She shook her head and sighed. It was a soft, languid, fluttering

sigh—and, upon my life, it quite upset me. For the moment I forgot

business, and burned with envy of Mr. Yatman.

“Don’t despair, ma’am,” I said, with an insinuating mildness which

seemed to touch her. “I have heard a mysterious conversation—I know of

a guilty appointment—and I expect great things from my peep-hole and my

pipe-hole to-night. Pray don’t be alarmed, but I think we are on the

brink of a discovery.”

Here my enthusiastic devotion to business got the better part of my

tender feelings. I looked—winked—nodded—left her.

When I got back to my observatory, I found Mr. Jay digesting his

mutton-chops in an armchair, with his pipe in his mouth. On his table

were two tumblers, a jug of water, and the pint bottle of brandy. It

was then close upon seven o’clock. As the hour struck the person

described as “Jack” walked in.

He looked agitated—I am happy to say he looked violently agitated. The

cheerful glow of anticipated success diffused itself (to use a strong

expression) all over me, from head to foot. With breathless interest I

looked through my peep-hole, and saw the visitor—the “Jack” of this

delightful case—sit down, facing me, at the opposite side of the table

to Mr. Jay. Making allowance for the difference in expression which

their countenances just now happened to exhibit, these two abandoned

villains were so much alike in other respects as to lead at once to the

conclusion that they were brothers. Jack was the cleaner man and the

better dressed of the two. I admit that, at the outset. It is, perhaps,

one of my failings to push justice and impartiality to their utmost

limits. I am no Pharisee; and where Vice has its redeeming point, I

say, let Vice have its due—yes, yes, by all manner of means, let Vice

have its due.

“What’s the matter now, Jack?” says Mr. Jay.

“Can’t you see it in my face?” says Jack. “My dear fellow, delays are

dangerous. Let us have done with suspense, and risk it, the day after

to-morrow.”

“So soon as that?” cries Mr. Jay, looking very much astonished. “Well,

I’m ready, if you are. But, I say, Jack, is somebody else ready, too?

Are you quite sure of that?”

He smiled as he spoke—a frightful smile—and laid a very strong emphasis

on those two words, “Somebody else.” There is evidently a third

ruffian, a nameless desperado, concerned in the business.

“Meet us to-morrow,” says Jack, “and judge for yourself. Be in the

Regent’s Park at eleven in the morning, and look out for us at the

turning that leads to the Avenue Road.”

“I’ll be there,” says Mr. Jay. “Have a drop of brandy-and-water? What

are you getting up for? You’re not going already?”

“Yes, I am,” says Jack. “The fact is, I’m so excited and agitated that

I can’t sit still anywhere for five minutes together. Ridiculous as it

may appear to you, I’m in a perpetual state of nervous flutter. I

can’t, for the life of me, help fearing that we shall be found out. I

fancy that every man who looks twice at me in the street is a spy—”

At these words I thought my legs would have given way under me. Nothing

but strength of mind kept me at my peep-hole—nothing else, I give you

my word of honor.

“Stuff and nonsense!” cries Mr. Jay, with all the effrontery of a

veteran in crime. “We have kept the secret up to this time, and we will

manage cleverly to the end. Have a drop of brandy-and-water, and you

will feel as certain about it as I do.”

Jack steadily refused the brandy-and-water, and steadily persisted in

taking his leave.

“I must try if I can’t walk it off,” he said. “Remember to-morrow

morning—eleven o’clock, Avenue Road, side of the Regent’s Park.”

With those words he went out. His hardened relative laughed desperately

and resumed the dirty clay pipe.

I sat down on the side of my bed, actually quivering with excitement.

It is clear to me that no attempt has yet been made to change the

stolen bank-notes, and I may add that Sergeant Bulmer was of that

opinion also when he left the case in my hands. What is the natural

conclusion to draw from the conversation which I have just set down?

Evidently that the confederates meet to-morrow to take their respective

shares in the stolen money, and to decide on the safest means of

getting the notes changed the day after. Mr. Jay is, beyond a doubt,

the leading criminal in this business, and he will probably run the

chief risk—that of changing the fifty-pound note. I shall, therefore,

still make it my business to follow him—attending at the Regent’s Park

to-morrow, and doing my best to hear what is said there. If another

appointment is made for the day after, I shall, of course, go to it. In

the meantime, I shall want the immediate assistance of two competent

persons (supposing the rascals separate after their meeting) to follow

the two minor criminals. It is only fair to add that, if the rogues all

retire together, I shall probably keep my subordinates in reserve.

Being naturally ambitious, I desire, if possible, to have the whole

credit of discovering this robbery to myself.

8th July.

I have to acknowledge, with thanks, the speedy arrival of my two

subordinates—men of very average abilities, I am afraid; but,

fortunately, I shall always be on the spot to direct them.

My first business this morning was necessarily to prevent possible

mistakes by accounting to Mr. and Mrs. Yatman for the presence of two

strangers on the scene. Mr. Yatman (between ourselves, a poor, feeble

man) only shook his head and groaned. Mrs. Yatman (that superior woman)

favored me with a charming look of intelligence.

“Oh, Mr. Sharpin!” she said, “I am so sorry to see those two men! Your

sending for their assistance looks as if you were beginning to be

doubtful of success.”

I privately winked at her (she is very good in allowing me to do so

without taking offense), and told her, in my facetious way, that she

labored under a slight mistake.

“It is because I am sure of success, ma’am, that I send for them. I am

determined to recover the money, not for my own sake only, but for Mr.

Yatman’s sake—and for yours.”

I laid a considerable amount of stress on those last three words. She

said: “Oh, Mr. Sharpin!” again, and blushed of a heavenly red, and

looked down at her work. I could go to the world’s end with that woman

if Mr. Yatman would only die.

I sent off the two subordinates to wait until I wanted them at the

Avenue Road gate of the Regent’s Park. Half-an-hour afterward I was

following the same direction myself at the heels of Mr. Jay.

The two confederates were punctual to the appointed time. I blush to

record it, but it is nevertheless necessary to state that the third

rogue—the nameless desperado of my report, or, if you prefer it, the

mysterious “somebody else” of the conversation between the two

brothers—is—a woman! and, what is worse, a young woman! and, what is

more lamentable still, a nice-looking woman! I have long resisted a

growing conviction that, wherever there is mischief in this world, an

individual of the fair sex is inevitably certain to be mixed up in it.

After the experience of this morning, I can struggle against that sad

conclusion no longer. I give up the sex—excepting Mrs. Yatman, I give

up the sex.

The man named “Jack” offered the woman his arm. Mr. Jay placed himself

on the other side of her. The three then walked away slowly among the

trees. I followed them at a respectful distance. My two subordinates,

at a respectful distance, also, followed me.

It was, I deeply regret to say, impossible to get near enough to them

to overhear their conversation without running too great a risk of

being discovered. I could only infer from their gestures and actions

that they were all three talking with extraordinary earnestness on some

subject which deeply interested them. After having been engaged in this

way a full quarter of an hour, they suddenly turned round to retrace

their steps. My presence of mind did not forsake me in this emergency.

I signed to the two subordinates to walk on carelessly and pass them,

while I myself slipped dexterously behind a tree. As they came by me, I

heard “Jack” address these words to Mr. Jay:

“Let us say half-past ten to-morrow morning. And mind you come in a

cab. We had better not risk taking one in this neighborhood.”

Mr. Jay made some brief reply which I could not overhear. They walked

back to the place at which they had met, shaking hands there with an

audacious cordiality which it quite sickened me to see. They then

separated. I followed Mr. Jay. My subordinates paid the same delicate

attention to the other two.

Instead of taking me back to Rutherford Street, Mr. Jay led me to the

Strand. He stopped at a dingy, disreputable-looking house, which,

according to the inscription over the door, was a newspaper office, but

which, in my judgment, had all the external appearance of a place

devoted to the reception of stolen goods.

After remaining inside for a few minutes, he came out whistling, with

his finger and thumb in his waistcoat pocket. Some men would now have

arrested him on the spot. I remembered the necessity of catching the

two confederates, and the importance of not interfering with the

appointment that had been made for the next morning. Such coolness as

this, under trying circumstances, is rarely to be found, I should

imagine, in a young beginner, whose reputation as a detective policeman

is still to make.

From the house of suspicious appearance Mr. Jay betook himself to a

cigar-divan, and read the magazines over a cheroot. From the divan he

strolled to the tavern and had his chops. I strolled to the tavern and

had my chops. When he had done he went back to his lodging. When I had

done I went back to mine. He was overcome with drowsiness early in the

evening, and went to bed. As soon as I heard him snoring, I was

overcome with drowsiness and went to bed also.

Early in the morning my two subordinates came to make their report.

They had seen the man named “Jack” leave the woman at the gate of an

apparently respectable villa residence not far from the Regent’s Park.

Left to himself, he took a turning to the right, which led to a sort of

suburban street, principally inhabited by shopkeepers. He stopped at

the private door of one of the houses, and let himself in with his own

key—looking about him as he opened the door, and staring suspiciously

at my men as they lounged along on the opposite side of the way. These

were all the particulars which the subordinates had to communicate. I

kept them in my room to attend on me, if needful, and mounted to my

peep-hole to have a look at Mr. Jay.

He was occupied in dressing himself, and was taking extraordinary pains

to destroy all traces of the natural slovenliness of his appearance.

This was precisely what I expected. A vagabond like Mr. Jay knows the

importance of giving himself a respectable look when he is going to run

the risk of changing a stolen bank-note. At five minutes past ten

o’clock he had given the last brush to his shabby hat and the last

scouring with bread-crumb to his dirty gloves. At ten minutes past ten

he was in the street, on his way to the nearest cab-stand, and I and my

subordinates were close on his heels.

He took a cab and we took a cab. I had not overheard them appoint a

place of meeting when following them in the Park on the previous day,

but I soon found that we were proceeding in the old direction of the

Avenue Road gate. The cab in which Mr. Jay was riding turned into the

Park slowly. We stopped outside, to avoid exciting suspicion. I got out

to follow the cab on foot. Just as I did so, I saw it stop, and

detected the two confederates approaching it from among the trees. They

got in, and the cab was turned about directly. I ran back to my own cab

and told the driver to let them pass him, and then to follow as before.

The man obeyed my directions, but so clumsily as to excite their

suspicions. We had been driving after them about three minutes

(returning along the road by which we had advanced) when I looked out

of the window to see how far they might be ahead of us. As I did this,

I saw two hats popped out of the windows of their cab, and two faces

looking back at me. I sank into my place in a cold sweat; the

expression is coarse, but no other form of words can describe my

condition at that trying moment.

“We are found out!” I said, faintly, to my two subordinates. They

stared at me in astonishment. My feelings changed instantly from the

depth of despair to the height of indignation.

“It is the cabman’s fault. Get out, one of you,” I said, with

dignity—“get out, and punch his head.”

Instead of following my directions (I should wish this act of

disobedience to be reported at headquarters) they both looked out of

the window. Before I could pull them back they both sat down again.

Before I could express my just indignation, they both grinned, and said

to me: “Please to look out, sir!”

I did look out. Their cab had stopped.

Where?

At a church door!

What effect this discovery might have had upon the ordinary run of men

I don’t know. Being of a strong religious turn myself, it filled me

with horror. I have often read of the unprincipled cunning of criminal

persons, but I never before heard of three thieves attempting to double

on their pursuers by entering a church! The sacrilegious audacity of

that proceeding is, I should think, unparalleled in the annals of

crime.

I checked my grinning subordinates by a frown. It was easy to see what

was passing in their superficial minds. If I had not been able to look

below the surface, I might, on observing two nicely dressed men and one

nicely dressed woman enter a church before eleven in the morning on a

week day, have come to the same hasty conclusion at which my inferiors

had evidently arrived. As it was, appearances had no power to impose on

_me_. I got out, and, followed by one of my men, entered the church.

The other man I sent round to watch the vestry door. You may catch a

weasel asleep, but not your humble servant, Matthew Sharpin!

We stole up the gallery stairs, diverged to the organ-loft, and peered

through the curtains in front. There they were, all three, sitting in a

pew below—yes, incredible as it may appear, sitting in a pew below!

Before I could determine what to do, a clergyman made his appearance in

full canonicals from the vestry door, followed by a clerk. My brain

whirled and my eyesight grew dim. Dark remembrances of robberies

committed in vestries floated through my mind. I trembled for the

excellent man in full canonicals—I even trembled for the clerk.

The clergyman placed himself inside the altar rails. The three

desperadoes approached him. He opened his book and began to read. What?

you will ask.

I answer, without the slightest hesitation, the first lines of the

Marriage Service.

My subordinate had the audacity to look at me, and then to stuff his

pocket-handkerchief into his mouth. I scorned to pay any attention to

him. After I had discovered that the man “Jack” was the bridegroom, and

that the man Jay acted the part of father, and gave away the bride, I

left the church, followed by my men, and joined the other subordinate

outside the vestry door. Some people in my position would now have felt

rather crestfallen, and would have begun to think that they had made a

very foolish mistake. Not the faintest misgiving of any kind troubled

me. I did not feel in the slightest degree depreciated in my own

estimation. And even now, after a lapse of three hours, my mind

remains, I am happy to say, in the same calm and hopeful condition.

As soon as I and my subordinates were assembled together outside the

church, I intimated my intention of still following the other cab in

spite of what had occurred. My reason for deciding on this course will

appear presently. The two subordinates appeared to be astonished at my

resolution. One of them had the impertinence to say to me:

“If you please, sir, who is it that we are after? A man who has stolen

money, or a man who has stolen a wife?”

The other low person encouraged him by laughing. Both have deserved an

official reprimand, and both, I sincerely trust, will be sure to get

it.

When the marriage ceremony was over, the three got into their cab and

once more our vehicle (neatly hidden round the corner of the church, so

that they could not suspect it to be near them) started to follow

theirs.

We traced them to the terminus of the Southwestern Railway. The

newly-married couple took tickets for Richmond, paying their fare with

a half sovereign, and so depriving me of the pleasure of arresting

them, which I should certainly have done if they had offered a

bank-note. They parted from Mr. Jay, saying: “Remember the address—14

Babylon Terrace. You dine with us to-morrow week.” Mr. Jay accepted the

invitation, and added, jocosely, that he was going home at once to get

off his clean clothes, and to be comfortable and dirty again for the

rest of the day. I have to report that I saw him home safely, and that

he is comfortable and dirty again (to use his own disgraceful language)

at the present moment.

Here the affair rests, having by this time reached what I may call its

first stage.

I know very well what persons of hasty judgment will be inclined to say

of my proceedings thus far. They will assert that I have been deceiving

myself all through in the most absurd way; they will declare that the

suspicious conversations which I have reported referred solely to the

difficulties and dangers of successfully carrying out a runaway match;

and they will appeal to the scene in the church as offering undeniable

proof of the correctness of their assertions. So let it be. I dispute

nothing up to this point. But I ask a question, out of the depths of my

own sagacity as a man of the world, which the bitterest of my enemies

will not, I think, find it particularly easy to answer.

Granted the fact of the marriage, what proof does it afford me of the

innocence of the three persons concerned in that clandestine

transaction? It gives me none. On the contrary, it strengthens my

suspicions against Mr. Jay and his confederates, because it suggests a

distinct motive for their stealing the money. A gentleman who is going

to spend his honeymoon at Richmond wants money; and a gentleman who is

in debt to all his tradespeople wants money. Is this an unjustifiable

imputation of bad motives? In the name of outraged Morality, I deny it.

These men have combined together, and have stolen a woman. Why should

they not combine together and steal a cash-box? I take my stand on the

logic of rigid Virtue, and I defy all the sophistry of Vice to move me

an inch out of my position.

Speaking of virtue, I may add that I have put this view of the case to

Mr. and Mrs. Yatman. That accomplished and charming woman found it

difficult at first to follow the close chain of my reasoning. I am free

to confess that she shook her head, and shed tears, and joined her

husband in premature lamentation over the loss of the two hundred

pounds. But a little careful explanation on my part, and a little

attentive listening on hers, ultimately changed her opinion. She now

agrees with me that there is nothing in this unexpected circumstance of

the clandestine marriage which absolutely tends to divert suspicion

from Mr. Jay, or Mr. “Jack,” or the runaway lady. “Audacious hussy” was

the term my fair friend used in speaking of her; but let that pass. It

is more to the purpose to record that Mrs. Yatman has not lost

confidence in me, and that Mr. Yatman promises to follow her example,

and do his best to look hopefully for future results.

I have now, in the new turn that circumstances have taken, to await

advice from your office. I pause for fresh orders with all the

composure of a man who has got two strings to his bow. When I traced

the three confederates from the church door to the railway terminus, I

had two motives for doing so. First, I followed them as a matter of

official business, believing them still to have been guilty of the

robbery. Secondly, I followed them as a matter of private speculation,

with a view of discovering the place of refuge to which the runaway

couple intended to retreat, and of making my information a marketable

commodity to offer to the young lady’s family and friends. Thus,

whatever happens, I may congratulate myself beforehand on not having

wasted my time. If the office approves of my conduct, I have my plan

ready for further proceedings. If the office blames me, I shall take

myself off, with my marketable information, to the genteel villa

residence in the neighborhood of the Regent’s Park. Anyway, the affair

puts money into my pocket, and does credit to my penetration as an

uncommonly sharp man.

I have only one word more to add, and it is this: If any individual

ventures to assert that Mr. Jay and his confederates are innocent of

all share in the stealing of the cash-box, I, in return, defy that

individual—though he may even be Chief Inspector Theakstone himself—to

tell me who has committed the robbery at Rutherford Street, Soho.

Strong in that conviction, I have the honor to be your very obedient

servant,

MATTHEW SHARPIN. FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE TO SERGEANT BULMER.

Birmingham, July 9th.

SERGEANT BULMER—That empty-headed puppy, Mr. Matthew Sharpin, has made

a mess of the case at Rutherford Street, exactly as I expected he

would. Business keeps me in this town, so I write to you to set the

matter straight. I inclose with this the pages of feeble

scribble-scrabble which the creature Sharpin calls a report. Look them

over; and when you have made your way through all the gabble, I think

you will agree with me that the conceited booby has looked for the

thief in every direction but the right one. You can lay your hand on

the guilty person in five minutes, now. Settle the case at once;

forward your report to me at this place, and tell Mr. Sharpin that he

is suspended till further notice.

Yours, FRANCIS THEAKSTONE.

FROM SERGEANT BULMER TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE.

London, July 10th.

INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE—Your letter and inclosure came safe to hand. Wise

men, they say, may always learn something even from a fool. By the time

I had got through Sharpin’s maundering report of his own folly, I saw

my way clear enough to the end of the Rutherford Street case, just as

you thought I should. In half an hour’s time I was at the house. The

first person I saw there was Mr. Sharpin himself.

“Have you come to help me?” says he.

“Not exactly,” says I. “I’ve come to tell you that you are suspended

till further notice.”

“Very good,” says he, not taken down by so much as a single peg in his

own estimation. “I thought you would be jealous of me. It’s very

natural and I don’t blame you. Walk in, pray, and make yourself at

home. I’m off to do a little detective business on my own account, in

the neighborhood of the Regent’s Park. Ta—ta, sergeant, ta—ta!”

With those words he took himself out of the way, which was exactly what

I wanted him to do.

As soon as the maid-servant had shut the door, I told her to inform her

master that I wanted to say a word to him in private. She showed me

into the parlor behind the shop, and there was Mr. Yatman all alone,

reading the newspaper.

“About this matter of the robbery, sir,” says I.

He cut me short, peevishly enough, being naturally a poor, weak,

womanish sort of man.

“Yes, yes, I know,” says he. “You have come to tell me that your

wonderfully clever man, who has bored holes in my second floor

partition, has made a mistake, and is off the scent of the scoundrel

who has stolen my money.”

“Yes, sir,” says I. “That _is_ one of the things I came to tell you.

But I have got something else to say besides that.”

“Can you tell me who the thief is?” says he, more pettish than ever.

“Yes, sir,” says I, “I think I can.”

He put down the newspaper, and began to look rather anxious and

frightened.

“Not my shopman?” says he. “I hope, for the man’s own sake, it’s not my

shopman.”

“Guess again, sir,” says I.

“That idle slut, the maid?” says he.

“She is idle, sir,” says I, “and she is also a slut; my first inquiries

about her proved as much as that. But she’s not the thief.”

“Then, in the name of Heaven, who is?” says he.

“Will you please to prepare yourself for a very disagreeable surprise,

sir?” says I. “And, in case you lose your temper, will you excuse my

remarking that I am the stronger man of the two, and that if you allow

yourself to lay hands on me, I may unintentionally hurt you, in pure

self-defense.”

He turned as pale as ashes, and pushed his chair two or three feet away

from me.

“You have asked me to tell you, sir, who has taken your money,” I went

on. “If you insist on my giving you an answer—”

“I do insist,” he said, faintly. “Who has taken it?”

“Your wife has taken it,” I said, very quietly, and very positively at

the same time.

He jumped out of the chair as if I had put a knife into him, and struck

his fist on the table so heavily that the wood cracked again.

“Steady, sir,” says I. “Flying into a passion won’t help you to the

truth.”

“It’s a lie!” says he, with another smack of his fist on the table—“a

base, vile, infamous lie! How dare you—”

He stopped, and fell back into the chair again, looked about him in a

bewildered way, and ended by bursting out crying.

“When your better sense comes back to you, sir,” says I, “I am sure you

will be gentleman enough to make an apology for the language you have

just used. In the meantime, please to listen, if you can, to a word of

explanation. Mr. Sharpin has sent in a report to our inspector of the

most irregular and ridiculous kind, setting down not only all his own

foolish doings and sayings, but the doings and sayings of Mrs. Yatman

as well. In most cases, such a document would have been fit only for

the waste paper basket; but in this particular case it so happens that

Mr. Sharpin’s budget of nonsense leads to a certain conclusion, which

the simpleton of a writer has been quite innocent of suspecting from

the beginning to the end. Of that conclusion I am so sure that I will

forfeit my place if it does not turn out that Mrs. Yatman has been

practicing upon the folly and conceit of this young man, and that she

has tried to shield herself from discovery by purposely encouraging him

to suspect the wrong persons. I tell you that confidently; and I will

even go further. I will undertake to give a decided opinion as to why

Mrs. Yatman took the money, and what she has done with it, or with a

part of it. Nobody can look at that lady, sir, without being struck by

the great taste and beauty of her dress—”

As I said those last words, the poor man seemed to find his powers of

speech again. He cut me short directly as haughtily as if he had been a

duke instead of a stationer.

“Try some other means of justifying your vile calumny against my wife,”

says he. “Her milliner’s bill for the past year is on my file of

receipted accounts at this moment.”

“Excuse me, sir,” says I, “but that proves nothing. Milliners, I must

tell you, have a certain rascally custom which comes within the daily

experience of our office. A married lady who wishes it can keep two

accounts at her dressmaker’s; one is the account which her husband sees

and pays; the other is the private account, which contains all the

extravagant items, and which the wife pays secretly, by installments,

whenever she can. According to our usual experience, these installments

are mostly squeezed out of the housekeeping money. In your case, I

suspect, no installments have been paid; proceedings have been

threatened; Mrs. Yatman, knowing your altered circumstances, has felt

herself driven into a corner, and she has paid her private account out

of your cash-box.”

“I won’t believe it,” says he. “Every word you speak is an abominable

insult to me and to my wife.”

“Are you man enough, sir,” says I, taking him up short, in order to

save time and words, “to get that receipted bill you spoke of just now

off the file, and come with me at once to the milliner’s shop where

Mrs. Yatman deals?”

He turned red in the face at that, got the bill directly, and put on

his hat. I took out of my pocket-book the list containing the numbers

of the lost notes, and we left the house together immediately.

Arrived at the milliner’s (one of the expensive West-End houses, as I

expected), I asked for a private interview, on important business, with

the mistress of the concern. It was not the first time that she and I

had met over the same delicate investigation. The moment she set eyes

on me she sent for her husband. I mentioned who Mr. Yatman was, and

what we wanted.

“This is strictly private?” inquires the husband. I nodded my head.

“And confidential?” says the wife. I nodded again.

“Do you see any objection, dear, to obliging the sergeant with a sight

of the books?” says the husband.

“None in the world, love, if you approve of it,” says the wife.

All this while poor Mr. Yatman sat looking the picture of astonishment

and distress, quite out of place at our polite conference. The books

were brought, and one minute’s look at the pages in which Mrs. Yatman’s

name figured was enough, and more than enough, to prove the truth of

every word that I had spoken.

There, in one book, was the husband’s account which Mr. Yatman had

settled; and there, in the other, was the private account, crossed off

also, the date of settlement being the very day after the loss of the

cash-box. This said private account amounted to the sum of a hundred

and seventy-five pounds, odd shillings, and it extended over a period

of three years. Not a single installment had been paid on it. Under the

last line was an entry to this effect: “Written to for the third time,

June 23d.” I pointed to it, and asked the milliner if that meant “last

June.” Yes, it did mean last June; and she now deeply regretted to say

that it had been accompanied by a threat of legal proceedings.

“I thought you gave good customers more than three years’ credit?” says

I.

The milliner looks at Mr. Yatman, and whispers to me, “Not when a

lady’s husband gets into difficulties.”

She pointed to the account as she spoke. The entries after the time

when Mr. Yatman’s circumstances became involved were just as

extravagant, for a person in his wife’s situation, as the entries for

the year before that period. If the lady had economized in other

things, she had certainly not economized in the matter of dress.

There was nothing left now but to examine the cash-book, for form’s

sake. The money had been paid in notes, the amounts and numbers of

which exactly tallied with the figures set down in my list.

After that, I thought it best to get Mr. Yatman out of the house

immediately. He was in such a pitiable condition that I called a cab

and accompanied him home in it. At first he cried and raved like a

child; but I soon quieted him; and I must add, to his credit, that he

made me a most handsome apology for his language as the cab drew up at

his house door. In return, I tried to give him some advice about how to

set matters right for the future with his wife. He paid very little

attention to me, and went upstairs muttering to himself about a

separation. Whether Mrs. Yatman will come cleverly out of the scrape or

not seems doubtful. I should say myself that she would go into

screeching hysterics, and so frighten the poor man into forgiving her.

But this is no business of ours. So far as we are concerned, the case

is now at an end, and the present report may come to a conclusion along

with it.

I remain, accordingly, yours to command,

THOMAS BULMER.

_P.S_.—I have to add that, on leaving Rutherford Street, I met Mr.

Matthew Sharpin coming to pack up his things.

“Only think!” says he, rubbing his hands in great spirits, “I’ve been

to the genteel villa residence, and the moment I mentioned my business

they kicked me out directly. There were two witnesses of the assault,

and it’s worth a hundred pounds to me if it’s worth a farthing.”

“I wish you joy of your luck,” says I.

“Thank you,” says he. “When may I pay you the same compliment on

finding the thief?”

“Whenever you like,” says I, “for the thief is found.”

“Just what I expected,” says he. “I’ve done all the work, and now you

cut in and claim all the credit—Mr. Jay, of course.”

“No,” says I.

“Who is it then?” says he.

“Ask Mrs. Yatman,” says I. “She’s waiting to tell you.”

“All right! I’d much rather hear it from that charming woman than from

you,” says he, and goes into the house in a mighty hurry.

What do you think of that, Inspector Theakstone? Would you like to

stand in Mr. Sharpin’s shoes? I shouldn’t, I can promise you.

FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE TO MR. MATTHEW SHARPIN.

July 12th.

SIR—Sergeant Bulmer has already told you to consider yourself suspended

until further notice. I have now authority to add that your services as

a member of the Detective police are positively declined. You will

please to take this letter as notifying officially your dismissal from

the force.

I may inform you, privately, that your rejection is not intended to

cast any reflections on your character. It merely implies that you are

not quite sharp enough for our purposes. If we _are_ to have a new

recruit among us, we should infinitely prefer Mrs. Yatman.

Your obedient servant,

FRANCIS THEAKSTONE. NOTE ON THE PRECEDING CORRESPONDENCE, ADDED BY MR.

THEAKSTONE.

The inspector is not in a position to append any explanations of

importance to the last of the letters. It has been discovered that Mr.

Matthew Sharpin left the house in Rutherford Street five minutes after

his interview outside of it with Sergeant Bulmer, his manner expressing

the liveliest emotions of terror and astonishment, and his left cheek

displaying a bright patch of red, which looked as if it might have been

the result of what is popularly termed a smart box on the ear. He was

also heard by the shopman at Rutherford Street to use a very shocking

expression in reference to Mrs. Yatman, and was seen to clinch his fist

vindictively as he ran round the corner of the street. Nothing more has

been heard of him; and it is conjectured that he has left London with

the intention of offering his valuable services to the provincial

police.

On the interesting domestic subject of Mr. and Mrs. Yatman still less

is known. It has, however, been positively ascertained that the medical

attendant of the family was sent for in a great hurry on the day when

Mr. Yatman returned from the milliner’s shop. The neighboring chemist

received, soon afterward, a prescription of a soothing nature to make

up for Mrs. Yatman. The day after, Mr. Yatman purchased some

smelling-salts at the shop, and afterward appeared at the circulating

library to ask for a novel descriptive of high life that would amuse an

invalid lady. It has been inferred from these circumstances that he has

not thought it desirable to carry out his threat of separating from his

wife, at least in the present (presumed) condition of that lady’s

sensitive nervous system.

THE SEVENTH DAY.

Fine enough for our guest to go out again. Long, feathery lines of

white cloud are waving upward in the sky, a sign of coming wind.

There was a steamer telegraphed yesterday from the West Indies. When

the next vessel is announced from abroad, will it be George’s ship?

I don’t know how my brothers feel to-day, but the sudden cessation of

my own literary labors has left me still in bad spirits. I tried to

occupy my mind by reading, but my attention wandered. I went out into

the garden, but it looked dreary; the autumn flowers were few and far

between—the lawn was soaked and sodden with yesterday’s rain. I

wandered into Owen’s room. He had returned to his painting, but was not

working, as it struck me, with his customary assiduity and his

customary sense of enjoyment.

We had a long talk together about George and Jessie and the future.

Owen urged me to risk speaking of my son in her presence once more, on

the chance of making her betray herself on a second occasion, and I

determined to take his advice. But she was in such high spirits when

she came home to dinner on this Seventh Day, and seemed so incapable,

for the time being, of either feeling or speaking seriously, that I

thought it wiser to wait till her variable mood altered again with the

next wet day.

The number drawn this evening was Eight, being the number of the story

which it had cost Owen so much labor to write. He looked a little

fluttered and anxious as he opened the manuscript. This was the first

occasion on which his ability as a narrator was to be brought to the

test, and I saw him glance nervously at Jessie’s attentive face.

“I need not trouble you with much in the way of preface,” he said.

“This is the story of a very remarkable event in the life of one of my

brother clergymen. He and I became acquainted through being associated

with each other in the management of a Missionary Society. I saw him

for the last time in London when he was about to leave his country and

his friends forever, and was then informed of the circumstances which

have afforded the material for this narrative.”

BROTHER OWEN’S STORY of THE PARSON’S SCRUPLE.

CHAPTER I.

If you had been in the far West of England about thirteen years since,

and if you had happened to take up one of the Cornish newspapers on a

certain day of the month, which need not be specially mentioned, you

would have seen this notice of a marriage at the top of a column:

On the third instant, at the parish church, the Reverend Alfred

Carling, Rector of Penliddy, to Emily Harriet, relict of the late

Fergus Duncan, Esq., of Glendarn, N. B.

The rector’s marriage did not produce a very favorable impression in

the town, solely in consequence of the unaccountable private and

unpretending manner in which the ceremony had been performed. The

middle-aged bride and bridegroom had walked quietly to church one

morning, had been married by the curate before any one was aware of it,

and had embarked immediately afterward in the steamer for Tenby, where

they proposed to pass their honeymoon. The bride being a stranger at

Penliddy, all inquiries about her previous history were fruitless, and

the townspeople had no alternative but to trust to their own

investigations for enlightenment when the rector and his wife came home

to settle among their friends.

After six weeks’ absence Mr. and Mrs. Carling returned, and the simple

story of the rector’s courtship and marriage was gathered together in

fragments, by inquisitive friends, from his own lips and from the lips

of his wife.

Mr. Carling and Mrs. Duncan had met at Torquay. The rector, who had

exchanged houses and duties for the season with a brother clergyman

settled at Torquay, had called on Mrs. Duncan in his clerical capacity,

and had come away from the interview deeply impressed and interested by

the widow’s manners and conversation. The visits were repeated; the

acquaintance grew into friendship, and the friendship into love—ardent,

devoted love on both sides.

Middle-aged man though he was, this was Mr. Carling’s first attachment,

and it was met by the same freshness of feeling on the lady’s part. Her

life with her first husband had not been a happy one. She had made the

fatal mistake of marrying to please her parents rather than herself,

and had repented it ever afterward. On her husband’s death his family

had not behaved well to her, and she had passed her widowhood, with her

only child, a daughter, in the retirement of a small Scotch town many

miles away from the home of her married life. After a time the little

girl’s health had begun to fail, and, by the doctor’s advice, she had

migrated southward to the mild climate of Torquay. The change had

proved to be of no avail; and, rather more than a year since, the child

had died. The place where her darling was buried was a sacred place to

her and she remained a resident at Torquay. Her position in the world

was now a lonely one. She was herself an only child; her father and

mother were both dead; and, excepting cousins, her one near relation

left alive was a maternal uncle living in London.

These particulars were all related simply and unaffectedly before Mr.

Carling ventured on the confession of his attachment. When he made his

proposal of marriage, Mrs. Duncan received it with an excess of

agitation which astonished and almost alarmed the inexperienced

clergyman. As soon as she could speak, she begged with extraordinary

earnestness and anxiety for a week to consider her answer, and

requested Mr. Carling not to visit her on any account until the week

had expired.

The next morning she and her maid departed for London. They did not

return until the week for consideration had expired. On the eighth day

Mr. Carling called again and was accepted.

The proposal to make the marriage as private as possible came from the

lady. She had been to London to consult her uncle (whose health, she

regretted to say, would not allow him to travel to Cornwall to give his

niece away at the altar), and he agreed with Mrs. Duncan that the

wedding could not be too private and unpretending. If it was made

public, the family of her first husband would expect cards to be sent

to them, and a renewal of intercourse, which would be painful on both

sides, might be the consequence. Other friends in Scotland, again,

would resent her marrying a second time at her age, and would distress

her and annoy her future husband in many ways. She was anxious to break

altogether with her past existence, and to begin a new and happier life

untrammeled by any connection with former times and troubles. She urged

these points, as she had received the offer of marriage, with an

agitation which was almost painful to see. This peculiarity in her

conduct, however, which might have irritated some men, and rendered

others distrustful, had no unfavorable effect on Mr. Carling. He set it

down to an excess of sensitiveness and delicacy which charmed him. He

was himself—though he never would confess it—a shy, nervous man by

nature. Ostentation of any sort was something which he shrank from

instinctively, even in the simplest affairs of daily life; and his

future wife’s proposal to avoid all the usual ceremony and publicity of

a wedding was therefore more than agreeable to him—it was a positive

relief.

The courtship was kept secret at Torquay, and the marriage was

celebrated privately at Penliddy. It found its way into the local

newspapers as a matter of course, but it was not, as usual in such

cases, also advertised in the _Times_. Both husband and wife were

equally happy in the enjoyment of their new life, and equally unsocial

in taking no measures whatever to publish it to others.

Such was the story of the rector’s marriage. Socially, Mr. Carling’s

position was but little affected either way by the change in his life.

As a bachelor, his circle of friends had been a small one, and when he

married he made no attempt to enlarge it. He had never been popular

with the inhabitants of his parish generally. Essentially a weak man,

he was, like other weak men, only capable of asserting himself

positively in serious matters by running into extremes. As a

consequence of this moral defect, he presented some singular anomalies

in character. In the ordinary affairs of life he was the gentlest and

most yielding of men, but in all that related to strictness of

religious principle he was the sternest and the most aggressive of

fanatics. In the pulpit he was a preacher of merciless sermons—an

interpreter of the Bible by the letter rather than by the spirit, as

pitiless and gloomy as one of the Puritans of old; while, on the other

hand, by his own fireside he was considerate, forbearing, and humble

almost to a fault. As a necessary result of this singular inconsistency

of character, he was feared, and sometimes even disliked, by the

members of his congregation who only knew him as their pastor, and he

was prized and loved by the small circle of friends who also knew him

as a man.

Those friends gathered round him more closely and more affectionately

than ever after his marriage, not on his own account only, but

influenced also by the attractions that they found in the society of

his wife. Her refinement and gentleness of manner; her extraordinary

accomplishments as a musician; her unvarying sweetness of temper, and

her quick, winning, womanly intelligence in conversation, charmed every

one who approached her. She was quoted as a model wife and woman by all

her husband’s friends, and she amply deserved the character that they

gave her. Although no children came to cheer it, a happier and a more

admirable married life has seldom been witnessed in this world than the

life which was once to be seen in the rectory house at Penliddy.

With these necessary explanations, that preliminary part of my

narrative of which the events may be massed together generally, for

brevity’s sake, comes to a close. What I have next to tell is of a

deeper and a more serious interest, and must be carefully related in

detail.

The rector and his wife had lived together without, as I honestly

believe, a harsh word or an unkind look once passing between them for

upward of two years, when Mr. Carling took his first step toward the

fatal future that was awaiting him by devoting his leisure hours to the

apparently simple and harmless occupation of writing a pamphlet.

He had been connected for many years with one of our great Missionary

Societies, and had taken as active a part as a country clergyman could

in the management of its affairs. At the period of which I speak,

certain influential members of the society had proposed a plan for

greatly extending the sphere of its operations, trusting to a

proportionate increase in the annual subscriptions to defray the

additional expenses of the new movement. The question was not now

brought forward for the first time. It had been agitated eight years

previously, and the settlement of it had been at that time deferred to

a future opportunity. The revival of the project, as usual in such

cases, split the working members of the society into two parties; one

party cautiously objecting to run any risks, the other hopefully

declaring that the venture was a safe one, and that success was sure to

attend it. Mr. Carling sided enthusiastically with the members who

espoused this latter side of the question, and the object of his

pamphlet was to address the subscribers to the society on the subject,

and so to interest them in it as to win their charitable support, on a

larger scale than usual, to the new project.

He had worked hard at his pamphlet, and had got more than half way

through it, when he found himself brought to a stand-still for want of

certain facts which had been produced on the discussion of the question

eight years since, and which were necessary to the full and fair

statement of his case.

At first he thought of writing to the secretary of the society for

information; but, remembering that he had not held his office more than

two years, he had thought it little likely that this gentleman would be

able to help him, and looked back to his own Diary of the period to see

if he had made any notes in it relating to the original discussion of

the affair. He found a note referring in general terms only to the

matter in hand, but alluding at the end to a report in the _Times_ of

the proceedings of a deputation from the society which had waited on a

member of the government of that day, and to certain letters to the

editor which had followed the publication of the report. The note

described these letters as “very important,” and Mr. Carling felt, as

he put his Diary away again, that the successful conclusion of his

pamphlet now depended on his being able to get access to the back

numbers of the _Times_ of eight years since.

It was winter time when he was thus stopped in his work, and the

prospect of a journey to London (the only place he knew of at which

files of the paper were to be found) did not present many attractions;

and yet he could see no other and easier means of effecting his object.

After considering for a little while and arriving at no positive

conclusion, he left the study, and went into the drawing-room to

consult his wife.

He found her working industriously by the blazing fire. She looked so

happy and comfortable—so gentle and charming in her pretty little lace

cap, and her warm brown morning-dress, with its bright cherry-colored

ribbons, and its delicate swan’s down trimming circling round her neck

and nestling over her bosom, that he stooped and kissed her with the

tenderness of his bridegroom days before he spoke. When he told her of

the cause that had suspended his literary occupation, she listened,

with the sensation of the kiss still lingering in her downcast eyes and

her smiling lips, until he came to the subject of his Diary and its

reference to the newspaper.

As he mentioned the name of the _Times_ she altered and looked him

straight in the face gravely.

“Can you suggest any plan, love,” he went on, “which may save me the

necessity of a journey to London at this bleak time of the year? I must

positively have this information, and, so far as I can see, London is

the only place at which I can hope to meet with a file of the _Times_.”

“A file of the _Times?_” she repeated.

“Yes—of eight years since,” he said.

The instant the words passed his lips he saw her face overspread by a

ghastly paleness; her eyes fixed on him with a strange mixture of

rigidity and vacancy in their look; her hands, with her work held tight

in them, dropped slowly on her lap, and a shiver ran through her from

head to foot.

He sprang to his feet, and snatched the smelling-salts from her

work-table, thinking she was going to faint. She put the bottle from

her, when he offered it, with a hand that thrilled him with the deadly

coldness of its touch, and said, in a whisper:

“A sudden chill, dear—let me go upstairs and lie down.”

He took her to her room. As he laid her down on the bed, she caught his

hand, and said, entreatingly:

“You won’t go to London, darling, and leave me here ill?”

He promised that nothing should separate him from her until she was

well again, and then ran downstairs to send for the doctor. The doctor

came, and pronounced that Mrs. Carling was only suffering from a

nervous attack; that there was not the least reason to be alarmed; and

that, with proper care, she would be well again in a few days.

Both husband and wife had a dinner engagement in the town for that

evening. Mr. Carling proposed to write an apology and to remain with

his wife. But she would not hear of his abandoning the party on her

account. The doctor also recommended that his patient should be left to

her maid’s care, to fall asleep under the influence of the quieting

medicine which he meant to give her. Yielding to this advice, Mr.

Carling did his best to suppress his own anxieties, and went to the

dinner-party.

CHAPTER II.

Among the guests whom the rector met was a gentleman named Rambert, a

single man of large fortune, well known in the neighborhood of Penliddy

as the owner of a noble country-seat and the possessor of a magnificent

library.

Mr. Rambert (with whom Mr. Carling was well acquainted) greeted him at

the dinner-party with friendly expressions of regret at the time that

had elapsed since they had last seen each other, and mentioned that he

had recently been adding to his collection of books some rare old

volumes of theology, which he thought the rector might find it useful

to look over. Mr. Carling, with the necessity of finishing his pamphlet

uppermost in his mind, replied, jestingly, that the species of

literature which he was just then most interested in examining happened

to be precisely of the sort which (excepting novels, perhaps) had least

affinity to theological writing. The necessary explanation followed

this avowal as a matter of course, and, to Mr. Carling’s great delight,

his friend turned on him gayly with the most surprising and

satisfactory of answers:

“You don’t know half the resources of my miles of bookshelves,” he

said, “or you would never have thought of going to London for what you

can get from me. A whole side of one of my rooms upstairs is devoted to

periodical literature. I have reviews, magazines, and three weekly

newspapers, bound, in each case, from the first number; and, what is

just now more to your purpose, I have the _Times_ for the last fifteen

years in huge half-yearly volumes. Give me the date to-night, and you

shall have the volume you want by two o’clock to-morrow afternoon.”

The necessary information was given at once, and, with a great sense of

relief, so far as his literary anxieties were concerned, Mr. Carling

went home early to see what the quieting medicine had done for his

wife.

She had dozed a little, but had not slept. However, she was evidently

better, for she was able to take an interest in the sayings and doings

at the dinner-party, and questioned her husband about the guests and

the conversation with all a woman’s curiosity about the minutest

matters. She lay with her face turned toward him and her eyes meeting

his, until the course of her inquiries drew an answer from him, which

informed her of his fortunate discovery in relation to Mr. Rambert’s

library, and of the prospect it afforded of his resuming his labors the

next day.

When he mentioned this circumstance, she suddenly turned her head on

the pillow so that her face was hidden from him, and he could see

through the counterpane that the shivering, which he had observed when

her illness had seized her in the morning, had returned again.

“I am only cold,” she said, in a hurried way, with her face under the

clothes.

He rang for the maid, and had a fresh covering placed on the bed.

Observing that she seemed unwilling to be disturbed, he did not remove

the clothes from her face when he wished her goodnight, but pressed his

lips on her head, and patted it gently with his hand. She shrank at the

touch as if it hurt her, light as it was, and he went downstairs,

resolved to send for the doctor again if she did not get to rest on

being left quiet. In less than half an hour afterward the maid came

down and relieved his anxiety by reporting that her mistress was

asleep.

The next morning he found her in better spirits. Her eyes, she said,

felt too weak to bear the light, so she kept the bedroom darkened. But

in other respects she had little to complain of.

After answering her husband’s first inquiries, she questioned him about

his plans for the day. He had letters to write which would occupy him

until twelve o’clock. At two o’clock he expected the volume of the

_Times_ to arrive, and he should then devote the rest of the afternoon

to his work. After hearing what his plans were, Mrs. Carling suggested

that he should ride out after he had done his letters, so as to get

some exercise at the fine part of the day; and she then reminded him

that a longer time than usual had elapsed since he had been to see a

certain old pensioner of his, who had nursed him as a child, and who

was now bedridden, in a village at some distance, called Tringweighton.

Although the rector saw no immediate necessity for making this

charitable visit, the more especially as the ride to the village and

back, and the intermediate time devoted to gossip, would occupy at

least two hours and a half, he assented to his wife’s proposal,

perceiving that she urged it with unusual earnestness, and being

unwilling to thwart her, even in a trifle, at a time when she was ill.

Accordingly, his horse was at the door at twelve precisely. Impatient

to get back to the precious volume of the _Times,_ he rode so much

faster than usual, and so shortened his visit to the old woman, that he

was home again by a quarter past two. Ascertaining from the servant who

opened the door that the volume had been left by Mr. Rambert’s

messenger punctually at two, he ran up to his wife’s room to tell her

about his visit before he secluded himself for the rest of the

afternoon over his work. On entering the bedroom he found it still

darkened, and he was struck by a smell of burned paper in it.

His wife (who was now dressed in her wrapper and lying on the sofa)

accounted for the smell by telling him that she had fancied the room

felt close, and that she had burned some paper—being afraid of the cold

air if she opened the window—to fumigate it. Her eyes were evidently

still weak, for she kept her hand over them while she spoke. After

remaining with her long enough to relate the few trivial events of his

ride, Mr. Carling descended to his study to occupy himself at last with

the volume of the _Times_.

It lay on his table in the shape of a large flat brown paper package.

On proceeding to undo the covering, he observed that it had been very

carelessly tied up. The strings were crooked and loosely knotted, and

the direction bearing his name and address, instead of being in the

middle of the paper, was awkwardly folded over at the edge of the

volume. However, his business was with the inside of the parcel; so he

tossed away the covering and the string, and began at once to hunt

through the volume for the particular number of the paper which he

wished first to consult.

He soon found it, with the report of the speeches delivered by the

members of the deputation, and the answer returned by the minister.

After reading through the report, and putting a mark in the place where

it occurred, he turned to the next day’s number of the paper, to see

what further hints on the subject the letters addressed to the editor

might happen to contain.

To his inexpressible vexation and amazement, he found that one number

of the paper was missing.

He bent the two sides of the volume back, looked closely between the

leaves, and saw immediately that the missing number had been cut out.

A vague sense of something like alarm began to mingle with his first

feeling of disappointment. He wrote at once to Mr. Rambert, mentioning

the discovery he had just made, and sent the note off by his groom,

with orders to the man to wait for an answer.

The reply with which the servant returned was almost insolent in the

shortness and coolness of its tone. Mr. Rambert had no books in his

library which were not in perfect condition. The volume of the _Times_

had left his house perfect, and whatever blame might attach to the

mutilation of it rested therefore on other shoulders than those of the

owner.

Like many other weak men, Mr. Carling was secretly touchy on the

subject of his dignity. After reading the note and questioning his

servants, who were certain that the volume had not been touched till he

had opened it, he resolved that the missing number of the _Times_

should be procured at any expense and inserted in its place; that the

volume should be sent back instantly without a word of comment; and

that no more books from Mr. Rambert’s library should enter his house.

He walked up and down the study considering what first step he should

take to effect the purpose in view. Under the quickening influence of

his irritation, an idea occurred to him, which, if it had only entered

his mind the day before, might probably have proved the means of saving

him from placing himself under an obligation to Mr. Rambert. He

resolved to write immediately to his bookseller and publisher in London

(who knew him well as an old and excellent customer), mentioning the

date of the back number of the _Times_ that was required, and

authorizing the publisher to offer any reward he judged necessary to

any person who might have the means of procuring it at the office of

the paper or elsewhere. This letter he wrote and dispatched in good

time for the London post, and then went upstairs to see his wife and to

tell her what had happened. Her room was still darkened and she was

still on the sofa. On the subject of the missing number she said

nothing, but of Mr. Rambert and his note she spoke with the most

sovereign contempt. Of course the pompous old fool was mistaken, and

the proper thing to do was to send back the volume instantly and take

no more notice of him.

“It shall be sent back,” said Mr. Carling, “but not till the missing

number is replaced.” And he then told her what he had done.

The effect of that simple piece of information on Mrs. Carling was so

extraordinary and so unaccountable that her husband fairly stood

aghast. For the first time since their marriage he saw her temper

suddenly in a flame. She started up from the sofa and walked about the

room as if she had lost her senses, upbraiding him for making the

weakest of concessions to Mr. Rambert’s insolent assumption that the

rector was to blame. If she could only have laid hands on that letter,

she would have consulted her husband’s dignity and independence by

putting it in the fire! She hoped and prayed the number of the paper

might not be found! In fact, it was certain that the number, after all

these years, could not possibly be hunted up. The idea of his

acknowledging himself to be in the wrong in that way, when he knew

himself to be in the right! It was almost ridiculous—no, it was _quite_

ridiculous! And she threw herself back on the sofa, and suddenly burst

out laughing.

At the first word of remonstrance which fell from her husband’s lips

her mood changed again in an instant. She sprang up once more, kissed

him passionately, with the tears streaming from her eyes, and implored

him to leave her alone to recover herself. He quitted the room so

seriously alarmed about her that he resolved to go to the doctor

privately and question him on the spot. There was an unspeakable dread

in his mind that the nervous attack from which she had been pronounced

to be suffering might be a mere phrase intended to prepare him for the

future disclosure of something infinitely and indescribably worse.

The doctor, on hearing Mr. Carling’s report, exhibited no surprise and

held to his opinion. Her nervous system was out of order, and her

husband had been needlessly frightened by a hysterical paroxysm. If she

did not get better in a week, change of scene might then be tried. In

the meantime, there was not the least cause for alarm.

On the next day she was quieter, but she hardly spoke at all. At night

she slept well, and Mr. Carling’s faith in the medical man revived

again.

The morning after was the morning which would bring the answer from the

publisher in London. The rector’s study was on the ground floor, and

when he heard the postman’s knock, being especially anxious that

morning about his correspondence, he went out into the hall to receive

his letters the moment they were put on the table.

It was not the footman who had answered the door, as usual, but Mrs.

Carling’s maid. She had taken the letters from the postman, and she was

going away with them upstairs.

He stopped her, and asked her why she did not put the letters on the

hall table as usual. The maid, looking very much confused, said that

her mistress had desired that whatever the postman had brought that

morning should be carried up to her room. He took the letters abruptly

from the girl, without asking any more questions, and went back into

his study.

Up to this time no shadow of a suspicion had fallen on his mind.

Hitherto there had been a simple obvious explanation for every unusual

event that had occurred during the last three or four days; but this

last circumstance in connection with the letters was not to be

accounted for. Nevertheless, even now, it was not distrust of his wife

that was busy at his mind—he was too fond of her and too proud of her

to feel it—the sensation was more like uneasy surprise. He longed to go

and question her, and get a satisfactory answer, and have done with it.

But there was a voice speaking within him that had never made itself

heard before—a voice with a persistent warning in it, that said, Wait;

and look at your letters first.

He spread them out on the table with hands that trembled he knew not

why. Among them was the back number of the _Times_ for which he had

written to London, with a letter from the publisher explaining the

means by which the copy had been procured.

He opened the newspaper with a vague feeling of alarm at finding that

those letters to the editor which he had been so eager to read, and

that perfecting of the mutilated volume which he had been so anxious to

accomplish, had become objects of secondary importance in his mind. An

inexplicable curiosity about the general contents of the paper was now

the one moving influence which asserted itself within him, he spread

open the broad sheet on the table.

The first page on which his eye fell was the page on the right-hand

side. It contained those very letters—three in number—which he had once

been so anxious to see. He tried to read them, but no effort could fix

his wandering attention. He looked aside to the opposite page, on the

left hand. It was the page that contained the leading articles.

They were three in number. The first was on foreign politics; the

second was a sarcastic commentary on a recent division in the House of

Lords; the third was one of those articles on social subjects which

have greatly and honorably helped to raise the reputation of the

_Times_ above all contest and all rivalry.

The lines of this third article which first caught his eye comprised

the opening sentence of the second paragraph, and contained these

words:

It appears, from the narrative which will be found in another part of

our columns, that this unfortunate woman married, in the spring of the

year 18—, one Mr. Fergus Duncan, of Glendarn, in the Highlands of

Scotland...

The letters swam and mingled together under his eyes before he could go

on to the next sentence. His wife exhibited as an object for public

compassion in the _Times_ newspaper! On the brink of the dreadful

discovery that was advancing on him, his mind reeled back, and a deadly

faintness came over him. There was water on a side-table—he drank a

deep draught of it—roused himself—seized on the newspaper with both

hands, as if it had been a living thing that could feel the desperate

resolution of his grasp, and read the article through, sentence by

sentence, word by word.

The subject was the Law of Divorce, and the example quoted was the

example of his wife.

At that time England stood disgracefully alone as the one civilized

country in the world having a divorce law for the husband which was not

also a divorce law for the wife. The writer in the _Times_ boldly and

eloquently exposed this discreditable anomaly in the administration of

justice; hinted delicately at the unutterable wrongs suffered by Mrs.

Duncan; and plainly showed that she was indebted to the accident of

having been married in Scotland, and to her consequent right of appeal

to the Scotch tribunals, for a full and final release from the tie that

bound her to the vilest of husbands, which the English law of that day

would have mercilessly refused.

He read that. Other men might have gone on to the narrative extracted

from the Scotch newspaper. But at the last word of the article _he_

stopped.

The newspaper, and the unread details which it contained, lost all hold

on his attention in an instant, and in their stead, living and burning

on his mind, like the Letters of Doom on the walls of Belshazzar, there

rose up in judgment against him the last words of a verse in the Gospel

of Saint Luke—

_“Whosoever marrieth her that is put away from her husband, commiteth

adultery.”_

He had preached from these words, he had warned his hearers, with the

whole strength of the fanatical sincerity that was in him, to beware of

prevaricating with the prohibition which that verse contained, and to

accept it as literally, unreservedly, finally forbidding the marriage

of a divorced woman. He had insisted on that plain interpretation of

plain words in terms which had made his congregation tremble. And now

he stood alone in the secrecy of his own chamber self-convicted of the

deadly sin which he had denounced—he stood, as he had told the wicked

among his hearers that they would stand at the Last Day, before the

Judgment Seat.

He was unconscious of the lapse of time; he never knew whether it was

many minutes or few before the door of his room was suddenly and softly

opened. It did open, and his wife came in.

In her white dress, with a white shawl thrown over her shoulders; her

dark hair, so neat and glossy at other times, hanging tangled about her

colorless cheeks, and heightening the glassy brightness of terror in

her eyes—so he saw her; the woman put away from her husband—the woman

whose love had made his life happy and had stained his soul with a

deadly sin.

She came on to within a few paces of him without a word or a tear, or a

shadow of change passing over the dreadful rigidity of her face. She

looked at him with a strange look; she pointed to the newspaper

crumpled in his hand with a strange gesture; she spoke to him in a

strange voice.

“You know it!” she said.

His eyes met hers—she shrank from them—turned—and laid her arms and her

head heavily against the wall.

“Oh, Alfred,” she said, “I was so lonely in the world, and I was so

fond of you!”

The woman’s delicacy, the woman’s trembling tenderness welled up from

her heart, and touched her voice with a tone of its old sweetness as

she murmured those simple words.

She said no more. Her confession of her fault, her appeal to their past

love for pardon, were both poured forth in that one sentence. She left

it to his own heart to tell him the rest. How anxiously her vigilant

love had followed his every word and treasured up his every opinion in

the days when they first met; how weakly and falsely, and yet with how

true an affection for him, she had shrunk from the disclosure which she

knew but too well would have separated them even at the church door;

how desperately she had fought against the coming discovery which

threatened to tear her from the bosom she clung to, and to cast her out

into the world with the shadow of her own shame to darken her life to

the end—all this she left him to feel; for the moment which might part

them forever was the moment when she knew best how truly, how

passionately he had loved her.

His lips trembled as he stood looking at her in silence, and the slow,

burning tears dropped heavily, one by one, down his cheeks. The natural

human remembrance of the golden days of their companionship, of the

nights and nights when that dear head—turned away from him now in

unutterable misery and shame—had nestled itself so fondly and so

happily on his breast, fought hard to silence his conscience, to root

out his dreadful sense of guilt, to tear the words of Judgment from

their ruthless hold on his mind, to claim him in the sweet names of

Pity and of Love. If she had turned and looked at him at that moment,

their next words would have been spoken in each other’s arms. But the

oppression of her despair under his silence was too heavy for her, and

she never moved.

He forced himself to look away from her; he struggled hard to break the

silence between them.

“God forgive you, Emily!” he said.

As her name passed his lips, his voice failed him, and the torture at

his heart burst its way out in sobs. He hurried to the door to spare

her the terrible reproof of the grief that had now mastered him. When

he passed her she turned toward him with a faint cry.

He caught her as she sank forward, and saved her from dropping on the

floor. For the last time his arms closed round her. For the last time

his lips touched hers—cold and insensible to him now. He laid her on

the sofa and went out.

One of the female servants was crossing the hall. The girl started as

she met him, and turned pale at the sight of his face. He could not

speak to her, but he pointed to the study door. He saw her go into the

room, and then left the house.

He never entered it more, and he and his wife never met again.

Later on that last day, a sister of Mr. Carling’s—a married woman

living in the town—came to the rectory. She brought an open note with

her, addressed to the unhappy mistress of the house. It contained these

few lines, blotted and stained with tears:

May God grant us both the time for repentance! If I had loved you less,

I might have trusted myself to see you again. Forgive me, and pity me,

and remember me in your prayers, as I shall forgive, and pity, and

remember you.

He had tried to write more, but the pen had dropped from his hand. His

sister’s entreaties had not moved him. After giving her the note to

deliver, he had solemnly charged her to be gentle in communicating the

tidings that she bore, and had departed alone for London. He heard all

remonstrances with patience. He did not deny that the deception of

which his wife had been guilty was the most pardonable of all

concealments of the truth, because it sprang from her love for him; but

he had the same hopeless answer for every one who tried to plead with

him—the verse from the Gospel of Saint Luke.

His purpose in traveling to London was to make the necessary

arrangements for his wife’s future existence, and then to get

employment which would separate him from his home and from all its

associations. A missionary expedition to one of the Pacific Islands

accepted him as a volunteer. Broken in body and spirit, his last look

of England from the deck of the ship was his last look at land. A

fortnight afterward, his brethren read the burial-service over him on a

calm, cloudless evening at sea. Before he was committed to the deep,

his little pocket Bible, which had been a present from his wife, was,

in accordance with his dying wishes, placed open on his breast, so that

the inscription, “To my dear Husband,” might rest over his heart.

His unhappy wife still lives. When the farewell lines of her husband’s

writing reached her she was incapable of comprehending them. The mental

prostration which had followed the parting scene was soon complicated

by physical suffering—by fever on the brain. To the surprise of all who

attended her, she lived through the shock, recovering with the complete

loss of one faculty, which, in her situation, poor thing, was a mercy

and a gain to her—the faculty of memory. From that time to this she has

never had the slightest gleam of recollection of anything that happened

before her illness. In her happy oblivion, the veriest trifles are as

new and as interesting to her as if she was beginning her existence

again. Under the tender care of the friends who now protect her, she

lives contentedly the life of a child. When her last hour comes, may

she die with nothing on her memory but the recollection of their

kindness!

THE EIGHTH DAY.

The wind that I saw in the sky yesterday has come. It sweeps down our

little valley in angry howling gusts, and drives the heavy showers

before it in great sheets of spray.

There are some people who find a strangely exciting effect produced on

their spirits by the noise, and rush, and tumult of the elements on a

stormy day. It has never been so with me, and it is less so than ever

now. I can hardly bear to think of my son at sea in such a tempest as

this. While I can still get no news of his ship, morbid fancies beset

me which I vainly try to shake off. I see the trees through my window

bending before the wind. Are the masts of the good ship bending like

them at this moment? I hear the wash of the driving rain. Is _he_

hearing the thunder of the raging waves? If he had only come back last

night!—it is vain to dwell on it, but the thought will haunt me—if he

had only come back last night!

I tried to speak cautiously about him again to Jessie, as Owen had

advised me; but I am so old and feeble now that this ill-omened storm

has upset me, and I could not feel sure enough of my own self-control

to venture on matching myself to-day against a light-hearted, lively

girl, with all her wits about her. It is so important that I should not

betray George—it would be so inexcusable on my part if his interests

suffered, even accidentally, in my hands.

This was a trying day for our guest. Her few trifling indoor resources

had, as I could see, begun to lose their attractions for her at last.

If we were not now getting to the end of the stories, and to the end,

therefore, of the Ten Days also, our chance of keeping her much longer

at the Glen Tower would be a very poor one.

It was, I think, a great relief for us all to be summoned together this

evening for a definite purpose. The wind had fallen a little as it got

on toward dusk. To hear it growing gradually fainter and fainter in the

valley below added immeasurably to the comforting influence of the

blazing fire and the cheerful lights when the shutters were closed for

the night.

The number drawn happened to be the last of the series—Ten—and the last

also of the stories which I had written. There were now but two numbers

left in the bowl. Owen and Morgan had each one reading more to

accomplish before our guest’s stay came to an end, and the manuscripts

in the Purple Volume were all exhausted.

“This new story of mine,” I said, “is not, like the story I last read,

a narrative of adventure happening to myself, but of adventures that

happened to a lady of my acquaintance. I was brought into contact, in

the first instance, with one of her male relatives, and, in the second

instance, with the lady herself, by certain professional circumstances

which I need not particularly describe. They involved a dry question of

wills and title-deeds in no way connected with this story, but

sufficiently important to interest me as a lawyer. The case came to

trial at the Assizes on my circuit, and I won it in the face of some

very strong points, very well put, on the other side. I was in poor

health at the time, and my exertions so completely knocked me up that I

was confined to bed in my lodgings for a week or more—”

“And the grateful lady came and nursed you, I suppose,” said the Queen

of Hearts, in her smart, off-hand way.

“The grateful lady did something much more natural in her position, and

much more useful in mine,” I answered—“she sent her servant to attend

on me. He was an elderly man, who had been in her service since the

time of her first marriage, and he was also one of the most sensible

and well-informed persons whom I have ever met with in his station of

life. From hints which he dropped while he was at my bedside, I

discovered for the first time that his mistress had been unfortunate in

her second marriage, and that the troubles of that period of her life

had ended in one of the most singular events which had happened in that

part of England for many a long day past. It is hardly necessary to say

that, before I allowed the man to enter into any particulars, I

stipulated that he should obtain his mistress’s leave to communicate

what he knew. Having gained this, and having further surprised me by

mentioning that he had been himself connected with all the

circumstances, he told me the whole story in the fullest detail. I have

now tried to reproduce it as nearly as I could in his own language.

Imagine, therefore, that I am just languidly recovering in bed, and

that a respectable elderly man, in quiet black costume, is sitting at

my pillow and speaking to me in these terms—”

Thus ending my little preface, I opened the manuscript and began my

last story.

BROTHER GRIFFITH’S STORY of A PLOT IN PRIVATE LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

The first place I got when I began going out to service was not a very

profitable one. I certainly gained the advantage of learning my

business thoroughly, but I never had my due in the matter of wages. My

master was made a bankrupt, and his servants suffered with the rest of

his creditors.

My second situation, however, amply compensated me for my want of luck

in the first. I had the good fortune to enter the service of Mr. and

Mrs. Norcross. My master was a very rich gentleman. He had the Darrock

house and lands in Cumberland, an estate also in Yorkshire, and a very

large property in Jamaica, which produced, at that time and for some

years afterward, a great income. Out in the West Indies he met with a

pretty young lady, a governess in an English family, and, taking a

violent fancy to her, married her, though she was a good

five-and-twenty years younger than himself. After the wedding they came

to England, and it was at this time that I was lucky enough to be

engaged by them as a servant.

I lived with my new master and mistress three years. They had no

children. At the end of that period Mr. Norcross died. He was sharp

enough to foresee that his young widow would marry again, and he

bequeathed his property so that it all went to Mrs. Norcross first, and

then to any children she might have by a second marriage, and, failing

that, to relations and friends of his own. I did not suffer by my

master’s death, for his widow kept me in her service. I had attended on

Mr. Norcross all through his last illness, and had made myself useful

enough to win my mistress’s favor and gratitude. Besides me she also

retained her maid in her service—a quadroon woman named Josephine, whom

she brought with her from the West Indies. Even at that time I disliked

the half-breed’s wheedling manners, and her cruel, tawny face, and

wondered how my mistress could be so fond of her as she was. Time

showed that I was right in distrusting this woman. I shall have much

more to say about her when I get further advanced with my story.

Meanwhile I have next to relate that my mistress broke up the rest of

her establishment, and, taking me and the lady’s maid with her, went to

travel on the Continent.

Among other wonderful places we visited Paris, Genoa, Venice, Florence,

Rome, and Naples, staying in some of those cities for months together.

The fame of my mistress’s riches followed her wherever she went; and

there were plenty of gentlemen, foreigners as well as Englishmen, who

were anxious enough to get into her good graces and to prevail on her

to marry them. Nobody succeeded, however, in producing any very strong

or lasting impression on her; and when we came back to England, after

more than two years of absence, Mrs. Norcross was still a widow, and

showed no signs of wanting to change her condition.

We went to the house on the Yorkshire estate first; but my mistress did

not fancy some of the company round about, so we moved again to Darrock

Hall, and made excursions from time to time in the lake district, some

miles off. On one of these trips Mrs. Norcross met with some old

friends, who introduced her to a gentleman of their party bearing the

very common and very uninteresting name of Mr. James Smith.

He was a tall, fine young man enough, with black hair, which grew very

long, and the biggest, bushiest pair of black whiskers I ever saw.

Altogether he had a rakish, unsettled look, and a bounceable way of

talking which made him the prominent person in company. He was poor

enough himself, as I heard from his servant, but well connected—a

gentleman by birth and education, though his manners were so free. What

my mistress saw to like in him I don’t know; but when she asked her

friends to stay with her at Darrock, she included Mr. James Smith in

the invitation. We had a fine, gay, noisy time of it at the Hall, the

strange gentleman, in particular, making himself as much at home as if

the place belonged to him. I was surprised at Mrs. Norcross putting up

with him as she did, but I was fairly thunderstruck some months

afterward when I heard that she and her free-and-easy visitor were

actually going to be married! She had refused offers by dozens abroad,

from higher, and richer, and better-behaved men. It seemed next to

impossible that she could seriously think of throwing herself away upon

such a hare-brained, headlong, penniless young gentleman as Mr. James

Smith.

Married, nevertheless, they were, in due course of time; and, after

spending the honeymoon abroad, they came back to Darrock Hall.

I soon found that my new master had a very variable temper. There were

some days when he was as easy, and familiar, and pleasant with his

servants as any gentleman need be. At other times some devil within him

seemed to get possession of his whole nature. He flew into violent

passions, and took wrong ideas into his head, which no reasoning or

remonstrance could remove. It rather amazed me, considering how gay he

was in his tastes, and how restless his habits were, that he should

consent to live at such a quiet, dull place as Darrock. The reason for

this, however, soon came out. Mr. James Smith was not much of a

sportsman; he cared nothing for indoor amusements, such as reading,

music, and so forth; and he had no ambition for representing the county

in parliament. The one pursuit that he was really fond of was yachting.

Darrock was within sixteen miles of a sea-port town, with an excellent

harbor, and to this accident of position the Hall was entirely indebted

for recommending itself as a place of residence to Mr. James Smith.

He had such an untiring enjoyment and delight in cruising about at sea,

and all his ideas of pleasure seemed to be so closely connected with

his remembrance of the sailing trips he had taken on board different

yachts belonging to his friends, that I verily believe his chief object

in marrying my mistress was to get the command of money enough to keep

a vessel for himself. Be that as it may, it is certain that he

prevailed on her, some time after their marriage, to make him a present

of a fine schooner yacht, which was brought round from Cowes to our

coast-town, and kept always waiting ready for him in the harbor.

His wife required some little persuasion before she could make up her

mind to let him have the vessel. She suffered so much from sea-sickness

that pleasure-sailing was out of the question for her; and, being very

fond of her husband, she was naturally unwilling that he should engage

in an amusement which took him away from her. However, Mr. James Smith

used his influence over her cleverly, promising that he would never go

away without first asking her leave, and engaging that his terms of

absence at sea should never last for more than a week or ten days at a

time. Accordingly, my mistress, who was the kindest and most unselfish

woman in the world, put her own feelings aside, and made her husband

happy in the possession of a vessel of his own.

While my master was away cruising, my mistress had a dull time of it at

the Hall. The few gentlefolks there were in our part of the county

lived at a distance, and could only come to Darrock when they were

asked to stay there for some days together. As for the village near us,

there was but one person living in it whom my mistress could think of

asking to the Hall, and that person was the clergyman who did duty at

the church.

This gentleman’s name was Mr. Meeke. He was a single man, very young,

and very lonely in his position. He had a mild, melancholy,

pasty-looking face, and was as shy and soft-spoken as a little

girl—altogether, what one may call, without being unjust or severe, a

poor, weak creature, and, out of all sight, the very worst preacher I

ever sat under in my life. The one thing he did, which, as I heard, he

could really do well, was playing on the fiddle. He was uncommonly fond

of music—so much so that he often took his instrument out with him when

he went for a walk. This taste of his was his great recommendation to

my mistress, who was a wonderfully fine player on the piano, and who

was delighted to get such a performer as Mr. Meeke to play duets with

her. Besides liking his society for this reason, she felt for him in

his lonely position; naturally enough, I think, considering how often

she was left in solitude herself. Mr. Meeke, on his side, when he got

over his first shyness, was only too glad to leave his lonesome little

parsonage for the fine music-room at the Hall, and for the company of a

handsome, kind-hearted lady, who made much of him, and admired his

fiddle-playing with all her heart. Thus it happened that, whenever my

master was away at sea, my mistress and Mr. Meeke were always together,

playing duets as if they had their living to get by it. A more harmless

connection than the connection between those two never existed in this

world; and yet, innocent as it was, it turned out to be the first cause

of all the misfortunes that afterward happened.

My master’s treatment of Mr. Meeke was, from the first, the very

opposite of my mistress’s. The restless, rackety, bounceable Mr. James

Smith felt a contempt for the weak, womanish, fiddling little parson,

and, what was more, did not care to conceal it. For this reason, Mr.

Meeke (who was dreadfully frightened by my master’s violent language

and rough ways) very seldom visited at the Hall except when my mistress

was alone there. Meaning no wrong, and therefore stooping to no

concealment, she never thought of taking any measures to keep Mr. Meeke

out of the way when he happened to be with her at the time of her

husband’s coming home, whether it was only from a riding excursion in

the neighborhood or from a cruise in the schooner. In this way it so

turned out that whenever my master came home, after a long or short

absence, in nine cases out of ten he found the parson at the Hall.

At first he used to laugh at this circumstance, and to amuse himself

with some coarse jokes at the expense of his wife and her companion.

But, after a while, his variable temper changed, as usual. He grew

sulky, rude, angry, and, at last, downright jealous of Mr. Meeke.

Though too proud to confess it in so many words, he still showed the

state of his mind clearly enough to my mistress to excite her

indignation. She was a woman who could be led anywhere by any one for

whom she had a regard, but there was a firm spirit within her that rose

at the slightest show of injustice or oppression, and that resented

tyrannical usage of any sort perhaps a little too warmly. The bare

suspicion that her husband could feel any distrust of her set her all

in a flame, and she took the most unfortunate, and yet, at the same

time, the most natural way for a woman, of resenting it. The ruder her

husband was to Mr. Meeke the more kindly she behaved to him. This led

to serious disputes and dissensions, and thence, in time, to a violent

quarrel. I could not avoid hearing the last part of the altercation

between them, for it took place in the garden-walk, outside the

dining-room window, while I was occupied in laying the table for lunch.

Without repeating their words—which I have no right to do, having heard

by accident what I had no business to hear—I may say generally, to show

how serious the quarrel was, that my mistress charged my master with

having married from mercenary motives, with keeping out of her company

as much as he could, and with insulting her by a suspicion which it

would be hard ever to forgive, and impossible ever to forget. He

replied by violent language directed against herself, and by commanding

her never to open the doors again to Mr. Meeke; she, on her side,

declaring that she would never consent to insult a clergyman and a

gentleman in order to satisfy the whim of a tyrannical husband. Upon

that, he called out, with a great oath, to have his horse saddled

directly, declaring that he would not stop another instant under the

same roof with a woman who had set him at defiance, and warning his

wife that he would come back, if Mr. Meeke entered the house again, and

horsewhip him, in spite of his black coat, all through the village.

With those words he left her, and rode away to the sea-port where his

yacht was lying. My mistress kept up her spirit till he was out of

sight, and then burst into a dreadful screaming passion of tears, which

ended by leaving her so weak that she had to be carried to her bed like

a woman who was at the point of death.

The same evening my master’s horse was ridden back by a messenger, who

brought a scrap of notepaper with him addressed to me. It only

contained these lines:

“Pack up my clothes and deliver them immediately to the bearer. You may

tell your mistress that I sail to-night at eleven o’clock for a cruise

to Sweden. Forward my letters to the post-office, Stockholm.”

I obeyed the orders given to me except that relating to my mistress.

The doctor had been sent for, and was still in the house. I consulted

him upon the propriety of my delivering the message. He positively

forbade me to do so that night, and told me to give him the slip of

paper, and leave it to his discretion to show it to her or not the next

morning.

The messenger had hardly been gone an hour when Mr. Meeke’s housekeeper

came to the Hall with a roll of music for my mistress. I told the woman

of my master’s sudden departure, and of the doctor being in the house.

This news brought Mr. Meeke himself to the Hall in a great flutter.

I felt so angry with him for being the cause—innocent as he might be—of

the shocking scene which had taken place, that I exceeded the bounds of

my duty, and told him the whole truth. The poor, weak, wavering,

childish creature flushed up red in the face, then turned as pale as

ashes, and dropped into one of the hall chairs crying—literally crying

fit to break his heart. “Oh, William,” says he, wringing his little

frail, trembling white hands as helpless as a baby, “oh, William, what

am I to do?”

“As you ask me that question, sir,” says I, “you will excuse me, I

hope, if, being a servant, I plainly speak my mind notwithstanding. I

know my station well enough to be aware that, strictly speaking, I have

done wrong, and far exceeded my duty, in telling you as much as I have

told you already; but I would go through fire and water, sir,” says I,

feeling my own eyes getting moist, “for my mistress’s sake. She has no

relation here who can speak to you; and it is even better that a

servant like me should risk being guilty of an impertinence, than that

dreadful and lasting mischief should arise from the right remedy not

being applied at the right time. This is what I should do, sir, in your

place. Saving your presence, I should leave off crying; and go back

home and write to Mr. James Smith, saying that I would not, as a

clergyman, give him railing for railing, but would prove how unworthily

he had suspected me by ceasing to visit at the Hall from this time

forth, rather than be a cause of dissension between man and wife. If

you will put that into proper language, sir, and will have the letter

ready for me in half an hour’s time, I will call for it on the fastest

horse in our stables, and, at my own risk, will give it to my master

before he sails to-night. I have nothing more to say, sir, except to

ask your pardon for forgetting my proper place, and for making bold to

speak on a very serious matter as equal to equal, and as man to man.”

To do Mr. Meeke justice, he had a heart, though it was a very small

one. He shook hands with me, and said he accepted my advice as the

advice of a friend, and so went back to his parsonage to write the

letter. In half an hour I called for it on horseback, but it was not

ready for me. Mr. Meeke was ridiculously nice about how he should

express himself when he got a pen into his hand. I found him with his

desk littered with rough copies, in a perfect agony about how to turn

his phrases delicately enough in referring to my mistress. Every minute

being precious, I hurried him as much as I could, without standing on

any ceremony. It took half an hour more, with all my efforts, before he

could make up his mind that the letter would do. I started off with it

at a gallop, and never drew rein till I got to the sea-port town.

The harbor-clock chimed the quarter past eleven as I rode by it, and

when I got down to the jetty there was no yacht to be seen. She had

been cast off from her moorings ten minutes before eleven, and as the

clock struck she had sailed out of the harbor. I would have followed in

a boat, but it was a fine starlight night, with a fresh wind blowing,

and the sailors on the pier laughed at me when I spoke of rowing after

a schooner yacht which had got a quarter of an hour’s start of us, with

the wind abeam and the tide in her favor.

I rode back with a heavy heart. All I could do now was to send the

letter to the post-office, Stockholm.

The next day the doctor showed my mistress the scrap of paper with the

message on it from my master, and an hour or two after that, a letter

was sent to her in Mr. Meeke’s handwriting, explaining the reason why

she must not expect to see him at the Hall, and referring to me in

terms of high praise as a sensible and faithful man who had spoken the

right word at the right time. I am able to repeat the substance of the

letter, because I heard all about it from my mistress, under very

unpleasant circumstances so far as I was concerned.

The news of my master’s departure did not affect her as the doctor had

supposed it would. Instead of distressing her, it roused her spirit and

made her angry; her pride, as I imagine, being wounded by the

contemptuous manner in which her husband had notified his intention of

sailing to Sweden at the end of a message to a servant about packing

his clothes. Finding her in that temper of mind, the letter from Mr.

Meeke only irritated her the more. She insisted on getting up, and as

soon as she was dressed and downstairs, she vented her violent humor on

me, reproaching me for impertinent interference in the affairs of my

betters, and declaring that she had almost made up her mind to turn me

out of my place for it. I did not defend myself, because I respected

her sorrows and the irritation that came from them; also, because I

knew the natural kindness of her nature well enough to be assured that

she would make amends to me for her harshness the moment her mind was

composed again. The result showed that I was right. That same evening

she sent for me and begged me to forgive and forget the hasty words she

had spoken in the morning with a grace and sweetness that would have

won the heart of any man who listened to her.

Weeks passed after this, till it was more than a month since the day of

my master’s departure, and no letter in his handwriting came to Darrock

Hall.

My mistress, taking this treatment more angrily than sorrowfully, went

to London to consult her nearest relations, who lived there. On leaving

home she stopped the carriage at the parsonage, and went in (as I

thought, rather defiantly) to say good-by to Mr. Meeke. She had

answered his letter, and received others from him, and had answered

them likewise. She had also, of course, seen him every Sunday at

church, and had always stopped to speak to him after the service; but

this was the first occasion on which she had visited him at his house.

As the carriage stopped, the little parson came out, in great hurry and

agitation, to meet her at the garden gate.

“Don’t look alarmed, Mr. Meeke,” says my mistress, getting out. “Though

you have engaged not to come near the Hall, I have made no promise to

keep away from the parsonage.” With those words she went into the

house.

The quadroon maid, Josephine, was sitting with me in the rumble of the

carriage, and I saw a smile on her tawny face as the parson and his

visitor went into the house together. Harmless as Mr. Meeke was, and

innocent of all wrong as I knew my mistress to be, I regretted that she

should be so rash as to despise appearances, considering the situation

she was placed in. She had already exposed herself to be thought of

disrespectfully by her own maid, and it was hard to say what worse

consequences might not happen after that.

Half an hour later we were away on our journey. My mistress stayed in

London two months. Throughout all that long time no letter from my

master was forwarded to her from the country house.

CHAPTER II.

When the two months had passed we returned to Darrock Hall. Nobody

there had received any news in our absence of the whereabouts of my

master and his yacht.

Six more weary weeks elapsed, and in that time but one event happened

at the Hall to vary the dismal monotony of the lives we now led in the

solitary place. One morning Josephine came down after dressing my

mistress with her face downright livid to look at, except on one cheek,

where there was a mark as red as burning fire. I was in the kitchen at

the time, and I asked what was the matter.

“The matter!” says she, in her shrill voice and her half-foreign

English. “Use your own eyes, if you please, and look at this cheek of

mine. What! have you lived so long a time with your mistress, and don’t

you know the mark of her hand yet?”

I was at a loss to understand what she meant, but she soon explained

herself. My mistress, whose temper had been sadly altered for the worse

by the trials and humiliations she had gone through, had got up that

morning more out of humor than usual, and, in answer to her maid’s

inquiry as to how she had passed the night, had begun talking about her

weary, miserable life in an unusually fretful and desperate way.

Josephine, in trying to cheer her spirits, had ventured, most

improperly, on making a light, jesting reference to Mr. Meeke, which

had so enraged my mistress that she turned round sharp on the

half-breed and gave her—to use the common phrase—a smart box on the

ear. Josephine confessed that, the moment after she had done this, her

better sense appeared to tell her that she had taken a most improper

way of resenting undue familiarity. She had immediately expressed her

regret for having forgotten herself, and had proved the sincerity of it

by a gift of half a dozen cambric handkerchiefs, presented as a

peace-offering on the spot. After that I thought it impossible that

Josephine could bear any malice against a mistress whom she had served

ever since she had been a girl, and I said as much to her when she had

done telling me what had happened upstairs.

“I! Malice!” cries Miss Josephine, in her hard, sharp, snappish way.

“And why, and wherefore, if you please? If my mistress smacks my cheek

with one hand, she gives me handkerchiefs to wipe it with the other. My

good mistress, my kind mistress, my pretty mistress! I, the servant,

bear malice against her, the mistress! Ah! you bad man, even to think

of such a thing! Ah! fie, fie! I am quite ashamed of you!”

She gave me one look—the wickedest look I ever saw, and burst out

laughing—the harshest laugh I ever heard from a woman’s lips. Turning

away from me directly after, she said no more, and never referred to

the subject again on any subsequent occasion.

From that time, however, I noticed an alteration in Miss Josephine; not

in her way of doing her work, for she was just as sharp and careful

about it as ever, but in her manners and habits. She grew amazingly

quiet, and passed almost all her leisure time alone. I could bring no

charge against her which authorized me to speak a word of warning; but,

for all that, I could not help feeling that if I had been in my

mistress’s place, I would have followed up the present of the cambric

handkerchiefs by paying her a month’s wages in advance, and sending her

away from the house the same evening.

With the exception of this little domestic matter, which appeared

trifling enough at the time, but which led to very serious consequences

afterward, nothing happened at all out of the ordinary way during the

six weary weeks to which I have referred. At the beginning of the

seventh week, however, an event occurred at last.

One morning the postman brought a letter to the Hall addressed to my

mistress. I took it upstairs, and looked at the direction as I put it

on the salver. The handwriting was not my master’s; was not, as it

appeared to me, the handwriting of any well-educated person. The

outside of the letter was also very dirty, and the seal a common

office-seal of the usual lattice-work pattern. “This must be a

begging-letter,” I thought to myself as I entered the breakfast-room

and advanced with it to my mistress.

She held up her hand before she opened it as a sign to me that she had

some order to give, and that I was not to leave the room till I had

received it. Then she broke the seal and began to read the letter.

Her eyes had hardly been on it a moment before her face turned as pale

as death, and the paper began to tremble in her fingers. She read on to

the end, and suddenly turned from pale to scarlet, started out of her

chair, crumpled the letter up violently in her hand, and took several

turns backward and forward in the room, without seeming to notice me as

I stood by the door. “You villain! you villain! you villain!” I heard

her whisper to herself many times over, in a quick, hissing, fierce

way. Then she stopped, and said on a sudden, “Can it be true?” Then she

looked up, and, seeing me standing at the door, started as if I had

been a stranger, changed color again, and told me, in a stifled voice,

to leave her and come back again in half an hour. I obeyed, feeling

certain that she must have received some very bad news of her husband,

and wondering, anxiously enough, what it might be.

When I returned to the breakfast-room her face was as much discomposed

as ever. Without speaking a word she handed me two sealed letters: one,

a note to be left for Mr. Meeke at the parsonage; the other, a letter

marked “Immediate,” and addressed to her solicitor in London, who was

also, I should add, her nearest living relative.

I left one of these letters and posted the other. When I came back I

heard that my mistress had taken to her room. She remained there for

four days, keeping her new sorrow, whatever it was, strictly to

herself. On the fifth day the lawyer from London arrived at the Hall.

My mistress went down to him in the library, and was shut up there with

him for nearly two hours. At the end of that time the bell rang for me.

“Sit down, William,” said my mistress, when I came into the room. “I

feel such entire confidence in your fidelity and attachment that I am

about, with the full concurrence of this gentleman, who is my nearest

relative and my legal adviser, to place a very serious secret in your

keeping, and to employ your services on a matter which is as important

to me as a matter of life and death.”

Her poor eyes were very red, and her lips quivered as she spoke to me.

I was so startled by what she had said that I hardly knew which chair

to sit in. She pointed to one placed near herself at the table, and

seemed about to speak to me again, when the lawyer interfered.

“Let me entreat you,” he said, “not to agitate yourself unnecessarily.

I will put this person in possession of the facts, and, if I omit

anything, you shall stop me and set me right.”

My mistress leaned back in her chair and covered her face with her

handkerchief. The lawyer waited a moment, and then addressed himself to

me.

“You are already aware,” he said, “of the circumstances under which

your master left this house, and you also know, I have no doubt, that

no direct news of him has reached your mistress up to this time?”

I bowed to him and said I knew of the circumstances so far.

“Do you remember,” he went on, “taking a letter to your mistress five

days ago?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied; “a letter which seemed to distress and alarm her

very seriously.”

“I will read you that letter before we say any more,” continued the

lawyer. “I warn you beforehand that it contains a terrible charge

against your master, which, however, is not attested by the writer’s

signature. I have already told your mistress that she must not attach

too much importance to an anonymous letter; and I now tell you the same

thing.”

Saying that, he took up a letter from the table and read it aloud. I

had a copy of it given to me afterward, which I looked at often enough

to fix the contents of the letter in my memory. I can now repeat them,

I think, word for word.

“MADAM—I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to leave you in total

ignorance of your husband’s atrocious conduct toward you. If you have

ever been disposed to regret his absence do so no longer. Hope and

pray, rather, that you and he may never meet face to face again in this

world. I write in great haste and in great fear of being observed. Time

fails me to prepare you as you ought to be prepared for what I have now

to disclose. I must tell you plainly, with much respect for you and

sorrow for your misfortune, that your husband _has married another

wife_. I saw the ceremony performed, unknown to him. If I could not

have spoken of this infamous act as an eye-witness, I would not have

spoken of it at all.

“I dare not acknowledge who I am, for I believe Mr. James Smith would

stick at no crime to revenge himself on me if he ever came to a

knowledge of the step I am now taking, and of the means by which I got

my information; neither have I time to enter into particulars. I simply

warn you of what has happened, and leave you to act on that warning as

you please. You may disbelieve this letter, because it is not signed by

any name. In that case, if Mr. James Smith should ever venture into

your presence, I recommend you to ask him suddenly what he has done

with his _new wife,_ and to see if his countenance does not immediately

testify that the truth has been spoken by

“YOUR UNKNOWN FRIEND.”

Poor as my opinion was of my master, I had never believed him to be

capable of such villainy as this, and I could not believe it when the

lawyer had done reading the letter.

“Oh, sir,” I said, “surely that is some base imposition? Surely it

cannot be true?”

“That is what I have told your mistress,” he answered. “But she says in

return—”

“That I feel it to be true,” my mistress broke in, speaking behind the

handkerchief in a faint, smothered voice.

“We need not debate the question,” the lawyer went on. “Our business

now is to prove the truth or falsehood of this letter. That must be

done at once. I have written to one of my clerks, who is accustomed to

conducting delicate investigations, to come to this house without loss

of time. He is to be trusted with anything, and he will pursue the

needful inquiries immediately.

“It is absolutely necessary, to make sure of committing no mistakes,

that he should be accompanied by some one who is well acquainted with

Mr. James Smith’s habits and personal appearance, and your mistress has

fixed upon you to be that person. However well the inquiry is managed,

it may be attended by much trouble and delay, may necessitate a long

journey, and may involve some personal danger. Are you,” said the

lawyer, looking hard at me, “ready to suffer any inconvenience and to

run any risk for your mistress’s sake?”

“There is nothing I _can_ do, sir,” said I, “that I will not do. I am

afraid I am not clever enough to be of much use; but, so far as

troubles and risks are concerned, I am ready for anything from this

moment.”

My mistress took the handkerchief from her face, looked at me with her

eyes full of tears, and held out her hand. How I came to do it I don’t

know, but I stooped down and kissed the hand she offered me, feeling

half startled, half ashamed at my own boldness the moment after.

“You will do, my man,” said the lawyer, nodding his head. “Don’t

trouble yourself about the cleverness or the cunning that may be

wanted. My clerk has got head enough for two. I have only one word more

to say before you go downstairs again. Remember that this investigation

and the cause that leads to it must be kept a profound secret. Except

us three, and the clergyman here (to whom your mistress has written

word of what has happened), nobody knows anything about it. I will let

my clerk into the secret when he joins us. As soon as you and he are

away from the house, you may talk about it. Until then, you will close

your lips on the subject.”

The clerk did not keep us long waiting. He came as fast as the mail

from London could bring him.

I had expected, from his master’s description, to see a serious, sedate

man, rather sly in his looks, and rather reserved in his manner. To my

amazement, this practiced hand at delicate investigations was a brisk,

plump, jolly little man, with a comfortable double chin, a pair of very

bright black eyes, and a big bottle-nose of the true groggy red color.

He wore a suit of black, and a limp, dingy white cravat; took snuff

perpetually out of a very large box; walked with his hands crossed

behind his back; and looked, upon the whole, much more like a parson of

free-and-easy habits than a lawyer’s clerk.