GOETHE.



CHAPTER XX.

"I WAS THE MORE DECEIVED."

Milly Harrington had passed two months at Birchmead, and her grandmother's neighbors were beginning to speculate on the probabilities of her staying over the summer.

"Poor soul; it's lonely for her," Mrs. Chigwin said to her friend, Elizabeth. "I do hope that Mr. Beadon, or whatever her husband's name is, will come back before very long. She must be fretting for him, and fretting's so bad for her."

"You think there is a husband to come, do you?" asked Mrs. Bundlecombe, mysteriously.

"Why not, Bessy? She says she's married, and she wears a wedding-ring; and her clothes is beautiful."

"I'd like to see her marriage lines," said Mrs. Bundlecombe. "But, there! maybe I'm hard on her, poor thing, which I ought not to be, seeing that I know what trouble is, and how strangely marriages do turn out sometimes. But if there is a husband in the case, it's shameful the way he neglects her, never coming to see her, and going abroad on business, as she says, while she stays with her grandmother!"

"She pays Mrs. Harrington," remarked Mrs. Chigwin, reflectively, "and she always seems to have plenty of money; but she do look sad and mournful now and then, and money's not everything to those that want a little love."

As she concluded her moral observation, she started up, for a shadow darkened the open doorway: and on looking up, she saw that Milly herself was standing just outside. The girl's beautiful face was pale and agitated; and there were tears in her eyes. The old woman noticed that she was growing haggard, and that there were black lines beneath her eyes; they exchanged significant looks, and then asked her to step in and sit down.

"You run about too much and fatigue yourself," said Mrs. Chigwin. "Now you sit there and look at my flowers, how still they keep; they wouldn't be half so fine if I was always transplanting them. You want a good, quiet home for yourself: not to be moving about and staying with friends, however fond of you they may be."

Milly had sunk into the chair offered to her, with a look of extreme exhaustion and fatigue, but at Mrs. Chigwin's words she sat up, and her eyes began to grow bright again.

"I think so myself, Mrs. Chigwin. I shall be glad to get back to my own nice quiet home again. As for looking tired, it is only because I have been packing up my things and getting ready to go. Mr. Beadon has written to me to join him in London, and I am going to start this very afternoon."

The rosy color came back into her face: she smiled triumphantly, but her lips quivered as she smiled.

"That's right, my dear. I don't approve of young husbands and wives living separate, unless there's some very good cause for it," said Mrs. Bundlecombe, thinking of her beloved Alan. "It always gives occasion to the enemy, and I think you're very wise to go back. Perhaps you had some little bit of a tiff or misunderstanding with Mr. Beadon——"

"Oh no," said Milly. The color in her face was painfully hot now. "Mr. Beadon is always very good and kind. But," she continued, looking down and pushing her wedding-ring to and fro, "he is very busy indeed, and he is obliged to go abroad sometimes on business. He travels—I think he calls it—for a great London house. He is getting on very well, he says, in his own particular line."

"Ah, that is nice!" said Mrs. Chigwin, comfortably. "And how glad you will be to see each other."

"Oh, yes," faltered Milly. There was a curiously pathetic look in her great blue eyes such as we sometimes see in those of a timid child. "Yes—very glad."

"And you'll bring him down here to see your grandmother, I suppose? She's not set eyes on him yet, has she? And how nice it will be for you to come down now and then—especially when you have a family, my dear, Birchmead being so healthy for children, and Mrs. Harrington such a good hand with babies——"

Suddenly, and to Mrs. Chigwin's infinite surprise, Milly burst into tears. The loud, uncontrolled sobs frightened the two old women for a moment; then Mrs. Chigwin got up and fetched a glass of water, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, and audibly expressing her fear that Milly's exertions had been "too much for her." But Mrs. Bundlecombe sat erect, with a look of something like disapproval upon her comely old face. She had her own views concerning Milly and her good fortune; and soft and kind-hearted by nature as she was, there were some things that Aunt Bessy never forgave. The wickedness of Alan's wife had hardened her a little to youthful womankind.

"I'm better, thank you," said Milly, checking her sobs at last, and beginning to laugh hysterically. "I don't know what made me give way so, I'm sure."

"You're tired, love," said Mrs. Chigwin, sympathetically, "and you're not well, that's easy to see. You must just take care of yourself, or you'll be laid up. You tell your good husband that from me, who have had experience, though without a family myself."

Milly wiped the tears away, and rose from her chair.

"I'll tell him," she said. "But—oh, there's no need: he takes an awful lot of care of me, you've no idea! Why, it was he that said I had better come to my grandmother while he was away: he knew that granny would take care of me; and now, you see"—with hasty triumph—"he wants me home again!"

She pocketed her handkerchief, and raised her head.

"I thought you said he had been abroad?" said Mrs. Bundlecombe.

"Of course I did, because he has been abroad," the girl said, laughing nervously. "But he's in London now. Well, good-bye, Mrs. Chigwin; good-bye, Mrs. Bundlecombe; you'll go in and comfort granny a bit when I'm gone, won't you? She's been fretting this morning about my going away."

"Bless you, love," said Mrs. Chigwin. "I'll go in every day if you think it will do her any good. And if you write to her, Milly, she'll be pleased, I'm sure."

"I will write," said Milly, in rather a shame-faced way. "I was so busy—or I'd have written oftener. Good-bye."

She looked at them wistfully, as if reluctant to take her leave; and her expression so wrought upon Mrs. Chigwin's feelings that she kissed the girl's cheek affectionately.

"Good-bye, love," she said; "you know where to find us when you want us, you know."

Milly departed, and the two friends remained silent until her light figure had passed the window, and the click of the garden gate told them that she was well out of hearing. Then Mrs. Chigwin began, in rather a puzzled tone:

"You weren't very hearty with her, Elizabeth. You looked as if you had something against her."

"I've this against her," said Mrs. Bundlecombe, smoothing down her black apron with dignity, "that I believe there's something wrong about that marriage, and that if I were Mrs. Harrington I wouldn't be satisfied until I'd seen her marriage lines."

"Perhaps she has seen them," said Mrs. Chigwin, the pacific. "And we've nothing to go upon, Bessy, and I'm sure the idea would never have entered my head but for you."

"Why did she burst out crying when you talked of her husband and children coming down here?" asked Mrs. Bundlecombe, acutely. "It may be that she isn't to blame; but there's something wrong somewhere. She's hurried and flurried and worried."

And this was true. The summons which Milly had received was of the briefest and least intelligible character. It was in a handwriting that she knew well, and although it was unsigned she was tremulously ready and eager to obey it at once. "Come back to your old lodgings at Hampstead," the writer said. "Do not stay any longer at Birchmead: I want you in London." And that was almost all.

Milly hovered all day long between alternations of wild hope and wild despair. If she had been accustomed to self-analysis, she herself might have been surprised to see how widely her present moods differed from those which had dominated her when she lived at Maple Cottage. She was then a vain, self-seeking little damsel, affectionate and uncorrupted, with an empty head, indeed, but an innocent heart. Now both self-seeking and vanity were being scourged out of her by force of the love which she had learnt to feel. She was little changed in manner, and an observer might have said that she was as childishly pleased as ever with a new gaud or a pretty toy; but behind the self-sufficiency of her demeanor, and the frivolity of her tastes, there was something new—something more real and living than mere self-indulgence and conceit. The faculty of giving and spending herself for others had sprung into being with the first love she had known. For the man with whom she had gone away from Lettice's house she was willing to lay down her life if he would but accept the gift. And when he seemed loath to accept it, Milly became conscious of a heart-sick shame and pain which had already often brought tears that were not unworthy to her pretty childish eyes. The strength of her own feelings frightened her sometimes: she did not know how to resist the surging tide of passion and longing and regret that rose and fell within her breast, as uncontrollable by her weak will as the waves by the Danish king of history. Poor Milly's soul had been born within her, as a woman's soul is often born through love, and the acquisition cost her nothing but pain as yet, although it might ultimately lead her to a higher life.

She arrived at the lodgings in Hampstead which had formerly been hers, about five o'clock in the afternoon. The landlady received her cordially, saying that "the gentleman had bespoke the rooms," and Milly was taken at once into the sitting-room, which looked west, and was lighted by a flood of radiance from the setting sun. Milly sank down on a sofa, in hopeless fatigue.

"Did he say that he would be home to-night?" she asked of the landlady.

"No, Mrs. Beadon, he didn't; but he said that he was very busy in the city and would write or send if he couldn't come himself."

"How was he looking?"

"Oh, very well, but a bit worried, I thought," said Mrs. Capper. "Now let me take your things, ma'am, and then I'll bring up the tea: you don't look as if your stay in the country had done you much good after all."

"Oh, I'm very well," said Milly, unfastening her mantle and coloring with nervousness under the woman's sharp eye. "I daresay Mr. Beadon will come to-morrow, if he doesn't come to-night."

But nobody came, although she sat up watching and waiting for many hours after Mrs. Capper had betaken herself to her bed. What did this silence and absence mean? Her heart contracted with a curious dread. She loved, but she had never believed herself capable of retaining love.

About eleven o'clock next day, she was informed that a gentleman wanted to speak to her. "A young-looking, fair gentleman, like a clerk," said Mrs. Capper. "Shall I show him up? It's from your good 'usband, most likely, I should think."

Milly started from the chair by the window, where she had been sitting. "Oh, show him up, at once, please."

With one hand on the table, and her delicate face flushed, she presented a picture of loveliness such as the man who entered did not often see. He even paused for a moment on the threshold as if too much amazed to enter, and his manner was somewhat uneasy as he bowed to her, with his eyes fixed in a rather furtive manner on her face.

He was a man of thirty-five, although his smooth-shaven face and fair hair made him look younger than his years. It was a commonplace countenance, shrewd and intelligent enough, but not very attractive. There was a certain honesty in his eyes, however, which redeemed the plainness of his insignificant and irregular features.

"Mrs. Beadon, I think?" he said. "My name's Johnson. I come from Mr.—Mr. Beadon with a message."

"Yes?" said Milly, her hand upon her side. "What is it, please? Tell me quickly—is he coming to-day?"

The man looked at her oddly. There was something like pity in his eyes.

"Not to-day, madam," he replied.

Milly sank down on her chair again and sighed deeply. The color left her cheeks.

"I have a communication to make, madam," said the clerk, rather hesitatingly, "which I am afraid may be a little painful, though not, Mr. Beadon tells me, unexpected by you. I hope that you will be prepared——"

"Go on," said Milly, sharply. "What is it? Why have you come?"

"Mr. Beadon wishes you to understand, madam, that he is going abroad again very shortly. He advises you to inform the landlady of this fact, which will explain his absence. But he also commissions me to put into your hands a sum for your present expenses, and to inform you that he will be quite willing to assist you at any time if you make application to him through me—at the address which I am to give you. Any personal application to himself will be disregarded."

"But, do you mean," said Milly, her cheeks growing very white, "that he is not coming—to say good-bye—before he goes abroad?"

"He thinks it better to spare you and himself an interview that might be unpleasant," said Mr. Johnson. "You understand, I suppose—a—that Mr. Beadon—my principal, that is—wishes to close his relations with you finally."

Milly started to her feet and drew herself to her full height. Her cheeks were blazing now, her eyes on fire. "But I am his wife!" she cried.

Johnson looked at her for a moment in silent admiration. He had not liked the errand on which he was sent, and he liked it now less than ever.

"Pardon me, madam," he said, in some embarrassment; "but Mr. Beadon is under the impression that you understand—that you have understood all along—that you were not legally in that position——"

"You mean," she said, her whole form quivering in her excitement, "that what he told me was false?—that when he said that our declaration before witnesses that we were man and wife was a true marriage—you mean that that was a lie?"

Johnson looked at the walls and the ceiling—anywhere but at poor Milly's agonized face.

"It was not a marriage, madam," he said, in a regretful tone.

"Then he—he—deceived me—purposely? Oh, he is wicked! he is base! And I thought myself—I thought myself——"

Her fingers clutched at the neck of her dress, as if to tear it open, and so relieve the swelling of her throat.

"Does he think that he can make it up to me with money? Oh, I'll take nothing from him any more. Let him go if he will, and his money too—I shall die and be forgotten—I won't live to bear the shame of it—the pain—the——"

She did not finish her sentence. Her slight form was swaying to and fro, like a reed shaken by the wind; her face had grown whiter and whiter as she went on: finally she flung up her arms and fell senseless to the floor. The end of all her hopes and fears—of all her joys and longing and desire, was worse to her than death.

Johnson lifted her to the sofa, with a sort of awkward tenderness, which perhaps he would not have liked to acknowledge to his master; and then, before summoning Mrs. Capper, he thrust into Milly's pocket the envelope containing the banknotes and the address which he had brought with him. He knew that his master was "doing the thing handsomely," as far as money was concerned, and he had no doubt but that the forsaken woman would see, when she had got over her first mad frenzy of despair, that she had better accept and use his gifts. So he stowed the envelope away in her pocket, so that it might not attract the curious eyes of prying servant or landlady.

Then he called to Mrs. Capper, and gave her a brief explanation of Milly's swoon. "The lady's a little overcome," he said. "Mr. Beadon has got to go abroad, and couldn't find time to see her before he went."

"Hard-heated brute!" said the landlady, as she chafed Milly's hands, and held a smelling-bottle to her nose.

"Oh, dear, no!" said Mr. Johnson, briskly. "Family ties must not stand in the way of business. I wish you good-day, and hope the lady will soon be better."

And he left the house rather hurriedly, for he had no desire to encounter the despairing appeal of Milly's eyes when she recovered from her swoon.

"It is a little too bad to make me his messenger," he said to himself. "He may do his dirty work himself another time. I thought she was quite a different sort of person. Poor thing! I wonder how he feels about her, or whether he feels anything at all."

He had an opportunity of putting his master's equanimity to the test when he made his report of the interview—a report which was made that very afternoon, in spite of his representations that Mr. Beadon had already gone abroad.

"Well, you saw her?" he was asked.

"Yes, sir. I said what you desired, and gave her the money."

"Any fuss?"

"She fainted—that was all," said Johnson, grimly.

"But she kept the money?"

"She had no choice. I put it into her pocket while she was unconscious, and then summoned the landlady."

"Ah, yes, that was right. And she understands——"

"Everything that you wish her to understand," said the clerk, with a touch of disrespect in his manner, which his employer noticed, and silently resented.

"Well, it had to be done, and the sooner the better," he said, turning away.

"So I suppose," said Johnson.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE TONGUE OF SCANDAL.

Alan returned to town with the full knowledge that he had something formidable to face and overcome.

He had gone to Birchmead partly in redemption of an old promise to his aunt, not knowing when he might be able to keep it if he did not do so now, and partly because his mind had been distracted by a fresh outbreak of violence in his wife, and he found it absolutely impossible to sit still and endure in patience.

The country journey refreshed him, and he came back stronger and braver than before. He was resolved to press for his divorce, and as Lettice was in Italy, no time could be better than the present for proving to the desperate woman, who was trying to terrify him, that there were laws in England to which she must yield obedience. He assured himself that he was now prepared for any fate; and yet that which had happened before he left town was an earnest of what he had to expect.

What had happened was this.

A few days before Cora had been served with a notice to appear and defend the suit for divorce which her husband was bringing against her; and this had set her inflammable soul on fire. She had tried hard to discover his whereabouts, without success. She had gone to Maple Cottage and banged at the door in such furious style, that a policeman, who happened to be passing, came up to see what was wrong, just as the new occupants made their appearance, in mingled alarm and indignation.

"I want Miss Campion," said Cora, who was half-intoxicated, but still more excited by rage and jealousy.

"She no longer lives here," said the man at the door.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. And I should not tell you if I did. Policeman, take this woman in charge for annoying me! You must have seen her knocking like a fury—and now she is evidently tipsy."

Her rage increased rather than diminished when she found that her intended prey had escaped her, she began to declaim at the top of her voice, and to shriek hysterically; and the policeman, regarding it as a simple case of "drunk and disorderly," took her off to the station, where she was locked up.

The first that Alan heard of it was from the papers next morning. In one of these, which he was accustomed to read after breakfast, he found the following report:—

"At Hammersmith, a dissipated-looking woman, who gave the name of Cora Walcott, was charged with being drunk and disorderly on the previous day, and annoying Mr. Peter Humphreys, of Maple Cottage, Brook Green. Sergeant T 14 stated that he had observed the prisoner behaving in an extraordinary manner outside Mr. Humphreys' house, and knocking at the door in a most violent manner. As she would not go away, and her conduct was a serious annoyance to the neighbors, he was compelled to take her into custody. In reply to the prisoner, the witness said that she was undoubtedly drunk. She had asked for Miss Campion, and he had ascertained that that lady did previously live at Maple Cottage. She had told him that she was the wife of Mr. Alan Walcott, who had deserted her, after making an attempt on her life. The magistrate here interposed, and said that the prisoner's questions were totally irrelevant. What she had stated, even if true, was no excuse whatever for the conduct of which she had been guilty. Prisoner (excitedly): 'This woman had taken my husband from me.' Magistrate: 'Be silent.' Prisoner: 'Am I to starve in the streets, whilst they are living in luxury?' Magistrate: 'You are fined five shillings and costs. If you have grievances you must find another way of remedying them. If you say any more now, I shall have to send you to prison without the option of a fine.' The money was paid by a gentleman in court."

As soon as Alan had read this he went to the solicitor who knew all his affairs, and got him to go to the Hammersmith Police Court. The magistrate permitted him to make a statement contradicting the lies told by Cora, and the newspapers printed what he said. But how many persons read the first report who never saw the second? And how many of those who read both preferred to believe the scandal, taking the contradiction as a matter of course?

The "gentleman in court" who paid Cora's fine was an enterprising reporter, who thought it might be worth his while to hear what this deserted wife had to say. He knew two or three papers which would welcome a bit of copy dealing with the marital troubles of a well-known literary man. The story of this French wife might be a tissue of lies—in which case it would be a real advantage to Mr. Walcott and Miss Campion to have it printed and refuted. Or it might be partly or wholly true—in which case it was decidedly in the interest of the public to make it known. The argument is familiar to everyone connected with a popular newspaper, and it proves that sensational journalists have their distinct place in the cosmogony of nature, being bound to print what is scandalous, either for the sake of those who are libelled or out of simple justice to those who start and spread the libel. This desire to give fair play all round, even to slanderers and malefactors, and the common father of these, is the crown and apex of civilization.

The consequence of this gentleman's activity was that Cora found plenty of assistance in her malicious design, to take away the characters of Alan and Lettice. The charges which she brought against her husband were printed and commented on in some very respectable newspapers, and were repeated with all kinds of enlargement and embellishment wherever the retailers of gossip were gathered together. If Alan had been under a cloud before, he was now held up to scorn as a mean-spirited creature without heart or conscience, who had allowed his lawful wife to sink into an abyss of degradation. However bad she might be, the blame certainly rested with him as the stronger. If it was impossible to live with her now, he might, at any rate, have stretched out his hand long ago, and rescued her from the slough of despond into which she had fallen.

This was not, of course, the universal judgment; but it was the popular one. It might not even have been the popular judgment a year before, or a year after, but it was the judgment of the day. The multitude is without responsibility in such cases, it decides without deliberation, and it often mistakes its instincts for the dictates of equity. Alan was judged without being heard, or what he did say in his defence was received as though it were the mere hard-swearing of a desperate man.

The storm had begun to rage when he went to Birchmead, and it reached its height soon after he returned. His lawyer advised him to bring an action for libel against one paper which had committed itself more deeply than the rest, and the threat of this had the effect of checking public references to his case; but the mischief was already done. Nothing could make him more disgusted and wretched than he had been for some time past, so far as his own interests were concerned. It was only the dragging of Lettice's name into the miserable business which now pained and tormented him.

But there was one who had more right than himself to come forward as the champion of Lettice's fair fame, and was able to do it with better effect. When a man is a Member of Parliament and a Queen's Counsel, he occupies a position which his fellow-countrymen are inclined to regard as one of very considerable dignity. Editors and sub-editors think twice before they print unsubstantiated rumors about the near relatives of such distinguished individuals as Mr. Sydney Campion, Q.C., M.P. Thus, after the first report of the proceedings at the police court, Lettice's name scarcely appeared again. She was, indeed, referred to as "the lady who seems, reasonably or unreasonably, to have excited the jealousy of the unfortunate wife," or "the third party in this lamentable case, also well-reputed in the world of letters, with whom the tongue of scandal has been busy;" but she was not mentioned by name. And therein the scandal-mongers exercised a wise discretion, for Sydney had secured the assistance of Mr. Isaacs, one of the smartest solicitors in London, who found means to impress upon everyone whom it might concern that it would be a very serious matter indeed to utter anything approaching to a libel on Miss Lettice Campion.

Moreover, the worthy Mr. Isaacs had an interview with Cora, whom he found in a sober mood, and so terrified her by his warnings and menaces, but most of all by the impressive manner and magnetic eye wherewith he was wont to overawe malefactors of every kind and degree, that she ceased for a time to speak evil of Lettice.

Yet in Lettice's case also the mischief had been done already. All who made a point of hearing and remembering the ill that is spoken of their fellow-creatures, knew what had been said of her, and retailed it in private for the amusement of their friends. The taint had spread from Alan to her, and her character suffered before the world for absolutely no fault of hers, but solely because she had the misfortune to know him. That was Sydney's way of putting it—and, indeed, it was Alan's way also, for there was no other conclusion at which it was possible to arrive.

It was a great consolation for both these men that Lettice was out of the country at this time. Sydney wrote to her, hinting as delicately as he could that it was essential to her interests and to his own that she should remain abroad for at least two or three months longer. Alan wrote about the same time to Mrs. Hartley, telling her in detail what had happened, and entreating her to put off her return to London as late as she could. It was not a time, he thought, to hesitate as to whether anything could justify him in making such a request.

Mrs. Hartley was treating Lettice very well at Florence, and had no intention of letting her come back in a hurry. She did not see fit to tell her of Alan's letter, for her recovery had been very slow, and fresh mental worry appeared to be the last thing to which she ought to be subjected. Nor was Lettice made aware of anything connected with Alan and his troubles, although her companion heard yet more startling news within the next few weeks. Mrs. Hartley had come to be very fond of Lettice, and she guarded her jealously, with all the tyranny of an old woman's love for a young one. The first thing, in her mind, was to get rid of the nervous prostration from which Lettice had been suffering, and to restore her to health and strength.

"We shall not go back to London," she said, in answer to a mild expostulation from her friend, "until you are as well as ever you were. Why should we? You have no ties there, no house, no friends who cannot spare you for a month or two. By and by you can begin to write, if you must write; but we shall quarrel if you insist on going back. What makes you so restless?"

"I am idle; and I hate to have nothing to do. Besides, how can one tell what is going on, so far away from all one's friends and connections? If one of your friends were in difficulties or danger, would you not wish to be near him (or her), and do what you could to help?"

"Of whom are you thinking, dear?" Mrs. Hartley turned round on her quickly as she asked this question.

"I put it generally," Lettice said, looking frankly at her friend, but feeling hot and troubled at the same time.

"Oh, it was a mere hypothesis?"

"Well, no; it was not."

"I am not questioning you, my darling. At least, I don't want to. But you can do no good to anybody just now—believe me! You must get quite well and strong, and then perhaps you can fight for yourself or for other people. I don't dispute your title to fight, when and where and how you like; and if ever I am in trouble, the Lord send me such a champion! But get strong first. If you went out with your shield this morning, you would come back upon it to-night."

So Lettice had to be patient yet awhile.



CHAPTER XXII.

LETTICE TRIUMPHS.

But there was news of another kind which Mrs. Hartley did not conceal from Lettice. Her novel had been published, and it was a great success. The critics, who already knew something of her literary powers, had with one consent written long and special articles about "Laurels and Thorns," hailing it as a veritable triumph. It was original, and philosophic, and irresistibly pathetic; the style sufficed to mark its author as one of the few novelists whose literary form was irreproachable. Perhaps the praise was here and there extravagant, but it was practically universal. And it was not confined to the critics. The reading world more than endorsed it. Second and third editions of the book were called for within a month. Writers of leading articles and speakers on public platforms began to quote and commend her.

Most remarkable of all, her novel made a conquest of her brother Sydney. He did not care for novels as a rule, but he read "Laurels and Thorns," and was desperately interested in it. Perhaps the phenomenal success which had crowned it had some effect upon him; and Lady Pynsent wrote him a nice letter of congratulation, expressing a great desire to know his "distinguished sister." At all events, the thing was done, and Lettice must now be definitely accepted as a writer of books. What chiefly puzzled him was to think where she had learned her wisdom, how she came to be witty without his knowing it, and whence proceeded that intimate acquaintance with the human heart of which the critics were talking. He had not been accustomed to take much account of his sister, in spite of her knack with the pen; and even now he thought that she must have been exceedingly lucky.

It will readily be supposed that the breath of scandal which had passed over Lettice was in no way a drawback to the triumph of her book. The more she was talked about in connection with that sorry business, the more her novel came to be in demand at the libraries, and thus she had some sort of compensation for the gross injustice which had been done to her. One small-minded critic, sitting down to his task with the preconceived idea that she was all that Cora Walcott had declared her to be, and finding in "Laurels and Thorns" the history of a woman who regarded the essence of virtue as somewhat more important than the outward semblance, attacked her vehemently for a moral obliquity which existed in his own vision alone. This review also stimulated the run upon her book, and carried it into a fourth edition.

Lettice's fortune was made. She had nothing to do for the remainder of her life but to choose where she would live, to take a house, to fill it with furniture, to gratify every reasonable want, on the one condition that she should devote herself to honest hard work, and give to her fellow-creatures the best that she was capable of producing.

It was all that her ambition had ever led her to desire, and it came to her at a time of life when her enjoyment was likely to be most keen and complete. Unless her own hand put aside the cup, it was hers to drink and to be satisfied.

And what did Alan think of it? She wondered dimly now and then if he had read it, and what he thought of the words that she had spoken out of a full heart to him and to him alone. Did he guess it? And would he ever know? She would have been answered if she could have seen him on a certain day in April, when she was in Florence and he in London town.

Alan Walcott sat in his room, on the first floor of a house between the Strand and the River Thames, reading Lettice Campion's book. He had read it once, from beginning to end, and now he was turning back to the passages which had moved him most deeply, anxious not to lose the light from a single facet of the gem that sparkled in his hands. It would have been a gem to Alan even if the world had not seen its beauty, and he was jealous of those who could lavish their praise on this woman whom he knew and worshipped, when his own hard fate compelled him to be silent.

How well he recognized her thoughts and moods in every page of the story! How familiar were many of the reflections, and even the very words which she employed! Here and there the dialogue recalled to his mind conversations which he had held with her in the happy days gone by. In one case, at least, he found that she had adopted a view of his own which he had maintained in argument against her, and which at the time she had not been willing to accept. It rejoiced him to see the mark of his influence, however slight, upon one who had so deeply impressed her image on his mind.

The novel was a revelation to him in more ways than one. It was as if she had spoken to him, for himself alone, words of wisdom and comfort and encouragement. That, indeed, was precisely what she had done—consciously and of set purpose—though he did not know it. The plot went home to his heart. When the heroine spoke to the hero he seemed to catch the very tones of her voice, to see the lips in motion, and to read in her eyes the spirit and confirmation of the words. There was nothing in the incidents of "Laurels and Thorns" which resembled his own troubles or the relations which had existed between them—except the simple fact of the mutual intellectual and moral sympathy of the two central characters. The hero had won his crown of laurels and wore his crown of thorns; the heroine, who could not love him in his triumph, had loved him in his humiliation.

Both descended in the scale of material prosperity to rise in the scale of honor and mutual respect; the glory of life was extinguished, but it gave place to the glory of love. Alan read again and again the borrowed words with which Lettice's heroine concluded her written confession of love for the man whom she had once rejected, and who thought himself precluded by his disgrace from coming to her again.

"He fixed thee mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee, and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.

"What though the earlier grooves That ran the laughing loves Around thy base no longer pause and press? What though, about thy rim, Scull things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

"Look not thou down but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, The new wine's foaming flow, The Master's lips a-glow! Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel?"

These were words of comfort to Alan, if only he dare take them to himself, if he dare imagine that Lettice had had him in her mind as she wrote, and had sent him that message to restore his self-respect and save him from despair.

He sat for some time with the book before him, and then another thought came into his head. Why should he not write to her, just a few words to let her know that what she had written had gone home to his heart, and that amongst all her critics there was not one who understood her better than he? He was entitled to do this; it was almost due to himself to do it. He would take care not to make a fool of himself this time, as he had done in his first letter to her.

So he took a pen and wrote:

"I have read your book. You would not expect to find me amongst the critics: I only write to thank you for the pleasure and the courage it has given me. Some parts have fitted my case so exactly that I have applied them and made use of them, as any chance comer is permitted to do with any work of art.

"This is a great work you have produced, and I always knew that you would do great things. Count me not last of those who praise you, and who look to see your future triumphs. ALAN WALCOTT."

He put the letter in an envelope, sealed and addressed it. Then he leaned back in his chair, and began to muse again.

What a failure his life had been! He had told himself so a hundred times of late, but the truth of the verdict was more and more vivid every day. Surely he had set out from the beginning with good intentions, with high motives, with an honorable ambition. No man ever had a more just father, a more devoted mother, a happier home, a more careful and conscientious training. He had never seen a flaw in either of his parents, and it had been his single purpose to imitate their devotion to duty, their piety, their gentle consideration for all with whom they had to deal. It had struck him sometimes as almost strange (he had suspected once that it was a trifle unpoetical) that he had rather sought out than shunned his humbler relatives in the little shop at Thorley, taking the utmost care that their feelings should never be hurt by his more refined education and tastes. Of these three friends of his youth who were dead he could honestly say (but he did not say all this), that he had been dutiful to them, and that he had not wilfully brought sorrow upon any one of them.

Where had he gone so far astray as to merit, or even to bring about, the anguish which had fallen upon him? True, he had given himself to pleasure for the few years which succeeded his father's death. He had traveled, he had enjoyed the society of men and women, he had lived an idle life—except inasmuch as he aspired to be a poet, and wrote two or three volumes which the world had accepted and thanked him for, but the standard of his boyhood had never been rejected—he had been considerate of the feelings of every man and woman (Lettice alone, perhaps, having the right to deny it), and had not permitted himself one pleasure, or action, or relaxation, which might give pain to another. That had been his rule of life. Was it not enough?

He had teased himself, as thoughtful men and women often have done, and more often will do, about the problem of human morals. It had not occurred to him that the morals which have no conscious basis are likely to be more sound and permanent than those which are consciously built up; and, as a matter of fact, his own were of that kind, though he had his rule and considered himself to be guided by it. "That which gives no pain to another, and does not deteriorate another, or oneself, or any sentient being, cannot be immoral, though circumstances may make it inexpedient." He had written that sentence in his diary before he was twenty, at an age when the expanding soul craves for talismans and golden maxims, and he had clung to it ever since. For what violation of the law did he suffer now?

This was not Lettice's way of looking at it. The hero of her story was an urn in the hands of a divine artist, and a sterner stress was necessary for the consummate work. But he, Alan, was no hero. Horace' verse was nearer the mark with him.

Amphorae coepit Institui; currente rota cur urceus exit?

As water to wine were all the uses of his life henceforth, compared with that which might have been.

But, sad as he was, if Lettice could have read within his heart she would have been satisfied with her work.



CHAPTER XXIII.

"AM I A MURDERER?"

Footsteps outside his door roused Alan from his train of thoughts. Only his landlady came along that passage, for there were no lodgers on the same floor, nor on the one above it. A louder knock than Mrs. Gorman was wont to give made him start from his seat.

"Come in!" he cried; but before the words were spoken the door was thrown open and Cora made her appearance. Alan turned sick at heart, and stood leaning on the end of the mantelpiece, gazing at her without a word.

"Ah, my dear," she said, with a little laugh of amusement as she saw the disconcerted look on his face, "they have not deceived me! They did not offer to conduct me, but they said I should find you here—first floor front—and here you are! It is long since we met, is it not? You have sent huissiers, and gendarmes, and police to bring me your messages, as a king to his subject, or a judge to a criminal. You should have come yourself, my friend, for I have longed to see you. Are you not glad that we meet thus, alone, face to face, without fear of intrusion?"

She had shut the door behind her, and sat down in his easy chair by the table, inviting him with a gesture to take a seat by her side.

"Approach!" she said, in a soft but mocking voice. "Be amiable! Let us talk. I come for peace, not for war. Let us make terms with each other. I am sick of this farce of hostility between husband and wife—let us arrange our little disagreements. Come!"

Her familiar tone was odious to him. The sudden perversion of his thoughts from Lettice to this creature, from his dream of purity and elevation to this degrading reality, filled him with disgust. Nay, something more than disgust entered his mind as he saw the smile on her besotted face. A demon of revenge seized upon him, and all but gained the mastery. For one instant he was perilously near to springing on her where she sat, and strangling the life out of her. All passions and all possibilities are in the soul of every one of us, at every moment; only the motive power, the circumstance, the incitement, are needed to make us cross the boundary of restraint. If Alan was not a murderer, it was not because the thing was impossible to him, but because at the crisis of temptation his heart had been penetrated by the influence of the woman whom he revered, and filled with higher thoughts—even through the channel of humiliation and self-contempt.

He answered her calmly.

"There is no arranging what has happened between us two—nor do you wish it any more than I. Say what you want to say, and go."

"Good! I will say what I want to say—but I will not go. I mean to stay with my husband; it is my right. Till death do us part—are not those the pretty words of the farce we played together?"

"Who made it a farce—did I?"

"Listen, my friend. This is one thing I want to say. Assuredly it was you, and no other, who made our marriage a miserable failure. You took me from a life I loved, from friends who loved me, from a freedom which I valued, and you made no effort to study my tastes and accommodate yourself to my habits."

"God knows I made the effort. But what were those tastes and habits? Think of them—think of them all! Could I have accommodated myself to all—even to those you concealed from me?"

"Bah! you should have known whom you had married. You were so blind and foolish, that I had a right to think you would never interfere with my liberty. I was the child of liberty—and liberty is a sacred possession, which it is an outrage to take away from any woman. You expected me to change, to become all at once another being, cold and impassive like yourself—while, as for you, you were to change in nothing! It was your duty to come to my level—at least to approach it. I would have met you halfway; we could have made our contract, and I would have kept my part of the bargain. You demanded too much, and that is why you lost everything. I condemn you—humanity condemns you. The ruin was your work!"

"There is something novel in the theory, but I don't think many people would accept it." He was prepared to talk seriously with her, if she wished it, but no man could be serious in view of such a preposterous claim. So he fell back upon the cold, ironical calmness which exasperated Cora far more than a storm of rage would have done. "At any rate," he said, "I did not deprive you of your liberty. You retained that!"

"I kept it for myself. You would have taken it away, and you hated me for keeping it. I keep it still. I have been free to go where I would, free to wander over this terrible and desolate city, free now to come back to you, and stay with you, until you swear to cease your persecutions, and swear to make a new compact on more equitable terms."

"It is impossible to make terms with you, for you do not observe them. The law will bind you down more strictly. Meanwhile you cannot remain here, as you propose."

"Do you mean to throw me into the street?" she asked, passionately. "Alive or dead, I stay here until the compact is made."

"You need have no fear of me; I am not going to kill you."

"Fear! Of you! Do not flatter yourself, my friend!"

With an insulting laugh she plucked a thin stiletto from under her cloak, and brandished it before him. Alan recognized it as one which he had missed after her visit to Montagu Place.

"Look there! Would you like to feel if it is sharp, or will you take my word for it? We may want that before we part. I do not much care whether you use it or I; but I will not leave this room unless you concede all that I ask. Do not stand so far from me, coward. You smile, but you are afraid!"

"Why should I fear your play-acting? You will not touch me, for so long as I live you hope to get money from me, and if I were dead you would starve."

"Miserable hound! Do you not think that hate is stronger even than love of gold?"

"Not your hate. Throw that useless toy away. Love of gold and love of self make us both perfectly safe."

"Listen to my terms."

"No; they are refused before you ask them. The law is in motion—nothing shall prevent me from getting my divorce."

"That you may marry this woman!" she blazed forth, jumping from her seat, with Lettice's book in her hand. It had been lying before her, and the name had caught her eye. "You shall never marry her—I swear it by my father's grave. You shall never divorce me!"

She flung the book in his face.

"Let me pass!" he said, moving quietly to the door.

"Never!"

She seized the dagger, and stood before him, swaying with her violent emotion.

"Let me pass," he said again, still pressing forward.

She raised the weapon in her hand. Not a moment too soon he grasped her wrist, and tried to take it from her with his other hand.

There was a struggle—a loud scream—a heavy fall—and silence.

A minute later Mrs. Gorman, attracted by the noise, burst into the room.

Cora was lying on the floor, and Alan, with white face and bloody hand, was drawing the fatal weapon from her breast.

Mrs. Gorman's first act was to rush to the open window, and call for the police. Then she knelt by Cora's body, and tried to staunch the flowing blood.

A lodger from the floor beneath, who had come in behind the landlady, was looking at the prostrate body. He was a medical student, and perhaps thought it necessary to give his opinion in a case of this sort.

"She cannot live ten minutes," he said; but that did not prevent him from assisting Mrs. Gorman in her work.

Alan had staggered back against the wall, still holding the dagger in his hand. He scarcely knew what had happened, but the words of the last speaker forced themselves upon him with terrible distinctness.

"My God," he cried, "am I a murderer?"

And he fell upon the chair, and buried his face in his hands.



CHAPTER XXIV.

HOPELESS.

"If she dies," Graham said to his wife, in answer to Clara's anxious questioning, on the morning after Alan Walcott's arrest, "it will be a case of murder or manslaughter. If she gets over it he will be charged with an attempt to murder, or to do grievous bodily harm, and as there would be her evidence to be considered in that case the jury would be sure to take the worst view of it. That might mean five or ten years, perhaps more. The best thing that could happen for him would be her death, then they might incline to believe his statement, and a clever counsel might get him off with a few months' imprisonment."

"Poor man," said Clara, "how very shocking it is!" She was thinking not of Alan alone, but of Alan's friends. "Is there no hope of his being acquitted altogether?"

"How could there be? The evidence is only too clear. The landlady heard them quarrelling and struggling together, then there was a loud scream, and just as she entered the room the poor wretch was falling to the ground. Walcott had his hand on the dagger, which was still in his wife's breast. Then the other lodger came in, and he declares that he heard Walcott say he was a murderer. It seems as plain as it could possibly be."

"But think of the two, as we know them to have been, and the relations which have existed between them for years past. Surely that must tell in his favor?"

"We are not the jury, remember. And, as for that, it would only go to show a motive for the crime, and make a conviction all the more certain. No doubt it might induce them to call it manslaughter instead of murder, and the judge might pass a lighter sentence."

"I do hope she will not die. It would be terrible to have her death on his conscience."

"Well, of course, death is an ugly word, and no one has a right to wish that another might die. At the same time, I should say it would be a happy release for such a creature, who can have nothing but misery before her. But it will make little difference to him. He is entirely ruined, so far as his reputation is concerned. He could never hold his ground in England again, though he might have a second chance at the other side of the world. What Britain can't forget, Australia forgives. Heaven created the Antipodes to restore the moral balance of Europe."

"That is a poor satisfaction," said Clara, "to a man who does not want to live out of his own country."

"Unfortunately, my dear, we cannot always choose our lot, especially when we have had the misfortune to kill or maim somebody in a fit of passion."

"I cannot believe that it is even so bad as that. It must have been an accident."

"I wish I could think so; but if it is, no doubt the man may have the courage of his conscience, and then there will be nothing to prevent him from trying to live it down in London. I should not care for that sort of thing myself. I confess I depend too much on other people's opinions."

"It would be a terrible fight to live it down in London—terrible, both for him and his friends."

"Ah," said Graham, quickly, "it is a good thing that he has nobody in particular depending on him, no specially intimate friends that we are aware of."

Clara looked steadily at the wall for two or three minutes, whilst her husband finished his breakfast.

"I wrote to Lettice last night," she said at last, "but, of course, I knew nothing of this business then."

"I am very glad you did not. What on earth put Lettice into your head? She has no conceivable interest in this miserable affair."

"I think it is rather too much to say that she has no interest at all. We know that she was interested in him."

"We know that he is a married man."

Graham's tone was growing a little savage, as it did sometimes, especially with his wife, whom he very sincerely loved. But Clara did not heed the warning note.

"Facts are facts, and we should not ignore them. I am sure they like each other, and his misfortune will be a great grief to her."

"It was just what was wanted, then, to bring her to her senses. She may recognize now that Walcott is a man of ungovernable passions. In all probability he will be a convicted felon before she comes back to England, and she will see that it is impossible to know any more of him."

"Oh, James, how hard you are! She will never think of him as a felon. No more shall I!"

"He will be one, whatever you may think. As you said yourself, facts are facts, and they will have their proper influence upon you sooner or later."

"But do you think that Lettice is the woman to change her opinion of a man just because he is unfortunate, or to despise him as soon as he gets into trouble? I am perfectly sure she is not."

"We shall see," said Graham. "I give her credit for more sense. I don't think you recognize yet the sort of offence which Walcott has committed, so we may as well drop the subject for a time. I hope, however, that you will not do anything which might bring her home just now. Clearly she could not do any good, and even on your own showing it would be a needless vexation to her."

He went off to his study, and Clara set about her household tasks with a heavy heart.

The fact was that she could hardly doubt that Alan Walcott had injured his wife in a moment of desperation, when he was not fully responsible for his actions; but she certainly doubted the justice of any law which could condemn him as a murderer; or doom him to be an outcast amongst his fellowmen. Her sense of equity might have suited the Saturnian reign better than our matter-of-fact nineteenth century, in which the precise more or less of criminality in the soul of an accused man is not the only thing which has to be taken into consideration.

Was there ever a malefactor condemned to imprisonment or torment for whom the heart of some woman or other did not plead in mitigation of his sentence? Yet the man-made laws against which untutored hearts will now and again protest are often essentially merciful in comparison with the wild and hasty judgments that outrun the law—whether in mercy or in severity.

It was so in Alan's case. The popular opinion was evidently against him. The great majority thought this case of attempted wife-murder too clear for argument, and too cold-blooded to warrant anything like sympathy for the accused. Alan's private affairs had been made public property for some time past, and he now suffered from a storm of hostility and prejudice against which it was impossible to contend. His story, or the world's story about him, had been current gossip for the last few months, as the reader has already seen; and a large number of people appeared to have fixed upon him as a type of the respectable and hypocritical sinner, prosperous, refined, moving in good society and enjoying a fair reputation, yet secretly hardened and corrupt. It was not often that the underhand crimes of such men were plainly exposed to view, and, when they were, an example ought to be made of the offender as a warning to his class. Ever since Cora had gained a hearing in the police-court at Hammersmith, Alan was set down as a heartless libertine, who had grown tired of his wife, or, at any rate, as one who wanted to wash his hands of her, and throw the burden of maintaining her upon the rates. Thus it became quite a popular pastime to hound down "Poet Walcott."

This is how the outcry originally began. One or two newspapers with an ethical turn, which had borrowed from the pulpit a trick of improving the sensational events of the day for the edification of their readers, and which possessed a happy knack of writing about anything and anybody without perpetrating a libel or incurring a charge of contempt of court, had printed articles on "The Poet and the Pauper," "Divorce Superseded," and the like. Stirred up by these interesting homilies, a few shallow men and women, with too much time on their hands, began to write inept letters, some of which were printed; and then the editors, being accused of running after sensations, pointed to their correspondents as evidence of a public opinion which they could not control, and to which they were compelled to give utterance. They were, in fact, not dishonest but only self-deceived. They really persuaded themselves that they were responding to a general sentiment, though, such as it was, their own reports and articles had called it into existence. The "gentleman in court" who paid Cora's fine at Hammersmith began the outcry in its last and worst form, the editorials nursed and encouraged it, and the correspondents gave it its malignant character. All concerned in the business were equally convinced that they were actuated by the best possible motives.

The news that Walcott had stabbed his wife with a dagger did not take these charitable people by surprise, though it added fuel to the fire of their indignation. What else could be expected from a man who had first deserted and then starved the unfortunate woman whom he had taken to wife? It was only natural that he should try to get rid of her; but what a cruel wretch he was! Hanging would be too good for him if his poor victim should die.

It is unnecessary to say that a great deal of interest was displayed by the public, when the case came on for hearing at Bow Street; but no real facts were elicited beyond those which had already been in print. Two remands were taken, in the hope that Cora might recover sufficiently to give her evidence, but though she was at last declared to be out of danger, the house-surgeon at the hospital would not take the responsibility of saying that she could safely attend at the police-court. Ultimately, the magistrate having heard all the evidence that was forthcoming, and Alan's solicitor reserving his defence, the accused was committed to take his trial at the Central Criminal Court on a charge of wounding with intent to inflict grievous bodily harm.

Nevertheless, Alan was allowed to go out on bail. He had not cared to claim this privilege, and would almost have preferred to stay in prison. His solicitor had made much of the necessity of preparing his defence, and of the indispensable conferences between himself and his client; but Alan had not the slightest hope of being acquitted. He told Mr. Larmer precisely how the whole thing had happened—how his wife had brought the dagger with her, how she had raised it in her hand, how he seized her wrist, and how he had never touched the weapon himself until he drew it from the wound as she lay on the floor.

"They won't believe me," he said. "You know what a prejudice there is against me, and you will never persuade a jury to take my word against hers. She will certainly say that I stabbed her with my own dagger; and it was my dagger once: it has my name upon it."

"That is an awkward fact. If only we could prove that she brought it with her, it would go a long way towards acquitting you."

"But we can't prove it. Then, you see, Mrs. Gorman says I had my hand on the weapon as she was falling."

"We can easily shake her in that."

"And Hipkins says that I admitted the crime—called myself a murderer."

"We can shake that too. You said, 'Am I a murderer?' It was an odd thing to say, but your nerves were unstrung. Men in such predicaments have been known to say a great deal more than that."

"I assure you Larmer, my mind is so confused about it that I cannot remember whether I said 'Am I' or 'I am.' I rather incline to think that I said 'I am a murderer;' for I believed her to be as good as dead at the time, and I certainly thought I had killed her."

"How could you think that? You are clear in your mind that you never touched the dagger."

"Yes, but I touched the hand that held the dagger."

Larmer looked at his friend and client in a dubious way, as though he could not feel quite sure of his sanity.

"My dear Walcott," he said, "you are out of tune—upset by all this miserable business; and no wonder. You say you touched the hand that held the dagger that stabbed the woman. We know you did; what then? What moved the fingers that touched the hand that held the dagger, etcetera? Was it a good motive or a bad motive, tell me!"

"That is just what I can't tell you, for I don't know. Perhaps it was an instinct of self-defence; but I have no recollection of being afraid that she would stab me. I had a confused notion that she was going to stab herself; perhaps, I only got as far as thinking that the bodkin would be better out of her hand."

"This is a touch of your old subtlety. I do believe you could work yourself up to thinking that you actually wanted to hurt her!"

"Subtlety or no subtlety, these impressions are very acute in my own mind. I can see the whole of that scene as plainly as I see you at this moment. It comes before my eyes in a series of pictures, vivid and complete in every twist and turn; only the motives that guided me are blurred and confused. I grasped her wrist, and she struggled frantically to shake me off. Our faces were close together, and there was a horrible fascination in her eyes—the eyes of a madwoman at that moment, beyond all question."

"I am convinced that she is mad, and has been so for years," said Mr. Larmer, positively.

"She was mad then, foaming at the mouth, and trying to bite me in her impotent fury. I could not hold her wrist firmly—she plunged here and there so violently that one or other of us was pretty sure to be hurt, unless I could force her to drop the murderous weapon. I was ashamed that I could not do it; but she had the strength of a demon, and I really wonder that she did not master me. Then the end came. Suddenly her resistance ceased. The desperate force with which I had been holding her hand must have been fully exerted at the very instant when her muscles relaxed—when the light went out of her eyes and the body staggered to the ground. It all happened at once. Did she faint? At any rate, my fingers never touched the dagger until after she was stabbed."

"It was a pure accident—as clear as can be; and the whole blame of it is on her own shoulders. She brought the weapon, she held it, she resisted you when you tried to prevent mischief. She, not you, had the disposition to injure, and you have not an atom of responsibility."

"That is your view, as a friend. It is not the view of the scandal-mongers outside. It will not be the view of the jury. And it is not my view."

"What do you mean?"

"I really do not know where my responsibility began or where it ended. I don't know if her strength failed her at the critical moment, or if it was simply overcome by mine—if, in fact, she was injured whilst resisting my violence. One thing I am sure of, and that is that my heart was full of hatred towards her. There was vengeance in my soul if not in my intention. Who is to discriminate between motives so near allied? Your friendship may acquit me, Larmer, but your instincts as a lawyer cannot; and at any rate, I cannot acquit myself of having entertained the feeling out of which crimes of violence naturally spring. To all intents and purposes I am on exactly the same footing as many a man who has ended his life on the gallows."

"I suppose you think that tribulation is good for your soul. I cannot see any other ground on which you torment yourself in this way about things you have not done and acts you have never contemplated. I understand that you entrusted me with your defence!" Mr. Larmer was waxing impatient—almost indignant—at his client's tone.

"So I do, entirely. Assuredly I have no desire to go to prison."

"Then for goodness' sake don't talk to anyone else the nonsense you have been talking to me!"

"I am not likely. I have known you since we were boys together, and I wanted to relieve my mind. It seemed right that you should know precisely what is on my conscience in the matter."

"Well, you have told me, and the effect of it has been to convince me more than ever of your innocence. But that sort of thing would scarcely convince anybody else. Now take my advice, and think as little about the case as possible. You cannot do any good—you will only demoralize yourself still more. Everything depends on how the judge and jury may be disposed to regard our story. I shall give a brief to the best man that can be had, and then we shall have done all that lies in our power."

"I know I could not be in better hands. If anyone could get me off scot-free you are the man to do it, Larmer. But I don't expect it, and I am not sure that I care for it."

Then they parted, and Alan went to Surrey Street and cleared out his goods and chattels, very much to the relief of Mrs. Gorman, who assured Mr. Hipkins that she could not have slept comfortably at night with that outrageous man under the same roof.

He found in his desk the message which he had written to Lettice on the day of his crowning misfortune.

"Thank heaven I did not send it," he muttered to himself, as he tore it in pieces. "One week has made all the difference. Nothing could ever justify me in speaking to her again."



CHAPTER XXV.

MR. LARMER GIVES A BRIEF.

Mr. Larmer was not insensible to the notoriety which attached to him as solicitor for the defence in a case which was the talk of the town, and a topic of the sensational press. Not that it gave him any satisfaction to make capital out of the misfortunes of a friend; but he would have been something more than man and less than lawyer if he had despised the professional chance which had come in his way.

And in fact he did not despise it. There were one or two inexact statements in the reports of the proceedings at Bow Street—he had written to the papers and corrected them. Several caterers for the curiosity of the public hashed up as many scandals as they could find, and served them hot for the entertainment of their readers. It happened that these tales were all more or less to the discredit of Alan Walcott, and to print them before his trial was grossly unfair. Mr. Larmer wrote a few indignant words on this subject also, and, made about two in a thousand of the scandal-mongers ashamed of themselves. Not content with this he supplied a friend with one or two paragraphs relating to the case, which had the effect of stimulating the interest already aroused in it. By this plan he secured the insertion of a statement in the best of the society journals, which put the matter at issue in a fair and unprejudiced way, dwelling on such facts as the pending divorce-suit, the fining of Mrs. Walcott at Hammersmith, her molestation of her husband on various recent occasions, and her intrusion upon him in Alfred Place. This article, written with manifest knowledge of the circumstances, yet with much reserve and moderation, was a very serviceable diversion in Alan's favor, and did something to diminish the odium into which he had fallen.

Mr. Larmer would not have selected trial by ordeal in the columns of the newspapers as the best preparation for a trial before an English judge and jury; but the process was begun by others before he had a word to say in the matter, and his efforts were simply directed to making the most of the situation which had been created. A mass of prejudice had been introduced into the case by the worthy gentlemen who maintain that in these evil days the press is the one thing needful for moral and political salvation, and who never lose an opportunity of showing how easy it would be to govern a nation by leading articles, or to redeem humanity by a series of reports and interviews. Alan had given himself up for lost when he found himself in the toils of this prejudice; but Mr. Larmer saw a chance of turning it to good account both for his client and for himself, and not unnaturally took advantage of the awakened curiosity to put his friend's case clearly and vividly before the popular tribunal.

Alan nearly upset the calculation of the lawyer by his impatience of the interviewing tribe. Half-a-dozen of them found him out at different times, and would not take his no for an answer. At last worried by the pertinacity of one bolder and clumsier than all the rest, he took him by the shoulders and bundled him out of his room, and the insulted ambassador, as he called himself, wrote to his employer a particularly spiteful account of his reception, with sundry embellishments perhaps more picturesque than strictly accurate.

The next thing that Mr. Larmer had to do was to retain counsel, and he determined to secure as big a man as possible to conduct the defence. The case had assumed greater importance than would attach to an ordinary assault upon a wife by her husband. It was magnified by the surrounding circumstances, so that the interest felt in it was legitimate enough, apart from the spurious notoriety which had been added to it. Alan's literary fame had grown considerably within the last year, and his friends had been terribly shocked by the first bald statement that he had stabbed his unfortunate wife in a fit of rage.

They had begun by refusing to believe it, then they trusted that he would be able to prove his innocence, but by this time many of his warmest admirers were assuring each other that, "after all, the artistic merit of a poem never did and never would depend upon the moral character of the poet." They hoped for the best, but were quite prepared for the worst, and thus they looked forward to the trial with an anxiety not unmingled with curious anticipation.

The indirect connection of Lettice Campion with a case of this kind was another intelligible reason for the concern of the respectable public. Lettice's name was in everybody's mouth, as that of the young novelist who had made such a brilliant success at the outset of her career, and all who happened to know how she had been mixed up at an earlier stage in the quarrel between Walcott and his wife, were wondering if she would put in an appearance, willingly or unwillingly, at the Central Criminal Court.

Mr. Larmer clearly saw that the business was sufficiently important to justify the intervention of the most eminent counsel. As he was running over the list and balancing the virtues of different men for an occasion of this sort, his eye fell on the name of Sydney Campion. He started, and sank back in his chair to meditate.

The idea of having Mr. Campion to defend a man with whom his sister's name had been unjustly associated was a bold one, and it had not occurred to him before. Was there any reason against it? What more natural than that this rising pleader should come into court for the special purpose of safeguarding the interests of Miss Campion? The prosecution would not hesitate to introduce her name if they thought it would do them any good—especially as they would have the contingency of the divorce case in their minds; and Campion was just the man to nip any attempt of that kind in the bud. At all events, the judge was more likely to listen to him on such a point than to anyone else. But would not the practice and etiquette of the bar put it absolutely out of the question.

The thing was worth considering—worth talking over with Campion himself. So Mr. Larmer put on his hat at once, and went over to the Temple.

"I have come to see you on a rather delicate matter," he said, by way of introduction, "as you will understand if you happen to have seen my name in connection with the Walcott assault case. There are sundry matters involved which make it difficult to keep the case within its proper limits, and I thought that an informal consultation on the subject, before I proceed to retain counsel, might facilitate matters."

"Perhaps it might; but I hardly see how I can help you."

"Well, it occurred to me that if you were in court during the trial, you would have the opportunity of checking anything that might arise of an irrelevant character—any references——"

"And what do you propose?" said Sydney, interrupting.

"It would be hard that we should be prevented from putting our case in the hands of such counsel as we consider best calculated to bring it to a successful issue. If there is no strong personal reason against it, but on the other hand (as it seems to me) an adequate reason in its favor, I trust that you will allow me to send you a brief."

"Let me ask you—did you come to me in any sense at the instance of your client?" said Sydney, suspiciously.

"By no means. Mr. Walcott does not know I have thought of you in connection with his defence."

"Nor at the instance of another?"

"Certainly not. It is entirely my own idea."

Sydney looked relieved. He could not ask outright if there had been any communication with his sister, but that was what he was thinking about.

"I hope we may rely upon you," said Mr. Larmer.

"I don't know. I am not sure that you can. This is, as you said, a perfectly informal conversation, and I may frankly tell you that what you ask is out of the question. I hope you will think no more about it."

Mr. Larmer was troubled.

"It seemed to me, Mr. Campion, that the idea would commend itself at once. I fear you did not quite take my meaning when I spoke of possible side issues and irrelevant questions which might arise during the trial?"

"Surely I did. You meant that counsel for the prosecution might think to advance his cause by referring to other proceedings, past or future, and might even go so far as to name a lady who has been most wantonly and cruelly maligned by one of the parties to this case?"

"Exactly. You use the very words in regard to it which I would have used myself. That is a contingency, I imagine, which you would strongly desire to avoid."

"So strongly do I desire it, that you would not be surprised if I had already taken measures with that end in view."

"Decidedly not. But it will be only natural that the prosecution should try and damage Walcott as much as possible—showing the motive he would have for getting rid of his wife, and, going into the details of their former quarrels. The question is whether any man can be expected, in doing this, to abstain from mentioning the names of third parties."

"Has it never occurred to you, Mr. Larmer, that there is one way, and only one way, in which I could certainly guarantees that the name of the lady in question should not be mentioned? Your plan, if you will excuse my saying so, is clumsy and liable to fail. Mine is perfectly secure against failure, and perhaps a little more congenial."

Larmer's face fell.

"You do not mean," he said, "that you have taken a brief from the prosecution!"

"If I had, I should have stopped you as soon as you began to speak, and told you so. But I may say as much as this—if I am retained by them I shall go into court; and, if they retain anyone else, I shall have good reason to know that the case will be conducted precisely as I should conduct it myself. I imagine that this matters very little to you, Mr. Larmer. I have not done much with this class of cases, and there will be no difficulty in finding a stronger man."

Mr. Larmer was silent for a minute or two. Sydney Campion's manner took him aback.

"I am sorry to hear what you have said," he remarked at last. "I fear it must inevitably prejudice my client if it is known that you are on the other side."

"I don't see why it should," Sydney said, with manifest indifference. "At any rate, with respect to the point you were mentioning, it is clear that the lady's name will not be introduced by the prosecution."

"Let it be equally clear," said Larmer, "that it will not be introduced by the defence. This was the first instruction which I received from my client—who, I may say, was a schoolfellow of mine, and in whose honor, and not only honor, but technical innocence, I have the utmost confidence."

"You have undertaken his defence, and I am sure he is in very good hands," said Sydney with a rather cynical smile. "But, perhaps, the less said the better as to the honor of a married man who, under false pretenses, dares to pay attentions to an unmarried lady."

"Believe me you are mistaken! Alan Walcott has done nothing of the kind."

"He has done enough to create a scandal. You are not denying that his attitude has been such as to bring the name of the lady forward in a most objectionable manner, without the slightest contribution on her part to such a misfortune?"

"I do deny it, most emphatically, and I beg you to disabuse your mind of the idea. What possible ground can you have for such a charge? The mere tipsy ravings of this unfaithful wife—whom I should probably have no difficulty in proving insane, as well as unfaithful and intemperate. What is actually known is that she has been heard by the police, on one or two occasions, referring by name to this lady. How far would you as a lawyer, Mr. Campion, allow that fact to have weight as evidence in support of the charge? And can you mention, beyond that, one tittle of evidence of any kind?"

Sydney shrugged his shoulders.

"We are not considering evidence as you know very well. We are talking as two men of the world, quite competent to draw the right deduction from admitted facts. I say that when a lady has been so grievously insulted as Miss Campion has been, under circumstances of such great aggravation, the man who has brought that indignity upon her, however indirectly, must be held directly responsible for his conduct."

"It is useless to argue the point—the more so as I fancy that Mr. Walcott himself would be very much inclined to agree with you—which I am not. He most bitterly regrets the annoyance to which Miss Campion has been subjected, and regards it as the greatest of all the injuries inflicted upon him by his degraded wife. Having said this on his behalf, let me add that any charge brought against him on this score, by that woman or by anyone else, is absolutely without foundation, and that we shall know how to defend his reputation, in or out of court, whenever and by whomsoever it may be attacked."

"Your warmth does you credit, Mr. Larmer. I will be equally frank with you. You speak as a friend, I speak as a brother. After all that has happened I do not hold myself bound, nor do I intend, to consider anyone or anything in comparison with the credit of the name which has been so foully aspersed. It is for me to protect that name from discredit, and I shall adopt every expedient within my reach to carry out my purpose."

"No doubt you are perfectly justified in doing so. I will merely remark that hostility to my client cannot assist you in your object."

"Well," said Sydney, rising from his seat, "there can be no use in continuing the conversation." And he added, in a lighter tone, "I am sorry, Mr. Larmer, that I should be compelled to decline the first brief you have offered me."

Larmer went back to his office a little crestfallen, but not at all sorry that he had had this interview with Campion. He was better prepared now for the course which the trial was likely to follow. He had no doubt that Campion would be bold enough to undertake the prosecution, and that he would do his best to get a conviction against Walcott, whom he manifestly disliked. He was less sanguine from that moment as to the result of his efforts; but, of course, he did not relax them. He retained Mr. Charles Milton, a man with an excellent reputation in criminal business, and one who, as he thought, would do his utmost to avoid losing a case to Campion.

Milton, in effect, took the matter up with much zeal. He had (so far as his professional instinct allowed him) accepted the theory of Walcott's guilt, rather respecting him, if the truth were known, for refusing to put up any longer with the persecutions of a revolted wife. But he had no sooner received his brief in the case than he was perfectly convinced of Walcott's innocence. The story told him by Mr. Larmer seemed not only natural but transparently true, and when he heard that his club-mate of the Oligarchy was actively interested for the other side, he determined that no effort on his part should be wanting to secure a verdict.

Not that he had any grudge against Sydney; but they belonged to the same profession, the same party, and the same club—three conceivable reasons for Mr. Milton's zeal.

Thus Alan's defence was well provided for, and Mr. Larmer began to feel more easy in his mind.

When Alan heard that the prosecution was likely to be conducted by Sydney Campion, he took the news quietly, though it was a very serious matter for him. He did not doubt its seriousness, but his heart had already fallen so low that it could scarcely sink lower. He saw at once that the motive of Lettice's brother in angling for this brief (as Alan concluded that he must have done) was to protect the interests of Lettice; and so far, the fact was a matter of congratulation. It was his own great desire, as Larmer knew, to prevent her name from being mentioned, and to avoid reference to anything in which she had been indirectly concerned, even though the reference might have been made without using her name. When Larmer pointed out that this quixotism, as he called it, would make it almost impossible for his counsel to show the extreme malignity of his wife and the intolerable persecution to which he had been subjected, he had answered shortly and decisively,

"Let it be impossible. The first object is not my defence, but hers."

"Your vision is distorted," Larmer had said angrily. "This may seem to you right and generous, but I tell you it is foolish and unnecessary."

"I will not be guided in this particular thing," Alan rejoined, "by your reason, but by my feeling. An acquittal at her cost would mean a lifelong sorrow."

"If I know anything of women, Miss Campion, who does not quite hate you, would insist on having the whole story told in open court. Perhaps she may return to England in time for the trial, and then she can decide the point herself."

"Heaven forbid!" Alan had said. And he meant it. Worse than that, he tortured himself with the idea, which he called a firm belief, that Lettice had heard, or would hear, of his disgraceful position, that she would be unable to doubt that he had struck the fatal blow, and that he would be dropped out of her heart and out of her life as a matter of course. How could it be otherwise? What was he to her, that she should believe him innocent in spite of appearances; or that, believing him merely unfortunate and degraded, she should not think less well of him than when he held his name high in the world of letters and in society?

"That dream is gone," he said. "Let me forget it, and wake to the new life that opens before me. A new life—born in a police cell, baptized in a criminal court, suckled in a prison, and trained in solitary adversity. That is the fate for which I have been reserved. I may be nearly fifty when I come out—a broken-down man, without reputation and without a hope. Truly, the dream is at an end; and oh, God of Heaven, make her forget me as though we had never met!"

So, when Mr. Larmer frankly told him all that Sydney Campion had said, Alan could not find it in his heart to blame Lattice's brother for his hostility.



CHAPTER XXVI.

IN COURT.

No doubt it was from some points of view an unprofessional act of Sydney Campion to appear in court as counsel for the prosecution of Alan Walcott. Sydney knew that he was straining a rule of etiquette, to say the least of it; but, under the circumstances, he held himself justified in fishing for the brief.

The matter had been taken up by the Treasury, and Sydney had asked an intimate friend, who was also a friend of the Attorney-General, to give the latter a hint. Now Sir James was, above all things, a suave and politic man of the world, who thought that persons of position and influence got on best in the intricate game of life by deftly playing into each other's hands. When one gentleman could do something for another gentleman, to oblige and accommodate him, it was evidently the proper course to do it gracefully and without fuss. Campion's motives were clearly excellent. As he understood the business (although the ambassador put it very delicately indeed), a lady's reputation was at stake; and if Sir James prided himself on one thing more than another, it was his gallantry and discretion in matters of this kind. So he told his friend to go back and set Mr. Campion's mind at rest; and in the course of a day or two Sydney received his brief.

"Who is going to defend?" he asked his clerk, when he had glanced at his instructions.

"I heard just now that Larmer had retained Mr. Charles Milton."

"Charles Milton! The deuce! It will be a pretty little fight, Johnson!"

"They don't seem to have a leg to stand on; the evidence is all one way, even without the wife. I don't know what his story is, but it cannot have any corroboration—and hers is well supported."

"I am told she will be able to appear. She seems to be a terrible talker—that is the worst of her. I must keep her strictly within the ropes."

"The other side will not have the same motives," said Johnson, who knew all about the scandal which had preceded the assault, and who wanted to get his employer to speak.

"You think Mr. Milton will draw her on?"

"Sure to, I should say. If I were defending (since you ask me), I would not loose my grip until I had got her into a rage; and from all I hear that would make the jury believe her capable of anything, even of stabbing herself and swearing it on her husband."

"But, my good fellow, you are not defending him! And I'll take care she is not worked up in that fashion. Thanks for the suggestion, all the same. They will contend that it was done in a struggle."

"Against that, you have her evidence that the blow was deliberate; and I think the jury will believe her."

"They can't help themselves: motive, incitements, favoring circumstances, are all too manifest. And that just makes the difficulty and delicacy of the case for me. I want the jury to see the whole thing impartially, that they may do justice, without bias and without foolish weakness; and yet there are certain matters connected with it which need not be dwelt upon—which must, in fact, be kept in the background altogether. Do you see?"

"I think I do." Johnson was a good deal in Sydney's confidence, being a man of much discretion, and with considerable knowledge of the law. He felt that his advice was being asked, or at any rate his opinion, and he met Mr. Campion's searching gaze with one equally cool and serious.

"I have no doubt you know as much about it as I could tell you. You seem to hear everything from one source or another. Do you understand why it is that I am going into court? It is not altogether a regular thing to do, is it?"

"I suppose you wish to keep the evidence well in hand," Johnson replied, readily. "A lady's name has been used in a very unwarrantable manner, and—since you ask me—you have undertaken to see that there is no unnecessary repetition of the matter in court."

"Precisely so—no repetition at all."

"You will examine your own witness, and, of course, you need not go behind the scene in Surrey Street, at which the crime was actually committed—except in opening your case. What the jury will say is this: husband and wife on bad terms, separated, and divorce pending; wife comes to husband's rooms, reproaches him; recriminations; dagger handy on the table (very bad for him that); a sudden temptation, a sudden blow, and there's an end of it. No need to prove they were on bad terms, with all those facts before you."

"But then comes the defence."

"Well, sir, what is their line going to be? If they want to persuade the jury that she did it herself, or that it was an accident, they will not dwell upon all the reasons which might have tempted him to take her life. That would be weakening their own case."

"And Milton is capable of doing it!" said Sydney, talking to himself.

"But if they think the jury will be bound to believe that he stabbed her, no doubt they would go in for blackening her, and then they might cross-examine her about those other things."

"That is where the danger comes in."

Sydney's words were equivalent to another question, but Johnson preserved a perfectly stolid face. It was all very well for him to advise his employer, and work up his cases for him if necessary. He was accustomed to do both these things, and his help had been invaluable to Sydney for several years past. But it was out of his line to display more confidence than was displayed in him, or to venture on delicate ground before he had received a lead.

"Yes, that's were the danger comes in," Sydney repeated. "I have reason to believe that there is a disposition on their part to keep the lady's name out of the case; but they are not pledged to it; and if they find things looking very bad for Walcott, they may show fight in that direction. Then there is Mr. Milton—no instructions can altogether gag counsel. I don't know that I have ever given him cause of offence, but I have an instinctive feeling that he would rather enjoy putting me in a hole."

"I think you would have the judge with you in any objection which you might take."

"But it would be a misfortune, as things stand, even to have to take objection. Not only do I want to avoid the introduction of these extraneous matters, but I should strongly object to figure in any way as watching Miss Campion's interests. It would be very bad indeed for me to have to do that. What I desire is that her interests should at no moment of the trial appear, even to those who know the circumstances, to be involved."

"I quite see," said Johnson. "And since you ask me, I don't think you have much to fear. It is a delicate position, but both sides are of the same mind on the particular point, and it is most improbable that any indiscretion will occur. Prosecution and defence both want to avoid a certain pitfall—when they won't struggle on the edge of it. What do you say, Mr. Campion, to setting forth in your opening statement all that is known about their previous quarrels, not concealing that the woman has been rather outrageous, in her foreign fashion, but quietly ignoring the fact of her jealousy?"

"That would be too bold—it would excite her, and possibly move the defence to needless retorts."

"As for exciting her, if she is thoroughly convinced that his conviction will spoil his chance of a divorce, she will take the whole thing coolly enough. My idea was that by opening fully, and touching on every point, you would escape the appearance of shirking anything. And at the same time you would be suggesting these motives for violence on Walcott's part which, as you said, it would be their business to avoid."

"There is a good deal in that," said Sydney, reflectively. "It is worth considering. Yes, two heads are certainly better than one. I see that I am instructed to ask about the attempt on her life at Aix-les-Bains. Why, what a rascal the man has been to her! No wonder she is venemous now."

When the trial took place, the court was crowded with men and women who were anxious to see the principal actors in what was popularly known as the Surrey Street Mystery. They were both there—Alan pale and haggard from his long suspense, and Cora, much pulled down by what she had gone through. Of the two, she was, perhaps, the more interesting. Illness and loss of blood had done something to efface the dissipated look which had become habitual with her; she was languid and soberly dressed; and, moreover, she understood, as Mr. Johnson had said she would, that the conviction of her husband would put his divorce out of the question, at any rate for some time to come. So it was her business to look interesting, and injured, and quiet; and she was cunning enough to play this part successfully.

Alan, on the other hand, was completely indifferent as to the opinion which might be formed of him, and almost indifferent as to the verdict. When he came into court he looked carefully round at the women who were present among the spectators, but, not seeing the one face which he had both dreaded and hoped to see, he fell back into his former lethargy, and took very little interest in the proceedings.

Sydney Campion opened the case for the prosecution in a business-like way, just glancing at the unhappy relations which had existed between the prisoner and his wife for several years past, and freely admitting that there appeared to have been faults on both sides. He took the common-sense view of a man of the world speaking to men of the world, and did not ask the sympathies of the jury for the injured woman who had come straight from the hospital to that court, but only their impartial attention to the evidence which would be brought before them, and the expression of their deliberate opinion on the innocence or guilt of the accused.

Nothing could be more fair than his observations—or so it appeared to the majority of Campion's hearers. No doubt he had referred to the affair at Aix-les-Bains as though it were a matter of evidence, instead of mere allegation, and to the recent quarrels in England as though the "faults on both sides" had been clearly established. But he was supposed to be speaking in strict accordance with his instructions, and, of course, it was open to the defence to question anything which he had said.

Then came the evidence for the prosecution, the substance of which is already known to the reader; but Cora's account of the quarrel in Surrey Street was so ingeniously colored and distorted that Alan found himself listening with something like genuine amusement to the questions of counsel and the replies of his lying wife.

"And so," said Mr. Campion, after she had spoken of her earnest appeal for the renewal of friendship, and of her husband's insulting refusal, "you came to high words. Did you both keep the same positions whilst you were talking?"

"For a long time, until I lost patience, and then—yes, let me speak the whole truth—I threw a certain book at him."

Cora was on the point of saying why she threw the book, and whose name was on the title-page, but she checked herself in time. It had been very difficult to persuade her that her interests were safe in the hands of Lettice's brother, and even now she had occasional misgivings on that point. Sydney went on quickly.

"A book lying close to your hand, you mean?"

"She said a certain book," Mr. Milton interjected.

"You must make allowance for her," said the judge. "You know she is French, and you should follow her in two languages at once. No doubt she meant 'some book or other.' The point has no importance."

"And then," said Sydney, "you altered your positions?"

"We stood facing each other."

"What happened next?"

"Suddenly—I had not moved—an evil look came in his face. He sprang to the table, and took from the drawer a long, sharp poignard. I remembered it well, for he had it when we were married."

"What did he do then?"

"He raised it in his hand; but I had leaped upon him, and then began a terrible struggle."

The court was excited. Alan and his counsel were almost the only persons who remained perfectly cool.

"It was an unequal struggle?"

"Ah, yes! I became exhausted, and sank to the ground."

"Before or after you were stabbed?"

"He stabbed me as I fell."

"Could it have been an accident?"

"Impossible, for I fell backward, and the wound was in front."

After Sydney had done with his witness, Mr. Milton took her in hand; and this was felt by every one to be the most critical stage of the trial. Milton did his best to shake Cora's evidence, not without a certain kind of success. He turned her past life inside out, made her confess her infidelity, her intemperance, her brawling in the streets, her conviction and fine at the Hammersmith Police Court. It was all he could do to restrain himself from getting her to acknowledge the reason of her visit to Maple Cottage; but his instructions were too definite to be ignored. He felt that the introduction of Miss Campion's name would have told in favor of his client—at any rate, with the jury; and he would not have been a zealous pleader if he had not wished to take advantage of the point.