“I tell you again that I do believe it. As certain as I give you money,

so certain am I to lose. Thursday week I gave you five Naps; I lost that

same night seventy thousand francs; on Wednesday last the same thing;

and to-night two thousand Napoleons are gone. You swore to me, besides,

so late as yesterday, that if I gave you twenty Louis, you 'd leave

Baden, to go back to England.”

“So I would, but I 've lost it. I went in at roulette, and came out

without sixpence; and I'm sure it was not lending brought bad luck upon

_me_.” added he, with a bitter laugh.

“Then may I be cursed in all I do, if I give you another fraction! You

think to terrify me by exposure; but who 'll stand that test best,--the

man who can draw on his banker for five thousand pounds, or the outcast

who can't pay for his dinner? Let the world know the worst of me, and

say the worst of me, I can live without it, and you may die on a

dunghill.”

“Well, I 'm glad we 're come to this at last. Baden shall know to-morrow

morning the whole story, and you will see how many will sit down at the

same table with you. You 're a fool--you always were a fool--to insult a

man as reckless as I am. What have I to lose? They can't try _me_ over

again any more than _you_. But you can be shunned and cut by your fine

acquaintances, turned out of clubs, disowned on every hand--”

“Look here, Collier,” broke in Paten; “I have heard all that rubbish

fifty times from you, but it does n't terrify me. The man that can live

as I do need never want friends or acquaintances; the starving beggar it

is who has no companionship. Let us start fair to-morrow, as you

threaten, and at the end of the week let us square accounts, and see who

has the best of it.”

“I 'll go into the rooms when they are most crowded, and I 'll say, 'The

man yonder, who calls himself Ludlow Paten, is Paul Hunt, the accomplice

of Towers, that was hanged for the murder of Godfrey Hawke, at Jersey.

My name is Collier; I never changed it. I, too, was in the dock on that

day. Here we stand,--he in fine clothes, and I in rags, but not so very

remote as externals bespeak us.'”

“In two hours after I 'd have you sent over the frontier with a

gendarme, as a vagabond, and without means of support, and I 'd be

travelling post to Italy.”

“To see the widow, I hope; to persecute the wretched woman who once in

her life thought you were not a scoundrel.”

“Ay, and marry her, too, my respected friend, if the intelligence can

give you pleasure to hear it. I 'm sorry we can't ask you to the

wedding.”

“No, that you 'll not; she knows you, and while you cheated every one of

_us, she_ discovered you to be the mean fellow you are,--ready, as she

said, to have a share in every enterprise, provided you were always

spared the peril. Do you recognize the portrait there, Paul Hunt, and

can you guess the painter?”

“If she ever made the speech, she 'll live to rue it.”

“Not a bit of it, man. That woman is your master. You did your very best

to terrify her, but you never succeeded. She dares you openly; and if I

have to make the journey on foot, I 'll seek her out in Italy, and say,

'Here is one who has the same hate in his heart that you have, and has

less hold on life; help him to our common object.' It's not a cool head

will be wanting in such a moment; so, look out ahead, Master Paul.”

“You hint at a game that two can play at.”

“Ay, but you 're not one of them. You were always a coward.”

A savage oath, and something like the noise of a struggle, followed.

Neither spoke; but now O'Shea could distinctly mark, by the crashing of

the brushwood, that they had either both fallen to the ground, or that

one had got the other under. Before he could resolve what course to

take, the sharp report of a pistol rung out, the hasty rustle of a man

forcing through the trees followed, and then all was still. It was not

till after some minutes that he determined to go forward. A few steps

brought him to the place, where in a little alley of the wood lay a man

upon his face. He felt his wrist, and then, turning him on his back,

laid his hand on the heart. All was still; he was warm, as if in life,

but life had fled forever! A faint streak of moonlight had now just

fallen upon the spot, and he saw it was Ludlow Paten who lay there. The

ball had entered his left side, and probably pierced the heart, so

instantaneous had been his death. While O'Shea was thus engaged in

tracing the fatal wound, a heavy pocket-book fell from the breast-

pocket. He opened it; its contents were a packet of letters, tied with a

string; he could but see that they bore the address of Paul Hunt, but he

divined the rest. They were _hers_. The great prize, for which he

himself was ready to risk life, was now his own; and he hastened away

from the place, and turned with all speed towards Baden.

It was not yet daybreak when he got back, and, gaining his room, locked

the door. He knew not why he did so, but in the fear and turmoil of his

mind he dreaded the possibility of seeing or being seen. He feared,

besides, lest some chance word might escape him, some vague phrase might

betray him as the witness of a scene he resolved never to disclose.

Sometimes, indeed, as he sat there, he would doubt the whole incident,

and question whether it had not been the phantasm of an excited brain;

but there before him on the table lay the letters; there they were, the

terrible evidences of the late crime, and perhaps the proofs of guilt in

another too!

This latter thought nearly drove him distracted. There before him lay

what secured to him the prize he sought for, and yet what, for aught he

knew, might contain what would render that object a shame and a

disgrace. It lay with himself to know this. Once in her possession, he,

of course, could never know the contents, or if by chance discovery

came, it might come too late. He reasoned long and anxiously with

himself; he tried to satisfy his mind that there were cases in which

self-preservation absolved a man from what in less critical emergencies

had been ignominious to do. He asked himself, “Would not a man willingly

burn the documents whose production would bring him to disgrace and

ruin? and, by the same rule, would not one eagerly explore those which

might save him from an irreparable false step? At all events,” thought

he, “Fortune has thrown the chance in my way, and so--” He read them.

CHAPTER VII. THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ

There was something actually artistic in the choice old Holmes had made

for his daughter's residence near Bregenz. It was an old-fashioned

farmhouse, with a deep eave, and a massive cornice beneath it. A wooden

gallery ran the entire length, with a straggling stair to it, overgrown

with a very ancient fig-tree, whose privilege it was to interweave

through the balustrades, and even cross the steps at will, the whole

nearly hidden by the fine old chestnut-trees which clothe the Gebhardts-

Berg to its very summit. It was the sort of spot a lone and sorrowing

spirit might have sought out to weep away unseen, to commune with grief

in solitude, and know nothing of a world she was no more to share in.

The simple-hearted peasants who accepted them as lodgers asked no reason

for their selection of the place, nor were they likely, in their strange

dialect, to be able to discuss the point with others, save their

neighbors. The chief room, which had three windows opening on a little

terrace, looked out upon a glorious panorama of the Swiss Alps, with the

massive mountains that lead to the Splugen; and it was at one of these

Mrs. Morris--or rather, to give her that name by which for the last few

pages of our story she may be called, Mrs. Hawke--now sat, as the sun

was sinking, watching with an unfeigned enjoyment the last gorgeous

tints of declining day upon the snow peaks.

Perhaps at that moment the sense of repose was the most grateful of all

sensations to her, for she had passed through a long day of excitement

and fatigue. Like a great actress who had, in her impersonation of a

difficult part, called forth all her powers of voice, look, and gesture,

straining every fibre to develop to the utmost the passion she would

convey, and tearing her very heart to show its agony, she was now to

feel the terrible depression of reaction, the dreary void of the

solitude around her, and the death-like stillness of her own subdued

emotions. But yet, through all this, there was a rapturous enjoyment in

the thought of a task accomplished, an ordeal passed.

On that same morning it was Trover had arrived with Mr. Winthrop, and

her first meeting took place with the friend of her late husband,--

perhaps the one living being whom alone of all the world she felt a sort

of terror at seeing. The fear he inspired was vague, and not altogether

reasonable; but it was there, and she could not master it. Till she met

him, indeed, it almost overcame her; but when she found him a mild old

man, of gentle manners and a quiet presence, unsuspecting and frank, and

extending towards her a compassionate protection, she rallied quickly

from her fears, and played out her part courageously.

How affecting was her grief! It was one of those touching pictures

which, while they thrill the heart, never harrow the feelings. It was

sorrow made beautiful, rather than distressing. Time, of course, long

years, had dulled the bitterness of her woe, and only cast the sombre

coloring of sadness over a nature that might have been--who knows?--made

for joy and brightness. Unused to such scenes, the honest American could

only sit in a sort of admiring pity of such a victim to an early sorrow;

so fair a creature robbed of her just meed of this world's happiness,

and by a terrible destiny linked with an awful event! And how lovely she

was through it all, how forgiving of that man's cruelty! He knew Hawke

well, and he was no stranger to the trials a woman must have gone

through who had been chained to his coarse and brutal nature; and yet

not a harsh word fell from her, not a syllable of reproach or blame. No;

she had all manner of excuses to make for him, in the evil influences by

which he was surrounded, the false and bad men who assumed to be his

friends.

It was quite touching to hear her allude to the happiness of their early

married life,--their contentment with humble fortune, their willing

estrangement from a world of luxury and display, to lead an existence of

cultivated pursuits and mutual affection. Winthrop was moved as he

listened, and Trover had to wipe his eyes.

Of the dreadful event of her life she skilfully avoided details,

dwelling only on such parts of it as might illustrate her own good

qualities, her devotion to the memory of one of whom she had much to

pardon, and her unceasing affection for his child. If the episode of

that girl's illness and death was only invented at the moment of

telling, it lost nothing by the want of premeditation; and Winthrop's

tears betrayed how he took to heart the desolate condition of that poor

bereaved woman.

“I had resolved,” said she, “never to avail myself of this fortune. To

what end could I desire wealth? I was dead to the world. If enough

remained to support me through my lonely pilgrimage, I needed no more.

The simple life of these peasants here offered me all that I could now

care for, and it was in this obscure spot I meant to have ended my days,

unnoticed and unwept. My dear father, however, a distinguished officer,

whose services the Government is proud to acknowledge, had rashly

involved himself in some speculations; everything went badly with him,

and he finished by losing all that he had laid by to support his old

age. In this emergency I bethought me of that will; but even yet I don't

believe I should have availed myself of its provisions if it were not

that my father urged me by another and irresistible argument, which was

that in not asserting my own claim, I was virtually denying yours.

'Think of Winthrop,' said he. 'Why should he be defrauded of his

inheritance because you have taken a vow of poverty?' He called it a vow

of poverty,” said she, smiling through her tears, “since I wore no

better dress than this, nor tasted any food more delicate than the rough

fare of my peasant neighbors.”

If the costume to which she thus directed their attention was simple, it

was eminently becoming, being, in reality, a sort of theatrical travesty

of a peasant's dress, made to fit perfectly, and admitting of a very

generous view of her matchless foot and ankle; insomuch, indeed, that

Mr. Winthrop could not help feeling that if poverty had its privations,

it could yet be eminently picturesque.

If Winthrop wished from time to time to ask some question about this, or

inquire into that, her answers invariably led him far afield, and made

him even forget the matter he had been eager about. A burst of emotion,

some suddenly recalled event, some long-forgotten passage brought back

to mind in a moment, would extricate her from any difficulty; and as to

dates,--those awful sunk rocks of all unprepared fiction,--how could she

be asked for these,--she, who really could not tell the very year they

were then living in, had long ceased to count time or care for its

onward course? There were things he did not understand; there were

things, too, that he could not reconcile with each other; but he could

not, at such a moment, suggest his doubts or his difficulties, nor be so

heartless as to weary that poor crushed and wounded spirit by prolonging

a scene so painful.

When he arose to take his leave, they were like old friends. With a

delicate tact all her own, she distinguished him especially from Mr.

Trover; and while she gave Winthrop both her hands in his, she bestowed

upon his companion a very cold smile and a curtsey.

“Are they gone,--positively gone?” asked she of her father, who now

entered the room, after having carefully watched the whole interview

from a summer-house with a spy-glass.

“Yes, dear; they are out on the road. I just overheard the American, as

he closed the wicket, remark, 'She's the most fascinating creature I

ever talked to!'”

“I hope I am, papa. When one has to be a serpent, one ought surely to

have a snake's advantages! What a dear old creature that American is! I

really have taken a great liking to him. There is a marvellous

attraction in the man that one can deceive without an effort, and, like

the sheep who come begging to be eaten, only implores to be 'taken in

again.'”

“I never took my eyes off him, and I saw that you made him cry twice.”

“Three times, papa,--three times; not to speak of many false attacks of

sensibility that went off in deep sighs and chokings. Oh dear! am I not

wearied? Fetch me a little lemonade, and put one spoonful--only one--of

maraschino in it. That wretch Trover almost made me laugh with his

absurd display of grief. I 'll not have him here to-morrow.”

“And is Winthrop to come to-morrow?”

“Yes; and this evening too. He comes to-night to tea; he is so anxious

to know you, papa; he has such a pleasant theory about that dear old man

covered with wounds and honors, and devoting his declining year's to

console his poor afflicted child. You have put too much maraschino in

this.”

“One spoonful, on honor; but I mean to treat myself more generously.

Well, I 'm heartily glad that the interview is over. It was an anxious

thing to have before one, and particularly not knowing what manner of

man he might be.”

“That was the real difficulty. It 's very hard to 'play up' to an

unknown audience!”

“I 'd not have asked them back this evening, Loo. It will be too much

for you.”

“I did not do so. It was Winthrop himself begged permission to come; but

he promised that not a syllable of business was to transpire, so that I

have only to be very charming, which, of course, costs nothing.”

“I gather that all went smoothly on this morning. No difficulty

anywhere?”

“None whatever. The account Trover gave us is fully borne out. The

property is immense. There are, however, innumerable legal details to be

gone through. I can't say what documents and papers we shall not have to

produce; meanwhile our American friend most generously lays his purse at

our disposal, and this blank check is to be filled at my discretion.”

“'Barnet and King,'” read he; “an excellent house. 'Please to pay to

Mrs. Hawke, or order.' Very handsome of him, this, Loo; very

thoughtful.”

“Very thoughtful; but I'd as soon Trover had not been present; he's a

greedy, grabbing sort of creature, and will insist upon a large discount

out of it.”

“Make the draft the bigger, darling; the remedy is in your own hands.”

“Strange there should be no letter from O'Shea. I was full certain we

should have heard something before this.”

“Perhaps we may by this post, dear. It ought to have arrived by this

time.”

“Then go and see, by all means. How I hate a post that comes of an

evening! One ought to begin the day with one's letters; they are the

evil fates, whose machinations all our efforts are directed against.

They are, besides, the whispering of the storm that is brewing afar off,

but is sure to overtake us. One ought to meet them with a well-rested

brain and refreshed spirit, not wearied and jaded and unstrung by the

day's toil.”

And the Captain prepared to obey, but not without a variety of

precautions against catching cold, which seemed somewhat to try his

daughter's patience.

“You really,” said she, with a half-bitter smile, “take very little

account of the anxiety I must feel about my future husband.”

“Nonsense, dear; the O'Shea is not to be thought of. It would really be

a gross misuse of wealth to share it with such a man.”

“So it might, if one were free to choose. But it's the old story, papa,”

said she, with a sigh. “To be cured of the ague, one is willing to take

arsenic. There, you are surely muffled enough now; lose no more time,

and, above all things, don't get into a gossiping mood, and stay to talk

with Trover, or be seduced by Mr. Winthrop's juleps, but come back at

once, for I have a sort of feverish foreboding over me that I cannot

control.”

“How silly that is, dear!--to have a stout heart on the high seas and

grow cowardly in the harbor.”

“But _are_ we in the harbor? Are we so _very_ certain that the voyage is

over?” said she, with increased eagerness, “But pray go for the letters,

or I will myself.”

He set out at last, and she watched him as he shut the wicket and

crossed out upon the high-road; and then, all alone as she sat, she

burst into a passionate flood of tears. Was this the relief of a nature

strained like an over-bent bow? Was it the sorrowful outburst of a

spirit which, however bold and defiant to the world, was craven to

itself; or was it simply that fear had mastered her, and that she felt

the approach of the storm that was to shipwreck her?

She must have been partly stunned by her sorrow, for she sat, no longer

impatient, nor watching eagerly for his return, but in a sort of half-

lethargic state, gazing out unconsciously into the falling night that

now closed in fast around her.

It is neither a weak nor an ignorant theory that ascribes, even to the

most corrupt natures, moments of deepest remorse, sincere and true,

aspirations after better things, and a willingness to submit to the

severest penalties of the past, if only there be a “future” in store for

them. Who can tell us what of these were now passing through the mind of

her who sat at that window, brooding sorrowfully?

“Here 's a letter for you, Loo, and a weighty one too,” said Holmes,

entering the room, and approaching her before she was aware. “It was

charged half a dollar extra, for overweight. I trust you 'll say it was

worth the money.”

“Fetch a light! get me a candle!” cried she, eagerly; and she broke the

seal with hands all trembling and twitching. “And leave me, papa; leave

me a moment to myself.”

He placed the candles at her side, and stole away. She turned one glance

at the address, “To Mrs. Hawke,” and she read in that one word that the

writer knew her story. But the contents soon banished other thoughts;

they were her own long-coveted, long-sought letters; there they were now

before her, time-worn and crumpled, records of a terrible season of

sorrow and misery and guilt! She counted them over and over; there were

twenty-seven; not one was missing. She did not dare to open them; and

even in her happiness to regain them was the darkening shadow of the

melancholy period when they were written,--the long days of suffering

and the nights of tears. So engrossed was she by the thought that they

were now her own again, that the long tyranny of years had ended and the

ever-impending shame departed, that she could not turn to learn how she

came by them, nor through whom. At length this seemed to flash suddenly

on her mind, and she examined the envelope, and found a small sealed

note, addressed, as was the packet, “Mrs. Hawke.” O'Shea's initials were

in the corner. It contained but one line, which ran thus:--

“I have read the enclosed.--G. O'S.”

Then was it that the bitterness of her lot smote her with all its force,

and she dropped down upon her knees, and, laying her head on the chair,

sobbed as if each convulsive beat would have rent her very heart.

Oh, the ineffable misery of an exposed shame! the terrible sense that we

are to meet abroad and before the world the stern condemnation our

conscience has already pronounced, and that henceforth we are to be

shunned and avoided! There is not left to us any longer one mood of mind

that can bring repose. If we are depressed, it is in the mourning of our

guilt we seem to be dressed; if for a moment we assume the air of light-

heartedness, it is to shock the world by the want of feeling for our

shame! It is written that we are to be outcasts and live apart!

“May I come in, Loo?” said a low voice from the half-opened doorway. It

was her father, asking for the third time before she heard him.

She uttered a faint “Yes,” and tried to rise; but her strength failing,

she laid her head down again between her hands.

“What is this, darling?” he said, stooping down over her. “What bad

tidings have you got there? Tell me, Loo, for I may be able to lighten

your sorrow for you.”

“No,” said she, calmly, “that you cannot, for you cannot make me unlive

the past! Read that.”

“Well, I see nothing very formidable in this, dear. I can't suppose that

it is the loss of such a lover afflicts you. He has read them. Be it so.

They are now in your own hands, and neither he nor any other will ever

read them again. It would have been more interesting had he told us how

he came by them; that was something really worth knowing; for remember,

Loo,--and it is, after all, the great point,--these are documents you

were ready and willing to have bought up at a thousand pounds, or even

more. Paten often swore he 'd have three thousand for them, and there

they are now, safe in your own keeping, and not costing you one

shilling. Stay,” said he, laughing, “the postage was about one-and-

sixpence.”

“And is it nothing to cost me open shame and ignominy? Is it nothing

that, instead of one man, two now have read the dark tracings of my

degraded heart? Oh, father, even _you_ might feel for the misery of

exposure!”

“But it is not exposure: it is the very opposite; it is, of all things,

the most secret and secure. When these letters are burned, what

accusation remains against you? The memory of two loose men about town.

But who 'll believe them, or who cares if they be believed? Bethink you

that every one in this world is maligned by somebody, and finds somebody

else to credit the scandal. Give me a bishop to blacken to-morrow, and

see if I won't have a public to adopt the libel. No, no, Loo; it's a

small affliction, believe me, that one is able to dispose of with a

lucifer-match. Here, girl, give them to me, and never waste another

thought on them.”

“No,” said she, resolutely, “I 'll not burn them. Whatever I may ask of

the world to think of me, I do not mean to play the hypocrite to myself.

Lend me your hand, and fetch me a glass of water. I cannot meet these

people tonight. You must go over to the inn, and say that I am ill,--

call it a headache,--and add that I hope by to-morrow I shall be quite

well again.”

“Nay, nay, let them come, dear, and the very exertion will cheer you.

You promised that American to sing him one of his nigger melodies,--

don't forget that.”

“Go and tell them that I have been obliged to take to bed, father,” said

she, in a hollow voice. “It is no falsehood to call me very ill.”

“My dear Loo,” said he, caressingly, “all this is so unlike yourself.

You, that never lacked courage in your life! _you_, that never knew what

it was to be faint-hearted!”

“Well, you see me a coward at last,” said she, in a faint voice. “Go and

do as I bade you, father; for this is no whim, believe me.”

The old man muttered out some indistinct grumblings, and left the room

on his errand.

She had not been many minutes alone when she heard the sharp sounds of

feet on the gravel, and could mark the voices of persons speaking

together with rapidity. One she quickly recognized as her father's, the

other she soon knew to be Trover's. The last words he uttered as he

reached the door were, “Arrested at once!”

“Who is to be arrested at once?” cried she, rushing wildly to the door.

“We, if we are caught!” said Holmes. “There's no time for explanation

now. Get your traps together, and let us be off in quick time.”

“It is good counsel he gives you,” said Trover. “The game is up, and

nothing but flight can save us. The great question is, which way to go.”

She pressed her hands to her temples for a moment, and then, as if

recalled, by the peril, to her old activity of thought and action,

said,--

“Let Johann fetch his cousin quickly; they both row well, and the boat

is ready at the foot of the garden. We can reach Rorschach in a couple

of hours, and make our way over to St. Gall.”

“And then?” asked Trover, peevishly.

“We are, at least, in a mountain region, where there are neither

railroads nor telegraphs.”

“She is right. Her plan is a good one, Trover,” broke in Holmes. “Go

fetch what things you mean to take with you, and come back at once. We

shall be ready by that time.”

“If there be danger, why go back at all?” said she. “Remember, I know

nothing of the perils that you speak of, nor do I ask to know till we

are on the road out of them. But stay here, and help us to get our pack

made.”

“Now you are yourself again! now I know you, Loo,” said Holmes, in a

tone of triumph.

In less than half an hoar after they were skimming across the Lake of

Constance as fast as a light skiff and strong arms could bear them. The

night was still and calm, though dark, and the water without a ripple.

For some time after they left the shore scarcely a word was spoken

amongst them. At last Holmes whispered something in his daughter's ear,

and she rejoined aloud,--

“Yes, it is time to tell me now; for, though I have submitted myself to

your judgment in this hasty flight, I am not quite sure the peril was as

imminent as you believed it What did you mean by talking of an arrest?

Who could arrest us? And for what?”

“You shall hear,” said Trover; “and perhaps, when you have heard, you

'll agree that I was not exaggerating our danger.”

Not wishing to impose on our reader the minute details into which he

entered, and the narrative of which lasted almost till they reached the

middle of the lake, we shall give in a few words the substance of his

story. While dressing for dinner at the inn, he saw a carriage with four

posters arrive, and, in a very few minutes after, heard a loud voice

inquiring for Mr. Harvey Winthrop. Suddenly struck by the strangeness of

such a demand, he hastened to gain a small room adjoining Winthrop's,

and from which a door communicated, by standing close to which he could

overhear all that passed.

He had but reached the room and locked the door, when he heard the

sounds of a hearty welcome and recognition exchanged within. The

stranger spoke with an American accent, and very soon placed the

question of his nationality beyond a doubt.

“You would not believe,” said he, “that I have been in pursuit of you

for a matter of more than three thousand miles. I went down to Norfolk

and to St Louis, and was in full chase into the Far West, when I found I

was on the wrong tack; so I 'wore ship' and came over to Europe.” After

satisfying, in some degree, the astonishment this declaration excited,

he went on to tell how he, through a chance acquaintance at first, and

afterwards a close friendship with the Laytons, came to the knowledge of

the story of the Jersey murder, and the bequest of the dying man on his

daughter's behalf, his interest being all the more strongly engaged

because every one of the localities was familiar to him, and his own

brother a tenant on the very land. All the arts he had deployed to trace

out the girl's claim, and all the efforts, with the aid of the Laytons,

he had made to find out Winthrop himself, he patiently recounted,

mentioning his accidental companionship with Trover, and the furtive

mode in which that man had escaped him. It was, however, by that very

flight Trevor confirmed the suspicion he had attached to him, and so the

stranger continued to show that from the hour of his escape they had

never “lost the track.” How they had crossed the Atlantic he next

recorded,--all their days spent in discussing the one theme; no other

incident or event ever occupying a moment's attention. “We were certain

of two things,” said he: “there was a deep snare, and that girl was its

victim.” He confessed that if to himself the inquiry possessed a deep

interest, with old Layton it had become a passion.

“At last,” continued Trover, “he began to confess that their hopes fell,

and each day's discomfiture served to chill the ardor that had sustained

them, when a strange and most unlooked-for light broke in upon them by

the discovery of a few lines of a note written by you to Dr. Layton

himself years before, and, being produced, was at once recognized as the

handwriting of Mrs. Penthony Morris.”

“Written by _me!_ How could I have written to him? I never heard of

him,” broke she in.

“Yes, he was the doctor who attended Hawke in his last illness, and it

appeared you wrote to beg he would cut off a lock of hair for you, and

bring it to you.”

“I remember that,” said she, in a hollow voice, “though I never

remembered his name was Layton. And he has this note still?”

“You shall hear. No sooner had his son--”

“You cannot mean Alfred Layton?”

“Yes; the same. No sooner had he declared that he knew the hand, than

they immediately traced you in Mrs. Penthony Morris, and knowing that

Stocmar had become the girl's guardian, they lost no time in finding him

out. I was too much flurried and terrified at this moment to collect

clearly what followed, but I gathered that the elder Layton held over

him some threat which, if pushed to execution, might ruin him. By means

of this menace, they made Stocmar confess everything. He told who Clara

was, how he had gained possession of her, under what name she went, and

where she was then living. Through some influence which I cannot trace,

they interested a secretary of state in their case, and started for the

Continent with strong letters from the English authorities, and a

detective officer specially engaged to communicate with the foreign

officials, and permit, when the proofs might justify, of an arrest.”

“How much do they know, then?” asked she, calmly.

“They know everything. They know of the forged will, the false

certificate of death, and Winthrop has confirmed the knowledge.

Fortunately, I have secured the more important document I hastened to

his room while they were yet talking, opened his desk, and carried away

the will. As to the certificate, the Laytons and the detective had set

off for Meisner the moment after reaching Bregenz, to establish its

forged character.”

“Who cares for that?” said she, carelessly. “It is a trifling offence.

Where is the other,--the will?”

“I have it here,” said he, pointing to his breast-pocket

“Let us make a bonfire, then,” said she, “for I, too, have some

inconvenient records to get rid of. I thought of keeping them as

memories, but I suspect I shall need no reminders.”

While Trover tore the forged will in pieces, she did the like by the

letters, and, a match being applied to the fragments, the flames rose

up, and in a few seconds the blackened remnants were carried away by the

winds, and lost.

“So, then, Mr. Trover,” said she, at length, “Norfolk Island has been

defrauded of your society for this time. By the way, papa, is not this

Dr. Layton your friend as well as mine?”

“Yes, Loo, he is the man of ozone and vulcanized zinc, and I don't know

what else. I hoped he had died ere this.”

“No, papa, they don't die. If you remark, you 'll see that the people

whose mission it is to torment are wonderfully long-lived, and if I were

an assurance agent, I 'd take far more account of men's tempers than

their gout tendencies and dropsies. Was there any allusion to papa, Mr.

Trover?”

“Yes; old Layton seems to have a warrant, or something of the kind,

against him, on a grave charge, but I had no mind to hear what.”

“So that, I suppose,” said she, laughing, “I am the only 'innocent' in

the company; for _you_ know, Mr. Trover, that I forged nothing,

falsified nothing; I was betrayed, by my natural simplicity of

character, into believing that a fortune was left me. I never dreamed

that Mr. Trover was a villain.”

“I don't know how you take it so easily. We have escaped transportation,

it is true, but we have not escaped public shame and exposure,” said

Trover, peevishly.

“She's right, though, Trover,--she's right. One never gets in the true

frame of mind to meet difficulties till one is able to laugh a little at

them.”

“Not to mention,” added she, “that there is a ludicrous side in all

troubles. I wonder how poor dear Mr. Winthrop bears his disappointment,

worse than mine, in so far that he has travelled three thousand miles to

attain it.”

“Oh, he professes to be charmed. I heard him say, 'Well, Quackinboss, I

'm better pleased to know that the poor girl is alive than to have a

million of dollars left me.

“You don't say the stranger was Quackinboss, the dear Yankee we were all

so fond of long ago at Marlia, and whom I never could make in love with

me, though I did my very best? Oh, father, is it not provoking to think

of all the old friends we are running away from? Colonel Quackinboss,

Dr. Layton, and Alfred! every one of them so linked to us by one tender

thought or another. What a charming little dinner we might have had to-

morrow; the old doctor would have taken me in, whispering a little

doleful word, as we went, about the Hawke's Nest, and long ago; and you

and he would have had your scientific talk afterwards!”

How old Holmes laughed at the pleasant conceit! It was really refreshing

to see that good old man so cheery and light of heart; the very boat

shook with his jollity.

“Listen!--do listen!” said Trover, in an accent of terror. “I'm certain

I heard the sound of oars following us.”

“Stop rowing for a moment,” said she to the boatmen; and as the swift

skiff glided noiselessly along, she bent down her head to listen. “Yes,”

said she, in a low, quiet voice, “Trover is right; there is a boat in

pursuit, and they, too, have ceased pulling now, to trace us. Ha! there

they go again, and for Lindau too; they have heard, perhaps, the stroke

of oars in that direction.”

“Let our fellows pull manfully, then, and we are safe,” cried Trover,

eagerly.

“No, no,” said she, in the same calm, collected tone. “The moon has set,

and there will be perfect darkness till the day breaks, full two hours

off. We must be still, so long as they are within hearing of us. I know

well, Trover, what a tax this imposes on your courage, but it can't be

helped.”

“Just so, Trover,” chimed in Holmes. “She commands here, and there must

be no mutiny.”

The wretched man groaned heavily, but uttered no word of reply.

“I wish that great chemical friend of yours, papa,--the wonderful Dr.

Layton,--had turned his marvellous mind to the invention of invisible

fire. I am dying for a cigar now, and I am afraid to light one.”

“Don't think of it, for mercy's sake!” broke in Trover.

“Pray calm yourself, I have not the slightest fancy for being overtaken

by this interesting party, nor do I think papa has either,--not that our

meeting could have any consequence beyond mere unpleasantness. If they

should come up with us, I am as ready to denounce the deceitful Mr.

Trover as any of them.”

“This is very poor jesting, I must say,” muttered he, angrily.

“You'll find it, perhaps, a very serious earnest if we're caught.”

“Come, come, Loo, forgive him; he certainly meant all for the best. I 'm

sure you did, Trover,” said old Holmes, with the blandest of voices.

“Why, what on earth do you mean?” cried he. “You are just as deep in the

plot as I am. But for you, how should I have known about Hawke's having

any property in America, or that he had any heir to it?”

“I am not naturally suspicious, Trover,” said she, with mock gravity,

“but I declare I begin to believe you are a bad man,--a very bad man!”

“I hope and trust not, Loo,” said old Holmes, fervently; “I really hope

not.”

“It is no common baseness that seeks for its victim the widow and the

fatherless. Please to put that rug under my feet, Trover. There are

barristers would give their eye-tooth for such an opening for invective.

I have one fat friend in my eye would take the brief for mere pleasure

of blackguarding you. You know whom I mean, papa.”

“You may push a joke too far, Mrs. Morris,--or Mrs. Hawke, rather,” said

Trover, rudely, “for I don't know by which name you will be pleased to

be known in future.”

“I am thinking very seriously of taking a new one, Trover, and the

gentleman who is to share it with me will probably answer all your

inquiries on that and every other subject. I trust, too, that he will

meet us to-morrow.”

“Well, if I were Trover, I'd not pester him with questions,” said

Holmes, laughingly.

“Don't you think they might take to their oars again, now?” asked

Trover, in a very beseeching tone.

“Poor Mr. Trover!” said she, with a little laugh. “It is really very

hard on him! I have a notion that this night's pleasuring on the Lake of

Constance will be one of the least grateful of his recollections.” Then

turning to the boatmen, she bade them “give way” with a will, and pull

their best for Rorschach.

From this time out nothing was said aloud, but Holmes and his daughter

spoke eagerly together in whispers, while Trover sat apart, his head

turned towards where the shadow of large mountains indicated the shore

of the lake.

“A'n't you happy now, Mr. Trover?” said she, at length, as the boat

glided into a little cove, where a number of fishing-craft lay at

anchor. “A'n't you happy?”

Either smarting under what he felt the sarcasm of her question, or too

deeply immersed in his own thoughts, he made no reply whatever, but as

the boat grated on the shingly beach he sprang out and gained the land.

In another minute the boatmen had drawn the skiff high and dry, on the

sand, and assisted the others to disembark.

“How forgetful you are of all gallant attentions!” said she, as Trover

stood looking on, and never offering any assistance whatever. “Have you

got any silver in your purse, papa?”

“I can't see what these pieces are,” said Holmes, trying to peer through

the darkness.

“Pay these people, Trover,” said she, “and be liberal with them.

Remember from what fate they have saved you.” And as she spoke she

handed him her purse. “We'll saunter slowly up to the village, and you

can follow us.”

Trover called the men around him, and proceeded to settle their fare,

while Holmes and his daughter proceeded at an easy pace inland.

“How much was there in your purse, Loo?” asked Holmes.

“Something under twenty Napoleons, papa; but it will be quite enough.”

“Enough for what, dear?”

“Enough to tempt poor Mr. Trover. We shall never see more of him.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I am certain of it. He was thinking of nothing else than how to make

his escape all the time we were crossing the lake, and I, too, had no

more pressing anxiety than how to get rid of him. Had I offered him a

certain sum, we should have had him for a pensioner as long as he lived,

but by making him steal the money I force him to be his own security

that he 'll never come back again. It was for this that I persisted in

acting on his fears in the boat; the more wretched we made him the

cheaper he became, and when he heaved that last heavy sigh, I took ten

Napoleons off his price.”

Holmes had to stop walking, and hold his hands to his sides with

laughter. The device seemed to him about the best practical joke he had

ever heard of. Then ceasing suddenly, he said,--

“But what if he were to go back to the others, Loo, and turn approver

against us?”

“We are safe enough on that score. He has nothing to tell them that they

do not know already. They have got to the bottom of all the mystery, and

they don't want him.”

“Still it seems to me, Loo, that it might have been safer to keep him

along with us,--under our eye, as it were.”

“Not at all, papa. It is as in a shipwreck, where the plank that will

save two will sink with three. The stratagem that will rescue _us_ would

be probably marred by _him_, and, besides, he'll provide for his own

safety better than we should.”

Thus talking, they entered the little village, where, although not yet

daybreak, a small _café_ was open,--one of those humble refreshment-

houses frequented by peasants on their way to their daily toil.

“Let us breakfast here,” said she, “while they are getting ready some

light carriage to carry us on to St. Grail. I have an old friend there,

the prior of the monastery, who used to be very desirous to convert me

long ago. I intend to give him a week or ten days' trial now, papa; and

he may also, if he feel so disposed, experiment upon _you_.”

It was in this easy chit-chat they sat down to their coffee in the

little inn at Rorschach. They were soon, however, on the road again,

sealed in a little country carriage drawn by a stout mountain pony.

“Strange enough all this adventure seems,” said she, as they ascended

the steep mountain on foot, to relieve the weary beast. “Sometimes it

appears all like a dream to me, and now, when I look over the lake

there, and see the distant spires of Bregenz yonder, I begin to believe

that there is reality in it, and that we are acting in a true drama.”

Holmes paid but little attention to her words, wrapped up as he was in

some details he was reading in a newspaper he had carried away from the

_Café_.

“What have you found to interest you so much there, papa?” asked she, at

last.

Still he made no reply, but read on.

“It can scarcely be that you are grown a politician again,” continued

she, laughingly, “and pretend to care for Austria or for Italy.”

“This is all about Paten,” said he, eagerly. “There's the whole account

of it.”

“Account of what?” cried she, trying to snatch the paper from him.

“Of his death.”

“His death! Is he dead? Is Paten dead?” She had to clutch his arm as she

spoke to support herself, and it was only with the greatest difficulty

that she kept her feet. “How was it? Tell me how he came by his death.

Was it O'Shea?”

“No, he was killed. The man who did it has given himself up, alleging

that it was in an altercation between them; a pistol, aimed at his own

breast, discharged its contents in Paten's.”

She tore the paper from his hand, and, tottering over to a bank on the

roadside, bent down to read it. Holmes continued to talk over the event

and all the details, but she did not hear what he said. She had but

senses for the lines she was perusing.

“I thought at first it was O'Shea in some disguise. But it cannot be;

for see, they remark here that this man has been observed loitering

about Baden ever since Paten arrived. Oh, here's the mystery,” cried

she. “His name is Collier.”

“That was an old debt between them,” said Holmes.

“I hope there will be no discovery as to Paten's real name. It would so

certainly revive the old scandal.”

“We can scarcely expect such good luck as that, Loo. There is but one

thing to do, dear; we must put the sea between us and our calumniators.”

“How did O'Shea come by the letters if he had no hand in it?”

“Perhaps he had; perhaps it was a concerted thing; perhaps he bought up

the letters from Collier afterwards. Is it of the least consequence to

us how he got them?”

“Yes, Collier might have read them,” said she, in a hollow voice; and as

Holmes, startled by the tones, turned round, he saw that she had a

sickening faintness over her, and that she trembled violently.

“Where's your old courage, Loo?” said he, cheeringly. “Paten is gone,

Collier has a good chance of being sent after him, and here we are,

almost the only actors left of the whole drama.”

“That's true, papa, very true; and as we shall have to play in the

afterpiece, the sooner we get the tragedy out of our heads the better.”

They remounted the carriage, and went on their way. There, where the

beech-trees bend across the road, it is there they have just

disappeared! The brisk tramp of the pony can be heard even yet; it grows

fainter and fainter, and only the light train of dust now marks their

passage. They are gone; and we are to see them no more!

CHAPTER VIII. CONSULTATION

Every host has had some experience of the fact that there are guests of

whom he takes leave at the drawing-room door, and others who require

that he should accompany them to the very frontier of his kingdom, and

only part with as they step into their carriage. The characters of a

story represent each of these classes. Some make their exit quietly,

unobtrusively; they slip away with a little gesture of the hand, or a

mere look to say adieu. Others arise with a pretentious dignity from

their places, and, in the ruffle of their voluminous plumage, seem to

say, “When we spread out our wings for flight, the small birds may

flutter away to their nests.” It is needless that we should tell our

readers that we have reached that critical moment. The dull roll of

carriages to the door, and the clank of the let-down steps tell that the

hour of departure has arrived, and that the entertainer will very soon

be left all alone, without “One of Them.”

As in the real world, no greater solecism can be committed than to beg

the uprising guest to reseat himself, nor is there any measure more

certain of disastrous failure; so in fiction, when there is a move in

the company, the sooner they all go the better.

While I am painfully impressed with this fact,--while I know and feel

that my last words must be very like the leave-takings of that tiresome

button-holder who, great-coated and muffled himself, will yet like to

detain you in the cold current of a doorway,--I am yet sensible of the

deference due to those who have indulgently accompanied me through my

story, and would desire to leave no questions unanswered with regard to

those who have figured before him.

Mr. Trover, having overheard the dialogue which had such an intimate

bearing on his own fortunes, lost no time, as we have seen, in quitting

the hotel at Bregenz; and although Winthrop expected to see him at

dinner, he was not surprised to hear that he had left a message to say

he had gone over to the cottage to dine with Mrs. Hawke. It was with an

evident sense of relief that the honest American learned this fact.

There was something too repulsive to his nature in the thought of

sitting down at the same table in apparent good fellowship with the man

whom he knew to be a villain, and whose villany a very few hours would

expose to the world; but what was to be done? Quackinboss had insisted

on the point; he had made him give a solemn pledge to make no change in

his manner towards Trover till such tine as the Laytons had returned

with full and incontestable proofs of his guilt.

“We'll spoil everything, sir,” said Quackinboss, “if we harpoon him in

deep water. We must go cautiously to work, and drive him up, gradually,

towards the shallows, where, if one miss, another can strike him.”

Winthrop was well pleased to hear that the “chase” was at least

deferred, and that he was to dine _tète-à-tête_ with his true-hearted

countryman.

Hour after hour went over, and in their eager discussion of the

complicated intrigue they had unravelled, they lost all recollection of

Trover or his absence. It was the character of the woman which absorbed

their entire thoughts; and while Winthrop quoted her letters, so full of

beautiful sentiments, so elevated, and so refined, Quackinboss related

many little traits of her captivating manner and winning address.

“It's all the same in natur', sir,” said he, summing up. “Where will you

see prettier berries than on the deadly nightshade? and do you think

that they was made to look so temptin' for nothing? Or wasn't it jest

for a lesson to us to say, 'Be on your guard, stranger; what's good to

look at may be mortal bad to feed on.' There's many a warnin' in things

that don't talk with our tongues, but have a language of their own.”

“Very true all that, sir,” resumed the other; “but it was always a

puzzle to me why people with such good faculties would make so bad a use

of them.”

“Ain't it all clear enough they was meant for examples,--jest that and

no more? You see that clever fellow yonder; he can do fifty things you

and I could n't; he has got brains for this, that, and t'other. Well, if

he's a rogue, he won't be satisfied with workin' them brains God has

given him, because he has no right sense of thankfulness in his heart,

but he 'll be counterfitin' all sorts of brains that he has n't got at

all: these are the devil's gifts, and they do the devil's work.”

“I know one thing,” said Winthrop, doggedly, “it is that sort of folk

make the best way in life.”

“Clear wrong--all straight on end--unsound doctrine that, sir. We never

think of countin' the failures, the chaps that are in jail, or at the

galleys, or maybe hanged. We only take the two or three successful

rogues that figure in high places, and we say, 'So much for knavery'.

Now let me jest ask you, How did they come there? Was n't it by pretend

in' to be good men? Wasn't it by mock charity, mock patriotism, mock

sentiment in fifty ways, supported now and then by a bit of real action,

just as a forger always slips a real gold piece amongst his

counterfeits? And what is all this but sayin' the way to be prosperous

is to be good--”

“Or to seem good!” broke in Winthrop.

“Well, sir, the less we question seemin' the better! I 'd rather be

taken in every day of the week than I 'd go on doubtin' every hour of

the day, and I believe one must come very nigh to either at last.”

As they thus chatted, a light post-carriage rolled into the inn yard,

and Dr. Layton and Alfred hastily got out and made for the apartment of

their friends.

“Just as I said,--just as I foretold,--the certificate forged, without

giving themselves the trouble to falsify the register,” broke in Layton.

“We have seen the book at Meisner, and it records the death of a certain

serving-woman, Esther Baumhardt, who was buried there seven years ago.

All proves that these people, in planning this knavery, calculated on

never meeting an opponent.”

“Where is this Mr. Trover?” said Alfred. “I thought we should find him

here in all the abandonment of friendly ease.”

“He dined at the cottage with his other friends,” said Winthrop, “for

the which I owe him all my gratitude, for I own to you I had sore

misgivings about sitting down with him.”

“I could n't have done it,” broke in the old doctor. “My first mouthful

would have choked me. As it is, while I wait to denounce his guilt, I

have an uneasy sense of complicity, as though I knew of a crime and had

not proclaimed it to the world.”

“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, and with a sententious slowness, “I ain't

minded like either of you. _My_ platform is this: Rogues is varmin; they

are to the rest of mankind what wolves and hyenas is to the domestic

animals. Now, it would not be good policy or good sport to pison these

critturs. What they desarve is to be hunted down! It is a rare stimulus

to a fellow's blood to chase a villain. Since I have been on this trail

I feel a matter of ten years younger.”

“And I am impatient to follow up the chase,” said the doctor, who in his

eagerness walked up and down the room with a fretful anxiety.

“Remember,” said Alfred, “that however satisfied we ourselves may be on

every point of these people's culpability, we have no authority to

arrest them, or bring them to justice. We can set the law in motion, but

not usurp its action.”

“And are they to be let go free?” asked Quackinboss. “Is it when we have

run 'em to earth we 're to call off the dogs and go home?”

“He's right, though, Colonel,” said Winthrop. “Down in our country,

mayhap, we 'd find half a dozen gentlemen who'd make Mr. Trover's trial

a very speedy affair; but here we must follow other fashions.”

“Our detective friend says that he'll not leave them till you have

received authority from home to demand their extradition,” said the

doctor. “I take it for granted forgery is an offence in every land in

Europe, and, at all events, no State can have any interest in wishing to

screen them.”

While they thus talked, Alfred Layton rang the bell, and inquired if Mr.

Trover had returned.

The waiter said, “No.”

“Why do you ask?” said the doctor. “It just occurred to me that he might

have seen us as we drove up. He knows the Colonel and myself well.”

“And you suspect that he is off, Alfred?”

“It is not so very unlikely.”

“Let us down to the cottage, then, and learn this at once,” said

Quackinboss; “I 'd be sore riled if he was to slip his cable while we

thought him hard aground.”

“Yes,” said the doctor. “We need not necessarily go and ask for him;

Winthrop can just drop in to say a 'good-evening,' while we wait

outside.”

“I wish you had chosen a craftier messenger,” said Winthrop, laughing.

And now, taking their hats, they set out for the Gebhardts-Berg.

Alfred contrived to slip his arm within that of Quackinboss, and while

the others went on in front, he sauntered slowly after with the Colonel.

He had been anxiously waiting for a moment when they could talk

together, and for some days back it had not been possible. If the others

were entirely absorbed in the pursuit of those who had planned this

scheme of fraud, Alfred had but one thought,--and that was Clara. It was

not as the great heiress he regarded her, not as the owner of a vast

property, all at her own disposal; he thought of the sad story that

awaited her,--the terrible revelation of her father's death, and the

scarcely less harrowing history of her who had supplied the place of

mother to her. “She will have to learn all this,” thought he, “and at

the moment that she hears herself called rich and independent, she will

have to hear of the open shame and punishment of one who, whatever the

relations between them, had called her her child, and assumed to treat

her as her own.”

To make known all these to Quackinboss, and to induce him, if he could,

to regard them in the same light that they appeared to himself, was

young Layton's object. Withoat any preface he told all his fears and

anxieties. He pictured the condition of a young girl entering life

alone, heralded by a scandal that would soon spread over all Europe.

Would not any poverty with obscurity be better than fortune on such

conditions? Of what avail could wealth be, when every employment of it

would bring up an odious history? and lastly, how reconcile Clara

herself to the enjoyment of her good fortune, if it came associated with

the bitter memory of others in suffering and in durance? If he knew

anything of Clara's heart, he thought that the sorrow would far outweigh

the joy the tidings of her changed condition would bring her; at least,

he hoped that he had so read her nature aright, and it was thus that he

had construed it.

If Quackinboss had none of that refined appreciation of sentiment which

in a certain measure is the conventionality of a class, he had what is

infinitely and immeasurably superior, a true-hearted sympathy with

everything human. He was sorely sorry for “that widow-woman.” He had

forgotten none of the charms she threw around their evenings at Marlia

long ago, and he was slow to think that these fascinations should always

be exercised as snares and deceptions, and, last of all, as he said, “We

have never heard _her_ story yet,--we know nothing of how she has been

tried.”

“What is it, then, that you propose to do?” asked the Colonel, at the

end of a somewhat rambling and confused exposition by young Layton.

“Simply this: abandon all pursuit of these people; spare them and spare

ourselves the pain and misery of a public shame. Their plot has failed;

they will never attempt to renew it in any shape; and, above all, let

not Clara begin the bright path before her by having to pass through a

shadow of suffering and sorrow.”

“Ay, there is much in what you say; and now that we have run the game to

earth, I have my misgivings that we were not yielding ourselves more to

the ardor of the pursuit than stimulated by any love of justice.”

While they were thus talking, the others had passed the little wicket

and entered the garden of the cottage. Struck by the quietness and the

unlighted windows, they knocked hastily at the door. A question and

answer revealed all, and the doctor called out aloud, “They are off!

They are away!”

Young Layton pressed Quackinboss's hand, and whispered, “Thank Heaven

for it!”

If Winthrop laughed heartily at an escape that struck him as so cleverly

effected, the doctor, far more eager in pursuit than the others, passed

into the house to interrogate the people,--learn when and how and in

what direction they had fled, and trace, if so it might be, the cause of

this sudden departure.

“See,” cried he, as the others entered the drawing-room,--“see what a

sudden retreat it has been! They were at their coffee; here is her

shawl, too, just as she may have thrown it off; and here a heap of

papers and letters, half burned, on the hearth.”

“One thing is clear enough,” said Alfred; “they discovered that they had

lost the battle, and they have abandoned the field.”

“What do I see here?” cried the doctor, as he picked up a half-burned

sheet of paper from the mass. “This is my own writing--my application to

the Patent Office, when I was prosecuting my discovery of corrugated

steel! When and how could it have come here?”

“Who can 'My dear father' be?” asked Quackinboss, examining a letter

which he had lifted from the floor. “Oh, here's his name: 'Captain

Nicholas Holmes'--”

“Nick Holmes!” exclaimed the doctor; “the fellow who stole my invention,

and threw me into a madhouse! What of him? Who writes to him as 'dear

father'?”

“Our widow, no less,” said the Colonel. “It is a few lines to say she is

just setting out for Florence, and will be with him within the week.”

“And this scoundrel was her father!” muttered the old doctor. “Only

think of all the scores that we should have had to settle if we had had

the luck to be here an hour ago! I thrashed him once in the public

streets, it's true, but we are far from being quits yet. Come, let's

lose no time, but after them at once.”

Alfred made no reply, but turned a look on Quackinboss, as thongh to

bespeak his interference.

“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, slowly, “so long as the pursuit involved

a something to find out, no man was hotter arter it than I was; but now

that we know all, that we have baffled our adversaries and beaten 'em, I

ain't a-goin' to distress myself for a mere vengeance.”

“Which means that these people are to go at large, free to practise

their knaveries on others, and carry into other families the misery we

have seen them inflict here. Is that your meaning?” asked the doctor,

angrily.

“I can't tell what they are a-goin' to do hereafter, nor, maybe, can you

either, sir. It may be, that with changed hearts they 'll try another

way of livin'; it may be that they 'll see roguery ain't the best thing;

it may be--who's to say how?--that all they have gone through of trouble

and care and anxiety has made them long since sick of such a wearisome

existence, and that, though not very strong in virtue, they are right

glad to be out of the pains of vice, whatever and wherever they may be.

At all events, Shaver Quackinboss has done with 'em, and if it was only

a-goin' the length of the garden to take them this minute, I 'd jest

say, 'No, tell 'em to slope off, and leave me alone.'”

“Let me tell you, sir, these are not your home maxims, and, for my part,

I like Lynch law better than lax justice,” said the doctor, angrily.

“Lynch law has its good and its bad side,” said Quackinboss, “and,

mayhap, if you come to consider the thing coolly, you 'll see that if I

was rejecting rigid legality here, it was but to take the benefit of

Judge Lynch, only this time for mercy, and not for punishment.”

“Ah, there is something in that!” cried the doctor. “You have made a

stronger case for yourself than I looked for; still, I owed that fellow

a vengeance!”

“It's the only debt a man is dishonored in the payin', sir. You know far

more of life than I do, but did you ever meet the man yet that was sorry

for having forgiven an injury? I'm not sayin' that he mightn't have felt

disappointed or discouraged by the result,--his enemy, as he'd call him,

mightn't have turned out what he ought; but that ain't the question: did

you _ever_ see one man who could say, after the lapse of years, 'I wish

I had borne more malice,--I'm sorry I was n't more cruel'?”

“Let them go, and let us forget them,” said the old man, as he turned

and left the room.

Young Layton grasped the Colonel's hand, and shook it warmly, as he

said, “This victory is all your own.”

CHAPTER IX. WORDS OF GOOD CHEER

When the key-note of some long-sought mystery has sounded, there is a

strange fascination in going over and over the theme, now wondering why

we had not been more struck by this or that fact, how we could have

overlooked the importance of this incident or that coincidence. Trivial

events come up to memory as missing links in the chain of proof, and

small circumstances and chance words are brought up to fill the measure

of complete conviction.

It was thus that this party of four sat almost till daybreak talking

over the past. Each had some era to speak of as especially his own.

Winthrop could tell of Godfrey Hawke when he came a young man to the

States, and married his niece, the belle and the heiress of her native

city. He remembered all the praises bestowed upon the young Englishman's

manners and accomplishments, together with the graver forebodings of

others, who had remarked his inordinate love of play and his

indifference as to the company in which he indulged it. Next came the

doctor, with his recollections of the man broken down by dissipation and

excess, and at last dying of poison. There was but little, indeed, to

recall the handsome Godfrey Hawke in the attenuated figure and distorted

countenance of that miserable debauchee; but there were chance traits of

manner that brought up the man to Winthrop's mind. There were also on

the scene his beautiful wife, at that time in the fulness of her beauty.

What a charm of gentleness, too, did she possess!--how meekly and

patiently did she bear herself under provocations that seemed too great

for human endurance! The doctor had to own that she actually forfeited

some of his sympathy by the impression she gave him of being one

deficient in a nice sense of self-esteem, and wanting in that element of

resistance without which there is no real dignity of nature. “She seemed

to me,” said he, “too craven, too abject by half,--one of those who are

born to be the subject of a tyranny, and who, in their very submission,

appear to court the wanton cruelty of an 'oppressor'. How rightly I read

her!” cried he; “how truly I deciphered the inscription on her heart!

and yet, I'll be sworn, no man living could have detected under that

mask of gentleness this woman of long-pondering craft, this deeply

designing plotter!”

“Quackinboss and I saw her under another aspect,” said Alfred. “She was

depressed and sad, but only so much so as gave an added charm to the

grace of her captivations, and made her every effort to please appear

somewhat of a sacrifice of herself for those around her.”

“Well, ain't it strange, gentlemen,” said Quackinboss, “but it's a fact,

she never deceived _me?_ I remember the day of our visit at Marlia;

after that adventure with the dog she fainted, and I took her up in my

arms and carried her to the house. I thought, by course, she was

insensible. Not a bit of it; she rallied enough to open her eyes, and

give me one of the most wonderful looks ever I see in my life. It was

just like saying, 'Shaver, are you quite certain that you have n't got

in your arms one of the loveliest creatures as ever was formed? Are you

sure, Shaver Quackinboss, that you are ever to have such another piece

of luck as this?' And so certain was I that I heerd these very words in

my ear, that I said aloud, 'Darn me pale blue if I don't wish the house

was half a mile away!' And the words wasn't well out than she burst out

a-laughin',--such a hearty, joyous laugh, too, that I knew in my heart

she had neither pain nor ache, and was only a-foxin'. Well, gentlemen,

we always had a way of lookin' at each other arter that was quite

peculiar; it was sayin', 'Never fear, all's on honor here.' That was, at

least, how I meant it, and I have a notion that she understood me as

well. I have a strong notion that we understand these women critturs

better than you Britishers!”

“You must leave _me_ out of the category of the shrewd ones, however,”

said Winthrop. “I saw her but once in my life, and yet I never came away

from a visit with the same amount of favorable impression. She met me

like an old friend, but at the same time there was a delicacy and

reserve about her that seemed to say, 'It is for _you_ to ratify this

compact if you like. When _you_ sign the treaty, it is finished.'”

From the discussion of the past they proceeded to the future, upon which

all felt that Winthrop could speak with most authority, since he was

Clara's kinsman and guardian.

“What do you mean to do by the gal, sir?” asked the Colonel.

“I intend to see her as soon as I can, give her the good news of her

accession to fortune, and leave her to choose whether she will come back

with me to the States, or would prefer that I should remain with her in

Europe.”

“And ain't there any other alternative possible in the case, sir?” asked

Quackinboss. “Does n't it strike you as just possible that she might say

'No' to each of these proposals, and fix another one for herself?”

“I don't quite understand you, Colonel,” said the other.

“I ain't a-goin' to talk riddles, sir. What I mean is, that the young

woman may have other thoughts in her head than either of your plans; and

now I 'll call upon my honor'ble friend, Mr. Alfred Layton, to address

the House.”

Crimson with shame and confusion, young Layton turned an imploring look

at Quackinboss; but the Colonel was indifferent to the appeal, and waved

his hand as if bespeaking silence.

“It is rather for me to speak here,” said the doctor. “My son has to

begin life with a large arrear of his father's faults to redeem. He has

to restore to our name, by conduct and honorable bearing, the fair

repute that once attached to it. Honest industry is the safe and sure

road to this, and there is no other. He has promised to try and bring

back to me in _his_ name the suffrages of that university which I

forfeited in _mine_. If he succeed, he will have made me proud of him.”

“I like that,” broke in Quackinboss. “Square it all first with them

critturs in the college, and then think of a wife. Go at it, sir, and

work like a nigger; there ain't nothing will give you such courage as

the very fatigue of a hard day's work. When you lie down at night so

dead beat that you could n't do more, you 'll feel that you 've earned

your rest, and you 'll not lie awake with misgivin's and fancies, but

you 'll sleep with a good conscience, and arise refreshed the next

mornin'.”

“Alfred and I settled it all between us last night,” said the doctor.

“There was but one point we could not arrange to our satisfaction. We

are largely indebted to you--”

“Stop her!” cried the Colonel, as though he were giving the word from

the paddle-box of a steamer,--“stop her! I ain't in a humor to be angry

with any one. I feel as how, when the world goes so well as it has done

lately with us all, that it would be main ungrateful to show a peevish

or discontented spirit, and I don't believe that there 's a way to rile

me but one,--jest one,--and you 've a-hit on 't. Yes, sir, you have!”

Quackinboss began his speech calmly enough, but before he finished it

his voice assumed a hard and harsh tone very rare with him.

“Remember, my dear and true-hearted friend,” broke in Alfred, “that it's

only of one debt we are eager to acquit ourselves. Of all that we owe

you in affection and in gratitude, we are satisfied to stand in your

books as long as we live.”

“I ain't a-goin' to square accounts,” said the Colonel; “but if I was, I

know well that I'd stand with a long balance ag'in' me. Meat and drink,

sir, is good things, but they ain't as good for a man as liberal

thoughts, kind feelin's, and a generous trust in one's neighbor. Well, I

've picked up a little of all three from that young man there, and a

smatterin' of other things besides that I 'd never have lamed when

barking oak in the bush.”

Old Layton shook his head in dissent, and muttered,--

“You may cancel the bond, but we cannot forget the debt.”

“Let me arbitrate between you,” said Winthrop.

“Leave the question at rest till this day twelvemonth. Let each give his

word not to approach it; and then time, that will have taught us many a

thing in the mean while, will supply the best expedient.”

They gave their hands to each other in solemn pledge, and not a word was

uttered, and the compact was ratified.

“We shall leave this for England to-night,” said the doctor.

“Not, surely, till you come as far as Milan first?” asked Winthrop.

“He's right,--he 's quite right!” said Quackinboss. “If a man has a

Polar voyage afore him, it 's no way to harden his constitution by

passin' a winter at Palermo. Ain't I right, sir?”

It was not difficult to see that Alfred Layton did not yield a very

willing assent to this arrangement; but he stole away from the room

unperceived, and carried his sorrow with him to his chamber. He had

scarcely closed his door, however, when he heard Quackinboss's voice

outside.

“I ain't a-comin' to disturb you,” said he, entering; “but I have a word

or two to say, and, mayhap, can't find another time to say it. You 'll

be wantin' a trifle or so to begin with before you can turn to earn

something for yourself. You 'll find it there in that pocket-book,--look

to it now, sir, I'll have no opposition,--it's the best investment ever

I had. You 'll marry this girl; yes, there ain't a doubt about that, and

mayhap, one of these days I 'll be a-comin to you to ask favorable terms

for my cousin Obadiah B. Quackinboss, that's located down there in your

own diggin's, and you 'll say, 'Well, Colonel, I ain't forgotten old

times; we was thick as thieves once on a time, and so fix it all your

own way.'”

Alfred could but squeeze the other's hand as he turned away, his heart

too full for him to speak.

“I like your father, sir,” resumed Quackinboss; “he's a grand fellow,

and if it war n't for some of his prejudices about the States, I 'd say

I never met a finer man.”

Young Layton saw well how by this digression the American was adroitly

endeavoring to draw the conversation into another direction, and one

less pregnant with exciting emotions.

“Yes, sir, he ain't fair to us,” resumed the Colonel. “He forgets that

we 're a new people, and jest as hard at work to build up our new

civilization as our new cities.”

“There's one thing he never does, never can forget,--that the warmest,

fastest friend his son ever met with in life came from your country.”

“Well, sir, if there be anything we Yankees are famed for, it is the

beneficial employment of our spare capital. We don't sit down content

with three-and-a-half or four per cent interest, like you Britishers, we

look upon _that_ as a downright waste; and it's jest the same with our

feelin's as our dollars, though _you_ of the old country don't think so.

We can't afford to wait thirty, or five-and-thirty years for a

friendship. We want lively sales, sir, and quick returns. We want to

know if a man mean kindly by us afore we 've both of us got too old to

care for it. That 's how I come to like you first, and I war n't so far

out in thinkin' that I 'd made a good investment.”

Alfred could only smile good-humoredly at the speech, and the other went

on,--

“You Britishers begin by givin' us Yankees certain national traits and

habits, and you won't let us be anything but what you have already

fashioned us in your own minds. But, arter all, I'd have you to remember

we are far more like your people of a century back than you yourselves

are. We ain't as mealy-mouthed and as p'lite and as smooth-tongued as

the moderns. But if we 're plain of speech, we are simple of habit; and

what you so often set down as rudeness in us ain't anything more than

our wish to declare that we ain't in want of any one's help or

assistance, but we are able to shift for ourselves, and are

independent.”

Quackinboss arose, as he said this, with the air of a man who had

discharged his conscience of a load. He had often smarted under what he

felt to be the unfair appreciation of the old doctor for America, and he

thought that by instilling sounder principles into his son's mind, the

seed would one day or other produce good fruit.

From this he led Alfred to talk of his plans for the future. It was his

father's earnest desire that he should seek collegiate honors in the

university which had once repudiated himself. The old man did not

altogether arraign the justice of the act, but he longed to see his name

once more in a place of honor, and that the traditions of his own

triumphs should be renewed in his son's.

“If I succeed,” said Alfred, “it will be time enough afterwards to say

what next.”

“You'll marry that gal, sir, and come out to the States. I see it all as

if I read it in a book.”

Alfred shook his head doubtfully, and was silent.

“Well, I 'm a-goin' to Milan with Harvey Winthrop; and when I see the

country, as we say, I 'll tell you about the clearin'.”

“You'll write to me too?”

“That I will. It may be that she won't have outright forgotten me, and

if so, she 'll be more friendly with me than an uncle she has never seen

nor known about. I 'll soon find out if her head's turned by all this

good luck, or if, as I hope, the fortune has fallen on one as deserved

it. Mayhap she 'll be for goin' over to America at once; mayhap she 'll

have a turn for doing it grand here, in Europe. Harvey Winthrop says she

'll have money enough to buy up one of these little German States, and

be a princess if she likes; at all events you shall hear, and then in

about a month hence look out for me some fine evening, for I tell you,

sir, I've got so used to it now, that I can't get through the day

without a talk with you; and though the doctor and I do have a bout now

and then over the Yankees, I 'd like to see the man who 'd abuse America

before him, and say one word against England in the face of Shaver

Quackinboss.”

CHAPTER X. THE LETTER FROM ALFRED LAYTON

When Sir William Heathcote learned that Mrs. Morris had quitted his

house, gone without one word of adieu, his mind reverted to all the

bygone differences with his son, and to Charles did he at once ascribe

the cause of her sudden flight. His health was in that state in which

agitation becomes a serious complication, and for several days he was

dangerously ill, violent paroxysms of passion alternating with long

intervals of apathy and unconsciousness. The very sight of Charles in

his room would immediately bring on one of his attacks of excitement,

and even the presence of May Leslie herself brought him no alleviation

of suffering. It was in vain that she assured him that Mrs. Morris left

on reasons known only to herself; that even to May herself she had

explained nothing, written nothing. The old man obstinately repeated his

conviction that she had been made the victim of an intrigue, and that

Charles was at the bottom of it. How poor May strove to combat this

unjust and unworthy suspicion, how eagerly she defended him she loved,

and how much the more she learned to love for the defending of him.

Charles, too, in this painful emergency, displayed a moderation and

self-control for which May had never given him credit. Not a hasty word

or impatient expression escaped him, and he was unceasing in every

attention to his father which he could render without the old man's

knowledge. It was a very sad household; on every side there was sickness

and sorrow, but few of those consolations that alleviate pain or lighten

suffering. Sir William desired to be left almost always alone; Charles

walked moodily by himself in the garden; and May kept her room, and

seldom left it. Lord Agincourt came daily to ask after them, but could

see no one. Even Charles avoided meeting him, and merely sent him a

verbal message, or a few hasty lines with a pencil.

Upwards of a week had passed in this manner, when, among the letters

from the post, which Charles usually opened and only half read through,

came a very long epistle from Alfred Layton. His name was on the corner

of the envelope, and, seeing it, Charles tossed the letter carelessly

across the table to May, saying, in a peevish irony, “You may care to

see what your old admirer has to say; as for me, I have no such

curiosity.”

She paid no attention to the rude speech, and went on with her

breakfast.

“You don't mean to say,” cried he, in the same pettish tone, “that you

don't care what there may be in that letter? It may have some great

piece of good fortune to announce. He may have become a celebrity, a

rich man,--Heaven knows what. This may contain the offer of his hand.

Come, May, don't despise destiny; break the seal and read your fate.”

She made no answer, but, rising from the table, left the room.

It was one of those days on which young Heathcote's temper so completely

mastered him that in anger with himself he would quarrel with his

dearest friend. Fortunately, they were now very rare with him, but when

they did come he was their slave. When on service and in the field,

these were the intervals in which his intrepid bravery, stimulated to

very madness, had won him fame and honor; and none, not even himself,

knew that some of his most splendid successes were reckless indifference

to life. His friends, however, learned to remark that Heathcote was no

companion at such times, and they usually avoided him.

He sat on at the breakfast-table, not eating, or indeed well conscious

where he was, when the door was hastily thrown open, and Agincourt

entered. “Well, old fellow,” cried he, “I have unearthed you at last.

Your servants have most nobly resisted all my attempts to force a

passage or bribe my way to you, and it was only by a stratagem that I

contrived to slip past the porter and pass in.”

“You have cost the fellow his place, then,” said Charles, rudely; “he

shall be sent away to-day.”

“Nonsense, Charley; none of this moroseness with me.”

“And why not with _you?_” cried the other, violently. “Why not with

_you?_ You'll not presume to say that the accident of your station gives

you the privilege of intruding where others are denied? You 'll not

pretend that?”

A deep flush covered the young man's face, and his eyes flashed angrily;

but just as quickly a softened expression came over his countenance, and

in a voice of mingled kindness and bantering, he said, “I 'll tell you

what I 'll pretend, Charley; I'll pretend to say that you love me too

sincerely to mean to offend me, even when a harsh speech has escaped you

in a moment of haste or anger.”

“Offend you!” exclaimed Heathcote, with the air of a man utterly puzzled

and confused,--“offend you! How could I dream of offending you? You were

not used to be touchy, Agincourt; what, in the name of wonder, could

make you fancy I meant offence?”

The look of his face, the very accent in which he spoke, were so

unaffectedly honest and sincere that the youth saw at once how

unconsciously his rude speech had escaped him, and that not a trace of

it remained in his memory.

“I have been so anxious to see you, Charley,” said he, in his usual

tone, “for some days back. I wanted to consult you about O'Shea. My

uncle has given me an appointment for him, and I can't find out where he

is. Then there 's another thing; that strange Yankee, Quackinboss,--you

remember him at Marlia, long ago. He found out, by some means, that I

was at the hotel here, and he writes to beg I 'll engage I can't say how

many rooms for himself and some friends who are to arrive this evening.

I don't think you are listening to me, are you?”

“Yes, I hear you,--go on.”

“I mean to clear out of the diggin's if these Yankees come, and you must

tell me where to go. I don't dislike the 'Kernal,' but his following

would be awful, eh?”

“Yes, quite so.”

“What do you mean by 'Yes'? Is it that you agree with me, or that you

haven't paid the slightest attention to one word I've said?”

“Look here, Agincourt,” said Charley, passing his arm inside the

other's, and leading him up and down the room. “I wish I had not changed

my mind; I wish I had gone to India. I have utterly failed in all that I

hoped to have done here, and I have made my poor father more unhappy

than ever.”

“Is he so determined to marry this widow, then?”

“She is gone. She left us more than a week ago, without saying why or

for whither. I have not the slightest clew to her conduct, nor can I

guess where she is.”

“When was it she left this?”

“On Wednesday week last.”

“The very day O'Shea started.”

They each looked steadfastly at the other; and at last Agincourt said,--

“Would n't that be a strange solution of the riddle, Charley? On the

last night we dined together you may remember I promised to try what I

could make of the negotiation; and so I praised the widow, extolled her

beauty, and hinted that she was exactly the clever sort of woman that

helps a man on to fortune.”

“How I wish I had gone to India!” muttered Charles, and so immersed in

his own cares as not to hear one word the other was saying.

“If I were to talk in that way, Charley, you 'd be the very first to

call out, What selfishness! what an utter indifference to all feelings

but your own! You are merely dealing with certain points that affect

yourself, and you forget a girl that loves you.”

“Am I so sure of that? Am I quite certain that an old attachment--she

owned to me herself that she liked him, that tutor fellow of yours--has

not a stronger hold on her heart than I have? There 's a letter from

him. I have n't opened it I have a sort of half suspicion that when I do

read it I 'll have a violent desire to shoot him. It is just as if I

knew that, inside that packet there, was an insult awaiting me, and yet

I 'd like to spare myself the anger it will cause me when I break the

seal; and so I walk round the table and look at the letter, and turn it

over, and at last--” With the word he tore open the envelope, and

unfolded the note. “Has he not given me enough of it? One, two, three,

ay, four pages! When a man writes at such length, he is certain to be

either very tiresome or very disagreeable, not to say that I never cared

much for your friend Mr. Layton; he gave himself airs with us poor

unlettered folk--”

“Come, come, Charley; if you were not in an ill mood, you 'd never say

anything so ungenerous.”

It was possible that he felt the rebuke to be just, for he did not

reply, but, seating himself in the window, began to read the letter.

More than once did Agincourt make some remark, or ask some question. Of

even his movements of impatience Heathcote took no note, as, deeply

immersed in the contents of the letter, he continued to read on.

“Well, I'll leave you for a while, Charley,” said he, at last; “perhaps

I may drop in to see you this evening.”

“Wait; stay where you are!” said Heathcote, abruptly, and yet not

lifting his eyes from the lines before him. “What a story!--what a

terrible story!” muttered he to himself. Then beckoning to Agincourt to

come near, he caught him by the arm, and in a low whisper said, “Who do

you think she turns out to be? The widow of Godfrey Hawke!”

“I never so much as heard of Godfrey Hawke.”

“Oh, I forgot; you were an infant at the time. But surely you must have

heard or read of that murder at Jersey?--a well-known gambler, named

Hawke, poisoned by his associates, while on a visit at his house.”

“And who is she?”

“Mrs. Penthony Morris. Here's the whole story. But begin at the

beginning.”

Seated side by side, they now proceeded to read the letter over

together, nor did either speak a word till it was finished.

“And to be so jolly with all that on her mind!” exclaimed Agincourt.

“Why, she most have the courage of half a dozen men.”

“I now begin to read the meaning of many things I never could make out

her love of retirement,--she, a woman essentially of the world and

society, estranging herself from every one; her strange relations with

Clara, a thing which used to puzzle me beyond measure; and lastly, her

remarkable injunction to me when we parted, her prayer to be forgotten,

or, at least, never mentioned.”

“You did not tell me of that.”

“Nor was it my intention to have done so now; it escaped me

involuntarily.”

“And what is to become of Clara?”

“Don't you see that she has found an uncle,--this Mr. Winthrop,--with

whom, and our friend Quackinboss, she is to arrive at Rome to-night or

to-morrow?”

“Oh, these are the friends for whom I was to bespeak an apartment; so,

then, I 'll not leave my hotel. I 'm delighted to have such neighbors.”

“May ought to go and meet her; she ought to bring her here, and of

course she will do so. But, first of all, to show her this letter; or

shall I merely tell her certain parts of it?”

“I 'd let her read every line of it, and I 'd give it to Sir William

also.”

Charles started at the counsel; but after a moment he said, “I believe

you are right. The sooner we clear away these mysteries, the sooner we

shall deal frankly together.”

“I have come to beg your pardon, May,” said Charles, as he stood on the

sill of her door. “I could scarcely hope you 'd grant it save from very

pity for me, for I have gone through much this last day or two. But,

besides your pardon, I want your advice. When you have read over that

letter,--read it twice,--I 'll come back again.”

May made him no answer, but, taking the letter, turned away. He closed

the door noiselessly, and left her. Whatever may be the shock a man

experiences on learning that the individual with whom for a space of

time he has been associating on terms of easy intimacy should turn out

to be one notorious in crime or infamous in character, to a woman the

revulsion of feeling under like circumstances is tenfold more painful.

It is not alone that such casualties are so much more rare, but in the

confidences between women there is so much more interchange of thought

and feeling that the shock is proportionately greater. That a man should

be arraigned before a tribunal is a stain, but to a woman it is a brand

burned upon her forever.

There had been a time when May and Mrs. Morris lived together as

sisters. May had felt all the influence of a character more formed than

her own, and of one who, gifted and accomplished as she was, knew how to

extend that influence with consummate craft. In those long-ago days May

had confided to her every secret of her heart,--her early discontents

with Charles Heathcote; her pettish misgivings about the easy confidence

of his security; her half flirtation with young Layton, daily inclining

towards something more serious still. She recalled to mind, too, how

Mrs. Morris had encouraged her irritation against Charles, magnifying

all his failings into faults, and exaggerating the natural indolence of

his nature into the studied indifference of one “sure of his bond.” And

last of all she thought of her in her relations with Clara,--poor Clara,

whose heart, overflowing with affection, had been repelled and schooled

into a mere mockery of sentiment.

That her own fortune had been wasted and dissipated by this woman she

well knew. Without hesitation or inquiry, May had signed everything that

was put before her, and now she really could not tell what remained to

her of all that wealth of which she used to hear so much and care so

little.

These thoughts tracked her along every line of the letter, and through

all the terrible details she was reading; the woman herself, in her

craft and subtlety, absorbed her entire attention. Even when she had

read to the end, and learned the tidings of Clara's fortune, her mind

would involuntarily turn back to Mrs. Penthony Morris and her wiles. It

was in an actual terror at the picture her mind had drawn of this deep

designing woman that Charles found her sitting with the letter before

her, and her eyes staring wildly and on vacancy.

“I see, May,” said he, gently taking her hand, and seating himself at

her side, “this dreadful letter has shocked _you_, as it has shocked

_me_; but remember, dearest, we are only looking back at a peril we have

all escaped. She has _not_ separated us; she has not involved us in the

disgrace of relationship to her; she is not one of us; she is not

anything even to poor Clara; and though we may feel how narrowly we have

avoided all our dangers, let us be grateful for that safety for which we

really contributed nothing ourselves. Is it not so, dearest May? We have

gained the harbor, and never knew that we had crossed a quicksand.”

“And, after all, Charles, painful as all this is now, and must be when

remembered hereafter, it is not without its good side. We will all draw

closer to each other, and love more fondly where we can trust

implicitly.”

“And you forgive me, May?”

“Certainly not--if you assume forgiveness in that fashion!”

Now, though this true history records that May Leslie arose with a deep

flush upon her cheek, and her massy roll of glossy hair somewhat

dishevelled, there is no mention of what the precise fashion was in

which Charles Heathcote sued out his pardon; nor, indeed, with our own

narrow experiences of such incidents, do we care to hazard a conjecture.

“And now as to my father, May. How much of this letter shall we tell

him?”

“All; every word of it. It will pain him, as it has pained us, or even

more; but, that pain once over, he will come back, without one reserved

thought, to all his old affection for us, and we shall be happy as we

used to be.”

CHAPTER XI. AN EAGER GUEST

When Lord Agincoort returned to his hotel, he was astonished to see

waiters passing in and out of his apartment with trays covered with

dishes, decanters of wine, and plates of fruit; but as he caught the

deep tone of O'Shea's voice from within, he quickly understood how that

free-and-easy personage was making himself at home.

“Oh, it is here you are!” said Agincourt, entering; “and Charley and I

have been just speculating whether you might not have been expiating

some of your transgressions in an Austrian jail.”

“I am here, as you perceive,” said the O'Shea, wiping his lips with his

napkin, “and doing indifferently well, too. By the way they treat me, I

'm given to believe that your credit stands well with the hotel people.”

“When did you arrive?”

“An hour ago; just in time to make them roast that hedgehog. They call

it a sucking-pig, but I know it's a hedgehog, though I was eight-and-

forty hours without eating.”

“How was that?”

“This way,” said he, as he drew out the lining of his pockets, and

showed that they were perfectly empty. “I just left myself enough for

the diligence fare from Bologna, and one roll of bread and a pint of

wine as I started; since that I have tasted nothing but the pleasures of

hope. Don't talk to me, therefore, or talk away, but don't expect me to

answer you for fifteen minutes more.”

Agincourt nodded, and seated himself at the table, in quiet

contemplation of the O'Shea's performance. “I got an answer to my letter

about you,” said he, at length, and rather curious to watch the struggle

between his hunger and his curiosity.

O'Shea gave a nod, as though to say “Proceed;” but Agincourt said

nothing.

“Well, go on!” cried O'Shea, as he helped himself to half a duck.

“It's a long-winded sort of epistle,” said Agincourt, now determined to

try his patience to the uttermost. “I 'll have to show it to you.”

“Is it Yes or No?” asked O'Shea, eagerly, and almost choking himself

with the effort to speak.

“That's pretty much how you take it. You see, my uncle is one of those

formal old fellows trained in official life, and who have a horror of

doing anything against the traditions of a department--”

“Well, well, well! but can't he say whether he 'll give me something or

not?”

“So he does say it, but you interrupt me at every moment. When you have

read through his letter, you 'll be able to appreciate the difficulties

of his position, and also decide on what you think most conducive to

your own interests.”

O'Shea groaned heavily, as he placed the remainder of the duck on his

plate.

“What of your duel? How did it go off?”

“Beautifully.”

“Did your man behave well?”

“Beautifully.”

“Was he hit?”

A shake of the head.

“Was the Frenchman wounded?”

“Here--flesh wound--nothing serious.”

“That's all right. I'll leave you now, to finish your lunch in quiet.

You 'll find me on the Pincian when you stroll out.”

“Look here! Don't go! Wait a bit! I want you to tell me in one word,--

can I get anything or not?”

The intense earnestness of his face as he spoke would have made any

further tantalizing such a cruelty that Agincourt answered frankly,

“Yes, old fellow, they 've made you a Boundary Commissioner; I forget

where, but you're to have a thousand a year, and some allowances

besides.”

“This is n't a joke? You 're telling me truth?” asked he, trembling all

over with anxiety.

“On honor,” said Agincourt, giving his hand.

“You 're a trump, then; upon my conscience, you 're a trump. Here I am

now, close upon eight-and-thirty,--I don't look it by five years, but I

am,--and after sitting for four sessions in Parliament, not a man did I

ever find would do me a hand's turn, but it 's to a brat of a boy I owe

the only bit of good fortune of my whole life. That's what I call hard,-

-very hard.”

“I don't perceive that it's very complimentary to myself, either,” said

Agincourt, struggling to keep down a laugh. But O'Shea was far too full

of his own cares to have any thought for another's, and he went on

muttering below his breath about national injustice and Saxon jealousy.

“You 'll accept this, then? Shall I say so?”

“I believe you will! I'd like to see myself refuse a thousand a-year and

pickings.”

“I suspect I know what you have in your mind, too. I 'll wager a pony

that I guess it. You 're planning to marry that pretty widow, and carry

her out with you.”

O'Shea grew crimson over face and forehead, and stared at the other

almost defiantly, without speaking.

“Ain't I right?” asked Agincourt, somewhat disconcerted by the look that

was bent upon him.

“You are not right; you were never more wrong in your life.”

“May be so; but you 'll find it a hard task to persuade me so.”

“I don't want to persuade you of anything; but this I know, that you 've

started a subject there that I won't talk on with you or any one else.

Do you mind me now? I 'm willing enough to owe you the berth you offered

me, but not upon conditions; do you perceive--no conditions.”

This was not a very intelligible speech, but Agincourt could detect the

drift of the speaker, and caught him cordially by the hand, and said,

“If I ever utter a word that offends you, I pledge my honor it will be

through inadvertence, and not intention.”

“That will do. I 'm your debtor, now, and without misgivings. I want to

see young Heathcote as soon as I can. Would I find him at home now?”

“I 'll get him over here to dine with us. We 'll have a jolly evening

together, and drink a boundless success to the Boundary Commissioner. If

I don't mistake, too, there 's another good fellow here would like to be

one of us.”

“Another! who can he be?”

“Here he comes to answer for himself.” And, as he spoke, Quackinboss

lounged into the room, with his hands deep in his trousers-pockets, and

his hat on his head.

“Well, sir, I hope I see you in good health,” said he to Agincourt.

“You've grown a bit since we met last, and you ain't so washy-lookin' as

you used to be.”

“Thanks. I 'm all right in health, and very glad to see you, besides. Is

not my friend here an old acquaintance of yours,--the O'Shea?”

“The O'Shea,” said Quackinboss, slowly, laying great stress upon the

definite article.

“The O'Shea! Yes, sir.”

“You may remember that we met at Lucca some time back,” said O'Shea, who

felt that the moment was embarrassing and unpleasant.

“Yes, sir. 'The Shaver' recollects you,” said he, in a slow, drawling

tone; “and if I ain't mortal mistaken, there's a little matter of

account unsettled between us.”

“I 'm not aware of any dealings between us,” said O'Shea, haughtily.

“Well, sir, _I_ am, and that comes pretty much to the same thing. You

came over to Lucca one day to see young Layton, and you saw me, and we

had a talk together about miscellaneous matters, and we didn't quite

agree, and we parted with the understandin' that we 'd go over the

figures again, and make the total all right. I hope, sir, you are with

me in all this?”

“Perfectly. I remember it all now. I went over to settle a difference I

had had with Layton, and you, with that amiable readiness for a fight

that distinguishes your countrymen, proposed a little row on your own

account; something--I forget what it was now--interfered with each of us

at the time, but we agreed to let it stand over and open for a future

occasion.”

“You talk like a printed book, sir. It's a downright treat to hear you.

Go on,” said the Colonel, seriously.

“It's my turn now,” broke in Agincourt, warmly, “and I must say, I

expected both more good sense and more generosity from either of you

than to make the first moment of a friendly meeting the occasion of

remembering an old grudge. You 'll not leave this room till you have

shaken hands, and become--what you are well capable of being--good

friends to each other.”

“I have no grudge against the Colonel,” said O'Shea, frankly.

“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, slowly, “I'm thinkin' Mr. Agincourt is

right. As John Randolf of Roanoke said, 'The men who are ready to settle

matters with the pistol are seldom slow to set them right on

persuasion.' Here 's my hand, sir.”

“You 'll both dine with me to-day, I hope,” said Agincourt. “My friend

here,” added he, taking O'Shea's arm, “has just received a Government

appointment, and we are bound to 'wet his commission' for him in some

good claret.”

They accepted the hospitable proposal readily, and now, at perfect ease

together, and without one embarrassing thought to disturb their

intercourse, they sat chatting away pleasantly for some time, when

suddenly Quackinboss started up, saying, “Darn me a pale pink, if I

haven't forgot all that I came about. Here 's how it was.” And as he

spoke, he took Agincourt to one side and whispered eagerly in his ear.

“But they know it all, my dear Colonel,” broke in Agincourt. “Charles

Heathcote has had the whole story in a long letter from Layton. I was

with him this morning when the post arrived, and I read the letter

myself; and, so far from entertaining any of the doubts you fear, they

are only impatient to see dear Clara once more and make her 'One of

Them.'”

“Well, sir, I 'm proud to know it,” said the Colonel, “not only because

it was my own readin' of 'em, but whenever I hear anything good or

generous, I feel as if--bein' a human crittur myself--I came in for some

of the credit of it. The doubt was never mine, sir. It was my friend,

Mr. Harvey Winthrop, that thought how, perhaps, there might be a

scruple, or a hesitation, or a sort of backwardness about knowin' a gal

with such a dreadful story tacked to her. 'In Eu-rôpe, sir,' says he,

'they won't have them sort of things; they ain't like our people, who

are noways displeased at a bit of notoriety.

“There!--look there!--the whole question is decided already,” said

Agincourt, as he drew the other towards the window and pointed to the

street below. “There go the two girls together; they have driven off in

that carriage, and Clara has her home once more in the midst of those

who love her.”

“I'm bound to say, sir,” said Quackinboss, after a moment's pause, “that

you Britishers are a fine people. You have, it is true, too many class

distinctions and grades of rank among you, but you have a main hearty

sympathy that teaches you to deal with human sufferin' as a thing that

makes all men kindred; and whenever it's your lot to have to do a

kindness, you double the benefit by the delicacy you throw into it.”

“That's a real good fellow,” said O'Shea, as Quackinboss quitted the

room.

“Is he not?” cried Agincourt. “If I ever harbor an ungenerous thought

about Yankees, I know how to correct it, by remembering that he 's 'One

of Them.'”

CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION

Most valued reader, can you number amongst your life experiences that

very suggestive one of revisiting some spot where you had once sojourned

pleasantly, with scarcely any of the surroundings which first

embellished it? With all the instruction and self-knowledge derivable

from such an incident, there is a considerable leaven of sorrow, and

even some bitterness. It is so very hard to believe that we are

ourselves more changed than all around. We could have sworn that

waterfall was twice as high, and certainly the lake used not to be the

mere pond we see it; and the cedars,--surely these are not the cedars we

were wont to sit under with Marian long ago? Oh dear! when I think that

I once fancied I could pass my life in this spot, and now I am actually

impatient for day-dawn that I may leave it!

With something of this humor three persons sat at sunset under the old

beech-trees at the Bagni di Lucca. They were characters in this true

history that we but passingly presented to our reader, and may well have

lapsed from his memory. They were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan and Mr. Mosely,

who had by the merest accident once more met and renewed acquaintance.

“My wife remembered you, sir, the moment you entered the _table d'hôte_

room. She said, 'There 's that young man of Trip and Mosely's, that we

saw here--was it three years ago?'”

“Possibly,” was the dry response. “My memory is scarcely so good.”

“You know I never forget a face, Tom,” broke in the lady.

“I constantly do,” said Mosely, tartly.

“Yes, but you must see so many people every day of your life, such

hordes passing in and passing out, as I said to Morgan, it's no wonder

at all if he can't remember us.”

Mr. Mosely had just burned his finger with a lucifer-match, and mattered

something not actually a benediction.

“Great changes over Italy--indeed, over all Europe--since we met last

here,” said Morgan, anxious to get discussion into a safer region.

“Yes, the Italians are behaving admirably; they 've shown the world that

they are fully capable of winning their liberty, and knowing how to

employ it.”

“Don't believe it, sir,--bigoted set of rascals,--it's all pillage,--

simple truth is, the Governments were all too good for them.”

“You're right, Tom; perfectly right.”

“He 'll not have many to agree with him, then; of that, madam, be well

assured. The sympathies of the whole world are with these people.”

“Sympathies!--I like to hear of sympathies! Why won't sympathies mend

the holes in their pantaloons, sir, and give them bread to eat?”

Mosely arose with impatience, and began to draw on his gloves.

“Oh, don't go for a moment, sir,” broke in the lady. “I am so curious to

hear if you know what became of the people we met the last time we were

here?”

“Which of them?”

“Well--indeed, I'd like to hear about all of them.”

“I believe I can tell you, then. The Heathcotes are living in Germany.

The young man is married to Miss Leslie, but no great catch either, for

she lost about two-thirds of her fortune in speculation; still, they've

got a fine place on the Elbe, near Dresden, and I saw them at the Opera

there a few nights ago.”

“And that young fellow--Layton, or Leighton--”

“Layton. He made a good thing of it. He married the girl they called

Miss Hawke, with a stunning fortune; their yacht is waiting for them now

at Leghorn. They say he's the first astronomer of the day. I can only

tell you, that if his wife be like her picture in this year's

Exhibition, she 's the handsomest woman in England. I heard it all from

Colonel Quackinboss.”

“And so you met Quackinboss?”

“Yes, he came out from England in Layton's schooner, and is now gone

down to join Garibaldi. He says, 'Come si fa?' is n't such a poor devil

as he once thought him; and if they do determine to strike a blow for

freedom, an American ought to be 'One of Them.'”

THE END.