ROGER BEVERE. (continued 2)

“Does she not know better, think you?”

“Very likely not,” he answered. “A wrong letter, more or less, in a name, signifies but little to one of Lizzie’s standard of education. It is not often, I expect, she sees the name on paper, or has to write it. Fare you well, Ludlow. Remember me to Bevere.”

Scott had hardly disappeared when they met me. I said nothing of having seen him. After treating Tottams to some tarts and a box of bonbons, we set off home again; the winter afternoon was closing, and it was nearly dark when we arrived. Getting Roger into his room, I handed him the note, and told him how I came by it. He showed me the contents.

“Dear Roger,

“When you where last at home, you said you should not be able to spend Christmas with me, so I am thinking of trying a little jaunt for myself. I am well now and mean to keep so, and a few days in the country air may help me and set me up prime. I inscribe this to let you know, and also to tell you that I shall pay my journey with the quarter’s rent you left, so you must send or bring the sum again. Aunt Dyke has got the rumaticks fine, she can’t come bothering me with her lectures quite as persistent as usual. Wishing you the compliments of the season, I remain,

“Your affectionate wife, “Lizzie.”

“Gone into Essex, I suppose; she has talked sometimes of her cousin there,” was all the remark made by Bevere. And he set the note alight, and sent it blazing up the chimney. Of course I did not mention Scott’s fancy about the red-gold hair.

Sunday. We crossed the waste land in the morning to the little church I have spoken of. A few cottages stood about it, and a public-house with a big sign, on which was painted a yellow bunch of wheat, and the words The Sheaf o’ Corn. It was bitterly cold weather, the wind keen and cutting, the ground a sort of grey-white from a sprinkling of snow that had fallen in the night. I suppose they don’t, as a rule, warm these rural churches, from want of means or energy, but I think I never felt a church so cold before. Mr. Brandon said it had given him a chill.

In the evening, after tea, we went to church by moonlight. Not all of us this time. Mr. Brandon stayed away to nurse his chill, and Roger on the plea of headache. The snow was beginning to come down smartly. The little church was lighted with candles stuck in tin sconces nailed to the wall, and was dim enough. Lady Bevere whispered to me that the clergyman had a service elsewhere in the afternoon, so could only hold his own in the evening.

It was snowing with a vengeance when we came out—large flakes half as big as a shilling, and in places already a foot deep. We made the best of our way home, and were white objects when we got there.

“Ah!” remarked Mr. Brandon, “I thought we should have it. Hope the wind will go down a little now.”

The girls and their mother went upstairs to take off their cloaks. I asked Mr. Brandon where Roger was. He turned round from his warm seat by the fire to answer me.

“Roger is outside, enjoying the benefit of the snow-storm. That young man has some extraordinary care upon his conscience, Johnny, unless I am mistaken,” he added, his thin voice emphatic, his eyes throwing an inquiry into mine.

“Do you fancy he has, sir?” I stammered. At which Mr. Brandon threw a searching look at me, as if he had a mind to tax me with knowing what it was.

“Well, you had better tell him to come in, Johnny.”

Roger’s great-coat, hanging in the hall, seemed to afford an index that he had not strayed beyond the garden. The snow, coming down so thick and fast but a minute or two ago, had temporarily ceased, following its own capricious fashion, and the moon was bright again. Calling aloud to Roger as I stood on the door-step, and getting no answer, I went out to look for him.

On the side of the garden facing the church, was a little entrance-gate, amid the clusters of laurels and other shrubs. Hearing footsteps approach this, and knowing all were in from church, for the servants got back before we did, I went down the narrow cross-path leading to it, and looked out. It was not Roger, but a woman. A lady, rather, by what the moonbeams displayed of her dress, which looked very smart. As she seemed to be making for the gate, I stepped aside into the shrubs, and peered out over the moor for Roger. The lady gave a sharp ring at the bell, and old Jacob came from the side-door of the house to answer it.

“Is this Prior’s Glebe?” she asked—and her voice gave an odd thrill to my pulses, for I thought I recognized it.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Jacob.

“Lady Beveer’s, I think.”

“That’s near enough,” returned Jacob, familiar with the eccentricities of pronunciation accorded to the name. “What did you please to want?”

“I want Miss Field.”

“Miss Field!” echoed the old man.

“Harriet Field. She lives here, don’t she? I’d like to see her.”

“Oh—Harriet! I’ll send her out,” said he, turning away.

The more I heard of the voice, the greater grew my dismay. Surely it was that of Roger’s wife! Was it really she that Scott had seen at the station? Had she come after Roger? Did she know he was here? I stood back amid the sheltering laurels, hardly daring to breathe. Waiting there, she began a little dance, or shuffle of the feet, perhaps to warm herself, and broke into a verse of a gay song. “As I live, she’s not sober!” was the fear that flashed across me. Harriet, her things still on, just as she came in from church, came swiftly to the gate.

“Well, Harriet, how are you?”

“Why, Lizzie!—it’s never you!” exclaimed Harriet, after an amazed stare at the visitor.

“Yes, it’s me. I thought I’d come over and see you. That old man was polite though, to leave me standing here.”

“But where have you come from? And why are you so late?”

“Oh, I’m staying at Brighton; came down on the spree yesterday. I’m late because I lost my way on this precious moor—or whatever it calls itself—and got a mile, or so, too far. When the snow came on—and ain’t it getting deep!—I turned into a house to shelter a bit, and here I am. A man that was coming out of church yonder directed me to the place here.”

She must have been at The Sheaf o’ Corn. What if she had chanced to ask the route of me!

“You got my letter, then, telling you I had left my old place at Worthing, and taken service here,” said Harriet.

“I got it safe enough; it was directed to the Bell-and-Clapper room,” returned Lizzie. “What a stick of a hand you do write! I couldn’t decipher whether your new mistress was Lady Beveen or Lady Beveer. I had thought you never meant to write to me again.”

“Well, you know, Lizzie, that quarrel between us years back, after father and mother died, was a bitter one; but I’m sure I don’t want to be anything but friendly for the future. You haven’t written, either. I never had but that one letter from you, telling me you had got married, and that he was a gentleman.”

“And you wrote back asking whether it was true, or whether I had jumped over the broomstick,” retorted Lizzie, with a laugh. “You always liked to be polite to me, Harriet.”

“Do you ever see Uncle Dyke up in London, Lizzie?”

“And Aunt Dyke too—she’s his second, you know. They are both flourishing just now with rheumatism. He has got it in his chest, and she in her knees—tra, la, la, la! I say, are you not going to invite me in?”

Lizzie’s conversation had been interspersed with laughs and antics. I saw Harriet look at her keenly. “Was it a public-house you took shelter in, Lizzie?” she asked.

“As if it could have been a private one! That’s good.”

“Is your husband with you at Brighton? I suppose you are married, Lizzie?”

“As safe as that you are an old maid—or going on for one. My husband’s a doctor and can’t leave his patients. I came down with a friend of mine, Miss Panken; she has to go back to-night, but I mean to stay over Christmas-Day. I’ll tell you all about my husband if you’ll be civil enough to take me indoors.”

“I can’t take you in to-night, Lizzie. It’s too late, for one thing, and we must not have visitors on a Sunday. But you can come over to tea to-morrow evening; I’m sure my lady won’t object. Come early in the afternoon. And look here,” added Harriet, dropping her voice, “don’t drink anything beforehand; come quiet and decent.”

“Who has been telling you that I do drink?” demanded Lizzie, in a sharp tone.

“Well, nobody has told me. But I can see it. I hope it’s not a practice with you; that’s all.”

“A practice! There you go! It wouldn’t be you, Harriet, if you didn’t say something unpleasant. One must take a sup of hot liquor when benighted in such freezing snow as this. And I did not put on my warm cloak; it was fine and bright when I started.”

“Shall I lend you one? I’ll get it in a minute. Or a waterproof?”

“Thanks all the same, no; I shall walk fast, I don’t feel cold—and I should only have the trouble of bringing it back to-morrow afternoon. I’ll be here by three o’clock. Good-night, Harriet.”

“Good-night, Lizzie. Go round to that path that branches off from our front-gate; keep straight on, and you can’t miss the way.”

I had heard it all; every syllable; unable to help it. The least rustle of the laurels might have betrayed me. Betrayed me to Lizzie.

What a calamity! She did not appear to have come down after Roger, did not appear to know that he was connected with Lady Bevere—or that the names were the same. But at the tea-table the following evening she would inevitably learn all. Servants talk of their masters and their doings. And to hear Roger’s name would be ruin.

I found Roger in his chamber. “Uncle Brandon was putting inconvenient questions to me,” he said, “so I got away under pretence of looking at the weather. How cold you look, Johnny!”

“I am cold. I went into the garden, looking for you, and I had a fright there.”

“Seen a ghost?” returned he, lightly.

“Something worse than a ghost. Roger, I have some disagreeable news for you.”

“Eh?—what?” he cried, his fears leaping up: indeed they were very seldom down. “They don’t suspect anything, do they? What is it? Why do you beat about the bush?”

“I should like to prepare you. If——”

“Prepare me!” sharply interrupted Roger, his nerves all awry. “Do you think I am a girl? Don’t I live always in too much mental excruciation to need preparation for any mortal ill?”

“Well, Lizzie’s down here.”

In spite of his boast, he turned as white as the counterpane on his bed. I sat down and told him all. His hair grew damp as he listened, his face took the hue of despair.

“Heaven help me!” he gasped.

“I suppose you did not know Harriet was her sister?”

“How was I to know it? Be you very sure Lizzie would not voluntarily proclaim to me that she had a sister in service. What wretched luck! Oh, Johnny, what is to be done?”

“Nothing—that I see. It will be sure to come out over their tea to-morrow. Harriet will say ‘Mr. Roger’s down here on a visit, and has brought Mr. Johnny Ludlow with him’—just as a little item of gossip. And then—why, then, Lizzie will make but one step of it into the family circle, and say ‘Roger is my husband.’ It is of no use to mince the matter, Bevere,” I added, in answer to a groan of pain; “better look the worst in the face.”

The worst was a very hopeless worst. Even if we could find out where she was staying in Brighton, and he or I went to her to try to stop her coming, it would not avail; she would come all the more.

“You don’t know her depth,” groaned Roger. “She’d put two and two together, and jump to the right conclusion—that it is my home. No, there’s nothing that can be done, nothing; events must take their course. Johnny,” he passionately added, “I’d rather die than face the shame.”

Lady Bevere’s voice on the stairs interrupted him. “Roger! Johnny! Why don’t you come down? Supper’s waiting.”

“I can’t go down,” he whispered.

“You must, Roger. If not, they’ll ask the reason why.”

A fine state of mental turbulence we were in all day on Monday. Roger dared not stir abroad lest he should meet her and have to bring her home clinging to his coat-tails. Not that much going abroad was practicable, save in the beaten paths. Snow had fallen heavily all night long. But the sky to-day was blue and bright.

With the afternoon began the watching and listening. I wonder whether the reader can picture our mental state? Roger had made a resolve that as soon as Lizzie’s foot crossed the threshold, he would disclose all to his mother, forestalling her tale. Indeed, he could do nothing less. Says Lord Byron, “Whatever sky’s above me, here’s a heart for every fate.” I fear we could not then have said the same.

Three o’clock struck. Roger grew pale to the lips as he heard it. I am not sure but I did. Four o’clock struck; and yet she did not come. The suspense, the agony of those few afternoon hours brought enough pain for a lifetime.

At dusk, when she could not have known me at a distance, I went out to reconnoitre, glad to go somewhere or do something, and prowled about under shelter of the dark shrubs, watching the road. She was not in sight anywhere; coming from any part; though I stayed there till I was blue with cold.

“Not in a state to come, I expect,” gasped Roger, when I got in, and reported that I could see nothing of her, and found him still sitting over the dining-room fire.

He gave a start as the door was flung open. It was only Harriet, with the tea-tray and candles. We had dined early. George, the clergyman, was expected in the evening, and Lady Bevere thought it would be more sociable if we all took supper with him. Tottams followed the tea-tray, skipping and singing.

“I wish it was Christmas-Eve every day!” cried the child. “Cook’s making such a lot of mince pies and cakes in the kitchen.”

“Why, dear me, somebody has been drawing the curtains without having shut the shutters first!” exclaimed Harriet, hastening to remedy the mistake.

I could have told her it was Roger. As the daylight faded and the fire brightened, he had shut out the window, lest dreaded eyes should peer through it and see him.

“Your sister’s not come yet, Harriet!” said Tottams. For the advent of Harriet’s expected visitor was known in the household.

“No, Miss Tottams, she is not,” replied Harriet, “I can’t think why, unless she was afraid of the snow underfoot.”

“There’s no snow to hurt along the paths,” contended Tottams.

“Perhaps she’d not know that,” said Harriet. “But she may come yet; it is only five o’clock—and it’s a beautiful moon.”

Roger got up to leave the room and met Lady Bevere face to face. She caught sight of the despair on his, for he was off his guard. But off it, or on it, no one could fail to see that he was ill at ease. Some young men might have kept a smooth countenance through it all, for their friends and the world; Roger was sensitive to a degree, refined, thoughtful, and could not hide the signs of conflict.

“What is it that is amiss with him, Johnny?” Lady Bevere said, coming to me as I stood on the hearthrug before the fire, Tottams having disappeared with Harriet. “He looks wretchedly ill; ill with care, as it seems to me; and he cannot eat.”

What could I answer? How was it possible, with those kind, candid blue eyes, so like Roger’s, looking confidingly into mine, to tell her that nothing was amiss?

“Dear Lady Bevere, do not be troubled,” I said at length. “A little matter has been lately annoying Roger in London, and—and—I suppose he cannot forget it down here.”

“Is it money trouble?” she asked.

“Not exactly. No; it’s not money. Perhaps Roger will tell you himself. But please do not say anything to him unless he does.”

“Why cannot you tell me, Johnny?”

Had Madam Lizzie been in the house, rendering discovery inevitable, I would have told her then, and so far spared Roger the pain. But she was not; she might not come; in which case perhaps the disclosure need not be made—or, at any rate, might be staved off to a future time. Lady Bevere held my hands in hers.

“You know what this trouble is, Johnny; all about it?”

“Yes, that’s true. But I cannot tell it you. I have no right to.”

“I suppose you are right,” she sighed. “But oh, my dear, you young people cannot know what such griefs are to a mother’s heart; the dread they inflict, the cruel suspense they involve.”

And the evening passed on to its close, and Lizzie had not come.

A little circumstance occurred that night, not much to relate, but not pleasant in itself. George, a good-looking young clergyman, got in very late and half-frozen—close upon eleven o’clock. He would not have supper brought back, but said he should be glad of some hot brandy-and-water. The water was brought in and put with the brandy on a side-table. George mixed a glass for himself, and Roger went and mixed one. By-and-bye, when Roger had disposed of that, he went back to mix a second. Mr. Brandon glided up behind him.

“No, Roger, not in your mother’s house,” he whispered, interposing a hand of authority between Roger and the brandy. “Though you may drink to an unseemly extent in town, you shall not here.”

“Roger got some brandy-and-water from mamma this afternoon,” volunteered Miss Tottams, dancing up to them. She had been allowed to sit up to help dress the rooms; and, of all little pitchers, she had the sharpest ears. “He said he felt sick, Uncle John.”

They came back to the fire and sat down again, Roger looking in truth sick; sick almost unto death.

Mr. Brandon went up to bed; Lady Bevere soon followed, and we began the rooms, Harriet and Jacob coming in to help. Roger exclaimed at the splendid heaps of holly. Of late years he had seen only the poor scraps they get in London.

“A merry Christmas to you, Roger!”

“Don’t, Johnny! Better that you should wish me dead.”

The bright sun was shining into his room as I entered it on this Christmas morning: Roger stood brushing his hair at the glass. He looked very ill.

“How can I look otherwise?” retorted poor Roger. “Two nights and not a wink of sleep!—nothing but fever and apprehension and intolerable restlessness. And you come wishing me a merry Christmas!”

Well, of course it did sound like a mockery. “I will wish you a happier one for next year, then, Roger. Things may be brighter then.”

“How can they be?—with that dreadful weight that I must carry about with me for life? Do you see this?”—sweeping his hand round towards the window.

I saw nothing but the blessed sunlight—and said so.

“That’s it,” he answered: “that blessed sunlight will bring her here betimes. With a good blinding snowfall, or a pelting downpour of cats and dogs, I might have hoped for a respite. What a Christmas offering for my mother! I say!—don’t go away for a minute—did you hear Uncle John last night about the brandy?”

I nodded.

“It is not that I like drink, or care for it for drinking’s sake; I declare it to you, Johnny Ludlow; but I take it, and must take it, to drown care. With that extra glass last night, I might have got to sleep—I don’t know. Were my mind at ease, I should be as sober as you are.”

“But don’t you see, Roger, that unless you pull up now, while you can, you may not be able to do it later.”

“Oh yes, I see it all,” he carelessly said. “Well, it no longer matters much what becomes of me. There’s the breakfast-bell. You can go on, Johnny.”

The rooms looked like green bowers, for we had not spared either our pains or the holly-branches, and it would have been as happy a Christmas-Day as it was a bright one, but for the sword that was hanging over Roger Bevere’s head. Neither he nor I could enjoy it. He declined to go to church with us, saying he felt ill: the truth being that he feared to meet Lizzie. Not to attend divine service on Christmas-Day was regarded by Mr. Brandon as one of the cardinal sins. To my surprise he did not remonstrate with Roger in words: but he looked the more.

Lady Bevere’s dinner hour on Christmas-Day was four o’clock, which gave a good long evening. Roger ate some turkey and some plum-pudding, mechanically; his ears were listening for the dreaded sound of the door-bell. We were about half-way through dinner, when there came a peal that shook the house. Lady Bevere started in her chair. I fancy Roger went nearly out of his.

“Why, who can be coming here now—with such a ring as that?” she exclaimed.

“Perhaps it is Harriet’s sister!” cried the little girl, in her sharp, quick way. “Do you think it is, Harriet?”

“She’s free enough for it,” returned Harriet, in a vexed tone. “I told her she might come yesterday, Miss Tottams, my lady permitting it, but I did not tell her she might come to-day.”

I glanced at Roger. His knife and fork shook in his hands; his face wore the hue of the grave. I was little less agitated than he.

Another respite. It was only a parcel from the railway-station, which had been delayed in the delivery. And the dinner went on.

And the evening went on too, as the past one went on—undisturbed. Later, when some of us were playing at snap-dragon in the little breakfast-room, Harriet came in to march Miss Tottams off to bed.

“Your sister did not come after all, did she, Harriet?” said Mary.

“No, Miss Mary. She’s gone back to London,” continued Harriet, after a pause. “Not enough life for her, I dare say, down here.”

Roger glanced round. He did not dare ask whether Harriet knew she was gone back, or only supposed it.

Mary laughed. “Fond of life, is she?”

“She always was, Miss Mary. She is married to a gentleman. At least, that is her account of him: he is a medical man, she says. But it may be he is only a medical man’s assistant.”

“Did she go back yesterday, or to-day?” I inquired, carelessly. “She would have a cold journey.”

“Yesterday, if she’s gone at all, sir,” replied Harriet: “she’d hardly travel on Christmas-Day. If not, she’ll be here to-morrow.”

Roger groaned—and turned it off with a desperate cough, as though the raisins burnt his throat.

The next day came, Wednesday, again clear, cold, and bright. At breakfast George and Mary agreed to walk to Brighton. “You will come too,” said George, looking at us.

I said nothing. Roger shook his head. Of all places in the known world he’d not have ventured into Brighton, and run the risk of meeting her, perambulating its streets.

“No!—why, it will be a glorious walk,” remonstrated George.

“Don’t care for it this morning,” shortly answered Roger. “I’m sure Johnny doesn’t.”

Mr. Brandon came, if I may so put it, to the rescue. “I shall take a walk myself, and you two may go with me,” said he to us. “I should like to see what the country looks like yonder”—pointing to the unknown regions beyond the little church. And as this was just in the opposite direction to Brighton, Roger made no objection, and we set off soon after breakfast. The sky overhead was blue and clear, the snow on the ground dazzlingly white.

The regions beyond the church were the same as these: a long-stretched-out moor of flat dreariness. Mr. Brandon walked on. “We shall come to something or other in time,” said he. Walking with him meant walking when he was in the mood for it.

A mile or two onwards, more or less, a small settlement loomed into view, with a pound and a set of rusty stocks, and an old-fashioned inn, its swinging sign, The Rising Sun, as splendid as that other sign nearer Prior’s Glebe: and it really appeared to us as if all the inhabitants had turned out to congregate round the inn-door.

“What’s to do, I wonder?” cried Mr. Brandon: “seems to be some excitement going on.” When near enough he inquired whether anything was amiss, and the whole throng answered together.

A woman had been found that morning frozen to death in the snow, and had been carried into The Rising Sun. A young woman wearing smart clothes, added a labourer, as the rest of the voices died away: got benighted, perhaps, poor thing, and lost her way, and so lay down to die; seemed to have been dead quite a day or two, if not more. The missis at The Sheaf o’ Corn yonder had been over, and recognized her as having called in there on Sunday night and had some drink.

Why, as the man spoke, should the dread thought have flashed into my mind—was it Lizzie? Why should it have flashed simultaneously into Roger’s? Had Lizzie lost her way that past Sunday night—and sunk down into some sheltered nook to rest awhile, and so sleep and then death overtook her? Roger glanced at me with frightened eyes, a dawn of horror rising to his countenance.

“I will just step in and take a look at her,” I said, and bore on steadily for the door of the inn, deaf for once to Mr. Brandon’s authoritative call. What did I want looking at dead women, he asked: was the sight so pleasant? No, it was not pleasant, I could have answered him, and I’d rather have gone a mile away from it; but I went in for Roger’s sake.

The innkeeper—an elderly man, with a bald head and red nose—came forward, grumbling that for the past hour or two it had been sharp work to keep out the crowd, all agape to see the woman. I asked him to let me see her, assuring him it was not out of idle curiosity that I wished it. Believing me, he acquiesced at once; civilly remarking, as he led the way through the house, that he had sent for the police, and expected them every minute.

On the long table of a bleak-looking outer kitchen, probably used only in summer, lay the dead. I took my look at her.

Yes, it was Lizzie. Looking as peaceful as though she had only just gone to sleep. Poor thing!

“Do you recognize her, sir? Did you think you might?”

I shook my head in answer. It would not have done to acknowledge it. Thanking him, I went out to Roger. Mr. Brandon fired off a tirade of reproaches at me, and said he was glad to see I had turned white.

“Yes,” I emphatically whispered to Roger in the midst of it. “Go you in, and satisfy yourself.”

Roger disappeared inside the inn. Mr. Brandon was so indignant at the pair of us, that he set off at a sharp pace for home again, I with him, Roger presently catching us up. Twice during the walk, Roger was taken with a shivering-fit, as though sickening for the ague. Mr. Brandon held his tongue then, and recommended him, when we got in, to put himself between some hot blankets.

In the dead woman’s pocket was found Harriet Field’s address; and a policeman presented himself at Prior’s Glebe with the news of the calamity and to ask what Harriet knew of her. Away went Harriet to The Rising Sun, and recognized the dead. It was her sister, she said; she had called to see her on Sunday night, having walked over from Brighton, and must have lost her way on the waste land in returning. What name, was the next question put; and, after a moment’s hesitation, Harriet answered “Elizabeth Field.” Not feeling altogether sure of the marriage, she said nothing about it.

Will you accuse Roger Bevere of cowardice for holding aloof; for keeping silence? Then you must accuse me for sanctioning it. He could not bring himself to avow all the past shame to his mother. And what end would it answer now if he did?—what good effect to his poor, wretched, foolish wife? None.

“Johnny,” he said to me, with a grasp of his fevered hand, “is it wrong to feel as if a great mercy had been vouchsafed me?—is it wicked? Heaven knows, I pity her fate; I would have saved her from it if I could. Just as I’d have kept her from her evil ways, and tried to be a good husband to her—but she would not let me.”

They held an inquest upon her next day: or, as the local phraseology of the place put it, “Sat upon the body of Elizabeth Field.” The landlady of The Sheaf o’ Corn was an important witness.

She testified that the young woman came knocking at the closed door of the inn on the Sunday evening during church time, saying she had lost her way. Nobody was at home but herself and the servant-girl, her husband having gone to church. They let her in. She called for a good drop of drink—brandy-and-water—while sitting there, and was allowed to have it, though it was out of serving hours, as she declared she was perishing with cold. Before eight o’clock, she left, and was away about half-an-hour. Then she came back again, had more to drink, and bought a pint bottle of brandy, to carry, as she told them, home to her lodgings, and she got the girl to draw the cork, saying her rooms did not possess a corkscrew. She took the bottle away with her. Was she tipsy? interposed the coroner at this juncture. Not very, the witness replied, not so tipsy but that she could walk and talk, but she had had quite enough. She went away, and they saw her no more.

Harriet’s evidence, next given, did not amount to much. The deceased, her younger sister, had lived for some years in London, but she did not know at what address latterly; she used to serve at a refreshment-bar, but had left it. Until the past Sunday night, when Lizzie called unexpectedly at Prior’s Glebe, they had not met for five or six years: it was then arranged that Lizzie should come to drink tea with her the next afternoon: but she never came. Felt convinced that the death was pure accident, through her having lost her way in the snow.

With this opinion the room agreed. Instead of taking the direct path to Brighton, as Harriet had enjoined, she must have turned back to The Sheaf o’ Corn for more drink. And that she had wandered in a wrong direction, upon quitting it, across the waste land, there could not be any doubt; or that she had sat down, or fallen down, possibly from fatigue, in the drift where she was found. The brandy bottle lay near her, empty. Whether she died of the brandy, or of the exposure to the cold night, might be a question. The jury decided that it was the latter.

And nothing whatever had come out touching Roger.

Harriet had already given orders for a decent funeral, in the neighbouring graveyard. It took place on the afternoon of the following day, Friday. By a curious little coincidence, George Bevere was asked to take the service, the incumbent being ill with a cold. It afforded a pretext for Roger’s attending. He and I walked quietly up in the wake of George, and stood at the grave together. Harriet thanked us for it afterwards: she looked upon it as a compliment paid to herself.

“Scott shall forward to her every expense she has been put to as soon as I am back in London,” said Roger to me. “He will know how to manage it.”

“Shall you tell Mrs. Dyke?”

“To be sure I shall. She is a trustworthy, good woman.”

Our time at Prior’s Glebe was up, and we took our departure from it on the Saturday morning; another day of intense cold, of dark blue skies, and of bright sunshine. George left with us.

“My dear, you will try—you will try to keep straight, won’t you; to be what you ought to be,” whispered Lady Bevere in the bustle of starting, as she clasped Roger’s hands in the hall, tears falling from her eyes: all just as it was that other time in Gibraltar Terrace. “For my sake, dear; for my sake.”

“I shall do now, mother,” he whispered back, meeting her gaze through his wet eyelashes, his manner strangely solemn. “God has been very good to me, and I—I will try from henceforth to do my best in all ways.”

And Roger kept his word.