CHAPTER I.

Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and

the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

http://www.pgdp.net

COBWEBS

AND

CABLES.

BY

HESBA STRETTON,

AUTHOR OF "THROUGH A NEEDLE'S EYE," "IN PRISON AND OUT," "BEDE'S

CHARITY," ETC.

NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.

_AUTHOR'S CARD._

_It is my wish that Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company alone should publish

this story in the United States, and I appeal to the generosity and

courtesy of other Publishers, to allow me to gain some benefit from my

work on the American as well as English side of the Atlantic._

_HESBA STRETTON._

CONTENTS.

PART I.

CHAPTER

I. ABSCONDED

II. PHEBE MARLOWE

III. FELICITA

IV. UPFOLD FARM

V. A CONFESSION

VI. THE OLD BANK

VII. AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM

VIII. THE SENIOR PARTNER

IX. FAST BOUND

X. LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH

XI. OLD MARLOWE

XII. RECKLESS OF LIFE

XIII. SUSPENSE

XIV. ON THE ALTAR STEPS

XV. A SECOND FRAUD

XVI. PARTING WORDS

XVII. WAITING FOR THE NEWS

XVIII. THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN

XIX. AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER

XX. A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF

XXI. PLATO AND PAUL

XXII. A REJECTED SUITOR

XXIII. ANOTHER OFFER

XXIV. AT HOME IN LONDON

XXV. DEAD TO THE WORLD

PART II.

CHAPTER

I. AFTER MANY YEARS

II. CANON PASCAL

III. FELICITA'S REFUSAL

IV. TAKING ORDERS

V. A LONDON CURACY

VI. OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS

VII. AN OLD MAN'S PARDON

VIII. THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG

IX. THE LOWEST DEEPS

X. ALICE PASCAL

XI. COMING TO HIMSELF

XII. A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE

XIII. A LONDON GARRET

XIV. HIS FATHER'S SIN

XV. HAUNTING MEMORIES

XVI. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD

XVII. NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE

XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT

XIX. IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE

XX. AS A HIRED SERVANT

XXI. PHEBE'S SECRET

XXII. NEAR THE END

XXIII. THE MOST MISERABLE

XXIV. FOR ONE MOMENT

XXV. THE FINAL RESOLVE

XXVI. IN LUCERNE

XXVII. HIS OWN CHILDREN

XXVIII. AN EMIGRATION SCHEME

XXIX. FAREWELL

XXX. QUITE ALONE

XXXI. LAST WORDS

COBWEBS AND CABLES

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

ABSCONDED.

Late as it was, though the handsome office-clock on the chimney-piece

had already struck eleven, Roland Sefton did not move. He had not

stirred hand or foot for a long while now; no more than if he had been

bound fast by many strong cords, which no effort could break or untie.

His confidential clerk had left him two hours ago, and the undisturbed

stillness of night had surrounded him ever since he had listened to his

retreating footsteps. "Poor Acton!" he had said half aloud, and with a

heavy sigh.

As he sat there, his clasped hands resting on his desk and his face

hidden on them, all his life seemed to unfold itself before him; not in

painful memories of the past only, but in terrified prevision of the

black future.

How dear his native town was to him! He had always loved it from his

very babyhood. The wide old streets, with ancient houses still standing

here and there, rising or falling in gentle slopes, and called by quaint

old names such as he never heard elsewhere; the fine old churches

crowning the hills, and lifting up delicate tall spires, visible a score

of miles away; the grammar school where he had spent the happiest days

of his boyhood; the rapid river, brown and swirling, which swept past

the town, and came back again as if it could not leave it; the ancient

bridges spanning it, and the sharp-cornered recesses on them where he

had spent many an idle hour, watching the boats row in and out under the

arches; he saw every familiar nook and corner of his native town vividly

and suddenly, as if he caught glimpses of them by the capricious play of

lightning.

And this pleasant home of his; these walls which inclosed his

birth-place, and the birth-place of his children! He could not imagine

himself finding true rest and a peaceful shelter elsewhere. The spacious

old rooms, with brown wainscoted walls and carved ceilings; the tall and

narrow windows, with deep window-sills, where as a child he had so often

knelt, gazing out on the wide green landscape and the far distant,

almost level line of the horizon. His boy, Felix, had knelt in one of

them a few hours ago, looking out with grave childish eyes on the

sunset. The broad, shallow steps of the oaken staircase, trodden so many

years by the feet of all who were dearest to him; the quiet chambers

above where his mother, his wife, and his children were at this moment

sleeping peacefully. How unutterably and painfully sweet all his home

was to him!

Very prosperous his life had been; hardly overshadowed by a single

cloud. His father, who had been the third partner in the oldest bank in

Riversborough, had lived until he was old enough to step into his place.

The bank had been established in the last century, and was looked upon

as being as safe as the Bank of England. The second partner was dead;

and the eldest, Mr. Clifford, had left everything in his hands for the

last five years.

No man in Riversborough had led a more prosperous life than he had. His

wife was from one of the county families; without fortune, indeed, but

with all the advantages of high connections, which lifted him above the

rank of mere business men, and admitted him into society hitherto closed

even to the head partner in the old bank; in spite even of the fact that

he still occupied the fine old house adjoining the bank premises. There

was scarcely a townsman who was held to be his equal; not one who was

considered his superior. Though he was little over thirty yet, he was at

the head of all municipal affairs. He had already held the office of

mayor for one year, and might have been re-elected, if his wife had not

somewhat scorned the homely bourgeois dignity. There was no more popular

man in the whole town than he was.

But he had been building on the sands, and the storm was rising. He

could hear the moan of the winds growing louder, and the rush of the

on-coming floods drawing nearer. He must make good his escape now, or

never. If he put off flight till to-morrow, he would be crushed with the

falling of his house.

He lifted himself up heavily, and looked round the room. It was his

private office, at the back of the bank, handsomely furnished as a bank

parlor should be. Over the fire-place hung the portrait of old Clifford,

the senior partner, faithfully painted by a local artist, who had not

attempted to soften the hard, stern face, and the fixed stare of the

cold blue eyes, which seemed fastened pitilessly upon him. He had never

seen the likeness before as he saw it now. Would such a man overlook a

fault, or have any mercy for an offender? Never! He turned away from it,

feeling cold and sick at heart; and with a heavy, and very bitter sigh

he locked the door upon the room where he had spent so large a portion

of his life. The place which had known him would know him no more.

As noiselessly and warily as if he was a thief breaking into the quiet

house, he stole up the dimly-lighted staircase, and paused for a minute

or two before a door, listening intently. Then he crept in. A low shaded

lamp was burning, giving light enough to guide him to the cot where

Felix was sleeping. It would be his birthday to-morrow, and the child

must not lose his birthday gift, though the relentless floods were

rushing on toward him also. Close by was the cot where his baby

daughter, Hilda, was at rest. He stood between them, and could lay a

hand on each. How soundly the children slept while his heart was

breaking! Dear as they had been to him, he had never realized till now

how priceless beyond all words such little tender creatures could be. He

had called them into existence; and now the greatest good that could

befall them was his death. It was unutterable agony to him.

His gift was a Bible, the boy's own choice; and he laid it on the pillow

where Felix would find it as soon as his eyes opened. He bent over him,

and kissed him with trembling lips. Hilda stirred a little when his lips

touched her soft, rosy face, and she half opened her eyes, whispering

"Father," and then fell asleep again smiling. He dared not linger

another moment, but passing stealthily away, he paused listening at

another door, his face white with anguish. "I dare not see Felicita," he

murmured to himself, "but I must look on my mother's face once again."

The door made no sound as he opened it, and his feet fell noiselessly on

the thick carpet; but as he drew near his mother's bed, her eyes opened

with a clear steady gaze as if she had been awaiting his coming. There

was a light burning here as well as in the night-nursery adjoining, for

it was his mother who had charge of the children, and who would be the

first the nurse would call if anything was the matter. She awoke as one

who expects to be called upon at any hour; but the light was too dim to

betray the misery on her son's face.

"Roland!" she said, in a slightly foreign accent.

"Were you calling, mother?" he asked. "I was passing by, and I came in

here to see if you wanted anything."

"I did not call, my son," she answered, "but what have you the matter?

Is Felicita ill? or the babies? Your voice is sad, Roland."

"No, no," he said, forcing himself to speak in a cheerful voice,

"Felicita is asleep, I hope, and the babies are all right. But I have

been late at bank-work; and I turned in just to have a look at you,

mother, before I go to bed."

"That's my good son," she said, smiling, and taking his hand between her

own in a fond clasp.

"Am I a good son?" he asked.

His mother's face was a fair, sweet face still, the soft brown hair

scarcely touched with white, and with clear, dark gray eyes gazing up

frankly into his own. They were eyes like these, with their truthful

light shining through them, inherited from her, which in himself had won

the unquestioning trust and confidence of those who were brought into

contact with him. There was no warning signal of disloyalty in his face

to set others on their guard. His mother looked up at him tenderly.

"Always a good son, the best of sons, Roland," she replied, "and a good

husband, and a good father. Only one little fault in my good son: too

spendthrift, too lavish. You are not a fine, rich lord, with large

lands, and much, very much money, my boy. I do my best in the house; but

women can only save pennies, while men fling about pounds."

"But you love me with all my faults, mother?" he said.

"As my own soul," she answered.

There was a profound solemnity in her voice and look, which penetrated

to his very heart. She was not speaking lightly. It was in the same

spirit with which. Paul wrote, after saying, "For I am persuaded that

neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor

things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other

creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in

Christ Jesus our Lord;" "I could wish that myself were separate from

Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh." His mother

had reached that sublime height of love for him.

He stood silent, looking down on her with dull, aching eyes, as he said

to himself it was perhaps for the last time. It was the last time she

would ever see him as her good son. With her, in her heart and memory,

all his life dwelt; she knew the whole of it, with no break or

interruption. Only this one hidden thread, which had been woven into the

web in secret, and which was about to stand out with such clear and open

disclosure; of this she had no faint suspicion. For a minute or two he

felt as if he must tell her of it; that he must roll off this horrible

weight from himself, and crush her faithful heart with it. But what

could his mother do? Her love could not stay the storm; she had no power

to bid the winds and waves be still. It would be best for all of them if

he could make his escape secretly, and be altogether lost in

impenetrable darkness.

At that moment a clock in the hall below struck one.

"Well," he said wearily, "if I'm to get any sleep to-night I must be off

to bed. Good-by, mother."

"Good-by?" she repeated with a smile.

"Good-night, of course," he replied, bending over her and kissing her

tenderly.

"God bless you, my son," she said, putting both her hands upon his head,

and pressing his face close to her own. He could not break away from her

fond embrace; but in a few moments she let him go, bidding him get some

rest before the night was passed.

Once more he stood in the dimly-lighted passage, listening at his wife's

door, with his fingers involuntarily clasping the handle. But he dared

not go in. If he looked upon Felicita again he could not leave her, even

to escape from ruin and disgrace. An agony of love and of terror took

possession of him. Never to see her again was horrible; but to see her

shrink from him as a base and dishonest man, his name an infamy to her,

would be worse than death. Did she love him enough to forgive a sin

committed chiefly for her sake? In the depths of his own soul the answer

was no.

He stole down stairs again, and passed out by a side door into the

streets. It was raining heavily, and the wind was moaning through the

deserted thoroughfares, where no sound of footsteps could be heard.

Behind him lay his pleasant home, never so precious as at this moment.

He looked up at the windows, the two faintly lit up, and that other

darkened window of the chamber he had not dared to enter. In a few hours

those women, so unutterably dear to him, would be overwhelmed by the

great sorrow he had prepared for them; those children would become the

inheritors of his sin. He looked back longingly and despairingly, as if

there only was life for him; and then hurrying on swiftly he lost sight

of the old home, and felt as a drowning wretch at sea feels when the

heaving billows hide from him the glimmering light of the beacon, which,

however, can offer no harbor of refuge to him.

CHAPTER II.

PHEBE MARLOWE.

Though the night had been stormy, the sun rose brightly on the

rain-washed streets, and the roofs and walls stood out with a peculiar

clearness, and with a more vivid color than usual, against the deep blue

of the sky. It was May-day, and most hearts were stirred with a pleasant

feeling as of a holiday; not altogether a common day, though the shops

were all open, and business was going on as usual. The old be-thought

themselves of the days when they had gone a-Maying; and the young felt

less disposed to work, and were inclined to wander out in search of

May-flowers in the green meadows, or along the sunny banks of the river,

which surrounded the town. Early, very early considering the ten miles

she had ridden on her rough hill-pony, came a young country girl across

one of the ancient bridges, with a large market-basket on her arm,

brimful of golden May-flowers, set off well by their own glossy leaves,

and by the dark blue of her dress. She checked her pony and lingered for

a few minutes, looking over the parapet at the swift rushing of the

current through the narrow arches. A thin line of alders grew along the

margin of the river, with their pale green leaves half unfolded; and in

the midst of the swirling waters, parting them into two streams, lay a

narrow islet on which tall willow wands were springing, with soft, white

buds on every rod, and glistening in the sunshine. Not far away a lofty

avenue of lime-trees stretched along the banks, casting wavering shadows

on the brown river; while beyond it, on the summit of one of the hills

on which the town was built, there rose the spires of two churches built

close together, with the gilded crosses on their tapering points

glittering more brightly than anything else in the joyous light. For a

little while the girl gazed dreamily at the landscape, her color coming

and going quickly, and then with a deep-drawn sigh of delight she

roused herself and her pony, and passed on into the town.

The church clocks struck nine as she turned into Whitefriars Road, the

street where the old bank of Riversborough stood. The houses on each

side of the broad and quiet street were handsome, old-fashioned

dwelling-places, not one of which had as yet been turned into a shop.

The most eminent lawyers and doctors lived in it; and there was more

than one frontage which displayed a hatchment, left to grow faded and

discolored long after the year of mourning was ended. Here too was the

judge's residence, set apart for his occupation during the assizes. But

the old bank was the most handsome and most ancient of all those urban

mansions. It had originally stood alone on the brow of the hill

overlooking the river and the Whitefriars Abbey. Toward the street, when

Ronald Sefton's forefathers had realized a fortune by banking, now a

hundred years ago, there had been a new frontage built to it, with the

massive red brick workmanship and tall narrow windows of the eighteenth

century. But on the river side it was still an old Elizabethan mansion,

with gabled roofs standing boldly up against the sky; and low broad

casements, latticed and filled with lozenge-shaped panes; and

half-timber walls, with black beams fashioned into many forms: and with

one story jutting out beyond that below, until the attic window under

the gable seemed to hang in mid-air, without visible support, over the

garden sloping down a steep bank to the river-side.

Phebe Marlowe, in her coarse dark blue merino dress, and with her

market-basket of golden blossoms on her arm, walked with a quick step

along the quiet street, having left her pony at a stable near the

entrance to the town. There were few persons about; but those whom she

met she looked at with a pleasant, shy, slight smile on her face, as if

she almost claimed acquaintance with them, and was ready, even wishful,

to bid them good-morning on a day so fine and bright. Two or three

responded to this inarticulate greeting, and then her lips parted

gladly, and her voice, clear though low, answered them with a sweet

good-humor that had something at once peculiar and pathetic in it. She

passed under a broad archway at one side of the bank offices, leading to

the house entrance, and to the sloping garden beyond. A private door

into the bank was ajar, and a dark, sombre face was peering out of it

into the semi-darkness. Phebe's feet paused for an instant.

"Good-morning, Mr. Acton," she said, with a little rustic courtesy. But

he drew back quickly, and she heard him draw the bolt inside the door,

as if he had neither seen nor heard her. Yet the face, with its eager

and scared expression, had been too quickly seen by her, and too vividly

impressed upon her keen perception; and she went on, chilled a little,

as if some cloud had come over the clear brightness of the morning.

Phebe was so much at home in the house, that when she found the

housemaid on her knees cleaning the hall floor, she passed on

unceremoniously to the dining-room, where she felt sure of finding some

of the family. It was a spacious room, with a low ceiling where black

beams crossed and recrossed each other; with wainscoted walls, and a

carved chimney-piece of almost black oak. A sombre place in gloomy

weather, yet so decorated with old china vases, and great brass salvers,

and silver cups and tankards catching every ray of light, that the whole

room glistened in this bright May-day. In the broad cushioned seat

formed by the sill of the oriel window, which was almost as large as a

room itself, there sat the elder Mrs. Sefton, Roland Sefton's foreign

mother, with his two children standing before her. They had their hands

clasped behind them, and their faces were turned toward her with the

grave earnestness children's faces often wear. She was giving them their

daily Bible lesson, and she held up her small brown hand as a signal to

Phebe to keep silence, and to wait a moment until the lesson was ended.

"And so," she said, "those who know the will of God, and do not keep it,

will be beaten with many stripes. Remember that, my little Felix."

"I shall always try to do it," answered the boy solemnly. "I'm nine

years old to-day; and when I'm a man I'm going to be a pastor, like

your father, grandmamma; my great-grandfather, you know, in the Jura.

Tell us how he used to go about the snow mountains seeing his poor

people, and how he met with wolves sometimes, and was never frightened."

"Ah! my little children," she answered, "you have had a good father, and

a good grandfather, and a good great-grandfather. How very good you

ought to be."

"We will," cried both the children, clinging round her as she rose from

her chair, until they caught sight of Phebe standing in the doorway.

Then with cries of delight they flew to her, and threw themselves upon

her with almost rough caresses, as if they knew she could well bear it.

She received them with merry laughter, and knelt down that their arms

might be thrown more easily round her neck.

"See," she said, "I was up so early, while you were all in bed, finding

May-roses for you, with the May-dew on them. And if your father and

mother will let us go, I'll take you up the river to the osier island;

or you shall ride my Ruby, and we'll go off a long, long way into the

country, us three, and have dinner in a new place, where you have never

been. Because it's Felix's birthday."

She was still kneeling on the floor, with the children about her, when

the door opened, and the same troubled and haggard face, which had

peered out upon her under the archway, looked into the room with

restless and bloodshot eyes. Phebe felt a sudden chill again, and rising

to her feet put the children behind her, as if she feared some danger

for them.

"Where is Mr. Sefton?" he asked in a deep, hoarse voice; "is he at home,

Madame?"

Ever since the elder Mr. Sefton had brought his young foreign wife home,

now more than thirty years ago, the people of Riversborough had called

her Madame, giving to her no other title or surname. It had always

seemed to set her apart, and at a distance, as a foreigner, and so quiet

had she been, so homely and domesticated, that she had remained a

stranger, keeping her old habits of life and thought, and often yearning

for the old pastor's home among the Jura Mountains.

"But yes," she answered, "my son is late this morning; but all the world

is early, I think. It is not much beyond nine o'clock, Mr. Acton. The

bank is not open yet."

"No, no," he answered hurriedly, while his eyes wandered restlessly

about the room; "he is not ill, Madame?"

"I hope so not," she replied, with some vague uneasiness stirring in her

heart.

"Nor dead?" he muttered.

"Dead!" exclaimed both Madame and Phebe in one breath; "dead!"

"All men die," he went on, "and it is a pleasant thing to lie down

quietly in one's own grave, where the wicked cease from troubling, and

the weary are at rest. He could rest soundly in the grave."

"I will go and see," cried Madame, catching Phebe by the arm.

"Pray God you may find him dead," he answered, with a low, miserable

laugh, ending in a sob. He was mad; neither Madame nor Phebe had a doubt

of it. They put the children before them, and bade them run away to the

nursery, while they followed up the broad old staircase. Madame went

into her son's bedroom; but in a few seconds she returned to Phebe with

an anxious face.

"He is not there," she said, "nor Felicita. She is in her own

sitting-room, where she likes not to be followed. It is her sacred

place, and I go there never, Phebe."

"But she knows where Mr. Sefton is," answered Phebe, "and we must ask

her. We cannot leave poor Mr. Acton alone. If nobody else dare disturb

her, I will."

"She will not be vexed with you," said Madame Sefton. "Knock at this

door, Phebe; knock till she answers. I am miserable about my son."

Several times Phebe knocked, more loudly each time, until at last a low

voice, sounding far away, bade them go in. Very quietly, as if indeed

they were stepping into some holy place barefooted, they crossed the

threshold.

CHAPTER III.

FELICITA.

The room was a small one, with a dim, many-colored light pervading it;

for the upper part of the mullioned casement was filled with painted

glass, and even the panes of the lower part were of faintly tinted

green. Like all the rest of the old house, the walls were wainscoted,

but here there was no piece of china or silver to sparkle; the only

glitter was that of the gilding on the handsomely bound books arranged

in two bookcases. In this green gloom sat Felicita Sefton, leaning back

in her chair, with her head resting languidly on the cushions, and her

dark eyes turned dimly and dreamily toward the quietly opening door.

"Phebe Marlowe!" she said, her eyes brightening a little, as the fresh,

sweet face of the young country girl met her gaze. Phebe stepped softly

forward into the dim room, and laid the finest of the golden flowers she

had gathered that morning upon Felicita's lap. It brought a gleam of

spring sunshine into the gloom which caught Felicita's eye, and she

uttered a low cry of delight as she took it up in her small, delicate

hand. Phebe stooped down shyly and kissed the small hand, her face all

aglow with smiles and blushes.

"Felicita," said Madame, her voice altering a little, "where is my son

this morning?"

"Roland!" she repeated absently; "Roland? Didn't he say last night he

was going to London?"

"To London!" exclaimed his mother.

"Yes," she answered, "he bade me good-by last night; I remember now. He

said he would not disturb me again; he was going by the mail-train. He

was sorry to be away on poor little Felix's birthday. I recollect quite

distinctly now."

"He said not one word to me," said Madame. "It is strange."

"Very strange," asserted Felicita languidly, as if she were wandering

away again into the reverie they had broken in upon.

"Did he say when he would be back?" asked his mother.

"In a few days, of course," she answered.

"But he has not told Acton," resumed Madame.

"Who did you say?" inquired Felicita.

"The head clerk, the manager when Roland is away," she said. "He has not

said anything to him."

"Very strange," said Felicita again. It was plainly irksome to her to be

disturbed by questions like these, and she was withdrawing herself into

the remote and unapproachable distance where no one could follow her.

Her finely-chiselled features and colorless skin gave her a singular

resemblance to marble; and they might almost as well have addressed

themselves to a marble image.

"Come," said Madame, "we must see Acton again."

They found him in the bank parlor, where Roland was usually to be met

with at this hour. There was an unspoken hope in their hearts that he

would be there, and so deliver them from the undefined trouble and

terror they were suffering. But only Acton was there, seated at Roland's

desk, and turning over the papers in it with a rapid and reckless hand.

His face was hidden behind the great flap of the desk, and though he

glanced over it for an instant as the door opened he concealed himself

again, as if feigning unconsciousness of any one's presence.

"My son is gone to London," said Madame, keeping at a safe distance from

him, with the door open behind her and Phebe to secure a speedy retreat.

The flap of the desk fell with a loud crash, and Acton flung his arms

above his head with a gesture of despair.

"I knew it," he exclaimed. "Oh, my dear young master! God grant he may

get away safe. All is lost!"

"What do you mean?" cried Madame, forgetting one terror in another, and

catching him by the arm; "what is lost?"

"He is gone!" he answered, "and it was more my fault than his--mine and

Mrs. Sefton's. Whatever wrong he has done it was for her. Remember

that, Madame, and you, Phebe Marlowe. If anything happens, remember it's

my fault more than his, and Mrs. Sefton's fault more than mine."

"Tell me what you mean," urged Madame breathlessly.

"You'll know when Mr. Sefton returns, Madame," he answered, with a

sudden return to his usually calm tone and manner, which was as

startling as his former vehemence had been; "he'll explain all when he

comes home. We must open the bank now; it is striking ten."

He locked the desk and passed out of the comfortably-furnished parlor

into the office beyond, leaving them nothing to do but to return into

the house with their curiosity unsatisfied, and the mother's vague

trouble unsoothed.

"Phebe, Phebe!" cried Felix, as they slowly re-entered the pleasant

home, "my mother says we may go up the river to the osier island; and,

oh, Phebe, she will go with us her own self!"

He had run down the broad staircase to meet them, almost breathless with

delight, and with eyes shining with almost serious rapture. He clasped

Phebe's arm, and, leaning toward her, whispered into her ear,

"She took me in her arms, and said, 'I love you, Felix,' and then she

kissed me as if she meant it, Phebe. It was better than all my birthday

presents put together. My father said to me one day he adored her; and I

adore her. She is my mother, you know--the mother of me, Felix; and I

lie down on the floor and kiss her feet every day, only she does not

know it. When she looks at me her eyes seem to go through me; but, oh,

she does not look at me often."

"She is so different; not like most people," answered Phebe, with her

arms round the boy.

Madame had gone on sadly enough up-stairs to see if she could find out

anything about her son; and Phebe and Felix had turned into the terraced

garden where the boat-house was built close under the bank of the river.

"I should be sorry for my mother to be like other people," said Felix

proudly. "She is like the evening star, my father says, and I always

look out at night to see if it is shining. You know, Phebe, when we row

her up the river, my father and me, we keep quite quiet, only nodding at

one another which way to pull, and she sits silent with eyes that shine

like stars. We would not speak for anything, not one little word, lest

we should disturb her. My father says she is a great genius; not at all

like other people, and worth thousands and thousands of common women.

But I don't think you are a common woman, Phebe," he added, lifting up

his eager face to hers, as if afraid of hurting her feelings, "and my

father does not think so, I know."

"Your father has known me all my life, and has always been my best

friend," said Phebe, with a pleasant smile. "But I am a working-woman,

Felix, and your mother is a lady and a great genius. It is God who has

ordered it so."

She would have laughed if she had been less simple-hearted than she was,

at the anxious care with which the boy arranged the boat for his mother.

No cushions were soft enough and no shawls warm enough for the precious

guest. When at length all was ready, and he fetched her himself from

the house, it was not until she was comfortably seated in the low seat,

with a well-padded sloping back, against which she could recline at

ease, and with a soft, warm shawl wrapped round her--not till then did

the slight cloud of care pass away from his face, and the little pucker

of anxiety which knitted his brows grow smooth. The little girl of five,

Hilda, nestled down by her mother, and Felix took his post at the helm.

In unbroken silence they pushed off into the middle of the stream, the

boat rowed easily by Phebe's strong young arms. So silent were they all

that they could hear the rustling of the young leaves on the trees,

under whose shadows they passed, and the joyous singing of the larks in

the meadows on each side of the sunny reaches of water, down which they

floated. It was not until they landed the children on the osier island,

and bade them run about to play, and not then until they were some

distance away, that their merry young voices were heard.

"Phebe," said Felicita, in her low-toned, softly-modulated voice, always

languid and deliberate, "talk to me. Tell me how you spend your life."

Phebe was sitting face to face with her, balancing the boat with the

oars against the swift flowing of the river, with smiles coming and

going on her face as rapidly as the shadows and the sunshine chasing

each other over the fields this May morning.

"You know," she answered simply, "we live a mile away from the nearest

house, and that is only a cottage where an old farm laborer lives with

his wife. It's very lonesome up there on the hills. Days and days go by,

and I never hear a voice speaking, and I feel as if I could not bear the

sound of my own voice when I call the cattle home, or the fowls to come

for their corn. If it wasn't for the living things around me, that know

me as well as they know one another, and love me more, I should feel

sometimes as if I was dead. And I long so to hear somebody speak--to be

near more of my fellow-creatures. Why, when I touch the hand of any one

I love--yours, or Mr. Sefton's, or Madame's--it's almost a pain to me;

it seems to bring me so close to you. I always feel as if I became a

part of father when I touch him. Oh, you do not know what it is to be

alone!"

"No," said Felicita, sighing; "never have I been alone, and I would give

worlds to be as free as you are. You cannot imagine what it is," she

went on, speaking rapidly and with intense eagerness, "never to belong

to yourself, or to be alone; for it is not being alone to have only four

thin walls separating you from a husband and children and a large busy

household. 'What are you thinking, my darling?' Roland is always asking

me; and the children break in upon me. Body, soul, and spirit, I am held

down a captive; I have been in bondage all my life. I have never even

thought as I should think if I could be free."

"But I cannot understand that," cried Phebe. "I could never be too near

those I love. I should like to live in a large house, with many people

all smiling and talking around me. And everybody worships you."

She uttered the last words shyly, partly afraid of bringing a frown on

the lovely face opposite to her, which was quickly losing its vivid

expression and sinking back into statuesque coldness.

"It is simply weariness to me and vexation of spirit," she answered. "If

I could be quite alone, as you are, with only a father like yours, I

think I could get free; but I have never been left alone from my

babyhood; just as Felix and Hilda are never left alone. Oh, Phebe, you

do not know how happy you are."

"No," she said cheerfully, "sometimes when I stand at our garden-gate,

and look round me for miles and miles away, and the sweet air blows past

me, and the bees are humming, and the birds calling to one another, and

everything is so peaceful, with father happy over his work not far off,

I think I don't know how happy I am. I try to catch hold of the feeling

and keep it, but it slips away somehow. Only I thank God I am happy."

"I was never happy enough to thank God," Felicita murmured, lying back

in her seat and shutting her eyes. Presently the children returned, and,

after another silent row, slower and more toilsome, as it was up the

river, they drew near home again, and saw Madame's anxious face watching

for them over the low garden wall. Her heart had been too heavy for her

to join them in their pleasure-taking, and it was no lighter now.

CHAPTER IV.

UPFOLD FARM.

Phebe rode slowly homeward in the dusk of the evening, her brain too

busy with the varied events of the day for her to be in any haste to

reach the end. For the last four miles her road lay in long by-lanes,

shady with high hedgerows and trees which grew less frequent and more

stunted as she rose gradually higher up the long spurs of the hills,

whose rounded outlines showed dark against the clear orange tint of the

western sky. She could hear the brown cattle chewing the cud, and the

bleating of some solitary sheep on the open moor, calling to the flock

from which it had strayed during the daytime, with the angry yelping of

a dog in answer to its cry from some distant farm-yard. The air was

fresh and chilly with dew, and the low wind, which only lifted the

branches of the trees a little in the lower land she had left, was

growing keener, and would blow sharply enough across the unsheltered

table-land she was reaching. But still she loitered, letting her rough

pony snatch tufts of fresh grass from the banks, and shamble leisurely

along as he strayed from one side of the road to another.

Phebe was not so much thinking as pondering in a confused and

unconnected manner over all the circumstances of the day, when suddenly

the tall figure of a man rose from under the black hedgerow, and laid

his arm across the pony's neck, with his face turned up to her. Her

heart throbbed quickly, but not altogether with terror.

"Mr. Roland!" she cried.

"You know me in the dark then," he answered. "I have been watching for

you all day, Phebe. You come from home?"

She knew he meant his home, not hers.

"Yes, it was Felix's birthday, and we have been down the river," she

said.

"Is anything known yet?" he asked.

Though it was so solitary a spot that Phebe had passed no one for the

last three miles, and he had been haunting the hills all day without

seeing a soul, yet he spoke in a whisper, as if fearful of betraying

himself.

"Only that you are away," she replied; "and they think you are in

London."

"Is not Mr. Clifford come?" he asked.

"No, sir, he comes to-morrow," she answered.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed, in a louder tone. When he spoke again he did

so without looking into her face, which indeed was scarcely visible in

the deepening dusk.

"Phebe," he said, "we have known each other for many years."

"All my life, sir," she responded eagerly; "father and me, we are proud

of knowing you."

Before speaking again he led her pony up the steep lane to a gate which

opened on the moorland. It was not so dark here, from under the

hedgerows and trees, and a little pool beside the gate caught the last

lingering light in the west, and reflected it like a dim and dusty

mirror. They could see one another's faces; his was working with strong

excitement, and hers, earnest and friendly, looked frankly down upon

him. He clasped her hand with the strong, desperate grip of a sinking

man, and her fingers responded with a warm clasp.

"Can I trust you, Phebe?" he cried. "I have no other chance."

"I will help you, even to dying for you and yours," she answered. The

girlish fervor of her manner struck him mournfully. Why should he burden

her with his crime? What right had he to demand any sacrifice from her?

Yet he felt she spoke the truth. Phebe Marlowe would rejoice in helping,

even unto death, not only him, but any other fellow-creature who was

sinking under sorrow or sin.

"Come on home," she said, "it is bitterly cold here; and you can tell me

what to do."

He placed himself at the pony's head again, and trudged on speechlessly

along the rough road, which was now nothing more than the tracks made by

cart-wheels across the moor, with deep ruts over which he stumbled like

a man who is worn out with fatigue. In a quarter of an hour the low

cottage was reached, surrounded by a little belt of fields and a few

storm-beaten fir-trees. There was a dull glow of red to be seen through

the lattice window, telling Phebe of a smouldering fire, made up for her

by her father before going back to his workshop at the end of the field

behind the house. She stirred up the wood-ashes and threw upon them some

dry, light fagots of gorse, and in a few seconds a dazzling light filled

the little room from end to end. It was a familiar place to Roland

Sefton, and he took no notice of it. But it was a curious interior.

Every niche of the walls was covered with carved oak; no wainscoted hall

in the country could be more richly or more fancifully decorated. The

chimney-piece over the open hearth-stone, a wide chimney-piece, was

deeply carved with curious devices. The doors and window-frames, the

cupboards and the shelves for the crockery, were all of dark oak,

fashioned into leaves and ferns, with birds on their nests, and timid

rabbits, and still more timid wood-mice peeping out of their coverts,

cocks crowing with uplifted crest, and chickens nestling under the

hen-mother's wings, sheaves of corn, and tall, club-headed

bulrushes--all the objects familiar to a country life. The dancing light

played upon them, and shone also upon Roland Sefton's sad and weary

face. Phebe drew her father's carved arm-chair close to the fire.

"Sit down," she said, "and let me get you something to eat."

"Yes," he answered, sinking down wearily in the chair, "I am nearly

dying of hunger. Good Heavens! is it possible I can be hungry?"

He spoke with an indescribable expression of mingled astonishment and

dread. Suddenly there broke upon him the possibility of suffering want

in many forms in the future, and yet he felt ashamed of foreseeing them

in this, the first day of his great calamity. Until this moment he had

been too absorbed in dwelling upon the moral and social consequences of

his crime, to realize how utterly worn out he was; but all his physical

strength appeared to collapse in an instant.

And now for the first time Phebe beheld the change in him, and stood

gazing at him in mute surprise and sorrow. He had always been careful

of his personal appearance, with a refinement and daintiness which had

grown especially fastidious since his marriage. But now his coat, wet

through during the night, and dried only by the keen air of the hills,

was creased and soiled, and his boots were thickly covered with mud and

clay. His face and hands were unwashed, and his hair hung unbrushed over

his forehead. Phebe's whole heart was stirred at this pitiful change,

and she laid her hand on his shoulder with a timid but affectionate

touch.

"Mr. Roland," she said, "go up-stairs and put yourself to rights a

little; and give me your clothes and your boots to brush. You'll feel

better when you are more like yourself."

He smiled faintly as he looked up at her quivering lips and eyes full of

unshed tears. But her homely advice was good, and he was glad to follow

it. Her little room above was lined with richly carved oak panels like

the kitchen below, and a bookcase contained her books, many of which he

had himself given to her. There was an easel standing under the highest

part of the shelving roof, where a sky-light was let into the thatch,

and a half-finished painting rested on it. But he did not give a glance

toward it. There was very little interest to him just now in Phebe's

pursuits, though she owed most of them to him.

By the time he was ready to go down, supper was waiting for him on the

warm and bright hearth, and he fell upon it almost ravenously. It was

twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. Phebe sat almost out of sight

in the shadow of a large settle, with her knitting in her hand, and her

eyes only seeking his face when any movement seemed to indicate that she

could serve him in some way. But in these brief glances she noticed the

color coming back to his face, and new vigor and resolution changing his

whole aspect.

"And now," he said, when his hunger was satisfied, "I can talk to you,

Phebe."

CHAPTER V.

A CONFESSION.

But Roland Sefton sat silent, with his shapely hands resting on his

knees, and his handsome face turned toward the hearth, where the logs

had burned down and emitted only a low and fitful flame. The little room

was scarcely lighted by it, and looked all the darker for the blackness

of the small uncurtained window, through which the ebony face of night

was peering in. This bare, uncovered casement troubled him, and from

time to time he turned his eyes uneasily toward it. But what need could

there be of a curtain, when they were a mile away from any habitation,

and where no road crossed the moor, except the rugged green pathway,

worn into deep ruts by old Marlowe's own wagon? Yet as if touched by

some vague sympathy with him, Phebe rose, and pinned one of her large

rough working-aprons across it.

"Phebe," he said, as she stepped softly back to her seat, "you and I

have been friends a long time; and your father and I have been friends

all my life. Do you recollect me staying here a whole week when I was a

school-boy?"

"Yes," she answered, her eyes glistening in the dusky light; "but for

you I should have known nothing, only what work had to be done for

father. You taught me my alphabet that week, and the hymns I have said

every night since then before I go to sleep. You helped me to teach

myself painting; and if I ever paint a picture worth looking at it will

be your doing."

"No, no; you are a born artist, Phebe Marlowe," he said, "though perhaps

the world may never know it. But being such friends as you say, I will

trust you. Do you think me worthy of trust, true and honest as a man

should be, Phebe?"

"As true and honest as the day," she cried, with eager emphasis.

"And a Christian?" he added, in a lower voice.

"Yes," she answered, "I do not know a Christian if you are not one."

"That is the sting of it," he groaned; "true, and honest, and a

Christian! And yet, Phebe, if I were taken by the police to-night, or if

I be taken by them to-morrow, I shall be lodged in Riversborough jail,

and tried before a jury of my towns-people at the assizes next month."

"No, it is impossible!" she cried, stretching out her brown,

hard-working hand, and laying it on his white and shapely one, which had

never known toil.

"You would not send me to jail," he said, "I know that well enough. But

I deserve it, my poor girl. They would find me guilty and sentence me to

a convict prison. I saw Dartmoor prison on my wedding journey with

Felicita, Heaven help me! She liked the wild, solitary moor, with its

great tors and its desolate stillness, and one day we went near to the

prison. Those grim walls seemed to take possession of me; I felt

oppressed and crushed by them. I could not forget them for days after,

even with Felicita by my side."

His voice trembled as he spoke, and a quiver ran through his whole

frame, which seemed to thrill through Phebe's; but she only pressed her

pitiful hand more closely on his.

"I might have escaped last night," he went on, "but I stumbled over a

poor girl in the street, dying. A young girl, no older than you, without

a penny or a friend; a sinner too like myself; and I could not leave her

there alone. Only in finding help for her I lost my chance. The train to

London was gone, and there was no other till ten this morning. I

expected Mr. Clifford to be at the bank to-day; if I had only known he

would not be there I could have got away then. But I came here, why I

hardly know. You could not hide me for long if you would; but there was

no one else to help me."

"But what have you done, sir?" she asked, with a tremulous, long-drawn

sigh.

"Done?" he repeated; "ay! there's the question. I wonder if I can be

honest and true now with only Phebe Marlowe listening. I could have told

my mother, perhaps, if it had been of any use; but I would die rather

than tell Felicita. Done, Phebe! I've appropriated securities trusted to

my keeping, pledging some and selling others for my own use. I've stolen

£10,000."

"And you could be sent to prison for it?" she said, in a low voice,

glancing uneasily round as if she fancied she would be overheard.

"For I don't know how many years," he answered.

"It would kill Mrs. Sefton," she said. "Oh! how could you do it?"

"It was for Felicita I did it," he replied absently; "for my Felicita

only."

For a few minutes Phebe's brain was busy, but not yet with the most

sorrowful thoughts. There could be no shadow of doubt in her mind that

this dearest friend of hers, sitting beside her in the twilight, was

guilty of the crime he had confessed. But she could not as yet dwell

upon the crime. He was in imminent peril; and his peril threatened the

welfare of nearly all whom she loved. Ruin and infamy for him meant

ruin and infamy for them all. She must save him if possible.

"Phebe," he said, breaking the dreary silence, "I ought to tell you one

thing more. The money your father left with me--the savings of his

life--six hundred pounds--it is all gone. He intrusted it to me, and

made his will, appointing me your guardian; such confidence he had in

me. I have made both him and you penniless."

"I think nothing of that," she answered. "What should I ever have been

but for you? A dull, ignorant country girl, living a life little higher

than my sheep and cattle. We are rich enough, my father and me. This

cottage, and the fields about it, are our own. But I must go and tell

father."

"Must he be told?" asked Roland Sefton anxiously.

"We've no secrets," she replied; "and there's no fear of him, you know.

He would see if I was in trouble; and I shall be in trouble," she added,

in a sorrowful voice.

She opened the cottage door, and going out left him alone. It was a

familiar place to him; but hitherto it had been only the haunt of happy

holidays, from the time when he had been a school-boy until his last

autumn's shooting of grouse and woodcock on the wide moors. Old Marlowe

had been one of his earliest friends, and Phebe had been something like

a humble younger sister to him. If any one in the world could be

depended upon to help him, outside his own family, it must be old

Marlowe and his daughter.

And yet, when she left him, his first impulse was to rise and flee while

yet there was time--before old Marlowe knew his secret. Phebe was a

girl, living as girls do, in a region of sentiment and feeling, hardly

understanding a crime against property. A girl like her had no idea of

what his responsibility and his guilt were, money ranking so low in her

estimate of life. But old Marlowe would look at it quite differently.

His own careful earnings, scraped together by untiring industry and

ceaseless self-denial, were lost--stolen by the man he had trusted

implicitly. For Roland Sefton did not spare himself any reproaches; he

did not attempt to hide or palliate his sin. There were other

securities for small sums, like old Marlowe's, gone like his, and ruin

would overtake half a dozen poor families, though the bulk of the loss

would fall upon his senior partner, who was a hard man, of unbending

sternness and integrity. If old Marlowe proved a man of the same

inflexible stamp, he was lost.

But he sat still, waiting and listening. Round that lonely cottage, as

he well knew, the wind swept from whatever quarter it was blowing;

sighing softly, or wailing, moaning, or roaring past it, as ceaselessly

as the sound of waves against a fisherman's hut on the sea-coast. It was

crying and sobbing now, rising at intervals into a shriek, as if to warn

him of coming peril. He went to the window and met the black face of the

night, hiding everything from his eye. Neither moon nor star gleamed in

the sky. But even if old Marlowe was merciful he could not stay there,

but must go out, as he had done last night from his own home, lashed

like a dog from every familiar hearth by an unseen hand and a heavy

scourge.

Phebe had not lingered, though she seemed long away. As she drew near

the little workshop she saw the wagon half-laden with some church

furniture her father had been carving, and with which he and she were to

start at daybreak for a village about twenty miles off. She heard the

light tap of his carving tools as she opened the door, and found him

finishing the wings of a spread-eagle. He had pushed back the paper cap

he wore from his forehead, which was deeply furrowed, and shaded by a

few straggling tufts of gray hair. He took no notice of her entrance

until she touched his arm with her hand; and then he looked at her with

eyes, blue like her own, but growing dim with age, and full of the

pitiful, uncomplaining gaze of one who is deaf and dumb. But his face

brightened and his smile was cheerful, as he began to talk eagerly with

his fingers, throwing in many gestures to aid his slow speech. Phebe,

too, smiled and gesticulated in silent answer, before she told him her

errand.

"The carving is finished, father," she said. "Could we not start at

once, and be at Upchurch before five to-morrow morning?"

"Twenty miles; eight hours; easily," he answered; "but why?"

"To help Mr. Sefton," she said. "He wants to get down to Southampton,

and Upchurch is in the way. Father, it must be done; you would never see

a smile upon my face again if we did not do it."

The keen, wistful eyes of her father were fastened alternately upon her

troubled face and her moving hands, as slowly and silently she spelt out

on her fingers the sad story she had just listened to. His own face

changed rapidly from astonishment to dismay, and from dismay to a

passionate rage. If Roland Sefton could have seen it he would have made

good his escape. But still Phebe's fingers went on pleading for him; and

the smile, which she said her father would never see again--a pale, wan

smile--met his eyes as he watched her.

"He has been so good to you and me," she went on, with a sob in her

throat; and unconsciously she spoke out the words aloud and slowly as

she told them off on her fingers; "he learned to talk with you as I do,

and he is the only person almost in the world who can talk to you

without your slate and pencil, father. It was good of him to take that

trouble. And his father was your best friend, wasn't he? How good Madame

used to be when I was a little girl, and you were carving all that

woodwork at the old bank, and she let me stay there with you! All our

happiest days have come through them. And now we can deliver them from

great misery."

"But my money?" he interposed.

"Money is nothing between friends," she said eagerly. "Will you make my

life miserable, father? I shall be thinking of them always, night and

day; and they will never see me again if he is sent to jail through our

fault. There never was a kinder man than he is; and I always thought him

a good man till now."

"A thief; worse than a common thief," said her father. "What will become

of my little daughter when I am dead?"

Phebe made no answer except by tears. For a few minutes old Marlowe

watched her bowed head and face hidden in her hands, till a gray hue

came upon his withered face, and the angry gleam died away from his

eyes. Hitherto her slightest wish had been a law to him, and to see her

weeping was anguish to him. To have a child who could hear and speak had

been a joy that had redeemed his life from wretchedness, and crowned it

with an inexhaustible delight. If he never saw her smile again, what

would become of him? She was hiding her face from him even now, and

there was no medium of communication between them save by touch. He must

call her attention to what he had to say by making her look at him.

Almost timidly he stretched out his withered and cramped hand to lay it

upon her head.

"I must do whatever you please," he said, when she lifted up her face

and looked at him with tearful eyes; "if it killed me I must do it. But

it is a hard thing you bid me do, Phebe."

He turned away to brush the last speck of dust from the eagle's wings,

and lifting it up carefully carried it away to pack in his wagon, Phebe

holding the lantern for him till all was done. Then hand in hand they

walked down the foot-worn path across the field to the house, as they

had done ever since she had been a tottering little child, hardly able

to clasp his one finger with her baby hand.

Roland Sefton was crouching over the dying embers on the hearth, more in

the utter misery of soul than in bodily chilliness, though he felt cold

and shivering, as if stripped of all that made life desirable to him.

There is no icy chill like that. He did not look round when the door

opened, though Phebe spoke to him; for he could not face old Marlowe, or

force himself to read the silent yet eloquent fingers, which only could

utter words of reproach. The dumb old man stood on the threshold, gazing

at his averted face and downcast head, and an inarticulate cry of

mingled rage and grief broke from his silent lips, such as Phebe herself

had never heard before, and which, years afterward, sounded at times in

Roland Sefton's ears.

It was nearly ten o'clock before they were on the road, old Marlowe

marching at the head of his horse, and Phebe mounted on her wiry little

pony, while Roland Sefton rode in front of the wagon at times. Their

progress was slow, for the oak furniture was heavy and the roads were

rough, leading across the moor and down steep hills into valleys, with

equally steep hills on the other side. The sky was covered with a thin

mist drifting slowly before the wind, and when the moon shone through

it, about two o'clock in the morning, it was the waning-moon looking sad

and forlorn amid the floating vapor. The houses they passed were few and

far between, showing no light or sign of life. All the land lay around

them dark and desolate under the midnight sky; and the slow creaking of

the wheels and sluggish hoof-beats of the horse dragging the wagon were

the only sounds that broke the stillness.

In this gloom old Marlowe could hold no conversation either with Phebe

or Roland Sefton, but from time to time they could hear him sob aloud as

he trudged on in his speechless isolation. It was a sad sound, which

pierced them to the heart. From time to time Roland Sefton walked up the

long hills beside Phebe's pony, pouring out his whole heart to her. They

could hardly see each other's faces in the dimness, and words came the

more readily to him. All the burden of his confession was that he had

fallen through seeking Felicita's happiness. For her sake he had longed

for more wealth, and speculated in the hope of gaining it, and tampered

with the securities intrusted to him in the hope of retrieving losses.

It was for her, and her only, he maintained; and now he had brought

infamy and wretchedness and poverty upon her and his innocent children.

"Would to God I could die to-night!" he exclaimed; "my death would save

them from some portion of their trouble."

Phebe listened to him almost as heart-broken as himself. In her

singularly solitary life, so far apart from ordinary human society, she

had never been brought into contact with sin, and its profound,

fathomless misery; and now it was the one friend, whom she had loved the

longest and the best, who was walking beside her a guilty man, fleeing

through the night from all he himself cared for, to seek a refuge from

the consequences of his crime in an uncertain exile. In years afterward

it seemed to her as if that night had been rather a terrible dream than

a reality.

At length the pale dawn broke, and the utter separation caused by the

darkness between them and old Marlowe passed away with it. He stopped

his horse and came to them, turning a gray, despairing face upon Roland

Sefton.

"It is time to leave you," he said; "over these fields lies the nearest

station, where you can escape from a just punishment. You have made us

beggars to keep up your own grandeur. God will see that you do not go

unpunished."

"Hush, hush!" cried Phebe aloud, stretching out her hand to Roland

Sefton; "he will forgive you by and by. Tell me: have you no message to

send by me, sir? When shall we hear from you?"

"If I get away safe," he answered, in a broken voice, "and if nothing is

heard of me before, tell Felicita I will be in the place where I saw her

first, this day six months. Do not tell her till the time is near. It

will be best for her to know nothing of me at present."

They were standing at the stile over which his road lay. The sun was not

yet risen, but the gray clouds overhead were taking rosy and golden

tints. Here and there in the quiet farmsteads around them the cocks

were beginning to crow lazily; and there were low, drowsy twitterings in

the hedges, where the nests were still new little homes. It was a more

peaceful hour than sunset can ever be with its memories of the day's

toils and troubles. All the world seemed bathed in rest and quietness

except themselves. Their dark journey through the silent night had been

almost a crime.

"Your father turns his back upon me, as all honest men will do," said

Roland Sefton.

Old Marlowe had gone back to his horse, and stood there without looking

round. The tears ran down Phebe's face; but she did not touch her

father, and ask him to bid his old friend's son good-by.

"Some day no man will turn his back upon you, sir," she answered; "I

would die now rather than do it. You will regain your good name some

day."

"Never!" he exclaimed; "it is past recall. There is no place of

repentance for me, Phebe. I have staked all, and lost all."

CHAPTER VI.

THE OLD BANK.

About the same hour that Roland Sefton set off under shelter of old

Marlowe's wagon to attempt his escape, Mr. Clifford, the senior partner

in the firm, reached Riversborough by the last train from London. It was

too late for him to intrude on the household of his young partner, and

he spent the night at a hotel.

The old bank at Riversborough had been flourishing for the last hundred

years. It had the power of issuing its own notes; and until lately these

notes, bearing the familiar names of Clifford and Sefton, had been

preferred by the country people round to those of the Bank of England

itself. For nobody knew who were the managers of the Bank of England;

while one of the Seftons, either father or son, could be seen at any

time for the last fifty years. On ordinary days there were but few

customers to be seen in its handsome office, and a single clerk might

easily have transacted all the business. But on market-days and

fair-days the place was crowded by loud-voiced, red-faced country

gentlemen, and by awkward and burly farmers, from the moment its doors

were opened until they were closed at the last stroke of four sounding

from the church clock near at hand. The strong room of the Old Bank was

filled full with chests containing valuable securities and heirlooms,

belonging to most of the county families in the neighborhood.

For the last twenty years Mr. Clifford had left the management of the

bank entirely to the elder Sefton, and upon his death to his son, who

was already a partner. He had lived abroad, and had not visited England

for more than ten years. There was a report, somewhat more

circumstantial than a rumor, but the truth of which none but the elder

Sefton had ever known, that Mr. Clifford, offended by his only son, had

let him die of absolute starvation in Paris. Added to this rumor was a

vague story of some crime committed by the younger Clifford, which his

father would not overlook or forgive. That he was a hard man, austere to

utter pitilessness, everybody averred. No transgressor need look to him

for pardon.

When Roland Sefton had laid his hands upon the private personal

securities belonging to his senior partner, it was with no idea that he

would escape the most rigorous prosecution, should his proceedings ever

come to the light. But it was with the fixed conviction that Mr.

Clifford would never return to England, or certainly not to

Riversborough, where this hard report had been circulated and partly

accepted concerning him. The very bonds he had dealt with, first

borrowing money upon them, and at last selling them, had been bequeathed

to him in Mr. Clifford's will, of which he was himself the executor. He

had, as he persuaded himself, only forestalled the possession of them.

But a letter he had received from Mr. Clifford, informing him that he

was on his way home, with the purpose of thoroughly investigating the

affairs of the bank, had fallen like a thunderbolt upon him, and upon

Acton, through whose agency he had managed to dispose of the securities

without arousing any suspicion.

Early the next morning Mr. Clifford arrived at the bank, and heard to

his great surprise that his partner had started for London, and had been

away the day before; possibly, Madame Sefton suggested with some

anxiety, in the hope of meeting him there. No doubt he would be back

early, for it was the day of the May fair, when there was always an

unusual stir of business. Mr. Clifford took his place in the vacant bank

parlor, and waited somewhat grimly for the arrival of the head clerk,

Acton.

There was a not unpleasant excitement among the clerks, as they

whispered to each other on arrival that old Clifford was come and Roland

Sefton was still absent. But this excitement deepened into agitation and

misgiving as the hour for opening the bank drew near and Acton did not

arrive. Such a circumstance had never occurred before, for Acton had

made himself unpopular with those beneath him by expecting devotion

equal to his own to the interests of the firm. When ten o'clock was

close at hand a clerk ran round to Acton's lodgings; but before he could

return a breathless messenger rushed into the bank as the doors were

thrown open, with the tidings that the head clerk had been found by his

landlady lying dead in his bed.

More quickly than if the town-crier had been sent round the streets with

his bell to announce the news, it was known that Roland Sefton was

missing and the managing clerk had committed suicide. The populace from

all the country round was flocking into the town for the fair, three

fourths of whom did business with the Old Bank. No wonder that a panic

took possession of them. In an hour's time the tranquil street was

thronged with a dense mass of town's-people and country-people, numbers

of whom were fighting their way to the bank as if for dear life. There

was not room within for the crowds who struggled to get to the counters

and present their checks and bank-notes, and demand instant settlement

of their accounts. In vain Mr. Clifford assured them there was no fear

of the firm being unable to meet its liabilities. In cases like these

the panic cannot be allayed by words.

As long as the funds held out the checks and notes were paid over the

counter; but this could not go on. Mr. Clifford himself was in the dark

as to the state of affairs, and did not know how his credit stood. Soon

after midday the funds were exhausted, and with the utmost difficulty

the bank was cleared and the doors closed. But the crowd did not

disperse; rather it grew denser as the news spread like wildfire that

the Old Bank had stopped!

It was at the moment that the bank doors were closed that Phebe turned

into Whitefriars Road. She had taken a train from Upchurch, leaving her

father to return home alone with the empty wagon. It was a strange sight

which met her. The usually quiet street was thronged from end to end,

and the babble of many voices made all sounds indistinct. Even on the

outskirts of the crowd there were men, some pale and some red with

anxiety, struggling with elbows and shoulders to make their way through

to the bank, in the vain hope that it would not be too late. A

strongly-built, robust farmer fainted quietly away beside her, like a

delicate woman, when he heard that the doors were shut; and his wife and

son, who were following him, bore him out of the crush as well as they

could. Phebe, pressing gently forward, and gliding in wherever a chance

movement gave her an opportunity, at last reached the archway at the

side of the house, and rapped urgently for admittance. A scared-looking

man-servant, who opened the door with the chain upon it, let her in as

soon as he recognized who she was.

"It's a fearsome day," he said; "master's away, gone nobody knows where;

and old Acton's poisoned himself. Nobody dare tell Mrs. Sefton; but

Madame knows. She is in the dining-room, Miss Marlowe."

Phebe found her, as she had done the day before, sitting in the oriel

window; but the usually placid-looking little woman was in a state of

nervous agitation. As soon as she caught sight of Phebe's pitiful face

she ran to her, and clasping her in her arms, burst into a passion of

tears and sobs.

"My son!" she cried; "what can have become of him, Phebe? Where can he

be gone? If he would only come home, all these people would be

satisfied, and go away. They don't know Mr. Clifford, but they know

Roland; he is so popular. The servants say the bank is broken; what does

that mean, Phebe? And poor Acton! They say he is dead--he did kill

himself by poison. Is it not true, Phebe? Tell me it is not true!"

But Phebe could say nothing to comfort her; she knew better than any one

else the whole truth of the calamity. But she held the weeping little

woman in her strong young arms, and there was something consoling in her

loving clasp.

"And where are the children?" she asked, after a while.

"I sent them to play in the garden," answered Madame; "their own little

plots are far away, out of sight of the dreadful street. What good is it

that they should know all this trouble?"

"No good at all," replied Phebe. "And where is Mrs. Sefton?"

"Alas, my Phebe!" she exclaimed, "who dare tell her? Not me; no, no!

She is shut up in her little chamber, and she forgets all the world--her

children even, and Roland himself. It is as if she went away into

another life, far away from ours; and when she comes home again she is

like one in a dream. Will you dare to tell her?"

"Yes, I will go," she said.

Yet with very slow and reluctant steps Phebe climbed the staircase,

pausing long at the window midway, which overlooked the wide and sunny

landscape in the distance, and the garden just below. She watched the

children busy at their little plots of ground, utterly unconscious of

the utter ruin that had befallen them. How lovely and how happy they

looked! She could have cried out aloud, a bitter and lamentable cry. But

as yet she must not yield to the flood of her own grief; she must keep

it back until she was at home again, in her solitary home, where nobody

could hear her sobs and cries. Just now she must think for, and comfort,

if comfort were possible, these others, who stood even nearer than she

did to the sin and the sinner. Gathering up all her courage, she

quickened her footsteps and ran hurriedly up the remaining steps.

But at the drawing-room door, which was partly open, her feet were

arrested. Within, standing behind the rose-colored curtains, stood the

tall, slender figure of Felicita, with her clear and colorless face

catching a delicate flush from the tint of the hangings that concealed

her from the street. She was looking down on the crowd below, with the

perplexity of a foreigner gazing on some unfamiliar scene in a strange

land. There was a half-smile playing about her lips; but her whole

attention was so absorbed by the spectacle beneath her that she did not

see or hear Phebe until she was standing beside her, looking down also

on the excited crowd.

"Phebe!" she exclaimed, "you here again? Then you can tell me, are the

good people of Riversborough gone mad? or is it possible there is an

election going on, of which I have heard nothing? Nothing less than an

election could rouse them to such a pitch of excitement."

"Have you heard nothing of what they say?" asked Phebe.

"There is such a Babel," she answered; "of course I hear my husband's

name. It would be just like him if he got himself elected member for

Riversborough without telling me anything about it till it was over. He

loves surprises; and I--why I hate to be surprised."

"But he is gone!" said Phebe.

"Yes, he told me he was going to London," she went on; "but if it is no

election scene, what is it, Phebe? Why are all the people gathered here

in such excitement?"

"Shall I tell you plainly?" asked Phebe, looking steadily into

Felicita's dark, inscrutable eyes.

"Tell me the simple truth," she replied, somewhat haughtily; "if any

human being can tell it."

"Then the bank has stopped payment," answered Phebe. "Poor Mr. Acton has

been found dead in bed this morning; and Mr. Sefton is gone away, nobody

knows where. It is the May fair to-day, and all the people are coming in

from the country. There's been a run on the bank till they are forced to

stop payment. That is what brings the crowd here."

Felicita dropped the curtain which she had been holding back with her

hand, and stepped back a pace or two from the window. But her face

scarcely changed; she listened calmly and collectedly, as if Phebe was

speaking of some persons she hardly knew.

"My husband will come back immediately," she said. "Is not Mr. Clifford

there?"

"Yes," said Phebe.

"Are you telling me all?" asked Felicita.

"No," she answered; "Mr. Clifford says he has been robbed. Securities

worth nearly ten thousand pounds are missing. He must have found it out

already."

"Who does he suspect?" she asked again imperiously; "he does not dare

suspect my husband?"

Phebe replied only by a mute gesture. She had never had any secret to

conceal before, and she did not see that she had betrayed herself by the

words she had uttered. The deep gloom on her bright young face struck

Felicita for the first time.

"Do you think it was Roland?" she asked.

Again the same dumb, hopeless gesture answered the question. Phebe could

not bring her lips to shape a word of accusation against him. It was

agony to her to feel her idol disgraced and cast down from his high

pedestal; yet she had not learned any way of concealing or

misrepresenting the truth.

"You know he did it?" said Felicita.

"Yes, I know it," she whispered.

For a minute or two Felicita stood, with her white hands resting on

Phebe's shoulders, gazing into her mournful face with keen, questioning

eyes. Then, with a rapid flush of crimson, betraying a strong and

painful heart-throb, which suffused her face for an instant and left it

paler than before, she pressed her lips on the girl's sunburnt forehead.

"Tell nobody else," she murmured; "keep the secret for his sake and

mine."

Before Phebe could reply she turned away, and, with a steady,

unfaltering step, went back to her study and locked herself in.

CHAPTER VII.

AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM.

Felicita's study was so quiet a room, quite remote from the street, that

it was almost a wonder the noise of the crowd had reached her. But this

morning there had been a pleasant tumult of excitement in her own brain,

which had prevented her from falling into an absorbed reverie, such as

she usually indulged in, and rendered her peculiarly susceptible to

outward influences. All her senses had been awake to-day.

On her desk lay the two volumes of a new book, handsomely got up, with

pages yet uncut as it had come from the publishers. A dozen times she

had looked at the title-page, as if unable to convince herself of the

reality, and read her own name--Felicita Riversdale Sefton. It was the

first time her name as an author had been published, though for the last

three years she had from time to time written anonymously for magazines.

This was her own book; thought out, written, revised, and completed in

her chosen solitude and secrecy. No one knew of it; possibly Roland

suspected something, but he had not ventured to make any inquiries, and

she had no reason to believe that he even suspected its existence. It

was simply altogether her own; no other mind had any part or share in

it.

There was something like rapture in her delight. The book was a good

book, she was sure of it. She had not succeeded in making it as perfect

as her ideal, but she had not signally failed. It did in a fair degree

represent her inmost thoughts and fancies. Yet she could not feel quite

sure that the two volumes were real, and the letter from the publisher,

a friendly and pleasant letter enough, seemed necessary to vouch for

them. She read and re-read it. The little room seemed too small and

close for her. She opened the window to let in the white daylight,

undisguised by the faint green tint of the glass, and she leaned out to

breathe the fresh sweet air of the spring morning. Life was very

pleasurable to her to-day.

There were golden gleams too upon the future. She would no longer be the

unknown wife of a country banker, moving in a narrow sphere, which was

altogether painful to her in its provincial philistinism. It was a

sphere to which she had descended in girlish ignorance. Her uncle, Lord

Riversdale, had been willing to let his portionless niece marry this

prosperous young banker, who was madly in love with her, and a little

gentle pressure had been brought to bear on the girl of eighteen, who

had been placed by her father's death in a position of dependence. Since

then a smouldering fire of ambition and of dissatisfaction with her lot

had been lurking unsuspected under her cold and self-absorbed manner.

But her thoughts turned with more tenderness than usual toward her

husband. She had aroused in him also a restless spirit of ambition,

though in him it was for her sake, not his own. He wished to restore her

if possible to the position she had sacrificed for him; and Felicita

knew it. Her heart beating faster with her success was softened toward

him; and tears suffused her dark eyes for an instant as she thought of

his astonishment and exultation.

The children were at play in the garden below her, and their merry

voices greeted her ear pleasantly. The one human being who really dwelt

in her inmost heart was her boy Felix, her first-born child. Hilda was

an unnecessary supplement to the page of her maternal love. But for

Felix she dreamed day-dreams of extravagant aspiration; no lot on earth

seemed too high or too good for him. He was a handsome boy, the very

image of her father, the late Lord Riversdale, and now as she gazed down

on him, her eyes slightly dewed with tears, he looked up to her window.

She kissed her hand to him, and the boy waved his little cap toward her

with almost passionate gesticulations of delight. Felix would be a great

man some day; this book of hers was a stone in the foundation of his

fame as well as of her own.

It was upon this mood of exultation, a rare mood for Felicita, that the

cry and roar from the street had broken. With a half-smile at herself,

the thought flashed across her mind that it was like a shout of applause

and admiration, such as might greet Felix some day when he had proved

himself a leader of men. But it aroused her dormant curiosity, and she

had condescended to be drawn by it to the window of the drawing-room

overlooking Whitefriars Road, in order to ascertain its cause. The crowd

filling the street was deeply in earnest, and the aim of those who were

fighting their way through it was plainly the bank offices in the floor

below her. The sole idea that occurred to her, for she was utterly

ignorant of her husband's business, was that some unexpected crisis in

the borough had arisen, and its people were coming to Roland Sefton as

their leading townsman. When Phebe found her she was quietly studying

the crowd and its various features, that she might describe a throng

from memory, whenever a need should arise for it.

Felicita regained her luxurious little study, and sat down before her

desk, on which the new volumes lay, with more outward calm than her

face and movements had manifested before she left it. The transient glow

of triumph had died away from her face, and the happy tears from her

eyes. She closed the casement to shut out the bright, clear sunlight,

and the merry voices of her children, before she sat down to think.

For a little while she had been burning incense to herself; but the

treacherous fire was gone out, and the sweet, bewildering, intoxicating

vapors were scattered to the winds. The recollection of her short-lived

folly made her shiver as if a cold breath had passed over her.

Not for a moment did she doubt Roland's guilt. There was such a

certainty of it lying behind Phebe's sorrowful eyes as she whispered "I

know it," that Felicita had not cared to ask how she knew it. She did

not trouble herself with details. The one fact was there: her husband

had absconded. A dreamy panorama of their past life flitted across her

brain--his passionate love for her, which had never cooled, though it

had failed to meet with a response from her; his insatiable desire to

make her life more full of pomp and luxury and display than that of her

cousins at Riversdale; his constant thraldom to her, which had

ministered only to her pride and coldness. His queen he had called her.

It was all over now. His extraordinary absence was against any hope that

he could clear himself. Her husband had brought fatal and indelible

disgrace upon his name, the name he had given to her and their children.

Her name! This morning, and for many days to come, it would be

advertised as the author of the new book, which was to have been one of

her stepping-stones to fame. She had grasped at fame, and her hand had

closed upon infamy. There was no fear now that she would remain among

the crowd of the unknown. As the wife of a fraudulent banker she would

be only too well and too widely talked of.

Why had she let her own full name be published? She had yielded, though

with some reluctance, to the business-like policy of her publisher, who

had sought to catch the public eye by it; for her father, Lord

Riversdale, was hardly yet forgotten as an author. A vague sentiment of

loyalty to her husband had caused her to add her married name. She hated

to see the two blazoned together on the title-page.

Sick at heart, she sat for hours brooding over what would happen if

Roland was arrested. The assizes held twice a year at Riversborough had

been to her, as to many people of her position, an occasion of

pleasurable excitement. The judges' lodgings were in the next house to

the Old Bank, and for the few days the judges were Roland Sefton's

neighbors there had been a friendly interchange of civilities. An assize

ball was still held, though it was falling into some neglect and

disrepute. Whenever any cause of special local interest took place she

had commanded the best seat in the court, and had obsequious attention

paid to her. She had learned well the aspect of the place, and the mode

of procedure. But hitherto her recollections of a court of justice were

all agreeable, and her impressions those of a superior being looking

down from above on the miseries and crimes of another race.

How different was the vision that branded itself on her brain this

morning! She saw her husband standing at the dock, instead of some

coarse, ignorant, brutish criminal; the stern gravity of the judge; the

flippant curiosity of the barristers not connected with the case, and

the cruel eagerness of his fellow-townsmen to get good places to hear

and see him. It would make a holiday for all who could get within the

walls.

She could have written almost word for word the report of the trial as

it would appear in the two papers published in Riversborough. She could

foretell how lavish would be the use of the words "felon" and "convict;"

and she would be that felon and convict's wife.

Oh, this intolerable burden of disgrace! To be borne through the long,

long years of life; and not by herself alone, but by her children. They

had come into a miserable heritage. What became of the families of

notorious criminals? She could believe that the poor did not suffer from

so cruel a notoriety, being quickly lost in the oblivious waters of

poverty and distress, amid refuges and workhouses. But what would

become of her? She must go away into endless exile, with her two little

children, and live where there was no chance of being recognized. This

was what her husband's sin had done for her.

"God help me! God deliver me!" she moaned with white lips. But she did

not pray for him. In the first moments of anguish the spirit flies to

that which lies at the very core. While Roland's mother and Phebe were

weeping together and praying for him, Felicita was crying for help and

deliverance for herself.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SENIOR PARTNER.

Long as the daylight lasts in May it was after nightfall when Felicita

left her study and went down to the drawing-room, more elegantly and

expensively furnished for her than the drawing-room at Riversdale had

been. Its extravagant display seemed to strike upon her suddenly as she

entered it. Phebe was gone home, and Madame had retired to her own room,

having given up the expectation of seeing Felicita that day. Mr.

Clifford, the servant told her, was still in the bank, with his lawyer,

for whom he had telegraphed to London. Felicita sent him a message that

if he was not too busy she wished to see him for a few minutes.

Mr. Clifford almost immediately appeared, and Felicita saw him for the

first time. She had always heard him called old; but he was a strong,

erect, stern-looking man of sixty, with keen, cold eyes that could not

be avoided. Felicita did not seek to avoid them. She looked as steadily

at him as he did at her. There were traces of tears on her face, but

there was no tremor or weakness about her. They exchanged a few civil

words as calmly as if they were ordinary acquaintances.

"Tell me briefly what has happened," she said to him, when he had taken

a seat near to her.

"Briefly," he repeated. "Well! I find myself robbed of securities worth

nearly £8000; private securities, bond and scrip, left in custody only,

not belonging to the firm. No one but Acton or Roland could have access

to them. Acton has eluded me; but if Roland is found he must take the

consequences."

"And what are those?" asked Felicita.

"I shall prosecute him as I would prosecute a common thief or burglar,"

answered Mr. Clifford. "His crime is more dishonorable and cowardly."

"Is it not cruel to say this to me?" she asked, yet in a tranquil tone

which startled him.

"Cruel!" he repeated again; "I have not been in the habit of choosing

words. You asked me a question, and I gave you the answer that was in my

mind. I never forgive. Those who pass over crimes make themselves

partakers in those crimes. Roland has robbed not only me, but half a

dozen poor persons, to whom such a loss is ruin. Would it be right to

let such a man escape justice?"

"You think he has gone away on purpose?" she said.

"He has absconded," answered Mr. Clifford, "and the matter is already in

the hands of the police. A description of him has been telegraphed to

every police station in the kingdom. If he is not out of it he can

barely escape now."

Felicita's pale face could not grow paler, but she shivered perceptibly.

"I am telling you bluntly," he said, "because I believe it is best to

know the worst at once. It is terrible to have it falling drop by drop.

You have courage and strength; I see it. Take an old man's word for it,

it is better to know all in its naked ugliness, than have it brought to

light bit by bit. There is not the shadow of a doubt of Roland's crime.

You do not believe him innocent yourself?"

"No," she replied in a low, yet steady voice; "no. I must tell the

truth. I cannot comfort myself with the belief that he is innocent."

Mr. Clifford's keen eyes were fastened upon Felicita with admiration.

Here was a woman, young and pallid with grief and dread, who neither

tried to move him by prayers and floods of tears, nor shrank from

acknowledging a truth, however painful. He had never seen her before,

though the costly set of jewels she was wearing had been his own gift to

her on her wedding. He recognized them with pleasure, and looked more

attentively at her beautiful but gloomy face. When he spoke again it was

in a manner less harsh and abrupt than it had been before.

"I am not going to ask you any questions about Roland," he said; "you

have a right, the best right in the world, to screen him, and aid him in

escaping from the just consequences of his folly and crime."

"You might ask me," she interrupted, "and I should tell you the simple

truth. I do so now, when I say I know nothing about him. He told me he

was going to London. But is it not possible that poor Acton alone was

guilty?"

Mr. Clifford shook his head in reply. For a few minutes he paced up and

down the floor, and then placed himself at the back of Felicita, with

his hand upon her chair, as if to support him. In a glass opposite she

could see the reflection of his face, gray and agitated, with closed

eyes and quivering lips--a face that looked ten years older than that

which she had seen when he entered the room. She felt the chair shaken

by his trembling hand.

"I will tell you," he said in a voice which he strove to render steady.

"I did not spare my own son when he had defrauded Roland's father.

Though Sefton would not prosecute him, I left him to reap the harvest of

his deed to the full; and it was worse than the penalty the law would

have exacted. He perished, disgraced and forsaken, of starvation in

Paris, the city of pleasures and of crimes. They told me that my son was

little more than a living skeleton when he was found, so slowly had the

end come. If I did not spare him, can I relent toward Roland? The

justice I demand is, in comparison, mercy for him."

As he finished speaking he opened his eyes, and saw those of Felicita

fastened on the reflection of his face in the mirror. He turned away,

and in a minute or two resumed his seat, and spoke again in his ordinary

abrupt tone.

"What will you do?" he asked.

"I cannot tell yet," she answered; "I must wait till suspense is over.

If Roland comes back, or is brought back," she faltered, "then I must

decide what to do. I shall keep to myself till then. Is there anything I

can do?"

"Could you go to your uncle, Lord Riversdale?" suggested Mr. Clifford.

"No, no," she cried; "I will not ask any help from him. He arranged my

marriage for me, and he will feel this disgrace keenly. I will keep out

of their way; they shall not be compelled to forbid me their society."

"But to-morrow you had better go away for the day," he answered; "there

will be people coming and going, who will disturb you. There will be a

rigorous search made. There is a detective now with my lawyer, who is

looking through the papers in the bank. The police have taken possession

of Acton's lodgings."

"I have nowhere to go," she replied, "and I cannot show my face out of

doors. Madame and the children shall go to Phebe Marlowe, but I must

bear it as well as I can."

"Well," he said after a brief pause, "I will make it as easy as I can

for you. You are thinking me a hard man? Yes, I have grown hard. I was

soft enough once. But if I forgave any sinner now I should do my boy,

who is dead, an awful injustice. I would not pass over his sin, and I

dare not pass over any other. I know I shall pursue Roland until his

death or mine; my son's fate cries out for it. But I'm not a hard man

toward innocent sufferers, like you and his poor mother. Try to think of

me as your friend; nay, even Roland's friend, for what would a few

years' penal servitude be compared with my boy's death? Shake hands

with me before I go."

The small, delicate hand she offered him was icy cold, though her face

was still calm and her eyes clear and dry. He was himself more moved and

agitated than she appeared to be. The mention of his son always shook

him to the very centre of his soul; yet he had not been able to resist

uttering the words that had passed his lips during this painful

interview with Roland's young wife. Unshed tears were burning under his

eyelids. But if it had not been for that death-like hand he might have

imagined her almost unmoved.

Felicita was down-stairs before Madame the next morning, and had ordered

the carriage to be ready to take her and the children to Upfold Farm

directly after breakfast. It was so rare an incident for their mother to

be present at the breakfast-table that Felix and Hilda felt as if it

were a holiday. Madame was pale and sad, and for the first time Felicita

thought of her as being a sufferer by Roland's crime. Her husband's

mother had been little more to her than a superior housekeeper, who had

been faithfully attached to her and her children. The homely, gentle,

domestic foreigner, from a humble Swiss home, had looked up to her young

aristocratic daughter-in-law as a being from a higher sphere. But now

the downcast, sorrowful face of the elder woman touched Felicita's

sympathy.

"Mother!" she said, as soon as the children had run away to get ready

for their drive. She had never before called Madame "mother," and a

startled look, almost of delight, crossed Madame's sad face.

"My daughter!" she cried, running to Felicita's side, and throwing her

arms timidly about her, "he is sure to come back soon--to-day, I think.

Oh, yes, he will be here when we return! You do well to stay to meet

him; and I should be glad to be here, but for the children. Yes, the

little ones must be out of the way. They must not see their father's

house searched; they must never know how he is suspect. Acton did say it

was all his fault; his fault and--"

But here Madame paused for an instant, for had not Acton said it was

Felicita's fault more than any one's?

"Phebe heard him," she went on hastily; "and if it is not his fault, why

did he kill himself? Oh, it is an ill-fortune that my son went to London

that day! It would all be right if he were here; but he is sure to come

to-day and explain it all; and the bank will be opened again. So be of

good comfort, my daughter; for God is present with us, and with my son

also."

It was a sorrowful day at the Upfold Farm in spite of the children's

unconscious mirthfulness. Old Marlowe locked himself into his workshop,

and would see none of them, taking his meals there in sullen anger.

Phebe's heart was almost broken with listening to Madame's earnest

asseverations of her son's perfect innocence, and her eager hopes to

find him when she reached home. It was nearly impossible to her to keep

the oppressive secret, which seemed crushing her into deception and

misery, and her own muteness appeared to herself more condemnatory than

any words could be. But Madame did not notice her silence, and her grief

was only natural. Phebe's tears fell like balm on Madame's aching

heart. Felicita had not wept; but this young girl, and her abandonment

to passionate bursts of tears, who needed consoling herself, was a

consolation to the poor mother. They knelt together in Phebe's little

bedroom, while the children were playing on the wide uplands around

them, and they prayed silently, if heavy sobs and sighs could be called

silence; but they prayed together, and for her son; and Madame returned

home comforted and hopeful.

It had been a day of fierce trial to Felicita. She had not formed any

idea of how searching would be the investigation of the places where any

of her husband's papers might be found. Her own study was not exempt

from the prying eyes of the detectives. This room, sacred to her, which

Roland himself never entered without permission was ransacked, and

forever desecrated in her eyes. This official meddling with her books

and her papers could never be forgotten. The pleasant place was made an

abomination to her.

The bank was reopened the next morning at the accustomed hour, for a

very short investigation by Mr. Clifford and the experienced advisers

summoned from London to assist him proved that the revenues of the firm

were almost as good as ever. The panic had been caused by the vague

rumor afloat of some mysterious complicity in crime between the absent

partner and the clerk who had committed suicide. It was, therefore,

considered necessary for the prosperous re-establishment of the bank to

put forth a cautiously worded circular, in which Mr. Clifford's return

was made the reason for the absence on a long journey of Roland Sefton,

whose disappearance had to be accounted for. By the time he was arrested

and brought to trial the confidence of the bank's customers in its

stability would in some measure be regained.

There was thus a good deal of conjecture and of contradictory opinion

abroad in Riversborough concerning Roland Sefton, which continued to be

the town's-talk for some weeks. Even Madame began to believe in a

half-bewildered manner that her son had gone on a journey of business

connected with the bank, though she could not account for his total

silence. Sometimes she wondered if he and Felicita could have had some

fatal quarrel, which had driven him away from home in a paroxysm of

passionate disappointment and bitterness. Felicita's coldness and

indifference might have done it. With this thought, and the hope of his

return some day, she turned for relief to the discharge of her household

duties, and to the companionship of the children, who knew nothing

except that their father was gone away on a journey, and might come back

any day.

Neither Madame nor the children knew that whenever they left the house

they were followed by a detective, and every movement was closely

watched. But Felicita was conscious of it by some delicate sensitiveness

of her imaginative temperament. She refused to quit the house except in

the evening, when she rambled about the garden, and felt the fresh air

from the river breathing against her often aching temples. Even then she

fancied an eye upon her--an unsleeping, unblinking eye; the unwearying

vigilance of justice on the watch for a criminal. Night and day she felt

herself living under its stony gaze.

It was a positive pain to her when reviews of her book appeared in

various papers, and were forwarded to her with congratulatory letters

from her publishers. She was living far enough from London to be easily

persuaded, without much vanity, that her name was upon everybody's lips

there. She read the reviews, but with a sick heart, and the words were

forgotten as soon as she put them away; but the Riversborough papers,

which had been very guarded in their statements about the death of Acton

and the events at the Old Bank, took up the book with what appeared to

her fulsome and offensive enthusiasm. It had never occurred to her that

local criticism was certain to follow the appearance of a local writer;

and she shrank from it with morbid and exaggerated disgust. Even if all

had been well, if Roland had been beside her, their notices would have

been well-nigh intolerable to her. She could not have endured being

stared at and pointed out in the streets of her own little town. But now

Fame had come to her with broken wings and a cracked trumpet, and she

shuddered at the sound of her own name harshly proclaimed through it.

It soon became evident that Roland Sefton had succeeded in getting away

out of the country. The police were at fault; and as no one in his own

home knew how to communicate with him, no clew had been discovered by

close surveillance of their movements. Such vigilance could be kept up

only for a few months at longest, and as the summer drew toward the end

it ceased.

CHAPTER IX.

FAST BOUND.

Roland Sefton had met with but few difficulties in getting clear away

out of England, and there was little chance of his being identified,

from description merely, by any of the foreign police, or by any English

detective on the Continent who was not as familiar with his personal

appearance as the Riversborough force were. In his boyhood he had spent

many months, years even, in his mother's native village with her father,

M. Roland Merle, the pastor of a parish among the Jura Mountains. It was

as easy for him to assume the character of a Swiss mountaineer as to

sustain that of a prosperous English banker. The dress, the patois, the

habits of the peasant were all familiar to him, and his disguise in them

was as complete as disguise ever can be. The keen eye either of love or

hate can pierce through all disguises.

Switzerland was all fatherland to him, as much so as his native country,

and the county in which Riversborough was situated. There was no

ignorance in him of any little town, or the least known of the Alps,

which might betray the stranger. He would never need to attract notice

by asking a question. He had become a member of an Alpine club as soon

as his boyish thews and sinews were strong enough for stiff and perilous

climbing. He had crossed the most difficult passes and scaled some of

the worst peaks. And there had been within him that passionate love of

the country common to the Swiss which an English Alpine climber can

never feel. His mother's land had filled him with an ardent flame,

smouldering at times amid the absorbing interests of his somewhat

prominent place in English life, but every now and then breaking out

into an irrepressible longing for the sight of its white mountains and

swift, strong streams. It was at once the safest and the most dangerous

of refuges. He would be certainly sought for there; but there he could

most effectually conceal himself. He flew thither with his burden of

sin and shame.

Roland adopted at once the dress of a decent artisan of the Jura--such a

man as he had known in his boyhood as a watchmaker of Locle or the

Doubs. For a few days he stayed in Geneva, lodging in such a street as a

Locle artisan would have chosen; but he could not feel secure there, in

spite of his own certainty that his transformation was complete. A

restless dread haunted him. He knew well that there are in every one

little personal traits, tricks of gesture, and certain tones of voice

always ready to betray us. It was yet too early in the year for many

travellers to be journeying to Switzerland; but already a few straggling

pioneers of the summer flight were appearing in the larger towns, and

what would be his fate if any one of them recognized him? He quitted

Geneva, and wandered away into the mountain villages.

It was May-time, and the snow-line was still lingering low down on the

steep slopes, though the flowers were springing into life up to its

very margin, seeming to drive it higher and higher every day. The High

Alps were still fast locked in midwinter, and with untrodden wastes and

plains of snow lying all around them. The deserted mountain farms and

great solitary hotels, so thronged last summer, were empty. But in the

valleys and the little villages lying on the warm southern slopes, or

sheltered by precipitous rocks from the biting winds, there was

everywhere a joyous stir of awakening from the deep sleep of winter. The

frozen streams were thawed and ran bubbling and gurgling along their

channels, turning water-wheels and filling all the quiet places with

their merry noise. The air itself was full of sweet exhilaration. In the

forests there was the scent of stirring sap and of the up-springing

wild-flowers, and the rosy blossoms of the tender young larch-trees

shone like jewels in the bright sunshine. The mountain-peaks overhead,

gleaming through the mists and clouds, were of dazzling whiteness, for

none of the frozen snow had yet fallen from their sharp, lance-like

summits.

Journeying on foot from one village to another, Roland roamed about

aimlessly, yet as one hunted, seeking for a safe asylum. He bore his

troubled conscience and aching heart from one busy spot to another,

homesick and self-exiled. Oh, what a fool he had been! Life had been

full to the brim for him with gladness and prosperity, and in trying to

make its cup run over he had dashed it away from his lips forever.

His money was not yet spent, for a very little went a long way among

these simple mountain villages, and in his manner of travelling. He had

not yet been forced to try to earn a living, and he felt no anxiety for

the future. In his boyhood he had learned wood-carving, both in

Switzerland and from old Marlowe, and he had acquired considerable skill

in the art. Some of the panels in his home at Riversborough were the

workmanship of his own hands. It was a craft to turn to in extremity;

but he did not think of it yet.

Labor of any kind would have made the interminable hours pass more

quickly. The carving of a piece of wood might have kept him from

torturing his own heart perpetually; but he did not turn to this slight

solace. There were times when he sat for hours, for a whole age, as it

seemed to him, in some lonely spot, hidden behind a great rock or half

lost in a forest, thinking. And yet it was not thought, but a vague,

mournful longing and remembrance, the past and the absent blended in

dim, shadowy reverie, of which nothing was clear but the sharp anguish

of having forfeited them. There was a Garden of Eden still upon earth,

and he had been dwelling in it. But he had banished himself from it by

his own folly and sin, and when he turned his eyes toward it he could

see only the "flaming brand, and the gate with dreadful faces thronged

and fiery arms." But even Adam had his Eve with him, "to drop some

natural tears, and wipe them soon." He was utterly alone.

If his thoughts, so dazed and bewildered usually, became clear for a

little while, it was always Felicita whose image stood out most

distinctly before him. He had loved her passionately; surely never had

any man loved a woman with the same intensity--so he said to himself.

Even now the very crime he had committed seemed as nothing to him,

because he had been guilty of it for her. His love for her covered its

heinousness from his eyes. His conscience had become the blind and dumb

slave of his passion. So blind and dumb had it been that it had scarcely

stirred or murmured until his sin was found out, and it was scarcely

aroused to life even yet.

In a certain sense he had been religious, having been most sedulously

trained in religion from his earliest consciousness. He had accepted the

ordinary teachings of our nineteenth-century Christianity. His place in

church, beside his mother or his wife, had seldom been empty, and

several times in the year he had knelt with them at the Lord's table,

and taken the Lord's Supper, feeling himself distinctly a more religious

man than usual on such occasions. No man had ever heard him utter a

profane word, nor had he transgressed any of the outward rules of a

religious life. It is true he had never made a vehement and

extraordinary profession of piety, such as some men do; but there was

not a person in Riversborough who would not have spoken of him as a

good churchman and a Christian. While he had been gradually

appropriating Mr. Clifford's money and the hard-earned savings of poorer

men confided to him, he had felt no qualm of conscience in giving

liberally to many a religious and philanthropic object, contributing

such sums as figure well in a subscription list; though it was generally

his wife's name that figured there. He had never taken up a subscription

list without glancing first for that beloved name, Mrs. Roland Sefton.

In those days he had never doubted that he was a Christian. So far as he

knew, so far as words could teach him, he was living a Christian life.

Did he not believe in God, the Father Almighty? Yes, as fully as those

who lived about him. Had he not followed Christ? As closely as the mass

of people who call themselves Christians. Nay, more than most of them.

Not as much as his mother perhaps, in her simple, devout faith. But then

religion is always a different thing with women than with men, a fairer

and more delicate thing, wearing a finer bloom and gloss, which does not

wear well in a work-a-day world such as he did battle in. But if he had

not lived a Christian life, what man in Riversborough had done so,

except a few fanatics?

But his religion had been powerless to keep him from falling into subtle

temptations, and into a crime so heinous in the sight of his fellow-men

that it was only to be expiated by the loss of character, the loss of

liberty, and the loss of every honorable man's esteem. The web had been

closely and cunningly woven, and now he was fast bound in it, with no

way of escape.

CHAPTER X.

LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH.

The weeks passed by in Riversborough, and brought no satisfactory

conclusion to the guarded investigations of the police. A close search

made among Acton's private papers produced no discovery. His will was

among them, leaving all he had to leave, which was not much, to Felix,

the son of his friend and employer, Roland Sefton. There was no

memorandum or letter which could throw any light upon the transactions,

or give any clew to what had been done with Mr. Clifford's securities.

Nor was the watch kept over the movements of the family more successful.

The police were certain that no letter was posted by any member of the

household, which could be intended for the missing culprit. Even Phebe

Marlowe's correspondence was subject to their vigilance. But not a trace

could be discovered. He was gone; whether he had fled to America, or

concealed himself nearer home on the Continent, no one could make a

guess.

Mr. Clifford remained in Riversborough, and resumed his position as head

of the firm. He had returned with the intention of doing so, having

heard abroad of the extravagant manner in which his junior partner was

living. The bank, though seriously crippled in its credit and resources,

was in no danger of insolvency, and there seemed no reason why it should

not regain its former prosperity, if only confidence could be restored.

He had reserved to himself the power of taking in another partner, if he

should deem it advisable; and an eligible one presenting himself, in the

person of a Manchester man of known wealth, the deeds of partnership

were drawn up, and the Old Bank was once more set up on a firm basis.

During the time that elapsed while these arrangements were being made,

Felicita was visibly suffering, and failing in health. So sensitive had

she grown to the dread of seeing any one not in the immediate circle of

her household, that it became impossible to her to leave her home. The

clear colorlessness of her face had taken on a transparency and delicacy

which did not lessen its beauty, but added to it an unearthly grace. She

no longer spent hours alone in her desecrated room; it had grown

intolerable to her; but she sat speechless, and almost motionless, in

the oriel window overlooking the garden and the river; and Felix, a

child of dreamy and sensitive temperament, would sit hour after hour at

her feet, pressing his cheek against her knee, or with his uplifted eyes

gazing into her face.

"Mother," he said one day, when Roland had been gone more than a month,

"how long will my father be away on his journey? Doesn't he ever write

to you, and send messages to me? Grandmamma says she does not know how

soon he will be back. Do you know, mother?"

Felicita looked down on him with her beautiful dark eyes, which seemed

larger and sadder than of old, sending a strange thrill through the

boy's heart, and for a minute or two she seemed uncertain what to say.

"I cannot tell you, Felix," she answered; "there are many things in life

which children cannot understand. If I told you what was true about your

father, your little brain would turn it into an untruth. You could not

understand it if I told you."

"But I shall understand it some day," he said, lifting his head up

proudly; "will you tell me when I am old enough, mother?"

How could she promise him to do that? This proud young head, tossed back

with the expectant triumph of some day knowing all that his father and

mother knew, must be bowed down with grief and shame then, as hers was

now. It was a sad knowledge he must inherit. How would she ever be able

to tell him that the father who had given him life, and whose name he

bore, was a criminal; a convict if he was arrested and brought to

judgment; an outlaw and an exile if he made good his escape? Roland had

never been as dear to her as Felix was. She was one of those women who

love more deeply and tenderly as mothers than as wives. To see that

bright, fond face of his clouded with disgrace would be a ceaseless

torment to her. There would be no suffering to compare with it.

"But you will tell me all about it some day, mother," urged the boy.

"If I ever tell you," she answered, "it will be when you are a man, and

can understand the whole truth. You will never hear me tell a falsehood,

Felix."

"I know that, mother," he replied, "but oh! I miss my father! He used to

come to my bedside at nights, and kiss me, and say 'God bless you.' I

tried always to keep awake till he came; but I was asleep the last time

of all, and missed him. Sometimes I feel frightened, as if he would

never come again. But grandmamma says he is gone on a long journey, and

will come home some day, only she doesn't know when. Phebe cries when I

ask her. Would it be too much trouble for you to come in at night

sometimes, like my father did?" he asked timidly.

"But I am not like your father," she answered. "I could not say 'God

bless you' in the same way. You must ask God yourself for His

blessing."

For Felicita's soul had been thrust down into the depths of darkness.

Her early training had been simply and solely for this world: how to

make life here graceful and enjoyable. She could look back upon none but

the vaguest aspirations after something higher in her girlhood. It had

been almost like a new revelation to her to see her mother-in-law's

simple and devout piety, and to witness her husband's cheerful and manly

profession of religion. This was the point in his character which had

attracted her most, and had been most likely to bind her to him. Not his

passionate love to herself, but his unselfishness toward others, his

apparently happy religion, his energetic interest in all good and

charitable schemes--these had reconciled her more than anything else to

the step she had taken, the downward step, in marrying him.

This unconscious influence of Roland's life and character had been

working secretly and slowly upon her nature for several years. They

were very young when they were married, and her first feeling of

resentment toward her own family for pressing on the marriage had at the

outset somewhat embittered her against her young husband. But this had

gradually worn away, and Felicita had never been so near loving him

heartily and deeply as during the last year or two, when it was evident

that his attachment to her was as loyal and as tender as ever. He had

almost won her, when he staked all and lost all.

For now, she asked herself, what was the worth of all this religion,

which presented so fair a face to her? She had a delicate sense of honor

and truthfulness, which never permitted her to swerve into any byways of

expediency or convenience. What use was Roland's religion without

truthfulness and honor? She said to herself that there was no excuse for

him even feeling tempted to deal with another man's property. It ought

to have been as impossible to him as it was impossible to her to steal

goods from a tradesman's counter. Was it possible to serve God--and

Roland professed to serve Him--yet cheat his fellow-men? The service of

God itself must then be a vanity--a mere bubble, like all the other

bubbles of life.

It had never been her habit to speak out her thoughts, even to her

husband. Speech seemed an inefficient and blundering medium of

communication, and she found it easier to write than to talk. There was

a natural taciturnity about her which sealed her lips, even when her

children were prattling to her. Only in writing could she give

expression to the multitude of her thoughts within her; and her letters

were charming, and of exceeding interest. But in this great crisis in

her life she could not write. She would sit for hours vainly striving to

arouse her languid brain. It seemed to her that she had lost this gift

also in the utter ruin that had overtaken her.

Felicita's white, silent, benumbed grief, accepting the conviction of

her husband's guilt with no feminine contradicting or loud lamenting,

touched Mr. Clifford with more pity than he felt for Madame, who bore

her son's mysterious absence with a more simple and natural sorrow.

There was something irritating to him in the fact that Roland's mother

ignored the accusation he made against him. But when Roland had been

away three months, and the police authorities had given up all

expectation of discovering anything by watching his home and family, Mr.

Clifford felt that it was time something should be arranged which would

deliver Felicita from her voluntary imprisonment.

"Why do you not go away?" he asked her; "you cannot continue to live

mewed up here all your days. If Roland should be found, it would be

better for you not to be in Riversborough. And I for one have given up

the expectation that he will be found; the only chance is that he may

return and give himself up. Go to some place where you are not known.

There is Scarborough; take Madame and the children there for a few

months, and then settle in London for the winter. Nobody will know you

in London."

"But how can we leave this house?" she said, with a gleam of light in

her sad eyes.

"Let me come in just as it is," he answered. "I will pay you a good rent

for it, and you can take a part of the furniture to London, to make

your new dwelling there more like home. It would be a great convenience

to me, and it would be the best thing for you, depend upon it. If Roland

returns he never will live here again."

"No, he could never do that," she said, sighing deeply. "Mr. Clifford,

sometimes I think he must be dead."

"I have thought so too," he replied gravely; "and if it were so, it

would be the salvation of you and your children. There would be no

public trial and conviction, and though suspicion might always rest upon

his memory, he would not be remembered for long. Justice would be

defrauded, yet on the whole I should rejoice for your sake to hear that

he was dead."

Felicita's lips almost echoed the words. Her heart did so, though it

smote her as she recollected his passionate love for her. But Mr.

Clifford's speech sank deeply into her mind, and she brooded over it

incessantly. Roland's death meant honor and fair fame for herself and

her children; his life was perpetual shame and contempt to them.

It was soon settled that they must quit Riversborough; but though

Felicita welcomed the change, and was convinced it would be the best

thing to do, Madame grieved sorely over leaving the only home which had

been hers, except the little manse in the Jura, where her girlhood had

passed swiftly and happily away. She had brought with her the homely,

thrifty ways in which she had been trained, and every spot in her

husband's dwelling had been taken under her own care and supervision.

Her affections had rooted themselves to the place, and she had never

dreamed of dying anywhere else than among the familiar scenes which had

surrounded her for more than thirty years. The change too could not be

made without her consent, for her marriage settlement was secured upon

the house, and her husband had left to her the right of accepting or

refusing a tenant. To leave the familiar, picturesque old mansion, and

to carry away with her only a few of the household treasures, went far

to break her heart.

"It is where my husband intended for me to live and die," she moaned to

Phebe Marlowe; "and, oh, if I go away I can never fancy I see him

sitting in his own chair as he used to do, at the head of the table, or

by the fire. I have not altogether lost him, though he's gone, as long

as I can think of how he used to come in and go out of this room, always

with a smile for me. But if I go where he never was, how can I think I

see him there? And my son will be angry if we go; he will come back, and

clear up all this mystery, and he will think we went away because we

thought he had done evil. Ought we not to come home again after we have

been to Scarborough?"

"I think Mrs. Sefton will die if she stays here," said Phebe. "It is

necessary for her to make this change; and you'd rather go with her and

the children than live here alone without them."

"Oh, yes, yes!" answered Madame; "I cannot leave my little Felix and

Hilda, or Felicita: she is my son's dear wife. But he will come home

some day, and we can return then; you hope so, don't you, Phebe?"

"If God pleases!" said Phebe, sighing.

"In truth, if God pleases!" repeated Madame.

When the last hour came in which Phebe could see Roland's wife, she

sought for her in her study, where she was choosing the books to be sent

after her. In the very words in which Roland had sent his message he

delivered it to Felicita. The cold, sad, marble-like face did not

change, though her heart gave a throb of disappointment and anguish as

the dread hope that he was no longer alive died out of it.

"I will meet him there," she said. But she asked Phebe no questions, and

did not tell her where she was to meet her husband.

CHAPTER XI.

OLD MARLOWE.

Life had put on for Phebe a very changed aspect. The lonely farmstead on

the uplands had been till now a very happy and tranquil home. She had

had no sorrow since her mother died when she was eight years of age, too

young to grieve very sorely. On the other hand, she was not so young as

to require a woman's care, and old Marlowe had made her absolute

mistress of the little home. His wife, a prudent, timid woman, had

always repressed his artistic tendencies, preferring the certainty of

daily bread to the vague chances of gaining renown and fortune. Old

Marlowe, so marred and imperfect in his physical powers, had submitted

to her shrewd, ignorant authority, and earned his living and hers by

working on his little farm and going out occasionally as a carpenter.

But when she was gone, and his little girl's eyes only were watching him

at his work, and the child's soul delighted in all the beautiful forms

his busy hands could fashion, he gave up his out-door toil, and, with

all the pent-up ardor of the lost years, he threw himself absorbingly

into the pleasant occupation of the present. Though he mourned

faithfully for his wife, the woman who had given to him Phebe, he felt

happier and freer without her.

Phebe's girlhood also had been both free and happy. All the seasons had

been sweet to her: dear to her was "the summer, clothing the general

earth with greenness," and the winter, when "the redbreast sits and

sings be-twixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of the mossy

apple-tree." She had listened to "the eave-drops falling in the trances

of the blast," and seen them "hang in silent icicles, quietly shining to

the quiet moon." There had been no change in nature unnoticed or

unbeloved by her. The unbroken silence reigning around her, heightened

by the mute speech between herself and her father, which needed eyes

only, not lips, had grown so familiar as to be almost dear to her, in

spite of her strong delight in fellowship with others. The artistic

temperament she had inherited from her father, which very early took

vivid pleasure in expressing itself in color as well as in form, had

furnished her with an occupation of which she could never tire. As long

as there was light in the sky, long after the sun had gone down, in the

lingering twilight, loath to forsake the uplands, she was at her canvas

catching the soft gray tones, and dim-colored tints, and clearer masses

of foliage, which only the evening could show.

To supply her need of general companionship there had been so full and

satisfying a sense of friendship between herself and the household at

the Old Bank at Riversborough that one day spent with them gave her

thought for a month. Every word uttered by Roland and Felicita was

treasured up in her memory and turned over in her mind for days after.

Madame's simple and cheerful nature made her almost like a mother to the

simple and cheerful country girl; and Felix and Hilda had been objects

of the deepest interest to her from the days of their birth. But it was

Roland, who had known her best and longest, to whom she owed the

direction and cultivation of her tastes and intellect, who had been

almost like a god to her in her childhood; it was he who dominated over

her simple heart the most. He was to Phebe so perfect that she had never

imagined that there could be a fault in him.

There is one token to us that we are meant for a higher and happier life

than this, in the fact that sorrow and sin always come upon us as a

surprise. Happy days do not astonish us, and the goodness of our beloved

ones awakens no amazement. But if a sorrow comes we cry aloud to let our

neighbors know something untoward has befallen us; and if one we love

has sinned, we feel as if the heavens themselves were darkened.

It was so with Phebe Marlowe. All her earthly luminaries, the greater

lights and the lesser lights, were under an eclipse, and a strange

darkness had fallen upon her. For the first time in her life she found

herself brooding over the sin of one who had been her guide, her

dearest friend, her hero. From the time when as a child she had learned

to look up to him as the paragon of all perfection, until now, as a girl

on the verge of womanhood, she had offered up to him a very pure and

maidenly worship. There was no one else whom she could love as much; for

her dumb and deaf father she loved in quite a different manner--with

more of pity and compassion than of admiration. Roland too had sometimes

talked with her, especially while she was a child, about God and Christ;

and she had regarded him as a spiritual director. Now her guide was lost

in the dense darkness. There was no sure example for her to follow.

She had told her father he would never see her smile again if Roland

Sefton was taken to jail. There had been, of course, an implied promise

in this, but the promise was broken. Old Marlowe looked in vain for the

sweet and merry smiles that had been used to play upon her face. She was

too young and too unversed in human nature to know how jealously her

father would watch her, with inward curses on him who had wrought the

change. When he saw her stand for an hour or more, listlessly gazing

with troubled, absent eyes across the wide-spreading moor, with its

broad sweep of deep-purpled bloom, and golden gorse, and rich green

fern, yet taking no notice, nor hastening to fix the gorgeous hues upon

her canvas while the summer lasted; and when he watched her in the long

dusk of the autumn evenings sit motionless in the chimney corner

opposite to him, her fingers lying idly on her lap instead of busily

prattling some merry nonsense to him, and with a sad preoccupation in

her girlish face; then he felt that he had received his own death-blow,

and had no more to live for.

The loss of his hard-earned money had taken a deeper hold upon him than

a girl so young as Phebe could imagine. For what is money to a young

nature but the merest dross, compared with the love and faith it has

lavished upon some fellow-mortal? While she was mourning over the

shipwreck of all her best affections, old Marlowe was brooding over his

six hundred pounds. They represented so much to him, so many years of

toil and austere self-denial. He had risen early, and late taken rest,

and eaten the bread of carefulness. His grief was not all ignoble, for

it was for his girl he grieved most; his wonderful child, so much more

gifted than the children of other men, whom nature had treated more

kindly than himself, men who could hear and speak, but whose daughters

were only commonplace creatures. The money was hers, not his; and it was

too late now for him to make up the heavy loss. The blow which had

deprived him of the fruits of his labor seemed to have incapacitated him

for further work.

Moreover, Phebe was away oftener than usual: gone to the house of the

spoiler. Nor did she come home, as she had been wont to do, with radiant

eyes, and a soft, sweet smile coming and going, and many a pleasant

piece of news to tell off on her nimble fingers. She returned with

tear-stained eyelids and a downcast air, and was often altogether silent

as to the result of the day's absence.

He strove, notwithstanding a haunting dread of failure, to resume his

old occupation. Doggedly every morning he put on his brown paper cap,

and went off to his crowded little workshop, but with unequal footsteps,

quite unlike his former firm tread. But it would not do. He stood for

hours before his half-shaped blocks of oak, with birds and leaves and

heads partly traced upon them; but he found himself powerless to

complete his own designs. Between him and them stood the image of Phebe,

a poverty-stricken, work-worn woman, toiling with her hands, in all

weathers, upon their three or four barren fields, which were now the

only property left to him. It had been pleasant to him to see her milk

the cows, and help him to fetch in the sheep from the moors; but until

now he had been able to pay for the rougher work on the farmstead. His

neighbor, Samuel Nixey, had let his laborers do it for him, since he had

kept his own hands and time for his artistic pursuit. But he could

afford this no longer, and the thought of the next winter's work which

lay before him and Phebe harassed him terribly.

"Father," she said to him one evening, after she had been at

Riversborough, "they are all going away--Mrs. Sefton, and Madame, and

the children. They are going Scarborough, and after that to London,

never to come back. I shall not see them again."

"Thank God!" thought the dumb old man, and his eyes gleamed brightly

from under their thick gray eyebrows. But he did not utter the words, so

much less easy was it for his fingers to betray his thoughts than it

would have been for his lips. And Phebe did not guess them.

"Is there any news of him?" he asked.

"Not a word," she answered. "Mr. Clifford has almost given it up. He is

an unforgiving man, an awful man."

"No, no; he is a just man," said old Marlowe; "he wants nothing but his

own again, like me, and that a scoundrel should not get off scot free. I

want my money back; it's not money merely, but my years, and my brain,

and my love for thee, and my power to work: that's what he has robbed me

of. Let me have my money back, and I'll forgive him."

"Poor father!" said Phebe aloud, with a little sob. How easy it seemed

to her to forgive a wrong that could be definitely stated at six hundred

pounds! All her inward grief was that Roland had fallen--he himself. If

by a whole sacrifice of herself she could have reinstated him in the

place he had forfeited, she would not have hesitated for an instant. But

no sacrifice she could make would restore him.

"Does Mrs. Sefton know what he has done?" inquired her father.

She nodded only in reply.

"Does she believe him innocent?" he asked.

"No," answered Phebe.

"And Madame, his mother?" he pursued.

"No, no, no! she cannot believe him guilty," she replied; "she thinks he

could free himself, if he would only come home. She is far happier than

Mrs. Sefton or me. I would lay down my life to have him true and honest

and good again, as he used to be. I feel as if I was in a miserable

dream."

They were sitting together outside their cottage-door, with the level

rays of the setting sun shining across the uplands upon them, and the

fresh air of the evening breathing upon their faces. It was an hour they

both loved, but neither of them felt its beauty and tranquillity now.

"You love him next to me?" asked old Marlowe.

"Next to you, father," she repeated.

But the subtle jealousy in the father's heart whispered that his

daughter loved these grand friends of hers more than himself. What could

he be to her, deaf mute that he was? What could he do for her? All he

had done had been swept away by the wrong-doing of this fine gentleman,

for whom she was willing to lay down her life. He looked at her with

wistful eyes, longing to hold closer, swifter communication with her

than could be held by their slow finger-speech. How could he ever make

her know all the love and pride pent up in his voiceless heart? Phebe,

in her girlish, blind preoccupation, saw nothing of his eager, wistful

gaze, did not even notice the nervous trembling of his stammering

fingers; and the old man felt thrown back upon himself, in more utter

loneliness of spirit than his life had ever experienced before. Yet he

was not so old a man, for he was little over sixty, but his hard life

of incessant toil and his isolation from his fellow-creatures had aged

him. This bitter calamity added many years to his actual age, and he

began to realize that his right hand was forgetting its cunning, his eye

for beauty was growing dim, and his craft failing him. The long, light

summer days kept him for a while from utter hopelessness. But as the

autumn winds began to moan and mutter round the house he told himself

that his work was done, and that soon Phebe would be a friendless and

penniless orphan.

"I ought not to have let Roland Sefton go," he thought to himself; "if

I'd done my duty he would have been paying for his sin now, and maybe

there would have been some redress for us that lost by him. None of his

people will come to poverty like my Phebe. I could have held up my head

if I had not helped him to escape from punishment."

CHAPTER XII.

RECKLESS OF LIFE.

If old Marlowe, or Mr. Clifford himself, could have followed Roland

Sefton during his homeless wanderings, their rigorous sense of justice

would have been satisfied that he was not escaping punishment, though he

might elude the arbitrary penalty of the law.

As the summer advanced, and the throng of yearly tourists poured into

the playground of Europe from every country, but especially from

England, he was driven away from all the towns and villages where he

might by chance be recognized by some fellow-countryman. Up into the

mountain pastures he retreated, where he rambled from one chalet to

another, sleeping on beds of fodder, with its keen night air piercing

through the apertures of the roof and walls, yet bringing with it those

intolerable stenches which exhale from the manure and mire lying

ankle-deep round each picturesque little hut. The yelping of the

watch-dogs; the snoring of the tired herdsmen lying within arm's length

of him; the shrill tinkling of cow-bells, musical enough by day and in

the distance, but driving sleep away too harshly; the sickness and

depression produced by unwholesome food, and the utter compulsory

abandonment of all his fastidious and dainty personal habits, made his

mere bodily life intolerable to him. He had borne something like these

discomforts and privations for a day or two at a time, when engaged in

Alpine climbing, but that he should be forced to live a life compared

with which that of an Irish bog-trotter was decent and civilized, was a

daily torment to him.

It is true that during the long hours of daylight he wandered among the

most sublime scenery. Sometimes he scaled solitary peaks and looked down

upon far-stretching landscapes below him, with broad dead rivers of

glaciers winding between the high and terrible masses of snow-clad

rocks, and creeping down into peaceful valleys, where little living

streams of silvery gray wandered among chalets looking no larger than

the rocks strewn around them, with a tiny church in their midst lifting

up its spire of glittering metal with a kind of childish confidence and

exultation. Here and there in deep sunken hollows lay small tarns, black

as night, and guilty looking, with precipices overhanging them fringed

with pointed pine-trees, which sought in vain to mirror themselves in

those pitch-dark waters. And above them all, gazing down in silent

greatness, rose the snow-mountains, very cold, whiter than any other

whiteness on earth, pure and stainless, and apparently as unapproachable

in their far-off loveliness as the deep blue of the pure sky behind

them.

But there was something unutterably awful to Roland Sefton in this

sublimity. A bad man, whose ear has never heard the voice of Nature, and

whose eye is blind to her ineffable beauty, may dwell in such places and

not be crushed by them. The dull herdsmen, thinking only of their cattle

and of the milking to be done twice a day, might live their own stupid,

commonplace lives there. The chance visitor who spent a few hours in

scaling difficult cliffs would perhaps catch a brief and fleeting sense

of their awfulness, only too quickly dissipated by the unwonted toil and

peril of his situation. But Roland Sefton felt himself exiled to their

ice-bound solitudes, cut off from all companionship, and attended only

by an accusing conscience.

Morning after morning, when his short and feverish night was ended, he

went out in the early dawn while all the valleys below were still

slumbering in darkness, self-driven into the wilderness of rock and snow

rising above the wretched chalets. With coarse food sufficient for the

wants of the day he strayed wherever his aimless footsteps led him. It

was seldom that he stayed more than a night or two in the same

herdsman's hut. When he was well out of the track of tourists he

ventured down into the lower villages now and then, seeking a few days

of comparative comfort. But some rumor, or the arrival of some chance

traveller more enterprising and investigating than the mass, always

drove him away again. There was no peace for him, either in the high

Alps or the most secluded valleys.

How could there be peace while memory and conscience were gnawing at his

heart? In a dreary round his thoughts went back to the first beginnings

of the road that had led him hither; with that vague feeling which all

of us have when retracing the irrevocable past, as if by some mighty

effort of our will we could place ourselves at the starting-point again

and run our race--oh, how differently!

Roland could almost fix the date when he had first wished that Mr.

Clifford's bonds, bequeathed to him, were already his own. He

recollected the very day when old Marlowe had asked him to invest his

money for him in some safe manner for Phebe's benefit, and how he had

persuaded himself that nothing could be safer than to use it for his own

purposes, and to pay a higher interest than the old man could get

elsewhere. What he had done for him had been still easier to do for

other clients--ignorant men and women who knew nothing of business, and

left it all to him, gratefully pleased with the good interest he paid

them. The web had been woven with almost invisible threads at the first,

but the finest thread among them was a heavy cable now.

But the one thought that haunted him, never leaving him for an instant

in these terrible solitudes, was the thought of Felicita. His mother he

could forget sometimes, or remember her with a dewy tenderness at his

heart, as if he could feel her pitiful love clinging to him still; and

his children he dreamed of at times in a day-dream, as playing merrily

without him, in the blissful ignorance of childhood. But Felicita, who

did not love him as his mother did, and could not remain in ignorance of

his crime! Was she not something like these pure, distant snowy

pinnacles, inapproachable and repellent, with icy-cold breath which

petrified all lips that drew too near to them? And he had set a stain

upon that purity as white as the driven snow. The name he had given to

her was tarnished, and would be publicly dishonored if he failed in

evading the penalty he merited. His death alone could save her from

notorious and intolerable disgrace.

But though he was reckless of his life, he could not bring himself to be

guilty of suicide. Death was wooing him in many forms, day by day, to

seek refuge with him. When his feet slipped among the yawning crevasses

of the glaciers, the smallest wilful negligence would have buried him in

their blue depths. The common impulse to cast himself down the

precipices along whose margin he crept had only to be yielded to, and

all his earthly woe would be over. Even to give way to the weary

drowsiness that overtook him at times as the sun went down, and the

night fell upon him far away from shelter, might have soothed him into

the slumber from which there is no awaking. But he dared not. He was

willing enough to die, if dying had been all. But he believed in the

punishment of sin here, or hereafter; in the dealing out of a righteous

judgment to every man, whether he be good or evil.

As the autumn passed by, and the mountain chalets were shut up, the

cattle and the herdsmen descending to the lower pastures, Roland Sefton

was compelled to descend too. There was little chance of encountering

any one who knew him at this late season; yet there were still

stragglers lingering among the Alps. But when he saw himself again in a

looking-glass, his face burned and blistered with the sun, and now

almost past recognition, and his ragged hair and beard serving him

better than any disguise, he was no longer afraid of being detected. He

began to wonder in mingled hope and dread whether Felicita would come

out to seek him. The message he had sent to her by Phebe could be

interpreted by her alone. Would she avail herself of it to find him out?

Or would she shrink from the toil and pain and danger of quitting

England? A few weeks more would answer the question.

Sometimes he was overwhelmed with terror lest she should be watched, and

her movements tracked, and that behind her would come the pursuers he

had so successfully evaded. At other times an unutterable heart-sickness

possessed him to see her once more, to hear her voice, to press his

lips, if he dared, to her pale cheeks; to discover whether she would

suffer him to hold her in his arms for one moment only. He longed to

hear from her lips what had happened at home since he fled from it six

months ago; what she had done, and was going to do, supposing that he

were not arrested and brought to justice. Would she forgive him? would

she listen to his pleas and explanations? He feared that she would hate

him for the shame he had brought upon her. Yet there was a possibility

that she might pity him, with a pity so much akin to love as that with

which the angels look down upon sinful human beings.

Every day brought the solution of his doubts nearer. The rains of autumn

had begun, and fell in torrents, driving him to any shelter he could

find, to brood there hour after hour upon these hopes and fears. The fog

and thick clouds hid the mountains, and all the valleys lay forlorn and

cold under clinging veils of mist, through which the few brown leaves

left upon the trees hung limp and dying on the bare branches. The

villagers were settling down to their winter life; and though along the

frequented routes a few travellers were still passing to and fro, the

less known were deserted. It was safe now to go down to Engelberg,

where, if ever again except as a prisoner in the hands of justice, he

would see Felicita.

Impatient to anticipate the day on which he might again see her, he

reached Engelberg a week before the appointed time. The green meadows

and the forests of the little valley were hidden in mist and rain, and

the towering dome of the Titlis was folded from sight in dense clouds,

with only a cold gleam now and then as its snowy summit glanced through

them for a minute. The innumerable waterfalls were swollen, and fell

with a restless roar through the black depths of the forests. The

daylight was short, for the sun rose late behind the encircling

mountains, and hastened to sink again below them. But the place where he

had first met Felicita was dear to him, though dark and gloomy with the

cloudy days. He hastened to the church where his eyes had fallen upon

the young, silent, absorbed girl so many years ago; and here, where the

sun was shining fitfully for a brief half hour, he paced up and down the

aisles, wondering what the coming interview would bring. Day after day

he lingered there, with the loud chanting of the monks ringing in his

ears, until the evening came when he said to himself, "To-morrow I shall

see her once more."

CHAPTER XIII.

SUSPENSE.

Roland Sefton did not sleep that night. As the time drew near for

Felicita to act upon his message to her, he grew more desponding of her

response to it; yet he could not give up the feeble hope still

flickering in his heart. If she did not come he would be a hopeless

outcast indeed; yet if she came, what succor could she bring to him? He

had not once cherished the idea that Mr. Clifford would forbear to

prosecute him; yet he knew well that if he could be propitiated, the

other men and women who had claims upon him would be easily satisfied

and appeased. But how many things might have happened during the long

six months, which had seemed almost an eternity to him. It was not

impossible that Mr. Clifford might be dead. If so, and if a path was

thus open to him to re-enter life, how different should his career be in

the future! How warily would he walk; with what earnest penitence and

thorough uprightness would he order all his ways! He would be what he

had only seemed to be hitherto: a man following Christ, as his

forefathers had done.

He was staying at a quiet inn in the village, and as soon as daybreak

came he started down the road along which Felicita must come, and waited

at the entrance of the valley, four miles from the little village. The

road was bad, for the heavy rains had washed much of it away, and it had

been roughly repaired by fir-trees laid along the broken edges; but it

was not impassable, and a one-horse carriage could run along it safely.

The rain had passed away, and the sun was shining. The high mountains

and the great rocks were clear from base to summit. If she came to-day

there was a splendid scene prepared for her eyes. Hour after hour passed

by, the short autumnal day faded into the dusk, and the dusk slowly

deepened into the blackness of night. Still he waited, late on into the

night, till the monastery bells chimed for the last time; but there was

no sign of her coming.

The next day passed as that had done. Felicita, then, had deserted him!

He felt so sure of Phebe that he never doubted that she had not received

his message. He had left only one thread of communication between

himself and home--a slender thread--and Felicita had broken it. There

was now no hope for him, no chance of learning what had befallen all his

dear ones, unless he ran the risk of discovery, and ventured back to

England.

But for Felicita and his children, he said to himself, it would be

better to go back, and pay the utmost penalty he owed to the broken laws

of his country. No hardships could be greater than those he had already

endured; no separation from companionship could be more complete. The

hard labor he would be doomed to perform would be a relief. His

conscience might smite him less sharply and less ceaselessly if he was

suffering the due punishment for his sin, in the society of his

fellow-criminals. Dartmoor Prison would be better for him than his

miserable and degrading freedom.

Still, as long as he could elude publicity and preserve his name from

notoriety, the burden would not fall upon Felicita and his children. His

mother would not shrink from bearing her share of any burden of his. But

he must keep out of the dock, lest their father and husband should be

branded as a convict.

A dreary round his thoughts ran. But ever in the centre of the circling

thoughts lay the conviction that he had lost his wife and children

forever. Whether he dragged out a wretched life in concealment, or was

discovered, or gave himself up to justice, Felicita was lost to him.

There were some women--Phebe Marlowe was one--who could have lived

through the shame of his conviction and the dreary term of his

imprisonment, praying to God for her husband, and pitying him with a

kind of heavenly grace, and at the end of the time met him at the prison

door, and gone out with him, tenderly and faithfully, to begin a new

life in another country. But Felicita was not one of these women. He

could never think of her as pardoning a transgression like his, though

committed for her sake. Even now she would not stoop so low as to seek a

meeting with one who deserved a penal punishment.

Night had set in, and he was trudging along the road, still heavy with

recent rains, though the sky above was hung with glittering stars, and

the crystal snow on Titlis shone against the deep blue depths, casting a

wan light over the valley. Suddenly upon the stillness there came the

sound of several voices, and a shrill yodel, pitched in a key that rang

through the village, to call attention to the approaching party. It was

in advance of him, nearer to Engelberg; yet though he had been watching

the route from Stans all day, and was satisfied that Felicita could not

have entered the valley unseen by himself, the hope flashed through him

that she was before him, belated by the state of the roads. He hurried

on, seeing before him a small group of men carrying lanterns. But in

their midst they bore a rude litter, made of a gate taken hastily off

the hinges. They passed out of sight behind a house as he caught sight

of the litter, and for a minute or two he could not follow them, from

the mere shock of dread lest the litter held her. Then he hurried on,

and reached the hotel door as the procession marched into the hall and

laid their burden cautiously down.

"An accident?" said the landlord.

"Yes," answered one of the peasants; "we found him under Pfaffenwand. He

must have been coming from Engstlensee Alp; how much farther the good

God alone knows. The paths are slippery this wet weather, and he had no

guide, or there was no guide to be seen."

"That must be searched into," said the landlord; "is he dead?"

"No, no," replied two or three together.

"He has spoken twice," continued the peasant who had answered before,

"and groaned much. But none of us knew what he said. He is dying, poor

fellow!"

"English?" asked the landlord, looking down on the scarred face and

eager eyes of the stranger, who lay silent on the litter, glancing round

uneasily at the faces about him.

"Some of us would have known French, or German, or Italian," was the

reply, "but not one of us knows English."

"Nor I," said the landlord; "and our English speaker went away last

week, over the St. Gothard to Italy for the winter. Send round, Marie,"

he went on, speaking to his wife, "and find out any one in Engelberg who

knows English. See! The poor fellow is trying to say something now."

"I can speak English," said Roland, pushing his way in amid the crowd

and kneeling down beside the litter, on which a rough bed of fir

pine-branches had been made. The unknown face beneath his eyes was drawn

with pain, and the gaze that met his was one of earnest entreaty.

"I am dying," he murmured; "don't let them torture me. Only let me be

laid on a bed to die in peace."

"I will take care of you," said Roland in his pleasant and soothing

voice, speaking as tenderly as if he had been saying "God bless you!" to

Felix in his little cot; "trust yourself to me. They shall do for you

only what I think best."

The stranger closed his eyes with an expression of relief, and Roland,

taking up one corner of the litter, helped to carry it gently into the

nearest bedroom. He was gifted with something of a woman's softness of

touch, and with a woman's delicate sympathy with pain; and presently,

though not without some moans and cries, the injured man was resting

peacefully on a bed: not unconscious, but looking keenly from face to

face on the people surrounding him.

"Are you English?" he asked, looking at Roland's blistered face and his

worn peasant's dress.

"Yes," he answered.

"Is there any surgeon here?" he inquired.

"No English surgeon," replied Roland. "I do not know if there is one

even at Lucerne, and none could come to you for many hours. But there

must be some one at the monastery close by, if not in the village--"

"No, no!" he interrupted, "I shall not live many hours; but promise

me--I am quite helpless as you see--promise me that you will not let any

village doctor pull me about."

"They are sometimes very skilful," urged Roland, "and you do not know

that you must really die."

"I knew it as I was slipping," he answered; "at the first moment I knew

it, though I clutched at the very stones to keep me from falling. Why! I

was dead when they found me; only the pain of being pulled about brought

me back to life. I'm not afraid to die if they will let me die in

peace."

"I will promise not to leave you," replied Roland; "and if you must die,

it shall be in peace."

That he must die, and was actually dying, was affirmed by all about him.

One of the brothers from the monastery, skilled in surgery, came in

unrecognized as a doctor by the stranger, and shook his head hopelessly

when he saw him, telling Roland to let him do whatever he pleased so

long as he lived, and to learn all he could from him during the hours of

the coming night. There was no hope, he said; and if he had not been

found by the peasants he would have been dead now. Roland must ask if

he was a good Catholic or a heretic. When the monk heard that he was a

heretic and needed none of the consolations of the Church, he bade him

farewell kindly, and went his way.

Roland Sefton sat beside the dying man all the night, while he lingered

from hour to hour: free from pain at times, at others restless and

racked with agony. He wandered a little in delirium, and when his brain

was clear he had not much to say.

"Have you no message to send to your friends?" inquired Roland, in one

of these lucid intervals.

"I have no friends," he answered, "and no money. It makes death easier."

"There must be some one who would care to hear of you," said Roland.

"They'll see it in the papers," he replied. "No, I come from India, and

was going to England. I have no near relations, and there is no one to

care much. 'Poor Austin,' they'll say; 'he wasn't a bad fellow.' That's

all. You've been kinder to me than anybody I know. There's about fifty

pounds in my pocket-book. Bury me decently and take the rest."

He dozed a little, or was unconscious for a few minutes. His sunburnt

face, lying on the white pillow, still looked full of health and the

promise of life, except when it was contracted with pain. There was no

weakness in his voice or dimness in his eye. It seemed impossible to

believe that this strong young man was dying.

"I lost my valise when I fell," he said, opening his eyes again and

speaking in a tranquil tone; "but there was nothing of value in it. My

money and my papers are in my pocket-book. Let me see you take

possession of it."

He watched Roland search for the book in the torn coat on the chair

beside him, and his eyes followed its transfer to his breast-pocket

under his blue blouse.

"You are an English gentleman, though you look a Swiss peasant," he

said; "you are poor, perhaps, and my money will be of use to you. It is

the only return I can make to you. I should like you to write down that

I give it to you, and let me sign the paper."

"Presently," said Roland; "you must not exert yourself. I shall find

your name and address here?"

"I have no address; of course I have a name," he answered; "but never

mind that now. Tell me, what do you think of Christ? Does He indeed save

sinners?"

"Yes," said Roland reluctantly; "He says, 'I came to seek and to save

that which was lost.' Those are His own words."

"Kneel down quickly," murmured the dying man. "Say 'Our Father!' so that

I can hear every word. My mother used to teach it to me."

"And she is dead?" said Roland.

"Years ago," he gasped.

Roland knelt down. How familiar, with what a touch of bygone days, the

attitude came to him; how homely the words sounded! He had uttered them

innumerable times; never quite without a feeling of their sacredness and

sweetness. But he had not dared to take them into his lips of late. His

voice faltered, though he strove to keep it steady and distinct, to

reach the dying ears that listened to him. The prayer brought to him the

picture of his children kneeling, morning and evening, with the

self-same petitions. They had said them only a few hours ago, and would

say them again a few hours hence. Even the dying man felt there was

something more than mere emotion for him expressed in the tremulous

tones of Roland Sefton's voice. He held out his hand to him when he had

finished, and grasped his warmly.

"God bless you!" he said. But he was weary, and his strength was failing

him. He slumbered again fitfully, and his mind wandered. Now and then

during the rest of the night he looked up with a faint smile, and his

lips moved inarticulately. He thought he had spoken, but no sound

disturbed the unbroken silence.

CHAPTER XIV.

ON THE ALTAR STEPS.

It was as the bells of the Abbey rang for matins that the stranger died.

For a few minutes Roland remained beside him, and then he called in the

women to attend to the dead, and went out into the fresh morning air. It

was the third day that the mountains had been clear from fog and cloud,

and they stood out against the sky in perfect whiteness. The snow-line

had come lower down upon the slopes, and the beautiful crystals of frost

hung on the tapering boughs of the pine-trees in the forests about

Engelberg. Here and there a few villagers were going toward the church,

and almost unconsciously Roland followed slowly in their track.

The short service was over and the congregation was dispersing when he

crossed the well-worn door-sill. But a few women, especially the late

comers, were still scattered about praying mechanically, with their eyes

wandering around them. The High Altar was deserted, but candles burning

on it made a light in the dim place, and he listlessly sauntered up the

centre aisle. A woman was kneeling on the steps leading up to it, and as

the echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet church she rose and

looked round. It was Felicita! At that moment he was not thinking of

her; yet there was no doubt or surprise in the first moment of

recognition. The uncontrollable rapture of seeing her again arrested his

steps, and he stood looking at her, with a few paces between them. It

was plain that she did not know him.

How could she know him, he thought bitterly, in the rough blue blouse

and coarse clothing and heavy hobnail boots of a Swiss peasant? His hair

was shaggy and uncut, and the skin of his face was so peeled and

blistered and scorched that his disguise was sufficient to conceal him

even from his wife. Yet as he stood there with downcast head, as a

devout peasant might have done before the altar, he saw Felicita make a

slight but imperious sign to him to advance. She did not take a step

toward him, but leaning against the altar rails she waited till he was

near to her, within hearing. There Roland paused.

"Felicita," he said, not daring to draw closer to her.

"I am here," she answered, not looking toward him; her large, dark,

mournful eyes lifted up to the cross above the altar, before which a

lamp was burning, whose light was reflected in her unshed tears.

Neither of them spoke again for a while. It seemed as if there could be

nothing said, so great was the anguish of them both. The man who had

just died had passed away tranquilly, but they were drinking of a cup

more bitter than death. Yet the few persons lingering over their morning

devotions before the shrines in the side aisles saw nothing but a

stranger looking at the painting over the altar, and a peasant kneeling

on the lowest step deep in prayer.

"I come from watching a fellow-man die," he said at last; "would to God

it had been myself!"

"Yes!" sighed Felicita, "that would have been best for us all."

"You wish me dead!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish.

"For the children's sake," she murmured, still looking away from him;

"yes! and for the sake of our name, your father's name, and mine. I

thought to bring honor to it, and you have brought flagrant dishonor to

it."

"That can never be wiped away," he added.

"Never!" she repeated.

As if exhausted by these passionate words, they fell again into silence.

The murmur of whispered prayers was about them, and the faint scent of

incense floated under the arched roof. A gleam of morning light, growing

stronger, though the sun was still far below the eastern mountains,

glittered through a painted window, and threw a glow of color upon them.

Roland saw her standing in its many-tinted brightness, but her wan and

sorrowful face was not turned to look at him. He had not caught a

glance from her yet. How vividly he remembered the first moment his eyes

had ever beheld her, standing as she did now on these very altar steps,

with uplifted eyes and a sweet seriousness on her young face! It was

only a poor village church, but it was the most sacred spot in the whole

world to him; for there he had met Felicita and received her image into

his inmost heart. His ambition as well as his love had centred in her,

the penniless daughter of the late Lord Riversford, an orphan, and

dependent upon her father's brother and successor. But to Roland his

wife Felicita was immeasurably dearer than the girl Felicita Riversford

had been. All the happy days since he had won her, all the satisfied

desires, all his successes were centred in her and represented by her.

All his crime too.

"I have loved you," he cried, "better than the whole world."

There was no answer by word or look to his passionate words.

"I have loved you," he said, more sadly, "better than God."

"But you have brought me to shame!" she answered; "if I am tracked

here--and who can tell that I am not?--and if you are taken and tried

and convicted, I shall be the wife of the fraudulent banker and

condemned felon, Roland Sefton. And Felix and Hilda will be his

children."

"It is true," he groaned; "I could not escape conviction."

He buried his face in his hands, and rested them on the altar-rails. Now

his bowed-down head was immediately beneath her eyes, and she looked

down upon it with a mournful gaze; it could not have been more mournful

if she had been contemplating his dead face lying at rest in his coffin.

How was all this shame and misery for him and her to end?

"Felicita," he said, lifting up his head, and meeting the sorrowful

farewell expression in her face, "if I could die it would be best for

the children and you."

"Yes," she answered, in the sweet, too dearly loved voice he had

listened to in happy days.

"I dare not open that door of escape for myself," he went on, "and God

does not send death to me. But I see a way, a possible way. I only see

it this moment; but whether it be for good or evil I cannot tell."

"Will it save us?" she asked eagerly.

"All of us," he replied. "This stranger, whose corpse I have just

left--nobody knows him, and he has no friends to trouble about

him--shall I give to him my name, and bury him as myself? Then I shall

be dead to all the world, Felicita; dead even to you; but you will be

saved. I too shall be safe in the grave, for death covers all sins. Even

old Clifford will be satisfied by my death."

"Could it be done?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes," he said; "if you consent it shall be done. For my own sake I

would rather go back to England and deliver myself up to the law I have

broken. But you shall decide, my darling. If I return you will be known

as the wife of the convict Sefton. Say: shall I be henceforth dead

forever to you and my mother and the children? Shall it be a living

death for me, and deliverance and safety and honor for you all? You must

choose between my infamy or my death."

"It must be," she answered, slowly yet without hesitation, looking away

from him to the cross above the altar, "your death."

A shudder ran through her slight frame as she spoke, and thrilled

through him as he listened. It seemed to them both as if they stood

beside an open grave, on either side one, and parted thus. He stretched

out his hand to her, and laid it on her dress, as if appealing for

mercy; but she did not turn to him, or look upon him, or open her white

lips to utter another word. Then there came more stir and noise in the

church, footsteps sounded upon the pavement, and an inquisitive face

peeped out of the vestry near the altar where they stood. It was no

longer prudent to remain as they were, subject to curiosity and

scrutiny. Roland rose from his knees, and without glancing again toward

her, he spoke in a low voice of unutterable grief and supplication.

"Let me see you and speak to you once more," he said.

"Once more," she repeated.

"This evening," he continued, "at your hotel."

"Yes," she answered. "I am travelling under Phebe Marlowe's name. Ask

for Mrs. Marlowe."

She turned away and walked slowly and feebly down the aisle; and he

watched her, as he had watched the light tread of the young girl eleven

years ago, passing through alternate sunshine and shadow. There was no

sunshine now. Was it possible that so long a time had passed since then?

Could it be true that for ten years she had been his wife, and that the

tie between them was forever dissolved? From this day he was to be dead

to her and to all the world. He was about to pass voluntarily into a

condition of death amid life, as utterly bereft of all that had once

been his as if the grave had closed over him. Roland Sefton was to exist

no more.

CHAPTER XV.

A SECOND FRAUD.

Roland Sefton went back to the room in which the corpse of the stranger

was now lying. The women were gone, and he turned down the sheet to look

at the face of the man who was about to bear his name and the disgrace

of his crime into the safe asylum of the grave. It was perfectly calm,

with no trace of the night's suffering upon it; there was even a faint

vestige of a smile about the mouth, as of one who sleeps well, and has

pleasant dreams. He was apparently about Roland's own age, and a

description given by strangers would not be such as would lead to any

suspicion that there could have been a mistake as to identity. Roland

looked long upon it before covering it up again, and then he sat down

beside the bed and opened the pocket-book.

There were notes in it worth fifty pounds, but not many papers. There

was a memorandum made here and there of the places he had visited, and

the last entry was dated the day before at Engstlenalp. Roland knew

every step of the road, and for a while he seemed to himself to be this

traveller, starting from the little inn, not yet vacated by its peasant

landlord, but soon to be left to icy solitude, and taking the narrow

path along the Engstlensee, toiling up the Joch pass under the mighty

Wendenstöcke and the snowy Titlis, clear of clouds from base to summit

yesterday. The traveller must have had a guide with him, some peasant or

herdsman probably, as far as the Trübsee Alp; for even in summer the

route was difficult to find. The guide had put him on to the path for

Engelberg, and left him to make his way along the precipitous slopes of

the Pfaffenwand. All this would be discovered when an official inquiry

was made into the accident. In the mean time it was necessary to invest

this stranger with his own identity.

There were two or three well-worn letters in the pocket-book, but they

contained nothing of importance. It seemed true, what the dying man had

said, that there was no link of kinship or friendship binding him

specially to his fellow-men. Roland opened his own pocket-book, and

looked over a letter or two which he had carried about with him, one of

them a childish note from Felix, preferring some simple request. His

passport was there also, and his mother's portrait and those of the

children, over which his eyes brooded with a hungry sorrow in his heart.

He looked at them for the last time. But Felicita's portrait he could

not bring himself to give up. She would be dead to him, and he to her.

In England she would live among her friends as his widow, pitied, and

comforted, and beloved. But what would the coming years bring to him?

All that would remain to him of the past would be a fading photograph

only.

So long he lingered over this mournful conflict that he was at last

aroused from it by the entrance of the landlord, and the mayor and other

officials, who had come to look at the body of the dead. Roland's

pocket-book lay open on the bed, and he was still gazing at the

portraits of his children. He raised his sunburnt face as they came in,

and rose to meet them.

"This traveller," he said, "gave to me his pocket-book as I watched

beside him last night. It is here, containing his passport, a few

letters, and fifty pounds in notes, which he told me to keep, but which

I wish to give to the commune."

"They must be taken charge of," said the mayor; "but we will look over

them first. Did he tell you who he was?"

"The passport discloses that," answered Roland; "he desired only a

decent funeral."

"Ah!" said the mayor, taking out the passport, "an English traveller;

name Roland Sefton; and these letters, and these portraits--they will be

enough for identification."

"He said he had no friends or family in England," pursued Roland, "and

there is no address among his letters. He told me he came from India."

"Then there need be no delay about the interment," remarked the mayor,

"if he had no family in England, and was just come from India. Bah! we

could not keep him till any friends came from India. It is enough. We

must make an inquiry; but the corpse cannot be kept above ground. The

interment may take place as soon as you please, Monsieur."

"I suppose you will wish for some trifle as payment?" said the landlord,

addressing Roland.

"No," he answered, "I only watched by him through the night; and I am

but a passing traveller like himself."

"You will assist at the funeral?" he asked.

"If it can be to-morrow," replied Roland; "if not I must go on to

Lucerne. But I shall come back to Engelberg. If it be necessary for me

to stay, and the commune will pay my expenses, I will stay."

"Not necessary at all," said the mayor; "the accident is too simple, and

he has no friends. Why should the commune lose by him?"

"There are the fifty pounds," suggested Roland.

"And there are the expenses!" said the mayor. "No, no. It is not

necessary for you to stay; not at all. If you are coming back again to

Engelberg it will be all right. You say you are coming back?"

"I am sure to come back to Engelberg," he answered, with gloomy

emphasis.

For already Roland began to feel that he, himself, was dead, and a new

life, utterly different from the old, was beginning for him. And this

new life, beginning here, would often draw him back to its birth-place.

There would be an attraction for him here, even in the humble grave

where men thought they had buried Roland Sefton. It would be the only

link with his former life, and it would draw him to it irresistibly.

"And what is your name and employment, my good fellow?" asked the mayor.

"Jean Merle," he answered promptly. "I am a wood-carver."

The deed he had only thought of an hour ago was accomplished, and there

could be no undoing it. This passport and these papers would be

forwarded to the embassy at Berne, where doubtless his name was already

known as a fugitive criminal. He could not reclaim them, for with them

he took up again the burden of his sin. He had condemned himself to a

penalty and sacrifice the most complete that man could think of, or put

into execution. Roland Sefton was dead, and his wife and children were

set free from the degradation he had brought upon them.

He spent the remaining hours of the day in wandering about the forests

in the Alpine valley. The autumn fogs and the dense rain-clouds were

gathering again. But it was nothing to him that the snowy crests of the

surrounding mountains were once more shrouded from view, or that the

torrents and waterfalls which he could not see were thundering and

roaring along their rocky channels with a vast effluence of waters. He

saw and heard no more than the dead man who bore his name. He was

insensible to hunger or fatigue. Except for Felicita's presence in the

village behind him he would have felt himself in another world; in a

beamless and lifeless abyss, where there was no creature like unto

himself; only eternal gloom and solitude.

It was quite dark before he passed again through the village on his way

to Felicita's hotel. The common light of lamps, and the every-day life

of ordinary men and women busy over their evening meal, astonished him,

as if he had come from another state of existence. He lingered awhile,

looking on as at some extraordinary spectacle. Then he went on to the

hotel standing a little out of and above the village.

The place, so crowded in the summer, was quiet enough now. A bright

light, however, streamed through the window of the salon, which was

uncurtained. He stopped and looked in at Felicita, who was sitting alone

by the log fire, with her white forehead resting on her small hand,

which partly hid her face. How often had he seen her sitting thus by the

fireside at home! But though he stood without in the dark and cold for

many minutes, she did not stir; neither hand nor foot moved. At last he

grew terrified at this utter immobility, and stepping through the hall

he told the landlady that the English lady had business with him. He

opened the door, and then Felicita looked up.

CHAPTER XVI.

PARTING WORDS.

Roland advanced a few paces into the gaudy salon, with its mirrors

reflecting his and Felicita's figures over and over again, and stood

still, at a little distance from her, with his rough cap in his hand. He

looked like one of the herdsmen with whom he had been living during the

summer. There was no one else in the large room, but the night was

peering in through half a dozen great uncurtained windows, which might

hold many spectators watching them, as he had watched her a minute ago.

She scarcely moved, but the deadly pallor of her face and the dark

shining of her tearless eyes fixed upon him made him tremble as if he

had been a woman weaker than herself.

"It is done," he said.

"Yes," she answered, "I have been to see him."

There was an accent in her voice, of terror and repugnance, as of one

who had witnessed some horrifying sight and was compelled to bear a

reluctant testimony to it. Roland himself felt a shock of antipathy at

the thought of his wife seeing this unknown corpse bearing his name. He

seemed to see her standing beside the dead, and looking down with those

beloved eyes upon the strange face, which would dwell for evermore in

her memory as well as his. Why had she subjected herself to this

needless pang?

"You wished it?" he said. "You consented to my plan?"

"Yes," she answered in the same monotonous tone of reluctant testimony.

"And it was best so, Felicita," he said tenderly; "we have done the dead

man no wrong. Remember he was alone, and had no friends to grieve over

his strange absence. If it had been otherwise there would have been a

terrible sin in our act. But it has set you free; it saves you and my

mother and the children. As long as I lived you would have been in

peril; but now there is a clear, safe course laid open for you. You will

go home to England, where in a few months it will be forgotten that your

husband was suspected of crime. Only old Clifford, and Marlowe, and two

or three others will remember it. When you have the means, repay those

poor people the money I owe them. And take comfort, Felicita. It would

have done them no good if I had been taken and convicted; that would not

have restored their money. My name then will be clear of all but

suspicion, and you will make it a name for our children to inherit."

"And you?" she breathed with lips that scarcely moved.

"I?" he said. "Why, I shall be dead! A man's life is not simply the

breath he draws: it is his country, his honor, his home. You are my

life, Felicita: you and my mother and Felix and Hilda; the old home

where my forefathers dwelt; my townsmen's esteem and good-will; the work

I could do, and hoped to do. Losing those I lost my life. I began to

die when I first went wrong. The way seemed right in my own eyes, but

the end of it was death. I told old Marlowe his money was as safe as in

the Bank of England, when I was keeping it in my own hands; but I

believed it then. That was the first step; this is the last. Henceforth

I am dead."

"But how will you live?" she asked.

"Never fear; Jean Merle will earn his living," he answered. "Let us

think of your future, my darling. Nay, let me call you darling once

more. My death provides for you, for your marriage-settlement will come

into force. You will have to live differently, my Felicita; all the

splendor and the luxury I would have surrounded you with must be lost.

But there will be enough, and my mother will manage your household well

for you. Be kind to my poor mother, and comfort her. And do not let my

children grow up with hard thoughts of their father. It will be a

painful task to you."

"Yes," she said. "Oh, Roland, we ought not to have done this thing!"

"Yet you chose," he replied.

"Yes; and I should choose it again, though I hate the falsehood," she

exclaimed vehemently. "I cannot endure shame. But all our future life

will be founded on a lie."

"Let the blame be mine, not yours," he said; "it was my plan, and there

is no going back from it now. But tell me about home. How are my

children and my mother? They are still at home?"

"No," she answered; "the police watched it day and night, till it grew

hateful to me. I shall never enter it again. We went away to the

sea-side three months ago, and there our mother and the children are

still. But when I get back we shall remove to London."

"To London!" he repeated. "Will you never go home to Riversborough?"

"Never again!" she replied. "I could not live there now; it is a hateful

spot to me. Your mother grieves bitterly over leaving it; but even she

sees that we can never live there again."

"I shall not even know how to think of you all!" he cried. "You will be

living in some strange house, which I can never picture to myself. And

the old home will be empty."

"Mr. Clifford is living in it," she said.

He threw up his hands with a gesture of grief and vexation. Whenever his

thoughts flew to the old home, the only home he had ever known, it would

be only to remember that the man he most dreaded, he who was his most

implacable enemy, was dwelling in it. And when would he cease to think

of his own birth-place and the birth-place of his children, the home

where Felicita had lived? It would be impossible to blot the vivid

memory of it from his brain.

"I shall never see it again," he said; "but I should have felt less

banished from you if I could have thought of you as still at home. We

are about to part forever, Felicita--as fully as if I lay dead down

yonder, as men will think I do."

"Yes," she answered, with a mournful stillness.

"Even if we wished to hold any intercourse with each other," he

continued, gazing wistfully at her, "it would be dangerous to us both.

It is best for us both to be dead to one another."

"It is best," she assented; "only if you were ever in great straits, if

you could not earn your living, you might contrive to let me know."

"There is no fear of that," he answered bitterly. "Felicita, you never

loved me as I love you."

"No," she said, with the same inexpressible sadness, yet calmness, in

her voice and face; "how could I? I was a child when you married me; we

were both children. There is such a difference between us. I suppose I

should never love any one very much--not as you mean. It is not in my

nature. I can live alone, Roland. All of you, even the children, seem

very far away from me. But I grieve for you in my inmost soul. If I

could undo what you have done I would gladly lay down my life. If I

could only undo what we did this morning! The shadow of it is growing

darker and darker upon me. And yet it seemed so wise; it seems so still.

We shall be safe again, all of us, and we have done that dead man no

wrong."

"None," he said.

"But when I think of you," she went on, "how you, still living, will

long to know what is befalling us, how the children are growing up, and

how your mother is, and how I live, yet never be able to satisfy this

longing; how you will have to give us up, and never dare to make a sign;

how you will drag on your life from year to year, a poor man among poor,

ignorant, stupid men; how I may die, and you not know it, or you may

die, and I not know it; I wonder how we could have done what we did this

morning."

"Oh, hush, hush, Felicita!" he exclaimed; "I have said all this to

myself all this day, until I feel that my punishment is harder than I

can bear. Tell me, shall we undo it? Shall I go to the mayor and deliver

myself up as the man whose name I have given to the dead? It can be done

still; it is not too late. You shall decide again."

"No; I cannot accept disgrace," she answered passionately; "it is an

evil thing to do, but it must be done. We must take the consequences.

You and I are dead to one another for evermore; but your death is more

terrible than mine. I shall grieve over you more than if you were really

dead. Why does not God send death to those that desire it? Good-by now

forever, Roland. I return to England to act this lie, and you must

never, never seek me out as your wife. Promise me that. I would

repudiate you if I lay on my death-bed."

"I will never seek you out and bring you to shame," he said; "I promise

it faithfully, by my love for you. As I hope ever to obtain pardon, I

promise it."

"Then leave me," she cried; "I can bear this no longer. Good-by,

Roland."

They were still some paces apart, he with his shaggy mountain cap in his

hand standing respectfully at a distance, and she, sitting by the low,

open hearth with her white, quiet face turned toward him. All the

village might have witnessed their interview through the uncurtained

windows. Slowly, almost mechanically, Felicita left her seat and

advanced toward him with an outstretched hand. It was cold as ice as he

seized it eagerly in his own; the hand of the dead man could not have

been colder or more lifeless. He held it fast in a hard, unconscious

grip.

"Good-by, my wife," he said; "God bless and keep you!"

"Is there any God?" she sobbed.

But there was a sound at the door, the handle was being turned, and they

fell apart guiltily. A maid entered to tell Madame her chamber was

prepared, and without another word Felicita walked quickly from the

salon, leaving him alone.

He caught a glimpse of her again the next morning as she came

down-stairs and entered the little carriage which was to take her down

to Stansstad in time to catch the boat to Lucerne. She was starting

early, before it was fairly dawn, and he saw her only by the dim light

of lamps, which burned but feebly in the chilly damp of the autumn

atmosphere. For a little distance he followed the sound of the carriage

wheels, but he arrested his own footsteps. For what good was it to

pursue one whom he must never find again? She was gone from him forever.

He was a young man yet, and she still younger. But for his folly and

crime a long and prosperous life might have stretched before them, each

year knitting their hearts and souls more closely together; and he had

forfeited all. He turned back up the valley broken-hearted.

Later in the day he stood beside the grave of the man who was bearing

away his name from disgrace. The funeral had been hurried on, and the

stranger was buried in a neglected part of the churchyard, being

friendless and a heretic. It was quickly done, and when the few persons

who had taken part in it were dispersed, Roland Sefton lingered alone

beside the desolate grave.

CHAPTER XVII.

WAITING FOR THE NEWS.

Felicita hurried homeward night and day without stopping, as if she had

been pursued by a deadly enemy. Madame and the children were not at

Scarborough, but at a quiet little fishing village on the eastern coast;

for Felicita had found Scarborough too gay in the month of August, and

her cousins, the Riversfords, having appeared there, she retreated to

the quietest spot that could be found. To this village she returned,

after being absent little more than a week.

Madame knew nothing of her journey; but the mere fact that Felicita was

going away alone had aroused in her the hope that it was connected in

some way with Roland. In some vague manner this idea had been

communicated to Felix, and both were expecting to see the long-lost

father and son come back with her. Roland's prolonged and mysterious

absence had been a sore trial to his mother, though her placid and

trustful nature had borne it patiently. Surely, she thought, the trial

was coming to an end.

Felicita reached their lodgings utterly exhausted and worn out. She was

a delicate woman, in no way inured to fatigue, and though she had been

insensible to the overstrain of the unbroken journey as she was whirled

along railways and passed from station to station, a sense of complete

prostration seized upon her as soon as she found herself at home. Day

after day she lay in bed, in a darkened room, unwilling to lift her

voice above a whisper, waiting in a kind of torpid dread for the

intelligence that she knew must soon come.

She had been at home several days, and still there was no news. Was it

possible, she asked herself, that this unknown traveller, and his

calamitous fate, should pass on into perfect oblivion and leave matters

as they were before? For a cloud would hang over her and her children

as long as Roland was the object of pursuit. While he was a fugitive

criminal, of interest to the police officers of all countries, there was

no security for their future. The lie to which she had given a guilty

consent was horrible to her, but her morbid dread of shame was more

horrible. She had done evil that good might come; but if the good

failed, the evil would still remain as a dark stain upon her soul,

visible to herself, if to none else.

"I will get up to-day," she said at last, to Madame's great delight. She

never ventured to exert any authority over her beautiful and clever

daughter-in-law--not even the authority of a mildly expressed wish. She

was willing to be to Felicita anything that Felicita pleased--her

servant and drudge, her fond mother, or her quiet, attentive companion.

Since her return from her mysterious journey she had been very tender to

her, as tenderly and gently demonstrative as Felicita would ever permit

her to be.

"Have you seen any newspapers lately?" asked Felicita.

"I never read the papers, my love," answered Madame.

"I should like to see to-day's _Times_," said Felicita.

But it was impossible to get it in this village without ordering it

beforehand, and Felicita gave up her wish with the listless indifference

of an invalid. When the late sun of the November day had risen from

behind a heavy bank of clouds she ventured down to the quiet shore.

There were no visitors left beside themselves, so there were no curious

eyes to scan her white, sad face. For a short time Felix and Hilda

played about her; but by and by Madame, thinking she was weary and

worried, allured them away to a point where they were still in sight,

though out of hearing. The low, cold sun shed its languid and watery

rays upon the rocks and creeping tide, and, unnoticed, almost unseen,

Felicita could sit there in stillness, gazing out over the chilly and

mournful sea. There was something so unutterably sad about Felicita's

condition that it awed the simple, cheerful nature of Madame. It was

more than illness and exhaustion. The white, unsmiling face, the

drooping head, the languor of the thin, long hands, the fathomless

sorrow lurking behind her dark eyes--all spoke of a heart-sickness such

as Madame had never seen or dreamed of. The children did not cheer their

mother. When she saw that, Madame felt that there was nothing to be done

but to leave her in the cold solitude she loved.

But as Felicita sat alone on the shore, looking listlessly at the

fleeting sails which were passing to and fro upon the sea, she saw afar

off the figure of a girl coming swiftly toward her from the village, and

before many moments had passed she recognized Phebe Marlowe's face. A

great throb of mingled relief and dread made her heart beat violently.

Nothing could have brought Phebe away, so far from home, except the news

of Roland's death.

The rosy color on Phebe's face was gone, and the brightness of her blue

eyes was faded; but there was the same out-looking of a strong, simple,

unselfish soul shining through them. As she drew near to Felicita she

stretched out her arms with the instinctive gesture of one who was come

to comfort and support, and Felicita, with a strange, impulsive feeling

that she brought consolation and help, threw herself into them.

"I know it all," said Phebe in a low voice. "Oh, what you must have

suffered! He was going to Engelberg to meet you, and you never saw him

alive! Oh, why did not God let you meet each other once again? But God

loved him. I can never think that God had not forgiven him, for he was

grieved because of his sin when I saw him the night he got away. And in

all things else he was so good! Oh, how good he was!"

Phebe's tears were falling fast, and her words were choked with sobs.

But Felicita's face was hidden against her neck, and she could not see

if she was weeping.

"Everybody is talking of him in Riversborough," she went on, "and now

they all say how good he always was, and how unlikely it is that he was

guilty. They will forget it soon. Those who remember him will think

kindly of him, and be grieved for him. But oh, I would give worlds for

him to have lived and made amends! If he could only have proved that he

had repented! If he could only have outlived it all, and made everybody

know that he was really a good man, one whom God had delivered out of

sin!"

"It was impossible!" murmured Felicita.

"No, not impossible!" she cried earnestly; "it was not an unpardonable

sin. Even if he had gone to prison, as he would, he might have faced the

world when he came out again; and if he'd done all the good he could in

it, it might have been hard to convince them he was good, but it would

never be impossible. If God forgives us, sooner or later our

fellow-creatures will forgive us, if we live a true life. I would have

stood by him in the face of the world, and you would, and Madame and the

children. He would not have been left alone, and it would have ended in

every one else coming round to us. Oh, why should he die when you were

just going to see each other again!"

Felicita had sunk down again into the chair which had been carried for

her to the shore, and Phebe sat down on the sands at her feet. She

looked up tearfully into Felicita's wan and shrunken face.

"Did any one ever win back their good name?" asked Felicita with

quivering lips.

"Among us they do sometimes," she answered. "I knew a working-man who

had been in jail five years, and he became a Christian while he was

there, and he came back home to his own village. He was one of the best

men I ever knew, and when he died there was such a funeral as had never

been seen in the parish church. Why should it not be so? If God is

faithful and just to forgive us our sins, why shouldn't we forgive? If

we are faithful and just, we shall."

"It could never be," said Felicita; "it cannot be the same as if Roland

had not been guilty. No one can blot out the past; it is eternal."

"Yes," she replied, covering Felicita's hand with kisses and tears; "but

oh, we love him more now than ever. He is gone into the land of thick

darkness, and I cannot follow him in my thoughts. It is like a gulf

between us and him. Even if he had been farthest away from us in the

world--anywhere--we could imagine what he was doing; but we cannot see

him or call across the gulf to him. It is all unknown. Only God knows!"

"God!" echoed Felicita; "if there is a God, let Him help me, for I am

the most wretched woman on His earth to-day."

"God cannot keep from helping us all," answered Phebe. "He cannot rest

while we are wretched. I understand it better than I used to do. I

cannot rest myself while the poorest creature about me is in pain that I

can help. It is impossible that He should not care. That would be an

awful thing to think; that would make His love and pity less than ours.

This I know, that God loves every creature He has made. And oh, He must

have loved him, though he was suffered to fall over that dreadful

precipice, and die before you saw him. It happened before you reached

Engelberg?"

"Yes," said Felicita, shivering.

"The papers were sent on to Mr. Clifford," continued Phebe, "and he sent

for me to come with him, and see you before the news got into the

papers. It will be in to-morrow. But I knew more than he did, and I came

on here to speak to you. Shall you tell him you went there to meet

him?"

"Oh, no, no!" cried Felicita; "it must never be known, dear Phebe."

"And his mother and the children--they, know nothing?" she said.

"Not a word, and it is you who must tell them, Phebe," she answered.

"How could I bear to tell them that he is dead? Never let them speak

about it to me; never let his name be mentioned."

"How can I comfort you?" cried Phebe.

"I can never be comforted," she replied despairingly; "but it is like

death to hear his name."

The voices of the children coming nearer reached their ears. They had

seen from their distant playground another figure sitting close beside

Felicita, and their curiosity had led them to approach. Now they

recognized Phebe, and a glad shout rang through the air. She bent down

hurriedly to kiss Felicita's cold hand once again, and then she rose to

meet them, and prevent them from seeing their mother's deep grief.

"I will go and tell them, poor little things!" she said, "and Madame.

Oh, what can I do to help you all? Mr. Clifford is at your lodgings,

waiting to see you as soon as you can meet him."

She did not stay for an answer, but ran to meet Felix and Hilda; while

slowly, and with much guilty shrinking from the coming interview,

Felicita went back to the village, where Mr. Clifford was awaiting her.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN.

Roland Sefton's pocket-book, containing his passport and the papers and

photographs, had reached Mr. Clifford the day before, with an official

intimation of his death from the consulate at Berne. The identification

was complete, and the inquiry into the fatal accident had resulted in

blame to no one, as the traveller had declined the services of a

trustworthy guide from Meirengen to Engelberg. This was precisely what

Roland would have done, the whole country being as familiar to him as to

any native. No doubt crossed Mr. Clifford's mind that his old friend's

son had met his untimely end while a fugitive from his country, from

dread chiefly of his own implacable sense of justice.

Roland was dead, but justice was not satisfied. Mr. Clifford knew

perfectly well that the news of his tragic fate would create an

immediate and complete reaction in his favor among his fellow-townsmen.

Hitherto he had been only vaguely accused of crime, which his absence

chiefly had tended to fasten upon him; but as there had been no

opportunity of bringing him to public trial, it would soon be believed

that there was no evidence against him. Many persons thought already

that the junior partner was away either on pleasure or business, because

the senior had taken his place. Only a few, himself and the three or

four obscure people who actually suffered from his defalcations, would

recollect them. By and by Roland Sefton would be remembered as the kind,

benevolent, even Christian man, whose life, so soon cut short, had been

full of promise for his native town.

Mr. Clifford himself felt a pang of regret and sorrow when he heard the

news. Years ago he had loved the frank, warm-hearted boy, his friend's

only child, with a very true affection. He had an only boy, too, older

than Roland by a few years, and these two were to succeed their fathers

in the long-established firm. Then came the bitter disappointment in his

own son. But since he had suffered his son to die in his sins, reaping

the full harvest of his transgressions, he had felt that any forgiveness

shown to other offenders would be a cruel injustice to him. Yet as

Roland's passport and the children's photographs lay before him on his

office desk--the same desk at which Roland was sitting but a few months

ago, a man in the full vigor of life, with an apparently prosperous and

happy future lying before him--Mr. Clifford for a moment or two yielded

to the vain wish that Roland had thrown himself on his mercy. Yet his

conscience told him that he would have refused to show him mercy, and

his regret was mingled with a tinge of remorse.

His first care was to prevent the intelligence reaching Felicita by

means of the newspapers, and he sent immediately for Phebe Marlowe to

accompany him to the sea-side, in order to break the news to her.

Phebe's excessive grief astonished him, though she had so much natural

control over herself, in her sympathy for others, as to relieve him of

all anxiety on her account, and to keep Felicita's secret journey from

being suspected. But to Phebe, Roland's death was fraught with more

tragic circumstances than any one else could conceive. He was hastening

to meet his wife, possibly with some scheme for their future, which

might have hope and deliverance in it, when this calamity hurried him

away into the awful, unknown world, on whose threshold we are ever

standing. But for her ardent sympathy for Felicita, Phebe would have

been herself overwhelmed. It was the thought of her, with this terrible

and secret addition to her sorrow, which bore her through the long

journey and helped her to meet Felicita with something like calmness.

From the bay-window of the lodging-house Mr. Clifford watched Felicita

coming slowly and feebly toward the house. So fragile she looked, so

unutterably sorrow-stricken, that a rush of compassion and pity opened

the floodgates of his heart, and suffused his stern eyes with tears.

Doubtless Phebe had told her all. Yet she was coming alone to meet him,

her husband's enemy and persecutor, as if he was a friend. He would be a

friend such as she had never known before. There would be no vain

weeping, no womanish wailing in her; her grief was too deep for that.

And he would respect it; he would spare her all the pain he could. At

this moment, if Roland could have risen from the dead, he would have

clasped him in his arms, and wept upon his neck, as the father welcomed

his prodigal son.

Felicita did not speak when she entered the room, but looked at him with

a steadfastness in her dark sad eyes which again dimmed his with tears.

Almost fondly he pressed her hands in his, and led her to a chair, and

placed another near enough for him to speak to her in a low and quiet

voice, altogether unlike the awful tones he used in the bank, which made

the clerks quail before him. His hand trembled as he took the little

photographs out of their envelope, so worn and stained, and laid them

before her. She looked at them with tearless eyes, and let them fall

upon her lap as things of little interest.

"Phebe has told you?" he said pitifully.

"Yes," she whispered.

"You did not know before?" he said.

She shook her head mutely. A long, intricate path of falsehood stretched

before her, from which she could not turn aside, a maze in which she was

already entangled and lost; but her lips were reluctant to utter the

first words of untruth.

"These were found on him," he continued, pointing to the children's

portraits. "I am afraid we cannot doubt the facts. The description is

like him, and his papers and passport place the identity beyond a

question. But I have dispatched a trusty messenger to Switzerland to

make further inquiries, and ascertain every particular."

"Will he see him?" asked Felicita with a start of terror.

"No, my poor girl," said the old banker; "it happened ten days ago, and

he was buried, so they say, almost immediately. But I wish to have a

memorial stone put over his grave, that if any of us, I or you, or the

children, should wish to visit it at some future time, it should not be

past finding."

He spoke tenderly and sorrowfully, as if he imagined himself standing

beside the grave of his old friend's son, recalling the past and

grieving over it. His own boy was buried in some unknown common _fosse_

in Paris. Felicita looked up at him with her strange, steady, searching

gaze.

"You have forgiven him?" she said.

"Yes," he answered; "men always forgive the dead."

"Oh, Roland! Roland!" she cried, wringing her hands for an instant.

Then, resuming her composure, she gazed quietly into his pitiful face

again.

"It is kind of you to think of his grave," she said; "but I shall never

go there, nor shall the children go, if I can help it."

"Hush!" he answered imperatively. "You, then, have not forgiven him? Yet

I forgive him, who have lost most."

"You!" she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of passion. "You have lost

a few thousand pounds; but what have I lost? My faith and trust in

goodness; my husband's love and care. I have lost him, the father of my

children, my home--nay, even myself. I am no longer what I thought I

was. That is what Roland robs me of; and you say it is more for you to

forgive than for me!"

He had never seen her thus moved and vehement, and he shrank a little

from it, as most men shrink from any unusual exhibition of emotion.

Though she had not wept, he was afraid now of a scene, and hastened to

speak of another subject.

"Well, well," he said soothingly, "that is all true, no doubt. Poor

Roland! But I am your husband's executor and the children's guardian,

conjointly with yourself. It will be proved immediately, and I shall

take charge of your affairs."

"I thought," she answered, in a hesitating manner, "that there was

nothing left, that we were ruined and had nothing. Why did Roland take

your bonds if he had money? Why did he defraud other people? There

cannot be any money coming to me and the children, and why should the

will be proved?"

"My dear girl," he said, "you know nothing about affairs. Your uncle,

Lord Riversford, would never have allowed Roland to marry you without a

settlement, and a good one too. His death was the best thing for you. It

saves you from poverty and dependence, as well as from disgrace. I

hardly know yet how matters stand, but you will have little less than a

thousand a year. You need not trouble yourself about these matters;

leave them to me and Lord Riversford. He called upon me yesterday, as

soon as he heard the sad news, and we arranged everything."

Felicita did not hear his words distinctly, though her brain caught

their meaning vaguely. She was picturing herself free from poverty,

surrounded with most of her accustomed luxuries, and shielded from every

hardship, while Roland was homeless and penniless, cast upon his own

resources to earn his daily bread and a shelter for every night, with

nothing but a poor handicraft to support him. She had not expected this

contrast in their lot. Poverty had seemed to lie before her also. But

now how often would his image start up before her as she had seen him

last, gaunt and haggard, with rough hair and blistered skin serving him

as a mask, clad in coarse clothing, already worn and ragged, not at rest

in the grave, as every one but herself believed him, but dragging out a

miserable and sordid existence year by year, with no hopes for the

future, and no happy memories of the past!

"Mr. Clifford," she said, when the sound of his voice humming in her

ears had ceased, "I shall not take one farthing of any money settled

upon me by my husband. I have no right to it. Let it go to pay the sums

he appropriated. I will maintain myself and my children."

"You cannot do it," he replied; "you do not know what you are talking

about. The money is settled upon your children; all that belongs to you

is the yearly income from it."

"That, at least, I will never touch," she said earnestly; "it shall be

set aside to repay those just claims. When all those are paid I will

take it, but not before. Yours is the largest, and I will take means to

find out the others. With my mother's two hundred a year and what I earn

myself, we shall keep the children. Lord Riversford has no control over

me. I am a woman, and I will act for myself."

"You cannot do it," he repeated; "you have no notion of what you are

undertaking to do. Mrs. Sefton, my dear young lady, I am come, with Lord

Riversford's sanction, to ask you to return to your home again, to

Madame's old home--your children's birth-place. I think, and Lord

Riversford thinks, you should come back, and bring up Felix to take his

grandfather's and father's place."

"His father's place!" interrupted Felicita. "No, my son shall never

enter into business. I would rather see him a common soldier or sailor,

or day-laborer, earning his bread by any honest toil. He shall have no

traffic in money, such as his father had; he shall have no such

temptations. Whatever my son is, he shall never be a banker."

"Good heavens, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Clifford. Felicita's stony quietude

was gone, and in its place was such a passionate energy as he had never

witnessed before in any woman.

"It was money that tempted Roland to defraud you and dishonor himself,"

she said; "it drove poor Acton to commit suicide, and it hardened your

heart against your friend's son. Felix shall be free from it. He shall

earn his bread and his place in the world in some other way, and till he

can do that I will earn it for him. Every shilling I spend from

henceforth shall be clean, the fruit of my own hands, not Roland's--not

his, whether he be alive or dead."

Before Mr. Clifford could answer, the door was flung open, and Felix,

breathless with rapid running, rushed into the room and flung himself

into his mother's arms. No words could come at first; but he drew long

and terrible sobs. The boy's upturned face was pale, and his eyes,

tearless as her own had been, were fastened in an agony upon hers. She

could not soothe or comfort him, for she knew his grief was wasted on a

falsehood; but she looked down on her son's face with a feeling of

terror.

"Oh, my father! my beloved father!" he sobbed at last. "Is he dead,

mother? You never told me anything that wasn't true. He can't be dead,

though Phebe says so. Is it true, mother?"

Felicita bent her head till it rested on the boy's uplifted face. His

sobs shook her, and the close clasp of his arms was painful; but she

neither spoke nor moved. She heard Phebe coming in, and knew that

Roland's mother was there, and Hilda came to clasp her little arms about

her as Felix was doing. But her heart had gone back to the moment when

Roland had knelt beside her in the quiet little church, and she had said

to him deliberately, "I choose your death." He was dead to her.

"Is it true, mother?" wailed Felix. "Oh, tell me it isn't true!"

"It is true," she answered. But the long, tense strain had been too much

for her strength, and she sank fainting on the ground.

CHAPTER XIX.

AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER.

It was all in vain that Mr. Clifford tried to turn Felicita from her

resolution. Phebe cordially upheld her, and gave her courage to persist

against all arguments. Both of them cared little for poverty--Phebe

because she knew it, Felicita because she did not know it. Felicita had

never known a time when money had to be considered; it had come to her

pretty much in the same way as the air she breathed and the food she

ate, without any care or prevision of her own. Phebe, on the other hand,

knew that she could earn her own living at any time by the work of her

strong young arms, and her wants were so few that they could easily be

supplied.

It was decided before Phebe went home again, and decided in the face of

Mr. Clifford's opposition, that a small house should be taken in London,

and partly furnished from the old house at Riversborough, where Felicita

would be in closer and easier communication with the publishers. Mr.

Clifford laughed to himself at the idea that she could gain a

maintenance by literature, as all the literary people he had ever met or

heard of bewailed their poverty. But there was Madame's little income of

two hundred a year: that formed a basis, not altogether an insecure or

despicable one. It would pay more than the rent, with the rates and

taxes.

The yearly income from Felicita's marriage settlement, which no

representations could persuade her to touch, was to go to the gradual

repayment of Roland's debts, the poorest men being paid first, and Mr.

Clifford, who reluctantly consented to the scheme, to receive his the

last. Though Madame had never believed in her son's guilt, her just and

simple soul was satisfied and set at rest by this arrangement. She had

not been able to blame him, but it had been a heavy burden to her to

think of others suffering loss through him. It was then almost with

cheerfulness that she set herself to keep house for her daughter-in-law

and her grand-children under such widely different circumstances.

Before Christmas a house was found for them in Cheyne Walk. The Chelsea

Embankment was not then thought of, and the streets leading to it, like

those now lying behind it, were mean and crowded. It was a narrow house,

with rooms so small that when the massive furniture from their old house

was set up in it there was no space for moving about freely. Madame had

known only two houses--the old straggling, picturesque country manse in

the Jura, with its walnut-trees shading the windows, and tossing up

their branches now and then to give glimpses of snow-mountains on the

horizon, and her husband's pleasant and luxurious house at

Riversborough, with every comfort that could be devised gathered into

it. There was the river certainly flowing past this new habitation, and

bearing on its full and rapid tide a constantly shifting panorama of

boats, of which the children never tired, and from Felicita's window

there was a fair reach of the river in view, while from the dormer

windows of the attic above, where Felix slept, there was a still wider

prospect. But in the close back room, which Madame allotted to herself

and Hilda, there was only a view of back streets and slums, with sights

and sounds which filled her with dismay and disgust.

But Madame made the best of the woeful change. The deep, quiet love she

had given to her son she transferred to Felicita, who, she well knew,

had been his idol. She believed that the sorrows of these last few

months had not sprung out of the ground, but had for some reason come

down from God, the God of her fathers, in whom she put her trust. Her

son had been called away by Him; but three were left, her daughter and

her grand-children, and she could do nothing better in life than devote

herself to them.

But to Felicita her new life was like walking barefoot on a path of

thorns. Until now she had been so sheltered and guarded, kept from the

wind blowing too roughly upon her, that every hour brought a sharp

pin-prick to her. To have no carriage at her command, no maid to wait

upon, her--not even a skilful servant to discharge ordinary household

duties well and quickly--to live in a little room where she felt as if

she could hardly breathe, to hear every sound through the walls, to have

the smell of cooking pervade the house--these and numberless similar

discomforts made her initiation into her new sphere a series of

surprises and disappointments.

But she must bestir herself if even this small amount of comfort and

well-being were to be kept up. Madame's income would not maintain their

household even on its present humble footing. Felicita's first book had

done well; it had been fairly reviewed by some papers, and flatteringly

reviewed by other critics who had known the late Lord Riversford. On the

whole it had been a good success, and her name was no longer quite

unknown. Her publishers were willing to take another book as soon as it

could be ready: they did more, they condescended to ask for it. But the

£50 they had paid for the first, though it had seemed a sufficient sum

to her when regarded from the stand-point of a woman surrounded by every

luxury, and able to spend the whole of it on some trinket, looked small

enough--too small--as the result of many weeks of labor, by which she

and her children were to be fed. If her work was worth no more than

that, she must write at least six such books in the year, and every

year! Felicita's heart sank at the thought!

There seemed to be only one resource, since one of her publishers had

offered an advance of £10 only, saying they were doing very well for

her, and running a risk themselves. She must take her manuscript and

offer it as so much merchandise from house to house, selling it to the

best bidder. This was against all her instincts as an author, and if she

had remained a wealthy woman she would not have borne it. She was too

true and original an artist not to feel how sacred a thing earnest and

truthful work like hers was. She loved it, and did it conscientiously.

She would not let it go out of her hands disgraced with blunders. Her

thoughts were like children to her, not to be sent out into the world

ragged and uncouth, exposed to just ridicule and to shame.

Felicita and Madame set out on their search after a liberal publisher on

a gloomy day in January. For the first time in her life Felicita found

herself in an omnibus, with her feet buried in damp straw, and strange

fellow-passengers crushing against her. In no part of London do the

omnibuses bear comparison with the well-appointed carriages rich people

are accustomed to; and this one, besides other discomforts, was crowded

till there was barely room to move hand or foot.

"It is very cheap," said Madame cheerfully after she had paid the fare

when they were set down in Trafalgar Square "and not so very

inconvenient."

A fog filled the air and shrouded all the surrounding buildings in dull

obscurity; while the fountains, rising and falling with an odd and

ghostly movement as of gigantic living creatures, were seen dimly white

in the midst of the gray gloom. The ceaseless stream of hurrying

passers-by lost itself in darkness only a few paces from them. The

chimes of unseen belfries and the roll of carriages visible only for a

few seconds fell upon their ears. Felicita, in the secret excitement of

her mood, felt herself in some impossible world, some phantasmagoria of

a dream, which must presently disperse, and she would find herself at

home again, in her quiet, dainty study at Riversborough, where most of

the manuscript, which she held so closely in her hand, had been written.

But the dream was dispelled when she found herself entering the

publishing-house she had fixed upon as her first scene of venture. It

was a quiet place, with two or three clerks busily engaged in some

private conversation, too interesting to be abruptly terminated by the

entrance of two ladies dressed in mourning, one of whom carried a roll

of manuscript. If Felicita had been wise the manuscript would not have

been there to betray her. It made it exceedingly difficult for her to

obtain admission to the publisher, in his private room beyond; and it

was only when she turned away to go, with a sudden outflashing of

aristocratic haughtiness, that the clerk reluctantly offered to take her

card and a message to his employer.

In a few moments Felicita was entering the dark den where the fate of

her book was in the balance. Unfortunately for her she presented too

close a resemblance to the well-known type of a distressed author. Her

deep mourning, the thick veil almost concealing her face; a straw

clinging to the hem of her dress and telling too plainly of

omnibus-riding; her somewhat sad and agitated voice; Madame's widow's

cap, and unpretending demeanor--all were against her chances of

attention. The publisher, who had risen from his desk, did not invite

them to be seated. He glanced at Felicita's card, which bore the simple

inscription, "Mrs. Sefton."

"You know my name?" she asked, faltering a little before his keen-eyed,

shrewd, business-like observation. He shook his head slightly.

"I am the writer of a book called 'Haughmond Towers,'" she added,

"published by Messrs. Price and Gould. It came out last May."

"I never heard of it," he answered solemnly. Felicita felt as if he had

struck her. This was an unaccountable thing; he was a publisher, and she

an author; yet he had never heard of her book. It was impossible that

she had understood him, and she spoke again eagerly.

"It was noticed in all the reviews," she said, "and my publishers

assured me it was quite a success. I could send you the reviews of it."

"Pray do not trouble yourself," he answered; "I do not doubt it in the

least. But there are hundreds of books published every season, and it is

impossible for one head, even a publisher's, to retain all the titles

and the names of the authors."

"But I hope mine was not like hundreds of others," remarked Felicita.

"Every author hopes so," he said; "and besides the mass that is printed,

somehow, at some one's expense, there are hundreds of manuscripts

submitted to us. Pardon me, but may I ask if you write for amusement or

for remuneration."

"For my living," she replied, with a sorrowful inflection of her voice

which alarmed the publisher. How often had he faced a widowed mother

and her daughter, in mourning so deep as to suggest the recentness of

their loss. There was a slight movement of his hand, unperceived by

either of them, and a brisk rap was heard on the door behind them.

"In a moment," he said, looking over their heads. "I am afraid," he went

on, "if I asked you to leave your manuscript on approbation, it might be

months before our readers could look at it. We have scores, if not

hundreds, waiting."

"Could you recommend any publisher to me?" asked Felicita.

"Why not go again to Price and Gould?" he inquired.

"I must get more money than they pay me," she answered ingenuously.

The publisher shrugged his shoulders. If her manuscript had contained

Milton's "Paradise Lost" or Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield," such an

admission would have swamped it. There is no fate swift enough for an

unknown author who asks for more money than that which a publisher's

sense of justice awards to him.

"I am sorry I can do nothing for you," he said, "but my time is very

precious. Good-morning--No thanks, I beg. It would be a pleasure, I am

sure, if I could do anything."

Felicita's heart sank very low as she turned into the dismal street and

trod the muddy pavement. A few illusions shrivelled up that wintry

morning under that murky sky. The name she was so fearful of staining;

the name she had fondly imagined as noised from mouth to mouth; the name

for which she had demanded so great a sacrifice, and had sacrificed so

much herself, was not known in those circles where she might most have

expected to find it a passport to attention and esteem. It had travelled

very little indeed beyond the narrow sphere of Riversborough.

CHAPTER XX.

A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF.

The winter fogs which made London so gloomy did not leave the country

sky clear and bright. All the land lay under a shroud of mist and vapor;

and even on the uplands round old Marlowe's little farmstead the heavens

were gray and cold, and the wide prospect shut out by a curtain of dim

clouds.

The rude natural tracks leading over the moor to the farm became almost

impassable. The thatched roof was sodden with damp, and the deep eaves

shed off the water with the sound of a perpetual dropping. Behind the

house the dark, storm-beaten, distorted firs, and the solitary yew-tree

blown all to one side, grew black with the damp. The isolation of the

little dwelling-place was as complete as if a flood had covered the face

of the earth, leaving its two inmates the sole survivors of the human

race.

Several months had passed since old Marlowe had executed his last piece

of finished work. The blow that Rowland Sefton's dishonesty had

inflicted upon him had paralyzed his heart--that most miserable of all

kinds of paralysis. He could still go about, handle his tools, set his

thin old fingers to work; but as soon as he had put a few marks upon his

block of oak his heart died with him, and he threw down his useless

tools with a sob as bitter as ever broke from an old man's lips.

There was no relief for him, as for other men, in speech easily, perhaps

hastily uttered, in companionship with his fellows. Any solace of this

kind was too difficult and too deliberate for him to seek it in writing

his lamentations on a slate or spelling them off on his fingers, but his

grief and anger struck inward more deeply.

Phebe saw his sorrow, and would have cheered him if she could; but she,

too, was sorely stricken, and she was young. She tried to set him an

example of diligent work, and placed her easel beside his carving,

painting as long as the gray and fleeting daylight permitted. Now and

then she attempted to sing some of her old merry songs, knowing that his

watchful eyes would see the movement of her lips; but though her lips

moved, her face was sad and her heart heavy. Sometimes, too, she forgot

all about her, and fell into an absorbed reverie, brooding over the

past, until a sob or half-articulate cry from her father aroused her.

These outcries of his troubled her more than any other change in him. He

had been altogether mute in the former tranquil and placid days,

satisfied to talk with her in silent signs; but there was something in

his mind to express now which quiet and dumb signs could not convey. At

intervals, both by day and night, her affection for him was tortured by

these hoarse and stifled cries of grief mingled with rage.

There was a certain sense of the duties of citizenship in old Marlowe's

mind which very few women, certainly not a girl as young as Phebe, could

have shared. Many years ago the elder Sefton had perceived that the

companionless man was groping vaguely after many a dim thought,

political and social, which few men of his class would have been

troubled with. He had given to him several books, which old Marlowe had

pondered over. Now he felt that, quite apart from his own personal

ground of resentment, he had done wrong to the laws of his country by

aiding an offender of them to escape and elude the just penalty. He felt

almost a contempt for Roland Sefton that he had not remained to bear the

consequences of his crime.

The news of Roland's death brought something like satisfaction to his

mind; there was a chill, dejected sense of justice having been done. He

had not prospered in his crime. Though he had eluded man's judgment, yet

vengeance had not suffered him to live. There was no relenting toward

him, as there was in Mr. Clifford's mind. Something like the old heathen

conception of a divine righteousness in this arbitrary punishment of the

evil-doer gave him a transient content. He did not object therefore to

Phebe's hasty visit to Mrs. Sefton at the sea-side, in order to break

the news to her. The inward satisfaction he felt sustained him, and he

even set about a piece of work long since begun, a hawk swooping down

upon his prey.

The evening on which Phebe reached home again he was more like his

former self. He asked her many questions about the sea, which he had

never seen, and told her what he had been doing while she was away. An

old, well-thumbed translation of Plato's Dialogues was lying on the

carved dresser behind him, in which he had been reading every night.

Instead of the Bible, he said.

"It was him, Mr. Roland, that gave it to me," he continued; "and listen

to what I read last night: 'Those who have committed crimes, great yet

not unpardonable, they are plunged into Tartarus, where they go who

betray their friends for money, the pains of which they undergo for a

year. But at the end of the year they come forth again to a lake, over

which the souls of the dead are taken to be judged. And then they lift

up their voices, and call upon the souls of them they have wronged to

have pity upon them, and to forgive them, and let them come out of their

prison. And if they prevail they come forth, and cease from their

troubles; but if not they are carried back again into Tartarus, until

they obtain mercy of them whom they have wronged.' But it seems as if

they have to wait until them they have wronged are dead themselves."

The brown, crooked fingers ceased spelling out the solemn words, and

Phebe lifted up her eyes from them to her father's face. She noticed for

the first time how sunken and sallow it was, and how dimly and wearily

his eyes looked out from under their shaggy eyebrows. She buried her

face in her hands, and broke down into a passion of tears. The vivid

picture her father's quotation brought before her mind filled it with

horror and grief that passed all words.

The wind was wailing round the house with a ceaseless moan of pain, in

which she could almost distinguish the tones of a human voice lamenting

its lost and wretched fate. The cry rose and fell, and passed on, and

came back again, muttering and calling, but never dying away

altogether. It sounded to her like the cry of a belated wanderer calling

for help. She rose hastily and opened the cottage door, as if she could

hear Roland Sefton's voice through the darkness and the distance. But he

was dead, and had been in his grave for many days already. Was she to

hear that lost, forlorn cry ringing in her ears forever? Oh, if she

could but have known something of him between that night, when he walked

beside her through the dark deserted roads, pouring out his whole

sorrowful soul to her, and the hour when in the darkness again he had

strayed from his path, and been swallowed up of death! Was it true that

he had gone down into that great gulf of secrecy and silence, without a

word of comfort spoken, or a ray of light shed upon its profound

mystery?

The cold wind blew in through the open door, and she shut it again,

going back to her low chair on the hearth. Through her blinding tears

she saw her father's brown hands stretched out to her, and the withered

fingers speaking eagerly.

"I shall be there before long," he said; "he will not have to wait very

long for me. And if you bid me I will forgive him at once. I cannot bear

to see your tears. Tell me: must I forgive him? I will do anything, if

you will look up at me again and smile."

It was a strange smile that gleamed through Phebe's tears, but she had

never heard an appeal like this from her dumb father without responding

to it.

"Must I forgive him?" he asked.

"'If ye forgive men their trespasses,'" she answered, "'your heavenly

Father will also forgive yours; but if ye forgive not men their

trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive yours.' It was our

Lord Jesus Christ who said that, not your old Socrates, father."

"It is a hard saying," he replied.

"I don't think so," she said; "it was what Jesus Christ was doing every

day he lived."

From that time old Marlowe did not mention Roland Sefton again, or his

sin against him.

As the dark stormy days passed on he sometimes put a touch or two to the

outstretched wings of his swooping hawk, but it did not get on fast.

With a pathetic clinging to Phebe he seldom let her stay long out of his

sight, but followed her about like a child, or sat on the hearth

watching her as she went about her house-work. Only by those unconscious

sobs and outcries, inaudible to himself, did he betray the grief that

was gnawing at his heart. Very often did Phebe put aside her work, and

standing before him ask such questions as the following on her swiftly

moving fingers.

"Don't you believe in God, our Father in heaven, the Father Almighty,

who made us?"

"Yes," he would reply by a nod.

"And in Jesus Christ, His Son, our Lord, who lived, and died for us, and

rose again?"

"Yes, yes," was the silent, emphatic answer.

"And yet you grieve and fret over the loss of money!" she would say,

with a wistful smile on her young face.

"You are a child; you know nothing," he replied.

For without a sigh the old man was going forward consciously to meet

death. Every morning when the dawn awoke him he felt weaker as he rose

from his bed; every day his sight was dimmer and his hand less steady;

every night the steep flight of stairs seemed steeper, and he ascended

them feebly by his hands as well as feet. He could not bring himself to

write upon his slate or to spell out upon his fingers the dread words,

"I am dying;" and Phebe was not old or experienced enough to read the

signs of an approaching death. That her father should be taken away from

her never crossed her thoughts.

It was the vague, mournful prospect of soon leaving her alone in the

wide world that made his loss loom more largely and persistently before

the dumb old man's mind. Certainly he believed all that Phebe said to

him. God loved her, cared for her, ordered her life; yet he, her father,

could not reconcile himself to the idea of her being left penniless and

friendless in the cold and cruel world. He could have left her more

peacefully in God's hands if she had those six hundred pounds of his

earnings to inherit.

The sad winter wore slowly away. Now and then the table-land around them

put on its white familiar livery of snow, and old Marlowe's dim eyes

gazed at it through his lattice window, recollecting the winters of long

years ago, when neither snow nor storm came amiss to him. But the slight

sprinkling soon melted away, and the dun-colored fog and cloudy curtain

shut them in again, cutting them off from the rest of the world as if

their little dwelling was the ark stranded on the hill's summit amid a

waste of water.

CHAPTER XXI.

PLATO AND PAUL.

Phebe's nearest neighbor, except the farm-laborer who did an occasional

day's labor for her father, was Mrs. Nixey, the tenant of a farmhouse,

which lay at the head of a valley running up into the range of hills.

Mrs. Nixey had given as much supervision to Phebe's motherless childhood

as her father had permitted, in his jealous determination to be

everything to his little daughter. Of late years, ever since old Marlowe

in the triumph of making an investment had communicated that important

fact to her on his slate, she had indulged in a day-dream of her own,

which had filled her head for hours while sitting beside her kitchen

fire busily knitting long worsted stockings for her son Simon.

Simon was thirty years of age, and it was high time she found a wife

for him. Who could be better than Phebe, who had grown up under her own

eyes, a good, strong, industrious girl, with six hundred pounds and

Upfold Farm for her fortune? As she brooded over this idea, a second

thought grew out of it. How convenient it would be if she herself

married the dumb old father, and retired to the little farmstead,

changing places with Phebe, her daughter-in-law. She would still be near

enough to come down to her son's house at harvest-time and pig-killing,

and when the milk was abundant and cheese and butter to make. And the

little house on the hills was built with walls a yard thick, and well

lined with good oak wainscoting; she could keep it warm for herself and

the old man. The scheme had as much interest and charm for her as if she

had been a peeress looking out for an eligible alliance for her son.

But it had always proved difficult to take the first steps toward so

delicate a negotiation. She was not a ready writer; and even if she had

been, Mrs. Nixey felt that it would be almost impossible to write her

day-dream in bold and plain words upon old Marlowe's slate. If Marlowe

was deaf, Phebe was singularly blind and dull. Simon Nixey had played

with her when she was a child, but it had been always as a big, grown-up

boy, doing man's work; and it was only of late that she had realized

that he was not almost an old man. For the last year or two he had

lingered at the church door to walk home with her and her father, but

she had thought little of it. He was their nearest neighbor, and made

himself useful in giving her father hints about his little farm, besides

sparing his laborer to do them an occasional day's work. It seemed

perfectly natural that he should walk home with them across the moors

from their distant parish church.

But as soon as the roads were passable Mrs. Nixey made her way up to the

solitary farmstead. The last time she had seen old Marlowe he had been

ailing, yet she was quite unprepared for the rapid change that had

passed over him. He was cowering in the chimney-corner, his face yellow

and shrivelled, and his eyes, once blue as Phebe's own, sunken in their

sockets, and glowering dimly at her, with the strange intensity of gaze

in the deaf and dumb. There was a little oak table before him, with his

copy of Plato's Dialogues and a black leather Bible that had belonged to

his forefathers, lying upon it; but both of them were closed, and he

looked drowsy and listless.

"Good sakes! Phebe," cried Mrs. Nixey, "whatever ails thy father? He

looks more like dust and ashes than a livin' man. Hast thou sent for no

physic for him?"

"I didn't know he was ill," answered Phebe. "Father always feels the

winter long and trying. He'll be all right when the spring comes."

"I'll ask him what's the matter with him," said Mrs. Nixey, drawing his

slate to her, and writing in the boldest letters she could form, as if

his deafness made it needful to write large.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing, save old age," he answered in his small, neat hand-writing.

There was a gentle smile on his face as he pushed the slate under the

eyes of Mrs. Nixey and Phebe. He had sometimes thought he must tell

Phebe he would not be long with her, but his hands refused to convey

such sad warnings to his young daughter. He had put it off from day to

day, though he was not sorry now to give some slight hint of his fears.

"Old! he's no older nor me," said Mrs. Nixey. "A pretty thing it'ud be

if folks gave up at sixty or so. There's another ten years' work in

you," she wrote on the slate.

"Ten years' work." How earnestly he wished it was true! He might still

earn a little fortune for Phebe; for he was known all through the

county, and beyond, and could get a good price for his carving. He

stretched out his hand and took down his unfinished work, looking

longingly at it.

Phebe's fingers were moving fast, so fast that he could not follow them.

Of late he had been unable to seize the meaning of those swift, glancing

finger-tips. He had reached the stage of a man who can no longer catch

the lower tones of a familiar voice, and has to guess at the words thus

spoken. If he lived long enough to lose his sight he would be cut off

from all communion with the outer world, even with his daughter.

"Come close to me, and speak more slowly," he said to her. "I am growing

old and dark. Yet I am only sixty, and my father lived to be over

seventy. I was over forty when you were born. It was a sunny day, and I

kept away from the house, in the shed, till I saw Mrs. Nixey there

beckoning to me. And when I came in the house here she laid you in my

arms. God was very good to me that day."

"He is always good," answered Phebe.

"So the parson teaches us," he continued; "but it was very hard for me

to lose that money. It struck me a dreadful blow, Phebe. If I'd been

twenty years younger I could have borne it; but when a man's turned

sixty there's no chance. And he robbed me of more than money: he robbed

me of love. I loved him next to you."

She knew that so well that she did not answer him. Her love for Roland

Sefton lived still; but it was altogether changed from the bright,

girlish admiration and trustful confidence it had once been. His

conduct had altered life itself to her; it was colder and darker, with

deeper and longer shadows in it. And now there was coming the darkest

shadow of all.

"Read this," he said, opening the "Phædo," and pointing to some words

with his crooked and trembling finger. She stooped her head till her

soft cheek rested against his with a caressing and soothing touch.

"I go to die, you to live; but which is best God alone can know," she

read. Her arm stole round his neck, and her cheek was pressed more

closely against his. Mrs. Nixey's hard face softened a little as she

looked at them; but she could not help thinking of the new turn affairs

were taking. If old Marlowe died, it might be more convenient, on the

whole, than for her to marry him. How snugly she could live up here,

with a cow or two, and a little maid from the workhouse to be her

companion and drudge!

Quite unconscious of Mrs. Nixey's plans, Phebe had drawn the old black

leather Bible toward her, turning over the stained and yellow leaves

with one hand, for she would not withdraw her arm from her father's

neck. She did not know exactly where to find the words she wanted; but

at last she came upon them. The gray shaggy locks of the old man and the

rippling glossy waves of Phebe's brown hair mingled as they bent their

heads again over the same page.

"For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die

unto the Lord: whether we live therefore or die, we are the Lord's. For

to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be

Lord both of the dead and the living."

"That is better than your old Socrates," said Phebe, with tears in her

eyes and a faint smile playing about her lips. "Our Lord has gone on

before us, through life and death. There is nothing we can have to bear

that He has not borne."

"He never had to leave a young girl like you alone in the world,"

answered her father.

For a moment Phebe's fingers were still, and old Marlowe looked up at

her like one who has gained a miserable victory over a messenger of glad

tidings.

"But He had to leave His mother, who was growing old, when the sword had

pierced through her very soul," answered Phebe. "That was a hard thing

to do."

The old man nodded, and his withered hands folded over each other on the

open page before him. Mrs. Nixey, who could understand nothing of their

silent speech, was staring at them inquisitively, as if trying to

discover what they said by the expression of their faces.

"Ask thy father if he's made his will," she said. "I've heard say as

land canno' go to a woman if there's no will; and it'ud niver do for

Upfold to go to a far-away stranger. May be he reckons on all he has

goin' to you quite natural. But there's law agen' it; the agent told me

so years ago. I niver heard of any relations thy father had, but they'll

find what's called an heir-at-law, take my word for it, if he doesn't

leave iver a will."

But, instead of answering, Phebe rushed past her up the steep, dark

staircase, and Mrs. Nixey heard her sobbing and crying in the little

room above. It was quite natural, thought the hard old woman, with a

momentary feeling of pity for the lonely girl; but it was necessary to

make sure of Upfold Farm, and she drew old Marlowe's slate to her, and

wrote on it, very distinctly, "Has thee made thy will?"

The dejected, miserable expression came back to his face, as his

thoughts were recalled to the loss he had sustained, and he nodded his

answer to Mrs. Nixey.

"And left all to Phebe?" she wrote again.

Again he nodded. It was all right so far, and Mrs. Nixey felt glad she

had made sure of the ground. The little farm was worth £15 a year, and

old Marlowe himself had once told her that his money brought him in £36

yearly, without a stroke of work on his part. How money could be gained

in this way, with simply leaving it alone, she could not understand. But

here was Phebe Marlowe with £50 a year for her fortune: a chance not to

be lost by her son Simon. She hesitated for a few minutes, listening to

the soft low sobs overhead, but her sense of judicious forestalling of

the future prevailed over her sympathy with the troubled girl.

"Phebe'll be very lonesome," she wrote, and old Marlowe looked sadly

into her face with his sunken eyes. There was no need to nod assent to

her words.

"I've been like a mother to her," wrote Mrs. Nixey, and she rubbed both

the sentences off the slate with her pocket-handkerchief, and sat

pondering over the wording of her next communication. It was difficult

and embarrassing, this mode of intercourse on a subject which even she

felt to be delicate. How much easier it would have been if old Marlowe

could hear and speak like other men! He watched her closely as she wrote

word after word and rubbed them out again, unable to satisfy herself. At

last he stretched out his hand and seized the slate, just as she was

again about to rub out the sentence.

"Our Simon'd marry her to-morrow," was written upon it.

Old Marlowe sat looking at the words without raising his eyes or making

any sign. He had never seen the man yet worthy of being the husband of

his daughter, and Simon Nixey was not much to his mind. Still, he was a

kind-hearted man, and well-to-do for his station; he kept a servant to

wait on his mother, and he would do no less for his wife. Phebe would

not be left desolate if she could make up her mind to marry him. But

with a deep instinctive jealousy, born of his absolute separation from

his kind, he could not bear the thought of sharing her love with any

one. She must continue to be all his own for the little time he had to

live.

"If Phebe likes to marry him when I'm gone, I've no objection," he

wrote, and then, with a feeling of irritation and bitterness, he rubbed

out the words with the palm of his hand and turned his back upon Mrs.

Nixey.

CHAPTER XXII.

A REJECTED SUITOR.

All the next day Phebe remained very near to her father, leaving her

house-work and painting to sit beside him on the low chair he had carved

for her when she was a child. For the first time she noticed how slowly

he caught her meaning when she spoke to him, and how he himself was

forgetting how to express his thoughts on his fingers. The time might

come when he could no longer hold any intercourse with her or she with

him. There was unutterable sadness in this new dread.

"You used to laugh and sing," he said, "but you never do it now: never

since he robbed me. He robbed me of that too. I'm a poor, helpless, deaf

old man; and God never let me hear my child's voice. He used to tell me

it was sweet and pleasant to hear; and your laugh made every one merry

who heard it. But I could see you laugh, and now I never see it."

She could not laugh now, and her smile was sadder than tears; so she

bent down her head and laid it against his knee where he could not see

her face. By and by he touched her, and she lifted up her tear-dimmed

eyes to his fingers.

"Promise me," he said, "not to sell this old place. It has belonged to

the Marlowes from generation to generation. Who can tell but the dead

come back to the place where they've lived so long? If you can, keep it

for my sake."

"I promise it," she answered. "I will never sell it."

"Perhaps I shall lose my power to speak to you," he went on, "but don't

you fret as if I did not forgive him as robbed me. He learnt to talk on

his fingers for my sake, and I'll say 'God bless him' for your sake. If

we meet one another in the next world I'll forgive him freely, and if

need be I'll ask pardon for him. Phebe, I do forgive him."

As he spoke there was a brighter light in his sunken eyes, and a smile

on his face such as she had not seen since the day he had helped Roland

Sefton to escape. She took both of his hands into hers and kissed them

fondly. But by and by, though it was yet clear day, he crept feebly

up-stairs to his dark little loft under the thatched roof, and lay down

on the bed where his father and grandfather had died before him.

At first he was able to talk a little in short, brief sentences; but

very soon that which he had dreaded came upon him. His fingers grew too

stiff to form the signs, and his eyes too dim to discern even the

slowest movement of her dear hands. There was now no communication

between them but that of touch, and he could not bear to miss the gentle

clasp of Phebe's hand. When she moved away from him he tossed wearily

from side to side, groping restlessly with his thin fingers. In utter

silence and darkness, but hand to hand with her, he at last passed away.

The next few days was a strange and bewildering time to Phebe.

Neighbors were coming and going, and taking the arrangements for the

funeral into their own hands, with little reference to her. The

clergyman of the parish, who lived three miles off, rode over the hills

to hold a solemn interview with her. Mrs. Nixey would not leave her

alone, and if she could have had her way would have carried her off to

her own house. But this Phebe would not submit to; except the two nights

she had been away when she went to the sea-side to break the news of

Roland's death to Felicita and her mother, she had never been absent for

a night from home. Why should she be afraid of that quiet, still form,

which even in death was dearer to her than any other upon earth?

But Mrs. Nixey walked beside her, next the coffin, when the small

funeral procession wound its way slowly over the uplands to the country

churchyard, where the deaf and dumb old wood-carver was laid in a grave

beside his wife. It was almost impossible to shake her off on their

return, but Phebe could bear companionship no longer. She must walk

back alone along the familiar fields, where the green corn was springing

among the furrows, and under the brown hedgerows where all the buds were

swelling, to the open moor lying clear and barren in an unbroken plain

before her. How often had she walked along these narrow sheep-tracks

with her father pacing on in front, speechless, but so full of silent

sympathy with her that words were not missed between them. Their little

homestead lay like an island in a sea of heather and fern, with no other

dwelling in sight; but, oh, how empty and desolate it seemed!

The old house-dog crept up quietly to her, and whined softly; and the

cow, as she went into the shed to milk her, turned and licked her hand

gently, as if these dumb creatures knew her sorrow. There were some

evening tasks to be performed, for the laborer, who had been to the

funeral, was staying in the village with the other men who had helped to

carry her father's coffin, to rest themselves and have some refreshment

in the little inn there. She lingered over each duty with a dreary sense

of the emptiness of the house haunting her, and of the silence of the

hearth where all the long evening must be spent alone.

It was late in February, and though the fern and heather and gorse were

not yet in bud, there was a purple tinge upon the moor fore-telling the

quickly coming spring. The birds that had been silent all winter were

chirping under the eaves, or fluttered up from the causeway where she

had been scattering corn, at the sound of her footsteps across the

little farm-yard. The sun, near its setting, was shining across the

uplands, and throwing long shadows from every low bush and brake. Phebe

mounted the old horse-block by the garden wicket, and looked around her,

shading her eyes with her hands. The soft west wind, blowing over many

miles of moor and meadows and kissing her cheek, seemed like the touch

of a dear old friend, and the thin gray cloud overhead appeared only as

a slight veil scarcely hiding a beloved face. It would not have startled

her if she had seen her father come to the door, beckoning to her with

his quiet smile, or if she had caught sight of Roland Sefton crossing

the moor, with his swift, strong stride, and his face all aglow with

the delight of his mountain ramble.

"But they are both dead," she said to herself. "If only Mr. Roland had

been living in Riversborough he would have told me what to do."

She was too young to connect her father's death in any way with Roland

Sefton's crime. They two were the dearest persons in the world to her;

and both were now gone into the mysterious darkness of the next world,

meeting there perhaps with all earthly discords forgiven and forgotten

more perfectly than they could have been here. She remembered how her

father's dull, joyless face used to brighten when Roland was talking to

him--talking with slow, unaccustomed fingers, which the dumb man would

watch intently, and catch the meaning of the phrase before it was half

finished, flashing back an eager answer by signs and changeful

expression of his features. There would be no need of signs and gestures

where they had gone. Her father, perhaps, was speaking to him now.

Phebe had passed into a reverie, as full of pleasure as of pain, and

she fancied she heard her father's voice--that voice which she had never

heard. She started, and awoke herself. It was growing dusk, and she was

faint with hunger and fatigue. The wintry sun had sunk some time since

behind the brow of the hill, leaving only a few faint lines of clouds

running across a clear amber light. She stepped down from the

horse-block reluctantly, and with slow steps loitered up the garden-path

to the deserted cottage.

It might have been better, she thought, if she had let Mrs. Nixey come

home with her; but, oh, how tired she was of her aimless chatter, which

seemed to din the ear and drive away all quiet thought from the heart.

She had been very weary of all the fuss that had made a Babel of the

little homestead since her father's death. But now she was absolutely

alone, the loneliness seemed awful.

It was quite dark before the fire burned up and threw its flickering

light over her old home. She sat down on the hearth opposite her

father's empty chair, in her own place--the place which had been hers

ever since she could remember. How long would it be hers? She knew that

one volume of her life was ended and closed; the new volume was all

hidden from her. She was not afraid of opening it, for there was a fund

of courage and hope in her nature of which she did not know all the

wealth. There was also the simple trust of a child in the goodness of

God.

She had finished her tea and was sitting apparently idle, with her hands

lying on her lap, when a sudden knock at the door startled and almost

frightened her. Until this moment she had never thought of the

loneliness of the house as possessing any element of danger; but now she

turned her eyes to the uncurtained window, through which she had been so

plainly visible, and wished that she had taken the precaution of putting

the bar on the door. It was too late, for the latch was already lifted,

and she had scarcely time to say with a tremulous voice, "Come in."

"It's me--Simon Nixey," said a loud, familiar voice, as the door opened

and the tall ungainly figure of the farmer filled up the doorway. He

had been at her father's funeral, and was still in his Sunday suit,

standing sheepishly within the door and stroking the mourning-band round

his hat, as he gazed at her with a shamefaced expression, altogether

unlike the bluntness of his usual manner.

"Is there anything the matter, Mr. Nixey?" asked Phebe. "Have you time

to take a seat?"

"Oh, ay! I'll sit down," he answered, stepping forward readily and

settling himself down in her father's chair, in spite of her hasty

movement to prevent it. "Mother thought as you'd be lonesome," he

continued; "her and me've been talking of nothing else but you all

evening. And mother said your heart'ud be sore and tender to-night, and

more likely to take to comfort. And I'd my best clothes on, and couldn't

go to fodder up, so I said I'd step up here and see if you was as

lonesome as we thought. You looked pretty lonesome through the window.

You wouldn't mind me staying a half hour or so?"

"Oh, no," said Phebe simply; "you're kindly welcome."

"That's what I'd like to be always," he went on, "and there's a deal

about me to make me welcome, come to think on it. Our house is a good

one, and the buildings they're all good; and I got the first prize for

my pigs at the last show, and the second prize for my bull the show

before that. Nobody can call me a poor farmer. You recollect painting my

prize-bull for me, don't you, Phebe?"

"To be sure I do," she answered.

"Ay! and mother shook like a leaf when I told her you'd gone into his

shed, and him not tied up. 'Never you mind, mother,' I says, 'there's

neither man nor beast'ud hurt little Phebe.' You'd enjoy painting my

prize-pigs, I know; and there'd be plenty o' time. Wouldn't you now?"

"Very much," she said, "if I have time."

"That's something to look forward to," he continued. "I'm always

thinking what you'd like to paint, and make a picture of. I should like

to be painted myself, and mother; and there'll be plenty o' time. For

I'm not a man to see you overdone with work, Phebe. I've been thinking

about it for the last five year, ever since you were a pretty young

lass of fifteen. 'She'll be a good girl,' mother said, 'and if old

Marlowe dies before you're wed, Simon, you'd best marry Phebe.' I've put

it off, Phebe, over and over again, when there's been girls only waiting

the asking; and now I'm glad I can bring you comfort. There's a home all

ready for you, with cows and poultry for you to manage and get the good

of, for mother always has the butter money and the egg money, and you'll

have it now. And there's stores of linen, mother says, and everything

that any farmer's wife could desire."

Phebe laughed, a low, gentle, musical laugh, which had surprise in it,

but no derision. The sight of the gaunt embarrassed man opposite to her,

his face burning red, and his clumsy hands twisting and untwisting as he

uttered his persuasive sentences, drove her sadness away for the moment.

Her pleasant, surprised laugh made him laugh too.

"Ay! mother was right; she always is," said Nixey, rubbing his great

hands gleefully. "'There'll be scores of lads after her,' says mother,

'for old Marlowe has piles o' money in Sefton's Old Bank, everybody

knows that.' But, Phebe, there aren't a many houses like mine for you to

step right into. I'm glad I came to bring you comfort to-night."

"But father lost all his money in the Old Bank nine months ago,"

answered Phebe.

"Lost all his money!" repeated Nixey slowly and emphatically. There was

a deep silence in the little house, while he gazed at her with open

mouth and astonished eyes. Phebe had covered her face with her hands,

forgetting him and everything else in the recollection of that bitter

sorrow of hers nine months ago; worse than her sorrow now. Nixey spoke

again after a few minutes, in a husky and melancholy voice.

"It shan't make no difference, Phebe," he said; "I came to bring you

comfort, and I'll not take it away again. There they all are for you,

linen and pigs, and cows and poultry. I don't mind a straw what

mother'ill say. Only you wipe away those tears and laugh again, my

pretty dear. Look up at Simon and laugh again."

"It's very good of you," she answered, looking up into his face with

her blue eyes simply and frankly, "and I shall never forget it. But I

could not marry you. I could not marry anybody."

"But you must," he said imperiously; "a pretty young girl like you can't

live alone here in this lonesome place. Mother says it wouldn't be

decent or safe. You'll want a home, and it had best be mine. Come, now.

You'll never have a better offer if you've lost all your money. But your

land lies nighest to my farm, and it's worth more to me than anybody

else. It wouldn't be a bad bargain for me, Phebe; and I've waited five

years for you besides. If you'll only say yes, I'll go down and face

mother, and have it out with her at once."

But Phebe could not be brought to say yes, though Nixey used every

argument and persuasion he could think. He went away at last, in

dudgeon, leaving her alone, but not so sad as before. The new volume of

her life had already been opened.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ANOTHER OFFER.

The next day Phebe locked up her house and rode down to Riversborough.

As she descended into the valley and the open plain beyond her

sorrowfulness fell away from her. Her social instincts were strong, and

she delighted in companionship and in the help she could render to any

fellow-creature. If she overtook a boy trudging reluctantly to school

she would dismount from her rough pony and give him a ride; or if she

met with a woman carrying a heavy load, she took the burden from her,

and let her pony saunter slowly along, while she listened to the homely

gossip of the neighborhood. Phebe was a great favorite along these

roads, which she had traversed every week during summer to attend

Riversborough market for the last eight years. Her spirits rose as she

rode along, receiving many a kindly word, and more invitations to spend

a little while in different houses than she could have accepted if she

had been willing to give twelve months to visiting. It was market-day at

Riversborough, and the greetings there were still more numerous, and, if

possible, more kindly. Everybody had a word for Phebe Marlowe;

especially to-day, when her pretty black dress told of the loss she had

suffered.

She made her way to Whitefriars Road. The Old Bank was not so full as it

had formerly been, for immediately after the panic last May a new bank

had been opened more in the centre of the town, and a good many of the

tradesmen and farmers had transferred their accounts to it. The outer

office was fairly busy, but Phebe had not long to wait before being

summoned to see Mr. Clifford. The muscles of his stern and careworn

features relaxed into something approaching a smile as she entered, and

he caught sight of her sweet and frank young face.

"Sit down, Phebe," he said. "I did not hear of your loss before

yesterday; and I was just about to send for you to see your father's

will. It is in our strong room. You are not one-and-twenty yet?"

"Not till next December, sir," she replied.

"Roland Sefton is the only executor appointed," he continued, his face

contracting for an instant, as if some painful memory flashed across

him; "and, since he is dead, I succeed to the charge as his executor.

You will be my ward, Phebe, till you are of age."

"Will it be much trouble, sir?" she asked anxiously.

"None at all," he answered; "I hope it will be a pleasure; for, Phebe,

it will not be fit for you to live alone at Upfold Farm; and I wish you

to come here--to make your home with me till you are of age. It would be

a great pleasure to me, and I would take care you should have every

opportunity for self-improvement. I know you are not a fine young lady,

my dear, but you are sensible, modest, and sweet-tempered, and we should

get on well together. If you were happy with me I should regard you as

my adopted daughter, and provide accordingly for you. Think of it for a

few minutes while I look over these letters. Perhaps I seem a grim and

surly old man to you; but I am not naturally so. You would never

disappoint me."

He turned away to his desk, and appeared to occupy himself with his

letters, but he did not take in a single line of them. He had set his

heart once more on the hope of winning love and gratitude from some

young wayfarer on life's rough road, whose path he could make smooth and

bright. He had been bitterly disappointed in his own son and his

friend's son. But if this simple, unspoiled, little country maiden would

leave her future life in his keeping, how easy and how happy it should

be!

"It's very good of you," said Phebe, in a trembling voice; "and I'm not

afraid of you, Mr. Clifford, not in the least; but I could not keep from

fretting in this house. Oh, I loved them so, every one of them; but Mr.

Roland most of all. No one was ever so good to me as he was. If it

hadn't been for him I should have learned nothing, and father himself

would have been a dull, ignorant man. Mr. Roland learnt to talk to

father, and nobody else could talk with him but me. I used to think it

was as much like our Lord Jesus Christ as anything any one could do. Mr.

Roland could not open father's ears, but he learned how to talk to him,

to make him less lonely. That was the kindest thing any one on earth

could do."

"Do you believe Mr. Roland was innocent?" asked Mr. Clifford.

"I know he was guilty," answered Phebe sadly. "He told me all about it

himself, and I saw his sorrow. Before that he always seemed to me more

like what I think Jesus Christ was than any one else. He could never

think of himself while there were other people to care for. And I know,"

she went on, with simple sagacity, "that it was not Mr. Roland's sin

that fretted father, but the loss of the money. If he had made six

hundred pounds by using it without his consent, and said, 'Here,

Marlowe, are twelve hundred pounds for you instead of six; I did not put

your money up as you wanted, but used it instead;' why, father would

have praised him up to the skies, and could never have been grateful

enough."

Mr. Clifford's conscience smote him as he listened to Phebe's unworldly

comment on Roland Sefton's conduct. If Roland had met him with the

announcement of a gain of ten thousand pounds by a lucky though

unauthorized speculation, he knew very well his own feeling would have

been utterly different from that with which he had heard of the loss of

ten thousand pounds. The world itself would have cried out against him

if he had prosecuted a man by whose disregard of the laws he had gained

so large a profit. Was it, then, a simple love of justice that had

actuated him? Yet the breach of trust would have been the same.

"But if you will not come to live with me, my dear," he said, "what do

you propose to do? You cannot live alone in your old home."

"May I tell you what I should like to do?" she asked.

"Certainly," he answered. "I am bound to know it."

"Those two who are dead," she said, "thought so much of my painting.

Mr. Roland was always wishing I could go to a school of art, and father

said when he was gone he should wish it too. But now we have lost our

money, the next best thing will be for me to go to live as servant to

some great artist, where I could see something of painting till I've

saved enough money to go to school. I can let Upfold Farm for fifteen

pounds a year to Simon Nixey, so I shall soon have money enough. I

promised father I would never sell our farm, that has belonged to

Marlowes ever since it was inclosed from the common. And if I go to

London, I shall be near Madame and the children, and Mrs. Roland

Sefton."

The color had come back to Phebe's face, and her voice was steady and

musical again. There was a clear, frank shining in her blue eyes,

looking so pleasantly into his, that Mr. Clifford sighed regretfully as

he thought of his solitary and friendless life--self-chosen partly, but

growing more dreary as old age, with its infirmities, crept on.

"No, no; you need not go into service," he said; "there is money enough

of your own to do what you wish with. Mrs. Roland refuses to receive

the income from her marriage settlement till every claim against her

husband is paid off. I shall pay your claim off at the rate of one

hundred a year, or more, if you like. You may have a sum sufficient to

keep you at an art school as long as you need be there."

"Why, I shall be very rich!" exclaimed Phebe; "and father dreaded I

should be poor."

"I will run up to London and see what arrangements I can make for you,"

he continued. "Perhaps Mrs. Roland Sefton could find a corner for you in

her own house, small as it is, and Madame would make you as welcome as a

daughter. You are more of a daughter to her than Felicita. Only I must

make a bargain, that you and the children come down often to see me here

in the old house. I should have grown very fond of you, Phebe; and then

you would have married some man whom I detested, and disappointed me

bitterly again. It is best as it is, I suppose. But if you will change

your mind now, and stay with me as my adopted daughter, I'll run the

risk."

"If it was anywhere else!" she answered with a wistful look into his

face, "but not here. If Mrs. Roland Sefton could find room for me I'd

rather live with them than anywhere else in the world. Only don't think

I'm ungrateful because I can't stay here."

"No, no, Phebe," he replied; "it was for my own sake I asked it. As you

grow older, child, you'll find out that the secret root of nine tenths

of the benevolence you see is selfishness."

Six weeks later all the arrangements for Phebe leaving her old home and

entering upon an utterly new life were completed. Simon Nixey, after

vainly urging her to accept himself, and to give herself and her little

farm and her restored fortune to him, offered to become her tenant at

£10 a year for the land, leaving the cottage uninhabited; for Phebe

could not bear the idea of any farm laborer and his family dwelling in

it, and destroying or injuring the curious carvings with which her

father had lined its walls. The spot was far out of the way of tramps

and wandering vagabonds, and there was no danger of damage being done

to it by the neighbors. Mrs. Nixey undertook to see that it was kept

from damp and dirt, promising to have a fire lighted there occasionally,

and Simon would see to the thatch being kept in repair, on condition

that Phebe would come herself once a year to receive her rent, and see

how the place was cared for. There was but a forlorn hope in Mrs.

Nixey's heart that Phebe would ever have Simon now she was going to

London; but it might possibly come about in the long run if he met with

no girl to accept him with as much fortune.

Before leaving Upfold Farm Phebe received the following letter from

Felicita:

"DEAR PHEBE: I shall be very glad to have you under my

roof. I believe I see in you a freshness and truthfulness of nature

on which I can rely for sympathy. I have always felt a sincere

regard for you, but of late I have learned to love you, and to

think of you as my friend. I love you next to my children. Let me

be a friend to you. Your pursuits will interest me, and you must

let me share them as your friend.

"But one favor I must ask. Never mention my husband's name to me.

Madame will feel solace in talking of him, but the very sound of his

name is intolerable to me. It is my fault; but spare me. You are the

dearer to me because you love him, and because he prized your

affections so highly; but he must never be mentioned, if possible

not thought of, in my presence. If you think of him I shall feel it,

and be wounded. I say this before you come that you may spare me as

much pain as you can.

"This is the only thing I dread. Otherwise your coming to us would

be the happiest thing that has befallen me for the last year.

"Yours faithfully,

"Felicita."

If Felicita was glad to have her, Phebe knew that Madame and the

children would be enraptured. Nor had she judged wrongly. Madame

received her as if she had been a favorite child, whose presence was the

very comfort and help she stood most in need of. Though she devoted

herself to Felicita, there was a distance between them, an impenetrable

reserve, that chilled her spirits and threw her love back upon herself.

But to Phebe she could pour out her heart unrestrainedly, dwelling upon

the memory of her lost son, and mourning openly for him. And Phebe never

spoke a word that could lead Roland's mother to think she believed him

to be guilty. With a loving tact she avoided all discussion on that

point; and, though again and again the pang of her own loss made itself

poignantly felt, she knew how to pour consolation into the heart of

Roland's mother.

But to Felix and Hilda Phebe's companionship was an endless delight. She

came from her lonely homestead on the hills into the full stream of

London life, and it had a ceaseless interest for her. She could not grow

weary of the streets with their crowd of passers-by; and the shop

windows filled with wealth and curiosities fascinated her. All the stir

and tumult were joyous to her, and the faces she met as she walked along

the pavement possessed an unceasing influence over her. The love of

humanity, scarcely called into existence before, developed rapidly in

her. Felix and Hilda shared in her childish pleasure without

understanding the deep springs from which it came.

It was an education in itself for the children. A drive in an omnibus,

with its frequent stoppages and its constant change of passengers, was

delightful to Phebe, and never lost its charm for her. She and the

children explored London, seeing all its sights, which Phebe, in her

rustic curiosity, wished to see. From west to east, from north to south,

they became acquainted with the great capital as few children, rich or

poor, have a chance of doing. They sought out all its public buildings,

every museum and picture gallery, the birthplaces of its famous men, the

places where they died, and their tombs if they were within London.

Westminster Abbey was as familiar to them as their own home. It seemed

as if Phebe was compensating herself for her lonely girlhood on the

barren and solitary uplands. Yet it was not simply sight-seeing, but the

outcome of an intelligent and genuine curiosity, which was only

satisfied by understanding all she could about the things and places she

saw.

To the children, as well as to Madame, she often talked of Roland

Sefton. Felix loved nothing more than to listen to her recollections of

his lost father, who had so strangely disappeared out of his life. On a

Sunday evening when, of course, their wanderings were over, she would

sit with them in summer by the attic window, which, overlooked the

river, and in winter by the fireside, recounting again and again all she

knew of him, especially of how good he always was to her. There were a

vividness and vivacity in all she said of him which charmed their

imagination and kept the memory of him alive in their hearts. Phebe gave

dramatic effect to her stories of him. Hilda could scarcely remember

him, though she believed she did; but to Felix he remained the tall,

handsome, kindly father, who was his ideal of all a man should be; while

Phebe, perhaps unconsciously, portrayed him as all that was great and

good.

For neither Madame nor Phebe could find it in their hearts to tell the

boy, so proud and fond of his father's memory, that any suspicion had

ever been attached to his name. Madame, who had mourned so bitterly over

his premature death in her native land, but so far from his own, had

never believed in his guilt; and Phebe, who knew him to be guilty, had

forgiven him with that forgiveness which possesses an almost sacred

forgetfulness. If she had been urged to look back and down into that

dark abyss in which he had been lost to her, she must have owned

reluctantly that he had once done wrong. But it was hard to remember

anything against the dead.

CHAPTER XXIV.

AT HOME IN LONDON.

Every summer Phebe went down to her own home on the uplands, according

to her promise to the Nixeys. Felix and Hilda always accompanied her,

for a change was necessary for the children, and Felicita seldom cared

to go far from London, and then only to some sea-side resort near at

hand, when Madame always went with her. Every summer Simon Nixey

repeated his offer the first evening of Phebe's residence under her own

roof; for, as Mrs. Nixey said, as long as she was wed to nobody else

there was a chance for him. Though they could see with sharp and envious

eyes the change that was coming over her, transforming her from the

simple, untaught country girl into an educated and self-possessed woman,

marking out her own path in life, yet the sweetness and the frankness

of Phebe's nature remained unchanged.

"She's growing a notch or two higher every time she comes down," said

Mrs. Nixey regretfully; "she'll be far above thee, lad, next summer."

"She's only old Dummy's daughter after all," answered Simon; "I'll never

give her up."

To Phebe they were always old friends, whom she must care for as long as

she lived, however far she might travel from them or rise above them.

The free, homely life on the hills was as dear to her and the children

as their life in London. The little house, with its beautiful and

curious decorations; the small fields and twisted trees surrounding it;

the wide, purple moors, and all the associations Phebe conjured up for

them connected with their father, made the dumb old wood-carver's place

a second home to them.

The happiest season of the year to Mr. Clifford was that when Phebe and

Roland Sefton's children were in his neighborhood. Felicita remained

firm to her resolution that Felix should have nothing to do with his

father's business, and the boy himself had decided in his very childhood

that he would follow in the footsteps of his ancestor, Felix Merle, the

brave pastor of the Jura. There was no hope of having him to train up

for the Old Bank. But every summer they spent a few days with him, in

the very house where their father had lived, and where Felix could still

associate him with the wainscoted rooms and the terraced garden. When

Felix talked of his father and asked questions about him, Mr. Clifford

always spoke of him in a regretful and affectionate tone. No hint

reached the boy that his father's memory was not revered in his native

town.

"There is no stone to my father in the church," he said, one Sunday,

after he had been looking again and again at a tablet to his grandfather

on the church walls.

"No; but I had a granite cross put over his grave in Engelberg,"

answered Mr. Clifford; "when you can go to Switzerland you'll have no

trouble in finding it. Perhaps you and I may go there together some day.

I have some thoughts of it."

"But my mother will not hear a word of any of us ever going to

Switzerland," said Felix. "I've asked her how soon she would think us

old enough to go, and she said never! Of course we don't expect she

would ever bear to go to the place where he was killed; but Phebe would

love to go, and so would I. We've saved enough money, Phebe and I; and

my mother will not let me say one word about it. She says I am never,

never to think of such a thing."

"She is afraid of losing you as well as him," replied Mr. Clifford; "but

when you are more of a man she will let you go. You are all she has."

"Except Hilda," said the boy fondly, "and I know she loves me most of

all. I do not wonder she cannot bear to hear about my father. My mother

is not like other women."

"Your mother is a famous woman," rejoined Mr. Clifford; "you ought to be

proud of her."

For as years passed on Felicita had attained some portion of her

ambition. In Riversborough it seemed as if she was the first writer of

the age; and though in London she had not won one of those extraordinary

successes which place an author suddenly at the top of the ladder, she

was steadily climbing upward, and was well known for her good and

conscientious work. The books she wrote were clever, though cynical and

captious; yet here and there they contained passages of pathos and

beauty which insured a fair amount of favor. Her work was always welcome

and well paid, so well that she could live comfortably on the income she

made for herself, without falling back on her marriage settlement.

Without an undue strain upon her mental powers she could earn a thousand

a year, which was amply sufficient for her small household.

Though Roland Sefton had lavished upon his high-born wife all the pomp

and luxury he considered fitting to the position she had left for him,

Felicita's own tastes and habits were simple. Her father, Lord

Riversford, had been but a poor baron with an encumbered estate, and his

only child had been brought up in no extravagant ways. Now that she had

to earn most of the income of the household, for herself she had very

few personal expenses to curtail. Thanks to Madame and Phebe, the house

was kept in exquisite order, saving Felicita the shock of seeing the

rooms she dwelt in dingy and shabby. Excepting the use of a carriage,

there was no luxury that she greatly missed.

As she became more widely known, Felicita was almost compelled to enter

into society, though she did it reluctantly. Old friends of her

father's, himself a literary man, sought her out; and her cousins from

Riversford insisted upon visiting her and being visited as her

relations. She could not altogether resist their overtures, partly on

account of her children, who, as they grew up, ought not to find

themselves without friends. But she went from home with unwillingness,

and returned to the refuge of her quiet study with alacrity.

There was only one house where she visited voluntarily. A distant cousin

of hers had married a country clergyman, whose parish was about thirty

miles from London, in the flat, green meadows of Essex. The Pascals had

children the same age as Felix and Hilda; and when they engaged a tutor

for their own boys and girls they proposed to Felicita that her children

should join them. In Mr. Pascal's quiet country parsonage were to be met

some of the clearest and deepest thinkers of the day, who escaped from

the conventionalities of London society to the simple and pleasant

freedom they found there. Mr. Pascal himself was a leading spirit among

them, with an intellect and a heart large and broad enough to find

companionship in every human being who crossed his path. There was no

pleasure in life to Felicita equal to going down for a few days' rest to

this country parsonage.

That she was still mourning bitterly for the husband, whose name could

never be mentioned to her, all the world believed. It made those who

loved her most feel very tenderly toward her. Though she never put on a

widow's garb she always wore black dresses. The jewels Roland had bought

for her in profusion lay in their cases, and never saw the light. She

could not bring herself to look at them; for she understood better now

the temptation that had assailed and conquered him. She knew that it was

for her chiefly, to gratify an ambition cherished on her account, that

he had fallen into crime.

"I worship my mother still," said Felix one day to Phebe, "but I feel

more and more awe of her every day. What is it that separates her from

us? It would be different if my father had not died."

"Yes, it would have been different," answered Phebe, thinking of how

terrible a change it must have made in their young lives if Roland

Sefton had not died. She, too, understood better what his crime had

been, and how the world regarded it; and she thanked God in her secret

soul that Roland was dead, and his wife and children saved from sharing

his punishment. It had all been for the best, sad as it was at the time.

Madame also was comforted, though she had not forgotten her son. It was

the will of God: it was God who had called him, as He would call her

some day. There was no bitterness in her grief, and she did not perplex

her soul with brooding over the impenetrable mystery of death.

CHAPTER XXV.

DEAD TO THE WORLD.

In an hospital at Lucerne a peasant had been lying ill for many weeks of

a brain fever, which left him so absolutely helpless that it was

impossible to turn him out into the streets on his recovery from the

fever, as he had no home or friends to go to. When his mind seemed clear

enough to give some account of himself, he was incoherent and bewildered

in the few statements he made. He did not answer to his own name, Jean

Merle; and he appeared incapable of understanding even a simple

question. That his brain had been, perhaps, permanently affected by the

fever was highly probable.

When at length the authorities of the hospital were obliged to discharge

him, a purse was made up for him, containing enough money to keep him

in his own station for the next three months.

By this time Jean Merle was no longer confused and unintelligible when

he opened his lips, but he very rarely uttered a word beyond what was

absolutely necessary. He appeared to the physicians attending him to be

bent on recollecting something that had occurred in the past before his

brain gave way. His face was always preoccupied and moody, and scarcely

any sound would catch his ear and make him lift up his head. There must

be mania somewhere, but it could not be discovered.

"Have you any plans for the future, Merle?" he was asked the day he was

discharged as cured.

"Yes, Monsieur," he replied; "I am a wood-carver by trade."

"And where are you going to now?" was the next question.

"I must go to Engelberg," answered Merle, with a shudder.

"Ah! to Monsieur Nicodemus; then," said the doctor, "you must be a good

hand at your work to please him, my good fellow."

"I am a good hand," replied Merle.

The valley of Engelberg lies high, and is little more than a cleft in

the huge mass of mountains; a narrow gap where storms gather, and bring

themselves into a focus. In the summer thunder-clouds draw together, and

fill up the whole valley, while rain falls in torrents, and the streams

war and rage along their stony channels. But when Jean Merle returned to

it in March, after four months' absence, the valley was covered with

snow stretching up to the summits of the mountains around it, save only

where the rocks were too precipitous for it to lodge.

He had come back to Engelberg because there was the grave of the

friendless man who bore his former name. It had a fascination for him,

this grave, where he was supposed to be at rest. The handsome granite

cross, bearing only the name of Roland Sefton and the date of his death,

attracted him, and held him by an irresistible spell. At first, in the

strange weakness of his mind, he could hardly believe but that he was

dead, and this inexplicable second life as Jean Merle was an illusion.

It would not have amazed him if he had been invisible and inaudible to

those about him. That which filled him with astonishment and terror was

the fact that the people took him to be what he said he was, a Swiss

peasant, and a wood-carver.

He had no difficulty in getting work as soon as he had done a piece as a

specimen of his skill. Monsieur Nicodemus recognized a delicate and

cultivated hand, and a faithful delineator of nature. As he acquired

more skill with steady practice he surpassed the master's most dexterous

helper, and bid fair to rival Monsieur Nicodemus himself. But Jean Merle

had no ambition; there was no desire to make himself known, or put his

productions forward. He was content with receiving liberal wages, such

as the master, with the generosity of a true artist, paid to him. But

for the unflagging care he expended upon his work, his fellow-craftsmen

would have thought him indifferent to it.

For nine months in the year Jean Merle remained in Engelberg, giving

himself no holiday, no leisure, no breathing time. He lived on the

poorest fare, and in the meanest lodging. His clothing was often little

better than rags. His wages brought him no relaxation from toil, or

delivered him from self-chosen wretchedness. Silent and morose, he lived

apart from all his fellows, who regarded him as a half-witted miser.

When the summer season brought flights of foreign tourists, Merle

disappeared, and was seen no more till autumn. Nobody knew whither he

went, but it was believed he acted as a guide to some of the highest and

most perilous of the Alps. When he came back to his work at the end of

the season, his blackened and swarthy face, from which the skin had

peeled, and his hands wounded and torn as if from scaling jagged cliffs,

bore testimony to these conjectures.

He never entered the church when mass was performed, or any congregation

assembled; but at rare intervals he might be seen kneeling on the steps

before the high altar, his shaggy head bent down, and his frame shaken

with repressed sobs which no one could hear. The curé had tried to win

his confidence, but had failed. Jean Merle was a heretic.

When he was spoken to he would speak, but he never addressed himself to

any one. He was not a native-born Swiss, and he did not seek

naturalization, or claim any right in the canton. He did not seek

permission to marry or to build a house, but as he was skilful and

industrious and thrifty, a man in the prime of life, the commune left

him alone.

He seemed to have taken it as a self-imposed task that he should have

the charge of the granite cross, erected over the man whose death he had

witnessed. He was recognized in Engelberg as the man who had spent the

last hours with the buried Englishman, but no suspicion attached to him.

So careful was he of the monument that it was generally rumored he

received a sum of money yearly for keeping it in order. No doubt the

friends of the rich Englishman, who had erected so handsome a stone to

his memory, made it worth the man's while to attend to it. Besides this

grave, which he could not keep himself from haunting, Engelberg

attracted him by its double association with Felicita. Here he had seen

her for the first and for the last time. There was no other spot in the

world, except the home he had lost forever, so full of memories of her.

He could live over again every instant of each interview with her, with

all the happy interval that lay between them. The rest of his life was

steeped in shadow; the earlier years before he knew Felicita were pale

and dim; the time since he lost her was unreal and empty, like a

confused dream.

After a while a dull despondency succeeded to the acute misery of his

first winter and summer. His second fraud had been terribly successful;

in a certain measure he was duped by it himself. All the world believed

him to be dead, and he lived as a shadow among shadows. The wild and

solitary ice-peaks he sometimes scaled seemed to him the unsubstantial

phantasmagoria of a troubled sleep. He wondered with a dull amazement if

the crevasses which yawned before him would swallow him up, or the

shuddering violence of an avalanche bury him beneath it. His life had

been as a tale that is told, even to its last word, death.

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

AFTER MANY YEARS.

The busy, monotonous years ran through their course tranquilly, marked

only by a change of residence from the narrow little house suited to

Felicita's slender means to a larger, more commodious, and more

fashionable dwelling-place in a West End square. Both Felicita and Phebe

had won their share of public favor and a fair measure of fame; and the

new home was chosen partly on account of an artist's studio with a

separate entrance, through which Phebe could go in and out, and admit

her visitors and sitters, in independence of the rest of the household.

Never once had Felix wavered in his desire to take orders and become a

clergyman, from the time his boyish imagination had been fired by the

stories of his great-grandfather's perils and labors in the Jura.

Felicita had looked coldly on his resolution, having a quiet contempt

for English clergymen, in spite of her friendship for Mr. Pascal, if

friendship it could be called. For each year as it passed over Felicita

left her in a separation from her fellow-creatures, always growing more

chilly and dreary. It seemed to herself as if her lips were even losing

the use of language, and that only with her pen could she find vent in

expression. And these written thoughts of hers, printed and published

for any eye to read, how unutterably empty of all but bitterness she

found them. She almost marvelled at the popularity of her own books. How

could it be that the cynical, scornful pictures she drew of human nature

and human fellowship could be read so eagerly? She felt ashamed of her

children seeing them, lest they should learn to distrust all men's truth

and honor, and she would not suffer a word to be said about them in her

own family.

But Madame Sefton, in her failing old age, was always ready to

sympathize with Felix, and to help to keep him steady to her own simple

faith; and Phebe was on the same side. These two women, with their

quiet, unquestioning trust in God, and sweet charity toward their

fellow-men, did more for Felix than all the opposing influences of

college life could undo; and when his grandmother's peaceful and happy

death set the last seal on her truthful life, Felix devoted himself with

renewed earnestness to the career he had chosen. To enter the lists in

the battle against darkness, and ignorance, and sin, wherever these foes

were to be met in close quarters, was his ambition; and the enthusiasm

with which he followed it made Felicita smile, yet sigh with unutterable

bitterness as she looked into the midnight gloom of her own soul.

It became quite plain to Felicita as the years passed by that her son

was no genius. At present there was a freshness and singleness of

purpose about him, which, with the charm of his handsome young face and

the genial simplicity of his manners, made him everywhere a favorite,

and carried him into circles where a graver man and a deeper thinker

could not find entrance; but let twenty years pass by, and Felix, she

said to herself, would be nothing but a commonplace country clergyman,

looking after his glebe lands and riding lazily about his parish,

talking with old women and consulting farmers about his crops and

cattle. She felt disappointed in him; and this disappointment removed

him far away from her. The enchanted circle of her own isolation was

complete.

The subtle influence of Felicita's dissatisfaction was vaguely felt by

Felix. He had done well at Oxford, and had satisfied his friend and

tutor, Mr. Pascal; but he knew that his mother wished him to make a

great name there, and he had failed to do it. Every day, when he spent a

few minutes in Felicita's library, lined with books which were her only

companions, their conversation grew more and more vapid, unless his

mother gave utterance to some of her sarcastic sayings, which he only

half understood and altogether disliked.

But in Phebe's studio all was different; he was at home there. Though it

was separate from the house, it had from the first been the favorite

haunt of all the other members of the family. Madame had been wont to

bring her knitting and sit beside Phebe's easel, talking of old times,

and of the dear son she had lost so sorrowfully. Felix had read his

school-boy stories aloud to her whilst she was painting; and Hilda

flitted in and out restlessly, carrying every bit of news she picked up

from her girl friends to Phebe. Even Felicita was used to steal in

silently in the dusk, when no one else was there, and talk in her low

sad voice as she talked to no one else.

As soon as Felix was old enough, within a few months of Madame's death,

he took orders, and accepted a curacy in a poor and densely populated

London district. It was not much more than two miles from home, but it

was considered advisable that he should take lodgings near his vicar's

church, and dwell in the midst of the people with whom he had to do. The

separation was not so complete as if he had gone into a country parish,

but it brought another blank into the home, which had not yet ceased to

miss the tranquil and quiet presence of the old grandmother.

"I shall not have to fight with wolves like Felix Merle, my

great-grandfather," said Felix, the evening before he left home, as he

and Phebe were sitting over her studio fire. "I think sometimes I ought

to go out as a missionary to some wild country. Yet there are dangers to

meet here in London, and risks to run; ay! and battles to fight. I shall

have a good fist for drunken men beating helpless women in my parish. I

couldn't stand by and see a woman ill-used without striking a blow,

could I, Phebe?"

"I hope you'll strike as few blows as you can," she answered, smiling.

"How could I help standing up for a woman when I think of my mother, and

you, and little Hilda, and her who is gone?" asked Felix.

"Is there nobody else?" inquired Phebe, with a mischievous tone in her

pleasant voice.

"When I think of the good women I have known," he answered evasively,

"the sweet true, noble women, I feel my blood boil at the thought of any

man ill-using any woman. Phebe, I can just remember my father speaking

of it with the utmost contempt and anger, with a fire in his eyes and a

sternness in his voice which made me tremble with fear. He was in a

righteous passion; it was the other side of his worship of my mother."

"He was always kind and tender toward all women," answered Phebe. "All

the Seftons have been like that; they could never be harsh to any woman.

But your father almost worshipped the ground your mother trod upon;

nothing on earth was good enough for her. Look here, my dear boy, I've

been trying to paint a picture for you."

She lifted up a stretcher which had been turned with the canvas to the

wall, and placed it on her easel in the full light of a shaded lamp. For

a moment she stood between him and it, gazing at it with tears in her

blue eyes. Then she fell back to his side to look at it with him,

clasping his hand in hers, and holding it in a warm, fond grasp.

It was a portrait of Roland Sefton, painted from her faithful memory,

which had been aided by a photograph taken when he was the same age

Felix was now. Phebe could only see it dimly through her tears, and for

a moment or two both of them were silent.

"My father?" said Felix, his face flushing and his voice faltering; "is

it like him, Phebe? Yes, yes! I recollect him now; only he looked

happier or merrier than he does there. There is something sad about his

face that I do not remember. What a king he was among men! I'm not

worthy to be the son of such a man and such a woman."

"No, no; don't say that," she answered eagerly; "you're not as handsome,

or as strong, or as clever as he was; but you may be as good a man--yes,

a better man."

She spoke with a deep, low sigh that was almost a sob, as the memory of

how she had seen him last--crushed under a weight of sin and flying from

the penalty of crime--flashed across her brain. She knew now why there

had lurked a subtle sadness in the face she had been painting, which she

had not been able to banish.

"I think," she said, as if speaking to herself, "that the sense of sin

links us to God almost as closely as love does. I never understood Jesus

Christ until I knew something of the wickedness of the world, and the

frailty of our nature at its best. It is when a good man has to cry,

'Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy

sight,' that we feel something of the awful sinfulness of sin."

"And have you this sense of sin, Phebe?" asked Felix in a low voice. "I

have thought sometimes that you, and my mother, and men like my father

and Mr. Pascal, felt but little of the inward strength of sin. Your

lives stand out so clear and true. If there is a stain upon them it is

so slight, so plainly a defect of the physical nature, that it often

seems to me you do not know what evil is."

"We all know it," she answered, "and that shadow of sorrow you see in

your father's face must bear witness for him to you that he has passed

through the same conflict you may be fighting. The sins of good men are

greater than the sins of bad men. One lie from a truthful man is more

hurtful than all the lies of a liar. The sins of a man after God's own

heart have done more harm than all the crimes of all the Pagan

emperors."

"It is true," he said thoughtfully.

"If I told you a falsehood, what would you think of me?"

"I believe it would almost break my heart if you or my mother told me a

falsehood," he answered.

"I could not paint this portrait while your grandmother was living,"

said Phebe, after a short silence; "I tried it once or twice, but I

could never succeed. See; here is the photograph your father gave me

when I was quite a little girl, because I cried so bitterly at his going

away for a few months on his wedding trip. There were only two taken,

and your mother has the other. They were both very young; he was only

your age, and your mother was not twenty. But Lord Riversford was dead,

and she was not happy with her cousins; and your grandfather, who was

living then, was eager for the match. Everybody said it was a great

match for your father."

"They were very happy; they were not too young to be married," answered

Felix, with a deep flush on his handsome face. "Why should not people

marry young, if they love one another?"

"I would ask Canon Pascal that question if I were you," she said,

smiling significantly.

"I have a good mind to ask him to-night," he replied, stooping down to

kiss Phebe's cheek; "he is at Westminster, and Alice is there too. Bid

me good speed, Phebe."

"God bless you, my Felix," she whispered.

He turned abruptly away, though he lingered for a minute or two longer,

gazing at his father's portrait. How like him, and yet how unlike him,

he was in Phebe's eyes! Then, with a gentle pressure of her hand, he

went away in silence; while she took down the painting, and set it again

with its face to the wall, lest Felicita coming in should catch a sight

of it.