Oh, the horror of it—the burning, unspeakable horror! In his ears there seemed to come ringing from the world without the great hum of gossip and lies which were dragging his name down into hell. A murderer! The time might come when she too would think thus of him, when the tragedy of her first love might fade away, and the lovelight might flash again in her eyes, but not for him. He shook his head wildly, stretched out his hands as though to hide something from his quivering face, and barely suppressed the groan of deep agony which trembled on his lips. God in His mercy keep him from such thoughts! Death, disgrace, surpassing humiliation, let them float in their ghostly garments before his shuddering gaze, but keep that thought from him, for with it madness moved hand in hand. As Michael Angelo had stifled his grief at Vittoria Colonna's death, in the sweet hope of rejoining her as soon as the last lingering breath should leave his mortal body, and as Dante had hoped for his Beatrice, so let him think of the woman without whom no human life was possible for him, almost, he cried out in his agony, no spiritual hope or longing.

The sound of the key in the lock of his door, and the tramp of footsteps on the stone floor outside, awoke him with a start from his half-dreaming state. The thought of visitors being permitted to come had never occurred to him, nor did it even then. The footsteps had paused outside his door, but he felt no interest in them, nor ever the vaguest stirrings of curiosity. Then the harsh lock was turned with a grating sound, and two figures, followed by the prison warder, entered the room.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

"THERE IS MY HAND. DARE YOU TAKE IT?"

There is nothing which can transport one so quickly from thoughtland to acute and comprehensive realization, as the sound of a human voice or the consciousness of a human presence. Like a flash it all came back to the lonely occupant of the prison cell—the personal degradation of his position, his surroundings, and everything connected with them. And with it, too, came a strong, keen desire to bear himself like a man before her father.

He rose to his feet, and the pitiful bareness of the place seemed to become suddenly enhanced by the quiet dignity of his demeanor. Out of the gloom Mr. Thurwell came forward with outstretched hand, followed by another gentleman—a stranger. Between the two men, that one long ray of sunlight lay across the stone floor, and as Bernard Maddison stepped forward to meet his visitor, it gleamed for a moment upon his white, haggard face, worn and stricken, yet retaining all that quiet force and delicacy of expression which seemed like the index of his inward life. It was the face of a poet, of a dreamer, a visionary perhaps—but a criminal! the thing seemed impossible.

"This is very good of you, Mr. Thurwell," he said in a low but clear tone. "I scarcely expected that I should be permitted to see visitors."

Mr. Thurwell grasped his hand, and held it for a moment without speaking. He had all an Englishman's reticence of speech in times of great emotion, and it seemed to him that there was nothing that he could say. But silence was very eloquent.

"I have brought Mr. Dewes with me," he said at last. "He wants to see you about the defence, you know. The high sheriff's a friend of mine, so I got him to pass me in at the same time; but if you'd rather see Dewes alone, you'll say so, won't you?"

There had been an acute nervous force working in Bernard Maddison's face during that brief silence. At Mr. Thurwell's words, a change came. He dropped his visitor's hand, and his features were still and cold as marble, and almost as expressionless, save for the lightly drawn lips, and lowered eyebrows, which gave to his expression a fixed look of power.

"That is very kind and thoughtful of you, Mr. Thurwell, and I am sorry that you should have had the trouble to no purpose. I have nothing to add to my previous decision. I will not be represented by either lawyer or counsel."

Mr. Dewes moved forward out of the background, and bowed. He was a handsome, middle-aged man, looking more like a cavalry officer than a solicitor. But, as everyone knew, so far as criminal cases were concerned, he was the cleverest lawyer in London.

"You are relying upon your innocence, of course, Mr. Maddison," he said; "but it is a very great mistake to suppose that it will establish itself without extraneous aid. You will have the Attorney-General against you, and you must have some one of the same caliber on your side. The old saying, 'Truth will out,' does not apply in an assize court. It requires to be dragged out. I think you will do well to accept my services. Roberts holds himself open to take the brief for your defence, if I wire him before midday."

"I seldom change my mind," Bernard Maddison said quietly. "In the present case I shall not do so. If it seems to me that there is anything which should be said on my behalf, I shall say it myself."

There was a short silence. Mr. Dewes looked at Mr. Thurwell, and Mr. Thurwell looked both perplexed and worried.

"Maddison, you must admit that yours is an extraordinary decision," he said at last. "You must forgive me if I ask you in plain words what your reason is for it. I ask as one who is willing to be your friend in this matter; and I ask you as Helen's father."

A sudden spasm of pain passed across Bernard Maddison's face. He shrunk back a little, and when he spoke his voice sounded hollow and strained.

"I do not deny you the right to ask—but I cannot tell you. Simply it is my will. It is best so. It must be so."

"Can you not see, Mr. Maddison," the lawyer said quietly, "that to some people this will seem almost like a tacit admission of guilt?"

"I shall plead 'not guilty,'" he answered in a low tone.

"That will be looked upon only as a matter of form," Mr. Dewes remarked. "Mr. Maddison, I should not be doing my duty if I did not point out to you that the evidence against you is terribly strong. Just consider it yourself, only for a moment. Sir Geoffrey Kynaston is known to have seriously wronged a member of your family. You are known to have sworn an oath of vengeance against him. There are witnesses coming from abroad to prove that. Immediately on his return to his home you take a cottage, under an assumed name, close to his estate. He is found murdered close to that cottage, of which it seems that at that time you were the only occupant. You are the only person known to have been near the spot. The dagger is proved to be yours. Letters are found in your cabinet urging you to desist from your threatened vengeance. There is the stain of blood on the floor of your study, near the place where you would have washed your hands, and a blood-stained towel is found hidden in the room. All this and more can be proved, and unless you can throw a fresh light upon these things, there is no jury in the world that would not find you guilty. You hold your fate in your own hands."

"I have considered all this," Bernard Maddison answered in a low tone. "I know that my case is almost hopeless, and I am prepared for the worst."

Mr. Thurwell turned away, and walked to the furthermost corner of the apartment. For his daughter's sake, and for the sake of his own strong liking for this man, he had resolutely shut his eyes upon the damning chain of evidence against him. Now he felt that that he could do so no longer. Nothing but guilt could account for this strange reticence. He was forced to admit it at last. His compassion was still strong, but it was mingled with a great horror. He felt that he must get away as soon as possible.

Mr. Dewes, who had all along had the most profound conviction of the guilt of the accused man seized his opportunity, and stepping close up to him, whispered in his ear:

"Mr. Maddison, I should like to save you if I can. There have been cases—forgive me for suggesting it—in which, by knowing every circumstance and trifling detail connected with a crime, we have been able to build up a def——"

Bernard Maddison drew himself up with a sudden hauteur, and raised his hand.

"Stop, Mr. Dewes!" he said firmly. "I do not blame you for assuming what you do, but you are mistaken. I am not guilty. I do not ask you to believe it. I only ask you to bring this painful interview to an end."

"We will go," said Mr. Thurwell, suddenly advancing from the other end of the cell. "I am not your judge, Bernard Maddison, and it is not for me to hold you guilty. God shall pass His own judgment upon you. There is my hand. Dare you take it?"

For answer, Bernard Maddison stepped forward and clasped it in his own. Once more he had moved from out of the darkness, and a soft stream of sunshine fell upon his pallid face. White though it was, even to ghastliness, it betrayed no sign of blanching or fear, and his dark eyes, from their hollow depths, shone with a clear, steadfast light. Once more its calm spirituality, the effortless force which seemed to lurk in every line and feature of the pale wasted countenance, had its effect upon Mr. Thurwell. He wrung the hand which it had cost him a suppressed effort to take, and for the moment his doubts faded away.

"God help you, Maddison!" he said fervently. "Shall I tell her anything from you?"

A faint smile parted his tremulous lips. At that moment he was beyond earthly suffering. A sweet, strong power had filled his heart with peace.

"Tell her not to grieve, and that I am innocent," he said softly. "Farewell!"



CHAPTER XXXIX

MR. BENJAMIN LEVY IS BUSY

A woman stood on the little stone piazza of that Italian villa, with her face raised in agony to the blue sky, and her thin white hands wrung together with frantic nervous strength. Her whole attitude was full of the hopeless abandonment of a great tearless grief; and slowly dawning passion, long a stranger to her calm face, was creeping into her features. On the ground, spurned beneath her feet, was a long official-looking letter and envelope. A thunderbolt had flashed down upon the sweet stillness of her serene life.

She was quite alone, and she looked out upon an unbroken solitude—that fair neglected garden with its high walls which seemed to give it an air of peculiar exclusiveness.

"I will not go," she said, speaking quickly to herself in an odd, uneven tone. "The law of England shall not make me. I am an old woman. If they do, they cannot open my lips. I! to stand up in one of their courts, and tell the story of my shame, that they may listen and condemn my son. Oh, Bernard, Bernard, Bernard! The Lord have mercy upon you for this your crime! Mine was the sin. Mine should be the guilt. Oh, my God, my God! Is this just, in my old age, to pour down this fire of punishment upon my bowed head? Have I not suffered and done penance—ay, until I had even thought that I had won for myself peace and rest and forgiveness? Was it a sin to think so? Is this my punishment? Oh, Bernard, my son, my son! Let not the sin be his, O Lord. It is mine—mine only!"

Sweet perfumes were floating upon the soft still air, and away on the hill sides the morning mists were rolling away. The sun's warmth fell upon the earth and the flowers, and birds and humming insects were glad. And in the midst of it all she stood there, a silent, stony figure, grief and anguish and despair written in her worn face. God was dealing very hardly with her, she cried in her agony. Truly sin was everlasting.

"Signorina!"

She turned round with a start. A servant girl stood by her side with a card on a salver.

"A gentleman to see the signorina," she announced; "an English gentleman."

The woman turned pale with fear, and her fingers trembled. She would not even glance at the name on the card.

"Tell him that I see no one. I am ill. I will not see him, be his business what it may. Do you hear, child? Go and send him away."

The girl curtsied and disappeared. Her mistress stepped back into the room, and listened fearfully. Soon there came what she had dreaded, the sound of an altercation. She could hear Nicolette protesting in her shrill patois, and a rather vulgar, but very determined English voice, vigorously asserting itself. Then there came the sound of something almost like a scuffle, and Nicolette came running in with red eyes.

"Signorina, the brute, the brute!" she cried; "he will come in. He dared to lay his hands upon me. See, he is here! Oh, that Marco had been in the house! He should have beaten him, the dog, the coward, to oppose a woman's will by force!"

While she had been sobbing out her complaint, her assailant had followed up his advantage, and Mr. Benjamin Levy, in a rather loud check suit, and with a cringing air, but with a certain dogged determination in his manner, appeared. Mrs. Martival turned to him with quiet dignity, but with flashing eyes.

"Sir, by what right do you dare to enter my house by force, and against my command? I will not speak with you or know your business. I will have no communication with you."

"Then your son will be hanged!" Mr. Benjamin said, with unaccustomed bluntness.

Mrs. Martival trembled, and sank into a chair. Mr. Benjamin followed up his advantage.

"I am not from the police. I have no connection with them. On the other hand, I am considerably interested in saving your son, and I tell you that I can put into your hands the means of doing so. Now, will you listen to me?"

Something in Mrs. Martival's face checked him. The features had suddenly become rigid, and an ashy pallor had stolen over them. Nicolette, who had been lingering in the room, suddenly threw herself on her knees beside her mistress's side, and caught hold of her hands.

"Oh, the wretch!" she cried, "the miserable wretch; he has killed my mistress!"

He stood helplessly by while she ran backwards and forwards with cold water, smelling salts, and other restoratives, keeping up all the while a running fire of scathing comments upon his heartless conduct, of which, needless to say, he understood not a single word. Beneath his breath he cursed this unlucky fainting fit. He had already lost a day on the way, and the time was short. What if she were to be ill—too ill to be moved! The very thought made him restless and uneasy.

In the midst of the confusion Mrs. Martival's housekeeper returned from her marketing in the little town, and to his relief he found that she understood English. He interrupted Nicolette's shrill torrents of abuse against him, and briefly explained the situation.

"I do not wish to force myself upon her," he said. "I do not wish to be troublesome in any way. But when she is conscious, I want you just to show her half a dozen words which I will write on the back of a card. If, when she has read them, she still wishes me to go, I will do so without attempting to see her again."

The woman nodded.

"Very well," she said; "wait outside."

He left the room and walked softly up and down the passage, eyeing with some contempt the rich faded curtains and quaint artistic furniture about the place, so unlike the gilded glories of his own taste. In about half an hour the housekeeper came out to him.

"She is conscious now," she said; "give me your message."

He gave her a card on which he had already penciled a few words, and waited, terribly anxious, for the result. The woman withdrew, and closed the door. For a moment there was silence. Then a wild, fierce cry rang out from the room and echoed through the house. Before it had died away the door was flung open, and she stood on the threshold, her white hair streaming down her back, and every vestige of color gone from her face. Her eyes, too, shone with a feverish glow which fascinated him.

"Is it you who wrote this?" she cried, holding up the card clenched in her trembling fingers. "If you are a man, tell me, is it true?"

"I believe it is," he answered. "In my own mind, I am certain that it is. You are the only person who can prove it. I want you to come to England with me."

"I am ready," she said. "When can we start?"

He looked at his watch.

"I will be here in half an hour with a carriage," he said. "If we can get over the hills by midday, we shall catch the express."

"Go, then," she said calmly; "I shall be waiting for you."

He hurried away, and soon returned with a carriage from the inn. In less than an hour they had commenced their journey to England.

* * * * *

It was an early summer evening in Mayfair, and Sir Allan Beaumerville stood on the balcony of his bijou little house, for which he had lately deserted the more stately family mansion in Grosvenor Square. There was a soft pleasant stillness in the air, and a gentle rustling of green leaves among the trees. The streets below were almost blocked with streams of carriages and hansoms, for the season was not yet over, and it was fast approaching the fashionable dinner hour. Overhead, in somewhat curious contrast, the stars were shining in a deep cloudless sky, and a golden-horned moon hung down in the west.

Sir Allan was himself dressed for the evening, with an orchid in his buttonhole, and a light overcoat on his arm. In the street, his night brougham, with its pair of great thoroughbred horses, stood waiting. Yet he made no movement toward it. He did not appear to be waiting for anyone, nor was he watching the brilliant throng passing westward. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy, and there was a certain steadfast, rapt look in them which altered his expression curiously. Sir Allan Beaumerville seldom used his powers of reflection save for practical purposes. Just then, however, he was departing from his usual custom. Strange ghosts of a strange past were flitting through his mind. Old passions, which had long lain undisturbed, were sweeping through him, old dreams were revived, old memories kindled once more smoldering fires, and aided at the resurrection of a former self. The cold man-of-the-world philosophy, which had ruled his life for many years, seemed suddenly conquered by this upheaval of a stormy past. Under the influence of the serene night, the starlit sky, and the force of these old memories, he seemed to realize more than he had ever done before the littleness of his life, its colorless egotism, the barrenness of its routine. Like a flash it stood glaringly out before him. Stripped of all its intellectual furbishing, the chill selfishness of the creed he had adopted struck home to his heart. A finite life, with a finite goal—annihilation! Had it really ever satisfied him? Could it satisfy anyone? A great weariness crept in upon him. Epicureanism could have been carried no further than he had carried it. He had steeped his senses in the most refined and voluptuous pleasures civilization had to offer him. Where was the afterglow? Was this all that remained? A palled appetite, a hungry heart, and a cold, chill despair! What comfort could his much-studied philosophy afford him? It had satisfied the brain; had it nothing to offer the heart? Something within him seemed to repeat the word with a grim echo. Nothing! nothing! nothing!

What was it that caused his eyes to droop till they rested upon two figures on the opposite pavement? He could not tell whence the power, and yet he obeyed the impulse. They glanced over the man with indifference and met the woman's upturned gaize. And Sir Allan Beaumerville stood like a figure of stone, with a deathlike pallor in his marble face.

The stream of carriages swept on, and the motley crowds of men and women passed on their way unnoticing. Little they knew that a tragedy was being played out before their very eyes. A few noticed that stately white-haired lady gazing strangely at the house across the way, and a few too saw the figure of the man on whom her eyes were bent. But no one could read what passed between them. That lay in their own hearts.

Interruption came at last. Mr. Benjamin Levy's excitement mastered his patience. He asked the question which had been trembling on his lips.

"Is it he?"

She started, and laid her hand upon his shoulder for support. She was very much shaken.

"Yes. See, he is beckoning. He wants me. I shall go to him. May God give me strength!"

She moved forward to cross the road. He caught hold of her arm in sudden fear.

"You mustn't think of it," he exclaimed. "You will spoil everything. I want you to come with me to—D—n! Come back, I say; come back! Curse the woman!"

He stood on the pavement, fuming. She had glided from his grasp, and his words had fallen upon deaf ears. Already she was half across the road. The door of Sir Allan's house stood open, and a servant was hurrying down to meet her. At that moment Mr. Benjamin Levy felt distinctly ill-used.

"D—d old fool!" he muttered to himself angrily. "Hi, hansom, Scotland Yard, and drive like blazes! The game's getting exciting, at any rate," he added. "It was mine easy before that last move; now it's a blessed toss up which way it goes. Well, I'll back my luck. I rather reckon I stand to win still, if Miss Thurwell acts on the square."



CHAPTER XL

A STRANGE BIRTHDAY PARTY

It was close upon midnight, and one of the oldest and most exclusive of West-end clubs was in a state of great bustle and excitement. Sir Allan Beaumerville was giving a supper party to his friends to celebrate his sixtieth birthday, and the guests were all assembled.

Sir Allan himself was the last to arrive. The final touches had been given to the brilliantly decorated supper table, and the chef, who had done his best for the greatest connoisseur and the most liberal member in the club, had twice looked at his watch. As midnight struck, however, Sir Allan's great black horses turned into Pall Mall, and a few minutes later he was quietly welcoming his guests, and leading the way into the room which had been reserved for the occasion.

As a rule men are not quick at noticing one another's looks, but to-night more than one person remarked upon a certain change in their host's appearance.

"Beaumerville's getting quite the old man," remarked Lord Lathon, as he helped himself to an ortolan. "Looks jolly white about the gills to-night, doesn't he?"

His neighbor, a barrister and wearer of the silk, adjusted his eyeglass and looked down the table.

"Gad, he does!" he answered. "Looks as though he's had a shock."

"Not at all in his usual form, at any rate," put in Mr. Thurwell, sotto voce, from the other side of the table.

"Queer thing, but he seems to remind me of some one to-night," Lord Lathon remarked to the Home Secretary, who was on the other side. "Can't remember who it is, though. It's some fellow who's in a devil of a scrape, I know. Who the mischief is it?"

"You mean Maddison, don't you?" Sir Philip Roden answered. "Plenty of people have noticed that. There is a likeness, certainly."

"By Jove, there is, though!" Lord Lathon assented; "I never noticed it before. I'm devilish sorry for Maddison, Roden, and I hope you won't let them hang him."

The conversation turned upon the Maddison case and became general. Everybody had something to say about it except Sir Allan. He himself, it was noticed, forbore to pass any opinion at all, and at the first opportunity he diverted the talk into another channel.

The quality of his guests spoke volumes for the social position and popularity of their entertainer. Probably there were not half a dozen men in London who could have got together so brilliant and select an assembly. There were only twenty, but every man was a man of note. Politics were represented by the Home Secretary, Sir Philip Roden, and the First Lord of the Treasury; the peerage by the Duke of Leicester and the Earl of Lathon. There were two judges, and a half a dozen Q.C.'s, the most popular novelist of the day, and the most renowned physician. A prince might have entertained such a company with honor.

It had been arranged that the advent of cigars should be the signal for the Duke of Leicester to rise and propose their host's health. But to the surprise of every one, whilst his grace was preparing for the ordeal, and was on the point of rising, Sir Allan himself slowly rose to his feet, with a look in his still, cold face so different from anything that might be expected of a man who rises at two o'clock in the morning after a capital supper to make a speech to his guests, that every one's attention was at once arrested.

"I am given to understand, gentlemen," he said slowly, "that his grace the Duke of Leicester was about to propose my health on your behalf. I rise to prevent this for two reasons. First, because to a dying man such a toast could only be a mockery; the second reason will be sufficiently apparent when I have said what I have to say to you."

Every one was stupefied. Had their host suddenly gone mad, or had those empty bottles of Heidseck which had just been removed from his end of the table anything to do with it? Several murmurs for an explanation arose.

"I had forgotten for the moment," Sir Allan continued, "that none of you are yet aware of what I have only known myself during the last few days. I am suffering from acute heart disease, which may terminate fatally at any moment."

A sudden awed gloom fell upon the party. Cigars were put down, and shocked glances exchanged. A murmur of condolence arose, but Sir Allan checked it with a little gesture.

"I need scarcely say that I did not ask you to meet me here this evening to tell you this," he continued. "My object is a different one. I have a confession to make."

The general bewilderment increased. The air of festivity was replaced by a dull restrained silence. Could it be that their host's illness had affected his brain? A painful impression to that effect had passed into the minds of more than one of them.

"You will say, perhaps," Sir Allan continued, speaking very slowly, and with a certain difficulty in his articulation, which did not, however, prevent every word from being distinctly audible, "that I am choosing a strange time and place for making a personal statement. But I see amongst those who have done me the honor of becoming my guests to-night, men whom I should wish to know the whole truth from my own lips—I refer more particularly to you, Sir Philip Roden—and to-night is my last opportunity, for to-morrow all London will know my story, and I shall be banned forever from all converse and intercourse with my fellow-men.

"Very few words will tell my story. Most of you will remember that I came into my title and fortune late in life. My youth was spent in comparative poverty abroad, sometimes practicing my profession, sometimes living merely as a student and an experimenting scientist. In my thirtieth year I married a woman of good family, with whom I was very much in love, so much so that in order to win her I forged a letter from the man whom she would otherwise have married, and obtained her consent in a fit of indignation at his supposed infidelity. That man, gentleman, was Sir Geoffrey Kynaston."

There was a subdued murmur of astonishment. Every one's interest was suddenly redoubled. Sir Allan proceeded, standing at the head of the table, motionless as a statue, but with a strange look in his white face.

"In every possible way I failed in my duty as a husband toward my wife. She was light-hearted, fond of change, gayety, travel. I shut her up in a quiet, old-fashioned town while I pursued my studies, and expected her to content herself with absolute solitude. For years I crushed the life out of her by withdrawing every interest and every amusement from her life. We had one child only, a son.

"From bad, things grew to worse. What I had dreaded came to pass. She discovered my treachery. Still, she was faithful to me, but we were husband and wife in name only.

"Time passed on, and she made a few friends, and went out occasionally. Then, who should come by accident to the little town where we lived but Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. I was madly, insanely jealous, and I forbade my wife to meet him. She declined to obey me, and she was quite right to do so. At that time she was as faithful to me as any woman could be, and she treated my suspicions, as they deserved to be treated, with contempt. Sir Geoffrey and she met as friends, and if it had not been for my brutality they would never have met in any other way.

"One night there was a fete and dance in our little town. My wife went, against my orders, and Sir Geoffrey escorted her home. A demon of jealousy entered into my soul that night. Although all the time I knew that my wife was faithful to me, the worse half of my nature whispered to me that she was not, and, wretch that I was, I stooped to listen to it. When she returned I was mad with a fit of ungovernable rage. I shut my doors against her, and refused to allow her to enter my house. I taunted her with her infidelity. I bade her go to her lover. She went to some friends, and for two days she waited for a message from me. I sent none, and on the third day she left the place with Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. In less than a month she was in a convent, and from that day to this she has lived the life of a holy woman."

There was a slight tremor in his voice for the first time, and he paused. The silence was profound. Everyone sat motionless. Everyone's eyes were fixed upon him. In a moment he continued.

"Although by sheer brutality, by coarse insults and undeviating cruelty, I had driven my wife to the edge of the precipice, my rage against the man, whom I knew she had always loved, burned as fiercely as though he had won her from me by the cruelest means. I followed them to Vienna, and insulted him publicly. My wife left him on that very night, and he has never seen her since; but Sir Geoffrey and I fought on the sands near Boulogne, and I strove my utmost to kill him. Fortune was against me, however, and I was wounded. I returned to my home with my thirst for vengeance unabated. I taught my son to curse the name of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, and as soon as I had recovered from my wounds I hunted him all over Europe. Where he spent those years I cannot tell, but he eluded me. Often I reached a town only to learn that he had left it but a few days; once, I remember, at Belgrade, I was only a few hours behind him. But meet him face to face I could not.

"When at last I saw my son again, I found him grown up, and in his first words he told me boldly that he had espoused his mother's cause, and that he withdrew altogether from his vow of vengeance against Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. I left him in a fury, and almost immediately afterwards came the unexpected news of my accession to the baronetcy of Beaumerville. I made up my mind then to turn over the past chapter of my life, and start the world afresh. I had always been known by the family name of Martival, and my wife was unaware of my connection with the Beaumerville family. Taking advantage of this, I sent her false news of my death at Paris, and started life afresh as Sir Allan Beaumerville.

"The past, however, soon began to cast its shadows into the future. A new author, calling himself Bernard Maddison, was one night introduced to me at a crowded assembly. I held out my hand, which he did not take, and recognized my son."

There was a general start. The first gleam of light struggled into the minds of the little group of listeners. They began to see whither this thing was tending, and everyone looked very grave.

"I had nothing to fear," Sir Allan continued. "My son showed by his looks the contempt in which he held me. We met frequently after that, but we never exchanged a single word. He kept my secret, too, from his mother—not for my sake, but for her own.

"Six months after our first meeting Sir Geoffrey Kynaston returned to England. It may seem strange to you, gentlemen, but my hate for this man had never lessened, never decreased. The moment I heard the news I began to lay my plans.

"Then, for the first time, my son sought me. He had come, he said, to make one request, and if I granted it, he would leave me in peace forever. Would I tell him that my oath had been buried with the old life, and that I would seek no harm to my old enemy? I simply declined to discuss the matter with him, and he went away.

"From that time he commenced to watch me. I laid my plans deeply, but somehow he got to hear of them. When I went down on a visit to you, Lord Lathon, that I might be near Sir Geoffrey, he took a small cottage in the neighborhood, intending to do his best to counteract my schemes. But I was too cunning for him.

"On the morning of Sir Geoffrey's murder I was on the cliffs, under the pretence of botanizing. While there I heard the guns of a shooting party, and through a field-glass I saw Mr. Thurwell and Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. At that time I scarcely thought that chance would bring Sir Geoffrey within my power, but I made up my mind to watch them.

"Accordingly I descended from the cliffs, and, on my way, passed close to my son's cottage. I looked in at his sitting-room through the open windows, and it seemed as though the devil must have guided my eyes. His cabinet was open, and right opposite my eyes was a pair of long Turkish daggers carelessly thrown down with a heap of other curios. I listened. There was no one about. I stepped through the window, seized one of them, and hurried away. About a hundred yards from the cottage was a long narrow belt of plantation running from a considerable distance inland almost to the cliff side. Here I concealed myself, and looked out at the shooting party. I could see them all hurrying across the moor except Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. While I was wondering what had become of him, I heard footsteps on the other side of the plantation. I stole back to the edge and looked out. Coming slowly down by the side of the ditch was Sir Geoffrey, with his gun under his arm, and whistling softly to himself. He was alone. There was no one within sight. Gentlemen, it is an awful confession which I am making to you. I stole out upon him as he passed, and stabbed him to the heart, so that he died without a groan."

Rembrandt might have found a worthy study in the faces of the men seated round that brilliant supper table. Blank horror seemed to hold them all speechless. Sir Allan, too, was trembling, and his hand, which rested upon the table, was as white as the damask cloth.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and a waiter entered.

"A gentleman wishes to speak with Sir Allan Beaumerville," he announced.

Sir Philip Roden rose to his feet, and pointed to the door.

"The gentleman must wait, Nillson," he answered. "Leave the room now, and see that we are not interrupted until I ring the bell."

The servant bowed and withdrew, after a wondering glance at the faces of the little party. Sir Philip Roden left his seat and, crossing the room, locked the door.

"Sir Allan Beaumerville," he said quietly, "there can be only one course to take with regard to the painful disclosures which you have laid before us to-night. If you have anything to add, please let us hear it quickly."

Sir Allan continued at once.

"I went back to my son's cottage. I washed my hands in his room, and the towel I concealed in his cabinet. Just as I was leaving he entered. What passed between us I need not mention. I took up my botanizing case and hurried away along the cliffs, and afterward was met by Mr. Thurwell's servant, with whom I returned once more to look upon my work. Then came the time when suspicion commenced to fall upon my son. I implored him to leave the country. He refused. At last he was arrested. For the father whom he can only despise he has been willing to die. To-night I had made up my mind to leave a confession of my guilt and fly. My plans are changed. Only a few hours ago I looked into the face of one whom I had never thought to see again in this world. Her advice I am now following. To her care I entrusted my confession, and to your ears I have detailed it. My story is done, gentlemen. Sir Philip Roden, I place myself in your hands."

His last words had been almost drowned by a clamorous knocking at the closed door. When he had ceased, Sir Philip Roden rose and opened it. Two men entered at once, followed by Mr. Benjamin Levy. The men recognized Sir Philip, and saluted.

"What is your business?" he asked.

"We hold a warrant for the arrest of Sir Allan Beaumerville, sir," was the respectful answer, "granted on the sworn information of Mr. Benjamin Levy there, by Mr. Pulsford, half an hour ago. Which is he, sir?"

Sir Philip pointed to where his late host was standing a little away from the others, his hand resting on the carved knob of his high-backed chair, and his eyes fixed wildly upon them. The man advanced to him at once.

"You are my prisoner, Sir Allan Beaumerville," he said quietly. "I hold a warrant here for your arrest on the charge of having murdered Sir Geoffrey Kynaston on the 12th of August of last year."

Those who were watching Sir Allan's face closely saw only a slight change. Its deep pallor grew only a shade more livid, and there was a faint twitching of the features. Then with an awful light flashing into his burning eyes, and a cry which rang through the whole building, he threw up his arms and fell like a log across the hearth rug. Every one sprang up and crowded round him, but the physician pushed his way through the group and fell on his knees. He was up again in a moment, looking very pale and awed.

"Keep back, gentlemen; keep back, please," he said in a low tone. "Never mind about the brandy, Sir Philip. Every one had better go away. These people from Scotland Yard need not wait. Sir Allan will answer for his crime at a higher court than ours."

And so it indeed was. Tragical justice had herself added the last and final scene to the drama. Sir Allan Beaumerville's lips were closed for ever in this world.



CHAPTER XLI

INNOCENT

An hour or two before the denouement of Sir Allan Beaumerville's supper party, his brougham had driven up to Mr. Thurwell's town house, and had set down a lady there. She had rung the bell and inquired for Miss Thurwell.

The footman who answered the door looked dubious.

"Miss Thurwell was in, certainly, but she was unwell and saw no visitors, and it was late. Could he take her name?"

The lady handed him a note.

"If you will take this to Miss Thurwell, and tell her that I am waiting, I think that she will see me," she said quietly.

The man took it, and, somewhat impressed by the bearing and manner of speech of the unknown lady, he showed her into the morning-room, and ringing for Miss Thurwell's maid, handed her the note and awaited the decision. It was speedily given. The lady was to be shown to her room at once.

The agonizing suspense in which Helen had been living for the last few days had laid a heavy hand upon her. Her cheeks were thin, and had been woefully pale until the sudden excitement of this visit had called up a faint hectic flush which had no kindred with the color of health. Her form, too, seemed to have shrunken, and the loose tea-gown which she wore enhanced the fragility of her appearance. She had been sitting in a low chair before the fire, with her head buried in her hands, but when her visitor was announced she was standing up with her dry, bright eyes eagerly fixed upon the woman who stood on the threshold. The door was closed, and they looked at one another for a moment in silence.

To an artist, the figures of these two women, each so intensely interested in the other, and each possessed of a distinctive and impressive personality, would have been full of striking suggestions. Helen, in her loose gown of a soft dusky orange hue, and with no harsher light thrown upon her features than the subdued glow of a shaded lamp, and occasional flashes of the firelight which gleamed in her too-brilliant eyes, seemed to have lost none of her beauty. All her surroundings, too, went to enhance it: the delicately-toned richness of the coloring around, the faintly perfumed air, the indefinable suggestion of feminine daintiness, so apparent in all the appointments of the little chamber. From the semi-darkness of her position near the door Helen's visitor brought her eager scrutiny to an end. She advanced a little into the room and spoke.

"You are Helen Thurwell?" she said softly. "Sir Allan Beaumerville has bidden me come to you. You have read his note?"

"Yes, yes, I have read it," she answered quickly. "He tells me that you have news—news that concerns Bernard Maddison. Is it anything that will prove his innocence?"

"It is already proved."

Helen gave a great cry and sank into a low chair. She had no doubts; her visitor's tone and manner forbade them. But the tension of her feelings, strung to such a pitch of nervousness, gave way all at once. Her whole frame was shaken with passionate sobs. The burning agony of her grief was dissolved in melting tears.

And the woman whose glad tidings had brought this change stood all the while patient and motionless. Once, when Helen had first yielded to her emotion, she had made a sudden movement forward, and a sweet, sympathetic light had flashed for a moment over her pale features. But something had seemed to restrain her, some chilling memory which had checked her first impulse, and made her resume her former attitude of quiet reserve. She stood there and waited. By and by Helen looked up and started to her feet.

"I had almost forgotten; I am so sorry," she said. "Do sit down, please, and tell me everything, and who you are. You have brought me the best news I ever had in my life," she added with a little burst of gratitude.

Her visitor remained standing—remained grave, silent, and unresponsive; yet there was nothing forbidding about her appearance. Looking into her soft gray eyes and face still beautiful, though wrinkled and colorless, Helen was conscious of a strange feeling of attraction toward her, a sort of unexplained affinity which women in trouble or distress often feel for one another, but which the sterner fiber of man's nature rarely admits of. She moved impulsively forward, and stretched out her hands in mute invitation, but there was no response. If anything, indeed, her visitor seemed to shrink a little away from her.

"You ask me who I am," she said softly. "I am Sir Allan Beaumerville's wife; I am Bernard Maddison's mother."

Helen sank back upon her chair, perfectly helpless. This thing was too much for her to grasp. She looked up at the woman who had spoken these marvelous words, half frightened, altogether bewildered.

"You are Sir Allan Beaumerville's wife," she repeated slowly. "I do not understand; I never knew that he was married. And Bernard Maddison his son!"

Helen sat quite still for a moment. Then light began to stream in upon her darkened understanding. Suddenly she sprang to her feet.

"Who was it? then, who killed—Oh, my God, I see it all now. It was——"

She ceased, and looked at her visitor with blanched cheeks. A low, tremulous cry of horror broke from Lady Beaumerville's white lips. Her calmness seemed gone. She was trembling from head to foot.

"God help him! it was my husband who killed Sir Geoffrey Kynaston," she cried; "and the sin is on my head."

Helen was scarcely less agitated. She caught hold of the edge of the table to steady herself. Her voice seemed to come from a great distance.

"Sir Allan! I do not understand. Why did he do that horrible thing?"

"Sir Geoffrey Kynaston and my husband were mortal enemies," answered Lady Beaumerville, her voice scarcely raised above a whisper. "Mine was the fault, mine the guilt. Alas! alas!"

The stately head with its wealth of silvery white hair was buried in her hands. Her attitude, the agony which quivered in her tone dying away in her final expression of despair like chords of wild, sad music, and above all her likeness to the man she loved, appealed irresistibly to Helen. A great pity filled her heart. She passed her arm round Lady Beaumerville, and drew her on to the sofa.

There were no words between them then. Only, after a while, Helen asked quietly:

"Sir Allan—must he confess?"

"It is already done," her visitor answered. "To-morrow the world will know his guilt and my shame. Ah," she cried, her voice suddenly changing, "I had forgotten. Turn your face away from me, Helen Thurwell, and listen."

In the silence of the half-darkened chamber she told her story—told it in the low, humbled tone of saintly penitence, rising sometimes into passion and at others falling into an agonized whisper. She spoke of her girlhood, of the falsehood by which she had been cheated into a loveless marriage, and the utter misery which it had brought. Then she told her of her sin, committed in a moment of madness after her husband's brutal treatment, and so soon repented of. Lightly she touched upon her many years of solitary penance, her whole lifetime dedicated willingly and earnestly to the expiation of that dark stain, and of the coming to her quiet home of the awful news of Sir Geoffrey's murder. In her old age her sin had risen up against her, remorseless and unsatiated. Almost she had counted herself forgiven. Almost she had dared to hope that she might die in peace. But sin is everlasting, its punishment eternal.

Here her voice died away in a sudden fit of weakness, as though the fierce consuming passion of her grief had eaten away all her strength. But in a moment or two she continued.

"I thought my husband dead, and the sin my son's," she whispered. "They sent to me to come to his trial, that they might hear from my lips what they thought evidence against him. I would have died first. Then came a young man who told me all, and I came with him to England. I have seen and spoken with my husband. On his table he showed me signed papers. His confession was ready. 'This night,' he said, 'I take my leave of the world.' Thank God, he forgave me, and I him. We have stood hand-in-hand together, and the past between us is no more. He bade me come here, and I have come. I have seen the woman my son loves, and I am satisfied. Now I will go."

Her eyes rested for a moment upon Helen, full of an inexpressible yearning, and there had been a faint, sad wistfulness in her tone. But when she had finished, she drew her cloak around her, and turned toward the door.

Helen let her take a few steps, scarcely conscious of her intention. Then she sprang up, and laid her hand upon Lady Beaumerville's shoulder.

"You are his mother," she said softly. "May I not be your daughter?"

* * * * *

"Helen, Helen, I have strange news for you!"

The room was in semi-darkness, for the fire had burnt low and the heavily shaded lamp gave out but little light. Side by side on the low sofa, two women, hand-in-hand, had been sobbing out their grief to one another. On the threshold, peering with strained eyes through the gloom, was Mr. Thurwell, his light overcoat, hastily thrown over his evening clothes, still unremoved.

She rose to her feet, and he saw the dim outline of her graceful figure, even a vision of her white, tear-stained face.

"The truth has come out," he said gravely. "To-morrow Bernard will be free. The man who killed Sir Geoffrey Kynaston has confessed."

"Confessed!" Helen repeated. "Where? To whom?"

"To the Home Secretary, to a party of us as we sat at supper, his guests at the club. Helen, be prepared for a great surprise. The murderer was Sir Allan Beaumerville."

"I know it," Helen whispered hoarsely across the room. "Have they arrested Sir Allan?"

Mr. Thurwell's surprise at his daughter's knowledge was forgotten in the horror of the scene which her words had called up. Across the darkened air of the little chamber it seemed to float again before his shuddering memory, and he stretched out his hands for a moment before his face.

"Arrested him—no!" he answered in an agitated tone. "I have seen nothing so awful in all my life. He made his confession at the head of his table, the police were clamoring outside with a warrant, and while we all sat dazed and stupefied, he fell backward—dead."

A cry rang through the little chamber, a sudden wail, half of relief, half of anguish. Helen fell upon her knees by the side of the sofa. Mr. Thurwell started, and moved forward.

"Who is that?" he asked quickly. "I thought you were alone."

"It is his wife," Helen answered, not without some fear. "See, she has fainted."

Mr. Thurwell hesitated only for a moment. Then his face filled with compassion.

"God help her;" he said solemnly. "I will send the women up to you, and a doctor. God help her!"



CHAPTER XLII

AT LAST

The morning sunlight lay upon that wonderful fair garden of the villa. The tall white lilies, the scarlet poppies, the clustering japonica, the purple hyacinths, and the untrimmed brilliantly-flowering shrubs, lifted their heads before its sweet, quickening warmth, and yielded up their perfume to the still clear air. The languorous hour of noon was still far off. It was the birth of a southern summer day, and everything was fresh and pure, untainted by the burning, enervating heat which was soon to dry up the sweetness from the earth, and the freshness from the slightly moving breeze. Away on the brown hills, fading into a transparent veil of blue, the bright dresses of the peasant women stooping at their toil, the purple glory of the vineyards, and the deep, quiet green of the olive groves—all these simple characteristics of the pastoral landscape were like brilliant patches of coloring upon a fitting background. Soon the haze of the noonday heat would hang upon the earth, deadening the purity of its color, and making the air heavy and oppressive with faint overladen perfumes. But as yet the sun lay low in the heavens, and the earth beneath was like a fair still picture.

The heavy lumbering coach which connected the little town with the outside world was drawn up at the gate of the villa, and twice the quaintly sounding horn had broken the morning stillness. It was a moment of farewell, a farewell not for days or for years, but forever.

Their words denied it, yet in their hearts was that certain conviction, and much of that peculiar sadness which it could not fail to bring. Yet she would not have them stay for the end. She had bidden them go, and the hour had come.

Too weak to walk, or even sit upright, they had laid her upon a sofa in front of the open windows, through which the perfume from the garden below stole sweetly in on the bosom of the slowly stirring south wind. On one side of her stood a tall mild-faced priest from the brotherhood who had made their home in the valley below, on the other were Bernard and his wife, her son and daughter.

There was no doubt that she was dying, that she was indeed very near death. Yet she was sending them away from her. The brief while they three had lived there together had been like a late autumn to her life, which had blossomed forth with sweet moments of happiness such as she had never dreamed of. And now her summons had come, and she was ready. In her last moments she must return once more to that absolute detachment from all save spiritual things in which for many years she had lived, a saintly, blessed woman. So she had bidden them go, even her son, even that fair sweet English girl who had been more than a daughter to her. She had bidden them go. The last words had been spoken, for the last time her trembling lips had been pressed to her son's. Yet they lingered.

And there came of a sudden, floating through the window, the sweet slow chiming of the matins bell from the monastery below. Almost it seemed as though the soft delicate air through which it passed, the exquisite beauty of the sloping landscape and old garden over which it traveled, had had a rarefying influence upon the sound itself, and had mellowed its tones into a strain of the most perfect music throbbing with harmony and dying away in faint, delicious murmurs. They stood and listened to it, and a sudden light swept into the pale face upon the couch. They all looked at her in a sudden awe. The priest sank upon his knees by her side, and prayed. Long desired, it had come at last at this most fitting moment. The glory of death shone in her face, and the light of a coming release flashed across her features. She died as few can die, as one who sees descending from the clouds a long-promised happiness, and whose heart and soul go forth to meet it with joy.

They stayed and buried her under a cypress tree, in a sunny corner of the monastery churchyard, where a plain black cross marked her grave. Then they turned their faces toward England.

* * * * *

And in England they were happy. For the first few years they chose to live almost in retirement at their stately home, for with no desire for notoriety, Sir Bernard Beaumerville found himself on his return from abroad the most famous man in London. To escape from the lionizing that threatened him, Helen and he shut themselves up at Beaumerville Court, and steadfastly refused all invitations. Of their life there little need be said, save that to each it was the perfect realization of dreams which had once seemed too sweet to be possible.

And in the midst of it all he found time to write. From the quaint oak library, where he had gone back into the old realms of thoughtland, he sent out into the world a great work. Once more the columns of the daily papers and the reviews were busy with his name, and for once all were unanimous. All bowed down before his genius, and his name was written into the history of his generation. Through a burning sea of trouble, of intellectual disquiet and mental agony, he had emerged strengthened at every point. Love had fulfilled upon him its great office. He was humanized. The impersonality, which is the student's bane, which deepens into misanthropy, cynicism, and pessimism, yielded before it. The voices of his own children became dearer to him than the written thoughts of dead men. It was the reassertion of nature, and it was well for him. So was he saved, so was his genius unfettered from the cloying weight of too much abstract thought, which at one time, save for his artistic instincts, would have plunged him into the morass of pedantry and turned his genius into a pillar of salt. A woman had saved him, and through the long years of their life together he never forgot it.

THE END