Transcriber's Note:

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

 THE GIANT'S ROBE BY F. ANSTEY

 AUTHOR OF 'VICE-VERSÂ'

 '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 ofstating that, if I am indebted to any previous work for the centralidea of a stolen manuscript, such obligation should be ascribed to ashort tale, published some time ago in one of the Christmasnumbers--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 libraryof his university an old scientific manuscript, by a writer long sincedead and forgotten, produced it as his own; and it is so probable thatthe recollection of this incident became quite unconsciously the germof the present book that, although the matter is not of generalimportance, I feel it only fair to mention it here. 

I trust, nevertheless, that it is not necessary to insist upon anyclaim to the average degree of originality; for if the book does notbear the traces of honest and independent work, that is a defect whichis scarcely likely to be removed by the most eloquent andargumentative 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 oftraffic by a ring of shops, and under the shadow of a smoke-begrimedclassical church, stands--or rather stood, for they have removed itrecently--the large public school of St. Peter's. 

Entering the heavy old gate, against which the shops on both sideshuddled close, you passed into the atmosphere of scholastic calmwhich, during working hours, pervades most places of education, andsaw a long plain block of buildings, within which it was hard tobelieve, so deep was the silence, that some hundreds of boys werecollected. 

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

Then nervous people who found themselves by any chance in the longdark corridors experienced an unpleasant sensation, as of a demon hostin high spirits being suddenly let loose to do their will. Theoutburst was generally preceded by a dull murmur and rustle, whichlasted for a few minutes after the clang of the bell had diedaway--then door after door opened and hordes of boys plunged out withwild 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 andscuffles and a constant tramp of feet. 

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

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

Halfway down the main corridor I have mentioned was the 'Middle-Third'class-room, a big square room with dingy cream-coloured walls, highwindows darkened with soot, and a small stained writing-table at oneend, surrounded on three sides by ranks of rugged seasoned forms andsloping desks; round the walls were varnished lockers with a numberpainted on the lid of each, and a big square stove stood in onecorner. 

The only person in the room just then was the form-master, MarkAshburn; and he was proposing to leave it almost immediately, for theclose air and the strain of keeping order all day had given him aheadache, and he was thinking that before walking homeward he wouldamuse 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, withblack hair and eloquent dark eyes, which had the gift of expressingrather more than a rigid examination would have found inside him--justnow, for example, a sentimental observer would have read in theirglance round the bare deserted room the passionate protest of a soulconscious of genius against the hard fate which had placed him there, whereas he was in reality merely wondering whose hat that was on therow of pegs opposite. 

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

He dressed carefully, which was not without effect upon his class, forboys, without being overscrupulous in the matter of their own costume, are apt to be critical of the garments of those in authority overthem. To them he was 'an awful swell'; though he was not actuallyoverdressed--it was only that he liked to walk home along Piccadillywith the air of a man who had just left his club and had nothingparticular to do. 

He was not unpopular with his boys: he did not care twopence about anyof them, but he felt it pleasant to be popular, and his carelessgood-nature secured that result without much effort on his part. Theyhad a great respect for his acquirements too, speaking of him amongthemselves as 'jolly clever when he liked to show it'; for Mark wasnot above giving occasional indications of deep learning which werehighly impressive. He went out of his way to do it, and was probablyaware that the learning thus suggested would not stand any very severetest; but then there was no one there to apply it. 

Any curiosity as to the last hat and coat on the wall was satisfiedwhile he still sat at his desk, for the door, with its upper panels ofcorrugated glass protected by stout wire network--no needlessprecaution there--opened just then, and a small boy appeared, lookingrather pale and uncomfortable, and holding a long sheet of bluefoolscap in one hand. 

'Hullo, Langton, ' said Mark, as he saw him; 'so it's you; why, haven'tyou gone yet, eh? How's that?'

'Please sir, ' began the boy, dolorously, 'I've got into an awfulrow--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 goingalong the passage, and just passing Old Jemmy's--I mean Mr. Shelford's--door, and it was open. And there was a fellow standingoutside, a bigger fellow than me, and he caught hold of me by thecollar 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 firsttime, and I should have a detention card for it. And so he gave methis, and I'm to go up to the Doctor with it and get it signed whenit's done!'

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

'If I go up, you know, sir, ' said the boy, with a trembling lip, 'I'msafe 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 beworse 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 voiceand bearing that somehow suggested that he had a mother or sister whowas a gentlewoman, was less objectionable to Mark than his fellows. Still he could not enter into his feelings sufficiently to guess whyhe was being appealed to in this way. 

Young Langton half turned to go, dejectedly enough; then he came backand said, 'Please, sir, can't you help me? I shouldn't mind the--theswishing 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 toyou, 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, andthe 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'smuch good, you know, but here goes--when you get in, hold your tongueand keep in the background--leave it to me. '

So they went out into the long passage with its whitewashed walls androws of doors on each side, and black barrel-vaulting above; at theend the glimmer of light came through the iron bars of the doorway, which had a prison-like suggestion about them, and the reflectors ofthe unlighted gas lamps that projected here and there along thecorridor gave back the glimmer as a tiny spark in the centre of eachmetal 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, butrather smaller; it had a daïs with a somewhat larger desk for themaster, and a different arrangement of the benches and lockers, butit was quite as gloomy, with an outlook into a grim area giving aglimpse of the pavement and railings above. 

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

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

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

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

'Eh, what?' said the elder. 'Wait a minute--there's that impidentfellow 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 themiddle 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 animpident fellow, sir. '

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

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

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

'Wasn't your fault! You haven't got St. Vitus' dance, have you? Inever heard there were any Tarantula spiders here. You don't godancing into the Doctor's room, do you? _He'll_ give you a dancinglesson!' said the old gentleman, sitting down again to chuckle, andlooking 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 hereunder some irresistible impulse after school. I'll put a stop to itnow I've caught one. You don't know 'em as well as I do, sir, youdon't know 'em--they're all impident and all liars--some are clevererat it than others, and that's all. '

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

'Yes, it's cruel work having to do with boys, sir--cruel andthankless. If ever I try to help a boy in my class I think is tryingto get on and please me, what does he do? Turn round and play me somescurvy 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?' Andhe inclined his ear for the answer with his eyes fixed on the boy'sface. 

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

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

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

A natural tendency of the youthful mind to comparative physiology haddiscovered a fancied resemblance which justified any gracefulpersonalities of this kind; but Langton probably felt that candour hadits limits, and that this was a question that required judgment indealing with it. 

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

'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 retiredto his form again out of earshot. 

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

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

'Ah, they do though; and the other day, when my monitor opened thedesk in the morning, there was a great impident kitten staring me inthe 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 whichhe showed it out with every consideration for its feelings; but it wasthe case nevertheless, for his years amongst boys had still left asoft 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 lessheat, 'hearing generations of stoopid boys all blundering at the samestiff places, and worrying over the same old passages. I'm gettingvery 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 dimrecollection of the line in question. 

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

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

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

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

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

'Then it will be all over by now, ' said Mark; 'there may be a note onmy 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 inentering: something much more important to him than whether a boyshould be flogged or not, when he had no doubt richly deserved it, waspending 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 lastfew years literary distinction had seemed the most open to him. He hadsought it by more ambitious attempts, but even the laurels which theperformance of a piece of his by boy-actors on a Speech-day mightbring him had become desirable; and though he had written andsubmitted his work confidently and carelessly enough, he found himselfnot 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 hima modified fame in the school and the masters' room, and Mark Ashburnhad never felt resigned to be a nonentity anywhere. 

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

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

'Well, if you don't want to be locked up here all night, you'd betterbe 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 oldgentleman politely. 

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

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

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

'Well, and _what's_ his name? Out with it; I'll give him a detentioncard 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. Whynot?'

'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. Idon't know what it is to insult an old man--that's fair enough, I daresay. 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 asever to-morrow, calling out "Shellfish"--no, I forgot--"Prawn's"_your_ favourite epithet, ain't it?--calling out "Prawn" under my verynose. '

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

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

Langton escaped, full of an awed joy at his wonderful escape, and oldMr. 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 tellthe other young scamps how neatly he got over "old Jemmy. " I don'tthink he will, though. I can still tell when a boy's lying--I've hadplenty of opportunities. '

Meanwhile Mark had gone back to his class-room. One of the portersran after him with a note, and he opened it eagerly, only to bedisappointed, for it was not from the committee. It was dated fromLincoln'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 sometime 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 besure, yes. So, he has let you off, has he? Well, I'm very glad I wasof 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 youwere yesterday. '

Beyond giving the boy his company in facing his judge for the secondtime, Mark, as will have been observed, had not been a very energeticadvocate; but as Langton was evidently unaware of the fact, Markhimself was the last person to allude to it. Gratitude, whether earnedor not, was gratitude, and always worth accepting. 

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

As he stood by the _grille_ at the porter's lodge, the old Prawnhimself passed slowly out, with his shoulders bent, and his old eyesstaring straight before him with an absent, lack-lustre expression inthem. Perhaps he was thinking that life might have been more cheerfulfor him if his wife Mary had lived, and he had had her and boys likethat 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 hardby. 

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

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

'Well, Gilbertson, ' said Mark, as unconcernedly as he could, 'settledyour 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 verymuch--oh, exceedingly so--the Doctor especially--charmed with it, mydear Ashburn, charmed!'

'Very glad to hear it, ' said Mark, with a sudden thrill; 'and--andhave 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 sotoo, 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 thoselittle 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, tryingto preserve his temper, 'but I could easily alter it, you know, Gilbertson. '

'No, no, ' said Gilbertson, eagerly, 'you mustn't think of it; you'dspoil it; we couldn't hear of it, and--and it won't be necessary totrouble you. Because, you see, the Doctor thought it was a littlelong, and not quite light enough; and not exactly the sort of thingwe 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 aletter about it. Good-bye, good-bye! Got a train to catch at LudgateHill. '

And he bustled away, glad to escape, for he had not counted uponhaving 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 onlyto become known to bring him fame; but for all that it seemed that hewas not considered worthy to entertain a Speech-night audience at aLondon public school. 

Hitherto Mark's life had contained more of failure than success. FromSt. Peter's he had gone to a crammer's to be prepared for the IndianCivil Service, and an easy pass had been anticipated for him even atthe first trial. Unfortunately, however, his name came out low down onthe 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 competedfor at a Cambridge college, he tried for it, and this time wassuccessful. A well-to-do uncle, who had undertaken the expenseshitherto, was now induced to consent to the abandonment of the CivilService in favour of a University career, and Mark entered upon itaccordingly with fair prospects of distinction, if he read with evenordinary steadiness. 

This he had done during his first year, though he managed to get afair share of enjoyment out of his life, but then something happenedto change the whole current of his ambitions--he composed a collegeskit which brought him considerable local renown, and from that momentwas sought as a contributor to sundry of those ephemeral undergraduateperiodicals which, in their short life, are so universally reviled andso eagerly read. 

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

With Mark the results were what might have been expected: his papersin his second year examinations were so bad that he received a solemnwarning that his scholarship was in some danger, though he was notactually deprived of it, and finally, instead of the good class histutor had once expected, he took a low third, and left Cambridge inalmost as bad a plight as Arthur Pendennis. 

Now he had found himself forced to accept a third-form mastership inhis 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 worldthere was something in him still; and he began to send up articles tovarious London magazines, and to keep them going like a juggler'soranges, until his productions obtained a fair circulation, inmanuscript. 

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

For he believed in himself implicitly. At present he was still beforethe outwork of prejudice which must be stormed by every conscript inthe army of literature: that he would carry it eventually he did notdoubt. But this disappointment about, the committee hit him hard for amoment; it seemed like a forecast of a greater disaster. Mark, however, was of a sanguine temperament, and it did not take him longto remount his own pedestal. 'After all, ' he thought, 'what does itmatter? If my "Sweet Bells Jangled" is only taken, I shan't careabout 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 toone of the staircase doorways with the old curly eighteenth-centurynumerals cut on the centre stone of the arch and painted black. Thedays of these picturesque old dark-red buildings, with theirsmall-paned dusty windows, their turrets and angles, and other littlearchitectural surprises and inconveniences, are already numbered. Soonthe sharp outline of their old gables and chimneys will cut the sky nolonger; but some unpractical persons will be found who, although (orit may be _because_) they did not occupy them, will see them fall witha pang, and remember them with a kindly regret. 

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

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

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

His face, which was dark and somewhat plain, with large, strongfeatures, had a pleasant look on it as he turned to meet Mark. 'I'mglad you could come, ' he said. 'I thought we'd walk back together forthe last time. I shall be ready in one minute. I'm only getting my lawbooks 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 heretill 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 Holroydstopped for a minute to speak to the clerk, a mild, pale man, who wasneatly 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 sometime. '

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

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

'That 'Olroyd'll never do anything at the Bar, ' he used to say whencomparing notes with his friend the clerk to the opposite set ofchambers. 'He's got no push, and he's got no manner, and there ain'tnobody at his back. What he ever come to the Bar for at all, _I_ don'tknow!'

There were some directions to be given as to letters and papers, whichthe mild clerk received with as much gravity as though he were notinwardly 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 thelast time, and he and Mark went down the rickety winding stair, andout under the colonnade of the Vice-Chancellors' courts, at the closeddoors of which a few clerks and reporters were copying down the causelist for the next day. 

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

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

'I suppose not, ' said Mark, with a regret that sounded a littleformal, 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 forHolroyd, for whom Mark's friendship had been a matter of circumstancerather than deliberate preference. They had been quartered in the samelodgings at Cambridge, and had afterwards 'kept' on the same staircasein college, which had led to a more or less daily companionship, asort of intimacy that is not always strong enough to beartransplantation to town. 

Holroyd had taken care that it should survive their college days; forhe had an odd liking for Mark, in spite of a tolerably clear insightinto his character. Mark had a way of inspiring friendships withoutmuch effort on his part, and this undemonstrative, self-contained manfelt an affection for him which was stronger than he ever allowedhimself to show. 

Mark, for his part, had begun to feel an increasing constraint in thecompany of a friend who had an unpleasantly keen eye for his weakpoints, and with whom he was always conscious of a certain inferioritywhich, as he could discover no reason for it, galled his vanity themore. 

His careless tone wounded Holroyd, who had hoped for some warmerresponse; and they walked on in silence until they turned into HydePark 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 isit?'

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

'Never mind, old boy, ' said Mark, with a light laugh; for theconfession, or perhaps a certain embarrassment with which it was made, seemed to put Holroyd more on a level with himself. 'So have lots offellows, and no one thinks any the worse of them--unless they printit. 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, andI amused myself by putting one of my dreams down on paper. I wasn'tdisturbed. '

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

'I never got up, ' said Holroyd, with a rather melancholy grimace. 'Ibegan well enough. I used to come up to chambers by ten and leave athalf-past six, after noting up reports and text-books all day; but nosolicitor seemed struck by my industry. Then I sat in court and tookdown judgments most elaborately, but no leader ever asked _me_ to takenotes for him, and I never got a chance of suggesting anything to thecourt as _amicus curiæ_, for both the Vice-Chancellors seemed able toget along pretty well without me. Then I got tired of that, andsomehow this book got into my head, and I couldn't rest till I'd gotit 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 alittle?' asked Mark. 

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

'Not a bit, old fellow, ' said Mark, 'no trouble in the world; onlytying up the parcel each time, sending it off again. Well, I didn'tmean 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, Ishould like you to make all the arrangements. You've had someexperience 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 candescribe 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 havingto 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 verylittle. '

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

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

'Shall I?' said Holroyd. 'I don't know. People are kind enough, butthey can only be really glad to see any one who is able to amuse themor interest them, and that's natural enough. I can't flatter myselfthat I'm particularly interesting or amusing; any way, it's too lateto 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 ofthe island. I don't think he has ever been very intimate with theother planters near him, and as I left the place when I was a child Ihave fewer friends there than here even. But there will be plenty todo 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 thatwas soon after I was called, and I preferred to try my fortune inEngland first. I was the second son, you see, and while my brotherJohn was alive I was left pretty well to my own devices. I went, asyou know, to Colombo in my second Long, but only for a few weeks ofcourse, and my father and I didn't get on together somehow. But he'sill now, and poor John died of dysentery, and he's alone, so even if Ihad 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 dullleaden surface of the Serpentine on their right, and away to the left, across the tan and the grey sward, the Cavalry Barracks, with theirlong narrow rows of gleaming windows. Up the long convex surface ofthe Row a faint white mist was crawling, and a solitary, spectral-looking horseman was cantering noiselessly out of it towardsthem. The evening had almost begun; the sky had changed to a delicategreen tint, merged towards the west in a dusky crocus, against whichthe Memorial spire stood out sharp and black; from South Kensingtoncame 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, andthat 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 hisnative country. '

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

'Oh, it will be all right, ' said Mark, with the comfortable view onetakes of another's future; 'you'll get on well enough. We shall haveyou 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 aplace like that. '

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

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

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

'One word more about the--the book, ' he said. 'I may put your name andaddress on the title-page, then? It goes off to Chilton and Fladgateto-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, Ishould 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, isnot the best bait for briefs, ' said Holroyd; 'and besides, if I am toget a slating, I'd rather have it under an _alias_, don't you see? Sothe 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 withpleasure, and write to you when it's settled. So you can make yourmind easy about _that_. '

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

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

'Good-bye, old boy, ' he said. 'Take care of yourself--pleasant voyageand good luck. You're no letter-writer, I know, but you'll drop me aline 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 thepresent, Mark. We shall see one another again, I hope. Don't forgetall 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 awayfrom one another, and they parted, Holroyd walking towards Bayswateracross the bridge, and Mark making for Queen's Gate and Kensington. 

Mark looked after his friend's tall strong figure for a moment beforeit disappeared in the dark. 'Well, I've seen the last of him, ' hethought. 'Poor old Holroyd! to think of his having written abook--he's one of those unlucky beggars who never make a hit atanything. 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 toldhimself. 'Will Mabel say good-bye like that?'

CHAPTER III. 

GOOD-BYE. 

On the same afternoon in which we have seen Mark and Vincent walk hometogether for the last time, Mrs. Langton and her eldest daughter Mabelwere sitting in the pretty drawing-room of their house in KensingtonPark 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 enoughto conceal a slight shallowness of mind and character; she was prettystill, and an invalid at all times when indisposition was notpositively inconvenient. 

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

Mrs. Langton was leaning luxuriously back in a low soft chair, lazilywatching the firebeams glisten through the stained-glass screen, andMabel was on a couch near the window trying to read a magazine by thefading 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 forthe eyes. I suppose no one else will call now, but it's very strangethat 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'msure we've tried to show him every kindness. Your father was alwayshaving solicitors to meet him at dinner, and it was never any use; andhe 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 alwaysshy and odd in some things. He hasn't been to see us nearly so muchlately, but I can't believe he will really go away without a word. '

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

Dolly was a vivacious child of about nine, with golden locks which hada pretty ripple in them, and deep long-lashed eyes that promised to bedangerous one day. 'We took Frisk out without the leash, mummy, ' shecried, 'and when we got into Westbourne Grove he ran away. Wasn't ittoo 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 knowwhat a dreadful state he always _will_ come back in. He must be curedof 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 againdirectly he's washed. I know what I'll do, Mabel. When he comes backthis 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 washardly a purist in his expressions. 

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

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

'Mabel, I really think that must be some one else coming to call afterall. Do you know, I feel so tired and it's so late that I think I willleave you and Fräulein to talk to them. Papa and I are going out todinner 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 butlercrossed the hall to open the door, evidently to a visitor, andpresently Mabel heard 'Mr. Holroyd' announced. 

'So you really have come after all, ' said Mabel, holding out her handwith a pretty smile of welcome. 'Mamma and I thought you meant to goaway 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 signof you, there _was_ some excuse for thinking so; but you have come atlast, so we won't scold you. Will you have some tea? It isn't verywarm, I'm afraid, but you are so very late, you know. Ring, and youshall have some fit to drink. '

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

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

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

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

He knew it would fade only too soon, as often happens with the face webest love and have reason chiefly to remember. Others will riseunbidden with the vividness of a photograph, but the _one_ face eludesus more and more, till no effort of the mind will call it up with anydistinctness. 

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

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

'I know, ' said Mabel, simply; 'I'm very sorry, Vincent. ' But there wasonly a frank friendliness in her eyes as she spoke, nothing more, andVincent 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 analbum. '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 thinkColin too. '

'I should like all those very much, ' said Vincent, who could notaccept this offer as a perfect substitute, 'but can't you find one ofyourself, 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 Ihad 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 manythings. '

'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 abetter correspondent than you were, Vincent. '

Just then Dolly came, holding a cage of lovebirds. 'Champion said youwere 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 sayinggood-bye to me. You haven't seen my birds, have you? Papa gave them tome. 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, uponwhich each bird instantly tried to hide its head in the sandunderneath the other. 

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

As it never occurred to Dolly that anybody could have the bad taste toprefer any one else's conversation to her own, she took entirepossession 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 themsix months. Do you know, Harold Caffyn says they're little humbugs, and kiss one another only when people look at them. I _have_ caughtthem fighting dreadfully myself. I don't think lovebirds ought tofight. Do you? Oh, and Harold says that when one dies I ought to timethe other and see how long it takes him to pine away; but Harold isalways saying horrid things like that. '

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

Dolly danced out to hunt for that prosaic instrument in a desultoryway, and then forget it in some dispute with Colin, who generallywelcomed any distraction whilst preparing his school-work--a resultwhich Fräulein Mozer probably took into account, particularly as shehad the metronome by her side at the time. 'Poor Mr. Vincent!' shethought; 'he has not come to talk with Dolly of lovebirds. '

'You will be sure to write and tell us all about yourself, ' saidMabel. '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 befamous? 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 amambitious still, Mabel. I shall not be content with that, if a certainventure of mine is successful enough to give me hopes of anythingbetter. But it's a very big "if" at present. '

'What is the venture?' said Mabel. 'Tell me, Vincent; you used to tellme 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 atleast until his book were safe in the haven of printer's ink beforeconfessing that he was an author. 

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

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

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

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

'It isn't a very dreadful operation, Vincent, ' said Mabel. 'Dolly hasbeen 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 itover here. ' She armed herself with a pencil and a large sheet of whitepaper as she spoke. 'Now, Vincent, put yourself so that your shadowcomes just here, and keep perfectly still. Don't move, or talk, oranything, 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 schoolsaid 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, withone hand lightly touching his shoulder, while her soft hair sweptacross his cheek now and then. Long after--as long as he lived, infact--he remembered those moments with a thrill. 

'Now I have done, Vincent, ' cried Dolly, triumphantly, after somelaborious 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!' shesaid, 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 Imust 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 saidat last: 'it would keep you warm certainly, but I'm afraid the blackcomes off--you must have it mounted on cardboard and framed, youknow. '

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

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

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

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

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

A tall, graceful young man came in, with an air of calm and ease thatwas 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, wasclear and pleasant. 

'Do you mean this for an afternoon call, Harold?' asked Mabel, who didnot 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 acommission 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 upin the consular service abroad, and he himself had lately gone on thestage, finding it more attractive than the Foreign Office, for whichhe had been originally intended. He had had no reason as yet to regrethis apostasy, for he had obtained almost at once an engagement in aleading West-end theatre, while his social prospects had not beenmaterially affected by the change; partly because the world has becomemore liberal of late in these matters, and partly because he hadcontrived to gain a tolerably secure position in it already, by thehelp of a pleasant manner and the musical and dramatic accomplishmentswhich had led him to adopt the stage as his profession. 

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

This fear proved groundless: Mabel had not altered to him in theleast. But his successes as an amateur had not followed him to thepublic stage; he had not as yet been entrusted with any but very minor_rôles_, and was already disenchanted enough with his profession to bewilling to give it up on very moderate provocation. 

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

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

Holroyd had known Caffyn for several years: they had frequently met inthat house, and, though there was little in common between them, theirrelations 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 aparting 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 youwould 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 oldpump 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 forthat, you know. You're asked, too Juggins. ' (Juggins was a name he hadfor Dolly, whom he found pleasure in teasing, and who was not deeplyattached 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 gentlemanblandly. 

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

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

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

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

The hall of a London house is perhaps hardly the place forlove-passages--there is something fatally ludicrous about adeclaration amongst the hats and umbrellas. In spite of aconsciousness of this, however, Vincent felt a passionate impulseeven then, at that eleventh hour, to tell Mabel something of what wasin his heart. 

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

Fräulein Mozer's inclination to a sentimental view of life, andCaffyn's tendency to see a rival in every one, had quickened theirinsight respectively; but Mabel herself, though girls are seldom thelast to discover such symptoms, had never thought of Vincent as apossible lover, for which his own undemonstrative manner andprocrastination were chiefly to blame. 

He had shrunk from betraying his feelings before. 'She can never carefor me, ' he had thought; 'I have done nothing to deserve her--I amnobody, ' and this had urged him on to do something which might qualifyhim in his own eyes, until which he had steadily kept his own counseland seen her as seldom as possible. 

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

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

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

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

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

'So he's gone!' remarked Caffyn, as she re-entered the drawing-roomafter lingering a few moments in the empty hall. 'What a dear, dullold plodder it is, isn't it? He'll do much better at planting coffeethan 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 theleast dull: you only speak of him like that because you don'tunderstand him. '

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

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

But, for all that, the suggestion very effectually prevented alldanger of Vincent's becoming idealised by distance into something moreinteresting than a brother--which was, indeed, the reason why Caffynmade it. 

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

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

'I would do anything for her, ' he said, half aloud, 'and yet I darednot tell her then. .. . But if I ever come back to her again--before itis too late--she shall know all she is and always will be to me. Iwill wait and hope for that. '

CHAPTER IV. 

MALAKOFF TERRACE. 

After parting from Vincent at the end of Rotten Row, Mark Ashburncontinued his walk alone through Kensington High Street and onwards, until he came to one of those quiet streets which serve as a sort ofbackwater to the main stream of traffic, and, turning down this, itwas not long before he reached a row of small three-story houses, withtheir lower parts cased in stucco, but the rest allowed to remain inthe original yellow-brown brick, which time had mellowed to a pleasantwarm tone. 'Malakoff Terrace, ' as the place had been christened (andthe title was a tolerable index of its date), was rather lessdepressing in appearance than many of its more modern neighbours, withtheir dismal monotony and pretentiousness. It faced a well-keptenclosure, with trim lawns and beds, and across the compact laurelhedges in the little front gardens a curious passer-by might catchglimpses of various interiors which in nearly every case left him withan impression of cosy comfort. The outline of the terrace was brokenhere and there by little verandahs protecting the shallow balconiesand painted a deep Indian-red or sap-green, which in summer time weregay with flowers and creepers, and one seldom passed there then onwarm and drowsy afternoons without undergoing a well-sustained firefrom quite a masked battery of pianos, served from behind thefluttering white curtains at most of the long open windows on thefirst floor. 

Even in winter and at night the terrace was cheerful, with its varietyof striped and coloured blinds and curtains at the illuminatedwindows; and where blinds and curtains were undrawn and the littlefront rooms left unlighted, the firelight flickering within on shiningbookcases and picture frames was no less pleasantly suggestive. Still, in every neighbourhood there will always be some houses whoseexteriors are severely unattractive; without being poverty-stricken, they seem to belong to people indifferent to all but the absolutelyessential, and incapable of surrounding themselves with any of thecharacteristic contrivances that most homes which are more than merelodgings amass almost unconsciously. It was before a house of thislatter kind that Mark stopped--a house with nothing in the shape of averandah to relieve its formality. Behind its front railings therewere no trim laurel bushes--only an uncomfortable bed of equal partsof mould and broken red tiles, in which a withered juniper was dyinghard; at the windows were no bright curtain-folds or hanging basketsof trailing fern to give a touch of colour, but dusty wire blinds andhangings of a faded drab. 

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

He found them all sitting down to dinner in the back parlour, asquare 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 outsoup with a touch of the relieving officer in her manner; opposite toher was her husband, a mild little man in habitually low spirits; andthe rest of the family, Mark's two sisters, Martha and Trixie, and hisyounger 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 wasfond of referring to the roof) 'your father and I expect you toconform to the rules of the house. '

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

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

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

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

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 carelessschoolboy at St. Peter's; she still tried to enforce little morallessons and even petty restrictions upon her family generally; andthough 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 livelyconversation; those who have been out into the great world describetheir personal experiences, and the scenes, tragic or humorous, whichthey have severally witnessed during the day; and when these areexhausted, the female members take up the tale and relate the humblerincidents of domestic life, and so the hours pass till bedtime. 

Such circles are in all sincerity to be congratulated; but it is to befeared that in the majority of cases the conversation of a familywhose members meet every day is apt, among themselves, to becomefrightfully monosyllabic. It was certainly so with the Ashburns. Markand Trixie sometimes felt the silences too oppressive to be borne, andmade desperate attempts at establishing a general discussion onsomething or anything; but it was difficult to select a topic thatcould not be brought down by an axiom from Mrs. Ashburn, whichdisposed of the whole subject in very early infancy. Cuthbertgenerally came back from the office tired and somewhat sulky; Martha'stemper was not to be depended upon of an evening; and Mr. Ashburnhimself rarely contributed more than a heavy sigh to the common stockof conversation. 

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

The beginning of this particular evening did not promise any markedincrease in the general liveliness. Mrs. Ashburn announcedlugubriously to all whom it might concern that she had eaten no lunch;Martha mentioned that a Miss Hornblower had called thatafternoon--which produced no sensation, though Cuthbert seemed for amoment inclined to ask who Miss Hornblower might happen to be, till heremembered in time that he really did not care, and saved himself thetrouble. Then Trixie made a well-meant, but rather too obvious, effortto allure him to talk by an inquiry (which had become something of aformula) whether he had 'seen any one' that day, to which Cuthbertreplied 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 hisjokes, moving him to confess sardonically that he knew he was a funnydog, but when he saw them all--and particularly Martha--rollickinground 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 exampleof "rollicking, " as you call it, at this table. Decent mirth and acheerful tone of conversation we have always encouraged. I don't knowwhy you should receive a mother's remarks with laughter. It is notrespectful of you, Cuthbert, I must say!'

Mrs. Ashburn would probably have proceeded to further defend herselfand family from the charge of rollicking, and to draw uncomplimentaryparallels from the Proverbs between the laughter of certain personsand the crackling of thorns under a pot, when a timely diversion waseffected by a sounding knock at the little front door. The maid putdown the dish she was handing and vanished; after which there weresounds of a large body entering the passage, and a loud voiceexclaiming, '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 anyoutward expression of joy, because they were naturally a quiet family. 

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

'Quite so, my dear; quite so, ' said Mr. Ashburn, hastily. 'He was herelast 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 hiscoat, ' for there were snorting and puffing signs from the next room, as if their relative were in difficulties; but before Trixie couldrise the voice was heard again, 'That's it, Ann, thanky--you're calledAnn, aren't you? I thought so. Ah, how's the baker, Ann--wasn't itthe baker I caught down the airy now? _wasn't_ it, hey?'

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

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

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

Mark's performances at his first examination, as has been said, hadnot been calculated to encourage his uncle's hopes, but the latter hadbeen slightly mollified by his nephew's spirit in carrying off theCambridge scholarship soon afterwards, and with the idea of having onemore attempt to 'see his money back, ' Mr. Lightowler had consented tokeep him for the necessary time at the University. When thatexperiment also had ended in disaster, Uncle Solomon seemed at onetime to have given him up in disgust, only reserving himself, as thesole value for his money, the liberty of reproach, and Mark was ofopinion that he had already gone far towards recouping himself in thisrespect alone. 

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

'We can't all live in country houses, Solomon, ' said his sister, 'anda 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 mustall of you be fired like a set of pots! I don't care where I sit, solong 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 auburnhair, which was never quite in good order, and pretty hands of whichmost girls would have been more careful; she had developed a limptaste for art of late, finding drawing outlines at an art school lessirksome than assisting in the housekeeping at home. Uncle Solomonalways alarmed her because she never knew what he would say next; butas it was a family rule to be civil to him, she made room for him withgreat apparent alacrity. 

'And how are you all, boys and girls, eh?' asked Uncle Solomon, whenhe was comfortably seated; 'Mark, you've got fuller in the waist oflate; you don't take 'alf enough exercise. Cuthbert, lad, you'relooking 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 anynice young man asked you to name a day yet?--he's a long time comingforward, Martha, that nice young man; why, let me see, Jane, she mustbe getting on now for--she was born in the year fifty-four, wasit?--four it was; it was in the war time, I remember, and you wantedher christened Alma, but I said an uncommon name is all very well ifshe grows up good-looking, but if she's plain it only soundsridiklous; so, very fortunately as things turn out, you had herchristened Martha. There's nothing to bite your lips over, my dear; noone blames you for it, we can't be all born 'andsome. It's Trixie herewho gets all the love-letters, isn't it, Trixie?--ah, I _thought_ Ishould see a blush if I looked! Who is it now, Trixie, and where do wemeet him, and when is the wedding? Come, tell your old uncle. '

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

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

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

'Well, Mr. Schoolmaster, ' said the latter, working round to Markagain, 'and how are _you_ gettin' on? If you'd worked harder atCollege 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 birchingnaughty little boys. '

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

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

Martha tittered acidly at this light badinage, but it brought a painedlook into Trixie's large brown eyes, who thought it was a shame thatpoor Mark should never be allowed to hear the last of his Cambridge_fiasco_. 

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

'Well, I've been a good friend to him, Jane, and I could have been abetter 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 hisscribbling----'

Mark thought it prudent to equivocate: 'Even if I wished to write, uncle, ' he said, 'what with my school-work, and what with reading forthe 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 hisbelief in Mark's ability, and had been gratified upon his joining oneof the Inns of Court by the prospect of having a nephew who at leastwould 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 thinkof 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'sgoings on at the church. ' (Uncle Solomon not unfrequently dropped an'h, ' but with a deliberation that seemed to say that he was quiteaware it was there, but did not consider it advisable to recognise itjust then. ) 'He's quite got round the Vicar; made him have flowers anda great brass cross and candles on the Communion table, and 'Umpageall the time a feller with no more religion inside him than'--here helooked round the table for a comparison--'ah, than that jug has! He'stalked the Vicar into getting them little bags for collections now, all because he was jealous at the clerk's putting the plate inside mypew reg'lar for _me_ to hold. It isn't that I care about 'olding aplate, but to see 'Umpage smirking round with one of them red velvetbags makes me downright sick--they'll drive me to go over and be aBaptist 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 asfor liking, I neither like nor dislike the man; we 'old nointercourse, beyond looking the other way in church and 'aving wordsacross the fence when his fowls break through into my garden--he won'thave the hole seen to, so I shall get it done myself and send the billin to him--that's what _I_ shall do. --A letter for you, Matthew? readaway, don't mind me, ' for the maid had come in meanwhile with aletter, which Matthew Ashburn opened and began to read at thispermission. 

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

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

He took the letter, solemnly settled his double eyeglasses well downon his broad nose, coughed importantly, and began to read: 'Dear Sir, 'he began in a tone of expounding wisdom--'well, that's straightforwardenough--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 houseare all right, I think, my dear?'

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

'Which, ' continued Uncle Solomon, 'you 'ave been good enough to submitto 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 anyovertures to you in the matter. Well, ' he said, though not veryconfidently, '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 ourselvescompelled to decline, although with more reluctance; but, in spite ofsome considerable merits, there is a slight roughness (why, hercomplexion's clear enough!), together with a certain immaturity andtotal lack of form and motive (you _are_ giddy, you know, Trixie, Ialways told you so), which are in our opinion sufficient to prevent usfrom making any proposals to you in the matter. '

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

''Ere are these people--what's their names? Leadbitter and Gandy (whoI take it are in the gas-fitting and decorating line)--writing to sayin the same breath that they can't come and see to your bells, andthey don't want to marry your daughter. Who asked them?--you ain'tcome 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 methat, and I'll thank you. '

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

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

'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 thatby holding his tongue he might escape being detected, while therejection of both the novels from which he had hoped so much was aheavy blow which he felt he could scarcely bear in public; but theyseemed so determined to sift the matter to the end that he decided toenlighten 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 thinkperhaps 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 forMark, not Matthew. It's from--from a firm of publishers, ' said theunlucky Mark, speaking very hoarsely; 'I sent them two novels ofmine--one was called "One Fair Daughter, " and the other "Sweet BellsJangled"--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 hethought a good deal which brotherly feeling forbade him to put inwords; but Trixie tried to take Mark's hand under the table--heshrank from all sympathy, however, at such a moment, and shook her offimpatiently, and all she could do was to keep her eyes in pity fromhis face. 

Mrs. Ashburn gave a tragic groan and shook her head: to her a youngman who was capable of writing novels was lost; she had a wholesomehorror of all fiction, having come from a race of Dissenters of thestrict old-fashioned class, whose prejudices her hard dull nature hadretained in all their strength. Her husband, without any very clearviews 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 senseof the house. '

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

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

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

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

'Well, ' said Uncle Solomon, ponderously, 'if that's all, you've made acapital 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'msure?'

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

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

'There's an old Latin proverb, ' said Mr. Ashburn, with a feeling thatit was his turn--'an old Latin proverb, "_Nec suetonius ultracrepitam_. "'

'No, excuse me, you 'aven't _quite_ got it, Matthew, ' said hisbrother-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 remarkof the poet Cicero--"Cobbler stick to your last, " as _we_ have it moreneatly. But your father's right on the main point, Mark. I don't sayyou need stick to the schoolmastering, unless you choose. I'll see youstarted at the Bar; I came this very evening to 'ave a talk with youon that. But what do you want to go and lower yourself by literaturefor? There's a littery man down at our place, a poor feller thatwrites for the "Chigbourne and Lamford Gazette, " and gets my gardenerto let him take the measure of my gooseberries; he's got a hat on himmy scarecrow wouldn't be seen in. That's what you'll come to!'

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

'There's a difference between you and him, ' retorted his uncle; 'hegets 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, andnow I know it, ' said his uncle, irritably. 'Now look here, Mark, let'shave no more nonsense about it. I said I came here to have a littletalk with you, and though things are not what I expected, 'ave it Iwill. When I saw you last, I thought you were trying to raise yourselfby your own efforts and studying law, and I said to myself, "I'llgive him another chance. " It seems now that was all talk; but I'llgive you the chance for all that. If you like to take it, well andgood; if not, I've done with you this time once for all. You go on andwork 'ard at this Law till you've served your time out, or kept yourterms, 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 youstarted in chambers till you're able to run alone. Only, and mindthis, no more of your scribbling--drop that littery rubbish once forall, and I stand by you; go on at it, and I leave you to go to thedogs your own way. That's my offer, and I mean it. '

There are few things so unpleasantly corrective to one's self-esteemas a letter of rejection such as had come to Mark--the refusal of theschool committee was insignificant in comparison; only those who haveyielded to the subtle temptation to submit manuscript to an editor ora publisher's reader, and have seen it return in dishonour, can quiterealise the dull anguish of it, the wild, impotent rebellion thatfollows, and the stunned sense that all one's ideas will have somehowto be readjusted; perhaps an artist whose pictures are not hung feelssomething of it, but there one's wounded vanity can more easily findsalves. 

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

And yet he hesitated still: the publisher might be wrong; he had heardof books riding out several such storms and sailing in triumphantly atlast. There was Carlyle, there was Charlotte Brontë, and otherinstances occurred to him. And he longed for speedy fame, and the lawwas a long avenue to it. 

'You hear what your uncle says?' said his mother. 'Surely you won'trefuse a chance like this. '

'Yes, he will, ' said Martha. 'Mark would rather write novels thanwork, wouldn't you, Mark? It must be so amusing to write things whichwill 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 itnever 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'llread steadily, and get called, and see if I'm good for anything at theBar, 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 reformedcharacter; I'll take the pledge to abstain from ink in all forms ifyou like. ' It was not a very gracious way of accepting what was by nomeans an unhandsome offer; but he was jarred and worried, and scarcelyknew what he said. 

Mr. Lightowler was not sensitive, and was too satisfied at havinggained 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'msure. We'll have you on the Woolsack yet, and we'll say no more aboutthe other business. '

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

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

'It's me, Mark--Trixie--let me in. ' Mark rose and opened the door toTrixie, in a loose morning wrapper. 'Mark, I'm so sorry, dear, ' shesaid 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 myerrors and am going to turn Lord Chancellor. '

'You mustn't be angry with them, ' said Trixie. 'Dear ma is verystrict; 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 Marthaand Cuthbert can't help saying disagreeable things. Don't you think, perhaps, ' she added timidly, 'that it's better for you to give upthinking about writing any more?'

'Well, I've done it, Trixie, at any rate. I'm not so bad as thatfellow Delobelle, in "Fromont Jeune, " with his "Je n'ai pas le droitde renoncer au théâtre!" am I? I've renounced _my_ stage. I'm a goodlittle 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--byJove they shall!'

'No, Mark, don't, it would be such a pity, ' cried Trixie. 'I'm surethey 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 fancycovers for railway reading? It would be very nice, Trixie, wouldn'tit? 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 spicyquarto on Bankruptcy, or a rattling digest on the Law of Settlementand 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 aspirantshave dreamed before him--that a second letter had come from thepublishers, stating that they had reconsidered their decision, andoffering repentantly to publish both novels on fabulous terms. He wasjust rushing to call Trixie, and tell her the good news, when thedream faded, and he awoke to the consciousness of his very differentcircumstances. 

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

CHAPTER V. 

NEIGHBOURS. 

More than a week had passed since the scene in Malakoff Terracedescribed in my last chapter--a week spent by Mark in the drudgery ofschool work, which had grown more distasteful than ever now he couldindulge in no golden dreams of a glorious deliverance; for he couldnot accept his new prospects as an adequate substitute, and wasbeginning to regret his abandonment of his true ambitions with alonging 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'sundisguised recovery of the feeling of proprietorship in him, and hisrepeated incitements to pursue his studies with unwearying ardour, only increased Mark's disgust with himself and his future, as hewalked along the lanes with his relative towards the little churchbeyond the village on the last Sunday in November. 

It was a bright clear frosty day, with a scarlet sun glowing throughdun-coloured clouds, and a pale blue sky beyond the haze above theirheads; the country landscape had suggestions of Christmas cheeriness, impossible enough to Londoners who cannot hope to share incountry-house revels _à la_ Mr. Caldecott, but vaguely exhilaratingnotwithstanding. 

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

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

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

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

'As a saint?' suggested Mark. 

'Never you mind. If I liked to be a saint on glass I could, Isuppose--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 makemyself so conspicuous. 'Umpage, now, he likes that sort of thing. '

This brought them to the church, a perpendicular building with adecidedly 'Early English' smell in it, and Uncle Solomon led the wayto his pew, stopping to nudge Mark as they passed the memorial to hisenemy's meretricious aunt; he nudged him again presently, after he hadretired behind the ecclesiastical hat and emerged again to deal outsome 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 ofthe pew in front of them--a formidable-looking old gentleman, with asallow face, long iron-grey locks, full grey eyes, a hook-nose, andprominent teeth under a yellowish-grey moustache and beard. 

He felt a sudden shame, for behind Mr. Humpage came a pretty childwith 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 caughtthe very audible whisper, for she glanced in its direction as shepassed in with the slightest possible gleam of amused surprise in hereyes and a lifting of her delicate eyebrows. 

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

As a Low Churchman Mr. Lightowler protested against this processionalpomp by a loud snort, which expression of opinion he repeated at anytendency to genuflexion on the part of the clergyman during theservice, until the little girl turned round and gazed at him withlarge concerned eyes, as if she thought he must be either very devoutor extremely unwell. 

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

But Mark saw little else but the soft shining knot of hair against thedark sables of the hat and tippet of his beautiful neighbour, and aglimpse of her delicate profile now and then, as she turned to findthe places for her little sister, who invariably disdained assistanceas long as possible. He began to speculate idly on her probablecharacter. Was she proud?--there was a shade of disdain about hersmile when he first saw her. Self-willed?--the turn of her gracefulhead was slightly imperious. She could be tender with it all--heinferred that from the confidence with which the child nestled againsther as the sermon began, and the gentle protecting hand that drew hercloser still. 

Mark had been in and out of love several times in his life; his lastaffair had been with a pretty, shallow flirt with a clever mannerpicked up at secondhand, and though she had come to the end of her_répertoire_ and ceased to amuse or interest him long before theyparted by mutual consent, he chose to believe his heart for everblighted and proof against all other women, so that he was naturallyin the most favourable condition for falling an easy victim. 

He thought he had never seen any one quite like this girl, soperfectly natural and unaffected, and yet with such an indefinable airof distinction in her least movement. What poems, what books might notbe written, with such an influence to inspire them, and then Markrecollected 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 ifhe ever had the opportunity of paying it, and the thought did not tendto reconcile him to his lot. 

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

They came out of church into bright November sunshine; the sun haddisengaged itself now from the dun clouds, melted the haze, andtempered the air almost to the warmth of early spring. Mark lookedround for Mr. Humpage and his party, but without success; they hadlingered behind, perhaps, as he could not help fearing, designedly. Hedetermined, however, to find out what he could about them, andapproached 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 acontemptuous sniff. 

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

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

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

'Which young ladies?'

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

'You don't go to church to stare about you, do you? _I_ didn't takeany notice of them; they're strangers here--friends of 'Umpage, Idaresay. That was his sister in grey; she keeps house for him, andthey say he leads her a pretty life with his tempers. Did you see thatold 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 inliquor sometimes she can't find her way about and 'as to be taken 'omein a barrow. You wouldn't think it to look at her, would you? I shallgive the vicar the 'int to tell old John Barker he ought to stay awaytill he's got over that cough of his; it's enough to make anybody illto listen to him. I've a good mind to tell him of it myself; and Iwill, 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 agun. I've seen him myself driving a dog-cart Sunday afternoons in apot '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 juststroll round to get an appetite for dinner before we go in. '

Uncle Solomon led the way into the stables, where he lingered to slaphis mare on the back and brag about her, and then Mark had to beintroduced to the pig. 'What I call a 'andsome pig, yer know, ' heremarked; 'a perfect picture, he is' (a picture that needed cleaning, Mark thought)--'you come down to me in another three weeks or so, andwe'll try a bit off of that chap'--an observation which seemed tostrike 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 todine: Lassie, the colley, had to be unfastened for a run about the'grounds, ' of which a mechanical mouse might have made the tour infive minutes; there was a stone obelisk to be inspected that UncleSolomon had bought a bargain at a sale and set up at a corner of thelawn inscribed with the names of his favourites living and dead--aremarkably scratch team, by the way; then he read out sonorousversions of the Latin names of most of his shrubs, which occupied aconsiderable time until, at last, by way of the kitchen-garden andstrawberry 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 thelower half was torn away; 'that's where 'Umpage's blathering oldgander 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 spokeabout it to 'Umpage till I'm tired, and I shall 'ave to take the lawinto 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 cometo nothing. And now we'll go in for a wash before dinner. '

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

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

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

He put on an old garden-hat and sallied out, followed by Mark: 'Thevoices seem to come down from 'Umpage's way, but there's no one to beseen, ' 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 hisconfounded impudence!'

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

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

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

And Mark soon observed that the misguided bird was not in a conditionto be easily prevailed upon, being in a very advanced stage of solemnintoxication; it was tacking about the path with an erraticstateliness, its neck stretched defiantly, and its choked sleepycackle 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 elaborateindifference, meant to conceal a retreat to the gap by which it hadentered, and began to waddle with excessive dignity in that direction, but from the way in which it repeatedly aimed itself at the intactportions of the paling, it seemed reasonable to infer that it wasunder 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 slightlylifted his hat as he came up: he felt somewhat ashamed and stronglytempted to laugh at the same time; he dared not look at the face ofMr. Humpage's companion, and kept in the background as a dispassionatespectator. 

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

'This is disgraceful, sir, ' the other gentleman retorted, galled bythis 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 thisjuncture, 'it's _so_ giddy; is it ill, godpa?'

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

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

When she had gone, the old gentleman said, with a dangerous smile thatshowed all his teeth, 'Now, Mr. Lightowler, I think I'm indebted toyou 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 outits wings and screech contemptuously at the universe. 

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

'_It's_ 'appy enough; don't you be uneasy, Mr. 'Umpage, there's beenno 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 everygander, as gets the luck to taste that. My gardener must have laidsome 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 youabout 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 yourbird 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 acrossthe fence. In spite of her feminine compassion for the bird andrespect for its proprietor, Mabel had not been able to overcome asense of the absurdity of the scene, with the two angry old gentlemenwrangling across the fence over an intoxicated gander; the face Marksaw was rippling with subdued amusement, and her dark grey eyes methis for an instant with an electric flash of understanding; then sheturned away with a slight increase of colour in her cheeks. 'I'm goingin, Uncle Anthony, ' she said; 'do come, too, as soon as you can; don'tquarrel 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 Itrouble you, Mr. Lightowler, to kindly hand me over that bird--whenyou have quite finished with it?' he added. 

'That bird has been taking such a fancy to my manure heap that I'llask to be excused, ' said Mr. Lightowler. 'If you was to whistle to itnow I might 'ead it through the 'ole; but it always finds it a gooddeal easier to come through than it does to come back, even when it'ssober. 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, androlled 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, andyou've had it poisoned, sir; that soaked bread was put there by you oryour 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 cansay that by-and-by. '

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

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

'Decoyed? I like that! pretty innercent, that bird of yours! too timidto 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 abit. You and your gander!'

Mabel had already escaped; Mark remained trying to persuade his uncleto 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 asa 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, ofall parties!'

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

'I tell you I never ill-treated him; as for abuse, I don't say. Butthat'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, orchampagne-cup about my grounds, I'm not obliged to consult yourridik'lous gander, I _do_ hope. _I_ didn't ask him to sample 'em. Idon't care a brass button for your summonses. You can summon me tillyou're black in the face!'

But in spite of these brave words Mr. Lightowler was really not alittle 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, whichmade some maudlin objections, and carried it gingerly to the fence. 'Here's the victim, Mr. Humpage, ' he said lightly. 'I think it will beitself again in a couple of hours or so. And now, perhaps, we can letthe matter drop for the present. '

The old gentleman glared at Mark as he received his bird: 'I don'tknow who you may be, young sir, or what share you've had in thisdisgraceful business. If I trace it to you, you shall repent of it, Ipromise you! I don't wish to have any further communication with youor your friend, who's old enough to know his duty better as aneighbour 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 UncleSolomon, who had of course heard his parting words, looking ratherruefully at his nephew. 

'It's all very well for you to laugh, ' he said to Mark, as they turnedto go into the house again; 'but let me tell you if that hot-temperedold idiot goes and brings all this up at Petty Sessions, it may be anawkward affair for me. He's been a lawyer, has 'Umpage, and he'll dohis worst. A pretty thing to 'ave my name in all the papers about 'ereas torturing a goose! I dessay they'll try and make out that I pouredthe whisky down the brute's throat. It's Wilcox's doings, and none ofmine; 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. Whatdo _you_ think about it, come? Can he touch me, eh? But he hasn't gota leg to stand on, like his gander--it's all nonsense, _ain't_ it?'

If there had ever been a chance, Mark thought bitterly, aftercomforting his uncle as well as his very moderate acquaintance withthe law permitted, of anything like intimacy between himself and thegirl whose face had fascinated him so strangely, it was gone now: thatbird of evil omen had baulked his hopes as effectually as itsancestors frustrated the aspiring Gaul. 

The dusk was drawing on as they walked across the lawn, from which therusset glow of the sunset had almost faded; the commonplace villabefore them was tinted with violet, and in the west the hedges andtrees formed an intricate silhouette against a background of ruddygold and pale lemon; one or two flamingo-coloured clouds still floatedlanguidly higher up in a greenish blue sky; over everything the peaceand calm had settled that mark the close of a perfect autumn day, withthe additional stillness which always makes itself perceptible on aSunday. 

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

At supper that evening his uncle, too, recovered his spirits: 'If hebrings a summons, they'll dismiss it, ' he said confidently; 'but heknows better than that as a lawyer--if he does, he'll find the laughturned against him, hey? I'm not answerable for what Wilcox chooses todo without my orders. I never told him he wasn't to--but that ain'tlike 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 whatyou 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 thestaircase and said to Mark, 'Before I forget it, you remind me to getWilcox to find out, quietly, the first thing to-morrow, how thatgander is. '

CHAPTER VI. 

SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR. 

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

The too-zealous Wilcox brought the trap round. ''Ave you been round tosee about that bird next door?' Mr. Lightowler asked ratheranxiously, 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 oldgander was werry bad when they got 'im 'ome, but he ain't any theworse for what he 'ad this mornin', sir; though the man, he dew say asthe 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 Isay, ' 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 seemto secrete and exude almost unconsciously, as toads yield moisture;but Mark paid only a moderate degree of attention to it as they spunpast the low dim edges; he hardly noticed what could be seen along theroad even, which was not much--a gable-end or a haystack starting outfor an instant from the fog, or a shadowy labourer letting himselfthrough a gate--he was thinking of the girl whose eyes had met his theafternoon before. 

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

A low hum in the still air, and distant reports and choked railwaywhistles told them they were near the station, but the fog had grownso much denser that there was no other indication of it, until Mr. Lightowler brought up sharply opposite the end of an inclined coveredstaircase, 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 theplatform. 

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

'Sharp morning this to stand about in, ' said Uncle Solomon; 'let's gointo the waiting-room, there's a fire there. ' The waiting-room was theusual drab little room, with a bottle of water and tumblers on a barestained table, and local advertisements on the dingy walls; the gaswas lighted, and flickered in a sickly white fishtail flame, but thefire was blazing cheerfully, giving a sheen to the silver-grey fur ofa child in a crimson plush hat who stood before it embracing a smallround basket out of which a Skye terrier's head was peeringinquisitively. 

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

Uncle Solomon, in his relief at Wilcox's information that morning, didnot perceive any awkwardness in the encounter, but moved about andcoughed noisily, as if anxious to attract his enemy's attention. Markfelt considerably embarrassed, dreading a scene; but he glanced asoften as he dared at the lady of his thoughts, who was drawing on hergloves again with a dainty deliberation. 

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

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

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

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

'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'sa moon he can howl much louder. I'll bring him when the next mooncomes, shall I?'

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

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

'Mornin', Mr. 'Umpage, ' said Uncle Solomon, clearing his throat; andMark 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 withoutgiving any sign of remembrance; but Dolly remarked audibly, 'Why, that's the old man next door that gave your goose something to make itgiddy, isn't it, godpapa?'

'I hope, ' said Uncle Solomon, 'that now you've had time to think overwhat 'appened yesterday afternoon, you'll see that you went too far inusing the terms that fell from you, more particularly as the bird's aswell 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 usedlanguage that was unwarrantable, I'm willing to say no more about itfor my part. '

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

'Very well, just as you please. I only meant to be neighbourly--but itdon'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 isdue now. Get your wraps and things and come along. '

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

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

'Regular old Tartar, that!' said his uncle, under his breath. 'Ibelieve 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 thismorning with all this fog about. '

Mark got into a compartment next to that in which Mr. Humpage had putMabel and her sister; it was as near as he dared to venture. He couldhear Mabel's clear soft voice saying the usual last words at thecarriage window, while Uncle Solomon was repeating his exhortations tostudy 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 turningsharply round on the platform with an elaborate affectation of beingutter strangers. 

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

'I know her name now, ' he thought, with a quite unreasonablejoy--'Mabel. I shall remember that. I wonder if they are going all theway to town, and if I could offer to be of any use to them at King'sCross? 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 thelives of both Mark and Mabel, though the meeting he looked forward toat the end of it never took place. 

CHAPTER VII. 

IN THE FOG. 

Mark was roused from his reverie in the railway carriage by the factthat the train, after slackening speed rather suddenly, had come to adead 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 certainlynot near the metropolis as yet, nor did they appear to have stopped atany station, though from the blank white fog which reigned all around, and drifted in curling wreaths through the window he had let down, itwas difficult to make very sure of this. 

Along the whole length of the train conversation, no longer drowned bythe motion, rose and fell in a kind of drone, out of which occasionalscraps of talk from the nearer carriages were more distinctly audible, until there came a general lull as each party gave way to thetemptation of listening to the other--for the dullest talk has anextraordinary piquancy under these circumstances, either because thespeakers, being unseen, appeal to our imagination, or because they donot suppose that they are being so generally overheard. 

But by-and-by it seemed to be universally felt that the stoppage wasan unusual one, and windows went down with a clatter along thecarriages while heads were put out inquiringly. Every kind of voicedemanded to be told where they were, and why they were stopping, andwhat the deuce the Company meant by it--inquiries met by a guard, whowalked slowly along the line, with the diplomatic evasiveness whichmarks the official dislike to admit any possible hitch in thearrangements. 

'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; hedidn't exactly know what. '

But he was met just under Mark's window by the guard from the break atthe end of the train, when a hurried conference took place, in whichthere was no stolidity on either side. 'Run back as quick as you canand set the detonators--there ain't a minute to lose, she may be downon 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 safewhere they are as it is, that they ain't!'

The one guard ran back to his break, and then on to set thefog-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 belogically convinced first of the necessity for disturbing himself; heput his head angrily out of a window near Mark's: 'Here, guard!' heshouted importantly; 'what's all this? _Why_ am I to get out?''Because you'd better, ' said the guard, shortly. 'But why--where's theplatform? I insist on being taken to a platform--I'm not going tobreak my leg getting out here. ' Several people, who had half openedtheir doors, paused on the steps at this, as if recalled to a sense oftheir personal dignity. 'Do as you please, sir, ' said the official;'the engine's broke down, and we may be run into any minute in thisfog; but if you'd be more comfortable up there----' There was no wantof alacrity after that, the obstructive man being the first down; allthe rosy-faced gentlemen hopped out, some of the younger ones stillgrasping half-played hands of 'Nap' or 'Loo, ' and made the best oftheir way down the embankment, and several old ladies were got out invarious stages of flutter, narrowly escaping sprained ankles in thedescent. 

Mark, who had seen his opportunity from the first, had rushed to thedoor of the next compartment, caught Dolly in his arms as she jumpeddown, and, hardly believing in his own good fortune, held Mabel's handin his for one happy moment as she stepped from the high and awkwardfootboard. 

'Down the slope, quick, ' he cried to them; 'get as far from the lineas you can in case of a smash. '

Mabel turned a little pale, for she had not understood till then thatthere was any real danger. 'Keep close to me, Dolly, ' she said, asthey went down the slope; 'we're safe here. '

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

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

And, to Mark's horror, she turned back, evidently with the idea ofmaking for the point of danger; he ran after her and caught the littlesilvery-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 inher ear. 

'He was sound asleep in his basket, he'll never wake if I don't callto 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'shard 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 veryconfidently expected; he was no more unselfish than the generality ofyoung men; as a rule he disliked personally inconveniencing himselffor other people, and in cooler moments, or without the stimulus ofMabel's presence, he would certainly have seen no necessity to run therisk of a painful death for the sake of a dog. 

But Mabel was there, and the desire of distinguishing himself in hereyes made a temporary hero out of materials which at first sight werenot promising. He was physically fearless enough, and given to actingon impulses without counting the consequences; the impulse seized himnow 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 mydog. '

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

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

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

He knew his danger, but, to do him justice, he scarcely gave it athought--any possible suffering seemed as remote and inconsiderablejust then as the chance of a broken leg or collar-bone had been to himwhen running for a touchdown in his football days; the one idea thatfilled his brain was to return to Mabel triumphant with the rescueddog 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 wasthe carriage he had occupied, and found it without much difficultywhen he was near enough to make out forms through the fog; the door ofMabel's compartment was open, and, as he sprang up the footboard, heheard the train behind rattling down on him with its whistlescreeching infernally, and for the first time felt an uneasyrecollection of the horribly fantastic injuries described in accountsof so many railway collisions. 

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

Meanwhile the passengers of the first train, now that the worst wasapparently over, and the faint shouts and screams from the embankmenthad calmed down, began to make their way in the direction of thesounds, and Mabel, holding Dolly fast by the hand, forced herself tofollow them, though she was sick and faint with the dread of what shemight see. 

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

The faces looked pale and ghastly enough in the fog, but all thespeakers were evidently sound in wind and limb, and, as far as couldbe seen, neither train had left the rails--but where was the young manwho 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 tome--something has happened--ask, do ask. '

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

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

Fortunately for Mark, the fog-signals had been set in time to do theirwork, and the second train was fitted with powerful brakes which, butfor the state of the rails, would have brought it to without anycollision at all; as it was, the shock had not been severe enough todamage the rolling-stock to any greater extent than twisting orstraining a buffer or coupling-chain here and there, though it hadthrown him against the corner of the net-rail with sufficient violenceto slightly graze his forehead, and leave him stunned and a littlefaint for a few moments. 

After sitting down for a short time to recover himself, he picked upthe terrier from the cushions on which it was crouching and shivering, having dropped from his hand at the concussion, and feeling himselfstill 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. Everyone, probably, with any imagination at all likes to conceive himselfat times as the performer of some heroic action extorting theadmiration he longs for from some particular pair of eyes, butopportunities for thus distinguishing oneself are sadly rare nowadays, and often when they come are missed, or, if grasped with success, thefair eyes are looking another way and never see it. 

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

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

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

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

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

'Well, ' he admitted, 'I fancy I was cut a little about the head' (hewas 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 itshould break out again. '

It was in truth a very small cut, and had hardly bled at all, but Markmade light of it elaborately, as the surest means of keeping herinterest alive. 'I am afraid it must be giving you pain, ' she said, with a pretty, anxious concern in her eyes as she spoke; and Markprotested 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 thedim field in which they had first taken refuge. No one was in sight, the other passengers being still engaged in comparing notes orbrowbeating the unhappy guards above; and as Mark glanced at hiscompanion he saw that her thoughts had ceased to busy themselves abouthim, while her eyes were trying to pierce the gloom which surroundedher. 

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

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

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

He seemed to her like some young knight who had been wounded, as itwere, 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. Hehad very little excuse for practising in this way on her womanlysympathy, except that he dreaded to lose her just yet, and found sucha subtle intoxication in being tended like this by a girl from whom anhour ago he had scarcely hoped to win another careless glance; if heexaggerated his symptoms, as it is to be feared he did, there may besome who will forgive him under the circumstances. 

So he allowed Mabel to guide him to the stile, and sat down on one ofits rotten cross-planks while she poured _eau-de-Cologne_ or someessence of the kind on a handkerchief, and ordered him to bathe hisforehead with it. They seemed isolated there together on the patch ofhoary grass by a narrow black ditch half hidden in rank weeds, whichalone 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 mesee if I can find one and bring him to you. '

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

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

'Then will you go round the field that way, ' she said, 'and I will gothis, 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 withyou?'

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

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

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

'Yes, ' said Mark; 'why?'

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

Mark was in no hurry to leave that field, but his time was not hisown; he ought to have been at St. Peter's long ago, and was bound totake 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 formroom, 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 butcutting 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, 'butthere's a lady and a little girl with a dog somewhere about. Theymustn'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, butI'll call 'em; they'll mind me more than they will you, beggin' yourpardon, sir, and you'd better run on, as time's short, and keep placesfor 'em. You leave it all to me; I'll take care on 'em. '

Mark heard faint barks across the hedge in the direction Mabel hadtaken. The child was evidently found. The best thing, he thought, todo now was to secure an empty compartment, and with that idea, andperhaps a little from that instinctive obedience to anything in auniform which is a characteristic of the average respectableEnglishman, he let himself be persuaded by the guard, and went back tothe train. 

To his great joy he found that the compartment Mabel had occupied hadno one in it; he stood waiting by the door for Mabel and her sister tocome up, with eager anticipations of a delightful conclusion to hisjourney. 'Perhaps she will tell me who she is, ' he thought; 'at allevents she will ask me who _I_ am. How little I hoped for thisyesterday!'

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

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

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

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

And he tried to console himself with this, feeling an impatient angerat the slow pace of the train as it crept cautiously on towards thegoal of his hopes. But the breakdown had not happened very far fromtown, and, tedious as the time seemed to Mark, it was not actuallylong before the colour of the atmosphere (there was no otherindication) proved that they were nearing the terminus. 

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

Mark sprang out before the train had stopped; he strained his eyes inwatching for the form he hoped to see there, but in vain; there wereno signs in all that bustle of Mabel or Dolly, or the little dog towhom he owed so much. 

He sought out the guard who had deluded him and found himsuperintending the clearing of the luggage van. He hardly knew whetherit was merely a fancy that the official, after making a half-stepforward to meet him, and fumbling in all his pockets, turned awayagain as if anxious to avoid meeting his eye. 

Mark forced him to meet him, however, willing or not. 'Where is thelady?' 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 thelady's fault, leastways on'y the little lady's, sir. Both on us triedall we could, but the little missy, her with the tarrier dawg, wasnervous-like with it all, and wouldn't hear of getting in the trainagain; 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 seemedafraid to disappoint it. 'I was to give you her respecks andcompliments, ' he said slowly--'or was it her love, now?' hesubstituted quickly, after a glance at Mark's face, 'and you was notto be in a way about her, and she'd be seein' of you again before verylong, and----'

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

'Well, then, she didn't say nothing, if that warn't it, ' said theguard, 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, ' saidthe 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 hewent back to his van; 'to go and lose a bit o' paper with writing onit, d'reckly I got it, too; I'm afraid my head's a-leavin' me; theyain't keepin' company, that's plain. I made a mess o' that, or hewouldn'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 hisdepression again. 'She never even asked my name!' he thought, bitterly. 'I risked my life for her--it _was_ for her, and she knewit: but she has forgotten that already. I've lost her for ever thistime; she may not even live in London, and if she did I've no clue totell 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 doingthat, 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 hewas soon engaged in trying to establish something like discipline inhis class, which the dark brown fog seemed to have inspired withunaccountable liveliness. His short holiday had not served to rest andinvigorate him as much as might have been expected; it had left himconsumed with a hopeless longing for something unattainable. Histhirst for distinction had returned in an aggravated form, and he hadcut himself off now from the only means of slaking it. As that daywore on, and with each day that succeeded it, he felt a wearierdisgust with himself and his surroundings. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

BAD NEWS. 

It was Christmas week, and Mrs. Langton and her daughters weresitting, late one afternoon, in the drawing-room where we saw themfirst. Dolly was on a low stool at her mother's feet, submitting, nottoo willingly, to have the bow in her hair smoothed and arranged forher. 'It _must_ be all right now, mother!' she said, breaking awayrebelliously at last. 

'It's worse than ever, Dolly, ' said Mrs. Langton plaintively; 'it'sslipped 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 theresigned 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. Ithink that must be rather nice, ' said Dolly, turning round from whereshe knelt on the hearthrug. 'Wake up, Frisk, and be good-tempereddirectly. Mother, on Christmas Day I'm going to tie a Christmas cardround Frisk's neck, and send him into papa's dressing-room to wish hima Merry Christmas, the first thing in the morning--you won't tell himbefore 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 dogup and hugging him fondly, 'if that gentleman had not fetched him outof the train for me; and I never said "thank you" to him either. Iforgot somehow, and when I remembered he was gone. Should you think hewill come to see me, Mabel; you told him that mother would be glad tothank him some time, didn't you, on the paper you gave the guard forhim?'

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

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

'We told you all about it, mother, ' explained Dolly; 'I'll tell youall over again. There was a fog and our train stopped, and we all gotout, and I left Frisk behind, and there he was in the carriage allalone, and then the gentleman ran back and got him out and brought himto 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 othertrain rushing up in the fog, mamma, and nobody knew whether theremight 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, withmuch outward indifference, and an inward and very vivid picture ofMark's face as he leaned by the stile, his fine eyes imploring her notto leave him. 

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

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

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

He had duly returned the affectionate hug with which Dolly had greetedhim, but now he put her aside with a rather preoccupied air, and wentto his wife's chair, kissing the smooth forehead she presented, stillabsently. 

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

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

Mr. Langton was not much over fifty, and a handsome man still, withfull clear eyes, a well-cut chin and mouth, iron-grey whiskers, and aflorid complexion which years spent in stifling law-courts and dustand black laden chambers had not done much to tone down. Youngbarristers and solicitors' clerks were apt to consider him rather aformidable personage in Lincoln's Inn; and he was certainly imposingas he rustled along New Square or Chancery Lane, his brows knitted, alook of solemn importance about his tightly-closed lips, and his silkgown curving out behind him like a great black sail. He had littleimperious ways in court, too, of beckoning a client to come to himfrom the well, or of waving back a timid junior who had plucked hisgown to draw his attention to some suggestion with a brusque 'Notnow--I can't hear that now!' which suggested immeasurable gulfsbetween himself and them. But at home he unbent, a little consciously, perhaps, but he did unbend--being proud and fond of his children, whoat least stood in no fear of him. Long years of successful practicehad had a certain narrowing effect upon him; the things of hisprofession were almost foremost in his mind now, and when he travelledaway from them he was duller than he once promised to be--his humourhad slowly dwindled down until he had just sufficient for ordinaryprofessional purposes, and none at all for private consumption. 

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

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

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

'Come and see my Christmas cards before I do them up, ' said Dolly froma side-table; 'I'm going to send one to each of my friends, exceptClara 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 backso that she can't use it again. Clara has not behaved at all well tome lately. If I sent one to Vincent now, papa, would he get it intime?'

'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 wifeand daughter, he said, 'You haven't either of you seen the papersto-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 anotherjudge dead?' Visions of her husband on the Bench, a town-house in amore central part of London, an increase of social consideration forherself and daughters, began to float into her brain. 

 * * * * *

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

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

'You must let me choose my own course, my dear; I am coming to thepoint at once. The "Globe" has a telegram from Lloyd's agent reportingthe 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 disastersare generally exaggerated in the first accounts, but I'm afraid thereis very grave reason to fear that the poor boy went down with her--notmany passengers were on board at the time, and only four or five ofthem 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 couldtell me very little just yet, though they will have fuller informationby 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 satopposite to her there scarcely a month ago, with the strange, almostprophetic, 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. Ifeel this will be a terrible shock to me by-and-by; I don't know whenI shall get over it--poor, poor dear fellow! To think that the lasttime I saw him was that evening we dined at the Gordons'--youremember, Gerald, a dull dinner--and he saw me into the carriage, andstood there on the pavement saying good-bye!' Mrs. Langton seemed toconsider that these circumstances had a deep pathos of their own; shepressed her eyes daintily with her handkerchief before she could goon. 'Why didn't he sail by one of the safe lines?' she murmured; 'theP. And O. Never lost a single life; he might have gone in one of themand 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 controlher voice. 

'Here is the account--stay, I can give you the effect of it. It was inthe Indian Ocean, not long after leaving Bombay, somewhere off theMalabar coast; and the ship seems to have grazed a sunken reef, whichripped a fearful hole in her side, without stopping her course. Theywere not near enough to the land to hope to reverse the engines andback her on shore at full speed. She began to settle down fast by thehead, and their only chance was in the boats, which unfortunately hadnearly all become jammed in the davits. Every one appears to havebehaved 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 theothers, when the vessel went down suddenly, not a quarter of an hourafter 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 reachthe shore, if he had not been drawn down with the ship, as seems tohave been the fate of most of the poor fellows. Still of course thereis 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 Iwish _I_ could cry like that, it would be such a relief. But you knowpapa says we may hope yet; we won't give up all hope till we'reobliged to; we must be brave. You really don't care about coming in todinner? 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 papacompany. Will you tell this sad news to Dolly and Colin, and askFräulein to keep them with her till bedtime? I can't bear to see themjust yet. '

Mr. Langton's decorous concern did not interfere with his appetite, and Mrs. Langton seemed rather relieved at being able to postpone hergrief 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 heryounger brother and sister--a painful task, for Holroyd had been verydear to all three of them. Fräulein Mozer, too, wept with a more thansentimental sorrow for the young man she had tried to help, who wouldneed her assistance never again. 

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

The next day he, too, went up to the owners' offices to makeinquiries, and by that time full information had come in, which leftit impossible that any but those who had come ashore in the long-boatcould have escaped from the ship. They had remained near the scene ofthe wreck for some time, but without picking up more than one or twoof 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, asappeared from the agent's list, he was evidently on board when theship left Bombay. It was possible to hope no longer after that, andMark left the offices with the knowledge that Holroyd and he hadindeed taken their last walk together; that he would see his face andtake his hand no more. 

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

Genuine grief will no more come at command than genuine joy, and soMark found, not without some self-reproach; he even began to read 'InMemoriam' again with the idea of making that the keynote for hisemotions, but the passionate yearning of that lament was pitched toohigh for him, and he never finished it. He recognised that he couldnot think of his lost friend in the way their long intimacy seemed todemand, 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 theemblem in question was not strictly required of him, he looked uponas, so to speak, a fairly respectable dividend. 

Caffyn heard the news with a certain satisfaction. A formidable rivalhad been swept out of his path, and he could speak of him now withoutany temptation to depreciate his merits, so much so that when he tookan opportunity one day of referring to his loss, he did it sodelicately that Mabel was touched, and liked him better for thisindication of feeling than she had ever been able to do before. 

Her own sorrow was genuine enough, requiring no artificial stimulusand no outward tokens to keep it alive, and if Vincent could have beenassured of this it would have reconciled him to all else. Nocallousness nor forgetfulness on the part of others could have hadpower to wound him so long as he should live on in the memory of thegirl he had loved. 

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

CHAPTER IX. 

A TURNING-POINT. 

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

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

It was not difficult to observe a suppressed excitement amongst allthe younger members of his family concerning this letter; they hadfinished their breakfast and fallen into some curious speculations asto Mark's correspondent before he came in. Now three pairs of eyeswere watching him as he strolled up to his seat; Mr. Ashburn aloneseemed unconscious or indifferent. 

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

Mark read the name too. For a moment it gave him a throb ofexcitement, the idea coming to him that, somehow, the letter concernedhis own unfortunate manuscripts. It was true that he had never had anycommunication with this particular firm, but these wild vagueimpressions are often independent of actual fact; he took it up andhalf began to open it. 

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

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

'Manners, ' explained Mark, laconically. 

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

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

'I'm sure we're very much obliged to you, ' from Martha; 'I'm quitesatisfied 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 anyinternal injury, mightn't we?'

'Well, Mark, ' said Trixie, 'all you have to do is to ask our leave toopen 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 soprejudicial, my love, to the furtherance of the digestive process asthe habit of reading at meals, any medical man will tell you that. '

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

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

'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 alove-letter, or another publisher's rejection; we don't want to knowyour secrets--do we, Cuthbert?'

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

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

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

But even when he was alone he felt in no hurry to possess himself ofthe contents. 'I expect it's the usual thing, ' he thought. 'PoorVincent is out of all that now. Let's see how they let him down!' andhe 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 ofincredulous wonder, then of angry protest against the bull-headedmanner in which Fortune had dealt out this favour. 

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

If he had been alive, Mark thought bitterly; if a letter like thiswould have rescued him from all he detested, and thrown open to himthe one career for which he had any ambition, he might have waited forit long and vainly enough. But he began by being indifferent, and, ifFortune 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 anotherholiday-class that day at St. Peter's; he thought of it at intervalsduring the morning, and always resentfully. What increased hisirritation above everything was the fact that the publishers evidentlyregarded _him_ as the author of the book, and he would have thedistasteful task put upon him of enlightening them. 

When the day's duties were over he found himself putting on his hatand coat in company with the Rev. Mr. Shelford, who was also in chargeof one of the classes formed for the relief of parents and theperformance of holiday work, and the two walked out together; Markintending 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 aschoolmaster 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 achance while you can of a future which won't cramp and sour and wearyou 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, insome 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 waywhen they meet you afterwards. As for the dullards, they'll be alwayswith you, like the poor, down at the bottom like a sediment, sir, andmuch too heavy to stir up! I can't manage 'em now, and my temper getsthe better of me, God forgive me for it, and I say things I'm sorryfor and that don't do me or them any good, and they laugh at me. ButI've got my parish to look after; it's not a large one, but it acts asan 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 foryou, and you'll throw the whole thing up in disgust, and find yourselfforced to go through the same thing somewhere else, or begin the worldin some other capacity. Choose some line in which hard work andendurance for years will bring you in a more substantial reward thanthat. '

'Well, ' said Mark, for whom this gloomy view of his prospectsreflected his own forebodings, 'I am reading for the Bar. I went upfor 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 ofpassionate appeal to judge and jurymen), 'and of course you wouldplead 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 liein a legal direction at all. I don't care very much about the Bar. '

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

'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 youfind it out the better for you. If you feel you've something inside ofyou that must out in chapters and volumes, it generally comes, and allthe discouragement in the world won't keep it down. It's like thosestories of demoniacal possession in the "Anatomy"--you know yourBurton, I daresay? Some of the possessed brought "globes of hair" and"such-like baggage" out of themselves, but others "stones withinscriptions. " If the demon gets too strong for you, try and produce astone with a good readable inscription on it--not three globes of hairfor the circulating libraries. '

'We shall see, ' said Mark laughing. 'I must leave you here. I have anappointment 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 asfar as that. But I won't ask any more questions. I shall hope to beable to congratulate you shortly. I won't keep you away from yourpublishers any longer. '

'They are not my publishers yet, ' said Mark; 'they have made me someproposals, 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, feelingalmost as much flattered by the unconscious increase of considerationin the other's voice and manner as if there had been the slightestfoundation for it. 

They said good-bye, and the old clergyman went on and was swallowed upin 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. Perhapsthere's more ballast in him after all than I gave him credit for. Ican't help liking the young fellow somehow, too. I should like to seehim make a good start. '

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

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

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

He rose and came forward to meet Mark, and Mark saw a littlereddish-haired and whiskered man, with quick eyes, and a curiousperpendicular fold in the forehead above a short, blunt nose, a mobilemouth, and a pleasantly impulsive manner. 

'How do you do, Mr. Beauchamp?' he said heartily, using the _nom deplume_ with an air of implied compliment; 'and so you've made up yourmind to entrust yourself to us, have you? That's right. I don't thinkyou'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 thepleasure of looking through it myself, as well as Mr. Blackshaw, ourreader, and I must tell you that I agree with him in considering thatyou have written a very remarkable book. As we told you, you know, itmay or may not prove a pecuniary success, but, however that may be, myopinion of it will remain the same; it ought, in my judgment, toensure you a certain standing at once--at once. '

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I have not indeed, ' said Mark, 'my friend was very anxious to retainhis 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 mayhave it among your papers, eh?'

'No, ' said Mark, 'my friend did not think it necessary to give meone--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, youunderstand, which puts you in a position to treat with us, I'mafraid--I'm _afraid_ I must ask time to think over this. If yourfriend is really dead, I suppose your authority is determined. Perhaps, however, his--ahem--anxiety to preserve his incognito has ledhim to allow this rumour of his death to be circulated?'

'I don't think that is likely, ' said Mark, wondering at anundercurrent of meaning in the publisher's tone, a meaning which hadnothing sinister in it, and yet seemed urging him to contradicthimself for some reason. 

'That is your last word, then?' said Mr. Fladgate, and there was asharp inflection as of disappointment and irritation in his voice, andthe 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 intheir conventional sense of polite dismissal. 'But, Mr. Ashburn, areyou quite sure that this interview might not be saved from coming tonothing, as it seems about to do? Might not a word or two from you setthings right again? I don't wish to force you to tell me anything youwould rather keep concealed--but really, this story you tell about aMr. Vincent Beauchamp who is dead only ties our hands, youunderstand--ties our hands!'

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

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

'Now, Mr. Ashburn, as I said before, I should be the last man topress you--but really, you know, _really_--this is a trifle absurd! Ithink you might be a little more frank with me, I do indeed. There isno reason why you should not trust me!'

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

As a mere matter of fact, it may be almost unnecessary to mention thatno such idea had occurred to worthy Mr. Fladgate, who, though hecertainly was anxious to secure the book if he could, by anylegitimate means, was anything but a publishing Mephistopheles. He hadan object, however, in making this last appeal for confidence, as willappear immediately; but, innocent as it was, Mark's imaginationconjured up a bland demon tempting him to some act of unspeakableperfidy; he trembled--but not with horror. 'What do you mean?' hestammered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Fladgate's patience began to tire. 'We don't seem to be making anyway, do we?' he said, with rather affected pleasantry. 'I'm afraid Imust 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 arecompelled to return it with much regret. If you can tell me anythingwhich does away with the difficulty, this is the time to tell it. Ofcourse you will do exactly as you please, but after what you havechosen to tell us we can hardly see our way, as I said, to treat withyou without some further explanation. Come, Mr. Ashburn, am I to haveit or not?'

'Give me a little time, ' said Mark faintly, and the publisher, as hehad expected, read the signs of wavering in his face, though it wasnot of the nature he believed it to be. 

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

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

He saw his own books, so long kept out in the cold by ignorantprejudice, accepted on the strength of Holroyd's 'Glamour, ' and, oncefairly before the public, taking the foremost rank in triumph andrapidly eclipsing their forerunner. He would be appreciated at last, delivered from the life he hated, able to lead the existence he longedfor. All he wanted was a hearing; there seemed no other way to obtainit; he had no time to lose. How could it injure Holroyd? He had notcared for fame in life; would he miss it after his death? Thepublishers 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 wouldevidently take anything alleged to come from the same source without avery severe scrutiny, there was nothing for it but to risk thiscontingency. 

Mark was convinced that publishers were influenced entirely byunreasoning prejudices; he thoroughly believed that his works wouldcarry all before them if any firm could once overcome their repugnanceto his powerful originality, and here was one firm at least preparedto 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 tookmoney 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 namesof Holroyd's legal representatives, whoever they might be, he wouldpay the money over to them without mentioning the exact manner inwhich it had become due. In time, when he had achieved a reputationfor himself, he could give back the name he had borrowed for atime--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 hadowned as much. He had been reticent enough to conceal his real surnamefrom his publishers, and now he could never reveal the truth. 

All this rushed through his mind in a hurried, confused form; all hislittle vanities and harmless affectations and encouragements of falseimpressions 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. 'Isuppose I had better trust you, ' he said awkwardly, and with a sort ofshamefaced constraint that was admirably in keeping with hisconfession, though not artificial. 

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

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

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

CHAPTER X. 

REPENTE TURPISSIMUS. 

No sooner had Mark declared himself the author of his dead friend'sbook than he would have given anything to recall his words, not somuch from conscience (though he did feel he had suddenly developedinto a surprisingly finished scoundrel), as from a fear that his liemight after all be detected. He sat staring stupidly at Mr. Fladgate, who patted him on the shoulder with well-meant encouragement; he hadnever seen quite so coy an author before. 'I'm very glad to make Mr. Vincent Beauchamp's acquaintance--at last, ' he said, beaming withhonest pride at the success of his tactics, 'and now we can come toterms again. '

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

'About the title now?' said Mr. Fladgate, when the terms had beenreduced to a formal memorandum. 'I don't think I quite like yourpresent 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 outalready, and that may lead to unpleasantness, you know. Now, can yousuggest something else which will give a general idea of the nature ofthe 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 sortof dissembling unexpectedly easy. 

'No, ' said Mr. Fladgate, 'No. I think you're right. Now, I had anotion--I don't know what you will think of it--but I thought youmight 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, Ithink, 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 notsee, but he thought it best to agree. 'Well, ' continued Mr. Fladgate, who was secretly rather proud of his title, 'how does it strike younow? 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, bythe way, Mr. Fladgate, ' he added, 'I should like to change the _nom deplume_: it's a whim of mine, perhaps, but there's another I've beenthinking lately I should like better. '

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

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

'Very well, then, we may consider that settled. We think of bringingout the book as soon as possible, without waiting for the springseason; it will go to press at once and we will send you the proofs assoon 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, 'thehandwriting of the manuscript is not mine. I--I thought it as well totell you that beforehand; it might lead to mistakes. I had it copiedout for me by--by a friend. '

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very soon his chief feeling was one of impatience for Holroyd's bookto come out and make way for his own: then any self-reproach he mightstill feel would be drowned in a sense of triumph which would justifythe means he had taken; so he waited eagerly for the arrival of thefirst 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 agreat curiosity in her eyes. 'They came this afternoon, ' shewhispered, 'and oh, Mark, I couldn't help it; I tore one end a littleand peeped; are they really part of a book--is it _yours_?'

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

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

'No, _not_ "Sweet Bells Jangled, " it--it's a book you don't knowabout--a little thing I don't expect very much from, but my publishersseem 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 Trixiewas peeping greedily at them, too, with her pretty chin dug into hisshoulder. 

'And did you really write all that?' she said; 'how interesting itlooks, 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 forgettinghimself in his impatience. 'I--I mean, Trixie, that I can't correctthese proofs as they ought to be corrected while you stay herechattering. '

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

'What _does_ it matter when I wrote it!' said Mark irritably; 'if ithadn't been written the proofs wouldn't be here, would they? Is thereanything else you would like to know--_how_ I wrote it, where I wroteit, why I wrote it? You seem to think it a most extraordinary thingthat 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 athing 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 oflaughter in her voice. 'You promised him to give up literature, youknow. '

'Don't you remember the Arab gentleman in the poem?' said Marklightly. 'He agreed to sell his steed, but when the time came itdidn't come off--he didn't come off, either--_he_ "flung them backtheir 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 atpresent. 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'tthink, 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 workinto 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 achance at last, Trixie. A chance at last!'

Later that night he locked himself in the room which he used as asitting-room and bedroom combined, and set himself, not withoutrepugnance, to go steadily through the proofs, and make theacquaintance of the work he had made his own. 

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

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

But he was anxiously eager to find out what kind of a literarybantling was this which he had fathered so fraudulently; he hadclaimed it in blind reliance on the publisher's evidententhusiasm--had he made a mistake after all? What if it provedsomething which could do him no credit whatever--a trap into which hisambition had led him! The thought that this might be so made him veryuneasy. Poor Holroyd, he thought, was a very good fellow--an excellentfellow, but not exactly the man to write a book of extraordinarymerit--clever, perhaps, but clever in an unobtrusive way--and Mark'stendency was to judge, as he expected to be judged himself, byoutsides. 

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

But at least, as he read on, his greatest anxiety was set at rest--ifhe could judge by the instalment before him, and the book was not inany danger of coming absolutely to grief--it would do his reputationno harm. It was not, to be sure, the sort of book he would havewritten himself, as he affected the cynical mode of treatment and theindiscriminate satire which a rather young writer feels instinctivelythat the world expects from him. Still, it was not so bad. It wasslightly dreamy and mystical in parts, the work of a man who had livedmore amongst books than in the world, but some of the passages glowedwith the rich imagery of a true poet, and here and there wereindications of a quiet and cultivated humour which would recommenditself to all who do not consider the humorous element in literatureas uncanny, if not personally offensive. The situations were strong, too, and as nearly new as situations can be and retain any probabilityin this over-plagiarised world; and at least one of the characters wasobviously studied from life with a true and tender observation. 

All of this Mark did not see, nor was he capable of seeing, but hethought that, with a little 'weeding' and 'writing-up, ' the book woulddo, and set himself to supply what was wanting with a laudableself-devotion. His general plan of accomplishing this may be describedhere once for all. 

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

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

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 beforegoing with him to the steward's office of his Inn to pay his fees forthe privilege of being called to the Bar. For Mark had duly presentedhimself for the not very searching ordeal by which the public isguaranteed against the incompetence of practitioners, and, rather tohis own surprise, had not been required to try again. 'Call night' wasannounced in the windows of the law wig-makers, and Uncle Solomon, inhigh delight, resolved that his nephew should join the next batch ofbarristers, had appointed this day for choosing the wig and gown andsettling all other preliminaries--he had been so much pleased, infact, as to inclose a handsome cheque in the letter which conveyed hisdesires. 

So Mark waited by the hoardings of the New Law Courts, until hisrelative should join him. Mark was not at ease--he was nerving himselfto make a statement which he felt would come upon his uncle as a farfrom gratifying surprise--he had put it off from time to time, out ofweakness, or, as he had told himself, from diplomacy. Now he could doso no longer. Uncle Solomon had hinted terrible things in his letterof a certain brief with which his own solicitor was to entrust thebrand-new barrister the morning after his call! But for this, Markmight have let things drift, as he would strongly have preferred todo, but this threat of immediate employment drove him to declarehimself. He firmly believed that his true vocation was the one he hadsecured at such cost to his self-respect; he was willing enough tobear the title of barrister, but he had no intention of devotinghimself seriously to the profession; he saw little more attraction inthe Bar than in teaching, and the most self-confident man might haverecoiled at having work thrust into his hands before he had undergonethe slightest practical training for conducting it. And Mark'simagination saw his first brief bringing others in its train, until heshould sink in a sea of blue foolscap, helpless and entangled inclinging tentacles of red-tape. Perhaps this was a groundless alarm, but he had planned out a particular career for himself, a career ofgoing about and observing (and it is well known that what a man ofgenius calls 'observing' is uncommonly like ordinary people'senjoyment), being famous and flattered, and sitting down in moments ofinspiration to compose with a clear head and a mind unhampered by allother considerations. Now the responsibility of legal work _would_hamper him--he felt his muse to be of that jealous disposition whichwill suffer no rival--if he meant to be free at all, he must strikethe 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; hewas in high good-humour, jubilant, and ruddy. 'Well, MasterBarrister, ' he said, chuckling; 'to think o' my living to see youfigurin' about in a wig and gown--you must cut off that moustache ofyours, 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'tconsider too much 'air respectful, hey? Well, s'pose we go in and havea bit of something, eh? The "Cock" is it? Ah, I haven't been inhere--I haven't been in here not since I was a young man "on theroad, " as we used to call it. I don't mean I was ever in the DickTurpin line, but a commercial gentleman, you know. Well, I've made myway 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-knownroom, with its boxes darkened by age, its saw-dusted floor and quaintcarved Jacobean mantelpiece. He chose a compartment well down at thebottom of the room. 

'What's your partickler preference, eh?' said Uncle Solomon, rather asif 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 aman conferring a particular favour, 'you can give me a chump chop, underdone, and a sausage. And bring this young gentleman the same. Idon't care about anything 'eavier at this time o' day, ' he explained. 

Mark talked on all kinds of topics with desperate brilliancy for sometime; 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 TempleLane that'll do for you for the present. When the briefs begin to comein, we'll see about something better. I was talkin' about you toFerret the other day, ' he went on. 'It'll be all right; he's goin' toinstruct their London agent to send you in a little something that youcan try your 'prentice hand at directly. Isn't _that_ be'aving like anuncle to you, eh? I hope you will go and do me credit over it; that'sthe 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 stillkindness in his manner, and Mark felt a pang at having to reward it ashe must. 

The meal was over now, and Uncle Solomon was finishing the glass ofwhisky and water before him. 'Well, ' he said, as he set it down, 'we'dbetter be off to the place where I'm to pay the fees for you. Ah, whatyou 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_ shouldsay. '

'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 willingto pay, I don't see what you 'ave to say against it. All _you've_ gotto do is to work. '

'Uncle, ' said Mark in a low voice, 'I must tell you what I feel aboutthis. I--I don't want to cause you to spend your money on falsepretences. '

'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 methis 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 Iwouldn'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 liberalterms, I see my way now to making a living by my pen, and though I'msorry, of course, if it disappoints you, I mean to choose my life formyself, 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 ared-hot poker and his pockets full of stolen sausages; but even thatshock is nothing to Uncle Solomon's. 

He turned deadly pale and sank back in the box, glaring at Mark andopening his mouth once or twice with a fish-like action, but withoutspeaking. When he could articulate, he called the waiter, giving Markreason for a moment to fear that he was going to pour out his rage anddisappointment 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 mannerand departed, Uncle Solomon turned and began to struggle into hisgreat-coat. 'Let me help you, ' said Mark, but Mr. Lightowlerindignantly jerked himself away. 'I don't want to be helped into mycoat by you, ' he said; 'you've helped me into my grave by what you'vedone this day, you have; let that be sufficient for you!'

When he had rendered himself rather conspicuous by his ineffectualattempts to put on the coat, and was reduced to accept the assistanceof two waiters who shook him into it obsequiously, he came back to thebox where Mark was sitting in a relieved but still vaguelyuncomfortable frame of mind. 

'I don't want to 'ave many words with you about this, ' he began with asternness 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 isthe second time you've played me this trick, and it's the last! Iwarned you before that I should have done with you if you did itagain: you'll 'ave no more chances like the last, so mind that. Takecare of that cheque, you needn't fear I shall stop it, but you won'tget many more out o' me. And now I'll bid you good-day, younggentleman; I'm goin' to Kensington, and then I shall do a littlelittery composing on my own account, since it's so pop'lar, and getFerret to help me with it. I'm not one of your littery men, but Idessey I can compose something yet that'll be read some day with agood deal of interest; it won't be pleasant reading for you, though, Ican tell yer!'

He went noisily out, the waiters staring after him and the peoplelooking up from their boxes as he passed, and Mark was left to his ownreflections, which were of a mixed order. 

He had accomplished his main object--his slavery was over, and he feltan indescribable relief at the thought; still, he could not avoid thesuspicion that his freedom might have been dearly purchased. Hisuncle's words had pointed to a state of things in which he would havebenefited to a considerable extent under his will, and that was overnow. Would it not have been worth while to endure a little longer--butMark felt strongly that it would not. With such prospects as he nowsaw opening before him, the idea of submitting himself to an old man'sambitious whims for the sake of a reward which might, after all, bewithheld 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 theStrand. 'If I go home now I shall find _him_ blustering there. I don'tfeel 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 thoseanomalous productions--a 'three-act burlesque'--at a neighbouringtheatre, which he sat through with a growing gloom, in spite of thepretty faces and graceful dances which have now, with some rareexceptions, made plot and humour so unnecessary. Each leading memberof the clever company danced his or her special _pas seul_ as if for acompetitive examination, but left him unthrilled amidst all theenthusiasm that thundered from most parts of the house. It is truethat there were faces there--and young men's faces--quite as solemn ashis own, but then theirs was the solemnity of an enjoyment too deepfor expression, while Mark's face was blank from a depression he couldnot shake off. 

He went away at the end of the second act with a confused recollectionof glowing groups of silk-clad figures, forming up into a tableau forno obvious dramatic reason, and, thinking it better to face his familybefore the morning, went straight home to Malakoff Terrace. He couldnot help a slight nervousness as he opened the gate and went up thenarrow path of flagstones. The lower window was dark, but there wereno lights in the upper rooms, so that he guessed that the family hadnot retired. Mrs. Ashburn was entirely opposed to the latch-key as adomestic implement, and had sternly refused to allow such a thing topass her threshold, so that Mark refrained from making use of thekey--which of course he had--in all cases where it was not absolutelynecessary, and he knocked and rang now. 

Trixie came to the door and let him in. 'They've sent Ann to bed, ' shewhispered, '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 youall about it. Uncle Solomon has been here this afternoon and stayed todinner and he's been saying, oh, such dreadful things about you. Whyweren'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 wantedme to come and live with him at Chigbourne, and said he would make itworth my while in the end, if I would promise not to have anythingmore to do with you. '

'Ah, and when are you going?' said Mark, with a cynicism that was onlyon the surface. 

'When!' said Trixie indignantly, 'why, never. Horrid old man! As if Icared about his money! I told him what I thought about things, and Ithink I made him angrier. I hope so, I'm sure. '

'Did he make the same offer to Martha or Cuthbert?' asked Mark; 'andwere they indignant too?'

'They weren't asked. I don't think Uncle Solomon cares about themmuch; _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 washeard saying, 'Trixie, tell your brother Mark that, if he is in acondition to be spoken to, his father and I have something to say tohim at once. '

'Encouraging that, ' said Mark. 'Well, Trixie, here goes. You'd bettergo to bed. I'm afraid we are going to have a scene in there. '

He went in with a rather overdone cheerfulness. 'Well, mother, ' hebegan, attempting to kiss her, 'I didn't dine at home to-nightbecause----'

'I know why you didn't dine at home, ' she said. 'I wish for no kissesfrom 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, whosometimes found the bland and childlike manner very useful in theseemergencies. 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, yourposition 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 Iwant; it's pure idiotic recklessness, isn't it?'

'It is; but don't talk to me in that ribald tone, Mark; I have enoughto bear as it is. Once for all I ask you, Is it true what my brothertells me, that you have returned to the mire like the sow in theScriptures; that you are going to let your name be connectedwith--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 imploreyou to pause while there's time still, before doing what you can neverrecall. It's not only from worldly motives that I ask it. Surely youcan sacrifice a contemptible vanity to your duty towards your mother. I may be wrong in my prejudices, but still I have a right to expectyou to regard them. I ask you once more to withdraw from this. Are yougoing 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'sspiritual as well as his material ruin, and Mark had sense enough torecognise the reality of this belief of hers, and drop the levity hehad assumed for defensive purposes. 

His father had, as usual, taken no part in the interview; he satlooking dolefully at the fire, as if anxious to remain neutral as longas possible; he had long been a mere suzerain, and, like some othersuzerains, felt a very modified resentment at a rebellion against anauthority that was only nominally his own. 

So Mark addressed himself to his mother only. 'I'm sorry if it grievesyou, mother, ' he said, gently enough; 'but you really must let me gomy 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 veryfoolish after all. I promise you that. Wouldn't you rather think of meas 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 aprofession I can never care for? Of course you would! And a novelisn't such an awful thing, if you could only bring yourself to thinkso. You never will read one, you know, so you can't be a veryimpartial judge. '

Mrs. Ashburn read very little of any literature; what she did readbeing chiefly the sermons and biographies of Dissenting divines, andshe had never felt any desire to stimulate her imagination by anythingmuch more exciting, especially by accounts of things that neverhappened, and were consequently untruthful. Her extreme horror offiction was a form of bigotry now almost extinct, but she had grown upin 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 shereplied, without looking at him. 

'You won't make me change my opinion in the least, Mark, if you wereto 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 howstrongly she feels about it. I want to keep my children about me whileI can; I don't wish anyone to go if it can be arranged--if it can bearranged. '

'Do you mean, mother, that if I don't do as Uncle Solomon and youwish, I am to go?' asked Mark. 

'I do, ' said his mother. 'I won't encourage any son of mine against myconscience and my principles. If you choose to live a life offrivolity and idleness, you shall not lead it under my roof; so youknow 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 enormityI have been guilty of, but if you look at things in that light, thereis no more to be said. I have chosen my life, and I don't mean to goback from it. I will see about finding lodgings as soon as I can, andyou 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 ofyou!' cried his mother, moved out of all her stoniness--for she hadnot quite expected this, believing that the amount of Mark's salaryand his expenses made him practically dependent on her. She hadforgotten his uncle's cheque, and did not believe in any seriousprofits to be gained from literature. 

'I'm not in the least angry, ' he said; 'I don't wish to go, if youwish me to stay, but if you meant what you said just now, I have nochoice. '

His mother was much too proud to weaken her authority by retracting. She still hoped that he would yield if she remained firm, but yieldingwas out of the question with Mark then, and, besides, independence hadits charms, though he would not have been the first to loosen the tie. 

'Blame your wicked pride and selfishness, Mark, not your mother, whois only anxious for your good. Go, if you will, but don't dare toexpect 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 answeredfeebly; 'it's very painful to me--all this--but you must take your owncourse. '

'I see I must, ' said Mark, and left the room. 

'You've been very hard with the boy, Jane, ' said her husband, whenthey were alone, and she had sat for some time with a book open butunread 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 thinkyou were hard. '

'If I was, it was for his good, ' she said; 'I have done what I thoughtright, and we have sat up long enough. We can do no good by talkingover it any more, Matthew. Perhaps Mark will think differentlyto-morrow. '

Trixie had been waiting for Mark in the adjoining room into which shebeckoned 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 toshift for myself. They won't have me here any longer!'

'Oh, Mark!' cried Trixie. 'Take me with you, do, it will be so horridat home with only Martha and Cuthbert. You and I always got ontogether; let me come too!'

'I can't, ' said Mark, 'not yet--by-and-by, perhaps, Trixie, when I'm arich man, you know, we can manage it--just now I shall hardly be ableto keep myself. '

'I'll work hard at my drawing and get into the Academy. I've begunfeatures already, and I shall soon get into the antique--then we canbe famous together, you know. '

'We shall see, ' said Mark; 'and in the meantime, Trixie, I think wehad better both go to bed. '

When he was alone again and had time to think over the day which hadproved so eventful, he could not find it in him to regret what hadhappened. He had got rid of Uncle Solomon, he had cast off the wigand gown which were to him as the garb of slavery, and the pettyrestraints of his home life were gone as well; he had no sentimentalfeelings about his banishment, the bosom of his family had not been avery appreciative or sympathetic one, and he had always intended to goforth from it as soon as he could afford it. 

If he had really committed the offence for which he was to be drivenfrom 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 feltthat dimly, and could not dwell on his ill-treatment as he woulddearly like to have done. 

But there was something exciting for him, notwithstanding, in thefuture; he was to go out into the world and shift for himself, andconquer; he would have a part, and it might be a difficult one, toplay for a season; but after that he could resume his own characterand take the place he meant to fill in the world, feeling at last thatthe applause he won was his by right. 

Vincent Holroyd had been unselfish in life; Mark had always recognisedthat trait in his character, though the liking he had for the man hadnot been much the stronger on that account--if now Vincent could seeany brief and fleeting fame which his book might gain used as thestepping-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 anycasuistry of this kind; he preferred to shut his eyes resolutely tothe morality of the thing; he might have acted like the basestscoundrel, very likely he had. Still, no one did, no one need, suspecthim. All he had to do was to make the best use of the advantage he hadsnatched; when he could feel that he had done that, then he would feeljustified; meanwhile he must put up with a few natural twinges ofconscience now and then, when he was not feeling well. 

The next morning breakfast passed without any reference to the sceneof the night before; Martha and Cuthbert both knew of what hadhappened, but kept silence, and if Mrs. Ashburn had any hopes thatMark would recant, she was disappointed. 

That evening he informed them that he had taken rooms, and should notremain at Malakoff Terrace for more than a few days longer; hisannouncement being met by a grim 'Very well, Mark, just as youplease, ' from his mother; and though her heart sank at his words, andher last hope of prevailing died away, she never returned to thecharge in any way, recognising that it was useless. 

When the day for his departure came, there were no scenes; evenTrixie, who felt it most, was calm, for, after all, Mark would not beso very far away, he had said she might come and see him sometimes;the other two were civil, and cold, there being that curious latentantipathy between them and him which sometimes exists between membersof a family. 

Mr. Ashburn had mumbled his good-byes with a touch of emotion and evenshame in his manner as he shuffled away to his office. 'I don't wantyou to feel we've cast you off, ' he had said nervously. 'Your mothersays rather more than she exactly feels at times; but it's better foryou to go, my boy, better for all parties concerned. Only, if you findyourself in--in any difficulties, come back to us, or--that is, ' heamended, '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 thoughtto part with a son of mine in anger; we may never meet again, but youmay live to be sorry for the grief you have caused your mother, whenyou stand one day over her grave. '

This would have been more impressive if Mrs. Ashburn had not been somuch addicted to indulging in such doleful predictions on lessadequate occasions that she had discounted much of the effect thatproperly belonged to them; even as it was, however, they cut Mark forthe moment; he half offered to embrace his mother, but she made noresponse, and after waiting for a while, and finding that she made nosign, he went out with a slight shrug of expostulation. 

When he had left the room, she half rose as if to follow, but stoppedhalf way irresolute, while the cab which he had engaged to takehimself and his luggage to his new quarters drove off, and then shewent upstairs and shut herself in her bedroom for half-an-hour, andthe maid, who was 'doing the rooms' hard by, reported afterwards tothe cook that she had 'heard missus takin' on awful in there, a-sobbin', and groanin', and prayin' she was, all together like, itquite upset her to 'ear it. '

There were no traces of emotion on her face, however, when she camedown again, and only an additional shade of grimness in her voice andmanner to tell of the half-hour's agony in which her mother's hearthad warred against her pride and her principles. 

CHAPTER XII. 

LAUNCHED. 

Mark had now cut himself adrift and established himself in rooms inone of the small streets about Connaught Square, where he waited forhis schemes to accomplish themselves. He still retained his mastershipat St. Peter's, although he hoped to be able to throw that up as soonas he could do so with any prudence, and the time that was notoccupied by his school duties he devoted to the perfecting of hisfriend's work. It was hardly a labour of love, and he came to it withan ever-increasing weariness; all the tedious toiling through piles ofproofs and revised proofs, the weeding out of ingenious perversionswhich seemed to possess a hydra-like power of multiplication after thefirst eradication, began to inspire him with an infinite loathing ofthis book which was his and not his own. 

It had never interested him; he had never been able to feel theslightest admiration for any part of it, and at times he ceased tobelieve in it altogether, and think that, after all, he hadtransgressed to no purpose, and that his own book would have been astronger staff to lean upon than this reed he had borrowed. But he hadto 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, andcould not bear to be so constantly reminded of it. 

There was a little story in the book which one of the subordinatecharacters told to a child, the distressing history of a small sugarprince on a Twelfth-cake, who believed himself to be a fairy and wastaken tenderly away from a children's party by a little girl who, asthe prince supposed, would restore him somehow to his proper positionin Fairyland; instead of which, however, she took him home to anordinary nursery and ate him. 

Mark was doubtful of the wisdom of retaining this story in the book atall--it seemed to him out of place there--but as he had some scruplesabout cutting it out, he allowed it to remain, a decision which wasnot without after-effect upon his fortunes. 

The title of the book underwent one more change, for Mr. Fladgate'smind 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, theannouncement that 'Illusion, ' a romance by Cyril Ernstone, was 'nowready at all libraries;' he sent no presentation copies, not even toTrixie--he had thought of doing so, but when it came to the point hecould not. 

It was early one Saturday afternoon in March, Mark had walked back bya long round from the school to his lodgings through the parks, andthe flower-beds were gay with the lilac, yellow and white of crocusand snowdrop, the smoke-blackened twigs were studded with tiny spikesof tender green, and the air was warm and subtly aromatic with thepromise of spring--even in the muddy tainted streets the Lent-liliesand narcissus flowers in the street-sellers' baskets gave touches ofpassing sweetness to the breeze. 

Mark felt a longing to get further away from the town and enjoy whatremained of the afternoon on higher ground and in purer air; he wouldgo up to Hampstead, he thought, and see the lights sweeping over therusty bracken on the heath, or walk down over Highgate Hill, and pastthe quaint old brick houses with their high-trim laurel hedges andtheir last century wrought-iron gateways and lamps in which the lightof other days no longer burns. 

But he did not go to either place that afternoon, for when he ran upto his rooms to change his hat and coat, he saw that on his tablewhich made him forget his purpose altogether. It was a packet inclosedin a wrapper which bore the name of his publishers on the outside, andhe knew at once before opening it that it contained reviews. He toreoff the wrapper eagerly, for now at last he would learn whether he hadmade a bold and successful stroke, or only a frightful mistake. 

Beginners have taken up reviews before now, cowering in anticipationbefore the curse of Balaam, to receive an unexpected benediction; butperhaps no one could be quite so unprepared for this pleasant form ofsurprise as Mark, for others have written the works that arecriticised, and though they may have worked themselves up into asurface ferment of doubt and humility, deep down in their hearts thereis a wonderfully calm acceptance, after the first shock, of the mostextravagant eulogy. 

The opening paragraphs of the first critique were enough to relieveMark's main anxiety; Holroyd's book was not a failure--there could beno doubt of that--it was treated with respectful consideration as thework of a man who was entitled to be taken seriously; if reviews hadany influence (and it can scarcely be questioned that a favourablereview has much) this one alone could not fail to bring 'Illusion' itsfair share of attention. 

Mark laid down the first paper with a sense of triumph. If a veryordinary book like poor Holroyd's was received in this way, whatmight he not expect when he produced his own!

Then he took up the next. Here the critic was more measured in hispraise. The book he pronounced to be on the whole a good and verynearly a great one, a fine conception fairly worked out, but there wastoo strong a tendency in parts to a certain dreamy mysticism (hereMark began to regret that he had not been more careful over theproofs), while the general tone was a little too metaphysical, and thewhole marred by even more serious blemishes. 

'The author, ' continued the reviewer, 'whose style is for the mostpart easy and dignified, with a praiseworthy absence of all inflationor bombast, seems at times to have been smitten by a fatal desire to"split the ears of the groundlings" and produce an impression by showyparades of a not overwhelmingly profound scholarship; and the effectof these contrasts would be grotesque in the extreme, were it notabsolutely painful in a work of such high average merit. What, forinstance, will be thought of the taste of a writer who could close areally pathetic scene of estrangement between the lovers by such asentence as the following?. .. '

The sentence which followed was one of those which Mark had felt itdue to himself to interpolate. This was but one example, said theinexorable critic, there were other instances more flagrant still--andin all of these the astonished Mark recognised his own improvements!

To say that this was for the moment an exceedingly unpleasant shock tohis self-satisfaction is to state a sufficiently obvious fact; butMark's character must have been very imperfectly indicated if itsurprises anyone to hear that it did not take him long to recover fromthe blow. 

Perhaps he had been wrong in grafting his own strong individuality onan entirely foreign trunk--he had not been careful enough to harmonisethe 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 positivecompliment that the reviewer (no doubt a dull person) had simplysingled out for disapproval all the passages which were out of hisdepth--if there had been nothing remarkable about them, they would nothave been noticed at all. 

And so, as it is a remarkable peculiarity in the mind of man, that itcan frequently be set at ease by some self-constructed theory whichwould not bear its own examination for a minute--as if a quack were totreat himself with his own bread-pills and feel better--Mark, havingconvinced himself that the reviewer was a crass fool whose praise andblame were to be read conversely, found the wound to his self-lovebegin to heal from that moment. 

That same Saturday afternoon Mabel was sitting in the little room atthe back of the house, in which she received her own particularfriends, wrote her letters, and read; just then she was engaged in thelatter occupation, for the books had come in from the library thatday, and she had sat down after luncheon to skim them through beforeselecting any which seemed worth more careful reading. 

 * * * * *

Mabel had grown to be fastidious in the matter of fiction, the naturalresult of a sense of humour combined with an instinctive appreciationof style. There had been a time of course, when, released from thestrict censorship of a boarding-school under which all novels on thevery lengthy _index expurgatorius_ had to be read in deliciousstealth, she had devoured eagerly any literature which was in brightcovers and three volumes--but that time was past now. 

She could not cry over cheap pathos, or laugh at secondhand humour, orshudder at sham cynicism any longer--desperate escapes and rescuesmoved her not, and she had wearied of beautiful wicked fiends andeffeminate golden-haired guardsmen, who hold a Titanic strength inreserve as their one practical joke, but the liberty she had enjoyedhad done her no particular harm, even if many mothers might havethought it their duty to restrict it, which Mrs. Langton was toolanguid or had too much confidence in her daughter to think ofattempting. 

Mabel had only returned to the works of the great masters of thiscentury with an appreciation heightened by contrast, and though hernew delight in them did not blind her--as why should it?--to thelesser lights in whom something may be found to learn or enjoy, shenow had standards by which she could form her opinions of them. 

Amongst the books sent in that week was 'Illusion, ' a romance by CyrilErnstone, and Mabel had looked at its neat grey-green covers and redlettering with a little curiosity, for somebody had spoken of it toher the day before, and she took it up with the intention of reading achapter or two before going out with her racket into the square, wherethe 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 lowwicker chair, indifferent to the spring sunshine outside, to theattractions of lawn tennis, or the occasional sounds of callers, reading on with parted lips and an occasional little musical laugh orinvoluntary sigh, as Holroyd had once dreamed of seeing his book readby her. 

His strong and self-contained nature had unfolded all its deepesttenderness and most cherished fancies in that his first book, and thepages had the interest of a confession. Mabel felt that personalaffection for the unknown writer which to have aroused must be thecrown of crowns to those who love their art. 

The faults of style and errors of taste here and there which jarredupon her were still too rare or too foreign to the general tone of thebook to prejudice her seriously, and she put down the book halffinished, not from weariness but with an unusual desire to economisethe pleasure it gave her. 

'I wonder what "Cyril Ernstone" is like, ' she thought, halfunconsciously. 

Perhaps, by the way, a popular but plain author who finds itnecessary to cultivate society, would discover, if he would go aboutveiled or engage a better-looking man to personate him, a speedyincrease in the circulation of his next work, and, if at all sensitiveas to his own shortcomings, he would certainly be spared aconsiderable amount of pain, for it is trying for a man who ratherenjoys being idolised to be compelled to act as his own iconoclast. 

While Mabel was speculating on the personal appearance of the authorof '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 talkingto them!'

'Come and rest then, Dolly, ' said Mabel, putting an arm up and drawingher 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 thisbook I am going to read to you, Dolly, if you care about it. '

'Not a long story, is it, Mab?' inquired Dolly rather dubiously. Butshe finally settled herself comfortably down to listen, with herbright little face laid against Mabel's side, while she read themelancholy fate of the sugar fairy prince. 

Dolly heard it all out in silence, and with a growing trouble in hereyes. When it was all over, and the heartless mortal princess hadswallowed 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 Ito know? I never heard of sugar fairies before. And he did look prettyat first, but I spilt some tea over him, and the colour got all mixedup, 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 unhappyabout it--it isn't true really. '

'But it must be true, it's all put down exactly as it happened. .. . Andit was me. .. . I've eaten up a real fairy prince. .. . Mabel, I'm agreedy pig. If I hadn't done it, perhaps we could have got him out ofthe sugar somehow, and then Colin and I would have had a live fairy toplay with. That's what he expected me to do, and I ate him instead. Iknow he was a fairy, Mabel, he tasted so nice. .. . Poor, poor littleprince!'

Dolly was so evidently distressed that Mabel tried hard to convinceher that the story was about another little girl, the prince was onlya sugar one, and so on; but she did not succeed, until the idea struckher that a writer whose book seemed to indicate a sympathetic naturewould not object to the trouble of removing the childish fears he hadaroused, and she said: 'Listen, Dolly; suppose you write a letter toMr. Ernstone--at his publishers', you know--I'll show you how toaddress it, but you must write the rest yourself, and ask him to tellyou if the sugar prince was really a fairy, and then you will know allabout it; but my own belief is, Dolly, that there aren't anyfairies--now, at any rate. '

'If there weren't, ' argued Dolly, 'people wouldn't write books aboutthem. I've seen pictures of them lots of times. '

'And they dance in rows at the pantomime, don't they, Dolly?' saidMabel. 

'Oh, I know _those_ aren't fairies--only thin little girls, ' saidDolly contemptuously. 'I'm not a baby, Mabel, but I _would_ write toMr. --what you said just now--only I hate letter-writing so--ink issuch 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 notthink it well to refer to the matter again. But the next week, fromcertain little affectations of tremendous mystery on Dolly's part, andthe absence of the library copy of 'Illusion' from the morning-roomduring one whole afternoon, after which it reappeared in a state ofpreternatural inkiness, Mabel had a suspicion that her suggestion wasnot so disregarded as it had seemed. 

And a few days afterwards Mark found on his breakfast table anenvelope from his publisher, which proved to contain a letter directedto 'Mr. Ciril Ernstone, ' at the office. The letter was written in around childish hand, with scrapings here and there to record the fallof 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 thestory he would, of course, have been amused if not pleased by thenaïve testimony to his power; but, as it was, it annoyed him to aquite unreasonable extent. 

He threw Dolly's note pettishly across the table; 'I wish I had cutthat sugar prince story out; _I_ can't tell the child anything aboutit. Langton, too--wonder if it's any relation to my Langton--sister ofhis, perhaps--_he_ lives at Notting Hill somewhere. Well, I won'twrite; if I do I shall put my foot in it somehow. .. . It's quite likelythat Vincent knew this child. She can't be seriously unhappy aboutsuch 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, hisbrief meeting with Mabel, and the untimely parting by the hedge. Subsequent events had naturally done something to efface theimpression which her charm and grace had made upon him then; but evenyet he saw her face at times as clearly as ever, and suffered oncemore the dull pain he had felt when he first knew that she had gonefrom him without leaving him the faintest hope of being everprivileged to know her more intimately or even see her again. 

Sometimes, when he dreamed most wildly of the brilliant future thatwas to come to him, he saw himself, as the author of several famousand successful works (amongst which 'Illusion' was entirely obscured), meeting her once more, and marking his sense of her past ingratitudeby a studied coldness. But this was a possibility that never, even inhis most sanguine moments, was other than remote. 

If he had but known it, there had long been close at hand--in theshape of young Langton--a means which, judiciously managed, might havebrought that part of his dream to pass immediately, and now he hadthat which would realise it even more surely and effectually. 

But he did not know, and let the appeal lie unanswered that was due toMabel's suggestion--'the moral of which, ' as Alice's Duchess mightsay, 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 haveuncomfortable anticipations that it might be on the way to achieve anunexpected success, and he was nearer the truth in this than hehimself believed as yet. It might not become popular in the wider andcoarser sense of the word, being somewhat over the heads of the largeclass who read fiction for the 'story;' it might never find its way torailway bookstalls (though even this, as will appear, befell it intime, ) or be considered a profitable subject for Transatlantic piracy;but it was already gaining recognition as a book that people of anyculture should, for their own sakes, at least assume to have read andappreciated. 

Mark was hailed by many judges of such things as a new and powerfulthinker, who had chosen to veil his theories under the garb ofromance, and if the theory was dissented from in some quarters, thepower and charm of the book were universally admitted. At dinnerparties, and in all circles where literature is discussed at all, 'Illusion' was becoming a standard topic; friendships were cementedand intimacies dissolved over it; it became a kind of 'shibboleth. '

At first Mark had little opportunity of realising this to the fullextent, for he went out seldom if at all. There had been a time in hislife--before he had left Cambridge, that is--when he had mixed more insociety; his undergraduate friends had been proud to present to theirfamily circle a man with his reputation for general brilliancy, and sohis engagements in the vacations had been frequent. But this did notlast; from a feeling that his own domestic surroundings would scarcelybear out a vaguely magnificent way he had of alluding to his 'place'and his 'people'--a way which was not so much deliberate imposition asa habit caught from associates richer and higher up in the socialscale--from this feeling, he never offered to return any of thesehospitalities, and though this was not rigorously expected of him, itdid serve to prevent any one of his numerous acquaintanceships fromripening into something more. When the crash came, and it wasgenerally discovered that the reputed brilliant man of his year was avery ordinary failure, Mark found himself speedily forgotten, and inthe first soreness of disappointment was not sorry to remain inobscurity for a season. 

But now a reaction in his favour was setting in; his publishers werealready talking of a second edition of 'Illusion, ' and he received, under his name of 'Cyril Ernstone, ' countless letters ofcongratulation and kindly criticism, all so pleasantly and cordiallyworded, that each successive note made him angrier, the only one thatconsoled him at all being a communication in a female hand whichabused the book and its writer in the most unmeasured terms. For hiscorrespondent's estimate of the work was the one which he had a secretwish to see more prevalent (so long, of course, as it did notinterfere with the success of his scheme), and he could almost havewritten 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'spart that the name of its author was an assumed one, and althoughthere are many who would as little think of looking for the name ofthe man who wrote the play they see or the book they read as theywould for that of the locomotive behind which they travel, there arestill circles for whom the first two matters at least possess aninterest. 

And so several set out to run the actual author to earth, well assuredthat, as is fabled of the fox, he himself would enjoy the sport asmuch as his pursuers; and it is the fact that Mark might have giventhem a much longer run had he been anxious to do so, but, though heregretted it afterwards, the fruits of popularity were too desirableto be foregone. 

There were some false cries at first. A 'London correspondent' knewfor a fact that the book was written by an old lady at a lunaticasylum in her lucid intervals; while a ladies' journal had heard thatthe author was a common carpenter and entirely self-educated; andthere were other similar discoveries. But before they had time tocirculate widely, it became somehow common knowledge that the authorwas a young schoolmaster, and that his real name was Mark Ashburn. 

And Mark at once began to reap the benefit. His old friends sought himout once more; men who had passed him in the streets with a carelessnod that was almost as bad as a cut direct, or without even thesmallest acknowledgment that a time had been when they wereinseparables, now found time to stop him and ask if the rumours of his_début_ in literature were really true. 

By-and-by cards began to line his mantelpiece as in the old days; hewent out once more, and met everywhere the kindness and courtesy thatthe world of London, whatever may be said against it, is never charyof showing towards the most insignificant person who has once had thegood fortune to arouse its interest. 

Mark liked it all at first, but as he saw the book growing more andmore in favour, and the honours paid to himself increasing, he beganto be uneasy at his own success. 

He would not have objected to the book's securing a moderate degree ofattention, so as to prepare the public mind for the blaze of intellecthe had in reserve for it--that he had expected, or at least hopedfor--but the mischief of this ridiculous enthusiasm which everyone hemet seemed to be affecting over this book of Holroyd's was that itmade an anticlimax only too possible when his own should see thelight. 

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 roundhis undeserving head could be moderated or put out, like a lamp--itwas 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 whenhe was feeling himself conversationally at his very best, he would seethe symptoms he dreaded warning him that the one fatal topic was aboutto be introduced, which seemed to have the effect of paralysing hisbrain. He would struggle hard against it, making frantic efforts toturn the subject, and doubling with infinite dexterity; but generallyhis interlocutor was not to be put off, 'running cunning, ' as it were, like a greyhound dead to sporting instincts, and fixing him at oncewith a 'Now, Mr. Ashburn, you really must allow me to express to yousome of the pleasure and instruction I have received from your book, 'and so on; and then Mark found himself forced to listen with ghastlysmiles of sham gratification to the praises of his rival, as he nowfelt Holroyd was after all becoming, and had to discuss with the airof a creator this book which he had never cared to understand, andsoon came cordially to detest. 

If he had been the real author, all this would of course have beendelightful to him; it was all so kind and so evidently sincere for themost part, that only a very priggish or cynical person could haveaffected to undervalue it, and any other, even if he felt itoverstrained now and then, would have enjoyed it frankly while itlasted, remembering that, in the nature of things, it could not lastvery long. 

But unfortunately, Mark had not written 'Illusion, ' which made all thedifference. No author could have shrunk more sensitively in his inmostsoul than he did from the praise of his fellow-men, and his modestywould have been more generally remarked had he not been wise enough toperceive that modesty, in a man, is a virtue with a dangerous streakof 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 becomplimented upon and to explain. Meanwhile he worked hard at'Illusion, ' until he came to have a considerable surface acquaintancewith it; he knew the names of all the more important characters in itnow, and hardly ever mixed them up; he worked out most of theallusions, and made a careful analysis of the plot and pedigrees ofsome of the families. It was much harder work than reading law, andquite as distasteful; but then it had to be done if he meant topreserve appearances at all. 

His fame had penetrated to St. Peter's, where his fellow-masterstreated him with an unaccustomed deference, only partially veiled bymild _badinage_ on the part of the younger men; while even the boyswere vaguely aware that he had distinguished himself in the outerworld, and Mark found his authority much easier to maintain. 

'How's that young rascal--what's his name? Langton?--the little scampwho said he called me "Prawn, " but not "Shellfish, " the impidentfellow! How's _he_ getting on, hey?' said Mr. Shelford to Mark one dayabout this time. 

Mark replied that the boy had left his form now, but that he heard hewas doing well, and had begun to acquire the graceful art ofverse-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 alivenow. They weren't a yumorous nation, taken as a whole; but I fancysome of our prize Latin verses would set the stiffest of 'emsniggering. And we laugh at "Baboo English, " as they call it! But youtell Langton from me, when you see him, that if he likes to try hishand at a set of elegiacs on a poor old cat of mine that died theother day, I'll look 'em over if he brings them to me after schoolsome day, and if they're what I consider worthy of the deceased's manyvirtues, I'll find some way of rewarding him. She was a black Persianand 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 youon 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 youso--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 atsuch a compliment, but he did it. 'There are some very fine things inthat 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 thepurpose. I'd like to know now when you found time to construct yourtheories of life and conduct. '

Mark began to find this embarrassing; he said he had hit upon them atodd times ('_very_ odd times, ' he could not help remembering), andshifted his ground a little uneasily, but he was held fast by thebuttonhole. 'They're remarkably sound and striking, I must say that, and your story is interesting, too. I found myself looking at theend, 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 gotfor one of your chapters, a quotation from some Latin author, which Ican't place to my satisfaction; I mean that one beginning "_Non terretprincipes_. "'

'Oh, _that_ one?' repeated Mark blankly. 

'Yes, it reads to me like later Latin; where did you take it from? Oneof the Fathers?'

'One of them, I forget which, ' said Mark quickly, wishing he had cutthe quotations out. 

'That _ægritudo_, now, "ægritudo superveniens, " you know--how do youunderstand that?'

Mark had never troubled himself to understand it at all, so he staredat his interrogator in rather a lost way. 

'I mean, do you take it as of the mind or body (that's what made mefancy it must be later Latin). And then there's the _correxit_?'

Mark admitted that there was the 'correxit. ' 'It's mind, ' he saidquickly. 'Oh, decidedly the mind, _not_ body, and--er--I think that'smy 'bus passing. I'll say good-bye;' and he escaped with a wearyconviction that he must devote yet more study to the detested'Illusion. '

This is only a sample of the petty vexations to which he had exposedhimself. He had taken over a business which he did not understand, andnaturally found the technicalities troublesome, for though, as hasbeen seen, his own tendencies were literary, he had not soared so highas a philosophical romance, while his scholarship, more brilliant thanprofound, was not always equal to the 'unseen passages' fromout-of-the-way authors with which Holroyd had embellished hischapters. 

But a little more care made him feel easier on this score, and thenthere were many compensations; for one unexpected piece of goodfortune, which will be recorded presently, he had mainly to thank hisfriend's book. 

He had met an old acquaintance of his, a certain young HerbertFeatherstone, who had on any previous chance encounter seemedaffected by a kind of trance, during which his eyes lost all power ofvision, but was now completely recovered, so much so indeed as togreet Mark with a quite unexpected warmth. 

Was it true that he had written this new book? What was itsname--'Delusion' or something? Fellows were saying he had; hadn't readit himself; his mother and sister had; said it was a devilish goodbook, too. Where was he hanging out now, and what was he doing on the10th? Could he come to a little dance his people had that night? Verywell, then, he should have a card. 

Mark was slightly inclined to let the other understand that he knewthe worth of this resuscitated friendliness, but he refrained. He knewof the Featherstones as wealthy people, with the reputation of givingthe pleasantest entertainments in London. He had his way to make inthe world, and could not afford, he thought, to neglect theseopportunities. So he went to the dance and, as he happened to dancewell, enjoyed himself, in spite of the fact that two of his partnershad read 'Illusion, ' and knew him as the author of it. They were bothpretty and charming girls, but Mark did not enjoy either of thoseparticular valses. In the course of the evening he had a briefconversation with his hostess, and was fortunate enough to produce afavourable impression. Mrs. Featherstone was literary herself, as areputedly strong-minded lady who had once written two particularlyweak-minded novels would necessarily be. She liked to have a fewrising young literary men in her train, with whom she might discusssubjects loftier than ordinary society cares to grasp; but she wascareful at the same time that her daughter should not share toofrequently in these intellectual privileges, for Gilda Featherstonewas very handsome, and literary men are as impressionable as otherpeople. 

Mark called one Saturday afternoon at the Featherstones' house inGrosvenor Place, as he had been expressly invited to do on theoccasion of the dance, and found Mrs. Featherstone at home. It was nother regular day, and she received him alone, though Mark heard voicesand laughter now and then from behind the hangings which concealedthe 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 thatsome of my innermost thoughts, my highest aspirations, had been putinto 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 literarycreation is! Don't you feel that? I am sure, even in my own poorlittle way--you must know that _I_ have scribbled once upon atime--even in my own experience, I know what a state of excitement Igot into over my own stories. One's characters get to be actual livingcompanions to one; they act by themselves, and all one has to do isjust 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 faras he knew, done full credit. But he was equal to the occasion. 

'Your characters, Mrs. Featherstone, are companions to many more thantheir creator. I must confess that I, for one, fell hopelessly in lovewith your Gwendoline Vane, in "Mammon and Moonshine. "' Mark had onceread a slashing review of a flabby little novel with a wooden heroineof 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 amvery fond of Gwendoline myself--my ideal, you know. I won't quote thatabout "praise from Sir Hubert, " because it's so very trite, but I feelit. But do you _really_ like Gwendoline better than my MagdalenHarwood, in "Strawberries and Cream. "'

Here Mark got into deep water once more; but he was no meanconversational swimmer, and reached dry land without any unseemlyfloundering. 

'It has been suggested to me, do you know, ' she said when her ownworks had been at last disposed of, 'that your "Illusion" would makesuch an admirable play; the central motive really so dramatic. Ofcourse one would have to leave the philosophy out, and all thebeautiful reflections, but the story would be left. Have you everthought of dramatising it yourself, Mr. Ashburn?'

Mark had not. 'Ah, well, ' she said, 'if ever I have time again to giveto literature, I shall ask your permission to let me see what _I_ cando with it. I have written some little charades for drawing-roomtheatricals, you know, so I am not _quite_ without experience. '

Mark, wondering inwardly how Holroyd would relish this proposal if hewere alive, said that he was sure the story would gain by hertreatment; and presently she proposed that they should go to thefurther room and see 'how the young people were getting on, ' whichMark received with an immense relief, and followed her through the_portière_ to the inner room, in which, as will be seen, an unexpectedstroke 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 obviousreason. 

Gilda Featherstone, a lively brunette, with the manner of a young ladyaccustomed 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 hopeyou won't be shocked. We've all had our feelings outraged at leastonce, so we're going to stop now, while we're still on speakingterms. '

'But what is it?' said Mrs. Featherstone. 'It isn't cards, Gildadearest, 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 inat Grosvenor Place occasionally, where he was on terms of someintimacy. 'I don't know if you're acquainted with the game of "nap"?'Mrs. Featherstone shook her head, not too amiably, for she had beengrowing alarmed of late by a habit her daughter had acquired ofmentioning or quoting this versatile young man whom her husbandpersisted so blindly in encouraging. 'Ah!' said Caffyn, unabashed. 'Well, anyway, this is modelled on it. We take out a selection ofphotographs, the oldest preferred, shuffle them, and deal round fivephotographs to each player, and the ugliest card in each round takesthe trick. '

'I call it a most ill-natured game, ' said the aunt, who had seen anold and unrecognised portrait of herself and the likenesses of severalof 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 tobe played everywhere, of course; but it gives great scope for theemotions. Think of the pleasure of gaining a trick with the portraitof your dearest friend, and then it's such a capital way ofascertaining your own and others' precise positions in the beautyscale, and all the plain people acquire quite a new value aspicture-cards. '

He had played his own very cautiously, having found his amusement inwatching the various revelations of pique and vanity amongst theothers, and so could speak with security. 

'My brothers _all_ took tricks, ' said one young lady, who hadinherited her mother's delicate beauty, while the rest of the familyresembled a singularly unhandsome father--which enabled her to speakwithout very deep resentment. 

'So did poor dear papa, ' said Gilda, 'but that was the one taken infancy dress, and he _would_ go as _Dante_. '

'Nothing could stand against Gurgoyle, ' observed Caffyn. 'He was asure ace every time. He'll be glad to know he was such a success. Youmust 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. 'Peoplealways tell me that with all his plainness he's the most amusing youngman in town, though I confess I never could see any signs of itmyself. '

The fact was that an unlucky epigram by the Mr. Gurgoyle in questionat Mrs. Featherstone's expense, which of course had found its way toher, had produced a coolness on her part, as Caffyn was perfectly wellaware. 

'"_Ars est celare artem_, " as Mr. Bancroft remarks at the Haymarket, 'he said lightly. 'Gurgoyle is one of those people who is always putdown as witty till he has the indiscretion to try. _Then_ they put himdown some other way. '

'But why is he considered witty then, if he isn't?' asked GildaFeatherstone. 

'I don't know. I suppose because we like to think Nature makes thesecompensations sometimes, but Gurgoyle must have put her out of temperat the very beginning. She's done nothing in that way for _him_. '

Mrs. Featherstone, although aware that the verdict on the absentGurgoyle was far from being a just one, was not altogether above beingpleased by it, and showed it by a manner many degrees more thawed thanthat she had originally prescribed to herself in dealing with thisvery ineligible young actor. 

'Mr. Ashburn, ' said Miss Featherstone, after one or two glances in thedirection of Caffyn, who was absorbed in following up the advantage hehad gained with her mother, 'will you come and help me to put thesephotos back? There are lots of Bertie's Cambridge friends here, andyou can tell me who those I don't know are. '

So Mark followed her to a side table, and then came the stroke of goodfortune which has been spoken of; for, as he was replacing thelikenesses in the albums in the order they were given to him, he wasgiven one at the sight of which he could not avoid a slight start. Itwas a _vignette_, very delicately and artistically executed, of agirl's head, and as he looked, hardly daring to believe in such acoincidence, he was almost certain that the pure brow, with thetendrils of soft hair curling above it, the deep clear eyes, and themouth which for all its sweetness had the possibility of disdain inits curves, were those of no other than the girl he had met monthsago, and had almost resigned himself never to meet again. 

His voice trembled a little with excitement as he said 'May I ask thename 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 wouldhave seen her. But she couldn't come at the last moment. '

'I think I have met Miss Langton, ' said Mark, beginning to see now allthat he had gained by learning this simple surname. 'Hasn't she alittle sister called Dorothy?'

'Dolly? Oh yes. Sweetly pretty child--terribly spoilt. I think shewill put dear Mabel quite in the shade by the time she comes out; herfeatures are so much more regular. Yes; I see you know _our_ MabelLangton. And now, _do_ tell me, Mr. Ashburn, because of course you canread people's characters so clearly, you know, what do _you_ think ofMabel, really and truly?'

Miss Featherstone was fond of getting her views on the characters ofher friends revised and corrected for her by competent male opinion, but it was sometimes embarrassing to be appealed to in this way, whileonly a very unsophisticated person would permit himself to be entirelycandid, either in praise or detraction. 

'Well, really, ' said Mark, 'you see, I have only met her once in mylife. '

'Oh, but that must be quite enough for _you_, Mr. Ashburn! And MabelLangton is always such a puzzle to me. I never can quite make up mymind if she is really as sweet as she seems. Sometimes I fancy I havenoticed--and yet I can't be sure--I've heard people say that she'sjust the least bit, not exactly conceited, perhaps, but too inclinedto trust her own opinion about things and snub people who won't agreewith her. But she isn't, is she? I always say that is _quite_ a wrongidea 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 onthe 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 towardsthem, and the introduction was made. 'Of course you have heard of Mr. Ashburn's great book, "Illusion"?' Gilda Featherstone said, as shementioned Mark's name. 

'Heard of nothing else lately, ' said Caffyn. 'After which I am ashamedto 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 intosaying something too hideously fatuous, over the memory of which hewould grow hot with shame in the night-watches, so he contentedhimself with an indulgent smile, perhaps, in default of someimpossible combination of wit and modesty, his best availableresource. 

Besides, the new acquaintance made him strangely uneasy; he feltwarned to avoid him by one of those odd instincts which (although wescarcely ever obey them) are surely given us for our protection; hecould not meet the cold light eyes which seemed to search him throughand through. 

'Mr. Ashburn and I were just discussing somebody's character, ' saidMiss Featherstone, by way of ending an awkward pause. 

'Poor somebody!' drawled Caffyn, with an easy impertinence which hehad induced many girls, and Gilda amongst them, to tolerate, if notadmire. 

'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 behaveyourself. 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 fromCaffyn's scrutiny. 'He looked as if he knew I was a humbug!' hethought afterwards; and also to think at his leisure over this newdiscovery, and all it meant for him. 

He knew her name now; he saw a prospect of meeting her at some timeor other in the house he had just left; but perhaps he might not evenhave to wait for that. 

This little girl, whose childish letter he had tossed aside a few dayssince in his blindness, who else could she be but the owner of the dogafter which he had clambered up the railway slope? And he had actuallybeen about to neglect her appeal!

Well, he would write now. Who could say what might not come of it? Atall events, _she_ would read his letter. 

That letter gave Mark an infinite deal of trouble. After attentivelyreading 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 muchstudy to the childish understanding, with its unexpected deeps andshallows, and found the task of writing down to it go much against thegrain. But the desire of satisfying a more fastidious critic thanDolly gave him at last a kind of inspiration, and the letter he didsend, with some misgiving, could hardly have been better written forthe particular purpose. 

He was pleasantly reassured as to this a day or two later by anotherlittle note from Dolly, asking him to come to tea at Kensington ParkGardens on any afternoon except Monday or Thursday, and adding(evidently by external suggestion) that her mother and sister would bepleased to make his acquaintance. 

Mark read this with a thrill of eager joy. What he had longed for hadcome to pass, then; he was to see her, speak with her, once more. Atleast he was indebted to 'Illusion' for this result, which a fewmonths since seemed of all things the most unlikely. This time, perhaps, she would not leave him without a word or sign, as when lastthey met; he might be allowed to come again; even in time to know herintimately. 

And he welcomed this piece of good fortune as a happy omen for thefuture. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

IN THE SPRING. 

Mark lost no time in obeying Dolly's summons, and it was with anexhilaration a little tempered by a nervousness to which he was notusually subject that he leaped into the dipping and lurching hansomthat was to carry him to Kensington Park Gardens. 

As Mark drove through the Park across the Serpentine, and saw theblack branches of the trees looking as if they had all been sprinkledwith a feathery green powder, and noticed the new delicacy in thebright-hued grass, he hailed these signs as fresh confirmation of theapproach of summer--a summer that might prove a golden one for him. 

But as he drew nearer Notting Hill, his spirits sank again. What ifthis opportunity were to collapse as hopelessly as the first? Mabelwould of course have forgotten him--would she let him dropindifferently 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 contrivanceswhich the modern young lady collects around her. He found Dolly therealone, in a very stately and self-possessed mood. 

'You can bring up tea here, Champion, ' she said, 'and sometea-cake--_you_ like tea-cake of course, ' she said to Mark, withsomething of afterthought. 'Mother and Mabel are out, calling orsomething, ' she added, 'so we shall be quite alone. And now sit downthere 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; butDolly had thrown herself back in her own chair, with such evidentexpectation, and a persuasion that she had got hold of an authority onfairy-lore, that he did not dare to expostulate--although in truthhis acquaintance with the subject was decidedly limited. 

'You can begin now, ' said Dolly calmly, as Mark stared blankly intohis hat. 

'Well, ' he said, 'what do you want to know about them?'

'_All_ about them, ' said Dolly, with the air of a little personaccustomed to instant obedience; Mark's letter had not quite dispelledher doubts, and she wanted to be quite certain that such cases as thatof the sugar prince were by no means common. 

'Well, ' said Mark again, clearing his throat, 'they dance round inrings, you know, and live inside flowers, and play tricks withpeople--that is, ' he added, with a sort of idea that he must notencourage superstition, 'they did once--of course there are no suchthings now. '

'Then how was it that that little girl you knew--who was not me--ateone 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 solutiongratefully; '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, adecided little nuisance. 

'He--he said the Queen of the Fairies squinted, ' he stammered in hisextremity. 

'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 terribleDolly. 

'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, andMark quailed, feeling that any more explanation would probably landhim in worse difficulties. 

'I don't think you know very much about it, after all, ' she said withseverity. 'I suppose you put all you knew into the story. But you'requite 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 becalled upon for another. 

'Oh, ' said Dolly, 'then we'd better have tea'--for the door hadopened. 

'It's not Champion after all, ' she cried; 'it's Mabel. I never heardyou come back, Mabel. '

And Mark turned to realise his dearest hopes and find himself face toface once more with Mabel. 

She came in, looking even lovelier, he thought, in her fresh springtoilette than in the winter furs she had worn when he had seen herlast, bent down to kiss Dolly, and then glanced at him with the lightof 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 bookwhich had stirred her so unusually was the young man who had notthought it worth his while to see any more of them. Probably had heknown who had written to him, he would not have been there now, andthis gave a certain distance to her manner as she spoke. 

'We have met before, Mr. Ernstone, ' she said, giving him her unglovedhand. 'Very likely you have forgotten when and how, but I am sureDolly had not, had you, Dolly?'

But Dolly had, having been too much engrossed with her dog on the dayof the breakdown to notice appearances, even of his preserver, veryparticularly. '_When_ did I see him before, Mabel?' she whispered. 

'Oh, Dolly, ungrateful child! don't you remember who brought Frisk outof the train for you that day in the fog?' But Dolly hung her head anddrooped her long lashes, twining her fingers with one of those suddenattacks of awkwardness that sometimes seize the most self-possessedchildren. '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 quicklyand without looking at him; when Mabel, seeing that she was not at herease, suggested that she should run and fetch Frisk to return thanksin person, which Dolly accepted gladly as permission to escape. 

 * * * * *

Mark had risen, of course, at Mabel's entrance, and was standing atone corner of the curtained mantelpiece; Mabel was at the other, absently smoothing the fringe with delicate curves of her hand andwith her eyes bent on the rug at her feet. Both were silent for a fewmoments. Mark had felt the coldness in her manner. 'She remembers howshabbily she treated me, ' he thought, 'and she's too proud to showit. '

'You must forgive Dolly, ' said Mabel at last, thinking that if Markmeant to be stiff and disagreeable, there was no need at least for theinterview to be made ridiculous. 'Children have short memories--forfaces only, I hope, not kindnesses. But if you had cared to be thankedwe 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 Ideserved at the time. Still, as I had no opportunity of learning yourname or where you lived--if you recollect we parted very suddenly, andyou gave me no permission----'

'But I sent a line to you by the guard, ' she said; 'I gave you ouraddress and asked you to call and see my mother, and let Dolly thankyou properly. '

She was not proud and ungracious after all, then. He felt a great joyat the thought, and shame, too, for having so misjudged her. 'If I hadever received it, ' he said, 'I hope you will believe that you wouldhave seen me before this; but I asked for news of you from that burlyold impostor of a guard, and he--he gave me no intelligible message'(Mark remembered suddenly the official's extempore effort), 'andcertainly nothing in writing. '

Mark's words were evidently sincere, and as she heard them, thecoldness and constraint died out of Mabel's face, the slightmisunderstanding between them was over. 

'After all, you are here, in spite of guards, ' she said, with a gaylittle 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 thefirst time the full meanness of his fraud, and wished, as he hadcertainly never wished before, that he had indeed written the book. 

But this only made him shrink from the subject; he acknowledged whatshe said in a few formal words, and attempted to turn theconversation, more abruptly than he had done for some time on suchoccasions. Mabel was of opinion, and with perfect justice, that evengenius itself would scarcely be warranted in treating her approval inthis summary fashion, and felt slightly inclined to resent it, evenwhile excusing it to herself as the unintentional _gaucherie_ of anover-modest man. 

'I ought to have remembered perhaps, ' she said, with a touch of piquein her voice, 'that you must long ago have tired of hearing suchthings. '

He had indeed, but he saw that his brusqueness had annoyed her, andhastened to explain. 'You must not think that is so, ' he said, veryearnestly; 'only, there is praise one cannot trust oneself to listento 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 feltthat 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, thatis--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 gaveme so very little trouble to produce, it makes me a littleuncomfortable sometimes, because (you know how perversely thingshappen sometimes), because I can't help a sort of fear that my nextbook, to which I really am giving serious labour, may be utterlyunnoticed, or--or worse!'

There was no possibility of mistaking this for mock-modesty, andthough Mabel thought such sensitiveness rather overstrained, she likedhim for it notwithstanding. 

'I think you need not fear that, ' she said; 'but you shall not be madeuncomfortable any more. And you are writing another book? May I askyou about that, or is that another indiscretion?'

Mark was only too delighted to be able to talk about a book which hereally _had_ written; it was at least a change; and he plunged intothe subject with much zest. 'It deals with things and men, ' heconcluded, 'on rather a larger scale than "Illusion" has done. I havetried 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 whichdoes not aim at the first rank. It is easy enough to register exactlywhat happens around one. Anybody who keeps a diary can do that. Thehighest fiction should idealise. '

'I'm afraid I prefer the other fiction, then, ' said Mabel. 'I like tosympathise with the characters, and you can't sympathise with an idealhero and heroine. I hope you will let your heroine have one or twolittle weaknesses, Mr. Ernstone. '

'Now you are laughing at me, ' said Mark, more humbly. 'I must leaveyou to judge between the two books, and if I can only win yourapproval, Miss Langton, I shall prize it more than I dare to say. '

'If it is at all like "Illusion----" Oh, I forgot, ' Mabel broke offsuddenly. 'That is forbidden ground, isn't it? And now, will you comeinto the drawing-room and be introduced to my mother? We shall findsome tea there. '

Mrs. Langton was a little sleepy after a long afternoon ofcard-leaving and call-paying, but she was sufficiently awake to begracious when she had quite understood who Mark was. 

'So very kind of you to write to my little daughter about suchnonsense, ' she said. 'Of course I don't mean that the story itself wasanything of the kind, but little girls have such silly fancies--atleast 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 awonderful book you have written, Mr. Ernstone. I've not read it yet. My wretched health, you know. But really, when I think how clever youmust be, I feel quite afraid to talk to you. I always consider it mustrequire so _much_ cleverness and--and perseverance--you know, to write_any_ book. '

'Oh, Mabel, only think, ' cried Dolly, now quite herself again, fromone of the window-seats, 'Frisk has run away again, and been out eversince yesterday morning. I forgot that just now. So Mr. Ernstone can'tsee him after all!'

And Mabel explained to her mother that they had recognised in theauthor of 'Illusion' the unknown rescuer of Dolly's dog. 

'You mustn't risk such a valuable life as yours is now any more, ' saidMrs. Langton, after purring out thanks which were hazily expressed, owing to an imperfect recollection of the circumstances. 'You must bemore selfish after this, for other people's sakes. '

'I'm afraid such consideration would not be quite understood, ' saidMark, laughing. 

'Oh, you must expect to be misunderstood, else there would be no meritin it, would there?' said Mrs. Langton, not too lucidly. 'Dolly, mypet, there's something scratching outside the door. Run and see whatit is. '

Mark rose and opened the door, and presently a ridiculous littledraggled object, as black as a cinder, its long hair caked and clottedwith dried mud, shuffled into the room with the evident intention ofsneaking into a warm corner without attracting public notice--anintention promptly foiled by the indignant Dolly. 

'O-oh!' she cried; 'it's Frisk. Look at him, everybody--_do_ look athim. '

The unhappy animal backed into the corner by the door with his eyes onDolly's, and made a conscience-stricken attempt to sit up and wave onepaw in deprecation, doubtless prepared with a plausible explanation ofhis 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 thevery worst dog in Notting Hill. '

The possessor of that bad eminence sat and shivered, as if engaged ina rough calculation of his chances of a whipping; but Dolly governedhim on these occasions chiefly by the moral sanction--an immunity heowed to his condition. 

'And this, ' said Dolly, scathingly, 'this is the dog you saved fromthe train, Mr. Ernstone! There's gratitude! The next time he shall beleft to be killed--he's not worth saving!'

Either the announcement or the suspense, according as one's estimateof his intellectual powers may vary, made the culprit snuffledolefully, and after Dolly had made a few further uncomplimentaryobservations on the general vileness of his conduct and the extremeuncleanliness of his person, which he heard abjectly, he was dismissedwith his tail well under him, probably to meditate that if he did notwish 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 beingpitched into a corner, and a bag with some heavy objects in itslammed on a table to a whistling accompaniment. 'That's Colin, ' saidDolly, confidentially. 'Mother says he ought to be getting more reposeof 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!' hebroke off, staring a little as he went up to shake hands with Mark. 

'I ought to have explained, perhaps, ' said Mark. 'Ernstone is only thename I write under. And I had the pleasure of having your son in myform at St. Peter's for some time. Hadn't I, Colin?'

'Yes, sir, ' said Colin, shyly, still rather overcome by so unexpectedan apparition, and thinking this would be something to tell 'thefellows' next day. 

Mabel laughed merrily. 'Mr. Ashburn, I wonder how many more people youwill turn out to be!' she said. 'If you knew how afraid I was of youwhen I used to help Colin with his Latin exercises, and how angry whenyou found me out in any mistakes! I pictured you as a very awfulpersonage indeed. '

'So I am, ' said Mark, 'officially. I'm sure your brother will agree tothat. '

'I don't think he will, ' said Mabel. 'He was so sorry when they movedhim out of your form, that you can't have been so very bad. '

'I liked being in the Middle Third, sir, ' said Colin, regainingconfidence. 'It was much better fun than old--I mean Mr. Blatherwick'sis. I wish I was back again--for _some_ things, ' he qualifiedconscientiously. 

When the time came to take his leave, Mrs. Langton asked for hisaddress, 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 herhusband's slightly heavy professional dinners. 

Mabel gave him her hand at parting with an air of entire friendlinessand good understanding which she did not usually display on so shorta probation. But she liked this Mr. Ashburn already, who on the lasttime she had met him had figured as a kind of hero, who was the'swell' master for whom, without having seen him, she had caughtsomething of Colin's boyish admiration, and who, lastly, had stirredand roused her imagination through the work of his own. 

Perhaps, after all, he was a little conceited, but then it was not anoffensive conceit, but one born of a confidence in himself which wasfairly justified. She had not liked his manner of disparaging hisfirst work, and she rather distrusted his idealising theories; still, she knew that clever people often find it difficult to do justice totheir ideas in words. He _might_ produce a work which would take rankwith the very greatest, and till then she could admire what he hadalready accomplished. 

And besides he was good-looking--very good-looking; his dark eyes hadexpressed a very evident satisfaction at being there and talking toher--which of course was in his favour; his manner was bright andpleasant: and so Mabel found it agreeable to listen to her mother'spraise of their departed visitor. 

'A very charming young man, my dear. You've only to look at him to seehe's a true genius; and so unaffected and pleasant with it all. Quitean acquisition, really. '

'_I_ found him, mother, ' interrupted Dolly; 'he wouldn't have come butfor me. But I'm rather disappointed in him myself; he didn't seem tocare to talk to _me_ much; and I don't believe he knows much aboutfairies. '

'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 meeither. It was because--I don't know _why_ it was because. '

'Because he is a good young man, I suppose, ' said Mrs. Langtoninstructively. 

'No, it wasn't that; he doesn't look so _very_ good; not so good aspoor Vincent did; more good than Harold, though. But he doesn't careabout dogs, and he doesn't care about me, and I don't care abouthim!' concluded Dolly, rather defiantly. 

As for Mark, he left the house thoroughly and helplessly in love. Ashe walked back to his rooms he found a dreamy pleasure in recallingthe different stages of the interview. Mabel's slender figure as shestood opposite him by the mantelpiece, her reserve at first, and themanner in which it had thawed to a frank and gracious interest; thesuspicion of a critical but not unkindly mockery in her eyes and toneat times--it all came back to him with a vividness that rendered himdeaf and blind to his actual surroundings. He saw again the group inthe dim, violet-scented drawing-room, the handsome languid womanmurmuring her pleasant commonplaces, and the pretty child lecturingthe prodigal dog, and still felt the warm light touch of Mabel's handas it had lain in his for an instant at parting. 

This time, too, the parting was not without hope; he might lookforward to seeing her again after this. A summer of golden dreams andfancies had indeed begun for him from that day, and as he thoughtagain that he owed these high privileges to 'Illusion, ' events seemedmore than ever to be justifying an act which was fast becoming asremote and unreproachful as acts will, when the dread ofdiscovery--that great awakener of conscience--is sleeping too. 

CHAPTER XV. 

HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

Harold Caffyn had not found much improvement in his professionalprospects since we first made his acquaintance; his disenchantment wasin fact becoming complete. He had taken to the stage at first inreliance on the extravagant eulogies of friends, forgetting that thestandard for amateurs in any form of art is not a high one, and hewas very soon brought to his proper level. A good appearance andcomplete self-possession were about his sole qualifications, unless weadd the voice and manner of a man in good society, which are not byany 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 toidentify himself completely with any character and feelings opposed tohis own; he had obtained one distinct success, and one only--at a_matinée_, when a new comedy was presented in which a part of someconsequence had been entrusted to him. He was cast for a cool andcynical adventurer, with a considerable dash of the villain in him, and played it admirably, winning very favourable notices from thepress, although the comedy itself resulted as is not infrequent with_matinées_, in a dismal fiasco. However, the _matinée_ proved for atime of immense service to him in the profession, and even led to hisbeing chosen by his manager to represent the hero of the nextproduction at his own theatre--a poetical drama which had excitedgreat interest before its appearance--and if Caffyn could only havemade his mark in it, his position would have been assured from thatmoment. But the part was one of rather strained sentiment, and hecould not, rather than would not, make it effective. In spite ofhimself, his manner suggested rather than concealed any extravagancesin the dialogue, and, worse still, gave the impression that he washimself contemptuously conscious of them; the consequence being thathe repelled the sympathies of his audience to a degree that verynearly proved fatal to the play. After that unlucky first night thepart was taken from him, and his engagement, which terminated shortlyafterwards, was not renewed. 

Caffyn was not the man to overcome his deficiencies by hard andpatient toil; he had counted upon an easy life with immediatetriumphs, and the reality baffled and disheartened him. He might soonhave slid into the lounging life of a man about town, with a moderateincome, expensive tastes, and no occupation, and from that perhapseven to shady and questionable walks of life. But he had an objectstill in keeping his head above the social waters, and the object wasMabel Langton. 

He had long felt that there was a secret antagonism on her sidetowards himself, which at first he had found amusement in provoking toan occasional outburst, but was soon piqued into trying to overcomeand disarm, and the unexpected difficulty of this had produced in hima 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 theconsciousness that he had at last obtained the mastery of this waywardnature, when he would be able to pay off the long score of slights anddisdains which he had come to exaggerate morbidly; he was resolved toconquer her sooner or later in defiance of all obstacles, and he hadfound few natures capable of resisting him long after he had sethimself seriously to subdue them. 

But Mabel had been long in showing any sign of yielding. For some timeafter the loss of the 'Mangalore' she had been depressed and silent toa degree which persuaded Caffyn that his old jealousy of Holroyd waswell-grounded, and when she recovered her spirits somewhat, while shewas willing to listen and laugh or talk to him, there was always thesuggestion of an armistice in her manner, and any attempt on his partto lead the conversation to something beyond mere badinage was sure tobe adroitly parried or severely put down, as her mood varied. 

Quite recently, however, there had been a slight change for thebetter; she had seemed more pleased to see him, and had shown moresympathy and interest in his doings. This was since his one success atthe _matinée_, and he told himself triumphantly that she had at lastrecognised his power; that the long siege was nearly over. 

He would have been much less complacent had he known the truth, whichwas this. At the _matinée_ Mabel had certainly been at first surprisedalmost to admiration by an unexpected display of force on Caffyn'spart. But as the piece went on, she could not resist an impressionthat this was not acting, but rather an unconscious revelation of hissecret self; the footlights seemed to be bringing out the hiddencharacter of the man as though it had been written on him insympathetic ink. 

As she leaned back in the corner of the box he had sent them, shebegan to remember little traits of boyish malice and cruelty. Had theyworked out of his nature, as such strains sometimes will, or was thisstage adventurer, cold-blooded, unscrupulous, with a vein ofdiabolical humour in his malevolence, the real Harold Caffyn?

And then she had seen the injustice of this and felt almost ashamed ofher thoughts, and with the wish to make some sort of reparation, andperhaps the consciousness that she had not given him manyopportunities of showing her his better side, her manner towards himhad softened appreciably. 

Caffyn only saw the effects, and argued favourably from them. 'Nowthat fellow Holroyd is happily out of the way, ' he thought, 'shedoesn't care for anybody in particular. I've only to wait. '

There were considerations other than love or pride which made themarriage a desirable one to him. Mabel's father was a rich man, andMabel herself was entitled independently to a considerable sum oncoming of age. He could hardly do better for himself than by makingsuch a match, even from the pecuniary point of view. 

And so he looked about him anxiously for some opening more suitable tohis talent than the stage-door, for he was quite aware that at presentMabel's father, whatever Mabel herself might think, would scarcelyconsider him a desirable _parti_. 

Caffyn had been lucky enough to impress a business friend of his witha firm conviction of his talents for business and management, and thishad 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 hadbut recently succeeded to the complete control of it, while Caffyn hadsucceeded somehow in acquiring a tolerably complete control of _him_. So the prospect was really an attractive one, and he felt that now atlast he might consider the worst obstacles to his success with Mabelwere disposed of. 

He had plenty of leisure time on his hands at present, and thought hewould call at Kensington Park Gardens one afternoon, and try theeffect of telling Mabel of his prospects. She had been so cordial andsympathetic of late that it would be strange if she did not expresssome sort of pleasure, and it would be for him to decide then whetheror not his time had come to speak of his hopes. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. And Miss Langton were out, he was told at the door. 'Miss Dollywas in, ' added Champion, to whom Caffyn was well known. 

'Then I'll see Miss Dolly, ' said Caffyn, thinking that he might beable to pass the time until Mabel's return. 'In the morning-room isshe? All right. '

He walked in alone, to find Dolly engaged in tearing off the postagestamp from a letter. 'Hallo, Miss Juggins, what mischief are you up tonow?' he began, as he stood in the doorway. 

'It's not mischief at all, ' said Dolly, hardly deigning to look upfrom her occupation. 'What have you come in for, Harold?'

'For the pleasure of your conversation, ' said Caffyn. 'You know youalways enjoy a talk with me, Dolly. ' (Dolly made a little mouth atthis. ) '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 beenso unlucky as to offend Colin the day before, and he had not yetforgiven 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 theafternoon, to be shown his treasures and, in particular, to give hisopinion as an expert on the merits of Colin's collection of foreignpostage-stamps. 

Unhappily for Colin's purpose, however, Dolly had completely enslavedthe friend from the outset. Charmed by his sudden interest in the mostunboyish topics, she had carried him off to see her doll's house, and, in spite of Colin's grumbling dissuasion, the base friend had gonemeekly. Worse still, he had remained up there listening to Dolly'spersonal anecdotes and reminiscences and seeing Frisk put through hisperformances, until it was too late to do anything like justice to thestamp album, over which Colin had been sulkily fuming below, dividedbetween hospitality and impatience. 

Dolly had been perfectly guiltless of the least touch of coquetry inthus monopolising the visitor, for she was not precocious in thisrespect, and was merely delighted to find a boy who, unlike Colin, would condescend to sympathise with her pursuits; but perhaps the boyhimself, a susceptible youth, found Dolly's animated face and eagerconfidences more attractive than the rarest postal issues. 

When he had gone, Colin's pent-up indignation burst out on theunsuspecting Dolly. She had done it on purpose. She knew Dickinsonmajor came to see his stamps. What did _he_ care about her rubbishydolls? And there she had kept him up in the nursery for hours wastinghis time! It was too bad of her, and so on, until she wept with griefand penitence. 

And now she was seizing the opportunity of purchasing his forgivenessby an act of atonement in kind, in securing what seemed to her to beprobably a stamp of some unknown value--to a boy. But she did not tellall this to Caffyn. 

'Do you know about stamps--is this a rare one?' she said, and broughtthe stamp she had removed to Caffyn. The postmark had obliterated thename upon it. 

'Let's look at the letter, ' said Caffyn; and Dolly put it in hishand. 

He took it to the window, and gave a slight start. 'When did thiscome?' he said sharply. 

'Just now, ' said Dolly; 'a minute or two before you came. I heard thepostman, and I ran out into the hall to see the letters drop in thebox, and then I saw this one with the stamp, and the box wasn'tlocked, so I took it out and tore the stamp off. Why do you look likethat, Harold? It's only for Mabel, and she won't mind. '

Caffyn was still at the window; he had just received a highlyunpleasant shock, and was trying to get over it and adjust himself tothe facts revealed by what he held in his hand. 

The letter was from India, bore a Colombo postmark, and was in VincentHolroyd's hand, which Caffyn happened to know; if further proof wererequired he had it by pressing the thin paper of the envelope againstthe inclosure beneath, when several words became distinctly legible, besides those visible already through the gap left by the stamp. Thushe read, 'Shall not write again till you----' and lower down Holroyd'sfull signature. 

And the letter had that moment arrived. He saw no other possibleconclusion than that, by some extraordinary chance, Holroyd hadescaped the fate which was supposed to have befallen him. He wasalive; a more dangerous rival after this than ever. This letter mighteven contain a proposal!

'No use speaking to Mabel after she has once seen this. Confound thefellow! Why the deuce couldn't he stay in the sea? It's just myinfernal luck!'

As he thought of the change this letter would work in his prospects, and his own complete powerlessness to prevent it, the gloom andperplexity on his face deepened. He had been congratulating himself onthe removal of this particular man as a providential arrangement madewith some regard to his own convenience. And to see him resuscitated, at that time of all others, was hard indeed to bear. And yet whatcould he do?

As Caffyn stood by the window with Holroyd's letter in his hand, hefelt an insane temptation for a moment to destroy or retain it. Timewas everything just then, and even without the fragment he had beenable to read, he could, from his knowledge of the writer, concludewith tolerable certainty that he would not write again without havingreceived an answer to his first letter. 'If I was only alone with it!'he thought impatiently. But he was a prudent young man, and perfectlyaware of the consequences of purloining correspondence; and besides, there was Dolly to be reckoned with--she alone had seen the thing asyet. But then she _had_ seen it, and was not more likely to hold hertongue about that than any other given subject. No, he could donothing; he must let things take their own course and be hanged tothem!

His gloomy face filled Dolly with a sudden fear; she forgot herdislike, and came timidly up to him and touched his arm. 'What's thematter, Harold?' she faltered. 'Mabel won't be angry. I--I haven'tdone anything _wrong_, have I, Harold?'

He came out of his reverie to see her upturned face raised to his--andstarted; his active brain had in that instant decided on a desperateexpedient, suggested by the sight of the trouble in her eyes. 'ByJove, I'll try!' he thought; 'it's worth it--she's such a child--I maymanage 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'ttrue . .. It--it frightens me so!'

'My dear child, what can I tell you? Surely you know that what you didwas stealing?'

'Stealing!' echoed Dolly, with great surprised eyes. 'Oh, no, Harold--not _stealing_. Why, of course I shall tell Mabel, and ask herfor the stamp afterwards--only if I hadn't torn it off first, shemight throw it away before I could ask, you know!'

'I'm afraid it was stealing all the same, ' said Caffyn, affecting asorrowfully compassionate tone; 'nothing can alter that now, Dolly. '

'Mabel won't be angry with me for that, I know, ' said Dolly; 'she willsee how it was really. '

'If it was only Mabel, ' said Caffyn, 'we should have no reason tofear; 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 thejudges. '

The piteous change in the child's face, the dark eyes brimming withrising tears, and the little mouth drawn and trembling, might havetouched some men; indeed, even Caffyn felt a languid compunction forwhat 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 effortto 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 areonly in fun!'

But Caffyn turned away in well-feigned distress. 'Do I look as if itwas 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'spaper over there?' he asked, with a sudden recollection, as he saw thesheet on a little round wicker table. 'Fetch it, Dolly, will you?'

'I must manage the obstinate little witch somehow, ' he thoughtimpatiently, and turned to the police reports, where he rememberedthat morning to have read the case of an unhappy postman who hadstolen 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--thosestamps 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 mego 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 totell him, or he would be obliged to do his duty. You don't want to beshut 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 yourfather, not your mamma--not Mabel herself--the law's too strong forthem all!'

This strange and horrible idea of an unknown power into whose clutchesshe had suddenly fallen, and from which even love and home were unableto shield her, drove the poor child almost frantic; she clung to himconvulsively, with her face white as death, terrified beyond tears. 'Harold!' she cried, seizing his hand in both hers, 'you won't letthem! I--I can't go to prison, and leave them all. I don't like thedark. I _couldn't_ stay in it till I was grown up, and never see Mabelor Colin or anybody. Tell me what to do--only tell me, and I'll doit!'

Again some quite advanced scoundrels might have hesitated to cast sofearful a shadow over a child's bright life, and the necessity annoyedCaffyn to some extent, but his game was nearly won--there would not bemuch more of it. 

'I mustn't _do_ anything for you, ' he said; 'if I did my duty, Ishould have to give you up to---- No, it's all right, Dolly, I shouldnever 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 leftit?'

'Do you think that wouldn't be seen? It would, though! No, Dolly, ifanyone but you and I catches sight of that letter, it will all befound 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 theseason, had been chilly. 

'Don't suppose _I_ advise you to burn it, ' said Caffyn. 'It's a badbusiness 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 keepout of prison. And if you make up your mind to burn it, Dolly, why youcan rely on me to keep the secret. _I_ don't want to see a poorlittle girl shut up in prison if I can help it, _I_ can tell you. Butdo 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 theflames began to play round the edges, she repented, and made a wilddart forward to recover the letter. 'It's Mabel's, ' she cried; 'I'mafraid to burn it--I'm afraid!'

But Caffyn caught her, and held her little trembling hands fast in hiscool grasp, while the letter that Holroyd had written in Ceylon withsuch wild secret hopes flared away to a speckled grey rag, and floatedlightly up the chimney. 'Too late now, Dolly!' he said, with a ring oftriumph in his voice. 'You would only have blistered those prettylittle fingers of yours, my child. And now, ' he said, indicating thescrap of paper which bore the stamp, 'if you'll take my advice, you'llsend that thing after the other. '

For the sake of this paltry bit of coloured paper Dolly had done itall, and now that must go!--she had not even purchased Colin'sforgiveness by her wrong--and this last drop in her cup was perhapsthe bitterest. She dropped the stamp guiltily between two red-hotcoals, watched that too as it burnt, and then threw herself into anarm-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 forhaving this understood at once. '_I_ made you do nothing, if youplease--it was all done before I came in. I may think you were verysensible in getting rid of the letter in that way--I do--but you didit of your own accord--remember that. '

'I was quite good half an hour ago, ' moaned the child, 'and now I'm awicked girl--a--a thief! No one will speak to me any more--they'llsend me to prison!'

'Now don't talk nonsense, ' said Caffyn, a little alarmed, not havingexpected a child to have such strong feelings about anything. 'Andfor 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. Youdon't suppose I shall tell of you, do you?' (and it really was highlyimprobable). 'There's nothing to show what you've done. And--and youdidn't mean to do anything bad, I know _that_, of course. You needn'tmake yourself wretched about it. It's only the way the law looks atstealing stamps, you know. Come, I must be off now; can't wait forMabel any longer. But I must see a smile before I go--just a littleone, Juggins--to thank me for helping you out of your scrape, eh?'(Dolly's mouth relaxed in a very faint smile. ) 'That's right--nowyou're feeling jolly again; cheer up, you can trust me, you know. ' Andhe went out, feeling tolerably secure of her silence. 

'It's rough on her, poor little thing!' he soliloquised as he walkedbriskly away; 'but she'll forget all about it soon enough--childrendo. 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 bythat time it will be too late. And if this business comes out (which Idon't imagine it ever will) _I've_ done nothing anyone could lay holdof. I was very careful about that. I must have it out with Mabel assoon as I can now--there's nothing to be gained by waiting!'

_Would_ Dolly forget all about it? She did not like Harold Caffyn, butit never occurred to her to disbelieve the terrible things he had toldher. She was firmly convinced that she had done something which, ifknown, would cut her off completely from home and sympathy and love;she who had hardly known more than a five minutes' sorrow in her happyinnocent little life, believed herself a guilty thing with a secret. Henceforth in the shadows there would lurk something more dreadfuleven than the bogeys with which some foolish nursemaids people shadowsfor their charges--the gigantic hand of the law, ready to drag her offat any moment from all she loved. And there seemed no help for heranywhere--for had not Harold said that if her father or anyone wereto know, they would be obliged to give her up to punishment. 

Perhaps if Caffyn had been capable of fully realising what a deadlypoison he had been instilling into this poor child's mind, he mighthave softened matters a little more (provided his object could havebeen equally well attained thereby), and that is all that can be saidfor him. But, as it was, he only saw that he must make as deep animpression as he could for the moment, and never doubted that shewould forget his words as soon as he should himself. 

But if there was some want of thought in the evil he had done, thewant of thought in this case arose from a constitutional want ofheart. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A CHANGE OF FRONT. 

'Well, Jane, ' said Mr. Lightowler one evening, when he had invitedhimself to dine and sleep at the house in Malakoff Terrace, 'I supposeyou haven't heard anything of that grand young gentleman of yoursyet?'

The Ashburns, with the single exception of Trixie, had remainedobstinately indifferent to the celebrity which Mark had so suddenlyobtained; it did not occur to most of them indeed that distinction waspossible in the course he had taken. Perhaps many of Mahomet'srelations thought it a pity that he should abandon his excellentprospects in the caravan business (where he was making himself so muchrespected), for the precarious and unremunerative career of a prophet. 

Trixie, however, had followed the book's career with wonderingdelight; she had bought a copy for herself, Mark not having foundhimself equal to sending her one, and she had eagerly collectedreviews and allusions of all kinds, and tried hard to induce Marthaat 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, havingfrom the first sided strongly against Mark, she would not compromiseher dignity now by betraying so much interest in his performances. Cuthbert read the book, but in secret, and as he said nothing to itsdiscredit, it may be presumed that he could find no particular faultwith it. Mrs. Ashburn would have felt almost inclined, had she knownthe book was in the house, to order it to be put away from among themlike 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 hisown outraged feelings than any real desire for information, Mrs. Ashburn's face assumed its grimmest and coldest expression as shereplied--'No, Solomon. Mark has chosen his own road--we neither havenor expect to have any news of him. At this very moment he may bebitterly repenting his folly and disobedience somewhere. '

Upon which Cuthbert observed that he considered that extremelyprobable, and Mr. Ashburn found courage to ask a question. 'I--Isuppose 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 tosee him coming to me; he wouldn't come twice, I can tell him! No, Itell you, as I told him, I've done with him. When a young man repaysall I've spent on him with base ingratitude like that, I wash my handsof him--I say deliberately--I wash my 'ands. Why, he might have workedon at his law, and I'd a' set him up and put him in the way of makinghis living in a few years; made him a credit to all connected withhim, I would! But he's chosen to turn a low scribbler, and starve in agarret, which he'll come to soon enough, and that's what I get fortrying to help a nephew. Well, it will be a lesson to me, I knowthat. 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 menstill who--Cuthbert, _how_ long was it you stayed at the office afterhours 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 broughtto understand in time that the family did not end with Mark, but shemight have spared her pains just then. 

'Oh, ' he said, with a rather contemptuous toss of the head, 'I wasn'thinting. I've nothing partickler against him--_he's_ steady enough, Idessay. One of the other kind's enough in a small family, in allconscience! Ah, Jane, if ever a man was regularly taken in by a boy, Iwas by his brother Mark--a bright, smart, clever young chap he was asI'd wish to see. Give that feller an education and put him to aprofession, 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 andtrembling lips, could hold out no longer. 

'You talk of Mark--Uncle and all of you, ' she said, looking prettierfor her indignation, 'as if he was a disgrace to us all! You seem tothink he's starving somewhere in a garret, and unknown to everybody. But he's nothing of the sort--he's famous already, whether you believeit 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 poorMark but me, ma, and I must. And it's all quite true. I hear all aboutbooks and things from--at the Art School where I go, and Mark's bookis being talked about _everywhere_! And you needn't be afraid of hiscoming to you for money, Uncle, for I was told that Mark will be ableto get as much money as ever he likes for his next books; he will bequite rich, and all just by writing! And nobody but you here seems tothink the worse of him for what he has done! I'll show you what thepapers say about him presently. Why, even _your_ paper, ma, the"Weekly Horeb, " has a long article praising Mark's book this week, soI should think it can't be so very wicked. Wait a minute, and youshall see!'

And Trixie burst impetuously out of the room to fetch the book inwhich she had pasted the reviews, leaving the others in a rathercrestfallen condition, Uncle Solomon especially looking straight infront of him with a fish-like stare, being engaged in trying toassimilate the very novel ideas of a literary career which had justbeen put before him. 

Mrs. Ashburn muttered something about Trixie being always headstrongand never given to serious things, but even she was a little shaken bythe unexpected testimony of her favourite oracle, the 'Horeb. '

'Look here, Uncle, ' said Trixie, returning with the book and laying itdown open before him. 'See what the ---- says, and the ----; oh, andall of them!'

'_I_ don't want to see 'em, ' he said, sulkily pushing the book fromhim. 'Take the things away, child; who cares what they say? They'reall at the same scribbling business themselves; o' course they'd crackup one another. '

But he listened with a dull, glazed look in his eyes, and a grunt nowand then, while she read extracts aloud, until by-and-by, in spite ofhis efforts to repress it, a kind of hard grin of satisfaction beganto 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 Trixietriumphantly. 

'Men's praise is of little value, ' said Mrs. Ashburn, harshly. 'Youruncle and we look at what Mark has done from the Christian'sstandpoint. '

'Well, look here, y' know. Suppose we go into the matter now; let'stalk it out a bit, ' said Uncle Solomon, coming out of a second brownstudy. 'What 'ave you got against Mark?'

'What have I got against him, Solomon?' echoed his sister in supremeamazement. 

'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 hisingratitude to _you_, after all you've done for him!'

'Put me out of the question!' said Mr. Lightowler, with a magnanimoussweep 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 theboy of doing, Matthew, eh?'

Poor little Mr. Ashburn seemed completely overwhelmed by this suddendemand on him. 'I? oh, I--well, Jane has strong views, you know, Solomon, decided opinions on these subjects, and--and so have I!' heconcluded feebly. 

'Um, ' said Mr. Lightowler, half to himself, 'shouldn't a' thought thatwas 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, hehas, in defiance of what he knows I feel on this subject, connectedhimself with a thing I strongly disapprove of--a light-mindedfiction. '

'Now you know, Jane, that's all your confounded--I'm speaking to youas 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, Iwonder you can ask! You know very well what would have been thought ofreading, to say nothing of writing, a novel in our young days. And itcuts me to the heart to think that a son of mine should place anotherstumbling-block in the hands of youth. '

'Stumbling grandmother!' cried Mr. Lightowler. 'In our young days, asyou say, we didn't go to playhouses, and only read good and improvingbooks, 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 sincethen, Jane. Even chapel-folk read these light-minded fictionsnowadays, and don't seem to be stumblin' about more than usual. '

'If they take no harm, their own consciences must be their guide; butI'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. Whothe 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? Whyare you to be right and all the rest of the world wrong, I'd like toknow? Here you've gone and hunted the lad out of the house, withoutever consulting _me_ (who, I think, Jane, I _do_ think, have acted soas to deserve to be considered and consulted in the matter), and allfor what?'

'I'm sure, Solomon, ' said Mrs. Ashburn, with one or two hard sniffswhich were her nearest approach to public emotion; 'I'm sure I neverexpected this from you, and you were quite as angry with Mark as anyof us. '

'Because I didn't know all--I was kep' in the dark. From what you saidI didn't know but what he'd written some rubbish which wouldn't keephim in bread and cheese for a fortnight, and leave him as unknown asit found him. Naterally I didn't care about _that_, when I'd hopedhe'd be a credit to me. But it appears he _is_ being a credit tome--he's making his fortune, getting famous, setting the upper circlestalking of him. I thought Sir Andrew, up at the Manor House, wasa-chaffing me the other day when he began complimenting me on mynephew, and I answered him precious short; but I begin to think now ashe meant it, and I went and made a fool of myself! All I ever asked ofMark was to be a credit to me, and so long as he goes and is a creditto me, what do I care how he does it? Not _that_!'

At sentiments of such unhoped-for breadth, Trixie was so far carriedaway with delight and gratitude as to throw her arms round her uncle'spuffy red neck, and bestow two or three warm kisses upon him. 'Thenyou 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 outuncommonly well. 'There's no narrermindedness about _me_, Trixie, mygirl, ' he said; 'I never have said, nor I don't say now, that I havegiven your brother Mark up; he chose not to take the advantages Ioffered him, and I don't deny feeling put out by it. But what's donecan't be helped. I shall give a look into this book of his, and if Isee nothing to disapprove of in it, why I shall let him know he canstill look to his old uncle if he wants anything. I don't say morethan that at present. But I do think, Jane, that you've been too 'ardon the boy. We can't be all such partickler Baptists as _you_ are, yerknow!'

'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, mydear?) at the time; but she has decided views, and she thoughtotherwise. '

The unfortunate Jane, seeing herself deserted on all sides, began toqualify, not sorry in her inmost heart to be able to think moreleniently, since the 'Weekly Horeb' sanctioned it, of her son's act ofindependence. 

'I may have acted on imperfect knowledge, ' she said; 'I may have beentoo hasty in concluding that Mark had only written some worldly andfrivolous love-tale to keep minds from dwelling on higher subjects. Ifso, 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 inthis way. 'That comes too late now, Jane, ' he said; 'he won't comeback to you now, after the way you've treated him. You've taken yourline, 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 sonto me than ever you made of him!'

And when he went to bed, after some elaboration of his views on thequestion, he left the family, with one exception, to the highlyunsatisfactory reflection that they had cut themselves off from allright to feel proud and gratified at Mark's renown, and that thebreach 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 thisin a pleasanter and more substantial form than empty compliment. Hewas constantly receiving letters from editors or publishers invitinghim to write for them, and offering terms which exceeded his highestexpectations. Several of these proposals--all the more tempting ones, in fact--he accepted at once; not that he had anything by him inmanuscript just then of the kind required from him, but he felt avague sense of power to turn out something very fine indeed, longbefore the time appointed for the fulfilment of his promises. 

But, so far, he had not done any regular literary work since hisdefection: he was still at St. Peter's, which occupied most of histime, but somehow, now that he could devote his evenings withoutscruple to the delights of composition, those delights seemed to havelost their keenness, and besides, he had begun to go out a great deal. 

He had plenty of time before him, however, and his prospects wereexcellent; he was sure of considerable sums under his many agreementsas soon as he had leisure to set to work. There could be no greatermistake than for a young writer to flood the market from hisinkstand--a reflection which comforted Mark for a rather long andunexpected 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 'OneFair Daughter' or 'Sweet Bells Jangled. ' At first he had beenfeverishly anxious to get a book out which should be legitimately hisown as soon as possible, but now, when the time had come, he hungback. 

He did not exactly feel any misgivings as to their merits, but hecould not help seeing that with every day it was becoming more andmore difficult to put 'Illusion' completely in the shade, and that ifhe meant to effect this, he could afford to neglect no precautions. New and brilliant ideas, necessitating the entire reconstruction ofthe plots, were constantly occurring to him, and he set impulsively towork, shifting and interpolating, polishing and repolishing, until hemust have invested his work with a dazzling glitter--and yet he couldnot 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 asharp rap at the door of his bedroom, which adjoined his sitting-room. He shouted to the stranger to come in, and an old gentleman enteredpresently by the door connecting the two rooms, in whom he recognisedMr. Lightowler's irascible neighbour. He stood there for a few momentswithout a word, evidently overcome by anger, which Mark supposed wasdue to annoyance at having first blundered into the bedroom. 'It's oldHumpage, ' he thought. 'What can he want with _me_?' The other foundwords at last, beginning with a deadly politeness. 'I see I am in thepresence of the right person, ' he began. 'I have come to ask you aplain question. ' Here he took something from his coat-tail pocket, andthrew it on the table before Mark--it was a copy of 'Illusion. ' 'I amtold you are in the best position to give me information on thesubject. Will you kindly give me the name--the _real_ name--of theauthor of this book? I have reasons, valid reasons for requiring it. 'And he glared down at Mark, who had a sudden and disagreeablesensation as if his heart had just turned a somersault. Could thisterrible old person have detected him, and if so what would become ofhim?

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 ananswer. '

'If the author of the book, ' said Mark, 'had wished his real name tobe 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_'--(herepeated this with withering scorn)--'I happen to know the name of thereal author of this--this precious production. I had it, let me tellyou, on very excellent authority. '

'Who told you?' said Mark, and his voice seemed to him to come fromdown 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. 'Areyou 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 greatliterary 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 knowthe 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 acharacter called--wait a bit--ah, yes, called Blackshaw, a retiredcountry 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 lowcharacter; you show him up all through the book as perpetually mixingin petty squabbles, sir; on one occasion you actually allow him to getdrunk Now what do you mean by it?'

'Good heavens, ' said Mark, with a laugh, 'you don't seriously mean totell 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 ofEuclid, ' said Mark, now completely himself again, and rather amused bythe scene; 'I should think you must be one of them, Mr. Humpage. Willit comfort you if I let you know that I--that this book was writtenmonths before I first had the pleasure of seeing you. '

'No, sir, not at all. That only shows me more clearly what I knewalready. That there has been another hand at work here. I see thatuncle of yours behind your back here. '

'Do you though?' said Mark. 'He's not considered literary as a generalrule. '

'Oh, he's quite literary enough to be libellous. Just cast your eyeover this copy. Your uncle sent this to me as a present, the firstwork of his nephew. I thought at first he was trying to be friendlyagain, till I opened the book! Just look at it, sir!' And the old manfumbled through the leaves with his trembling hands. 'Here's a passagewhere your solicitor is guilty of a bit of sharp practice--underlinedby your precious uncle! And here he sets two parties by theears--underlined by your uncle, in red ink, sir; and it's like thatall through the book. _Now_ what do you say?'

'What _can_ I say?' said Mark, with a shrug. 'You must really go andfight 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 thatgander, and he hasn't forgotten it. You had a hand in that affair, too, I remember. Your victim, sir, was never the same birdagain--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 notcalling it _my_ victim. I don't suppose you'll believe me, but the oneoffence is as imaginary as the other. '

'I _don't_ believe you, sir. I consider that to recommend yourself toyour highly respectable uncle, you have deliberately set yourself toblacken my character, which may bear comparison with your own, let metell 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 Ihappen to be quite blameless of the least idea of hurting yourfeelings, 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 notaltered my opinion in the least. I'm not blind, and I saw your facechange 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 suspiciousappearance, but then he would not have improved matters very much; andso, like many better men, he had to submit to be cruellymisunderstood, when a word might have saved him, although in his casesilence was neither quixotic nor heroic. 

'I can only say again, ' he replied in his haughtiest manner, 'thatwhen this book was written, I had never seen you, nor even heard ofyour 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 Idon't believe you, and I don't. There are ways of juggling with wordsto make them cover anything, and from all I know of you, you arelikely enough to be apt at that sort of thing. I've come here to tellyou what I think of you, and I mean to do it before I go. You'veabused such talents as you've been gifted with, sir; gone out of yourway to attack a man who never did you any harm. You're a hiredliterary assassin--that's my opinion of you! I'm not going to take anylegal proceeding against you--I'm not such a fool. If I was a youngerman, I might take the law, in the shape of a stout horse-whip, into myown 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 ofjustice in this world, whatever may be said, and a beginning likeyours will bring its own reward. Some day, sir, you'll be found outfor what you are! That's what I came to say!'

And he turned on his heel and marched downstairs, leaving Mark with asuperstitious fear at his heart at his last words, and some annoyancewith Holroyd for having exposed him to this, and even with himself forturning craven at the first panic. 

'I must look up that infernal book again!' he thought. 'Holroyd mayhave libelled half London in it for all I know. '

Now it may be as well to state here that Vincent Holroyd was asguiltless as Mark himself of any intention to portray Mr. Humpage inthe pages of 'Illusion'; he had indeed heard of him from the Langtons, but the resemblances in the imaginary solicitor to Dolly's godfatherwere few and trivial enough, and, like most of such half-unconsciousreminiscences, required the aid of a malicious dulness to pass asanything 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 againin the passage and up the staircase; he sighed wearily, thinking thatperhaps the outraged Mr. Humpage had remembered something moreoffensive, and had called again to give him the benefit of it. 

However, this time the visitor was Mr. Solomon Lightowler, who stoodin the doorway with what he meant to be a reassuring smile on hisface--though, owing to a certain want of flexibility in his uncle'sfeatures, 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 yesterdayfrom your friend Humpage, so I've got my hand in. Will you curse mesitting down or standing? The other one stood!'

'No, no, it ain't that, my boy. I don't want to use 'ard words. I'vecome to say, let bygones be bygones. Mark, my boy, I'm _proud_ ofyer!'

'What, of a literary man! My dear uncle, you can't be well--or you'velost money. '

'I'm much as usual, thanky, and I haven't lost any money that I knowof, 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, ' hesaid. 'When I first saw there was a country solicitor in the book, Isaid 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 summonsedme for, and got his summons dismissed for his trouble. But I've notforgotten it. P'r'aps it was going rather far to mark the places; butthere, I couldn't 'elp it. '

'Well, I suppose you know that amounts to libel?' said Mark, eitherfrom 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 'ereand 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 ofputting the hot-headed old idiot into a book. It's too bad--it reallyis!'

''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 byshowing up 'Umpage as what I believe him to be--what's the good ofpretending you never meant it--to me? You don't know how pleasedyou'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 upwith, but if you go on as you've begun, you're all right. And when Ihave a nephew that makes people talk about him and shows up them thatmakes themselves unpleasant as neighbours, why, what I say is, Makethe most of him! And that brings me to what I've come about. How areyou 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 atSt. Peter's was not high and, as he had already sent in hisresignation, that source of income would dry up very shortly. He hadthe money paid him for 'Illusion, ' but that of course he could notuse; he had not sunk low enough for that, though he had no clear ideaswhat to do with it. He would receive handsome sums for his next twonovels, but that would not be for some time, and meanwhile hisexpenses had increased with his new life to a degree that surprisedhimself, for Mark was not a young man of provident habits. 

So he gave his uncle to understand that, though he expected to be paidsome heavy sums in a few months, his purse was somewhat light atpresent. 

'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. Andnow you're getting a big littery pot, and going about among the nobsas I see your name with, why, you must keep up the position you'vemade--and you shall too! You're quite right to drop theschoolmastering, since you make more money with your scribbling. Yourtime's valuable now. Set to and scribble away while you're thefashion; make your 'ay while the sun shines, my boy. I'll see yerthrough it. I want you to do me credit. I want everyone to know thatyou're not like some of these poor devils, but have got a rich olduncle at your back. You let 'em know that, will yer?'

And, quite in the manner of the traditional stage uncle, he producedhis cheque book and wrote a cheque for a handsome sum, intimating thatthat would be Mark's quarterly allowance while he continued to do himcredit, and until he should be independent of it. Mark was almost tooastounded for thanks at first by such very unexpected liberality, andsomething, too, in the old man's coarse satisfaction jarred on him andmade him ashamed of himself. But he contrived to express his gratitudeat last. 

'It's all right, ' said Uncle Solomon; 'I don't grudge it yer. You justgo on as you've begun. ' ('I hope that doesn't mean "making more hitsat Humpage, "' thought Mark. ) 'You thought you could do without me, butyou see you can't; and look here, make a friend of me after this, d'yehear? Don't do nothing without my advice. I'm a bit older than youare, and p'r'aps I can give you a wrinkle or two, even about litterymatters, though you mayn't think it. You needn't a' been afraid youruncle would cast you off, Mark--so long as you're doing well. As Itold 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 worseof you for it. I'm not _that_ kind of man. '

And after many more speeches of this kind, in the course of which hefully persuaded himself, and very nearly his nephew, that his viewshad been of this broad nature from the beginning, and were entirelyuninfluenced by events, he left Mark to think over this new turn offortune's wheel, by which he had provoked a bitter foe and regained apowerful protector, without deserving one more than the other. 

He thought lightly enough of the first interview now; it was cheaplybought 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, canafford to hold their enemies in calm indifference, and although Marknever knew how old Mr. Humpage's enmity was destined to affect him, itwas not without influence on his fortunes. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A DINNER PARTY. 

Mrs. Langton did not forget Mark; and before many days had gone bysince his call, he received an invitation to dine at Kensington ParkGardens on a certain Saturday, to which he counted the days like aschoolboy. The hour came at last, and he found himself in the prettydrawing-room once more. There were people there already; a stout judgeand his pretty daughter, a meek but eminent conveyancer with agorgeous wife, and a distinguished professor with a bland subtlesmile, a gentle voice and a dangerous eye. Other guests came inafterwards, but Mark hardly saw them. He talked a little to Mrs. Langton, and Mrs. Langton talked considerably to him during the firstfew minutes after his entrance, but his thoughts kept wandering, likehis eyes, to Mabel as she moved from group to group in her characterof supplementary hostess, for Mrs. Langton's health did not allow herto exert herself on these occasions. 

Mabel was looking very lovely that evening, in some soft light dressof pale rose, with a trail of pure white buds and flowers at hershoulder. Mark watched her as she went about, now listening withpretty submission to the gorgeous woman in the ruby velvet and thediamond 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 atsomething 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 evennoticed him yet. He began to be jealous of the judge, and theprofessor 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 hadwhenever things were not going perfectly well with him. She came now, and was pleased to be gracious to him for a few minutes, till dinnerwas announced. 

Mark heard it with a pang. Now they would be separated, of course; hewould be given to the ruby woman, or that tall, keen-faced girl withthe _pince-nez_; he would be lucky if he got two minutes' conversationwith Mabel in the drawing-room later on. But he waited forinstructions resignedly. 

'Didn't papa tell you?' she said; 'you are to take me in--if youwill?' If he would! He felt a thrill as her light fingers rested onhis arm; he could scarcely believe his own good fortune, even when hefound himself seated next to her as the general rustle subsided, andmight accept the delightful certainty that she would be there by hisside for the next two hours at least. 

He forgot to consult his _menu_; he had no very distinct idea of whathe ate or drank, or what was going on around him, at least as long asMabel talked to him. They were just outside the radius of the bigcentre lamp, and that and the talk around them produced a sort ofsemi-privacy. 

The spoony young man was at Mabel's right hand, to be sure, but hehad 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 thegreat Triposes under the old order, would--but for her sex--haveplaced her very high indeed in the class list. Somebody had told theyoung man of this, and, as he was from Cambridge too, but had neverbeen 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 firstmeeting. He took this opportunity of disclaiming all share in thetreatment of the unfortunate gander, and was assured that it was quiteunnecessary 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 deepestdye;' and then, encouraged to confide in her, he told the story of theold gentleman's furious entry and accusation. 

Mabel looked rather grave. 'How could he get such an idea into hishead?' she said. 

'I'm afraid _my_ uncle had something to do with that, ' said Mark, andexplained 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 myuncle--only one of those relations that sound like a prize puzzle whenyou try to make them out. Dolly always calls him Uncle Anthony--he'sher godfather. But I wish you hadn't offended him, Mr. Ashburn, I doreally. I've heard he can be a very bitter enemy. He has been a verygood friend to papa; I believe he gave him almost the very first briefhe ever had; and he's kind to all of us. But it's dangerous to offendhim. Perhaps you will meet him here some day, ' she added, 'and then wemay 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 hisgratitude for the frank interest she had taken in his fortunes. 

'Of course I care, ' said Mabel, looking down as she spoke. 'I can'tbear to see anyone I like and respect--as I do poor UncleAnthony--persist in misjudging _anybody_ like that. '

Mark had hoped more from the beginning of this speech than theconclusion quite bore out, but it was delightful to hear her talkingsomething more than society nothings to him. However, that was endedfor the present by the sudden irruption of the spoony young man intothe conversation; he had come out very shattered from a desperateintellectual conflict with the young lady from Girton, to whom he hadventured on a remark which, as he made it, had seemed to him likely toturn out brilliant. 'You know, ' he had announced solemnly, 'opinionsmay differ, but in these things I must say I don't think theexception's _always_ the rule--eh? don't you find that?' And hisneighbour replied that she thought he had hit upon a profoundphilosophical truth, and then spoilt it by laughing. After which theyoung man, thinking internally 'it _sounded_ all right, wonder if itwas such bosh as she seems to think, ' had fled to Mabel for sanctuaryand 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 generalswith rhymes which are not regular poetry? Are they so particular inthe army?'

'It isn't an army exam. ; it's at Cambridge; and the rhymes are all thechief tips done into poetry--like "Paley" rhymes, y' know. Paleyrhymes give you, for instance, all the miracles or all the parablesright off in about four lines of gibberish, and you learn thegibberish and then you're all right. I got through my Little-go thatway, 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 theverses all right enough, but the beggars won't take them. I forgotwhat they were all about, so I had to show up blank papers. And I'dstayed 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 inuncharitable feelings respecting fair-haired Mr. Pidgely, had beensuddenly attacked by the lady on his left, a plump lady with queercomic inflections in her voice, the least touch of brogue, and areputation for daring originality. 

'I suppose now, ' she began, 'ye've read the new book they're talkingso much about--this "Illusion"? And h'wat's your private opinion? Iwonder 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 theylike, but I never read such weary rubbish in all me life, " and I neverdid!'

Mark laughed--he could not help it--but it was a laugh of realenjoyment, without the slightest trace of pique or wounded vanity init. 'I'll make a confession, ' he said. 'I do think myself that thebook has been luckier than it deserves--only, as the--the man whowrote it is a--a very old friend of mine--you see, I mustn't join inabusing it. '

Mabel heard this and liked Mark the better for it. 'I suppose hecouldn't do anything else very well without making a scene, ' shethought, 'but he did it very nicely. I hope that woman will find outwho he is though; it will be a lesson to her!' Here Mabel was notquite fair, perhaps, for the lady had a right to her opinion, andanything is better than humbug. But she was very needlessly pityingMark for having to listen to such unpalatable candour, little dreaminghow welcome it was to him, or how grateful he felt to his critic. WhenMark was free again, after an animated discussion with his candidneighbour, in which each had amused the other and both were on the wayto becoming intimate, he found the spoony youth finishing thedescription of a new figure he had seen in a _cotillon_. 'You all sitdown on chairs, don't you know, ' he was saying, 'and then the restcome through doors;' and Mabel said, with a spice of malice (for shewas being excessively bored), that that must be very pretty andoriginal. 

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 ladywas giving of a _protégé_ of hers, an imbecile, who made his living bycalling neighbours who had to be up early. 

'Perhaps it's prejudice, ' said Mrs. Langton, 'but I do _not_ think Ishould like to be called by an _idiot_; he might turn into a maniacsome day. They do quite suddenly at times, don't they?' she added, appealing to the professor, 'and that wouldn't be _nice_, you know, ifhe 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 hehad taken down. And so for some minutes that end of the table applieditself zealously to solving the difficult problem of the proper courseto take on being called early by a raving maniac. 

Meanwhile Mabel had succeeded in dropping poor Mr. Pidgely andresuming conversation with Mark; this time on ordinary topics--pictures, books, theatres, and people (especially people); he talked well, andthe 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 earas he passed her chair on his way to his mother; but Dolly stolequietly 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 directionof her glance. There certainly was a change in Dolly; she had lost allher usual animation, and sat there silent and constrained, leaving thedelicacies with which her father had loaded her plate untouched, andstarting nervously whenever he spoke to her. When good-natured Mr. Pidgely displayed his one accomplishment of fashioning a galloping pigout of orange-peel for her amusement, she seemed almost touched by hisoffering, instead of slightly offended, as the natural Dolly wouldhave been. 

'I don't think she is ill, ' said Mabel, 'though I was uneasy aboutthat at first. Fräulein and I fancy she must be worrying herself aboutsomething, but we can't get her to say what it is, and I don't like totease her; very likely she is afraid of being laughed at if she tellsanybody. But I do so wish I could find out; children can makethemselves 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, afterfirst carefully barricading the path on his side of the table with hischair, opened the door, and the men, left to themselves, dropped theirhypocritical 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 thateven he found some consolation in his cigarette; the sound of Mabel'svoice had not ceased to ring in his ears when her father took him bythe arm and led him up to be introduced to the professor, who wasstanding before a picture. The man of science seemed at first alittle astonished at having an ordinary young man presented to him inthis way, but when his host explained that Mark was the author of thebook of which the professor had been speaking so highly, his mannerchanged, and he overwhelmed him with his courtly compliments, whilethe other guests gathered gradually nearer, envying the fortunateobject of so marked a distinction. 

But the object himself was horribly uncomfortable; for it appearedthat the professor in reading 'Illusion' had been greatly struck by abrilliant simile drawn from some recent scientific discoveries withwhich he had had some connection, and had even discovered in somepassages what he pronounced to be the germ of a striking theory thathad already suggested itself to his own brain, and he was consequentlyvery anxious to find out exactly what was in Mark's mind when hewrote. Before Mark knew where he was, he found himself let in for ascientific discussion with one of the leading authorities on thesubject, while nearly everyone was listening with interest for hisexplanation. His forehead grew damp and cold with the horror of thesituation--he almost lost his head, for he knew very little aboutscience. Thanks, however, to his recent industry, he kept somerecollection of the passages in question, and without any clear ideaof what he was going to say, plunged desperately into a long andcomplicated explanation. He talked the wildest nonsense, but with suchconfidence that everyone in the room but the professor was impressed. Mark had the mortification of seeing, as the great man heard him outwith a quiet dry smile, and a look in his grey eyes which he did notat all like, that he was found out. But the professor only said at theend, 'Well, that's very interesting, Mr. Ashburn, very interestingindeed--you have given me a really considerable insight intoyour--ah--mental process. ' And for the rest of the evening he talkedto his host. As he drove home with his wife that night, however, hisdisappointment found vent: 'Never been so taken in in my life, ' heremarked; 'I did think from his book that that young Ernstone and Iwould have something in common; but I tried him but got nothing outof him but rubbish; probably got the whole thing up out of someBritish Association speech and forgotten it! I hate your shallowfellows, 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 thinkdinner-parties are good places to show people up in, and really Mr. Ernstone, or Ashburn, whatever his name is, struck me as being so verycharming--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 uncomfortablefeeling that his evening had somehow been spoilt, particularly as hedid not succeed in getting any further conversation with Mabel in thedrawing-room afterwards to make him forget the unpleasantness. VincentHolroyd's work was still proving itself in some measure an avenger ofhis wrongs. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

DOLLY'S DELIVERANCE. 

About a week after the dinner recorded in the last chapter, Markrepaired to the house in Kensington Park Gardens to call as in dutybound, though, as he had not been able to find out on what afternoonhe would be sure of finding Mrs. Langton at home, he was obliged toleave this to chance. He was admitted, however--not by the statelyChampion, but by Colin, who had seen him from the window and hastenedto intercept him. 

'Mabel's at home, somewhere, ' he said, 'but will you come in and speakto Dolly first? She's crying awfully about something, and she won'ttell me what. Perhaps she'd tell you. And do come, sir, please; it'sno fun when she's like that, and she's always doing it now!' For Colinhad an unlimited belief, founded as he thought on experience, in thepersuasive powers of his former master. 

Mark had his doubts as to the strict propriety of acceding to thisrequest--at all events until it had been sanctioned by some higherauthority than Colin--but then he remembered Mabel's anxiety on thenight 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 wina word of gratitude from her sister? He could surely take a littlerisk and trouble for such a reward as that; and so, with his usualeasy 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 thedoor. 'Run off to your sister Mabel and explain things, tell her whereI am and why, you know. ' And he went into the library alone. Dolly wascrouching there in an arm-chair, worn out by sobbing and the weight ofa 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 bythe utter abandonment of her grief; for the first time he began tothink it must be something graver than a mere childish trouble, and, apart from all personal motives, longed sincerely to do something, ifhe could, to restore Dolly to her old childish self. He forgoteverything but that, and the unselfish sympathy he felt gave him atact and gentleness with which few who knew him best would havecredited him. Gradually, for at first she would say nothing, andturned away in lonely hopelessness, he got her to confess that she wasvery unhappy; that she had done something which she must never, nevertell to anybody. 

Then she started up with a flushed face and implored him to go awayand 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 tellyou, 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 notbe afraid of me. '

'It isn't that, ' said Dolly, with a shudder; 'but _he_ said if I toldanyone 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'tColin, was it, Dolly?'

'No, not Colin; it was Harold--Harold Caffyn. Oh, Mr. Ashburn, ' shesaid, with a sudden gleam of hope, 'wasn't it _true_? He said papa wasa lawyer, and would have to help the law to punish me----'

'The infernal scoundrel!' muttered Mark to himself, but he saw that hewas getting to the bottom of the mystery at last. 'So he told youthat, 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, andI _did_ do it--only I never never meant it. '

'Now listen to me, Dolly, ' said Mark. 'If all you are afraid of isbeing sent to prison, you needn't think any more about it. You cantrust me, can't you? You know I wouldn't deceive you. Well, I tell youthat you can't have done anything that you would be sent to prisonfor--that's all nonsense. Do you understand? Harold Caffyn said thatto frighten you. No one in the world would ever dream of sending youto prison, whatever you'd done. Are you satisfied now?'

Rather to Mark's embarrassment, she threw her arms round his neck in afit 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'tcare now. I am so glad you came--so glad. I _will_ tell you all aboutit now. I want to!'

But some instinct kept Mark from hearing this confession; he hadovercome the main difficulty--the rest was better left in moredelicate hands than his, he thought. So he said, 'Never mind abouttelling me, Dolly; I'm sure it wasn't anything very bad. But supposeyou go and find Mabel, and tell her; then you'll be quite happyagain. '

'Will _you_ come too?' asked Dolly, whose heart was now completelywon. 

So Mark and she went hand-in-hand to the little boudoir at the back ofthe house where they had had their first talk about fairies, and foundMabel in her favourite chair by the window; she looked round with asudden increase of colour as she saw Mark. 

'I mustn't stay, ' he said, after shaking hands. 'I ought not to comeat all, I'm afraid, but I've brought a young lady who has a mosttremendous secret to confess, which she's been making herself, and youtoo, unhappy about all this time. She has come to find out if it'sreally anything so very awful after all. '

And he left them together. It was hard to go away after seeing solittle of Mabel, but it was a sacrifice she was capable ofappreciating. 

CHAPTER XX. 

A DECLARATION--OF WAR. 

On the morning of the day which witnessed Dolly's happy deliverancefrom the terrors which had haunted her so long, Mabel had received anote 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 hadspoken. If he were to call some time the next morning, would she seehim--alone?

These words she read at first in their most obvious sense, for she hadbeen suspecting for some time that an interview of this kind wascoming, and even felt a little sorry for Harold, of whom she wasbeginning to think more kindly. So she wrote a few carefully wordedlines, in which she tried to prepare him as much as possible for theonly answer she could give, but before her letter was sent Dolly hadtold 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 musthave felt driven to repair by confession the harm he had done. Andshe wrote instead--'I shall be very willing to hear anything you mayhave 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, andsaw 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. Ithink I am pretty safe. ' So the next morning he stepped from hishansom to the Langtons' door, leisurely and coolly enough. Perhaps hisheart was beating a little faster, but only with excitement andanticipation of victory, for after Mabel's note he could feel noserious doubts. 

He was shown into the little boudoir looking out on the square, butshe was not there to receive him--she even allowed him to wait a fewminutes, which amused him. 'How like a woman!' he thought. 'She can'tresist keeping me on the tenterhooks a little, even now. ' There was alight step outside, she had come at last, and he started to his feetas the door opened. 'Mabel!' he cried--he had meant to add 'mydarling'--but something in her face warned him not to appear too sureof her yet. 

She was standing at some distance from him, with one hand lightlyresting on a little table; her face was paler than usual, she seemedrather to avoid looking at him, while she did not offer to take hisoutstretched hand. Still he was not precisely alarmed by all this. Whatever she felt, she was not the girl to throw herself at anyfellow'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 shyhesitation she spoke his name now, he thought, with none of thesisterly frankness he had found so tantalising; and how delicious shewas as she stood there in her fresh white morning dress. There was adelightful piquancy in this assumed coldness of hers--a woman's daintydevice to delay and heighten the moment of surrender! He longed tosweep away all her pretty defences, to take her to his arms and makeher own that she was his for ever. But somehow he felt a littleafraid of her; he must proceed with caution. 'Yes, ' he said, 'there issomething I must say to you--you will give me a hearing, Mabel, won'tyou?'

'I told you I would hear you. I hope you will say something to make methink of you differently. '

He did not understand this exactly, but it did not sound preciselyencouraging. 

'I hoped you didn't think me a very bad sort of fellow, ' he said. Andthen, 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 himfluency, and now he was very much in earnest--he had never known tillthen all that she was to him: there was real passion in his voice, anda restrained power which might have moved her once. 

But Mabel heard him to the end only because she felt unable to stophim without losing control over herself. She felt the influence of hiswill, but it made her the more thankful that she had so powerful asafeguard against it. 

He finished and she still made no response, and he began to feeldecidedly awkward; but when at last she turned her face to him, although her eyes were bright, it was not with the passion he hadhoped 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, ' heretorted, 'but at least tell me what you expected me to say, and Iwill 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 ifyou 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 adisagreeable expedient to which he had been obliged to resort, andwhich had served its end, and so he honestly misunderstood thisquestion. 

'Upon my soul, no, ' he said earnestly. 'I don't pretend to have beenany better than my neighbours, but since I began to think of you, Inever cared about any other woman. If you've been told any sillygossip----'

Mabel laughed, but not merrily. 'Oh, it is not _that_--really it didnot occur to me to be jealous at any time--especially now. Harold, Dolly has told me everything about that letter, ' she added, as hestill looked doubtful. 

He understood now at all events, and took a step back as if to avoid ablow. _Everything!_ his brain seemed dulled for an instant by thosewords; he thought that he had said enough to prevent the child frombreathing a syllable about that unlucky letter, and now Mabel knew'everything!'

But he recovered his power of thought almost directly, feeling thatthis was no time to lose his head. 'I suppose I'm expected to showsome emotion, ' he said lightly; 'it's evidently something quite tooterrible. 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 foundthat 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 denyit?'

'Some old envelope!' The worst of Caffyn's fear vanished when he heardthat. She did not know that it contained an unread letter then; shedid not guess--how could she, when Dolly herself did not knowit--where the letter had come from. He might appease her yet!

Caffyn's first inference, it may be said, was correct; in Dolly's mindher guilt had consisted in stealing a marked stamp, and her hurriedand confused confession had, quite innocently and unconsciously, leftMabel ignorant of the real extent and importance of what seemed to hera quite imaginary offence. 

'Deny it!' he said, 'of course not; I remember joking her a littleover something of the sort. Is _that_ all this tremendous indignationis about--a joke?'

'A joke!' she said indignantly; 'you will not make anyone butyourself merry over jokes like that. You set to work deliberately tofrighten her; you did it so thoroughly that she has been wretched fordays and days, ill and miserable with the dread of being sent toprison. You _did_ threaten her with a prison, Harold; you told her shemust even be afraid of her own father--of all of us. .. . Who can tellwhat she has been suffering, all alone, my poor little Dolly! And youdare 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 thoughthe was doing no harm. And you have seen her since again and again; youmust 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 oftenamuse 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 shedone to you--how could you find pleasure in torturing her? Do you hatechildren--or only Dolly?'

He made a little gesture of impatient helplessness. 'Oh, if you meanto go on asking questions like that--' he said, 'of course I don'thate your poor little sister. I tell you I'm sorry she took itseriously--very sorry. And--and, if there's anything I can do to makeit up to her somehow; any--any amends, you know----'

The hardship, as he felt at the time, of his peculiar position wasthat it obliged him to offer such a lame excuse for his treatment ofDolly. Without the motive he had had for his conduct, it must seemdictated by some morbid impulse of cruelty--whereas, of course, he hadacted 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 fromthose who loved her! She was fretting herself ill, and we could donothing for her: a very little more and it might have killed her. Perhaps your sense of humour would have been satisfied by that? If ithad not been for a friend--almost a stranger--who was able to see whatwe 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 bottomof this; someone who, for purposes of his own, has contrived to putthings in the worst light for me. If you can condescend to listen toslanderers, Mabel, I shall certainly not condescend to defend myself. '

'Oh, I will tell you his name, ' she said, 'and then even you will haveto own that he had no motive for doing what he did but naturalgoodness and kindness. I doubt even if he has ever met you in hislife; the man who rescued our Dolly from what you had made her is Mr. Mark Ashburn, the author of 'Illusion' (her expression softenedslightly, from the gratitude she felt, as she spoke his name, andCaffyn noted it). 'If you think he would stoop to slander _you_---- Butwhat is the use of talking like that? You have owned it all. Noslander could make it any worse than it is!'

'If you think as badly of me as that, ' said Caffyn, who had growndeadly 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 overbetween us? Has it really come to that, Mabel?'

'I did not know that there ever was anything between us, as you callit, ' she said. 'But of course, after this, friendship is impossible. We cannot help meeting. I shall not even tell my mother of this, forDolly's sake, and so this house will still be open to you. But if youforce me to protect Dolly or myself, you will come here no more. '

Her scornful indifference only filled him with a more furious desireto triumph over it; he had felt so secure of her that morning, and nowshe had placed this immeasurable distance between them. He had neverfelt the full power of her beauty till then, as she stood there withthat haughty pose of the head and the calm contempt in her eyes; hehad seen her in most moods--playfully perverse, coldly civil, andunaffectedly gracious and gentle--and in none of them had she made hisheart ache with the mad passion that mastered him now. 

'It shall not end like this!' he said violently; 'I won't let you makea mountain of a molehill in this way, Mabel, because it suits you todo so. You have no right to judge me by what a child chooses toimagine I said!'

'I judge you by the effects of what you did say. I can remember verywell that you had a cruel tongue as a boy--you are quite able totorture a child with it still. '

'It is your tongue that is cruel!' he retorted; 'but you shall be justto me. I love you, Mabel--whether you like it or not--you shall notthrow me off like this. Do you hear? You liked me well enough beforeall this! I will force you to think better of me; you shall own itone day. No, I'm mad to talk like this--I only ask you to forgiveme--to let me hope still!'

He came forward as he spoke and tried to take her hands, but she putthem quickly behind her. 'Don't dare to come nearer!' she said; 'Ithought I had made you feel something of what I think of you. What canI say more? Hope! do you think I could ever trust a man capable ofsuch deliberate wickedness as you have shown by that single action?--akind of malice that I hardly think can be human. No, you had betternot 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 toforget too, but not till then. Have I made you understand yet? Is thatenough?'

Caffyn was still standing where she had checked his advance; his facewas very grey and drawn, and his eyes were fixed on the Eastern rug athis feet. He gave a short savage laugh. 'Well, yes, ' he said, 'Ithink perhaps I _have_ had enough at last. You have been kind enoughto put your remarks very plainly. I hope, for your own sake, I maynever 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. 'Ishall do my best, if the time comes, to deserve it. '

She had never faltered during the whole of this interview. A righteousanger had given her courage to declare all the scorn and indignationshe felt. But now, as the front door closed upon him, the strengththat had sustained her so long gave way all at once; she sanktrembling into one of the low cushioned chairs, and presently thereaction completed itself in tears, which she had not quite repressedwhen 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 eitherof us again after this. '

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Harold was striding furiously down the other side of thehill in the direction of Kensal Green, paying very little heed wherehis steps might be leading him, in the dull rage which made his brainwhirl. 

Mabel's soft and musical voice, for it had not ceased to be that, evenwhen her indignation was at its highest, rang still in his ears. Hecould not forget her bitter scornful speeches; they were lashing andstinging him to the soul. 

He had indeed been hoist with his own petard; the very adroitness withwhich he had contrived to get rid of an inconvenient rival had onlyserved to destroy his own chances for ever. 

He knew that never again would Mabel suffer him to approach her on theold friendly footing--it would be much if she could bring herself totreat him with ordinary civility--he had lost her for ever, and hatedher accordingly from the bottom of his heart. 'If I can ever humbleyou 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 shouldhave let out everything, at the very moment when I had the game in myown hands! I have to thank that distinguished novelist, Mr. MarkAshburn, for that, though; _he_ must trouble himself to put his spokein my wheel, must he? I shan't forget it. I owe you one for that, myillustrious 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 gloomysatisfaction; his manoeuvre with the letter had at least succeededin keeping Holroyd apart from Mabel. 'He's just the fellow to thinkhe'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 GasCompany, and over the railway and canal bridges, to the Harrow Road, when he turned mechanically to the right. His eyes saw nothing--neitherthe sluggish barges gliding through the greasy black stream on hisright, nor the doleful string of hearses and mourning coaches whichpassed him on their way to or from the cemetery. It was with somesurprise that, as he began to take note of his surroundings again, hefound himself in Bayswater, and not far from his own rooms. He thoughthe might as well return to them as not, and as he reached the terracein which he had taken lodgings, he saw a figure coming towards himthat seemed familiar, and in whom, as he drew nearer, he recognisedhis uncle, Mr. Antony Humpage. He was in no mood to talk aboutindifferent topics just then, and if his respected uncle had only hadhis back instead of his face towards him, Caffyn would have made nogreat effort to attract his attention. As it was, he gave him theheartiest and most dutiful of welcomes. 'You don't mean to say you'veactually been looking me up?' he began; 'how lucky that I came upjust then--another second or two and I should have missed you. Comein, and let me give you some lunch?'

'No, my boy, I can't stay long. I was in the neighbourhood onbusiness, and I thought I'd see if you were at home. I won't come upagain now, I must get back to my station. I waited for some time inthose luxurious apartments of yours, you see, thinking you might comein. Suppose you walk a little way back with me, eh? if you've nobetter engagement. '

'Couldn't have a better one, ' said Caffyn, inwardly chafing; but healways made a point of obliging his uncle, and for once he had noreason to consider his time thrown away. For, as they walked ontogether in the direction of the Edgware Road, where the old gentlemanintended to take the Underground to King's Cross, Mr. Humpage, aftersome desultory conversation on various subjects, said suddenly, 'Bythe way, you know a good many of these writing fellows, Harold--haveyou ever come across one called Mark Ashburn?'

'I've met him once, ' said Caffyn, and his brows contracted. 'Wrotethis new book, "Illusion, " didn't he?'

'Yes, he did--confound him!' said the other warmly, and then launchedinto the history of his wrongs. 'Perhaps I oughtn't to say it at myage, ' he concluded, 'but I hate that fellow!'

'Do you though?' said Caffyn with a laugh; 'it's a singularcoincidence, but so do I. '

'There's something wrong about him, too, ' continued the old man; 'he'sgot a secret. '

('So have most of us!' thought his nephew. ) 'But what makes you thinkso?' 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 everhas 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, Idon't think much of that. He might have taken you for a dun, or anindignant parent, or something of that sort; he may be one of thosenervous fellows who start at anything, and you came there on purposeto give him a rowing, didn't you?'

'Don't talk to me, ' said the old man impatiently; 'there's not muchnervousness about _him_--he's as cool and impudent a rascal as ever Isaw when he's nothing to fear. It was guilt, sir, guilt. You rememberthat picture of the Railway Station, and the look on the forger's facewhen the detectives lay hold of him at the carriage door? I saw thatvery 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 inour 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 thebook. '

Again Caffyn was disappointed. 'Of course he was in a funk then; heknew he had put you into it. So you say at least; I've not read thebook myself. '

'It wasn't that at all, I tell you, ' persisted the old manobstinately; 'you weren't there, and I was. D'ye think I don't knowbetter than you? He's not the man to care for that. When he found whatI'd really come about he was cool enough. No, no, he's robbed, orforged, or something, at some time or other, take my word for it--andI 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; 'thesethings generally find the culprits "out" in more senses than one, touse an old Joe Miller. He would look extremely well in the Old Baileydock. But this is Utopian, Uncle. '

'Well--we shall see. I turn off here, so good-bye. If you meet thatlibelling scoundrel again, you remember what I've told you. '

'Yes, I will, ' thought Caffyn as he walked back alone. 'I must knowmore of my dear Ashburn; and if there happens to be a screw looseanywhere in my dear Ashburn's past, I shall do my humble best to giveit a turn or two. It's a charming amusement to unmask the perfidiousvillain, as I suppose I must call myself after to-day, but it washardly safe to do it if he has his reasons for wearing a dominohimself. If I could only think that excellent uncle of mine had notfound 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 arenever really at ease in rooms or chambers, and whose tastes lead them, as soon as they possess the necessary means, to set up a substantialand well-regulated household of their own. He had a largeold-fashioned house in the neighbourhood of Russell Square, where heentertained rather frequently in a solid unpretentious fashion. At hisSunday dinners especially, one or two of the minor celebrities of theday were generally to be met, and it was to one of these gatheringsthat Mark was invited, as one of the natural consequences of thesuccess of 'Illusion. ' He found himself, on arriving, in company withseveral faces familiar to him from photographs, and heard namesannounced which were already common property. There were some therewho 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 wouldbe famous at any time. There were two or three constellations of somemagnitude on this occasion, surrounded by a kind of 'milky way' ofminor stars, amongst which the bar, the studios, and the stage wereall more or less represented. 

Mark, as a rising man who had yet to justify a first success, occupieda position somewhere between the greater and lesser division, and Mr. Fladgate took care to make him known to many of the leading men inthe room, by whom he found himself welcomed with cordialencouragement. 

Presently, when he had shifted for a moment out of the nearest focusof conversation, his host, who had been 'distributing himself, ' as theFrench say, amongst the various knots of talkers, came bustling up tohim. 'Er--Mr. Ashburn, ' he began, 'I want you to know a very cleveryoung fellow here--known him from a boy--he's on the stage now, andgoing to surprise us all some of these days. You'll like him. Comealong 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 lighteyes whom he had met at the Featherstones' on the day when he hadrecognised Mabel Langton's portrait. Mr. Fladgate had already bustledaway again, and the two were left together in a corner of the room. Dolly's revelations of the terrorism this man had exercised over herhad strengthened the prejudice and dislike Mark had felt on theirfirst meeting; he felt angry and a little uncomfortable now, at beingforced to come in contact with him, but there was no way of avoidingit 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 havebeen hearing a good deal about you lately from the Langtons--from MissLangton, that is. '

'Ah!' said Caffyn; 'that would be flattering to most men, but when onehas the bad luck, like myself, to displease such a very impulsiveyoung lady as Miss Langton, the less she mentions you the better. '

'I may as well say, ' returned Mark coldly, 'that, as to thatparticular affair in which you were concerned, whatever my opinionsare, I formed them without assistance. '

'And you don't care to have them unsettled again by any plea for thedefence? That's very natural. Well, with Miss Langton's remarks toguide me, I think I can guess what your own opinion of me is likely tobe 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, ofcourse?'

'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--onme, and really I do think that you, who I understand were themeans--of course from the best possible motives--of exposing me as adesigning villain, might give me an opportunity of defending myself. Itook the liberty of getting Fladgate to bring us together, expresslybecause I can't be comfortable while I know you have your presentimpressions of me. I don't expect to persuade Miss Langton to have alittle charity--she's a woman; but I hoped you at least would give mea hearing. '

Mark felt some of his prejudice leaving him already; Caffyn had notthe air of a man who had been detected in a course of secret tyranny. There was something flattering, too, in his evident wish to recoverMark's good opinion; he certainly ought to hear both sides beforejudging so harshly. Perhaps, after all, they had been making a littletoo much of this business. 'Well, ' he said at last, 'I should be veryglad if I could think things were not as bad as they seem. I will hearanything you would like to say about it. '

'Quite the high moral censor, ' thought the other savagely. 'Confoundhis condescension!'

'I was sure you would give me a chance of putting myself right, ' hesaid, 'but I can't do it now. They're going down to dinner; we willtalk it over afterwards. '

At dinner conversation was lively and well sustained, though perhapsnot quite so sparkling as might have been expected from such anassembly. As a rule, those who talked most and best were the men whostill had their reputation to make, and many of the great men thereseemed content to expose themselves to such brilliancy as there wasaround them, as if silently absorbing it for future reproduction, bysome process analogous to the action of luminous paint. 

Caffyn was placed at some distance from Mark, and as, after dinner, hewas entreated to sit down to the piano, which stood in a corner of theroom to which they had adjourned for cigars and coffee, it was sometime before their conversation was resumed. 

Caffyn was at his best as he sat there rippling out snatches ofoperatic _morceaux_, and turning round with a smile to know if theywere recognised. His performance was not remarkable for accuracy, ashe 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 aroom of much larger size, was pleasant and not untrained, and it wassome 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 accentof real feeling (he could throw more emotion into his singing than hisacting), while, although it was after dinner, the room was husheduntil the last notes had died away, and when he rose at length with alaughing plea of exhaustion, he was instantly surrounded by a buzz ofgenuine gratitude. Mark heard all this, and the last remnants of hisdislike and distrust vanished; it seemed impossible that this man, with the sympathetic voice, and the personal charm which was felt bymost of those present, could be capable of finding pleasure in workingon a child's terrors. So that when Caffyn, disengaging himself atlength from the rest, made his way to where Mark was sitting, thelatter felt this almost as a distinction, and made room for him withcordiality. Somebody was at the piano again, but as all around weretalking, the most confidential conversations could be carried on inperfect security, and Caffyn, seating himself next to Mark, sethimself to remove all prejudices. 

He put his case very well, without obsequiousness or temper, appealingto 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 reallyan incarnate fiend in private life. Miss Langton is quite convinced Iam. I believe I saw her looking suspiciously at my boots the otherday; but then she's a trifle hard on me. My worst fault is that Idon't happen to understand children. I'd got into a way of sayingextravagant things; you know the way one does talk rubbish tochildren; well, of joking in that sort of way with littleWhat's-her-name. She always seemed to understand it well enough, and Ishould have thought she was old enough to see the simpler kind ofjoke, at all events. One day I chanced to chaff her about a stamp shetook off some envelope. Well, I daresay I said something aboutstealing and prisons, all in fun, of course, never dreaming she wouldthink any more about it. A fortnight afterwards, suddenly there's atremendous hullabaloo. You began it. Oh, I know it was natural enough, but you did begin it. You see the child looking pale and seedy, andsay at once, "something on her mind. " Well, I don't know, and shemight have been such a little idiot as to take a chance word _au grandsérieux_; it might have been something else on her mind; or shemightn't have had anything on her mind at all. Anyway, she tells you along story about prisons, and how one Harold Caffyn had told her shewould go there, and so on, and you, with that vivid imagination ofyours, conjure up a tearful picture of a diabolical young man (me, youknow) coldly gloating over the terrors of a poor little innocentignorant child, eh? (Miss Dolly's nearly ten, and anything butbackward for her age; but that's of no consequence. ) Well, then you goand impart some of your generous indignation to Miss Langton; shetakes 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 moreattempt to maintain his high ground. 'I don't know that I should havethought so much of the joke itself, ' he said, 'but you carried it onso long; you saw her brooding over it and getting worse and worse, andyet you never said a word to undeceive the poor child!'

'Now, you know, with all respect to you, Ashburn, ' said Caffyn, whowas gradually losing all ceremony, 'that about seeing her brooding isrubbish--pure rubbish! I saw the child, I suppose, now and again; butI didn't notice her particularly, and if I had, I don't exactly knowhow to detect the signs of brooding. How do you tell it fromindigestion? and how are you to guess what the brooding is about? Itell you I'd forgotten the whole thing. And _that_ was what all yourrighteous wrath was based upon, was it? Well, it's very delightful, nodoubt, to figure as a knight-errant, or a champion, and all that kindof thing--particularly when you make your own dragon--but when youcome prancing down and spit some unlucky lizard, it's rather a cheaptriumph. But there, I forgive you. You've made a little mistake whichhas played the very deuce with me at Kensington Park Gardens. It's toolate to alter that now, and if I can only make you see that there hasbeen a mistake, and I'm not one of the venomous sort of reptiles afterall, why, I suppose I must be content with that!'

He succeeded in giving Mark an uneasy impression that he had made afool of himself. He had quite lost the feeling of superiority underthe tone of half-humorous, half-bitter remonstrance which Caffyn hadchosen to take, and was chiefly anxious now to make the other forgethis share in the matter. 'Perhaps I was too ready to put the worstconstruction on what I heard, ' he said apologetically, 'but after whatyou've told me, why----'

'Well, we'll say no more about it, ' said Caffyn; 'you understand menow, and that's all _I_ cared about. ' ('You may be a great genius, myfriend, ' he was thinking, 'but it's not so very difficult to get roundyou, after all!') 'Look here, ' he continued, 'will you come and see meone of these days--it would be a great kindness to me. I've got roomsin Kremlin Road, Bayswater, No. 72. '

Mark changed countenance very slightly as he heard the address--it hadbeen Holroyd's. There was nothing in that to alarm him, and yet hecould not resist a superstitious terror at the coincidence. Caffynnoticed the effect directly. 'Do you know Kremlin Road?' he said. 

Something made Mark anxious to explain the emotion he felt he hadgiven way to. 'Yes, ' he said, 'a--a very old friend of mine hadlodgings at that very house. He was lost at sea, so when you mentionedthe place I----'

'I see, ' said Caffyn. 'Of course. Was your friend Vincent Holroyd, Iwonder?'

'You knew him?' cried Mark; 'you!'

('Got the Railway Station effect that _time_!' thought Caffyn. 'Ibegin 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 totake his rooms. Sad thing, his going down like that, wasn't it? Itmust have been a great shock for you--I can see you haven't got overit even yet. '

'No, ' stammered Mark, 'no--yes, I felt it a great deal. I--I didn'tknow 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 Caffynhad been entrusted with Holroyd's literary projects? But he rememberedthe next moment that Holroyd had expressly said that he had never tolda soul of his cherished work until that last evening in Rotten Row. Caffyn had lied, but with a purpose, and as the result confirmed hissuspicions he changed the subject, and was amused at Mark's evidentrelief. 

Towards the end of the evening Mr. Fladgate came up in his amiable wayand laid his hand jocularly on Caffyn's shoulder. 'Let me give you aword of advice, ' he said laughing; 'don't talk to Mr. Ashburn hereabout his book. '

'Shouldn't presume to, ' said Caffyn. 'But do you come down so heavilyon 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 anotheredition. I really believe he'd like never to hear of it again!'

Mark felt himself flush. 'Come, ' he said, with a nervous laugh, 'I'mnot so bad as all that!'

'Oh, you're beginning to stand fire better. But (it's such a goodstory you _must_ let me tell it, Mr. Ashburn, particularly as it onlydoes you credit). Well, he was so ashamed of having it known that hewas the author of "Illusion, " that he actually took the trouble to getthe manuscript all copied out in a different hand! Thought he'd takeme 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 furtherrevelations, and too nervous to see that they could do him no possibleharm. But the fact was, Caffyn's presence filled him with a vaguealarm which he could not shake off. 

Good-natured Mr. Fladgate was afraid he had offended him. 'I do hopeyou weren't annoyed at my mentioning that about the manuscript?' hesaid, as he accompanied Mark to the door. 'It struck me as so curious, considering the success the book has had, that I really couldn'tresist 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 yourbiographer to record, eh? You won't have another cigar to take youhome? Well, good-night. '

'Good-night, ' said Mark, and added some words of thanks for a pleasantevening. 

_Had_ he had such a pleasant evening? he asked himself, as he walkedhome alone in the warm night air. He had been well treated byeverybody, and there had been men present whose attention was adistinction in itself, and yet he felt an uneasiness which he found itdifficult to trace back to any particular cause. He decided at lastthat he was annoyed to find that the casual mention of Holroyd's nameshould still have power to discompose him--that was a weakness whichhe must set himself to overcome. 

At the same time no one could possibly discover his secret; there wasno harm done. And before he reached his lodgings, he decided that theevening had been pleasant enough. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

STRIKING THE TRAIL. 

It was Sunday once more--a bright morning in June--and Caffyn wassitting over his late breakfast and the 'Observer' in his rooms atBayswater. He was in a somewhat gloomy and despondent frame of mind, for nothing seemed to have gone well with him since his disastrousreception in Mabel's boudoir. His magnificent prospects in commercehad suddenly melted away into thin air, for his confiding friend andintending partner had very inconsiderately developed symptoms of apremature insanity, and was now 'under restraint. ' He himself was indebt to a considerable extent; his father had firmly refused toincrease what in his opinion was a handsome allowance; and Caffyn hadbeen obliged to go to a theatrical agent with a view of returning tothe boards, while no opening he thought it worth his while to accepthad as yet presented itself. 

Mabel had not relented in the least. He had met her once or twice atthe Featherstones' and, although she had not treated him with any opencoolness, he felt that henceforth there must be an impassable barrierbetween them. Now and then, even while she forced herself in public tolisten to him, the invincible horror and repugnance she felt would besuddenly revealed by a chance look or intonation--and he saw it andwrithed in secret. And yet he went everywhere that there was apossibility 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 wasnot the man to forget. He had been careful to cultivate him, had foundout his address and paid him one or two visits, in which he hadmanaged to increase the intimacy between them. 

Mark was now entirely at his ease with him. His air of superiority hadbeen finally dropped on the evening of Mr. Fladgate's dinner, and heseemed flattered by the assiduity with which Caffyn courted hissociety. Still, if he had a secret, it was his own still. Caffynwatched in vain for the look of sudden terror which he had oncesucceeded in surprising. At times he began to fear that it was someinvoluntary nervous contraction from which his own hopes had led himto infer the worst, for he was aware that countenances are not alwaysto be depended upon; that a nervous temperament will sometimes betrayall the signs of guilt from the mere consciousness that guilt issuspected. If that was the case here, he felt himself powerless. It isonly in melodramas that a well-conducted person can be steeped incrime, and he did not see his way very clearly to accomplishing thatdifficult and dangerous feat with Mark Ashburn. 

So he hated Mark more intensely at the thought that, after all, hispast might be a blameless one. But even if this were not so, and hehad a secret after all, it might be long enough before some fortunatechance gave Caffyn the necessary clue to it. Well, he would wait andwatch as patiently as he might till then, and however long theopportunity might be in coming, when it came at last it should notfind him too indifferent or reluctant to make use of it. 

While he thought out his position somewhat to this effect, hislandlady appeared to clear away the breakfast things; she was alandlady of the better class, a motherly old soul who prided herselfupon making her lodgers comfortable, and had higher views than many ofher kind on the subjects of cookery and attendance. She had come toentertain a great respect for Caffyn, although at first, when she haddiscovered that he was 'one of them play-actors, ' she had not beenable to refrain from misgivings. Her notions of actors were chieflydrawn from the ramping and roaring performers at minor theatres, andthe seedy blue-chinned individuals she had observed hanging abouttheir stage-doors; and the modern comedian was altogether beyond herexperience. 

So when she found that her new lodger was 'quite the gentleman, andthat 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 asyou could see he wouldn't stand no nonsense, ' her prejudices wereentirely conquered. 

'Good morning, Mr. Caffyn, sir, ' she began; 'I come up to clear awayyour 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 nevertell me so much as the text when she come back, and I tell her, "Mygood gal, " I ses to her, "what _do_ you go to chapel for?" and it's mybelief 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 willsay for Sarah Ann----'

Caffyn groaned. Good Mrs. Binney had a way of coming in to discourseon things in general, and it was always extremely difficult to get ridof her. She did not run down on this occasion until after anexhaustive catalogue, _à la_ Mrs. Lirriper, of the manners and customsof a whole dynasty of maids-of-all-work, when she began to clear hisbreakfast-table. He was congratulating himself on her final departure, when she returned with a bundle of papers in her hand. 'I've beenmeanin' 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 aboutpapers and that, and not a line from him since he left. '

'It would certainly be better not to burn the rooms, unless they'reinsured, Mrs. Binney, and I should be inclined to prefer their notbeing burnt while I'm in them, unless you make a point of it, ' saidCaffyn mildly. 

'Lor, Mr. Caffyn, who was talking of burnin' rooms? You do talk soridiklus. It's these loose papers of Mr. 'Olroyd's as I came to speakto you about, you bein' a friend of his, and they lyin' a burden on mymind for many a day, and litterin' up all the place, and so afraid Iam as Sarah Ann'll take and light the fire with 'em one of thesemornings, and who knows whether they're not of value, and if so whatshould 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 drownedin the "Mangalore, " will he?'

'Drowned! and me never to hear it till this day. It's quite took meaback. Poor dear gentleman, what an end for him--to go out all thatway only to be drowned! I do seem to be told of nothing but deaths anddying 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 mannero' shapes as I've seen him doin' of it myself!'

'Well, I'll look over the papers for you, Mrs. Binney, ' interruptedCaffyn. 'I don't suppose there's anything of much importance, but Ican tell you what ought to be kept. ' He would have solved herdifficulties by advising her to burn the whole of them, but for somevague idea that he might be able to discover something amongst allthese documents which would throw some light upon Holroyd's relationswith Mark. 

So when Mrs. Binney was at last prevailed on to leave him in peace, hesat down with the sheaf of miscellaneous papers she had left him, andbegan to examine them without much hope of discovering anything to thepurpose. 

They seemed to be the accumulations of some years. There were roughdrafts of Latin and Greek verses, outlines for essays, and hastyjottings of University and Temple lectures--memorials of Holroyd'sundergraduate and law-student days. Then came notes scribbled down incourt with a blunt corroded quill on borrowed scraps of paper, andelaborate analyses of leading cases and Acts of Parliament, whichbelonged to the period of zeal which had followed his call to the Bar. 

He turned all these over carelessly enough, until he came upon somesheets fastened together with a metal clip. 'This does not look likelaw, ' 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'shave a look at it. List of characters: Beaumelle Marston; I've comeacross that name somewhere lately, I know; Lieutenant-ColonelDuncombe; why, I know that gentleman, too! Was this ever published?Here's the argument. ' He read and re-read it carefully, and then wentto 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, andfound more traces of some projected literary work; skeleton scenes, headings for chapters, and even a few of the opening pages, with somemarginal alterations in red ink, all of which he eagerly compared withthe printed work before him. 

Then he rose and paced excitedly up and down his room. 'Is _this_ hissecret?' he thought. 'If I could only be sure of it! It seems too goodto be true . .. They might have collaborated, or the other might havemade him a present of a plot, or even borrowed some notions fromhim. .. . And yet there are some things that look uncommonly suspicious. Why should he look so odd at the mere mention of Holroyd's name? Whydid he get the manuscript recopied? Was it modesty--or something else?And why does one name only appear on the title-page, and our dearfriend take all the credit to himself? There's something fishy aboutit 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 otherfellow's book. Mr. Mark Ashburn and I must have a little privateconversation together, in which I shall see how much I remember of theaction of the common pump. '

He sat down and wrote a genial little note, asking Mark, if he had nobetter engagement, to come round and dine quietly with him at thehouse in Kremlin Road that evening, gave it to his landlord withdirections to take a cab to Mark's rooms, and if he could, bring backan 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 afriend coming to dinner to-night, Mr. Binney, ' he said, turning roundwith his pleasant smile when he had read the answer. 'It's Sunday, Iknow, but Mrs. Binney won't mind for once, and tell her she must doher 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 hewaited for Mark Ashburn's arrival. He felt that he might be standingon the threshold of a chamber containing the secret of the other'slife--the key of which that very evening might deliver into his hands. He was too cautious to jump at hasty conclusions; he wished beforedeciding upon any plan of action to be practically certain of hisfacts; a little skilful manipulation, however, would most probablysettle the question one way or the other, and if the result verifiedhis suspicions he thought he would know how to make use of hisadvantage. There is a passage in the 'Autocrat of the Breakfast Table'where the author, in talking of the key to the side-door by whichevery person's feelings may be entered, goes on to say, 'If nature oraccident has put one of these keys into the hands of a person who hasthe torturing instinct, I can only solemnly pronounce the words thatjustice utters over its doomed victims, "The Lord have mercy on yoursoul!"' There, it is true, the key in question unlocks the delicateinstrument of the nervous system, and not necessarily a Bluebeard'schamber of guilt; but where the latter is also the case to some extentthe remark by no means loses in significance, and if any man had thetorturing instinct to perfection, Caffyn might be said to be thatindividual. There was nothing he would enjoy more than practising upona human piano and putting it hopelessly out of tune; but pleasant asthis was, he felt he might have to exercise some self-denial here, atall events for the present, lest his instrument should become restiveand escape before he had quite made up his mind what air he could bestplay upon it. 

In the meantime Mark was preparing to keep the appointment in thepleasantest and most unsuspecting frame of mind. After answeringCaffyn's note he had met the Langtons as they came out of church andreturned with them to lunch. Dolly was herself again now, her hauntingfears forgotten with the happy ease of childhood, and Mabel had madeMark feel something of the gratitude she felt to him for his share inbringing this about. He had gone on to one or two other houses, andhad been kindly received everywhere, and now he was looking forward toa quiet little dinner with the full expectation of a worthy finish toa pleasant day. Even when he mounted the stairs of the house which hadbeen once familiar to him, and stood in Holroyd's old rooms, he wasscarcely affected by any unpleasant associations. For one thing, hewas beginning to have his conscience tolerably well in hand; foranother, the interior of the rooms was completely transformed since hehad seen them last. 

Then they were simply the furnished apartments of a man who cared butlittle for his personal well-being; now, when he passed round thehandsome Japanese screen by the door, he saw an interior marked by astudied elegance and luxury. The common lodging-house fireplace wasconcealed by an elaborate oak over-mantel, with brass plaques and bluechina; the walls were covered with a delicate blue-green paper andhung with expensive etchings and autotype drawings of an æstheticallyerotic character; small tables and deep luxurious chairs werescattered about, and near the screen stood a piano and a low standwith peacock's feathers arranged in a pale blue crackle jar. In spiteof the pipes and riding-whips on the racks, the place was more like awoman's boudoir than a man's room, and there were traces in itsarrangements of an eye to effect which gave it the air of awell-staged scene in a modern comedy. 

It looked very attractive, softly lit as it was by shaded candles insconces and a porcelain lamp with a crimson shade, which was placed onthe small oval table near the fern-filled fireplace; and as Markplaced himself in a low steamer chair and waited for his host to makehis 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 windowsopened wide to the sultry air, and while he waited he could hear thebells from neighbouring steeples calling in every tone, from harshcommand to persuasive invitation, to the evening services. 

Presently Caffyn lounged in through the hangings which protected hisbedroom door. 'Sorry you found me unready, ' he said; 'I got in latefrom 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 asmall high-heeled satin slipper in a glass case which stood on abracket near him. 'That was Kitty Bessborough's once--you rememberKitty Bessborough, of course? She gave it to me just before she wentout on that American tour, and got killed in some big railway smashsomewhere, poor little woman! I'll tell you some day how she came tomake me a present of it. Here's Binney with the soup now. '

Mrs. Binney sent up a perfect dinner, at which her husband assisted ina swallow-tailed coat and white tie, a concession he would not havemade for every lodger, and Caffyn played the host to perfection, though with every course he asked himself inwardly, 'Shall I open fireon him yet?' and still he delayed. 

At last he judged that his time had come; Binney had brought up coffeeand left them alone. 'You sit down there and make yourself at home, 'said Caffyn genially, thrusting Mark down into a big saddle-bagarm-chair ('where I can see your confounded face, ' he added inwardly). 'Try one of these cigars--they're not bad; and now we can talkcomfortably. 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 thatbook of yours. Oh, I know you want to fight shy of it, but I don'tcare. It isn't often I have a celebrated author to dine with me, andif you didn't wish to hear it talked about you shouldn't have writtenit, you know. I want you to tell me a few facts I can retail to peopleon the best authority, don't you know; so you must just make up yourmind to conquer that modesty of yours for once, old fellow, andgratify my impertinent curiosity. '

Mark was feeling so much at ease with himself and Caffyn that eventhis 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'dlike 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 byanything for years. The thought you've crammed into that book, thelearning, the passion and feeling of the thing! I envy you for beingable to feel you have produced it all. ' ('That ought to fetch him, ' hethought. )

'Oh, as for that, ' said Mark with a shrug, and left his remarkunfinished, but without, as the other noticed, betraying anyparticular discomposure. 

'Do you remember, now, ' pursued Caffyn, 'how the central idea firstoccurred to you?'

But here again he drew a blank, for Mark had long ago found itexpedient to concoct a circumstantial account of how and when thecentral idea had first occurred to him. 

'Well, I'll tell you, ' he said. 'It shows how oddly these things arebrought about. I was walking down Palace Gardens one afternoon. .. . 'and he told the history of the conception of 'Illusion' in his bestmanner, until Caffyn raged internally. 

'You brazen humbug!' he thought; 'to sit there and tell that string oflies to _me_!' When it was finished he remarked, 'Well, that's veryinteresting; and I have your permission to tell that again, eh?'

'Certainly, my dear fellow, ' said Mark, with a wave of his hand. Hiscigar was a really excellent one, and he thought he would try anotherpresently. 

('We must try him again, ' thought Caffyn; 'he's deeper than I gave himcredit for being. ')

'I'll tell you an odd criticism I heard the other day. I was talkingto little Mrs. Bismuth--you know Mrs. Bismuth by name? Some fellow hasjust taken the "Charivari" for her. Well, she goes in for letters alittle as well as the drama, reads no end of light literature sinceshe gave up tights for drawing-room comedy, and she would have it thatshe seemed to recognise two distinct styles in the book, as if twopens had been at work on it. '

('Now I may find out if that really was the case after all, ' he wasthinking. ) 'I thought you'd be amused with that, ' he added, after apause. Mark really did seem amused; he laughed a little. 

'Mrs. Bismuth is a charming actress, ' he said, 'but she'd better readeither a little more or a little less light literature before she goesin for tracing differences in style. You can tell her, with mycompliments, that a good many pens were at work on it, but only onebrain. Where is it your matches live?'

'I can't draw him, ' thought Caffyn. 'What an actor the fellow is! Andyet, if it was all aboveboard, he wouldn't have said that! and I'vegot Holroyd's handwriting, which is pretty strong evidence againsthim. But I want more, and I'll have it. '

He strolled up to the mantelpiece to light a cigarette, for whichpurpose he removed the shade from one of the candles, throwing astronger light on his friend's face, and then, pausing with thecigarette still unlighted between his fingers, he asked suddenly: 'Bythe way, Fladgate said some other fellow wrote the book for you theother day!' That shot at least told; every vestige of colour leftMark's face, he half rose from his chair, and then sat down again ashe retorted sharply: 'Fladgate said that! What the devil are youtalking about. .. ? What fellow?'

'Why, you were there when he said it. Some amanuensis you gave themanuscript 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; 'Iremember 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 ofa poor fellow who got his living by copying manuscripts; and so, yousee----'

'I see, ' said Caffyn. 'What was his name?'

'His name?' repeated Mark, who had not expected this and had no nameready for such immediate use. 'Let me see; I almost forget. It beganwith a B I know; Brown--Brune--something like that--I really don'trecollect just now. But the fact is, ' he added with a desperaterecourse to detail, 'the first time I saw the beggar he looked so hardup, dressed in----' ('Buckram!' thought Caffyn, but he saidnothing)--'in rags, you know, that I felt it would be quite a charityto employ him. '

'So it is, ' agreed Caffyn. 'Did he write a good hand? I might be ableto give him some work myself in copying out parts. '

'Oh, he'd be useless for that!' put in Mark with some alarm; 'he wrotea wretched hand. '

'Well, but in the cause of charity, you know, ' rejoined Caffyn, withinward delight. 'Hang it, Ashburn, why shouldn't _I_ do an unselfishthing as well as you? What's the fellow's address?'

'He--he's emigrated, ' said Mark; 'you'd find it rather difficult tocome 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 remainedthere for a short time looking idly down the darkening street. Achapel opposite was just discharging its congregation, and he foundentertainment in watching the long lighted ground-glass windows, as astring of grotesque silhouettes filed slowly across them, like ashadow pantomime turned serious. 

When he was tired of that and turned away from the blue-grey dusk, theluxurious comfort of the room struck him afresh. 'You've made yourselfuncommonly comfortable here, ' he said appreciatively, as he settleddown again in his velvet-pile chair. 

'Well, I flatter myself I've improved the look of the place since yousaw it last. Poor Holroyd, you see, never cared to go in for this kindof thing. Queer reserved fellow, wasn't he?'

'Very, ' said Mark; and then, with the perverse impulse which drives usto test dangerous ice, he added: 'Didn't you say, though, the otherevening that he had no secrets from you?' ('Trying to pump _me_, areyou?' thought the other; 'but you don't!') 'Did I?' he answered, 'sometimes I fancy, now and then, that I knew less of him than Ithought I did. For instance, he was very busy for a long time beforehe left England over something or other, but he never told me what itwas. I used to catch him writing notes and making extracts and soon. .. . _You_ were a great friend of his, Ashburn, weren't you? Do youhappen to know whether he was engaged on some work which would accountfor 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 hewas writing a novel. '

'A novel?' echoed Mark; 'Holroyd! Excuse me, my dear fellow, I reallycan'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, Isuppose, but I shouldn't have thought it was so devilish funny as allthat!' For Caffyn was a little irritated that the other should believehim to be duped by all this, and that he could not venture as yet toundeceive him. It made him viciously inclined to jerk the stringharder yet, and watch Mark's contortions. 

'He wasn't that sort of man, ' said Mark, when he had had his laughout; 'poor dear old fellow, he'd have been as amused at the idea as Iam. '

'But this success of yours would have pleased him, wouldn't it?' saidCaffyn. 

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 perfectlygenuine. Caffyn affected to take this as an expression of incredulity. 'Surely you don't doubt that!' he said; 'why, Holroyd would have beenas glad as if he had written the book himself. If he could come backto us again, you would see that I am right. What a meeting it wouldbe, if one could only bring it about!'

'It's no use talking like that, ' said Mark rather sharply. 'Holroyd'sdead, poor fellow, at the bottom of the Indian Ocean somewhere. Weshall never meet again. '

'But, ' said Caffyn, with his eyes greedily watching Mark's face, 'eventhese things happen sometimes; he may come back to congratulate youstill. '

'How do you mean? He's drowned, I tell you . .. The dead never comeback!'

'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 takeit. '

If he had any doubts still remaining, the manner in which Markreceived these words removed them. He fell back in his seat with agasp and turned a ghastly lead colour; then, with an evident effort, he leaned forward again, clutching the arms of the chair, and hisvoice was hoarse and choked when he was able to make use of it. 'Youhave 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 likethis!'

Caffyn felt a wild exultation he had the greatest difficulty inrepressing. He could not resist enjoying Mark's evident agony a littlelonger. 'Don't excite yourself, my dear fellow, ' he said calmly. 'Ioughtn't to have said anything about it. '

'I'm not excited, ' said Mark; 'see--I'm quite cool . .. Tell me--allyou know. He--he's alive then . .. You have heard from him? I--I canbear it. '

'No, no, ' said Caffyn; 'you're deceiving yourself. You mustn't letyourself hope, Ashburn. I have never heard from him from that day tothis. You know yourself that he was not in any of the boats; there'sno real chance of his having survived. '

For it was not his policy to alarm Mark too far, and least of all toshow his hand so early. His experiment had been successful; he nowknew all he wanted, and was satisfied with that. Mark's face relaxedinto an expression of supreme relief; then it became suspicious againas he asked, almost in a whisper, 'I thought that--but then, why didyou 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 muchabout him, or I wouldn't have done it. You know what some literaryfellow--is it Tennyson?--says somewhere about our showing a preciouscold shoulder to the dead if they were injudicious enough to turn upagain; those aren't the exact words, but that's the idea. Well, I wasthinking 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 closestfriend, I thought I'd try how _you_ took it. It was thoughtless, Iknow. I never dreamed it would affect you in this way; you're as whiteas 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 himdead, 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 forgottenafter all, then? He still has a faithful friend in you to rememberhim; 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. 'Ishall never see anyone like him--never!'

('How well he does it, after all!' thought Caffyn. 'I shall haveplenty of sport with him. ') 'Would it give you any comfort to talkabout 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'tfeel quite up to it at present. '

'Well, ' said the other, with a wholly private grin, 'I won't distressyou by talking of him till you introduce the subject; and you quiteforgive 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 staringhim 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 tremendousrisks, until he remembered that, after all, his situation remained thesame. He had merely been frightened with false fire. If he had notbeen very sure that the dead would never rise to denounce him, hewould not have done what he had done. How could Vincent Holroyd haveescaped? Still, it was an ugly thought, and it followed him to hispillow that night and gave him fearful dreams. He was in a largegathering, and Mabel was there, too; he could see her at the other endof an immense hall, and through the crowd Holroyd was slowly, steadilymaking his way to her side, and Mark knew his object; it was todenounce _him_. If he could only reach him first, he felt that somehowhe could prevent him from attaining his end, and he made franticefforts to do so; but always the crowd hedged him in and blocked hisway with a stupid impassibility, and he struggled madly, but all invain. Holroyd drew nearer and nearer Mabel, with that stern setpurpose in his face, while Mark himself was powerless to move orspeak. And so the dream dragged itself on all through the night. 

He had some thoughts, on waking, of setting his fears to rest for everby making some further inquiries, but when he read once more thevarious accounts he had preserved of the shipwreck, he convincedhimself willingly enough that nothing of the kind was necessary. Hecould dismiss the matter from his mind once for all, and bybreakfast-time he was himself again. 

Caffyn, now that his wildest hopes of revenge were realised, and hesaw himself in a position to make terrible reprisals for the injuryMark Ashburn had done him, revelled in a delicious sense of power, theonly drawback to his complete enjoyment of the situation being hisuncertainty as to the precise way of turning his knowledge to the bestaccount. 

Should he turn upon Mark suddenly with the intimation that he hadfound him out, without mentioning as yet that Holroyd was in the landof the living? There would be exquisite pleasure in that, and what afield for the utmost ingenuity of malice in constant reminders of thehold he possessed, in veiled threats, and vague mocking promises ofsecrecy! Could any enemy desire a more poignant retribution? He longedto do all this, and no one could have done it better; but he washabitually inclined to mistrust his first impulses, and he feared lesthis victim might grow weary of writhing; he might be driven todespair, to premature confession, flight--suicide, perhaps. He wasjust the man to die by his own hand and leave a letter cursing him ashis 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 Markin happy ignorance of the ruin tottering above him. He would waituntil he was even more prosperous, more celebrated, before taking anydecisive steps. There was little fear that he would see his revengesome day, and meanwhile he must be content with such satisfaction ashe could enjoy in secret. 

'I must put up with the fellow a little longer, ' he thought. 'We willgo on mourning our dear lost friend together until I can arrange ameeting somehow. A telegram or letter to the Ceylon plantation willfetch him at any time, and I don't care about doing my charming Mabelsuch a good turn as bringing him back to her just yet. I wonder how myworthy plagiarist is feeling after last night. I think I will go roundand have a look at him. '

CHAPTER XXIV. 

A MEETING IN GERMANY. 

The summer went by, and Mark's anticipations of happiness were asnearly borne out as such anticipations ever are. He and Mabel metconstantly. He saw her in the Row with her father and Dolly--andsometimes had the bliss of exchanging a few words across therailings--at dances and tennis-parties, and in most of the lessexclusive events of the season, while every interview left him moredeeply infatuated. She seemed always glad to see and talk with him, allowing herself to express a decided interest in his doings, andnever once throwing on him the burden of a conversational deadlift inthe manner with which a girl knows how to discourage all but thedullest of bores. Now and then, indeed, when Mark's conversationshowed symptoms of the occasional inanity common to most men who talkmuch, she did not spare him; but this was due to a jealous anxiety onher part that he should keep up to his own standard, and if she hadnot liked him she would not have taken the trouble. He took her lightshafts so patiently and good-humouredly, too, that she was generallyseized by a contrition which expressed itself in renewed graciousness. Already she had come to notice his arrival on lawns or indrawing-rooms, and caught herself remembering his looks and wordsafter their meeting. 

He was still busy with 'Sweet Bells Jangled, ' for he had now decidedto make his _coup_ with that, but in other respects he wasunproductive. He had begun several little things in pursuance of hisengagements, but somehow he did not get on with them, and had to laythem aside until the intellectual thaw he expected. Pecuniarily hisposition was much improved; his uncle had kept his word, and put anallowance at his disposal which made him tolerably easy about hisfuture. He removed to more fashionable quarters in South AudleyStreet, and led the easy existence there he had long coveted. StillMr. Lightowler was an unpleasantly constant bluebottle in hisointment. He came up regularly from Chigbourne to inspect him, generally with literary advice and the latest scandal about hisdetested neighbour, which he thought might be 'worked up intosomething. ' He had discovered the Row as an afternoon lounge where hisnephew ought to show himself 'among the swells, ' and he insisted, inspite of all Mark's attempts at evasion, in walking him about there. Mark was not perhaps exactly ashamed of the man whose favours he wasaccepting, at least he did not own as much even to himself, but therewere times when, as he met the surprised glances of people he knewslightly, he could have wished that his loud-voiced and unpresentablerelative 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 askedthem to hold for him, and without the slightest approach to anythinglike a scene. Trixie had, of course, been in communication with himfrom the first, and kept her satisfaction to herself; Mr. Ashburn wastoo timid, and his wife too majestic, to betray emotion, while theother two were slightly disappointed. The virtuous members of a familyare not always best pleased to see the prodigal at any time, and it isparticularly disconcerting to find that the supposed outcast has beenliving on veal instead of husks during his absence, and associatingrather with lions than swine. Mark was not offended at his reception, however, he felt himself independent now; but his easy temper made himanxious to be at peace with them, and if they were not exactlyeffusive, they made no further pretence of disapproval, and thereconciliation was perfectly genuine as far as it went. 

'I am going to see you to the gate, Mark, ' Trixie announced, as herose to go. It was not a long or a perilous journey, but she had anobject in accompanying him down the little flagged path. 'I've gotsomething to tell you, ' she said, as they stood by the iron gate inthe hot August night. 'I wish I knew how to begin. .. . Mark--how wouldyou 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 alongwithout another of them. '

'Ah, but Jack would be a _nice_ one, ' said Trixie. 

Mark remembered then that he had noticed a decided improvement in herdress and appearance. 'And who is this Jack whom you're sodisinterestedly going to make me a present of?' he asked. 

'Jack is one of the masters at the Art School, ' said Trixie; 'he'sawfully handsome--not in your style, but fair, with a longermoustache, and he's too clever almost to live. He had one picture inthe Grosvenor this year, in the little room, down by the bottomsomewhere, but he hasn't sold it. And when I first went to the Schoolall the girls declared he came round to me twice as much as he did tothem, and they made themselves perfectly horrid about it; so I had toask him not to come so often, and he didn't--for a time. Then one dayhe asked me if I would rather he never came to me at all, and--and Icouldn't say yes, and so somehow we got engaged. Ma's furious aboutit, 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 enlisthis 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 seewhat I think of him. I hope he's a good fellow?'

'Oh, he _is_, ' said Trixie; 'if you could only see some of hissketches!'

A day or two later, Mark had an opportunity of meeting his intendingbrother-in-law, of whom he found no particular reason to disapprove, though he secretly thought him a slightly commonplace young man, andtoo inclined to be familiar with himself; and shortly after he startedfor the Black Forest, whither Caffyn had prevailed upon him to be hiscompanion. He thought it would be amusing and serve to keep hisvengeance alive to have his intended victim always at hand, but theresult did not quite come up to his hopes. Mark had so lulled hisfears to rest that the most artfully planned introduction of Holroyd'sname failed to disturb him. He thought chiefly during their wanderingsof Mabel, and her smile and words at parting, and in this occupationhe was so pleasantly absorbed that it was impossible to rouse him byany means short of the rudest awakening. And by-and-by a curiouschange took place in Caffyn's feelings towards him; in spite ofhimself the virulence of his hatred began to abate. Time and change ofscene were proving more powerful than he had anticipated; away fromMabel, his hatred, even of her, flagged more and more with every day, and he was disarmed as against Mark by the evident pleasure the lattertook in his society, for the most objectionable persons become morebearable when we discover that they have a high opinion of us--it issuch a redeeming touch in their nature. And besides, with all thereason Caffyn had for cherishing a grudge against Mark, somehow, asthey became more intimate, he slid gradually into a half-contemptuousand half-affectionate tolerance. He began to think that he would findsatisfaction in standing by and letting events work themselves out; hewould let this poor fellow enjoy his fool's paradise as long as mightbe. No doubt, the luxury of secretively enjoying the situation had agreat deal to do with this generosity of his, but the fact remainsthat, for some reason, he was passing from an enemy to a neutral, andmight on occasion even become an ally, if nothing occurred to fan hishatred to flame in the meanwhile. 

Towards the end of their tour, they arrived at Triberg late oneSaturday evening, and on the Sunday, Caffyn, having risen late andfinding that Mark had breakfasted and gone out alone, was climbing thepath by the waterfall, when, on one of the bridges which span thecascade, he saw a girl's figure leaning listlessly over the roughrail. It was Gilda Featherstone, and he thought he could detect anadditional tinge in her cheeks and a light in her eyes as he cametowards her. Her father and mother were in one of the shelters above, and Mrs. Featherstone's greeting when she recognised him was thereverse 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 ofthe Black Forest as if she had taken it for the summer, she would atleast give him no encouragement to stay. 

Unfortunately, her husband behaved with an irritating effusiveness; heliked Caffyn, and besides, had not seen an Englishman to talk tofamiliarly for some days. They were going home next day, he had bettercome with them. Well, if he could not do that (Mrs. Featherstonehaving interposed icily, 'Mr. Caffyn has just told you, Robert, thathe is with a friend!') he must come to them the moment he returned toEngland, and they would give him some shooting. Mrs. Featherstone hadto hear this invitation and Caffyn's instant acceptance of it withwhat philosophy she might. It was useless to remonstrate with herhusband on his blindness, he had democratic views which might evenbear a practical test, and she could only trust to chance and hermother-wit to prevent any calamity; but she was unusually silent asthey walked down the winding path back to the hotel where they wereall staying. 

There was a midday _table d'hôte_, where the proprietor, a mostimposing and almost pontifical personage, officiated as at a religiousceremonial, solemnly ladling out the soup to devout waiters as if hewere blessing each portion, after which he stood by and contentedhimself with lending his countenance (at a rather high rate ofinterest) to the meal. Caffyn's chair was placed next to Gilda's, andthey kept up a continuous flow of conversation. Mark saw them bothlooking at him at one time, and wondered at the sudden change inCaffyn's face, which (unless his fancy misled him) had a frown on itthat was almost threatening. But he was not allowed much time tospeculate on the causes, for Mrs. Featherstone (perhaps to emphasiseher disapproval of his companion) distinguished Mark by engrossing hisentire attention. 

That afternoon Mark was sitting outside the hotel, taking his coffeeat one of the little round iron tables, by the inevitable trio ofscrubby orange trees in green tubs, when Caffyn, whom he had not seensince leaving the table, came up and sat down beside him without aword. 

'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 afternoonservice; there was no one very near them, though in the one broadstreet there was a certain gentle animation, of townspeoplepromenading up and down in Sunday array, spectacled young officers, with slender waists and neat uniforms, swaggering about; a portly andgorgeous crier in a green uniform, ringing his bell over a departedpurse; little old walnut-faced women, sitting patiently by theirfruitstalls, and a band of local firemen in very baggy tunics, thesmallest 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. Isit true?'

Mark was not displeased. This coupling of Mabel's name with his, eventhough by a mere rumour, sent a delicious thrill through him; itseemed to bring his sweetest hopes nearer realisation. The gay littlestreet vanished for an instant, and he was holding Mabel's hand in theviolet-scented drawing-room, but he came to himself almost directlywith 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 withme. '

'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 ofsuch 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 reallyyou're going a little too far. And even if I had been engaged to MissLangton (which is very far from the case), I don't exactly see whatright you have, after--under the circumstances, you know--to go in forthe fire-eating business. '

'You mean I'm out of the running, whoever wins?' said Caffyn. 'Idaresay 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 beallowed to feel an interest in her still, I suppose. I should like tosee her happy, and if you could tell me that you were the man, whythen----'

'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 saidgently. 

'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 thelittle brown-and-yellow imperial _postwagen_ which had just rattled upto the hotel, and the driver of which, in his very unbecoming glazedbillycock hat with the featherbrush plume, was then cumbrouslydescending from his box. Mark had not meant to confide in Caffyn atall; he had only known him a short time, and, although their intimacyhad grown so rapidly, with a little more reflection he might haveshrunk from talking of Mabel to one whom, rightly or wrongly, she heldin abhorrence. But then Caffyn was so sympathetic, so subdued; thetemptation to talk of his love to somebody was so strong, that he didnot try to resist it. 

'Yes, I do, ' he said, and his dark eyes were soft and dreamy as hespoke, 'some day . .. If I dare. And if she says what I hope she willsay, 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 theFeatherstones on their way back from the service. 

Some minutes later, as Gilda and Caffyn were in a corner of theexhibition of carved work at the lower end of the town, she tookadvantage of the blaring of two big orchestral Black Forest organs, each performing a different overture, and of the innumerable cuckoocries from the serried rows of clocks on the walls, to go back totheir conversation at the _table d'hôte_. 'Have you asked him yet?Mabel is not engaged to him after all?' (her face fell as she gatheredthis). '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!' andGilda made a little attempt to laugh. 

'Shall I tell you something?' he said gravely. 'Do you know that I'vejust begun to think nothing would give me greater satisfaction nowthan 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 thathe 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 toget that big clock with a horrid cuckoo in it for the hall at theGrange. Come and tell him, if he _must_ have one, to buy one of thelong plain ones. ' And Gilda went obediently, for she could feel aninterest 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 theirtime. Winter was at hand, and already one or two of the hardierChristmas annuals, fresh from editorial forcing-houses, had blossomedon the bookstalls, and a few masks and Roman candles, misled byappearances, had stolen into humble shop-fronts long before Novemberhad begun. All the workers (except the junior clerks in offices, whowere now receiving permission to enjoy their annual fortnight) werereturning, and even idlers, who had no country-house hospitality togive or receive, were glad to escape some of their burden amongst themild distractions of a winter in town. Mrs. Langton, who detested thecountry, had persuaded her husband to let their place 'Glenthorne' forthe last two winters, and she and her daughter had already returned toKensington Park Gardens after a round of visits, leaving Mr. Langtonto enjoy a little more shooting before the Courts reopened. 

Caffyn was now away at the Featherstones' country seat, somewhere inthe Midlands, and Mark, who remained in town after their return fromGermany, had taken the earliest opportunity of calling on theLangtons, when Mabel seemed more frankly glad to see him than he haddared to hope, and in one short half-hour the understanding betweenthem had advanced several months. She showed the greatest interest inhis wanderings, and he described the various petty adventures in hismost effective manner, until even Mrs. Langton was roused to a littleindulgent laughter. When Dolly came in later, Mark was embracedenthusiastically. 'I was so afraid you wouldn't be back in time for myparty, ' 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 tocome, as Mabel seconded the invitation. 

'We're quite at a loss to know how to amuse the children, ' she said alittle later. 'Perhaps you can help us to an idea?'

'We could have the Performing Pigmies, ' said Mrs. Langton, 'but theboys might tread on them, and that would be so expensive, you know. '

'Don't have any performing things, mother, ' pleaded Dolly; 'have onlydancing. '

'Most of the boys hate dancing, ' said Mabel. 

'Some of them don't a bit, ' urged Dolly, 'and those who do can stayaway; _I_ don't want them. But don't have entertainments; they alwaysleave a horrid mess that takes hours to clear away after them. '

'It's all very well for you, Dolly, ' said Mabel, laughing, 'but Ishall have to keep the boys in order; and last time they played atrobbers, tramping about all over the house, and when everyone had gonethere was one of them left behind upstairs, Mr. Ashburn, howling to belet out of the cupboard!'

'Bobby Fraser, that was, ' said Dolly; 'stupid little duffer. We won'thave him this time. And, mother darling, I want to dance _all_ thetime; and it's my own party. Dancing is enough--it is _really_, ' shepleaded in a pretty frenzy of impatience. And Dolly got her own way asusual. 

Mabel was a little surprised at her own pleasure in seeing Mark again. She had looked forward to meeting him, but without being prepared forthe wild joy that sprang up in her heart as he pressed her hand, andwith that unmistakable delight in his eyes at being in her presence. 'Do I care for him as much as that?' she asked herself, and thequestion answered itself as such questions do. 

Mark was his own master now, for he had given up his appointment atSt. Peter's, although Mr. Shelford strongly advised him to go in forsome regular profession besides literature. 

'There'll come a day, ' he told him, 'when you've played out all yourtunes and your barrel is worn smooth, and no one will throw you anymore 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 aboutand 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 neverdo anything like "Illusion" again. Well, I believe in myself. I thinkmy tunes will last out my life at all events. I really workuncommonly hard. I have two novels ready for the press at thismoment, which is pretty well for a mere grasshopper. '

'But wearing for a mere barrel-organ, ' said the old gentleman. 'Becareful; don't write too much. The public never forgive adisappointment. Whatever you do, give them of your best. '

And shortly after this conversation Mark left his novel, 'Sweet BellsJangled, ' with Chilton and Fladgate, mentioning terms which even tohimself seemed slightly exorbitant. He had a note from the firm in thecourse of a day or two, appointing an interview, and on going up tothe publishing office found both of the partners waiting to receivehim. Mr. Chilton was a spare angular man, who confined himself chieflyto the purely financial department. 

'We have decided to accept your terms, subject to a few modificationswhich we can discuss presently, ' he said. 

'You think the book is likely to be a success?' asked Mark, unable tocontrol 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'tprofess to be a judge of these matters. Fladgate has read the book; hewill tell you what he thinks about it. '

But Mr. Fladgate remained silent, and Mark, much as he longed to presshim, was too proud to do so. However, as the firm demanded a ratherconsiderable reduction of the original terms, Mr. Fladgate, inexplanation, admitted at length that he did _not_ consider 'SweetBells Jangled' altogether up to the standard of Mark's first work, andintimated that it would not be advisable to risk bringing it outbefore the spring season. 

'I see, ' said Mark, nettled; 'you are not particularly hopeful aboutit?'

'Oh, ' said Mr. Fladgate, with a wave of his hand, 'I wouldn't saythat. Chance has a good deal to do with these affairs--a good deal todo. 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, amuch 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 apublisher was a not infallible judge of literary merit; and then, thefirm had every object in depreciating the work whilst negotiationswere proceeding. For all that he felt uncomfortable now and then, andhe had not wholly got rid of his depression by the time of Dolly'sbirthday party. 

On his arrival, he found that Dolly's wish had been gratified. Dancingwas the main attraction, and in the principal room were the usualiron-fisted pianist and red-faced cornet-player, who should be suchprofound moralists with all their nightly experiences; and daintylittle girls were whirling round with the fortunate boys who had eldersisters at home to bully them into acquiring the mysteries of thevalse, while the less favoured stood in doorways gibing with thescornfulness of envy. 

The least observing might trace the course of several naïvepreferences and innocent flirtations during the earlier part of theevening. Big bright-faced boys in devoted attendance on shy andunconscious small maidens many years their juniors, and, _enrevanche_, determined little ladies triumphantly towing about smallerboys, who seemed sometimes elated, but mostly resigned, while oneyouthful misogynist openly rebelled and fled to Mabel for protection, declaring ungallantly that he would rather be 'at home in bed thanbothered like that any longer. '

Dolly was enjoying herself amazingly, dancing chiefly, however, withher dearest girl friend for the time being, since none of the boysdanced well enough to please either of them. And besides, boys ratherbored Dolly, to whom dancing, as yet, was merely a particularlydelightful form of exercise, and who had no precocious tendencies tocoquetry. She deigned to dance once with Mark, after which he did hisduty by trotting out a succession of calm and self-possessed littlegirls, who were as unchildlike as if they had been out for a season ortwo. Then he thought he might reward himself by going to look forMabel, whom he found in one of the lower rooms endeavouring to amusethe smaller and non-dancing members of the company. She was standingunder the centre lamp, flushed and laughing, with two or threechildren clinging to her dress, and met his amused and admiring eyeswith a little gesture of comic despair. 

'We've played all the games that were ever invented, ' she said; 'andnow some of them are getting rough and the rest cross, and there'shalf an hour before supper, and I don't in the least know what to dowith 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'tknow what you are exposing yourself to. '

Mark, not being devoted to children, felt more than a little dubioushimself; but he wanted to be associated with her in something, andvolunteered manfully. 

'Look here, ' he began, as they all stood about staring at him, 'MissLangton'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 therest, said, 'Play at being Jumbo'--a proposal which seemed generallypopular. 

'Then may I leave you here?' said Mabel. 'I must go and speak tomother about something. Don't let them be too tiresome. '

This was by no means what Mark had bargained for; but he found himselfdeserted and reduced to 'play at being Jumbo' with the best possiblegrace. It was a simple but severe game, consisting in the performer ofthe principal _rôle_--who was Mark himself on this occasion--goingdown on his hands and knees and staggering about the carpet, whileeveryone else who could find room climbed on his back and thumped himon the head. At last, in self-defence, he was obliged to get rid ofthem by intimating that he had gone mad, when he had to justify hiswords by careering round the room trumpeting fiercely, while thechildren scuttled away before him in an ecstasy of sham terror. Atfirst Mark was profoundly miserable, and even glad that Mabel had notremained to witness his humiliation; but by-and-by he began to enterinto the spirit of the thing, and had entirely forgotten his dignityby the time Mabel reappeared. Caffyn (who had now returned from theFeatherstones', and had received an invitation from Mrs. Langton inMabel's absence: 'We've known him from a boy, my dear, ' the former hadsaid in justification, 'and he can recite some things to keep thechildren quiet, you know') stood in the doorway behind her, and lookedon with a smile of pity, but she saw nothing ridiculous in Mark justthen (and, as he was probably aware, he could stand such tests betterthan most men). She only thought that his willingness to sacrificehimself for others was a pleasant trait in his character. 

'Don't get up, Ashburn; it's delightful to see you making yourself sohot, my dear fellow, ' said Caffyn. 'One doesn't get the chance ofseeing a successful author ramping about on all fours every day. '

'I _can't_ get up, ' said Mark; and in fact a small but unpleasantlysturdy boy had pounced on him as he paused for breath, and, with thesense that he was doing something courageous, was in course of tamingthe elephant with a hearth-brush. 

'What a shame!' cried Mabel. 'Tommy, you horrid boy, you're hurtingMr. Ashburn. ' And the hearth-brush was certainly coming down withconsiderable vigour on the small of the amateur elephant's back. 

'I think myself, ' gasped Mark, 'that I could bear being shipped off toAmerica now. '

'Yes, indeed, ' she said compassionately; 'you mustn't be tormented anymore. Tommy, let the poor elephant alone; you've tamed him verynicely. '

'Jumbo had his hind legs tied, ' urged Tommy, who had a taste forrealism. 

'I don't think that will be necessary, ' objected Mark. 'I'mbeautifully 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 isgoing 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 couldmanage to cool them down before supper. '

'_I'll_ cool them down!' said Caffyn to himself, with one of hispeculiar impulses to safe and secret malevolence. 'If you will getthem all together, dear Mrs. Langton, ' he replied, 'I'll see what Ican do. ' And accordingly he entertained them with a harrowing littlepoem about a poor child dying of starvation in a garret, and dreamingof wealthier and happier children enjoying themselves at parties, which made all the children uncomfortable, and some of the less stolidones cry. And then he told them a ghost story, crammed with ingenioushorrors, which followed most of them home to bed. 

Mabel listened in burning indignation; she would have liked to stophim, but grown-up persons were beginning to filter in, and she wasafraid of making anything like a scene by interfering. However, whenhe came up blandly after the performance she let him see her opinionof it. 

'Oh, they like to have their flesh creep, ' he said with a shrug; 'it'sone of the luxuries of youth. '

'It isn't a wholesome one, ' said she; 'but I know you have your owntheories of the proper way to amuse a child. ' She felt a revival ofher disgust for the sly treachery he had revealed once before. He gaveher a cold keen glance, and the lines round his mouth tightened for aninstant. 

'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 shortlaugh 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 tobe replaced by children of a larger growth. Mark came up to Mabel asshe stood by the doorway while the musicians were playing the firstfew bars of a waltz, and each couple was waiting for some other tobegin before them. 'You promised me a dance, ' he said, 'in reward formy 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 alittle tired. ' For the Fräulein was still away with her family inGermany, and most of the work had fallen upon Mabel, who was feelingsome need of a rest. Mark did not try to persuade her. 

'You must be, ' he agreed. 'Will you--do you mind sitting this danceout with me?'

She made no objection, and they were presently sitting together underthe soft light of the ribbed Chinese lanterns in a fernery at the backof the rooms. 

'When we go back, ' said Mabel, 'I want to introduce you to a MissTorrington, a great admirer of your book. But you don't care for suchthings, do you?'

'I wish with all my soul I might never hear of the book again, ' saidMark gloomily. 'I--I beg your pardon! It sounds ungrateful. Andyet--if you knew--if you only knew!' He was in one of his despondentmoods just then, when his skeleton came out of the cupboard andgibbered at him. What right had he, with this fraud on his soul, to beadmitted 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 madimpulse to tell her. 

'I wish you would tell me, ' she said gently, as if answering theimpulse. But the suggestion, put into words, sobered him. She woulddespise him; she must. He could not bear to see his shame reflected inher eyes. So he told her half-truths only. 

'It is only that I am so tired of being tied to a book, ' he saidpassionately. 'Tied? I _am_ a book. Everyone I meet sees in me, not aman to be judged and liked for himself, but something to criticise andflatter and compare with the nature he revealed in print. '

Half truth as this was, it was more sincere than such confidences areapt to be. 

'Your book is you, or a part of you, ' said Mabel. 'It seems so absurdthat you should be jealous of it. '

'I am, ' he said. 'Not so much with others, but when I am with you ittortures me. When you show me any kindness I think, "She would not saythat, 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 ofdiseased vanity. He plainly undervalued his work himself, and itspopularity was a real vexation to him. She could only be sorry forhim. 

'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 theother day some of them went so far as to apologise for having snubbedme "before they knew who I was. " I don't complain of that, ofcourse--I'm not such an idiot; but it does make me doubtful of theother extreme. And I cannot bear the doubt in your case!'

His eyes were raised pleadingly to hers. He seemed longing, and yetdreading, to speak more plainly. Mabel's heart beat quicker; there wasa subtle, delicious flattery in such self-abasement before her of aman she admired so much. Would he say more then, or would he wait? Asfar 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 knowit will be so, ' said Mark; 'the book will be forgotten with the nextliterary sensation, and I shall drop under with it. You will see meabout less often, till one day you pass me in the street and wonderwho 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 doanything 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 yousome pleasure--if I had met you simply as Mark Ashburn, a man who hadnever 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 thinksometimes you do feel? Try to give me an answer. .. . You don't know howmuch it will mean to me. '

Mabel took refuge in the impersonal. 'Of course, ' she said, 'one oftenlikes a person one never saw very much for something he has done; butI 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 ofreaction, 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 saidthat?'

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. Inever meant to tell you so soon, but I can't help it. I want you--Ican't live without you! Will you come to me, Mabel?'

She put both hands trustfully in his as she said, 'Yes, Mark, ' andwithout any more words just then on either side, their troth wasplighted. He was still holding the hands she had resigned to him, hardly daring as yet to believe in this realisation of his dearesthopes, when someone stepped quickly in through the light curtains. Itwas Caffyn, and he put up his eyeglass to conceal a slight start as hesaw who were there. 

'Sent to look for somebody's fan; told it was left on the foldingchair. Ah, sorry to trouble you, Ashburn; that's it behind you; Iwon'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 wasannoyed too, 'you had better take me back again. '

And Mark obeyed, feeling that the unromantic interruption hadeffectually broken the spell. Fortunately it had happened after, andnot before his fate had been decided. 

The evening was over, and he was waiting to recover his hat andovercoat when he was joined by Caffyn. 'Umbrella missing?' began thelatter; 'mine is, like the departed Christians on the tombstones, youknow, "not lost--but gone before. " Are you going my way? Come onthen. '

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 atTriberg, ' 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 itjust 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 acharming girl to crown it all. You'll be rousing the envy of the godssoon, you know--unless you're careful!'

CHAPTER XXVI. 

VISITS OF CEREMONY. 

Mr. Langton, on being informed that Mark Ashburn proposed to becomehis son-in-law, took a painfully prosaic view of the matter: 'I canquite 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 contributingto "Punch;" but I always saw where that would lead me, and, as amatter of fact, I never did indulge my inclinations in thatdirection, ' he added, with the complacency of a St. Anthony. 'And thefact is, I wish my son-in-law to have a more assured position: yousee, at present you have only written one book--oh, I am quite awarethat "Illusion" was well received--remarkably so, indeed; but then itremains 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 wasfirm for some time, even though secretly impressed on hearing of thesum for which Mark had already disposed of his forthcoming novel, andwhich represented, indeed, a very fair year's income. It was UncleSolomon, after all, that proved the heavy piece of ordnance whichturned the position at the crisis; he was flattered when his nephewtook him into his confidence, and pleased that he should have 'lookedso high, ' which motives combined to induce him to offer his influence. It was a somewhat desperate remedy, and Mark had his doubts of theimpression likely to be produced by such a relative, but it workedunexpectedly well. Mr. Lightowler was too cautious to commit himselfto 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 wasdoing something as it was, and might do more if he continued to behavehimself. After the interview in which this was ascertained, Mr. Langton began to think that his daughter might do worse than marrythis young Ashburn after all. Mrs. Langton had liked Mark from thefirst in her languid way, and the fact that he had 'expectations'decided her to support his cause; he was not a brilliant _parti_, ofcourse, but at least he was more eligible than the young men who hadbeen exciting her maternal alarm of late. And under her grandfather'swill Mabel would be entitled on her marriage or coming of age to a sumwhich would keep her in comfort whatever happened. 

All these considerations had their effect, and Mr. Langton, seeing howdeeply his daughter's heart was concerned, withdrew his opposition, and even allowed himself to be persuaded that there was no reason fora long engagement, and that the marriage might be fixed to take placeearly 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 nextedition of "Illusion, " and in all future writings, use the name whichwas his by birth. 'I don't like _aliases_, ' he said; 'if you win areputation, it seems to me your wife and family should have thebenefit of it;' and Mark agreed to both conditions with equalcheerfulness. 

Mr. Humpage, as may be imagined, was not best pleased to hear of theengagement; he wrote a letter of solemn warning to Mabel and herfather, and, this being disregarded, he nursed his resentment inoffended silence. If Harold Caffyn was polite enough when in hisuncle'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 hermother's somewhat discursive eulogies of her future son-in-law withpatience, if not entire assent. Since his autumn visit to theFeatherstones, there had been changes in his position which may havebeen enough to account for his philosophy; he had gained themerchant's good opinion to such an extent that the latter, in defianceof his wife's cautions, had taken the unusual step of proposing thatthe young actor should give up the stage and occupy a recently vacateddesk in Mr. Featherstone's own palatial City offices. Even if hisstage ambition had not cooled long since, Caffyn was not the man toneglect such a chance as this; he accepted gratefully, and already themerchant saw his selection, unlikely as it had seemed at first, beginning to be justified by his _protégé's_ clear head and command oflanguages, while Gilda's satisfaction at the change was at least equalto her father's. And so, whether Harold was softened by his ownprosperity, and whether other hopes or distractions came between himand his former passion for revenge, he remained impassive throughoutall the preparations for a marriage which he could have prevented hadhe chosen. At Triberg the thought that Mark (who had, as heconsidered, been the chief means of ruining his hopes of Mabel) was tobe his successful rival had for an instant revived the old spirit; butnow he could face the fact with positive contentment, and his feelingtowards Mark was rather one of contemptuous amusement than of anyactual hostility. 

Mark's introduction of Mabel to his family had not been altogether asuccess; he regretted that he had carelessly forgotten to prepare themfor his visit as soon as he pulled the bell-handle by the gate, andcaught a glimpse of scared faces at one or two of the windows, followed by sounds from within of wild scurry and confusion--'like alot of confounded rabbits!' he thought to himself in disgust. Thenthey had been kept waiting in a chilly little drawing-room, containingan assortment of atrocities in glass, china, worsted, and wax, untilMark moved restlessly about in his nervous irritation, and Mabel felther heart sink in spite of her love; she had not expected to findMark's people in luxurious surroundings, but she was unprepared foranything quite so hideous as that room. When Mrs. Ashburn, who hadfelt that this was an occasion for some attention to toilette, madeher appearance, it was hardly a reassuring one: she was not exactlyvulgar perhaps, but she was hard, Mabel thought, narrow and ungenial;but the fact was that the consciousness of having been taken unawaresrobbed her welcome of any cordiality which it might otherwise havepossessed. She inferred from her first glance at Mabel's prettywalking costume a fondness for dress and extravagance, which brandedher at once as a 'worldling, ' between whom and herself there could benothing in common--in which last opinion she was most probably right, as all Mabel's efforts to sustain a conversation could not save itfrom frequent lapses. Martha, from shyness as much as stiffness, satby in almost complete silence; and though Trixie, the only othermember of the family who appeared, was evidently won at once byMabel'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 underits influence. 

On the way back he was unusually silent, from a fear of the impressionsuch an ordeal as she had gone through must have left upon Mabel; andthe fact that she did not refer to the interview herself did notreassure him. He need not have been afraid, however; she was not inthe least deterred by what she had seen. The sight of the home inwhich he had been brought up had filled her with a loving pity, suggesting as it did the petty constraints and miseries, theunloveliness of all surroundings, and the total want of appreciationwhich 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 andtender, and free from any taint of narrowness or cynicism. As shethought of this and glanced at Mark's handsome face, so bright andanimated in general, but clouded now with the melancholy which hisfine eyes could express at times, she longed to say something torelieve it, and yet shrank from being the first to speak in her fearof jarring him. 

Mark spoke at last. 'Well, Mabel, ' he said, looking down at her with arather doubtful smile, 'I told you that my mother was a--a littlepeculiar. '

'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 perfectunderstanding and contentment which, little as he deserved it, chasedaway all his fears. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

CLEAR SKY--AND A THUNDERBOLT. 

'Has any one, ' asks George Eliot, in 'Middlemarch, ' 'ever pinched intoits pilulous smallness the cobweb of pre-matrimonial acquaintance?'And, to press the metaphor, the cobweb, as far as Mark and Mabel wereconcerned, brilliantly as it shone in all its silken iridescence, would have rolled up into a particularly small pill. Mark was anxiousthat his engagement should be as short as possible, chiefly from anuneasy fear that his great happiness might elude him after all. Theidea of losing Mabel became day by day, as he knew her better, a moreintolerable torture, and he could not rest until all danger of thatwas at an end. Mabel had no fears of a future in which Mark would beby her side; and if she was not blind to some little weaknesses in hischaracter, they did not affect her love and admiration in theleast--she was well content that her hero should not be unpleasantlyperfect. And the weeks slipped by, until Easter, which fell early thatyear, had come and gone; the arrangements for the wedding were allcompleted, and Mark began to breathe more freely as he saw hissuspense drawing to a happy end. 

It was a bleak day towards the end of March, and Mark was walkingacross the Park and Gardens from his rooms in South Audley Street toMalakoff Terrace, charged with a little note from Mabel to Trixie, towhich he was to bring back an answer; for, although Mabel had not mademuch progress in the affections of the rest of the Ashburn household, a warm friendship had sprung up already between herself and Mark'syoungest sister--the only one of them who seemed to appreciate andlove him as he deserved. He felt buoyant and happy as he walkedbriskly on, with the blustering north-easter at his back seeming toclear his horizon of the last clouds which had darkened it. A veryfew days more and Mabel would be his own--beyond the power of man tosunder! and soon, too, he would be able to salve the wound which stillrankled in his conscience--he would have a book of his own. 'SweetBells Jangled' was to appear almost immediately, and he had come tohave high hopes of it; it looked most imposing in proof--it was somuch longer than 'Illusion;' he had worked up a series of suchoverwhelming effects in it; its pages contained matter to please everyvariety of taste--flippancy and learning, sensation and sentiment, careful dissection of character and audacious definition andepigram--failure seemed to him almost impossible. And when he couldfeel able to lay claim legitimately to the title of genius, surelythen the memory of his fraud would cease to reproach him--the meanswould be justified by the result. He amused himself by composingvarious critiques on the book (all of course highly eulogistic), andthus pleasantly occupied the way until he gained the cheerfulKensington High Street, the first half of which seems to belong tosome bright little market town many miles further from Charing Cross. In the road by the kerbstone he passed a street singer, a poor oldcreature in a sun-bonnet, with sharp features that had been handsomeonce, and brilliant dark eyes, who was standing there unregarded, singing some long-forgotten song with the remnants of a voice. Mark'shappiness impelled him to put some silver into her hand, and he felt ahalf-superstitious satisfaction as he heard the blessing she calleddown on him--as if she might have influence. 

No one was at home at Malakoff Terrace but Trixie, whom he foundbusily engaged in copying an immense plaster nose. 'Jack says I mustpractise harder at features before I try the antique, ' she explained, 'and so he gave me this nose; it's his first present, and considered avery fine cast, Jack says. '

'Never saw a finer nose anywhere, ' said Mark--'looks as if it had beenforced, 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. 'Ican'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, ohyes, tell her I had a letter from _him_ this morning. '

'Meaning Jack?' said Mark. 'All right, and--oh, I say, Trixie, whywon't the governor and mater come to my wedding?'

'It's all ma, ' said Trixie; 'she says she should only feel herself outof 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 feelinjured by being out of it all--if she can, she'll persuade herself intime that she never was invited at all; you know what dear ma is!'

'Well, ' said Mark, with considerable resignation, 'she must do as shepleases, 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, along time ago, when ma was ill. You see, it was like this: ma had herbreakfast in bed, and there was a tray put down on the slab where itwas, and it was sticky underneath or something, and so it stuck to thebottom, and the tray wasn't wanted again, and Ann, of course, didn'tchoose to wash it, so she only found it yesterday and brought it tome. '

'Trixie, ' said Mark, 'I can't follow all those "its. " I gather thatI'm entitled to something sticky, but I haven't a notion what. Hadn'tyou 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 hehad prepared his work as a schoolboy in the old days, where he hadsmoked his first cigar in his first Cambridge vacation. He smiled ashe thought how purely intellectual his enjoyment of that cigar hadbeen, 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'ssome admirer who's read the book. I hope it's nothing reallyimportant; 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, andstuffing the letter, after one hasty glance at the direction, unopenedinto his pocket. 'Of course not--why should I be?'

'Is there anything in the letter to worry you?' persisted Trixie. 'Itcan't be a bill, can it?'

'Never mind what it is, ' said Mark; 'have you got the keys? I--Ishould like a glass of wine. '

'Ma left the keys in the cupboard, ' said Trixie; 'how lucky! port orsherry, Mark?'

'Brandy, if there is any, ' he said, with an effort. 

'Brandy! oh, Mark, have you taken to drinking spirits, and so early inthe morning?' she asked, with an anxious misgiving that perhaps thatwas _de rigueur_ with all literary men. 

'No, no, don't be absurd. I want some just now, and quick, do youhear? 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 aboutit, with which Trixie tried to tempt him; 'there, it's allright--there's nothing the matter, I tell you. ' And he poured out thebrandy and drank it. There was a kind of comfort, or ratherdistraction, in the mere physical sensation to his palate; he thoughthe understood why some men took to drinking. 'Ha!' and he made amelancholy attempt at the sigh of satisfaction which some people thinkexpected of them after spirits. 'Now I'm a man again, Trixie; thathas driven off the chill. I'll be off now. '

'Are you _sure_ you're quite well again?' she said anxiously. 'Verywell, 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 thedoor-step by this time, and made no reply, while he kept his faceturned 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, andyou 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 ghastlyand drawn his face looked. 

'Have you though?' he said wildly; 'so have I, Trixie, so have I!' Andbefore 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 theletter; 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 ofas a nightmare had really happened--the sea had given up its dead! Hewent on; there was the same old woman in the sun-bonnet, stillcrooning the same song; he laughed bitterly to think of the differencein his own life since he had last seen her--only a short half-hourago. He passed the parish church, from which a wedding party was justdriving, while the bells clashed merrily under the graceful spire--nowedding bells would ever clash for him now. But he must read thatletter and know the worst. Holroyd was alive--that he knew; but had hefound him out? did that envelope contain bitter denunciations of histreachery? Perhaps he had already exposed him! he could not rest untilhe knew how this might be, and yet he dared not read his letter in thestreet. He thought he would find out a quiet spot in KensingtonGardens and read it there; alone--quite alone. He hurried on, with adull 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; theshock had affected his body as well as his mind; he was cold to thebones, and felt a dull numbing pressure on the top of his head; andyet he welcomed these symptoms, too, with an odd satisfaction; theyseemed to entitle him to some sympathy. He reached the Gardens atlast, but when he had turned in at the little postern door near the'King's Arms, ' he could not prevail upon himself to open theletter--he tore it half open and put it back irresolutely; he mustfind a seat and sit down. He struck up the hill, with the wind in histeeth now, until he came to the Round Pond, where there was quite aminiature sea breaking on the southwestern rim of the basin; a smallboy was watching a solitary ship labouring far out in the centre, andMark stood and watched it too, mechanically, till he turned away atlast with a nervous start of impatience. Once he had sailed ships onthose waters; what would he not give if those days could come back tohim again, or if even he could go back these past few months to thetime when his conscience was clear and he feared no man! But the pastwas irrevocable; he had been guilty of this reckless, foolish fraud, and now the consequences were upon him! He walked restlessly on underthe bare tossing branches, looking through the black trunks and acrossthe paths glimmering white in the blue-grey distance for a seat wherehe might be safe from interruption, until at last he discovered aclumsy wooden bench, scored and slashed with the sand-ingrainedinitials of a quarter of a century's idleness, a seat of the olduncomfortable pattern gradually dying out from the walks. He couldwait no longer, and was hurrying forward to secure it, when he washailed by some one approaching by one of the Bayswater paths, andfound 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 himwith as much self-control as he could muster, as he strolled leisurelyup. Caffyn's quick eye saw at once that something unusual hadhappened, and he resolved to find out what that was before theyparted. 'Thought it must be you, ' he began; 'so you've come out hereto meditate on your coming happiness, have you? Come along and pourout some of your raptures, it will do you good; and you don't knowwhat 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 talkwith you before I go. '

'What are you going there for?' said Mark, without much show ofinterest. 

'My health, my boy; old Featherstone has let me out for a fortnight'srun, 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 wouldgive me some lunch, but I'm in no hurry. I'll go wherever _you_ wantto 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 wehaven't had a talk together for ages, so come along. '

'I can't, ' said Mark, more uncomfortably still. 'I have some--somebusiness which I must see to alone. '

'Odd sort of place this for business! No, no, Master Mark, it won'tdo; I've got you, and I mean to stick to you; you know what a tactlessbeggar I can be when I like. Seriously, do you think I can't seethere's something wrong? I'm hanged if I think it's safe to let you goabout alone while you're looking like this; it isn't any--any hitch atKensington Park Gardens, is it?' and there was a real anxiety in histone 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 yourway out of? You might do worse than tell me all about it. '

'There's nothing to tell, ' said Mark, goaded past prudence by thispersistence; 'it's only a letter, a rather important letter, which Ibrought out here to read quietly. '

'Why the deuce couldn't you say so before?' cried Caffyn. '_I_ won'tinterrupt you; read your letter by all means, and I'll walk up anddown 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 youought to know very well (if you don't) why I've been obliged, as itis, to decline the invitation to the marriage feast. '

Mark saw that for some reason Caffyn did not mean to be shaken offjust then, and, as he could bear the suspense no longer, and knew thatto walk about with Caffyn and talk indifferently of his cominghappiness 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 benchand began to open the letter with trembling hands, while Caffyn pacedup and down at a discreet distance. 'I see what it is now, ' hethought, as he noticed the foreign envelope, 'I'm uncommonly glad Icame up just then. Will he go through with it after this? Will he tellme 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 roaredthrough the boughs overhead, driving the gritty shell-dust in hisface, and making the thin paper in his fingers flap with its viciousjerks:--

 '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 almostillegible towards the close, as if the writer's strength had graduallyfailed him. Mark came to the end with a feeling that was almostrelief; his chief dread had been to hear that he was found out, andthat his exposure might be made public before he could make Mabel hisown. 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; itwas 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 anotherfortnight, and long before he arrived at Plymouth the wedding wouldhave taken place. And in a fortnight he might be able to hit uponsomething to soften some of the worst aspects of his fraud; the changein the title of the book, in the _nom de plume_, and even thealterations of the text might be explained; but then there was thatfatal 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 betime to suppress that? This occurred to him but vaguely, for it seemedjust then as if, when Mabel were once his wife, no calamity could havepower to harm him, and now nothing Holroyd could do would prevent themarriage. 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 inreplacing the letter and drop the envelope, which the otherobligingly picked up and restored to him. 

'Ashburn, my dear fellow, ' he began, as they walked on together, 'Ihope you won't think me impertinent, but I couldn't help seeing thewriting on that envelope, and it seems to me I knew it once, andyet--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 beston the whole to avoid suspicion by telling the truth. Caffyn, as afriend of Vincent's, would hear it before long; it might look odd ifhe made any secret of it now, and so he told the tale of the escapemuch as the letter had given it. His companion was delighted, helaughed with pleasure, and congratulated Mark on the joy he supposedhim to feel, until the latter could hardly bear it. 

'Who would have hoped for this, ' he said, 'when we were talking aboutthe dead coming to life some time ago, eh? and yet it'shappened--poor, dear old Vincent! And did you say he is coming homesoon?'

'Very soon; in about a fortnight, ' said Mark; 'he--he wants me to godown 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" andstarting about a fortnight after he wrote--so----'

'I see, ' said Caffyn; 'I suppose you've looked at the date? No? Thenlet me--look here, it's more than five weeks old--look at thepostmark--why, it's been in England nearly a fortnight!'

'It was delayed at my people's, ' said Mark, not seeing the importanceof this at first, 'that's how it was. '

'But--but don't you see?' Caffyn said, excitedly for him, 'if hereally has sailed by this "Coromandel, " he must be very near now. Hemight even be in Plymouth by this time. '

'Good God!' groaned Mark, losing all control as the truth flashedupon him while the grey grass heaved under his unstable feet. 

Caffyn was watching him, with a certain curiosity which was notwithout 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 patientlyfor it to fall; he was tied down, without possibility of escape, unless he abandoned all hope of Mabel. Perhaps he might as well dothat 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, Isuppose. '

'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 friendmight be--might be----'

'Rather in the way? Why, of course, I never thought of that--shows howdull I'm getting! He _will_ be in the way--deucedly in the way, if hecomes! After all, though, he may _not_ come!'

'Let us find out, ' said Mark; 'surely there's some way of findingout. '

'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 todo. Leadenhall Street, isn't it?'

They walked sharply across to the Bayswater Road, where they could geta hansom; and as they drove along towards the City, Mark's hopes beganto rise. Perhaps Holroyd was not on board the 'Coromandel'--and thenhe tried to prepare himself for the contrary. How should he receiveVincent when he came? for of course he would seek him out at once. The desperate idea of throwing himself on his friend's mercy occurredto him; if he could be the first to tell Holroyd the truth, surely hewould consent to arrange the matter without any open scandal! He wouldnot wish to ruin him so long as he received his own again. Both Caffynand Mark were very silent during that long and wearisome drive, withits frequent blocks in the crowded City thoroughfares; and when theyarrived at last at the courtyard in front of the offices, Mark said tohis companion, '_You_ manage this, will you?' for he felt quiteunequal to the task himself. 

They had to wait some time at a broad mahogany counter before a clerkwas at liberty to attend to them, for the office was full of peoplemaking various inquiries or paying passage money. Mark cursed thedeliberation with which the man before them was choosing his berth onthe cabin plan submitted to him; but at last the precautions againstthe screw and the engines and the kitchens were all taken, and theclerk proceeded to answer Caffyn's questions in the fullest and mostobliging manner. He went with them to the telegram boards by thedoors, and after consulting a despatch announcing the 'Coromandel's'departure from Gibraltar, said that she would probably be at Plymouthby the next evening, or early on the following morning. 

'Now find out if _he's_ on board her, ' said Mark; and his heart almoststopped when the clerk came back with a list of passengers and ran hisfinger down the names. 

'V. B. Holroyd--is that your friend? If you think of meeting him atPlymouth, you have only to see our agents there, and they will let youknow when the tender goes out to take the passengers ashore. '

After that Mark made his way out blindly, followed by Caffyn. 'Let ustalk here; it's quieter, ' said the latter when they were in thecourtyard 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 couldplead business for one day. '

'What is the use?' said Mark. 'He will come to me as soon as he getsto town. '

'No, he won't, my boy, ' said Caffyn; 'he will go and see the Langtonseven before such a devoted friend as you are. Didn't you know he waslike one of the family there?'

'I have heard them mention him, ' said the unhappy Mark, on whom adreadful vision had flashed of Holroyd learning the truth by someinnocent remark of Mabel's. 'I--I didn't know they were intimate. '

'Oh, yes, ' said Caffyn; 'they'll make a tremendous fuss over him. Nowlook here, my dear fellow, let's talk this over without any confoundedsentiment. Here's your wedding at hand, and here's a long-lostintimate friend about to turn up in the midst of it. You'd very muchprefer him to stay away; there's nothing to be ashamed of in that. Ishould myself if I were in your shoes. No fellow cares about playingsecond fiddle at his own wedding. Now, I've got a little suggestion tomake. I was going down to Wastwater to-morrow, but I wouldn't muchmind 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 youleave me to manage him, I believe I could get him to come. I own Irather 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 thejourney a bit. '

'No, ' said Mark; '_I_ am going to meet him. I must be the first to seehim. After that, if he likes to go away with you, he can. '

'Then you _are_ going down after all?' said Caffyn. 'What are yougoing to say to him?'

'That is my affair, ' said Mark. 

'Oh, I beg pardon! I only meant that if you say anything to him aboutthis wedding, or even let him think the Langtons are in town, I may aswell 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 besorry to get him off your hands yourself. Tell him you're going abroadin a day or two (that's true; you're going to Switzerland for yourhoneymoon, you know), and let him think the Langtons are awaysomewhere on the Continent. It's all for his good; he'll want mountainair and a cheerful companion like me to put him right again. He'll bethe first to laugh at an innocent little deception like that. '

But Mark had done with deceptions, as he told himself. 'I shall tellhim what I think he ought to know, ' he said firmly, and Caffyn, withall his keenness, mistook the purpose in his mind. 

'I'll take that for an answer, ' he said, 'and I shan't leave townto-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 hewas alone again. 'No, I don't want to frighten him. I think he willplay my game without it. '

Mark went back to the Langtons and dined there. Afterwards he toldMabel privately that he would be obliged to leave town for a day ortwo on pressing business. There was no mistaking his extremereluctance to go, and she understood that only the sternest necessitytook him away at such a time, trusting him too entirely to ask anyquestions. 

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, ' shesaid softly, with a great happiness in her low tones. 'I ought to beable to give you up for just two days, Mark!'

Before those two days were over, he thought, she might give him up forever! and the thought that this was possible made it difficult for himto part as if all were well. He went back and passed a sleeplessnight, thinking over the humiliating task he had set himself. His onlychance of keeping Mabel now lay in making a full confession to Holroydof his perfidy; he would offer a complete restitution in time. Hewould plead so earnestly that his friend _must_ forgive him, or atleast consent to stay his hand for the present. He would humblehimself to any extent, if that would keep him from losing Mabelaltogether--anything but that. If he lost her now, the thought of thehappiness he had missed so narrowly would drive him mad. 

It was a miserably cold day when he left Paddington, and he shiveredunder his rug as he sat in the train. He could hardly bear thecheerful talk of meeting or parting friends at the various stations atwhich the train stopped. He would have welcomed a collision whichwould deal him a swift and painless death, and free him from themisery he had brought upon himself. He would have been glad, like thelover in 'The Last Ride Together'--although for very differentreasons--if the world could end that day, and his guilt be swallowedup in the sum of iniquity. But no collision occurred, and (as it isperhaps unnecessary to add) the universe did not gratify him bydissolving on that occasion. The train brought him safely to thePlymouth platform, and left him there to face his difficulty alone. Itwas about six o'clock in the evening, and he lost no time in inquiringat his hotel for the P. And O. Agents, and in making his way to theiroffices up the stony streets and along a quiet lane over the hill byHoegate. He was received with courtesy and told all that he wished toknow. The 'Coromandel' was not in yet; would not be in now until afterdark--if then. They would send him word if the tender was to go outthe next morning, said the agent as he wrote him the necessary orderto go on board her. After that Mark went back to the hotel anddined--or rather attempted to dine--in the big coffee-room by the sideof 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 coldmarble-topped tables around him, while he could hear muffled music andapplause from the theatre hard by, varied by the click of the balls inthe billiard-room at the end of the corridor. Presently the waiterannounced a messenger for him, and on going out into the hall he founda man of seafaring appearance, who brought him a card stating that thetender would leave the Millbay Pier at six the next morning, by whichtime the 'Coromandel' would most probably be in. Mark went up to hisbedroom that night as to a condemned cell; he dreaded another night ofsleepless tossing. Sleep came to him, however, merciful and dreamless, as it will sometimes to those in desperate case, but he yielded to itwith terror as he felt it coming upon him--for it brought the morningnearer. 

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 unwelcomeduty before him. He dressed by candlelight, and, groping his way downthe silent staircase, hunted about in the shuttered coffee-room forthe coat and hat he had left there, and went shivering out into themain street, from which he turned up the hill towards the Hoe. The dayhad dawned by that time, and the sky was a gloomy grey, varied towardsthe horizon by stormy gleams of yellow; the prim clean streets weredeserted, save by an occasional workman going to his labours with aheavy tramp echoing on the wet flags. Mark went along by terraces oflodging-houses, where the placards of 'apartments' had an especiallyforlorn and futile look against the drawn blinds, and from the areasof which the exhalations, confined during the night, rose inperceptible contrast with the fresh morning air. Then he foundhimself upon the Hoe, with its broad asphalt promenades and rows ofhotels and terraces, rain-washed, silent, and cold, and descending thewinding series of steps, he made his way to the Millbay Pier, andentered the Custom House gates. Waiting about the wharf was a littleknot of people, apparently bound on much the same errand ashimself--although in far higher spirits. Their cheerfulness (probablya trifle aggravated by the consciousness of being up so early) jarredupon him, and he went on past them to the place where two smallsteamers were lying. 

'One of 'em's a-goin' out to the "Coromandel" presently, ' said asailor in answer to his question; 'you'd better wait till the agent'sdown, or you may be took out to the wrong ship--for there's twoexpected, but they ain't neither of 'em in yet. Ah!' as a gun washeard outside, 'that'll be the "Coromandel" signallin' now. '

'That ain't her, ' said another man, who was leaning over the side ofone 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 knowingthe "Coromandel!"' said the first sailor--a remark which apparentlywas rich in hidden suggestion, for they both laughed very heartily. 

Presently the agent appeared, and Mark, having satisfied himself thatthere was no danger of being taken out to the wrong vessel (for, muchas he dreaded meeting Holroyd, he dreaded missing him even more), wenton board one of the tenders, which soon after began to move out intothe dull green water. Now that he was committed to the ordeal histerrors rose again; he almost wished that he had made a mistake afterall, and was being taken out to meet the wrong P. And O. The horriblefear possessed him that Holroyd might in some way have learned hissecret on the voyage home. Suppose, for instance, a fellow-passengerpossessed a copy of 'Illusion, ' and chanced to lend it to him--whatshould he do if his friend were to meet him with a stern andcontemptuous repulse, rendering all conciliation out of the question?Tortured by speculations like these, he kept nervously away from theothers on board, and paced restlessly up and down near the bows; hesaw nothing consciously then, but afterwards every detail of thoseterrible ten minutes came back to him vividly, down to the lightsstill hanging in the rigging of the vessels in harbour, and the hoarsecries of the men in a brown-sailed lugger gliding past them out tosea. Out by the bar there was a light haze, in the midst of which laythe long black hull of the 'Coromandel, ' and to this the tender workedround in a tedious curve preparatory to lying alongside. As theypassed under the stern Mark nerved himself to look amongst the fewfigures at the gangway for the face he feared--but Holroyd was notamongst them. After several unsuccessful attempts of a Lascar to catchthe rope thrown from the tender, accompanied by some remarks in aforeign language on his part which _may_ have been offered in politeexcuse for his awkwardness, the rope was secured at length, the tenderbrought against the vessel's side, and the gangway lashed across. Thenfollowed a short delay, during which the P. And O. Captain, inrough-weather costume, conversed with the agent across the rails witha certain condescension. 

'Thick as a hedge outside, ' Mark heard him say; 'haven't turned in allnight. What are we all waiting for now? Here, quartermaster, just askthe doctor to step forward, will you?'

Somehow, at the mention of the doctor, Holroyd's allusions to hisillness recurred to Mark's mind, and hopes he dared not confess evento himself, so base and vile were they, rose in his heart. 

'Here's the doctor; clean bill of health, eh, doctor?' asked theagent--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 thesteward was laying breakfast, but he could not see Holroyd thereeither, and for a few minutes was pent up in a corner in the generalbustle which prevailed. There were glad greetings going on all aroundhim, confused questions and answers, rapid directions to which no onehad time to attend, and now and then an angry exclamation over theeagerly read letters: 'And where's mother living now?' 'We've lostthat 7. 40 express all through that infernal tender!' 'Look here, don'ttake that bag up on deck to get wet, d'ye hear?' 'Jolly to be back inthe old place again, eh?' 'I wish I'd never left it--that d----dscoundrel has gone and thrown all those six houses into Chancery!' andso on, those of the passengers who were not talking or reading beingengaged in filling up the telegraph forms brought on board for theirconvenience. Mark extricated himself from the hubbub as soon as hecould, and got hold of the steward. There was a gentleman on board ofthe name of Holroyd; he seemed well enough, as far as the stewardknew, though a bit poorly when he first came aboard, to be sure; hewas 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 thisadditional delay, Mark left the saloon and lingered listlessly aboutabove, watching the Lascars hauling up baggage from the hold--theywould have been interesting enough to him at any other time, withtheir seamed bilious complexions of every degree of swarthiness, setoff by the touches of colour in their sashes and head coverings, theirstrange cries and still more uncouth jocularity--but he soon tired ofthem, and wandered aft, where the steamer-chairs, their usefulness atan end for that voyage, were huddled together dripping and forlorn onthe damp red deck. He was still standing by them, idly turning overthe labels attached to their backs, and reading the names thereonwithout the slightest real curiosity, when he heard a well-rememberedvoice behind him crying, 'Mark, my dear old fellow, so you've comeafter all! I was half afraid you wouldn't think it worth your while. Ican't tell you how glad I am to see you!' And he turned with a guiltystart to face the man he had wronged. 

'Evidently, ' thought Mark, 'he knows nothing yet, or he wouldn't meetme like this!' and he gripped the cordial hand held out to him withconvulsive force; his face was white and his lips trembled, he couldnot speak. 

Such unexpected emotion on his part touched and gratified Holroyd, whopatted him on the shoulder affectionately. 'It's all right, old boy, Iunderstand, ' 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 couldspeak; 'even now I can hardly believe it. '

'I'm quite real, however, ' said Holroyd, laughing; 'there's more of menow than when they carried me on board from Colombo; don't look soalarmed--the voyage has brought me round again, I'm my old selfagain. '

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 expressionhad lost its old dreaminess, and when he did not smile, was sternerand more set than it had been; his manner, as Mark noticed later, hada new firmness and decision; he looked a man who could be mercilesslysevere in a just cause, and even his evident affection was powerlessto reassure Mark. 

The hatches had by this time been closed over the hold again and thecrane unshipped, the warning bell was ringing for the departure of thetender, though the passengers still lingered till the last minute, asif a little reluctant, after all, to desert the good ship that hadbeen their whole world of late; the reigning beauty of the voyage, whowas to remain with the vessel until her arrival at Gravesend, wasreceiving her last compliments during prolonged and complicatedleave-takings, in which, however, the exhilaration of most of hercourtiers--now that their leave or furlough was really about tobegin--was too irrepressible for sentiment. A last delay at thegangway, where the captain and ship's officers were being overwhelmedwith thanks and friendly good-byes, and then the deck was cleared atlast, the gangway taken in and the rail refastened, and, as thetender steamed off, all the jokes and allusions which formed theaccumulated wit of the voyage flashed out with a brief and finalbrilliancy, until the hearty cheering given and returned drowned themfor ever. 

On the tender, such acquaintances as Holroyd had made during thevoyage gave Mark no chance of private conversation with him, and evenwhen they had landed and cleared the Custom House, Mark made no use ofhis opportunity; he knew he must speak soon, but he could not tell himjust then, and accordingly put off the evil hour by affecting anintense interest in the minor incidents of the voyage, and inVincent's experiences of a planter's life. It was the same in thehotel coffee-room, where some of the 'Coromandel's' passengers werebreakfasting near them, and the conversation became general; afterbreakfast, however, Mark proposed to spend some time in seeing theplace, an arrangement which he thought would lead the way toconfession. But Holroyd would not hear of this; he seemed possessed bya feverish impatience to get to London without delay, and very soonthey were pacing the Plymouth railway platform together, waiting forthe up train, Mark oppressed by the gloomy conviction that if he didnot speak soon, the favourable moment would pass away, never toreturn. 

'Where do you think of going to first when you get in?' he asked, indread of the answer. 

'I don't know, ' said Holroyd; 'the Great Western, I suppose--it's thenearest. '

'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 putyou up. ' He was thinking that this arrangement would give him a littlemore time for his confession. 

'Thanks, ' said Holroyd gratefully; 'it's very kind of you to think ofthat, old fellow; I will come to you, then--but there is a house Imust go to as soon as we get in: you won't mind if I run away for anhour or two, will you?'

Mark remembered what Caffyn had said. 'There will be plenty of timefor that to-morrow, won't there?' he said nervously. 

'No, ' said Holroyd impatiently; 'I can't wait. I daren't. I have letso much time go by already--you will understand when I tell you allabout it, Mark. I can't rest till I know whether there is still achance of happiness left for me, or--or whether I have come too lateand the dream is over. '

In that letter which had fallen into Caffyn's hands Holroyd had toldMabel the love he had concealed so long; he had begged her not todecide too hastily; he would wait any time for her answer, he said, ifshe did not feel able to give it at once; and in the meantime sheshould be troubled by no further importunities on his part. This wasnot, perhaps, the most judicious promise to make; he had given it froman impulse of consideration for her, being well aware that she hadnever looked upon him as a possible lover, and that his declarationwould come upon her with a certain shock. Perhaps, too, he wanted toleave himself a margin of hope as long as possible to make his exileendurable; since for months, if no answer came back to him, he couldcheat himself with the thought that such silence was favourable initself; but even when he came to regret his promise, he shrank fromrisking all by breaking it. Then came his long illness, and thediscovery at Newera Ellia; for the first time he thought that theremight be other explanations of the delay, and while he was writing theletter which had come to Mark, he resolved to make one more appeal toMabel, since it might be that his first by some evil chance had failedto reach her. That second appeal, however, was never made. Before hecould do more than begin it, the fever he had never wholly shaken offseized him again and laid him helpless, until, when he was able towrite once more, he was already on his way to plead for himself. Butthe dread lest his own punctilious folly and timidity had closed theway to his heart's desire had grown deeper and deeper, and he felt animpulse now which was stronger than his natural reserve to speak of itto 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 onlyhope to tell her that even now!'

'Do you mind telling me her name?' said Mark, with a deadly forebodingof what was coming. 

'Did I never speak of the Langtons to you?' said Holroyd. 'I think Imust have done so. She is a Miss Langton. Mabel, her name is' (hedwelt on the name with a lover's tenderness). 'Some day if--if it isall well, you may see her, I hope. Oddly enough, I believe she hasheard your name rather often; she has a small brother who used to bein your form at St. Peter's; did I never tell you?'

'Never, ' said Mark. He felt that fate was too hard for him; he hadhonestly meant to confess all up to that moment, he had thought tofound his strongest plea for forbearance on his approaching marriage. How could he do that now? what mercy could he expect from a rival? Hewas lost if he was mad enough to arm Holroyd with such a weapon; hewas lost in any case, for it was certain that the weapon would not liehidden long; there were four days still before the wedding--timeenough for the mine to explode! What could he do? how could he keepthe 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 tomake use of Caffyn's desire for a travelling companion, and turn it tohis own purpose? If Caffyn was so anxious to have Holroyd with him inthe Lakes, why not let him? It was a desperate chance enough, but itwas the only one left to him; if it failed, it would ruin him, butthat would certainly happen if he let things take their course; if itsucceeded, Mabel would at least be his. His resolution was taken in aninstant, and carried out with a strategy that gave him a miserablesurprise at finding himself so thorough a Judas. 'By the way, ' hesaid, 'I've just thought of something. Harold Caffyn is a friend ofmine. I know he wants to see you again, and he could tell you all youwant to hear about--about the Langtons, I've heard _him_ mention themoften enough; you see you don't even know where they are yet. I'llwire and ask him to meet us at my rooms, shall I?'

'That's a capital idea!' cried Holroyd. 'Caffyn is sure to know; do itat once, like a good fellow. '

'You stay here then, and look out for the train, ' said Mark, as hehurried to the telegraph office, leaving Holroyd thinking howthoughtful and considerate his once selfish friend had become. Marksent the telegram, which ended, 'He knows nothing as yet. I leave himto you. '

When he returned he found that Holroyd had secured an emptycompartment in the train which was preparing to start, and Mark got inwith a heavy apprehension of the danger of a long journey alone withHolroyd. He tried to avoid conversation by sheltering himself behind alocal journal, while at every stoppage he prayed that a stranger mightcome to his rescue. He read nothing until a paragraph, copied from aLondon literary paper, caught his eye. 'We understand, ' the paragraphran, 'that the new novel by the author of "Illusion, " Mr. CyrilErnstone (or rather Mr. Mark Ashburn, as he has now declared himself), will be published early in the present spring, and it is rumoured thatthe second work will show a marked advance on its predecessor. ' It wasmerely the usual puff preliminary, though Mark took it as aprediction, and at any other time would have glowed with anticipatedtriumph. Now it only struck him with terror. Was it in Holroyd's papertoo? Suppose he asked to look at Mark's, and saw it there, andquestioned him, as of course he would! What should he say? Thinking toavoid this as far as possible, he crumpled up the tell-tale paper andhurled it out of window; but his act had precisely the oppositeeffect, for Holroyd took it as an indication that his companion wasready for conversation, and put down the paper he had been pretendingto read. 

'Mark, ' he began with a slight hesitation, and with his first wordsMark knew that the question was coming which he dreaded more thananything; he had no notion how he should reply to it, beyond ageneral impression that he would have to lie, and lie hard. 

'Mark, ' said Holroyd again, 'I didn't like to worry you about itbefore, I thought perhaps you would speak of it first; but--but haveyou never heard anything more of that ambitious attempt of mine at anovel? 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--whyshould I be such a humbug! I _did_ think sometimes--more latelyperhaps--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 ifshe cares for me, what else matters to either of us? Tell me all aboutit. '

'You--you remember what happened to the first volume of the "FrenchRevolution"?' began Mark. 

'Go on, ' said Holroyd. 

'It--the book--_yours_, I mean, ' said Mark (he could not remember theoriginal title), 'was burnt. '

'Where? at the office? Did they write and tell you so? had they readit?'

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 atthe lodgings found the manuscript lying about. She--she burnt it. '

The lies sprang in ready succession from his brain at the criticalmoment, without any other preparation than the emergency--as lies didwith Mark Ashburn; till lately he had hoped that the truth might come, and he loathed himself now for this fresh piece of treachery, but ithad 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 seehow cut up you are about it; and, after all, it--it was only arejected manuscript--the girl only hastened its course a little. Carlyle rewrote his work; but then I'm not Carlyle. We won't sayanything 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 alland take the consequences; but Holroyd had sunk back to his positionby the window again, and there was a fixed frown on his face which, although it only arose from painful thought, effectually deterred Markfrom speaking. He felt now that everything depended on Caffyn. He satlooking furtively at the other now and then, and thinking whatterrible reproaches those firm lips might utter; how differently thesad, kind eyes might regard him before long, and once more he longedfor 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, hefelt the blow deeply. He had come back with ideas of a possibleliterary career before him, and it was hard to resign them all atonce. It was rather late in the afternoon when they arrived, andCaffyn was there to receive them; he was delighted to welcome Holroyd, and his cordiality restored the other to cheerfulness; it is sopleasant to find that one is not forgotten--and so rare. When Vincenthad gone upstairs to see his sleeping-room, Caffyn turned to Mark:there was a kind of grin on his face, and yet a certain admirationtoo. 

'I got your telegram, ' he said. 'So--so you've brought yourself topart with him after all?'

'I thought over what you said, ' returned Mark, 'and--and he told mesomething 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 afterall, if you'll only let me manage. '

Was Mark at all surprised at the languid Harold Caffyn exertinghimself in this way? If he was, he was too grateful for the phenomenonto care very much about seeking to explain it. Caffyn was a friend ofhis, he had divined that Holroyd's return was inconvenient: verylikely he had known of Vincent's hopeless attachment for Mabel, and hewas plainly anxious to get a companion at the Lakes; anyone of thesewas motive enough. Soon after, Holroyd joined them in thesitting-room. Caffyn, after more warm congratulations and eagerquestioning, broached the Wastwater scheme. 'You may as well, ' heconcluded, 'London's beastly at this time of year. You're looking asif the voyage hadn't done you much good, too, and it will be grand onthe 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 intown--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 notmoved?'

'Now I've got you!' laughed Caffyn; 'if the Langtons are the onlyobstacle, you can't go and see them, for the very good reason thatthey'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, yousee, for the lovely Mabel's wedding. '

Mark held his breath as he listened; what was Caffyn going to saynext? Vincent's face altered suddenly. 

'Then Mabel--Miss Langton, is going to be married?' he asked in acuriously quiet tone. 

'Rather, ' said Caffyn; 'brilliant match in its way, I understand. Notmuch money on his side, but one of the coming literary fellows, andall 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 themantelpiece, with his face turned from the other two; 'I didn'tknow--what is his name?'

'Upon my soul I forget--heard it somewhere. --Ashburn, you don't happento 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? Ishall hit upon it soon, I dare say. They say she's deucedly fond ofhim, though. Can't fancy disdainful Miss Mabel condescending to bedeucedly fond of any one--but so they tell me. And I say, Holroyd, tocome back to the point, is there any reason why you should stay intown?'

'None, ' said Holroyd, with pain ringing in his voice, 'none in theworld why I should stay anywhere now. '

'Well, won't you come with me? I start the first thing to-morrow--itwill do you good. '

'It's kind of you to ask, ' said Vincent, 'but I can't desert Ashburnin that way after he took the trouble to come down and meet me; we'venot 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 ofembarrassment 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 couldnot. 'Well, Caffyn, I'll come with you; the Lakes will do as well asany 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 hasunsettled me, you see. I shall have to go back to it. '

'To Ceylon!' cried Mark, with hopes that had grown quite suddenly. Wasit, could it be possible that the threatened storm was going to passaway--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 coffeeestate somewhere in Southern India, the Annamalli Hills, I think hesaid; he was wanting some one with a little experience to go out withhim the other day. He's a rattling good fellow too--Gilroy, his nameis. I don't know if you'd care to meet him. You might think it goodenough 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 canwrite to him and tell him about you, and ask him to come over and meetus somewhere, and then you could settle all about it, you know, if youliked the look of him. '

'It's very good of you to take all this trouble, ' said Vincentgratefully. 

'Bosh!' said Caffyn, using that modern form for polite repudiation ofgratitude--'no trouble at all; looks rather as if I wanted to get ridof you, don't you know--Gilroy's going out so very soon. '

'Is he?' said Vincent. He had no suspicions; Mabel's engagement seemedonly too probable, and he knew that he had never had any claim uponher; but for all that, he had no intention of taking the fact entirelyupon trust; he would not leave England till he had seen her andlearned from her own lips that he must give up hope for ever; afterthat the sooner he went the better. 

'You needn't go out with him unless you want to--you might join himlater 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'venothing in the way of preparations to hinder you, eh?'

'No, ' said Vincent; 'it would only be transferring my trunks from oneship 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 mountainair first, then you'll be ready to go anywhere; but I must have you atWastwater, ' 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 fatalityinterposed between then and the next morning, the man he dreaded wouldbe safely buried in the wildest part of the Lake District--he mighteven 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, deeplythankful 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-confidencein his ability to win fame for the woman he loved was gone now; hefelt 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 loweraims and a blanker life than those he had once hoped for. 

All at once Mark, as he stood at the window with Caffyn, stepped backwith 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 drivenup; they could see it plainly still in the afternoon light, which hadonly just begun to fade. 

'Do you see?' muttered Mark thickly. 'She's in it; she looked up--andsaw _me_!'

Caffyn himself was evidently disturbed. 'Not, not Mabel?' hewhispered. 'Worse! it's Dolly--and _she'll_ come up. She'll see_him_!'

The two stood there staring blankly at each other, while Holroyd wasstill too absorbed to have the least suspicion that the futurehappiness or misery of himself and others was trembling just then inthe balance. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS. 

Dolly's mere appearance in the room would lead Vincent to suspect thathe had been deceived; her first words would almost inevitably exposethe fraud. She was coming up, nevertheless, and Mark felt powerless toprevent her--he could only indulge himself in inwardly cursingCaffyn's ingenuity and his own weakness for having brought him to sucha pass as this. Caffyn was shaken for the moment, but he soonrecovered himself. 'Keep cool, will you, ' he whispered (he might haveshouted, for Vincent saw and heard nothing just then): 'you stay hereand keep _him_ amused--don't let him go near the window!' Then headded aloud, 'I'll go and see if I can find that Bradshaw. Almostcertain I didn't bring it with me; but if you saw it there, why'--andhe was gone. 

Mark caught up a paper with a rapid, 'Oh! I say, Vincent, _did_ yousee this correspondence about competitive examinations? Of course youhaven't, though--just listen then, it's rather amusing!' and he beganto read with desperate animation a string of letters on a subjectwhich, in the absence of worthier sport, was just then being trailedbefore the public. The newspaper hid his face, and while he read hecould strain his ears for the first sign of Dolly's approach. She hadseen him, he was sure, and she would insist upon coming up--she was sofond of him! He wished now he had gone down himself instead of leavingit to Caffyn. 

Meanwhile the latter had rushed down in time to wave back the maid whowas coming to the door, and which he opened himself. Dolly wasstanding there alone on the doorsteps. She had prepared a politelittle formula for the servant, and was therefore disappointed to seeCaffyn. 

'Why, it's _you_!' she said, in rather an injured tone. 

'You never expected such luck as that, did you?' said Caffyn. 'Isthere anything I can do for your ladyship?'

'Mabel asked me to drive round this way and ask if Mark has come back. There's Fräulein in the carriage too, but I wanted to ask all bymyself. '

'Pray step this way, ' said Caffyn, leading the way with mockpoliteness to a little sitting-room on the ground floor. 

'I can't stay long, ' said Dolly. 'Mark isn't here--I saw his face atthe window upstairs. Mabel told me to see if he was quite well, and Iwant 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 onewith him he hasn't seen for a long time--we mustn't disturb him; tellMabel he'll come to-morrow and he's quite well. '

Dolly was preparing to go, when she discovered some portmanteaus andboxes in a corner. 'What a funny box, with all those red tickets onit!' she said. 'Oh, and a big white helmet--it's green inside. Is Markgoing to be married in _that_ thing, Harold?'--all at once she stoppedshort in her examination. 'Why--why, they've got poor Vincent's nameon them! they _have_--look!' And Caffyn realised that he had been tooingenious: he had forgotten all about this luggage in showing Dolly tothat room, in his fear lest her voice should be too audible in thepassage. 

'There, there--you're keeping Fräulein waiting all this time. Nevermind about the luggage, ' he said hurriedly. 'Good-bye, Dolly; sorryyou can't stop. '

'But I _can_ stop, ' objected Dolly, who was not easily got rid of atthe best of times. 'Harold, I'm sure that dear Vincent has come aliveagain--_he's_ the somebody Mark hasn't seen for a long time. .. . Oh, ifit really _is_ . .. I must go and see!'

Caffyn saw his best course now was the hazardous one of telling thetruth. '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 himfor all that. '

'Why?' said Dolly, with her joy suddenly checked--she scarcely knewwhy. 

'He's in a fearful rage with you just now, ' said Caffyn; 'he's foundout about that letter--that letter you burnt. '

'Mabel said I was never to worry about that horrid letter anymore--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, 'Whatabout that letter?'

'Well, ' said Caffyn, 'it appears that the letter you tore the stampoff was from Vincent (it had a foreign stamp, I remember), and it wasvery important. He never got an answer, and he found out somehow thatit was because you burnt it--and then--my goodness, Dolly, what a ragehe 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 ifshe had known who the letter was from and what it was about she wouldhave taken it so quietly? Why, she thinks it was only an old envelopeyou burnt--I heard her say so--you know she still believes Vincent isdead. She doesn't know the truth yet, but Vincent will tell her. Areyou 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 tosee anyone just yet, and we're dreadfully afraid of his meeting Mabeland 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--wehaven't told him that you're any of you at home at all; he thinksyou'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'ttell Fräulein, of course? I'll see you to the carriage . .. How do, Fräulein? Home, I suppose?' And the last thing he saw was Dolly'sfrightened glance up at the window as the carriage drove off. 'Shewon't tell _this_ time, ' he said to himself. 

And indeed poor Dolly was silent enough all the way home, and metFräulein Moser's placid stream of talk with short and absent answers. That evening, however, in the schoolroom, she roused herself toexpress a sudden interest in Colin's stamp album, which she coaxed himto show her. 

As he was turning over the pages, one by one, she stopped himsuddenly. 'What is that one?' she said, pointing out a green-colouredstamp amongst the colonial varieties. 

'Can't you read?' said Colin, a little contemptuously, even whileregarding 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 muchmore expensive ones, only I swopped them. If you _want_ to see a rareone, 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'dbetter----' But Dolly had gone--her passion for information havingflickered out as suddenly as it rose. She knew that English-lookinggreen stamp well enough; there had been dreadful days once when it hadseemed always floating before her eyes, the thing which might send herto 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 beenteasing; she _had_ burnt the letter, and it came from Ceylon; Vincentmust have written it, and he had come back and meant to scold her--shehad cried so when she heard he was drowned, and now she was afraid tosee him--a shadow she dared not speak of had once more fallen acrossher life!

Caffyn came up with a Bradshaw in his hand. 'Had a hunt after it, Ican tell you, ' he said; 'and then your old landlady and I had a littlechat--I couldn't get away from her. Aren't you fellows ready for somedinner?' And the relief with which Mark had seen the carriage rollaway below had really given him something of an appetite. 

Before dinner, however, Mark took Caffyn up into his bedroom under thepretence of washing his hands, but with the real object of preventinga hideous possibility which--for his fears quickened hisforesight--had just occurred to him. 'If you don't mind, ' he beganawkwardly, 'I--I'd rather you didn't mention that I had written--Imean, that you didn't say anything about "Illusion, " you know. '

Caffyn's face remained unchanged. 'Certainly, if you wish it, ' hesaid; 'but why? Is this more of your modesty?'

'No, ' said Mark, weakly, 'no; not exactly modesty; but, the fact is, Ifind that Holroyd has been going in for the same sort of thinghimself, and--and not successfully; and so I shouldn't like to----'

'Quite so, ' agreed Caffyn. 'Now, really, that's very nice andconsiderate of you to think of that, Ashburn. I like to see that sortof 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 beingin any way connected with pen and ink. '

'Thanks, ' said Mark, gratefully; 'I know you won't, ' and they wentdown. 

Mark could not but feel degraded in his own eyes by all thishypocrisy; but it was so necessary, and was answering its purpose sowell, that his mental suffering was less than might have beenexpected. 

At dinner he felt himself able, now that his fears were removed, toencourage conversation, and drew from Holroyd particulars of hisCeylon life, which supplied them with topics for that evening, andprevented the meal from becoming absolutely dull, even though it wasat no time remarkable for festivity. 

'I tell you what I can't quite understand, ' said Caffyn on oneoccasion. 'Why did you let us all go on believing that you weredrowned on the "Mangalore" when a letter or two would have put it allright?'

'I did write one letter home, ' said Holroyd, with a faint red tingeinghis brown cheeks. 'I might have written to Mark, I know; but I waitedto hear from him first, and then one thing after another prevented me. It was only when I sent down to Colombo, months afterwards, for myheavy 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 neverthought it possible, after going off the ship, as I did at Bombay, that I could be reported amongst the missing. As soon as I discoveredthat 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 yourhealth gradually going, and failure coming closer and closer, youdon't feel a strong inclination for correspondence. '

He fell back into a moody silence again. Perhaps, after all, hissilence had arisen from other causes still; perhaps, as his healthdeclined, he had come to find a morbid satisfaction in the idea thathe was alone--forgotten by those he cared for--until his veryisolation had become dear to him. He had been a fool--he knew thatnow--his two friends had mourned him sincerely, and would have beenoverjoyed to hear that he was alive. He had wronged them--what if hehad wronged Mabel too? Another had won her, but had not his own falsedelicacy and perverted pride caused him to miss the happiness hehungered 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 agood fellow, and will make her happy, I can bear it. ' But deep down inhis 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 heconsulted the Bradshaw as he spoke), 'there's a train at ten in themorning, from Euston; gets in to Drigg late at night; we can sleepthere, 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'vestayed over a day on the chance of bringing you; you promised to comejust now; there's nothing to keep you, and I've set my heart on havingyou. '

'Then I'll come, ' said Holroyd. 'We'll meet on the platformto-morrow. '

Mark breathed more freely again. He accompanied Caffyn down to thefront door, and then, as they stood for a moment in the little passagedimly lighted by a feeble kerosene lamp on a bracket, each looked atthe 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 thisGilroy business comes off, he may be taken off your hands altogetherbefore you come back. '

'I know, ' said Mark, 'you've been awfully kind about it; the--the onlything 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--Ilike you, my boy, and if anything I can do will save you a littleworry 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 delightedto do it. But if you'd rather see some more of him before he goes outagain, there's no hurry. Gilroy will wait, and I won't say any moreabout it. '

'It--it seems a good opening, ' said Mark hastily, not without shame athimself; 'perhaps the sooner it is arranged the better, don't youthink?'

Caffyn laughed again. 'You old humbug!' he said. 'Why don't you tellthe truth? You've found out he's a defeated rival, and you don't careabout having him sitting sighing on the door-step of that little housein--where is it?--on Campden Hill! Well, don't be alarmed; I thinkhe'll go, and I promise you I won't try to prevent him if he's keen onit. '

He laughed aloud once or twice as he walked home. Mark's tendersolicitude for his friend's future tickled his sense of humour. 'Andthe funniest thing about it is, ' he thought, 'that I'm going to helpthe humbug!'

Mark was up early the next morning, and hurried Holroyd over hisbreakfast as much as he dared. He had a ghastly fear of missing thetrain, in consequence of which they arrived at Euston at least half anhour before the time of starting. Caffyn was not on the platform, andMark began to dread his being too late. 'And then, ' he thought with ashudder, 'I shall have him on my hands for another whole day. Anotherday 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 towander up and down the platform, Mark feeling oppressed by a sinkingpremonition of disaster whenever he loosed his hold of Holroyd's armfor a moment. He was waiting while the latter bought a paper at thebookstall, when suddenly he felt himself slapped heavily on the backby some one behind him, and heard a voice at whose well-known accentshe very nearly fell down with horror. It was his terrible uncle!

''Ullo, you know, this won't do, young fellow; what's all this?' hebegan, too evidently bursting with the badinage which every Benedickmust endure. 'Why, you ain't going for your honeymoon before thewedding?--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 soloud!'

'Well, I don't know what there is in that to be ashamed of, ' said hisuncle; 'and if I mayn't be allowed to talk about a wedding--which butfor me, mind yer, would a' been long enough in coming about--p'rapsyou'll tell me who is; and, as to talking loud, I'm not aware that I'many louder than usual. What are you looking like that for? Hang me ifI don't think there's something in this I ought to see to!' he brokeout, with a sudden change of face, as his shrewd little eyes fell onHolroyd's rug, which Mark was carrying for the moment. 'Mark, for allyour cleverness, you're a slippery feller--I always felt that aboutyou. You're up to something now--you're meaning to play a trick on onethat trusts you, and I won't have it--do you hear me?--I tell you Iwon't have it!'

'What do you mean?' faltered Mark. For the instant he thought himselfdetected, 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 ruinyourself. You shan't set a foot in the train if I have to knock youdown and set on you myself! If' (and his voice shook here)--'if you'vegot into any mess--and it's money--I'll clear you this time, whateverit costs me, but you shan't run away from that dear girl that you'repromised 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, ' saidhis 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 donot believe me, I'll show you the friend. ' As he looked back at thebookstall he saw something which stiffened him once more with helplesshorror: the man at the stall was trying to persuade Holroyd to buy abook for the journey--he was just dusting one now, a volume in agreenish cover with bold crimson lettering, before recommending it;and the book was a copy of the latest edition of 'Illusion, ' theedition which bore Mark's name on the title-page! In his despair Markdid the very last thing he would otherwise have done--he rushed up toHolroyd and caught his arm. 'I say, old fellow, don't let them talkyou into buying any of that rubbish. Look here, I--I want to introduceyou to my uncle!'

'I wasn't asking the gentleman to buy no rubbish, ' said the man at thebookstall, resenting the imputation. 'This is a book which is 'aving alarge sale just now: we've sold as many as'--but here Mark succeededin getting Vincent away and bringing him up to Mr. Lightowler. 

'How are you, sir?' began that gentleman, with a touch ofcondescension 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 'erewith that rug, I somehow got it into my mind that _he_ was goin' tomake a run for it. And there 'ud be a pretty thing for allparties--hey?'

'Your nephew very kindly came to see me off, that's all, ' saidHolroyd. 

'Oh, ' said Uncle Solomon, with a tolerant wave of his hand, 'I don'tobject to that, yer know, I've no objections to that--not that I don'tthink (between ourselves, mind yer) that he mightn't p'raps he betteremployed just now;' and here, to Mark's horror, he winked with muchhumorous suggestiveness at both of them. 

'That is very likely, ' said Holroyd. 

'What I mean by saying he might be "better employed, "' continued UncleSolomon, 'is that when----'

'Yes, yes, uncle, ' Mark hastened to interpose, 'but on specialoccasions like these one can leave one's duties for a while. '

'Now there I think you make your mistake--you make too sure, Mark. Itell 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 toooften--it don't _do_!' Mark could stand no more of this. 

'A _lurch_ now, ' he said--'what an odd expression that is! Do youknow, I've often tried to picture to myself what kind of a thing alurch 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 havebeen able to drop his uncle down a lurch of that descriptionoccasionally, 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. Schoolmasterthat was, ' he broke in; 'and if I'd done as many a man in my positionwould, and left _you_ in the lurch a few months ago, where would youha' 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, andsays he, "Uncle, " he says, "I want you to----"'

Mark felt that in another moment the whole story of his uncle'sintervention at Kensington Park Gardens would burst upon Holroyd withthe 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 belate?

'I--I don't think it's quite fair to tell all that, ' he expostulatedweakly. 

'Fair!' said Uncle Solomon. 'I made no secrecy over it. I did nothingto be ashamed of and hush up, and it's no disgrace to you that I cansee to be helped by an uncle that can afford it. Well, as I wassaying, Mark came to me----'

Here a small Juggernaut car in the shape of a high-piled truck camerolling down on them with a shout of, 'By your leave there, by yourleave!' from the unseen porter behind. Mark drew Vincent sharplyaside, and then saw Caffyn coming quickly towards them through thecrowd, and forgot the torpedo his uncle was doing his best to launch:he felt that with Caffyn came safety. Caffyn, who had evidently beenhurrying, gave a sharp glance at the clock: 'Sorry to be late, ' hesaid, as he shook hands. 'Binny fetched me a hansom with a wobblingold animal in it that ran down like a top when we'd got half-way; andof course the main road was up for the last mile--however, I've justdone it. Come along, Holroyd, I've got a carriage. ' And the three menwent off together, leaving Mr. Lightowler behind in a decidedly huffyframe of mind. 

'Good-bye, Mark, ' said Vincent affectionately before he got in. 'We'venot had time to see much of one another, have we? I can't say how gladI am, though, even to have had that. I shall try not to leave Englandwithout seeing you once more; but, if we don't meet again, thengood-bye and God bless you, old boy! Write to me from abroad, and tellme 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'vegot your Swiss address, haven't I? and if--if anything happens, youshall hear from me. '

The next minute Mark stood back, and as the long line ofchocolate-and-white carriages rolled gently past he caught his lastsight of Vincent's face, with the look on it that he could not hope tosee again. He saw Caffyn too, who gave him a cool side-jerk of thehead 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 unconsciousassistance. If Vincent had been gagged and bound and kept in a dungeoncell till the wedding was over, he could hardly be more harmless thanhe would be at Wastwater. Two more days--only two more--and thecalamity he dreaded even more than exposure would be averted forever--none but he would call Mabel Langton his wife! Thinking this ashe left the platform, he ran up against his uncle, whom he hadcompletely forgotten: he was harmless now as a safety match bereft ofits box, and Mark need fear him no longer. 'Why, there you are, uncle--eh?' he said, with much innocent satisfaction. 'I couldn'tthink where you'd got to. '

'Oh, I dessay, ' growled Mr. Lightowler, 'and your friend nearly lostthe train lookin' for me, didn't he? I'm not to be got over by softspeakin', Mark, and I'm sharp enough to see where I'm not wanted. Imust say, though, that that feller, if he's one of your friends, mighta' shown me a little more common respect, knowing 'oo I was, insteado' bolting away while I was talkin' to him, for all the world as if hewanted to get rid of me. '

Mark saw that his uncle was seriously annoyed, and hastened to soothehis 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 afriend 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 ofsuperiority implied in this fact; 'and let me tell you, he's a manthat's looked up to by every one there, is Budkin, and'll be mayorbefore he dies! And another thing let me say to you, Mark. In thecourse of my life I've picked up, 'ere and there, some slightknowledge of human character, and I read faces as easy as print. Now Idon'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 introducedto me--'Olroyd, isn't it? Well, don't you have too much to do withhim--there's something in his eye I don't fancy; he ain't to betrusted, and you mind what I say. '

'Well, ' said Mark, 'I can promise you that I shall see no more of himthan 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! Youcome along with me and I'll introduce you (he's not what you call arefined sort of feller, yer know, ' he explained forbearingly, 'butstill we've always been friends in a way); you can't stop? Must goback to Miss Mabel, hey? Well, well, I won't keep yer; good-bye tillthe day after to-morrow then, and don't you forgit what you'd 'a beenif you'd been thrown on the world without an uncle--there'd be nopretty Miss Mabel for you then, whatever you may think about it, youngchap!'

When Mark made his appearance at Kensington Park Gardens again, Dollywatched his face anxiously, longing to ask if Vincent had really goneat last, but somehow she was afraid. And so, as the time went by, andno Vincent Holroyd came to the door to denounce her, she took comfortand 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, afterwinding 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 rocksforming this channel, connected by a quaint old bridge, stand the twintowns, Gross and Klein Laufingen. Of the two there can be no questionwhich has the superior dignity, for, while Klein Laufingen (whichbelongs to Baden) is all comprised in a single narrow street ending ina massive gatehouse, Gross Laufingen, which stands in Swiss territory, boasts at least two streets and a half, besides the advantages of apublic platz that can scarcely be smaller than an average London backgarden, a church with a handsome cupola and blue and gold-faced clock, and the ruins of what was once an Austrian stronghold crowning thehill around which the roofs are clustered, with a withered tree on theragged top of its solitary tall grey tower. Gross Laufingen has seenmore 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 thegate is still to be seen a grotesque metal profile, riddled with thebullets of French conscripts, who made a target of it in sport orinsult, when a halt was called. Now the place is sleepy and quietenough: there are no diligences to rattle and lumber over the stones, and the most warlike spectacle there is provided by the Swissmilitiamen as they march in periodically from the neighbouringvillages to have their arms inspected, singing choruses all the way. There is a railway, it is true, on the Klein Laufingen bank, but arailway where the little station and mouth of the tunnel have been soornamentally treated that at a slight distance a train coming inirresistibly suggests one of those working models set in motion byeither a dropped penny or the fraudulent action of the human breath, as conscience permits. So innocent an affair is powerless to corruptLaufingen, and has brought as yet but few foreigners to its gates. English, Russian, and American tourists may perhaps exclaim admiringlyas the trains stop, affording a momentary view of the little towngrouped compactly on the rocks with the blue-green cataract rushingby--but they are bound for Schaffhausen or the Black Forest orConstance, and cannot break the journey--so the hosts of personallyconducted ones pass Laufingen by, and Laufingen seems upon the wholeresigned to its obscurity. But Mark Ashburn, at least, had felt itsgentle attractions, having come upon it almost by accident, as hereturned alone from the Black Forest after the tour with Caffyn. Histhoughts were constantly of Mabel Langton at that time, and he found adreamy pleasure in the idea of coming to Laufingen some day when sheshould be his companion, which made him look upon everything he sawmerely as a background for her fair face. It had seemed a veryhopeless dream then, and yet a few months more and the dream had cometo 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 hispresentiment of evil. But nothing had happened, the words were spokenwhich made Mabel his own, and neither man nor angel intervened. Andnow a week had gone by, during which nothing from without hadthreatened his happiness; and for a time, as he resolutely shut hiseyes to all but the present, he had been supremely happy. Then bydegrees the fox revived and began to gnaw once more. His soul sickenedas he remembered in what a Fool's Paradise he was living. UnlessHolroyd decided to leave England at once with this young Gilroy ofwhom Caffyn had spoken--a stranger--he would certainly learn how hehad been tricked with regard to Mabel's marriage, and this would leadhim on to the full discovery of his wrongs. In his mad determinationto win her at all costs, Mark had disregarded everything but theimmediate future. If shame and misery were to come upon him, he hadtold himself, he would at least have the memory of a period of perfectbliss to console him--he might lose all else, but Mabel could not betaken from him. But now, as she took no pains to hide the contentwhich filled her heart, he would scarcely bear to meet her sweet greyeyes for the thought that soon the love he read in them would changeto aversion and cold contempt, and each dainty caress was charged forhim with a ferocious irony. He knew at last his miserable selfishnessin having linked her lot with his, and there were times when in historture he longed for courage to tell her all, and put an end with hisown hand to a happiness which was to him the bitterest of delusions. But he dared not; he had had such marvellous escapes already that heclung to the hope that some miracle might save him yet. 

And this was Mark's condition on the morning when this chapter findshim. There is a certain retreat which the town would seem to haveprovided for the express benefit of lovers--a rustic arbour on alittle mount near the railway station overlooking the Rhine Fall. Thesurly, red-bearded signalman who watched over the striped barrier atthe level crossing by the tunnel had understood the case from thefirst, and (not altogether from disinterested motives, perhaps) wouldhasten to the station as soon as he saw the young couple crossing thebridge and fetch the key of the little wooden gate which kept off allunlicensed 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 thestunted acacia trees along the road to the bridge were still bare, andhad the appearance of distorted candelabra; the poplars showed onlythe mistiest green as yet, the elms were leafless, and thehorse-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 fewpinkish-white clouds shaded with dove colour near the horizon, pigeonswere fluttering round the lichened piers of the old bridge, which casta broad band of purple on the bright green water, and the cuckoo wascalling incessantly from the distant woods. Opposite were the tallhouses, tinted in faint pink and grey and cream colour, with theircrazy wooden balconies overhanging the rocks, and above thehigh-pitched brown roofs rose the church and the square tree-crownedruin, behind which was a background of pine-covered hills, where thesnow still lay amongst the trunks in a silver graining on the dark redsoil. 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 alongthe bridge, and townsmen in brown straw hats would meet half-way withelaborate salutations and linger long to gossip, and bare-headed girlswith long plaited pigtails present their baskets and bundles to bepeered into or prodded suspiciously by the customs officer stationedat the Baden frontier-post, striped in brilliant crimson and yellow, like a giant sugarstick. Over on the little Laufenplatz children wereplaying about amongst the big iron salmon cages, and old people weresitting in the sunshine on the seats by the fountain, where from timeto time a woman would fill her shining tin pails, or a man come torinse out a tall wooden funnel before strapping it on his back. Downon the rocks below, in a little green cradle swinging over thetorrent, sat a man busy with his pipe and newspaper, which heoccasionally left to haul up and examine the big salmon nets by theaid 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 anywhereelse. Mamma thought we were mad to come here so early in the year. Ithink 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 thesummer, perhaps?' he asked. 

'It would be delightful, for some things, ' she said, 'but I think Ishall 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 isyour 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 fromjocular); 'we will enjoy all this while we can, and when--when the endcomes we can remember how happy we were!'

'When the end of this comes we shall only be beginning to be veryhappy in another way at home in our own pretty house, Mark. I'm not inthe least afraid of the future. Are you?'

He drew her slight form towards him and pressed her to his heart witha fervour in which there was despair as well as love. 

'Do you think I could be afraid of any future, so long as you werepart of it, my darling?' he said. 'It is only the fear of losing youthat comes over me sometimes!'

'You silly boy!' said Mabel, looking up at his overcast face with alittle tender laugh. 'I never knew you could be so sentimental. I amquite well, and I don't mean to die as long as you want me to takecare of you!'

He dreaded to lose her by a parting far bitterer than death; but hehad said too much already, and only smiled sadly to himself at thethought of the ghastly mockery which the memory of her words nowmight have for him in a day or two. She was daintily rearranging theviolets in his buttonhole, and he caught the slender white hands inhis, and, lifting them to his lips, kissed them with a passionatehumility. A little while, perhaps, and those dear hands would neveragain thrill warm in his grasp as he felt them now!

'I'm afraid, ' said Mabel a little later, 'you're letting yourself beworried still by something. Is it the new book? Are you gettingimpatient to hear about it?'

'I did expect some letters before this, ' replied Mark (he was indeedfast growing desperate at Caffyn's silence); 'but I dare sayeverything 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 hopeit is nothing to do with Dolly. She was looking quite ill when we wentaway, almost as she did--oh, Mark, if I thought Harold had dared tofrighten her again!'

Mark remembered that afternoon in South Audley Street. He had neversought to know why Dolly had gone away so obediently, but now he felta new uneasiness; he had never meant her to be frightened; he wouldsee into it if he ever came home again. 

'I don't think he would do such a thing now, ' he said, and tried tobelieve so himself. 'I always thought, you know, Mabel, you wererather 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 everyword he said, and he knew it and played on her trust in him for somehorrible pleasure I suppose he found in it. No, I can never forgivehim for that, Mark, never!'

He turned away with a spasm of conscience. If Caffyn had been atraitor, 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 tosee--there's a timber raft coming down the river. '

For within the last few days the Rhine had risen sufficiently to makeit possible to send the timber down the stream, instead of by the longand costly transport overland, and as she spoke the compact mass ofpine trunks lashed together came slowly round the bend of the river, gradually increasing in pace until it shot the arch of the bridge andplunged through the boiling white rapids, while the raft broke up witha dull thunder followed by sharp reports as the more slender trunkssnapped with the strain. 

Mark looked on with a sombre fascination, as if the raft typified hislife'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 tothe shore with long hooks, and the rest had floated on again in placidprocession, their scraped wet edges gleaming in the sunlight. 

As he turned towards the town again, he saw the porter of their hotelcrossing the bridge, with the director's little son, a sturdyflaxen-haired boy of about four, running by his side. They passedthrough 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 isbringing me a letter, the darling! I'll run down to the gate and givehim 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 littledog, and his greatest delight was to be allowed to take her letters toher. They were close to the mount now, the porter in his green baizeapron and official flat cap, and little Max in his speckled blueblouse, trotting along to keep up, and waving the envelope he held inhis brown fist. Mark could see from where he stood that it was not aletter that the child was carrying. 

'It's a telegram, Mabel, ' he said, disturbed, though there was noparticular cause as yet for being so. 

Mabel instantly concluded the worst. 'I knew it, ' she said, and thecolour left her cheeks and she caught at the rough wooden rail forsupport. '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 inperson to the pretty English lady, and--scarcely waiting to hear theporter's explanation that as he had to come up to the station he hadbrought the message with him, knowing that he would probably find theEnglish couple in their favourite retreat--he tore open the envelopeas he went up the winding path. The first thing that met him was theheading: _From H. Caffyn, Pillar Hotel, Wastwater_, and he dared notgo on. Something very serious must have happened, since Caffyn hadsent a telegram! Before he could read further Mabel came down to meethim. 

'It _is_ Dolly, then!' she cried as she saw Mark's face. 'Oh, let usgo back at once, Mark, let us go back!'

'It's not from home, ' said Mark: 'it's private; go up again, Mabel, Iwill come to you presently. '

Mabel turned without a word, wounded that he should have troubleswhich she might not share with him. 

When Mark read the telegram he could scarcely believe his eyes atfirst. Could it really be that the miracle had happened? For the wordsran, '_H. Of his own accord decided to leave England without furtherdelay. Started yesterday. _' That could only mean one thing after whatCaffyn had said when they met last. Vincent had gone with Gilroy. InIndia he would be comparatively harmless; it would be even possiblenow to carry out some scheme by which the book could be restoredwithout scandal. At last the danger was past! He crumpled up thetelegram and threw it away, and then sprang up to rejoin Mabel, whosefears vanished as she met his radiant look. 'I hope I didn't frightenyou, darling, ' he said. 'It was a business telegram, about which Iwas getting anxious. I was really afraid to read it for a time; butit's all right, it's good news, Mabel. You don't know what a relief itis to me! And now what shall we do? I feel as if I couldn't stay uphere any longer. Shall we go and explore the surrounding country? Itwon't tire you?'

Mabel was ready to agree to anything in her delight at seeing Mark hisold self again, and they went up the narrow street of Klein Laufingen, and through the gatehouse out upon the long white tree-bordered mainroad, from which they struck into a narrow path which led through thewoods to the villages scattered here and there on the distant greenslopes. 

Mark felt an exquisite happiness as they walked on; the black veilwhich clouded the landscape was rent. Nature had abandoned her irony. As he walked through the pine-woods and saw the solemn cathedraldimness suddenly chased away as the sunbeams stole down the statelyaisles, dappling the red trunks with golden patches and lighting thebrilliant emeralds of the moss below, he almost felt it as intended indelicate allusion to the dissipation of his own gloom. Mabel was byhis side, and he need tremble no longer at the thought of resigningthe sweet companionship, he could listen while she confided her plansand hopes for the future, with no inward foreboding that a day wouldscatter them to the winds! His old careless gaiety came back as theysat at lunch together in the long low room of an old village inn, while Mabel herself forgot her anxiety about Dolly and caught theinfection of his high spirits. They walked back through little groupsof low white houses, where the air was sweet with the smell of pineand cattle, and the men were splitting firewood and women gossiping atthe doors, and then across the fields, where the peasants looked up tomutter a gruffly civil '_G'n Abend_' as they turned the ox-plough atthe end of the furrow. Now and then they came upon one of the largecrucifixes common in the district, and stopped to examine the curiouscollection of painted wooden emblems grouped around the centralfigure, or passed a wayside shrine like a large alcove, with a womanor child kneeling before the gaudily coloured images, but not tooabsorbed in prayer to cast a glance in the direction of the footsteps. 

The sun had set when they reached the old gatehouse again, and sawthrough its archway the narrow little street with its irregularoutlines in bold relief against a pale-green evening sky. 

'I haven't tired you, have I?' said Mark, as they drew near thestriped frontier post at the entrance to the bridge. 

'No, indeed, ' she said; 'it has been only too delightful. Why, ' sheexclaimed suddenly, 'I thought we were the only English people inLaufingen. Mark, surely that's a fellow-countryman?'

'Where?' said Mark. The light was beginning to fade a little, and atfirst he only saw a stout little man with important pursed lipstrimming the oil-lamp which lit up the covered way over the bridge. 

'Straight in front; in the angle there, ' said Mabel; and even at thatdistance 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 thefigure and dress. They were Vincent Holroyd's!

In one horrible moment the joyous security he had felt only the momentbefore became a distant memory. He stopped short in an agony ofirresolution. What could he do? If he went on and Holroyd saw them, ashe must, his first words would tell Mabel everything. Yet he must facehim soon; there was no escape, no other way but across that bridge. Atleast, he thought, the words which ruined him should not be spoken inhis hearing; he could not stand by and see Mabel's face change as theshameful truth first burst upon her mind. 

His nerves were just sufficiently under his control to allow him toinvent a hurried pretext for leaving her. He had forgotten to buy sometobacco in a shop they had just passed, he said; he would go back forit 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 whitewashedbuilding, half farmhouse, half country inn, known to tourists as thePillar Hotel, Wastwater, Holroyd and Caffyn were sitting one evening, nearly a week after their first arrival in the Lake district. Bothwere somewhat silent, but the silence was not that contented one whichcomes of a perfect mutual understanding, as appeared by the consciousmanner in which they endeavoured to break it now and then, withoutmuch success. By this time, indeed, each was becoming heartily tiredof the other, and whatever cordiality there had been between them wasfast disappearing on a closer acquaintance. During the day they keptapart by unspoken consent, as Caffyn's natural indolence was enough ofitself to prevent him from being Vincent's companion in the longmountain walks by which he tried to weary out his aching sense offailure; but at night, as the hotel was empty at that season, theywere necessarily thrown together, and found it a sufficientinfliction. 

Every day Holroyd determined that he would put an end to it as soon ashe could with decency, as a nameless something in Caffyn's mannerjarred on him more and more, while nothing but policy restrainedCaffyn himself from provoking an open rupture. And so Holroyd wasgazing absently into the fire, where the peat and ling cracklednoisily as it fell into fantastic peaks and caves, and Caffyn was idlyturning over the tattered leaves of a visitors' book, which bore theusual eloquent testimony to the stimulating influence of scenery uponthe human intellect. When he came to the last entry, in which, whilethe size of the mountains was mentioned with some approval, thesaltness 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 getback to town again. ' Holroyd did not appear to have heard him, and, asCaffyn had intended a covert sting, the absence of all response didnot improve his temper. 'I can't think why the devil they don't sendme the paper, ' he went on irritably. 'I ordered it to be sent downhere regularly, but it never turns up by any chance. I should thinkeven you must be getting anxious to know what's become of the worldoutside this happy valley?'

'I can't say I am particularly, ' said Holroyd; 'I'm so used to beingwithout papers now. '

'Ah, ' said Caffyn, with the slightest of sneers, 'you've got one ofthose minds which can be converted into pocket kingdoms on anemergency. I haven't, you know. I'm a poor creature, and I confess Ido like to know who of my friends have been the last to die, or burstup, or bolt, or marry--just now the last particularly. I wonder what'sgoing on in the kitchen, eh?' he added, as now and then shouts andlaughter came from that direction. 'Hallo, Jennie, Polly, whateveryour name is, ' he said to the red-cheeked waiting-maid who enteredthat instant, 'we didn't ring, but never mind; you just come in timeto tell us the cause of these unwonted festivities--who've you got inyour 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 coomover fra' Drigg wi' a letter--will it be for wan of ye?' and she heldout an eccentrically shaped and tinted envelope; 'there's a bonnysmell 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 hetore open the letter with some eagerness. 'From the magnificent MissFeatherstone--I must say there's no stiffness about her style, though! What should _you_ say when a letter begins like this---- Iforgot, though, ' he said, stopping himself, 'you're the kind of manwho 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 youcan. Gilda tells me that she's been officiating as bridesmaid--fulllist of costumes and presents--"sure it will interest me, " is she?Well, perhaps she's right. Do you know, Holroyd, I rather think Ishall 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 yourpowerful mind, though, ' and he left the room. He came back almostdirectly, however, with a copy of some paper in his hand: 'Justremembered it as I was shutting the door, ' he said; 'it's only a staleold Review I happened to have in my portmanteau; but you may not haveseen it, so I ran up and brought it down for you. '

'It's awfully good of you to think of it, really, ' said Vincent, muchmore cordially than he had spoken of late. He had been allowinghimself to dislike the other more and more, and this slight mark ofthoughtfulness gave him a pang of self-reproach. 

'Well, it may amuse you to run through it, ' said Caffyn, 'so I got itfor you. '

'Thanks, ' said Holroyd, without offering to open the paper. 'I'll lookat it presently. '

'Don't make a favour of it, you know, ' said Caffyn; 'perhaps youprefer something heavier (you've mental resources of your own, Iknow); but there it is if you care to look at it. '

'I'd give anything to see him read it!' he thought when he wasoutside; 'but it really wouldn't be safe. I don't want him to suspectmy share in the business. ' So he went on to the kitchen and was almostinstantly 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 himselfand caught a chill trudging home in the rain that afternoon over thesquelching rushy turf of Ennerdale, and now he was feeling too languidand ill to rouse himself. There was a letter that must be written toMabel, but he felt himself unequal to attempting it just then, and wasrather glad than otherwise that the hotel inkstand, containing as itdid a deposit of black mud and a brace of pre-Adamite pens, decidedthe matter for him. He took up the Review Caffyn had so consideratelyprovided for his entertainment and began to turn over the pages, morefrom a sense of obligation than anything else. For some time he couldnot keep his attention upon what he read. 

He had dreamy lapses, in which he stood again on the mountain top hehad climbed that day, and looked down on the ridges of theneighbouring ranges, which rose up all around like the curved spinesof couching monsters asleep there in the solemn stillness--and then hecame to himself with a start as the wind moaned along the windingpassages of the inn, stealthily lifting the latch of the primitivesitting-room door, and swelling the carpet in a highly uncannyfashion. 

After one of these recoveries he made some effort to fix his thoughts, and presently he found himself reading a passage which had a strangelyfamiliar ring in it--he thought at first it was merely that passingimpression of a vague sameness in things which would vanish onanalysis--but, as he read on, the impression grew stronger at everyline. He turned to the beginning of the article, a notice on a recentbook, and read it from beginning to end with eager care. Was hedreaming still, or mad? or how was it that in this work, with adifferent title and by a strange writer, he seemed to recognise thecreation of his own brain? He was sure of it; this book 'Illusion' waspractically the same in plot and character--even in names--as themanuscript he had entrusted to Mark Ashburn, and believed a hopelessfailure. If this was really his book, one of his most cherishedambitions had not failed after all; it was noticed in a spirit ofwarm and generous praise, the critic wrote of it as having even thenobtained a marked success--could it be that life had possibilities forhim beyond his wildest hopes?

The excitement of the discovery blinded Vincent just then to allmatters of detail: he was too dazzled to think calmly, and onlyrealised that he could not rest until he had found out whether he wasdeceiving himself or not. Obviously he could learn nothing where hewas, and he resolved to go up to town immediately. He would see Markthere, if he was still in London, and from him he would probably getinformation on which he might act--for, as yet, it did not even occurto Vincent that his friend could have played a treacherous part. Should he confide in Caffyn before he went? Somehow he felt reluctantto do that; he thought that Caffyn would feel no interest in suchthings (though here, as we know, he did him an injustice), and hedecided 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 timeto meet the morning train, and, after packing such things as he wouldwant, lay awake for some time in a sleeplessness which was notirksome, and then lost himself in dreams of a fantastically brilliantfuture. 

When Caffyn had had enough of the huntsmen he returned to thesitting-room, and was disgusted to find that Holroyd had retired andleft the Review. 'I shall hear all about it to-morrow, ' he said tohimself; 'and if he knows nothing--I shall have to enlighten himmyself!'

But not being an early riser at any time, he overslept himself evenmore than usual next day, ignoring occasional noises at his door, theconsequence being that, when he came down to breakfast, it was only tofind a note from Vincent on his plate: 'I find myself obliged to go totown at once on important business, ' he had written. 'I tried to wakeyou and explain matters, but could not make you hear. I would not gooff in this way if I could help it; but I don't suppose you will verymuch mind. '

Caffyn felt a keen disappointment, for he had been looking forward tothe pleasure of observing the way in which Vincent would take thediscovery; but he consoled himself: 'After all, it doesn't matter, ' hethought; '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. SomehowI'm rather sorry for that poor devil of a Mark--he did me a bad turnonce, but I've really almost forgiven him, and--but for Mabel--I thinkI should have shipped dear Vincent off in perfect ignorance--dearVincent did bore me so! But I want to be quits with charming, scornfulMabel, and, when she discovers that she's tied for life to a sham, I dothink it will make her slightly uncomfortable--especially if I can tellher she's indebted to me for it all! Well, in a day or two there willbe 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 bemagnificent. I do pity that miserable beggar, upon my soul, I do--it'ssome comfort to think that I never did him any harm; he lost meMabel--and I kept him from losing her. I can tell him that if hetries any reproaches!'

Meanwhile Vincent was spinning along in the dog-cart on his way toDrigg. There had been a fall of snow during the night, and themountains across the lake seemed grander and more awful, their ruggedpoints showing sharp and black against the blue-tinted snow which layin the drifts and hollows, and their peaks rising in glittering silveragainst a pale-blue sky. The air was keen and bracing, and his spiritsrose as they drove past the grey-green lake, and through theplantations of bright young larches and sombre fir. He arrived atDrigg in good time for the London train, and, as soon as it stopped ata station of importance, seized the opportunity of procuring a copy of'Illusion' (one of the earlier editions), which he was fortunateenough to find on the bookstall there. He began to read it at oncewith a painful interest, for he dreaded lest he had deluded himselfin some strange way, but he had not read very far before he becameconvinced that this was indeed his book--his very own. Here and there, it was true, there were passages which he did not remember havingwritten, some even so obviously foreign to the whole spirit of thebook that he grew hot with anger as he read them--but for the mostpart each line brought back vivid recollections of the very mood andplace in which it had been composed. And now he observed somethingwhich he had not noticed in first reading the Review--namely, that'Illusion' was published by the very firm to which he had sent his ownmanuscript. Had not Mark given him to understand that Chilton andFladgate had rejected it? How could he reconcile this and the storythat the manuscript had afterwards been accidentally destroyed, withthe fact of its publication in its present form? And why was the titlechanged? Who was this Cyril Ernstone, who had dared to interfere withthe text? The name seemed to be one he had met before in someconnection--but where? Had not Mark shown him long ago a short articleof his own which had been published in some magazine over that or somevery similar signature? Terrible suspicions flashed across him whenthese and many other similar circumstances occurred to him. He foughthard against them, however, and succeeded in dismissing them asunworthy of himself and his friend: he shrank from wronging Mark, evenin thought, by believing him capable of such treachery as was impliedin these doubts. He felt sure of his honour, and that he had only tomeet him to receive a perfectly satisfactory explanation of hisconduct in the matter, and then Mark and he would hunt down thisimpostor, Cyril Ernstone, together, and clear up all that wasmysterious enough at present. In the meantime he would try to banishit from his mind altogether, and dwell only on the new prospects whichhad opened so suddenly before him; and in this he found abundantoccupation for the remainder of his journey. 

He reached Euston too late to do anything that night, and the nextmorning his first act, even before going in search of Mark, was todrive to Kensington Park Gardens with some faint hope of finding thatMabel had returned. But the windows were blank, and even the frontdoor, as he stood there knocking and ringing repeatedly, had an air ofdust and neglect about it which prepared him for the worst. Afterconsiderable delay a journeyman plumber unfastened the door andexplained that the caretaker had just stepped out, while he himselfhad 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 allaway; they might be abroad, but he did not know for certain; soVincent had to leave, with the questions he longed to put unasked. AtSouth Audley Street he was again disappointed. The servant there hadnot been long in the place, but knew that Mr. Ashburn, the lastlodger, had gone away for good, and had left no address, saying hewould write or call for his letters. Holroyd could not be at easeuntil he had satisfied himself that his friend had been true to him. He almost hated himself for feeling any doubt on the subject, and yetMark had certainly behaved very strangely; in any case he must try tofind out who this Cyril Ernstone might be, and he went on to the Cityand called at Messrs. Chilton and Fladgate's offices with thatintention. 

Mr. Fladgate himself came down to receive him in the little room inwhich Mark Ashburn had once waited. 'You wished to speak to me?' hebegan. 

'You have published a book called "Illusion, "' said Vincent, goingstraight to the point in his impatience. 'I want to know if you feelat liberty to give me any information as to its author?' Mr. Fladgate's eyebrows went up, and the vertical fold between themdeepened. 

'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 Iwill 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 intelling 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 presumeyou 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 yourselfthe trouble to come here to ask that question. As you are here, however, I can gratify your curiosity without the slightest breach ofconfidence. There is our later edition of the book on that table; thetitle-page will tell you all you want to know. '

Vincent's hand trembled as he took the book. Then he opened it, andthe title-page did tell him all. His worst suspicions were more thanverified. He had been meanly betrayed by the man he had trusted--theman whom he had thought his dearest friend! The shock stunned himalmost 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 lowvoice. 

'And you suspected him, eh?' continued the publisher, who was not themost 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 feelsquite safe in declaring himself--a very brilliant young man, sir. Icongratulate 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 inthe least--you won't find him at all stuck up!'

'No, ' agreed Vincent, 'I don't think I shall. And now perhaps youwill have no objection to give me his present address, and then Ineed 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. Ihad 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, "--ifyou 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 serviceto you--by the way, I suppose you saw your friend's'--but before hecould 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 pleasantvein any longer. It had required some effort on his part to restrainhimself when he first knew the truth, and only the consciousness thathis unsupported assertions would do no good had kept him silent. Hewould wait to make his claim until he could bring evidence that couldnot be disregarded--he would go to Mark Ashburn and force him to givehim an acknowledgment which would carry conviction to every mind. 

He would go at once. Mark had evidently gone to this place, GrossLaufingen, with the idea of avoiding him--he would follow him there!He lost no time in making inquiries, and soon learnt that GrossLaufingen was about two hours' journey from Basle, and that by leavingLondon next morning he would catch the fast train through from Calaisto Basle, and arrive there early on the following day. He made allnecessary arrangements for starting, and wrote to Caffyn to say thathe was going abroad, though he did not enter into further details, andon receiving this letter Caffyn took the opportunity of gratifyinghis malicious sense of humour by despatching (at considerable troubleand expense to himself, for Wastwater is far enough from any telegraphpoles) the message Mark had received from little Max's hand on themount. 

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 hadthought his friend, whose affectionate emotion had touched and cheeredhim when they met at Plymouth, and who had been deliberately deceivinghim from the first. 

All the night through he pictured the meeting to himself, with a sternjoy at the thought of seeing Mark's handsome false face change withterror at the sight of him--would he beg for mercy, or try to defendhimself? would he dare to persist in his fraud? At the bare thought ofthis last possibility a wave of mad passion swept over his brain--hefelt that in such a case he could not answer for what he might say ordo. 

But with the morning calmer thoughts came: he did not wantrevenge--only justice. Mark should restore everything in full--it washis own fault if he had placed himself in such a position that hecould not do that without confessing his own infamy. If there was anyway of recovering his own and sparing Mark to some extent in the eyesof the world, he would agree to it for the sake of their oldfriendship, which had been strong and sincere on his own side atleast; but no sentimental considerations should stand between him andhis right. 

Basle was reached in the early morning, and the pretty city wasflushed with rose, and the newly risen sun was sparkling on thevariegated roofs and cupolas as he drove across the bridge to theBaden station. He felt jaded and ill after a journey in which he hadslept but little, and, finding that he would not be able to go on toLaufingen for some time, was obliged to recruit himself by a fewhours' sleep at an hotel. 

It was past midday when he awoke, and the next train, which startedlate in the afternoon, brought him to Laufingen, just as the lastsunset rays were reddening the old grey ruin on the hill, and thetowns and river below showed themselves in an enchanted atmosphere ofviolet haze. 

Leaving his luggage at the station until he should have found a placeto stay at for the night, Vincent walked down to the bridge, intendingto go to the Rheinfall Hotel and inquire for Mark. There is a pointwhere the covered portion of the bridge ends, and the structure issupported by a massive stone pier, whose angles, facing up and downthe river and protected by a broad parapet, form recesses on eitherside of the roadway. Here he stopped for a moment, fascinated by thecharm of the scene, and, leaning upon the ledge, watched the lasttouches of scarlet fading out of the slate-coloured cloud-masses inthe west. He was roused from this occupation by a voice which calledhis name in a low tremulous tone which sent the blood rushing back tohis heart, and as he turned to see a graceful figure just passing outfrom under the arched roof towards him, he recognised Mabel Langton. 

The dying light fell full on her face, which had an expression half ofawe, half of incredulous joy--she came towards him, holding out twoeager hands, and the awe vanished, but the joy grew more assured. 

'Vincent!' she cried. 'Is it really you? you have come back to us--oram I dreaming?'

He had met her at last, and in this place to which he had comeanticipating nothing but pain and contest . .. She had not forgottenhim--the glad shining in her sweet eyes told him that, and a great andglorious hope sprang up within him. 

In her presence he forgot his wrongs, he forgot the very object of ajourney which had thus led him to her side, all his past feelingsseemed petty and ignoble, and fame itself a matter of little worth; hetook her small gloved hands and stood there, resting his eyes on thedear 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 theforgotten tobacco, turned back with a blind instinct of escape; hewent to the foot of the hilly little street down which Mabel and hehad lately passed, and halted there undecidedly; then he saw a flightof rough steps by a stone fountain and climbed them, clutching thewooden 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 anothershort flight of steps, which brought him out upon a little terrace infront of a primitive stucco church. Here he paused to recover breathand think, if thought was possible. Above the irregular line ofhigh-pitched brown roofs at his feet he could just catch a glimpse ofthe rushing green Rhine, with the end of the covered way on the bridgeand the little recess beyond. It was light enough still for him to seeclearly the pair that stood in that recess: Vincent's broad figureleaning earnestly towards that other one--he was drawing closer--nowhe drew back again as if to watch the effect of his words. Mark knewwell what she must be hearing down there. He strained his eyes as thedusk shrouded the two more and more; he thought that, even there, hewould be able to see a change when the blow fell. 'Mabel, mydarling--my innocent darling!' he groaned aloud, 'have pity on me--donot give me up!' From the opposite side he could hear the faintstrains of a street organ which was playing a lively popular air; ithad come in that morning, and he and Mabel had been amused at theexcitement it produced amongst the unsophisticated inhabitants; it hadexhausted its _répertoire_ over and over again, but its popularityseemed yet undiminished. 

As he leaned there on the rough stone parapet his panic graduallyabated, and the suspense became intolerable; he could not stay there. By this time too the worst must have happened; it was useless to tryto avoid the inevitable; he would go down and face his doom, withoutgiving her further cause to despise him. The idea of denying thecharge never occurred to him for a moment; he knew that face to facewith his accuser such audacity was beyond his powers; he had nothingto say in defence, but he must hear his sentence. 

And so, in a sort of despairing apathy, he went steadily down again tothe street level, and, with a self-command for which he had not daredto hope, passed with a firm tread along the covered way across thebridge. 

 * * * * *

After the first surprise of meeting, Vincent had had to explain, inanswer to Mabel's eager questions, the manner in which he had escapedbeing a victim to the 'Mangalore' disaster; the explanation wascommonplace 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 letternever came. I never dreamed that there was the slightest hope till Isaw you here. I hardly dared to speak to you at first. And how do youcome 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 hadalmost forgotten all that. Never mind about me, Mabel; tell me aboutyourself now. You don't know how I have been longing for the verysmallest 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 tosee them to-night?'

'My people are all at Glenthorne just now, ' said Mabel with somenatural surprise, which, however, only made Vincent conclude she mustbe travelling with friends. Were they her future parents-in-law, hewondered jealously. He could not rest till he knew how that was. 

'Mabel, ' he said earnestly, 'they told me you were engaged; is ittrue?'

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 youreally heard that, Vincent?'

But, instead of reading her embarrassment aright, he saw in it anintimation that his worst fears were without foundation. He had notcome too late. She was free--there was hope for him yet. But even thenhe did not dare to express the wild joy he felt. 

'Do you mean, ' he said--and his voice betrayed nothing--'that it isbroken off?'

'Broken off!' she repeated, with a little touch of bewilderment. 'Why--oh, Vincent, what a dreadful thing to ask! I thought you wouldunderstand, and you don't a bit. I am not engaged now, because--becausethis is my wedding journey!'

If Vincent had been slow to understand before, he understood now. Itwas all over; this was final, irrevocable. The radiant prospect whichhad seemed to open a moment before to his dazzled eyes had closed forever. For a moment or two he did not speak. If he had made any soundit would have been a cry of pain; but he repressed it. That must behis secret now, and he would keep it till death. He kept it well thenat 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--andwish you every happiness. '

'Thank you, Vincent, ' said Mabel not too warmly, thinking that, fromso old a friend as Vincent, these felicitations were cold andconventional. 

'You are happy, are you not?' he asked anxiously. 

'Happier than I ever thought possible, ' she said softly. 'When you seemy--my husband' (she spoke the word with a pretty, shy pride), 'andknow how good he is, Vincent, you will understand. ' If she had eversuspected the place she filled in Vincent's heart she would havespared him this; as it was she treated him as an affectionate elderbrother, who needed to be convinced that she had chosen wisely; and itwas in some degree his own fault that she did so; he had never givenher 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 willlike Mark, Vincent, when you know him. '

Vincent started now unmistakably; not all his self-control couldprevent that. Till that moment it had not occurred to him that Mabel'spresence 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 andshe were not even acquainted, and even the discovery that she wasmarried 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; howstupid 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 thatturned his heart to stone. 

'I used to be, ' he answered coldly, not caring very much just then inhis bitterness if the scorn he felt betrayed itself or not. But Mabeltook his answer literally. 

'Why, of course, ' she said. 'I remember we came upon your portraitonce at home, and he asked if it was not you, and said you were one ofhis 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 hehas become famous. You have been so long away that you may not haveheard 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 knownone another. He has to admit that, even though he does try to run downhis work sometimes, and insist that it has been very much overrated!'

'He says so, does he?' Vincent replied. 'Yes, I can quite understandthat. '

Some intonation in his voice struck Mabel's ear. 'Perhaps you agreewith him?' she retorted jealously. 

Holroyd laughed harshly. 'No, indeed, ' he said, 'I should be the lastman in the world to do that. I only meant I could understand yourhusband taking that view. I read the book with intense interest, Iassure 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, duringwhich Mabel was thinking that he had certainly altered--hardly for thebetter, and Holroyd was wondering how much longer he would have tobear this. He was afraid of himself, feeling the danger of a violentoutburst 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 meetsomeone with a glad cry of relief. He heard her making some rapidexplanations, and then she returned, followed by Mark Ashburn. 

Mabel's greeting told the wretched Mark that the blow had not fallenyet. Vincent evidently was determined to spare neither of them. Lethim strike now, then; the less delay the better. 

He walked up to the man who was his executioner with a dull, doggedexpectation of what was coming. He tried to keep himself straight, buthe felt that his head was shaking as if with palsy, and he wasgrateful that the dusk hid his face. 'Here is Mark, at last, ' saidMabel. '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 stoodsilently waiting for the other to speak. Vincent was silent, too, fora time, looking at him fixedly. This was how they had met, then. Hehad pictured that meeting many times lately, but it had never beenanything like the reality. And Mabel still suspected nothing. Therewas a touch of comedy of a ghastly kind in the situation, which gaveVincent a grim amusement, and he felt a savage pleasure, of which hewas justly ashamed later, in developing it. 

'I have been trying to explain to your wife, ' he said at last, 'that Ihave been away so long that I could hardly hope you would remember therelations between us. '

Mark made some reply to this; he did not know what. 

'At least, ' Vincent continued calmly, 'I may congratulate you upon thesuccess of your book. I should have done so when we met the other dayif I had understood then that you were the author. Your modesty didnot 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 wasalive then, Mark? And you never told me!'

'He naturally did not think it would interest you, you see, ' saidVincent. 

'No, ' said Mabel, turning to Mark, 'you couldn't know that Vincent hadonce been almost one of the family; I forgot that. If you had onlythought of telling me!'

The two men were silent again, and Mabel felt hurt and disappointed atVincent's want of cordiality. He seemed to take it for granted that hehad been forgotten. He would thaw presently, and she did her best tobring this about by all the means in her power, in her anxiety thatthe man she respected should do justice to the man she loved. 

That conversation was, as far as Mark was concerned, like the onedescribed 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 herwell-meant efforts to bring them into conversation, 'It was quite byaccident, do you know, Mark, that Vincent should have met us here atall; he was on his way to find some man who has---- I forget what yousaid he had done, Vincent. '

'I don't think I went into particulars, ' he replied. 'I described himgenerally as a scoundrel. And he is. '

'I hope you were able to find that out before he could do you anyinjury?' 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 mindtelling us how you were treated?'

Vincent hesitated; just then the sense of his wrong, the sight of theman who had deceived him, made him hard as adamant. Could he desire afuller satisfaction than was offered him now?

'It's rather a long story, ' he said; 'perhaps this is not quite theplace to tell it. _You_ might find it interesting, though, from theliterary point of view, ' he added, turning suddenly on Mark, who didnot attempt to meet his eyes. 

'Tell it by all means, then, ' said the latter, without moving hishead. 

'No; you shall hear it another time, ' said Holroyd. 'Put shortly, Mabel, it's this: I trusted the other man; he deceived me. Nothingvery original in that, is there?'

'I'm afraid not, ' said Mabel. 'Did he rob you, Vincent? Have you lostmuch?'

'Much more than money! Yes, he robbed me first and paid me thecompliment of a highly artistic chain of lies afterwards. That was aneedless waste; the ordinary sort of lie would have been quite enoughfor me--from him. '

Mark heard all this with a savage inclination at first to cut thescene short, and say to Mabel, 'He means Me. _I_ robbed him! _I_ liedto 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 apatheticacknowledgment that he had the right to revenge himself to the veryutmost. 

The house at the nearer end of the bridge had a small projectinggallery, where he remembered having seen a tame fox run out when hewas there in the autumn before. He caught himself vaguely speculatingwhether the fox was there still, or if it had died; and yet he heardevery 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 haveoften wondered whether I could keep calm enough to say what I mean tosay. I think I shall; in these civilised days we have to repressourselves now and then, but that won't, of course, prevent me frompunishing him as he deserves; and, when those nearest and dearest tohim know him as he really is, and turn from him, even he will feelthat a punishment!' (He turned to Mark again) 'Don't you agree withme?' he asked. 

Mark moistened his lips before answering. 'I think you will find itvery 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 himstill. '

'And you are going to undeceive her?' she said. 

'She must know the truth. That is part of his punishment, ' repliedVincent. 

'But it will be so terrible for her, poor thing!' said Mabel, with aninfinite compassion in her voice. 'What if the truth were to _kill_her?'

'Better that, ' he said bitterly, 'than to go on loving a lie! Whateverhappens 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! Ididn't think you could be so harsh, either of you. Of course, I don'tknow 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 atall--to get back something of what you have lost; even to punish theman, if you must, and yet spare his wife?'

'If there were, ' he cried passionately, 'do you suppose I would nottake it? Is it my fault that this man has done me such a wrong that hecan 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 tohave to give up believing in one's husband!' and as she spoke she slida confiding hand through Mark's arm. 

There was another silence, and, as it seemed plain now that theinterview 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 soharsh as your words. '

'I don't know. I feel considerably harsher just now, I think, ' hesaid. 'Good-bye then, Mabel. By the way, Ashburn, ' he added in aslightly 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? Idon't know this place--here? No, on that little terrace over there, bythe fountain; it will be quieter. Be there at nine. --I am going totell your husband the details of that story, Mabel, ' he continuedaloud, 'and then we shall decide what to do. You will spare him to mefor half an hour?'

'Oh, yes, ' said Mabel, cheerfully. She thought this looked as if theywere going to arrive at a better understanding. Mark looked atVincent, 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 marryme, 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 hisway of resenting it. She had not thought of this till then, and itconfirmed her in the idea that Ceylon had sadly changed him. 

They dined alone together in the large bare _Speise-Saal_, for thehandsome hotel was scarcely ever occupied even in the season. Now theyhad it all to themselves, and the waiters almost fought with oneanother for the privilege of attending upon them. The 'Director'himself--a lively, talkative little German, who felt his managerialtalents wasted in this wilderness--came in to superintend their meals, partly to refresh himself by the contemplation of two real guests, butchiefly to extend his English vocabulary. 

Hitherto Mark had considered him a nuisance, but he was glad thatevening when the host followed the fish in with his customarygreeting. 'Good-night! You haf made a goot valk? Guten appetit--yes?'and proceeded to invite them to a grand concert, which was to takeplace in the hotel the following Sunday. 'Zere vill pe ze pandt fromKlein-Laufingen; it is all brass, and it is better as you vill not gotoo near. Zey blow vair strong ven zey go off, but a laty from hiervill 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, withhis mouth gaping like a young bird's for chance fragments of dessert. Mark was grateful to him, too, for diverting her attention fromhimself. He grew more and more silent as the long Black Forest clockby the shining porcelain stove ticked slowly on towards the hour. Itwas time to go, and he rose with a shiver. 

'You will not be very long away, will you, dear?' said Mabel, lookingup from the orange she was peeling for the child. 'And you will dowhat 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 awaybehind 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 findcourage to tell her? There was little need just then of Holroyd'sprohibition. 

He went down to the hotel steps to the little open space where the twostreets unite, and where the oil lamp suspended above by cords droppeda 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; theonly sound was the gurgle of the fountain in the corner, where thewater-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 thesmallest objects as if to distract his mind, and he observed--as hemight not have done had he been happy--that in the lighted upper roomof the corner house they had trained growing ivy along the lowraftered ceiling. 

So, too, as he went on he noticed details in each dim small-panedshop-front he passed. The tobacconist's big wooden negro, sitting withbundles of Hamburg cigars in his lap and filling up the whole of thewindow; the two rows of dangling silver watches at the watchmaker's;the butcher's unglazed slab, with its strong iron bars, behind whichone small and solitary joint was caged like something dangerous tosociety; even the grotesque forms in which the jugs and vases at thechina shop were shadowed on the opposite wall. 

He looked up at a quaint metal inn-sign, an ancient ship, which swungfrom 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 ofmeeting lay straight on, but he turned to his right instead, past the_Zoll-Verein_--where the chief was busy writing by the window underhis linen-shaded oil-lamp--and on to the bridge as if someirresistible attraction were drawing him. 

When he reached the recess opposite to that in which Mabel had metVincent he stopped mechanically and looked around; the towns wereperfectly still, save for the prolonged organ note of the falls, whichsoon ceases to strike the ear. On either bank the houses gleamed paleunder a low sky, where the greenish moonlight struggled through a rackof angry black clouds. While he stood there the clock under the churchcupola above struck the quarters and clanged out the hour, followed, after a becoming pause, by the gatehouse clock across the river, andsuch 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 stoppedshort. It was no use; he could not face Holroyd. He looked over theside, down on the water swirling by, in which the few house lightswere reflected in a dull and broken glimmer. Was there any escape forhim there?

It would only be a plunge down into that swollen rushing torrent, andhe would be past all rescue. An instant of suffocating pain, thensinging in his ears, sparks in his eyes, unconsciousness--annihilationperhaps--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 thewindows of their room. It was lighted; Mabel was sitting there in thearm-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 lifewould bring her only misery and humiliation--at least he could leaveher 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 windowwith a wild, despairing gaze. 'Forgive me!' he cried with a hoarsesob, as if she could hear, and then he threw off his hat and sprangupon the broad parapet. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

ON THE LAUFENPLATZ. 

Vincent had left the _Gasthaus zur Post_, the old-fashioned innoutside Klein-Laufingen, at which he had taken up his quarters for thenight, a little before nine, and walked down the street, with his mindfinally made up as to the course he meant to take, although he shrankfrom the coming interview almost as intensely as Mark himself. Hepassed under the covered way of the bridge, and had nearly reached theopen part, when he recognised the man he was coming to meet standingin one of the recesses. He noticed him look round in evident fear ofobservation--he did not seem, however, to have seen or heard Vincent, and presently the latter saw him throw his hat away, as if inpreparation for action of some sort. Vincent guessed at once what hewas intending to do; it darted across his mind that this might be thebest solution of the difficulty--he had only to keep silent for a fewseconds. Was it certain even now that he could prevent thisself-destruction if he would? But such inhumanity was impossible tohim. Instinctively he rushed forward out of the shadow and, seizingMark by the arm as he sprang upon the parapet, dragged him roughlyback. 'You coward!' he cried, 'you fool! This is the way you keep yourappointment, is it? You can do that afterwards if you like--just nowyou will come with me. '

Tragic as a rash act, such as Mark was contemplating, is whensuccessful, an interruption brings with it an inevitable bathos; whenhe first felt that grasp on his arm, he thought himself in the powerof a German policeman, and, prepared as he was a moment before to facea sudden death, he quailed before the prospect of some degrading andcomplicated official process; it was almost a relief to see insteadhis bitterest enemy!

He made no attempt at resistance or escape--perhaps life seemed moretolerable after all now he had been brought back to it; he went meeklyback with Vincent, who still held his arm firmly, and they reached theLaufenplatz without another word. 

The little terrace above the Rhine was almost dark, the only lightcame in a reflected form from a street lamp round the corner, and theyhad to pick their way round the octagonal stone fountain and betweenthe big iron salmon cages, to some seats under the five bare elms bythe railings. There Vincent sat down to recover breath, for the scenehe had just gone through was beginning to tell upon him, and he wasovercome by a feeling of faintness which made him unable to speak forsome moments. Meanwhile Mark stood opposite by the railings waitingsullenly, until Vincent rose at last and came to his side; he spokelow and with difficulty, but, in spite of the torrent roaring over therocks below, Mark heard every word. 

'I suppose, ' Vincent began, 'I need not tell you why I wished to seeyou?'

'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 ameeting--why should you? I told you I wished my authorship to be kepta secret, and you sheltered it with your own name. Very few friendswould have done that!'

'You have the right to indulge in this kind of pleasantry, ' said thetortured Mark; 'I know that--only be moderate if you can. Cut thesneers and the reproaches short, and give me the finishing stroke; doyou suppose I don't _feel_ what I am?'

'Reproaches are ungenerous, of course, ' retorted Holroyd; 'I am comingto 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 alittle more about all this. If it's painful to you, I'm sorry--but youscarcely 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'tunderstand why you did this--you could write books for yourself, whatmade you covet mine?'

'I'll tell you all there is to tell, ' said Mark: 'I didn't covet yourbook--it was like this; my own novels had both been rejected. I knew Ihad no chance, as things were, of ever getting a publisher to look atthem. I felt I only wanted a fair start. Then Fladgate got it into hishead that I was the author of that manuscript of yours. I _did_ tellhim how it really was, but he wouldn't believe me, and then--upon mysoul, 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 wasright. And then I met Mabel . .. By that time everybody knew me as theauthor of "Illusion. " I--I could not tell her I was not. .. . Then wewere engaged, and, four days before the wedding, you came back--youknow all the rest. '

'Yes, I know the rest, ' cried Vincent, passionately; 'you came to meetme--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 muchabout me! And you let me tell you about--about _her_; and you andCaffyn between you kept me in the dark till you could get me safelyout of the way. It was a clever scheme--you managed it admirably. Youneed not have stolen from anyone with such powers of constructing aplot of your own! There is just one thing, though, I should like tohave explained. I wrote Mabel a letter--I know now that she neverreceived it--why?'

'How can I tell?' said Mark. 'Good God! Holroyd, you don't suspect meof _that_!'

'Are you so far above suspicion?' asked Vincent; 'it would only be avery few more pages!'

'Well, I deserve it, ' said Mark, 'but whether you believe me or not, Inever saw a letter of yours until the other day. I never imagined youwere 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 yourarrangements. You have married her--_you_--of all the men in theworld! Nothing can ever undo that now--nothing!'

'I have married her, ' said Mark; 'God forgive me for it! But at leastshe cares for no one else, Holroyd. She loves me--whatever I am!'

'You need not tell me that, ' interrupted Vincent; 'I know it. I haveseen 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 intoit, I thought it might plead for me some day, perhaps, to a heart Ihoped 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 meantto force you to own my rights, whatever the acknowledgment costyou. .. . But I know now that I must give that up. I abandon all claimto the book; you have chosen to take it--you can keep it!'

The revulsion of feeling caused by so unexpected an announcementalmost turned Mark's head for the moment; he caught Vincent by the armin his excitement. 'What, ' he cried, 'is this a trick--are you inearnest--you will spare me after all? You must not, Vincent, I can'thave it--I don't deserve it!'

Vincent drew back coldly: 'Did I say you deserved it?' he asked, witha contempt that stung Mark. 

'Then I won't accept it, do you hear?' he persisted; 'you shall notmake this sacrifice for me!'

Holroyd laughed grimly enough: 'For you!' he repeated; 'you don'tsuppose 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 onthat platform at Plymouth?--_that_ is why. If I had only known then, Iwould have fought my hardest to expose you, if it was necessary tosave her in that way--for her sake, not mine. I don't suppose thereever was much hope for me. As it is, you have been clever enough tochoose the one shield through which I can't strike you--if I everthought more of that wretched book than of her happiness, it was onlyfor 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 meanthat that infernal Caffyn knows?'

'No, no, ' replied Mark, in all sincerity; 'Caffyn doesn't know--howcould he? But you can't hide these things: you--you may have talkedabout it yourself already!'

'I have not talked about it!' said Vincent, sharply; 'perhaps I wasnot too proud of having been gulled so easily. Can't you understand?This secret rests between you and me at present, and I shall neverbreathe a word of it--you can feel perfectly safe--you are Mabel'shusband!'

It is to be feared that Vincent's manner was far enough from thesublime and heroic; he gave up his book and his fame from theconviction that he could not do otherwise; but it was not easy for allthat, and he did not try to disguise the bitter contempt he felt forthe cause. 

Mark could not endure the humiliation of such a pardon--his spiritrose in revolt against it. 

'Do you think I will be forgiven like this?' he cried, recklessly. 'Idon'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 beneathcontempt, 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 thatnow--you _must_ accept it!'

'I shall not, ' said Mark again. 'I've been a scoundrel, I know, butI'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 beobeyed in this, and you shall obey me. Listen to me, Ashburn; youcan't do this--you forget Mabel. You have made her love you and trusther happiness to your keeping; your honour is hers now. Can't you seewhat shame and misery you will plunge her in by such a confession? Itmay clear your conscience, but it must darken her life--and that's tooheavy 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 angerreturning; 'I know you better--in a couple of days it won't evenaffect your appetite! Why, if I had not come over here, if I had goneout again to India as you hoped I should, you were prepared to go ondeceiving 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 wellas 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--youhave 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 bridgefor the woman who would suffer by her husband's shame; she waspleading for herself then--and not to me only, to you! Have pity onher; 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 tobecome all she believes you to be. '

In his heart, perhaps, Mark was not sorry to be convinced that what hehad resolved to do was impossible. The high-strung mood in which hehad 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 Ican. '

'Very well, ' Vincent answered, 'that is settled then. If she asks youwhat 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 toknow more. Stay, I will write a line' (and he went to the corner ofthe street and wrote a few words on a leaf from his notebook). 'Givethat to her, ' he said as he returned. 'And now I think we've nothingmore to say. '

'Only one other thing, ' stammered Mark; 'I must do this. .. . Whenthey--they published your book they paid me. .. . I never touched themoney. I have brought it with me to-night; you must take it!' and heheld 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'texpect 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 thetossing grey foam beyond. 

'You need not have done that, ' said Holroyd, coldly; 'there were thepoor. 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 youknew 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 inyour way, and though I never dreamed then that it could be atemptation to you, I could have forgiven you for giving way to it whenyou believed me dead. But I came back, and you went on with it; youlied to me--more, you dared to marry _her_, without a care for theshame and sorrow, which was all you had to bring her. If I said Iforgave 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 ordinaryacquaintances--for Mabel's sake. But there are no appearances to keepup here. Can't you see I want to be left to myself?' he asked, with asudden 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 streetwhere the little shops were all shuttered and dark now, were by nomeans enviable; he felt infinitely mean and small in his own eyes, andshrank from entering Mabel's presence while his nerves were stillcrawling under the scorching contempt of Vincent's dismissal. If, during the interview, there had been moments when he was deeplycontrite and touched at the clemency so unexpectedly shown him, themanner of his pardon seemed to release him from all obligations togratitude--he had only been forgiven for another's sake; and for atime he almost loathed so disgraceful an immunity, and felt the deephumiliation of a sentence that condemned him 'to pay the price of liesby being constrained to lie on still. ' But by degrees, even in thatshort walk, his elastic temperament began to assert itself; after all, it might have been worse. He might by now have been drifting, dead anddisfigured, down the river to Basle; he might have been going back toMabel with the fearful necessity upon him of telling her all thatnight. One person knew him, and despised him for what he was; but thatperson would never tell his secret. That painful scene which had justpassed would never have to be gone through again; he could think of itas a horrible dream. Yes, he was safe now, _really_ safe this time. His position was far more secure than when he had read that telegramof Caffyn's; and here he wondered, for the first time, whether Caffynhad been deliberately misled or only mistaken in sending such adelusive message. But that did not very much matter now, and he soonabandoned speculation on the subject. He had much to be thankful for;his future was free from all danger. He had had a severe lesson, andhe would profit by it; henceforth (with the one necessary reservation)he would be honest and true--Mabel should never repent her trust inhim. 'Sweet Bells Jangled' would be before the world by the time theyreturned, and after that he feared nothing. And so, though he wassubdued and silent on his return, there was no other trace in hismanner of what he had suffered during the last hour. He found Mabel bythe window of their sitting-room, looking out at the houses acrossthe river, which were now palely clear in the cold moonlight, theirlights extinguished, and only a pane glittering here and there in somehigh dormer window, while the irregular wooden, galleries and hangingouthouses were all thrown up vividly by the intense shadows. 

'What a very long time you have been away!' she said; 'but I knowVincent 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 seeyou again for some little time. I have told your husband my story, but, on consideration, have thought it best to pledge him to tell noone--not even you. But the man who injured me shall be safe for yoursake. '

'You _did_ persuade him, then!' she said, looking up gratefully toMark. 'Oh, I am glad! How good you are, and how well you must havespoken, dear, to make him give up his idea of punishing the man! SoVincent is going away at once. Do you know I am afraid I am ratherglad?'

And Mark made no answer; what was there to say?

 * * * * *

Vincent stood there by the railings on the Laufenplatz for some timeafter Mark had left him; he was feeling the reaction both in mind andbody from his recent conflict. 'How will it all end?' he asked himselfwearily. 'Can any good come from letting this deceit go on? Is hestrong enough to carry out his part? If not, the truth will only comeat last, and be even more cruel when it does come. ' Yet he had donewhat still seemed the obvious and only thing to do, if Mabel'shappiness was considered. He was ashamed even that he had not seen itearlier, and trembled as he remembered that only a providential chancehad restrained him from some fatal disclosure to Mabel that afternoonon the bridge. But at least he had acted for the best, and he wouldhope for it. 

Thinking thus, he recrossed the river to Klein-Laufingen, where amounted German officer, many sizes too big for the little street, wasrousing it from its first slumber as he clattered along, with hishorse's hoofs striking sparks from the rough cobbles, and passed underthe old gateway, where his accoutrements gleamed for an instant in thelamplight before horse and rider vanished in the darkness beyond. Vincent passed out, too, out on the broad white road, and down thehill to his homely _Gasthaus_. He felt weak and very lonely--loneliereven than when he had parted from Mabel long ago on the eve of hisCeylon 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 ofservice to her, to make some sacrifice for her dear sake. She wouldnever know either of his love or his sacrifice, and though he couldnot pretend that there was no bitterness in that, he felt that it wasbetter thus. 'After all, ' he thought, 'she loves that fellow. Shewould never have cared for me. ' And there was truth in this lastconclusion. Even if Mabel and Mark had never met, and she could haveknown Vincent as he was, the knowledge might not have taught her tolove. A woman cannot give her heart as a _prix Montyon_, or theremight be more bachelors than there are. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

MISSED FIRE!

It was an evening early in May, and Harold Caffyn was waiting atVictoria for the arrival of the Dover train, which was bringing backMark and Mabel from the Continent. This delicate attention on his partwas the result of a painful uncertainty which had been vexing him eversince the morning on which he read Vincent's farewell note atWastwater. 'It is a poor tale, ' as Mrs. Poyser might say, to throwyour bomb and never have the satisfaction of hearing it explode--andyet that was his position; he had 'shot his arrow into the air, ' likeLongfellow; but, less fortunate than the poet, he was anything butsure that his humble effort had reached 'the heart of a friend. ' Nowhe was going to know. One thing he had ascertained from theLangtons--Vincent Holroyd had certainly followed the couple toLaufingen, and they had seen him there--Harold had found Mrs. Langtonfull of the wonderful news of the return of the dead. But nothing hadcome of it as yet; if there was a sensation in store for the literaryworld, Mabel's letters apparently contained no hint of it, and for atime Caffyn felt unpleasantly apprehensive that there might have beena hitch somehow in his admirable arrangements. Then he reflected thatMabel would naturally spare her mother as long as possible; he wouldnot believe that after all the trouble he had taken, after Holroyd hadactually hunted down the culprit, the secret could have been kept fromher any longer. No, she must know the real truth, though she might beproud enough to mask her sufferings while she could. But still helonged for some visible assurance that his revenge had notunaccountably failed; and, as he had ascertained that they were toreturn on this particular evening, and were not to be met except bythe Langton carriage, it occurred to him that here would be anexcellent opportunity of observing Mabel at a time when she would notimagine it necessary to wear a mask. He would take care to remainunseen himself; a single glance would tell him all he needed to know, and he promised himself enjoyment of a refined and spiritual kind inreading the effects of his revenge on the vivid face he had lovedonce, and hated now with such malignant intensity. The train came inwith a fringe of expectant porters hanging on the footboards, and asthe doors flew open to discharge a crowd, flurried but energetic, likestirred ants, even Caffyn's well-regulated pulse beat faster. 

He had noticed Champion waiting on the platform and kept his eye uponhim in the bustle that followed; he was going up to a compartmentnow--that must be Mark he was touching his hat to as he receiveddirections; Caffyn could not see Mark's face yet as his back wastowards him, but he could see Mabel's as she stepped lightly out onthe platform--there was a bright smile on her face as she acknowledgedthe footman's salute, and seemed to be asking eager questions. Caffynfelt uncomfortable, for there was nothing forced about her smile, noconstraint in her eyes as she turned to Mark when they were aloneagain, and seemed to be expressing her eager delight at being homeagain. And Mark, too, had the face of a man without a care in theworld--something must have gone wrong, terribly wrong, it was clear!They were coming towards him; he had meant to avoid them at first, butnow his curiosity would not allow this, and he threw himself in theirway, affecting an artless surprise and pleasure at being the first towelcome 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 ofhappy expectation, which she did not try to conceal; altogether it wasa bitter disappointment to Caffyn. 

He quite gasped when Mark said, with a frank unconsciousness, andwithout waiting for the subject to be introduced by him, 'Oh, I say, Caffyn, what on earth made you think poor old Vincent was going backto India at once? He's not going to do anything of the kind; he'swandering about the Continent. We knocked up against him atLaufingen!'

Caffyn gave a searching look at Mabel's sweet, tranquil face, then atMark's, which bore no sign of guilt or confusion. 'Knocked up againstyou!' he repeated; 'why--why, didn't he _expect_ to find you there, then?'

Mabel answered this: 'It was quite an accident that he stopped atLaufingen at all, ' she said; 'he was going on to Italy. '

Caffyn did not give up even then--he tried one last probe: 'Ofcourse, ' he said; 'I forgot, your husband kept him so completely inthe dark about it all--eh, Mark? Why, when you got him to come down toWastwater with me, he had no idea what festivities were inpreparation--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, ' headded to Mabel; 'it was all for his good, poor fellow. I must tell yousome 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 hadmore 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----. ' Helost his self-possession completely--there was something in all thishe could not at all understand. 

The fact was that Mark felt himself able now to face the whole worldwith equanimity; the knowledge that no one would ever detect him madehim a consummate actor. He had long made up his mind how he wouldgreet Caffyn when they met again, and he was delighted to find himselfso composed and equal to the occasion. 

Caffyn stood looking after the carriage as it drove away with them; hehad quite lost his bearings: the paper in Holroyd's hand, Mark's ownbehaviour in so many instances, Vincent's rapid pursuit, had allseemed to point so clearly to one conclusion--yet what was he to thinknow? He began for the first time to distrust his own penetration; hevery much feared that his elaborate scheme of revenge was a failure, that he must choose some other means of humbling Mabel, and must beginall over again, which was a distressing thought to a young man in hissituation. He was glad now that he had never talked of his suspicions, and had done nothing openly compromising. He would not give up evenyet, until he had seen Holroyd, and been able to pump him judiciously;until then he must bear the dismal suspicion that he had overreachedhimself. 

One of his shafts at least had not fallen altogether wide, for as Markand 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 thesunset 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 hewanted was rest, and that the fatigue and--and--the excitement of awedding would be too much for him--Caffyn wanted a companion up atWastwater, 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 Haroldin a thing like that. I know you did it all for the best, but I don'tsee why you could not have told him; if he was not well enough to cometo the wedding we should have understood it!'

'Perhaps you're right, ' said Mark, easily, 'but, at all events, noharm has come of it to anybody. How they are thinning the trees alonghere, aren't they? Just look down that avenue!'

And Mabel let him turn the conversation from a subject she was gladenough to forget. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

LITTLE RIFTS. 

One bright morning in May, not long after the return from theContinent, Mabel was sitting in her own room at the back of the smallhouse which had been taken on Campden Hill; she was writing at a tableby the raised window, when the door opened suddenly, and Mark burstin, in a state of suppressed but very evident excitement. 'I havebrought you something!' he said, and threw down three peacock-bluevolumes 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 aboutto exclaim sympathetically, 'What a frightful binding they've givenyou, dear;' when Mark informed her, with some complacency, that it washis own design. 'Nowadays, you see, ' he explained, 'you want somethingto catch the eye, or you won't be read!' Inwardly Mabel could not helpwondering that he could condescend to such a device, or think itnecessary in his own case. 'Look at the fly-leaf, ' he said, and sheopened the first volume, and read the printed dedication, '_To MyWife. _' '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 putaway all those confounded letters and sit down here, and read theopening chapters carefully, and tell me what you think of them. ' Fortill then he had made continual excuses for not showing her anyportion of his new work, either in manuscript or proof, from mixedmotives of vanity and diffidence. 

Mabel laughed with affectionate pride at his anxiety: 'This is whatcomes of marrying a great author!' she said; 'go away and let me beginat once, and tell you at lunch how I enjoyed it. '

'No, ' said Mark despotically, 'I'm going to stay here--or you mighttry to skip. '

'But I can't allow that, ' she protested; 'suppose I find I'm obligedto skip--suppose it's a terrible disappointment? No, you ridiculousMark, I didn't mean it--stay if you like, I'm not afraid of beingdisappointed--though I really would enjoy it best in solitude!'

Mark insisted; he felt that at last he was about to be reinstated inhis 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 ingeniousand protracted than submitting the result of one's brain-work to aperson whose good opinion we covet, and watching the effect. Markimposed it on himself, nevertheless, chiefly because in his heart hehad very little fear of the result. He took a rocking-chair and satdown opposite Mabel, trying to read the paper; by-and-by, as she readon in silence, his heart began to beat and he rocked himselfnervously, while his eyes kept wandering from the columns to thepretty hands supporting the volume which hid Mabel's face. Handsreveal many things, and Mabel's could be expressive enough attimes--but they told him nothing then; he watched them turn a leaffrom time to time, they always did so deliberately, almostcaressingly, he thought, but with no eagerness--although the openingwas full of incident. He calculated that she must be at a place wherethere was a brilliant piece of humorous description; she had a fairshare of humour--why didn't she laugh?

'Have you got to that first appearance of the Curate on thetennis-ground?' he asked at last. 

She laid down the volume for an instant, and he saw her eyes--theywere calm and critical. 'Past that! I am beginning Chapter Three, ' shesaid. 

The second chapter had contained some of his most sparkling androllicking writing--and it had not even moved her to smile! Heconsoled himself with the reflection that the robuster humour neverdoes appeal to women. He had begun his third chapter with a ludicrousanecdote which, though it bordered on the profane, he had consideredtoo good to be lost, but now he had misgivings. 

'I'm afraid, ' he ventured dubiously, 'you won't quite like that bitabout the bishop, darling?'

'I'm afraid I don't quite, ' she replied from behind the book. Thestory had no real harm in it, even in Mabel's eyes; the only pity wasthat in any part of 'Illusion' it would have been an obviousblot--and that it did not seem out of keeping in the pages she wasreading now. 

She had sat down to read with such high hopes, so sure an anticipationof 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--herreal reason was a dread of some pause, when she would be asked to giveher opinion. What should she say?

Perhaps it should be explained at once that the book was not a foolishone; Mark, whatever else he was, could scarcely be called a fool, andhad a certain share of the literary faculty; it was full of smart andflorid passages that had evidently been industriously polished, andhad something of the perishable brilliancy of varnish. There is a kindof vulgarity of mind so subtle as to resist every test but ink, andthe cheap and flashy element in Mark's nature had formed a deposit, slight, perhaps, but perceptible in more than one page of 'Sweet BellsJangled. ' Mabel felt her heart grow heavier as she read. Why had hechosen to deliberately lower his level like this? Where were thestrong and masterly touch, the tenderness and the dignity of his firstbook? That had faults, too, even faults of taste--but here the faultshad almost overgrown the taste! Surely if she read on, she would findthe style attain the old distinction, and the tone grow noble andtender 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, andher mouth compressed as if with pain--somehow the sight did notencourage him. She was becoming conscious that her expression wasbeing closely watched, which seldom adds a charm to reading, and atlast she could persevere no longer, and shut the book with a faintsigh. 

'Well, ' said Mark, desperately; he felt as if his fate hung on heranswer. 

'I--I--have read so little yet, ' she said; 'let me tell you what Ithink 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 mymisery!'

She loved him too well to make some flattering or evasive reply--shewas jealous for his reputation, and could not see him peril it withouta protest. 'Oh, Mark, ' she cried, locking her hands and pressing themtight together, 'you must feel yourself--it is not your best--you havedone such great work--you will again, I know, dear--but this, it isnot 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 dobetter; if the world's verdict agreed with hers, he was a failureindeed. He had been persuading himself that, after all, he was not acommon impostor, that he had genius of his own which would beacknowledged far above his friend's talent; now all at once theconviction began to crumble. 

He turned upon her with a white face and a look of anger andmortification 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 sadfalling off in the _second_ book. I did not think _you_ would be thefirst to take up that silly old cry, Mabel--I thought I could alwayscome to my wife for encouragement and appreciation; it seems I wasmistaken!'

Mabel bit her lip, and her eyes were dazzled for a moment: 'You askedme what I thought, ' she said in a low voice; 'do you think it waspleasant to tell you? When you ask me again, I shall know better howyou expect to be answered!'

He felt all at once what he had done, and hastened to show hispenitence; she forgave, and did not let him see how deeply she hadbeen wounded--only from that day some of the poetry of her life hadturned to prose. Of 'Sweet Bells Jangled' she never spoke again, andhe did not know whether she ever read it to the end or not. 

They had finished breakfast one Saturday morning, and Mark wasleisurely cutting the weekly reviews, when he suddenly shelteredhimself behind the paper he had been skimming--'Sweet Bells' washonoured with a long notice. His head swam as he took in the effectwith some effort. The critic was not one of those fallen angels ofliterature who rejoice over an unexpected recruit; he wrote with akindly recollection of 'Illusion, ' and his condemnation was sincerelyreluctant; still, it was unmixed condemnation, and ended with anexhortation to the author to return to the 'higher and more artisticaims' of his first work. Mark's hand shook till the paper rustled whenhe came to that; he was so long silent that Mabel looked up fromreading her letters, and asked if the new book was reviewed yet. 

'Reviewed yet!' said Mark from behind the article; 'why, it hasn'tbeen 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 withall the reviews, and locked himself in the little study where hesketched out the stories to which he had not as yet found appropriateendings. 

There was another notice amongst the reviews, but in that the criticwas relentless in pointing out that the whilom idol had feet ofclay--and enormous ones; after a very severe elaboration of thefaults, the critic concluded: 'It almost seems as though the author, weary of the laudation which accompanied the considerable (if, in somedegree, accidental) success of his first book, had taken this veryeffectual method of rebuking the enthusiasm. However this may be, onemore such grotesque and ill-considered production as that underreview, and we can promise him an instant cessation of all theinconveniences of popularity. '

Mark crumpled up the paper and pitched it to the other end of the roomin a fury--it was a conspiracy, they were writing him down--oh, themalice and cowardice of it! He destroyed both reviews lest Mabelshould see her opinion confirmed, and her faith in him should beshaken. 

However, sundry copies of the reviews in question were forwarded tohim 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 thoughtfulindication of the more unpleasant passages; she saw the date, andremembered it as the day on which Mark had fenced himself in atbreakfast. She came in with the paper as he sat in his study, andputting one hand on his shoulder, bent over him with a loving reproachin her eyes: 'Someone has just sent me this, ' she said; 'you have seenit I know. Why didn't you trust me, dear? Why have you let this comefrom others? Never try to hide things from me again, Mark--not evenfor my good! and--and after this let us share everything--sorrow andall--together!' She kissed him once on the forehead, and left himthere to his own thoughts. 

Why, thought Mabel, was he not strong enough to disregard criticism ifhe was satisfied with his own work, as he evidently was? She hated tothink of his having tried to keep their notices from her in that weak, almost underhand, way; she knew that the motive was not considerationfor her feelings, and had to admit sadly that her hero was painfullyhuman after all. 

Still 'Illusion' had revealed a nature the nobility of which noweaknesses could obscure, and if his daily life did not quite bear outsuch indications, he was Mark Ashburn, and she loved him. Nothingcould alter that. 

 * * * * *

Some weeks later Vincent returned from Italy, and one of the firstpersons he met was Harold Caffyn. It was in the City, where Vincenthad had business, and he attempted at first to pass the other by withthe curtest possible recognition; he had never understood his conductin the Wastwater episode, and still resented it. But Caffyn would notallow himself to be cut, and his greeting was blandly affectionate ashe accused his friend of abandoning him up in the Lake district; hewas determined, if he could, to convince Holroyd that his silence asto Mabel's impending marriage had been due solely to consideration forhis feelings, and then, when confidence was restored, he could soundhim upon the result of his journey to Laufingen. But Vincent, from avague feeling of distrust, was on his guard. Caffyn got nothing out ofhim, even by the most ingenious pumping; he gathered that he had metMark at Laufingen; but with all his efforts he was not able todiscover if that meeting had really been by accident or design. Hespoke casually of 'Illusion, ' but Vincent showed no particularemotion. 

'I suppose you don't know, ' he added, 'that Mrs. Featherstone has doneit the honour of making a play of it--it's going to be done at the endof the season at their house, before a select party of distinguishedsufferers. '

Holroyd had not heard that. 

'I've been let in for it, ' Caffyn continued; 'I'm playing that stickof a poet, "Julian, " the beggar's name is; it's my last appearance onthe 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; 'theauthor's own wife! Romantic that, eh? She's not half bad atrehearsals; you must come and see us, my boy!'

'Perhaps I shall, ' said Vincent, mechanically, and left him, as muchat fault as ever, but resolved to have patience still. 

Caffyn's was a nature that liked tortuous ways for their own sake; hehad kept his suspicions to himself hitherto, he was averse to takingany direct action until he was quite sure of his ground. He had thosepapers in Holroyd's writing, it was true, but he had begun to feelthat they were not evidence enough to act on. If by some extraordinarychance they were quite compatible with Mark's innocence, then if hebrought a charge against him, or if any slanderous insinuations weretraced to him, he would be placed in an extremely awkward andinvidious position. 'If I'm right, ' he thought, 'Master Vincent'splaying some deep game of his own--it may be mine for all I know; atall events I'll lie low till I can find out where the cards are, andwhether 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 indifferenceregarding it, the more easily as he had had consoling indicationslately that his creative power had not been exhausted with that oneeffort, and that with returning health he might yet do good work inthe world. 

But now, as he walked on after leaving Caffyn, this indifferencesuddenly vanished; his heart beat with a secret and exquisite bliss, as he thought of this play in which Mabel was to represent his ownheroine. To hear that his work was to receive the rather moderatedistinction which can be conferred by its dramatisation on a privatestage would scarcely have elated him under ordinary circumstances; itwas no longer any concern of his at all. Still he could not resist thesubtle flattery in the knowledge that his conception was about to berealised in a manner for which few authors would dare to hope--thewoman who had inspired it would lend it all her own grace and beautyand tenderness to fill the faint outline he had traced with suchloving pains. All the banality of private theatricals could not spoilthat--she need not even act, she had only to be her own sweet self togive life and charm to the poorest play, and the most incompetent ofperformances. And then, as he thought of it, a wild longing came overhim to be there and see her; there might be something grotesque, and, under the circumstances, almost undignified in such a longing now, butit possessed him nevertheless. He would not betray himself or Mark, but this one gratification he hungered for, and neither pride norprudence had power to restrain him. 

He had meant to see as little as possible of Mabel on his return, buthe broke this resolution now. He would not keep away, he thought;surely he could trust himself to bear the sight of her happiness; itought 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 hadheard from Caffyn, was really true. 

And so, having procured the address from Mrs. Langton, he went on thatsame afternoon to Campden Hill, not knowing, nor indeed greatly caringjust 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 atsuch a period of the London season his journey would most probably bea fruitless one. But as he approached the house he found one or twocarriages waiting outside, the horses troubling the hot afternoonstillness with the sharp clinking of harness as they tossed theirimpatient heads; and by the time he had reached the gate the clatterof china and the sustained chorus of female voices coming through theopen windows made it plain enough that Mabel was 'at home, ' in a sensethat 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 illand weak--the heat had brought on a slight tendency to the faintnesswhich still reminded him occasionally of his long prostration inCeylon, and he had a nervous disinclination just then to meet a hostof strangers. The desire to see Mabel again prevailed, however, and hewent in. The pretty double drawing-room was full of people, and aseveryone seemed to be talking at once, Vincent's name was merely anunimportant contribution to the general hubbub. He saw no one he knew, he was almost the only man there, and for a time found himself pennedup in a corner, reduced to wait patiently until Mabel should discoverhim in the cool half-light which filtered through the loweredsunblinds. 

He followed her graceful figure with his eyes as often as it becamevisible through the crowd. It was easy to see that she was happy--hersmile was as frank and gay as ever. The knowledge of this should haveconsoled 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 painedunsuccessful lovers before--to think that she could contentedly acceptpinchbeck for gold. It was inconsistent on his part, since he hadsacrificed much for the very object of concealing from her thebaseness of Mark's metal. He forgot, too, the alchemy of love. 

But one cannot be always consistent, and this inconsistency ofVincent's was of that involuntary and mental kind which is nottranslated into action. 

She saw him at last and welcomed him with an eager impulsiveness--forshe knew now that she had been unjust to him at Laufingen. They talkedfor some minutes, until Vincent said at last, 'I hear you are going toplay 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, thinksthe part hardly suited to me, but I mean to try and astonish him, eventhough I may not carry out his own idea. I love Beaumelle in the bookso 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 thatpoint. 'I--I should like very much to see this play, ' he said, alittle awkwardly. 'Could it be managed?'

'I will try, ' said Mabel. 'I am sure Mrs. Featherstone will give me acard for you if she can. But I warn you, Vincent, it's not a goodplay. There's one strong scene in the third act, and the rest is along succession of _tête-à-tête_--like a society "Punch and Judy. " Itwill bore you. '

'I think not, ' said Vincent, 'and you won't forget, will you?'

'Of course not, ' she replied. 'There is Mrs. Featherstone coming innow. I will ask her at once. '

But Mrs. Featherstone had an air of suppressed flurry and annoyancewhich was discouraging, and Gilda's handsome face was dark and alittle 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 thegarden and screened from the sun by a canvas awning. 'We shall bequiet 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 withordinary patience yet--only think, our foolish, self-willed Gilda toldus this morning that _that_ Mr. Caffyn had proposed to her and she hadaccepted him--after all the offers she has refused--isn't it tooshocking to think of? And she won't listen to a word against him, thesilly child is perfectly infatuated!'

'What does Mr. Featherstone say?' asked Mabel, to whom the news wasscarcely a surprise. 

'My dear, he knows very well it is all his fault, and that if hehadn't taken the young man up in that ridiculous way all this wouldnever have happened--so, of course, he pretends not to see anything sovery unsuitable about the affair--but he doesn't like it, really. Howcan he? Gilda might have married into the peerage--and now she isgoing to do this! I'm almost afraid these theatricals have brought iton. '

Mabel was sincerely sorry. She was fond of Gilda, and thought her fartoo good for Harold. 'It may come to nothing after all, ' she said, asthe only form of consolation she could think of. 

'If I could hope so!' sighed the distressed mother, 'but she is soheadstrong. Still, he's not in a position to marry at present--unlessRobert 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 excusedherself. Then, as they re-entered the room she mentioned Holroyd'spetition. Mrs. Featherstone recollected him faintly, and was ratherflattered by his anxiety to see her play; but then he was quite anonentity, and she was determined to have as brilliant andrepresentative an audience as possible for the performance. 

'My dear, ' she said, 'I would if I could, but it's quite out of thequestion; my list is overfull as it is, and I haven't an idea where weshall put all the people who will come; there's so much talk about iteverywhere that we have had next to no refusals. But if he's onlyanxious to see the play, and doesn't mind not being seen at it, hecould get some idea of the treatment next Friday if he cares to cometo the dress rehearsal. You know we arranged to run right through itfor the first time. We thought of a small impromptu dance after therehearsal, so if Mr. Holroyd would like to come a little earlier Ishall be charmed to see him. '

So Vincent was brought up to the lady, who repeated the invitation tothe rehearsal, which he accepted, as it practically gave him theopportunity 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 tocongratulation 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 jarringlittle laugh. 'Really, Mabel, I do think you might resign him a littlemore gracefully!'

'I'm afraid I don't understand you, ' said Mabel, proudly. 

'No?' said Gilda. 'You are very innocent, dear. I can't undertake toexplain--only I am not altogether blind. '

'I hope not, ' said Mabel, and left her. She was afraid that if shestayed she might be tempted to say what could do no possible good now. 

Mrs. Featherstone had gone, with a gracious reminder to Vincent of hispromise to come to the rehearsal. It was late in the afternoon, andeveryone seemed suddenly alarmed at the idea of being the last to go, the consequence being that the rooms were cleared in an astonishinglyshort time. Mabel stopped Vincent as he too was preparing to take hisleave. 'You must stay till Mark comes back, Vincent. He has takenDolly 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 mefor a few days. You won't go away without seeing her?'

Vincent had been disappointed at not seeing her at the Langtons' theday before, and waited willingly enough now. It would be some comfortto know that the child had not forgotten him, and would be glad to seehim. He had not long to wait. A hansom drove up, and the next minuteDolly came into the room with all her old impetuosity. 'I've comeback, Mab, ' she announced, to prevent any mistake on that head. 'Wedrove home all the way in a black cab with yellow wheels--didn't yousee it? Oh, and in the Academy there was a little girl with a dog justlike Frisk, and I saw a lot of people I knew, and----'

'Don't you see someone you used to know?' said Mabel, breaking in onher stream of reminiscences. 

'Have you forgotten me, Dolly?' said Vincent, coming forward out ofthe shade. His voice was a little harsh from emotion. 

The change in the child's face as she saw him was instantaneous andstriking; all the light died out of her face, she flushed vividly, andthen 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 wascut to the heart by this reception. Nothing was the same--not even thelove of this child. 

Dolly had not been long in recovering from the effect of Caffyn's lastact of terrorism; for a day or two she had trembled, but later, whenshe heard of Vincent as away in Italy, she could feel safe from hisanger, and so in time forgot. Now it all revived again; he had sprungsuddenly from nowhere--he was demanding what she had to say forherself--what should she do?

She clung to Mabel for protection. 'Don't _you_ be cross too!' shecried. 'Promise me you won't and I'll tell you all about it . .. Youdon't know. .. . Harold said you didn't. And I never meant to burnVincent's letter. Don't let him be angry!'

Vincent was naturally completely bewildered. 'What is she talkingabout?' he asked helplessly. 

'I can guess, ' said Mabel. 'Come away with me, Dolly, and you shalltell me all about it upstairs;' and as Dolly was not unwilling tounburden herself this time, they left Vincent with Mark, who had justjoined them. Mark was uncomfortable and silent for some time when theywere alone, but at last he said: 'I suppose you have been told ofthe--the theatricals? I--I couldn't very well help it, you know. Ihope you don't mind?'

'Mind!' said Vincent. 'Why should I mind? What is it to me--now? Ithought that was finally settled at Laufingen. '

'I felt I must explain it, that's all, ' said Mark, 'and--and I've agreat deal to bear just now, Holroyd. Life isn't all roses with me, Iassure you. If you could remember that now and then, you might thinkless hardly of me!'

'I will try, ' Vincent had said, and was about to say more, when Mabelreturned alone. Her eyes were brilliant with anger. Children canoccasionally put the feats of the best constructed phonographcompletely in the shade; everything that Caffyn had told her aboutthat unfortunate burnt letter Dolly had just reproduced with absolutefidelity. 

'I know what happened to your letter now, Vincent, ' Mabel said. 'Mark, you never would see anything so very bad in the trick Harold playedDolly about that wretched stamp--see if this doesn't alter youropinion. ' And she told them the whole story, as it has been alreadydescribed, except that the motives for so much chicanery werenecessarily dark to her. A little comparison of dates made it clearbeyond a doubt that an envelope with the Ceylon stamp had been burntjust when Vincent's letter should in the ordinary course have arrived. 

'And Dolly says he told her himself it _was_ your letter!' concludedMabel. 

'Ah, ' said Vincent, 'not that that proves it. But I think this time hehas spoken truth; only _why_ has he done all this? Why suppress myletter and turn Dolly against me?'

'Malice and spite, I suppose, ' said Mabel. 'He has some grudge againstyou, probably; but go up now, Vincent, and comfort Dolly--you'll findher in my little writing-room, quite broken-hearted at the idea thatyou should be angry with her. '

Vincent went up at once, and was soon able to regain Dolly's completeconfidence. When he had gone, Mabel said to Mark: 'Harold has beenhere very often lately, dear. I tried to think better of him when Isaw you wished it--but I can't go on after this, you see thatyourself, don't you?'

Mark was angry himself at what he had heard. Now he knew how Haroldhad contrived to get rid of Dolly that afternoon in South AudleyStreet, it made him hot and ashamed to think that he had profited bysuch a device. He certainly had, from motives he did not care toanalyse himself, persuaded Mabel to tolerate Caffyn as a guest, butlately even Mark could no longer pretend that his visits were not farmore frequent than welcome. 

Something of the old uneasiness in Caffyn's presence had begun toreturn, though Mark did not know why. At times before his marriage hehad had moments of panic or mistrust, but he always succeeded inforgetting the incidents which had aroused them. If Caffyn suspectedanything about 'Illusion' he would have spoken long before, he toldhimself. After the interview with Holroyd at Laufingen, he had ceasedto think about the matter--he was safe now. What harm could anyone'smere suspicion do him? And yet, for all that, he was not sorry to freehimself from further intrusions of a visitor in whose glance hesometimes surprised a subtle mockery, almost as if his friend hadactually detected his secret and was cynically enjoying the humour ofthe thing. It was only imagination on his own part, but it was not apleasant fancy. 

'He's an infernal scoundrel!' he said, with an indignation that wasonly very slightly exaggerated. 'You are right, darling, you shall nothave 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 laterstages 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 donewithout a frightful amount of--of scandal and unpleasantness. '

'No, ' said Mabel, thoughtfully, 'I suppose nothing can be done--andyet, poor Gilda! Do you know she is actually engaged to him? It'sdreadful to think of that now. At least he shall never come hereagain, and mother must be told too when I take Dolly back. You willtell him, Mark, when you meet him that he must not call himself afriend of ours any longer. You will make him understand that, won'tyou?'

'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 norehearsals 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 bealtogether agreeable. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A PALPABLE HIT. 

As Mabel had said, she did not meet Harold Caffyn again until bothwere dining at Mrs. Featherstone's on the evening of the firstrehearsal to which Vincent had been favoured with an invitation. Theinstant he saw her he felt that some change had taken place in theirrelations, that the toleration he had met with since her marriage hadgiven place to the old suspicion and dislike. It was an early andinformal dinner, the guests being a few of those who were to take partin the acting later on. Mrs. Featherstone had contrived that Caffyn, notwithstanding his position as accepted suitor, should not sit nextto Gilda, and on taking his place he found Mabel on his other hand andhis _fiancée_ opposite. As often as he could, he tried to open aconversation with the former, but she met him coldly and shortly, andwith each attempt he fell back baffled. He might have persevered butfor the consciousness that Gilda's eyes were upon them, for she hadbeen growing very exacting since the engagement had been formallydeclared. But just before the ladies rose he found an opportunity tosay, 'Mabel--Mrs. Ashburn--am I unfortunate enough to have displeasedyou lately?'

'Displeased is not the right word, ' she said: 'you have done far morethan 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 toan understanding together, I suppose. '

'When you have heard him, ' she said, 'there is one thing I shall haveto say to you myself. '

'May I come and hear it later?' asked Caffyn, and Mabel gave a littlesign of assent as she left the table. 

'I shall send down for you when we're ready, ' said Mrs. Featherstoneat the door. 'Will those who have any changes to make mind comingnow--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 tableimmediately; the others remained, and Harold, whose dressing would nottake him long, found himself next to Mark, and rather apart from themen, at the host's end of the table. 

'You're the very man I wanted to have a little talk with!' he began inan easy conversational manner. 'Your wife seems deucedly annoyed withme for some reason--she says you can explain. Now, just tell mequietly without any nonsense--what's it all about, eh?'

Now that Mark had seen the other's conduct in its true light he wasreally indignant: Caffyn seemed more undesirable an associate thanever. He would have been justified in taking a high standpoint fromwhich to deal with him--since whatever his own errors had been, theywould never be revealed now--but somehow, he adopted an almostconciliatory tone. 

'The fact is, ' he replied, with an embarrassed cough, 'it's about thatletter of Holroyd's. '

Caffyn's face slightly changed. 

'The devil it is!' he said. 'Thought I'd heard the last of that longago!'

'You're likely to hear a good deal more about it, I'm afraid, ' saidMark. 'It has only just come out that it was his, and unopened--youwill find it awkward to contradict. '

Caffyn was silent for a time. Dolly must have spoken again. What afool he had been to trust a child a second time!--and yet he had hadno choice. 'Well, ' he said at last, 'and what are _you_ going to doabout it?'

Mark's throat grew huskier. It was odd, for there was really no reasonfor being afraid of the man. 'Well, I--in short, I may as well tellyou plainly, my wife thinks it is better we should not see any more ofyou in future. '

There was a dangerous look in Caffyn's eye which Mark did not at alllike. 'Ah, well, of course you mean to talk her out of that?' he saidlightly. 

Was there a concealed menace in his tone? If so, Mark thought, heprobably considered that his services connected with Vincent's suddenreturn gave him a claim. Well, he must disabuse him of that idea atonce. 

'It would be of no use if I tried to talk her out of it; but, to bequite candid, I--I don't intend to do anything of the kind. .. . I knowwe've been friends and all that sort of thing, and till I knew this Ialways said what I could for you; but--but this suppressing a letteris very different. I can't feel the same myself for you after that, itis better to tell you so distinctly. And then--there is poor littleDolly--she is my sister now--it seems you have been frightening her asecond time. '

'On whose account--eh, Ashburn?' asked Caffyn. 

Mark had expected this. 'I'm sorry to say on mine, ' he replied; 'butif I had known, do you suppose that for one moment---- I don't denythat, as I told you at the time, I was glad to see Holroyd leave townjust then; but it was--was not so important as all that! Still you didme a service, and I'm sorry to have to do this, but I can't helpmyself. You will find others harder on you than I am!'

'Does that mean that Mrs. Langton has been told this precious storywith 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 irreclaimableblackguard 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, asfar as the conclusion goes, I'm afraid it comes to that!'

'Perhaps, it has not quite come to that yet, ' said Caffyn, as he drewhis chair closer to Mark's, and, resting one arm on the back, lookedhim full in the face with searching intensity. 'Are you sure you havethe right to be so very exclusive?'

If Mark could have controlled his nerves then, he might have been ableto parry a thrust which, had he only known it, was something of anexperiment. As it was, the unexpectedness of it took him off hisguard, just when he thought he was proof against all surprises. Theghastly change in him told Caffyn that he had struck the right chordafter all, and a diabolical joy lit his eyes as he leaned forward andtouched 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 flickeringeffort at defiance, 'What do you mean?' he asked, 'tell me what youare hinting at?'

'Keep quiet, ' said Caffyn, 'don't excite yourself: they'll noticesomething presently if you look like that! Here are some fellowscoming round with the coffee, wait till they have gone, and I'll tellyou. '

Mark had to wait while one man brought him his cup with the milk andsugar, and another followed with the coffee. His hands shook and upsetthe 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 triedto believe this was one of the old dreams which had not visited himfor so long, or, if he was really awake, that Caffyn must have gothold of something else--not _that_; he had had false alarms like thisbefore, and nothing had come of them. 

Caffyn seemed to have forgotten their recent conversation as hedeliberately sipped his coffee and took a cigarette; he offered Markone and it was declined. 'What do you suspect me of having done?'demanded Mark. 'Oh, my dear fellow, I don't _suspect_ you, ' repliedCaffyn, 'I know. You can't play the moralist with me, you high-mindedold paragon!' He spoke with a kind of savage jocularity. 'I tell you Iknow that you got your fame and fortune, and even that charming Mabelof yours, by a meaner trick than I, who don't pretend to beparticular, should care to dirty my hands with. I may have helped achild 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 asto 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 onlysay 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 quitesuch a virtuous horror of continuing my acquaintance now? Couldn't youbring 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 youmore than one good turn. I believe I rather liked you--you did thething so well that I'm hanged if I should have had the heart to showyou up. And now you _will_ go and make an enemy of me--is it quiteprudent?'

'What do you want me to do?' asked Mark, with his hand shielding hiseyes 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 thiscackle about the letter: make her shut her mouth; I can't afford tolose the _entrée_ to two houses like your father-in-law's and yourown, just now. I can be discreet too--it shall be mouth for mouth. Ifyou don't--if you stand by and let your wife and her mother go aboutspreading this story until I daren't show my face anywhere, why, Ishall take care to come to grief in good company! Mabel can smash meif you like to let her, but if you do, by ---- it shall bring my stingout! Is it a bargain?'

Mark hesitated. As they sat there he heard the sounds outside ofarriving carriages and entering footsteps; people were coming in forthis rehearsal. How he loathed the thought of it now! How was he to gothrough it?

'We shall have to go presently, ' said Caffyn. 'I am waiting for myanswer--yes or no?'

'No, ' said Mark. 'I see no use in playing mouse to your cat. Do youthink I don't know that it would come out sooner or later--if not fromyou, from _him_? As to forcing my wife to receive you as a friend, I'mnot quite rascal enough for that yet. Do whatever you please!'

It was despair more than anything that drove him to defiance, for hisknowledge of Mabel showed him that the bargain proposed, apart fromits rascality, was an impossible one. 

'Well, ' said Caffyn, with a shrug, 'you leave me no choice, so in thecourse 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 enthusiasticyoung amateurs at his end of the table, here suggested an adjournmentto 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 acleverly fielded yawn. 'I hear all about it from your mother. You'llfind 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 aheart. Black disgrace was before him, the Laufingen crisis had comeagain, and this time nothing could save him. He lingered behind theother men as they mounted the broad staircase, and as he lingered wasovertaken 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 inhere!' and he almost forced him into the library, which was empty, andwhere a lamp was burning. 

'So we're on a level after all, are we?' he said savagely, as he shutthe 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 myown free will, and so soon, so you put me off my guard! And now'--hisvoice was thick with passion as he spoke--'now you have set thatvillain, that d----d Caffyn, on me! Chivalrous that, isn't it? I'vefallen 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 myword and betray those who trusted it, believe it--it's not worth mywhile 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. Ihardly know what I am saying or doing just now--but Caffyn has foundout 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 mentionmy name?'

'Yes, ' said Mark. 

'Well, I must have it out with him, then. What does it matter what hesays if we both contradict him? I think I shall be able to managehim; only, for Heaven's sake, keep cool, leave everything to me, tryto be your usual self. Where is this rehearsal going on? Let us gothere at once--you'll be wanted!'

Mark said no more just then; he led the way to the music-room, andthen 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 stagehad been set up. There was a small audience of a dozen or so, who weremostly related to the performers, and admitted only because it had notbeen found practicable to keep them out. The rehearsal had just begunas Vincent entered. 

It was much like most rehearsals, and would hardly lose itstediousness in description. There were constant interruptions andrepetitions, and most of the characters wore the air of people who hadbeen induced to play a game they thought silly, but who were resolvedto maintain their self-respect as long as possible; this appearancemight be due to an artistic reserve of force in some cases, in othersto nervousness, in nearly all to a limited knowledge of the lines theyhad to deliver, and all these causes would certainly be removed 'onthe night, ' because the actors said so themselves. Still, on thatparticular evening, they prevented the play from being seen to thebest advantage. 

It was not a good play, and as a dramatisation of 'Illusion' was worsethan the most sanguine of Mrs. Featherstone's acquaintances could haveforeseen; 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 throughit, even at a rehearsal, though it would have been absurd to exert herfull 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) whenMabel was carried away by the emotion she had to represent, and theanguish in her face and low ringing tones went to Vincent's heart, ashe thought how soon it might become a terrible reality. 

He could scarcely bear to see her there simulating a sorrow which wasnothing to that which might be coming upon her, and from which all hisdevotion might not save her this time. He was impatient to meet Caffynand find out what he knew, and how he might be silenced; but Caffynwas on the stage continually, in his capacity of stage manager, andVincent was forced to wait until his opportunity should presentitself. 

It was a relief to him when the rehearsal, after dragging on throughthree long acts, came to a premature close, owing to the lateness ofthe hour and a decided preference on the part of the younger membersof the company for the dancing which had been promised later as abribe, and which they had no intention of sacrificing to a fourthact--for art must not be too long with amateurs. 

The room was being cleared accordingly, when Vincent saw his hostesscoming with Caffyn in his direction, and heard her say, 'Well, I_will_ ask Mr. Holroyd then if you wish it!' She seemed excited andannoyed, and he thought Caffyn's face bore an odd expression oftriumph. 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 thatthird act, just now? Now do tell me, how did it strike _you_?'

This appeal was an unexpected relief to him; he protested that he wasnot qualified to express any opinion. 

'Now really, ' said Caffyn, 'that won't quite do; we know howinterested 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 justthe 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 putaway all personal association with the play; he had given the book uponce and for all, he only desired to see Mabel once as his lostheroine. But nature had proved too strong for him after all: thefeebleness of this dramatic version had vexed his instincts as creatormore than he was willing to believe, and when in this very closingscene the strongest situation in the book had been ruined by the longand 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 atleast--it was not wise, but it was absolutely disinterested. 

He suggested that a shorter and simpler sentence at the criticalmoment might prove more effective than a long set speech. 

Mrs. Featherstone smiled an annoyed little smile. 'You don't quiteunderstand the point, ' she said. 'There was no question about the_text_--I had no idea of altering that: we are merely in doubt as tothe various positions at the fall of the curtain!'

'I'm afraid I've no suggestions to make, then, ' said Vincent, notwithout 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 wouldsubstitute--it's easy enough to make a general criticism of thatsort. '

'Yes, indeed, ' said Mrs. Featherstone. 'That is only fair, Mr. Holroyd!'

If he had been cooler he might have resisted what was obviously achallenge from the enemy, but just then he had lost some of his usualself-control. 'Something of this kind, ' he said, and gave the line hehad 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 faultwith 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 theevening. There he is over there in the corner!' and he gave him a signthat he was wanted. No one had seen Mark for some little time, and hehad interfered very little during the rehearsal. Now as he cametowards them he looked shaken and ill. 

'My dear fellow, ' said Caffyn, 'this presumptuous man here has beensuggesting that your immortal dialogue wants cutting badly. Crushhim!'

'He has every right to his opinion, ' said Mark, with an effort. 

'Ah, ' said Caffyn with a keen appreciation of the situation, 'but justexplain your views to him, Holroyd. He _may_ think there's somethingin them!'

'It is a pity, ' said Mabel, 'that Mark's book should have been withoutthe advantage of Mr. Holroyd's assistance so long!'

She was the more angry with Vincent because she felt that he wasright. 

'I don't think I quite deserved that, ' said Vincent, sadly. 'If myopinion 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 havenothing more to say. _You_ seem to have misunderstood me a little, ' headded, looking straight at Caffyn. 'If you can give me a minute Icould easily explain all I meant. '

Caffyn understood. 'In private, I suppose?' he suggested softly, as hedrew Vincent a little aside. 'I thought as much, ' said Caffyn, as theother 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 thegold-and-crimson hangings, and they were in comparative darkness andabsolute privacy immediately. 

'Now, ' began Vincent, 'you had some object in saying what you did downthere. What was it?'

Caffyn had seated himself on the edge of a table which had beenrolled into a corner with some other stage furniture. He smiled withmuch sweetness as he replied, 'I say, you know, we'd better come tothe point. I know all about it!'

Only the pressing need of discovering the full extent of the other'sinformation 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 shouldventure on a bold statement like that without anything to back myopinion?'

'And if Ashburn and I both deny your bold statement--what becomes ofit?'

'Ashburn has not denied it, and if he did I could put my hand on somewritten 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 ithere; in fact, the papers which contain it are in the charge of a verydear 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 thewater. Oh, I'll give you every information. Those papers are ofinterest to the collector of literary curiosities as being beyond adoubt the original rough draft of that remarkable work "Illusion, "then better known as--let me see, was it "Glow-worms"? no--somethinglike it, "Glamour!" They were found in your late rooms, and oneneedn't be an expert to recognise that peculiar fist of yours. Are yousatisfied?'

Vincent had not expected this, having fancied that his loose papershad all been destroyed, as he had certainly intended them to be onleaving England. He was silent for some seconds, then he said: 'Youmust 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--Imean to have them. '

'You won't do any good by taking that tone with _me_, you know. Justlisten to reason: if you produce these papers yourself, you'll only belaughed at for your pains. You must let some one else manage thebusiness 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. 'Youcan 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 inkeeping his temper. 'And what was my game?'

'Why, ' explained Caffyn, 'you knew well enough that if you set up aclaim like that on your mere word, you wouldn't find many to believeyou, and you didn't feel up to such a fight as you would have beforeyou; so you've very prudently been lying low till you could get MasterMark off his guard, or till something turned up to help you. Now'syour 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 thebackground? You leave it all to me. There's a literary fellow I knowwho's on lots of journals that like nothing better than taking upcases like yours, when they're satisfied there's something in them. Ican manage all that for you, and in a few days look out for an articlethat will do Ashburn's business for him. You needn't be afraid of hisfighting--he'll never have the nerve to bring a libel action! But youcan't work this yourself; in your hands all that evidence is wastepaper--it's the date and manner of its discovery which must be provedto make it of any value--and that's where _I_ come in. I need scarcelytell 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 yourproposal?'

'There has been a little unpleasantness about a letter which littleDolly Langton and I accidentally----'

'I know the facts, thank you, ' interrupted Vincent. 

'That makes it easier, ' continued the other, unabashed, 'though you'veprobably been told the highly coloured version. '

'I've been told that you bullied that poor child into burning a letterof mine which you hadn't the courage to suppress for yourself, ' saidVincent. 

'Ah, that _is_ the highly coloured version, ' said Caffyn, 'but for thepurposes of the present case we'll assume it to be correct, if youlike. Well, we can't possibly work together if you won't make up yourmind to let bygones be bygones: you understand. '

'I think I do, ' said Vincent. 'Provided I forget that a letter of minewas intercepted and destroyed, unread, by a cowardly, cold-bloodedtrick, which if it was not actually a felony came very nearit--provided I forget all that and treat you as an intimate friend ofmine, I shall have your support?'

'Coarsely put, ' said Caffyn, 'but you seem to have got hold of themain point. '

'And if I decline, ' said Vincent, 'what then?'

'Why, then, ' returned Caffyn, placidly, 'I'm afraid that my friend inwhose custody the papers are, and who really is as casual a person asI ever met, may mislay those documents or go off somewhere withoutleaving his address--which would make things awkward. '

Vincent could stand no more; the anger he had suppressed for some timebroke out at last. 

'If you dare to make me an offer like that in any other place than afriend's house, if you even try to speak to me when we next meet, youwill be unpleasantly surprised at your reception! Do you think anyhelp you could give me would be worth the disgrace of having you for afriend? If I am asked my opinion of you, I shall give it, and it willnot be one you would care to quote. As for the papers, tell yourfriend (you will not have to go very far to find him)--tell him he maydo what he pleases with them, mislay them, suppress them, burn them, if he likes--perhaps he will be doing me a greater service than heimagines!'

He was afraid that he might have betrayed his real feelings in thematter; but Caffyn was too much a man of the world to believe him: heonly thought that the other either had independent means of provinghis claim when he chose, or felt convinced that it would be proved forhim without the necessity of committing himself to any alliance orcompromise. He could not help admiring such strategy even while itdisappointed him. 

'You're devilish deep, after all, ' he said slowly: 'a little overdonethat 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 bestriking up down there, I'll ask you to excuse me. One word--if youwant me to play your little game, don't interfere with mine--you knowwhat 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 andquite informal affair, but one or two people had come in from otherhouses, and the room was filled, without the hopeless crush which itwould 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 tomake 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 afterCaffyn had left him that Mark was not there. He went through a networkof rooms, and out on the staircase, looking for him. Mark had had muchto endure in the way of enthusiastic comments on his own work, and thedelight he was supposed to feel at his wife's rendering of hisheroine, while Mrs. Featherstone had driven him almost frantic by herpersistent appeals, confidences, and suggestions with regard to theperformance. He had chosen a moment when her attention was distractedto slip out unobserved. He knew he must return soon, but his nerveswould bear no more just then, and, wandering aimlessly from room toroom, he came to one in which some light refreshments had been placedfor those engaged in the rehearsal, and he filled a small tumbler ofchampagne 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 theend. As he put down the glass Vincent came in. 

'I was looking for you, ' the latter began hurriedly, when he hadsatisfied himself that they were not likely to be overheard. 'I haveseen Caffyn!'

'Well?' said Mark, listlessly. 

'It is worse than I thought, ' was the answer; 'he has got hold of somepapers--Heaven knows how, but he can prove his case. He halfthreatened to destroy them, but if I know him he won't; he will usethem 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'llgo to Fladgate to-morrow, and tell him everything--it's all I can donow, 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 lastEaster! You stopped me then--you shall not stop me this time! I'llkeep that book no longer, whatever the consequences may be. '

'Listen to me, ' said Vincent. 'I will take back the book--I see noother course now; but I claim the right to tell the story myself, andin 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 itlook 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 havethought things out a little. In the meantime, the less we see of thatscoundrel 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 himabout the alterations in the fourth act. '

'He went to sit out one of the dances with Mabel, Gilda said, but Isent her to look for them, and she hasn't come back yet. I think theymust have gone through the Gold Room, and out on the balcony--it'scooler there. '

When she had passed on out of hearing, Mark turned to Vincent. 'Didyou hear that?' he said. 'Mabel is out there . .. With _him_--we aresaved the trouble of telling her anything now . .. That devil means totell 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 hespoke. 

'Let me go!' said Mark, wrenching himself free. 

Vincent would have accompanied him, but the excitement had turned himsuddenly faint and dizzy, and he found himself obliged to remain wherehe was, until the attack passed and left him able to move and thinkonce 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 soonas he reached her chair: 'they seem to me the very thing for theboudoir scene in the third act. You promised to help me; would it boreyou very much to come now?'

Tired as she was, Mabel made no demur. She knew, of course, that hewished to speak to her alone, and she had something to say to himherself, which could not be said too soon. He led her through the roomin question--a luxurious little nest, at an angle of the house, entered by separate doors from the music-room and the head of theprincipal staircase; but he did not think it necessary to waste anytime upon the hangings, and they passed out through one of the twowindows upon the balcony, which had been covered in with stripedcanvas for the season. 

He drew forward a seat for her and took one himself, but did not speakfor some time. He was apparently waiting for her to begin. A_tête-à-tête_ with a man to whom one has just forbidden one's house isnecessarily a delicate matter, and, although Mabel did not falter atall in her purpose, she did feel a certain nervousness which made herunwilling to speak at first. 

'As you leave me to begin, ' he said, 'let me ask you if what yourhusband has told me just now is true--that you have closed your owndoor 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 othercourse. '

'You know what the result of that will be, I suppose?' he continued. 'Mrs. Featherstone will soon find out that two such intimate friendsof hers will have nothing to do with me, and she will naturally wantto know the reason. What shall you tell her?'

'That is what I meant to say to you!' she answered. 'I thought I oughtin fairness to tell you--that you might, perhaps, take it as awarning. If I am asked, though I hope I shall not be, I shall feelbound to say what I know. '

'Do you think I can't see what you are aiming at in all this?' heasked; and under his smooth tones there were indications of comingrage. '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 evertormenting 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 theexcuse 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 thebest thing that could happen for her. '

'It would be more straightforward, wouldn't it, if you told her atonce?' he suggested with a slight sneer: 'it comes to very much thesame thing in the end. '

Mabel had had some searchings of conscience on this very point. Oughtshe, she had asked herself, knowing what she knew of Caffyn's past, tostand by while a girl whom she liked as she did Gilda deceived herselfso grossly? But of late a coldness had sprung up between Gilda andherself which made it unlikely that any interference would be taken ingood part; and besides, there was something invidious in such acourse, to which she could not bring herself without feeling morecertain 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 tellher, ' Mabel replied; 'but I hope now that it will not be necessary. '

He bit his lips. 'You are exceedingly amiable, I must say, ' heobserved; 'but really now, why all this bitterness? What makes you soanxious 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 Ido not wish for your ruin, but I can't help wishing that this marriageshould be broken off. '

'Ah!' he said softly, 'and may I ask why?'

'Why!' cried Mabel. 'Can you ask? Because you are utterly unworthy ofany nice and good girl--you will make your wife a very miserablewoman, Harold--and you are marrying Gilda for money and position, notlove--you don't know what love means, that is why!'

Even in the half-light which came from the shaded lamps in the roomwithin she looked very lovely in her indignation, and he hated her themore for it--it was maddening to feel that he was absolutelydespicable and repulsive in the eyes of this woman, to whose fairnesseven 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 impatientlyaway; 'it always does rouse some women's contempt to be told of a lovethey don't feel in return. But I did love you, as I suppose I nevershall love again. As for Gilda, I don't mind confessing that, on myside at all events, there is no very passionate emotion. She ishandsome enough in her peculiar style, but then it doesn't happen toappeal to me. Still, she will bring me money and position, and shedoes me the honour (if I may say so without vanity) of caring verydecidedly for _me_--it is fair enough on both sides. What right haveyou, what right has any one in the world, to interfere and makemischief between us?'

'None, perhaps--I don't know, ' she said. 'But I have told you that Ishall not interfere. All I am quite sure of is that I am right toprotect Dolly, and, if I am asked, to speak the truth for Gilda'ssake. And I mean to do it. '

'I have told you already what that will end in, ' he said. 'Mabel, youcan't really be so relentless! I ask you once more to have someconsideration for me. We were old playmates together once, there was atime 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 nearDolly----'

'I trusted you once before, ' she said, 'you know how you repaid it. Iwill make no more terms. Besides, even if I were silent, there areothers 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 takeme back, please, we have been here long enough. '

Caffyn had been anxious from motives of pure economy to try fair meansfirst, before resorting to extreme measures: he had tried irony, argument, flattery, and sentiment, and all in vain. It was time forhis last _coup_. He motioned her to remain as she half rose. 

'Not yet, ' he said. 'I have something to say to you first, and youmust hear it--you have driven me to it. .. . Remember that, when I havefinished!'

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 thenwith shouts and shrill whistles telling of early departures fromsundry awning-covered porticoes around. 

From the music-room within came the sound of waltz music, onlyslightly 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, partpassionate, which even battered brass and iron hammers cannot renderquite commonplace, became popular with street bands and piano-organs, it was always associated for her with a vague sensation of comingevil. Caffyn had risen, and stood looking down upon her with amalignant triumph which made her shudder even then. 

'Do you remember, ' he said, very clearly and slowly, 'once, when youhad done your best to humiliate me, that I told you I hoped for yoursake I should never have a chance of turning the tables?'

He paused, while she looked up at him with her eyebrows drawn and herlips slightly parted. 

'I think my chance has come, ' he continued, seeing that she did notmean to answer, 'really I do. When I have told you what I am going totell you, all that pretty disdain and superiority of yours will vanishlike smoke, and in a minute or two you will be begging my silence atany price, and you shall accept my terms!'

'I do not think so, ' said Mabel, bravely: only her own curiosity andthe suggestion of some hidden power in the other's manner kept herfrom refusing to remain there any longer. 

'I do, ' said Caffyn. 'Ah, Mabel, you are a happy woman, with a husbandwho is the ideal of genius and goodness and good looks. What will yousay, 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 deepestinterest, and at the critical moment, when an unexpected obstacle toyour union turned up, it was I who removed it at considerable personalsacrifice. Aren't you grateful? Well, between ourselves, I couldscarcely expect gratitude. '

'I--I don't understand, ' she said. 

'I am going to explain, ' he rejoined. 'You have been pitying poorGilda for throwing herself away on a worthless wretch like me. Keepyour pity, you will want it yourself perhaps! Do you understand now? Ilet you marry Mark, because I could think of no revenge so lasting andso perfect!'

She rose quickly. 'I have heard enough, ' she said: 'you must be mad todare to talk like this. .. . Let me go, you hurt me. ' He had caught herarm above her long glove, and held it tight for a moment, while hebent his face down close to hers, and looked into her eyes with acruel light in his own. 

'You shall not go till you have heard me out, ' he said between histeeth. 'You have married a common impostor, an impudent swindler--doyou understand? I knew it long ago . .. I could have exposed him fiftytimes if I had chosen! A few lines from me to the proper quarter, andthe whole story would be public property to-morrow--as fine a scandalas literary London has had for ages; and, by Heaven, Mabel, if youdon't treat me decently, I'll speak out! I see you can't take my wordfor all this. Perhaps you will take your husband's? Ask him if hispast 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 graspand 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 surrenderwhich would enable him to dictate his own terms. 'I don't want tofrighten you, ' he said sulkily: 'I only want you to see that I don'tmean to be trifled with!' He had followed her to the window, meaningto 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 refugeby the side of her hostess, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushedwith anger. 'Mrs. Featherstone, ' she said, almost clinging to her inher excitement, 'let me go back with you, anywhere where I shall besafe from that man!'

Caffyn was no longer visible, having retired to the balcony, so thatthe elder lady was somewhat bewildered by this appeal, especially asshe did not quite catch it. 'Of course you shall go back with me ifyou want to, ' she said; 'but are you all alone here? I thought Ishould find Mr. Caffyn. Where is he?'

'There, on the balcony, ' said Mabel. 'It is no wonder that he isashamed to show himself!'

At this Caffyn judged it advisable to appear. 

'I don't exactly know _why_ I should be afraid, ' he said, with arather 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. Featherstonewhat you dared to say to me, or must I?'

Mrs. Featherstone looked from one to the other with growinguneasiness. It would be very awkward to have any unpleasantness in herlittle company when the play was so far advanced. On the other hand, she was not disposed to soften matters for a man she disliked soheartily as Harold Caffyn. 

'Mabel, dearest, tell me what it is all about, ' she said. 'If he hasinsulted you, he shall answer to me for it!'

'He insulted my husband, ' said Mabel. 'I _will_ speak, Harold, I amnot afraid, though I know you have every reason to wish your wordsforgotten. He said----'

Here Caffyn interrupted her: he had made up his mind the only thing hecould 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 whatI said presently. I was trying to prepare Mrs. Ashburn for a verypainful disclosure, ' he explained to Mrs. Featherstone--'a disclosurewhich, considering my position in the family, I felt it would be myduty to make before long. I could not possibly foresee that she wouldtake it like this. If you think a little, Mrs. Ashburn, I am sure youwill see that this is not the time or place for a very delicate andunpleasant business. '

'He pretends that Mark is an impostor--that he knows some secret ofhis!' Mabel broke in vehemently. 'He did not speak of it as he triesto make you believe . .. He threatened me!'

'Dear Mr. Ashburn, whom we all know so well, an impostor--with asecret! You said that to Mabel?' cried Mrs. Featherstone. 'Why, youmust be mad to talk in that dreadful way--quite mad!'

'My dear Mrs. Featherstone, I assure you I'm perfectly sane, ' hereplied. 'The real truth is that the world has been grossly deceivedall this time--no one more so than yourself; but I do beg you not toforce 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 havetold you that I am not afraid to hear--you cannot get out of it inthat way!'

Mabel was well enough aware that Mark was not flawless, but the ideathat he could be capable of a dishonourable action was grotesque andmonstrous to her, and the only way she could find to punish the manwho could conceive such a charge was to force him to declare itopenly. 

Mrs. Featherstone's curiosity and alarm had been strongly roused. Shehad taken up this young novelist, her name was publicly connected withhis--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'tbelieve a word of all this--it is some strange mistake, I am sure ofit, 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 ithere--Mark must not be stabbed in the dark!'

'It's simply impossible to speak here, ' said Caffyn. 'People may comein 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 besilent 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 'MyQueen' were sounding as he did so, they could hear the sweep andrustle of dresses as the couples passed. 

'We shall not be disturbed now, ' he said, unable to quite conceal hisown 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 hadturned towards the door leading to the staircase, which had justopened. 

'Here is Mark to answer for himself!' she cried, as she went to meethim. 'Now, Harold, whatever you have to say against Mark, say it tohis face!'

Mark's entrance was not so opportune as it seemed; he had beenstanding unnoticed at the door for some time, waiting until he couldwait no longer. He faced Caffyn now, unflinchingly enough to outwardappearance; but the hand Mabel held in a soft close clasp wasstrangely cold and unresponsive. 

Caffyn could not have wished for a better opportunity. 'I assure youthis is very painful to me, ' he said, 'but you see I cannot helpmyself. 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 atall--that from beginning to end it was written by another. Is he boldenough to deny it?'

Mark made no answer. Mabel had almost laughed to hear so preposterousa question--it was not wonderful that he should scorn to reply. Suddenly she looked at his face, and her heart sickened. Manyincidents that she had attached no importance to at the time came backto her now laden with vague but terrible significance . .. She wouldnot doubt him, only--why did he look as if it was true?

'Dear Mr. Ashburn, ' said Mrs. Featherstone, 'we know what your answerwill 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 sameinstant 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 . .. Frombeginning 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 timehe was obliged to remain in a little alcove on the staircase and resthimself on one of the divans there. 

His head was perfectly clear, however, and he had already perfected aplan by which Mabel would be spared the worst of that which threatenedher. It was simple, and, as far as he could see, quite impossible todisprove--he would let it be understood that Mark and he had writtenthe book in collaboration, and that he had desired his own share ofthe work to be kept secret. 

Mark could not refuse, for Mabel's sake, to second him in thisstatement--it was actually true even, for--as Vincent thought with agrim kind of humour--there was a good deal of Mark's work in the bookas it stood now. He grew feverishly impatient to see Mark and put hisplan into action--there must be time yet, Caffyn could not have beensuch a villain as to open Mabel's eyes to the real case! He feltstrong again now; he would go and assure himself this was so. He roseand, following the direction he had seen Mark take, entered the GoldRoom--only to hear an admission after which no defence seemedpossible. 

He stood there just behind Mark, trying to take in what had happened. There was Mrs. Featherstone struggling to conceal her chagrin anddismay at the sudden downfall of her dramatic ambition; Mark standingapart with bent head and hands behind him like a man facing a firingparty; Mabel struck speechless and motionless by the shock; and Caffynwith the air of one who has fulfilled an unpalatable duty. Vincentknew it all now--he had come too late!

Mrs. Featherstone made a movement towards him. 'Oh, Mr. Holroyd, ' shesaid, 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 rightto be here, my dear Mrs. Featherstone, as you'll allow when I tell youwho he is. He has too much diffidence to assert himself. Mr. Ashburnhas admitted that he did not write "Illusion:" he might have addedthat he stole the book in a very treacherous and disgraceful way. I amsorry to use words of this sort, but when you know all, you willunderstand that I have some excuse. Mr. Holroyd can tell you the storybetter than I can: he is the man who has been wronged, the real authorof "Illusion"!'

'I've done him a good turn there, ' he thought; 'he can't very wellturn against me after that!'

A terrible silence followed his words; Vincent's brain whirled, hecould think of nothing. Mabel was the first to move or speak: she wentto Mark's side as he stood silent and alone before his accuser, andtouched his arm. 'Mark, ' she said in an agonised whisper, 'do youhear? . .. Tell them . .. It is not true--oh, I can't believe it--Iwon't--only speak!'

Vincent's heart swelled with a passionate devotion for her as sheraised her fair face, blanched and stricken with an agony of doubt andhope, 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 trueand loyal, however, to wish even for a moment to see the love andfaith 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--away of escape had opened to him. 

In the meantime two newcomers had entered. Mr. Featherstone, hearingvoices, had brought up Mr. Langton, who had 'looked in' on his wayfrom the House, and for some time remained under the impression thatthey had interrupted some kind of informal rehearsal. 'Still at thetheatricals, eh?' he observed, as he came in. 'Go on, don't let usdisturb you. Capital, capital!' 'Langton, ' whispered the other, pulling him back, 'they're--they're _not acting_--I'm afraidsomething's the matter!' and the two waited to gather some idea ofwhat 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 areright to trust in his honour--it is _not_ true. I can explaineverything. '

The instant joy and relief in her face as she clung fondly to Mark'sarm repaid him and gave him strength and courage to go on. Mark lookedround 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 hishand, 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 Itold a lie--that you did _not_ write "Illusion"?'

'That was not the lie, ' returned Vincent. 'I did write "Illusion. " Itis untrue that Mr. Ashburn's conduct in the matter does him anythingbut credit. May I tell my story here, Mrs. Featherstone?'

'Oh, by all means, ' said that lady, not too graciously: 'we can't knowthe facts too soon. '

'I wrote the book, ' said Vincent, 'before I went out to Ceylon. I wasat the Bar then, and had thoughts of practising again at some futuretime. I had a fancy (which was foolish, I dare say) to keep the factthat I had written a novel a close secret. So I entrusted themanuscript to my good friend, Mr. Ashburn, leaving him to arrange, ifhe could, for its publication, and I charged him to keep my secret byevery means in his power. In fact, I was so much in earnest about itthat I made him give me his solemn promise that, if he could notshield me in any other way, he would do so with his own name. I didnot really believe then that that would be necessary, or even that thebook 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 modificationof his original idea, with a considerable blending of the actualfacts, but he felt that there were difficulties to come which itwould require all his skill to avoid. 

'I was detained, as you know, for more than a year in Ceylon, andunable most of the time to write to England, ' he continued. 'When Icame home, I found--I was told that the book had obtained a successneither of us ever dreamed of: curiosity had been aroused, and Mr. Ashburn had found himself driven to keep his promise. He--he wasanxious that I should release him and clear the matter up. I--I--itwas not convenient for me to do so just then, and I induced him--hecould hardly refuse, perhaps--to keep up the disguise a little longer. We had just arranged to make everything known shortly, when Mr. Caffynanticipated us. And that is really all there is to tell about that. '

Throughout Vincent's explanation Caffyn had been inwardly raging atthe thought that his victims might actually succeed in escaping afterall. Forcing an indulgent laugh, he said, 'My dear fellow, it's verykind and generous of you to say all that, and it sounds very prettyand 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 itvanished at Vincent's reply. His pale worn face flushed angrily as hefaced him. 

'No one seriously expects _you_ to believe in such things as honourand friendship!' he said contemptuously. 'I am going to deal with yourshare in this now. Mrs. Featherstone, ' he added, 'will you forgive meif I am obliged to pain you by anything I may have to say? That manhas thought fit to bring a disgraceful charge against my friendhere--it is only right that you should know how little he deservescredit!'

Secretly Mrs. Featherstone was only too glad to see Caffyndiscomfited, but all she did was to say stiffly, 'Oh, pray don'tconsider my feelings, Mr. Holroyd!'

Vincent's indignation was enough in itself to make him merciless, andthen, as a matter of policy, he was determined to disable the enemyto the utmost. Everything that had come to his knowledge of Caffyn'sproceedings he now exposed with biting irony. He told the story of theletter, suppressed to all appearances out of gratuitous malice, and ofthe cruel terrorism exercised over little Dolly; he showed how Caffynhad tried to profit by his supposed discovery of the fraud, and howMark had studiously refrained from undeceiving him, and gave adamaging description of the sordid threats and proposals he hadhimself received that evening. 'This is the high-minded gentleman who, acting under a keen sense of duty, has chosen to denounce Mr. Ashburnjust now, ' he concluded. 

The victory was won. Caffyn's face was livid as he heard him--he hadnever foreseen such black ingratitude as this, and it upset all hiscalculations. He still had his doubts, after so many carefulexperiments, that the story of Vincent's was a fabrication, eventhough it was not absolutely inconsistent with what he had observed, and he could see no motive for shielding the culprit. But it was plainthat every one there believed it--Vincent's word would be taken beforehis--he was thoroughly beaten. 

No one had seen Gilda come in, but she had been standing for some timewith red eyes and flushed face by one of the windows, and in thegeneral stir which followed Vincent's explanation Mr. Featherstonecame up to her. 

'Well, ' he said, 'we've been treated to a very pretty story thisevening. This is the young gentleman you're going to give me for ason-in-law, is it, Gilda? But of course you don't believe a wordagainst 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--mammasent 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. Iheard enough to save me from you!'

She left him there and flew to Mabel, whom she embraced with aremorseful hug. 

'You darling!' she whispered, 'what a wicked fool I was ever to bejealous of you--and about _him_. You will forgive me, won't you? And Iam 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? Withall this suppressing, and plotting, and bullying, and threatening, andthe rest of it--it strikes me you have made a d----d fool ofyourself!'

The same idea had already occurred to Caffyn. He had been admirablycool and cautious; he had devoted all his energies to securing Mabel'smarriage to Mark; he had watched and waited and sprung his mine withevery precaution--and he was the only person it had blown up! Hisschemes had failed exactly like a common fool's--which was painful toreflect upon. 

'If I haven't, ' he said with a slight grimace, 'I've been made to lookvery like one. '

'You're more rogue than fool, after all, ' observed the merchant, withdistressing candour; 'and, by the way, I'm rather particular aboutgetting all my correspondence, and I invariably prefer to burn my ownletters. I don't think my offices are quite the place for such agifted 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'ttrust. I did think once--but that's over--you heard what my girl saidto 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 footmenby the entrance knew of his discomfiture, and carrying away with himfor a lasting recollection Mabel's look of radiant happiness as sheheard 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 beenleaving 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 wastaking place, now and then the doors had been tried by couples insearch of a cool retreat between the waltzes, but no one suspectedwhat important revelations were being made within. 

Mrs. Featherstone was deeply mortified. It was true she had got rid ofa hated presence, but her play--which she had meant to make theclosing event of the season, and by which she had hoped to conquer oneor two of the remaining rungs of the social ladder--her play wasrendered impossible; this affair would get into the society papers, with every perversion which wit or malice could supply--she would bemade thoroughly ridiculous!

'I'll go, ' she said. 'I must get rid of everybody as soon as Idecently can--this shocking business has completely upset me. '

Mark and Vincent were standing together at the door, and as she passedout she visited some of her pent-up displeasure upon them. 

'Well, Mr. Ashburn and Mr. Holroyd, ' she said, in tones that wereintended to sound playful, 'I hope you are quite contented with yourlittle mystification? Such a very original idea on both your parts, really. How it must have amused you both to see me making such anabsurd exhibition of myself all this time. Seriously, though, I doconsider I have been very, _very_ shabbily treated--you might havewarned me as a friend, Mr. Ashburn, without betraying any one'sconfidence! No, don't explain, either of you: I could not bear anymore explanations just now!'

Mr. Langton, as he followed her, took Mark out with him, and as soonas they were alone gave full vent to his own indignation. 

'I don't understand your conceptions of honour, ' he said. 'Whateveryour duty might be to Vincent, you clearly had duties towards mydaughter and myself. Do you suppose I should have given her to you ifI had known? It just comes to this, and no sophistry can get overit--you obtained my consent under false pretences?'

For he was naturally intensely humiliated by the difference thesedisclosures must make in his daughter's position, and did not sparehis son-in-law. He said much more to the same effect, and Mark bore itall without attempting a defence: he still felt a little stunned bythe danger he had passed through, and, after all, he thought, what hehad heard now was nothing to what might have been said to him!

Obeying a glance from Mabel, as the others followed Mrs. Featherstoneback to the music-room, Vincent had remained behind. 

'When will you allow this to be generally known?' she asked, and hervoice had a strange new coldness which struck him with terror. Had sheseen through his device? Was it all useless?

'As soon as possible, ' he answered gently. 'We shall see thepublishers to-morrow, and then all the details will be arranged. '

'And your triumph will come, ' she said bitterly. 'I hope you will beable to enjoy it!'

'Mabel, ' he said earnestly, 'Harold Caffyn forced me to speakto-night--surely you saw that? I--I did not intend to claim the bookyet. '

'Why didn't you claim it long ago?' she demanded. 'Why must you putthis burden on Mark at all? Surely your secret could have been keptwithout 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 asuccess your book had been, and how hard it was making his life forhim--he begged you then, you said, to take back his promise, andyou--you would not. Oh, it was selfish, Vincent, cruelly selfish ofyou!'

His sole concern in making that hasty explanation had been to give itan air of reasonable probability: he had never given a thought tillthat moment of the light in which he was presenting his own conduct. Now, in one terrible instant, it rushed upon him with an overwhelmingforce. 

'I--I acted for the best, ' he said; and even to himself the wordssounded like a sullen apology. 

'For _your_ best!' she said. 'The book will be talked of more thanever now. But did you never think of the false position in which youwere placing Mark? What will become of him after this? People mighthave read his books once--they will never read them now--they may evensay that--that Harold Caffyn may have been right. And all that is yourwork, Vincent!'

He groaned within him at his helplessness; he stood before her withbowed head, not daring to raise his eyes, lest he should be tempted toundo all his work. 

'I was proud of Mark, ' she continued, 'because I thought he hadwritten "Illusion. " I am prouder now--it is better to be loyal andtrue, as Mark has been, than to write the noblest book and sacrifice afriend to it. There are better things than fame, Vincent!'

Even his devotion was not proof against this last injustice; he raisedhis head, and anger burnt in his eyes. 

'You tell me that!' he cried passionately. 'As if I had ever cared forFame in itself! Mabel, you have no right to say these things to me--doyou hear?--no right! Have some charity, try and believe that there maybe excuses even for me--that if you could know my motives you mightfeel you had been unjust!'

'Is there anything I don't know?' she asked, somewhat moved by thisoutburst, 'anything you have kept from me?'

'No. You have heard all I have to say--all there is to tell, ' headmitted. 

'Then I am not unjust!' she said; 'but if you feel justified in actingas you have done, so much the better for you, and we shall do no goodby talking any more about it. '

'None whatever, ' he agreed. 

When he was alone that night he laughed fiercely to himself at themanner in which his act of devotion had been accepted. All hissacrifices had ended in making Mabel despise him for calculatingselfishness; he had lost her esteem for ever. 

If he had foreseen this, he might have hesitated, deep and unselfishas his love was; but it was done, and he had saved her. Better, hetried to think, that she should despise him, than lose her belief inher husband, and, with it, all that made life fair to her. 

But altruism of this kind is a cold and barren consolation. Men dogood by stealth now and then, men submit to misconstruction, but thenit is always permitted to them to dream that, some day, an accidentmay bring the good or the truth to light. This was a hope which, bythe nature of the case, Vincent could never entertain, and life wasgreyer to him even than before. 

CHAPTER XL. 

THE EFFECTS OF AN EXPLOSION. 

Mrs. Featherstone made no attempt to detain Mark and Mabel as theytook leave of her shortly after that scene in the Gold Room, thoughher attitude at parting was conceived in a spirit of frostyforgiveness. 

In the carriage Mark sat silent for some time, staring straight beforehim, 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 thather 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 tillher head rested upon his shoulder, and so they sat, silent, with handsclasped, until they reached home. 

Seldom again, and only under strong compulsion, did Mabel make anyreference to 'Illusion, ' nor was it till long after that he suspectedthe depth and reason of her resentment against Vincent--he was contentto 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 alwaysbeen difficult to reconcile Mark as his nature seemed revealed inprivate life, with the Mark who had written 'Illusion. ' One of herdreams had been that, as their intimacy grew, all reserve wouldvanish, and he would speak to her of his inmost thoughts and fancies, which it seemed almost as if he thought her unable to appreciate asyet. 

Now all this was over, there were no hidden depths to fathom in hismind, no sublime heights to which she could rise; such as she knew himnow, he was and must remain--not a strong and solitary genius withlofty thoughts of which he feared to speak freely, not a guide on whomshe could lean unquestioning through life, only a man with a brightbut shallow nature, impulsive and easily led. Even the Quixotic honourwhich had led him to entangle himself in complications at another'sbidding showed a mind incapable of clear judgment--or he would haverenounced the rash promise when it began to involve others. Sadlyenough she realised the weakness implied in this, and yet it onlyinfused a new element of pity and protection in the love she felt forhim, and she adapted herself bravely to the changed conditions of herlife. 

After Holroyd had spoken, she had never questioned that his versionwas the true one, and Caffyn's charge an infamous fabrication--whatevershe might have been driven to think in that one instant of sickeningdoubt. 

To a more suspicious nature, perhaps, some of the facts connected withVincent's visit to Laufingen might even then have presenteddifficulties, but if Mabel had remembered all that had occurred theremore clearly than she did, she would have attached but littleimportance to it. The loyal faith she had in her husband's honourwould have accepted as obvious a far less plausible explanation. 

On the day following the rehearsal Messrs. Chilton and Fladgate weremade aware of the facts relating to the authorship of 'Illusion, 'whereupon they both expressed a not unnatural annoyance at havingbeen, as they considered, made the victims of a deception. Mr. Fladgate, especially, who had always prided himself immensely upon thesagacity which had led him to detect Mark at once, and who had neverwearied of telling the story, indulged in some strong observations. 

Vincent vindicated as well as he could the scheme in which he was themost guiltless of accessories after the fact, and Mark kept in thebackground and said as little as possible; he felt distinctlyuncomfortable, however, when Mr. Chilton drily inquired whether thesame mystification attached to 'Sweet Bells Jangled, ' and on beingreassured as to this, observed that it was a little unfortunate thatthe matter had not been explained before the latter book had beenbrought 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 pecuniarypoint of view exactly--we shall not lose much--as far as money isconcerned, I dare say!'

'My partner, ' explained Mr. Fladgate, 'was thinking of the resultsthis will have upon our reputation in the trade;' on which Vincenttried to appease him by promising to make it abundantly clear that thefirm were no parties to the concealment, and as soon as the partnersunderstood that it was not proposed to disturb any existingarrangements respecting 'Illusion, ' beyond disclosing the truth, andhaving some necessary revisions inserted in any future edition, theyparted amicably enough, though Mark was made to understand his alteredstanding in the most unmistakable manner. 

And in a few days, by means which it is not necessary to particularisehere, the version of the affair given by Vincent at Grosvenor Gardenswas made known to all those who might find it of interest. 

The announcement, when it became generally known, caused a certainamount of surprise and remark, but not nearly so much as might havebeen expected. Hawthorne, in his preface to the 'Scarlet Letter, ' hasremarked the utter insignificance of literary achievements and aimsbeyond the narrow circle which recognises them as important andlegitimate, and the lesson the discovery of this is to the man whodreams of literary fame. If Vincent needed to learn that lesson, helearnt it then; no fresh laurels were brought out for him--and the oldones had withered already; people were beginning to feel slightlyashamed of their former raptures over 'Illusion, ' or had transferredthem to a newer object, and they could not be revived in cold blood, even for the person legitimately entitled. Jacob had intercepted thebirthright, and for this Esau there was not even the _réchauffé_ of ablessing. 

The people who had lionised Mark were enraged now, and chiefly withHolroyd; the more ill-natured hinted that there was something shady onboth sides--or why should all that secrecy have been necessary?--butthe less censorious were charitably disposed to think that Ashburn'sweak good-nature had been unscrupulously abused by his more giftedfriend. 

Vincent's conduct, if it showed nothing more than a shrinking fromnotoriety, was sufficiently offensive, such distaste being necessarilyeither cynical or hypocritical. So upon the whole, the reaction whichattends all sudden and violent popularity, and which had already setin here, was, if anything, furthered by the disclosure. 

But this did not greatly distress him. Neglect and fame were alike tohim, now that his lady had withdrawn her countenance from him. He hadresigned himself to the loss of the fairest dream of his life, but ithad been a consolation to him in his loneliness to feel that he mightbe her friend still, that he might see her sometimes, that though shecould never love him, he would always possess her confidence andregard--not much of a consolation, perhaps, to most men, but he hadfound a sort of comfort in it. Now that was all over, and his solitudewas left more desolate still; he knew there was no appeal for him, andthat, so long as Mabel believed that he had sacrificed her husband tohis deliberate selfishness, she would never relent towards him. Therewere times when he asked himself if he was bound to suffer all thismisconception from the one woman he had ever loved--but he knew alwaysthat in clearing himself he would lay her happiness in ruins, andresolved to bear his burden to the end, sustained by the conviction, which every day became clearer, that he would not have to bear it muchlonger. 

As for Mark, the announcement of the true authorship of 'Illusion'brought him nothing short of disaster, social and financial. Itproduced a temporary demand for 'Sweet Bells Jangled' at thelibraries, but now that things had been explained to them, the mostunlikely persons were able to distinguish the marked inferiority ofthe later book. 

Those reviews which had waited at first from press of matter ortimidity now condemned it unanimously, and several editors ofperiodicals who had requested works from Mark's pen wrote to say that, as the offer had been made under a misapprehension, he wouldunderstand that they felt compelled to retract the commissions. 

Mark's career as a novelist was ended, he had less chance than ever ofgetting a publisher's reader to look at his manuscript, the affair hadassociated his name with ridicule instead of the scandal which is amarketable commodity, and might have launched him again; his name upona book now would only predestine it to obscurity. 

Mabel was made aware in countless little ways of her husband's descentin popular estimation; he was no longer forced into a centralposition in any gathering they happened to form part of, but stoodforlornly in corners, like the rest of humanity. Perhaps he regrettedeven the sham celebrity he had enjoyed, for his was a disposition thatrose to any opportunity of self-display--but in time the contrastceased to mortify him, for most of the invitations dropped; he wasonly asked to places now as the husband of Mabel, and in the height ofthe season most of their evenings were passed at home, to the perfectcontentment of both, however. 

Mrs. Featherstone had given up her theatricals, in spite of Vincent'sattempt to dissuade her; she had lost some of the principal members ofher little company, and it was too late to recruit them; but her chiefreason was a feeling that she would only escape ridicule very narrowlyas it was, and that the safest course was to allow her own connectionwith the affair to be forgotten as speedily as possible. 

But she could not forgive Mark, and would have dropped theacquaintance altogether, if Gilda had not, in the revival of heraffection for Mabel, done all in her power to keep it alive. 

Mr. Langton, deeply as he had resented the misrepresentation which hadcost him his daughter, was not a man to do anything which might giveany opening for gossip; he repressed his wife's tendency to becomeelegiac on her daughter's account, and treated Mark in public asbefore. But on occasions when he dined there _en famille_, and satalone with his father-in-law over dessert, there was no attempt toconceal from him that he was only there on sufferance, and those wereterrible after-dinner sittings to the unfortunate Mark, who wascatechised and lectured on his prospects until he writhed withhumiliation and helpless rage. 

At Malakoff Terrace the feeling at the discovery of Mark's trueposition 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 acherub, than he had done lately, and his wife considered that a snareand a pitfall had been removed from her son's path. Cuthbert thoughthis elder brother a fool, but probably had never felt more amiabletowards him, while Martha wondered aloud how her sister-in-law likedit--a speculation which employed her mind not unpleasantly. OnlyTrixie felt a sincere and unselfish disappointment; she had been soproud of her brother's genius, had sympathised so entirely with hisearly struggles, had heard of his triumphs with such delight, that itwas hard for her to realise that the book which had done so much forhim was not his work after all. But the blow was softened even toTrixie, for 'Jack' had been making quite an income lately, and in theautumn they were going to be married and live in Bedford Park. And ofcourse Mark had done nothing wrong, she told herself, and he knew allthe time what was coming, so she need not pity him so very much, andshe was sure 'Sweet Bells' was nicer than 'Illusion, ' whatever peoplechose 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, andstill Uncle Solomon made no sign--a silence from which Mark auguredthe worst. One afternoon Mr. Humpage came to see Mabel: he had heardof the whole affair from the Langtons, and reproached himself not alittle, now that he knew how utterly without foundation had been hisbitterness against Mark. Mr. Humpage did not approach the questionfrom the Langton point of view, and was not concerned that Mabelshould have married a man who had turned out to be a nonentity. He haddone all he could to prevent the marriage in his resentment at findingthe daughter of an old friend engaged to the author who hadcaricatured him, and his only feeling now was of complete reaction;the young man was perfectly innocent, and his nephew Harold hadsuspected it all this time and never said a word to enlighten him. Sonow the old gentleman came in a spirit of violent repentance whichwould not allow him to rest until he had re-established his oldrelations with his favourite Mabel. She was only too glad to find thecoolness at an end, and he was just expressing his opinion of the parthis nephew had taken, when, to Mabel's dismay, Mr. Lightowler wasannounced. 

She wished with all her heart that Mark had not happened to be out, asshe glanced apprehensively at her second visitor's face; and yet, asshe saw almost at once, he came in peace--there was none of thedispleasure on his big face which she had expected to see there; onthe contrary, it was expanded with a sort of satisfaction. 

Mr. Humpage rose as soon as the other had seated himself. 'Well, mydear, ' he said, lowering his voice as he eyed his enemy with strongdisfavour, 'it's time I went, I dare say. As to what I was sayingabout my scamp of a nephew--I only hope _I_ did nothing to encouragehim in the disgraceful way he chose to act; I never meant to, I assureyou. But he won't trouble you any more for a little time, for Iunderstand he's on his way with one of these theatrical companies toAmerica, and I hope he'll stay there--he'll get nothing out of me, I'mashamed of the fellow, and heartily glad his poor mother was takenwhen she was. '

He had spoken rather louder in his excitement, and Uncle Solomonoverheard it, and struck in immediately. 'What, has that nephew ofyours been turning out bad, hey?' he cried; he was quite a child ofnature in his utter freedom from all conventional restraints, as mayhave been perceived before this. 'You don't say so, Humpage? Now I'msorry to year it; I really am sorry to year that! Not but what, if youlook into it, you'll find there's been a backwardness in doing one'sduty somewhere about, yer know. P'raps, if you'd been more of an uncleto him, now, if you don't mind my saying so, he'd have turned outdifferent. You should have kept a tighter hand on him, and as likelyas 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 enoughto drop nagging. It's no reason because I've got a nephew myself, whoknows his duty and tries to be a pride to an uncle who's behavedhandsomely towards him, it's no reason, I say, why I can't feel forthem 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 anybodyelse to feel for me. I am perfectly well able to do everything that'snecessary in that way for myself. '

'Oh, certainly, ' was the retort, 'no one can say I ever intruded onany one. I shan't take the liberty of feeling for you any more afterthat, not if you had twenty nephews and all of 'em in the "PoliceNews, " I promise you. And, talking of nephews, Mabel, I wonder if youcame 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--Iforgot. '

'No, ' said Mabel, unable to make anything of this extraordinarymildness, 'I didn't see it. '

'Didn't you now?' he rejoined complacently, 'and yet it got copiedinto some of the London papers, too, I was told. Well, I brought acutting with me, in case--would you like to hear it?'

Mabel made some assent--she always felt more or less paralysed in thepresence of this terrible relative--and he drew out a folded slip, puton 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 recherché mansions in Belgravia, of a dramatic version of Mrs. Ashburn (née 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 letthese sort o' stories go flying about without contradicting them--butI put it very quietly and delicately, you see. '

Mabel bit her lip. Was it possible that this dreadful old man knewnothing--how was she ever to break it to him?

Mr. Humpage had listened to the letter with a grim appreciation. 'Youdon't write a bad letter, Lightowler, I must say, ' he remarked, withan irrepressible chuckle, 'but you are a little behind the day withyour 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 beentrusted with such a charge. But if he was not naturally kinderhearted, he was more acquainted with the amenities of ordinary societythan Mr. Lightowler, and some consideration for Mabel restrained himthen from using his triumph as he might have done. He explainedbriefly the arrangement between Vincent and Mark as he understood it, and the manner in which it had lately been made known. When he hadfinished, Uncle Solomon stared stupidly from one to the other, andthen, with a voice that had grown strangely thick, he said, 'I'lltrouble 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, hishearer's face was purple and distorted, and Mabel pitied him from herown experience. 

'Dear Mr. Lightowler, ' she said, 'you mustn't blame Mark; he had nochoice, he had _promised_. '

'Promised!' Uncle Solomon almost howled; 'what business had he got tomake a promise like that? See what a fool he's made o' _me_--with thatletter of mine in all the London papers! I heard those Manor Housegirls gigglin' and laughin' when they drove by the other day, andthought it was just because they were idjits. .. . I wish to God I'd lethim starve as a City clerk all his days before I let him bring me tothis. I've lived all this time and never been ridiclous till now, andhe's done it. Ah! and that's not the only thing he's doneeither--he's swindled me, done me out o' my money as I've earned. Icould 'ave him up at the Old Bailey for it--and I've a good mind tosay I will, too. I'll----'

'Stop, ' said Mabel, 'you have gone quite far enough. I know this is agreat disappointment to you, but I am his wife--you have no right tosay 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 thatfeller was a credit to me at last, I've bin allowing him at the rateof four hundred a year; d'ye think I'd 'a done that for kindly lendinghis name to another feller's book? D'ye think he didn't know that wellenough when he took the money? Trust him for takin' all he could gethold of! But I'll 'ave it back; I'll post him as a swindler, I'llshame him! Look 'ere; d'ye see this?' and he took out some foldedsheets of blue foolscap from his inner pocket. 'I was goin' to takethis to Ferret on my way home--and it's the codicil to my will, thisis. I was goin' to take it to get it altered, for I've not beenfeelin' very well lately, I've not been feelin' very well. This wasmade when I thought Mark was a nephew to be proud of--d----n him--andI can tell yer I left him a pretty tidy plum under it. Now see what Ido with it. No fire, isn't there? Well, it doesn't make any odds. There . .. And there . .. And there;' and he tore the paperspassionately across and across several times. 'There's an end of_your_ husband's chances with me. And that don't make me intestitneither; there's the will left, and Mark and none of his will ever geta penny piece under it; he can make his mind easy over that, tellhim. '

His coarse violence had something almost appalling in it, and at firstMabel 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 hadthis secret to keep; but he will give it all back. Now leave thehouse, please. Uncle Antony, will you get him to go away. '

Uncle Solomon, white and shaking, almost shrunken after his outburstof 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 quitecapable of going by myself. I--I dessay I let my temper get the bettero' me just now, ' he said to Mabel, rather feebly. 'I don't blame youfor 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 outin 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, 'goafter him, do. Oh, I know you're not friends, but never mind thatnow--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 tono harm. '

Mark had to hear of this when he came home that evening. 

'And you really did take his money?' cried Mabel, after hearing hisaccount. 'Oh, Mark, what made you do that?'

Mark hardly knew himself; he certainly would not have done it if hehad ever imagined the truth would be known; perhaps his ideas of rightand wrong had become rather mixed, or perhaps he persuaded himselfthat if he did not exactly deserve the money yet, he would not be longin doing so. 

'Well, darling, ' he replied, 'he would have been bitterly offended ifI hadn't, you know, and I didn't know then that it was all done onaccount of "Illusion. " But, after all, I've only had one year'sallowance, and I'll give him back that to-morrow. He shan't say Iswindled him. '

'I think you ought to do that, dear, ' said Mabel. But in her heartshe felt a heavy wonder that he should ever have consented to take themoney at all. 

Mark had received a fairly large sum for his second book, out of whichhe was well able to refund the allowance, and the next day he wentdown to Woodbine Villa, where, instead of the violent scene ofrecrimination he had prepared himself to go through, a very different, if not less painful, experience awaited him. Uncle Solomon had reachedhis house safely the day before, but, in relating what he had heard tohis sister, had given way to a second burst of passion, which hadended in a seizure of some kind. 

Mark was allowed to see him, on his own earnest entreaty, and wasstruck with remorse when he saw the lamentable state to which his ownconduct had had no small share in reducing the old man. Were theconsequences of that one act of folly and meanness _never_ to cease?he wondered, wretchedly, as he stood there. His uncle allowed his handto be shaken; he even took Mark's cheque with his stiff hand, and madea sign that his sister was to take charge of it. He could speak, buthis brain had lost all command over his tongue, and what he said had aghastly inappropriateness to the occasion. He saw this dully himself, and gave up the attempt at last, and began to cry piteously at hisinability to convey his meaning; whether he wished for areconciliation then or nursed his rage to the last, Mark never knew. He went down on several other occasions during his uncle's lingeringillness, but always with the same result. Mr. Lightowler suffered allthe tortures of perfect consciousness, combined with the powerlessnessto express any but the most simple wish: if he desired to undo thepast in any way, no one divined his intention or helped him to carryit out; and when the end came suddenly, it was found that he had notdied intestate, and the will, after giving a certain annuity to thesister who had lived with him, left the bulk of his estate to go infounding Lightowler scholarships in the School for CommercialTravellers' Orphans. The Ashburn family were given trifling legacies;Mark, however, 'having seen fit to go his own way in life, and renderuseless 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 anticipationswere verified he had found it necessary to consider seriously how hewas to support himself for the future. Literature, as has been said, was now out of the question; in fact, its fascination for him hadfaded. Mabel had a fair income settled upon her, but in ordinaryself-respect he could not live upon that, and so he sought about forsome opening. At first he had firmly resolved never to go back to hisold school life, after having done so much to escape from it; but ashe began to see that any profession that required capital was closedto him, and business being equally impossible, he was forced to thinkof again becoming a schoolmaster. And then he heard by accident thatold Mr. Shelford was about to resign his post at St. Peter's, and itoccurred 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 chancefor himself. It was not a pleasant thing to do, for he had not seenthe old gentleman lately, and dreaded equally innocent congratulationsand brusque irony, according to the state of his information. He wentup to St. Peter's, timing his arrival after school, when the boyswould all have left, except the classes which remained an hour longerfor extra subjects. Mr. Shelford always lingered for some time, and hewould 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 apassing 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 tohis monitor, who was entering them, with a long-suffering expressionon his face, into a sort of ledger. 'Now we come to Robinson, ' the oldgentleman was saying; 'you're sure you've got the right place, eh? Goon, then. _Latin repetition_, thirty-eight; Latin prose, thirty-six--if you don't take care, Master Maxwell, Robinson'll becarrying off the prize this term, he's creeping up to you, sir, creeping up; Roman History'--and here he saw Mark, and dismissed themonitor unceremoniously enough. 

He evidently knew the whole story of 'Illusion, ' for his first wordsafter they were alone together were, 'And so you've been a sort ofwarming-pan all this time, eh?'

'That's all, ' said Mark, gloomily. 

'Well, well, ' the old gentleman continued, not unkindly, 'you made arash promise and kept it like a man, even when it must have beenuncommonly disagreeable. I like you for that, Ashburn. And what areyou thinking of turning to now?'

Mark explained his errand not very fluently, and Mr. Shelford heardhim out with his mouth working impatiently, and his eyes wrinkled tillMark 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 shorttime back, and I was glad of it, for you never were fit for it. Andnow you're coming back again! I make no doubt they'll be very willingto have you here, and if a word from me to the Council--but is therereally nothing else but this? Why, I'm counting the days to my owndeliverance now, and it's odd to find some one asking me to recommendhim 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 finalgoal. Take warning by me, as I used to tell you--do you want to cometo this sort of thing? sitting from morning to noon in this stiflingden, filled with a rabble of impident boys--d'ye think they'll haveany respect for your old age and infirmities? not they--they'll callyou "Old Ashes"--for they're a yumorous race, boys are, they'll callyou "Old Ashes, " or "Cinders" to your nose, as soon as they thinkyou're old enough to stand it. Why, they don't put any more kittens inmy desk now--they've found out I like cats. So they putblackbeetles--do you like blackbeetles, eh? Well, you'll come tobeetles in time. It's a mistake, Ashburn, it's a mistake forimpulsive, hot-tempered men like you to turn schoolmaster--leave itto cold, impassive fellows who don't care enough about the boys to besensitive 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 flagsoutside running for dear life. The old gentleman, crimson with rage, bounded to the door: 'Stop that scoundrel, that impident boy, bringhim back!' But the boy had gone, and he came back panting andcoughing: '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 knowit, confound 'em! Well, to come back to you, Ashburn, you're marriednow, 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 fromthese young ruffians, ugh! No, no, didn't you tell me once you werecalled 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 tenyears. '

Mark laughed bitterly. 'How am I to live till I get a practice?' hesaid; 'I've only a couple of hundred or so left in the world, and thatwould 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, seehere, Ashburn, start all the same with what you've got, who knows howsoon 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 rascalswho want to be forked into the Civil Service. You could do that forthem if you liked, and they'd bring you others. And--and I'm going totake a liberty very likely, but I've put by a little money in thecourse of my life, and I've no one to leave it to. I don't know how itis, but I feel an interest in you, Ashburn; perhaps I want somebodyto be sorry for me when I'm gone, anyway, I--I wish you'd let me seeyou through any money difficulties till you're fairly started--itwon't be long now, I'll wager, you can treat it as a loan if youprefer it. I want you to give yourself a chance at the Bar. Don'trefuse me now, or I shall take it unkindly. '

Mark was deeply touched, he had not suspected Mr. Shelford of reallycaring about him, and the kindness and sympathy of this offer made himfeel how little he deserved such friendship; and then the familiarclass-rooms, dusty and stuffy at the close of a summer day, hadbrought back all his old weariness of school routine. He had outlivedhis yearning for literary fame, but he still wished to make a figuresomewhere, somehow--why might not he do so at the Bar, in that linewhere solid learning is less necessary than the fluent tongue andunfailing 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 youadvise; perhaps with coaching and the money I have by me I need nottake advantage of all your kindness, but there is no one I would cometo for help like you when I can keep up no longer. I'll take my callat Michaelmas!'

And they walked out together, Mr. Shelford taking his armaffectionately through the streets. Mark, as has been said already, had a certain knack of attracting interest and liking without doinganything either to excite or deserve them in the slightest, and theold gentleman felt now almost as if he had gained a son. 

He was anxious to prevent Mark from returning to the old life, becausehe had observed his unfitness for it; he himself, however, in spite ofhis diatribes against boys and scholastic life, was far fonder of boththan he would have confessed, and would miss them as a few who knewhim best would miss him when the time came for parting. 

From that day he became a frequent visitor at Campden Hill, where hefound with Mabel the appreciation and tender regard which he hadnever 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 pupilscame there, and the coach's manner captivated them from the first, andmade the work easy for both; they came out high on the list, and weresucceeded by others, whose fees paid the rent of the chambers he tookin the Temple shortly after. Call-night came, and as he stood with theothers at the Benchers' table and listened to the Treasurer's address, he felt an exultant confidence in himself once more; he had beenpromised a brief from Mr. Ferret, who took this form of disapprovingof Uncle Solomon's testamentary caprices, and this time Mark did notshrink from it--he had read hard lately, and with better results. Heknew that he should be at no loss for words or self-possession; he hadbeen a brilliant and effective speaker, as the Union debates hadfrequently proved, and he looked forward now to entering the legalarena as the field for retrieving his lost name. Mabel should be proudof him yet!

He was deceiving no one now, Vincent was not injured by the fraud--forhe had his book back; it was true that Mabel did not suspect the realhistory of the transaction, but it would do her no good to know thathe had once made a false step. Caffyn was over in America, andharmless wherever he might see fit to go--his sting was drawn forever. 

No wonder, then, that he seemed to look round upon a cloudlesshorizon--but that had been the case with him so many times since hehad first complicated his life by that unhappy act of his, and eachtime the small cloud, the single spy of serried battalions, had beenslowly creeping up all the while. 

He forgot that--he generally did forget unpleasant reminiscences--itnever occurred to him that the cloud might be rising yet again abovethe level haze on the sky line, and the hurricane burst upon him oncemore. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

A FINAL VICTORY. 

It was an afternoon in January, soon after the courts had begun to sitagain, and Mark was mounting the staircase to his new chambers with alight heart--he had made his _début_ that day; the burden of the workhad fallen on him in the absence of his leader, and he felt that hehad acquitted himself with fair success. His father-in-law, too, hadhappened to be at Westminster, and in a Common Law court that day; andthe altered tone of his greeting afterwards showed Mark that he hadbeen favourably impressed by what he had heard while standing for afew minutes in the gangway. And now, Mark thought, he would go back toMabel at once and tell her how Fortune had begun to smile once moreupon him. But when he entered his chambers he found a visitor waitingfor him with impatience--it was Colin. Mark was not exactly surprisedto find the boy there, for Mr. Langton, judging it well to pad thefamily skeleton as much as possible, had lately sent him to hisson-in-law to be coached for a school scholarship; and, as he wasprobably 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 aboutthat--it was something else. '

Mark laughed. 'You've been getting into another row, you youngrascal, ' he said, 'and you want me to get you out of it--isn't thatit?'

'No, it isn't, ' said Colin. 'I say, ' he went on, blurting out thequestion after the undiplomatic manner of boyhood, 'why have you gotMabel to cut poor old Vincent? I call it a shame!'

Mark stopped half-way in taking off his coat. 'It would be no businessof yours if I had, you know, ' he replied, 'but who told you I had doneanything of the sort?'

'Nobody, I can see for myself. Mabel told mother she would rather notcome to dinners and things when Vincent was coming, and once she didmeet 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 askingher, she would never come! She used to like him before, so it must beall your fault, and I call it a beastly shame, and I don't care whatyou say!'

All of this was quite new to Mark; Mabel had studiously avoided allallusion to Vincent, and it had never occurred to Mark to speculate onthe light in which she chose to regard his explanation--that was allover, and he was little enough inclined to revive the subject. Hebegan to be strangely troubled now. 'I don't know what you're talkingabout, ' he said; 'is Holroyd ill? it--it is nothing serious, is it?'For he had seen very little of him lately, his obligation being toodeep and too humiliating to make repeated visits at all desirable. 

'He looks all right, ' said Colin, 'but I heard mother say that he'svery ill really, and she should have to put a stop to Dolly going tosit with him every day as she does, because--because he might diequite suddenly at any time--it's something wrong with his heart, shesaid, I believe. And yet he seems well enough. But oh, Mark, if--ifit's that, you ought to let Mabel make it up with him, whatever he'sdone. You might let her go and see him--he would like it so, I know hewould, 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 suggestedto Mabel that she should avoid Vincent, and he could not be satisfiednow until he had found out why she had done so; his insight not beingnearly keen enough to discover the reason for himself. 

'Give me his address, ' he said, for he did not even know whereHolroyd was living, and as soon as the boy had gone Mark drove to theplace he had mentioned, a house in Cambridge Terrace, instead ofreturning home at once as he had previously intended. 

He did not believe that the illness was as serious as Colin hadimplied; of course that was exaggerated--but he could not be quiteeasy until he had reassured himself by a visit, and some lingeringfeeling of self-reproach drove him to make this atonement for his longneglect. 

The Langtons' carriage was at the door when he arrived; and, as hecame into the sitting-room on the second floor, he heard Dolly's clearlittle voice and paused, hidden by the screen at the door. She wasreading to Vincent, who was lying back in an arm-chair; it was HansAndersen's 'Story of the Shadow, ' a choice to which she had beenguided by pure accident. 

Mark heard her read the half-sad, half-cynical conclusion as he stoodthere unseen:

'"The Princess and the Shadow stepped out on the balcony to showthemselves, and to receive one cheer more. But the learned man heardnothing of all these festivities--for he had already been executed. "

'How horrid of that wicked Shadow!' was Dolly's indignant comment asshe finished; 'oh, Vincent, aren't you very, very sorry for the poorlearned man?'

'Much sorrier for the Shadow, Dolly, ' he replied, a reply of whichDolly would have insisted upon an explanation had not Mark then comeforward. 

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 comeand read me another story to-morrow?'

'If mother will let me, ' said Dolly; 'and I tell you what, next time Icome 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 youcan never really forgive me. '

'I thought so once, ' said Vincent, 'but I have done with all that. Iforgave you long ago. Tell me if I can help you?'

'I have just heard for the first time, ' said Mark, 'that--that my wifehas not--has not treated you very kindly lately. And I came here toask you if I am the cause. '

Vincent flushed suddenly, and his breath was laboured and painful fora moment. 'What is the use of bringing that up now?' he asked; 'is ita pleasant subject for either of us? Let it rest. '

'I had no intention of paining you, ' said Mark, 'I ought not to haveasked you. I--I will ask Mabel herself. '

'You must not do that!' said Vincent, with energy; 'you might havespared me this--you might have guessed. Still I will tell you--it maydo good. Yes, you _are_ the cause, Ashburn; the lie I told on thatevening of the rehearsal has borne its penalty, as lies will, and thepenalty has fallen upon me heavily. Ask yourself what your wife mustthink 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 Ishall never see her face again; that when I am gone she will not spareme a single regret, that she will make haste to lose my very memory. Idon't complain, it is for her good, and I am content. Don't imagine Itell you this as a reproach. Only if you are ever tempted again to doanything which may put her happiness in danger, or weaken theconfidence she has in you, remember what it has cost another man tosecure them, and I think you will resist then. '

'Vincent!' cried Mark brokenly, 'it can't be; you are not--notdying!'

'My doctor tells me so, ' said Vincent. 'I have been prepared for it along time, and it must be coming near now--but there, we have talkedenough about that. Don't fancy from anything I have said that I havelost all faith in you--you will find, very soon, perhaps, how littlethat 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 tomeet again--you will not forget, I know. '

'No, I shall not forget, ' was all Mark could say just then, and leftthe house. He could not trust himself to bear any longer theunhoped-for expression of confidence and regard which he saw once moreupon 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. Markcould not suffer that--she must see him once more, she must repair thehorrible 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 resultsof that shameful act always rise up against him in this way? What washe to do?

He had felt as deep a shame and remorse for his past conduct as he wascapable of, but hitherto he had supposed that the wrong had beencomfortably righted, that he himself was after all the chief, if notthe 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 thismisconception to the end. Could Mark accept this last sacrifice? Moreand more he felt that he stood where two paths met: that he might holdhis peace now, and let his friend go down misunderstood to the grave, but that all his past baseness would be nothing to that finalmeanness; that if he paltered this time, if he chose the easy path, hemight indeed be safe for ever from discovery, but his soul would bestained with a dishonour that nothing would ever cleanse; that hewould have done with self-respect and peace of mind for ever. And yetif he took the other path, the right one, where would it lead him?

And so he reached his house in miserable indecision, driven this wayand that by contending impulses, loathing the prospect of thiscrowning infamy, yet shrinking from the sole alternative. He foundMabel 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 shallget a verdict. '

'Sit down and tell me all about it, ' she said. 'I will ring for thelamp. 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 ofhis sudden promptings, he said, 'Mabel, I have just seen Vincent--heis very ill. '

'I know, ' she said. 'Is he--worse?'

'Dying, ' he answered gloomily. 'I want to ask you a question--is ittrue 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 thefaint hope that her resentment might have another cause. 

'Cannot you guess?' she asked. 'Ah, no, you are too generous to feelit yourself. How can I feel kindly towards the man who could let yousacrifice your name and your prospects for a caprice of his own, whopersuaded you to entangle yourself in a manner that might, for all heknew or cared, ruin you for life?'

'Even if that were so, ' said Mark, 'he is dying, remember. Think whatit would be to him to see you once more--Mabel, will you refuse to goto him?'

'He should not have asked this of me, ' cried Mabel. 'Oh, Mark, youwill think me hard, unchristian, I know, but I can't do this--not evennow, 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 youthink that. Do you still refuse?'

'I must, I must, ' repeated Mabel. 'Oh, if it had been I who was theinjured one, I do not think I should feel like this; it is for you Icannot forgive. If I went now, what good would it do? Mark; it iswicked of me, but I could not say what he would expect--not yet, notyet--you must not ask me. '

Mark knew now that the decisive moment had come: there was only oneway left of moving her; there was no time to lose if he meant to takeit. 

Must he speak the words which would banish him from his wife's heartfor ever, just when hope had returned to his life, just when he hadbegun to feel himself worthier of her love? It was so easy to say nomore, to leave her in her error, and the shadow would pass away, andhis happiness be secure. But could he be sure of that? The spectre hadrisen so many times to mock him, would it ever be finally laid? And ifMabel learnt the truth when it was too late?--no, he could not bear tothink 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 thefirelit room, tortured with indecision, and his good and bad angelfought for him. And then, all at once, almost in spite of himself, thewords came:

'Mabel, ' he cried, 'Holroyd has done nothing--do you hear?--nothing tocall for forgiveness . .. Oh, if you could understand without my sayingmore!'

She started, and her voice had an accent, first of a new hope, then ofa 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 tellyou; have pity on yourself--on me!'

She rose and came to him. 'If you have anything to tell me, tell menow, ' she said. 'I am quite strong; it will not hurt me. You must notleave me in this uncertainty--_that_ will kill me! Mark, if you loveme, 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 hepoured some out and drank it before he could speak. Then he came backto the fireplace, and leaned against the mantelboard. 

'You will hate me before I have finished, ' he said at last, 'but Iwill tell you. '

And then he began, and painfully, with frequent breaks and nervoushurrying at certain passages, he told her everything--the whole storyof 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 forhim in the earlier stages of his fraud. If his atonement was late, itwas at least a full one. 

She listened without a word, without even a sob, and when he had cometo the end she sat there silent still, as if turned to stone. Thestillness grew so terrible that Mark could bear no more. 

'Speak to me, Mabel, ' he cried in his agony, 'for God's sake, speak tome!'

She rose, supporting herself with one trembling hand; even in thefirelight 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 speakto you. '

'To Vincent?' he asked, half stupefied by what he was suffering. 'Notto-night, Mabel, you must not!'

'I must, ' she replied; 'if you will not take me I shall goalone--quick, let us lose no time!'

He went out into the main road and hailed a cab, as he had done oftenenough before for one of their journeys to dinner or the theatre; whenhe returned Mabel was already standing cloaked and hooded at the opendoor. 

'Tell him to drive fast--fast, ' she said feverishly, as he helped herinto 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 herprofile as she lay back in her corner; it was pale and set, her eyeswere strained, but she had shed no tears; he sat there and recalledthe merry journeys they had had together, side by side, on eveningslike this, when he had been sorry the drive should ever end--how longthis one was!

The cab reached Cambridge Terrace at last. Mark instinctively lookedat 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--wemay be too late. '

 * * * * *

Vincent had been moved to his sleeping-room, where he was sitting inhis arm-chair; the trained nurse who had been engaged to wait upon himhad left him for a while, the light was lowered, and he was lyingstill in the dreamy exhaustion which was becoming more and more hisnormal state. 

He had received his death-warrant some months before; the harassingstruggles against blight and climate in Ceylon, the succession ofillnesses which had followed them, and the excitement and anxiety thathe 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 lovewith life, but while the book in which he had already begun to finddistraction was unfinished, there was still work for him to do, and hewas anxious to leave it completed. If the efforts he made to effectthis shortened his life, they at least prevented him from dwellingupon its approaching end, and his wish was gratified. He fixed hismind steadily on his task, and though each day saw less accomplishedand with more painful labour, the time came when he reached the lastpage and threw down his pen for ever. 

Now he was on the brink of the stream, and the plash of the ferryman'soar could be heard plainly; the world behind him had already growndistant 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 himpraise or blame from man, he would never learn now, and was content tobe in ignorance. 

The same lethargy had mercifully deadened to some extent the pain ofMabel's injustice, until Mark's visit had revived it that afternoon. He had come to think of it all now without bitterness; it might bethat in some future state she would 'wake, and remember, andunderstand, ' and the wrong be righted--but it had always seemed to himthat in another existence all earthly misunderstandings must seem tooinfinitely pitiful and remote to be worth unravelling, or evenrecalling, and so he could not find much comfort there. 

But at least he had not been worsted in the conflict with his lowernature. Mabel's happiness was now secure from the worst danger, thestruggle was over, and he was glad, for there had been times when hehad almost sunk under it. 

So he was thinking dreamily as he sat there while now and then a cloudwould drift across his thoughts as he lost himself in a kind of halfslumber. 

He was roused by sounds on the stairs outside, and presently he hearda 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 helooked up, and even in that half light he saw that the figure standingthere in the open doorway was the one which had been chief in histhoughts. 

Unprepared as he was for such a visitor, he felt no surprise--only adeep and solemn happiness as he saw her standing before him. 

'You have come then, ' he said; 'I am very glad. You must think lesshardly of me--or you would not be here. '

She had only obtained leave to see him on her earnest entreaties andpromises of self-restraint, but his first words sorely tried herfortitude; she came to his chair and sank down beside it, taking hishands in both hers. 'Vincent, ' she cried, with a sob that would not berepressed, 'I cannot bear it if you talk so. .. . I know all, all thatyou have suffered and given up . .. He has told me--at last!'

Vincent looked down with an infinite pity upon the sweet contrite faceraised to his. 'You poor child, ' he said, 'you know then? How could hetell you! Mabel, I tried so hard to spare you this--and now it hascome! What can I say to you?'

'Say that you forgive me--if you ever can!' she said, 'when I rememberall 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, nevermake it up to you now!'

'Do you think, ' he asked, 'that to see you here, and know that youunderstand me at last, would not make up for much harder treatmentthan I ever had from you, Mabel? If that were all--but he has toldyou, you said, told you the whole sad story. Mabel--what are you goingto do?'

She put the question aside with a gesture of heart-sick pride: 'Whatdoes it matter about me? I can only think of you just now--let meforget all the rest while I may!'

'Dying men have their privileges, ' he said, 'and I have not much moretime. Mabel, I must ask you: What have you said to Mark?'

'Nothing, ' she said, with a low moan, 'what was there to say? He mustknow 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 thishouse--he is here now, I believe. .. . You are torturing me with thesequestions, 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 Iknow? The Mark I loved has gone for ever--he never even existed! Ihave 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 theworld to me--think what he must be to me from this time! No, I cannotlive with him. I could not breathe the same air with him. I am ashamedthat I could ever have loved him. He is all unworthy, and mean, andfalse, and I thought him noble and generous!'

'You are too hard, ' said Vincent, 'he is not all bad, he was weak--notwicked; if I had not felt that, I should never have tried to keep hissecret, and forced him, against his will, to keep it himself. And nowhe has confessed it all to you, when there was no fear of discovery tourge him, only because he could not endure the thought of my bearingyour displeasure to the end. He did not know that that was so tillthis afternoon, and I told him without thinking it would have thateffect on him--I did him an injustice there. He must have gone backand accused himself at once. Think, Mabel, was there nothing unselfishand brave in that? He knew what you would think of him, he knew thathe was safe if he kept silence--and yet he spoke, because he preferredthe 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 toounworthy, I can never trust him, never forgive him!'

'I do not ask you to forgive him now, ' he urged; 'he has done you agreat wrong, your love and faith have received a cruel shock; and youcannot 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 offfrom all chance of winning back something of the confidence he haslost. The hope of that will give him strength and courage; withoutthat hope to keep him up, without your influence he will surely loseheart and be lost for ever. His fate rests with you, have you thoughtof that?'

She was silent, but her face was still unconvinced. 

'You think your love is dead, ' he went on, 'and yet, Mabel, somethingtells me that love will not die easily with you. What if you find thisis so at some future time, when the step you are bent upon has beentaken, and you cannot retreat from it? What if, when you call himback, 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, ' Vincentpleaded, 'will you not for mine? Mabel, let me say something to youabout myself. I have loved you for years--you are not angry with mefor telling you so now, are you? I loved you well enough to put yourhappiness before all other things; it was for that I made anysacrifices I have made; it was for that I was willing even that youshould think hardly of me. '

'For me!' she cried, 'was it for me you have done all this? How I haverepaid you!'

'I was repaid by the belief that it secured your happiness, ' heanswered. 'I thought, rightly or wrongly, that I was justified indeceiving you for your own good. But now you are taking away all thisfrom me, Mabel! I must die with the sense of having failed miserably, when I thought I was most successful, with the knowledge that by whatI have done I have only increased the evil! Must I leave you with yourhappy home blighted past recovery, with nothing before you but alonely, barren existence? Must I think of you living out your life, proud and unforgiving, and wretched to the end? I entreat you to giveme some better comfort, some brighter prospect than that--you willpunish me for my share in it all by refusing what I ask, but will yourefuse?'

She came back to him. 'No, ' she said brokenly, 'I have given you painenough, I will refuse you nothing now, only it is so hard--tell mewhat I am to do!'

'Do not desert him, do not shame him before the world!' he said; 'bearwith 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, andeven 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. 'Ipromise--for your sake, ' she said, and at her words he sank back witha sigh of relief--his work was over, and the energy he had summoned upto accomplish it left him suddenly. 

'Thank you!' he said faintly; 'you have made me happier, Mabel. Ishould like to see Mark, but I am tired. I shall sleep now. '

'I will come to-morrow, ' she said, and bending over him, she kissedhis forehead. She had not kissed him since the time when she was achild and he an undergraduate, devoted to her even then; and now thatkiss and the touch of her hand lingered with him till he slept, andperhaps 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 itseemed, of slow torment, he heard her descending slowly, and came tomeet her; she was very pale and had been weeping, but her manner wascomposed now. 

'Let us go home, ' was all she said to him, and they drove back insilence as they had come. But when they had reached their home Markcould 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 afixed and hopeless sadness in their clear depths. 

'Yes, ' she said, 'let us never speak again of--of what you have toldme to-night--you must make me forget it, if you can. '

The sudden relief almost took away his breath. 'You do not mean toleave me then!' he cried impulsively, as he came towards her andseemed about to take her hand. 'I thought I had lost you--but you willnot do that, Mabel, you will stay with me?'

She shrank from him ever so slightly, with a little instinctivegesture of repugnance, which the wretched man noted with agony. 

'I will not leave you, ' she said, 'I did mean--but that is over, youowe it to _him_. I will stay with you, Mark--it may not be for muchlonger. '

Her last words chilled him with a deadly fear; his terrible confessionhad escaped him before he had had time to remember much that mightwell have excused him, even to himself, for keeping silence then. 

'My God!' he cried in his agony when she had left him, 'is _that_ tobe my punishment? Oh, not that--any shame, any disgrace but that!'

And he lay awake long, struggling hard against a terror that was togrow 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 sleepthat was sounder still, and the plain common-place bedroom grew hushedand solemn, for Death had entered it. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

FROM THE GRAVE. 

The days went by; Mark had followed Vincent to the grave, with asorrow in which there was no feigning, and now the Angel of Deathstood at his own door, and Love strove in vain to keep him back. Forthe fear which had haunted Mark of late had been brought near itsfulfilment--Mabel lay dangerously ill, and it seemed that the son shehad borne was never to know a mother's care. 

Throughout one terrible week Mark never left the house on CampdenHill, while Mabel wavered between life and death; he was not allowedto see her; she had not expressed any wish as yet to see him, helearnt from Mrs. Langton, who had cast off all her languor before herdaughter's peril, and was in almost constant attendance upon her. Mabel appeared in fact to have lost all interest in life, and thenatural desire for recovery which might have come to her aid wasaltogether wanting, as her mother saw with a pained surprise, andcommented upon to the conscience-stricken Mark. 

Day after day he sat in the little morning-room, which looked as ifshe had but left it for an instant, even while he knew that she mightnever enter it again; sat there listening and waiting for the wordswhich would tell him that all hope was at an end. 

The doctors came and went, and there were anxious inquiries andwhispered answers at the cautiously-opened front-door, while from timeto time he heard on the stairs, or in the room above, hurriedfootsteps, each of which trod heavy upon his aching heart. 

People came sometimes to sit with him. Trixie, for instance, who hadmarried her artist, and was now comfortably established in adecorative little cottage at Bedford Park, came daily, and as she hadthe tact to abstain from any obviously unfounded assumption ofhopefulness, her presence did him good, and perhaps saved him frombreaking down under the prolonged strain. 

Martha, too, even though she had never been able to feel warmlytowards her sister-in-law, cast aside some of her prejudice and heldaloof no longer. 

Martha was inclined to take a serious view of things, having caughtsomething of her mother's gloomy Puritanism, which her own unhappydisposition and contracted life had done nothing to sweeten, and not alittle to embitter. She was not, perhaps, incapable of improving theoccasion for her brother's benefit even then, by warnings againstdevotion to perishable idols, and hints of chastenings which wereintended as salutary. 

But somehow, when she saw his lined and colourless face, and the lookof ghastly expectation that came and went upon it at the slightestunexpected sound without, she lost hold of the conviction that hisbereavement would work for his spiritual benefit; her words in seasondied unspoken on her lips, and she gave way at parting to tears ofpity and sympathy, in which the saint was completely forgotten in thesister and the woman. 

And now it was evening, and he was alone once more, pretending toread, and thinking drearily of what was coming; for the doctor hadjust left, and his report had been less encouraging than ever--achange must come before long, he had said, and from his manner it wastoo clear what he thought that change would be. 

Mark let his thoughts wander back to his brief married life, doomed tobe cut short by the very fraud which had purchased it. They had beenso happy, and it was all over--henceforth he would be alone. 

She was leaving him after all, and he could not even feel that herlove would abide with him when she had gone; oh, the unspeakable agonyof knowing that she welcomed death as a release from him!

Never now could he hope to regain the heart he had lost, she despisedhim--and she was dying. 

No, she must not die, he cried wildly in his extremity, how could helive without her? Oh, that she might be given back to him, even thoughhe could never make the dead love live in her heart again! Had he notsuffered enough--was not this a punishment beyond his sin?

And yet, as he looked back, he knew that he himself had brought aboutthis punishment, that it was but the stern and logical sequence of hisfraud. 

There was a low tap at the door, and he started to his feet--thesummons had come; no need to question the messenger who brought it, heheard the first words and passed her hastily. 

He entered the room where Mabel was lying, and fell on his knees byher bedside, bowing his head upon the quilt in agonised despair, afterone glance at her pale sweet face. 

'My darling--my darling!' he cried, 'don't leave me . .. Youpromised--oh, remember . .. This is not--not _good-bye_!'

She laid a weak and slender hand on his dark hair in a caress that wasmore in pity than in love. 'They have not told you?' she said; 'Iasked 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 amgoing to get well. I wanted to tell you so myself. I must live forbaby's sake--I can't die and leave him alone!'

And even in the ecstasy of relief which Mark felt at her words therewas a spasm of sobering jealousy; she only cared to live for thechild's sake--not for his. 

CONCLUSION. 

Those who know Mark now are inclined to envy his good fortune. Hisliterary mistakes are already beginning to be forgotten; the lastbreath of scandal was extinguished when it became known that VincentHolroyd had dedicated his posthumous work to his college friend, towhom he also confided the duties of editor--duties which Markaccepted 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 brilliantadvocate, with a plausibility that is effective with the averagejuryman, and an acquaintance with legal principles which is not tooclose to prevent a British unconsciousness that a cause can ever belost. 

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 canhardly fail to be happy; with his young and charming wife, and theonly child, to whom she devotes herself. 

If the story of his life were better known than it will ever be now hewould certainly be thought to have escaped far more easily than hedeserved. 

And yet his punishment still endures, and it is not a light one. It istrue that the world is prospering outwardly with him, true that thedanger is over, that Harold Caffyn has not been heard of for sometime, and that, whether alive or dead, he can never come between Mabeland her husband again, since she knows already the worst that there isto tell. 

But there are penalties exacted in secret which are scarcelypreferable to open humiliation. The love which Mark feels for hisyoung 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 mannerto him gives him any real reason to despair. But he is alwaystormenting himself with the fancy that her gentleness is onlyforbearance, her tenderness pity, and her devotion comes from hersense of duty--morbid ideas, which even hard work and constantexcitement can only banish for a time. 

Whether he can ever fill the place he once held in his wife's heart isa question which only time can decide: 'Le dénigrement de ceux quenous aimons, ' says the author of 'Madame Bovary, ' 'toujours nous endétache quelque peu. Il ne faut pas toucher aux idoles; la dorure enreste aux mains, ' and in Mabel's case the idol had been more thantarnished, and had lost rather its divinity than its gilding. 

But in spite of all she loves him still, though the character of herlove may be changed; and loves him more than he dares to hope atpresent; while the blank that might have been in her life is filled byher infant son, her little Vincent, whom she will strive to armagainst 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 thewriter's condition, but it has certainly not lessened the reputationwhich he had won by the earlier work, to which it is even preferred bysome who are considered to be judges. 

And there is one at least who will never read it without a passion ofremorseful pity, as its pages tell her more of a nature whose love wasunselfish and chivalrous, and went unrewarded to the end. 

 LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. , NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET