George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

“Look here,” said Guest, speaking hoarsely, for he felt startled at the woman’s words, coinciding so exactly with horrible thoughts hidden in his own breast. “This is a very serious thing to say. What grounds have you for such an assertion?”

“Well, sir, if you’ll sit down I’ll tell you.”

Guest reseated himself, feeling that if he wished to hear, he must let the woman go on in her own way.

“I’ve always liked Mr Stratton, sir, since he’s been here, and his name always putting me in mind of Lady Burdett Coutts’ house at the corner of Strutton Street, where I have visited one of the servants.”

Guest made an impatient gesture.

“Yes, sir, I am coming to it as fast as I can. You see doing for him so long and looking upon him like a son, and doing for Mr Brettison, too, as is always most aggravating about his dusting, and his room’s a disgrace, but I never thought of Mr Stratton turning like that.”

“Like what?”

“I’m telling you, sir. Getting so that it’s a favour to be allowed to go into his room to tidy up, and him watching you and following you about with his eyes, and glaring at you all the time.”

“Of course, he does not like his specimens touched.”

“All which I know, sir, and I’ve studied him; but he never went on as he does now.”

“Oh, nonsense! he’s ill and doesn’t want to be worried.”

“He’s mad, sir, as Bedlam.”

“Mrs Brade!”

“He is, sir, and last night he tried to strangle me.”

“What?”

“He did, sir, as I’m a sinful soul, and when I got away from him down the stairs and back here into my room, it’s a mercy as I didn’t faint away.”

“He touched you?”

“Touched me, sir? He seized me. Oh, poor, dear gentleman, he’s gone.”

“Look here,” said Guest sharply, “have you told anybody about it?”

“No, sir; not yet.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake don’t, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, in a low, hurried tone. “It was, perhaps, only a sudden paroxysm. You say you like him.”

“Which indeed I do, sir.”

“Then pray be silent. If such a report were spread it would be his ruin.”

“Yes, sir, I thought of all that, and doctors signing things, and keepers coming to take him to shut him up in cells, with chains, and darkness, and howlings, and gnashing his teeth. Oh, my poor dear! my poor dear! Such a bonnie, good, lovable gentleman as you were!”

Mrs Brade threw up her apron to her face and burst out into such a genuine passion of sobs and tears that Guest was touched, and he rose and placed his hand upon her arm.

“Hush, hush!” he whispered; “don’t take on like that. Perhaps it is only due to excitement, and he’ll soon come round.”

“Do you think so, sir?” cried the woman, dropping her apron.

“I do, indeed, if he is kept quiet. Why, if it was known—”

“And the keepers came, sir?”

“Come, come, it’s not so bad as that. You have curious ideas about the treatment of the insane.”

“Oh, no, sir; I’ve heard so much, sir.”

“Never mind: we will not argue that. One thing is certain—any worry or excitement would be sure to make him worse.”

“Of course, sir.”

At that moment Mr Brade’s hard breathing was audible through the door and curtain, and Guest looked at it uneasily.

“Then you have not told your husband?”

“Indeed, no, sir.”

“Then do not. Nor anyone else. We must keep this as our secret, Mrs Brade. My poor friend will come right I hope and feel, in time; so help me to guard him from all worry.”

“Indeed I will, sir.”

“No one must know. It would be bad for him at the institution.”

“Yes, sir, and he’d have to give up his chambers, of course, if any of the neighbours—I mean gentlemen in the other rooms—made complaints.”

“All of which we can avoid. It only wants time. There, I’ll go up and see him now, and Mr Brettison, too. Mind, I rely upon your being discreet.”

“Of course, sir, and thank you for coming in. You don’t know how much good you’ve done me, sir.”

“I’m glad you spoke to me,” said Guest; and he went across the inn to Stratton’s chambers.

Chapter Twenty Six.

In gross Darkness.

The staircase was very gloomy and quiet as Guest ascended, and he paused on the landing on finding Stratton’s outer door shut, and after a few moments’ hesitation, turned off to the left, meaning to have a few words with Brettison about their friend’s state.

This door was also shut and he turned back, but feeling that, perhaps, after all, Brettison might be in, he knocked; waited; knocked again, and stood listening.

“Off somewhere again picking flowers,” muttered Guest. “Men begin by picking them as children, and some end their lives gathering the sweet, innocent looking things.”

He, however, gave one more double knock before turning away and going back to Stratton’s door.

Here he knocked gently, but there was no reply. He knocked again, feeling a sensation of nervousness come over him as he thought of the words of the porter’s wife; and, as there was no reply, he could not help a little self-congratulation at there being no admission.

But he frowned at his weakness directly.

“Absurd! Cowardice!” he muttered. “This is nothing like acting the friend.”

He knocked again, and, as there was still silence, he lifted the cover of the letter slit and placed his lips to the place.

“Here, Malcolm, old fellow, open this door,” he cried. “I’m sure you are there.”

A faint rustling sound within told him he was right, and directly after the door was opened.

“You, Percy!” said the hollow-faced, haggard man, staring at him, and giving way unwillingly as, forcing himself to act, Guest stepped forward and entered the room.

He repented the moment he was inside, for the room looked strange and gloomy through the window blind being drawn down, and there was a singularly wild, strained look in Stratton’s eyes, which never left him for a moment, suggestive of the truth of Mrs Brade’s words.

Stratton had hurriedly closed the outer door upon his friend’s entrance, but he had left the inner undone; and now stood holding it open as if for his visitor to go.

Guest felt ready to obey, but he again mastered his weakness and took a chair, knowing that if he was to perform a manly act and save his friend, he must be calm and firm. But in spite of himself, as he took his seat he gave a hasty glance round the room, thinking of its loneliness, and the extreme improbability of anyone hearing a cry for help.

“Why have you come back so soon?” said Stratton at last.

“The old reason. Sort of stupid, spaniel-like feeling for the man who kicks me.”

Stratton made a hasty gesture.

“Didn’t like to stop away long after your being so upset last night.”

Stratton shuddered, and his friend watched him curiously again.

“I’m much better now.”

“Glad of it, but your nerves are terribly unstrung; or you wouldn’t be ready to jump out of your skin at the sound of a rat.”

Stratton shuddered.

“I know you couldn’t help it.”

“No, but it’s going off now fast, and if I could be alone I should soon be right.”

“Doubt it. No good; you must put up with me for a bit.”

He tried to look laughingly in his companion’s eyes, but there was a strong feeling of dread at his heart as he felt that wild thoughts evidently existed in his friend’s brain, and that there was some terrible mischief hatching there.

“Look here, Mal,” he said, mastering his own shrinking by remembrance of how the strong-witted man could often master the brain unhinged; “my impression is that you want change. Suppose you and I take a run. What do you say to Switzerland, and start to-day?”

Stratton shuddered, and a curious, sneering smile dawned on his face.

“Why don’t you ask me to explain my conduct again?” he said fiercely.

“Because I have no right to. You are your own master, and are answerable to yourself.”

“I’ll tell you,” continued Stratton, without heeding his visitor’s words, “it is because you think I am mad.”

“Do I? Absurd!”

“Yes. That is why you are here.”

“I am not going to contradict you; but I will tell you why I am here. My old friend and companion suddenly turned queer, attacked with some illness, and I said to myself, ‘If I were to be bad like that I hope poor old Mal would come to me as I’m going to him.’”

A hoarse sound, like a suppressed sob, escaped from Stratton’s lips, and, by a rapid movement, he caught and wrung Guest’s hand. But the wild look never left his eyes, and at the end of a few seconds he cast the hand away.

“Oh, it’s true enough, old lad,” said Guest, smiling. “You know it, too. I want to do it for everybody’s sake.”

Stratton made a peculiar movement in the air with his extended hands.

“Come, come, don’t take it that way, old fellow,” cried Guest. “Sit down.”

Stratton hesitated, and seemed to be trying to resist, but his friend’s calm firm way mastered him.

“That’s better; now, then, let’s look matters plainly in the face, as doctor and patient if you like. You’re off the line, Mal. There’s no denying it. Overstrain. Well, it’s bad. Painful for you and everybody.”

A low moan escaped from Stratton.

“Bah! don’t groan over it, man. The human mind is a wonderful bit of machinery, and it gets out of order if you don’t take care. You haven’t taken enough care, and have broken down. Bad; but we’ve got to mend you and make you stronger than ever.”

Stratton shook his head, and his pallor was so ghastly, as he now sank back in his chair and closed his eyes, that Guest was startled, and sprang up and made for the closet where he knew from of old that the spirit-stand was kept.

But at the first movement in that direction Stratton leaped to his feet and intercepted him.

“Stop!” he cried. “I am not ill. Let me be, Guest. You can do me no good.”

“How do you know? I say I can,” cried the young man sharply, “and what’s more, I will. Now, come, lad, be reasonable. You’re out of gear, and you’re going to submit to me.”

“I am my own master, as you said, and I will not be spied over or interfered with.”

“Spied over” sounded bad—not like the words of a sane man.

“Bah! Who wants to spy over you?”

“Interfered with, then. Now go and leave me to myself.”

“I shall not,” said Guest doggedly.

“You will, sir. These are my rooms; your visit is ill timed; please to go, and wait till I ask you to visit me again.”

“Hah, that settles it, if there were any doubt before. That’s not my old schoolfellow talking. You are ill—mentally ill, lad—so give in.”

“Leave my rooms, sir!”

“If I do, it will be to bring others back with me who will insist upon your yielding to proper treatment.”

“Hah, you confess then? You think me mad.”

“I did not say mad; I told you what I know now to be a fact. Will you give in and let me treat you on sound, common-sense principles, or drive me away to come back with others?”

“You would not dare,” said Stratton, in a low, fierce whisper.

“But I do dare anything for your sake—there, I’ll speak out!—for Myra’s.”

A spasm convulsed Stratton’s face, and he ground his teeth as if in agony.

“I can’t help it, lad; I’m being cruel to be kind. Now, then, do you persist in sending me away!”

Stratton looked round in a furtive, frightened way, shuddered, and was silent.

“Then I am to go and send others who will treat you. I must tell you the truth, lad; they may insist upon your leaving here and taking up your abode somewhere in the country.”

Stratton started.

“No, no; not at a madhouse. You are not mad. Only suffering from a nervous fit. It would be to stay for a time at some doctor’s, and I think it would be the best thing. It would get you away from the dull, gloomy chambers, where you hardly ever see the sun. They are bad enough to upset anyone. Once more, which is it to be?”

Guest had been startled enough before by his friend’s acts and ways; his conduct now indorsed all prior thoughts of his state. For, as he rose and moved toward the door as if to go, Stratton sprang to him and caught his arm.

“I give in,” he said huskily. “You are right. A little out of order. Nerves, I suppose. But no doctor. There is no need. I’ll—I’ll do everything you wish.”

“Then you’ll come abroad with me?”

“No. No, I cannot. I will not.”

“Very well, then, I’m not going to see you grow worse before my eyes. I shall do as I said.”

“No, no, for Heaven’s sake, don’t be so mad as to do that. Look here, Guest. I am ill, and weak, and low. I confess it, but I shall be better here. It is as you say, overstrain. If you force me to go somewhere else, I shall be ten times worse. I’ll do anything you advise, yield to you in every way, but I must stay here. The institution, you know.”

“Leave of absence for a sick man.”

“I could not ask for it. Besides, my work will do me good. I should mope and be miserable away.”

“Not on the Swiss Alps.”

“I tell you I will not go,” said Stratton fiercely.

“Very well, I’ll be satisfied with what you have promised. So just draw up that blind and open the window wide.”

Stratton hesitated.

“At once, man. Your promise. The air of Benchers’ Inn is not particularly good; but it’s better than this mephitic odour of stuffiness and gas. Why, Mal, old lad, I can smell the methylated spirits in which you preserve your specimens quite plainly.”

A faint ring of white showed round Stratton’s eyes; but Guest did not notice it, for his back was turned as he made for the window and let in the light and air.

“That’s better. Now go to your bedroom, and make yourself look more like the Malcolm Stratton I know. I’ll be off now. I shall be back at a quarter to seven, and then we’ll go out and have a bit of dinner together.”

“No, no; I could not go.”

“What! I’m coming, I say, at a quarter to seven, and then we’re going out to dine.”

“Very well,” said Stratton meekly, and his friend left the chambers.

“Only touched a little,” said Guest, as he went across the inn, put his head in at the lodge, and nodded pleasantly to Mrs Brade, for she was engaged with someone else.

“Better, Mrs Brade—nothing to mind. He’ll soon be all right,” he continued to himself. “Poor old chap. Only wants a strong will over him. Wish mine were stronger, and I had a little more manly pluck; but he did not see how nervous I was; and, take it altogether, I did not do so badly.”

What time Stratton was pacing his room and talking hurriedly to himself.

“It is horrible,” he muttered; “too much for a man to bear. Do I look so wild?”

He stopped in front of an old Venetian mirror, and scanned his haggard countenance for a few moments before turning away with a shudder, to resume his walk up and down the room.

“They could do it,” he said fiercely. “I could not help myself. My conduct would be sufficient plea. A visit from a couple of doctors, and no matter what I said, I might be taken away. Medical supervision,” he said, with a bitter laugh; “imprisonment till such time as they chose to set me free. Well, it would be pleasant to be able to throw all responsibilities upon someone else if one could only cease to think. But that would be too terrible. I must give up everything and trust to Guest.”

He looked sharply round the room again, and stood listening, for he fancied that he heard a sound, and, stepping softly to the panel door on the right of the fireplace, he placed his ear to the woodwork, and stood listening for some moments.

But he was evidently dissatisfied. He seemed to be trying to make out whether anyone was in Brettison’s room but he was listening at the end of a passage turned into a closet like his own, and he knew that if the door at the other end were closed it was in vain.

He came away at last with a quick gesture indicating his discontent, and stood hesitating for a few minutes, when he again started and looked wildly toward the fireplace, for he was convinced that he heard sounds in the next chambers.

They ceased, though, directly, and might have come from above; but he once more went back to the panel on the right, listened, and came away dissatisfied still.

“I must know,” he said with a heavy sigh; and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he stood selecting one which looked black and rusty, a good-sized key, from among those which had been worn smooth and remained bright.

This done, he stood hesitating; and, looking straight before him, he shrank slowly backward till checked by a bookcase standing against the wall, when with an angry gesture that he should have been startled by the sight of his own ghastly face in the old mirror, he walked straight to the door on the left of the fireplace. Again he paused for a few moments, and then, with the sweat standing in great beads upon his brow, and the hair at his temples wet and clinging, he slowly, and without a sound, inserted the key, turned it in the well oiled lock, and drew open the door, which came toward him with a faint creak.

He stood there peering into the darkness of the narrow, passage-like place, listening, and then came away to the other side of the room, thrust off his boots, and went to the window, which he closed again, and drew down the blind before going back to the door—entering, and walking to the end, to stand listening at the panel in the darkness for some minutes before he came out again, acting now with decision, as he went to the door of exit from the room, and slipped the bolt.

Drawing a deep breath, he now hurried across to a little cabinet, from which he drew a bright steel implement, and then, with his brow rugged and his face looking old and worn, he was hurrying across back to the door of the open closet, when he caught his unshod foot in a thick Eastern rug, stumbled forward, and only saved himself from a heavy fall by throwing himself into an easy-chair.

He rose, holding his left wrist as if it were sprained, and then stooped to pick up the steel implement he had dropped on the carpet.

The change which came over the man was terrible as he stopped there, fixed of eye, fascinated as it were, and unable to move, glaring at a place on the carpet laid bare by the rug being kicked over. And a minute must have elapsed before he could tear himself away and draw himself up to hold the back of his hand across his eyes, as if to shut out some horrible vision.

The sigh he heaved was hoarse and strange as he dropped his hand again, and hurriedly drew the rug back into its former position.

That done, his mental strength seemed to return, and seizing the steel tool, he listened for a moment, and then hurried into the dark, passage-like closet.

At that moment there was a sharp double knock at the outer door, and, active now as a cat, Stratton sprang into the room, listening to faintly heard, descending steps.

Then, opening the inner door, he saw that there was a letter in the box, and satisfied of the cause of the interruption, he closed and bolted the inner door again, and once more crossed to the closet and entered.

Then, from out of the darkness, came sound after sound as if someone was busy at work. Now it was the creaking of a hinge; then a faint rap, as of a lid escaping too soon from a person’s hand, and after that, for quite an hour, the rasping and cracking of wood, till Stratton came out bathed with perspiration, and looking more ghastly than ever.

This time he stood wiping the great drops from his dripping brow before taking a flask from a shelf, unscrewing the top, and drinking deeply.

He listened again, and once more drawing a deep breath he hurried back into the darkness of the closet, where the creaking noise was repeated, and followed twice by a deep, booming sound, after which there was a long-continued muffled gurgling, as of water flowing, and a peculiar odour filled the room.

This was repeated; and at last Stratton reeled out of the place panting, staggered to the window, which he opened a little way by passing his hands under the blind, and held his face there to breathe the fresh air before hurrying-back to his writing table. Here he struck a match, lit a taper, and, taking it up, moved toward the closet door like one in a dream, but stopped short, blew out the light, and plunged into the darkness once again.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Guest speaks out.

“Why not a run to Saint Malo and a couple of months’ yachting?”

Sir Mark proposed as a cure foreign travel, but Myra refused to go. Edie tried vainly to inveigle her into some distraction, and Guest spent a little fortune in concert and opera tickets in trying to persuade her to accompany them, but they were generally wasted.

Miss Jerrold tried hard, too, and was more successful, coaxing her niece to come and stay at her house, or to spend quiet afternoons with her, no one else being admitted. And all the time it was understood that the unfortunate engagement was a subject tabooed; but one day, when Myra was with her alone, Guest having been there by accident when the cousins came—that is to say, by one of his accidents, and at a suggestion from Miss Jerrold that a walk would do Edie good, as her face looked “very pasty,” having taken Edie for the said walk—Miss Jerrold seeing the wistful eyes, sunken cheeks, and utter prostration of her niece’s face, bethought her of a plan to try and revive interest in things mundane, at a time when the girl seemed to be slowly dropping out of life.

“We’ve petted and cosseted her too much,” said Aunt Jerrold to herself. “I’ll try that.”

She tried that, and attacked her niece in a very blunt, rough way, keenly watching the effect of her words the while.

“I do wonder at a girl of your spirit wearing your heart out for the sake of a scoundrel. That’s done it!” she added to herself, for a complete change came over Myra’s aspect.

“Aunt!” she cried indignantly.

“I can’t help it, my dear,” said the old lady sharply. “I’ve kept it back too long, and it’s only just that I should tell you how reprehensible your conduct is. Here is a wretched man who professes to love you—”

“Malcolm Stratton did love me, aunt,” said Myra proudly, as stung beyond endurance she gave utterance to the thoughts she had kept hidden so long.

“Looks like it!” continued Aunt Jerrold. “Bah! the horsepond is too good for such as he!”

Myra turned upon her fiercely.

“Aunt,” she cried, “it is not true!”

“But it is true, my dear, or the wretch would have said a few words in his defence.”

“I cannot stay here and listen to you, aunt,” cried Myra, rising with dignity. “It is cruel of you to speak of Mr Stratton like this.”

“Oh, of course. Silly girl! The worse a man is, the more weak, infatuated woman defends him.”

“I defend him, aunt, because I am sure there must be some good reasons for Mr Stratton’s conduct. He was not the man who could have acted so. His whole career gives your charges the lie.”

At that moment Edie and Guest returned, the former joyous and bright, but forcing a serious look as soon as she saw her cousin’s agitated face.

“I am waiting for you, Edie,” said Myra coldly; and, turning to her aunt, she bent her head slightly. “Good-afternoon, Mr Guest,” she said, and she left the drawing room.

“Aunt, dear, what is the matter?” whispered Edie.

“We’ve been quarrelling, my dear; thank goodness!” said Miss Jerrold dryly. “There, good-bye. Run after her, little woman. Kiss me; I haven’t quarrelled with you.”

She embraced the girl affectionately; and as Guest followed to the door, and held out his hand, Miss Jerrold whispered:

“Come up again when you’ve seen them to the carriage.”

In five minutes Guest was back looking at his hostess wonderingly, for the old lady was standing in the middle of the room with her face full of wrinkles, and her arms folded across her chest. She did not seem to see him, and he made a slight movement to attract her attention, when she waved her hand toward a chair.

“Sit down, boy,” she said, without looking in his direction; “I’m thinking. I’ll attend to you directly.”

He obeyed, more puzzled than ever; and at last she took a chair by the back, dragged it across the carpet in a masculine way, and thumped it down in front of him.

“It’s not a pleasant subject for a lady—an unmarried lady—to talk about, Percy Guest,” she said; “but I’m getting such an old woman now that I think it’s time I might speak plainly.”

“What about?” said Guest, wondering of what breach of good manners he had been guilty.

“What about, you silly boy? Here’s poor Myra eating her heart out, Edie miserable, my brother a perfect bear, I’m worried to death, and you say, what about! Malcolm Stratton, to be sure.”

“Oh!” cried Guest, very much relieved.

“Well, I do not see anything to look pleased about, sir.”

“No, of course not; only I thought I had been doing something.”

“You have been doing nothing, it seems to me,” said Miss Jerrold sharply.

“Really, I have done my best.”

“But I thought barristers were such clever people!”

“Oh, dear no,” said Guest seriously. “Very stupid folk as a rule. Sort of gun a barrister is. The solicitor is the clever man, and he has to load the barrister before he goes off.”

“Then for goodness’ sake get some solicitor to load you, and then go off and shoot something.”

“I wish you would load me, Miss Jerrold.”

“Well, look here, my dear boy. We seem to have settled down to a belief that Malcolm Stratton has been a great scamp, and that he drew back on his wedding morning in consequence of the interference of some lady who had a hold upon him.”

“Yes, that is what we thought,” said Guest sadly.

“And then tried to commit suicide out of misery and shame?”

“Yes, I have been able to get no further, poor fellow. He is utterly dumb, as soon as I try to get anything from him.”

“What does that friend of his—that Mr Brettison say?”

“Mr Brettison? I have not seen him.”

“Why not? He has known Mr Stratton many years. You should have consulted him, and tried to find out from him what might have happened in days gone by.”

“I did think of that.”

“And did not act?”

“I have had no chance. Mr Brettison is out of town. I have not seen him since the wed—”

“Ah!” cried Miss Jerrold warningly.

“Since that unhappy day.”

“On that day?”

“No. It was a day or two before, but I think I heard Stratton say Mr Brettison came to see him that day, and that he was going out of town.”

“Humph! That’s strange!”

“Why?” said Guest.

“He was very fond of Malcolm Stratton, wasn’t he—I mean, isn’t he?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why should he go out, on Stratton’s wedding day, instead of stopping to congratulate him?”

“I don’t know. It was odd, but Mr Brettison is eccentric.”

“It’s more than odd, Percy Guest,” said Miss Jerrold, looking very keen and intent; “the clue lies that way. Mr Brettison must have known something and quarrelled with Malcolm Stratton, it seems to me.”

“You think so?”

“Yes; his conduct suggests it. Out of town? Hasn’t he been to his chambers since?”

“I think not.”

“There’s your clue then. I’ve loaded you. Go off.”

“And find Mr Brettison?”

“Of course. Then try and get from him the information we want.”

“Do we want that information, Miss Jerrold?”

“Of course we do, sir. Malcolm Stratton’s actions may be purged from their grossness, and happiness come after all.”

“Heaven grant it may!” cried Guest.

“There, then, you have something sensible to do; better than always calling here in your speculative way. Go to work at once, and come and communicate with me.”

Guest went off at once, and had himself driven to Benchers’ Inn, where he ascended to Stratton’s door, but turned off to Brettison’s, where all was dark and silent.

He knocked, but there was no answer; and, after repeating the knock several times, he went to Stratton’s door, where he had no better success. Going down, he crossed to the tunnel-like archway, where he found Mrs Brade, and learned that Mr Brettison had not yet returned from the country.

“Mr Stratton does not seem to be at home either.”

“No, sir. He goes out a deal now, and is very seldom at home. Many people come to ask for him, and I give them his message—that they are to write.”

“Well, that’s reasonable enough if they have not made appointments, Mrs Brade, so pray don’t shake your head like that.”

“Certainly not, sir, if you don’t wish it, but I can’t help thinking he’d be better not left alone.”

“Why?” said Guest impetuously, Mrs Brade tapped her forehead, and Guest frowned angrily.

“Nonsense, my good woman,” he cried; “don’t exaggerate, and pray don’t jump at conclusions. Mr Stratton is no more mad than you are.”

“That ain’t saying much, mister,” cried the porter from the next room, where he was making up for late hours consequent upon sitting up for occupants of the inn. “My missus is as mad as a hatter.”

Mrs Brade darted to the door and closed it with a heavy bang, following it up by snatching, more than drawing the curtain over the opening—a curtain originally placed there to keep off draughts, but so used by Mrs Brade as to give the onlooker the idea that her husband was a personage kept on exhibition, and not shown save as a favour and for money paid.

“I don’t know what I could be thinking of to marry such a man, sir,” she said indignantly. “Mad, indeed! Not mad enough to take more than’s good for me, and pretty often, too.”

“A lesson for you, Mrs Brade,” said Guest sternly, “You cannot make a more painful or dangerous assertion about a person than to say that a person or personage is mad.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Walking in the Dark.

Disappointed in his visit to the inn, Guest went back to his own chambers, where his first act on reaching his room, with its lookout over the old rookery, was to take out his pocketbook, and carefully examine a photograph—a proof intrusted to his care that day—and which he instantly pressed to his lips several times before restoring it to its envelope, and returning it to his breast.

His next proceeding was to light his pipe, lie back, and think over Miss Jerrold’s words; and the more he thought over them the more they seemed to fit with the situation.

One thought begat another till he grew startled at the growth emanating from Miss Jerrold’s suggestion.

Stratton had always been greatly attached to him, he knew, but he did not always confide in him; he had a way of being extremely reticent, especially over money matters, and he recalled a little upset they had once had about a time when Stratton was hard pressed to get his rent ready and had raised the money in what he (Guest) had dubbed a disreputable way—that is to say, he had borrowed from “a relative” instead of from his friend.

“The old lady’s right,” mused Guest, after a long period of thinking, during which his ideas seemed to ripen. “Mr Brettison must know, and depend upon it, he, being such a particular, high-souled man, was angry with Stratton, and would not come to the wedding. Of course; I remember now, Stratton did say that morning that Brettison was off, out collecting. Now, how to find out where he has gone.”

No idea came, for Brettison was one of the most erratic and enthusiastic of beings. Being very wealthy, and living in the simplest way, money was no object; and he would go off anywhere, and at any cost, to obtain a few simple and rare plants for his herbarium. As Guest mused over the matter, he recollected that Stratton said something about the south; but whether it was south of England, France, or Italy, he could not remember.

“Might be the South Pole,” he muttered pettishly. “Fancy that old chap having nothing better to do with his money than spend it over weeds!”

“Now, if I had half,” he said, after refilling his pipe, “I could go to the old admiral and say—Oh, what a fool I am!”

But somehow that idea about Brettison and his money seemed to pervade his brain for the next few days, and to be mixed up with Stratton and his troubles. He recollected the money lying in crisp banknotes upon the table, and recalled that it was a heavy sum. That was an entirely fresh view to take; could Stratton have borrowed that money from Brettison? Likely enough, and that might have caused the estrangement. People did not like lending money. They would offer to do so, but when the demand was made they were a little bitter.

“‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’” muttered Guest, quoting from his favourite author, and then adding, “if you can help it.”

“Bah! That upsets the idea of the lady in the case,” he muttered impatiently. “What a fool I am! As if it was likely that poor old Mal would try to make his quietus with a bare bodkin—modernised into a six-shooter—because old Brettison was huffed at his borrowing money. I must pump it out of the poor fellow somehow.”

That evening he went to Stratton’s chambers, but could get no reply; and he waited about on the stairs till, growing uneasy and suspicious once more, he knocked again, and listened at the letter slit.

Just then he heard steps, and the occupant of the upstairs chambers ascended to the landing.

“How do?” he said. “Mr Stratton’s out. I met him on the Embankment not half an hour ago.”

That swept away the black, mental cobwebs once more for a time about Guest’s brain, and he went away relieved—but not before writing his intention of dropping in about ten that night, and thrusting his card in at the slit—to dine at his club, after which he went into the library to read up some old legal cases, and think about Edie.

He was punctual to the time appointed in Benchers’ Inn, but there was no light in Stratton’s window, none in Brettison’s, and he waited till eleven in the expectation of seeing his friend come back.

At the above hour he became convinced that Stratton had returned early and gone to bed, so he went to his own chambers vexed and irritated, after dropping another card into the letter-box, making an appointment for the next evening at seven.

“Take him out for a bit of dinner. He seems to be very busy just now, or else he is behaving very sensibly and taking exercise to get back his strength.”

Guest went to Benchers’ Inn the next evening at seven, but the outer door was closed, and after waiting for some time he went off to his club and wrote a letter begging Stratton to make an appointment to see him.

Next day glided by and there was no reply. The chambers were still closed, and the Brades had not seen their occupant; neither had Mr Brettison come back.

Guest made light of the matter, and then went and called on the admiral, who promptly begged him to stay to dinner, but the young man refused, glanced at Edie, and stayed.

This delayed the visit which he had intended to pay Miss Jerrold, but he went to her on the following day to report his ill success, and then to the great institution where his friend ruled over the natural history specimens.

To his surprise Stratton was not there, one of the officials informing him that his chief had taken a month’s vacation to recover his health.

“He seemed so broken down, sir, by study, that the committee suggested it.”

“And never said a word to me,” thought Guest. “Well, the man who says poor old Mal is mad is a fool, but he certainly does act very queerly. Never mind. He’ll come all right in time.”

More days glided by, and Guest became alarmed, for he could get no tidings of Stratton. The chambers were always closed, and no notice was taken of the letters; so he went to Bourne Square on business—he made a point of going there on business whenever he could—and was shown into the drawing room, where Myra greeted him very kindly, though he noted a peculiar, anxious, inquiring look in her eyes two or three times before she rose and left the room.

“Now, Mr Guest,” said Edie as soon as they were alone, “you have something to communicate?”

“Something I want to say, but don’t be quite so businesslike.”

“I must,” she said sharply. “Now tell me: something from—about Mr Stratton.”

He told her of his ill success, and she frowned.

“We don’t want his name mentioned here, and we take not the slightest interest in him; but as you are interested, and as news, of course you can tell me anything. But isn’t his conduct very strange?”

“More than strange.”

“And you can’t find Mr Brettison either?”

“No; but I’m not surprised at that. He’s collecting chickweed and ‘grundsel,’ as Mrs Brade calls it, somewhere. But I shall be glad when he comes back.”

Edie sat thoughtfully for a few minutes.

“You see, directly you cannot get to see him because his doors are shut you begin to think something is wrong.”

“Naturally.”

“And that’s absurd, Percy—Mr Guest.”

“No; no; don’t take it back again like that,” he pleaded.

“Mr Guest,” she said emphatically. “Now look here: he must come to his chambers sometimes, because he would want his letters.”

“Possibly,” said the visitor coldly, for that formal “Mr Guest” annoyed him.

“And he communicates with the people at the institution.”

“Yes, but he has given them no fresh address.”

“Then naturally they write to his chambers, and Mal—this man gets his letters from time to time. There’s nothing shocking the matter. He is avoiding you, and wants to break off the intimacy.”

“Then he is not going to,” said Guest with spirit. “I’m afraid he has done something wrong some time.”

“Indeed?” said Edie, with her eyes twinkling.

“I mean, men do.”

“Oh!”

“I have, lots of times.”

Edie grew a little more stately—a hard task, for she was too petite to look dignified.

“I don’t mean anything bad,” said Guest hastily; “and if old Mal thinks he is going to get rid of me he’s mistaken. I’m not a woman, to throw a fellow over because he’s had some trouble in the past. I forgive him whatever it is.”

“I suppose wicked people find it easy to forgive other sinners?” said Edie demurely.

“Of course. Poor old lad!” said Guest thoughtfully; “I wonder what he did do.”

“I’d rather not discuss such matters, if you please, Mr Guest,” said Edie coldly.

“Oh, very well, Miss Perrin. I thought I could come to you for help and counsel as a very dear friend, if as nothing else, and, now I want your help, you back out.”

“No, I don’t—Percy.”

“Ah!”

Only that interjection, but it meant so much in words—and acts, one of which resulted in the fair young girl pointing to the chair from which Guest had risen, and saying, with a little flush in her cheeks:

“Suppose somebody had come into the room. Sit down, please, Mr Guest.”

He obeyed.

“Now come; help me,” he said. “We must forgive poor old Malcolm, whatever it is; and one of these days perhaps, someone else will.”

“No, never: that is impossible.”

“But what can he have done?”

“I don’t know, unless he has been married before, and killed his wife so as to get married again.”

Guest looked at her in horror, and she turned scarlet.

“I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered. “I did not mean that.”

“No,” said Guest dryly. “I should think not.”

Farther conversation was stayed by the entrance of Myra, looking rapt and strange, as if in a dream. She did not seem to notice them, but walked across to the window, and, as she went, Guest was shocked by the alteration in her aspect. It was as if she had lately risen from a bed of sickness, while that which struck him most was the weary, piteous aspect of her eyes.

As she turned them upon him at last it was in a questioning way, which he interpreted to mean, “I am dying for news of him, but it is impossible for me to ask;” and a curious feeling of resentment rose within him against Stratton, for he felt that he had literally wrecked, the life of as true a woman as ever breathed.

A faint smile dawned upon her lips, and she glanced from him to Edie and back—a look which made the crimson on Edie’s cheeks grow deeper, as the girl said quickly:

“Mr Guest came to tell me how hard he is trying to get some news, and what he has done.”

“News!” cried Myra excitedly, and her hands were raised toward their visitor, but she let them drop to her sides as her brows contracted.

“He has been telling me that he has—”

“Where is papa—has he come back?” said Myra, coldly ignoring her cousin’s proffered information, and a few minutes later Guest shook hands and went away.

“Her pride keeps her silent,” he said thoughtfully. “No wonder, but she’d give the world to hear the least bit of news. Poor girl! She’d forgive him almost anything. I must, and will, find it all out before I’ve done.”

But the days grew into weeks, and Guest’s visits to Bourne Square were always barren of news, save that he was able to announce that Stratton certainly did go to his chambers now and then. This he found out from the porter’s wife, who bitterly bewailed the state into which they were falling.

“You may shake your head at me, Mr Guest,” she said, “and it’s our secret, for not a word shall ever leave my lips, but let me ask you, is it in the behaviour of a gentleman as has got all his change—”

“Got all his—Oh, I see, you mean his senses.”

“Why, of course, sir, to keep his rooms shut up as he does, and never a duster or a brush put inside the door.”

“He is afraid of his specimens being disturbed, Mrs Brade.”

“Oh, dear, no, sir. It never was his way. I’d got used to his manners and customs—we understood each other, and if I lifted up a bottle or a specimen, whether it was a bird or only a bone, down it went in the same place again, so exact that you couldn’t tell it had been moved.”

“But Mr Brettison does the same, Mrs Brade.”

“Him, sir?” said the woman contemptuously; “that’s different. One knows he’s a little bit queer. It’s nothing new for him to be away months together, and then come back loaded with rubbidge.”

“When did you say Mr Stratton came here last?”

“Four days ago, sir, and I went after him, and begged and prayed of him, with a pail and broom in my hand, to let me do him up, but he only pynted downward like a man in a play; and there’s his place going to rack and ruin.”

“Next time he comes, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, slipping a sovereign into her hand, “send your husband on to me directly and try and keep Mr Stratton till he comes back.”

“That I will, sir,” she cried eagerly; and she kept her word over and over again, but to Guest’s intense chagrin always too late.

“Just comes in quickly, sir, runs up to his rooms and gets his letters, and goes out the other way.”

This occurred till Guest grew damped, then angry, then damped again; but, in spite of his disheartened state, he manfully resumed his search, for whenever he was disposed to give it up as what he called a bad job, he was forced on by Edie with the greatest eagerness—“to save her life.”

There was a time when Guest thought of getting professional help, but a strange dread of something terrible being wrong kept him back from this, and he spent every spare hour in seeking for his friend in every resort, but all in vain. Still he heard of him again and again, and of his calling at the institution, where he had a fresh release from duty granted him for a month; and feeling that he was bound to run against his friend sooner or later, Guest relaxed his efforts, and the very next day caught sight of Stratton in a cab, followed it till it turned down one of the Strand culs-de-sac, saw him alight at a great house overlooking the river and pay the cabman; and then followed him in, and up a great winding stone staircase to a door on the upper floor.

“She lives there,” thought Guest with a feeling of rage in his breast, and, running lightly up the last few steps, he crept unobserved behind Stratton, and laid a hand upon his shoulder just as he was thrusting a latchkey into the lock.

Stratton gave a violent start, but did not turn round. He only uttered a low sigh.

“Very well,” he said. “I have been expecting you for weeks.”

“Stratton!” cried Guest reproachfully, and his friend turned slowly round so haggard and aged a countenance that Guest was startled.

“You?” said Stratton, with a curious, dazed look around, as if for someone else whom he had expected to see there.

“I thought—I thought—” He paused, and then after an interval: “Well, you have found me. What do you want?”

Guest did not reply for the moment, but looked sharply from his friend to the door and back.

“There is someone in there!” he said to himself; “and for Myra’s sake I will know the truth.”

Then aloud:

“Take me into your room; we can’t talk here.”

Stratton made a quick movement before the door as if to keep him back.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Arch Plotters.

Stratton opened the door without a word. Guest followed him in, to find himself in a plainly furnished sitting room, beyond which seemed to be the bedroom, while the two windows looked out westward over the Thames.

There was no sign of feminine occupation, and Guest felt staggered.

“Well,” said Stratton bitterly, “you do not answer me. What do you want?”

“You to be the same fellow I always knew. Why have you come here?”

“You are inquisitorial, but I’ll answer: Because it suits me. My rooms yonder are dark and depressing. I am ill, and want to sit here and breathe the fresh air and think. Is there anything wonderful in that?”

“No; but you need not play hide-and-seek with your friends.”

“I have no friends,” said Stratton coldly. “I am not the first man who ever took to a solitary life. It suits my whim. Now, please go and leave me to myself.”

“Very well,” said Guest, after a momentary hesitation; and he rose. “You have no friends?” he said.

“None.”

“Well, I have,” said Guest. “You are one of them, and you’ll tell me I’m right some day.”

Stratton did not take the hand extended to him, and Guest went out by no means disconcerted, but contented and pleased with his day’s work.

“Something to tell Edie,” he said to himself joyously; and he hurried up to the admiral’s to communicate his news.

“That’s a step forward,” the girl cried eagerly; “now you must go on. Persevere.”

“I will,” he said, catching her enthusiasm.

“Don’t let him drive you away.”

“Indeed I will not,” cried Guest, “only you might let me hold your hands.”

“Stuff; they are quite safe.”

“For me?” he whispered passionately.

“Percy Guest, do you know the meaning of the word taboo? Yes, I see you do by your sour look.”

“Not sour, Edie—disappointed.”

“Because you are selfish, sir. All we have to do in this life is to study others.”

“Oh! Is it?” he protested.

“Yes, and I now vow, swear, and declare that I will never even think of being happy myself till I can see Myra herself again; so now you know what to expect.”

“Oh, very well,” he said with a dissatisfied look. “But look here, Edie, if I don’t turn up some day you’ll know what it means.”

“That you will be found at your chambers with a pistol in your hand?” said Edie contemptuously.

“Do you think I should be such an idiot?” he cried indignantly.

The look she gave him made peace, and at last Guest rose to go, looking very thoughtful.

“Yes!” cried Edie, watching him merrily.

“I didn’t know I spoke,” he said, “but I was thinking that the way to put matters straight again would be to bring them together somehow.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Edie sarcastically; but Guest was too intent upon his thoughts to notice her manner, and he went on dreamily:

“Of course, Stratton could not come here now.”

“I should not advise him to do so while uncle’s about.”

“No, of course not,” continued Guest. “But I was thinking whether it would be possible for Myra to go, of course with you, and—perhaps I could arrange it—catch him at his chambers. He would explain everything to her, I’m sure, and you see perhaps after all it may not be so bad.”

“Oh, no, perhaps not,” said Edie, with a sneering intonation which escaped Guest in his infatuation over his new idea for serving two people whom he esteemed. Then, unable to control herself, she burst out with: “Oh, how can people be so stupid? As if it were possible that Myra could ever speak to such a man again.”

It gradually dawned upon Guest that he had made a terrible blunder, and he went back to his chambers snubbed and fully determined never more to risk his position with Edie by trying to fight his friend’s battle and piece together the broken fibres of the suddenly disruptured skein.

He was no little surprised, then, some weeks later, after dining at the admiral’s and listening to several of the old man’s old sea stories, to find Edie, upon reaching the drawing room, revive the idea as they sat talking together in a low tone, while Myra played, and her father took his nap.

“Don’t talk about it,” he said softly. “Every man makes a fool of himself sometimes. I suppose I did then.”

“There does not seem to be much foolishness in trying to serve others,” whispered Edie.

“I say, don’t,” said Guest in a low tone after gazing wonderingly in his companion’s face. “You are laying a trap for me to fall into, and it’s too bad.”

“No, I’m not, Percy,” she replied. “I’ve thought a great deal since about what you said. I was very indignant then, but now I think quite differently.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Why should we study etiquette, and be punctilious when other people’s life’s happiness is concerned?”

“Well, that’s what I thought, but you jumped upon me.”

“I didn’t, sir. I only said—”

“Enough to make me miserable for days. That’s all.”

“Please forgive me, Percy.”

“Jump on me again, Edie,” he whispered passionately—“ten times, a hundred times as hard, so as to ask forgiveness again like that.”

“If you are so stupid, I will not say another word.”

“Mute as a fish.”

“Can’t you understand how wretched it must make Myra feel to see other people happy?”

“Then you are happy, little one?”

“No, and I never shall be while matters are like this. Hush, speak low, and as if we were talking about pictures and Monday Pops. Now tell me, how does Malcolm seem?”

“More mad and wretched than ever.”

“And you can’t win his confidence at all?”

“Not a bit. I go and see him every day, generally at that place of his in Sarum Street, though I sometimes catch him at the inn, for he has a habit of going there at a certain time, and I found it out.”

“Well?”

“He insults me, bullies me, threatens me, says everything he can think of to break with me; but I go all the same.”

“That’s right. I like men to be faithful to their friends.”

“Hah!” Guest gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction.

“But you can’t get him to confide in you?”

“No.”

“You must be very stupid.”

“That’s it.”

“I am sure I could get him to confide in me.”

“You? Why, you’d win the confidence of a Memnon.”

“Don’t be silly. But tell me, Percy—do you think, now, that Malcolm Stratton has been very wicked? I mean, do you think he has married anyone else?”

“No,” said Guest flatly, “I feel sure he hasn’t.”

“Then we will have the matter cleared up.”

“How?”

“Myra shall go and see him, and ask him why he has treated her so badly.”

“But it will be such bad form.”

“I don’t care what it is! It would be much worse form for us to let the poor thing take to her bed and die.”

“But surely she is not so bad as that,” whispered Guest, who felt moved by the sob he heard in his companion’s throat.

“Worse, worse,” whispered Edie. “You don’t see what I do. You don’t know what I do. Breaking hearts are all poets’ nonsense, Percy, but poor Myra is slowly wasting away from misery and unhappiness. Uncle doesn’t see it, but I know, and if something isn’t done soon I shall have no one left to love.”

“Edie!”

“I mean like a sister. O Percy, I’d rather see her forgive him and marry him, however wicked he has been, than live like this.”

A few chords in a minor key floated through the drawing room, and Edie shivered.

“Tell me,” she said after a few minutes, “do you think he acted as he did because he didn’t love her—because he felt that he couldn’t take a woman who had been engaged to someone else?”

“I’m sure he loves her with all his heart, and I feel as certain that he would not let such a thing stand in his way.”

“Then I’m reckless,” said Edie excitedly. “I don’t care a bit what the world may say. Myra shall go to him and see him.”

“She would not.”

“I’ll make her, and if uncle kills me for it afterward, well, he must.”

“I should like to catch him trying to,” said Guest.

“No, no; I don’t mean that. Then what do you think of my plan?” said Edie. “You should come here to fetch us to some exhibition—to see something; any evening would do. We could let them be together for a little while and then bring them back.”

“Capital!” said Guest; “only isn’t that my plan, little one?”

“Oh, what does it matter which of us thought of it?”

“Not a bit,” he said, pressing the hand that lay so near him; and a little later on, with the understanding that if Myra would consent the attempt should be made, Guest left the house.

Chapter Thirty.

At her own Heart’s Bidding.

Some time elapsed before the announcement that the consent had been won.

“She wanted to all the while,” Edie said; “but her woman’s dignity kept her back.”

The girl was quite right, and it was only in a fit of mad despair that Myra had at last agreed in acknowledging the force of her cousin’s words.

“Percy says he thinks Malcolm is slowly dying, dear, and that your coming might save his life.”

“I’ll go,” Myra said, drawing in her breath with a hiss; and then to herself, “If he despises me for the act, well, I must bear it, too—while I am here.”

An evening was fixed, one on which Guest felt sure he would be able to catch his friend at the chambers, as being the preferable place, though, failing this, there was the lodging in Sarum Street.

There was no occasion for inventing subterfuges. The admiral that night dined at the club, and he troubled himself so little about the comings and goings of his daughter and niece that, if he returned, he would only consider that they had gone to some “at home,” and retire to his bed.

The consequence was that the carriage was in waiting at eight, and Guest arrived to act as guide.

“Strikes me, William,” said Andrews, the butler, to the attendant footman, “that our young lady would be doing more what’s right if she stopped at home.”

“Ay, she do look bad, sir.”

“She does, William,” said Andrew, with a little stress on the “does.”

“Twice over me and you has made preparations to have her married, and it strikes me that the next time we have to do with any public proceedings it will be to take her to her long home.”

“They’re a-coming down, Mr Andrews,” whispered the footman as, in evening dress and cloak, Guest brought down Myra, looking very white in her mufflings, and as if she were in some dream.

Guest handed her into the carriage, and returned for Edie, who was flushed and agitated.

“You won’t think any the worse of me for this, Percy, will you?” she whispered.

His reply was a tender pressure of the little hand which rested upon his arm.

Matters having been intrusted to Guest he directed the coachman to draw up beside the old court in Counsel Lane, and upon the footman opening the door, and the ladies being handed out, he looked at them in wonder, and asked his fellow-servant what game he thought was up as the trio passed into a gloomy looking alley, at whose corner was a robe-maker’s shop with two barristers’ wigs on blocks in the window.

But Guest knew what he was about. The courts and alleys about Benchers’ Inn were principally occupied by law writers, printers, and law stationers, and deserted enough of an evening to render the passage through of a couple of ladies in evening dress a matter likely to cause little notice, especially as they might be taking a short cut to one of the theatres.

Myra had taken Guest’s arm at a whisper from her cousin, who followed close behind, and, before long, the young barrister was well aware of her agitation and weakness, for, as they reached the upper entrance to the inn, she leaned more and more heavily upon his arm, and, after a few more paces, clung to him and stopped.

“Tired?” he said gently; “we are nearly there.”

She tried to speak, but no words would come; he could feel, though, that she was trembling violently, and Edie pressed to her side.

“Courage,” she murmured; and her voice seemed to calm Myra, who drew a deep breath, and tried to walk firmly the rest of the way; while Edie began to hope Stratton would be absent, for she dreaded the scene.

But fate was against her this time. The meeting she had struggled to bring about was to be, for Guest turned to her and whispered over his shoulder:

“There is a light in his room; he is at home.”

There was not a soul visible as they crossed the little, silent, ill-paved courtyard, with its few flickering gas lamps and the buildings around standing up blank and bare, for the most part solitary and deserted looking, for hardly a blind showed a light behind.

Half-way along by the railings, beneath the great plane trees, a man was standing; and, as he took a step out into the light of the nearest lamp, Guest felt that Myra was ready to drop. But a whispered word or two roused her to make the last effort, and the next minute they were in the doorway; with the stone stairs looking dim and strange, visible where they stood, but gradually fading into the darkness above.

Guest stopped short in obedience to a pressure upon his arm, and Myra supported herself by grasping the great wooden balustrade, while Edie uttered a sigh, and their escort began to feel some doubt as to the result of their mission, and wonder whether it was wise to have come, even going so far as to feel that he should not be sorry if his companions drew back.

Just then Edie whispered a few words to her cousin, who seemed to be spurred by them to fresh exertion, and, bearing hard upon Guest’s arm once more, she ascended the silent staircase to the first floor, where Guest led them a little aside into Brettison’s entry, while he went to reconnoitre.

All was dark, apparently, and he began to be in doubt as to whether Stratton really was there, when, to his great delight, he found that fate had favoured their visit, for the outer door was ajar, and, drawing it back, he stepped inside, to find the inner door only just thrust to, while, after opening it a little way, he could see Stratton seated at his writing table with his face resting upon his hands.

The lamp was before him, with the shade thrust on one side, so that the light was cast toward the window, and his face and hands were in darkness; and so motionless did he seem that Guest concluded that he must be asleep.

Guest gave a sharp look round, but the room was too dim for much to be seen. It did not, however, by that light appear to be neglected.

There was an angular look in Stratton’s attitude which startled Guest, and made him step forward with his heart beating heavily. The unfastened door was terribly suggestive of the entrance of a man who hardly knew what he was doing, and he now saw that a hat was lying on the floor as if it had fallen from the table. In an ordinary way such ideas would not have occurred to him, but he had twice over visited that room, and been startled by matters which had suggested Stratton’s intention of doing away with his life.

All this made Guest walk quickly up behind his friend’s chair, and his hand was raised to touch him, but he drew back, for a sigh, long-drawn and piteous, broke the silence of the dim room—such a sigh as escapes from a sleeping child lying exhausted after some passionate burst of temper.

Guest, too, drew a long breath as he crept away softly, looking over his shoulder till he reached the doors, through which he passed, and hurried over the few steps along the landing to where Myra and Edie stood shivering in the cold, dark entry leading to Brettison’s chambers.

“Oh, how long you have been,” whispered Edie, to whom Myra was clinging.

“Come, Mrs Barron,” said Guest, without heeding the remark, as he took Myra’s hand, which struck cold through her glove, and drew it through his arm.

“Wait there, Edie.”

The girl uttered a faint ejaculation, but said nothing, and Myra walked silently to Stratton’s door, and as Guest raised his hand to draw it toward him she pressed it back.

“Wait,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “My brain seems to swim. Mr Guest, let me think for a moment of what I am going to do before it is too late.”

Guest waited, half supporting her, for she hung heavily upon his arm, but she did not speak.

“I will tell you,” he said gently; “you are going like some good angel to solace a man dying of misery and despair. I do not know the cause of all this, but I do know that Malcolm Stratton, who has always been as a brother to me, loves you with all his heart.”

“Yes—yes,” whispered Myra excitedly.

“And that some terrible event—some sudden blow, caused him to act as he did on his wedding morning. Myra Jerrold,” he continued solemnly, “knowing Malcolm as I do, I feel that he must have held back for your sake, taking all the burden of his shame upon him so that you should not suffer.”

“Yes,” she said in her low, excited whisper; “that is what I have been feeling all these weary, weary days. It is that thought which has sustained me, and made me ready to sacrifice so much—pride, position, the opinion of my friends—in coming here like this.”

“Your cousin is here,” said Guest quickly. “We shall not leave.”

“No, you will not leave me,” she said, holding his arm with both her hands.

“Now, be firm,” whispered Guest, “and think of why you have come.”

“To forgive him,” she said slowly.

“I believe there is nothing to forgive,” said Guest warmly. “No: you come as his good angel to ask him by his love for you to be open and frank, and tell you why he has acted thus. He will not speak to me, his oldest friend: he cannot refuse you. But mind,” he continued earnestly, “it must not be told you under the bond of secrecy; he must tell you truly, and leave it to us afterward to decide what is best to be done.”

“Yes,” she said, speaking more firmly now, “I understand. I have come to help the man who was to have been my husband, in his sore time of trial. The feeling of shame, degradation, and shrinking has passed away. Percy Guest, I am strong now, and I know. It is no shameless stooping on my part: I ought to have come to him before.”

“God bless you for that, Myra!” he whispered earnestly, and he bent down and kissed her hands. As he raised his head he found that Edie had crept forward, and was looking at him wildly from out of her little fur-edged hood.

For the moment Guest thought nothing of all this, but at a sign from Myra drew open the outer door, and she stood in the dimly lit entry as if framed; she let her hood fall back, and gazed straight before her into the quaintly furnished room as if wondering that she did not at once see the object of her thoughts.

Then they saw her take a couple steps forward, and, as if from habit, thrust to the inner door, shutting in the scene beyond, and leaving Guest and Edie in the gloom of the landing.

Chapter Thirty One.

From Hope to Fear.

For a few moments nothing was said, and Guest paid no heed to his companion, but stood bent forward listening for some exclamation of surprise uttered by Stratton, or a word from Myra.

But all was silent as the grave, and, with his pulses increasing the rapidity of their beats, he gazed at the faint, narrow streak of light, almost within reach of his hand, where the edge of the inner door was within a quarter of an inch of the jamb.

“Ought I to have let her go in alone?” he asked himself. “Ought I not to have sent in Edie, too—is there any risk?”

Then, quick as lightning, followed thought after thought as to the peril to which, through his and Edie’s scheming, Myra might be exposed; and he saw himself afterward face to face with father and aunt, bearing the brunt of their reproaches for what now began to seem a wild escapade.

He was brought back to himself in the midst of the semi-darkness by a low, catching sigh, and he turned sharply round to see behind him, as in another frame, the outlined figure of Edie. He took a step toward her quickly, but she drew back right to the great balustrade of the landing, and supported herself against it.

“Edie,” he whispered, trying to take her hand; but she repulsed him, and turned her back to look down the opening to the hall.

“Edie,” he said again quickly; and this time he caught her hand.

“Don’t touch me!” she said in a low, passionate whisper.

“Nonsense, dear! There is no danger, I think. We must not stay here listening: it would be so unfair. Come and stand in Mr Brettison’s passage. You will be out of the draught and cold.”

“Don’t touch me, I say,” she whispered angrily; and she drew her hand from his grasp with a sharp snatch.

“Don’t be foolish,” he said excitedly. “Come along here.”

“No—no—no.”

“But, Edie, dear!”

“How dare you!” she cried quite aloud.

“Edie! Can you not trust me?” he said reproachfully. “It was for your sake I spoke. People may be coming up or going down. Let’s go back to Mr Brettison’s door.”

“No,” she said hoarsely; “I will stay here.”

“But there is no need,” he said gently. “I know what you feel in your anxiety about Myra; but really there is no need. Come.”

He tried to take her hand again, but she recoiled from him so suddenly that her little hood fell back, and, dim though the staircase landing was, he could see the bright little face before him convulsed with anger, and that her eyes literally flashed.

“Edie!” he whispered, “how can you be so foolish! I tell you I will answer for Myra’s safety there with my life if you like.”

“Myra!” she said in an angry whisper; “do you think I was considering her? I—oh, it is too much. How could I be so mad and stupid as to—as to—come!”

Guest gazed at her wonderingly. At first he merely attributed her actions to her anxiety on her cousin’s behalf, but her words contradicted that; and, utterly astounded, he stammered out:

“Edie—speak to me—have I offended you? What have I done?”

“Oh, nothing. It is I who have been foolish,” she said hysterically. “Girls are so silly sometimes.”

“Then there is something,” he said eagerly. “I have offended you. Edie, dear, pray tell me.”

He took hold of her unwilling hand and, in spite of her effort, drew it through his arm, and led her toward the short passage in which Brettison’s door was placed.

“You don’t answer me,” he whispered as they reached the spot where she and her cousin had waited only a short time before, and his love for her speaking now warmly in the tone of his voice. “Edie, dearest, I would suffer anything sooner than give you pain. Forgive me if I have done anything; forgive me, too, for speaking out so plainly at a time like this, but I do love you, darling, indeed—indeed.”

As he spoke he raised her hand passionately, and yet reverently, to his lips, and the next moment he would have pressed it warmly, but the kiss was upon vacancy, for the hand was sharply snatched away.

“It is all false!” cried Edie in a low, angry voice. “I do not believe a word.”

“Edie!” he whispered reproachfully.

“Do you think I am blind? Do you think because I am so young that I am a child?”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” he faltered, utterly taken aback by the silent vehemence of the passion displayed by the quivering little lady before him.

“It is not true. You are deceiving me. You, too, whom I did think honest and true. But you are all alike, and I was mad to come—no, I was not, for I’m very glad I did, if it was only to learn that you are as full of duplicity as your friend.”

“Am I? Well, I suppose so, Edie, if you think so,” he said dismally. “But we came here to try and get out of a fog—I’ve got farther in. I didn’t know I was such a bad one, though, and you might be fair to me and explain. Come,” he cried, changing his manner, and speaking out in a frank, manly way, “this is not like you, little woman. If it’s to tease me and keep me at a distance because we are alone here in the dark it is not needed, Edie, for God knows that if a man ever loved a woman, I do you.”

“What!” she cried; “and act toward Myra as I saw just now?”

“Toward Myra?”

“Yes; I know she’s a hundred times nicer than I am, but I did think—I did think—O Percy, how could you kiss her hand like that?”

He caught her to his breast as she broke down into a fit of sobbing, and held her there.

“O Edie,” he said, “you silly, blind little thing! Why, I never even thought—oh, but go on—go on,” he whispered; “I am so glad—jealous of me like that! Then you do love me dearly, and you can’t deny it now.”

Edie made little effort to escape from the close encircling arms which held her tightly, fluttering like a bird; none to deny Guest’s charge. It was very lonely and dark upon that staircase, and in another moment she would have been shrinking from her companion’s kisses; but, moved by the same impulse, they sprang apart, for from Stratton’s room a wild, appealing cry broke the silence of the echoing stairs.

Chapter Thirty Two.

A Woman woos—In Vain.

“No, no, don’t come with me,” whispered Guest as he sprang toward Stratton’s room, but Edie paid no heed to his words, and was close behind him as he passed through first one and then the other door, drawing back, though, the next moment to close them both.

A few minutes before when Myra had performed the same action she had stood gazing before her at the figure seated at the table; and the attitude of dejection, the abject misery and despair it conveyed to her mind, swept away all compunction. Every thought of her visit being unmaidenly, and opposed to her duty toward herself and those who loved her, was forgotten. Her hands were involuntarily raised toward him, and she stood there with her lips apart, her head thrown back, and her eyes half-closed and swimming with tenderness as her very being seemed to breathe out the one word—“Come!”

But Stratton might have been dead for all the change that took place by that dimly lit table. He did not stir; and at last, seeing that he must be suffering terribly, and, taking the thought closely to her breast that it was for her sake, she moved forward slowly, almost gliding to the back of his chair, to stand there looking down yearningly upon him till her bosom heaved with a long, deep sigh, and raising her hands toward him once more she laid them tenderly upon his head.

“Malcolm!”

The effect of that touch was electric. With one bound Stratton leapt from his chair toward the fireplace, and there stood at bay, as it were, before the door of the closet, gazing at her wildly for a few moments, as if at some unreal thing. Then his hands went to his brow, and the intensity of his gaze increased till, as she took one step toward him with extended arms, the wild look in his haggard face changed to one of intense joy.

“Myra!” he cried, and the next moment he had clasped her in his arms.

For the moment it was a different man from the wretched being who had crept back to his rooms heartsick and despairing, while, after shrinking from him with the reserve begotten of the doubt and misery which had been her portion for so long past, the warm clasp of his arms, the tender, passionate words he uttered, and the loving caresses of his hands as he drew her face closer and closer to his swept away all memories of his lapse, and of the world and its ways. He had held her to his throbbing breast—he, the man to whom her heart had first expanded two years before—and she knew no more, thought no more of anything but the supreme joy that he loved her dearly still.

Brief pleasure. She saw his eyes gazing passionately into hers, full of the newly found delight, and then they contracted, his brow grew rugged, and, with a hoarse sigh, he shrank from her embrace, looked wildly round, and then, with a shudder, whispered:

“You here—here! Here? It is you?—it is no dream; but why—why have you come? It is too horrible.”

“Malcolm!” she cried piteously.

“Don’t—don’t speak to me—don’t look at me with those appealing eyes. I cannot bear it. Pray—pray go.”

“Go?” she said, raising her hand to his arm, “when I have at all costs come to you like this!”

“Yes, yes, go—at once,” he cried, and he shrank from her as if in horror.

“Malcolm—dearest!” she moaned; “you shrink from me. What have I done?”

He was silent in the terrible struggle going on within his breast.

“You do not speak,” she whispered, as if in dread that her words should reach the ears of those without. “You cannot be so cruel as to cast me off for the past. I did not know then, dear—I was a mere girl—I accepted him heart-whole. It was my father’s and his wish; do not blame me for that.”

He turned from her as if to avoid her eyes, and her voice grew more piteous as she crept close to him and stood with her hand raised to lay it upon his arm, but dreading to touch him again after his cold rebuff.

“I tell you, dear, I did not know then—I believed you cared for Edie.”

“I? Never!” he cried, turning to her for the moment. “Why do you revive all that?”

“Because you are so cruel to me—so cold, Malcolm, I must speak now. You have made me reckless—ready to brave the whole world’s contempt, my father’s anger, for the sake of him who first taught me what it was to love. I tell you I must speak now, and I come to you humble and suppliant—the woman you would have made your wife. It was too cruel, but I forgive you, dear. Let all that be as if it had never happened.”

He groaned, and covered his face with his hands.

“Speak to me, dearest,” she murmured; and, emboldened by his sorrowful manner, she clasped one of his arms with both her hands, and laid her cheek against it as she spoke. “Speak to me and tell me, too, that you forgive me all that sad time of my life. I tell you again I never loved him. Our marriage was the merest form, and I came back from the church wishing that my last hour had come. I know now; you need not tell me, dear—you shrank from me at the last; but you did not know my heart, Malcolm—you could not see how its every pulsation was for you. I lay it bare before you now, Malcolm—husband. I claim you, dear. I cannot live on like this, my own, my own.”

She had crept closer and closer as she spoke, her hands had risen to his shoulder, and, after trembling there for a few moments, they clasped his neck, and she buried her face in his breast, sobbing as if her heart would break.

Then her tears seemed to freeze in their source, and she shrank away horrified and chilled by his manner; for he thrust her from him with an angry gesture, and his face was convulsed as he made as if to rush from the room.

But he turned back to her, and she sank upon her knees before him.

“Malcolm,” she said gently, “am I so loathsome in your sight?”

“No, no,” he groaned, and he tore at his throat as if something choked him. “For Heaven’s sake, go. Myra, I am not master of my actions. If you stay I shall forget all but that you are here.”

She started to her feet in horror and alarm at his words, and his looks seemed to endorse their truth, but a calm smile came upon her lips, and she went to him again.

“I know,” she said tenderly. “They have told me all that. You have been ill and delirious. Well, who should be your nurse and comforter? Malcolm—come to me again. My father will listen to my prayers, and all the past shall be forgotten. Take me with you away somewhere till you are well again. Only tell me now that you have forgiven me—that I am to be your wife, Malcolm—my own.”

A spasm of horror convulsed his face again, and he shrank from her when she would have once more laid her head upon his breast.

“No; you do not know; you cannot know,” he whispered hoarsely. “Myra, there is a gulf between us that can never more be crossed. Go, dearest, for Heaven’s sake, and try and forget that I ever said words of love.”

She looked at him in wonder more than dread, but the prime object of her mission came now to mind.

“No,” she said; “your mind is disordered with grief. I cannot leave you like this. Tell me, I beg, Malcolm: you do repel me because of my past?”

“No—no!” he said wildly. “For that? Great Heavens, no!”

“Then you must—you shall tell me.”

“Tell you?” he cried.

“Yes: what you have kept back from your firmest friend. It must be some terrible trouble—some great agony of spirit—that should induce you to raise your hand against your own life.”

“They told you that!” he said bitterly.

“Yes: they were obliged. But the reason, dear? Did you not tell me I should share your very being—that I should be your other self? Malcolm, tell me. I claim it as my right. Why are you like this?”

He caught her hands fiercely, and held her at arm’s length.

“Tell you?” he said; “that you may loathe as well as hate. Myra, in the horror of the long black nights since I saw you last I have clung to the hope that, some time in the future, repentance, sorrow for what was thrust upon me, might be sufficient penance for the past; but it is all one black cloud of despair before me. There is no hope. You and I must never meet again. Go, while I can speak to you the words of a sane man, before that which they have thought of me becomes true. For Heaven’s sake, go. God have mercy; my punishment is greater than I can bear.”

He reeled, and would have fallen heavily, but Myra held on to the hands which clutched hers so fiercely; and, as a wild appeal for help escaped her lips, she saved him from striking his head violently as he sank insensible to the floor.

“What is it?” cried Guest excitedly.

She told him in a few words, and he ran into the other room for water, but Stratton was already coming to, and after drinking with avidity from the glass Guest held to his lips, he rose shuddering and pale.

“Take her home,” he said in a husky whisper as he rose. “Quick. It is too horrible. Weak and faint, I cannot bear it.”

He motioned toward the door, and Guest turned a look full of perplexity toward Myra.

“No,” she said firmly. “Edie, dear, stay with me. Mr Guest, go to my father at once and tell him I am here with him who is to be my dear husband, who is sick almost unto death. Tell him to come at once with a doctor and a nurse.”

As she spoke a look of joy shot across Stratton’s face, and he took a step toward her with outstretched hands, where she stood between him and the door beside the fireplace. Then, all at once, his face changed, and they thought him mad.

“No,” he cried fiercely; “it is impossible.”

He ran across, and flung open both inner and outer doors.

“Take them,” he whispered fiercely—“take them back, man, or it will be too late. You will make me what you think.”

Myra would have stayed even then, in spite of Edie’s hands trying to drag her away; but, as she turned yearningly to Stratton, he shrank away with such a despairing look of horror that she yielded herself to Guest’s strong arm, and suffered him to lead her back, half insensible, to the carriage, into a corner of which she sank with a low moan, while all the way home the beat of the horses feet and the rattle of the wheels upon the pavement seemed to form themselves with terrible iteration into the words she had heard fall from Stratton’s lips, and she shuddered as now, for the first time, she gave them with a terrible significance:

“My punishment is greater than I can bear.”

She grew more and more prostrate as they neared home, and was so weak that she could hardly walk up the steps into the hall, but she recovered a little, and, holding tightly by Guest’s and Edie’s arms, ascended slowly to the drawing room, to find that the butler had hurried up before them, and that Sir Mark had returned, and was coming to meet them on the landing, startled by the man’s words:

“Miss Myra has come home, sir, very ill.”

The admiral would have sent off for medical help, but Myra insisted that she was better; and as she began to recover herself the old man asked eagerly:

“Where was it—at a theatre?”

A dead silence fell upon the group, and Guest gave Edie a look of agony as the thought occurred to him: “He will forbid me his house now.”

“Well,” cried Sir Mark testily, for he had reached home early consequent upon a few monitory twinges, which he dare not slight, “are you all deaf?”

“I will tell you, dear,” said Myra, taking her father’s hand and pressing it beneath her cheek. “Don’t be angry with anybody but me, and try and remember that I am no longer a girl, but a suffering woman, full of grief and pain.”

“My poor darling!” he whispered, bending down to kiss her. “But tell me—were you taken ill at the theatre? Why, what does it mean?”

“I could bear it no longer, father,” said Myra slowly. “I have been to see Malcolm Stratton.”

“What?”

“To ask him to explain.”

“You—you have been to see that scoundrel—that—”

“Hush, dear! He was to have been my husband.”

“And you—you actually went to see him—at his rooms?”

“Yes.”

Sir Mark wiped his forehead, and looked fiercely from one to the other, as if hardly believing his child’s avowal to be true.

“I could not go on like this. It was killing me, dear.”

“And—and you asked him to explain his cursed conduct?”

“I asked him to explain.”

“And—and—what—what?” panted the old man furiously.

“No; he did not explain, dear,” said Myra, drawing her father’s arm about her neck, and raising herself a little from the couch so as to nestle on his breast. “It is fate, dear. I am never to leave you now. Keep me, dear, and protect me. It is not his fault. Something terrible has happened to him—something he could not own to, even to me—who was to have been his wife.”

“Edie—Guest—help!” panted the admiral. “Myra, my darling! She’s dying!”

“No, no, dear,” she said, with a low moan, as she clung to him more tightly, “a little faint—that’s all. Ah! hold me to you, dear,” she sighed almost in a whisper. “Safe—with you.”

And then to herself:

“He said his punishment was greater than he could bear. Malcolm, my own—my own!”

Chapter Thirty Three.

A horrible Suggestion.

Only a few frowns from the admiral and a severe shake of the head over their wine a day or two later, as, in obedience to a summons more than an invitation, Guest dined with him and his sister, Edie having her dinner with her cousin in Myra’s room.

“I felt as if I ought to say a deal to you, young man,” growled the admiral; “but poor Myra has given me my orders, and I must be mum. Take some more wine.”

Guest took some more claret with pleasure, and thought that the subject was to be changed, but it was not, for Sir Mark suddenly turned to him:

“I say: look here, my lad,” he said. “This Stratton: is he mad?”

“No,” said Guest sharply: “certainly not.”

“Then what the deuce is the matter with him?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out, Sir Mark.”

But the days went by, and Guest appeared to get no farther, save only that Stratton, in a despairing way, ceased to resent his friend’s determination to be with him. He even went so far, one evening in his room in Sarum Street, as to show some return of his old confidence, for he tossed a letter across the table.

“Read that,” he said.

Guest took it, and saw that it was from the governors of the great institution, suggesting that Stratton should resign his post for a twelvemonth, and go away on half salary to recoup his health.

“Humph! Can’t say I’m surprised,” said Guest. “Have you written?”

“Yes, and resigned entirely.”

“Where’s the letter?” said Guest eagerly. “Gone?”

“No; it is here.”

“Let’s look.”

Stratton handed him the letter, and Guest tore it up.

“Write that you accept their considerate proposal.”

“I cannot.”

“But you shall.”

“If I wrote so, I should feel bound to leave town.”

“Very good. I’ll go with you—to the South Pole if you like.”

“I shall never leave London,” said Stratton gravely.

“Then stop here and get well. Write.”

The weaker will obeyed the stronger, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, Guest pocketed the letter to post.

“By the way,” he said, “I came through the inn to-night on the chance of finding you there.”

Stratton’s face grew stony.

“And old Mother Brade got hold of me to practice her tongue upon.”

Stratton was silent, and sat gazing straight before him.

“Hadn’t you better let the old woman have a general clean up?”

“I pay the rent of those chambers,” said Stratton almost fiercely, “to do with them as I please. No!”

“All right; tell her to go to Jericho, then. But look here, she was asking me about Mr Brettison.”

Stratton’s countenance changed a little, either from excitement or interest in his friend’s words.

“Isn’t it strange that he doesn’t come back?”

“I don’t know. No. He is peculiar in his ways. Sometimes I have not seen him for months together.”

“Oh,” said Guest quietly; and soon after he left.

It was about a week later that, on going to the inn one evening, Guest was caught again by the porter’s wife.

“Which I won’t keep you a minute, sir, but would you mind answering me one question?”

“If I can,” said Guest, knocking the ashes from his cigar.

“Then is Mr Stratton coming back soon to the inn, sir?”

“I can’t tell you, Mrs Brade.”

“Then can you tell me where Mr Brettison is, sir?”

“That’s two questions, Mrs Brade.”

“Well, yes, sir, it is; but if you only knew the agony I suffer from the thought of those two sets of chambers being allowed to go to rack and ruin, you’d pity me.”

“Well, it does seem tiresome to any lady of orderly mind, of course.”

“It’s ’orrid, sir. There’s the dust, and the soot falling down the chimbleys without a bit of fire, and the mice, and, for aught I know, the rats. Really, sir, there are times when I almost wish the chambers was empty, that I do.”

“Well, have patience, Mrs Brade,” said Guest. “I think I can see an improvement in Mr Stratton, and I hope soon to get him to come back—but I don’t know when it’s likely to be,” he muttered as he crossed the square on the chance of seeing a light in his friend’s window, and this time it was there.

He hurried up to find, after knocking several times, that Stratton had evidently only just come, for he was standing there in overcoat and hat, and he would have stepped out at once had not Guest shown so decided an intention of coming in.

“Do you want me?” said Stratton uneasily; and Guest’s heart sank, for his friend looked more careworn than ever.

“Yes,” he said; “I wanted to talk to you about something particular.”

“Yes—what?” said Stratton sharply.

“Surely you were not coming away, and about to leave that lamp burning?”

“Was I going to leave the lamp burning?” said Stratton absently. “I suppose I forgot.”

“Well, don’t do that, then. This house is so full of wood that if it caught fire it would burn like tinder.”

“You think so?” said Stratton with a curious look in his eyes.

“That I do. In half an hour there wouldn’t be one of your preparations left. They, your furniture, the bric-à-brac, and your specimens in spirits, would be consumed and in ashes in no time.”

The strange look in Stratton’s eyes intensified, but Guest did not notice it, nor yet that his companion was letting his eyes wander around the old carved panelling with its oaken architraves and heavy plinths and mouldings.

For Guest was intent upon his own thoughts.

“Look here,” he said suddenly; “about Brettison?”

Stratton turned upon him uneasily.

“This is a rum world, Mal, old fellow.”

“What do you mean?” said Stratton.

“Only this: Brettison’s rich—a man worth a good deal, and men of that stamp generally have people who take a good deal of notice of them.”