George Manville Fenn (continued 6)

“No, no, no!” cried the doctor. “Absurd! It is a want of tone in the nerves—a little absence of mind. The liver is sluggish, and from its stoppage the brain gets affected.”

“Yes; that is what I feared,” cried Huish excitedly.

“Not as you mean, my dear boy,” cried the doctor. “When we say the brain is affected, we don’t always mean madness. What nonsense! The brain is affected when there are bad headaches—a little congestion, you know. These fits of absence are nothing more.”

“Nothing more, doctor?” said Huish dejectedly. “If I could only think so! Oh, my darling! my darling,” he whispered to himself, as his head came down upon his hands for a moment when he started up, for Dr Stonor’s hand was upon his arm. “Oh, doctor!” he cried in anguished tones, “I am haunted by these acts which I do and forget. I am constantly confronted with something or another that I cannot comprehend, and the dread is always growing on me that I shall some day be a wreck. Oh, I have been mad to link that poor girl’s life to such a life as mine! Doctor—doctor—tell me—what shall I do?”

“Be a man,” said the doctor quietly, “and don’t worry yourself by imagining more than is real. You are a deal better than when I saw you last. You have not worried yourself more about the bite?”

“No, I have hardly thought of it. Dog-bite? But tell me, doctor, would the virus from a dog-bite have any effect upon a man’s mental organisation?”

“Oh no, my dear boy; but you are better in health.”

“I felt so well and happy to-day,” he cried, “that all seemed sunshine. Now all is cloud.”

“Of course; yes!” said the doctor. “That shows you how much the imagination has to do with the mental state. The greater part of my patients are ill from anxiety. Now, look here, my dear John, the first thing you have to bear in mind is that every man is a screw. There may be much or little wrong, and it may vary from a tiny discoloration from rust, up to a completely worn-out worm or a broken head. Your little ailment is distressing; but so is every disorder. Keep yourself in good health, take matters coolly, and in place of getting worse you may get better, perhaps lose the absence of mind altogether. If you do not—bear it like a man. Why trouble about the inevitable? I am getting on in years now, and, my dear fellow, I know that some time or other I shall be lying upon my deathbed gasping for the last breath I shall have to draw. Now, my dear boy, do I sit down and make my life miserable because some day I have got to die? Does anybody do so except a fool, and those weakly-strung idiots who make death horrible when it is nothing but the calm rest and sleep that comes to the worn-out body? No; we accept the inevitable, enjoy life as it is given us, make the best of our troubles and pains, and thank God for everything. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, doctor, yes,” said the young man sadly. “But this is very dreadful!”

“So is a bad leg,” said the doctor sharply. “There, I’ll speak frankly to you if you’ll sit up and look me full in the face. Come, for your young wife’s sake, shake off this weak nervousness, and be ready to fight. Don’t lie down and ask disease to conquer you. Why, my dear boy, speaking as an old fisherman, you’re as sound as a roach, and as bright as a bleak. Be a man, for your wife’s sake, be a man!”

Huish drew a long breath. The doctor had touched the right chord, and he sat up, looking pale but more himself.

“Now then,” said the doctor, “I speak to you fairly as one who has had some experience of such matters, but who honestly owns that he finds life too short to master a thousandth part of what he ought to know. I say, then, look here,” he continued, thrusting his hands through his crisp hair, “your state puzzles me: pulse, countenance, eye, all say to me that you are quite well; but you every now and then contradict it. What I tell you, then, is this, and of it I feel sure. It lies in your power to follow either of two roads you please: You can be a healthy, vigorous man, clear of intellect, save a cloud or two now and then which you must treat as rainy days, or you can force yourself by your despondency into so low a mental state that you may become one of my patients. Now, then, which is it to be, my sturdy young married man? Answer for Gertrude’s sake.”

“There is only one answer,” cried Huish, springing up. “For Gertrude’s sake.”

“That’s right,” cried the doctor, shaking his hand warmly. “Spoken like a man.”

“But will you prescribe? Shall I take anything?”

“Bah! Stuff! Doctor’s stuff,” he added, laughing. “My dear boy, that dearly beloved, credulous creature, the human being, is never happy unless he is taking bottles and bottles of physic, and boxes and boxes of pills. Look at the fortunes made by it. Human nature will not believe that it can be cured without medicine, when in most cases it can. Why, my dear boy, your daily food is your medicine, your mental and bodily food. There, be off, go and enjoy the society of your dear little wife. Go and row her up the river, or drive her in the park; go in the country and pick buttercups, and run after butterflies, and eat bread-and-butter; sleep well, live well and innocently, and believe in the truest words ever written: ‘Care killed the cat!’ Don’t let it kill you.”

“No, I can’t afford to let it kill me,” said Huish, smiling.

“Never mind your sore finger, my boy; everybody has got a sore place, only they are divided into two classes: those who show them, and those who do not so much as wear a stall. Good-bye; God bless you, my boy! I wish I had your youth and strength, and pretty wife, and then—”

“Then what, doctor?” said Huish, smiling, and looking quite himself.

“Why, like you, you dog, I should not be satisfied. Be off; I shall come and see you soon. Where’s your address? Love to my little Gertrude; and John, tell her if—eh?—by-and-by—”

“Nonsense!” cried Huish, flushing with pleasure. “I shall tell her no such thing.”

“You will,” said the doctor, grinning. “Oh, that’s the address, eh? Westbourne Road. Good-bye.”

“I don’t understand him,” said the doctor thoughtfully, as soon as he was alone. “He is himself to-day; last time he was almost brutal. Heaven help him, poor fellow! if—No, no; I will not think that. But he is terribly unhinged at times.”

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Clotilde is Triumphant.

Palace Gardens, Kensington, was selected by Elbraham for the scene of his married life, and here he was to take the fair Clotilde upon their return from their Continental trip.

“It’s all bosh, Litton, that going across to Paris; and on one’s wedding day,” said the great financier. “Can’t we get off it?”

“Impossible, I should say,” replied Litton. “You see, you are bound to make yours the most stylish of the fashionable marriages of the season.”

“Oh yes, of course—that I don’t mind; and I’ll come out as handsome as you like for the things to do it with well; but I do kick against the run over to Paris the same day.”

“And why?” said Litton wonderingly.

“Well, the fact is, my boy, I never could go across the Channel without being terribly ill. Ill! that’s nothing to my feelings. I’m a regular martyr, and I feel disposed to strike against all that. Why not say the Lakes?”

“Too shabby and cockneyfied.”

“Wales?”

“Worse still.”

“Why not Scotland?”

“My dear sir, what man with a position to keep up would think of going there? I’ll consult Lady Littletown, if you like.”

“Lord, no; don’t do that,” said Elbraham. “She’s certain to say I must go to Paris; and so sure as ever I do have to cross, the Channel is at its worst.”

“But it is a very short passage, sir. You’ll soon be over; and in society a man of your position is forced to study appearances.”

“How the deuce can a fellow study appearances at a time like that?” growled Elbraham. “I always feel as if it would be a mercy to throw me overboard. ’Pon my soul I do.”

“I’ll see if I cannot fee the clerk of the weather for you, and get you a smooth passage this time,” said Litton, laughing; and the matter dropped.

There were endless other little matters to settle, in all of which Litton was the bridegroom’s ambassador, carrying presents, bringing back messages and notes, and in one way and another thoroughly ingratiating himself in Clotilde’s favour, that young lady condescending to smile upon him when he visited Hampton Court.

The Palace Gardens house was rapidly prepared, and, thanks to Arthur Litton, who had been consulted on both sides, and finally entrusted with the arrangements, everything was in so refined a style that there was but little room for envy to carp and condemn.

Certainly, Lady Littletown had had what Mr Elbraham called a finger in the pie, and had added no little by her advice and counsel in making the interior the model it was.

“For,” said Elbraham, in a little quiet dinner with her ladyship at Hampton, “I’m not particular to a few thousands. All I say is, let me have something to look at for my money; and I say, Litton, draw it mild, you know.”

“I don’t understand you,” said that gentleman. “Do you mean don’t have the decorations too showy?”

“Not I. Have ’em as showy as you like. Get out with you; how innocent we are!”

“Really, Mr Elbraham, I do not know what you mean,” said Litton stiffly.

“Go along with you,” chuckled Elbraham. “I say, draw it mild. Of course you’ll make your bit of commission with the furniture people; but draw it mild.”

Litton flushed with annoyance and indignation, probably on account of his having received a promise of a cheque for two hundred pounds from a firm if he placed the decorating and furnishing of Mr Elbraham’s new mansion in their hands.

A look from Lady Littletown quieted him, and that lady laughed most heartily.

“Oh, you funny man, Elbraham! really you are, you know, a very funny man.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” chuckled the financier; “I like my joke. But look here, Litton, I don’t get married every day, and want to do it well. I’m not going to put on the screw, I can tell you. You furnish the place spiff, and bring me the bills afterwards, and I’ll give you cheques for the amounts. If there is a bit of discount, have it and welcome; I shan’t complain so long as the thing is done well.”

So Arthur Litton contented himself with calling the financier “a coarse beast,” declined to be more fully offended, and aided by Lady Littletown, who worked hard for nothing but the kudos, furnished the house in admirable style, received the cheques from Elbraham, who really did pay without grumbling, and soothed his injured feelings with the very substantial commission which he received.

Upon one part of the decorations Lady Littletown prided herself immensely, and that was upon the addition to the drawing-room of a very spacious conservatory built upon the model of her own; and this she laboured hard to fill with choice foliage plants and gaily petalled exotics of her own selection.

Her carriage was seen daily at the principal florists’, and Elbraham had to write a very handsome cheque for what he called the “greenstuff”; but it was without a murmur, and he smiled with satisfaction as Lady Littletown triumphantly led him in to see the result of her toil.

“Yes,” he said, “tip-top—beats the C.P. hollow! Puts one a little in mind of what the Pantheon used to be when I was a boy.”

“But, my dear Elbraham, is that all you have to say?” exclaimed her ladyship.

“Well, since you put it like that, Lady Littletown, I won’t shilly-shally.”

“No, don’t—pray don’t. I like to hear you speak out, Elbraham—you are so original.”

“Oh, I am, am I?” he said. “Well, you know—well, I was going to say, don’t you think some of those statues are a little too prononsay, as you people call it, you know?”

“Naughty man!” exclaimed her ladyship. “I will not have fault found with a thing, especially as I brought our sweet Clotilde here, and she was perfectly charmed with all she saw. The flowers are really, really—”

“Well, they are not amiss,” said the financier; and he went up to a wreath of stephanotis with such evident intention of picking a “buttonhole” that Lady Littletown hooked him with the handle of her sunshade, uttering a scream of horror the while.

“Mustn’t touch—naughty boy!” she cried. “How could you?”

“Oh, all right,” said Elbraham, grinning hugely at the idea of not being allowed to touch his own property; and then he suffered himself to be led through the various rooms, one and all replete with the most refined luxuries of life.

“Now, you do think it is nice, my dear Elbraham?” said her ladyship.

“Nice? It’s clipping! Might have had a little more voluptuousness; but Litton says no, so I don’t complain. I say: Clotilde—you know, eh?”

“Yes, dear Elbraham. What of her?”

“She ought to be satisfied, eh?”

“She is charmed; she really loves the place. Come, I’ll tell you a secret. The darling—ah, but you’ll betray me?”

“No—honour bright!” cried Elbraham, laying his hand upon the side of his waistcoat.

“Well, I’ll tell you, then; but, mind, it is sacred.”

“Of course—of course.”

“The darling begged me to bring her up to see the delicious nest being prepared for her; but it was to be a stolen visit, for she said she could never look you in the face again if she thought you knew.”

“Dear girl!” ejaculated Elbraham. “Yes, she is so sweet and unworldly and innocent! Do you know, my dear Elbraham,” said Lady Littletown, “a man like you, for whom so many mothers were bidding—”

“Ah, yes, I used to get a few invitations,” said Elbraham complacently.

“I used to hear how terribly you flirted at Lady Millet’s with those two daughters,” said Lady Littletown playfully.

“By George! no. However, the old woman was always asking me to her at-homes and dinners, and to that wedding; but I never went.”

“I knew it,” said Lady Littletown to herself. “How mad she must be! Ah me!” she continued mournfully, “there are times when I feel as if I have done wrong in furthering this match.”

“The deuce you do! Why?” ejaculated Elbraham. “Because my sweet Clotilde is so unused to the ways of the world, and it is such a terrible stride from her present home to the head of such an establishment as this.”

“Oh, that be hanged!” cried Elbraham. “’Tis a change, of course—a precious great change from those skimpily-furnished apartments at Hampton Court.”

“But show is not everything, my dear Elbraham,” said Lady Littletown, laying a finger impressively upon the financier’s arm.

“No, it is not; but people like it. I’ll be bound to say Clotilde likes this place.”

“She was in raptures—she could hardly contain her delight. Her sweet innocent ways of showing her pleasure made my heart bound. Ah, Elbraham, you have won a prize!”

“So has she,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know but what she has got the best of the bargain.”

“Oh, you conceited man! how dare you say so? But it is only your quaintness.”

“I say, though,” cried Elbraham, “she did like the place?”

“I cannot tell you how much she was delighted.”

“Did she say anything about me?”

“Oh yes; she was prattling artlessly about you for long enough—about your kindness, your generosity, the richness of the jewels you had given her. You sadly extravagant man! I can’t tell you half what she said; but I really must take you to task for spoiling her so.”

Elbraham coughed and cleared his throat.

“Didn’t—er—er—she didn’t say anything about—about my dress—my personal appearance, did she?”

“Now, wasn’t I right when I called you a conceited man? Really, Elbraham, it is shocking! I declare you are one of the most anxious lovers I ever met, and I won’t tell you a word she said.”

“Oh yes; come now, do.”

“It would be a breach of confidence, and I really cannot give way—no, not on any consideration.”

“You are hard upon me,” said Elbraham. “Oh, by the way, I haven’t forgotten you, Lady Littletown. Would you wear this to oblige me?”

“Oh no, I could not think of taking it, Mr Elbraham really. It looks so like a bribe, too.”

“No, no, that it don’t,” said the financier. “I wouldn’t give it to you at first, for fear your ladyship should think I meant it in that way; but now it is all settled, and you have been so kind to me, I thought perhaps you would not mind accepting that little marquise ring just as a remembrance of, etcetera, etcetera—you know.”

“Well, if you put it like that,” said Lady Littletown, “I suppose I must take it, and wear it as you say. But it is too good, Elbraham—it is, really. What a lovely opal!”

“Yes, ’tis a good one, isn’t it?”

“Charming! And what regular diamonds!”

“I thought you’d like it,” chuckled Elbraham; and then, to himself, “They’re all alike.”

“Do you know, Elbraham,” said her ladyship, holding the ring up to the light for him to see, as she fitted it upon her finger over her glove—“lovely, isn’t it?—do you know, Elbraham, that I was going to ask you to do me a kindness?”

“Were you, though? What is it?”

“Well, you see, Elbraham, living, as I do, a woman’s life, I am so ignorant of business matters.”

“Of course you are,” he responded. “Want to make your will?”

“No, no, no, no! horrid man! How can you?” she cried, whipping him playfully with her sunshade. “I want you to tell me what it means when a gentleman is short of money and he goes to somebody to get a bill discounted.”

“Simplest thing in the world. If the paper’s good,” said Elbraham, “discount accordingly. I never touch bills now.”

“No?” she said sweetly; “but then you are so rich. But that is it, Elbraham—if the paper’s good, discount accordingly? What do you call it—the bill? Well, it is easy to have it on the very best note-paper.”

“Haw, haw, haw! bless your ladyship’s innocence!” cried Elbraham, with a hoarse laugh. “By paper being good I mean that the man who signs his name is substantial—can pay up when it comes to maturity.”

“Oh!” said Lady Littletown, drawing out the interjection in a singularly long way, “I see now. And that is how a gentleman raises money, is it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Elbraham, eyeing her ladyship curiously.

“Would not a lady do?” asked Lady Littletown.

“To be sure she would!” said the financier. “Lookye here—does your ladyship want a hundred or two?”

“Not to-morrow, dear Mr Elbraham; but my rents do not come in for another month, and I must confess to having been rather extravagant lately—I have had a great deal of company, and I thought I might—might—might—what do you call it?”

“Do a bill.”

“Yes, that’s it—do a bill,” said her ladyship, “if some kind friend would show me how.”

“It’s done,” said Elbraham. “What would you like—two-fifty?”

“Well, yes,” said her ladyship.

“Better make it three hundred—looks better,” said the financier.

“But you are not to advance the money, dear Mr Elbraham. I could not take it of you.”

“All right; I shan’t have anything to do with it. Someone in the City will send your ladyship a slip of paper to sign, and the cheque will come by the next post. I say, though, what did Clotilde say?”

“Oh, I daren’t tell you. Really, you know—pray don’t press me—I couldn’t confess. Dear Clotilde would be so angry if I betrayed her—dear girl! I could not do that, you know.”

“Honour bright, I wouldn’t say a word for the world.”

“Well, it’s very shocking, you know, Elbraham, and I was quite astonished to hear her say it; but she is so innocent and girlish, and it came out so naturally that I forgave her.”

“But what did she say?”

“Oh, dear child,” she clapped her hands together with delight, and then covered her blushing face and cried, “Oh, Lady Littletown, I wish it was to-morrow!”

“By Jingo!” exclaimed the financier to himself, “so do I!”

Everybody being in the same mind, the wedding was hurried on. The trousseau was of the most splendid character, and Marie entered into the spirit of the affair with such eagerness that the sisters forbore to quarrel.

Mr Montaigne came and went far more frequently, and seemed to bless his pupils in an almost apostolic fashion.

“I would give much,” he said, with a gentle, pious look of longing, “to be able to perform the ceremony which joins two loving hearts.”

But three eminent divines were to tie that knot, and even if Mr Paul Montaigne had been in holy orders according to the rites and ceremonies of the English Church, his services would not have been demanded, and he contented himself with smiling benignly and offering a few kindly words of advice.

Miss Dymcox and the Honourable Isabella were rather at odds on the question of intimacy, and Captain Glen would have been religiously excluded from the precincts of Hampton Court Palace private apartments if the Honourable Philippa had had her way; but Lady Littletown took it as a matter of course that several of the officers of the barracks should be invited, to add éclat to the proceedings, and as the Honourable Isabella sided with her, invitation-cards were sent, and, for reasons that Glen could not have explained to himself, were accepted.

“Yes, I’ll go, if it’s only to show her that I am not cast down. I’ll go and see her married. I’ll see her sell herself into slavery, and I hope she may never repent her step.”

The next hour, though, he said he would not go, and he was about to keep to his determination, when Dick came in, and announced that he had received an invitation.

“You’ll go, of course?”

“Go? No; why should I?”

“Just to show that you are a man of the world; no woman should fool me and make me seem like the chap in the song—‘wasting in despair—die, because a woman’s fair’—you know. Oh, I’d go.”

Glen sat thinking for awhile.

“I wouldn’t be cut up, you know.”

“If I thought that she threw me over of her own free will, Dick, I would not care a sou; but I believe that wicked old hag, her aunt Philippa, has forced her into it.”

“Then you need not care a sou.”

“How do you know?”

“Marie told me she accepted Elbraham for his coin.”

“Yes; she intimated as much to me.”

“She did! When?”

“Oh, the other day—the last time I saw her—when I had been to the private apartments, you know.”

“Oh yes. Ah, to be sure,” said Dick, who seemed much relieved. “Oh, I’d go, dear boy; I would indeed.”

“I will go,” said Glen with energy; and on the appointed day he went.

Hampton Court had not seen a more brilliant wedding for years, and the preparations at the Honourable Misses Dymcox’s apartments so completely put Joseph off his head that he, the reputable young man who preached temperance to Buddy the flyman, and was carefully saving up all his money to add to the savings of Markes for the purpose of taking a lodging-house, was compelled to fly to stimulants to sustain him.

The very way in which the dining-room was “done up,” as he called it, “with flowers and things” staggered him, and it seemed no wonder that the greeny stone basin in the middle court should sound quite noisy as the big squirt in the centre made more ambitious efforts than usual to mount the sky, and the old gold and silver fish stared more wonderingly as they sailed round and round.

But Joseph was not alone in being off his head and flying to stimulants; even cook was as bad, and was found by Markes standing at the door and talking to a soldier—the greatest treason in Markes’ eyes that a woman could commit—and reprimanded thereon, with the consequence that cook rebounded like a spring, and struck the austere, temperate, unloving Markes.

It was no wonder, for the sacred department of cook had been invaded by strange men in white apparel to such an extent that from being angry she grew hysterical, and went to Markes, apologetic and meek, for comfort, vowing that she couldn’t “abear” soldiers; but she was so humbled by the austere damsel that she turned to Joseph, who administered to her from the same cup as that wherefrom he obtained his relief.

The wearers of the white caps and jackets brought a batterie de cuisine, bombarded and captured the room set apart for cooking, and then and there proceeded to build up strange edifices of sugar, concoct soups, sweets, and all and sundry of those meats which are used to furnish forth a wedding feast.

The cases of wines that came in took away Joseph’s breath, but he revived a little at the sight of the flowers, and shortly afterwards relapsed, staying in a peculiarly misty state of mind and a new suit of livery to the end of the proceedings, during which time he had a faint recollection of seeing the Honourable Philippa greatly excited and the Honourable Isabella very tremulous, as they went about in new dresses, made in the style worn by the late Queen Adelaide, making them both bear some resemblance to a couple of human sprigs of lavender, taken out, carefully preserved, from some old box, where they had been lying for the past half-century.

It was a very troublous time, and Joseph wished his head had been a little clearer than it was. Those wide-spreading Queen Adelaide bonnets and feathers seemed to dance before his eyes and to confuse him. So did the constantly arriving company; but, still, he recalled a great deal. For instance, he had a lively recollection of the smell of his “bokay,” as he called it; of the young ladies going to the service at the church and coming back in a carriage, behind which he stood with an enormous white favour and the bouquet in his breast, while some boys shouted “Hurray!” He remembered that, but it did not make him happy, for he could never settle it thoroughly in his own mind whether that “hurray” was meant for him or for the bride.

That affair of the bride, too, troubled Joseph a good deal, and, but for the respect in which he held the family, or the awe in which he stood of the Honourable Philippa, he would have resented it strongly.

Certainly there were only two horses to the carriage behind which Joseph stood, but it was a particularly good carriage, hired from a London livery stables, with capital horses and a superior driver, who looked quite respectable in the hat and coat kept on purpose for Buddy the fly-driver, although he grumbled at having to put them on, as Buddy had been intoxicated upon the last occasion of his wearing them, and had somewhat taken off their bloom through going back to his stables and wearing them while he lay down in the straw for a nap.

Upon that occasion Joseph had seriously lectured Buddy upon the evils of intemperance.

“Look at me,” he said; “I can drink a glass of ale without its hurting me.”

“Well, the things ain’t improved, suttenly,” said Buddy in a repentant tone. Then scornfully: “But as to you and your slooshun of biled brewer’s aperns that you calls ale, why, you might wet-nuss babies on it, and it wouldn’t hurt ’em so long as you didn’t do it when it’s sour.”

“But it’s a very, very bad habit, Buddy,” exclaimed Markes; “just look at that hat.”

“Ah, you’ll have worse jobs than that some of these days when you marries a sojer.”

Mrs Markes bounced out in disgust.

“How she do hate to hear the soldiers mentioned, surely,” chuckled Buddy. “Why, she can’t abear ’em. But she needn’t be so hard about a fellow getting a drop; it’s a great comfort. She don’t know what it is, and never got to that stage, Joe, when everything about you as you taste and touch and smell feels as if it was soft and nice, and as if you’d tumbled into a place as was nothing else but welwet.”

The result was that Buddy’s hat and coat were thoroughly taken in hand by Markes and furbished up, the overcoat having to be rubbed and turpentined and brushed till it was more in keeping with the style of a wedding garment, while the hat was ‘gone over’ with a sponge and flat-iron, to the production of a most unearthly gloss, anent which Buddy chaffed the new driver. But of course that was on account of jealousy, that he, the regular ladies’ coachman, and his musty-smelling, jangling fly and meagrimed horse should be set aside upon an occasion when there would have been “a bite to get and a sup o’ suthin’ just to wash out a fellow’s mouth,” For Buddy had a laudable desire to keep his mouth clean by washing it out; and he resented the insult to his dignity upon this occasion by going to the Mitre Tap, and washing out his mouth till he was unable to take this clean mouth home.

As the Dymcoxes sported so dashing a turn-out, and Joseph handed in the bride and took her to church, what he wanted to know was why Elbraham should take her back in his four-horse chariot. Of course he would take her away in it afterwards; but according to Joseph’s idea it would have been far more respectful to the Honourable Dymcoxes if Elbraham had come with his young wife in the hired carriage along with him.

This was a trouble to Joseph, which he objected to largely, wearing a soured and ill-used look on the way back from Hampton Church; and he was not a great deal better when, meeting Elbraham on the staircase, that gentleman slipped a five-pound note in his hand.

The bride looked very beautiful, and Joseph heard that she wore real lace, and it covered her nearly from top to toe. The white satin dress, too, was wonderfully stiff and good, while her bouquet, sent, with those for the bridesmaids, in so many neat wooden boxes from the central avenue of Covent Garden, was “quite a picter,” so Joseph said.

But somehow it was all a muddle, and Joseph could make neither head nor tail of it. He felt as if he must seize and ring the dinner-bell, or carry in the form for prayers. For instance, there was that Lord Henry Moorpark there, and Captain Glen and Mr Richard Millet, who had tipped him over and over again, and ought to have married the ladies. They were there, and so was that tall, dark Major Malpas, who always “looked at him as if he had been a dorg; and lots more people crowding into the rooms, and a-eating and drinking and talking till the place was a regular bubble.”

Joseph either meant Babel or a state of effervescence, both similes being applicable to the condition of the private apartments on the auspicious day, as it was called by Lord Henry, who played the part of “heavy father” in the genteel comedy in course of enactment.

Then Joseph—who told himself he had never seen such a set-out since he came, a hungry page from the orphan school—wanted to know why Captain Glen, who had been so huffed about Miss Clotilde’s marriage, should be there, and look so jolly, and propose the health of the bride. “It seemed rum,” Joseph said, “though certainly him and Miss Marie looked pretty thick now, while little Mr Millet sat next to Miss Ruth,” who, to the man’s notions, was “the prettiest of the lot.”

Joseph saw and heard a good deal. He saw Major Malpas place his glass in his dark eye, and, bringing the thick brow over it, stare very hard at the bride, who did not seem to mind it in the least—a fact which made the philosopher declare that “Miss Clo had got face enough for anything.”

He also heard Major Malpas, who was perfect in his dress and handsome bearing, say to one of the guests who had made some remark respecting Glen’s appearance, that the Captain was a fine animal, that was all. “Too big for a soldier, sah. Looks like a big mastiff, sah, taking care of that little toy-terrier Millet.”

Joseph’s notions of the wedding feast were very much after the fashion of the celebrated coat of his ancient namesake, of many colours, and those colours were terribly muddled up in his brain. They were bad enough before the matter of that five-pound note occurred; after that the unfortunate young man’s ideas were as if shaken up in a bottle to a state of neutral tint in which nothing was plain.

He put that five-pound note, crumpled as it was, either in his breeches or his behind coat-pocket, but what became of it afterwards he could not tell. He might have taken it out to hold a hot plate, to use as a d’oyley, or to wipe his nose, or to dab up the wine that Mr Elbraham spilt when he upset his champagne-glass. He might or he mightn’t. He couldn’t say then. All he knew was that it muddled him, and that the dinner-bell hadn’t been rung, nor the form carried in for prayers.

There was another idea came into his head, too, acting like so much leaven, or as an acid powder poured into the neutral alkaline solution already shaken up in his brain. There were those two waiters from Bunter’s standing by when Mr Elbraham gave him the five-pound note, and one of them winked at the other. Joseph could not say that one of those young men took that five-pound note. He was not going so far as to say it. What he was going to say was that they weren’t above taking two bottles of champagne back into the pantry and drinking them out of tumblers, and that a man who would take a bottle of wine that didn’t belong to him might go so far as a five-pound note.

Joseph grew worse as the morning wore on. He felt as if he must go and quarrel with Markes, and a great deal of what he recalled after may have been nothing but the merest patchwork of nebulous theories of his own gathered together in a troublous time. For it was not likely that Captain Glen would have been standing holding Miss Ruth’s hand, and making her blush, as he called her his dear child, and said she was the best and sweetest little thing he had ever met, and that he should never forget her kindness and sympathy.

Joseph certainly thought he heard Captain Glen say that, and he was near enough to have heard him say it; but he remembered afterwards that when he turned he caught sight of Mr Montaigne smiling in a peculiar way, but whether at him (Joseph), or at Captain Glen and Miss Ruth, he was not sure. It was a curious sort of smile, Joseph thought, exactly like that which Buddy’s old horse gave, drawing back its teeth before it tried to bite, and it made Joseph shiver.

He might have been in everybody’s way or he might not, but the Honourable Philippa said that he was to stop about and make himself useful, and of course he did; for if cook chose to give up her kitchen to a set of foreign chiefs—he meant chefs—he was not going to be ousted by Bunter’s waiters, even if some of them were six feet high, and one of them looked like a nobleman’s butler. Miss Philippa said he was to make himself useful, and see that the visitors had plenty, and he did, though it was very funny to see how little some people took, though that wasn’t the case with others.

It was while busying himself directly after the company had left the table that he came upon Captain Glen talking to Miss Ruth.

No, it wasn’t Miss Ruth that time; it was Miss Marie. Yes, of course it was; and Captain Glen was saying:

“No, Marie; I hope I am too much of a man to break my heart about a weak, vain woman. You saw how I behaved this morning? Well, I behaved as I felt—a little hurt, but heart-whole. Poor foolish girl! I trust that she will be happy.”

“I hope so, too,” Marie had answered. “I am sorry, Captain Glen, and I am very glad.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I am sure that Clotilde would never have made you happy.”

She gazed up at him in a curious way as she spoke, and it seemed to Joseph that Captain Glen looked puzzled and wondering. Then his face lit up, and he was going to speak to Miss Marie, when little Richard Millet came rushing up, saying:

“I say, Glen, hang it all! play fair. Don’t monopolise the company of all the ladies. Miss Marie, may I have the pleasure?”

He offered his arm as if he were going to take her through some dance instead of from the big landing amongst the flowers into the drawing-room; but instead of taking the offered arm, Joseph seemed to see that Miss Marie bowed gravely, and, looking handsome and queen-like, laid her hand upon the arm of Lord Henry Moorpark, who, very quiet and grave, had been hovering about ever since they rose from the table. Then the old gentleman had walked off with her, leaving little Mr Millet very cross, and it seemed to Joseph that he said something that sounded like a bar across a river, but whether it was weir or dam, Joseph’s brains were too much confused to recall.

In fact, all this came out by degrees in the calm and solitude of his pantry, when he had recovered next day from a splitting headache; and then it was that he recalled how foolishly everybody behaved when Miss Clotilde—Mrs Elbraham, he meant—went off with her rich husband: how Miss Philippa wept upon her neck, and Miss Isabella trembled, and her hands shook, when she kissed the young wife; how Mr Montaigne seemed to bless her, and afterwards go and stand by Miss Ruth, taking her hand and drawing it through his arm, patting the hand at the same time in quite a fatherly way.

Lady Anna Maria Morton, too, was there, standing with that stuck-up Mr “Rawthur” Litton, and Miss Marie with Lord Henry, and Lady Littletown, who seemed to have the management of the whole business, with Captain Glen; and at last, after the Honourable Philippa had kissed Mrs Elbraham once again, and then nearly fainted in little Dick Millet’s arms, the bride and bridegroom passed on towards the carriage, while people began to throw white slippers at them, and shower handfuls of rice, some of which fell on the bride’s bonnet and some upon the bridegroom, a good deal going down inside his coat-collar and some in his neck. But he went on smiling and bowing, and looking, Joseph thought, very much like a publican who had been dressed up in tight clothes, and then in consequence had burst into a profuse perspiration.

Glen was standing close by the carriage with a half-laugh upon his face as the bridegroom passed, and Joseph thought he looked very tall and strong and handsome, and as if he would like to pitch Mr Elbraham into the middle of the fountain.

And then, just as they were getting into the carriage, it seemed to Joseph that Miss Clotilde—he meant Mrs Elbraham, the rich financier’s wife—turned her head and looked at Captain Glen in a strange wild way, which made him turn aside and look at Miss Marie, when the bride went for the first time into a hysterical fit of sobbing as she was helped into the carriage, where Mr Elbraham followed her smiling red smiles. The steps were rattled up, the door banged, the footman waited a moment as the chariot moved away; and then sprang up into the rumble beside Mrs Elbraham’s maid, and away went the chariot as fast as four good post horses could take it towards London, bound for Charing Cross Station.

What took place at the private apartments afterwards Joseph did not know, for long before the chariot had reached Richmond, the honest serving-man’s head was wedged in a corner between the press bedstead in the pantry and the wall, and his confused ideas had gone off into dreamland, apparently on the back of a snorting horse, bent on recovering a certain five-pound note which was required for tying up a white satin slipperful of rice, which had been emptied out of Mr Elbraham’s glass into a Lincoln and Bennett hat.

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One. The Story. - Years Ago - (Continued).

Gertrude’s Husband.

Meanwhile the days glided on so peacefully for John Huish and his wife, that it seemed to him as if at last the ghost which had haunted his life had been laid.

Sir Humphrey was spending the evening with them, and Dick was expected, as Gertrude was seated in her little drawing-room at the piano, singing one of the sad old melodies that pleased her uncle so well. Her husband was leaning on the instrument gazing down into her gentle eyes, as she looked up at him with her countenance full of the calm joy she felt in the presence of the man of her choice. He was strange at times, but that did not trouble her, for he was gentle and loving always, ready to humour her slightest whim, and kindness itself to the feeble old gentleman who loved to come and prattle and prose in their quiet little home.

“John,” she whispered, as her fingers strayed over the keys, and her voice was rather sad.

“My darling,” he said softly.

“Do you know what it is to feel so happy that it seems as if it could not last?”

“Yes,” he said, bending lower over her; “I have felt so ever since the day when you consented to be my little wife, and still it lasts.”

The piano was again going softly, and for the third time Gertrude sang, in a voice that lulled the old gentleman off to sleep, “Love’s young dream.”

“Let it be always ‘Love’s young dream,’” whispered Huish, as he sank down on one knee beside the music-stool. “Gertrude, darling, I am so happy that it is like being in a dream, one from which we will never let the world wake us with its troubles.”

She let her head rest upon his shoulder, and her arm was thrown tightly round his neck.

“Yes,” she whispered; “let us dream.”

“Yes,” he replied, “we two always. I can feel that here within these arms I hold all the world—that heaven has been so bounteous to me that I can never be sufficiently grateful, and—”

He rose quickly, for there was a step outside, and a servant entered.

“If you please, sir, there are two gentlemen want to see you downstairs.”

Huish turned pale, for a strange sense of coming trouble flashed upon him.

“Did they send up their names?” he said, recovering himself.

“No, sir, only said would you be kind enough to step down, sir, without disturbing my mistress. It was something particular.”

“Is anything wrong, John?” said Gertrude earnestly.

“Wrong? No, my dear, I hope not. Some bit of business: people for a subscription or something. I shall be back directly. Go on playing, or we shall wake your father.”

She nodded and smiled as she resumed her seat at the piano; and as Huish went quietly out of the room, the sad strain of olden days his wife was playing seemed to grow more and more mournful when the notes were muffled by the closed door.

“Where are the gentlemen, Jane?” he said quietly.

“In the dining-room, sir,” said the girl, with a strange look; and as he entered she stood waiting on the mat.

One of the gas-burners was alight, and Huish started as, on entering the room, he found himself face to face with a dark, stern-looking man, and a policeman, who immediately placed his back against the door.

“Is anything the matter?” said Huish quickly.

“Well, yes, a little,” said the stern, dark man. “Mr Huish—John Huish?”

“Yes; I am John Huish.”

“Then you are my prisoner, Mr John Huish; here is the warrant. Smith—cuffs!”

“Stop! One minute!” exclaimed Huish excitedly. “What does this mean?”

“Only the end of the little game, sir,” said the dark, stern man. “Long lane that has no turning. Turning’s come at last!”

“I do not understand you. Some mistake.”

“Yes, sir, these matters always are little mistakes. Are you ready?”

“No! Stop!” cried Huish. “Send that man away. You need not secure me. I will go with you.”

The stern man relaxed a little, and smiled.

“Won’t do,” he said. “We’ve had too much trouble to run you down, sir. You well-educated ones are too precious clever. We’ve got a cab waiting.”

“But my wife—my—we have company here.”

“There, come along, sir, and get away quietly without letting them know. It’s no use trying any dodges on, because we’ve got you, and don’t mean to let you slip.”

“Tell me at least what it means!” cried Huish.

“The big burglary last night, if you want to know for which little game it is; but don’t be uneasy.”

“My hat and overcoat,” said Huish quickly. “Get me away quietly, so that they do not see upstairs. I tell you, man, that I will not try to escape you. I have only to go to the station to explain that this is a mistake.”

“Get the gentleman’s hat and coat,” said the plain-clothes officer; and the policeman opened the door so suddenly that the maid was caught listening.

“Jane, here, quick!” cried Huish. “Tell your mistress after we are gone that I am suddenly called away on business.”

“And won’t be back to-night, my dear,” said the officer. “Now, sir, are you ready?”

Huish nodded, feeling confused and prostrated by the suddenness of the seizure. For a moment he half felt disposed to resist, but he refrained, and, stepping into the hall, the girl opened the door just as Dick came up the steps.

“Why, Huish!” he cried in astonishment.

“Hush!” cried the other. “Not a word to Gertrude. There is some mistake. Go up to your father, and bring him round to the station. It will be a question of bail, eh, constable?”

“Yes, sir, I should think it would,” said the officer drily; and, taking his prisoner’s wrist, he hurried him into the cab.

“Then it must be all true about him, and he’s caught at last,” muttered Dick, whose throat felt dry and lips parched. “Poor little Gertrude! What will her ladyship say?”

He stood thinking of what he should do as the cab rolled away, and then entered slowly, feeling that he must leave matters a good deal to chance. But the deepest-laid scheme of breaking the news would have been blown to the winds, for the maid had hurried up open-mouthed to blurt out to Gertrude that master had been took, and that they were going to handcuff him and put him to prison for burglary.

“Is this girl mad, Dick?” said Gertrude, who was trembling violently, while Sir Humphrey stood up hardly yet awake.

“Some cock-and-bull nonsense—a blunder, I suppose,” replied Dick hastily.

“But she says the police—have taken my husband.”

“They—they—they are always making these confounded blunders, my dear,” exclaimed the old man. “There, there, be quiet, my dear. Dick and I will go and see.”

“Yes, father, I was going to propose it. John wishes us to go. There, Gertrude, don’t be stupid. I’ve no doubt it’s all right.”

“Dick,” she cried, catching his arm and gazing in his face; “you don’t think so. There is some great trouble. What is it?”

“I don’t know—I can’t tell; only that you are hindering us when we might be of service to John. Be a woman, Gertrude, and take all that comes as a wife should. There, there, don’t cry. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“I must go with you,” she cried. “If my husband is in prison my place is by his side.”

“Yes, yes, my dear,” said the old man querulously; “that’s what they say in books, but the law won’t stand it. Come along, Dick. I say, my boy,” he whispered, as they reached the hall, “it’s precious hard on me that my sons-in-law should get into such scrapes. What has John been doing?”

“Heaven knows, father, but I fear the worst,” whispered Dick; but his words were heard upstairs by Gertrude, who was leaning over the balustrade, and the poor girl staggered back into the little drawing-room to sob as if her heart would break.

“But I must be a woman and act,” she said, drying her eyes hastily; and ringing, she despatched the girl with a short note to her sister, begging her to come back in the cab directly with the messenger. Then she sat down patiently to wait, after declining the cook’s offer of help.

Ten minutes afterwards there was a quick ring at the bell, and the remaining servant answered the door.

Gertrude ran to the landing, and glanced down, to utter a cry of joy, for at that moment a well-known voice exclaimed roughly:

“Where is your mistress?” and she ran down to meet her husband in the hall.

John Huish seemed to Gertrude greatly excited and hurried. There was something strange, too, in his way which she could not understand, but set it down to that which he had gone through.

“Oh, John,” she began, clinging to him; but he checked her, keeping his face half averted, and speaking in a harsh whisper.

“Hush!” he exclaimed. “Not a word. Go down.”

This to the servant, who tossed her head at the imperative order and left the hall.

“Now,” he said, “quick—your hat and jacket! I have a cab waiting.”

“Are we going out, dear?” she said inquiringly. “I have just sent for Renée.”

“How foolish!” he cried. “But waste no time.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, wondering at his strange, impetuous manner.

“Don’t waste time, dear,” he cried, “but get ready. You shall know all as we go.”

Gertrude’s tears began to flow and half blinded her, but she hurried away to prepare herself, while Huish walked quickly from room to room, muttering impatiently. Not that there was much need, for Gertrude reappeared at the end of a minute or two, rapidly tying on her hat, to find the gas turned down.

“I am ready, dear,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm.

“That’s right,” he cried. “Come along!”

“Shall I tell cook how long we shall be?” said Gertrude.

“No, no. Come along,” he cried impatiently, and, hurrying her out of the house, he helped her into a cab. “Cannon Street Station,” he cried to the driver, and jumping in beside her, the cab rattled off.

“Are we going to leave town, dear?”

“You’ll soon see,” he cried. “I can’t talk to you now; the cab-wheels make so much noise. Can’t you trust me?”

“Oh yes,” she cried, laying her hand upon his arm, “but you forget how anxious I am to know more.”

“Well, well, be patient,” he cried. “There, if you must know, I have been short of money.”

“Yes, dear, of course. I knew. You forget,” she said piteously.

“Yes, of course,” he replied. “Well, I was arrested for debt, and I have got away. We must stay in private—there, I’ll speak plainly—in hiding for a time.”

“Oh, John dear, this is very terrible!” she cried. “Why not go to Uncle Robert? He would help us, I am sure.”

“Yes, perhaps so. We will settle that afterwards. The first thing is to get to a place of safety.”

“Safety, John dear?”

“Well, you don’t want me to remain in prison?” he said.

“Oh no, dear,” she cried, clinging to him. “But, Dick—my father!”

“What about them?” he said sharply.

“What did they say to you?”

“When? How?” he asked.

“They came after you, dear,” she said simply.

“Oh yes; they are busy with the police, of course.”

She sat listening to the noise of the cab-wheels as it rattled along in the direction of the City.

Nothing more was said till the vehicle drew up, when Huish leaped out and helped her to alight. He then handed the cabman a liberal fare and exclaimed: “Come along, or we shall miss the train.”

He hurried her into the station, along the platform, and into the waiting-room.

“Sit down a minute,” he exclaimed, and he went to the door to look out, but returned directly, looking so strange that Gertrude shrank from him involuntarily, and had to make an effort to master a curious feeling of repugnance which came over her.

He drew her arm quickly through his, and, bidding her lower her veil, led her hastily out of the station, across the road and into a narrow lane.

“Are we not going by train?” she asked.

“No; it is too late. Just gone. Come along, and don’t talk.”

She hurried along by his side, for he was walking very fast, and only noticed that they went through a perfect maze of narrow turnings, now up, now down, Huish stopping from time to time to look back to see if they were followed.

He kept this up for nearly an hour, and Gertrude was getting hot and exhausted, when he turned sharply into a darker and narrower lane, glancing rapidly up and down the deserted place with its two or three lamps and dimly-lighted public-house. The next moment he had thrust her into a heavy doorway, there was a rattle of a latch-key, and Gertrude felt herself drawn into a dark passage, and the door was closed.

“John!” she whispered, as the tremor which had before attacked her returned.

“Safe at last!” he muttered, drawing his breath with a low hiss, and not heeding her. “Tired?”

“Rather, dear,” she panted. “But, John, what place is this?”

“My sanctuary,” he said, in a peculiar voice. “Give me your hand. Come along. I’ll tell you when the stairs begin.”

He led her along the dark passage, and a strange chill of dread struck upon Gertrude. As they reached the first landing, a light suddenly shone out, and a few steps higher she gazed wonderingly at the weird figure of an old woman, with long, grey, unkempt hair, holding an ill-smelling paraffin lamp high above her head.

There was an intent, curious, inquiring look in the old woman’s eyes, as they seemed to fasten upon the new-comer, gradually growing vindictive, as they passed her without a word.

“Who is that?” whispered Gertrude.

“Servant,” said Huish laconically. “Won’t make you jealous, eh?”

“John,” she whispered back in a pained voice; “why do you speak to me like that?”

“Oh, it’s only my way,” he said flippantly. “Come along.”

They went up farther, and, reaching the second floor, Huish threw open the door of a comfortable, well-lit room, and drew her in, hastily opened the door of communication with the next room, satisfied himself that it was empty, went on and locked the farther door leading out to the landing, and returned.

“There,” he said; “you will be safe here.”

“Oh yes, John dear,” she said, gazing at him wonderingly, “his manner seemed so strange; but I am so anxious to know.”

“Yes, yes; all in good time, dear,” he cried. “There, off with that hat and jacket. Why, my dear,” he cried, “you look lovely!”

There was a hot red spot in his cheeks as he spoke in a curiously excited way, and Gertrude felt a strange sense of shrinking as he hastily snatched away her jacket, threw it on a chair, and clasped her in his arms.

“John,” she cried, struggling to free herself, “look! look!”

He loosed his grasp and turned suddenly upon a figure which stood right in the doorway, that of a tall handsome woman, looking ghastly pale, and her great eyes dilated with rage and surprise. She had evidently risen from a sick couch, and wore a long loose white dressing-gown, which, with her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders, gave her an almost supernatural look, heightened by the silence in which she gazed from one to another.

“What are you doing here?” cried Huish sharply. “I thought you were in bed—ill.”

“I was,” replied the woman slowly, “till I heard you return.”

“Go back to it then,” he said brutally; “why do you come here?”

Gertrude shrank back towards the couch, as the woman slowly entered, with her eyes fixed fiercely upon her, and the door swung to.

“Who is this?” she cried, in a low angry voice.

“Take no notice of her. I will get her away,” whispered Huish, crossing to Gertrude’s side. “She is mad!”

“No, girl, I am not mad,” said the woman sternly; for her hearing seemed to have been sharpened by her illness, and she had heard every word. “John Huish,” she said sternly, “answer me—who is this?”

Gertrude’s eyes dilated with horror. She was confused and startled. She could not comprehend her position or why they were there; and as the recollection of the happy evening she had spent came to mingle with the chaos of fancies and surmises that bewildered her brain, it seemed to her like some strange nightmare, from which she felt that she would soon awake into peace and repose.

To make the scene more impressive, the heavy, deep booming of a clock striking midnight floated into the room with a strange jangle of other bells, some slow, some hurried, all bent on proclaiming the same fact—that another day was dead, another being born.

As the woman repeated her question, Huish’s eyes grew dark with rage, and he pointed to the door.

“Go down,” he said, “at once, or—”

She shrank from him for a moment as she saw his look; but her jealous rage mastered her fear, and she stepped farther into the room.

Huish seemed undecided what to do; he glanced at Gertrude, then at the woman, and then back to see that the former was looking at him imploringly, as if asking him to end the scene.

“Go back to bed,” he said firmly; “you are ill!” and he laid his hand upon the woman’s arm.

“Worse in mind than in body!” she cried, starting away. “Girl,” she continued passionately, “you look truthful and unspoiled; tell me who you are.”

“Oh yes!” said Gertrude quickly, as she advanced with extended hand, and a look of pity in her face. “I am Mrs Huish.”

The woman’s lower jaw dropped, and a blank, stony look came into her eyes.

“Married!” she said hoarsely. “Are you his wife—to-day?”

“Oh no!” said Gertrude wonderingly; “for some time now. You are ill and delicate. Can I do anything for you?”

“No, no—no, no! Don’t touch me; I could not bear it. Tell me once more.”

“Here, enough of this!” cried Huish angrily. “Go down!”

“Don’t touch her,” said Gertrude excitedly; and she interposed. “She is ill—very ill. I am Mrs John Huish,” she repeated.

“The woman he has wronged?”

“No, no!” said Gertrude, beginning to tremble, as she thought of the scene upon the stairs; “but you are—”

“That man’s lawful wife, whom he now casts aside for some pretty baby face that takes his fancy.”

“It is not true!” cried Gertrude with spirit; “my husband is a gentleman and the soul of honour.”

“It is true! and that man is a liar—a cheat—a scoun—O God, I cannot bear it! Let me die!”

The woman threw up her hands and reeled. In another instant she would have fallen, but Huish stepped forward, caught her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, carrying her down to the next floor, while Gertrude, as she heard his receding steps, sank into a chair, and gazed blankly before her.

She started up though, as Huish returned with a smile upon his face, and closed and locked the door.

“Poor thing!” he said lightly; “I am sorry she came up. Ill, you know. Her baby. Reason temporarily gone. She accuses everybody like that.”

“John,” cried Gertrude, trembling, “cannot understand you to-night: you are so strange and unlike yourself. Is what that poor creature says true? Oh, I cannot bear to hear such words!”

“True? is it likely?” he said, approaching her. “Why, are you not my little wife?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Gertrude, shrinking from him; “but tell—”

She stopped short, gazing at him wonderingly. Her hands went to her dilating eyes, and as the light of the lamp fell for the first time full upon him now, she uttered a cry of horror, her face became convulsed, and she ran to the door.

“It is not—” she paused wildly.

“Are you mad, too?” he cried, pursuing her and catching her wrists.

“Yes—no—I don’t know,” she cried excitedly. “Don’t touch me. I cannot bear it.”

“Silence!” he cried. “Do you want to alarm the house?”

“Oh no, no!” she panted; “but you frighten—you horrify me!”

“Hush! Be silent!”

“No, no!” cried Gertrude, struggling, as he again seized her in his arms. “Oh, help—help—help!”

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Police Business.

Dick Millet became quite the military officer as he reached the police-station with his father, and proved that, if he possessed a very small body, it contained plenty of soul. He was staggered at the charge brought against his brother-in-law, that of being a party to a serious attempt at burglary on the previous night, and soon found that there was nothing to be done till the next day. He listened to Huish’s asseverations of innocence very quietly, but said nothing till he exclaimed:

“Why, Dick, you cannot believe me guilty of this monstrous charge!”

“I can only believe one thing just now, John Huish,” he replied; “and that is that you are my dear sister’s husband, and that for her sake everything possible must be done to help you out of this dreadful scrape.”

“Yes,” cried Sir Humphrey feebly, “of course—of course. And, John, my boy, I always liked you; it’s a cursed impertinent lie, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed,” cried Huish earnestly; “unless—unless—”

He stopped, gazing from one to the other in a curiously bewildered fashion.

“Unless—unless what, my boy? Why don’t you speak out?”

“Let it rest to-night, sir,” said Huish, in an altered voice. “I am confused—shocked. Get me some good advice to-morrow, Dick, and when the examination comes off, you will, of course, find bail.”

Dick nodded, but did not shake hands.

“I’ll do everything I can,” he said sternly.

“Won’t you shake hands?”

“No,” replied Dick, “not till you are cleared. Huish,” he said in a whisper. “I shall work day and night to clear you, for Gerty’s sake; but I’ve heard some blackguardly things about you lately. This, though, is worse than all.”

Huish turned from him, looking dazed and strange, to shake hands with Sir Humphrey, who began protesting to and scolding the inspector on duty.

“I—I—don’t believe a word of it,” he cried angrily. “You—you—you police fellows are always—yes, damme, always making mistakes of this kind, and—and, confound me, if I don’t have the matter brought before the House of Lords. Good-night, my dear boy; make them give you everything you want, and we’ll be here first thing in the morning.—It’s—it’s—it’s about the most disgraceful thing I ever knew, my dear Dick,” he said as soon as they were in the street; “but if you don’t take me on to the club and give me some supper I shall faint.”

“You must be sharp, then, father. Gertrude will be horribly anxious.”

“Yes, yes, poor girl, she will; but it will be all right to-morrow. I’m not so strong as I was, and this has upset me terribly.”

There was no doubt about it, for the old gentleman looked very haggard. A hearty supper, however, restored him, and he left the club in pretty good spirits to accompany Dick to Westbourne Road, where they were met by the announcement that “master came back a bit ago, and went away with missus.”

“What does this mean?” said Dick sternly.

“Mean, my boy? Why, that he has got bail.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Dick to himself, and, with the full belief that his brother-in-law had contrived to escape, he accompanied his father home, keeping, however, his thoughts to himself.

In the morning, however, there was the news that a message had come for her ladyship to go to Wimpole Street, where Mrs Huish had arrived on the previous night.

“Was John Huish there, too?” asked Dick sharply.

“I did not hear,” said her ladyship haughtily. “I know nothing of such a person, and I will not have my name sullied by mention in connection with his.”

“But you’ll go and see Gertrude?”

“No,” exclaimed her ladyship. “It was Gertrude’s duty to come to me if she were in trouble. If she prefers her uncle’s help, let her enjoy it. I have no more to say, except that I shall not go; and, Humphrey, I forbid you to go there—for the present.”

“And me, too,” said Dick quietly.

“You have long ceased to obey me,” said her ladyship austerely, “and must take your own course. I will not, however, be dragged into this dreadful scandal.”

“Humph!” said Dick. “Then you let it all out, father, after you’d gone to bed?”

“Yes, my son, yes. Your mamma was very anxious, and I told her all.”

“As you like. I’m off now to secure counsel. We’ll have him out before night.”

Lady Millet sighed and wiped her eyes, but no one paid any heed to her, so she consoled her injured feelings with a good breakfast.

Meantime, John Huish sat through the night, thinking, and calling up from the past all the strange things that had been laid to his charge.

“What does it mean?” he said aloud. “Am I a madman or a somnambulist, or do I lead a double life?”

It was terrible, that being shut up in such a place; for when the other prisoners were silent, there was a dreadful clock close by, which seemed in its cold, harsh, brazen way to goad him to distraction. It was a hurried clock, that always seemed manifesting itself and warning people of the flight of time, so that every quarter of an hour it fired off a vicious “ting-tang” in the two discordant notes that made a bad descending third, repeating itself at the half-hours, tripling at the third quarter, and at the hour snapping as it were at the world four times before allowing the hammer on another bell to rapidly go off slam—slam—slam! till its duty was done. “Clocks are bad enough,” he thought, “from the warnings they give of how short our lives are growing; but when a man is in trouble and bells are added, the effect is maddening indeed.”

He sat trying to think till he was bewildered, and at last, in a complete maze, he sat listening to the noisy singing of a woman in the next cell, and the drunken howlings of a man on the other side.

“My poor darling!” he cried at last; “it will almost break her heart. A burglary! and if they should prove that I was guilty—oh, it is monstrous!”

He tried to pace his cell, but it was too narrow, and he sat down again with his hands pressed to his forehead, with the mental darkness coming down upon him thicker than that of his cell.

“It’s like some nightmare,” he said at last, “and as if in some way my brain were unhinged. Absence—absence of mind! My God! will a judge believe me if I say for defence that I committed a robbery in a fit of absence of mind? One has read of strange things in people’s lives,” he thought after a time—“how they have been totally unconscious of what took place in one half of their existence. Is it possible that my life is divided into two parts, in each of which I am ignorant of what passes in the other? But who would believe it! I’ll have Stonor here first thing to-morrow.”

He sat with his mind growing darker and darker, and vainly struggling against the black oppression; and at last, with a weary wail; he exclaimed unconsciously:

“My poor darling, what a night for you! Last night happy and admired—to-night—oh, thank God—thank God!”

For the light had come.

The police declared that the burglary had taken place the previous night about nine o’clock at a City house, and that he was seen and nearly captured. Why, a dozen people could prove that he was at Dr Stonor’s the whole evening.

He rose and tapped sharply at his cell door.

“Now then,” said a rough voice. “What is it?”

“Kindly ask the inspector to come here for a moment,” said Huish.

The officer on night duty came from his desk where he had been entering the last charge. “Well, sir?” he said, with official brevity.

“Sorry to trouble you,” said Huish, “but that burglary—when was it?”

“Nine o’clock last night—that is, the night before last, for it is now four o’clock.”

“Thank God,” said Huish, and he lay down upon that peculiarly soft bed provided by a humane Government at police-stations for arrested people, and slept soundly for hours.

“Precious eager to know when, the crack was done,” said the officer, as he looked in at the cell. “Clever dodge—going to try an alibi?”

What was intended for a preliminary examination took place in the course of the afternoon, and the officer in charge of the case brought forward two or three witnesses to give a sufficiency of evidence to justify a remand, informing the magistrate that he believed that he should be able to produce a long catalogue of crime against the prisoner, who had succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the police for some time past.

On the other side, however, the services of the rising young counsel, Mr Douglas, had been secured. He made a brief and indignant address to the magistrate on the way in which the sanctity of Mr Huish’s home had been invaded, and a gentleman dragged off to answer this disgraceful trumped-up charge. In conclusion, Mr Douglas said he should bring forward witnesses whose social position was such that their testimony must be taken as unimpeachable, and they would prove on oath that at the time when this gentleman—the defendant; he would not insult him by calling him the prisoner—was stated to have been seen by the police in company with some notorious scoundrels engaged in a burglary—his worship would excuse him for smiling, the charge was so absurd—Mr Huish was partaking of the hospitality of a well-known physician at his house at Highgate.

“Call Dr Stonor.”

Dr Stonor stepped into the witness-box, was sworn, and stated that Mr John Huish often dined with him at Highgate, and was there on the night in question, that he arrived there about seven, and did not leave till twelve, and was never out of his sight the whole time.

Daniel Repson, Dr Stonor’s confidential servant, testified to the same effect.

Then Sir Humphrey Millet was sworn, and stated that he called at his son-in-law’s at six o’clock, and went up with him in the carriage to Highgate, and was set down at Grosvenor Square on the return. He certainly did have a nap after dinner, for about half an hour, but not for more.

Mr Richard Millet gave similar testimony, and lastly Miss Stonor was sworn, and stated that, saving the interval between leaving the table and tea-time, she saw Mr Huish the whole evening.

Mr Douglas was of opinion that after the evidence of these witnesses his worship would dismiss the contemptible charge, and tell his client that he left the court without a stain upon his character. At the same time, he hoped the police would be more careful, for he was informed that Mrs Huish had been most terribly alarmed, and that the consequences might be serious.

The police-sergeant was checkmated, and the prisoner was discharged at once, leaving the police court in the company of his friends.

“Yes,” said the sergeant grimly, “he has done us this time; but if we don’t put salt on his tail yet, I’ll leave the force.”

John Huish shook hands heartily with the doctor, who eyed him rather curiously, and then turned to Dick, who was, however, very distant.

“You’ll come home with me,” he said; but Dick shook his head.

“Not now,” he said coldly; “another time. Come, father.”

The old man shook hands heartily with his son-in-law, and whispered:

“Dick’s a bit put out, my dear John; but it’s all right. I’ll put it all straight. I’ll bring him on to-night.”

Huish nodded, and shook hands then with the doctor and Miss Stonor.

“Good-bye, doctor; a thousand thanks! Miss Stonor, you’ll excuse me. I am most anxious to get home.”

Miss Stonor nodded and smiled, and Huish was turning away, when the doctor said:

“Run up and see me again soon.”

Huish nodded assent and turned away, hailed the first hansom, and jumped in, the man smiling at him in a friendly way.

“Home, sir?” he said.

“Yes, quick. West—”

“All right, sir—I know,” cried the man, and away went the cab.

“Driven me before,” thought Huish, as he sank back in the cab. “Poor little darling! how she has been upset!”

He lit a cigar and smoked it, to settle his nerves as he termed it, and then his thoughts turned to the affairs of the past night.

“And suppose I had not been able to bring all those witnesses to prove my innocence,” he thought. “How horrible!”

He moved about uneasily in his seat, for he was not satisfied. This was, after all, but another link in the strange chain of circumstances that had troubled him, and he shuddered and threw away his cigar, for his nerves refused to be settled. Somehow, a strange uneasy feeling kept increasing upon him, and at last he raised the little trap and shouted to the man to go faster.

“Suppose she is ill!” he muttered. “Poor darling! what she must have suffered!”

At last the cab was pulled up at the door, and Huish leaped out and ran up the steps without paying the man, who waited, while, not finding his latch-key, he rang sharply, and the cook answered the door.

“Where is your mistress?” he said sharply.

“Missus, sir? I haven’t seen her since last night.”

“What, has she gone home?”

“Home, sir? I don’t know, sir—I mean, since you fetched her, sir.”

“Since I fetched her, woman! Are you mad?”

“Not as I knows on, sir,” said the woman, with the asperity of one in her profession. “You ast me where missus was, and I says as I ain’t seen her since you fetched her last night.”

“Since I fetched her last night! You mean the night before, to go out to dinner—Dr Stonor’s.”

“No, sir, I don’t; I mean the very last night as is, ’bout half an hour after you was took.”

“Yes, yes; go on,” said Huish, turning ghastly pale.

“You come back and told missus quite sharp like to put on her things, and took her away in a cab.”

“Are you—dreaming?” faltered Huish, staggering back against the wall.

“Dreaming! no, sir, of course not. And the poor dear got ready in a minute, and you both went off in a cab.”

“This is horrible!” groaned Huish. “I never returned till now; I did not come and fetch her.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, which you’ve forgot,” said a voice behind him; and Huish turned round to find himself face to face with the cabman.

“Like me to wait, sir? Didn’t pay me my fare. It was me as drove you and the lady last night.”

“You!—what?—me?—the lady?”

“Of course, sir,” said the man, smiling. “You hailed me in Praed Street, outside the station, and come on here, and you told me to wait. Five minutes arter you comes out with the lady, and I took you down to Cannon Street.”

“This is horrible!” groaned Huish again; and he clutched at the umbrella-stand to save himself from falling.

“The gent’s ill,” said the cabman hoarsely.

“Yes, ill—ill,” cried Huish; “no—better now. Tell me, both of you, did I come last night and fetch my wife?”

“Course you did, sir,” said the cook in an injured tone, as if insulted at her veracity being impeached.

“If I might make so bold, sir,” said the cabman. “I’d have a drop o’ short; it’s nerves—that’s what it is. I get a bit touched so sometimes, after being on. Shall I drive you to—”

“A doctor’s?—yes,” groaned Huish. “Quick!—to Dr Stonor’s, Highgate.”

“Highgate, sir? Hadn’t you better go to one close by?”

“Quick, man!—to Highgate,” cried Huish. “Here.”

He thrust a sovereign into the man’s hand, and ran down the steps to the cab.

“Right, sir,” cried the cabman, running after him and climbing to his perch. “Lor’!” he muttered as he started the horse, “how willing a suv. do make a man, toe be sure!”

It seemed an age before the cab had climbed the long hill, and all the time John Huish sat back hat-less, and holding his head with both his hands, for it throbbed as though it would burst. Two or three times over he thrust up the trap to urge the man to hasten; but during the latter part of the journey he sat back, fighting hard to restrain himself, for he felt that if he moved or spoke more he would begin to shriek and utter wild drivel. He was going mad—he was sure of it—and his mind would no longer bear the horrible strain of the bewildering thought. There was something wrong, and he could not master it. One sole thought now filled his mind, but in a hazy, strange way, and that was that he, in some other state, had fetched away his wife and destroyed her.

At last, just as they neared the top of the hill, he became aware for the first time that the cabman was watching him, and he started angrily as the trap was shut down.

“Poor gent! he have got it hot,” muttered the cabman; and he gave his horse a touch with the whip, which made the weary beast exert itself a little more, and a few minutes later they were at the doctor’s iron gates.

“Shall I wait, sir?” said the man.

Huish shook his head and jumped out, to ring furiously at the bell.

Daniel came down the path to meet him.

“I thought so,” he muttered, as he saw the excited looks of the visitor; and he offered Huish his arm, for the young man staggered as the gate swung to.

“The doctor—quick!” said Huish, with his eyes looking staring and wild.

“In his study, sir—only just back from town,” said Daniel; and he helped the tottering visitor quickly into the house, across the hall, and at once into the doctor’s room.

“Why, John—Huish, my dear boy, what is this?”

“Possessed—of a devil—doctor,” cried Huish thickly. “For Heaven’s sake—help me—I’m going mad!”

He sank back into an easy-chair gasping, and his face turned blue with the congestion of his veins; then he babbled hoarsely a few unintelligible words, and became insensible.

“Basin—quick!” said the doctor; and as his ready aide ran to a little mahogany stand, the doctor’s pocket-book was opened, a tiny steel blade glittered for a moment, and directly after the dark stream of John Huish’s life-blood was trickling from a vein.

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

Potiphar’s Wife.

Clotilde seemed to find little difficulty after her return from the Continental trip in settling down into her new position in life. She made plenty of mistakes, no doubt, but Elbraham’s notions of management were so far from perfect that he proved to be no fair judge. His ideas were that his young wife should keep plenty of company, dress well, and do the honours of his house in excellent style.

As far as display was concerned, this she did; and, Elbraham being nowise opposed to the plan, she frequently had Marie to stay with her. In fact, her sister would have quite taken up her abode at Palace Gardens had Clotilde carried the day; but though she pressed her constantly, talked of her own dulness in town, and made various excuses for keeping Marie at her side, the latter refused to remain there long.

Still, Marie was frequently at Palace Gardens, and whenever she was staying in town Lord Henry Moorpark made frequent calls, and was always pressed by Clotilde to return to dinner.

The old gentleman smiled his thanks, and accepted the invitations with no little sign of pleasure; but he made no farther advance in his suit, and seemed to resign himself calmly to his fate, and to be content to bask, so it appeared, in Marie’s presence; she, for her part, always being kindly affected towards her elderly friend. The officers from Hampton Court, too, were frequent guests at Palace Gardens, dining there in state, but never when Marie was staying with her sister.

“I wonder,” said Clotilde, rather archly to Glen, “that you do not try and exchange troops, so as to be stationed at Kensington instead of Hampton Court. I see some of your regiment is here.”

“Yes,” said Glen carelessly; “but really, Mrs Elbraham, I think I like Hampton Court better than Kensington.”

Clotilde bit her lip, but she showed no further sign of annoyance, and the conversation changed.

Had Glen been a vain man, he would have been delighted at the evident desire Clotilde now displayed for his company; but there was little vanity in his composition. He told himself that he would treat her as if she had never made the slightest impression upon him; and as, he could hardly tell why, he felt a kind of awakening interest in Marie, who he knew had refused Lord Henry Moorpark, he gladly accepted all invitations, in the hope of seeing more of Marie at her sister’s house, but only to be disappointed.

Still, he encountered her occasionally at Hampton, sometimes at Lady Littletown’s—now and then in the gardens, for their intercourse to be of the most distant kind if the Honourable Philippa was present; but friendly—almost affectionate—if it were in the presence of the Honourable Isabella alone.

For the poor lady, failing to make any impression upon Glen, felt a kind of gentle satisfaction in administering to his pleasure. She saw how eager the young officer and her niece were to meet, and this, like a pale beam of reflected light, tended to brighten her own sad life, so that she smiled and sighed and palpitated gently, telling herself, as her trembling hand wandered about the plaits of her old-fashioned dress, that it was very sweet to see others happy.

So great was her enjoyment that often and often, as Glen and Marie, with Ruth for companion, strolled up and down, poor Isabella Dymcox would take her place upon one of the seats, saying that she was rather tired, and shed a few sad tears, which trickled down her withered cheeks, almost unknown to the dreaming author of their being.

It came upon Glen like a surprise on the night of Mrs Elbraham’s grandest “at home” to find that Marie was there; and after being welcomed by his host and hostess, the first very warmly, and the second with a searching look in her eyes, a strange sense of pleasure came over him on seeing Marie standing near, looking, it seemed to him, more handsome than he had ever seen her look before.

There was a dreamy, anxious look in her eyes as they encountered his, and her gloved hand certainly conveyed a trembling, tender pressure when he first shook hands, so that when at last he left her side, he began asking himself whether it was possible that he had been making a mistake, and casting away a living substance for a false deluding shadow.

“Nonsense,” he said impatiently, as the hot blood seemed to rush through his veins. “I can’t be so frivolous.” Then, with a half-laugh, “Broken hearts are not so easily mended, and Marie can only feel a sort of pity and contempt for a fellow who preferred her sister.”

But somehow in the course of the evening his eyes encountered Marie’s from time to time, and, as far as he could judge, there was neither pity nor contempt in them, but a genuine look of tender regard which took him again and again to her side.

Yes; he felt before he came that he liked Marie, and that it was quite possible for a nearer tie than liking to grow up between them in the course of time, but this evening a veil of denseness seemed to have fallen from his eyes, and he read a score of looks and ways in quite a new light.

He hesitated for a while when once or twice he found himself near Clotilde, who seemed to affect his society a good deal that evening, and almost imperiously summoned him with a look to her side.

He went almost gladly, for there was a new sense of joy in his breast. He felt that he was triumphing over the young wife, and yet it was the pitying triumph of a great conqueror who could afford to be merciful; and this feeling grew as he glanced at the splendidly-attired, handsome woman ablaze with diamonds, and then at her coarse, common-looking elderly husband, who, with his round head down between his shoulders, kept bustling about among his guests, like a society showman displaying the beauty of the bejewelled woman he had placed in a gilded cage.

“I can afford to be merciful now,” thought Glen. “Good heavens! what a blind fool I have been! Why, she is worth a thousand Clotildes, and I was a fool not to see her superiority before!”

He paused just then to ask himself whether he were not still blind and foolish with conceit, for why should Marie care for him? But just then his eyes caught hers, and an electric glance made his pulse throb and hopes run high, as he told himself that it was no conceit upon his part, but the truth, and that after all he had not really loved Clotilde.

“No, my dear madame,” he said to himself; “it was a fancy such as a weak man like your humble servant is prone to indulge in. Yes,” he continued, and there was a faint smile on his lip as he caught sight of Clotilde just then watching him; “I thank my stars that I escaped your wiles. You are as handsome a woman as I ever met, and I certainly thought I loved you, but, by Jove, what an escape I have had!”

Glen’s thoughts were in his eyes, upon which Clotilde’s were fixed, but she did not interpret them aright; not even when he gazed at her almost mockingly, as if asking her if she were satisfied with her choice, to which he bade her welcome.

“By Jove, what will Dick say?” thought Glen, as he saw the little fellow cross to Marie. “Poor boy! Well, he will have to get over it, just as he has got over a score of other tender passions. And I thought he said he was in too much trouble about his sisters to think of matrimony for himself.”

The rooms grew more crowded, and Glen longed to cross to Marie’s side, but somehow he was always prevented, save for one five minutes, when Clotilde was by the entrance receiving some new arrivals. Those five minutes, though, were five intervals of joy during which very little was said, but that little was enough to endorse most fully without a positive declaration the ideas that had so lately begun to unfold.

The evening wore rapidly on. Marie was standing by the piano talking to little Dick Millet, and her eyes met those of Glen gazing at her across the room.

He was about to answer the summons they seemed to convey, when Lord Henry Moorpark, looking exceedingly old and yellow by the light of the chandeliers, but gentlemanly and courtly as ever, rose from his seat and crossed to where Marie stood, entering into conversation, as in his sad and deferential way he seemed to have set himself to hover about in the presence of the woman he loved.

“A very, very bright and pleasant party, my child,” he said tenderly. “I hope you are enjoying it.”

“Oh, so much!” cried Marie, darting a grateful look in his eyes. For it was so noble and good of him, she told herself, and she felt that she quite loved the tender-hearted old nobleman for the generous way in which he had seemed to sink his lover’s love in that of a guardian for a child.

“Yes, it is bright and pleasant,” continued Lord Henry; “but I feel very much out of place here, and as if I ought to be quietly sipping my glass of port at my club. How noble your sister looks, and how happy!”

“Noble, indeed!” said Marie eagerly. “She is very handsome, and I hope she is happy.”

“Indeed, I hope so too, my child; but here comes some one else to take my place.”

For as he was speaking, Glen, who felt that if he did not make an effort he would have no further speech with Marie that night, was coming to her side, but only to be captured and carried off in another direction.

“Then I need not go yet,” said Lord Henry, who was watching the little comedy through his half-closed eyes, “unless I go and relieve guard, and set Captain Glen at liberty.”

“Oh, no, no!” whispered Marie, whose face betrayed her mortification. “It would look so particular.—Clotilde saw him coming to me,” she added to herself, “and it was done in spite.”

“Perhaps it would,” said Lord Henry quietly. “I like Captain Glen. He is very manly and handsome. The beau ideal, to me, of a soldier. I must know more of him, and of his amusing little friend yonder, who is pointing his moustaches and looking daggers in my direction. He is another admirer of yours, is he not, Marie?”

“Oh, poor boy: it is ridiculous!” exclaimed Marie, half scornfully. “There is something very likeable about him, too, except when he is in his foolish fit.”

“His foolish fit?” said Lord Henry inquiringly.

“Yes, and tries to talk nonsense. I was compelled to dismiss him, and forbid his coming near me unless he could talk sensibly.”

Fresh announcements were made from time to time, and then a servant approached Clotilde, who immediately began to pair off her guests for the supper.

“Take in Marie, dear Lord Henry,” she said as she came to where they were standing; and soon after, in passing, she said softly to Glen. “I shall reserve myself for you.”

Glen bowed, and waited patiently as the guests went down to the banquet spread in a large marquee set up in the garden, where beneath the red and white striped awnings the brilliant swinging gasaliers turned the glass and lustrous plate upon the long tables into a blaze of scintillations, which illumined with fresh tints the abundant flowers.

Elbraham had given Edgington and Gunter orders to “do the thing handsome,” and they had unmistakably carried out his wishes, even to his own satisfaction; while, to give an additional charm to the supper, the strains of an excellent band, concealed behind a great bank of flowers and plants of the gayest foliage, suddenly began to float through the great marquee.

“It is like a scene in fairyland,” said Clotilde, as Glen took his seat beside her, and after she had glanced down the table to see that the little squat figure of Elbraham was hidden from her gaze by a line of épergnes and jardinières.

“Yes, it is magnificent,” replied Glen gravely and with his eyes fixed upon Marie, seated some little distance below them in company with Lord Henry Moorpark, the former gazing at him in a half-reproachful way.

“I made Elbraham invite you,” whispered Clotilde, sipping the champagne that had just been poured into her glass.

“Indeed!”

“Yes; of course, I shall have all my old friends here as much as I please.”

“I suppose so,” said Glen rather dreamily. “Of course, you are very happy?”

She darted a quick look at him, one that he did not meet, for he bent over his plate and appeared to be busy with his supper.

“How dare you say that to me!” she said in a low voice. “Oh, it is too cruel—and from you!”

Glen shuddered, for he half expected that his hostess’s words would be heard.

“I beg pardon,” he said hastily. “I will take more care.”

“No, no,” she said, in the same deep, earnest tones: “scold me, say cutting, contemptuous things to me. I am a wretched creature, and deserve all.”

Glen seized and emptied his champagne-glass at a draught, and as he set it down he glanced towards the opening in the marquee, as if seeking a way to escape.

An awkward pause followed, and, judging that his companion was self-angry at her slip of words, Glen was magnanimous enough to try and pass them over, changing the conversation, or rather trying, by a dexterous movement, to draw it into another channel.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

“When? During my wedding trip?” she asked, with a curious tone of bitterness in her voice.

It was a badly-planned question, Glen felt, but he must go on with it now.

“Yes. Paris, of course?”

“Oh yes, we went to Paris and Berlin, and then through Switzerland, I believe; but it was all one miserable dream.”

She had spoken almost loudly, and the blood mounted to the young officer’s cheeks as he again wondered whether her words had been heard. But he need not have been uneasy, for those nearest were intent upon their plates or upon each other.