold relief against a pale-green evening sky.

'I haven't tired you, have I?' said Mark, as they drew near the
striped frontier post at the entrance to the bridge.

'No, indeed,' she said; 'it has been only too delightful. Why,' she
exclaimed suddenly, 'I thought we were the only English people in
Laufingen. Mark, surely that's a fellow-countryman?'

'Where?' said Mark. The light was beginning to fade a little, and at
first he only saw a stout little man with important pursed lips
trimming the oil-lamp which lit up the covered way over the bridge.

'Straight in front; in the angle there,' said Mabel; and even at that
distance he recognised the man whose face he had hoped to see no more.
His back was turned to them just then, but Mark could not mistake the
figure and dress. They were Vincent Holroyd's!

In one horrible moment the joyous security he had felt only the moment
before became a distant memory. He stopped short in an agony of
irresolution. What could he do? If he went on and Holroyd saw them, as
he must, his first words would tell Mabel everything. Yet he must face
him soon; there was no escape, no other way but across that bridge. At
least, he thought, the words which ruined him should not be spoken in
his hearing; he could not stand by and see Mabel's face change as the
shameful truth first burst upon her mind.

His nerves were just sufficiently under his control to allow him to
invent a hurried pretext for leaving her. He had forgotten to buy some
tobacco in a shop they had just passed, he said; he would go back for
it now, she must walk on slowly and he would overtake her directly;
and so he turned and left her to meet Vincent Holroyd alone.




CHAPTER XXXII.

AT WASTWATER.


In a little private sitting-room of the rambling old whitewashed
building, half farmhouse, half country inn, known to tourists as the
Pillar Hotel, Wastwater, Holroyd and Caffyn were sitting one evening,
nearly a week after their first arrival in the Lake district. Both
were somewhat silent, but the silence was not that contented one which
comes of a perfect mutual understanding, as appeared by the conscious
manner in which they endeavoured to break it now and then, without
much success. By this time, indeed, each was becoming heartily tired
of the other, and whatever cordiality there had been between them was
fast disappearing on a closer acquaintance. During the day they kept
apart by unspoken consent, as Caffyn's natural indolence was enough of
itself to prevent him from being Vincent's companion in the long
mountain walks by which he tried to weary out his aching sense of
failure; but at night, as the hotel was empty at that season, they
were necessarily thrown together, and found it a sufficient
infliction.

Every day Holroyd determined that he would put an end to it as soon as
he could with decency, as a nameless something in Caffyn's manner
jarred on him more and more, while nothing but policy restrained
Caffyn himself from provoking an open rupture. And so Holroyd was
gazing absently into the fire, where the peat and ling crackled
noisily as it fell into fantastic peaks and caves, and Caffyn was idly
turning over the tattered leaves of a visitors' book, which bore the
usual eloquent testimony to the stimulating influence of scenery upon
the human intellect. When he came to the last entry, in which, while
the size of the mountains was mentioned with some approval, the
saltness of the hotel butter was made the subject of severe comment,
he shut the book up with a yawn.

'I shall miss the life and stir of all this,' he observed, 'when I get
back to town again.' Holroyd did not appear to have heard him, and, as
Caffyn had intended a covert sting, the absence of all response did
not improve his temper. 'I can't think why the devil they don't send
me the paper,' he went on irritably. 'I ordered it to be sent down
here regularly, but it never turns up by any chance. I should think
even you must be getting anxious to know what's become of the world
outside this happy valley?'

'I can't say I am particularly,' said Holroyd; 'I'm so used to being
without papers now.'

'Ah,' said Caffyn, with the slightest of sneers, 'you've got one of
those minds which can be converted into pocket kingdoms on an
emergency. I haven't, you know. I'm a poor creature, and I confess I
do like to know who of my friends have been the last to die, or burst
up, or bolt, or marry--just now the last particularly. I wonder what's
going on in the kitchen, eh?' he added, as now and then shouts and
laughter came from that direction. 'Hallo, Jennie, Polly, whatever
your name is,' he said to the red-cheeked waiting-maid who entered
that instant, 'we didn't ring, but never mind; you just come in time
to tell us the cause of these unwonted festivities--who've you got in
your kitchen?'

'It's t' hoons,' said the girl.

'Hounds, is it? jolly dogs, rather, I should say.'

'Ay, they've killed near here, and they're soopin' now. Postman's coom
over fra' Drigg wi' a letter--will it be for wan of ye?' and she held
out an eccentrically shaped and tinted envelope; 'there's a bonny
smell on it,' she observed.

'It's all right,' said Caffyn, 'it's mine; no newspapers, eh? Well,
perhaps this will do as well!' and as the door closed upon the maid he
tore open the letter with some eagerness. 'From the magnificent Miss
Featherstone--I must say there's no stiffness about her style,
though! What should _you_ say when a letter begins like this---- I
forgot, though,' he said, stopping himself, 'you're the kind of man
who gets no love-letters to speak of.'

'None at all,' said Vincent; 'certainly not to speak of.'

'Well, it's best to keep out of that sort of thing, I dare say, if you
can. Gilda tells me that she's been officiating as bridesmaid--full
list of costumes and presents--"sure it will interest me," is she?
Well, perhaps she's right. Do you know, Holroyd, I rather think I
shall go in and see how the jovial huntsmen are getting on in there.
You don't mind my leaving you?'

'Not in the least,' said Holroyd; 'I shall be very comfortable here.'

'I don't quite like leaving you in here with nothing to occupy your
powerful mind, though,' and he left the room. He came back almost
directly, however, with a copy of some paper in his hand: 'Just
remembered it as I was shutting the door,' he said; 'it's only a stale
old Review I happened to have in my portmanteau; but you may not have
seen it, so I ran up and brought it down for you.'

'It's awfully good of you to think of it, really,' said Vincent, much
more cordially than he had spoken of late. He had been allowing
himself to dislike the other more and more, and this slight mark of
thoughtfulness gave him a pang of self-reproach.

'Well, it may amuse you to run through it,' said Caffyn, 'so I got it
for you.'

'Thanks,' said Holroyd, without offering to open the paper. 'I'll look
at it presently.'

'Don't make a favour of it, you know,' said Caffyn; 'perhaps you
prefer something heavier (you've mental resources of your own, I
know); but there it is if you care to look at it.'

'I'd give anything to see him read it!' he thought when he was
outside; 'but it really wouldn't be safe. I don't want him to suspect
my share in the business.' So he went on to the kitchen and was almost
instantly on the best of terms with the worthy farmers and innkeepers,
who had been tracking the fox on foot all day across the mountains.
Vincent shivered as he sat over the fire; he had overwalked himself
and caught a chill trudging home in the rain that afternoon over the
squelching rushy turf of Ennerdale, and now he was feeling too languid
and ill to rouse himself. There was a letter that must be written to
Mabel, but he felt himself unequal to attempting it just then, and was
rather glad than otherwise that the hotel inkstand, containing as it
did a deposit of black mud and a brace of pre-Adamite pens, decided
the matter for him. He took up the Review Caffyn had so considerately
provided for his entertainment and began to turn over the pages, more
from a sense of obligation than anything else. For some time he could
not keep his attention upon what he read.

He had dreamy lapses, in which he stood again on the mountain top he
had climbed that day, and looked down on the ridges of the
neighbouring ranges, which rose up all around like the curved spines
of couching monsters asleep there in the solemn stillness--and then he
came to himself with a start as the wind moaned along the winding
passages of the inn, stealthily lifting the latch of the primitive
sitting-room door, and swelling the carpet in a highly uncanny
fashion.

After one of these recoveries he made some effort to fix his thoughts,
and presently he found himself reading a passage which had a strangely
familiar ring in it--he thought at first it was merely that passing
impression of a vague sameness in things which would vanish on
analysis--but, as he read on, the impression grew stronger at every
line. He turned to the beginning of the article, a notice on a recent
book, and read it from beginning to end with eager care. Was he
dreaming still, or mad? or how was it that in this work, with a
different title and by a strange writer, he seemed to recognise the
creation of his own brain? He was sure of it; this book 'Illusion' was
practically the same in plot and character--even in names--as the
manuscript he had entrusted to Mark Ashburn, and believed a hopeless
failure. If this was really his book, one of his most cherished
ambitions had not failed after all; it was noticed in a spirit of
warm and generous praise, the critic wrote of it as having even then
obtained a marked success--could it be that life had possibilities for
him beyond his wildest hopes?

The excitement of the discovery blinded Vincent just then to all
matters of detail: he was too dazzled to think calmly, and only
realised that he could not rest until he had found out whether he was
deceiving himself or not. Obviously he could learn nothing where he
was, and he resolved to go up to town immediately. He would see Mark
there, if he was still in London, and from him he would probably get
information on which he might act--for, as yet, it did not even occur
to Vincent that his friend could have played a treacherous part.
Should he confide in Caffyn before he went? Somehow he felt reluctant
to do that; he thought that Caffyn would feel no interest in such
things (though here, as we know, he did him an injustice), and he
decided to tell him no more than might seem absolutely necessary.

He rang and ordered the dog-cart to take him to Drigg next day in time
to meet the morning train, and, after packing such things as he would
want, lay awake for some time in a sleeplessness which was not
irksome, and then lost himself in dreams of a fantastically brilliant
future.

When Caffyn had had enough of the huntsmen he returned to the
sitting-room, and was disgusted to find that Holroyd had retired and
left the Review. 'I shall hear all about it to-morrow,' he said to
himself; 'and if he knows nothing--I shall have to enlighten him
myself!'

But not being an early riser at any time, he overslept himself even
more than usual next day, ignoring occasional noises at his door, the
consequence being that, when he came down to breakfast, it was only to
find a note from Vincent on his plate: 'I find myself obliged to go to
town at once on important business,' he had written. 'I tried to wake
you and explain matters, but could not make you hear. I would not go
off in this way if I could help it; but I don't suppose you will very
much mind.'

Caffyn felt a keen disappointment, for he had been looking forward to
the pleasure of observing the way in which Vincent would take the
discovery; but he consoled himself: 'After all, it doesn't matter,' he
thought; 'there's only one thing that could start him off like that!
What he doesn't know he'll pick up as he goes on. When he knows all,
what will he do? Shouldn't wonder if he went straight for Mark. Somehow
I'm rather sorry for that poor devil of a Mark--he did me a bad turn
once, but I've really almost forgiven him, and--but for Mabel--I think
I should have shipped dear Vincent off in perfect ignorance--dear
Vincent did bore me so! But I want to be quits with charming, scornful
Mabel, and, when she discovers that she's tied for life to a sham, I do
think it will make her slightly uncomfortable--especially if I can tell
her she's indebted to me for it all! Well, in a day or two there will
be an excellent performance of the cottage-act from the "Lady of Lyons"
over there, and I only wish I could have got a seat for it. She'll be
magnificent. I do pity that miserable beggar, upon my soul, I do--it's
some comfort to think that I never did him any harm; he lost me
Mabel--and I kept him from losing her. I can tell him that if he
tries any reproaches!'

Meanwhile Vincent was spinning along in the dog-cart on his way to
Drigg. There had been a fall of snow during the night, and the
mountains across the lake seemed grander and more awful, their rugged
points showing sharp and black against the blue-tinted snow which lay
in the drifts and hollows, and their peaks rising in glittering silver
against a pale-blue sky. The air was keen and bracing, and his spirits
rose as they drove past the grey-green lake, and through the
plantations of bright young larches and sombre fir. He arrived at
Drigg in good time for the London train, and, as soon as it stopped at
a station of importance, seized the opportunity of procuring a copy of
'Illusion' (one of the earlier editions), which he was fortunate
enough to find on the bookstall there. He began to read it at once
with a painful interest, for he dreaded lest he had deluded himself
in some strange way, but he had not read very far before he became
convinced that this was indeed his book--his very own. Here and there,
it was true, there were passages which he did not remember having
written, some even so obviously foreign to the whole spirit of the
book that he grew hot with anger as he read them--but for the most
part each line brought back vivid recollections of the very mood and
place in which it had been composed. And now he observed something
which he had not noticed in first reading the Review--namely, that
'Illusion' was published by the very firm to which he had sent his own
manuscript. Had not Mark given him to understand that Chilton and
Fladgate had rejected it? How could he reconcile this and the story
that the manuscript had afterwards been accidentally destroyed, with
the fact of its publication in its present form? And why was the title
changed? Who was this Cyril Ernstone, who had dared to interfere with
the text? The name seemed to be one he had met before in some
connection--but where? Had not Mark shown him long ago a short article
of his own which had been published in some magazine over that or some
very similar signature? Terrible suspicions flashed across him when
these and many other similar circumstances occurred to him. He fought
hard against them, however, and succeeded in dismissing them as
unworthy of himself and his friend: he shrank from wronging Mark, even
in thought, by believing him capable of such treachery as was implied
in these doubts. He felt sure of his honour, and that he had only to
meet him to receive a perfectly satisfactory explanation of his
conduct in the matter, and then Mark and he would hunt down this
impostor, Cyril Ernstone, together, and clear up all that was
mysterious enough at present. In the meantime he would try to banish
it from his mind altogether, and dwell only on the new prospects which
had opened so suddenly before him; and in this he found abundant
occupation for the remainder of his journey.

He reached Euston too late to do anything that night, and the next
morning his first act, even before going in search of Mark, was to
drive to Kensington Park Gardens with some faint hope of finding that
Mabel had returned. But the windows were blank, and even the front
door, as he stood there knocking and ringing repeatedly, had an air of
dust and neglect about it which prepared him for the worst. After
considerable delay a journeyman plumber unfastened the door and
explained that the caretaker had just stepped out, while he himself
had been employed on a job with the cistern at the back of the house.
He was not able to give Vincent much information. The family were all
away; they might be abroad, but he did not know for certain; so
Vincent had to leave, with the questions he longed to put unasked. At
South Audley Street he was again disappointed. The servant there had
not been long in the place, but knew that Mr. Ashburn, the last
lodger, had gone away for good, and had left no address, saying he
would write or call for his letters. Holroyd could not be at ease
until he had satisfied himself that his friend had been true to him.
He almost hated himself for feeling any doubt on the subject, and yet
Mark had certainly behaved very strangely; in any case he must try to
find out who this Cyril Ernstone might be, and he went on to the City
and called at Messrs. Chilton and Fladgate's offices with that
intention.

Mr. Fladgate himself came down to receive him in the little room in
which Mark Ashburn had once waited. 'You wished to speak to me?' he
began.

'You have published a book called "Illusion,"' said Vincent, going
straight to the point in his impatience. 'I want to know if you feel
at liberty to give me any information as to its author?' Mr.
Fladgate's eyebrows went up, and the vertical fold between them
deepened.

'Information,' he repeated. 'Oh, dear me, no; it is not our practice,
really. But you can put your question of course, if you like, and I
will tell you if we should be justified in answering you,' he added,
as he saw nothing offensive in his visitor's manner.

'Thank you,' said Vincent. 'I will, then. Would you be justified in
telling me if the name of "Cyril Ernstone" is a real or assumed one?'

'A few days ago I should have said certainly not; as it is--I presume
you are anxious to meet Mr. Ernstone?'

'I am,' said Vincent: 'very much so.'

'Ah, just so; well, it happens that you need not have given yourself
the trouble to come here to ask that question. As you are here,
however, I can gratify your curiosity without the slightest breach of
confidence. There is our later edition of the book on that table; the
title-page will tell you all you want to know.'

Vincent's hand trembled as he took the book. Then he opened it, and
the title-page did tell him all. His worst suspicions were more than
verified. He had been meanly betrayed by the man he had trusted--the
man whom he had thought his dearest friend! The shock stunned him
almost as if it had found him totally unprepared. 'It was Mark, then,'
he said only half aloud, as he put the book down again very gently.

'Ah, so you know him?' said Mr. Fladgate, who stood by smiling.

'He was one of my oldest friends,' replied Vincent, still in a low
voice.

'And you suspected him, eh?' continued the publisher, who was not the
most observant of men.

'He took some pains to put me off the scent,' said Vincent.

'Yes; he kept his secret very well, didn't he? Now, you see, he feels
quite safe in declaring himself--a very brilliant young man, sir. I
congratulate you in finding an old friend in him.'

'I am very fortunate, I know,' said Vincent, grimly.

'Oh, and it will be a pleasant surprise for him too!' said Mr.
Fladgate, 'very pleasant on both sides. Success hasn't spoilt him in
the least--you won't find him at all stuck up!'

'No,' agreed Vincent, 'I don't think I shall. And now perhaps you
will have no objection to give me his present address, and then I
need trouble you no longer at present.'

'I see--you would naturally like to congratulate him!'

'I should like to let him know what I think about it,' said Holroyd.

'Exactly--well, let me see, I _ought_ to have his address somewhere. I
had a letter from him only the other day--did I put it on my file? no,
here it is--yes. "Hotel Rheinfall, Gross Laufingen, Switzerland,"--if
you write to your friend any time this month, it will find him there.'

Vincent took the address down in his notebook and turned to go.

'Good day,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'delighted to have been of any service
to you--by the way, I suppose you saw your friend's'--but before he
could allude to Mark Ashburn's marriage he found himself alone,
Vincent having already taken a somewhat abrupt departure.

He could not trust himself to hear Mark talked of in this pleasant
vein any longer. It had required some effort on his part to restrain
himself when he first knew the truth, and only the consciousness that
his unsupported assertions would do no good had kept him silent. He
would wait to make his claim until he could bring evidence that could
not be disregarded--he would go to Mark Ashburn and force him to give
him an acknowledgment which would carry conviction to every mind.

He would go at once. Mark had evidently gone to this place, Gross
Laufingen, with the idea of avoiding him--he would follow him there!
He lost no time in making inquiries, and soon learnt that Gross
Laufingen was about two hours' journey from Basle, and that by leaving
London next morning he would catch the fast train through from Calais
to Basle, and arrive there early on the following day. He made all
necessary arrangements for starting, and wrote to Caffyn to say that
he was going abroad, though he did not enter into further details, and
on receiving this letter Caffyn took the opportunity of gratifying
his malicious sense of humour by despatching (at considerable trouble
and expense to himself, for Wastwater is far enough from any telegraph
poles) the message Mark had received from little Max's hand on the
mount.

Vincent set out on his journey with a fierce impatience for the end,
when he would find himself face to face with this man whom he had
thought his friend, whose affectionate emotion had touched and cheered
him when they met at Plymouth, and who had been deliberately deceiving
him from the first.

All the night through he pictured the meeting to himself, with a stern
joy at the thought of seeing Mark's handsome false face change with
terror at the sight of him--would he beg for mercy, or try to defend
himself? would he dare to persist in his fraud? At the bare thought of
this last possibility a wave of mad passion swept over his brain--he
felt that in such a case he could not answer for what he might say or
do.

But with the morning calmer thoughts came: he did not want
revenge--only justice. Mark should restore everything in full--it was
his own fault if he had placed himself in such a position that he
could not do that without confessing his own infamy. If there was any
way of recovering his own and sparing Mark to some extent in the eyes
of the world, he would agree to it for the sake of their old
friendship, which had been strong and sincere on his own side at
least; but no sentimental considerations should stand between him and
his right.

Basle was reached in the early morning, and the pretty city was
flushed with rose, and the newly risen sun was sparkling on the
variegated roofs and cupolas as he drove across the bridge to the
Baden station. He felt jaded and ill after a journey in which he had
slept but little, and, finding that he would not be able to go on to
Laufingen for some time, was obliged to recruit himself by a few
hours' sleep at an hotel.

It was past midday when he awoke, and the next train, which started
late in the afternoon, brought him to Laufingen, just as the last
sunset rays were reddening the old grey ruin on the hill, and the
towns and river below showed themselves in an enchanted atmosphere of
violet haze.

Leaving his luggage at the station until he should have found a place
to stay at for the night, Vincent walked down to the bridge, intending
to go to the Rheinfall Hotel and inquire for Mark. There is a point
where the covered portion of the bridge ends, and the structure is
supported by a massive stone pier, whose angles, facing up and down
the river and protected by a broad parapet, form recesses on either
side of the roadway. Here he stopped for a moment, fascinated by the
charm of the scene, and, leaning upon the ledge, watched the last
touches of scarlet fading out of the slate- cloud-masses in
the west. He was roused from this occupation by a voice which called
his name in a low tremulous tone which sent the blood rushing back to
his heart, and as he turned to see a graceful figure just passing out
from under the arched roof towards him, he recognised Mabel Langton.

The dying light fell full on her face, which had an expression half of
awe, half of incredulous joy--she came towards him, holding out two
eager hands, and the awe vanished, but the joy grew more assured.

'Vincent!' she cried. 'Is it really you? you have come back to us--or
am I dreaming?'

He had met her at last, and in this place to which he had come
anticipating nothing but pain and contest ... she had not forgotten
him--the glad shining in her sweet eyes told him that, and a great and
glorious hope sprang up within him.

In her presence he forgot his wrongs, he forgot the very object of a
journey which had thus led him to her side, all his past feelings
seemed petty and ignoble, and fame itself a matter of little worth; he
took her small gloved hands and stood there, resting his eyes on the
dear face which had haunted his thoughts through all his weary exile.
'Thank God,' he murmured, 'it is no dream--this time!'




CHAPTER XXXIII.

IN SUSPENSE.


Mark, as he left his wife with that hastily invented excuse of the
forgotten tobacco, turned back with a blind instinct of escape; he
went to the foot of the hilly little street down which Mabel and he
had lately passed, and halted there undecidedly; then he saw a flight
of rough steps by a stone fountain and climbed them, clutching the
wooden rail hard as he went up; they led to a little row of cabins,
barricaded by stacks of pine-wood, and further on there was another
short flight of steps, which brought him out upon a little terrace in
front of a primitive stucco church. Here he paused to recover breath
and think, if thought was possible. Above the irregular line of
high-pitched brown roofs at his feet he could just catch a glimpse of
the rushing green Rhine, with the end of the covered way on the bridge
and the little recess beyond. It was light enough still for him to see
clearly the pair that stood in that recess: Vincent's broad figure
leaning earnestly towards that other one--he was drawing closer--now
he drew back again as if to watch the effect of his words. Mark knew
well what she must be hearing down there. He strained his eyes as the
dusk shrouded the two more and more; he thought that, even there, he
would be able to see a change when the blow fell. 'Mabel, my
darling--my innocent darling!' he groaned aloud, 'have pity on me--do
not give me up!' From the opposite side he could hear the faint
strains of a street organ which was playing a lively popular air; it
had come in that morning, and he and Mabel had been amused at the
excitement it produced amongst the unsophisticated inhabitants; it had
exhausted its _repertoire_ over and over again, but its popularity
seemed yet undiminished.

As he leaned there on the rough stone parapet his panic gradually
abated, and the suspense became intolerable; he could not stay there.
By this time too the worst must have happened; it was useless to try
to avoid the inevitable; he would go down and face his doom, without
giving her further cause to despise him. The idea of denying the
charge never occurred to him for a moment; he knew that face to face
with his accuser such audacity was beyond his powers; he had nothing
to say in defence, but he must hear his sentence.

And so, in a sort of despairing apathy, he went steadily down again to
the street level, and, with a self-command for which he had not dared
to hope, passed with a firm tread along the covered way across the
bridge.

       *       *       *       *       *

After the first surprise of meeting, Vincent had had to explain, in
answer to Mabel's eager questions, the manner in which he had escaped
being a victim to the 'Mangalore' disaster; the explanation was
commonplace enough, and when it was given she exclaimed reproachfully,
'But why did you lead us all to believe that the worst had happened?
You must have known how it would grieve us; it was not like you,
Vincent.'

'But I wrote,' he rejoined; 'surely you got my letter, Mabel?'

'You _did_ write, then?' she said. 'I am glad of that. But the letter
never came. I never dreamed that there was the slightest hope till I
saw you here. I hardly dared to speak to you at first. And how do you
come to be here at all? You have not told me that yet.'

'I was on my way to punish a scoundrel,' he said abruptly, 'but I had
almost forgotten all that. Never mind about me, Mabel; tell me about
yourself now. You don't know how I have been longing for the very
smallest news of you!'

'What am I to tell you?' said Mabel smiling. 'Where shall I begin,
Vincent?'

'Well, first, your own question back again,' he said. 'How do _you_
come to be here, and all alone? Are your people at the hotel? Am I to
see them to-night?'

'My people are all at Glenthorne just now,' said Mabel with some
natural surprise, which, however, only made Vincent conclude she must
be travelling with friends. Were they her future parents-in-law, he
wondered jealously. He could not rest till he knew how that was.

'Mabel,' he said earnestly, 'they told me you were engaged; is it
true?'

She had not yet grown quite accustomed to her new dignity as a wife,
and felt a certain shyness in having to announce it to Vincent.

'It was,' she said, looking down; 'it is not true now. Haven't you
really heard that, Vincent?'

But, instead of reading her embarrassment aright, he saw in it an
intimation that his worst fears were without foundation. He had not
come too late. She was free--there was hope for him yet. But even then
he did not dare to express the wild joy he felt.

'Do you mean,' he said--and his voice betrayed nothing--'that it is
broken off?'

'Broken off!' she repeated, with a little touch of bewilderment.
'Why--oh, Vincent, what a dreadful thing to ask! I thought you would
understand, and you don't a bit. I am not engaged now, because--because
this is my wedding journey!'

If Vincent had been slow to understand before, he understood now. It
was all over; this was final, irrevocable. The radiant prospect which
had seemed to open a moment before to his dazzled eyes had closed for
ever. For a moment or two he did not speak. If he had made any sound
it would have been a cry of pain; but he repressed it. That must be
his secret now, and he would keep it till death. He kept it well then
at least, for there was no faltering in his voice as he said slowly,
'I did not know. You will let me congratulate you, Mabel, and--and
wish you every happiness.'

'Thank you, Vincent,' said Mabel not too warmly, thinking that, from
so old a friend as Vincent, these felicitations were cold and
conventional.

'You are happy, are you not?' he asked anxiously.

'Happier than I ever thought possible,' she said softly. 'When you see
my--my husband' (she spoke the word with a pretty, shy pride), 'and
know how good he is, Vincent, you will understand.' If she had ever
suspected the place she filled in Vincent's heart she would have
spared him this; as it was she treated him as an affectionate elder
brother, who needed to be convinced that she had chosen wisely; and it
was in some degree his own fault that she did so; he had never given
her reason to think otherwise.

'I wish he would come; I can't think where he can be all this time,'
continued Mabel. 'I want you to know one another. I am sure you will
like Mark, Vincent, when you know him.'

Vincent started now unmistakably; not all his self-control could
prevent that. Till that moment it had not occurred to him that Mabel's
presence there, in the town where he had expected to come upon Mark,
was more than a coincidence. He had been led to believe that Mark and
she were not even acquainted, and even the discovery that she was
married did not prepare him for something more overwhelming still.

'Mark!' he cried. 'Did you say Mark? Is that your husband's name?
Not--not _Mark Ashburn_?'

'How that seems to astonish you,' said Mabel. 'But I forgot; how
stupid of me! Why, you are a friend of his, are you not?'

Holroyd's anger came back to him all at once, with a deadly force that
turned his heart to stone.

'I used to be,' he answered coldly, not caring very much just then in
his bitterness if the scorn he felt betrayed itself or not. But Mabel
took his answer literally.

'Why, of course,' she said. 'I remember we came upon your portrait
once at home, and he asked if it was not you, and said you were one of
his oldest friends.'

'I thought he would have forgotten that,' was all Vincent's answer.

'I am quite sure he will be very glad to welcome you back again,'
said Mabel, 'and you will be glad to hear that since you saw him he
has become famous. You have been so long away that you may not have
heard of the great book he has written, "Illusion."'

'I have read it,' said Vincent shortly. 'I did not know he wrote it.'

'He did write it,' said Mabel. 'But for that we might never have known
one another. He has to admit that, even though he does try to run down
his work sometimes, and insist that it has been very much overrated!'

'He says so, does he?' Vincent replied. 'Yes, I can quite understand
that.'

Some intonation in his voice struck Mabel's ear. 'Perhaps you agree
with him?' she retorted jealously.

Holroyd laughed harshly. 'No, indeed,' he said, 'I should be the last
man in the world to do that. I only meant I could understand your
husband taking that view. I read the book with intense interest, I
assure you.'

'You don't speak as if you quite meant me to believe that,' she said.
'I'm afraid the book was not practical enough to please you, Vincent.
Ceylon seems to have hardened you.'

'Very possibly,' he replied; and then followed a short silence, during
which Mabel was thinking that he had certainly altered--hardly for the
better, and Holroyd was wondering how much longer he would have to
bear this. He was afraid of himself, feeling the danger of a violent
outburst which might reveal her delusion with a too brutal plainness.
She must know all some time, but not there--not then.

He had finally mastered any rebellious impulses, however, as Mabel,
who had been anxiously watching the bridge for some time, went to meet
someone with a glad cry of relief. He heard her making some rapid
explanations, and then she returned, followed by Mark Ashburn.

Mabel's greeting told the wretched Mark that the blow had not fallen
yet. Vincent evidently was determined to spare neither of them. Let
him strike now, then; the less delay the better.

He walked up to the man who was his executioner with a dull, dogged
expectation of what was coming. He tried to keep himself straight, but
he felt that his head was shaking as if with palsy, and he was
grateful that the dusk hid his face. 'Here is Mark, at last,' said
Mabel. 'He will tell you himself that he at least has not forgotten.'

But Mark said nothing; he did not even put out his hand. He stood
silently waiting for the other to speak. Vincent was silent, too, for
a time, looking at him fixedly. This was how they had met, then. He
had pictured that meeting many times lately, but it had never been
anything like the reality. And Mabel still suspected nothing. There
was a touch of comedy of a ghastly kind in the situation, which gave
Vincent a grim amusement, and he felt a savage pleasure, of which he
was justly ashamed later, in developing it.

'I have been trying to explain to your wife,' he said at last, 'that I
have been away so long that I could hardly hope you would remember the
relations between us.'

Mark made some reply to this; he did not know what.

'At least,' Vincent continued calmly, 'I may congratulate you upon the
success of your book. I should have done so when we met the other day
if I had understood then that you were the author. Your modesty did
not allow you to mention it, and so I discover it later.'

Mark said nothing, though his dry lips moved.

'When you met!' cried Mabel in wonder. 'Did _you_ know Vincent was
alive then, Mark? And you never told me!'

'He naturally did not think it would interest you, you see,' said
Vincent.

'No,' said Mabel, turning to Mark, 'you couldn't know that Vincent had
once been almost one of the family; I forgot that. If you had only
thought of telling me!'

The two men were silent again, and Mabel felt hurt and disappointed at
Vincent's want of cordiality. He seemed to take it for granted that he
had been forgotten. He would thaw presently, and she did her best to
bring this about by all the means in her power, in her anxiety that
the man she respected should do justice to the man she loved.

That conversation was, as far as Mark was concerned, like the one
described in 'Aurora Leigh'--

                      'Every common word
    Seemed tangled with the thunder at one end,
    And ready to pull down upon their heads
    A terror out of sight.'

The terror was close at hand when Mabel said, in the course of her
well-meant efforts to bring them into conversation, 'It was quite by
accident, do you know, Mark, that Vincent should have met us here at
all; he was on his way to find some man who has---- I forget what you
said he had done, Vincent.'

'I don't think I went into particulars,' he replied. 'I described him
generally as a scoundrel. And he is.'

'I hope you were able to find that out before he could do you any
injury?' said Mabel.

'Unfortunately, no,' he said. 'When I found out, the worst was done.'

'Would you rather not talk about it,' she continued, 'or do you mind
telling us how you were treated?'

Vincent hesitated; just then the sense of his wrong, the sight of the
man who had deceived him, made him hard as adamant. Could he desire a
fuller satisfaction than was offered him now?

'It's rather a long story,' he said; 'perhaps this is not quite the
place to tell it. _You_ might find it interesting, though, from the
literary point of view,' he added, turning suddenly on Mark, who did
not attempt to meet his eyes.

'Tell it by all means, then,' said the latter, without moving his
head.

'No; you shall hear it another time,' said Holroyd. 'Put shortly,
Mabel, it's this: I trusted the other man; he deceived me. Nothing
very original in that, is there?'

'I'm afraid not,' said Mabel. 'Did he rob you, Vincent? Have you lost
much?'

'Much more than money! Yes, he robbed me first and paid me the
compliment of a highly artistic chain of lies afterwards. That was a
needless waste; the ordinary sort of lie would have been quite enough
for me--from him.'

Mark heard all this with a savage inclination at first to cut the
scene short, and say to Mabel, 'He means Me. _I_ robbed him! _I_ lied
to him! _I_ am the scoundrel--it's all true! I own it--now let me go!'

But he let Holroyd take his own course in the end, with an apathetic
acknowledgment that he had the right to revenge himself to the very
utmost.

The house at the nearer end of the bridge had a small projecting
gallery, where he remembered having seen a tame fox run out when he
was there in the autumn before. He caught himself vaguely speculating
whether the fox was there still, or if it had died; and yet he heard
every word that Vincent was saying.

'And what do you mean to do with him when you meet?' asked Mabel.

'Ah,' said Vincent, 'I have thought over that a good deal. I have
often wondered whether I could keep calm enough to say what I mean to
say. I think I shall; in these civilised days we have to repress
ourselves now and then, but that won't, of course, prevent me from
punishing him as he deserves; and, when those nearest and dearest to
him know him as he really is, and turn from him, even he will feel
that a punishment!' (He turned to Mark again) 'Don't you agree with
me?' he asked.

Mark moistened his lips before answering. 'I think you will find it
very easy to punish him,' he said.

'Is he--is he married?' asked Mabel.

'Oh, yes,' said Vincent; 'I was told that his wife believes in him
still.'

'And you are going to undeceive her?' she said.

'She must know the truth. That is part of his punishment,' replied
Vincent.

'But it will be so terrible for her, poor thing!' said Mabel, with an
infinite compassion in her voice. 'What if the truth were to _kill_
her?'

'Better that,' he said bitterly, 'than to go on loving a lie! Whatever
happens her husband is responsible, not I. That is the correct view,
Ashburn, I think?'

'Quite correct,' said Mark.

'It may be correct,' cried Mabel indignantly, 'but it is very cruel! I
didn't think you could be so harsh, either of you. Of course, I don't
know what the man has done; perhaps if I did _I_ might be "correct"
too. But, Vincent, I do ask you to think a little of his poor wife.
She, at least, has done you no harm! Is there no way--no way at
all--to get back something of what you have lost; even to punish the
man, if you must, and yet spare his wife?'

'If there were,' he cried passionately, 'do you suppose I would not
take it? Is it my fault that this man has done me such a wrong that he
can only make amends for it by exposing himself? What can I do?'

'I suppose there is no help for it, then,' agreed Mabel reluctantly,
'but I wish she had not to suffer too. Only think what it must be to
have to give up believing in one's husband!' and as she spoke she slid
a confiding hand through Mark's arm.

There was another silence, and, as it seemed plain now that the
interview was not likely to be a success, she made haste to end it.
'We must say good-bye now, Vincent,' she said. 'I hope you are not so
harsh as your words.'

'I don't know. I feel considerably harsher just now, I think,' he
said. 'Good-bye then, Mabel. By the way, Ashburn,' he added in a
slightly lowered tone, 'there is something I have to say to you.'

'I know,' muttered Mark doggedly. 'Are you going to say it now?'

'No, not now,' he answered; 'you must meet me--where shall we say? I
don't know this place--here? No, on that little terrace over there, by
the fountain; it will be quieter. Be there at nine.--I am going to
tell your husband the details of that story, Mabel,' he continued
aloud, 'and then we shall decide what to do. You will spare him to me
for half an hour?'

'Oh, yes,' said Mabel, cheerfully. She thought this looked as if they
were going to arrive at a better understanding. Mark looked at
Vincent, but his face was impenetrable in the dim light as he added,
again in an undertone, 'You are to say nothing until I give you leave.
If you are not at the place by nine, remember, I shall come to you.'

'Oh, I will be there,' said Mark recklessly; and they parted.

As Mabel and Mark were walking back, she said suddenly, 'I suppose,
when you met Vincent last, you told him that you were going to marry
me, Mark?'

'Didn't he say so?' he answered, prevaricating even then.

'I thought you must have done so,' she said, and was silent.

Vincent _had_ known then. He had deliberately kept away from them all.
He had pretended to ignore the marriage when they met; that was his
way of resenting it. She had not thought of this till then, and it
confirmed her in the idea that Ceylon had sadly changed him.

They dined alone together in the large bare _Speise-Saal_, for the
handsome hotel was scarcely ever occupied even in the season. Now they
had it all to themselves, and the waiters almost fought with one
another for the privilege of attending upon them. The 'Director'
himself--a lively, talkative little German, who felt his managerial
talents wasted in this wilderness--came in to superintend their meals,
partly to refresh himself by the contemplation of two real guests, but
chiefly to extend his English vocabulary.

Hitherto Mark had considered him a nuisance, but he was glad that
evening when the host followed the fish in with his customary
greeting. 'Good-night! You haf made a goot valk? Guten appetit--yes?'
and proceeded to invite them to a grand concert, which was to take
place in the hotel the following Sunday. 'Zere vill pe ze pandt from
Klein-Laufingen; it is all brass, and it is better as you vill not go
too near. Zey blow vair strong ven zey go off, but a laty from hier
vill gambole peautifully after zem on ze piano. You vill come--yes?'

When he had gone at last little Max came in and stood by Mabel, with
his mouth gaping like a young bird's for chance fragments of dessert.
Mark was grateful to him, too, for diverting her attention from
himself. He grew more and more silent as the long Black Forest clock
by the shining porcelain stove ticked slowly on towards the hour. It
was time to go, and he rose with a shiver.

'You will not be very long away, will you, dear?' said Mabel, looking
up from the orange she was peeling for the child. 'And you will do
what you can for the poor woman, I know.'

'Yes, yes,' he said as he reached the door. 'Good-bye, Mabel!'

'Good-bye,' she said, nodding to him brightly. 'Max, say
"Good-evening, Herr Mark; a pleasant walk,"' but Max backed away
behind the stove, declining to commit himself to an unknown tongue.
Mark took a last look at her laughing gaily there in the lamplight.
Would he ever hear her laugh like that again? How would he ever find
courage to tell her? There was little need just then of Holroyd's
prohibition.

He went down to the hotel steps to the little open space where the two
streets unite, and where the oil lamp suspended above by cords dropped
a shadow like a huge spider on the pale patch of lighted ground below.
The night was warm and rather dark; no one was about at that hour; the
only sound was the gurgle of the fountain in the corner, where the
water-jets gleamed out of the blackness like rods of twisted crystal.
He entered the narrow street, or rather alley, leading to the bridge.
In the state of blank misery he was in his eye seized upon the
smallest objects as if to distract his mind, and he observed--as he
might not have done had he been happy--that in the lighted upper room
of the corner house they had trained growing ivy along the low
raftered ceiling.

So, too, as he went on he noticed details in each dim small-paned
shop-front he passed. The tobacconist's big wooden <DW64>, sitting with
bundles of Hamburg cigars in his lap and filling up the whole of the
window; the two rows of dangling silver watches at the watchmaker's;
the butcher's unglazed slab, with its strong iron bars, behind which
one small and solitary joint was caged like something dangerous to
society; even the grotesque forms in which the jugs and vases at the
china shop were shadowed on the opposite wall.

He looked up at a quaint metal inn-sign, an ancient ship, which swung
from a wrought-iron bracket overhead. 'When next I pass under that!'
he thought.

He came to the end of the street at last, when his way to the place of
meeting lay straight on, but he turned to his right instead, past the
_Zoll-Verein_--where the chief was busy writing by the window under
his linen-shaded oil-lamp--and on to the bridge as if some
irresistible attraction were drawing him.

When he reached the recess opposite to that in which Mabel had met
Vincent he stopped mechanically and looked around; the towns were
perfectly still, save for the prolonged organ note of the falls, which
soon ceases to strike the ear. On either bank the houses gleamed pale
under a low sky, where the greenish moonlight struggled through a rack
of angry black clouds. While he stood there the clock under the church
cupola above struck the quarters and clanged out the hour, followed,
after a becoming pause, by the gatehouse clock across the river, and
such others as the twin towns possessed.

It was nine o'clock. Vincent Holroyd was waiting there on the terrace,
stern and pitiless.

Mark made a movement as if to leave the recess, and then stopped
short. It was no use; he could not face Holroyd. He looked over the
side, down on the water swirling by, in which the few house lights
were reflected in a dull and broken glimmer. Was there any escape for
him there?

It would only be a plunge down into that swollen rushing torrent, and
he would be past all rescue. An instant of suffocating pain, then
singing in his ears, sparks in his eyes, unconsciousness--annihilation
perhaps--who knew? Just then any other world, any other penalty,
seemed preferable to life and Mabel's contempt!

From the recess he could see an angle of the hotel, and one of the
windows of their room. It was lighted; Mabel was sitting there in the
arm-chair, perhaps waiting for him. If he went back he must tell her.
If he went back!

Whether he lived or died, she was equally lost to him now. His life
would bring her only misery and humiliation--at least he could leave
her free!

Vincent would speak and think less hardly of him then, and, if not,
would it matter?

His mind was made up--he would do it! He looked towards Mabel's window
with a wild, despairing gaze. 'Forgive me!' he cried with a hoarse
sob, as if she could hear, and then he threw off his hat and sprang
upon the broad parapet.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

ON THE LAUFENPLATZ.


Vincent had left the _Gasthaus zur Post_, the old-fashioned inn
outside Klein-Laufingen, at which he had taken up his quarters for the
night, a little before nine, and walked down the street, with his mind
finally made up as to the course he meant to take, although he shrank
from the coming interview almost as intensely as Mark himself. He
passed under the covered way of the bridge, and had nearly reached the
open part, when he recognised the man he was coming to meet standing
in one of the recesses. He noticed him look round in evident fear of
observation--he did not seem, however, to have seen or heard Vincent,
and presently the latter saw him throw his hat away, as if in
preparation for action of some sort. Vincent guessed at once what he
was intending to do; it darted across his mind that this might be the
best solution of the difficulty--he had only to keep silent for a few
seconds. Was it certain even now that he could prevent this
self-destruction if he would? But such inhumanity was impossible to
him. Instinctively he rushed forward out of the shadow and, seizing
Mark by the arm as he sprang upon the parapet, dragged him roughly
back. 'You coward!' he cried, 'you fool! This is the way you keep your
appointment, is it? You can do that afterwards if you like--just now
you will come with me.'

Tragic as a rash act, such as Mark was contemplating, is when
successful, an interruption brings with it an inevitable bathos; when
he first felt that grasp on his arm, he thought himself in the power
of a German policeman, and, prepared as he was a moment before to face
a sudden death, he quailed before the prospect of some degrading and
complicated official process; it was almost a relief to see instead
his bitterest enemy!

He made no attempt at resistance or escape--perhaps life seemed more
tolerable after all now he had been brought back to it; he went meekly
back with Vincent, who still held his arm firmly, and they reached the
Laufenplatz without another word.

The little terrace above the Rhine was almost dark, the only light
came in a reflected form from a street lamp round the corner, and they
had to pick their way round the octagonal stone fountain and between
the big iron salmon cages, to some seats under the five bare elms by
the railings. There Vincent sat down to recover breath, for the scene
he had just gone through was beginning to tell upon him, and he was
overcome by a feeling of faintness which made him unable to speak for
some moments. Meanwhile Mark stood opposite by the railings waiting
sullenly, until Vincent rose at last and came to his side; he spoke
low and with difficulty, but, in spite of the torrent roaring over the
rocks below, Mark heard every word.

'I suppose,' Vincent began, 'I need not tell you why I wished to see
you?'

'No,' said Mark; 'I know.'

'From your manner on the bridge just now,' continued Holroyd,
relentlessly, 'it looked almost as if you wished to avoid a
meeting--why should you? I told you I wished my authorship to be kept
a secret, and you sheltered it with your own name. Very few friends
would have done that!'

'You have the right to indulge in this kind of pleasantry,' said the
tortured Mark; 'I know that--only be moderate if you can. Cut the
sneers and the reproaches short, and give me the finishing stroke; do
you suppose I don't _feel_ what I am?'

'Reproaches are ungenerous, of course,' retorted Holroyd; 'I am coming
to the "finishing stroke," as you call it, in my own time; but first,
though you may consider it bad taste on my part, I want to know a
little more about all this. If it's painful to you, I'm sorry--but you
scarcely have the right to be sensitive.'

'Oh, I have no rights!' said Mark, bitterly.

'I'll try not to abuse mine,' said Vincent, more calmly, 'but I can't
understand why you did this--you could write books for yourself, what
made you covet mine?'

'I'll tell you all there is to tell,' said Mark: 'I didn't covet your
book--it was like this; my own novels had both been rejected. I knew I
had no chance, as things were, of ever getting a publisher to look at
them. I felt I only wanted a fair start. Then Fladgate got it into his
head that I was the author of that manuscript of yours. I _did_ tell
him how it really was, but he wouldn't believe me, and then--upon my
soul, Holroyd, I thought you were dead!'

'And had no rights!' concluded the other drily; 'I see--go on.'

'I was mad, I suppose,' continued Mark; 'I let him think he was
right. And then I met Mabel ... by that time everybody knew me as the
author of "Illusion." I--I could not tell her I was not.... Then we
were engaged, and, four days before the wedding, you came back--you
know all the rest.'

'Yes, I know the rest,' cried Vincent, passionately; 'you came to meet
me--how overcome you were! I thought it was joy, and thanked Heaven,
like the fool I was, that I had anyone in the world to care so much
about me! And you let me tell you about--about _her_; and you and
Caffyn between you kept me in the dark till you could get me safely
out of the way. It was a clever scheme--you managed it admirably. You
need not have stolen from anyone with such powers of constructing a
plot of your own! There is just one thing, though, I should like to
have explained. I wrote Mabel a letter--I know now that she never
received it--why?'

'How can I tell?' said Mark. 'Good God! Holroyd, you don't suspect me
of _that_!'

'Are you so far above suspicion?' asked Vincent; 'it would only be a
very few more pages!'

'Well, I deserve it,' said Mark, 'but whether you believe me or not, I
never saw a letter of yours until the other day. I never imagined you
were alive even till I read your letter to me.'

'That must have been a delightful surprise for you,' said Vincent;
'you kept your head though--you did not let it interfere with your
arrangements. You have married her--_you_--of all the men in the
world! Nothing can ever undo that now--nothing!'

'I have married her,' said Mark; 'God forgive me for it! But at least
she cares for no one else, Holroyd. She loves me--whatever I am!'

'You need not tell me that,' interrupted Vincent; 'I know it. I have
seen it for myself--you have been clever even in that!'

'What do you mean?' asked Mark.

'Do you know what that book of mine was to me?' continued Vincent,
without troubling to answer; 'I put all that was best of myself into
it, I thought it might plead for me some day, perhaps, to a heart I
hoped to touch; and I come back to find that you have won the heart,
and not even left me my book!'

'As for the book,' said Mark, 'that will be yours again now.'

'I meant to make it so when I came here,' Vincent answered. 'I meant
to force you to own my rights, whatever the acknowledgment cost
you.... But I know now that I must give that up. I abandon all claim
to the book; you have chosen to take it--you can keep it!'

The revulsion of feeling caused by so unexpected an announcement
almost turned Mark's head for the moment; he caught Vincent by the arm
in his excitement. 'What,' he cried, 'is this a trick--are you in
earnest--you will spare me after all? You must not, Vincent, I can't
have it--I don't deserve it!'

Vincent drew back coldly: 'Did I say you deserved it?' he asked, with
a contempt that stung Mark.

'Then I won't accept it, do you hear?' he persisted; 'you shall not
make this sacrifice for me!'

Holroyd laughed grimly enough: 'For you!' he repeated; 'you don't
suppose I should tamely give up everything for _you_, do you?'

'Then,' faltered Mark, 'why--why----?'

'Why am I going to let you alone? Do you remember what I told you on
that platform at Plymouth?--_that_ is why. If I had only known then, I
would have fought my hardest to expose you, if it was necessary to
save her in that way--for her sake, not mine. I don't suppose there
ever was much hope for me. As it is, you have been clever enough to
choose the one shield through which I can't strike you--if I ever
thought more of that wretched book than of her happiness, it was only
for a moment--she knows nothing as yet, and she must never know!'

'She will know it some day,' said Mark, heavily.

'Why should she know?' demanded Vincent, impatiently; 'you don't mean
that that infernal Caffyn knows?'

'No, no,' replied Mark, in all sincerity; 'Caffyn doesn't know--how
could he? But you can't hide these things: you--you may have talked
about it yourself already!'

'I have not talked about it!' said Vincent, sharply; 'perhaps I was
not too proud of having been gulled so easily. Can't you understand?
This secret rests between you and me at present, and I shall never
breathe a word of it--you can feel perfectly safe--you are Mabel's
husband!'

It is to be feared that Vincent's manner was far enough from the
sublime and heroic; he gave up his book and his fame from the
conviction that he could not do otherwise; but it was not easy for all
that, and he did not try to disguise the bitter contempt he felt for
the cause.

Mark could not endure the humiliation of such a pardon--his spirit
rose in revolt against it.

'Do you think I will be forgiven like this?' he cried, recklessly. 'I
don't want your mercy! I won't take it! If you won't speak, I shall!'

Vincent had not expected any resistance from Mark, and this outburst,
which was genuine enough, showed that he was not utterly beneath
contempt, even then.

Holroyd's manner was less harsh and contemptuous when he next spoke:

'It's no use, Ashburn,' he said firmly; 'it's too late for all that
now--you _must_ accept it!'

'I shall not,' said Mark again. 'I've been a scoundrel, I know, but
I'll be one no longer; I'll tell the truth and give you back your own.
I will do what's right at last!'

'Not in that way,' said Vincent; 'I forbid it. I have the right to be
obeyed in this, and you shall obey me. Listen to me, Ashburn; you
can't do this--you forget Mabel. You have made her love you and trust
her happiness to your keeping; your honour is hers now. Can't you see
what shame and misery you will plunge her in by such a confession? It
may clear your conscience, but it must darken her life--and that's too
heavy a price to pay for such a mere luxury as peace of mind.'

'How can I go on deceiving her?' groaned Mark; 'it will drive me mad!'

'It will do nothing of the sort!' retorted Holroyd, his anger
returning; 'I know you better--in a couple of days it won't even
affect your appetite! Why, if I had not come over here, if I had gone
out again to India as you hoped I should, you were prepared to go on
deceiving her--your mind kept its balance well enough then!'

Mark knew this was true, and held his tongue.

'Think of me as safe in India, then,' Vincent continued more quietly.
'I shall trouble you quite as little. But this secret is mine as well
as yours--and I will not have it told. If you denounce yourself now,
who will be the better for it? Think what it will cost Mabel.... You
_do_ love her, don't you?' he asked, with a fierce anxiety; 'you--you
have not married her for other reasons?'

'You think I am too bad even to love honestly,' said Mark, bitterly;
'but I do.'

'Prove it then,' said Vincent. 'You heard her pleading on the bridge
for the woman who would suffer by her husband's shame; she was
pleading for herself then--and not to me only, to you! Have pity on
her; she is so young to lose all her faith and love and hope at once.
You can never let her know what you have been; you can only try to
become all she believes you to be.'

In his heart, perhaps, Mark was not sorry to be convinced that what he
had resolved to do was impossible. The high-strung mood in which he
had been ready to proclaim his wrong-doing was already passing away.
Vincent had gained his point.

'You are right,' Mark said slowly; 'I _will_ keep it from her if I
can.'

'Very well,' Vincent answered, 'that is settled then. If she asks you
what has passed between us, you can say that I have told you my story,
but that you are not at liberty to speak of it. Mabel will not try to
know more. Stay, I will write a line' (and he went to the corner of
the street and wrote a few words on a leaf from his notebook). 'Give
that to her,' he said as he returned. 'And now I think we've nothing
more to say.'

'Only one other thing,' stammered Mark; 'I must do this.... When
they--they published your book they paid me.... I never touched the
money. I have brought it with me to-night; you must take it!' and he
held out a small packet of notes.

Vincent turned haughtily away. 'Excuse me,' he said, 'it is not mine;
I will have nothing to do with it. Under the circumstances, you can't
expect me to touch that money. Keep it; do what you choose with it.'

'I choose this, then!' said Mark, violently, and tearing the notes up,
he flung them over the railings to drift down on the rocks or into the
tossing grey foam beyond.

'You need not have done that,' said Holroyd, coldly; 'there were the
poor. But just as you please!' and he made a movement as if to go.

Mark stopped him with a gesture.

'Are you going like this?' he said, and his voice trembled. 'If you
knew all I felt, even you might pity me a little! Can't you forgive?'

Vincent turned. 'No,' he said, shortly, 'I can't. I put temptation in
your way, and though I never dreamed then that it could be a
temptation to you, I could have forgiven you for giving way to it when
you believed me dead. But I came back, and you went on with it; you
lied to me--more, you dared to marry _her_, without a care for the
shame and sorrow, which was all you had to bring her. If I said I
forgave you for that, it would be a mockery. I don't, and I can't!'

'I see,' said Mark. 'When we meet again we are to be strangers, then?'

'No,' said Vincent; 'if we meet we must do so as ordinary
acquaintances--for Mabel's sake. But there are no appearances to keep
up here. Can't you see I want to be left to myself?' he asked, with a
sudden burst of nervous irritation.

'Have your way then?' said Mark, and left him there by the railings.

Mark's first feelings as he walked slowly back up the little street
where the little shops were all shuttered and dark now, were by no
means enviable; he felt infinitely mean and small in his own eyes, and
shrank from entering Mabel's presence while his nerves were still
crawling under the scorching contempt of Vincent's dismissal. If,
during the interview, there had been moments when he was deeply
contrite and touched at the clemency so unexpectedly shown him, the
manner of his pardon seemed to release him from all obligations to
gratitude--he had only been forgiven for another's sake; and for a
time he almost loathed so disgraceful an immunity, and felt the deep
humiliation of a sentence that condemned him 'to pay the price of lies
by being constrained to lie on still.' But by degrees, even in that
short walk, his elastic temperament began to assert itself; after all,
it might have been worse. He might by now have been drifting, dead and
disfigured, down the river to Basle; he might have been going back to
Mabel with the fearful necessity upon him of telling her all that
night. One person knew him, and despised him for what he was; but that
person would never tell his secret. That painful scene which had just
passed would never have to be gone through again; he could think of it
as a horrible dream. Yes, he was safe now, _really_ safe this time.
His position was far more secure than when he had read that telegram
of Caffyn's; and here he wondered, for the first time, whether Caffyn
had been deliberately misled or only mistaken in sending such a
delusive message. But that did not very much matter now, and he soon
abandoned speculation on the subject. He had much to be thankful for;
his future was free from all danger. He had had a severe lesson, and
he would profit by it; henceforth (with the one necessary reservation)
he would be honest and true--Mabel should never repent her trust in
him. 'Sweet Bells Jangled' would be before the world by the time they
returned, and after that he feared nothing. And so, though he was
subdued and silent on his return, there was no other trace in his
manner of what he had suffered during the last hour. He found Mabel by
the window of their sitting-room, looking out at the houses across
the river, which were now palely clear in the cold moonlight, their
lights extinguished, and only a pane glittering here and there in some
high dormer window, while the irregular wooden, galleries and hanging
outhouses were all thrown up vividly by the intense shadows.

'What a very long time you have been away!' she said; 'but I know
Vincent can be very pleasant and interesting if he likes.'

'Very,' said Mark, and gave her Holroyd's note.

'I leave here early to-morrow for Italy,' she read, 'and may not see
you again for some little time. I have told your husband my story,
but, on consideration, have thought it best to pledge him to tell no
one--not even you. But the man who injured me shall be safe for your
sake.'

'You _did_ persuade him, then!' she said, looking up gratefully to
Mark. 'Oh, I am glad! How good you are, and how well you must have
spoken, dear, to make him give up his idea of punishing the man! So
Vincent is going away at once. Do you know I am afraid I am rather
glad?'

And Mark made no answer; what was there to say?

       *       *       *       *       *

Vincent stood there by the railings on the Laufenplatz for some time
after Mark had left him; he was feeling the reaction both in mind and
body from his recent conflict. 'How will it all end?' he asked himself
wearily. 'Can any good come from letting this deceit go on? Is he
strong enough to carry out his part? If not, the truth will only come
at last, and be even more cruel when it does come.' Yet he had done
what still seemed the obvious and only thing to do, if Mabel's
happiness was considered. He was ashamed even that he had not seen it
earlier, and trembled as he remembered that only a providential chance
had restrained him from some fatal disclosure to Mabel that afternoon
on the bridge. But at least he had acted for the best, and he would
hope for it.

Thinking thus, he recrossed the river to Klein-Laufingen, where a
mounted German officer, many sizes too big for the little street, was
rousing it from its first slumber as he clattered along, with his
horse's hoofs striking sparks from the rough cobbles, and passed under
the old gateway, where his accoutrements gleamed for an instant in the
lamplight before horse and rider vanished in the darkness beyond.
Vincent passed out, too, out on the broad white road, and down the
hill to his homely _Gasthaus_. He felt weak and very lonely--lonelier
even than when he had parted from Mabel long ago on the eve of his
Ceylon voyage. He could hope then; now he had lost her for ever!
Still, one of his wishes had been granted--he had been able to be of
service to her, to make some sacrifice for her dear sake. She would
never know either of his love or his sacrifice, and though he could
not pretend that there was no bitterness in that, he felt that it was
better thus. 'After all,' he thought, 'she loves that fellow. She
would never have cared for me.' And there was truth in this last
conclusion. Even if Mabel and Mark had never met, and she could have
known Vincent as he was, the knowledge might not have taught her to
love. A woman cannot give her heart as a _prix Montyon_, or there
might be more bachelors than there are.




CHAPTER XXXV.

MISSED FIRE!


It was an evening early in May, and Harold Caffyn was waiting at
Victoria for the arrival of the Dover train, which was bringing back
Mark and Mabel from the Continent. This delicate attention on his part
was the result of a painful uncertainty which had been vexing him ever
since the morning on which he read Vincent's farewell note at
Wastwater. 'It is a poor tale,' as Mrs. Poyser might say, to throw
your bomb and never have the satisfaction of hearing it explode--and
yet that was his position; he had 'shot his arrow into the air,' like
Longfellow; but, less fortunate than the poet, he was anything but
sure that his humble effort had reached 'the heart of a friend.' Now
he was going to know. One thing he had ascertained from the
Langtons--Vincent Holroyd had certainly followed the couple to
Laufingen, and they had seen him there--Harold had found Mrs. Langton
full of the wonderful news of the return of the dead. But nothing had
come of it as yet; if there was a sensation in store for the literary
world, Mabel's letters apparently contained no hint of it, and for a
time Caffyn felt unpleasantly apprehensive that there might have been
a hitch somehow in his admirable arrangements. Then he reflected that
Mabel would naturally spare her mother as long as possible; he would
not believe that after all the trouble he had taken, after Holroyd had
actually hunted down the culprit, the secret could have been kept from
her any longer. No, she must know the real truth, though she might be
proud enough to mask her sufferings while she could. But still he
longed for some visible assurance that his revenge had not
unaccountably failed; and, as he had ascertained that they were to
return on this particular evening, and were not to be met except by
the Langton carriage, it occurred to him that here would be an
excellent opportunity of observing Mabel at a time when she would not
imagine it necessary to wear a mask. He would take care to remain
unseen himself; a single glance would tell him all he needed to know,
and he promised himself enjoyment of a refined and spiritual kind in
reading the effects of his revenge on the vivid face he had loved
once, and hated now with such malignant intensity. The train came in
with a fringe of expectant porters hanging on the footboards, and as
the doors flew open to discharge a crowd, flurried but energetic, like
stirred ants, even Caffyn's well-regulated pulse beat faster.

He had noticed Champion waiting on the platform and kept his eye upon
him in the bustle that followed; he was going up to a compartment
now--that must be Mark he was touching his hat to as he received
directions; Caffyn could not see Mark's face yet as his back was
towards him, but he could see Mabel's as she stepped lightly out on
the platform--there was a bright smile on her face as she acknowledged
the footman's salute, and seemed to be asking eager questions. Caffyn
felt uncomfortable, for there was nothing forced about her smile, no
constraint in her eyes as she turned to Mark when they were alone
again, and seemed to be expressing her eager delight at being home
again. And Mark, too, had the face of a man without a care in the
world--something must have gone wrong, terribly wrong, it was clear!
They were coming towards him; he had meant to avoid them at first, but
now his curiosity would not allow this, and he threw himself in their
way, affecting an artless surprise and pleasure at being the first to
welcome them back. Mark did not appear at all disconcerted to see him,
and Mabel could not be frigid to anybody just then in the flush of
happy expectation, which she did not try to conceal; altogether it was
a bitter disappointment to Caffyn.

He quite gasped when Mark said, with a frank unconsciousness, and
without waiting for the subject to be introduced by him, 'Oh, I say,
Caffyn, what on earth made you think poor old Vincent was going back
to India at once? He's not going to do anything of the kind; he's
wandering about the Continent. We knocked up against him at
Laufingen!'

Caffyn gave a searching look at Mabel's sweet, tranquil face, then at
Mark's, which bore no sign of guilt or confusion. 'Knocked up against
you!' he repeated; 'why--why, didn't he _expect_ to find you there,
then?'

Mabel answered this: 'It was quite an accident that he stopped at
Laufingen at all,' she said; 'he was going on to Italy.'

Caffyn did not give up even then--he tried one last probe: 'Of
course,' he said; 'I forgot, your husband kept him so completely in
the dark about it all--eh, Mark? Why, when you got him to come down to
Wastwater with me, he had no idea what festivities were in
preparation--had he?'

'No, my boy,' said Mark, with a perfectly natural and artistic laugh;
'I really don't believe he had--you mustn't be shocked, darling,' he
added to Mabel; 'it was all for his good, poor fellow. I must tell you
some day about our little conspiracy. It's all very well for you,
though,' he turned to Caffyn again, 'to put it all on to me--you had
more to do with it than I--it was your own idea, you know!'

'Oh!' said Caffyn; 'well, if you like to put it in that way----.' He
lost his self-possession completely--there was something in all this
he could not at all understand.

The fact was that Mark felt himself able now to face the whole world
with equanimity; the knowledge that no one would ever detect him made
him a consummate actor. He had long made up his mind how he would
greet Caffyn when they met again, and he was delighted to find himself
so composed and equal to the occasion.

Caffyn stood looking after the carriage as it drove away with them; he
had quite lost his bearings: the paper in Holroyd's hand, Mark's own
behaviour in so many instances, Vincent's rapid pursuit, had all
seemed to point so clearly to one conclusion--yet what was he to think
now? He began for the first time to distrust his own penetration; he
very much feared that his elaborate scheme of revenge was a failure,
that he must choose some other means of humbling Mabel, and must begin
all over again, which was a distressing thought to a young man in his
situation. He was glad now that he had never talked of his suspicions,
and had done nothing openly compromising. He would not give up even
yet, until he had seen Holroyd, and been able to pump him judiciously;
until then he must bear the dismal suspicion that he had overreached
himself.

One of his shafts at least had not fallen altogether wide, for as Mark
and Mabel were being driven home across the Park, she said suddenly:
'So _Harold_ knew that Vincent was alive, then?'

'Yes,' said Mark, '_he_ knew,' and he looked out of the window at the
sunset as he spoke.

'And you and Harold kept him from hearing of our wedding?' she said.
'Mark, I thought you said that you had told him?'

'Oh, no,' said Mark; 'you misunderstood--there--there were reasons.'

'Tell me them,' said Mabel.

'Well,' said Mark, 'Vincent was ill--anyone could see that what he
wanted was rest, and that the fatigue and--and--the excitement of a
wedding would be too much for him--Caffyn wanted a companion up at
Wastwater, and begged me to say nothing about our marriage just then,
and leave it to him to tell him quietly later on--that's all,
darling.'

'I don't like it, dear,' said Mabel; 'I don't like your joining Harold
in a thing like that. I know you did it all for the best, but I don't
see why you could not have told him; if he was not well enough to come
to the wedding we should have understood it!'

'Perhaps you're right,' said Mark, easily, 'but, at all events, no
harm has come of it to anybody. How they are thinning the trees along
here, aren't they? Just look down that avenue!'

And Mabel let him turn the conversation from a subject she was glad
enough to forget.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

LITTLE RIFTS.


One bright morning in May, not long after the return from the
Continent, Mabel was sitting in her own room at the back of the small
house which had been taken on Campden Hill; she was writing at a table
by the raised window, when the door opened suddenly, and Mark burst
in, in a state of suppressed but very evident excitement. 'I have
brought you something!' he said, and threw down three peacock-blue
volumes upon her open blotting-case; the title, 'Sweet Bells Jangled,'
ran in sprawling silver letters from corner to corner of the covers,
through a medley of cracked bells and withered hyacinths in dull gold;
the general effect being more bold than pleasing. Mabel was just about
to exclaim sympathetically, 'What a frightful binding they've given
you, dear;' when Mark informed her, with some complacency, that it was
his own design. 'Nowadays, you see,' he explained, 'you want something
to catch the eye, or you won't be read!' Inwardly Mabel could not help
wondering that he could condescend to such a device, or think it
necessary in his own case. 'Look at the fly-leaf,' he said, and she
opened the first volume, and read the printed dedication, '_To My
Wife._' 'I thought that must bring me luck,' he said; 'and now,
darling, do you know what you are going to do? You are going to put
away all those confounded letters and sit down here, and read the
opening chapters carefully, and tell me what you think of them.' For
till then he had made continual excuses for not showing her any
portion of his new work, either in manuscript or proof, from mixed
motives of vanity and diffidence.

Mabel laughed with affectionate pride at his anxiety: 'This is what
comes of marrying a great author!' she said; 'go away and let me begin
at once, and tell you at lunch how I enjoyed it.'

'No,' said Mark despotically, 'I'm going to stay here--or you might
try to skip.'

'But I can't allow that,' she protested; 'suppose I find I'm obliged
to skip--suppose it's a terrible disappointment? No, you ridiculous
Mark, I didn't mean it--stay if you like, I'm not afraid of being
disappointed--though I really would enjoy it best in solitude!'

Mark insisted; he felt that at last he was about to be reinstated in
his own opinion, he could wait no longer for the assurance of triumph;
when he saw with his own eyes the effect of his genius upon Mabel,
when he read the startled delight and growing admiration in her face,
then at last he would know that he was not actually an impostor!

There are many methods of self-torture, but perhaps few more ingenious
and protracted than submitting the result of one's brain-work to a
person whose good opinion we covet, and watching the effect. Mark
imposed it on himself, nevertheless, chiefly because in his heart he
had very little fear of the result. He took a rocking-chair and sat
down opposite Mabel, trying to read the paper; by-and-by, as she read
on in silence, his heart began to beat and he rocked himself
nervously, while his eyes kept wandering from the columns to the
pretty hands supporting the volume which hid Mabel's face. Hands
reveal many things, and Mabel's could be expressive enough at
times--but they told him nothing then; he watched them turn a leaf
from time to time, they always did so deliberately, almost
caressingly, he thought, but with no eagerness--although the opening
was full of incident. He calculated that she must be at a place where
there was a brilliant piece of humorous description; she had a fair
share of humour--why didn't she laugh?

'Have you got to that first appearance of the Curate on the
tennis-ground?' he asked at last.

She laid down the volume for an instant, and he saw her eyes--they
were calm and critical. 'Past that! I am beginning Chapter Three,' she
said.

The second chapter had contained some of his most sparkling and
rollicking writing--and it had not even moved her to smile! He
consoled himself with the reflection that the robuster humour never
does appeal to women. He had begun his third chapter with a ludicrous
anecdote which, though it bordered on the profane, he had considered
too good to be lost, but now he had misgivings.

'I'm afraid,' he ventured dubiously, 'you won't quite like that bit
about the bishop, darling?'

'I'm afraid I don't quite,' she replied from behind the book. The
story had no real harm in it, even in Mabel's eyes; the only pity was
that in any part of 'Illusion' it would have been an obvious
blot--and that it did not seem out of keeping in the pages she was
reading now.

She had sat down to read with such high hopes, so sure an anticipation
of real enjoyment, that it was hard to find that the spell was broken;
she tried to believe that she read on because she was interested--her
real reason was a dread of some pause, when she would be asked to give
her opinion. What should she say?

Perhaps it should be explained at once that the book was not a foolish
one; Mark, whatever else he was, could scarcely be called a fool, and
had a certain share of the literary faculty; it was full of smart and
florid passages that had evidently been industriously polished, and
had something of the perishable brilliancy of varnish. There is a kind
of vulgarity of mind so subtle as to resist every test but ink, and
the cheap and flashy element in Mark's nature had formed a deposit,
slight, perhaps, but perceptible in more than one page of 'Sweet Bells
Jangled.' Mabel felt her heart grow heavier as she read. Why had he
chosen to deliberately lower his level like this? Where were the
strong and masterly touch, the tenderness and the dignity of his first
book? That had faults, too, even faults of taste--but here the faults
had almost overgrown the taste! Surely if she read on, she would find
the style attain the old distinction, and the tone grow noble and
tender once again--but she read on, and the style was always the same,
and the tone, if anything, rather worse!

Mark had long since moved to a spot where he could command her face;
her fine eyebrows were slightly drawn, her long lashes lowered, and
her mouth compressed as if with pain--somehow the sight did not
encourage him. She was becoming conscious that her expression was
being closely watched, which seldom adds a charm to reading, and at
last she could persevere no longer, and shut the book with a faint
sigh.

'Well,' said Mark, desperately; he felt as if his fate hung on her
answer.

'I--I--have read so little yet,' she said; 'let me tell you what I
think at the end!'

'Tell me what you think of it so far,' said Mark.

'_Must_ I?' she said, almost imploringly.

'Yes,' said Mark, with a grating attempt at a laugh; 'put me out of my
misery!'

She loved him too well to make some flattering or evasive reply--she
was jealous for his reputation, and could not see him peril it without
a protest. 'Oh, Mark,' she cried, locking her hands and pressing them
tight together, 'you must feel yourself--it is not your best--you have
done such great work--you will again, I know, dear--but this, it is
not worthy of you--it is not worthy of "Illusion"!'

He knew too well that it was his best, that it was not in him to do
better; if the world's verdict agreed with hers, he was a failure
indeed. He had been persuading himself that, after all, he was not a
common impostor, that he had genius of his own which would be
acknowledged far above his friend's talent; now all at once the
conviction began to crumble.

He turned upon her with a white face and a look of anger and
mortification in his eyes. 'The first is always the best, of course,'
he said bitterly; 'that is the regulation verdict. If "Sweet Bells"
had come first, and "Illusion" second, you would have seen this sad
falling off in the _second_ book. I did not think _you_ would be the
first to take up that silly old cry, Mabel--I thought I could always
come to my wife for encouragement and appreciation; it seems I was
mistaken!'

Mabel bit her lip, and her eyes were dazzled for a moment: 'You asked
me what I thought,' she said in a low voice; 'do you think it was
pleasant to tell you? When you ask me again, I shall know better how
you expect to be answered!'

He felt all at once what he had done, and hastened to show his
penitence; she forgave, and did not let him see how deeply she had
been wounded--only from that day some of the poetry of her life had
turned to prose. Of 'Sweet Bells Jangled' she never spoke again, and
he did not know whether she ever read it to the end or not.

They had finished breakfast one Saturday morning, and Mark was
leisurely cutting the weekly reviews, when he suddenly sheltered
himself behind the paper he had been skimming--'Sweet Bells' was
honoured with a long notice. His head swam as he took in the effect
with some effort. The critic was not one of those fallen angels of
literature who rejoice over an unexpected recruit; he wrote with a
kindly recollection of 'Illusion,' and his condemnation was sincerely
reluctant; still, it was unmixed condemnation, and ended with an
exhortation to the author to return to the 'higher and more artistic
aims' of his first work. Mark's hand shook till the paper rustled when
he came to that; he was so long silent that Mabel looked up from
reading her letters, and asked if the new book was reviewed yet.

'Reviewed yet!' said Mark from behind the article; 'why, it hasn't
been out a fortnight.'

'I know,' said Mabel, 'but I thought perhaps that, after
"Illusion"----'

'Every book has to wait its turn!' said Mark, as he saved himself with
all the reviews, and locked himself in the little study where he
sketched out the stories to which he had not as yet found appropriate
endings.

There was another notice amongst the reviews, but in that the critic
was relentless in pointing out that the whilom idol had feet of
clay--and enormous ones; after a very severe elaboration of the
faults, the critic concluded: 'It almost seems as though the author,
weary of the laudation which accompanied the considerable (if, in some
degree, accidental) success of his first book, had taken this very
effectual method of rebuking the enthusiasm. However this may be, one
more such grotesque and ill-considered production as that under
review, and we can promise him an instant cessation of all the
inconveniences of popularity.'

Mark crumpled up the paper and pitched it to the other end of the room
in a fury--it was a conspiracy, they were writing him down--oh, the
malice and cowardice of it! He destroyed both reviews lest Mabel
should see her opinion confirmed, and her faith in him should be
shaken.

However, sundry copies of the reviews in question were forwarded to
him by good-natured people who thought it might amuse him to see them,
and one was even sent to Mabel with red chalk crosses in thoughtful
indication of the more unpleasant passages; she saw the date, and
remembered it as the day on which Mark had fenced himself in at
breakfast. She came in with the paper as he sat in his study, and
putting one hand on his shoulder, bent over him with a loving reproach
in her eyes: 'Someone has just sent me this,' she said; 'you have seen
it I know. Why didn't you trust me, dear? Why have you let this come
from others? Never try to hide things from me again, Mark--not even
for my good! and--and after this let us share everything--sorrow and
all--together!' She kissed him once on the forehead, and left him
there to his own thoughts.

Why, thought Mabel, was he not strong enough to disregard criticism if
he was satisfied with his own work, as he evidently was? She hated to
think of his having tried to keep their notices from her in that weak,
almost underhand, way; she knew that the motive was not consideration
for her feelings, and had to admit sadly that her hero was painfully
human after all.

Still 'Illusion' had revealed a nature the nobility of which no
weaknesses could obscure, and if his daily life did not quite bear out
such indications, he was Mark Ashburn, and she loved him. Nothing
could alter that.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some weeks later Vincent returned from Italy, and one of the first
persons he met was Harold Caffyn. It was in the City, where Vincent
had had business, and he attempted at first to pass the other by with
the curtest possible recognition; he had never understood his conduct
in the Wastwater episode, and still resented it. But Caffyn would not
allow himself to be cut, and his greeting was blandly affectionate as
he accused his friend of abandoning him up in the Lake district; he
was determined, if he could, to convince Holroyd that his silence as
to Mabel's impending marriage had been due solely to consideration for
his feelings, and then, when confidence was restored, he could sound
him upon the result of his journey to Laufingen. But Vincent, from a
vague feeling of distrust, was on his guard. Caffyn got nothing out of
him, even by the most ingenious pumping; he gathered that he had met
Mark at Laufingen; but with all his efforts he was not able to
discover if that meeting had really been by accident or design. He
spoke casually of 'Illusion,' but Vincent showed no particular
emotion.

'I suppose you don't know,' he added, 'that Mrs. Featherstone has done
it the honour of making a play of it--it's going to be done at the end
of the season at their house, before a select party of distinguished
sufferers.'

Holroyd had not heard that.

'I've been let in for it,' Caffyn continued; 'I'm playing that stick
of a poet, "Julian," the beggar's name is; it's my last appearance on
the boards, till I come out as Benedick--but that won't interest you,
and it's a sort of secret at present.'

Vincent was not curious, and asked no questions.

'Who do you think is to be the Beaumelle, though?' said Caffyn; 'the
author's own wife! Romantic that, eh? She's not half bad at
rehearsals; you must come and see us, my boy!'

'Perhaps I shall,' said Vincent, mechanically, and left him, as much
at fault as ever, but resolved to have patience still.

Caffyn's was a nature that liked tortuous ways for their own sake; he
had kept his suspicions to himself hitherto, he was averse to taking
any direct action until he was quite sure of his ground. He had those
papers in Holroyd's writing, it was true, but he had begun to feel
that they were not evidence enough to act on. If by some extraordinary
chance they were quite compatible with Mark's innocence, then if he
brought a charge against him, or if any slanderous insinuations were
traced to him, he would be placed in an extremely awkward and
invidious position. 'If I'm right,' he thought, 'Master Vincent's
playing some deep game of his own--it may be mine for all I know; at
all events I'll lie low till I can find out where the cards are, and
whether an ace or two has got up my sleeve.'

Vincent had been able to speak with perfect calmness of his lost book,
because he had almost brought himself to a philosophic indifference
regarding it, the more easily as he had had consoling indications
lately that his creative power had not been exhausted with that one
effort, and that with returning health he might yet do good work in
the world.

But now, as he walked on after leaving Caffyn, this indifference
suddenly vanished; his heart beat with a secret and exquisite bliss,
as he thought of this play in which Mabel was to represent his own
heroine. To hear that his work was to receive the rather moderate
distinction which can be conferred by its dramatisation on a private
stage would scarcely have elated him under ordinary circumstances; it
was no longer any concern of his at all. Still he could not resist the
subtle flattery in the knowledge that his conception was about to be
realised in a manner for which few authors would dare to hope--the
woman who had inspired it would lend it all her own grace and beauty
and tenderness to fill the faint outline he had traced with such
loving pains. All the banality of private theatricals could not spoil
that--she need not even act, she had only to be her own sweet self to
give life and charm to the poorest play, and the most incompetent of
performances. And then, as he thought of it, a wild longing came over
him to be there and see her; there might be something grotesque, and,
under the circumstances, almost undignified in such a longing now, but
it possessed him nevertheless. He would not betray himself or Mark,
but this one gratification he hungered for, and neither pride nor
prudence had power to restrain him.

He had meant to see as little as possible of Mabel on his return, but
he broke this resolution now. He would not keep away, he thought;
surely he could trust himself to bear the sight of her happiness; it
ought to reconcile him more fully to all he had endured to secure it,
and then he would be able to find out from her if this, which he had
heard from Caffyn, was really true.

And so, having procured the address from Mrs. Langton, he went on that
same afternoon to Campden Hill, not knowing, nor indeed greatly caring
just then, that this was not the way to deaden the pain at his heart.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

MARK ACCEPTS A DISAGREEABLE DUTY.


Vincent had his misgivings, as he walked towards Campden Hill, that at
such a period of the London season his journey would most probably be
a fruitless one. But as he approached the house he found one or two
carriages waiting outside, the horses troubling the hot afternoon
stillness with the sharp clinking of harness as they tossed their
impatient heads; and by the time he had reached the gate the clatter
of china and the sustained chorus of female voices coming through the
open windows made it plain enough that Mabel was 'at home,' in a sense
that was only one degree less disappointing than what he had dreaded.

He was almost inclined to turn back or pass on, for he was feeling ill
and weak--the heat had brought on a slight tendency to the faintness
which still reminded him occasionally of his long prostration in
Ceylon, and he had a nervous disinclination just then to meet a host
of strangers. The desire to see Mabel again prevailed, however, and he
went in. The pretty double drawing-room was full of people, and as
everyone seemed to be talking at once, Vincent's name was merely an
unimportant contribution to the general hubbub. He saw no one he knew,
he was almost the only man there, and for a time found himself penned
up in a corner, reduced to wait patiently until Mabel should discover
him in the cool half-light which filtered through the lowered
sunblinds.

He followed her graceful figure with his eyes as often as it became
visible through the crowd. It was easy to see that she was happy--her
smile was as frank and gay as ever. The knowledge of this should have
consoled him, he had expected it to do so, and yet, to tell the truth,
it was not without its bitterness. Mabel had been his ideal of women,
his fair and peerless queen, and it pained him--as it has pained
unsuccessful lovers before--to think that she could contentedly accept
pinchbeck for gold. It was inconsistent on his part, since he had
sacrificed much for the very object of concealing from her the
baseness of Mark's metal. He forgot, too, the alchemy of love.

But one cannot be always consistent, and this inconsistency of
Vincent's was of that involuntary and mental kind which is not
translated into action.

She saw him at last and welcomed him with an eager impulsiveness--for
she knew now that she had been unjust to him at Laufingen. They talked
for some minutes, until Vincent said at last, 'I hear you are going to
play Beaumelle?'

'Oh, yes,' said Mabel. 'Isn't it presumption? But Mrs. Featherstone
(you've met her once or twice at our house, you know)--Mrs.
Featherstone would not hear of my refusing. Mark, I believe, thinks
the part hardly suited to me, but I mean to try and astonish him, even
though I may not carry out his own idea. I love Beaumelle in the book
so much that I ought not to be quite a failure in the play.'

'No, you will not fail,' said Vincent, and dared not say more on that
point. 'I--I should like very much to see this play,' he said, a
little awkwardly. 'Could it be managed?'

'I will try,' said Mabel. 'I am sure Mrs. Featherstone will give me a
card for you if she can. But I warn you, Vincent, it's not a good
play. There's one strong scene in the third act, and the rest is a
long succession of _tete-a-tete_--like a society "Punch and Judy." It
will bore you.'

'I think not,' said Vincent, 'and you won't forget, will you?'

'Of course not,' she replied. 'There is Mrs. Featherstone coming in
now. I will ask her at once.'

But Mrs. Featherstone had an air of suppressed flurry and annoyance
which was discouraging, and Gilda's handsome face was dark and a
little defiant, as she followed her mother into the room.

'Can you get away from all these people for two minutes?' said Mrs.
Featherstone, after the first greetings; 'I've something to tell you.'

Mabel took her through the rooms out upon a balcony overlooking the
garden and screened from the sun by a canvas awning. 'We shall be
quiet here,' she said.

Mrs. Featherstone did not speak for some moments. At last she said:
'Oh, my dear, I don't know how to tell you--I can't talk about it with
ordinary patience yet--only think, our foolish, self-willed Gilda told
us this morning that _that_ Mr. Caffyn had proposed to her and she had
accepted him--after all the offers she has refused--isn't it too
shocking to think of? And she won't listen to a word against him, the
silly child is perfectly infatuated!'

'What does Mr. Featherstone say?' asked Mabel, to whom the news was
scarcely a surprise.

'My dear, he knows very well it is all his fault, and that if he
hadn't taken the young man up in that ridiculous way all this would
never have happened--so, of course, he pretends not to see anything so
very unsuitable about the affair--but he doesn't like it, really. How
can he? Gilda might have married into the peerage--and now she is
going to do this! I'm almost afraid these theatricals have brought it
on.'

Mabel was sincerely sorry. She was fond of Gilda, and thought her far
too good for Harold. 'It may come to nothing after all,' she said, as
the only form of consolation she could think of.

'If I could hope so!' sighed the distressed mother, 'but she is so
headstrong. Still, he's not in a position to marry at present--unless
Robert is insane enough to advance him to one. Would you speak to her?
It would be so sweet of you if you only would!'

But Mabel felt obliged to decline so delicate a mission, and excused
herself. Then, as they re-entered the room she mentioned Holroyd's
petition. Mrs. Featherstone recollected him faintly, and was rather
flattered by his anxiety to see her play; but then he was quite a
nonentity, and she was determined to have as brilliant and
representative an audience as possible for the performance.

'My dear,' she said, 'I would if I could, but it's quite out of the
question; my list is overfull as it is, and I haven't an idea where we
shall put all the people who will come; there's so much talk about it
everywhere that we have had next to no refusals. But if he's only
anxious to see the play, and doesn't mind not being seen at it, he
could get some idea of the treatment next Friday if he cares to come
to the dress rehearsal. You know we arranged to run right through it
for the first time. We thought of a small impromptu dance after the
rehearsal, so if Mr. Holroyd would like to come a little earlier I
shall be charmed to see him.'

So Vincent was brought up to the lady, who repeated the invitation to
the rehearsal, which he accepted, as it practically gave him the
opportunity he had desired.

Meanwhile Gilda had drawn Mabel aside towards one of the windows.
'Well,' she said, 'so you have been told the great news?'

Mabel admitted this, and added something as nearly approaching to
congratulation as her conscience allowed.

'Ah,' said Gilda, 'you're on mamma's side.'

'I am on no side,' said Mabel, 'provided he makes you happy.'

'Which you think rather doubtful?' replied Gilda, with a jarring
little laugh. 'Really, Mabel, I do think you might resign him a little
more gracefully!'

'I'm afraid I don't understand you,' said Mabel, proudly.

'No?' said Gilda. 'You are very innocent, dear. I can't undertake to
explain--only I am not altogether blind.'

'I hope not,' said Mabel, and left her. She was afraid that if she
stayed she might be tempted to say what could do no possible good now.

Mrs. Featherstone had gone, with a gracious reminder to Vincent of his
promise to come to the rehearsal. It was late in the afternoon, and
everyone seemed suddenly alarmed at the idea of being the last to go,
the consequence being that the rooms were cleared in an astonishingly
short time. Mabel stopped Vincent as he too was preparing to take his
leave. 'You must stay till Mark comes back, Vincent. He has taken
Dolly to the Academy, really, I believe, to get away from all this.
You haven't seen Dolly since you came back, and she's staying with me
for a few days. You won't go away without seeing her?'

Vincent had been disappointed at not seeing her at the Langtons' the
day before, and waited willingly enough now. It would be some comfort
to know that the child had not forgotten him, and would be glad to see
him. He had not long to wait. A hansom drove up, and the next minute
Dolly came into the room with all her old impetuosity. 'I've come
back, Mab,' she announced, to prevent any mistake on that head. 'We
drove home all the way in a black cab with yellow wheels--didn't you
see it? Oh, and in the Academy there was a little girl with a dog just
like Frisk, and I saw a lot of people I knew, and----'

'Don't you see someone you used to know?' said Mabel, breaking in on
her stream of reminiscences.

'Have you forgotten me, Dolly?' said Vincent, coming forward out of
the shade. His voice was a little harsh from emotion.

The change in the child's face as she saw him was instantaneous and
striking; all the light died out of her face, she flushed vividly, and
then turned deadly pale.

'You knew Vincent wasn't dead really, Dolly?' said Mabel.

'Yes,' whispered Dolly, still shrinking from him, however.

'And is this all you have to say to me, Dolly?' said Vincent, who was
cut to the heart by this reception. Nothing was the same--not even the
love of this child.

Dolly had not been long in recovering from the effect of Caffyn's last
act of terrorism; for a day or two she had trembled, but later, when
she heard of Vincent as away in Italy, she could feel safe from his
anger, and so in time forgot. Now it all revived again; he had sprung
suddenly from nowhere--he was demanding what she had to say for
herself--what should she do?

She clung to Mabel for protection. 'Don't _you_ be cross too!' she
cried. 'Promise me you won't and I'll tell you all about it ... you
don't know.... Harold said you didn't. And I never meant to burn
Vincent's letter. Don't let him be angry!'

Vincent was naturally completely bewildered. 'What is she talking
about?' he asked helplessly.

'I can guess,' said Mabel. 'Come away with me, Dolly, and you shall
tell me all about it upstairs;' and as Dolly was not unwilling to
unburden herself this time, they left Vincent with Mark, who had just
joined them. Mark was uncomfortable and silent for some time when they
were alone, but at last he said: 'I suppose you have been told of
the--the theatricals? I--I couldn't very well help it, you know. I
hope you don't mind?'

'Mind!' said Vincent. 'Why should I mind? What is it to me--now? I
thought that was finally settled at Laufingen.'

'I felt I must explain it, that's all,' said Mark, 'and--and I've a
great deal to bear just now, Holroyd. Life isn't all roses with me, I
assure you. If you could remember that now and then, you might think
less hardly of me!'

'I will try,' Vincent had said, and was about to say more, when Mabel
returned alone. Her eyes were brilliant with anger. Children can
occasionally put the feats of the best constructed phonograph
completely in the shade; everything that Caffyn had told her about
that unfortunate burnt letter Dolly had just reproduced with absolute
fidelity.

'I know what happened to your letter now, Vincent,' Mabel said. 'Mark,
you never would see anything so very bad in the trick Harold played
Dolly about that wretched stamp--see if this doesn't alter your
opinion.' And she told them the whole story, as it has been already
described, except that the motives for so much chicanery were
necessarily dark to her. A little comparison of dates made it clear
beyond a doubt that an envelope with the Ceylon stamp had been burnt
just when Vincent's letter should in the ordinary course have arrived.

'And Dolly says he told her himself it _was_ your letter!' concluded
Mabel.

'Ah,' said Vincent, 'not that that proves it. But I think this time he
has spoken truth; only _why_ has he done all this? Why suppress my
letter and turn Dolly against me?'

'Malice and spite, I suppose,' said Mabel. 'He has some grudge against
you, probably; but go up now, Vincent, and comfort Dolly--you'll find
her in my little writing-room, quite broken-hearted at the idea that
you should be angry with her.'

Vincent went up at once, and was soon able to regain Dolly's complete
confidence. When he had gone, Mabel said to Mark: 'Harold has been
here very often lately, dear. I tried to think better of him when I
saw you wished it--but I can't go on after this, you see that
yourself, don't you?'

Mark was angry himself at what he had heard. Now he knew how Harold
had contrived to get rid of Dolly that afternoon in South Audley
Street, it made him hot and ashamed to think that he had profited by
such a device. He certainly had, from motives he did not care to
analyse himself, persuaded Mabel to tolerate Caffyn as a guest, but
lately even Mark could no longer pretend that his visits were not far
more frequent than welcome.

Something of the old uneasiness in Caffyn's presence had begun to
return, though Mark did not know why. At times before his marriage he
had had moments of panic or mistrust, but he always succeeded in
forgetting the incidents which had aroused them. If Caffyn suspected
anything about 'Illusion' he would have spoken long before, he told
himself. After the interview with Holroyd at Laufingen, he had ceased
to think about the matter--he was safe now. What harm could anyone's
mere suspicion do him? And yet, for all that, he was not sorry to free
himself from further intrusions of a visitor in whose glance he
sometimes surprised a subtle mockery, almost as if his friend had
actually detected his secret and was cynically enjoying the humour of
the thing. It was only imagination on his own part, but it was not a
pleasant fancy.

'He's an infernal scoundrel!' he said, with an indignation that was
only very slightly exaggerated. 'You are right, darling, you shall not
have to see any more of him.'

'But can't he be _punished_, Mark?' asked Mabel, and her eyes shone.

Mark coughed. If this affair were brought to light, some of its later
stages might not appear entirely to his own credit.

'I don't quite see what he could be punished for,' he said.

'Not for stealing a letter?' she asked. 'It was no less.'

'Rather difficult to bring home to him,' he said: 'couldn't be done
without a frightful amount of--of scandal and unpleasantness.'

'No,' said Mabel, thoughtfully, 'I suppose nothing can be done--and
yet, poor Gilda! Do you know she is actually engaged to him? It's
dreadful to think of that now. At least he shall never come here
again, and mother must be told too when I take Dolly back. You will
tell him, Mark, when you meet him that he must not call himself a
friend of ours any longer. You will make him understand that, won't
you?'

'Can't you tell him yourself at one of the rehearsals?' asked Mark.

'I would rather you told him, dear,' she said, 'and there are no
rehearsals till Friday.'

'Oh,' said Mark, 'very well, darling, I will--of course I will!'

He was already beginning to feel that the interview might not be
altogether agreeable.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A PALPABLE HIT.


As Mabel had said, she did not meet Harold Caffyn again until both
were dining at Mrs. Featherstone's on the evening of the first
rehearsal to which Vincent had been favoured with an invitation. The
instant he saw her he felt that some change had taken place in their
relations, that the toleration he had met with since her marriage had
given place to the old suspicion and dislike. It was an early and
informal dinner, the guests being a few of those who were to take part
in the acting later on. Mrs. Featherstone had contrived that Caffyn,
notwithstanding his position as accepted suitor, should not sit next
to Gilda, and on taking his place he found Mabel on his other hand and
his _fiancee_ opposite. As often as he could, he tried to open a
conversation with the former, but she met him coldly and shortly, and
with each attempt he fell back baffled. He might have persevered but
for the consciousness that Gilda's eyes were upon them, for she had
been growing very exacting since the engagement had been formally
declared. But just before the ladies rose he found an opportunity to
say, 'Mabel--Mrs. Ashburn--am I unfortunate enough to have displeased
you lately?'

'Displeased is not the right word,' she said: 'you have done far more
than that.'

'And am I not to be told my offence?' he said, looking at her keenly.

'Not here,' she replied. 'You can ask my husband, if you like.'

'Really?' he said. 'You refer me to him, then? We must try and come to
an understanding together, I suppose.'

'When you have heard him,' she said, 'there is one thing I shall have
to say to you myself.'

'May I come and hear it later?' asked Caffyn, and Mabel gave a little
sign of assent as she left the table.

'I shall send down for you when we're ready,' said Mrs. Featherstone
at the door. 'Will those who have any changes to make mind coming
now--it's so late, and we must get in the way of being punctual.'

One or two who were playing servants or character-parts left the table
immediately; the others remained, and Harold, whose dressing would not
take him long, found himself next to Mark, and rather apart from the
men, at the host's end of the table.

'You're the very man I wanted to have a little talk with!' he began in
an easy conversational manner. 'Your wife seems deucedly annoyed with
me for some reason--she says you can explain. Now, just tell me
quietly without any nonsense--what's it all about, eh?'

Now that Mark had seen the other's conduct in its true light he was
really indignant: Caffyn seemed more undesirable an associate than
ever. He would have been justified in taking a high standpoint from
which to deal with him--since whatever his own errors had been, they
would never be revealed now--but somehow, he adopted an almost
conciliatory tone.

'The fact is,' he replied, with an embarrassed cough, 'it's about that
letter of Holroyd's.'

Caffyn's face slightly changed.

'The devil it is!' he said. 'Thought I'd heard the last of that long
ago!'

'You're likely to hear a good deal more about it, I'm afraid,' said
Mark. 'It has only just come out that it was his, and unopened--you
will find it awkward to contradict.'

Caffyn was silent for a time. Dolly must have spoken again. What a
fool he had been to trust a child a second time!--and yet he had had
no choice. 'Well,' he said at last, 'and what are _you_ going to do
about it?'

Mark's throat grew huskier. It was odd, for there was really no reason
for being afraid of the man. 'Well, I--in short, I may as well tell
you plainly, my wife thinks it is better we should not see any more of
you in future.'

There was a dangerous look in Caffyn's eye which Mark did not at all
like. 'Ah, well, of course you mean to talk her out of that?' he said
lightly.

Was there a concealed menace in his tone? If so, Mark thought, he
probably considered that his services connected with Vincent's sudden
return gave him a claim. Well, he must disabuse him of that idea at
once.

'It would be of no use if I tried to talk her out of it; but, to be
quite candid, I--I don't intend to do anything of the kind.... I know
we've been friends and all that sort of thing, and till I knew this I
always said what I could for you; but--but this suppressing a letter
is very different. I can't feel the same myself for you after that, it
is better to tell you so distinctly. And then--there is poor little
Dolly--she is my sister now--it seems you have been frightening her a
second time.'

'On whose account--eh, Ashburn?' asked Caffyn.

Mark had expected this. 'I'm sorry to say on mine,' he replied; 'but
if I had known, do you suppose that for one moment---- I don't deny
that, as I told you at the time, I was glad to see Holroyd leave town
just then; but it was--was not so important as all that! Still you did
me a service, and I'm sorry to have to do this, but I can't help
myself. You will find others harder on you than I am!'

'Does that mean that Mrs. Langton has been told this precious story
with all the latest improvements?' asked Caffyn.

'Not yet,' said Mark, 'but she must know before long.'

'And as for yourself, you consider me such an utterly irreclaimable
blackguard that you can't afford to be seen with me any longer?'
pursued Caffyn.

'My dear fellow,' protested Mark, 'I don't want to judge you. But, as
far as the conclusion goes, I'm afraid it comes to that!'

'Perhaps, it has not quite come to that yet,' said Caffyn, as he drew
his chair closer to Mark's, and, resting one arm on the back, looked
him full in the face with searching intensity. 'Are you sure you have
the right to be so very exclusive?'

If Mark could have controlled his nerves then, he might have been able
to parry a thrust which, had he only known it, was something of an
experiment. As it was, the unexpectedness of it took him off his
guard, just when he thought he was proof against all surprises. The
ghastly change in him told Caffyn that he had struck the right chord
after all, and a diabolical joy lit his eyes as he leaned forward and
touched his arm affectionately.

'You infernal hypocrite!' he said very softly. 'I know all about it.
Do you hear?'

'About _what_?' gasped the miserable man, and then with a flickering
effort at defiance, 'What do you mean?' he asked, 'tell me what you
are hinting at?'

'Keep quiet,' said Caffyn, 'don't excite yourself: they'll notice
something presently if you look like that! Here are some fellows
coming round with the coffee, wait till they have gone, and I'll tell
you.'

Mark had to wait while one man brought him his cup with the milk and
sugar, and another followed with the coffee. His hands shook and upset
the cream as he tried to take up a lump of sugar.

'I wouldn't take milk if I were you,' advised Caffyn. 'Try a _liqueur_
brandy'--a recommendation to which Mark paid no attention.

It seemed an eternity till the men had gone; all the time Mark tried
to believe this was one of the old dreams which had not visited him
for so long, or, if he was really awake, that Caffyn must have got
hold of something else--not _that_; he had had false alarms like this
before, and nothing had come of them.

Caffyn seemed to have forgotten their recent conversation as he
deliberately sipped his coffee and took a cigarette; he offered Mark
one and it was declined. 'What do you suspect me of having done?'
demanded Mark. 'Oh, my dear fellow, I don't _suspect_ you,' replied
Caffyn, 'I know. You can't play the moralist with me, you high-minded
old paragon!' He spoke with a kind of savage jocularity. 'I tell you I
know that you got your fame and fortune, and even that charming Mabel
of yours, by a meaner trick than I, who don't pretend to be
particular, should care to dirty my hands with. I may have helped a
child to burn a letter--I don't remember that I ever stole a book.
I've been an ass in my time, I dare say, but not quite such an ass as
to go about in a lion's skin!' Mark sat there dumb and terror-stricken.
His buried secret had risen after all--it was all over. He could only
say in his despair--

'Has Holroyd told you?'

Caffyn knew all he wanted when he heard that. 'We won't go into that,'
he said. 'It's quite enough for you that I know. Do you feel quite
such a virtuous horror of continuing my acquaintance now? Couldn't you
bring yourself to overlook my little shortcomings this time? _Must_
you really close your respectable door on me?'

Mark only looked at him.

'You fool,' said Caffyn, 'to give yourself airs with me. I've done you
more than one good turn. I believe I rather liked you--you did the
thing so well that I'm hanged if I should have had the heart to show
you up. And now you _will_ go and make an enemy of me--is it quite
prudent?'

'What do you want me to do?' asked Mark, with his hand shielding his
eyes from the shaded candles near him.

'Now you're getting sensible!' said Caffyn. 'We shall hit it off yet!
You've got some authority over your wife, I suppose? Use it. Stop this
cackle about the letter: make her shut her mouth; I can't afford to
lose the _entree_ to two houses like your father-in-law's and your
own, just now. I can be discreet too--it shall be mouth for mouth. If
you don't--if you stand by and let your wife and her mother go about
spreading this story until I daren't show my face anywhere, why, I
shall take care to come to grief in good company! Mabel can smash me
if you like to let her, but if you do, by ---- it shall bring my sting
out! Is it a bargain?'

Mark hesitated. As they sat there he heard the sounds outside of
arriving carriages and entering footsteps; people were coming in for
this rehearsal. How he loathed the thought of it now! How was he to go
through it?

'We shall have to go presently,' said Caffyn. 'I am waiting for my
answer--yes or no?'

'No,' said Mark. 'I see no use in playing mouse to your cat. Do you
think I don't know that it would come out sooner or later--if not from
you, from _him_? As to forcing my wife to receive you as a friend, I'm
not quite rascal enough for that yet. Do whatever you please!'

It was despair more than anything that drove him to defiance, for his
knowledge of Mabel showed him that the bargain proposed, apart from
its rascality, was an impossible one.

'Well,' said Caffyn, with a shrug, 'you leave me no choice, so in the
course of a day or two, my friend, look out for squally weather!
Whether I sink or swim myself, I shall see _you_ go to the bottom!'

Mr. Featherstone, who was getting slightly tired of the enthusiastic
young amateurs at his end of the table, here suggested an adjournment
to the music-room.

'You'll come and look on, sir, won't you?' said his son.

But the merchant shook his head.

'I think I can hold on till the night itself, Bertie, my boy!' with a
cleverly fielded yawn. 'I hear all about it from your mother. You'll
find me in the billiard-room if you want me, you know!'

Mark rose from the table to which he had sat down with so light a
heart. Black disgrace was before him, the Laufingen crisis had come
again, and this time nothing could save him. He lingered behind the
other men as they mounted the broad staircase, and as he lingered was
overtaken by Vincent, who had just left his hat and overcoat below,
and was about to go upstairs.

'Stop!' cried Mark. 'Don't go up yet, I want to speak to you. Come in
here!' and he almost forced him into the library, which was empty, and
where a lamp was burning.

'So we're on a level after all, are we?' he said savagely, as he shut
the door.

Holroyd simply asked him what he meant.

'You know!' said Mark. 'All that generosity at Laufingen was a sham,
was it--a blind? It didn't suit you that I should give myself up of my
own free will, and so soon, so you put me off my guard! And now'--his
voice was thick with passion as he spoke--'now you have set that
villain, that d----d Caffyn, on me! Chivalrous that, isn't it? I've
fallen into good hands between you!'

Vincent was hardly less angry. 'You think every one is like yourself!'
he said. 'If it is any comfort to you to believe that I can break my
word and betray those who trusted it, believe it--it's not worth my
while to set you right?'

No one who saw his face could doubt that he, at least, was no traitor;
and Mark felt lower than ever as he realised his mistake.

'Forgive me!' he stammered. 'I see, I ought to have known better. I
hardly know what I am saying or doing just now--but Caffyn has found
out everything, and--and who could have told him?'

'If any one betrayed you, it must have been yourself!' said Vincent.
'Look here, Ashburn, don't give it up like this--keep your head, man!
He can't really _know_ this, it must be all guesswork. Did he mention
my name?'

'Yes,' said Mark.

'Well, I must have it out with him, then. What does it matter what he
says if we both contradict him? I think I shall be able to manage
him; only, for Heaven's sake, keep cool, leave everything to me, try
to be your usual self. Where is this rehearsal going on? Let us go
there at once--you'll be wanted!'

Mark said no more just then; he led the way to the music-room, and
then went himself to the part which was screened off as a green-room.

The music-room was a long high gallery, at one end of which the stage
had been set up. There was a small audience of a dozen or so, who were
mostly related to the performers, and admitted only because it had not
been found practicable to keep them out. The rehearsal had just begun
as Vincent entered.

It was much like most rehearsals, and would hardly lose its
tediousness in description. There were constant interruptions and
repetitions, and most of the characters wore the air of people who had
been induced to play a game they thought silly, but who were resolved
to maintain their self-respect as long as possible; this appearance
might be due to an artistic reserve of force in some cases, in others
to nervousness, in nearly all to a limited knowledge of the lines they
had to deliver, and all these causes would certainly be removed 'on
the night,' because the actors said so themselves. Still, on that
particular evening, they prevented the play from being seen to the
best advantage.

It was not a good play, and as a dramatisation of 'Illusion' was worse
than the most sanguine of Mrs. Featherstone's acquaintances could have
foreseen; and yet, as Vincent stood and looked on from the background,
he felt strangely stirred when Mabel was on the stage. She, at least,
had too intense a sympathy with her part to be able to walk through
it, even at a rehearsal, though it would have been absurd to exert her
full powers under the circumstances.

But there were moments in the later scenes (which even Mrs.
Featherstone had not been able to deprive of all power or pathos) when
Mabel was carried away by the emotion she had to represent, and the
anguish in her face and low ringing tones went to Vincent's heart, as
he thought how soon it might become a terrible reality.

He could scarcely bear to see her there simulating a sorrow which was
nothing to that which might be coming upon her, and from which all his
devotion might not save her this time. He was impatient to meet Caffyn
and find out what he knew, and how he might be silenced; but Caffyn
was on the stage continually, in his capacity of stage manager, and
Vincent was forced to wait until his opportunity should present
itself.

It was a relief to him when the rehearsal, after dragging on through
three long acts, came to a premature close, owing to the lateness of
the hour and a decided preference on the part of the younger members
of the company for the dancing which had been promised later as a
bribe, and which they had no intention of sacrificing to a fourth
act--for art must not be too long with amateurs.

The room was being cleared accordingly, when Vincent saw his hostess
coming with Caffyn in his direction, and heard her say, 'Well, I
_will_ ask Mr. Holroyd then if you wish it!' She seemed excited and
annoyed, and he thought Caffyn's face bore an odd expression of
triumph. He waited for the question with a heavy anticipation.

'Mr. Caffyn tells me you're quite an authority,' began Mrs.
Featherstone (she had not yet found herself able to mention him as
'Harold'). 'You heard our little discussion about the close of that
third act, just now? Now do tell me, how did it strike _you_?'

This appeal was an unexpected relief to him; he protested that he was
not qualified to express any opinion.

'Now really,' said Caffyn, 'that won't quite do; we know how
interested you are in the book.'

'We are so grateful for the least little hint,' simpered Mrs.
Featherstone, 'and it is so useful to know how a scene strikes just
the ordinary observer, you know; so if you did notice anything, don't,
_please_, be afraid to mention it!'

Vincent had told himself that in going there he would be able to put
away all personal association with the play; he had given the book up
once and for all, he only desired to see Mabel once as his lost
heroine. But nature had proved too strong for him after all: the
feebleness of this dramatic version had vexed his instincts as creator
more than he was willing to believe, and when in this very closing
scene the strongest situation in the book had been ruined by the long
and highly unnecessary tirade which had been assigned to the hero,
Vincent's philosophy had been severely shaken.

And so at this, some impulse, too strong for all other considerations,
possessed him to do what he could to remove that particular blemish at
least--it was not wise, but it was absolutely disinterested.

He suggested that a shorter and simpler sentence at the critical
moment might prove more effective than a long set speech.

Mrs. Featherstone smiled an annoyed little smile. 'You don't quite
understand the point,' she said. 'There was no question about the
_text_--I had no idea of altering that: we are merely in doubt as to
the various positions at the fall of the curtain!'

'I'm afraid I've no suggestions to make, then,' said Vincent, not
without some inward heat.

'Oh, but,' put in Caffyn, and his lip curled with malicious enjoyment,
'give us an idea of the short simple sentence you would
substitute--it's easy enough to make a general criticism of that
sort.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Mrs. Featherstone. 'That is only fair, Mr.
Holroyd!'

If he had been cooler he might have resisted what was obviously a
challenge from the enemy, but just then he had lost some of his usual
self-control. 'Something of this kind,' he said, and gave the line he
had originally written.

'Now that is very funny,' said Mrs. Featherstone, icily. 'Really. Why,
do you know, my dear Mr. Holroyd, that the speech you find such fault
with happens to be just _the_ one I took entire from the book itself!'
And it was in fact one of Mark's improvements.

Vincent then saw for the first time that Mabel had joined the group,
and he was angry with himself for his folly.

'Where has Ashburn got to? We _must_ tell him that!' cried Caffyn.
'That distinguished man has been keeping out of the way all the
evening. There he is over there in the corner!' and he gave him a sign
that he was wanted. No one had seen Mark for some little time, and he
had interfered very little during the rehearsal. Now as he came
towards them he looked shaken and ill.

'My dear fellow,' said Caffyn, 'this presumptuous man here has been
suggesting that your immortal dialogue wants cutting badly. Crush
him!'

'He has every right to his opinion,' said Mark, with an effort.

'Ah,' said Caffyn with a keen appreciation of the situation, 'but just
explain your views to him, Holroyd. He _may_ think there's something
in them!'

'It is a pity,' said Mabel, 'that Mark's book should have been without
the advantage of Mr. Holroyd's assistance so long!'

She was the more angry with Vincent because she felt that he was
right.

'I don't think I quite deserved that,' said Vincent, sadly. 'If my
opinion had not been asked I should not have ventured to criticise;
and, now that I know that I have the book against me, of course I have
nothing more to say. _You_ seem to have misunderstood me a little,' he
added, looking straight at Caffyn. 'If you can give me a minute I
could easily explain all I meant.'

Caffyn understood. 'In private, I suppose?' he suggested softly, as he
drew Vincent a little aside. 'I thought as much,' said Caffyn, as the
other assented; 'they're going to dance here. Come up on the stage:
it's clear now, and the rag's down.'

He led the way up the wooden steps by the proscenium, pushed aside the
gold-and-crimson hangings, and they were in comparative darkness and
absolute privacy immediately.

'Now,' began Vincent, 'you had some object in saying what you did down
there. What was it?'

Caffyn had seated himself on the edge of a table which had been
rolled into a corner with some other stage furniture. He smiled with
much sweetness as he replied, 'I say, you know, we'd better come to
the point. I know all about it!'

Only the pressing need of discovering the full extent of the other's
information kept Vincent from some outburst.

'What do you know?' he demanded.

'Well,' said Caffyn, 'I know that you are the real pig, so to speak,
and that miserable humbug Ashburn's only the squeak.'

'You mean you think you know that--what is your authority?'

'Now,' protested Caffyn, in a tone of injury, 'do you think I should
venture on a bold statement like that without anything to back my
opinion?'

'And if Ashburn and I both deny your bold statement--what becomes of
it?'

'Ashburn has not denied it, and if he did I could put my hand on some
written evidence which would go a long way to settle the question.'

'I should like to see your evidence,' said Vincent.

'I was sure you would,' said Caffyn, 'but I don't happen to have it
here; in fact, the papers which contain it are in the charge of a very
dear friend of mine, who chanced to discover them.'

Vincent did not believe him.

'Perhaps you can describe them?' he asked quickly.

'Aha!' said Caffyn, 'I've made you sit up, as they say across the
water. Oh, I'll give you every information. Those papers are of
interest to the collector of literary curiosities as being beyond a
doubt the original rough draft of that remarkable work "Illusion,"
then better known as--let me see, was it "Glow-worms"? no--something
like it, "Glamour!" They were found in your late rooms, and one
needn't be an expert to recognise that peculiar fist of yours. Are you
satisfied?'

Vincent had not expected this, having fancied that his loose papers
had all been destroyed, as he had certainly intended them to be on
leaving England. He was silent for some seconds, then he said: 'You
must get those papers for me: they are mine.'

'But, my dear fellow,' argued Caffyn, 'what earthly use can they be to
_you_?'

'What business is that of yours?' retorted Vincent. 'I want them--I
mean to have them.'

'You won't do any good by taking that tone with _me_, you know. Just
listen to reason: if you produce these papers yourself, you'll only be
laughed at for your pains. You must let some one else manage the
business for you. You can't smash Ashburn alone--you can't indeed!'

'And who told you,' said Vincent, 'that I want to smash Ashburn?'

'For Heaven's sake don't _you_ turn hypocrite!' drawled Caffyn. 'You
can speak out now--if you've got anything inside you but sawdust, of
_course_ you want to smash Ashburn! I saw your game long ago.'

'Did you?' said Vincent, who began to have the greatest difficulty in
keeping his temper. 'And what was my game?'

'Why,' explained Caffyn, 'you knew well enough that if you set up a
claim like that on your mere word, you wouldn't find many to believe
you, and you didn't feel up to such a fight as you would have before
you; so you've very prudently been lying low till you could get Master
Mark off his guard, or till something turned up to help you. Now's
your time. _I'll_ help you!'

'Then, once more, get me those papers,' said Vincent.

'To think,' observed Caffyn, with pity, 'that the man who could write
"Illusion" should be so dense. Don't I tell you you must keep in the
background? You leave it all to me. There's a literary fellow I know
who's on lots of journals that like nothing better than taking up
cases like yours, when they're satisfied there's something in them. I
can manage all that for you, and in a few days look out for an article
that will do Ashburn's business for him. You needn't be afraid of his
fighting--he'll never have the nerve to bring a libel action! But you
can't work this yourself; in your hands all that evidence is waste
paper--it's the date and manner of its discovery which must be proved
to make it of any value--and that's where _I_ come in. I need scarcely
tell you perhaps that I don't propose to mix myself up in all this,
unless there is some better understanding between us in the future.'

'You had better be quite plain,' said Vincent. 'What is your
proposal?'

'There has been a little unpleasantness about a letter which little
Dolly Langton and I accidentally----'

'I know the facts, thank you,' interrupted Vincent.

'That makes it easier,' continued the other, unabashed, 'though you've
probably been told the highly  version.'

'I've been told that you bullied that poor child into burning a letter
of mine which you hadn't the courage to suppress for yourself,' said
Vincent.

'Ah, that _is_ the highly  version,' said Caffyn, 'but for the
purposes of the present case we'll assume it to be correct, if you
like. Well, we can't possibly work together if you won't make up your
mind to let bygones be bygones: you understand.'

'I think I do,' said Vincent. 'Provided I forget that a letter of mine
was intercepted and destroyed, unread, by a cowardly, cold-blooded
trick, which if it was not actually a felony came very near
it--provided I forget all that and treat you as an intimate friend of
mine, I shall have your support?'

'Coarsely put,' said Caffyn, 'but you seem to have got hold of the
main point.'

'And if I decline,' said Vincent, 'what then?'

'Why, then,' returned Caffyn, placidly, 'I'm afraid that my friend in
whose custody the papers are, and who really is as casual a person as
I ever met, may mislay those documents or go off somewhere without
leaving his address--which would make things awkward.'

Vincent could stand no more; the anger he had suppressed for some time
broke out at last.

'If you dare to make me an offer like that in any other place than a
friend's house, if you even try to speak to me when we next meet, you
will be unpleasantly surprised at your reception! Do you think any
help you could give me would be worth the disgrace of having you for a
friend? If I am asked my opinion of you, I shall give it, and it will
not be one you would care to quote. As for the papers, tell your
friend (you will not have to go very far to find him)--tell him he may
do what he pleases with them, mislay them, suppress them, burn them,
if he likes--perhaps he will be doing me a greater service than he
imagines!'

He was afraid that he might have betrayed his real feelings in the
matter; but Caffyn was too much a man of the world to believe him: he
only thought that the other either had independent means of proving
his claim when he chose, or felt convinced that it would be proved for
him without the necessity of committing himself to any alliance or
compromise. He could not help admiring such strategy even while it
disappointed him.

'You're devilish deep, after all,' he said slowly: 'a little overdone
that last bit, perhaps, but no matter--I can read between the lines.
And now, as I am due for this first dance, and they seem to be
striking up down there, I'll ask you to excuse me. One word--if you
want me to play your little game, don't interfere with mine--you know
what I mean!'

Vincent made no answer, and Caffyn went down to the music-room again,
where about a dozen couples were already dancing. It was a small and
quite informal affair, but one or two people had come in from other
houses, and the room was filled, without the hopeless crush which it
would have contained on an ordinary occasion.

He avoided Gilda, whose eyes, however, were following him watchfully,
and made his way to where Mabel was sitting looking on at the dancing;
for she had declined to take a more active part, and was intending to
make her escape as soon as Mark should come to rescue her.

'I'll try one more chance,' he thought, 'and if that fails----'

Vincent had satisfied himself as he passed through the room after
Caffyn had left him that Mark was not there. He went through a network
of rooms, and out on the staircase, looking for him. Mark had had much
to endure in the way of enthusiastic comments on his own work, and the
delight he was supposed to feel at his wife's rendering of his
heroine, while Mrs. Featherstone had driven him almost frantic by her
persistent appeals, confidences, and suggestions with regard to the
performance. He had chosen a moment when her attention was distracted
to slip out unobserved. He knew he must return soon, but his nerves
would bear no more just then, and, wandering aimlessly from room to
room, he came to one in which some light refreshments had been placed
for those engaged in the rehearsal, and he filled a small tumbler of
champagne from a half-empty bottle he found there, and drank it,
hoping it would give him courage to go back and play his part to the
end. As he put down the glass Vincent came in.

'I was looking for you,' the latter began hurriedly, when he had
satisfied himself that they were not likely to be overheard. 'I have
seen Caffyn!'

'Well?' said Mark, listlessly.

'It is worse than I thought,' was the answer; 'he has got hold of some
papers--Heaven knows how, but he can prove his case. He half
threatened to destroy them, but if I know him he won't; he will use
them to keep his hold over you--we must get the start of him!'

'Yes,' agreed Mark, 'I can disappoint him there, at all events. I'll
go to Fladgate to-morrow, and tell him everything--it's all I can do
now, and the sooner it is over the better!'

'You must do nothing without me!' said Vincent.

Despair made Mark obstinate. 'I wish to God I had spoken out last
Easter! You stopped me then--you shall not stop me this time! I'll
keep that book no longer, whatever the consequences may be.'

'Listen to me,' said Vincent. 'I will take back the book--I see no
other course now; but I claim the right to tell the story myself, and
in my own way. You will not be madman enough to contradict me?'

Mark laughed bitterly. 'If you can tell that story so as to make it
look any better, or any worse, than it is, _I_ won't contradict you,'
he said: 'that is a safe promise!'

'Remember it, then,' said Vincent. 'I will tell you more when I have
thought things out a little. In the meantime, the less we see of that
scoundrel the better. Can't you take Mabel home now?'

'Yes,' said Mark, 'we will go home, and--and you will come to-morrow?'

'To-morrow,' said Vincent. 'Tell her nothing till you have seen me!'

They were returning to the music-room when Mrs. Featherstone passed.

'Have you seen Mr. Caffyn?' she asked Mark. 'I want to talk to him
about the alterations in the fourth act.'

'He went to sit out one of the dances with Mabel, Gilda said, but I
sent her to look for them, and she hasn't come back yet. I think they
must have gone through the Gold Room, and out on the balcony--it's
cooler there.'

When she had passed on out of hearing, Mark turned to Vincent. 'Did
you hear that?' he said. 'Mabel is out there ... with _him_--we are
saved the trouble of telling her anything now ... that devil means to
tell her himself! I can't stay here!'

'Tell me where you are going--for God's sake don't do anything rash!'
cried Vincent. 'You may be wrong!' He caught him by the arm as he
spoke.

'Let me go!' said Mark, wrenching himself free.

Vincent would have accompanied him, but the excitement had turned him
suddenly faint and dizzy, and he found himself obliged to remain where
he was, until the attack passed and left him able to move and think
once more.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

CAFFYN SPRINGS HIS MINE.


'I should like your opinion about those hangings in the Gold Room,'
Caffyn had said to Mabel, for the benefit of any bystanders, as soon
as he reached her chair: 'they seem to me the very thing for the
boudoir scene in the third act. You promised to help me; would it bore
you very much to come now?'

Tired as she was, Mabel made no demur. She knew, of course, that he
wished to speak to her alone, and she had something to say to him
herself, which could not be said too soon. He led her through the room
in question--a luxurious little nest, at an angle of the house,
entered by separate doors from the music-room and the head of the
principal staircase; but he did not think it necessary to waste any
time upon the hangings, and they passed out through one of the two
windows upon the balcony, which had been covered in with striped
canvas for the season.

He drew forward a seat for her and took one himself, but did not speak
for some time. He was apparently waiting for her to begin. A
_tete-a-tete_ with a man to whom one has just forbidden one's house is
necessarily a delicate matter, and, although Mabel did not falter at
all in her purpose, she did feel a certain nervousness which made her
unwilling to speak at first.

'As you leave me to begin,' he said, 'let me ask you if what your
husband has told me just now is true--that you have closed your own
door to me, and mean to induce Mrs. Langton to do the same?'

'It is true,' she replied in a low voice; 'you left me no other
course.'

'You know what the result of that will be, I suppose?' he continued.
'Mrs. Featherstone will soon find out that two such intimate friends
of hers will have nothing to do with me, and she will naturally want
to know the reason. What shall you tell her?'

'That is what I meant to say to you!' she answered. 'I thought I ought
in fairness to tell you--that you might, perhaps, take it as a
warning. If I am asked, though I hope I shall not be, I shall feel
bound to say what I know.'

'Do you think I can't see what you are aiming at in all this?' he
asked; and under his smooth tones there were indications of coming
rage. 'You have set yourself to drive me out of this house!'

'All I wish,' said Mabel, 'is to prevent you as far as I can from ever
tormenting Dolly again--I am determined to do that!'

'You know as well as I do that you will do much more than that. Mrs.
Featherstone does not love me as it is: your conduct will give her the
excuse she wants to get rid of me!'

'I can't help it,' she said firmly. 'And if Gilda is brought to see,
before it is too late, what things you are capable of, it would be the
best thing that could happen for her.'

'It would be more straightforward, wouldn't it, if you told her at
once?' he suggested with a slight sneer: 'it comes to very much the
same thing in the end.'

Mabel had had some searchings of conscience on this very point. Ought
she, she had asked herself, knowing what she knew of Caffyn's past, to
stand by while a girl whom she liked as she did Gilda deceived herself
so grossly? But of late a coldness had sprung up between Gilda and
herself which made it unlikely that any interference would be taken in
good part; and besides, there was something invidious in such a
course, to which she could not bring herself without feeling more
certain than she did that it was necessary and would be of any avail.

'If I was sure I should do the least good, I should certainly tell
her,' Mabel replied; 'but I hope now that it will not be necessary.'

He bit his lips. 'You are exceedingly amiable, I must say,' he
observed; 'but really now, why all this bitterness? What makes you so
anxious to see an obscure individual like myself jilted--and ruined?'

'Am I bitter?' said Mabel. 'I don't think so. You ought to know that I
do not wish for your ruin, but I can't help wishing that this marriage
should be broken off.'

'Ah!' he said softly, 'and may I ask why?'

'Why!' cried Mabel. 'Can you ask? Because you are utterly unworthy of
any nice and good girl--you will make your wife a very miserable
woman, Harold--and you are marrying Gilda for money and position, not
love--you don't know what love means, that is why!'

Even in the half-light which came from the shaded lamps in the room
within she looked very lovely in her indignation, and he hated her the
more for it--it was maddening to feel that he was absolutely
despicable and repulsive in the eyes of this woman, to whose fairness
even hatred itself could not blind him.

'You are unjust,' he said, bending towards her. 'You forget--I loved
_you_! I expected that,' he added, for she had turned impatiently
away; 'it always does rouse some women's contempt to be told of a love
they don't feel in return. But I did love you, as I suppose I never
shall love again. As for Gilda, I don't mind confessing that, on my
side at all events, there is no very passionate emotion. She is
handsome enough in her peculiar style, but then it doesn't happen to
appeal to me. Still, she will bring me money and position, and she
does me the honour (if I may say so without vanity) of caring very
decidedly for _me_--it is fair enough on both sides. What right have
you, what right has any one in the world, to interfere and make
mischief between us?'

'None, perhaps--I don't know,' she said. 'But I have told you that I
shall not interfere. All I am quite sure of is that I am right to
protect Dolly, and, if I am asked, to speak the truth for Gilda's
sake. And I mean to do it.'

'I have told you already what that will end in,' he said. 'Mabel, you
can't really be so relentless! I ask you once more to have some
consideration for me. We were old playmates together once, there was a
time when we were almost lovers, you did not always hate me like this.
You might remember that now. If--if I were to promise not to go near
Dolly----'

'I trusted you once before,' she said, 'you know how you repaid it. I
will make no more terms. Besides, even if I were silent, there are
others who know----'

'None who would not be silent if you wished it,' urged Caffyn,
eagerly. 'Give me one more chance, Mabel!'

'You have had my answer--I shall not change it,' she said: 'now take
me back, please, we have been here long enough.'

Caffyn had been anxious from motives of pure economy to try fair means
first, before resorting to extreme measures: he had tried irony,
argument, flattery, and sentiment, and all in vain. It was time for
his last _coup_. He motioned her to remain as she half rose.

'Not yet,' he said. 'I have something to say to you first, and you
must hear it--you have driven me to it.... Remember that, when I have
finished!'

She sank back again half quelled by the power she felt in the man.
From the streets below came up the constant roll of wheels and
'clip-clop' of hoofs from passing broughams, intermingled now and then
with shouts and shrill whistles telling of early departures from
sundry awning-covered porticoes around.

From the music-room within came the sound of waltz music, only
slightly muffled by doors and hangings: they were playing 'My Queen,'
though she was not conscious of hearing it at the time. In after-time,
however, when that waltz, with the refrain, part dreamy, part
passionate, which even battered brass and iron hammers cannot render
quite commonplace, became popular with street bands and piano-organs,
it was always associated for her with a vague sensation of coming
evil. Caffyn had risen, and stood looking down upon her with a
malignant triumph which made her shudder even then.

'Do you remember,' he said, very clearly and slowly, 'once, when you
had done your best to humiliate me, that I told you I hoped for your
sake I should never have a chance of turning the tables?'

He paused, while she looked up at him with her eyebrows drawn and her
lips slightly parted.

'I think my chance has come,' he continued, seeing that she did not
mean to answer, 'really I do. When I have told you what I am going to
tell you, all that pretty disdain and superiority of yours will vanish
like smoke, and in a minute or two you will be begging my silence at
any price, and you shall accept my terms!'

'I do not think so,' said Mabel, bravely: only her own curiosity and
the suggestion of some hidden power in the other's manner kept her
from refusing to remain there any longer.

'I do,' said Caffyn. 'Ah, Mabel, you are a happy woman, with a husband
who is the ideal of genius and goodness and good looks. What will you
say, I wonder, when I tell you that you owe all this happiness to me?
It's true. I watched the growth of your affection with the deepest
interest, and at the critical moment, when an unexpected obstacle to
your union turned up, it was I who removed it at considerable personal
sacrifice. Aren't you grateful? Well, between ourselves, I could
scarcely expect gratitude.'

'I--I don't understand,' she said.

'I am going to explain,' he rejoined. 'You have been pitying poor
Gilda for throwing herself away on a worthless wretch like me. Keep
your pity, you will want it yourself perhaps! Do you understand now? I
let you marry Mark, because I could think of no revenge so lasting and
so perfect!'

She rose quickly. 'I have heard enough,' she said: 'you must be mad to
dare to talk like this.... Let me go, you hurt me.' He had caught her
arm above her long glove, and held it tight for a moment, while he
bent his face down close to hers, and looked into her eyes with a
cruel light in his own.

'You shall not go till you have heard me out,' he said between his
teeth. 'You have married a common impostor, an impudent swindler--do
you understand? I knew it long ago ... I could have exposed him fifty
times if I had chosen! A few lines from me to the proper quarter, and
the whole story would be public property to-morrow--as fine a scandal
as literary London has had for ages; and, by Heaven, Mabel, if you
don't treat me decently, I'll speak out! I see you can't take my word
for all this. Perhaps you will take your husband's? Ask him if his
past has no secrets (there should be none between you now, you know):
ask him----'

He would have said more, but she freed herself suddenly from his grasp
and turned on him from the window. 'You coward,' she cried scornfully,
'I am not Dolly--you cannot frighten me!'

He was not prepared for this, having counted upon an instant surrender
which would enable him to dictate his own terms. 'I don't want to
frighten you,' he said sulkily: 'I only want you to see that I don't
mean to be trifled with!' He had followed her to the window, meaning
to induce her to return, but all at once he stepped back hastily.
'There's some one coming,' he said in a rapid undertone: 'it's Mrs.
Featherstone. Mabel--you won't be mad enough to tell her!'

'You shall see,' said Mabel, and the next moment she had taken refuge
by the side of her hostess, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed
with anger. 'Mrs. Featherstone,' she said, almost clinging to her in
her excitement, 'let me go back with you, anywhere where I shall be
safe from that man!'

Caffyn was no longer visible, having retired to the balcony, so that
the elder lady was somewhat bewildered by this appeal, especially as
she did not quite catch it. 'Of course you shall go back with me if
you want to,' she said; 'but are you all alone here? I thought I
should find Mr. Caffyn. Where is he?'

'There, on the balcony,' said Mabel. 'It is no wonder that he is
ashamed to show himself!'

At this Caffyn judged it advisable to appear.

'I don't exactly know _why_ I should be afraid,' he said, with a
rather awkward ease. 'Are you going to publish our little quarrel,
Mrs. Ashburn? Is it worth while, do you think?'

'It was no quarrel,' retorted Mabel. 'Will you tell Mrs. Featherstone
what you dared to say to me, or must I?'

Mrs. Featherstone looked from one to the other with growing
uneasiness. It would be very awkward to have any unpleasantness in her
little company when the play was so far advanced. On the other hand,
she was not disposed to soften matters for a man she disliked so
heartily as Harold Caffyn.

'Mabel, dearest, tell me what it is all about,' she said. 'If he has
insulted you, he shall answer to me for it!'

'He insulted my husband,' said Mabel. 'I _will_ speak, Harold, I am
not afraid, though I know you have every reason to wish your words
forgotten. He said----'

Here Caffyn interrupted her: he had made up his mind the only thing he
could do with his secret now was to use it to spike the enemy's guns.
Mabel was rash enough to insist on an explanation: she should have it.

'One moment,' he said. 'If you still insist on it, I will repeat what
I said presently. I was trying to prepare Mrs. Ashburn for a very
painful disclosure,' he explained to Mrs. Featherstone--'a disclosure
which, considering my position in the family, I felt it would be my
duty to make before long. I could not possibly foresee that she would
take it like this. If you think a little, Mrs. Ashburn, I am sure you
will see that this is not the time or place for a very delicate and
unpleasant business.'

'He pretends that Mark is an impostor--that he knows some secret of
his!' Mabel broke in vehemently. 'He did not speak of it as he tries
to make you believe ... he threatened me!'

'Dear Mr. Ashburn, whom we all know so well, an impostor--with a
secret! You said that to Mabel?' cried Mrs. Featherstone. 'Why, you
must be mad to talk in that dreadful way--quite mad!'

'My dear Mrs. Featherstone, I assure you I'm perfectly sane,' he
replied. 'The real truth is that the world has been grossly deceived
all this time--no one more so than yourself; but I do beg you not to
force me to speak here, where we might be interrupted at any moment,
and besides, in ordinary consideration to Mrs. Ashburn----'

'You did not consider me very much just now,' she broke in. 'I have
told you that I am not afraid to hear--you cannot get out of it in
that way!'

Mabel was well enough aware that Mark was not flawless, but the idea
that he could be capable of a dishonourable action was grotesque and
monstrous to her, and the only way she could find to punish the man
who could conceive such a charge was to force him to declare it
openly.

Mrs. Featherstone's curiosity and alarm had been strongly roused. She
had taken up this young novelist, her name was publicly connected with
his--if there was anything wrong about him, ought she not to know it?

'My love,' she said to Mabel, taking her hands, 'you know I don't
believe a word of all this--it is some strange mistake, I am sure of
it, but it ought, perhaps, to be cleared up. If I were to speak to Mr.
Caffyn alone now!'

'I shall be very willing,' said Caffyn.

'No!' said Mabel, eagerly, 'if he has anything to say, let him say it
here--Mark must not be stabbed in the dark!'

'It's simply impossible to speak here,' said Caffyn. 'People may come
in at any moment through those doors as soon as this waltz is over.
Mrs. Featherstone will not thank either of us for making a scene.'

'The doors can be locked,' cried Mabel. 'There need be no scene. _May_
they be locked, dear Mrs. Featherstone? He has said too much to be
silent any longer: he _must_ speak now!'

Caffyn stepped lightly to the doors which opened into the music-room;
the key was on his side, and he turned it. The last notes of 'My
Queen' were sounding as he did so, they could hear the sweep and
rustle of dresses as the couples passed.

'We shall not be disturbed now,' he said, unable to quite conceal his
own inclinations: 'they are not likely to come in from the staircase.
If Mrs. Featherstone really insists on my speaking, I can't refuse.'

'Must I, Mabel?' asked the elderly lady, nervously; but Mabel had
turned towards the door leading to the staircase, which had just
opened.

'Here is Mark to answer for himself!' she cried, as she went to meet
him. 'Now, Harold, whatever you have to say against Mark, say it to
his face!'

Mark's entrance was not so opportune as it seemed; he had been
standing unnoticed at the door for some time, waiting until he could
wait no longer. He faced Caffyn now, unflinchingly enough to outward
appearance; but the hand Mabel held in a soft close clasp was
strangely cold and unresponsive.

Caffyn could not have wished for a better opportunity. 'I assure you
this is very painful to me,' he said, 'but you see I cannot help
myself. I must ask Mr. Ashburn first if it is not true that this book
"Illusion," which has rendered him so famous, is not his book at
all--that from beginning to end it was written by another. Is he bold
enough to deny it?'

Mark made no answer. Mabel had almost laughed to hear so preposterous
a question--it was not wonderful that he should scorn to reply.
Suddenly she looked at his face, and her heart sickened. Many
incidents that she had attached no importance to at the time came back
to her now laden with vague but terrible significance ... she would
not doubt him, only--why did he look as if it was true?

'Dear Mr. Ashburn,' said Mrs. Featherstone, 'we know what your answer
will be, but I think--I'm afraid--you ought to say something.'

He turned his ghastly face and haggard eyes to her and at the same
instant withdrew his hand from Mabel's. 'What would you have me say?'
he asked hoarsely. 'I can't deny it ... it is not my book ... from
beginning to end it was written by another.'

And, as he spoke the words, Vincent Holroyd entered the room.

His recent attack of faintness had left him so weak that for some time
he was obliged to remain in a little alcove on the staircase and rest
himself on one of the divans there.

His head was perfectly clear, however, and he had already perfected a
plan by which Mabel would be spared the worst of that which threatened
her. It was simple, and, as far as he could see, quite impossible to
disprove--he would let it be understood that Mark and he had written
the book in collaboration, and that he had desired his own share of
the work to be kept secret.

Mark could not refuse, for Mabel's sake, to second him in this
statement--it was actually true even, for--as Vincent thought with a
grim kind of humour--there was a good deal of Mark's work in the book
as it stood now. He grew feverishly impatient to see Mark and put his
plan into action--there must be time yet, Caffyn could not have been
such a villain as to open Mabel's eyes to the real case! He felt
strong again now; he would go and assure himself this was so. He rose
and, following the direction he had seen Mark take, entered the Gold
Room--only to hear an admission after which no defence seemed
possible.

He stood there just behind Mark, trying to take in what had happened.
There was Mrs. Featherstone struggling to conceal her chagrin and
dismay at the sudden downfall of her dramatic ambition; Mark standing
apart with bent head and hands behind him like a man facing a firing
party; Mabel struck speechless and motionless by the shock; and Caffyn
with the air of one who has fulfilled an unpalatable duty. Vincent
knew it all now--he had come too late!

Mrs. Featherstone made a movement towards him. 'Oh, Mr. Holroyd,' she
said, with a very strained smile, 'you mustn't come in, please:
we're--we're talking over our little play--state secrets, you know!'

Caffyn's smile meant mischief as he said: 'Mr. Holroyd has every right
to be here, my dear Mrs. Featherstone, as you'll allow when I tell you
who he is. He has too much diffidence to assert himself. Mr. Ashburn
has admitted that he did not write "Illusion:" he might have added
that he stole the book in a very treacherous and disgraceful way. I am
sorry to use words of this sort, but when you know all, you will
understand that I have some excuse. Mr. Holroyd can tell you the story
better than I can: he is the man who has been wronged, the real author
of "Illusion"!'

'I've done him a good turn there,' he thought; 'he can't very well
turn against me after that!'

A terrible silence followed his words; Vincent's brain whirled, he
could think of nothing. Mabel was the first to move or speak: she went
to Mark's side as he stood silent and alone before his accuser, and
touched his arm. 'Mark,' she said in an agonised whisper, 'do you
hear? ... tell them ... it is not true--oh, I can't believe it--I
won't--only speak!'

Vincent's heart swelled with a passionate devotion for her as she
raised her fair face, blanched and stricken with an agony of doubt and
hope, to her husband's averted eyes. How she loved him. What would
_he_ not have given for love like that? His own feelings were too true
and loyal, however, to wish even for a moment to see the love and
faith die out of her face, slain for ever by some shameful confession.

Was it too late to save her even now? His brain cleared suddenly--a
way of escape had opened to him.

In the meantime two newcomers had entered. Mr. Featherstone, hearing
voices, had brought up Mr. Langton, who had 'looked in' on his way
from the House, and for some time remained under the impression that
they had interrupted some kind of informal rehearsal. 'Still at the
theatricals, eh?' he observed, as he came in. 'Go on, don't let us
disturb you. Capital, capital!' 'Langton,' whispered the other,
pulling him back, 'they're--they're _not acting_--I'm afraid
something's the matter!' and the two waited to gather some idea of
what was happening.

Before Mark could reply, if he meant to reply, to Mabel's appeal,
Vincent had anticipated him. 'Mrs. Ashburn--Mabel,' he said, 'you are
right to trust in his honour--it is _not_ true. I can explain
everything.'

The instant joy and relief in her face as she clung fondly to Mark's
arm repaid him and gave him strength and courage to go on. Mark looked
round with a stunned wonder. What could be said or done to save him
_now_? he thought. Vincent was mad to try. But the latter put his
hand, as if affectionately, on his shoulder with a warning pressure,
and he said nothing.

'Do you mean,' said Caffyn to Holroyd, with an angry sneer, 'that I
told a lie--that you did _not_ write "Illusion"?'

'That was not the lie,' returned Vincent. 'I did write "Illusion." It
is untrue that Mr. Ashburn's conduct in the matter does him anything
but credit. May I tell my story here, Mrs. Featherstone?'

'Oh, by all means,' said that lady, not too graciously: 'we can't know
the facts too soon.'

'I wrote the book,' said Vincent, 'before I went out to Ceylon. I was
at the Bar then, and had thoughts of practising again at some future
time. I had a fancy (which was foolish, I dare say) to keep the fact
that I had written a novel a close secret. So I entrusted the
manuscript to my good friend, Mr. Ashburn, leaving him to arrange, if
he could, for its publication, and I charged him to keep my secret by
every means in his power. In fact, I was so much in earnest about it
that I made him give me his solemn promise that, if he could not
shield me in any other way, he would do so with his own name. I did
not really believe then that that would be necessary, or even that the
book would be accepted, but I knew Mr. Ashburn wrote novels himself,
and I hoped the arrangement would not do him any actual harm.'

Till then he had gone on fluently enough; it was merely a modification
of his original idea, with a considerable blending of the actual
facts, but he felt that there were difficulties to come which it
would require all his skill to avoid.

'I was detained, as you know, for more than a year in Ceylon, and
unable most of the time to write to England,' he continued. 'When I
came home, I found--I was told that the book had obtained a success
neither of us ever dreamed of: curiosity had been aroused, and Mr.
Ashburn had found himself driven to keep his promise. He--he was
anxious that I should release him and clear the matter up. I--I--it
was not convenient for me to do so just then, and I induced him--he
could hardly refuse, perhaps--to keep up the disguise a little longer.
We had just arranged to make everything known shortly, when Mr. Caffyn
anticipated us. And that is really all there is to tell about that.'

Throughout Vincent's explanation Caffyn had been inwardly raging at
the thought that his victims might actually succeed in escaping after
all. Forcing an indulgent laugh, he said, 'My dear fellow, it's very
kind and generous of you to say all that, and it sounds very pretty
and almost probable, but you can't expect us seriously to believe it,
you know!'

For an instant this remark appeared to produce a reaction; but it
vanished at Vincent's reply. His pale worn face flushed angrily as he
faced him.

'No one seriously expects _you_ to believe in such things as honour
and friendship!' he said contemptuously. 'I am going to deal with your
share in this now. Mrs. Featherstone,' he added, 'will you forgive me
if I am obliged to pain you by anything I may have to say? That man
has thought fit to bring a disgraceful charge against my friend
here--it is only right that you should know how little he deserves
credit!'

Secretly Mrs. Featherstone was only too glad to see Caffyn
discomfited, but all she did was to say stiffly, 'Oh, pray don't
consider my feelings, Mr. Holroyd!'

Vincent's indignation was enough in itself to make him merciless, and
then, as a matter of policy, he was determined to disable the enemy
to the utmost. Everything that had come to his knowledge of Caffyn's
proceedings he now exposed with biting irony. He told the story of the
letter, suppressed to all appearances out of gratuitous malice, and of
the cruel terrorism exercised over little Dolly; he showed how Caffyn
had tried to profit by his supposed discovery of the fraud, and how
Mark had studiously refrained from undeceiving him, and gave a
damaging description of the sordid threats and proposals he had
himself received that evening. 'This is the high-minded gentleman who,
acting under a keen sense of duty, has chosen to denounce Mr. Ashburn
just now,' he concluded.

The victory was won. Caffyn's face was livid as he heard him--he had
never foreseen such black ingratitude as this, and it upset all his
calculations. He still had his doubts, after so many careful
experiments, that the story of Vincent's was a fabrication, even
though it was not absolutely inconsistent with what he had observed,
and he could see no motive for shielding the culprit. But it was plain
that every one there believed it--Vincent's word would be taken before
his--he was thoroughly beaten.

No one had seen Gilda come in, but she had been standing for some time
with red eyes and flushed face by one of the windows, and in the
general stir which followed Vincent's explanation Mr. Featherstone
came up to her.

'Well,' he said, 'we've been treated to a very pretty story this
evening. This is the young gentleman you're going to give me for a
son-in-law, is it, Gilda? But of course you don't believe a word
against him!'

'I believe it all--and more!' she said with a passionate sob.

Caffyn turned to her. 'You too, Gilda!' he cried pathetically.

'You might have deceived me even after this,' she said, 'only--mamma
sent me to go and fetch you--I heard you out there on the balcony,
talking to Mabel, and--and I went out by the other window, this one,
and along the balcony to the corner----'

'And, in point of fact, you listened!' he said.

'Yes, I did,' she retorted, 'and I shall be glad of it all my life. I
heard enough to save me from you!'

She left him there and flew to Mabel, whom she embraced with a
remorseful hug.

'You darling!' she whispered, 'what a wicked fool I was ever to be
jealous of you--and about _him_. You will forgive me, won't you? And I
am so glad about poor dear Mr. Ashburn.'

Mr. Featherstone tapped Caffyn lightly on the shoulder.

'Well, Master Harold,' he said, 'have you got anything to say? With
all this suppressing, and plotting, and bullying, and threatening, and
the rest of it--it strikes me you have made a d----d fool of
yourself!'

The same idea had already occurred to Caffyn. He had been admirably
cool and cautious; he had devoted all his energies to securing Mabel's
marriage to Mark; he had watched and waited and sprung his mine with
every precaution--and he was the only person it had blown up! His
schemes had failed exactly like a common fool's--which was painful to
reflect upon.

'If I haven't,' he said with a slight grimace, 'I've been made to look
very like one.'

'You're more rogue than fool, after all,' observed the merchant, with
distressing candour; 'and, by the way, I'm rather particular about
getting all my correspondence, and I invariably prefer to burn my own
letters. I don't think my offices are quite the place for such a
gifted young fellow as you seem to be.'

'You mean I'm to go?' said Caffyn.

'I do,' was the reply. 'I never will have any one about me I can't
trust. I did think once--but that's over--you heard what my girl said
to you!--we'd better part now. I won't deny I'm sorry!'

'Not sorrier than I am, I'll swear!' said Caffyn, with a short laugh.
'Good-bye, Mrs. Featherstone,' he added to that lady, who stood by.
'_You're_ not sorry, are you? Gilda will be a duchess after all--now!'

And he left the house, feeling as he passed out that the very footmen
by the entrance knew of his discomfiture, and carrying away with him
for a lasting recollection Mabel's look of radiant happiness as she
heard Mark so completely vindicated.

'Revenge is sweet,' he thought bitterly, 'but I kept mine too long,
and it's turned devilish sour!'

'Well, my dear,' said Mr. Featherstone to his wife, 'you've been
leaving your other young people to their own devices all this time.
Wouldn't it be as well to go and look after them?'

The dancing had been going on in the adjoining room while all this was
taking place, now and then the doors had been tried by couples in
search of a cool retreat between the waltzes, but no one suspected
what important revelations were being made within.

Mrs. Featherstone was deeply mortified. It was true she had got rid of
a hated presence, but her play--which she had meant to make the
closing event of the season, and by which she had hoped to conquer one
or two of the remaining rungs of the social ladder--her play was
rendered impossible; this affair would get into the society papers,
with every perversion which wit or malice could supply--she would be
made thoroughly ridiculous!

'I'll go,' she said. 'I must get rid of everybody as soon as I
decently can--this shocking business has completely upset me.'

Mark and Vincent were standing together at the door, and as she passed
out she visited some of her pent-up displeasure upon them.

'Well, Mr. Ashburn and Mr. Holroyd,' she said, in tones that were
intended to sound playful, 'I hope you are quite contented with your
little mystification? Such a very original idea on both your parts,
really. How it must have amused you both to see me making such an
absurd exhibition of myself all this time. Seriously, though, I do
consider I have been very, _very_ shabbily treated--you might have
warned me as a friend, Mr. Ashburn, without betraying any one's
confidence! No, don't explain, either of you: I could not bear any
more explanations just now!'

Mr. Langton, as he followed her, took Mark out with him, and as soon
as they were alone gave full vent to his own indignation.

'I don't understand your conceptions of honour,' he said. 'Whatever
your duty might be to Vincent, you clearly had duties towards my
daughter and myself. Do you suppose I should have given her to you if
I had known? It just comes to this, and no sophistry can get over
it--you obtained my consent under false pretences?'

For he was naturally intensely humiliated by the difference these
disclosures must make in his daughter's position, and did not spare
his son-in-law. He said much more to the same effect, and Mark bore it
all without attempting a defence: he still felt a little stunned by
the danger he had passed through, and, after all, he thought, what he
had heard now was nothing to what might have been said to him!

Obeying a glance from Mabel, as the others followed Mrs. Featherstone
back to the music-room, Vincent had remained behind.

'When will you allow this to be generally known?' she asked, and her
voice had a strange new coldness which struck him with terror. Had she
seen through his device? Was it all useless?

'As soon as possible,' he answered gently. 'We shall see the
publishers to-morrow, and then all the details will be arranged.'

'And your triumph will come,' she said bitterly. 'I hope you will be
able to enjoy it!'

'Mabel,' he said earnestly, 'Harold Caffyn forced me to speak
to-night--surely you saw that? I--I did not intend to claim the book
yet.'

'Why didn't you claim it long ago?' she demanded. 'Why must you put
this burden on Mark at all? Surely your secret could have been kept
without that! But you came home and knew what a success Mark's (_your_
book, I beg your pardon--it is strange at first, you know)--what a
success your book had been, and how hard it was making his life for
him--he begged you then, you said, to take back his promise, and
you--you would not. Oh, it was selfish, Vincent, cruelly selfish of
you!'

His sole concern in making that hasty explanation had been to give it
an air of reasonable probability: he had never given a thought till
that moment of the light in which he was presenting his own conduct.
Now, in one terrible instant, it rushed upon him with an overwhelming
force.

'I--I acted for the best,' he said; and even to himself the words
sounded like a sullen apology.

'For _your_ best!' she said. 'The book will be talked of more than
ever now. But did you never think of the false position in which you
were placing Mark? What will become of him after this? People might
have read his books once--they will never read them now--they may even
say that--that Harold Caffyn may have been right. And all that is your
work, Vincent!'

He groaned within him at his helplessness; he stood before her with
bowed head, not daring to raise his eyes, lest he should be tempted to
undo all his work.

'I was proud of Mark,' she continued, 'because I thought he had
written "Illusion." I am prouder now--it is better to be loyal and
true, as Mark has been, than to write the noblest book and sacrifice a
friend to it. There are better things than fame, Vincent!'

Even his devotion was not proof against this last injustice; he raised
his head, and anger burnt in his eyes.

'You tell me that!' he cried passionately. 'As if I had ever cared for
Fame in itself! Mabel, you have no right to say these things to me--do
you hear?--no right! Have some charity, try and believe that there may
be excuses even for me--that if you could know my motives you might
feel you had been unjust!'

'Is there anything I don't know?' she asked, somewhat moved by this
outburst, 'anything you have kept from me?'

'No. You have heard all I have to say--all there is to tell,' he
admitted.

'Then I am not unjust!' she said; 'but if you feel justified in acting
as you have done, so much the better for you, and we shall do no good
by talking any more about it.'

'None whatever,' he agreed.

When he was alone that night he laughed fiercely to himself at the
manner in which his act of devotion had been accepted. All his
sacrifices had ended in making Mabel despise him for calculating
selfishness; he had lost her esteem for ever.

If he had foreseen this, he might have hesitated, deep and unselfish
as his love was; but it was done, and he had saved her. Better, he
tried to think, that she should despise him, than lose her belief in
her husband, and, with it, all that made life fair to her.

But altruism of this kind is a cold and barren consolation. Men do
good by stealth now and then, men submit to misconstruction, but then
it is always permitted to them to dream that, some day, an accident
may bring the good or the truth to light. This was a hope which, by
the nature of the case, Vincent could never entertain, and life was
greyer to him even than before.




CHAPTER XL.

THE EFFECTS OF AN EXPLOSION.


Mrs. Featherstone made no attempt to detain Mark and Mabel as they
took leave of her shortly after that scene in the Gold Room, though
her attitude at parting was conceived in a spirit of frosty
forgiveness.

In the carriage Mark sat silent for some time, staring straight before
him, moodily waiting for Mabel's first words. He had not to wait long;
she had laid her hand softly upon his, and as he turned, he saw that
her eyes were wet and shining. 'Mark,' she said, 'it is you I love,
not that book; and now, when I know all it has cost you--oh, my dear,
my dear--did you think it would make me love you less?'

He could not answer her by words, but he drew her nearer to him till
her head rested upon his shoulder, and so they sat, silent, with hands
clasped, until they reached home.

Seldom again, and only under strong compulsion, did Mabel make any
reference to 'Illusion,' nor was it till long after that he suspected
the depth and reason of her resentment against Vincent--he was content
to feel that her love for himself was unchanged.

But though she strove, and successfully, to hide it from her husband,
this lowering of her ideal caused her a secret anguish; it had always
been difficult to reconcile Mark as his nature seemed revealed in
private life, with the Mark who had written 'Illusion.' One of her
dreams had been that, as their intimacy grew, all reserve would
vanish, and he would speak to her of his inmost thoughts and fancies,
which it seemed almost as if he thought her unable to appreciate as
yet.

Now all this was over, there were no hidden depths to fathom in his
mind, no sublime heights to which she could rise; such as she knew him
now, he was and must remain--not a strong and solitary genius with
lofty thoughts of which he feared to speak freely, not a guide on whom
she could lean unquestioning through life, only a man with a bright
but shallow nature, impulsive and easily led. Even the Quixotic honour
which had led him to entangle himself in complications at another's
bidding showed a mind incapable of clear judgment--or he would have
renounced the rash promise when it began to involve others. Sadly
enough she realised the weakness implied in this, and yet it only
infused a new element of pity and protection in the love she felt for
him, and she adapted herself bravely to the changed conditions of her
life.

After Holroyd had spoken, she had never questioned that his version
was the true one, and Caffyn's charge an infamous fabrication--whatever
she might have been driven to think in that one instant of sickening
doubt.

To a more suspicious nature, perhaps, some of the facts connected with
Vincent's visit to Laufingen might even then have presented
difficulties, but if Mabel had remembered all that had occurred there
more clearly than she did, she would have attached but little
importance to it. The loyal faith she had in her husband's honour
would have accepted as obvious a far less plausible explanation.

On the day following the rehearsal Messrs. Chilton and Fladgate were
made aware of the facts relating to the authorship of 'Illusion,'
whereupon they both expressed a not unnatural annoyance at having
been, as they considered, made the victims of a deception. Mr.
Fladgate, especially, who had always prided himself immensely upon the
sagacity which had led him to detect Mark at once, and who had never
wearied of telling the story, indulged in some strong observations.

Vincent vindicated as well as he could the scheme in which he was the
most guiltless of accessories after the fact, and Mark kept in the
background and said as little as possible; he felt distinctly
uncomfortable, however, when Mr. Chilton drily inquired whether the
same mystification attached to 'Sweet Bells Jangled,' and on being
reassured as to this, observed that it was a little unfortunate that
the matter had not been explained before the latter book had been
brought out. 'If you think you are prejudiced in any way,' Mark said,
flushing angrily, 'we can easily come to some other arrangement!'
'Oh,' said Mr. Chilton, 'I was not thinking of it from a pecuniary
point of view exactly--we shall not lose much--as far as money is
concerned, I dare say!'

'My partner,' explained Mr. Fladgate, 'was thinking of the results
this will have upon our reputation in the trade;' on which Vincent
tried to appease him by promising to make it abundantly clear that the
firm were no parties to the concealment, and as soon as the partners
understood that it was not proposed to disturb any existing
arrangements respecting 'Illusion,' beyond disclosing the truth, and
having some necessary revisions inserted in any future edition, they
parted amicably enough, though Mark was made to understand his altered
standing in the most unmistakable manner.

And in a few days, by means which it is not necessary to particularise
here, the version of the affair given by Vincent at Grosvenor Gardens
was made known to all those who might find it of interest.

The announcement, when it became generally known, caused a certain
amount of surprise and remark, but not nearly so much as might have
been expected. Hawthorne, in his preface to the 'Scarlet Letter,' has
remarked the utter insignificance of literary achievements and aims
beyond the narrow circle which recognises them as important and
legitimate, and the lesson the discovery of this is to the man who
dreams of literary fame. If Vincent needed to learn that lesson, he
learnt it then; no fresh laurels were brought out for him--and the old
ones had withered already; people were beginning to feel slightly
ashamed of their former raptures over 'Illusion,' or had transferred
them to a newer object, and they could not be revived in cold blood,
even for the person legitimately entitled. Jacob had intercepted the
birthright, and for this Esau there was not even the _rechauffe_ of a
blessing.

The people who had lionised Mark were enraged now, and chiefly with
Holroyd; the more ill-natured hinted that there was something shady on
both sides--or why should all that secrecy have been necessary?--but
the less censorious were charitably disposed to think that Ashburn's
weak good-nature had been unscrupulously abused by his more gifted
friend.

Vincent's conduct, if it showed nothing more than a shrinking from
notoriety, was sufficiently offensive, such distaste being necessarily
either cynical or hypocritical. So upon the whole, the reaction which
attends all sudden and violent popularity, and which had already set
in here, was, if anything, furthered by the disclosure.

But this did not greatly distress him. Neglect and fame were alike to
him, now that his lady had withdrawn her countenance from him. He had
resigned himself to the loss of the fairest dream of his life, but it
had been a consolation to him in his loneliness to feel that he might
be her friend still, that he might see her sometimes, that though she
could never love him, he would always possess her confidence and
regard--not much of a consolation, perhaps, to most men, but he had
found a sort of comfort in it. Now that was all over, and his solitude
was left more desolate still; he knew there was no appeal for him, and
that, so long as Mabel believed that he had sacrificed her husband to
his deliberate selfishness, she would never relent towards him. There
were times when he asked himself if he was bound to suffer all this
misconception from the one woman he had ever loved--but he knew always
that in clearing himself he would lay her happiness in ruins, and
resolved to bear his burden to the end, sustained by the conviction,
which every day became clearer, that he would not have to bear it much
longer.

As for Mark, the announcement of the true authorship of 'Illusion'
brought him nothing short of disaster, social and financial. It
produced a temporary demand for 'Sweet Bells Jangled' at the
libraries, but now that things had been explained to them, the most
unlikely persons were able to distinguish the marked inferiority of
the later book.

Those reviews which had waited at first from press of matter or
timidity now condemned it unanimously, and several editors of
periodicals who had requested works from Mark's pen wrote to say that,
as the offer had been made under a misapprehension, he would
understand that they felt compelled to retract the commissions.

Mark's career as a novelist was ended, he had less chance than ever of
getting a publisher's reader to look at his manuscript, the affair had
associated his name with ridicule instead of the scandal which is a
marketable commodity, and might have launched him again; his name upon
a book now would only predestine it to obscurity.

Mabel was made aware in countless little ways of her husband's descent
in popular estimation; he was no longer forced into a central
position in any gathering they happened to form part of, but stood
forlornly in corners, like the rest of humanity. Perhaps he regretted
even the sham celebrity he had enjoyed, for his was a disposition that
rose to any opportunity of self-display--but in time the contrast
ceased to mortify him, for most of the invitations dropped; he was
only asked to places now as the husband of Mabel, and in the height of
the season most of their evenings were passed at home, to the perfect
contentment of both, however.

Mrs. Featherstone had given up her theatricals, in spite of Vincent's
attempt to dissuade her; she had lost some of the principal members of
her little company, and it was too late to recruit them; but her chief
reason was a feeling that she would only escape ridicule very narrowly
as it was, and that the safest course was to allow her own connection
with the affair to be forgotten as speedily as possible.

But she could not forgive Mark, and would have dropped the
acquaintance altogether, if Gilda had not, in the revival of her
affection for Mabel, done all in her power to keep it alive.

Mr. Langton, deeply as he had resented the misrepresentation which had
cost him his daughter, was not a man to do anything which might give
any opening for gossip; he repressed his wife's tendency to become
elegiac on her daughter's account, and treated Mark in public as
before. But on occasions when he dined there _en famille_, and sat
alone with his father-in-law over dessert, there was no attempt to
conceal from him that he was only there on sufferance, and those were
terrible after-dinner sittings to the unfortunate Mark, who was
catechised and lectured on his prospects until he writhed with
humiliation and helpless rage.

At Malakoff Terrace the feeling at the discovery of Mark's true
position was not one of unmixed sorrow--the knowledge that he was,
after all, an ordinary being, one of themselves, had its consolations,
particularly as no lustre from his glorification had shone on them.
Mr. Ashburn felt less like an owl who had accidentally hatched a
cherub, than he had done lately, and his wife considered that a snare
and a pitfall had been removed from her son's path. Cuthbert thought
his elder brother a fool, but probably had never felt more amiable
towards him, while Martha wondered aloud how her sister-in-law liked
it--a speculation which employed her mind not unpleasantly. Only
Trixie felt a sincere and unselfish disappointment; she had been so
proud of her brother's genius, had sympathised so entirely with his
early struggles, had heard of his triumphs with such delight, that it
was hard for her to realise that the book which had done so much for
him was not his work after all. But the blow was softened even to
Trixie, for 'Jack' had been making quite an income lately, and in the
autumn they were going to be married and live in Bedford Park. And of
course Mark had done nothing wrong, she told herself, and he knew all
the time what was coming, so she need not pity him so very much, and
she was sure 'Sweet Bells' was nicer than 'Illusion,' whatever people
chose to say, and ever so much easier to understand.

Several days had passed since the announcements with regard to
'Illusion' had appeared in the literary and other periodicals, and
still Uncle Solomon made no sign--a silence from which Mark augured
the worst. One afternoon Mr. Humpage came to see Mabel: he had heard
of the whole affair from the Langtons, and reproached himself not a
little, now that he knew how utterly without foundation had been his
bitterness against Mark. Mr. Humpage did not approach the question
from the Langton point of view, and was not concerned that Mabel
should have married a man who had turned out to be a nonentity. He had
done all he could to prevent the marriage in his resentment at finding
the daughter of an old friend engaged to the author who had
caricatured him, and his only feeling now was of complete reaction;
the young man was perfectly innocent, and his nephew Harold had
suspected it all this time and never said a word to enlighten him. So
now the old gentleman came in a spirit of violent repentance which
would not allow him to rest until he had re-established his old
relations with his favourite Mabel. She was only too glad to find the
coolness at an end, and he was just expressing his opinion of the part
his nephew had taken, when, to Mabel's dismay, Mr. Lightowler was
announced.

She wished with all her heart that Mark had not happened to be out, as
she glanced apprehensively at her second visitor's face; and yet, as
she saw almost at once, he came in peace--there was none of the
displeasure on his big face which she had expected to see there; on
the contrary, it was expanded with a sort of satisfaction.

Mr. Humpage rose as soon as the other had seated himself. 'Well, my
dear,' he said, lowering his voice as he eyed his enemy with strong
disfavour, 'it's time I went, I dare say. As to what I was saying
about my scamp of a nephew--I only hope _I_ did nothing to encourage
him in the disgraceful way he chose to act; I never meant to, I assure
you. But he won't trouble you any more for a little time, for I
understand he's on his way with one of these theatrical companies to
America, and I hope he'll stay there--he'll get nothing out of me, I'm
ashamed of the fellow, and heartily glad his poor mother was taken
when she was.'

He had spoken rather louder in his excitement, and Uncle Solomon
overheard it, and struck in immediately. 'What, has that nephew of
yours been turning out bad, hey?' he cried; he was quite a child of
nature in his utter freedom from all conventional restraints, as may
have been perceived before this. 'You don't say so, Humpage? Now I'm
sorry to year it; I really am sorry to year that! Not but what, if you
look into it, you'll find there's been a backwardness in doing one's
duty somewhere about, yer know. P'raps, if you'd been more of an uncle
to him, now, if you don't mind my saying so, he'd have turned out
different. You should have kept a tighter hand on him, and as likely
as not he wouldn't have felt the temptation to go wrong.'

'I was speaking to Mrs. Ashburn, Mr. Lightowler,' said the other,
turning round with a rather ugly snarl.

'I 'eard you,' replied Uncle Solomon, calmly, 'that was why I spoke.
Come, come, 'Umpage, don't be nasty--we've been neighbours long enough
to drop nagging. It's no reason because I've got a nephew myself, who
knows his duty and tries to be a pride to an uncle who's behaved
handsomely towards him, it's no reason, I say, why I can't feel for
them that mayn't be able to say as much for themselves.'

'I'm much obliged,' said Mr. Humpage, 'but I don't ask you or anybody
else to feel for me. I am perfectly well able to do everything that's
necessary in that way for myself.'

'Oh, certainly,' was the retort, 'no one can say I ever intruded on
any one. I shan't take the liberty of feeling for you any more after
that, not if you had twenty nephews and all of 'em in the "Police
News," I promise you. And, talking of nephews, Mabel, I wonder if you
came across a letter I wrote to the "Chigbourne and Lamford Gazette,"
a week or so back--I meant to send you a copy, but I forgot--I
forgot.'

'No,' said Mabel, unable to make anything of this extraordinary
mildness, 'I didn't see it.'

'Didn't you now?' he rejoined complacently, 'and yet it got copied
into some of the London papers, too, I was told. Well, I brought a
cutting with me, in case--would you like to hear it?'

Mabel made some assent--she always felt more or less paralysed in the
presence of this terrible relative--and he drew out a folded slip, put
on his spectacles, and proceeded to read:--

   '"To the Editor.--Sir--I write you for the purpose of
   putting you right with respect to a point on which you
   seem to have got hold of an unaccurate version of a
   matter which I may say I have some slight connection
   with. In your issue of the ----th inst., I note that your
   London letter prints the following paragraph:

   '"_Society here is eagerly anticipating the coming
   performance, at one of the most recherche mansions in
   Belgravia, of a dramatic version of Mrs. Ashburn (nee
   Ernstone's) celebrated romance of 'Illusion.' I have been
   favoured with an opportunity of assisting at some of the
   rehearsals, and am in a position to state that the
   representation cannot fail to satisfy even the most
   ardent of the many admirers of the book. The guests will
   include all the leaders of every phase of the beau monde,
   and a repetition of the play will probably be found
   necessary. By the way, it is a somewhat romantic
   circumstance, that the talent displayed by the young
   authoress has already been the means of procuring her a
   brilliant parti, which will remove all necessity for any
   reliance upon her pen for a subsistence in the future._

   '"Now, sir, allow me to correct two glaring errors in the
   above. To start with, the author of "Illusion" is not an
   authoress at all--his real name being Mark Ashburn, as I
   ought to know, considering I happen to occupy the
   position of being his uncle. Next, it is quite true that
   my nephew has contracted a matrimonial alliance, which
   some might call brilliant; but I was not aware till the
   present that the party brought him enough to allow him to
   live independent for the rest of his life, being under
   the impression that there would have been no match of any
   sort if it had not been for a near relative (who shall be
   nameless here) on the author's side coming forward and
   offering to make things comfortable for the young couple.
   But he will have to rely on his pen for all that, as he
   is quite aware that he is not expected to lay on his
   oars, without doing anything more to repay the sacrifices
   that have been wasted on him. Kindly correct, and oblige
   yours,

          '"SOLOMON LIGHTOWLER (the author's uncle)."'

'You know,' he observed when he came to the end, 'it doesn't do to let
these sort o' stories go flying about without contradicting them--but
I put it very quietly and delicately, you see.'

Mabel bit her lip. Was it possible that this dreadful old man knew
nothing--how was she ever to break it to him?

Mr. Humpage had listened to the letter with a grim appreciation. 'You
don't write a bad letter, Lightowler, I must say,' he remarked, with
an irrepressible chuckle, 'but you are a little behind the day with
your facts, ain't you?'

'What d'ye mean by behind the day?' demanded Uncle Solomon.

'Oh, Uncle Antony,' cried Mabel, '_you_ tell him--I can't!'

It is much to be feared that Mr. Humpage was by no means sorry to be
entrusted with such a charge. But if he was not naturally kinder
hearted, he was more acquainted with the amenities of ordinary society
than Mr. Lightowler, and some consideration for Mabel restrained him
then from using his triumph as he might have done. He explained
briefly the arrangement between Vincent and Mark as he understood it,
and the manner in which it had lately been made known. When he had
finished, Uncle Solomon stared stupidly from one to the other, and
then, with a voice that had grown strangely thick, he said, 'I'll
trouble you to say that all over again slowly, if you've no objection.
My head began buzzing, and I couldn't follow it all.'

Mr. Humpage complied, and when he finished for the second time, his
hearer's face was purple and distorted, and Mabel pitied him from her
own experience.

'Dear Mr. Lightowler,' she said, 'you mustn't blame Mark; he had no
choice, he had _promised_.'

'Promised!' Uncle Solomon almost howled; 'what business had he got to
make a promise like that? See what a fool he's made o' _me_--with that
letter of mine in all the London papers! I heard those Manor House
girls gigglin' and laughin' when they drove by the other day, and
thought it was just because they were idjits.... I wish to God I'd let
him starve as a City clerk all his days before I let him bring me to
this. I've lived all this time and never been ridiclous till now, and
he's done it. Ah! and that's not the only thing he's done
either--he's swindled me, done me out o' my money as I've earned. I
could 'ave him up at the Old Bailey for it--and I've a good mind to
say I will, too. I'll----'

'Stop,' said Mabel, 'you have gone quite far enough. I know this is a
great disappointment to you, but I am his wife--you have no right to
say such things to me.'

'No right!' he stormed, 'that's all you know about it. No right,
haven't I? Let me tell you that ever since I was made to think that
feller was a credit to me at last, I've bin allowing him at the rate
of four hundred a year; d'ye think I'd 'a done that for kindly lending
his name to another feller's book? D'ye think he didn't know that well
enough when he took the money? Trust him for takin' all he could get
hold of! But I'll 'ave it back; I'll post him as a swindler, I'll
shame him! Look 'ere; d'ye see this?' and he took out some folded
sheets of blue foolscap from his inner pocket. 'I was goin' to take
this to Ferret on my way home--and it's the codicil to my will, this
is. I was goin' to take it to get it altered, for I've not been
feelin' very well lately, I've not been feelin' very well. This was
made when I thought Mark was a nephew to be proud of--d----n him--and
I can tell yer I left him a pretty tidy plum under it. Now see what I
do with it. No fire, isn't there? Well, it doesn't make any odds.
There ... and there ... and there;' and he tore the papers
passionately across and across several times. 'There's an end of
_your_ husband's chances with me. And that don't make me intestit
neither; there's the will left, and Mark and none of his will ever get
a penny piece under it; he can make his mind easy over that, tell
him.'

His coarse violence had something almost appalling in it, and at first
Mabel had blanched under its force, but her own anger rose now.

'I am glad to think we shall owe nothing to you in future,' she said.
'If Mark has really taken your money, it was because--because he had
this secret to keep; but he will give it all back. Now leave the
house, please. Uncle Antony, will you get him to go away.'

Uncle Solomon, white and shaking, almost shrunken after his outburst
of passion, was standing in the midst of a thick litter of torn paper,
looking like a tree which has shed its last leaves in a sudden gust.

'Don't you touch me, 'Umpage, now,' he said hoarsely; 'I'm quite
capable of going by myself. I--I dessay I let my temper get the better
o' me just now,' he said to Mabel, rather feebly. 'I don't blame you
for taking your husband's part, though he is a--ah, I shall go off my
'ead if I speak any more about it. I'll go--where's your door got to?
Let me alone; I'll find my way. I shall get rid of this dizziness out
in the air;' and he stumbled out of the room, a truly pitiable sight,
with the fondest ambition of his later life mortally wounded.

'Dear Uncle Antony,' cried Mabel, who felt almost sorry for him, 'go
after him, do. Oh, I know you're not friends, but never mind that
now--he ought not to go home alone.'

'Hot-headed old ass!' growled Mr. Humpage; 'but there, there, my dear,
I'll go. I'll keep him in sight at the stations, and see he comes to
no harm.'

Mark had to hear of this when he came home that evening.

'And you really did take his money?' cried Mabel, after hearing his
account. 'Oh, Mark, what made you do that?'

Mark hardly knew himself; he certainly would not have done it if he
had ever imagined the truth would be known; perhaps his ideas of right
and wrong had become rather mixed, or perhaps he persuaded himself
that if he did not exactly deserve the money yet, he would not be long
in doing so.

'Well, darling,' he replied, 'he would have been bitterly offended if
I hadn't, you know, and I didn't know then that it was all done on
account of "Illusion." But, after all, I've only had one year's
allowance, and I'll give him back that to-morrow. He shan't say I
swindled him.'

'I think you ought to do that, dear,' said Mabel. But in her heart
she felt a heavy wonder that he should ever have consented to take the
money at all.

Mark had received a fairly large sum for his second book, out of which
he was well able to refund the allowance, and the next day he went
down to Woodbine Villa, where, instead of the violent scene of
recrimination he had prepared himself to go through, a very different,
if not less painful, experience awaited him. Uncle Solomon had reached
his house safely the day before, but, in relating what he had heard to
his sister, had given way to a second burst of passion, which had
ended in a seizure of some kind.

Mark was allowed to see him, on his own earnest entreaty, and was
struck with remorse when he saw the lamentable state to which his own
conduct had had no small share in reducing the old man. Were the
consequences of that one act of folly and meanness _never_ to cease?
he wondered, wretchedly, as he stood there. His uncle allowed his hand
to be shaken; he even took Mark's cheque with his stiff hand, and made
a sign that his sister was to take charge of it. He could speak, but
his brain had lost all command over his tongue, and what he said had a
ghastly inappropriateness to the occasion. He saw this dully himself,
and gave up the attempt at last, and began to cry piteously at his
inability to convey his meaning; whether he wished for a
reconciliation then or nursed his rage to the last, Mark never knew.
He went down on several other occasions during his uncle's lingering
illness, but always with the same result. Mr. Lightowler suffered all
the tortures of perfect consciousness, combined with the powerlessness
to express any but the most simple wish: if he desired to undo the
past in any way, no one divined his intention or helped him to carry
it out; and when the end came suddenly, it was found that he had not
died intestate, and the will, after giving a certain annuity to the
sister who had lived with him, left the bulk of his estate to go in
founding Lightowler scholarships in the School for Commercial
Travellers' Orphans. The Ashburn family were given trifling legacies;
Mark, however, 'having seen fit to go his own way in life, and render
useless all the expense to which I have been put for his advancement,'
was expressly excepted from taking any benefit under the will.

But Mark had expected nothing else, and long before his anticipations
were verified he had found it necessary to consider seriously how he
was to support himself for the future. Literature, as has been said,
was now out of the question; in fact, its fascination for him had
faded. Mabel had a fair income settled upon her, but in ordinary
self-respect he could not live upon that, and so he sought about for
some opening. At first he had firmly resolved never to go back to his
old school life, after having done so much to escape from it; but as
he began to see that any profession that required capital was closed
to him, and business being equally impossible, he was forced to think
of again becoming a schoolmaster. And then he heard by accident that
old Mr. Shelford was about to resign his post at St. Peter's, and it
occurred to him that it might be worth his while to go and see him,
and find out if the vacancy was unfilled, and if there was any chance
for himself. It was not a pleasant thing to do, for he had not seen
the old gentleman lately, and dreaded equally innocent congratulations
and brusque irony, according to the state of his information. He went
up to St. Peter's, timing his arrival after school, when the boys
would all have left, except the classes which remained an hour longer
for extra subjects. Mr. Shelford always lingered for some time, and he
would be very certain to find him. Mark went along the dark corridors,
rather shrinking as he did so from the idea of being recognised by a
passing member of the staff, till he came to the door he knew.

Mr. Shelford was still in cap and gown, dictating the week's marks to
his monitor, who was entering them, with a long-suffering expression
on his face, into a sort of ledger. 'Now we come to Robinson,' the old
gentleman was saying; 'you're sure you've got the right place, eh? Go
on, then. _Latin repetition_, thirty-eight; Latin prose,
thirty-six--if you don't take care, Master Maxwell, Robinson'll be
carrying off the prize this term, he's creeping up to you, sir,
creeping up; Roman History'--and here he saw Mark, and dismissed the
monitor unceremoniously enough.

He evidently knew the whole story of 'Illusion,' for his first words
after they were alone together were, 'And so you've been a sort of
warming-pan all this time, eh?'

'That's all,' said Mark, gloomily.

'Well, well,' the old gentleman continued, not unkindly, 'you made a
rash promise and kept it like a man, even when it must have been
uncommonly disagreeable. I like you for that, Ashburn. And what are
you thinking of turning to now?'

Mark explained his errand not very fluently, and Mr. Shelford heard
him out with his mouth working impatiently, and his eyes wrinkled till
Mark thought how much he had aged lately.

'Well,' he said, pushing back his cap and leaning back in his chair,
'have you thought this out, Ashburn? You were rid of this life a short
time back, and I was glad of it, for you never were fit for it. And
now you're coming back again! I make no doubt they'll be very willing
to have you here, and if a word from me to the Council--but is there
really nothing else but this? Why, I'm counting the days to my own
deliverance now, and it's odd to find some one asking me to recommend
him for my oar and chain! No, no, a dashing young fellow like you,
sir, can do better for himself than a junior mastership for his final
goal. Take warning by me, as I used to tell you--do you want to come
to this sort of thing? sitting from morning to noon in this stifling
den, filled with a rabble of impident boys--d'ye think they'll have
any respect for your old age and infirmities? not they--they'll call
you "Old Ashes"--for they're a yumorous race, boys are, they'll call
you "Old Ashes," or "Cinders" to your nose, as soon as they think
you're old enough to stand it. Why, they don't put any more kittens in
my desk now--they've found out I like cats. So they put
blackbeetles--do you like blackbeetles, eh? Well, you'll come to
beetles in time. It's a mistake, Ashburn, it's a mistake for
impulsive, hot-tempered men like you to turn schoolmaster--leave it
to cold, impassive fellows who don't care enough about the boys to be
sensitive or partial--they're the men to stand the life!'

Here a demon voice shrilled, ''Ullo, Shellfish, Old Shells, yah!'
through the keyhole, and his footsteps were heard down the flags
outside running for dear life. The old gentleman, crimson with rage,
bounded to the door: 'Stop that scoundrel, that impident boy, bring
him back!' But the boy had gone, and he came back panting and
coughing: 'That's a commentary on what I've been saying,' he said;
'I'm an old fool to show I care--but I can't help it, and they know
it, confound 'em! Well, to come back to you, Ashburn, you're married
now, I hear; you won't find a mastership much support as time goes on,
unless you started a boarding-house--the idea of never escaping from
these young ruffians, ugh! No, no, didn't you tell me once you were
called to the Bar?'

'Not called,' corrected Mark, 'I have passed the examination, though;
there is only the ceremony to be gone through.'

'Why not go through it, and try your fortune as a barrister, then,
you're just the man for a jury? We shall have you taking silk in ten
years.'

Mark laughed bitterly. 'How am I to live till I get a practice?' he
said; 'I've only a couple of hundred or so left in the world, and that
would scarcely pay for my fees and chambers for more than a year.'

'Ah, is that so? I see,' said the old gentleman, 'yes, yes--but, see
here, Ashburn, start all the same with what you've got, who knows how
soon you may get work--can't your father-in-law do anything for you?
and while you're waiting, why not take some pupils under the rose, eh?
I was asked the other day to recommend a coach to two young rascals
who want to be forked into the Civil Service. You could do that for
them if you liked, and they'd bring you others. And--and I'm going to
take a liberty very likely, but I've put by a little money in the
course of my life, and I've no one to leave it to. I don't know how it
is, but I feel an interest in you, Ashburn; perhaps I want somebody
to be sorry for me when I'm gone, anyway, I--I wish you'd let me see
you through any money difficulties till you're fairly started--it
won't be long now, I'll wager, you can treat it as a loan if you
prefer it. I want you to give yourself a chance at the Bar. Don't
refuse me now, or I shall take it unkindly.'

Mark was deeply touched, he had not suspected Mr. Shelford of really
caring about him, and the kindness and sympathy of this offer made him
feel how little he deserved such friendship; and then the familiar
class-rooms, dusty and stuffy at the close of a summer day, had
brought back all his old weariness of school routine. He had outlived
his yearning for literary fame, but he still wished to make a figure
somewhere, somehow--why might not he do so at the Bar, in that line
where solid learning is less necessary than the fluent tongue and
unfailing resource, which he felt he could reckon upon.

He shook the other's hand gratefully. 'I don't know how to thank you,'
he said, 'you've put some heart in me again. I will try my luck as you
advise; perhaps with coaching and the money I have by me I need not
take advantage of all your kindness, but there is no one I would come
to for help like you when I can keep up no longer. I'll take my call
at Michaelmas!'

And they walked out together, Mr. Shelford taking his arm
affectionately through the streets. Mark, as has been said already,
had a certain knack of attracting interest and liking without doing
anything either to excite or deserve them in the slightest, and the
old gentleman felt now almost as if he had gained a son.

He was anxious to prevent Mark from returning to the old life, because
he had observed his unfitness for it; he himself, however, in spite of
his diatribes against boys and scholastic life, was far fonder of both
than he would have confessed, and would miss them as a few who knew
him best would miss him when the time came for parting.

From that day he became a frequent visitor at Campden Hill, where he
found with Mabel the appreciation and tender regard which he had
never expected to meet again on this side of the grave.

Mark carried out his resolve, of which his father-in-law approved,
allowing him to use his chambers during the Long Vacation. The pupils
came there, and the coach's manner captivated them from the first, and
made the work easy for both; they came out high on the list, and were
succeeded by others, whose fees paid the rent of the chambers he took
in the Temple shortly after. Call-night came, and as he stood with the
others at the Benchers' table and listened to the Treasurer's address,
he felt an exultant confidence in himself once more; he had been
promised a brief from Mr. Ferret, who took this form of disapproving
of Uncle Solomon's testamentary caprices, and this time Mark did not
shrink from it--he had read hard lately, and with better results. He
knew that he should be at no loss for words or self-possession; he had
been a brilliant and effective speaker, as the Union debates had
frequently proved, and he looked forward now to entering the legal
arena as the field for retrieving his lost name. Mabel should be proud
of him yet!

He was deceiving no one now, Vincent was not injured by the fraud--for
he had his book back; it was true that Mabel did not suspect the real
history of the transaction, but it would do her no good to know that
he had once made a false step. Caffyn was over in America, and
harmless wherever he might see fit to go--his sting was drawn for
ever.

No wonder, then, that he seemed to look round upon a cloudless
horizon--but that had been the case with him so many times since he
had first complicated his life by that unhappy act of his, and each
time the small cloud, the single spy of serried battalions, had been
slowly creeping up all the while.

He forgot that--he generally did forget unpleasant reminiscences--it
never occurred to him that the cloud might be rising yet again above
the level haze on the sky line, and the hurricane burst upon him once
more.




CHAPTER XLI.

A FINAL VICTORY.


It was an afternoon in January, soon after the courts had begun to sit
again, and Mark was mounting the staircase to his new chambers with a
light heart--he had made his _debut_ that day; the burden of the work
had fallen on him in the absence of his leader, and he felt that he
had acquitted himself with fair success. His father-in-law, too, had
happened to be at Westminster, and in a Common Law court that day; and
the altered tone of his greeting afterwards showed Mark that he had
been favourably impressed by what he had heard while standing for a
few minutes in the gangway. And now, Mark thought, he would go back to
Mabel at once and tell her how Fortune had begun to smile once more
upon him. But when he entered his chambers he found a visitor waiting
for him with impatience--it was Colin. Mark was not exactly surprised
to find the boy there, for Mr. Langton, judging it well to pad the
family skeleton as much as possible, had lately sent him to his
son-in-law to be coached for a school scholarship; and, as he was
probably aware, he might have chosen a worse tutor.

'What a time you have been!' said Colin.

'It's not your day,' said Mark, 'I can't take you now, old fellow.'

'I know,' said the boy, fidgetting restlessly; 'I didn't come about
that--it was something else.'

Mark laughed. 'You've been getting into another row, you young
rascal,' he said, 'and you want me to get you out of it--isn't that
it?'

'No, it isn't,' said Colin. 'I say,' he went on, blurting out the
question after the undiplomatic manner of boyhood, 'why have you got
Mabel to cut poor old Vincent? I call it a shame!'

Mark stopped half-way in taking off his coat. 'It would be no business
of yours if I had, you know,' he replied, 'but who told you I had done
anything of the sort?'

'Nobody, I can see for myself. Mabel told mother she would rather not
come to dinners and things when Vincent was coming, and once she did
meet him, and she only just spoke to him. And now, when he's so ill,
she won't go near him--he told me himself that it was no use asking
her, she would never come! She used to like him before, so it must be
all your fault, and I call it a beastly shame, and I don't care what
you say!'

All of this was quite new to Mark; Mabel had studiously avoided all
allusion to Vincent, and it had never occurred to Mark to speculate on
the light in which she chose to regard his explanation--that was all
over, and he was little enough inclined to revive the subject. He
began to be strangely troubled now. 'I don't know what you're talking
about,' he said; 'is Holroyd ill? it--it is nothing serious, is it?'
For he had seen very little of him lately, his obligation being too
deep and too humiliating to make repeated visits at all desirable.

'He looks all right,' said Colin, 'but I heard mother say that he's
very ill really, and she should have to put a stop to Dolly going to
sit with him every day as she does, because--because he might die
quite suddenly at any time--it's something wrong with his heart, she
said, I believe. And yet he seems well enough. But oh, Mark, if--if
it's that, you ought to let Mabel make it up with him, whatever he's
done. You might let her go and see him--he would like it so, I know he
would, though he wouldn't own it when I asked him. Only suppose he
_died_! I know Mabel would be sorry then!'

Every word the boy said cut Mark to the heart--he had never suggested
to Mabel that she should avoid Vincent, and he could not be satisfied
now until he had found out why she had done so; his insight not being
nearly keen enough to discover the reason for himself.

'Give me his address,' he said, for he did not even know where
Holroyd was living, and as soon as the boy had gone Mark drove to the
place he had mentioned, a house in Cambridge Terrace, instead of
returning home at once as he had previously intended.

He did not believe that the illness was as serious as Colin had
implied; of course that was exaggerated--but he could not be quite
easy until he had reassured himself by a visit, and some lingering
feeling of self-reproach drove him to make this atonement for his long
neglect.

The Langtons' carriage was at the door when he arrived; and, as he
came into the sitting-room on the second floor, he heard Dolly's clear
little voice and paused, hidden by the screen at the door. She was
reading to Vincent, who was lying back in an arm-chair; it was Hans
Andersen's 'Story of the Shadow,' a choice to which she had been
guided by pure accident.

Mark heard her read the half-sad, half-cynical conclusion as he stood
there unseen:

'"The Princess and the Shadow stepped out on the balcony to show
themselves, and to receive one cheer more. But the learned man heard
nothing of all these festivities--for he had already been executed."

'How horrid of that wicked Shadow!' was Dolly's indignant comment as
she finished; 'oh, Vincent, aren't you very, very sorry for the poor
learned man?'

'Much sorrier for the Shadow, Dolly,' he replied, a reply of which
Dolly would have insisted upon an explanation had not Mark then come
forward.

He murmured some confused sentence accounting for his visit.

'I have been wondering whether I should see you again,' said Vincent.
'Dolly, you had better go now, dear, it is getting late--you will come
and read me another story to-morrow?'

'If mother will let me,' said Dolly; 'and I tell you what, next time I
come I'll bring Frisk; you want amusing, I know, and he's a nice,
cheerful dog to have in a room with you.'

When Mark returned from putting her into the carriage, Vincent said,
'Is there anything you want to say to me, Ashburn?'

'Yes,' said Mark; 'I know I have no right to trouble you. I know you
can never really forgive me.'

'I thought so once,' said Vincent, 'but I have done with all that. I
forgave you long ago. Tell me if I can help you?'

'I have just heard for the first time,' said Mark, 'that--that my wife
has not--has not treated you very kindly lately. And I came here to
ask you if I am the cause.'

Vincent flushed suddenly, and his breath was laboured and painful for
a moment. 'What is the use of bringing that up now?' he asked; 'is it
a pleasant subject for either of us? Let it rest.'

'I had no intention of paining you,' said Mark, 'I ought not to have
asked you. I--I will ask Mabel herself.'

'You must not do that!' said Vincent, with energy; 'you might have
spared me this--you might have guessed. Still I will tell you--it may
do good. Yes, you _are_ the cause, Ashburn; the lie I told on that
evening of the rehearsal has borne its penalty, as lies will, and the
penalty has fallen upon me heavily. Ask yourself what your wife must
think of the man I made myself appear!'

'Good God!' groaned Mark, who saw this now for the first time.

'You see,' Vincent pursued, 'I am dying now, with the knowledge that I
shall never see her face again; that when I am gone she will not spare
me a single regret, that she will make haste to lose my very memory. I
don't complain, it is for her good, and I am content. Don't imagine I
tell you this as a reproach. Only if you are ever tempted again to do
anything which may put her happiness in danger, or weaken the
confidence she has in you, remember what it has cost another man to
secure them, and I think you will resist then.'

'Vincent!' cried Mark brokenly, 'it can't be; you are not--not
dying!'

'My doctor tells me so,' said Vincent. 'I have been prepared for it a
long time, and it must be coming near now--but there, we have talked
enough about that. Don't fancy from anything I have said that I have
lost all faith in you--you will find, very soon, perhaps, how little
that is so.... Are you going already?' he added, as Mark rose hastily;
'good-bye, then; come and see me when you can, and--if we are not to
meet again--you will not forget, I know.'

'No, I shall not forget,' was all Mark could say just then, and left
the house. He could not trust himself to bear any longer the
unhoped-for expression of confidence and regard which he saw once more
upon his friend's face.

As he walked home his mind was haunted by what he had just heard.
Vincent dying, his last hours embittered by Mabel's coldness. Mark
could not suffer that--she must see him once more, she must repair the
horrible injustice she had shown--he would urge her to relent!

And yet, how could she repair it, unless her eyes were opened?
Gradually he became aware that a final crisis had come in his life,
just as he thought all was well with him. He had said to himself,
'Peace, peace!' and it had only been an armistice. Would the results
of that shameful act always rise up against him in this way? What was
he to do?

He had felt as deep a shame and remorse for his past conduct as he was
capable of, but hitherto he had supposed that the wrong had been
comfortably righted, that he himself was after all the chief, if not
the sole sufferer.

That consolation was gone now; he knew what Mabel had been to Vincent,
and what it must be to him now to feel that he must bear this
misconception to the end. Could Mark accept this last sacrifice? More
and more he felt that he stood where two paths met: that he might hold
his peace now, and let his friend go down misunderstood to the grave,
but that all his past baseness would be nothing to that final
meanness; that if he paltered this time, if he chose the easy path, he
might indeed be safe for ever from discovery, but his soul would be
stained with a dishonour that nothing would ever cleanse; that he
would have done with self-respect and peace of mind for ever. And yet
if he took the other path, the right one, where would it lead him?

And so he reached his house in miserable indecision, driven this way
and that by contending impulses, loathing the prospect of this
crowning infamy, yet shrinking from the sole alternative. He found
Mabel sitting alone in the firelight.

'How did you get on?' she asked eagerly; 'you won your case?'

'My case?' he repeated blankly, so far away did all that seem now.
'Oh, yes, my case--the Lord Chief sums up to-morrow. I think we shall
get a verdict.'

'Sit down and tell me all about it,' she said. 'I will ring for the
lamp. I can't see your face.'

'No,' said Mark, 'don't ring; it is better as it is.'

She was struck by something in his voice.

'You are tired, dear,' she said.

'Very tired,' he confessed, with a heavy sigh; and then, with one of
his sudden promptings, he said, 'Mabel, I have just seen Vincent--he
is very ill.'

'I know,' she said. 'Is he--worse?'

'Dying,' he answered gloomily. 'I want to ask you a question--is it
true that you have been thinking very harshly of him lately?'

'I cannot think well of him,' she replied.

'Will you tell me why?' he demanded. Even then he tried to cherish the
faint hope that her resentment might have another cause.

'Cannot you guess?' she asked. 'Ah, no, you are too generous to feel
it yourself. How can I feel kindly towards the man who could let you
sacrifice your name and your prospects for a caprice of his own, who
persuaded you to entangle yourself in a manner that might, for all he
knew or cared, ruin you for life?'

'Even if that were so,' said Mark, 'he is dying, remember. Think what
it would be to him to see you once more--Mabel, will you refuse to go
to him?'

'He should not have asked this of me,' cried Mabel. 'Oh, Mark, you
will think me hard, unchristian, I know, but I can't do this--not even
now, when he is dying ... he ought not to have asked it.'

'Mabel,' he cried, 'he did not ask it--you do not know him if you
think that. Do you still refuse?'

'I must, I must,' repeated Mabel. 'Oh, if it had been I who was the
injured one, I do not think I should feel like this; it is for you I
cannot forgive. If I went now, what good would it do? Mark; it is
wicked of me, but I could not say what he would expect--not yet, not
yet--you must not ask me.'

Mark knew now that the decisive moment had come: there was only one
way left of moving her; there was no time to lose if he meant to take
it.

Must he speak the words which would banish him from his wife's heart
for ever, just when hope had returned to his life, just when he had
begun to feel himself worthier of her love? It was so easy to say no
more, to leave her in her error, and the shadow would pass away, and
his happiness be secure. But could he be sure of that? The spectre had
risen so many times to mock him, would it ever be finally laid? And if
Mabel learnt the truth when it was too late?--no, he could not bear to
think of what would happen then?

And yet how was he to begin--in what words could he break it to her?
His heart died within him at the duty before him, and he sat in the
firelit room, tortured with indecision, and his good and bad angel
fought for him. And then, all at once, almost in spite of himself, the
words came:

'Mabel,' he cried, 'Holroyd has done nothing--do you hear?--nothing to
call for forgiveness ... oh, if you could understand without my saying
more!'

She started, and her voice had an accent, first of a new hope, then of
a great fear.

'Is Vincent better than he seemed? But how can that be if--tell me,
Mark, tell me everything.'

Mark shrank back; he dared not tell her.

'Not now,' he groaned. 'My God! what am I doing? Mabel, I can't tell
you; have pity on yourself--on me!'

She rose and came to him. 'If you have anything to tell me, tell me
now,' she said. 'I am quite strong; it will not hurt me. You must not
leave me in this uncertainty--_that_ will kill me! Mark, if you love
me, I entreat you to save me from being unjust to Vincent. Remember,
he is dying--you have told me so!'

He rose and went to the sideboard; there was water there, and he
poured some out and drank it before he could speak. Then he came back
to the fireplace, and leaned against the mantelboard.

'You will hate me before I have finished,' he said at last, 'but I
will tell you.'

And then he began, and painfully, with frequent breaks and nervous
hurrying at certain passages, he told her everything--the whole story
of his own shame and of Holroyd's devotion. He did not spare himself;
he did not even care to give such excuses as might have been made for
him in the earlier stages of his fraud. If his atonement was late, it
was at least a full one.

She listened without a word, without even a sob, and when he had come
to the end she sat there silent still, as if turned to stone. The
stillness grew so terrible that Mark could bear no more.

'Speak to me, Mabel,' he cried in his agony, 'for God's sake, speak to
me!'

She rose, supporting herself with one trembling hand; even in the
firelight her face was deathly pale. 'Take me to him first,' she said,
and the voice was that of a different woman, 'after that I will speak
to you.'

'To Vincent?' he asked, half stupefied by what he was suffering. 'Not
to-night, Mabel, you must not!'

'I must,' she replied; 'if you will not take me I shall go
alone--quick, let us lose no time!'

He went out into the main road and hailed a cab, as he had done often
enough before for one of their journeys to dinner or the theatre; when
he returned Mabel was already standing cloaked and hooded at the open
door.

'Tell him to drive fast--fast,' she said feverishly, as he helped her
into the hansom, and she did not open her lips again till it stopped.

He glanced at her face now and then, when the shop-lights revealed her
profile as she lay back in her corner; it was pale and set, her eyes
were strained, but she had shed no tears; he sat there and recalled
the merry journeys they had had together, side by side, on evenings
like this, when he had been sorry the drive should ever end--how long
this one was!

The cab reached Cambridge Terrace at last. Mark instinctively looked
at the upper windows of the house--they were all dark. 'Stay here,
till I have asked,' he said to Mabel before he got out, 'we may--we
may be too late.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Vincent had been moved to his sleeping-room, where he was sitting in
his arm-chair; the trained nurse who had been engaged to wait upon him
had left him for a while, the light was lowered, and he was lying
still in the dreamy exhaustion which was becoming more and more his
normal state.

He had received his death-warrant some months before; the harassing
struggles against blight and climate in Ceylon, the succession of
illnesses which had followed them, and the excitement and anxiety that
he underwent on his return, had ended in an affection of the heart,
which, by the time he thought it sufficiently serious to need advice,
was past all cure.

He had heard the verdict calmly, for he had little to make him in love
with life, but while the book in which he had already begun to find
distraction was unfinished, there was still work for him to do, and he
was anxious to leave it completed. If the efforts he made to effect
this shortened his life, they at least prevented him from dwelling
upon its approaching end, and his wish was gratified. He fixed his
mind steadily on his task, and though each day saw less accomplished
and with more painful labour, the time came when he reached the last
page and threw down his pen for ever.

Now he was on the brink of the stream, and the plash of the ferryman's
oar could be heard plainly; the world behind him had already grown
distant and dim; even of the book which had been in his mind so long,
he thought but little--he had done with it all; whether it brought him
praise or blame from man, he would never learn now, and was content to
be in ignorance.

The same lethargy had mercifully deadened to some extent the pain of
Mabel's injustice, until Mark's visit had revived it that afternoon.
He had come to think of it all now without bitterness; it might be
that in some future state she would 'wake, and remember, and
understand,' and the wrong be righted--but it had always seemed to him
that in another existence all earthly misunderstandings must seem too
infinitely pitiful and remote to be worth unravelling, or even
recalling, and so he could not find much comfort there.

But at least he had not been worsted in the conflict with his lower
nature. Mabel's happiness was now secure from the worst danger, the
struggle was over, and he was glad, for there had been times when he
had almost sunk under it.

So he was thinking dreamily as he sat there while now and then a cloud
would drift across his thoughts as he lost himself in a kind of half
slumber.

He was roused by sounds on the stairs outside, and presently he heard
a light step in the farther room. 'I am not asleep,' he said,
believing the nurse had returned.

'Vincent,' said a low tremulous voice, 'it is I--Mabel.' Then he
looked up, and even in that half light he saw that the figure standing
there in the open doorway was the one which had been chief in his
thoughts.

Unprepared as he was for such a visitor, he felt no surprise--only a
deep and solemn happiness as he saw her standing before him.

'You have come then,' he said; 'I am very glad. You must think less
hardly of me--or you would not be here.'

She had only obtained leave to see him on her earnest entreaties and
promises of self-restraint, but his first words sorely tried her
fortitude; she came to his chair and sank down beside it, taking his
hands in both hers. 'Vincent,' she cried, with a sob that would not be
repressed, 'I cannot bear it if you talk so.... I know all, all that
you have suffered and given up ... he has told me--at last!'

Vincent looked down with an infinite pity upon the sweet contrite face
raised to his. 'You poor child,' he said, 'you know then? How could he
tell you! Mabel, I tried so hard to spare you this--and now it has
come! What can I say to you?'

'Say that you forgive me--if you ever can!' she said, 'when I remember
all the hard things I said and thought of you, when all the time--oh,
I was blind, or I must have seen the truth! And I can never, never
make it up to you now!'

'Do you think,' he asked, 'that to see you here, and know that you
understand me at last, would not make up for much harder treatment
than I ever had from you, Mabel? If that were all--but he has told
you, you said, told you the whole sad story. Mabel--what are you going
to do?'

She put the question aside with a gesture of heart-sick pride: 'What
does it matter about me? I can only think of you just now--let me
forget all the rest while I may!'

'Dying men have their privileges,' he said, 'and I have not much more
time. Mabel, I must ask you: What have you said to Mark?'

'Nothing,' she said, with a low moan, 'what was there to say? He must
know that he has no wife now.'

'Mabel, you have not left him!' he cried.

'Not yet,' she said, turning away wearily; 'he brought me to this
house--he is here now, I believe.... You are torturing me with these
questions, Vincent.'

'Answer me this once,' he persisted, 'do you mean to leave him?'

She rose to her feet. 'What else can I do,' she demanded, 'now that I
know? The Mark I loved has gone for ever--he never even existed! I
have no husband beyond the name. I have been in a dream all this time,
and I wake to find myself alone! Only an hour ago and Mark was all the
world to me--think what he must be to me from this time! No, I cannot
live with him. I could not breathe the same air with him. I am ashamed
that I could ever have loved him. He is all unworthy, and mean, and
false, and I thought him noble and generous!'

'You are too hard,' said Vincent, 'he is not all bad, he was weak--not
wicked; if I had not felt that, I should never have tried to keep his
secret, and forced him, against his will, to keep it himself. And now
he has confessed it all to you, when there was no fear of discovery to
urge him, only because he could not endure the thought of my bearing
your displeasure to the end. He did not know that that was so till
this afternoon, and I told him without thinking it would have that
effect on him--I did him an injustice there. He must have gone back
and accused himself at once. Think, Mabel, was there nothing unselfish
and brave in that? He knew what you would think of him, he knew that
he was safe if he kept silence--and yet he spoke, because he preferred
the worst for himself to allowing me to bear the penalty for his sins.
Is a man who could act thus utterly lost?'

'Lost to me!' she said passionately, 'the confession came too late;
and how could any confession atone for such a sin! No, he is too
unworthy, I can never trust him, never forgive him!'

'I do not ask you to forgive him now,' he urged; 'he has done you a
great wrong, your love and faith have received a cruel shock; and you
cannot act and feel as if this had never been. I understand all that.
Only do not close the door on forgiveness for ever, do not cut him off
from all chance of winning back something of the confidence he has
lost. The hope of that will give him strength and courage; without
that hope to keep him up, without your influence he will surely lose
heart and be lost for ever. His fate rests with you, have you thought
of that?'

She was silent, but her face was still unconvinced.

'You think your love is dead,' he went on, 'and yet, Mabel, something
tells me that love will not die easily with you. What if you find this
is so at some future time, when the step you are bent upon has been
taken, and you cannot retreat from it? What if, when you call him
back, it is too late; and he will not, or cannot, return to you?'

'I shall never call him back,' she said.

'You will have no pity on him for his sake or your own,' Vincent
pleaded, 'will you not for mine? Mabel, let me say something to you
about myself. I have loved you for years--you are not angry with me
for telling you so now, are you? I loved you well enough to put your
happiness before all other things; it was for that I made any
sacrifices I have made; it was for that I was willing even that you
should think hardly of me.'

'For me!' she cried, 'was it for me you have done all this? How I have
repaid you!'

'I was repaid by the belief that it secured your happiness,' he
answered. 'I thought, rightly or wrongly, that I was justified in
deceiving you for your own good. But now you are taking away all this
from me, Mabel! I must die with the sense of having failed miserably,
when I thought I was most successful, with the knowledge that by what
I have done I have only increased the evil! Must I leave you with your
happy home blighted past recovery, with nothing before you but a
lonely, barren existence? Must I think of you living out your life,
proud and unforgiving, and wretched to the end? I entreat you to give
me some better comfort, some brighter prospect than that--you will
punish me for my share in it all by refusing what I ask, but will you
refuse?'

She came back to him. 'No,' she said brokenly, 'I have given you pain
enough, I will refuse you nothing now, only it is so hard--tell me
what I am to do!'

'Do not desert him, do not shame him before the world!' he said; 'bear
with him still, give him the chance of winning back what he has lost.
Peace may be long in coming to you--but it will come some day, and
even if it never comes at all, Mabel, you will have done your duty,
there will be a comfort in that. Will you promise this, for my sake?'

She raised her face, which she had hidden in her hands. 'I
promise--for your sake,' she said, and at her words he sank back with
a sigh of relief--his work was over, and the energy he had summoned up
to accomplish it left him suddenly.

'Thank you!' he said faintly; 'you have made me happier, Mabel. I
should like to see Mark, but I am tired. I shall sleep now.'

'I will come to-morrow,' she said, and bending over him, she kissed
his forehead. She had not kissed him since the time when she was a
child and he an undergraduate, devoted to her even then; and now that
kiss and the touch of her hand lingered with him till he slept, and
perhaps followed him some little way into the land of dreams.

Mark had been waiting in a little dark sitting-room on a lower floor;
he had not dared to follow Mabel. At last, after long hours, as it
seemed, of slow torment, he heard her descending slowly, and came to
meet her; she was very pale and had been weeping, but her manner was
composed now.

'Let us go home,' was all she said to him, and they drove back in
silence as they had come. But when they had reached their home Mark
could bear his uncertainty no longer.

'Mabel,' he said, and his voice shook, 'have you nothing to say to me,
still?'

She met his appealing gaze with eyes that bore no reproach, only a
fixed and hopeless sadness in their clear depths.

'Yes,' she said, 'let us never speak again of--of what you have told
me to-night--you must make me forget it, if you can.'

The sudden relief almost took away his breath. 'You do not mean to
leave me then!' he cried impulsively, as he came towards her and
seemed about to take her hand. 'I thought I had lost you--but you will
not do that, Mabel, you will stay with me?'

She shrank from him ever so slightly, with a little instinctive
gesture of repugnance, which the wretched man noted with agony.

'I will not leave you,' she said, 'I did mean--but that is over, you
owe it to _him_. I will stay with you, Mark--it may not be for much
longer.'

Her last words chilled him with a deadly fear; his terrible confession
had escaped him before he had had time to remember much that might
well have excused him, even to himself, for keeping silence then.

'My God!' he cried in his agony when she had left him, 'is _that_ to
be my punishment? Oh, not that--any shame, any disgrace but that!'

And he lay awake long, struggling hard against a terror that was to
grow nearer and more real with each succeeding day.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vincent's sleep was sweet and sound that night, until, with the dawn,
the moment came when it changed gently and painlessly into a sleep
that was sounder still, and the plain common-place bedroom grew hushed
and solemn, for Death had entered it.




CHAPTER XLII.

FROM THE GRAVE.


The days went by; Mark had followed Vincent to the grave, with a
sorrow in which there was no feigning, and now the Angel of Death
stood at his own door, and Love strove in vain to keep him back. For
the fear which had haunted Mark of late had been brought near its
fulfilment--Mabel lay dangerously ill, and it seemed that the son she
had borne was never to know a mother's care.

Throughout one terrible week Mark never left the house on Campden
Hill, while Mabel wavered between life and death; he was not allowed
to see her; she had not expressed any wish as yet to see him, he
learnt from Mrs. Langton, who had cast off all her languor before her
daughter's peril, and was in almost constant attendance upon her.
Mabel appeared in fact to have lost all interest in life, and the
natural desire for recovery which might have come to her aid was
altogether wanting, as her mother saw with a pained surprise, and
commented upon to the conscience-stricken Mark.

Day after day he sat in the little morning-room, which looked as if
she had but left it for an instant, even while he knew that she might
never enter it again; sat there listening and waiting for the words
which would tell him that all hope was at an end.

The doctors came and went, and there were anxious inquiries and
whispered answers at the cautiously-opened front-door, while from time
to time he heard on the stairs, or in the room above, hurried
footsteps, each of which trod heavy upon his aching heart.

People came sometimes to sit with him. Trixie, for instance, who had
married her artist, and was now comfortably established in a
decorative little cottage at Bedford Park, came daily, and as she had
the tact to abstain from any obviously unfounded assumption of
hopefulness, her presence did him good, and perhaps saved him from
breaking down under the prolonged strain.

Martha, too, even though she had never been able to feel warmly
towards her sister-in-law, cast aside some of her prejudice and held
aloof no longer.

Martha was inclined to take a serious view of things, having caught
something of her mother's gloomy Puritanism, which her own unhappy
disposition and contracted life had done nothing to sweeten, and not a
little to embitter. She was not, perhaps, incapable of improving the
occasion for her brother's benefit even then, by warnings against
devotion to perishable idols, and hints of chastenings which were
intended as salutary.

But somehow, when she saw his lined and colourless face, and the look
of ghastly expectation that came and went upon it at the slightest
unexpected sound without, she lost hold of the conviction that his
bereavement would work for his spiritual benefit; her words in season
died unspoken on her lips, and she gave way at parting to tears of
pity and sympathy, in which the saint was completely forgotten in the
sister and the woman.

And now it was evening, and he was alone once more, pretending to
read, and thinking drearily of what was coming; for the doctor had
just left, and his report had been less encouraging than ever--a
change must come before long, he had said, and from his manner it was
too clear what he thought that change would be.

Mark let his thoughts wander back to his brief married life, doomed to
be cut short by the very fraud which had purchased it. They had been
so happy, and it was all over--henceforth he would be alone.

She was leaving him after all, and he could not even feel that her
love would abide with him when she had gone; oh, the unspeakable agony
of knowing that she welcomed death as a release from him!

Never now could he hope to regain the heart he had lost, she despised
him--and she was dying.

No, she must not die, he cried wildly in his extremity, how could he
live without her? Oh, that she might be given back to him, even though
he could never make the dead love live in her heart again! Had he not
suffered enough--was not this a punishment beyond his sin?

And yet, as he looked back, he knew that he himself had brought about
this punishment, that it was but the stern and logical sequence of his
fraud.

There was a low tap at the door, and he started to his feet--the
summons had come; no need to question the messenger who brought it, he
heard the first words and passed her hastily.

He entered the room where Mabel was lying, and fell on his knees by
her bedside, bowing his head upon the quilt in agonised despair, after
one glance at her pale sweet face.

'My darling--my darling!' he cried, 'don't leave me ... you
promised--oh, remember ... this is not--not _good-bye_!'

She laid a weak and slender hand on his dark hair in a caress that was
more in pity than in love. 'They have not told you?' she said; 'I
asked nurse to prepare you. I knew you would be so anxious. No, dear,
it is not good-bye. I feel much better, I am quite sure now that I am
going to get well. I wanted to tell you so myself. I must live for
baby's sake--I can't die and leave him alone!'

And even in the ecstasy of relief which Mark felt at her words there
was a spasm of sobering jealousy; she only cared to live for the
child's sake--not for his.




CONCLUSION.


Those who know Mark now are inclined to envy his good fortune. His
literary mistakes are already beginning to be forgotten; the last
breath of scandal was extinguished when it became known that Vincent
Holroyd had dedicated his posthumous work to his college friend, to
whom he also confided the duties of editor--duties which Mark
accepted humbly, and discharged faithfully.

His name is becoming known in legal circles--not as a profound lawyer,
which he will never be to the end of his career, but as a brilliant
advocate, with a plausibility that is effective with the average
juryman, and an acquaintance with legal principles which is not too
close to prevent a British unconsciousness that a cause can ever be
lost.

Society has, in a great measure, forgiven the affront he put upon it,
and receives him to its bosom once more, while his home life can
hardly fail to be happy; with his young and charming wife, and the
only child, to whom she devotes herself.

If the story of his life were better known than it will ever be now he
would certainly be thought to have escaped far more easily than he
deserved.

And yet his punishment still endures, and it is not a light one. It is
true that the world is prospering outwardly with him, true that the
danger is over, that Harold Caffyn has not been heard of for some
time, and that, whether alive or dead, he can never come between Mabel
and her husband again, since she knows already the worst that there is
to tell.

But there are penalties exacted in secret which are scarcely
preferable to open humiliation. The love which Mark feels for his
young wife, by its very intensity dooms him to a perpetual penance.
For the barrier between them is not yet completely broken down;
sometimes he fears that it never will be, though nothing in her manner
to him gives him any real reason to despair. But he is always
tormenting himself with the fancy that her gentleness is only
forbearance, her tenderness pity, and her devotion comes from her
sense of duty--morbid ideas, which even hard work and constant
excitement can only banish for a time.

Whether he can ever fill the place he once held in his wife's heart is
a question which only time can decide: 'Le denigrement de ceux que
nous aimons,' says the author of 'Madame Bovary,' 'toujours nous en
detache quelque peu. Il ne faut pas toucher aux idoles; la dorure en
reste aux mains,' and in Mabel's case the idol had been more than
tarnished, and had lost rather its divinity than its gilding.

But in spite of all she loves him still, though the character of her
love may be changed; and loves him more than he dares to hope at
present; while the blank that might have been in her life is filled by
her infant son, her little Vincent, whom she will strive to arm
against the temptations that proved too strong for his father.

Vincent Holroyd's second book was received with cordial admiration,
though it did not arouse any extraordinary excitement.

It cannot be said to possess the vigour and freshness of 'Illusion,'
and betrays in places the depression and flagging energy of the
writer's condition, but it has certainly not lessened the reputation
which he had won by the earlier work, to which it is even preferred by
some who are considered to be judges.

And there is one at least who will never read it without a passion of
remorseful pity, as its pages tell her more of a nature whose love was
unselfish and chivalrous, and went unrewarded to the end.


    LONDON: PRINTED BY
    SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
    AND PARLIAMENT STREET





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Giant's Robe, by F. Anstey

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