"My child, consider! You cannot go to him. He is in prison."

"I will go and live at the gates until he comes out."

"You must not talk like this. I cannot let you go—you, a woman! What would the world think of you?"

"What does the world think of him? It says he is guilty—when I know that he is not!"

"You cannot know, Lettice. All that was proved against him is that in some way or other, goaded by her reproaches, he stabbed her with his dagger. But that was proved, and you cannot get over it. I can quite believe that he is more unfortunate than maliciously guilty; yet, surely, you must admit that he is ruined."

"Never!" said Lettice, passionately. She could almost have stamped her foot with rage to hear another say what was already in her own mind. But old habits of self-restraint came to her aid. She raised her head proudly as she replied: "A man is never ruined. Alan Walcott has a future."

"He may have a future, dear, but it is one in which we cannot be concerned. Listen to me, Lettice—I do so strongly feel that this is the crisis and turning point of your life! There are lines beyond which no woman who respects herself, or who would be respected by the world, can go. If you do not act with prudence and common sense to-day, you may have to repent it all the rest of your life. You are strong—use your strength to good purpose, and think, for Heaven's sake think, of the courage and self-sacrifice which are expected from women of your breeding and position." She ended with tears in her eyes, for although she spoke conventionally, and as conventional women speak, her heart was full of the truest anxiety and tenderness for her friend.

Lettice was looking out of the window again, as though for inspiration in her difficulty. When she answered, it was with inexpressible sadness and regret.

"You have been so good and kind to me that it cuts my heart to disagree with you in any way. Have I reached such a turning point as you say? Perhaps it is so—but I have been brought to it; I have not wilfully walked up to it. You said that Alan's future was one in which we could not be concerned. What I feel at this moment, more vividly than I ever felt anything in my life, is that I am concerned and involved in his future. I have fought against this, and put it aside, as you, my dear friend, must know. I have tried to forget him—and my shame of the past few weeks has been that I tried to care for some one else. Well, I failed; and see how the very trying has brought me to this clear and irresistible knowledge of my own heart! If I were superstitious, I should say that it was my fate. I don't know what it is—I don't know if my view or your view of my duty is right—but I am quite sure of this, that I shall have to act on my own view. Courage and self-sacrifice—yes! They are primary virtues in a woman; but courage for what? Self-sacrifice for whom?"

"For society! For the world in general!"

"But the world in general has the world to help it. If one man needs a woman's sacrifice, he has only one woman to look to. I am very, very sorry that I cannot go my own way without giving you pain, and if only I could think that by any act which it is in my power to do——"

"I don't know what you mean by going your own way, child; but I hope you will come to a better mind before you take a decided step." Mrs. Hartley was growing thoroughly alarmed.

"Indeed, I have come to the best, the only possible resolution; and the question is, how soon I can be in London. We have been in Italy a long time, have we not?"

"Eleven months."

"Do you wish to stay much longer?"

"I see very plainly, Lettice, that, if I did want to stay, it would end in my being here alone. But I shall not let you travel by yourself. If your interest in Italy has gone, so has mine. We will start on Saturday."

Mrs. Hartley was sorely disappointed, and even angry with Lettice; but she thought that at any rate she ought not to talk with her until they were back again in London. And there was at least a hope that she would be more prudent a week hence than she was to-day.

As for Lettice, she found it very hard to wait. If she had been alone she would have left Florence within an hour of reading Sydney's letter, for her heart was on fire with impatience.

She did not speak to Brooke Dalton again, except in the presence of her friends; but after he and Edith had gone she wrote him another letter to the address which he had given them. In this letter she begged him, as kindly as she could, to consider her last answer as final. "Sydney's note," she said, "has only strengthened my decision. Indeed, it has made me ten times more decided. My heart is not mine to give. You will not expect that I should say more than this. The best thing I can hope from you is that you will judge me charitably, and that if others reproach me you will not join in the chorus."

Poor Brooke Dalton kissed the letter quietly, and said nothing about it; nor did he openly give utterance to the words which entered his mind in reference to Sydney's intervention. Mrs. Hartley silently resolved to see Sydney Campion as soon as she got back to London, and beg him to reason with Lettice, and, if possible, bring her to a better mind. But she was disappointed to find that Sydney was not in town. His marriage had taken place in September and he had gone to Scotland with his wife. She knew that he was on fairly good terms with Lettice, and had pressed her to be present at the wedding, also that Miss Pynsent had sent a very charming and affectionate letter to her future sister-in-law. But whether Lettice had written to him and told him of her intentions and opinions, Mrs. Hartley did not know.



CHAPTER XXXI.

AMBITION AT THE HELM.

Sydney Campion and Anna Pynsent were married early in September, while Lettice was still in Italy. There had been a death in the Pynsent family since the death of Sydney's mother, and Nan was not sorry to make this a pretext for arranging every thing in the simplest possible manner. She had no bridesmaids, and did without a wedding-feast; and, strange to say, Sydney was perfectly well content.

For it might have been expected that Sydney—with whom the roots of worldliness and selfishness had struck very deep—would desire a wedding that would make a noise in the world, and would not be satisfied with a bride in a severely simple white dress and a complete absence of all display. But it seemed as if all that was good in his character had been brought to the surface by a marriage which his club-friends chuckled over as so absolutely unexceptionable from a worldly point of view. For almost the first time in his life he was a little ashamed of his worldliness. His marriage with Nan Pynsent was making—or so he thought—everything easy for him! His selfishness was pampered by the girl's adoring love, by her generosity, even by her beauty and her wealth; and it recoiled upon itself in an utterly unexpected way. Finding life no longer a battle, Sydney became suddenly ashamed of some of his past methods of warfare; and, looking at his betrothed, could only breathe a silent and fervent aspiration that she might never know the story of certain portions of his life.

He was thoroughly in love with his wife; and—what was more important in a man of his temperament—he admired as well as loved her. Her personal charm was delightful to him, and the high-bred quietness of her manner, the refinement of her accent, the aroma of dignity and respect which surrounded the Pynsent household in general, were elements of his feeling for her as strong as his sense of her grace and beauty. With his high respect for position and good birth, it would have been almost impossible for him to yield his heart for long to a woman in a lower grade of society than his own; even a woman who might be considered his equal was not often attractive to him; he preferred one—other considerations apart—who was socially a little his superior, and could make a link for him with the great families of England. Had Nan been the pretty governess whom he thought her at first, not all her charm, her talent and her originality of character, would have prevailed to make him marry her.

But in spite of these defects, when once his judgment had assented, he gave free rein to his heart. Nan satisfied his taste and his intellect, to begin with; his senses were equally well content with her beauty; and then—then—another kind of emotion came into play. He was a little vexed and impatient with himself at first, to find the difference that she made in his life. She interested him profoundly, and he had never been profoundly interested in any woman before. Her earnestness charmed while it half-repelled him. And her refinement, her delicacy of feeling, her high standard of morality, perpetually astonished him. He remembered that he had heard his sister Lettice talk as Nan sometimes talked. With Lettice he had pooh-poohed her exalted ideas and thought them womanish; in Nan, he was inclined to call them beautiful. Of course, he said to himself, her ideas did not affect him; men could not guide their lives by a woman's standard; nevertheless, her notions were pretty, although puritanical; and he had no desire to see them changed. He would not have Nan less conscientious for the world.

An appeal to Sydney's self-love had always been a direct appeal to his heart. It was sometimes said of him that he cared for others chiefly in proportion as they conferred benefits and advantages upon himself; but he was certainly capable of warm affection when it had been called into existence. He began to display a very real and strong affection for Nan. She had found the way to his heart—though she little suspected it—through his very weaknesses: she had conquered the man she loved by means of his selfishness. The worldly advantages she conferred took his nature by storm. It was not a high-minded way of contracting an engagement for life; but, as a fragrant flower may easily grow upon a very unpleasant dunghill, so the sweet flower of a true, pure love began to flourish on the heap of refuse with which the good in Sydney's nature had been overlaid.

Sydney was treated with considerable generosity by Nan's guardian and trustees. Her fortune was of course to remain largely at her own disposal; but an ambitious man like Sydney Campion was certain to profit by it in some degree. Sir John Pynsent had always known that he was not likely to possess the management of it for long, and the next best thing was that it should be utilized for a member of the Conservative party, one of his own special connection, whose future career he should be able to watch over and promote. Campion must clearly understand that he owed his position and prospects to the Pynsents. He was apt to be somewhat off-hand and independent, but he would improve with a little judicious coaching. A man cannot be independent who owes his seat to the Oligarchy, his introduction in Parliament to individual favor, and his private fortune to the daughter of a house which had always been devoted to the interests of a particular party. This was Campion's position, and Sir John felt that his brother-in-law would soon fall into line.

Sydney was made the proprietor of the London house in which they were to live—the house at Vanebury was let for the present; but the whole of the domestic charges were to be borne by his wife. His professional income would be at his own disposal; and by special arrangement the sum of twenty thousand pounds was set apart as a fund to be drawn upon from time to time, by their joint consent, for the advancement of his purely political interests, in such a manner as might be deemed most expedient.

This was a better arrangement than Sydney had allowed himself to anticipate, and he was naturally elated by his success. He was so grateful to Nan for the good things she had brought him that he studied her tastes and consulted her inclinations in a way quite new to him. No doubt there was selfishness even in the repression of self which this compliance with her habits imposed upon him; but the daily repression was a gain to him.

And Nan recompensed his considerate behavior by giving him that incense of love and esteem and intellectual deference which is desired by every man; and by convincing him that his ambitions—as she knew them—had in her the most complete sympathy, and the most valuable aid. This she did for him, and satisfied all the wishes of his heart.

They had a delightful honeymoon in the Tyrol, and returned to town late in October. The house in Thurloe Square, where they were to reside, had been newly decorated and furnished for them, and was pronounced by critics to be a marvel of luxury and beauty. Sydney, though he did not pretend to be well acquainted with aesthetic fashions, recognized that the rooms had an attractive appearance, and set off Nan's beauty to the best advantage. He fell easily and naturally into the position which his good fortune had marked out for him, and thought, in spite of certain bitter drops, in spite of a touch of gall in the honey, and a suspected thorn on the rose, in spite of a cloud no bigger than a man's hand in an otherwise clear sky, that Fate had on the whole been very kind to him.

Nan's first appearance as a bride was at her brother's house. Lady Pynsent's whole soul was wrapped up in the art and mystery of entertaining, and she hailed this opportunity of welcoming the Campions into her "set" with unfeigned joy. Her gifts as a hostess had been her chief recommendation in Sir John's eyes when he married her; he would never have ventured to espouse a woman who could not play her part in the drawing-room as well as he could play his part in the club.

A few days after the Campions' arrival in town, therefore, the Pynsents gave a dinner at their own house, to which Lady Pynsent had invited a number of men, Sydney Campion amongst the number, whom Sir John desired to assemble together. The Benedicts came with their wives, and Nan made her first entry into the charmed circle of matrons, where Sydney hoped that she would one day lead and rule.

Sir John had an object in gathering these half-dozen congenial spirits round his table. He always had, or invented, an object for his acts, whatever they might be; a dinner party at home would have bored him grievously if he could not have invested it with a distinct political purpose. And, indeed, it was this power of throwing fine dust in his own eyes which first made his party regard him as an important social factor, worthy of being taken seriously at his own valuation. The spirit of the age was just as strong in him, though in a somewhat different sense, as it was in Lord Montagu Plumley, one of his guests on the present occasion, who had shot up like a meteor from the comparative obscurity of cadetship in a ducal family to the front rank of the Tory pretenders, mainly by ticketing his own valuation on his breast, and keeping himself perpetually front foremost to the world. The fault was not so much Lord Montagu's as that of the age in which he lived. He had merit, and he felt his strength, precisely as Sir John felt his strength as a social pioneer, but in a generation of talented mediocrities he had no chance of making his merit known by simply doing his duty. At any rate, he had given up the attempt in despair, and on a memorable evening, of which the history shall one day be written full and fair, he had expounded to a select group of his intimate friends his great theory on the saving of the Commonwealth, and his method of obtaining the sceptre of authority, which implied the dispensation of honors to all who believed in him.

A very good fellow in his way was Montagu Plumley, and Sir John was anxious that Sydney Campion, now a connection as well as a friend, should be brought within the influence of one whom the baronet had always regarded as the Young Man of the future. Sydney had been wont to sneer a little, after his fashion, at the individuals who interpreted the new ideas, though he accepted the ideas themselves as irrefragable. The nation must be saved by its young men—yes, certainly. As a young man he saw that plainly enough, but it was not going to be saved by any young man who could be named in his presence. He had said something like this to Sir John Pynsent, not many days before his marriage, and Sir John, who had taken Sydney's measure to a nicety, had resolved that his promising brother-in-law should be converted at the earliest possible opportunity into a faithful follower and henchman of Lord Montagu Plumley.

Another old friend of the reader was amongst the guests who sat over their wine round Sir John's hospitable board. This was the Honorable Tom Willoughby, whom his host had initiated at the Oligarchy into the art of fishing for men in the troubled waters of Liberalism. Tom Willoughby was, and always would be, a light weight in the political arena, but he was very useful when put to work that he could do. He was the spoiled child of Sir John Pynsent, and was fast earning a character as the chartered libertine of the House of Commons, where his unfailing good humor made him friends on both sides. Sir John told him one day that he was cut out to be an envoy extraordinary from the Conservative to the Liberal ranks, whereupon the Honorable Tom had answered that he did not mind discharging the function for his party to-day if he could see his way to doing the same thing for his country hereafter. Whereat Sir John laughed, and told him that if he wanted a mission of that kind he must bow down to the rising sun; and it was then that he asked his friend to come and dine with Lord Montagu.

Gradually, after the ladies had gone, the conversation shifted round to politics, and Sir John began to draw his guests out. People had been talking a good deal during the last few days about the resignation of Mr. Bright, which, coming in the same session with that of Mr. Forster, had made something of a sensation.

"How long will you give them now, Lord Montagu?" said the baronet. "Two of their strongest men are gone—one over Ireland and the other over Egypt. If the country could vote at this moment, I verily believe that we should get a majority. It almost makes one wish for annual Parliaments."

"I have more than once thought, Sir John, that the Tories would have had a much longer aggregate of power in the past fifty years if there had been a general election every year. When we come into office we make things perfectly pleasant all round for the first twelve month. When they come in, it rarely takes them a year to set their friends at loggerheads. As it is, they will stick in to the last moment—certainly until they have passed a Franchise Act."

"I suppose so. We must not go to the country on the Franchise."

"Rather not."

"And it will be too late to rely on Egypt."

"Heaven only knows what they are yet capable of in Egypt. But we shall have something stronger than that to go upon—as you know very well."

"Ireland," said Campion.

"Not exactly Ireland, though the seed may spring up on Irish soil. The main thing to do, the thing that every patriotic man ought to work for, is to break down the present One Old Man system of government in this country. The bane of Great Britain is that we are such hero-worshippers by nature that we can only believe in one man at a time. We get hold of a Palmerston or a Gladstone, and set him on a pedestal, and think that everybody else is a pygmy. It may be that our idol is a tolerably good one—that is, not mischievously active. In that case he cannot do much harm. But when, as in the case of Gladstone, you have a national idol who is actively mischievous, it is impossible to exaggerate the evil which may be done. Therefore the object which we should all pursue in the first instance is to throw off the old man of the sea, and not merely to get the better of him in parliament, but to cover him with so much discredit that he cannot wheedle another majority from the country. It does not signify whether we do this through Irish or Egyptian affairs, so long as we do it. Mr. Campion has shown us how seats are to be won. We want fifty or sixty men at least to do the same thing for us at the next election."

"There is no doubt," said Campion, "that with the present electorate we might safely go to the poll at once. Liberalism, minus Bright, Forster, and Goschen, and plus Alexandria and Phoenix Park, is no longer what it was in 1880. I had the most distinct evidence of that at Vanebury."

"There was a considerable turnover of votes, I suppose?"

"Unquestionably, and amongst all classes."

"Yes, that is encouraging, so far. But in view of the new franchise, it does not go nearly far enough. The idol must be overthrown."

"Who is to do it?" Sydney asked.

"That is hardly for me to say. But it will be done."

"The idol is doing it very fairly," said Willoughby, "on his own account, especially in London. Wherever I go his popularity is decidedly on the wane amongst his old supporters."

"Let that go on for a year or two," said Lord Montagu, "and then, when the inevitable compact is made with Parnell, the great party which has had its own way in England for so many years, at any rate up to 1874, will crumble to pieces."

The talk was commonplace as beseemed the occasion; but Sir John's object in bringing his men together was practically gained. Before the evening was over, Lord Montagu was favorably impressed by Campion's ability and shrewdness, whilst Sydney was more disposed from that time to regard Plumley as one of the most likely aspirants for the leadership of his party.

In the drawing-room, Nan had made herself as popular as her husband was making himself in the dining-room. She was greatly improved by her marriage, many of the matrons thought; she was more dignified and far less abrupt than she used to be. She had always been considered pretty, and her manners were gaining the finish that they had once perhaps lacked; in fact, she had found out that Sydney set a high value on social distinction and prestige; and, resolving to please him in this as in everything else, she had set herself of late to soften down any girlish harshness or brusquerie, such as Lady Pynsent used sometimes to complain of in her, and to develop the gracious softness of manner which Sydney liked to see.

"She will be quite the grande dame, by and by," said one lady, watching her that night. "She has some very stately airs already, and yet she is absolutely without affectation. Mr. Campion is a very lucky man."

Nan was asked to play; but, although she acknowledged that she still kept up her practising, she had not brought her violin with her. She was half afraid, moreover, that Sydney did not like her to perform. She fancied that he had an objection to any sort of display of either learning or accomplishment on a woman's part; she had gathered this impression from the way in which he spoke of his sister Lettice. And she did not want to expose herself to the same sort of criticism.

One of the younger ladies at Lady Pynsent's that night was a Mrs. Westray, wife of the eminently respectable member for Bloomsbury, who, as a city merchant of great wealth and influence, was one of the invited guests. Mrs. Westray was by way of being a literary lady, having printed a volume of her "Travels." Unfortunately she had only traveled in France, over well-worn tracks, and her book appeared just after those of two other ladies, with whom the critics had dealt very kindly indeed; so that the last comer had not been treated quite so well as she deserved. Nevertheless she keenly enjoyed her reputation as a woman of letters; and having found on inquiry that Sydney Campion was the brother of the lady whose novel had gained such a brilliant success in the spring, she asked her husband to bring him to her.

"Oh, why does Miss Campion live out of England?" Mrs. Westray asked him, after gushing a little about his sister's "exquisite romance". "Surely she does not mean to do so always?"

"No," said Sydney. "I hope not. She was rather seriously ill last Christmas, and we thought it best for her to live in Italy until she quite recovered. I trust that we shall have her back again before the end of the year." He was as yet unacquainted with the history of his sister's movements.

"I am so glad to hear it. I want very much to make her acquaintance."

"We hope that my sister will come to stay with us for a time," said Sydney, "and in that case you will be sure to see her."

"That will be so very nice," said the lady; "I am quite certain I shall like her immensely."

Sydney felt a little doubtful whether Lettice would like Mrs. Westray; and he also doubted whether his wife and his sister would be found to have much in common. But he was more or less consciously building on the hope that Dalton's suit would prosper, and that Lettice would settle down quietly as the mistress of Angleford Manor, and so be weaned from the somewhat equivocal situation of a successful author. It did not so much as enter his mind, by the way, that there was anything equivocal in Mrs. Westray's authorship. Her book had failed, and her husband was very wealthy, so that she could not be suspected of having earned money by her pen. But Lettice had cheques for her romances!

The dinner was very successful, and the Pynsents were charmed with the result. "It is a most suitable union," said Sir John, alluding to Nan's marriage to Sydney Campion, and hoping to crush his wife a little, seeing that she had objected to it: "it does great credit to my discernment in bringing them together. I always knew that Campion would get on. Lord Montagu was very much pleased with him."

"Nan looked lovely," said Lady Pynsent, ignoring her husband's innuendo. "She tells me that Sydney is very particular about her dress, and she seems perfectly happy."

Meanwhile, as Sydney and his wife were driving home, Nan nestled up to him and said coaxingly,

"Now tell me, dear, just what you were thinking of to-night."

"I was thinking that my wife was the most beautiful woman in the room."

"Oh, I did not mean anything of that kind. When you were talking at dinner-time, and after we had gone up stairs, what was really the uppermost thought in your mind?"

"Well," said Sydney laughing, "you deserve all my candor, Nan. I was thinking, if you must know, that I could meet any one of those men in debate, or in council, and hold my own against him. There's vanity for you! Now it is your turn."

"Mine?" she said. "Why, it was just the same as your own. That you were as wise and great as any of them——"

"Ah, I didn't say that."

"—And that when you are a Minister of State, and I threw open my drawing-room, we will challenge comparison with any other house in London. Do you like the idea?"

He put his arm round her and kissed her very fondly. She had assimilated his ambitions to a remarkable degree, and he was as surprised as he was delighted to find her almost as eager for his success as he himself could be. The two were by no means destitute of that community of interests and pursuits which has been said to constitute the best hope of wedded bliss. But Nan's hopes were less material than Sydney's. It was as yet a doubtful matter whether he would draw her down from her high standard, or whether she would succeed in raising him to hers. At present, satisfied with themselves and with each other, they were a thoroughly happy couple.



CHAPTER XXXII.

AT MRS. CHIGWIN'S COTTAGE.

Birchmead in the summer and autumn is a very different place from the Birchmead which Alan Walcott saw when he came down to visit his aunt in the early days of February. Then the year had not begun to move; at most there was a crocus or a snowdrop in the sheltered corners of Mrs. Chigwin's garden; and, if it had not been for a wealth of holly round the borders of the village green, the whole place would have been destitute of color.

But, in the summer, all is color and brightness. The blue sky, the emerald lawns, the dull red earth, the many-hued masses of foliage, from the dark copper beech to the light greys of the limes and poplars, mingle their broad effects upon their outspread canvas of Nature, and in the foreground a thousand flowers glow warmly from the well-kept gardens or the fertile meadow-side. Nowhere do the old-fashioned flowers of the field and garden seem to flourish more luxuriantly than at Birchmead, or come to fuller bloom, or linger for a longer season. Here, as elsewhere in the south of England, June and July are the richest months for profusion and color; but the two months that follow July may be made, with very little trouble, as gay and varied in their garden-show, if not so fragrant and exquisite. The glory of the roses and lilies has departed, but in their place is much to compensate all simple and unsophisticated lovers of their mother-earth.

In the second week of October, Mrs. Chigwin was at work in her garden, with her dress tucked up, a basket in her left hand, and a large pair of scissors in her right. Every flower that had begun to fade, every withered leaf and overgrown shoot fell before those fatal shears, and was caught in the all-devouring basket; and from time to time she bore a fresh load of snippets to their last resting-place. Her heart was in her work, and she would not rest until she had completed her round. From the clematis on the cottage wall and the jessamine over the porch she passed to a clump of variegated hollyhocks, and from them to the hedge of sweet peas, to the fuchsias almost as high as the peas, the purple and white phlox, the yellow evening primrose, and the many-colored asters. Stooping here and there, she carefully trimmed the rank-growing geraniums and the clusters of chrysanthemums, cut off the straggling branches of the mignonette and removed every passing bloom of harebell, heartsease, and heliotrope.

The euthanasia of the fading blossoms filled her shallow skep half-a-dozen times over, and, to anyone ignorant (to his shame) of the art which our first ancestor surely learned from his mother, and loved, it might have seemed that Mrs. Chigwin used her scissors with a too unsparing hand. But the happy old soul knew what she was about. The evening was closing in, and she had cut both the flowers whose beauty had passed away and those which would have been wrinkled and flabby before the morning, knowing full well that only so can you reckon on the perfection of beauty from day to day.

"There, now," she said, when her last basketful was disposed of, "I have done. And if old Squire Jermyn, who first laid out this garden, was to come to life again to-morrow, there would be nothing in Martha Chigwin's little plot to make his hair stand on end."

She threw her eyes comprehensively round the ring of cottages which encircled the village green, with a sniff of defiant challenge, as though she would dare any of her neighbors to make the same boast; and then she came and sat down on the garden-seat, and said to her old friend and companion,

"What do you think about it, Elizabeth?"

"You are right, Martha; right as you always are," said Mrs. Bundlecombe, in a feeble voice. "And I was thinking as you went round, cutting off the flowers that have had their day, that if you had come to me and cut me off with the rest of them, there would have been one less poor old withered thing in the world. Here have I been a wretched cripple on your hands all the summer, and surely if the Lord had had any need for me He would not have broken my stalk and left me to shrivel up in the sunshine."

"Now, Bessy," said Mrs. Chigwin, severely, "do you want to put out the light of peace that we have been enjoying for days past? Fie, for shame! and in a garden, too. Where's your gratitude—or, leastways, where's your patience?"

"There, there, Martha, you know I did not mean it. But I sit here thinking and thinking, till I could write whole volumes on the vanity of human wishes. Cut me off, indeed, just at this moment, when I am waiting to see my dear boy once more before I die!"

Mrs. Bundlecombe was silent again, and the other did not disturb her, knowing by experience what the effort to speak would be likely to end in.

Things had not gone well at Birchmead in the last six months. The news of Alan's arrest on the charge of wife-murder—that was the exaggerated shape in which it first reached the village—was a terrible blow to poor Aunt Bessy. She was struck down by paralysis, and had to keep to her bed for many weeks, and even now she had only the partial use of her limbs. Mrs. Chigwin, buckling to her new task with heroic cheerfulness, had nursed and comforted her and lightened the burden of her life so far as that was possible. As soon as the cripple could be dressed and moved about, she had bought for her a light basket-chair, into which she used to lift her bodily. Whenever the weather was fine enough she would wheel her into the garden; and she won the first apology for a laugh from Mrs. Bundlecombe when, having drawn her on the grass and settled her comfortably, she said,

"Now, Bessy, I have repotted you and put you in the sun on the same day as my balsams, and I shall expect you to be ready for planting out as soon as they are."

But that was too sanguine a hope, for Mrs. Bundlecombe was still in her chair, and there was not much chance of her ever being able to walk again. As it had been impossible for her to go and see her nephew, either before his trial or since, Mrs. Chigwin had written a letter for her, entreating Alan to come to Birchmead as soon as he was free; and the writer assured him on her own account that there was not a better place in England for quiet rest and consolation. They heard from the prison authorities that the letter had been received, and that it would be given to the prisoner; and now Aunt Bessy was counting the days until his time had expired.

There had been other changes at Birchmead in the course of the year. Mrs. Harrington no longer occupied the adjoining cottage, but lay at peace in the churchyard at Thorley. Her grand-daughter had written once to the old ladies from London, according to her promise; after which they had heard of her no more, although they sent her word of her grandmother's death, to the address which she had given them.

The sun was sinking low in the sky, and it was time for Mrs. Bundlecombe to be taken indoors. So Martha Chigwin wheeled her into the house, rapidly undressed her, and lifted her into bed. Then there was a chapter to be read aloud, and joint prayers to be repeated, and supper to be prepared; and Mrs. Chigwin had just made the two cups of gruel which represented the last duty of her busy day's routine, when she heard a noise of wheels on the gravel outside.

It was not a cart but a cab, and it stopped at the door. Cabs were not very familiar in Birchmead, and the appearance of this one at Mrs. Chigwin's cottage brought curious eyes to almost every window looking out upon the green. There was not much to reward curiosity—only a lady, dressed in a long fur-lined cloak, with a quiet little bonnet, and a traveling-bag in her hand, who knocked at Mrs. Chigwin's door, and, after a short confabulation, dismissed the cabman and went in. At any rate it was something for Birchmead to know that it had a visitor who had come in a Dorminster cab. That was an incident which for these good souls distinguished the day from the one which went before and the one which came after it.

It was Lettice Campion who thus stirred the languid pulse of Birchmead. She had found her way like a ministering angel to the bedside of Alan's aunt, within three or four days of her arrival in England.

Mrs. Chigwin felt the utmost confidence in her visitor, both from what she had heard of her before and from what she saw of her as soon as she entered the cottage. Lettice could not have been kinder to her mother than she was to the poor crippled woman who had no claim upon her service. She told Mrs. Chigwin that so long as she was at Birchmead she should be Mrs. Bundlecombe's nurse, and she evidently meant to keep her word. Aunt Bessy was comforted beyond measure by her appearance, and still more by the few words which Lettice whispered to her, in response to the forlorn appeal of the old woman's eyes—so unutterably eloquent of the thoughts that were throbbing in the hearts of both—

"I shall wait for him when he comes out!"

"God bless you!" said Aunt Bessy.

"The world has been cruel to him. He has only us two; we must try to comfort him," whispered Lettice.

"I am past it, dearie. He has no one but you. You are enough for him."

And she went on in the slow and painful way which had become habitual to her.

"I have been tortured in my heart, thinking of his coming out upon the weary world, all alone, broken down may be, with none to take him by the hand, and me lying here upon my back, unable to help him. Oh, it is hard! And sometimes in a dream I see his mother, Lucy, my own little sister that died so many years ago, floating over the walls of his prison, and signing to me to fetch him out. But now she will rest in her grave, and I myself could die to-night and be happy, because you will not forsake him. My dear, he loves you like his own soul!"

Lettice did not reply, but she kissed the cheek of Alan's aunt, and bade her try to sleep.

It was growing dark. Through the window she could trace the outlines of the garden below. She was tempted by the balmy night, and went out.

"He loves you like his own soul!" Was not that how she loved him, and was she not here in England to tell him so?

The question startled her, as though some one else had put it to her, and was waiting for an answer. That, surely, was not her object; and yet, if not, what was? From the hour when she read Sydney's letter at Florence she seemed to have had a new motive power within her. She had acted hitherto from instinct, or from mere feeling; she could scarcely recall a single argument which she had held with herself during the past ten days. She might have been walking in a dream, so little did she seem to have used her reason or her will. Yet much had happened since she left Italy.

On Thursday she had arrived in London with Mrs. Hartley.

On Saturday she went out by herself, and managed to see the governor of the gaol where Alan was lodged. From him she learned, to her dismay, that "Number 79" had had a severe and almost fatal illness. He was still very weak, though out of danger, and it was thought that with the careful attention which he was receiving in the infirmary he would probably be able to leave on the 29th of October.

Captain Haynes told her that his prisoner appeared to have no relatives "except the wife, who was not likely to give herself much trouble about him, and an aunt in the country who was paralyzed." So, Lettice arranged to bring a carriage to the prison gates on the morning of the 29th, and to fetch him away.

Having learned Mrs. Bundlecombe's address, thanks to the letter which had been written to the governor by Mrs. Chigwin, she came to Birchmead on Monday—lingering an hour or two at Angleford in order that she might see her native place again, and recall the image of the father whom she had loved and lost.

Now, at length, her heart was in a measure contented and at rest. Now she could think, and reason with herself if need be. What did she mean to do? What had she done already? How had she committed herself? She was only too painfully aware that she had taken a step which there was no retracing. Had she not virtually broken with Mrs. Hartley, with the Daltons, with Sydney and his wife? They would doubtless think so, whether she did or not. She had no illusions in the matter. Not one of them would forgive her—not even Mrs. Hartley—for her treatment of Brooke Dalton, for her independent action since she left Italy, and for her association with Alan Walcott.

As for that—it was true that she had not yet gone too far. She had not coupled her name with Alan's in any public manner, or in any way at all, except that she had used her own name when calling on Captain Haynes. He would not talk, and, therefore, it was not too late to act with greater secrecy and caution. She need not let anyone know that she had taken an interest in him, that she had been to his prison, and had promised to bring him away when he was released. Beyond that point of bringing him away she had not yet advanced, even in her own mind. What was to prevent her from sending a carriage, as though it had been provided by Aunt Bessy, and letting him find his way to Birchmead, or wherever he wished to go, like any other discharged prisoner. Then she would not shock her friends—she would not outrage the feelings of poor Sydney, who thought so much of the world's opinion and of the name they held in common.

That was a strong argument with her, for, to some extent, she sympathized with her brother's ambitions, although she did not greatly esteem them. She would do all that she could to avoid hurting him. How much could she do? Was it possible for her now, when she was calm and collected, to form a strong resolution and draw a clear line beyond which she would not let her pity for Alan Walcott carry her? What she thought right, that she would do—no more, but certainly no less. Then what was right?

There was the difficulty. Within the limits of a good conscience, she had been guided almost entirely by her feelings, and they had led her so straight that she had never been prompted to ask herself such questions as What is right? or What is the proper thing to do? She had done good by intuition and nature; and now it was out of her power to realize any other or stronger obligation than that of acting as nature bade her. One thing only was plain to her at the moment—that she must be kind to this man who had been persecuted, betrayed, and unjustly punished, and who, but for her, would be absolutely alone in the world. Could she be kind without going to meet him at the prison gates?

She was trying to persuade herself that she could; and so deeply was she absorbed by the struggle which was going on in her mind that she did not notice the feeble wailing sound which ever and anon came towards her on the silent night air. But, at last, a louder cry than before disturbed her quiet reverie, and startled her into attention.

It seemed to be close at hand—a cry like that of a little child; and she stood up and peered into the shadow behind her. She could see nothing, but the wailing came again, and Lettice groped her way across the flower border, and stood by the low garden wall.

There was just enough light to enable her to distinguish the form of a woman, crouching on the rank grass in what used to be Mrs. Harrington's garden, and vainly attempting to soothe the baby which she held in her arms.

It was too dark to see the woman's features, or to judge if she were in much distress, but Lettice could not be satisfied to leave her where she was.

"Who are you?" she asked; and, at the sound of her voice the little child was hushed, as though it knew that a friend was near. But the mother did not answer.

"What do you want? Why are you sitting there? Have you no home?"

A very weak "No" reached her straining ears.

"Can you walk? Come here, if you can."

The figure did not move.

"Then I must get over the wall and come to you."

She was beginning to do as she had said, when the other slowly rose to her feet, and drew unwillingly a step nearer.

"Come," said Lettice, kindly, but firmly. She felt that this was a woman over whom it would not be hard to exercise authority.

Gradually the mother approached, with her baby in her arms, until she was within half-a-dozen yards of the wall. Then she leaned against the trunk of an old apple-tree, and would not come any further.

"Are you ill?" said Lettice, gently.

Again the half-heard "No," but this time accompanied by a sob.

"Then why are you out at this time, and with your poor little baby, too? Have you walked far to-day?"

"From Thorley."

"Do you live at Thorley?"

"Not now."

"Where do you come from?"

"London."

"Let me see your baby. Is it hungry, or cold? Why do you keep so far away from me? and why are you crying? Oh, Milly, Milly! Is it you? Dear child, come to me!"

Then the girl came from amongst the branches of the tree, and tottered to the wall, and laid her child in the arms stretched out to receive it.

"Why did you not come to the door, Milly, instead of waiting out here? You might have been sure of a welcome!"

She laid her hand on the head which was bowed down upon the wall, and which shook with the poor girl's sobs. Her bonnet had fallen off, and hung on her back; and Lettice noticed that the long hair of which the girl used to be so proud was gone.

"I did not come to the village till it was dark," Milly said, as soon as she could speak. "Then I should have knocked, but I saw you looking out at the window—and I was ashamed!"

"Ashamed?" said Lettice, in a low voice. There was one thing she thought, of which Milly could be ashamed. She looked from the weeping mother to the baby's face, and back again to Milly. "My poor girl," she said, with a sudden rush of tender feeling for the woman who had perhaps been tempted beyond her strength—so Lettice thought—"my poor child, you don't think I should be unkind to you!"

"No, no! you were always so kind to me, miss. And I—I—was so wicked—so ungrateful—so deceitful——"

And with that she broke down utterly. Lettice's arms were round her neck, and the young mother, feeling herself in the presence of a comforter at last, let loose her pent-up misery and sobbed aloud.

"Where is—he? your husband?" said Lettice, remembering that she had heard of Milly's marriage from Mrs. Bundlecombe some time ago, and conjecturing that something had gone wrong, but not yet guessing the whole truth.

Milly sobbed on for a minute or two without replying. Then she said, somewhat indistinctly,

"He's gone away. Left me."

"Left you? But—for a time, you mean? To look for work, perhaps?"

"No, no; he has left me altogether. I shall never see him again—never!" said the girl, with sudden passion. "Oh, don't ask me any more, Miss Lettice, I can't bear it!"

"No, no," said Lettice, pitifully, "I will ask you no questions, Milly. You shall tell me all about it or nothing, just as you like. We must not keep the baby out in the night air any longer. Come round to the door, and Mrs. Chigwin will let you in. I will tell her that you want a night's lodging, and then we will arrange what you are to do to-morrow."

Milly did not move, however, from her position by the wall. She had ceased to sob, and was twisting her handkerchief nervously between her fingers.

"Do you think Mrs. Chigwin would let me in," she said at last, in a very low voice, "if she knew?"

Lettice waited; she saw there was more to come.

"Oh, Miss Lettice," said the girl, with a subdued agony in her tone which went to Lettice's heart; "it wasn't all my fault ... I believed in him so ... I thought he would never deceive me nor behave unkindly to me. But I was deceived: I never, was his wife, though I thought—I thought I was!"

"My dear," said Lettice, gently, "then you were not to blame. Mrs. Chigwin would only be sorry for you if she knew. But we will not tell her everything at once; you must just come in, if only for baby's sake, and get some food and rest. Come with me now."

And Milly yielded, feeling a certain comfort and relief in having so far told the truth to her former mistress.

Mrs. Chigwin's surprise, when she saw Lettice coming back with the baby in her arms, may well be imagined. But she behaved very kindly: she at once consented to take in Milly for the night and make her comfortable; and, after one keen look at the girl's changed and downcast face, she asked no questions.

For Milly was wonderfully changed—there was no doubt of that. Her pretty fair hair was cropped close to her head; her eyes were sunken, and the lids were red with tears; the bloom had faded from her cheeks, and the roundness of youth had passed from face and form alike. Ill-health and sorrow had gone far to rob her of her fresh young beauty; and the privations which she confessed to having experienced during the last few days had hollowed her eyes, sharpened her features, and bowed her slender form. Her dress was travel-stained and shabby; her boots were down at heel and her thin hands were glove-less. Lettice noticed that she still wore a wedding-ring. But the neat trim look that had once been so characteristic was entirely lost. She was bedraggled and broken down; and Lettice thought with a thrill of horror of what might have happened if Mrs. Chigwin had left Birchmead, or refused to take the wayfarer in. For a woman in Milly's state there would probably have remained only two ways open—the river or the streets.

"I've never had five in my cottage before," said Mrs. Chigwin, cheerfully; "but where there's room for two there's room for half-a-dozen; at least, when they're women and children."

"You must have wondered what had become of me all this time," said Lettice.

"Nay, ma'am; you were in the garden, and that was enough for me. I knew you couldn't be in a better place, whether you were sorrowing or rejoicing. Nought but good comes to one in a garden."

They set food before Milly, and let her rest and recover herself. The child won their hearts at once. It was clean, and healthy, and good to look at; and if Lettice had known that it was her own little niece she could not have taken to it more kindly. Perhaps, indeed, she would not have taken to it at all.

Lettice's visit had greatly excited Mrs. Bundlecombe, who had for some time past been in that precarious state in which any excitement, however slight, is dangerous. She was completely happy, because she had jumped to the conclusion that Lettice would henceforth do for Alan all that she herself would have done if she had been able, but which it was now impossible for her to do. And then it was as though the feeble vitality which remained to her had begun to ebb away from the moment when her need for keeping it had disappeared.

In the early morning, Lettice was roused from her sleep by the restlessness of her companion, and she sat up and looked at her.

"Dearie," said the old woman, in a whisper, "my time is come."

"No, no!" said Lettice, standing by her side. "Let me raise you a little on the pillow; you will feel better presently."

"Yes—better—in heaven! You will take care of my Alan?"

"Oh yes, dear!"

"And love him?"

"And love him."

"Thank God for that. It will be the saving of him. Call Martha, my dear!"

Lettice went and roused Mrs. Chigwin, who came and kissed her friend. Then, with a last effort, Aunt Bessy raised her head, and whispered,

"'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!'"

The watchers scarcely heard the words; but when she sank back upon her pillow, and smiled as though she had found the peace which passes understandings they knew that she had gone.

Lettice stayed on at Birchmead until she had seen Alan's aunt carried to the churchyard, and laid under the shadow of the great yew trees.

Aunt Bessy's death changed her plans. It was no longer necessary for Alan to undertake so long a journey, and in his weak condition it might be better that he should not attempt it. But what was to be done? She had promised Aunt Bessy to "take care of him." Haw could she do it? How do it, at least, without outraging the feelings of her brother and her friends? She loved Sydney, although she had long ago ceased to be greatly in sympathy with him, and she had looked forward to the day when she could make friends with his wife and—by and by—interest herself in their children. She knew that Sydney would be against her in this. Ought she to consider him? Should his opinion weigh with her or not?

She was still pondering this question on the day after the funeral, when something happened which went far towards removing her hesitation. She was sitting in Mrs. Chigwin's garden, which was warm and dry in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Chigwin was indoors, vigorously "straightening" the house. Milly was sewing a frock for her child, and the child itself was tumbling about on a soft rug at her feet.

During the past few days, little had been said respecting Milly's future. Mrs. Bundlecombe's death had thrown her history into the background, and she had not seemed eager to obtrude it on any of her friends. Lettice's assurance that she might safely stay where she was at present seemed to satisfy her. She had lost her briskness—her occasional pertness—of manner; she was quiet and subdued, attaching herself with dog-like fidelity to Lettice's steps, and showing that no satisfaction was so great as that of being allowed to wait on her. But her submissiveness had something in it which pained Lettice, while it touched the deepest fibres of pity in her heart.

She was vaguely wondering what it was that pained her—why there should be that touch of something almost like subserviency in Milly's manner, as if to make up for some past injury—when her eyes were arrested by a locket, which, tied by a black ribbon round Milly's neck, had escaped from the bosom of her dress, and now hung exposed to view.

It contained a portrait of Sydney's face, evidently cut from a photograph by the girl herself.

A flood of light entered Lettice's mind; but she took her discovery with outward calmness. No thought of accusing or upbraiding Milly ever occurred to her. Why should it? she would have said. It was not Milly who had been to blame, if the girl's own story were true. It was Sydney who had been guilty of the blackest treachery, the basest of all crimes. She thought for a moment of his wife, with pity; she looked with a new interest and tenderness at the innocent child. She had no certainty—that was true; but she had very little doubt as to the facts of the case. And, at any rate, she allowed her suspicion to decide her own course of action. Why need she care any longer what Sydney desired for her? His standard was not hers. She was not bound to think of his verdict—now. He had put himself out of court. She was not sure that she should even love him again, for the whole of her pure and generous nature rose-up in passionate repudiation of the man who could basely purchase his own pleasure at the expense of a woman's soul, and she knew that he had thenceforth lost all power over her. No opinion of his on any matter of moral bearing could ever sway her again. The supreme scorn of his conduct which she felt impelled her to choose her own line of action, to make—or mar—for herself her own career.

It was one of those moments in which the action of others has an unexpectedly vivifying result. We mortals may die, but our deed lives after us, and is immortal, and bears fruit to all time, sometimes evil and sometimes good. If the deed has been evil in the beginning, the fruit is often such as we who did it would give our lives, if we had the power, to destroy.

Thus Sydney's action had far-off issues which he could not foresee. It ruled the whole course of his sister's afterlife.

There was a light shawl on Milly's thin shoulders. Lettice took one end of it and drew it gently over the telltale locket. Then, unmindful of Milly's start, and the feverish eagerness with which her trembling hand thrust the likeness out of sight, she spoke in a very gentle tone: "You will take cold if you are not more careful of yourself. Have you thought, Milly, what you are to do now? You want to earn a living for yourself and the child, do you not?"

Milly looked at her with frightened, hopeless eyes. Had Miss Lettice seen the locket, and did she mean to cast her off for ever? She stammered out some unintelligible words, but the fear that was uppermost in her mind made her incapable of a more definite reply.

"You must do something for yourself. You do not expect to hear from your child's father again, I suppose?" said Lettice.

"He said—he said—he would send me money—if I wanted it," said Milly, putting up one hand to shade her burning face; "but I would rather not!"

"No, you are quite right. You had better take nothing more from him—unless it is for the child. But I am thinking of yourself. I am going back to London the day after to-morrow, and perhaps I may take a small house again, as I did before. Will you come with me, Milly?"

This offer was too much for the girl's equanimity. She burst into tears and sobbed vehemently, with her head upon her hands, for two or three minutes.

"I couldn't," she said at last. "Oh, you're very good, Miss Lettice—and it isn't that I wouldn't work my fingers to the bone for you—but I couldn't come."

"Why not?"

"I deceived you before. I—I—should be deceiving you again. If you knew—all, you would not ask me."

"I think I should, Milly. Perhaps I know more of your story than you have told me. But—at present, at any rate—I do not want to know more. I am not going to question you about the past. Because you cannot undo what is past, dear, however much you try, but you can live as if it had never happened; or, better still, you can live a nobler life than you had strength to live before. Sorrow makes us stronger, Milly, if we take it in the right way. You have your little one to live for; and you must be brave, and strong, and good, for her sake. Will you not try? Will it not be easier now to look forward than to look back? I used to teach you out of an old Book that speaks of 'forgetting the things that are behind.' You must forget the things that lie behind you, Milly, and press forward to the better life that lies before you now."

The girl listened with an awed look, upon her face.

"I am afraid," she murmured.

"Forget your fear, dear, with the other things that you have to forget, and gather up your strength to make your little girl's life a good and happy one. In that way, good will come out of evil—as it so often does. Will you try?"

"Yes," said Milly, "I'll try—if you will help me—and—forgive me."

"You will come with me, then," Lettice rejoined, in a more cheerful tone. "You can bring your child with you, and you shall have money enough to clothe her and yourself; but you know, Milly, you must be ready to work and not to be idle. Then I shall be able to help you."

Milly was glad enough to be persuaded. She had learned a sad and bitter lesson, but she was the wiser for it.

"I shall be able to work better for you than I did at Maple Cottage," she said, with touching humility. "You see I know more than I did, and I shall have more heart in my work. And—" with sudden vehemence—"I would work for you, Miss Lettice, to my life's end."

So it was arranged that they were to go up to London together. Mrs. Chigwin moaned a little about her prospect of loneliness. "But there," she said, "I am not going to make the worst of it. And nobody that has a garden is ever really lonely, unless she has lost her self-respect, or taken to loving herself better than her fellow-creatures. By which," she added, "I do not mean snails and sparrows, but honest and sensible flowers."



BOOK VI.

SUCCESS.

"May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, Be the sweet presence of a good diffused And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose gladness is the music of the world."

GEORGE ELIOT.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

AT THE PRISON GATE.

Months had passed since Lettice had written a page of her story. The arrival of the Daltons at Florence had interrupted her at a critical point. She had not yet acquired the mechanic art of stopping and going on again as at the turn of a handle, in obedience to a law of demand and supply; and she would probably have been unable to gather up her threads and continue the old woof, even if she had made the effort. But she had not made the effort, and now that she was back in London again it seemed less possible than ever that she should sit down and make it.

This was a serious matter, for the book was to have been done to order. She had undertaken to furnish the whole of the manuscript by the middle of November, and now the time had come when she was obliged to admit that this was quite impracticable. She had hoped to put such a constraint upon herself at Birchmead as would have enabled her to fulfil her promise in the spirit, and to ask a fortnight's grace for the completion of the manuscript. But circumstances had prevented her from writing a single line, and she gave up the idea as hopeless.

So when she came up to London, three days before the end of October, she called upon the publisher with whom she had made her agreement, and confessed her inability to keep her word. Mr. MacAlpine was polite, but at the same time evidently vexed. If Miss Campion had been ill he was very sorry to hear it, but he liked to be able to rely on the engagements which he made.

"Pray don't let it trouble you," he said, seeing that her face had begun to fall. "When do you think you can be ready? I must have your next story, at any rate. Take another three months."

"That is very good of you," said Lettice. "I think I can promise it before the end of January."

So it was settled, and Lettice went away contented.

The discovery which she had made in regard to Sydney and Emily Harrington had destroyed her former scruples as to the displeasure which Sydney might feel if he were to hear what she now contemplated. She had no wish to punish her brother. She thought he had been cruel, and indifferent to the suffering which he had caused; but she was not moved by anything like a vindictive feeling towards him. She had simply lost the scruples which had beset her, and there was no longer a desire in her mind to avoid a mere semblance of unconventionality for his sake.

She had chosen three rooms on the ground-floor of a house in a long and dreary terrace, the windows of which looked across an intervening waste to the walls of Alan's prison; and here she watched and waited.

The time hung heavy on her hands. She could do nothing, read nothing, think of nothing—except of the unhappy man within those walls, who had been brought to death's door, and who must have known a living death for the past six months. To her, merely looking at the walls and thinking of their victim, every minute seemed an hour, and every hour a day of blank despair. What must the minutes and hours have seemed to him, buried alive in that hideous pile of bricks, and in the yet more hideous pile of false accusations and unmerited disgrace?

She had found out the date of the trial, and procured the papers in which it was reported. The whole wretched story was before her now. She saw how the web had been weaved round him; she understood the pains which had been taken to keep her own name from being mentioned, and she noted with burning indignation the persistency with which Sydney had labored, apparently, to secure a conviction.

She was on the point of seeking out Mr. Larmer, in order to learn from him the assurance of innocence which Alan must have given to his solicitor; but she refrained. It would look as though she wanted evidence of what she believed so absolutely without any evidence; and besides, was it not one of the pleasures which she had promised herself, to hear from Alan's own lips all that he cared for her to hear?

She stood by her window in the evening, and saw the lights spring up one by one about the frowning gates of the prison. She was quite alone, Milly having gone out with her baby to buy her some clothes. Lettice was miserable and depressed, in spite of her good intentions; and as she stood, half leaning against the shutter in unconscious weariness of body, yet intent with all her mind upon the one subject that engrossed her, she heard the distant stroke of a tolling bell.

Dong!—dong!—dong! it sounded, with long intervals between the notes. Straight across the vacant ground, from the shrouded walls of Alan's dungeon, and into the contracting fibres of her own tortured heart; it smote with sudden terror, turning her blood to ice and her cheeks to livid whiteness.

Great heaven, it was a death-knell. Could it be Alan who was dead!

For a moment she felt as if she must needs rush into the street and break open those prison gates, must ascertain at once that Alan was still alive. She went out into the hall and stood for a moment hesitating. Should she go? and would they tell her at the gates if Alan was alive or dead?

The landlady heard her moving, and came out of a little apartment at the back of the house, to see what was going on.

"Were you going out, ma'am?" she asked, curiously.

"I? no; at least," said Lettice, with somewhat difficult utterance, "I was only wondering what that bell was, and——"

"Oh, that's a bell from the church close by. Sounds exactly like a passing-bell, don't it, ma'am? And appropriate too. For my son, who is one of the warders, as I think I've mentioned to you, was here this afternoon, and tells me that one of the prisoners is dead. A gentleman, too: the one that there was so much talk about a little while ago."

Lettice leaned against the passage wall, glad that in the gathering darkness her face could not be seen.

"Was his name—Walcott?" she asked.

"Yes, that was it. At least I think so. I know it was Wal—something. He was in for assault, I believe, and a nicer, quieter-spoken gentleman, my son says he never saw. But he died this afternoon, I understand, between five and six o'clock—just as his time was nearly out, too, poor man."

Lettice made no answer. She stole back into her sitting-room and shut the door.

So this was the end. The prisoner was released, indeed; but no mortal voice had told him he was free, no earthly friend had met him at the door.

She fell on her knees, and prayed that the soul which had been persecuted might have rest. Then, when the last stroke of the bell had died away, she sat down in mute despair, and felt that she had lost the best thing life had to give her.

Outside upon the pavement men and women were passing to and fro. There was no forecourt to the house; passers-by walked close to the windows; they could look in if they tried. Lettice had not lighted a candle, and had not drawn her blinds, but a gas-lamp standing just in front threw a feeble glimmer into the room, which fell upon her where she sat. As the shadows deepened the light grew stronger, and falling direct upon her eyes, roused her at last from the lethargy into which she had sunk.

She got up and walked to the window, intending to close the shutters. Listlessly for a moment she looked out into the street, where the gas-light flickered upon the meeting streams of humanity—old folk and young, busy and idle, hopeful and despairing, all bent on their own designs, heedless like herself of the jostling world around them.

She had the shutter in her hand, and was turning it upon its hinges, when a face in the crowd suddenly arrested her. She had seen it once, that ghastly painted face, and it had haunted her in her dreams for weeks and months afterwards. It had tyrannized over her in her sickness, and only left her in peace when she began to recover her strength under the bright Italian skies. And now she saw her again, the wife who had wrecked her husband's happiness, for whom he had lingered in a cruel prison, who flaunted herself in the streets whilst Alan's brave and generous heart was stilled for ever.

Cora turned her face as she passed the window, and looked in. She might not in that uncertain light have recognized the woman whose form stood out from the darkness behind her, but an impulse moved Lettice which she could not resist. At the moment when the other turned her head she beckoned to her with her hand, and quickly threw up the sash of the window.

"Mon Dieu!" said Cora, coming up close to her, "is it really you? What do you want with me?"

"Come in! I must speak to you."

"I love you not, Lettice Campion, and you love not me. What would you?"

"I have a message for you—come inside."

"A message! Sapristi! Then I must know it. Open your door."

Lettice closed the window and the shutters, and brought her visitor inside.

The woman of the study and the woman of the pavement looked at each other, standing face to face for some minutes without speaking a word. They were a contrast of civilization, whom nature had not intended to contrast, and it would have been difficult to find a stronger antagonism between two women who under identical training and circumstances might have been expected to develop similar tastes, and character, and bearing. Both had strong and well-turned figures, above the middle height, erect and striking, both had noble features, natural grace and vivacity, constitutions which fitted them for keen enjoyment and zest in life. But from their infancy onward they had been subjected to influences as different as it is possible to imagine. To one duty had been the ideal and the guide of existence; the other had been taught to aim at pleasure as the supreme good. One had ripened into a self-sacrificing woman, to whom a spontaneous feeling of duty was more imperative than the rules and laws in which she had been trained; the other had degenerated into a wretched slave of her instincts, for whom the pursuit of pleasure had become a hateful yet inevitable servitude. Perhaps, as they stood side by side, the immeasurable distance which divided them mind from mind and body from body was apparent to both. Perhaps each thought at that moment of the man whose life they had so deeply affected—perhaps each realized what Alan Walcott must have thought and felt about the other.

"Why have you brought me here?" said Cora at last in a defiant voice.

"It was a sudden thought. I saw you, and I wanted to speak to you."

"Then you have no message as you pretended? You are very polite, mademoiselle. You are pleased to amuse yourself at my expense?"

"No, I am not amusing myself," said Lettice. There was a ring of sadness in her tones, which did not escape Cora's attention. She argued weakness from it, and grew more bold.

"Are you not afraid?" she said, menacingly. "Do you not think that I have the power to hurt—as I have hurt you before—the power, and, still more, the will?"

"I am not afraid."

"Not afraid! You are hatefully quiet and impassive, just like—ah, like all your race! Are you always so cold and still? Have you no blood in your veins?"

"If you will sit down," said Lettice steadily, "I will tell you something that you ought to know. It is useless trying to frighten me with your threats. Sit down and rest if you will; I will get you food or coffee, if you care for either. But there is something that I want to say."

Cora stared at her scornfully. "Food! Coffee! Do you think I am starving?" she asked, with a savage little laugh. "I have as much money as I want—more than you are ever likely to have, mademoiselle. You are very naive, mon enfant. You invite me into your room—Lettice Campion invites Cora Walcott into her room!—where nobody knows us, nobody could trace us—and you quietly ask me to eat and drink! Eat and drink in this house? It is so likely! How am I to tell, for example, if your coffee is not poisoned? You would not be very sorry if I were to die! Parbleu, if you want to poison me, you should tempt me with brandy or champagne. Have you neither of those to offer me?"

Lettice had drawn back at the first hint of this insinuation, with a look of irrepressible disgust. She answered coldly, "I have neither brandy nor champagne to give you."

"Allons, donc! Why do I stay here then?" said Cora jumping up from the chair where she had seated herself. "This is very wearisome. Your idea was not very clever, Mademoiselle Lettice; you should lay your plans better if you want to trick a woman like me."

"Why should I wish to trick you?" said Lettice, with grave, quiet scorn. "What object could I have in killing you?"

"Ma foi, what object should you not have? Revenge, of course. Have I not injured you? have I not taken away your good name already? All who know you have heard my story, and many who do not know you; and nearly every one of them believes it to be true. You robbed me of my husband, mademoiselle, you know it; and you have but too good reason to wish me dead, in order that you may take a wife's place at the convict's side."

"You are mad. Listen to me——"

"I will listen to nothing. I will speak now. I will give you a last warning. Do you know what this is?"

She took a bottle from her pocket, a bottle of fluted, dark-colored glass, and held it in her hand.

"Look! This is vitriol, the friend of the injured and the defenceless. I have carried it with me ever since I followed my husband to your house at Brook Green, and saw you making signals to him at midnight. I came once after that, and knocked at your door, intending then to avenge my wrongs; but you had gone away, and I was brutally treated by your police. But if I could not punish you I could punish him, for he belonged to me and not to you, and I had a right to make him suffer. I have made him suffer a little, it seems to me. Wait—I have more to say. Shall I make him suffer more? I have punished you through him; shall I punish him through you? For he would not like you to be maimed and disfigured through life: his sensitive soul would writhe, would it not? to know that you were suffering pain. Do you know what this magic water is? It stings and bites and eats away the flesh—it will blind you so that you can never see him again; and it will mar your white face so that he will never want to look at you. This is what I carry about for you."

Lettice watched the hand that held the bottle; but in truth she thought very little of the threat. Death had done for her already what this woman was talking about. Alan was past the love or vengeance of either of them, and all her pleasure in life was gone for ever.

"I thought I should find you here," Cora went on, "waiting at the prison for your lover! But I am waiting for him, too. I am his wife still. I have the right to wait for him, and you have not. And if you are there when he comes out, I shall stay my hand no longer. I warn you; so be prepared. But perhaps"—and she lifted the bottle, while her eyes flamed with dangerous light, and her voice sank to a sharp whisper—"perhaps it would be better to settle the question now!"

"The question," said Lettice, with almost unnatural calm of manner, "is settled for us. Alan has left his prison. Your husband is dead."

The woman gazed at her in stupefaction. Her hand fell to her side, and the light died out of her bold black eyes.

"Alan dead!' What is it you say? How do you know?"

"He had a fever in the jail to which you sent him. He has been at death's door for many weeks. Not an hour ago a warder came here and said that he was dead. Are you satisfied with your work?"

"My work?" said Cora, drawing back. "I have not killed him!"

"Yes," said Lettice, a surge of bitter anger rising in her heart, "yes, you have killed him, as surely as you tried to kill him with your pistol at Aix-les-Bains, and with his own dagger in Surrey Street. You are a murderess, and you know it well. But for you, Alan Walcott would still be living an honorable, happy life. You have stabbed him to the heart, and he is dead. That is the message I have to give you—to tell you that you have killed him, and that he is gone to a land where your unnatural hate can no longer follow him!"

Lettice stood over the cowering woman, strong and unpitying in her stern indignation, lifted out of all thought of herself by the intensity of her woe. Cora shrank away from her, slipping the bottle into her pocket, and even covertly making the sign of the cross as Lettice's last words fell upon her ear—words that sounded to her untutored imagination like a curse. But she could not be subdued for long. She stood silent for a few moments when Lettice ceased to speak, but finally a forced laugh issued from the lips that had grown pale beneath her paint.

"Tiens!" she said. "You will do the mourning for us both, it seems. Well, as I never loved him, you cannot expect me to cry at his death. And I shall get his money, I suppose; the money that he grudged me in his lifetime: it will be mine now, and I can spend it as I choose. I thank you for your information, mademoiselle, and I pardon you the insults which you have heaped upon my head to-night. If I have my regrets, I do not exhibit them in your fashion. Good-night, mademoiselle: il me faut absolument de l'eau de vie—I can wait for it no longer. Bon soir!"

She turned and left the house as rapidly as she had come. Lettice sank down upon a couch, and hid her face in the cushion. She could not shed a tear, but she was trembling from head to foot, and felt sick and faint.

As Cora sauntered along the pavement, turning her head restlessly from side to side, her attention was caught by a young woman carrying a child, who went in at Lettice's door. Mrs. Walcott stopped short, and put her finger to her forehead with a bewildered air. "Now where have I seen that face?" she muttered to herself.

After a moment's reflection, she burst into a short, harsh laugh, and snapped her fingers at the blind of Lettice's room. "I know now," she said. "Oh yes, I know where I have seen that face before. This will justify me in the eyes of the world as nothing else has done. Bon soir, Madame Lettice. Oh, I have a new weapon against you now."

And then she went upon her way, leaving behind her the echo of her wicked laugh upon the still night air.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

A BRAVE PURPOSE.

If Lettice had not seen Cora when she did, she would probably have gone to the prison that evening, to ask whether she could not arrange for Alan's funeral, as she could not arrange for his release. Her spirit was crushed by the blow which had fallen on her, but she could not give way so long as his body was there to receive the last token of her love. When the Frenchwoman left her it was too late to see Captain Haynes, even if she had been physically able to make the attempt.

It never occurred to her to think that any mistake could have been made in the information she had received from her landlady. The struggle which had been going on in her mind, the consciousness that she had broken with all her old friends, the exaltation which had possessed her since she resolved to give to Alan all that was possible for her to give, or seemed to be worth her giving, the death of his aunt and the thought of his loneliness, had combined to make her nervously apprehensive. As soon as she had settled down under the shadow of the prison walls, the idea took hold of her with unaccountable force that the life of Alan was hanging by a thread, and the news of his death came to her only as the full confirmation of her fears.

But, as it happened, there was another man in the prison named Walters, who had been convicted of an assault upon his wife some time previously, and had been ill for many months of an internal complaint which was certain, sooner or later, to end fatally.

A sleepless night brought Lettice no ray of hope, and it was with a heavy and despairing heart that she went to the governor's residence next morning, and sent up to him the note which she had written before leaving her room.

Captain Haynes remembered her former visit, and being disengaged at the moment, he came down at once.

"My dear lady," he said, bustling into the room, "what is the meaning of this letter? What makes you talk of burying your friend? He has been in this tomb of stone long enough to purge him of all his offenses, and I am sure you don't want to bury him alive again!"

Lettice started to her feet, gazed at the speaker with straining eyes, and pressed her hands upon her tumultuous heart.

"Is—he—alive?" she gasped, in scarcely audible words.

"Of course he is alive! I told you when you were here before that he was out of danger. All he wants now is careful nursing and cheerful company; and I must say that you don't quite look as if you could give him either."

"Alive—alive! Thank God!"

A great wave of tenderness swept through her heart, and gushed from her eyes in tears that were eloquent of happiness.

"I was told that he was dead!" She looked at the governor with a smile which disarmed his bluff tongue.

"I am on the borderland of a romance," he thought, "and a romance of which the ending will be pleasanter than the beginning, unless I am much mistaken. This is not the wife; it is the woman he was writing his verses to before he took the fever. The doctor says she has written the best novel of the year. Novels and poetry—umph! not much in my line."

Then aloud, "you are under a mistake. A man named Walters died yesterday; perhaps that is how you have been misled. Some rumor of his death must have got abroad. Mr. Walcott is getting over his illness very nicely; but he will need a good rest, good food, and as much cheerfulness as you can give him. I told him, just now, that you had arranged to meet him to-morrow, and I fancy it roused him more than anything Dr. Savill has done for him. I must wish you good-morning, madam!—but let me impress upon you again, before you go, that he is to be kept perfectly quiet, free from anxiety, and as cheerful as you can manage to make him."

Captain Haynes was rather ashamed of the laxity into which Miss Campion had drawn him. He was not accustomed to display so much sympathy with his prisoners, whatever he may have felt in his own mind. But, to be sure, the case was quite exceptional. He did not have prisoners like Alan or visitors like Lettice every day. So he had no difficulty in finding excuses for himself.

Lettice walked on air as she came out of the precincts of the jail, which had now lost all its terrors. In less than twenty-four hours she was to come again, and transport her hero—whom the dense and cruel world had branded as a criminal—from slavery to freedom, from misery to peace and joy. The world had cast him out; well, then, let the world stand aside, that she might give this man what was his due.

What would she say to him? Ah, she dare not think of that beforehand!

What would she do for him? For one thing, she would give him back his self-respect. He had been the object of scorn and the victim of lying scandals. He should find that the woman he loved intended from henceforth to take those paltry burdens on herself, and to know no other praise or merit than that which came to her from him.

He had borne troubles and suffered injuries which before now had driven men to suicide, or madness, or self-abandonment. In order to save him from any of these things she meant to give herself into his hands, without terms or conditions, in order that the wrong-doing of the world might be righted by her act, were it ever so little.

Who could call that a sacrifice which made her heart so light, her step so elastic, her eyes so bright with hope and satisfaction? It was no sacrifice, but a triumph and reward of the highest kind that she was preparing for herself. How should she not be happy?

There was no time to be lost if she was to provide all that was necessary for the well-being and comfort of her patient before to-morrow morning. Everything had to be done at the last moment. She had been so long in coming to a definite and final resolution to treat this friendless discharged prisoner as a hero and a king, that it was almost too late to make arrangements. Why had she not done yesterday something of what she had left to be done to-day? She scarcely realized to herself that her mind was only just made up. That facile belief in the report of Alan's death was only the outcome of her distress and perplexity—of the failure of her courage on the threshold of decision and action.

With a cold shudder she thought of the dust which she had unwittingly thrown in Cora's eyes. She had told her that her husband was dead, and the tale had been readily believed, for the very opposite reason to that which had prevailed with herself. She had been convinced by her fears—Cora by her hopes and greed. And now she could not undeceive the woman, for she did not know where to find her. Would she if she could? Perhaps it was the the best thing which could have happened; for it would be terrible if Alan were to step out of his prison back into the hell on earth which that woman had created for him.

Well, now, at any rate, she must devote herself to the task which she had undertaken. She felt as a sister might feel who had been suddenly commissioned to provide a home within twenty-four hours for an invalided traveler; and she set about the work with enthusiasm.

She began by taking Milly in some measure into her confidence, and giving her a number of directions as to what she was to do in the course of the day. Then she hired a cab, and went to a house-agent whose name she remembered. That seemed the quickest way of getting what she wanted—a small furnished house, cheerful and yet retired, which she could take at any rate for a month, and for longer if she needed it. The agent by good chance had the very thing she asked for. He turned over the leaves of his register, and presently came upon a desirable bijou residence, plainly but adequately furnished, containing three reception rooms and five bedrooms, conservatory, with large and well-stocked garden, lawn and shrubbery, coach-house and stable. Vacant for three months; very moderate terms to a suitable tenant. That sounded well. The "very moderate terms" came to something more than Lettice wanted to give; but she had a hundred pounds in her pocket, and a spirit which disdained to grudge in such a service.

So, having journeyed to Chiswick, and found Bute Lodge to be, if not precisely a jewel amongst lodges, at any rate clean and comfortable, she came back to the agent with an offer to take it from month to month, and with a roll of notes ready to clinch the bargain. Money is the best reference, as she found when she paid a month's rent on the spot, and promised that all her payments should be in advance. But, as the agent had asked her for a reference of another kind, Lettice, who had expected this demand, and was prepared for it, gave the name of James Graham. She ought not to have made use of him without asking him beforehand. She might have referred to the owner of Maple Cottage, where she had lived when last in London, or even to her publisher. But she wanted to go and see her old friend Clara; and, woman-like, did a more important thing to serve as a pretext for a less important.

Clara Graham was delighted to see her again, and the two women had a long and confidential talk.

"I, at any rate," said Clara, "have never doubted his innocence, and I was sure that you would not."

"Yet you never told me what troubles had fallen upon him!"

"My dear, I thought you must have heard about it all. But the fact was that James asked me not to mention the trial. Remember, you were not well at the time; and it was a difficult case. I could not quite assume that your interest would be strong enough to justify me in risking the loss of your health—perhaps of your life. Really, it is a hard question to deal with—like one of those cases of conscience (didn't they call them?) which men used to argue for the sake of having something to do. I stood up for poor Mr. Walcott with my husband; but you know it is useless to argue against him."