George Manville Fenn (continued 8)

“I believe, Dick, you’d flirt with a mop if it was stuck in a petticoat,” said Glen to him one day on their way to Bryanston Square. “What’s it all for—practice?”

“I don’t ask you why you flirt with married ladies,” said Dick sharply.

Glen started, and looked grave. And at that time a little friendly counsel might have turned him aside, for he thought a good deal of quiet, grave Lord Henry. But he frowned, and said angrily, “He is no friend of mine. He came between us. Why should I study him?”

He closed his eyes then fast to the risk and danger, giving himself up to his revived passion, and went on gliding slowly down the slope towards the precipice that threatened both.

On the other side, Ruth was passing through a strange course of education. At first, in her innocency, she could hardly believe it possible, but more and more the fact dawned upon her that a kind of self-deception was going on with Marie, who apparently believed that she was furthering Ruth’s happiness, while she was yielding to the delight of being once more in company with Glen, listening to his voice, living a delicious, dreamy existence, of whose danger she seemed to be unaware.

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

A Dangerous Enemy.

Much as Ruth was in Marie’s confidence, and sisterly as their intercourse had become, there were points now upon which each feared to touch.

Of late Glen’s name had ceased to be mentioned, and Ruth’s feelings towards Marie were a strange intermingling of love, jealousy, and fear.

Ruth was alone one day in the drawing-room, having stayed at home on account of a slight headache, while Marie had gone to make a few calls after setting down Lord Henry at his club.

Ruth had taken up a book, but though she went through page after page, she had not the slightest recollection of what she had been reading, her thoughts having wandered away to Marcus Glen and Marie.

“I ought to have gone with her,” she thought; and then she began to tremble as she felt a kind of dread overcoming her.

“It is terrible,” she thought; “I cannot bear it. He does not care for me, and I cannot save him; but,” she cried, setting her teeth, “I will not leave her again, and I will speak to her at once.”

She hesitated for a moment, as if in alarm at the determination she had made, and then moved towards the door.

“I will go on there at once; she may be there. If she is not, Marcus Glen will be, and I will appeal to him, for I cannot bear this agony.”

It was a good resolve, one which she would have carried out; but just then she recoiled, and her heart began to beat painfully, while the blood forsook her cheeks.

Mr Montaigne had softly closed the door behind him, and was advancing towards her, with a smile upon his lip, and a peculiar look in his eyes, which made her tremble.

“What!” he said, “alone? This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“He knew I was alone,” thought Ruth, “and that is why he has come.”

He advanced towards her, and in spite of her determination to be firm, she took a step or two backwards before she held out her hand, and said with tolerable firmness:

“Lady Henry has gone out in the carriage.”

“And will not be back just yet,” he said with a smile. “Ah, well, it does not matter.”

He had taken her hand and pressed it firmly, retaining it in his, and before Ruth could realise it he had drawn her to him, and pressed his lips to hers.

“Mr Montaigne!” she cried, struggling to free herself. “This is an insult!”

“What! from me?” he whispered, his face flushing, and his arms clasping her more tightly. “Why, what nonsense, Ruth! You know how I have loved you from the time you were a child, and have always meant that you should some day be my little wife.”

“Oh no! It is impossible! Mr Montaigne, are you mad?”

She cast a despairing glance at the bell, but it was beyond her reach, and he smiled as he kissed her passionately again and again.

“Why are you left alone?” he said in a hoarse whisper; “because fate has arranged it expressly for us. See how I have patiently waited for an opportunity, ever since that night when we were surprised in each other’s arms by that wretched servant. Why, Ruth, Ruth, my little one, what is the use of this struggling? It is absurd. You are a woman now—the woman I have always loved. It is our secret, darling, and—”

“Help! help!” cried Ruth loudly as the door opened and Marie walked in, Mr Paul Montaigne, carried away by his passion, having failed to hear the carriage stop, quite a couple of hours sooner than he had expected.

“What is the meaning of this?” cried Marie fiercely, as Ruth ran to her arms, panting and sobbing with shame.

“Marie—why did you leave me? He—insulted—this man—”

“Is a villain who hides his true nature beneath a mask,” cried Marie indignantly. “I always doubted him. How comes he to be alone here with you? Leave the house, sir! Lord Henry shall be made acquainted with the conduct of his guest.”

Marie placed Ruth in a chair, and was crossing towards the bell, when Montaigne said quietly:

“Ah, yes; poor Lord Henry! He does not know us all by heart.”

Marie stopped as if she had been stung, and faced round, darting an indignant glance at Montaigne, who, in place of leaving the room, coolly walked to one of the mirrors, and readjusted his white tie.

Marie recovered herself, and had her hand upon the bell, when Montaigne said quietly:

“Don’t be foolish, my dear; exposures are such awkward things.”

“For you, sir,” cried Marie. “Then leave the house, and never enter it again. But for the fact of your being so old a friend, I would have you turned out.”

“Words, words, words, my dear Marie,” he said, taking a chair and crossing his legs. “Let me see. It is Hamlet says that, I think. Now look here, my dear child—but sit down, I want to talk to you.”

“Will you leave this room, sir?” cried Marie angrily.

“No, my child, I shall not,” he said, smiling. “You say you are ready to expose me for this playful little interview which you interrupted between Ruth here and myself—Ruth, the lady who is to be my wife.”

“Your wife!” cried Marie indignantly.

“Yes: my wife; and don’t raise your voice like that, my dear child. By the way, you are back soon. Was not our dear Marcus at Bryanston Square?”

“Marcus? Captain Glen?” cried Marie, whose lips turned white.

“There, my dear little girl. You are not little now, but you seem little to me. You forget, in this wondrous fit of virtuous anger, that I have stood for so many years towards you in the light of a father. In my way I have helped you to position and a rich husband, and when I found that, womanlike—fashionable womanlike, I should say—your ladyship was beginning to show taste for pleasure, and even taking to your handsome self a lover, I did not interfere. While because I, in due course, and after a long and patient courtship, take the girl I love in my arms, you talk of turning me out, call me scoundrel and villain, and threaten me with Lord Henry’s displeasure.”

“It is disgraceful, sir,” said Marie; “you are old enough to be her father.”

“Humph! Yes. Perhaps so, but nothing like so much older as Lord Henry is than you. Now look here, my dear Marie, I am obliged to speak plainly. I don’t ask for a truce; but I demand your help and countenance. I mean to marry Ruth.”

Marie stood pointing to the door, but Montaigne did not stir.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed—“a stage trick. Are you aware of what it means to make me your enemy, my dear child? You are angry and excited now. You did not quite realise my words. Do you think I am blind about Captain Glen? As to dropping the mask, well, there, it is down. I am a man even as you are a woman, and why should I not love?”

Marie’s arm dropped to her side, and she stood gazing at him with her cheeks and lips now ashy of hue.

“There,” he continued, laughing, “the storm is over, and we understand each other. I will go now, and mind this, dear Marie, I will religiously keep your ladyship’s secrets so long as you keep mine.”

He rose, and, taking her hand, mockingly kissed it. Then, crossing to Ruth, he would have caught her in his arms, but she started from him, and stood at bay on the other side of a table.

“You foolish child!” he said, laughing; “you must be a little wiser when I come again.”

As the door closed upon him Marie stood with her eyes closed, listening, and then with a cry of despair she threw herself into her cousin’s arms.

“Oh, Ruth, Ruth, Ruth, what have I done! what have I done! I swear to you I am innocent, indeed—indeed.”

“I believe it, I know it,” cried Ruth, holding her to her heart; “but oh, Marie, you must never see him again! Pray, pray keep away.”

“Yes, yes,” she cried; “I will. I am innocent, I am indeed. But, oh, it is horrible! I will stay away. I will see him no more. But you—that man—he has us in his power.”

“I beg your pardon,” said a soft voice; “I think I must have left my gloves in here. Yes, there they are!” and Paul Montaigne quietly crossed the room, took a pair of gloves from a chair, and then smiled and went softly out.

The cousins gazed in each other’s eyes, motionless, till they heard the closing of the front door.

“Oh, Marie,” whispered Ruth, in an awe-stricken way, “he must have heard every word you said!”

And Marie echoed hoarsely, “Every word!”

Mr Montaigne allowed a couple of days to elapse before he called again in Saint James’s, and then, serious man as he was, he swore, for the shutters were closed: the family was out of town.

It was no unusual time for anyone to go, for, as he stood there hesitating on the step, a slatternly-looking girl was making the streets ring with her minor-pitched cry of “Sixteen branches a penny—new lavender; sixteen branches a penny.” It was well on in August, and fashionable London was taking wing.

“Clever woman!” thought Montaigne: “this is her move; but I can mate her when I please.”

He rang, and a woman-servant answered the bell.

“His lordship is out of town,” the woman said.

“At his country seat?” said Montaigne at haphazard.

“Oh dear no, sir! his lordship has taken my lady and Miss Allerton on the Continong, and they are not coming back for some time. Mr Harvey, his lordship’s agent, will send on all letters.”

“Thank you. I am very much obliged,” said Montaigne with his blandest smile; and he raised his hat and went away smiling, cursing Marie in his heart.

“‘All comes to the man who waits,’” he thought.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

Ruth’s Work Undone.

The Continental trip extended to months, after which there were a few visits, so that it was well into the next season before they were back at the house in Saint James’s, and after their return Marie devoted herself to Ruth, hoping that Montaigne would not show himself again, though they both trembled at the thought of his coming.

Still, he did not show himself, and matters went on so happily and well that Ruth began to hope that Marie’s love for Glen was dead, when, in an evil hour, and, as Marie said, to fulfil a social duty, they called upon Lady Anna Maria Morton, meeting Lady Littletown there; when that lady insisted upon their dining with her at her town house, and it was next to impossible to refuse.

Lady Littletown was a match-maker at heart, and she always looked upon her conservatory, with its brilliant flowers, as her greatest aid in such matters. Hence it was that her ladyship took care to have a conservatory wherever she lived.

She had taken a handsome house in South Kensington for a short season, one that was admirably furnished in this respect, though far from being equal to Mr Elbraham’s glass palace. Still, it was enough.

Lord Henry frowned slightly on finding that Captain Glen was among the guests, and deputed by Lady Littletown to take Marie in to dinner; but his brow cleared directly, and he smiled at his wife as she went by him and gave him an appealing look that seemed to say, “Don’t blame me.”

Hardly had they passed on to the staircase before Glen said in a quick, agitated voice: “I thought I was never to see you again. I must have a few words with you before you go.”

Five minutes before, Marie had told herself that she was brave and strong, and that the past fancy was dead; but on hearing these words her hand trembled, her heart beat fast, and she knew that she was as weak as ever, and that she could only falter: “It is impossible!”

“It is not impossible!” he said angrily. “I must—I will see you.”

They entered the dining-room, and for the next two hours everything seemed to Marie like a dream. Lord Henry was at the bottom of the table, taking his old place of host, and the flower-filled vases completely shaded his wife from sight: still, Ruth was exactly opposite, apparently listening to the conversation of Glen; but Marie knew that she was watching them narrowly.

She went upstairs in a dream, just as she had come down, and answered questions, talked and entered into the various themes of conversation as if she were quite collected; but all the time there had been a restless throbbing of her pulses, and she trembled, and felt that she would have given the world to be away!

At last!

Marie heard the dining-room door open, and the sound of ascending voices. Lord Henry would be there directly, and she would ask him to take her back.

That was Marcus Glen’s voice speaking loudly, and every fibre of her body seemed to thrill as she listened to its tones.

Marie’s back was to the door as he entered, and she could not see him; but she seemed to feel his approach, and all was a dream once more, as he seated himself on the ottoman by her, and began to talk about some current topic.

She answered him, took the opposite side, talking freely and well, and Lord Henry chided himself for his uneasy feeling, and felt that he ought to be proud of such a wife. She was devoted to him, and he trusted her with all his heart.

The conversation was very animated for the time that Glen stood by her; but all the while Marie’s pulses kept up that quick, feverish throb, and there was the hidden sense of danger still within her heart.

May had come round again, the Academy pictures were once more drawing their crowds, and directly after an early breakfast one morning Marie and Ruth walked up into Piccadilly to spend a couple of hours while the rooms were empty and cool.

How it happened Marie afterwards hardly realised, but she had become separated from her cousin, who had wandered on into the next room, leaving her gazing listlessly about, when suddenly her heart seemed to stand still, for close beside her there was a low sigh, and she felt more than saw that Glen was at her elbow.

Mastering her emotion, she turned quickly to reproach him for following her there, when she saw that he had his back to her, and was gazing intently at a portrait. She did not speak. It was a kind of gasp or catching of the breath; but he heard it, and turned sharply round to face her.

“Marie!” he exclaimed.

“Hush! Don’t speak to me, for God’s sake!”

She said no more, but reeled, and would have fallen had he not caught her arm, and led her through the next opening and downstairs to the refreshment-room, quite empty at that early hour, the waiters not being ready for visitors.

There were a couple of the attendants at hand, ready to bring water and ice, and at the end of a few minutes Marie gazed wildly about her—starting violently, though, as she heard the deep voice at her side.

“That will do,” he said quietly. “A few minutes’ rest and she will be quite recovered.” Then they were alone, with Glen whispering to her eagerly, and she listening with her eyes half-closed and a strange dazed look in her pallid face.

“No, no!” she said at last feebly.

“You shall,” he cried, and his strong will prevailed over her more and more. “You must leave him, Marie. I do not ask it: I know you love me. You always have loved me. Come to me, my darling, or I must die.”

“Die!” she moaned. “No, no; not you. O God, forgive me! Would that I were dead!”

“Dead, when there is a life of happiness before us?” he whispered. “Marie dearest, at last! You understand?” he said, after whispering for some time.

“Yes, yes,” she said slowly; and he spoke again very quickly, but in low, distinct tones.

“Yes,” she repeated heavily, “I understand.”

“Marie!”

“Lady Henry was taken suddenly ill in one of the rooms, Miss Allerton,” said Glen hurriedly. “Fortunately I was there.”

“Ill,” said Ruth slowly, as she ran to Marie’s side. “Fortunately you were there. Captain Glen, I will see to my cousin now. Will you have the goodness to go?”

He raised his hat and slowly walked away.

“Marie, Marie!” cried Ruth piteously. “How could you deceive me so?”

“No, no!” cried Marie excitedly. “I did not know he was here. It was an unexpected meeting. Take me—”

She was about to say “home,” but she could not utter the word, and as they walked back Ruth thought of this, and a hand seemed to compress her heart as she said to herself:

“The work of months undone!”

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

John Huish Gets Back Part of his Brains.

More than once during the severe attack of brain-fever from which John Huish lay prostrate at Highgate, Dr Stonor compressed his lips and asked himself whether he would save his young friend’s life. At such times, as he sat by the bedside and gazed in his patient’s face, the lineaments brought back the scene by the pit and his father’s agony, as Captain Millet lay apparently dying.

“How time has gone!” the doctor would mutter, “and how like he looks to his father now!”

But a change for the better came at last, and after a long and weary convalescence he was once more about, month after month gliding by, and the brain refusing to accompany the body on its way to health.

He was very quiet and gentle, but he seemed to have no recollection of what had gone by, neither did he evince any desire, but passed his time mostly in the doctor’s study, where an unrolled mummy had apparently so great an attraction for him that he would sit near and watch it hour after hour when no one was by.

“Must get him better first,” the doctor would say. “I can’t run the risk of bringing on a relapse.”

So John Huish remained in utter ignorance of the fact that his young wife had been confined to her bed at the gloomy house in Wimpole Street, so prostrated by all she had had to pass through, that the doctors called in advised total rest and quiet, combined with careful nursing. Nothing calculated to excite her was to reach her ears. Hence, when in his turn Dr Stonor called, his lips were sealed respecting John Huish’s state; and poor Gertrude never mentioned his name.

After leaving Renée by her sister’s side, the doctor had a long chat with his old friend, whose white hand trembled as he thrust it forth to be taken by the visitor.

“How is she?” said the latter. “Ah, poor girl, she is very ill!”

“But she will get better? Oh, Stonor, don’t flatter me: tell me the truth!”

“Tell you the truth?—of course I shall! Well, she’ll be better when she gets back to her husband.”

“And how is John Huish?” and the white hand trembled inside the panel, like some leaf agitated by the wind.

“He is bad—very bad,” said the doctor. “I’ve had a hard fight with him, for his brain has had some serious shock. Poor fellow! he has been a little queer in the head for some time past, and consulted me at intervals, but I could make nothing of it. It’s a very obscure case, and I would not—I could not believe that there was anything more than fancy in his symptoms. But he was right, and it seems like a lesson to me not to be too conceited. His mind has been very impressionable, and from what I can gather he has not been carrying on as he should.”

“No, no, I’m afraid not!”

“There was some sad scene with his young wife, I suppose.”

(Text on pages 164 and 165 missing.)

“Well, I always think that it was a very insane, morbid proceeding, tinged with vanity, to shut yourself up as you have done these thirty years.”

“I took an oath, when I found to what I was reduced, that I would never look upon the face of man again, and I have kept it.”

“I should think that you were more likely to be forgiven for breaking such an oath than for keeping it,” said the doctor drily.

“But I have kept it!” said Robert Millet sternly. “In a few short hours I found that I had lost all worth living for, and I retired here to die.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, in his bluff, dry way; “but when you found that you were so long dying, I think you might have done something useful.”

There was no reply to this, and the doctor loosed the thin white hand, and began to tap the little ledge by the panel.

“I wrote down to Huish about his son’s illness,” he said at last.

“Yes: well?” said the recluse eagerly.

“He begged me to do all I could. He never leaves his room now. Gout or rheumatism has crippled him. Strange how things come about with the young people.”

“Yes: I’m getting old now, and I wanted to feel full of forgiveness towards Huish, and that is why I took to his boy. It is hard that matters have turned out as they have.”

“Very,” said the doctor. “Well, I’m not going to advise, but I should like to know that you had broken your oath at last, and let light into your brain as well as into your house. Good-bye; I’ll let you know how John Huish gets on.”

Dr Stonor went straight to Highgate and found what seemed an improvement in his patient, for Huish was sitting up; but he seemed strangely reticent and thoughtful, and never asked any questions as to his wife or his relatives, but seemed to be dreaming over something with which his mind was filled.

Time passed, and with closely cut hair, and a strange sallowness in his complexion, John Huish was up, and had been out times enough in the extensive garden, but there was a something in his manner that troubled the doctor a great deal, and was looked upon by him as a bad symptom. He was always dreaming over something, and what that was he never said.

Miss Stonor conversed with him, and he was gentle and talked rationally. He answered the doctor’s questions reasonably enough, and yet, as soon as his attention was released, he was back again, dreaming over the one thing that seemed to trouble his mind.

“Will he get well?” said Miss Selina to the doctor one morning.

“I’d give something to be able to say,” was the reply. “At times I think not, for I fear the impression upon his mind is that he is insane, and if a man believes that of himself, how can we get him to act like one who is sane?”

This was at breakfast-time, and the doctor soon after went out, leaving an assistant in charge.

It was a glorious afternoon, and Huish and the three patients were out in the garden, where Captain Lawdor was practising throwing biscuit, as he called it, at a stone balanced on the end of a stick. Mr Rawlinson had a table out and was writing a series of minutes on railway mismanagement; and Mr Roberts was following John Huish about as he walked up and down beneath the old red-brick wall which separated the garden from the road.

This went on for a time, and then Mr Roberts crept softly up to Huish, to whom he had not spoken since the night of the dinner, and said:

“I told you not to look at that Egyptian sorcerer. I knew it would send you mad.”

“Mad!” exclaimed Huish, smiling. “I am not mad.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr Roberts. “You came here and asked the doctor to cure you. No man could do that if he were not mad.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Huish, looking at him strangely. “I am quite well.”

Mr Roberts shook his head.

“No, you are not; I know how you feel, just like a man I knew used to feel. He always felt as if he were two; and sometimes he was one, sometimes the other. The other was the one the lawyer said was dead. It was so sad, too, for her. What have you done with your wife?”

At last!

John Huish started as if he had been stung. That was the something he had, in a strange secretive way, tried to think of for days past—his wife; and now the mention of her sent a shock like that of electricity through his brain.

He hurried away, and began to walk up and down, growing more and more excited. His wife! Where was she? Yes, he remembered now; the mist that had shrouded his brain was dispelled, and he could think. That something like him had been and taken her away, and he was doing nothing here.

With all the cunning of an insane person he became very calm all at once, for the doctor’s assistant strolled out in the garden just then, walked up to and spoke to him, and not seeing any change, went back to the house, while, glancing sharply round him, John Huish waited for an opportunity to put a plan that he had instantly matured into operation.

He had sense enough to know that he should be refused if he asked leave to go outside, so walking up and down for a few minutes, he suddenly made a run and a bound, caught the top of the wall and scrambled up, and dropped into the lane.

The captain raised a shout, and the assistant came running out, but by the time he reached the gate Huish had disappeared, taking as he did a short cut across the fields, while the assistant searched the road, and then, after fruitless efforts, hurried off to the nearest station, and made his way to Finsbury Circus. Here he broke the news to the doctor, who left him to finish his cases, and, calling Daniel, set off as fast as they could go to Westbourne Road, as being the most likely point for Huish to make for now he was free.

As soon as he had run sharply across the fields, John Huish subsided into a walk, and going along at a pretty good pace, made straight for his home.

To all appearances he was perfectly sane and in his right mind; but there was only one dominant idea there, and to fulfil this he was hurrying on. Still there was a certain amount of strange caution developed in his acts. He seemed to know that there was something wrong with him, and that he must be cautious how he spoke to people; and to this end he carefully avoided everyone who appeared to take the slightest notice of him, till he reached Westbourne Road. There he rang the bell, and the door was answered by his domestic.

The servant looked at him strangely, but said nothing, and he hurried up to his room to try and remove any traces that might strike a stranger of his having been lately ill. His mind was clear enough for that, and as he hastily bathed his face, the cold water refreshed him and he felt more himself.

He was terribly confused, though, at times, and had to ask himself why he was there.

That acted as a touchstone—Gertrude—he had come to seek his wife; he had escaped so that he might find her, for the doctor would not let him go. He told him—yes, he told him his wife was well, and he should see her soon; but it was a lie to quiet him. That devil had got her—his other self. Of course—the servant and the cabman told him so; but he must be quiet, or they would stop him. Perhaps the doctor had sent after him now.

He shuddered and gazed about him for a moment as if his mind were going beyond his control. Then, mastering himself once more, he took up his hat, opened the door, and passed out into the road.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

Lord Henry Receives a Telegram.

“I shall be waiting for you this evening at the Channel Hotel. It is an easy walk from the square. Ask to be shown to Number 99. If you are not there by ten o’clock, good-bye! There will be the report of a pistol heard. Without you I can bear my life no longer.”

Every word burned into her mind, and she seemed to be mentally repeating it constantly, even as some familiar tune will keep on humming in the brain.

“If you are not there by ten o’clock there will be the report of a pistol heard.”

Marie felt that he would keep his word.

Over and over and over again, with dreary reiteration, those words kept recurring, and then, as the day wore on and she went to her room, she found herself repeating them aloud.

She bathed her burning temples, but found no relief. She threw herself upon a couch, and tried to obtain rest, but those words kept on, and she repeated them as if they were a lesson, till everything seemed dreamlike and strange, and she wondered whether she had really met Glen that morning.

At last she dropped into a feverish, uneasy sleep, the result of her weariness, but the words kept on, and she felt that she was repeating them as she went straight on towards a thick darkness, whose meaning she could not penetrate. All she knew was that she was irresistibly impelled towards that darkness, and it made her shudder as she drew nearer and nearer, till she felt that her next step would be into this strange mystery, when she found herself confronted by Ruth.

“Are you ill, dear?”

“No, not ill; only weary in spirit, dear. There, I am better now. But tell me about yourself. Have you seen Montaigne lately?”

“Yes,” said Ruth with a shiver. “He seems to watch and follow us. He was in Piccadilly this morning as we came back from the Academy.”

“The insolent!” said Marie calmly. “Is it time to dress?”

“Oh no,” cried Ruth, looking curiously at her cousins ashy face. “You have been to sleep, and forgotten how time goes.”

“Have I? Yes, I suppose I have. Let me see, there is no one coming to dinner to-night?”

“No, not to-night,” said Ruth, gazing with wondering eyes at her cousin.

“No, no, of course not! My brain feels hot and confused to-day. I shall be better soon!”

She rose, and then descended with Ruth to the drawing-room, chatting calmly with her over the five o’clock tea, and seemed as if she had forgotten the morning’s incident. This went on till the dressing-bell rang, when, placing her arm round her cousin, she went with her upstairs to their several rooms, kissing her affectionately, and bidding her not be late.

Marie looked perfectly calm when they met again in the drawing-room, where Lord Henry was awaiting their descent, and as Ruth entered she saw her cousin half seated upon one of the arms of a lounge, resting her soft white arm upon her husband’s shoulder as she bent down and kissed him tenderly upon the forehead.

She did not start away, but rose gravely, and directly after, dinner was announced, and Lord Henry took Ruth down.

The dinner passed off much as usual. The conversation was carried on in the quiet, calm way customary at that house, and Lord Henry smiled gravely and pleasantly first at one, then at the other, as he retailed to them, in his simple, placid manner, some piece of news that he had heard at the club, to which Marie listened with her quiet deference to her husband, whose slightest word seemed always to rouse her to listen.

When they rose Lord Henry left his chair in the most courtly way to open the door for them, Marie drawing back for Ruth to pass out first, while she hesitated, before placing her arms round her husband’s neck. She kissed him on his forehead, holding him tightly to her for a moment or two, and then she passed into the hall and began to ascend the stairs, looking handsomer than she had ever looked to him before, as she went up with the soft glow of the lamp shining down upon her pale face.

As she reached the first landing she smiled back at him in a strange way, hesitating for a moment or two before passing out of his sight.

“God bless her,” said the old man, with tears in his eyes. “I wish I was years younger—for her sake.”

He returned to his chair, poured out his customary glass of port-wine, and sat sipping it in a calm, satisfied spirit. So happy and at rest did he feel, that, for a wonder, he finished that glass and poured out another, which he held up to the light and examined with all the air of a connoisseur.

Then sip after sip followed, with the dark ancestral paintings seeming to look down warningly at him from the wall, till he finished that second glass and began to doze. Then the doze came to an abrupt conclusion, and his lordship started up, for he thought he heard the closing of a door, but his eyelids dropped lower and lower till they were shut, and this time he slept deeply—so deeply that he did not hear the butler enter with his cup of coffee, which the old servitor placed softly upon the table, and then went out.

“Eh? What?” exclaimed Lord Henry, starting up.

“Beg pardon for waking your lordship,” said the butler, holding out a silver salver, upon which was a reddish—brown envelope; “but here is a telegram.”

“Telegram? Bless me!” exclaimed the old man, fumbling in rather a confused way for his glasses. “I hope—nothing wrong!”

His hands trembled as he opened the envelope and took out the message, while as he read the pencilled words his jaw dropped, and the old butler took a step forward.

“My lord!”

These words brought him to himself.

“That will do, Thompson. I will ring.”

The old butler glanced at his master uneasily, but obeyed, and then Lord Henry, with palsied hand, held the sham telegram to the lamp and read once more:

“From Smith, West Strand.

“To Lord Henry Moorpark,

“300, Saint James’s Square.

“If you care for your honour, follow her ladyship. She has gone to keep an appointment at Channel Hotel.”

He crushed the paper in his hand, and caught at the table for support.

Then he recovered, and drew himself up proudly.

“It is a lie—a scandal!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “The dog who could send that slur against my wife deserves to be hung!”

He tottered slightly at first as he walked, but he kept pulling himself together, twitching his head and crushing the paper more tightly in his hand, as he went slowly towards the door.

He would not hurry, he was too proud and full of trust and belief in Marie for that; and thrusting the telegram into his pocket, he, in his usual leisurely way, touched the bell for the dessert to be cleared away, threw open the door, and gave his customary cough as he crossed the hall before mounting the handsome staircase, step by step, where Marie had turned when she left him a short time before.

The old man held his head up more and more erect as he went on, and when the butler came from below in answer to the bell, he noted that his lordship was humming in a low voice a snatch of an air that was often played in the square by the organs.

He was too chivalrous to believe the message, and in the calmest manner possible he placed his hand upon the door-knob, turned it, entered the softly-lit drawing-room, closed the door in his usual gentle way, and crossed towards Marie’s chair, where she would be seated by the steaming urn, with Ruth reading aloud as was her wont.

“I have been thinking, my dear—” he said.

Then he stopped, perfectly calm, though both chairs were empty, and his lips quivered slightly.

“It is a lie—a cruel lie! God bless her! I’ll not believe it!”

He muttered this as he went on, and was about to ring the bell, when he hesitated. Should he?—should he not?

It would be braver and better to do so, he thought, and would show his calm confidence to his servants.

But why should he trouble them? Poor sweet! her head had been aching a good deal that day, she said, and she had gone to lie down. Ruth, perhaps, was with her. He would go up and see.

He went slowly up to the bedroom—tapped; there was no answer, and he softly entered, to find the lights burning and something white upon the toilet-table—something white that caught his eye on the instant, and involuntarily he said:

“A note!”

Of course—a note to explain why she was not there.

He glanced at himself in the long cheval-glass that had so often reflected the form of his beautiful wife. His face was very pale, but he could see that he looked perfectly cool and collected as he crossed to the toilet-table and took up the note.

He raised his glasses, and saw that it was open—a note directed in a feminine hand to Lady Henry Moorpark.

The note fell from his fingers and a frown gathered on his brow as, after a few moments’ hesitation, he walked rapidly out of the chamber and down into the drawing-room, where he rang the bell, and a footman came to the call.

“Has her ladyship gone out, Robert?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And Miss Allerton?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Did they have the carriage?”

“No, my lord; Miss Allerton went out directly after dinner, and her ladyship soon after.”

“That will do.”

The man left the room, and Lord Henry stood for a few minutes gazing straight before him, and with a strangely stern aspect in his face.

Love and chivalry were fighting hard with ordinary worldliness, and it was a question which would win.

“I ought to go,” he said at last—“I will go. Heaven knows that I do not—that I will not doubt her; but she is not here, and it is very strange. I will go.”

He went downstairs, all in the most calm and deliberate way, as if everything depended upon his being perfectly cool, and after ringing for one of the servants, he was helped on with his light overcoat, his hat and gloves were handed to him, his black cane with its crutch handle, and he went quietly out into the square. He raised his cane as a hansom cab came by, got in, and was driven to the Channel Hotel, where he paid and dismissed the man.

An attendant was in the vestibule as he entered, and, beckoning to the man, he placed a half-sovereign in his hand, a feeling of shrinking on the increase, and the shame making him hesitate as he asked whether two ladies had come there since eight or nine o’clock.

“Two ladies, without luggage? Yes, sir. And a gentleman. In Number 99, sir.”

Lord Henry hesitated again, for love and chivalry seemed to throw themselves in his way to prevent him from doing what he told himself was a mean action.

But he felt that he must go on now, and, going a little closer to the man, he said:

“Take me up at once, and show me in without announcing my name.”

The man nodded, and led him up the great staircase, passing what seemed to be innumerable rooms before stopping at one where he waited for his lordship to come close up before throwing open the door for him to enter.

The telegram was right so far: Lady Henry Moorpark was there, but she was in company with Ruth.

So far good; but Captain Marcus Glen, her old lover, was present, and Mr Paul Montaigne.

Marie sank into the nearest chair. Paul Montaigne caught Ruth by the wrist, and whispered a few words; while, on seeing who had come, Marcus Glen stepped boldly forward, and seemed ready to defend the woman he loved.

“Be silent,” whispered Montaigne—“not a word! Your only hope now is to cling to me.”

“May I ask what is the meaning of this meeting, Lady Henry?” asked his lordship. “I had a telegram advising me to come here, and I find you in company with Captain Glen.”

“Who came to meet me, Lord Henry,” cried Ruth, flinging off Montaigne’s grasp and clinging to Glen’s arm.

Glen directed one glance at Marie, who had turned from him, and was standing with knitted brow, half-closed eyes, and blanched face, crushed down as it were by her shame, and with all a soldier’s quickness of decision he determined to try and save her.

“Let me explain, Lord Henry—Lady Henry,” said Glen quickly. “I am to blame for this clandestine meeting. Lady Henry, you meant well by your pursuit, but you cannot alter matters now. Ruth accepts me as her husband, and nothing but force would take her away. If I have spoken too plainly, you must forgive me. Once more, I am to blame.”

“Well acted,” muttered Montaigne. “Now, my Lady Marie; it is your turn now.”

But Marie stood as if stunned.

“This is fine, heroic language, Captain Glen,” said Lord Henry; “may I ask to how many ladies you have used it before?”

“I deserve your rebuke, my lord,” said Glen; “but there comes a time to every man when he feels that he is in earnest. I am in earnest now.”

“If, sir, you are in earnest, why did you not make your advances like a gentleman?”

“One moment,” interposed Montaigne, who had now recovered himself, and stood with a smile upon his lip; “Lord Henry, I have been protector, tutor to these ladies from their childhood: I wish to say a few words to Captain Glen.”

Lord Henry bowed.

“Ruth, my child,” continued Montaigne, “leave Captain Glen for a few minutes.”

She shrank from him with such a look of revulsion that the rage in his breast flamed up again, and his craftiness for the moment failed.

“Now, sir,” said Glen sternly, and he looked menacingly at the man whom he blamed for the frustration of that night’s plans.

“You have cleverly hoodwinked the poor old fool amongst you,” whispered Montaigne, “but you have not blinded me. I have a prior claim to Miss Allerton’s hand, and I tell you this,” he cried, his rage making him tremble, “that after this night, if you so much as approach her again, I’ll expose Marie to her husband—I’ll tell him all.”

Glen glanced at Marie, who was talking in a low voice to Lord Henry, while, suffering now from the reaction, Ruth had sunk into a chair, trembling at what she had dared to do.

“You understand,” continued Montaigne, upon whose forehead the veins stood out. “That is my price for silence. Ruth is mine, or I drag that woman into the dust.”

He stood there with his face thrust forward, his hands clenched, and a fiercely vindictive look in his eyes, while Glen seemed to be weighing his position, but he was not. He let his eyes wander from Montaigne to Lord Henry. Then he glanced at Ruth, who for a moment met his gaze with a piteous, appealing glance, before flushing deeply, and drooping in very shame.

“Heaven bless her, she is too good for me!” thought Glen; “but before this scoundrel should lay hands upon her—”

“You understand me,” reiterated Montaigne; “now go.”

“Understand you!” whispered Glen; and as he spoke he laid one hand sharply on Montaigne’s shoulder, clutching him in so fierce a grip that he caused intense pain. “Yes; now understand me.”

Montaigne glared at him, and he suffered acutely, but he did not wince.

“You have uttered your threats: now hear mine. That lady’s reputation is in your hands.”

“Is this all?” said Montaigne defiantly.

“No,” whispered Glen, placing his lips close to Montaigne’s ear; “I have not read your death-sentence: betray us, and I will kill you, so help me God!”

The two men were glaring at each other, and by degrees, as Montaigne’s face grew of a sickly, leaden hue, his eyelids drooped, and he shrank away.

Glen crossed to Ruth and took her hand.

“Heaven bless you?” he whispered. “I dare not say more to you now. I am not worthy, Ruth. Would I were a better man! Be kind to her, for she wants your aid.”

She did not speak, but stood there trembling, till he led her to Lord Henry.

Will you take her, sir? he said. “You will not refuse her a home for what has occurred?”

If Lord Henry Moorpark had felt any hesitation, it was chased away by the action of his wife, who caught her cousin to her heart.

“Some day, Lady Henry—Lord Henry,” continued Glen, “I will come as a gentleman, and ask that the past may be forgotten, and that Ruth Allerton may be my wife. Mr Montaigne—”

He signed toward the door, and vainly trying to resist the stern eyes fixed upon him, Montaigne led the way, and was followed out.

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.

A Woman’s Work.

Directly after leaving the dinner-table Ruth set herself to watch her cousin, asking herself the while what course she had better pursue.

At times she thought she would speak to Lord Henry, but she shrank from such an exposure. Marie would perhaps be saved from the step she evidently contemplated, but at what a cost! Her husband’s confidence would be for ever gone, and the old man’s happiness at an end.

Marie was very pale, but there was a red spot burning in either cheek, and as Ruth watched her she could see a deep frown upon her brow, while from time to time she pressed her hand upon her breast as if to still the beatings of her heart.

Then came those words she had heard Marie mutter perfectly distinctly in her unquiet sleep—the room she was to ask for at the Channel Hotel; the threat Marcus Glen had uttered respecting his action if she did not come; and as Ruth sat there in the terrible silence of the large drawing-room, she felt that if she did not do something at once the strain upon her mind would be more than she could bear.

All at once Marie gave a start, and drew in her breath as if in sudden pain. She seemed to forget the presence of Ruth, and, rising, walked quickly to the mantelpiece, pressing her hair back from her forehead, while, taking advantage of her back being turned, Ruth glided softly into the smaller drawing-room, which was in comparative darkness.

The idea had come at last. It seemed reckless and wild, but she knew that it was useless to appeal to Marie. She would go herself to Marcus Glen. He was noble-hearted and true. There was a simple manliness in his nature that made her hope, and she would kneel and appeal to him to spare her cousin, to pause before he wrecked the happiness of the good, chivalrous old man who trusted his wife in the pride and nobleness of his heart.

“I shall be too late,” thought Ruth; and, wound up now to a pitch of excitement which seemed to urge her to act, she softly turned the handle of the door, glided out, and without stopping to close it, ran up to her room.

Money she had, and in a very few minutes she had dressed herself for her task, and, closely veiled, she stepped softly to the door.

It opened silently, and she was about to glide downstairs, when she heard a faint rustle, and, drawing back, she peered through the nearly closed door, and saw Marie come up the stairs and enter her room.

Nerving herself for her task, she stepped out, and softly passed Marie’s room, hesitated for a moment as she heard a door close downstairs, and the servants’ voices ascending—all else was still in the great mansion; and as quickly as she could she ran past the drawing-room door and down into the hall, where she stopped and clung to the great coil of the balustrade for support.

Her heart had failed her. There was that great dark door to pass, just beyond which, at the foot of the table, she knew Lord Henry was seated with his decanter and glass before him.

But just then a slight sound somewhere upstairs brought back the memory of Marie’s face, and, hesitating no longer, she stepped quickly to the front door, her hand was upon the lock, and then she felt as if she were turned to ice, for the voice of the old butler said respectfully:

“I will open it, ma’am.”

He had been seated in the great hall-porter’s chair waiting for his lordship to leave the dining-room, and he now swung open the wide door for her to pass out.

She went down the two or three steps, feeling like one in a dream, wondering, though, whether the butler would go and tell Lord Henry that she had gone out, and feeling each moment, as she hurried along the pavement, that someone was about to place a hand upon her shoulder and bid her stay.

Her mouth felt dry, her breath came fast, and the throb of her pulses was painful; but she was on her way to the place of rendezvous, and it was to save those she loved from ruin.

There were wheels behind, and she stopped instinctively and looked round. It was an empty cab, and, taking this as a signal, the driver drew rein. Ruth mechanically stepped in, and then started as the little trap above her was opened, and the driver asked where to drive.

“Channel Hotel,” came mechanically from her lips, and in her agitation it only seemed a minute before she was in front of the great entrance.

“Take me to Number 99,” she said as indifferently as she could, and a waiter led the way.

She trembled so that she could hardly proceed, for the idea was horrible. What did she hear Marie say? Was it Number 99, at this hotel?

She was not sure now, and she felt faint and giddy as she followed the man upstairs, and along a wide corridor. Should she ask him to stop? She dare go no farther, and her lips moved to stay him, when he paused by a door. Before she could find breath to speak or power of utterance, he tapped lightly, and she heard him say:

“A lady to see you, sir.”

There was the noise of a chair pushed quickly back, and a heavy tread upon the carpet as she entered, moved, it seemed to be, by some power that was not her own. Then as the door closed behind her she saw that she was right, for, exclaiming loudly, “Marie! my darling!” Glen caught her in his arms.

“Captain Glen!”

Ruth struggled indignantly from him, and snatched off her veil.

He staggered back.

“Ruth! you here?” he cried.

“Yes. I was compelled to come. Marie—my cousin—Lady Henry—Oh, Captain Glen!”

“Is she ill? Has she sent you? Do you know?” he whispered hoarsely.

“She has not sent me,” cried Ruth. “She does not know I have come. Oh, Captain Glen!” she cried, sobbing violently as she threw herself upon her knees and clasped his feet, “for heaven’s sake, spare her! Do not bring down such misery upon that home.”

“Ruth, my child, hush! for heaven’s sake!”

“No, no, no, no!” sobbed Ruth, and she went on incoherently as she clung to his feet: “You are not thinking of the horror of your crime. You do not love her—you cannot care for her, or you would not drive her to this terrible sin.”

“Not love her—Marie? Is she coming?”

“I pray heaven, no,” said Ruth simply. “I would sooner see her dead.”

“Then I will go and fetch her,” cried Glen, furious with disappointment. “I will not bear it; I cannot bear it. I’ll tear her away from him—but no,” he said bitterly, “I promised something else, and I know she will come.”

“Is this Marcus Glen?” said Ruth simply, as she remained there upon her knees; “is this the man who I told Marie was the soul of truth and honour?”

“No; it is the poor deluded, wretched man who has been twice tricked and cozened of his love. It is useless; I cannot, I will not listen to you!”

“You shall!” she cried, springing to her feet. “You shall go away from here, for she shall not leave her home for you. I would die sooner than see this shame brought upon her. Coward, to force me, a mere girl, to speak to you as I do! Oh, it is cruel, it is shameful, and yet you talk of love!”

“Hush!” he cried, as she stood before him flushed with her indignation; “what do you know of love?”

“That there is no such thing, if it is to bring shame and disgrace on a weak woman, and death and dishonour upon a good, confiding man. Oh, where is God, that He does not strike you dead for even thinking such a cruel wrong!—Marie, Marie, you shall not go!”

For as she spoke in the anger and bitterness of her heart, the door opened, and, veiled and in a large black cloak, Marie glided in, to shrink cowering away in horror and shame, holding up her hands to keep Ruth off, but in vain, for the girl flung her arms round her, and then turned her head, so as to face Glen.

“You here, Ruth!”

“Yes, to save you from this shame. Oh, Marie, think of dear Lord Henry!” she cried passionately; “think of the disgrace, the horror and remorse to come!”

“I have thought till I can think no more,” moaned Marie. “Oh, Ruth, Ruth, why did you come?”

“In heaven’s name, yes! Why did you come?” cried Glen fiercely, as he tried to tear the couple apart.

“No; keep off!” cried Ruth. “I have told you why: because I would not stand by and be a witness of this shame.”

“But, Ruth, you do not know; you cannot tell. It is too late now.”

“I tell you it is not too late!”

“Yes, my child, it is,” said a low, soft voice; and there stood Paul Montaigne, with his calm aspect and bland smile. “It is too late; the step is taken by you, Ruth, as well as by Marie here. Captain Glen, I will see that Miss Allerton comes to no harm.”

“By what right do you intrude?” cried Glen hotly.

“The right of an old protector of these ladies,” said Montaigne, smiling. “There, do not be angry, my dear sir. I come as a friend. Their interests have been mine for so many years that I, knowing something of the tender passion myself, can sympathise with all. Mind, I do not counsel flight, and if I had been consulted I should not have hesitated to stop you; but as you have taken the irrevocable step, all I can say is—go, get the divorce over as soon as possible, and then I insist upon your marrying my darling ward.”

“Of course, of course!” cried Glen angrily. “Marie, my love,” he whispered, “come.”

“No, no!” cried Ruth, interposing, and clinging to her cousin’s arm. “Marie dear, you will come back?”

Marie looked at her in a piteously helpless fashion, and shook her head.

“My dearest Ruth,” said Montaigne, “your interference is ill-timed. You are fighting against fate. Come, come! I know it seems very dreadful to you, but you must let matters have their course.”

He advanced to take her hand, but she shrank from him with horror.

“No, no!” she cried. “Why do not you interfere?”

“Captain Glen, your train must be nearly due.”

“And Ruth?” said Glen, hesitating. “Will you see her back?”

“Hardly,” said Montaigne, smiling. “She cannot return there; but you can rest content if she is under my charge. Recollect, sir, I have known her almost from a child.”

“Mr Montaigne is right; you are fighting against the irrevocable. The step is taken, and Marie cannot return. Now, for all our sakes, pray go!”

“With Mr Montaigne?” cried Ruth excitedly. “No; I will not go; and I will not leave Marie!”

“Then, in heaven’s name, go with us!”

“No!” said Montaigne fiercely; “Ruth goes with me!”

“Marcus Glen—Marie—I claim your protection from this man!” cried Ruth excitedly.

“Then you shall come!” cried Glen. “Marie, be firm,” he whispered. “Now, Mr Montaigne—you hear Miss Allerton’s decision; stand aside!”

“Miss Allerton stays with me!” said Montaigne firmly; and, in place of giving way, he stepped forward, and an angry collision seemed imminent, when the door was once more thrown open, and Lord Henry Moorpark, looking blanched and old, came into the room.

Ruth had gained her end.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Face to Face.

John Huish’s brain was still confused. At times he was ready to give way to the idea that he must be quite mad, and at such times he had a dire mental struggle to master the wild rush of thoughts so that he might get one uppermost and let it have due course—that one wild idea that he must bring himself face to face with the fiend who mocked his existence, had tortured him for years, and who lived in his semblance; and he felt in nowise surprised, as he passed down the road, at seeing himself, dressed exactly as he then was, turn suddenly out of a side-street and walk rapidly towards the house he had just left.

“At last!” he said beneath his breath; and he drew back into a garden to avoid being seen.

He was in nowise surprised either, as, with the cunning of a madman, he watched till his semblance went straight up to the house and knocked; and, feeling that he would enter, Huish stole slowly out of his hiding-place and followed.

“Trapped!” he said in a low voice. “Only room for one of us in this little world.”

His teeth grated together, his fingers were tightly clenched, and he crept on towards the gateway of his house, hidden by the tall privet hedge within the railings, and reached the entry just as his semblance came back from the door frowning and savage with disappointment at the result of his quest of her who had disappeared just as he had triumphed in his heart over a long-cherished idea of revenge.

The two men were face to face; and with a cry of savage delight John Huish sprang at his semblance’s throat, but to be met by a blinding flash and a tremendous blow, which sent him staggering back, clutching vainly at the railings before he fell upon the pavement and rolled over and over half stunned.

He sprang to his feet, though, and gnashed his teeth with rage as he looked up and down and saw that a couple of the very few people about, alarmed by the shot, were coming to his assistance, but him he sought was gone.

Before anyone could reach him, John Huish had started off running hard to the bottom of the road, chancing which way the man he hunted had gone, and was just in time to see him enter a hansom, to be rapidly driven off.

Running pretty quickly, he became aware that he was exciting attention, and, remembering his appearance, he subsided into a slower pace, for another cab was on ahead, and he hailed it just in time.

“Follow that hansom!” he cried to the man as he leaped in. “Double fare.”

The horse sprang forward, and to his great satisfaction he saw that he gained upon the fugitive, so he sat back patiently waiting, with the determination now to hunt him down.

Mad or sane, there was but one thought still in John Huish’s brain, and that was to get this fiend, this haunting demon, by the throat. Whether he was human or some strange creature from another world, he had ceased now to speculate; his head had been troubled with too much stress. All he felt was that they two could not exist together upon earth: that was his evil half, and he must kill it.

Once or twice a thrill of mad rage made his nerves tingle, for he seemed to see Gertrude resting lovingly in that other’s arms, responding to his caresses, smiling in his face, and blessing him with her love; and at such moments his brain whirled like one of the wheels by his side.

The sight of the cab in front drove these thoughts away, though, and, clenching his teeth, he shook his head as if to clear his brain for the one object in view.

And now, for the first time, he became aware of a strange pain, and of something warm trickling down beside his ear, and putting up his hand, he withdrew it covered with blood.

“He could not kill me,” he muttered, taking out his handkerchief and applying it to where the bullet had struck the top of his head and glanced off, making a deep cut which bled freely.

He did not know it then, but it was the one thing for which he had reason to thank the man he pursued. Though sent with a mission to destroy, it was the saving of his life.

On still through the crowded streets, which were empty to John Huish, for he saw nothing but the cab before him. As in his then wild state there seemed to be room in the world for but one of them two, so in his vision there was room but for the single object he pursued.

There were turnings and checks, and more than once the cab was nearly lost; but the driver he had knew his work, and twice over, when Huish was about to leap out and continue the pursuit on foot, there was the cab on ahead.

Over a bridge, and then down a turning for a short cut. Yes, he must be making for Waterloo Station; and as Huish sprang out he saw the man he sought at the ticket-office, and darted towards him.

The fugitive looked round in the act of taking his ticket, saw the wild face of Huish, and turned and fled, with his pursuer hunting him like a dog and close upon his heels.

Without a moment’s hesitation, on reaching the platform, he ran to the right, doubled back along the next, leaped down on the line, crossed it, reached the next platform, doubled again in and out, amidst the shouts of the porters, passed through a tangle of trains and empty carriages, and so reached again another platform, before glancing back to find Huish doggedly on his track.

A wild, strange look of horror came into his face as he glanced around him, seeking which way to go, and for the moment he made for the way down to the waterside by Hungerford Bridge; but a train was on the point of starting—not the one for which he had taken a ticket, but anywhere would do, so that he could get away from the madman who hunted him like fate.

He dashed to the gate just as it was closed, and the stern official uttered the words. “Too late.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that John Huish was within ten yards, and half a dozen porters in pursuit. Had he possessed the presence of mind now to face him, he had but to say. “This is an escaped lunatic,” to see Huish secured.

But his nerve was gone, and in his horror he glanced wildly from place to place, ran a few yards, dashed through another gate, and ran along another platform just as the train was gliding away by the next.

Shouts and orders to stop reached him, but they fell upon ears that heard nothing, and, boldly leaping down at the end of the platform, he ran along the line, caught the handle of one of the carriages about the middle of the train, and climbed on to the footboard.

“Safe!” he muttered. “Curse him! he is a devil incarnate!”

As he spoke he climbed into the compartment, which proved to be empty; and then, with a smile of triumph, he thrust his head out of the window to gaze back at his discomfited pursuer; for the engine was now rapidly gathering speed, and being one of the long-distance trains, it would probably run ten or a dozen miles without stopping.

As he looked out, though, his eyes became fixed and his teeth chattered together with horror, for there, far back, standing on the footboard of the guard’s break, was John Huish, and as the young men’s eyes met there was a strange kind of fascination which held the fugitive to the window, while his pursuer seemed to come nearer and nearer till their eyes almost touched.

Occurring as these incidents did on the off side of the train, they had not been seen by the guard, who was in profound ignorance of what had taken place, while the officials at the terminus gave him the credit of seeing the strange passengers, and taking such steps as were necessary at the first stopping station. But he saw nothing till, looking out, about a couple of miles down the line, he saw John Huish standing on the footboard, and the next minute he entered the brake.

To the guard’s remarks there was no reply, and finding himself in company with a wild-looking man, with closely cut hair, his head bleeding, and who paid no heed to his words, he was about to check the train; but as his hand was stretched out to the wheel that bore the line, John Huish’s eyes blazed up and he shrank back, afraid to enter into an encounter with one whom he looked upon as mad.

“Where do you stop first?” said Huish at last.

“Bulter Lane,” replied the man, naming a station some fourteen miles down the line; and John Huish was silent during the half-hour’s run, while the guard kept glancing anxiously out at the stations they passed, and longed for help to rid him of his strange companion.

They were over two miles from their destination when, before he could arrest him, the guard saw Huish—who had been leaning out of the window, first on one side, then on the other—suddenly open the door, step down, and leap from the train.

“Why, there’s another!” he cried, looking out. “I wonder they haven’t broken their necks.”

Had he been gazing out as the train ran on through the pretty country place, he would have seen the fugitive, after anxiously looking ahead, suddenly step down upon the footboard, leap forward, stagger as his feet touched the ballast, and then go down on hands and knees, but to get up and begin walking fast to the boundary hedge, which he crossed just as John Huish also took his leap from the train, alighted in safety, and once more began the pursuit.

“Why, the hunt’s t’other way on,” cried the guard excitedly, as he looked back. “Madman’s hunting his keeper, I think; and he’ll have him too,” he added, as the train thundered rapidly along, and they glided into the station, his last glimpse of the two strange passengers being as they ran across a meadow nearly two miles back. He gave information to the station-master, and two or three passengers who had seen the fugitive leave the carriage, and whose destination this proved to be, set off at a trot in the direction taken by the hunted man, while, after telling the engine-driver and stoker that it was a rum start, the guard resumed his place and the train continued its way.

It was a desperate leap, but in the dread which had seized him, the fugitive would have taken one of greater danger, for something seemed to tell him that he was fleeing from death, and that death was the stronger of the two.

He fell heavily, and cut his knees and hands upon the rough gravel, but he was up again, leaped the hedge beside the lane, and was hurrying across the meadow in the hope that Huish would not miss him until he reached the next station.

Glancing back, though, when he had run some fifty yards, he uttered a shriek that was like that of a frightened woman, for he could see Huish passing the hedge, and now he knew it was a trial of speed and endurance.

“He’ll kill me,” he cried hoarsely, as with trembling hands he pulled out the revolver from his breast, and, thrusting a hand into his pockets, sought for a cartridge to replace that which he had fired; but his fingers refused their office; and giving up the task, he ran on across meadow after meadow, checked by the hedges, and aiming afterwards at the gates.

A grim smile overspread his face as, after about a mile had been covered, he glanced back to see that he was the faster of the two, and, aiming for the open country, he pressed on.

“I shall tire him out,” he muttered as he toiled on, feeling disposed to throw away the revolver, but fearing to part with what might prove the means of saving his life.

The country was wooded and park-like; and with a strange perversity he sought the open, when he might have obtained help had he sought the nearest village. It was as if, in this time of peril, he, the clever, scheming, ready-witted man, had lost all command over his actions, and every nerve seemed concentrated upon the sole thought of fleeing from his pursuer.

They were too far ahead in their start to be seen by the porters who ran up the line from the station, and then followed their footprints across the meadows, so that there were no witnesses to the savage, relentless pursuit of the one, and the blind, terror-stricken flight of the other.

The pursued was right: unchecked by illness and confinement, he was the swifter of the two, gradually placing more distance between himself and his pursuer; but he had not calculated upon the latter’s stern determination.

For after a few minutes, in place of exerting himself to overtake his quarry, John Huish settled down into a steady, plodding run, husbanding his strength, and contented to keep his double in sight.

A few minutes later, as he still kept his eyes upon the man ahead, he slipped off his coat and steadily ran on, easier now that he was freed from this encumbrance.

A mile was covered, then, more slowly, another, and now the exertions of pursuer and pursued showed in the sluggish pace at which they toiled on. Huish’s face was black with the heat, and the veins in his forehead were starting, his breath came thick and fast, and now, dragging off his vest, collar, and tie, one by one, he threw them aside, and seeming to nerve himself as he saw his enemy stagger in his track, he increased his pace.

Fields were everywhere, save that in the distance were the spires of a couple of churches. At the end of a hundred more yards they came suddenly upon a wide expanse of undulating common-land, dotted with clumps of Scotch firs, and tufts of gorse and bracken, offering plenty of places of concealment to a hunted man, could he but reach one unseen.

But Huish was too close, while now the endurance was telling over speed, and as, like a hunted hare, the pursued glanced back with wild and starting eyes, he could see that his pursuer was gaining steadily, and the distance between them becoming short.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows, and glorified the golden gorse and bronzed the dark-green pines, while ever and again a rabbit scuttled away to its safe sanctuary in the sandy earth, and turned as if to gaze pityingly at the hunted stranger. Now and then, too, a blackbird darted away, uttering its alarm note, while high overhead in the peaceful arch of heaven a lark sent forth its trill of joy and peace.

Peace, while war to the death was in preparation for enactment by those two men, who, with bloodshot eyes, hot, dry tongues, and hoarse breathing, stumbled on over the heath and gorse! All around was a scene of silent beauty, such as the wild parts of Surrey can display in the greatest perfection; but bird, wild-flower, the mellow afternoon sunshine, all were as naught to John Huish, who saw but the tottering figure some forty yards ahead, and with his chest seeming to be aflame, the foam at his lip, and the taste of hot blood in his mouth, he toiled on.

“I can go no farther!” panted the man he pursued, as, after wildly looking round for help, he made for a clump of firs, to one of which he clung as if to steady himself as he laid the pistol against the trunk and fired, while his pursuer was twenty yards away.

The bullet whizzed by John Huish’s head as he came on, and there was another report and the strange singing noise of a second bullet, but he passed on unharmed. His bloodshot eyes were fixed upon the half-hidden figure by the fir-tree, now not ten yards away—now not five, as there was a flash, a report, and a jerking feeling in his left arm.

The next moment the hunted man had dropped the pistol and turned to flee, running amongst the trees to where there was a hollow beneath a bank of yellow sand, capped with golden broom, and here he crouched, half turned away, thrusting one arm into a rabbit burrow, pressing himself against the crumbling soil, and literally shrieking in a wild, hoarse way as might some rat that has been hunted into a corner where there is no escape.

As Huish came at him he made another effort to flee, running a few yards, shrieking still in his agony of fear, more like some wild creature than a man. Then in his horror he faced round just as, gathering up his remaining strength, Huish sprang at his breast and they fell, the latter lying upon his enemy’s chest with his hands feebly clasping his throat.

“At last!” he panted with a savage laugh, and then lay helpless. He had overtaken his enemy, the creature who had blasted his life, maddened him, and robbed him of his fame and all he loved, and now he was helpless as a child.

For a time there was the hoarse panting of their laboured breath, and the eyes of the two men alone engaged in deadly strife; their limbs were completely paralysed. The sun sank lower, casting the shadows of the pines across them, and, emboldened by the silence, the furze chats twittered here and there, while from the distance came the soft mellow caw of a rook in homeward flight. Then from the dry grass hard by came the shrill crisp chizz of the grasshopper, and soft and deep from the clump of firs the low rattling whir of the evejar preparing for its hawking flight round the trees in quest of the moths and beetles that formed its fare.

But one thing in the soft evening beauty seemed to accord with the passions and hellish fury of the two men, and that was the low hiss and writhing shape of a short thick viper which glided slowly from beneath one tuft of heath where it had been driven by the coming footsteps, to seek its lurking-place beneath another.

For fully twenty minutes, panting, heated, exhausted, did the two men lie there, glaring into each other’s eyes. Once only did the hunted move, and his hand stole softly towards his breast-pocket; but it was pinioned on the instant, and he lay prone, waiting his time.

Meanwhile the sobbing hoarse murmur of their breathing grew more subdued, the heavy beating of their hearts more even, and the great drops of sweat ceased to trickle down from neck and temple, to coalesce, and then drop upon the grass. The feeling of helplessness, of paralysed muscles, passed away, and with the fire in his eye growing fiercer as he felt his strength returning, John Huish uttered a sigh of content as he told himself that he could now crush out the life of the creature who had destroyed his happy life.

The sun sank lower as he gazed down at the face beneath him. It was like looking at his own angry countenance in a mirror, and for the moment he was startled; but that passed away, for the thought of Gertrude came like a flash through his insane brain.

It was for vengeance.

“Devil!” he cried hoarsely; and with one sharp movement he struck at the prostrate man.

The latter had seen the change in his countenance, and was prepared for the assault. With the activity of a panther he seized the coming hand, and throwing up his chest as he bent his spine like a bow, he tried to throw his adversary off, and then a deadly struggle began.

At this moment there was little difference in the physical power of the two adversaries. Huish, though, from his position had the advantage, one that he fought hard to keep. At first it seemed that he would lose it, for, having somewhat recovered from his horror and fear of death, the hunted man threw the strength he had been husbanding into his first effort, flung John Huish aside, and nearly escaped. His advantage, however, was but a matter of minutes, for Huish steadily held on, and he was never able to rise to his feet. The grass was crushed down, the purple heather broken, and the sand torn up, while, growing giddy and weak with his exertions, the old fear came back, and once more the man lay prone upon his back, gazing up into Huish’s relentless eyes, and shuddered at the remorseless countenance he saw.

Then he raised his head slightly to try and look round for help, but he could see nothing but the setting sun, now glorifying the whole scene of peace made horrible by the life-and-death struggle that was going on. He thought of the past, of his wife, and as a strange singing arose in his ears, it seemed to take the form of words imploring for mercy—the mercy that he would not show.

“I can’t die—I am not fit to die!” he gasped. “John Huish, have mercy on me!”

He shuddered as his adversary burst into a wild, hoarse laugh, and glared down at him; and truly his face was horrible, distorted as it was by passion, his brow smeared with blood from the wound in his head, and every vein knotted and standing out from his exertions.

“He is mad!” the man muttered, as he saw the wild look in the other’s eyes, and once more he shrieked aloud. “No, no! do not kill me!” he cried; “I cannot die!”

“Not die!” cried Huish. “We shall see!”

He tightened his hands now fiercely, when, with almost superhuman strength, the hunted man made a dying effort to wrench away his neck, shrieking out: “Huish—John Huish—mercy—do not kill—I am—your brother!”

John Huish’s hands relaxed their grasp, and a strange pang of fear and wonder combined struck through his brain. This man—his very self in appearance—his double—who knew his every act, his very life, and who had impersonated him again and again—was it possible?

He stared down at the distorted countenance before him, his hands clawed and held a few inches from the prostrate man’s throat, while doubt and incredulity struggled for the mastery. Then a curious smile crossed his face as his former thought re-mastered his beclouded brain.

“Another wile—a trick—a lie, for a few more moments’ breath,” he cried, catching him by the throat once more. “It is a lie, and you are a devil!”

“Mercy, help!” shrieked the other once more. “Huish—John—would you kill your brother?”

“I have no brother.”

“I am the son of James Huish and Mary Riversley!” cried the other with starting eyes; and then, as the young man loosed him once more, he cried: “It is true, I call God to witness—it is true!”

John Huish clasped his forehead with his hands, and tried to comprehend the fact thus suddenly brought before his clouded brain.

“You—my brother?”

“Ask in the other world!” yelled the other, as, with a stroke like lightning, he struck Huish full in the shoulder with a long keen-bladed knife, and, with a low groan, the young man fell over sidewise, and lay motionless amongst the heath.

“Curse him!” hissed the man savagely, as he rose to his feet, and then sank down feeling faint and giddy. “I’m sick as a dog. I’m torn to pieces. Curse him, it was time to strike!”

He wiped the blood from his hands, sought for and picked up the revolver that had fallen before the struggle began, and came back to think.

“Not room for two John Huishes,” he said, with a coarse laugh.

“Shall I go on with the game?” he said at last. “Yes? No? Too late. I shall be hunted down for this. The Baillestone people must know of the jump from the train. He will be found here to-morrow. I must get back.”

He bent over the prostrate man for a few moments, gazing at his calm, placid face, which now in the twilight seemed sleeping.

“Poor devil!” he muttered; “I didn’t want your life, but if, as you said, there was only room for one of us, why, you had to go! Brother, eh? Good-bye, dear brother Abel; I’m going to play Cain with a vengeance now; but my mark is on my arm, and not on my brow. Curse it, how it throbs and burns!”

With a low inspiration of the breath he hurriedly threw off his coat, and drew up his shirt-sleeve, for half was torn away in the struggle, and laying bare a great puckered scar upon his arm, it showed red and fiery, probably, though, from injury in the struggle.

“It is nothing, I suppose. One would think he had had the bite, and not I. Rabid as a maddened dog!”

He hastily drew on his coat, shivering with cold and horror.

“That would be horrible,” he muttered, “to go mad like a dog! What a fool I am! I shall stay here till I am taken.”

He glanced sharply round, and then started off at a steady walk, thankful for the coming shades of night, which would hide his disordered apparel.

His figure had hardly grown faint in the distance when a couple of young men crossing the common with rod and basket on their shoulders came upon the prostrate form of John Huish, as they chatted carelessly of the day’s sport.

“Drunk, or a tramp?” said one.

“Both,” said the other carelessly, as he glanced at the figure. “By Jove! Harry, there’s blood. It’s suicide!”

They hurried to the spot, and there was still light enough to display the tokens of the fierce struggle in the trampled turf, and the torn neck of the injured man’s shirt.

“It’s murder!” cried the first speaker. “Run for help!”

“Here it is!” said the other excitedly, as several figures were seen approaching; and he uttered a loud shout.

“What is it? Have you found them?” cried the first of the fresh party, panting.

“Found this man—he’s dead.”

“We’ve been hunting them for long enough,” said the other. “Yes, that’s one; here’s his coat and waistcoat. Good God! is he dead?”

“I don’t know,” said the man, leaning over Huish’s body. “He’s got an ugly wound. I wonder who he is?”

“I know,” said the man who had come up. “We have found his pocket-book and a letter. His name’s Huish—John Huish—and the letter’s from a doctor—Stonor, I think the name is.”

“Never mind the name as long as it is a doctor!” cried the man who knelt by Huish. “Someone run for him. Here, who’s got a flask?”

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

Not Room for Two.

The hunted man’s wife sat watching at her window hour after hour, as she had watched days and nights before—bitter, vindictive, dwelling on the cruelty, the blows and wrongs, from which she had suffered at this man’s hands, and from the woman who played the part of mother to him—jealous tyrant to her.

“I have forgiven so much,” she said, “and would forgive again—anything but this! So young, and handsome, and fair! He’ll find her again, and bring her back, and then I may go. Why didn’t he kill me outright?” she added bitterly, as she went slowly to the lamp, took it up, and held it so that she could gaze at her bruised face in the glass.

It was a handsome face, but bitterly vindictive now, as she gazed at the bruises and an ugly cut upon her lip.

“Better have killed me for letting her go. He hates me now. Yes,” she said sadly; “better do it at once—better do it.”

But she crossed the room again with a sigh to open the door and listen, habit mastering anger and bitterness, as a look of eagerness and longing such as had often been there before came into her face. It was the old anxious look with which she had watched for him who did not come. Then, by degrees, the look faded out, and her brow contracted as bitter thoughts prevailed.

It was getting late now, and she lit the candles in an automatic fashion, pausing at intervals to think. Then, going to the little sideboard, she took out a glass and the spirit decanter, half full of brandy, placing both on the sideboard ready before seating herself at the open window to listen. Nine o’clock struck, then ten, and the half-hour had chimed, but still he did not return.

There were a couple of figures, one at either end of the lane, but they did not attract her attention, and she still sat listening till a faint noise below made her start up and hurry to the door.

Yes, at last. Someone coming up the stairs two steps at a time. The door was flung open, and her husband entered hastily, looking pale and disordered. There was so jaded and despairing an aspect in the man’s eyes that the woman’s sympathies were aroused, her troubles were for the moment forgotten, and she laid her hand upon his arm.

“Back at last, John dear!” she said tenderly. “Are you tired?” And then something in his face startled her. “John dear!” she cried.

“Curse John!” he cried. “There, I have done with that masquerading. Here, quick—my little bag—a change of things!”

“Are you hurt?” she cried anxiously.

“Do you hear me?” he cried, and struck at her savagely with the back of his hand.

She staggered back with a low moan, but sprang to him the next moment, and threw her arms round his neck.

“John dearest,” she whispered, in a low, frantic tone, “for God’s sake tell me you are sorry you did that. For your own sake ask me to forgive you; it makes me mad!”

“Curse you, keep away!” he cried, flinging her off; but she staggered back, and tried to nestle in his breast, only to be flung off again. “Get me my clean things—quick!”

“No, no, not yet!” she cried, falling upon her knees and grasping at his hands. “John, dear John, one kind word; say one gentle word to me, pray, oh, pray!”

“Are you mad?” he said savagely, as he tried to release his hand.

“No; but you are driving me so!” she cried hoarsely. “I forgive you your infidelity, your unkindness—everything—the way in which you have wronged me. John—husband—for God’s sake, for your own sake, be kind to me now. You do not know the temptation that is on me.”

“To run away and leave me?” he said mockingly. “Pray go.” He stood glaring down at her for a moment, and then exclaimed, in a cold, cutting way: “Will you get me the things I want?”

“Yes, yes, dear—yes, my own love!” she cried excitedly; “in one minute. But John, husband, my heart is nearly broken. I am maddened by my wrongs.”

He must have been mad himself, for as she clung to him he struck her again, more savagely this time, and, with a shudder running through her whole frame, she cowered on the floor.

But it was only for the moment. She struggled up again, joining her hands together as she wailed once more:

“I ask you again, for our dead babe’s sake, John—husband—give me one kind word, and I will forgive all!”

“Do you want to drive me wild!” he yelled savagely. “I am not John Huish—I am not your husband. Out of my sight, or—”

He raised his hand again to strike her, but she did not flinch. She stood up, seeming as if turned to stone, and a sickly pallor appeared on her cheeks.

“There, quick; get me the brandy! I have a long way to go.”

“Yes,” she said quietly, as a low moan escaped her lips; “you have a long way to go.”

She fetched the brandy decanter and glass from the sideboard, placed them before him, and he poured out a goodly quantity, raised the glass, listened, and then put it down.

“Who’s below?” he said sharply, as he turned towards the door.

“Jane Glyne,” she said, moaning; and then once more she tried to clasp his neck.

“What’s the matter with you?” he cried mockingly, as he thrust her arm away, and, catching up the glass, he raised it to his lips.

“No, no!” she cried, her coldness giving way to a look of horror; “don’t drink it;” and she threw up her hands to seize the glass. But once more his hand fell heavily upon her, and she shrank away, covering her bruised face with her fingers, as he drained the glass and then dropped it, to shiver to atoms on the fender.

“What! That brandy?” he cried, with his face convulsed. “What have you given me to drink?”

“Death!” she said sternly, as she dropped her hands, to stare him full in the face.

He caught at the mantelpiece and steadied himself, his lips parting, but no words came. Then, with his countenance changing horribly, he said in a hoarse whisper:

“How long?”

She grasped his meaning, and shook her head. He smiled, and swung himself to the table, caught the decanter in his hand, and stood pointing.

“A glass—quick!”

She glided to the sideboard, and returned to place one before him. The neck of the decanter chattered loudly against the thin edge, and his teeth gnashed horribly as he poured out half the glass full, and then dropped the vessel, for the remainder to run gurgling out with a strange noise, as if the spirit within the decanter were dying. Then, grasping the glass, he raised it and held it out.

“Drink!” he said huskily—“drink!”

The woman stood motionless for a few moments, rigid, as if petrified. Then, without a word, she raised her hand, took the glass calmly, and raised it to her lips, when in a paroxysm of agony the dying man threw out his arms, the glass was dashed from her hand, and he fell heavily upon the floor. As he fell writhing upon the rug the door was thrust open, and a detective-sergeant and a couple of policemen entered the room.

“John Huish, alias Mark Riversley, I have a warrant—Good heavens!” The sergeant stopped, caught the decanter from the table, smelt it, and set it down. “Too late!” he exclaimed, as a strong odour of bitter almonds floated through the room. “Here—a doctor—quick!”

As one constable reached the door the man they sought uttered a low animal cry, writhed himself partly up, and caught at the woman’s hands as she sank upon her knees at his side.

“Too—late,” said the man faintly, as he threw up his head and seemed to be speaking to someone invisible to those present. “Your—fault, your sin—a curse—a curse!”

Those present glanced at one another and then at the woman who knelt there silent and motionless, as if carved in stone.

They thought him dead, but he struggled faintly, and the woman held his head upon her arm, as his eyes slowly turned upon her, and a smile played round his pinched blue lips.

She shuddered, and her brow knit as she bent her head to hear his dying curse.

“Only a dog, and a dog’s death,” he whispered—“a wolf—in my blood—cursed—cursed. Gentlemen, too late; poison; I took it myself. An accident—I— Ah! No room for us both. Good-bye!—my—”

He made a faint effort to throw one arm round the woman’s neck, but it fell lifeless by his side, and as a shudder ran through him a piteous cry rang through the room, and all turned to see that a wild-looking, haggard woman had entered the room.

“My poor, handsome boy!” she wailed. “Dead, dead!”