*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 56080 ***

Transcriber's Notes:
     1. Page scan source:https://books.google.com/books/about/
        The_Fever_of_Life.html?id=7nggAAAAMAAJ
     2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






THE FEVER OF LIFE
==========================
_By_ FERGUS HUME, _author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab,"
"The Year of Miracle," "The Piccadilly Puzzle,"
"A Creature of the Night," "Monsieur Judas," "Madame Midas," Etc_.
==========================



==========================
NEW YORK     AND    LONDON
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
===========================





Copyright, 1901,
By UNITED STATES BOOK CO.
------------
Copyright 1902.
By STREET & SMITH





THE FEVER OF LIFE




CHAPTER I.
PINCHLER'S DOCKYARD.


    "Fashion for the nonce surrenders
     Giddy Mayfair's faded splendours,
     And with all her sons and daughters
     Hastens to health-giving waters;
     Rests when curfew bells are ringing,
     Rises when the lark is singing,
     Plays lawn tennis, flirts and idles,
     Laying snares for future bridals;
     Thus forgetting pleasures evil,
     In return to life primeval."


It was Toby Clendon who named it "Pinchler's Dockyard "--Toby Clendon,
young, handsome, and a trifle scampish, who wrote witty essays for
_The Satirist_, slashing criticisms for _The Bookworm_, and dainty
society verses for any journal which chose to pay for such poetical
effusions. A very cruel remark to make about Mrs. Pinchler's
respectable private hotel at Marsh-on-the-Sea; but then the truth is
always cruel, and Mr. Clendon proved the truth of his statement in
this wise--

"A dockyard is a place where broken-down ships are repaired. Man, by
poetical license, is a ship on the ocean of life. Some broken-down
human ships under stress of circumstance put in to Pinchler's private
hotel for repair in the matter of bodily ailments. Pinchler's harbours
these broken-down human ships, therefore Pinchler's is a human
dockyard. Strike out the word human as redundant, and there you are,
Pinchler's Dockyard."

A whimsical deduction, doubtless, yet by no means void of a certain
amount of truthful humour, as the guests at Pinchler's private hotel
were for the most part deficient as regards physical completeness. If
the lungs were healthy the liver was out of order. Granted that the
head was "all there," the legs were not, unless one leg counted as
two. Splendid physique, but something wrong with the internal organs.
Yes, certainly a good many human ships were undergoing repair under
the calculating eye of Mrs. Pinchler; and as her establishment was not
healthy enough for a hotel nor sickly enough for an hospital, Toby
Clendon's intermediate term "dockyard" fitted it exactly; so
Pinchler's Dockyard it was called throughout Marsh-on-the-Sea.

It was a square red-brick house, built on a slight eminence, and
facing the salt sea breeze of the Channel. On the one side a pleasant
garden, on the other smooth green tennis lawns, and in front a mixture
of turf, of flower-beds, and of gravel, sloping down to the road which
divided it from the stony sea beach. A short distance away to the
right was Marsh-on-the-Sea, with its rows of gleaming white houses set
on the heights, while below was the red-roofed quaint old town, built
long before its rival above became famous as a watering-place. To the
left, undulating hills, clumps of trees, tall white cliffs, and here
and there pleasant country houses, showing themselves above the green
crests of their encircling woods. Add to this charming prospect a
brilliant blue sea, a soft wind filled with the salt smell of the
waters, and a sun tempered by intervening clouds, and it will be
easily seen that Marsh-on-the-Sea was a pleasantly situated place, and
Pinchler's Dockyard was one of the pleasantest houses in it.

"And why," said Mr. Clendon, continuing an argument, "and why English
people want to go to the Riviera for beauty, when they have all this
side of the Channel to choose from is more than I can make out."

It was just after luncheon, and the wrecks at present being repaired
in the dockyard were sunning themselves on the tennis lawn. Some were
reading novels, others were discussing their ailments, a few ladies
were working at some feminine embroidery, a few gentlemen were smoking
their after-dinner pipe, cigar, cigarette, as the case might be, and
all were enjoying themselves thoroughly in their different ways.

Toby himself, arrayed in spotless white flannels, with a blue-ribboned
straw hat was lying ungracefully on the grass, smoking a cigarette,
and talking in an affectedly cynical vein to three ladies. There was
Mrs. Valpy, fat, ponderous and plethoric; Miss Thomasina Valpy, her
daughter, familiarly called Tommy, a charmingly pretty girl, small,
coquettish and very fascinating in manner. As a rule, men of
susceptible hearts fell in love with Tommy; but when they heard Mrs.
Valpy say that she was like Thomasina when young, generally retreated
in dismay, having a prophetic vision that this fragile, biscuit-china
damsel would resemble her mother when old, and as Mrs. Valpy--well
they never proposed, at all events.

There was a third lady present, Miss Kaituna Pethram, who was staying
at Pinchler's with the Valpys, and without doubt she was very
handsome; so handsome, indeed, that Tommy's brilliant beauty paled
before her sombre loveliness. She was dark, unusually dark, with a
pale, olive-coloured skin, coils of splendid dusky hair, luminous dark
eyes, and clearly-cut features, which were not exactly European in
their outline. Neither was her Christian name European, and this being
taken in conjunction with her un-English look, led some people to
think she had African blood in her veins. In this supposition,
however, they were decidedly wrong, as there was no suggestion of the
negro in her rich beauty. Indian? not delicate enough, neither as
regards features nor figure. Spanish? no; none of the languor of the
Creole; then no doubt Italian; but then she lacked the lithe grace and
restless vivacity of the Latin race. In fact Miss Kaituna Pethram
puzzled every one. They were unable to "fix her," as the Americans
say, and consequently gave up the unguessable riddle of her birth in
despair.

As a matter of fact, however, she was the descendant, in the third
generation, of that magnificent New Zealand race, now rapidly dying
out--the Maories, and the blending of the dusky Polynesian with the
fair European had culminated in the production of this strange flower
of two diverse stocks--neither wholly of the one nor of the other,
but a unique blending of both. Her great grandparents had been
full-blooded Maories, with uncivilised instincts and an inborn
preference for a savage life. Their daughter, also a full-blooded
Maori, being the daughter of a chief, had married a European settler,
and the offspring of this mixed marriage was Kaituna's mother, a
half-caste, inheriting the civilised culture of her father, and the
savage instincts of her mother. Kaituna was born of this half-caste
and an English father, therefore the civilised heredity prevailed; but
she still retained the semblance, in a minor degree, of her primeval
ancestry, and without doubt, though ameliorated by two generations of
European progenitors on the male side, there lurked in her nature the
ineradicable instincts of the savage.

Of course, self-complacent Europeans, pure-blooded in themselves,
never argued out the matter in this wise, and were apt to look down on
this inheritor of Maori ancestry as "a nigger," but were decidedly
wrong in doing so, as the magnificent race that inhabits New Zealand
is widely removed from the African black. At all events, whatever they
might think, Kaituna Pethram was a uniquely beautiful girl, attractive
to a very great degree, and inspiring more admiration than the
undecided blondes and brunettes who moved in the same circle cared to
acknowledge. Toby Clendon was not in love with her, as he preferred
the saucy manner and delicate beauty of Miss Valpy, but Archie
Maxwell, who was the best looking young man at Pinchler's, had quite
lost his heart to this unique flower of womanhood, and the damsels of
Pinchler's resented this greatly. Mr. Maxwell, however, was at present
engaged in talking to some of them at a distance, and if his eyes did
wander now and then to where Clendon was playing Shepherd Paris to
goddesses three--Mrs. Valpy being Minerva in her own opinion--they did
their best to enchain his attention and keep him to themselves.
Kaituna herself did not mind, as she was not particularly taken with
Mr. Maxwell, and was quite content to lie lazily back in her chair
under the shelter of a large red sunshade and listen to Toby Clendon's
desultory conversation.

It was a pleasant enough conversation in a frivolous fashion. Mr.
Clendon made startling statements regarding the world and its
inhabitants, Kaituna commented thereon. Tommy sparkled in an idle,
girlish way, and Mrs. Valpy, with sage maxims, culled from the
monotonous past of an uneventful life, supplied the busy element
requisite in all cases. Three of the party were young, the fourth was
gracefully old, so, juvenility predominating, the conversation rippled
along pleasantly enough.

After the patriotic Toby had made his remark concerning the
superiority of things English over all the rest of the world, Kaituna
waved the banner of Maoriland, and laughed softly.

"Ah! wait till you see New Zealand."

"_Ultima Thule_," said Clendon classically. "Eh I why should I go
there, Miss Pethram?"

"To see what nature can do in the way of beautiful landscape."

"I am a domestic being, Miss Pethram, and find the domestic scenery of
England sufficiently beautiful to satisfy my artistic longings. New
Zealand, I have been told, is an uncivilised country, full of horrid
woods and wild beasts."

"There are no wild beasts at all," replied Kaituna indignantly, "and
the bush is not horrid. As to it being uncivilised, that is the
mistake you English make."

"Oh, the contempt in the term 'you English,'" interjected Toby,
impudently.

"We have cities, railways, theatres, musical societies, shops, and
everything else necessary to make life pleasant. That is civilisation,
I suppose. We have also great plains, majestic mountains, splendid
rivers, undulating pasture lands and what not. This is uncivilised--if
you like to call it so. England is pretty--oh yes, very pretty, but
tame like a garden. One gets tired of always living in a garden. A
garden is nature's drawing-room. I don't say a word against England,
for I like it very much, but at times I feel stifled by the narrowness
of the place. England is very beautiful, yes; but New Zealand,"
concluded Miss Pethram with conviction, "New Zealand is the most
beautiful place in the whole world."

"My dear," said Mrs. Valpy in a patronising manner, "are you not going
a little too far? I've no doubt the place you come from is very nice,
very nice indeed, but to compare it with England is ridiculous. You
have no city, I think, like London. No, no! London is cosmopolitan,
yes--quite so."

Having stated this plain truth, Mrs. Valpy looked round with a fat
smile of triumph and resumed her knitting, while Tommy dashed into the
conversation with slangy vivacity.

"Oh, I say, you know, New Zealand's a place where you can have a high
old time, but London's the place for larks."

"Why not the country," said Clendon drily, "the morning lark."

"Oh, I don't mean that sort of lark," interrupted Tommy ingeniously,
"the evenin' lark; my style, you know. Waltzin', flirtin', talkin',
jolly rather."

"You move in the highest circles, Tommy," said Kaituna, who was a
somewhat satirical damsel. "You drop your 'g's.'"

"Better than dropping your 'h's'."

"Or your money," said Toby, lighting a fresh cigarette. "I don't know
what we're all talking about."

"I think," observed Mrs. Valpy in a geographical style, "we were
discussing the Islands of New Zealand."

"Rippin' place," said Tommy gaily.

"Thomasina, my dear," remarked her Johnsonian mamma, "I really do not
think that you are personally----"

"Acquainted with the place! No! I'm not. But Kaituna has told me a
lot. Archie Maxwell has told me more----"

"Mr. Maxwell?" interposed Kaituna, quickly. "Oh, yes! he said that he
had visited Auckland on his way to Sydney--but you can't tell New
Zealand from one city."

"_Ex pede Herculem_," said the classical Toby, "which, being
translated means--by the foot shall ye know the head."

"Auckland isn't the head of New Zealand. It was, but now Wellington is
the capital. The city of wooden match-boxes built in a draughty
situation."

"How unpatriotic."

"Oh, no, I'm not, Mr. Clendon. But I reserve my patriotism for
Dunedin?"

"You mean Edinburgh.

"I mean the new Edinburgh with the old name, not the old Edinburgh
with the new name."

"Epigrammatic, decidedly. This is instructive, Miss Pethram. Do they
teach epigram in the schools of Dunedin?"

"And why not? Do you think Oxford and Cambridge monopolise the
learning of nations? We also in Dunedin," concluded Kaituna proudly,
"have an university."

"To teach the young idea how to shoot--delightful."

"But I thought there was no game to shoot," said Tommy wickedly.

Mrs. Valpy reproved the trio for their frivolous conversation.

"You are all talking sad nonsense."

"On the contrary, gay nonsense," retorted Clendon lightly; "but I
foresee in this badinage the elements of an article for _The
Satirist_. Miss Pethram, I am going to use you as copy. Tell me all
about yourself."

"To be published as an essay, and ticketed 'The New Pocahontas.'"

"Perhaps," replied the essayist evasively, "for you are a kind of
nineteenth century Pocahontas. You belong to the children of Nature."

"Yes, I do," said Kaituna, quickly; "and I'm proud of it. My father
went out to New Zealand a long time ago, and there married my mother,
who was the daughter of a Maori mother. My grandmother was the child
of a chief--a real Pocahontas."

"Not quite; Pocahontas was a chieftainess in her own right."

"And died at Wapping, didn't she?" said Mrs. Valpy, placidly. "Of
course the dark races always give way to the superiority of the
white."

Kaituna looked indignantly at this fat, flabby woman, who spoke so
contemptuously of her Maori ancestors, who were certainly superior to
Mrs. Valpy from a physical point of view, and very probably her equal
mentally in some ways. It was no use, however, arguing with Mrs. Valpy
over such a nice point, as she was firmly intrenched behind her
insular egotism, and would not have understood the drift of the
argument, with the exception that she was a white, and therefore
greatly superior to a black. Toby saw the indignant flash in her eyes,
and hastened to divert the chance of trouble by saying the first thing
that came into his mind.

"Is your mother in England, Miss Pethram?"

"My mother is dead."

"Oh! I beg--I beg your pardon," said Toby, flustering a little at his
awkwardness: "I mean your father."

"My father," replied Kaituna, cheerfully. "Oh, he is out in New
Zealand again. You know, we lived out there until a year ago. Then my
father, by the death of his elder brother, became Sir Rupert Pethram,
so he brought me home. We always call England home in the Colonies. He
had to go out again about business; so he left me in Mrs. Valpy's
charge."

"Delighted to have you, my dear," murmured the old lady, blinking her
eyes in the sunshine like an owl. "You see, Mr. Clendon, we are near
neighbours of Sir Rupert's down in Berkshire."

"Oh!" said Clendon, raising himself on his elbow with a look of
curiosity in his eyes, "that is my county. May I ask what particular
part you inhabit?"

"Near Henley."

"Why, I lived near there also."

"What," cried Tommy, with great surprise, "can it be that you are a
relative of Mr. Clendon, the Vicar of Deswarth?"

"Only his son."

"The young man who would not become a curate?"

"It didn't suit me," said Toby, apologetically; "I'm far too gay for a
curate. It's a mistake putting a square peg into a round hole, you
know; and I make a much better pressman than a preacher."

"It is a curious thing we never met you, Mr. Clendon," observed Mrs.
Valpy, heavily; "but we have only been at 'The Terraces' for two
years."

"Oh, and I've been away from the parental roof for five or six years.
I do not wonder at never meeting you, but how strange we should meet
here. Coincidences occur in real life as well as in novels, I see."

"Mr. Maxwell told me he met a man in London the other day whom he had
last seen in Japan," said Kaituna, smiling.

"Maxwell is a wandering Jew--an engineering Cain."

"Hush! hush!" said Mrs. Valpy, shocked like a good church-woman, at
any reference to the Bible in light conversation. "Mr. Maxwell is a
very estimable young man."

"I called him Cain in a figurative sense only," replied Toby, coolly;
"but if you object to that name, let us call him Ulysses."

"Among the sirens," finished Kaituna, mischievously.

Tommy caught the allusion, and laughed rudely. Confident in her own
superiority regarding beauty, she was scornful of the attempts of the
so-called sirens to secure the best-looking man in the place, so took
a great delight in drawing into her own net any masculine fish that
was likely to be angled for by any other girl. She called it fun, the
world called it flirtation, and her enemies called it coquetry; and
Toby Clendon, although not her enemy, possibly agreed with the
appropriateness of the term. But then he was her lover; and lovers are
discontented if they don't get the object of their affections all to
themselves.

"The sirens!" repeated Miss Valpy, scornfully. "What, with voices like
geese? What humbug! Let us take Archie Maxwell Ulysses away from the
sirens, Kaituna."

"No, no, don't do that!" said Kaituna with a sudden rush of colour;
"it's a shame."

"What! depriving them of their big fish? Not at all. It's greedy of
them to be so selfish. I'll call him. Mr. Maxwell!"

"It's very chilly here," said Kaituna, rising to her feet. "Mr.
Clendon, my shawl, please. Thank you I'm going inside."

"Because of Mr. Maxwell?" asked Miss Valpy, maliciously.

"No. I'm expecting some letters from Mr. Dombrain. Oh, here is Mr.
Maxwell. _Au revoir_," and Miss Pethram walked quickly away towards
the house.

Maxwell having extricated himself from the company of the sirens, who
looked after their late captive with vengeful eyes, saw Kaituna
depart, and hesitated between following her or obeying the invitation
of Miss Valpy. His heart said "Go there," the voice of Tommy said
"Come here," and the unfortunate young man hesitated which to obey.
The lady saw his hesitation, and, purposely to vex Mr. Clendon,
settled the question at once.

"Mr. Maxwell, come here. I want you to play lawn-tennis."

"Certainly, Miss Valpy," said Maxwell, with sulky civility.

"Why, I asked you to play twice this afternoon, and you refused,"
cried Clendon, in some anger.

"Well, I've changed my mind But you can play also, if you like."

"No, thank you. I've--I've got an engagement."

Tommy moved close to the young man and laughed.

"You've got a very cross face."

At this Clendon laughed also, and his cross face cleared.

"Oh, I'll be delighted to play."

"And what about Miss Pethram?" asked Maxwell, rather anxiously.

"Miss Pethram has gone inside to await the arrival of the post."

"Isn't she coming out again?"

"I think not."

"If you will excuse me, Miss Valpy, I won't play just at present."

"Oh, never mind."

So Maxwell stalked away in a very bad temper with himself, with Miss
Pethram, and with everything else. In any one but a lover it would
have been sulks, but in the _ars amoris_ it is called despair.

Tommy held her racket like a guitar, and, strumming on it with her
fingers, hummed a little tune--a vulgar little tune which she had
picked up from a common street boy--


     "Tho' I'm an earl,
        And she's a girl,
      Far, far below my level,
        Oh, Mary Jane,
        You give me pain,
      You wicked little----"


"Thomasina!" cried the scandalised Mrs. Valpy, and Thomasina laughed.




CHAPTER II.
WANTED, A CHAPERON.


     "We are told in stories olden
      Dragons watched the apples golden,
        Quick to send a thief to Hades.
      Now no fruit the world-tree ladens,
      Apples gold are dainty maidens,
        And the dragons are old ladies."


After dinner--a meal cooked, conducted, and eaten on strictly
digestive principles--most of the inmates of Pinchler's retired to
bed. Sleep was necessary to the well-being of these wrecks of
humanity, so those who could sleep went to their repose with joyful
hearts, and those who could not, put off the evil hour precluding a
restless night by going to the drawing-room for a little music.

Here they sat in melancholy rows round the room, comparing notes as to
their physical sensations, and recommending each other patent
medicines. Some of the younger people sang songs and played popular
airs on the out-of-tune piano furnished by Pinchler's. During the
intervals between the songs scraps of curious conversation could be
heard somewhat after this fashion--

"There's nothing like a glass of hot water in the morning."

"Dry toast, mind; butter is rank poison."

"Rub the afflicted part gently and breathe slowly."

"Put a linseed poultice at the nape of the neck."

With such light and instructive conversation did the wrecks beguile
their leisure hours, keeping watchful eyes on the clock so as not to
miss taking their respective medicines at the right times. Mrs.
Pinchler, a dry, angular woman with a glassy eye and a fixed smile,
revolved round the drawing-room at intervals, asking every one how
they felt.

"Better, Mrs. Tandle? Yes, I thought that syrup would do you good--it
soothes the coats of the stomach. Miss Pols, you do look yellow. Let
me recommend a glass of hot water in the morning. Mr. Spons, if you
lie down on the sofa I'm sure it will do you good. Oh, are you going
to play, Miss Valpy? Something quiet, please. Music is such a good
digestive."

Tommy, however, was not a young lady who could play quiet tunes, her
performance on the piano being of the muscular order. She therefore
favoured the company with a noisy piece of the most advanced school,
which had no melody, although full of contrapuntal devices. Having
shaken every one's nerves with this trying performance, she glided off
into a series of popular waltzes, mostly of the scrappy order, in
which she sandwiched hymn tunes between music-hall melodies. The
wrecks liked this style of thing, as they could all beat time with
their feet, and when it was finished said waltzes were charming, but
not so fine as "Batch's" passion music, of which they knew nothing,
not even how to pronounce his name correctly.

"Bach!" echoed Tommy contemptuously. "Oh, he's an old fossil!
Offenbach's more in my line. Oui! You bet! Sapristi! Vive la
bagatelle!"

The company did not understand French, so suffered this observation to
pass in discreet silence, but Kaituna laughed. She was sitting in a
corner by herself, with a look of impatience on her face, for she was
expecting a letter and the post was late.

"Kaituna," cried Tommy, attracted by the laugh, "why are you sitting
in the corner like a graven image? Come out and sing."

"No, I don't want to. I'm waiting for my letter."

"Hasn't it arrived yet?" said Miss Valpy, skipping across the room.
"I'd give it to that Dombrain thing if I were you. Dombrain! What a
name! Who is he?"

"My father's solicitor."

"Oh, in the law and the profits? I don't mean biblically, but
commercially. But, I say, don't keep thinking of your letter, or it
won't come. The watched postman never boils."

"What nonsense you talk!"

"I can't help it, dear. My brains leave me when there are no male
things in the room."

"There's Mr. Spons."

"Oh, I don't bother about him. He's not a man; he's a medicine bottle.
Hark! I hear footmarks approaching on horseback. It is the man. Now,
will you take Mr. Clendon and I Mr. Maxwell, or will you take Mr.
Maxwell and I Mr. Clendon?"

"I don't want either," said Kaituna hastily.

"Now that's ungrateful, especially when Mr. Maxwell is such a dear.
'Oh, that heaven would send me such a man!'--Shakespeare, Kaituna, so
don't look indignant. You can take Archie, and I'll satisfy myself
with Toby."

"You shouldn't call men by their Christian names, Thomasina."

"Don't say that; it sounds like 'ma. I only call them by their
Christian names to you. I wouldn't do it to their faces."

"I hope not."

"How proper you are! Behold the male sex are at the door! I can smell
the tobacco on their clothes."

The rattle of the lively damsel was put an end to by the entry of the
gentlemen, headed by Maxwell and Clendon, the latter of whom Miss
Valpy bore off at once to the piano to make him sing, turn over her
music, and make himself generally useful. Maxwell, however, went
straight across to Kaituna, and held out a newspaper.

"This is yours, Miss Pethram," he said, seating himself beside her, "I
knew you were anxious about the post, so I waited downstairs till it
came."

"Was there no letter?" said Kaituna, in some dismay.

"No; nothing but that _Telegraph_."

"Oh, there maybe something marked in it," she said quietly. "Excuse me
a moment while I look."

Maxwell bowed and sat watching her as she tore the cover off the paper
and opened the rustling leaves. He had only known this girl a
fortnight, yet within that time had contrived to fall deeply in love
with her. It was not her beauty, although, man-like, he naturally
admired a pretty woman. It was not her charming manner, fascinating as
it was in every way. It was not her clever brain, her bright
conversation, her perfect taste in dress. No. It was that
indescribable something which she had about her to attract him in a
greater degree than any other woman he had ever known. What that
something is no man knows until he has fallen in love, and then he
feels it, but cannot describe his sensations. Scientists, no doubt,
would call it animal magnetism; poets would call it love; scoffers
would term it sensuality. But whatever scientists, poets, or scoffers
choose to call it, the thing is unnameable, indescribable, and is the
necessary concomitant of a happy marriage.

It was this indescribable feeling that had sprung up suddenly between
those two young people. Kaituna also felt drawn to Maxwell, but in a
lesser degree, for no matter what cynics may say about the frivolity
of women, they are certainly less inflammable than men. A pretty woman
knows her power to attract the opposite sex, and uses it daily, mostly
for amusement; therefore when her time does come to feel the genuine
pangs of love, she is more able to govern and control her feelings
than a man who, as a rule, simply let's himself go. So this was
exactly how the case stood between these two lovers. Maxwell felt that
Kaituna was the one woman in the world for him, and never attempted to
suppress his passion in any way. He allowed himself to be so entirely
dominated by it, that it soon became his master, and all his days and
nights were given over to dreams of this beautiful dark woman from a
distant isle of the sea. On the other hand, Kaituna felt that she
loved him, but controlling herself with feminine dexterity, never let
her infatuated lover see that his passion was responded to in any way.
Had he tried to go away she would speedily have lured him back by
means of those marvellous womanly arts, the trick of which no man
knoweth; but the poor love-lorn wretch was so abjectly submissive that
she coolly planted her conquering foot on his neck and indulged in a
little catlike play with this foolish mouse.

He was a handsome fellow too, Archie Maxwell, with his fresh-coloured
face, his yellow hair and moustache, his blue eyes, and his stalwart
figure. A lover any girl would be proud to have at her feet, as
Kaituna undoubtedly was, though the woman predominated in her too much
to allow her to let him see her approval. Poor! yes, he was poor,
certainly. An engineer, who wandered over half the world building
bridges and railways, and all kind of extraordinary things. Still, he
was young, and engineering is a money making profession, so Kaituna
positively determined that should he ask her to marry him, she would
consent. But her father--well, he was thousands of miles away, and
when he returned she would no doubt gain his approval; so at present
she surrendered herself entirely to this new delicious feeling, and
Ulysses, tangled in the snares of Calypso, forgot everything save the
face of the conquering nymph.

Meanwhile Calypso read the paper while Ulysses watched her, and they
both sat silent while every one round them talked loudly. Tommy was
playing a nigger minstrel tune, and Toby, leaning on the piano, was
chatting to her gaily, evidently on the fair way to become as much
enamoured of his nymph as this other sighing rover.

"Well, have you found what you wanted?" asked Maxwell, as the lady
looked up with a bright smile.

"Yes! It is marked with a blue pencil, and as you have been so kind in
playing postman, you can read it."

Archie did so.

"Wanted, a companion for a young lady. Apply by letter, Dombrain, 13,
Chintler Lane, City."

"Short and sweet," he said, handing the paper back, with a puzzled
look on his face; "but I don't understand it."

"It's easily explained," replied Miss Pethram, composedly. "Mr.
Dombrain is my father's solicitor, and is advertising for a
chaperon--for me."

"For you! But you have Mrs. Valpy."

"Mrs. Valpy is a dear old lady, but she is--Mrs. Valpy."

"It is a very serious thing to advertise in a paper for a chaperon.
You never know the kind of person you may get."

"Mr. Dombrain will."

"Mr. Dombrain may not be infallible," retorted Archie, feeling rather
angry, he knew not why, at the repetition of the name. "If your father
wished you to have a chaperon, why didn't he ask Mrs. Valpy to
recommend some one."

Kaituna laughed.

"I'm sure I can't tell you! Papa has gone away to New Zealand on
business, and asked Mrs. Valpy to look after me in the meantime.
He left instructions with Mr. Dombrain--in whom he has full
confidence--that I was to be provided with a companion, so I suppose
Mr. Dombrain's only idea of getting one suitable is through the
newspapers."

"I think it's a pity."

"Oh, not at all! Don't be afraid of me, Mr. Maxwell; I assure you I
can take excellent care of myself. All colonial girls can. They are
more self-reliant than English young ladies. If I don't like the
companion chosen for me by Mr. Dombrain, I'll easily get rid of her."

"But if Mrs. Valpy recommended you someone who could introduce you
into society."

"Some pauper peeress I suppose you mean," said Kaituna, equitably.
"No, I wouldn't care for that at all. I don't wish to go into society
until my father comes home again. Then it will be easy, for the
Pethrams are an old family, and have sisters and cousins and aunts
everywhere. When I wish to see the world, I've no doubt papa will find
some one to present me at Court; but at present I want a companion to
talk to. I say a chaperon, but I mean a companion."

"Oh, I wish!--I wish!" stuttered Archie, growing red; "I wish----"

He stopped short, this wise young man, for he was on the verge of
saying something very foolish, which might have jeopardised his
chances with the Maori maiden, but the fruit was not yet ripe, so with
wisdom beyond his years, he refrained from finishing his sentence.

"You've wished three times," said Miss Pethram calmly. "What is it
about?"

"The wish?"

"Yes!"

"I wish that you may get a good chaperon."

"So do I, but I suppose they are as difficult to get as anything else.
I'm afraid I'll be very hard to please. Of course, it's a difficult
thing to choose a person to live with."

"Even in marriage."

Kaituna blushed, and folded up the paper in a somewhat embarrassed
fashion.

"Marriage is a lottery," she said at length, with an attempt at
lightness.

"I think I've heard that remark before."

"Very likely. It's hard to say anything original nowadays."

"I suppose," said Archie, after a pause, "that when your chaperon is
chosen by Mr. Dombrain, she will come down here."

"Oh, dear, no. I'm going home next week with the Valpys."

"Home?"

"Yes. To Thornstream, near Deswarth, in Berkshire. Papa's house, you
know."

"And I'll never see you again," he said dismally.

"Oh, I don't know; the world is small."

Maxwell groaned in vexation of spirit, thinking that the heart of this
desirable maiden was as the flint which is hard; and the maiden
herself, having thus worried her mouse, consoled it in a pleasant
fashion.

"Besides, Berkshire is not very far from London."

"I know that, of course, but I have no acquaintances in Deswarth."

"Oh, fie! What about Mrs. Valpy!"

"Mrs. Valpy! of course, I quite forgot Mrs. Valpy," said Archie,
determined to pay court at once to the old lady. "You know I like Mrs.
Valpy."

"Since when?" asked Kaituna, mischievously.

Archie took out his watch gravely, and looked at it.

"To be exact, since a minute ago."

"Oh, the craft of the male sex."

"The end justifies the means," quoted Archie, Jesuitically; "but oh, I
say----" He stopped, and a look of alarm overspread his face.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to come down to Berkshire."

"Why not?"

"Because I have to go to South America next month."

Kaituna froze instantly, and annihilated him with a glacial look, at
which he quailed visibly.

"I can't help it, Miss Pethram," he said piteously, "don't look at me
like that."

"I'm not looking at you like that," retorted Miss Pethram vengefully.
"I--I hope you'll have a pleasant voyage."

"I won't! I hate the sea."

"Then why go?"

"Needs must, when the devil drives."

"That's very coarse."

"But it's very true. I beg your pardon, really; but, you know, it is
hard to have to go prancing about the world when you don't want to."

"How long will you be out in South America?"

"I don't know. Perhaps for ever, if I get yellow fever."

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that."

"Man is mortal," said Maxwell, with gloomy relish.

"Man is silly," retorted Kaituna rising to her feet, "so I'm going to
ask Mr. Clendon to sing a song."

"You never ask me!" said the young man reproachfully.

"Oh! can engineers sing?"

Maxwell said a naughty word under his breath, and walked meekly to the
piano beside her. Toby was in possession of the instrument, and was
giving Miss Valpy selections from the latest London burlesque.

"This is the dance, you know," he said playing a breakdown; "and then
comes the song 'Skip the gutter daddy, dear,'--a rippin' song."

"Sounds like it," said Maxwell, caustically; "so refined."

"Well, you needn't talk my boy, I've seen you enjoying it immensely."

Kaituna directed another look of scorn at the unhappy Maxwell, which
inspired him with a vehement desire to break Toby's head. He
refrained, however, and smiled in a sickly manner.

"I prefer Shakespeare," he said at length, telling the best lie he
could under the circumstances.

"Dry old stick," observed Tommy, lightly. "There's no fun in him."

"But he's so high class."

"Listen to the virtuous one," said Clendon, scoffingly. "Oh, my
gracious! that my boy should talk such jargon. You don't feel ill, do
you, Archie?"

"No, I don't," retorted Archie, in a rage, seeing that Kaituna was
enjoying this little dialogue with great zest. "I wish you'd be quiet
and sing something."

"How can I be quiet and sing also?"

"Dosing, Mr. Clendon," said Kaituna, with a kind flash of her
beautiful eyes at the happy bard.

Maxwell suppressed a second naughty word and sat down in dismal
silence.

"What shall I sing?" asked Toby, running his fingers over the piano.

"Something funny."

"No, no! Something sentimental," said Kaituna, in a commanding tone,
and sat down beside Miss Valpy.

Toby cleared his throat, looked up at the ceiling for inspiration, and
laughed.

"I'll sing a betwixt and between thing."

So he did.


     "She is the dearest of girls I confess,
        Her milliners' bills are a sight to see;
      Dearest of girls in the matter of dress,
        Dearest of girls in the world to me.
      I lost my heart, but I lost my gold,
        And hearts without gold are romantic trash;
      Her love was a thing to be bought and sold,
       But I couldn't purchase for want of cash.

     "Now she is spouse to an aged man,
       He's eighty-five and a trifle frail;
      Soon he'll finish his life's brief span,
       Then she'll look for another male.
      Ah! but love comes not twice in our life,
       Cupid for ever has passed us by;
      So if she asked me to make her my wife,
       I would not marry her, no not I."


"Oh!" said Tommy, when the song was ended, "so that's your idea of a
woman's love."

"Not mine--the world's."

"And what about the love which cannot be bought?" asked Kaituna.

"Is there such a love?"

"Yes, cynic," growled Maxwell in disgust; "true love is not a saleable
article. The woman who truly loves a man," here his eye rested on
Kaituna, "lets nothing stand in the way of that love. She gives up
rank, fortune, everything for his sake."

"And what does she receive in return?" demanded Miss Pethram,
innocently.

"The true joy which arises from the union of two loving hearts."

"Very pastoral indeed," said Toby, lightly. "Chloe and Corydon in
Arcadia. It once existed, indeed, but now----"

"But now," finished Kaituna, rather tired of the discussion, "it is
time to retire."

Both the gentlemen protested at the ladies going away so early, but
Kaituna remained firm, and was supported by Tommy, who said she felt
very tired.

"Not of us, I hope!" said Toby, meekly.

"Thyself hath said it," she replied, holding out her hand.
"Good-night."

When they were leaving the room, Maxwell, who was escorting Kaituna,
bent over and whispered in her ear--

"I won't go to South America."

"South America," she repeated, with a pretended look of surprise, "Oh!
yes, of course. I forgot all about it, I assure you. Good-night."

She was gone before he could say a word, leaving him overcome with
anger at the flippant manner in which she spoke. Was she in jest or
earnest. He could not tell. Perhaps she said one thing and meant
another. He could not tell. Perchance--oh, women were all alike, they
liked to put their victim on a sharp hook and watch him wriggle
painfully to be free.

"She's a coquette!"

"Who? Miss Valpy?" asked Toby, overhearing.

"No, Miss Pethram; but I dare say her friend's no better."

"I'm afraid not!" sighed Mr. Clendon, dismally; "it's six of one and
half-a-dozen of the other. But what ails my Archibald? His brow is
overcast."

"Oh! rubbish," growled Archibald, rudely; "come and smoke."

The smoking-room was quite empty, so the young men established
themselves in two comfortable armchairs, and devoted their energies to
the consumption of tobacco. Clendon preferred the frivolous cigarette,
but Archie produced with loving care a well coloured meerschaum, which
had been his companion for many years.

"This is a travelled pipe," he said to his friend when the blue smoke
was rolling in clouds from his mouth, "a very Ulysses of pipes. It has
been in far countries and knoweth the ways of the stranger."

"Good idea for a story," observed Toby, who was always on the look-out
for copy. "'The Tale of a Pipe in ten Fills.' Egad! I think it ought
to go capitally. It's so difficult to get an idea nowadays."

Maxwell, luxuriating in his pipe, grunted in a manner which might have
meant anything, so Toby promptly attacked him on his want of manners.

"You might speak to a fellow when a fellow speaks to you! I tell you
what, Archie, you've changed for the worse since we were at school
together. Then you were a gregarious animal, and now you are an
unsociable beast."

"Don't call names, my good man! I can't help being quiet. My thoughts
are far away."

"Pish! not so very far."

"Well, perhaps not."

"Have you asked her to marry you?"

"Hardly! I've only known her a fortnight, and besides, I've got no
money."

"No; but she has!"

"I don't want to live on my wife. I'm going away to South America."

"Never to see her again, I suppose," said Toby, ironically; "don't
talk nonsense, Archie. You're madly in love with Miss Pethram and
don't want to lose sight of her."

"True! but I must when she goes away from here."

"Not a bit of it. Listen, I will be your good angel."

Maxwell laughed grimly at the idea.

"I will be your good angel," repeated Toby, imperturbably, "and take
you down with me to Deswarth."

"To your father's house? I thought you weren't friends with your
governor."

"I am not," acknowledged Clendon with touching candour; "he wanted me
to become a churchman, and I didn't care about it. We had words and
parted. Now, however, I've won a success in literature, I'll go back
and ask the pater to kill the domestic veal. You I will bring with me
to the banquet, and as Miss Pethram lives near you will be able to see
her, woo her, wed her, and be happy ever afterwards."

Archie made no reply, but smoked furiously; and Toby, having delivered
himself of what he had to say, also subsided into silence.

After a pause said Maxwell--

"Toby."

"Yes."

"I'll come."

"What about South America?"

"D---- South America."




CHAPTER III.
THE WOMAN WITH THE FIERCE EYES.


              You are a snake,
                For the sly beast lies
              Coiled in the brake
                Of your sleepy eyes,
      Lo, at your glances my weak soul dies.

              Woman you are
                With a face so fair;
              But the snake must mar
                All the woman there.
      Your eyes affright, but your smiles ensnare.


Such a poor room it was, with a well-worn carpet, shabby furniture, a
dingy mirror over the fireplace, and a mean sordid look everywhere.
The bright sunshine, pouring in through the dirty windows, showed up
the weak points of the apartment in the most relentless manner. Great
folding-doors at one side half open, showing an untidy bedroom beyond,
and on the other side the many-paned windows, veiled by ragged
curtains, looked out into Jepple Street, Bloomsbury.

There was a shaky round table in the centre of the apartment, on which
was spread a doubtfully clean cloth, and on it the remains of a very
poor breakfast. An egg half eaten, a teacup half filled, and a portion
of bread on the plate showed that the person for whom this meal was
provided had not finished, and, indeed, she was leaning on the table
with her elbows, looking at a copy of the _Daily Telegraph_.

A noticeable woman this, frowning down on the newspaper with tightly
closed lips, and one whom it would be unwise to offend.. After a pause
she pushed the paper away, arose to her feet, and marching across to
the dingy mirror, surveyed herself long and anxiously. The face that
looked out at her from the glass was a remarkable one.

Dark, very dark, with fierce black eyes under strongly marked
eyebrows, masses of rough dark hair carelessly twisted up into a heavy
coil, a thin-lipped, flexible mouth and a general contour of face not
at all English. She had slender brown hands, which looked powerful in
spite of their delicacy, and a good figure, though just now it was
concealed by a loose dressing-gown of pale yellow silk much
discoloured and stained. With her strange barbaric face, her gaudy
dress, Mrs. Belswin was certainly a study for a painter.

Mrs. Belswin, so she called herself; but she looked more like a savage
queen than a civilised woman. She should have been decked with
coloured beads, with fantastic feathers, with barbaric bracelets, with
strangely striped skins, as it was she was an anomaly, an incongruity,
in the poor room of poor lodging-house, staring at her fierce face in
the dingy mirror.

Mrs. Munser, who kept the establishment, acknowledged to her
intimate friend, Mrs. Pegs, that the sight of this lady had given
her a turn; and certainly no one could blame cockney Mrs. Munser, for
of all the strange people that might be seen in London, this lithe,
savage-looking woman was surely the strangest. Indian jungles, African
forests, South American pampas, she would have been at home there,
having all the appearance and fire of a woman of the tropics; but to
see her in dull, smoky London--it was extraordinary.

After scrutinising herself for a time, she began to talk aloud in a
rich full voice, which was broken every now and then by a guttural
note which betrayed the savage; yet she chose her words well, she
spoke easily, and rolled her words in a soft labial manner suggestive
of the Italian language. Yet she was not an Italian.

"Twenty years ago," she muttered savagely, "nearly twenty years ago,
and I have hardly ever seen her. I must do so now, when Providence has
put this chance into my hands. They can't keep a mother from her
child. God's laws are stronger than those of man. Rupert would put the
ocean between us if he could, but now he's in New Zealand, so for a
time I will be able to see her, to speak to her, to hold her in my
arms; not as her mother,--no, not as her mother,--but as her paid
servant."

She turned away from the mirror with a savage gesture, and walked
slowly up and down the room with the soft sinuous movement of a
panther. Her soft silk dress rustled as she walked, and her splendid
hair, released by her sudden movement, fell like a black veil over her
shoulders. She thrust the tresses back from her temples with impatient
hands, and her face looked forth from the cloud of hair, dark, sombre,
and savage, with a flash of the fierce eyes and vicious click of the
strong white teeth.

"Curses on the man who took me away from her. I did not care for him,
with his yellow hair and pink face. Why did I go? Why was I such a
fool? I left her, my own child, for him, and went out into the world
an outcast, for his sake. God! God! Why are women such fools?"

For a moment she stood with uplifted hands, as if awaiting an answer;
but none came, so, letting her arms fall, she walked back to her
chair, and lighting a cigarette, placed it in her mouth.

"I daren't use a pipe here," she said, with a discordant laugh, "it
would not be respectable. But Spanish women smoke cigarettes, Russian
women smoke cigarettes, so why should not the Maori woman smoke them
also. Respectable, eh! Well, I'm going to be respectable now, when
I've answered this."

This was an advertisement in the paper, which read as follows--

"Wanted, a companion for a young lady. Apply by letter, Dombrain, 13,
Chintler Lane, City."

"Apply by letter," muttered Mrs. Belswin, with a sneer. "Indeed I
won't, Alfred Dombrain. I'll apply in person, and I think I'll obtain
the situation. I'll hold it, too--hold it till Rupert returns, and
then--and then----"

She sprang to her feet and blew a cloud of smoke with a mocking laugh.
"And then, my husband, I'll match myself against you."


     "Salve dimora casta e pura."


The singer was coming slowly upstairs, and, as he finished the line,
knocked at the door.

"Stephano," said Mrs. Belswin, with a frown, glancing at the clock;
"what can he want so early? Avanti."

The door opened and Stephano, the singer, a tall, lithe Italian, with
a beaming smile, presented himself and burst out into a torrent of
greeting.

"Buon Giorno cara mia! Ah, my beautiful Lucrezia! my splendid Norma!
how like an angel you look this morning. Gran dio che grazia. Signora,
I kiss your hand."

He dropped on one knee in an affectedly theatrical manner and pressed
his lips to Mrs. Belswin's hand, upon which she twitched it away with
a frown, and spoke roughly to her adorer.

"What do you want, Ferrari?"

"Niente! niente! but to pay a visit of ceremony."

"It's not customary to pay visits of ceremony at ten o'clock in the
morning. I wish you would go away. I'm busy."

"Che donna," said the Italian. With a gesture of admiration, and
taking off his hat, sat down on the sofa.

Stephano Ferrari was a handsome man in a wicked way. He was tall and
slender, with a dark, expressive face, white teeth, which gleamed
under his heavy black moustache, wonderfully fine eyes, and a bland,
ingratiating manner. English he spoke remarkably well, having been for
many years away from his native land, but had a habit of interlarding
his conversation with Italian ejaculations, which, in conjunction with
his carefully-learnt English, had a somewhat curious effect. Being the
tenor of an opera company in New York, he had become acquainted with
Mrs. Belswin, who was also in the profession, and had fallen violently
in love with this splendid-looking woman, who had so many of the
characteristics of his countrywomen. Mrs. Belswin did not reciprocate
this passion, and treated him with marked discourtesy; but this only
added fuel to the fire of his love, much to her annoyance, as Ferrari
had all the ardour and violence of his race strongly developed, and
was likely to prove dangerous if she did not return his passion, a
thing she felt by no means inclined to do.

At present he sat smiling on the sofa before her, adjusted his bright
red tie, ran his fingers through his curly hair, and then twisted the
ends of his moustache with peculiarly aggravating complacency.

"Don't you hear what I say?" said Mrs. Belswin, stamping her foot
angrily. "I'm busy. Go away."

"Bid me not fly from those star-like eyes," sang the Signor, rolling a
cigarette with deft fingers. "Ah, che bella musica. If the words were
but my beautiful Italian instead of this harsh English. Dio! It hurts
the throat, your speaking--fog-voiced pigs that you are."

"Take your abuse and yourself somewhere else," replied Mrs. Belswin,
bringing her hand down sharply on the table. "I tell you I'm busy. You
never leave me alone, Stephano. You followed me over from America, and
now you stay beside me all day. Why do you make such a fool of
yourself?"

"Because I love thee, carissima. Let me light this; not at thine
eyes--stelle radiante--but from thy cigarette. Grazia!"

Mrs. Belswin knew of old that when Ferrari was in this humour nothing
reasonable could be expected from him; so, resigned to the inevitable,
she let him light his cigarette as he wished, then, flinging herself
down on her chair, looked moodily at him.

"How long is this foolery going to last?" she demanded caustically.

"Till you become the Signora Ferrari."

"That will never be."

"Nay, angela mia--it will be some day."

"Was there ever such a man?" burst out Mrs. Belswin, viciously. "He
won't take no for an answer."

"Not from thee, Donna Lucrezia."

"Don't call me Donna Lucrezia.

"Perchè?"

"Because I'm tired of opera. I'm tired of you. I'm tired of
everything. I'm going to leave all the old life and become
respectable."

"The life of a singer is always respectable," declared Ferrari,
mendaciously. "You mean to leave me, Signora?"

"Yes, I do."

"Ebbene! we shall see."

"What claim have you on me? None. I met you in America two years ago.
We nag together for a time, and because of that you persecute me with
you ridiculous attentions."

"I love thee."

"I don't want your love."

"Veramente!"

"No!"

She spoke defiantly, and folding her arms stared steadily at her
persistent lover. The Italian, however, was not at all annoyed. He
simply threw his half-smoked cigarette into the teacup, and rising
from his seat stood before her smiling and bland as ever.

"Non e vero, Signora? Ebbene. I am the same. We met in San Francisco
two years ago. I was a singer of opera. I obtained for you
engagements. I loved you. Carissima, I love thee still! You are cold,
cruel, you stone-woman, bella demonia. For long time I have been your
slave. You have given me the kicks of a dog. Pazienza, I finish soon.
I have told you all of myself. You have told me all of yourself. I
come to this fog land with you, and now you say, 'Addio.' Bellissima,
Signora, but I am not to be talked to like a child. I love you! and I
marry you. Ecco! You will be Signora Ferrari. Senza dubbio!"

Having thus delivered himself of his determination with many smiles
and gesticulations, Signor Ferrari bowed in his best stage manner, sat
down in his chair and began to roll another cigarette. Mrs. Belswin
heard him in silence, the clenching of her hands alone betraying her
anger, but having had two years' experience of the Italian's
character, she knew what to do, and controlling herself with an
effort, began to temporise in a highly diplomatic manner.

"I suppose no woman could be indifferent to such love as you profess,
Stephano, and some day I may be able to answer you as you wish--but
not now, not now."

"And why, cara mia?"

"Because I am going to see my daughter again."

"Your daughter?"

"Yes! You know I told you all my past life. I was a fool to do so, as
it gives you a certain hold over me. But I am a lonely--woman. Your
manner was sympathetic, and so--well it's only natural I should wish
to confide in some one."

"So you confided in me. Per l'amor di Dio, Signora. Do not be sorry, I
am simpatica! I feel for you. Ah, Dio! It was a terrible story of your
husband, and the parting in anger. Basta! Basta! Think of it no more."

"I must! Do you think I can forget the past by a simple effort of
will? Happy for me, happy for all, if such a thing could be. But--I
have forgotten nothing. That is my punishment!"

"And now, cara?"

"Now I am going to see my dear daughter again."

"She is in London, then? Ah, che gioja."

"Yes! she is in--in England."

"And il marito?"

"He is at the other end of the world."

"Bene. Let him say there!"

Mrs. Belswin nodded her head in savage approval, then began to walk to
and fro, talking rapidly.

"While he is away I have a plan. In the paper there is a notice
requiring a companion for my daughter."

"How do you know?"

"Because it is put in by a Mr. Dombrain. He is Rupert Pethram's
solicitor. Oh, I know him, better than he thinks. All these years I
have been away from my child I have watched over her. Ah, yes! I know
all of her life in New Zealand. I have good friends there. I found out
when her father brought her to England, and that is why I came over
here so quickly. I intended to see her again--to speak to her--but
without revealing I was her unhappy mother. But--I was afraid of
Pethram. Yes, you may smile, Stephano, but you do not know him. I do."

"E incrédibile. You who fear no one."

"I do not fear him physically," she said proudly, with a savage flash
from her fierce eyes. "I fear no man in that way. But I am afraid
because of my daughter. She thinks I am dead. It is better than that
she should know I am a divorced, disgraced woman. If Sir Rupert were
angry he might tell her all, and then--and then--oh, God! I could not
bear to see her again. She would despise me. She would look on me with
scorn. My own child. Ah, I should die--I should die!"

The tears actually came into her eyes, and for a moment softened their
fierceness. This woman, hard and undisciplined, with savage instincts
derived from a savage mother, yet felt the strong maternal instinct
implanted in the breast of every woman, and quailed with terror as she
thought of the power her former husband had to lower her in the eyes
of her daughter. Ferrari, of course, could not understand this, having
been always accustomed to think of Mrs. Belswin as an untamed tigress,
but now she had a touch of feminine softness about her which puzzled
him.

"Ah! the strangeness of women," he said philosophically. "Ebbene, now
il marito is away, what will you do?"

"I'm going to see Mr. Dombrain, and obtain the situation of companion
to my own daughter."

"Not so fast, Signora! She will know you."

"No; she will not know me," replied Mrs. Belswin softly; "she does not
remember me. When I left her she was a little child. She thinks I am
dead. I go to her as a stranger. It is hard; it is terribly hard. I
will see her. I will speak to her. I will perhaps kiss her; but I dare
not say, 'child, I am your mother!' Ah, it is cruel--but it is my
punishment."

"It is a good plan for you, cara mia! But about me, you forget your
faithful Stephano!"

"No, I do not," she said coaxingly, for she was afraid he would spoil
all, knowing what he did; "but you must wait. I want to see my
daughter--to live with her for a time. When my husband returns he will
know me, so I must leave before he sees me. Then I will come back to
thee, carissima."

"Basta!" replied Ferrari, with great reluctance. "I do not wish to
keep you from the child. I am not jealous of il marito."

"You've no cause to be--I hate him."

"Look, then, the love I bear you, carissima mia. Though all your life
I know. Though you have had husband and lover, yet I wish to make you
mine."

"It is strange," said Mrs. Belswin, indifferently. "I am not a young
woman; my good looks are going; my past life is not that of a saint;
and yet you would marry me."

"Because I love thee, carissima," said Ferrari, taking her hand. "I
have loved many before, but none like thee, bella demonia. Ah, Dio,
thou hast the fierceness of the tiger within thee. The hot blood of
Italy burns in thy veins, my Lucrezia Borgia. I am weary of tame women
who weep and sigh ever. I am no cold Englishman, thou knowest. The
lion seeks but the lioness, and so I come to thee for thy love, stella
adorata."

He caressed her softly as he spoke these words in his musical voice,
and the woman softened under his caress with feline grace. All the
treachery and sleepiness of the panther was observable in this woman;
but under the smoothness of her manner lay the fierceness of her
savage nature, which was now being controlled by the master hand of
the Italian.

"You will let me go to my daughter, then," she said in a soft, languid
voice, her fierce eyes dulling under the mesmeric influence of his
gaze.

"As you will. I can deny thee nothing, regina del mia vita."




CHAPTER IV.
WHAT MRS. BELSWIN HAD TO SAY.


     "The deeds we do, though done in heedless ways,
      May have the shaping of our future lives;
      And, stretching forth their long arms from the past,
      May alter this and that in such strange fashion
      That we become as puppets in their hands,
      To play the game of life by old events."


Mr. Dombrain's office, situate in Chintle Lane, was a shabby little
place consisting of three rooms. One where his clients waited, another
occupied by three clerks constantly writing, and a third where Mr.
Dombrain himself sat, like a crafty spider in his web waiting for
silly flies. The three rooms were all bad, but Mr. Dombrain's was the
worst; a square, low-roofed apartment like a box, with a dim twilight
atmosphere, which filtered in through a dirty skylight in the roof.
This being the case, Dombrain's desk was lighted by a gas-jet with a
green shade, fed by a snaky-looking india-rubber tube attached to the
iron gas-pipe projecting from the wall above his head.

The heavy yellow light flaring from under this green shade revealed
the room in a half-hearted sort of fashion, illuminating the desk,
but quite unable to penetrate into the dark corners of the place. On
the writing-table were piles of papers, mostly tied into bundles with
red tape, a glass inkstand, a pad of pink blotting-paper, three or
four pens, all of which were arranged on a dingy ink-stained green
cloth in front of a row of pigeon holes, full of loose letters and
legal-looking documents.

In front of this table sat Mr. Dombrain in a heavy horsehair-covered
chair, and near him were two other chairs of slender construction for
the use of clients. Along the walls more pigeon holes crammed with
papers, a tall bookshelf filled with hard-looking law books, which had
a second-hand look of having been picked up cheap, a ragged carpet on
the well-worn floor, and dust everywhere. Indeed, so thickly lay the
dust on books, on floor, on papers, on desk, that the whole room
looked as if it had just been opened after the lapse of years. The
chamber of the Sleeping Beauty, perhaps, and Mr. Dombrain--well no, he
was not a beauty, and he never was sleeping, so the comparison holds
not. Indeed he was a singularly ugly man in a coarse fashion. A large
bullet-shaped head covered with rough red hair, cut so remarkably
short that it stood up stiffly in a stubbly fashion, a freckled face
with a coarse red beard clipped short, cunning little grey eyes,
rather bleared by the constant glare of the gaslight in which he
worked, and large crimson ears. Dressed in a neat suit of black
broadcloth, he appeared singularly ill at ease in it, and with his
large stumpy-fingered hands, with clubbed nails, his awkward manner,
his habit of stealthily glancing out of his bleared eyes, Mr. Dombrain
was about as unsuited a person for a lawyer as one could find. There
was nothing suave about him to invite confidence, and he looked as if
he would have been more at home working as a navvy than sitting behind
this desk, with his large red hands clumsily moving the papers about.

Three o'clock in the afternoon it was by Mr. Dombrain's fat-faced
silver watch lying on the table in front of him, and as the lawyer
noted the fact in his usual stealthy fashion, a timid-looking clerk
glided into the room.

"Yes?" said Dombrain interrogatively, without looking up.

"If you please--if you please, sir, a lady," stammered the timid
clerk, washing his hands with invisible soap and water, "a lady
about--about the situation, sir."

"Humph! I said the application was to be by letter."

"But--but the lady, sir?"

Mr. Dombrain looked complacently at his nails, but said nothing.

"But--but the lady, sir?" repeated the timid clerk again.

"I said the application was to be by letter."

The clerk, seeing that this was the answer he was expected to deliver,
went sliding out of the room; but at the door encountered the lady in
question, dressed in black, and closely veiled.

"Madam," he stammered, growing red, "the application was to be by
letter."

"I preferred to come personally."

As she spoke, low though her voice was, Mr. Dombrain looked up
suddenly with a startled look on his face.

"Can you see me, Mr. Dombrain?"

He arose slowly to his feet, as if in obedience to some nervous
impulse, and with his grey eyes looking straight at the veiled woman,
still kept silence.

"Can you see me, Mr. Alfred Dombrain?"

The lawyer's red face had turned pale, and looked yellow in the
gaslight. The hot atmosphere of the room evidently made him gasp, used
as he was to it, for he opened his mouth as if to speak, then, closing
it again, signed to the clerk to leave the room.

Left alone with his visitor, Dombrain, still maintaining the same
position, stood watching her with a mesmeric stare as she glided into
one of the chairs beside the table.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Alfred Dombrain?"

His face was suddenly suffused with a rush of blood, and he sat down
heavily.

"Madam! who are you?"

"Don't you know? Ah! what a pity; and you have such a good memory for
voices."

"I--memory--voices," he stammered, moving restlessly.

"Yes; why not, Mr. Damberton?"

"Hush! For God's sake, hush! Who are you? Who are you?"

The woman flung back her veil, and he recoiled from the sight of her
face with a hoarse, strangled cry.

"Jezebel Pethram!"

"Once Jezebel Pethram, now Miriam Belswin. I see you remember faces as
well as voices--and names also. Ah! what an excellent memory."

Mr. Dombrain _alias_ Damberton collected his scattered senses
together, and, going over to a small iron safe set in the wall,
produced a tumbler and a bottle of whisky. Mrs. Belswin looked at him
approvingly as he drank off half a glass of the spirit neat.

"That's right; you'll need all your Dutch courage."

Quite forgetting the demands of hospitality, Dombrain replaced the
bottle and glass in the respectable safe, and resumed his seat at the
table with his ordinary bullying nature quite restored to him by the
potent spirit.

"Now, then, Mrs. Pethram, or Belswin, or whatever you like to call
yourself," he said, in a harsh, angry tone, "what do you want here?"

"I want you."

"Ho, ho! The feeling isn't reciprocal. Leave my office."

"When I choose."

"Perhaps a policeman will make you go quicker," growled Dombrain,
rising.

"Perhaps he will," retorted Mrs. Belswin, composedly; "and perhaps
he'll take you along with him."

"Infernal nonsense."

"Is it! We'll try the experiment, if you like."

Mr. Dombrain resumed his seat with a malediction on all women in
general, and Mrs. Belswin in particular. Then he bit his nails, and
looked at her defiantly, only to quail before the fierce look in her
eyes.

"It's no use beating about the bush with a fiend like you," he growled
sulkily, making a clumsy attempt to appear at his ease.

"Not a bit."

"I wish you'd go away," whined Dombrain, with a sudden change of
front. "I'm quite respectable now. I haven't seen you for twenty
years. Why do you come now and badger me? It isn't fair to pull a man
down when he's up."

"Do you call this up?" sneered Mrs. Belswin, looking round the dingy
office.

"It's up enough for me."

The woman grinned in a disagreeable manner, finding Mr. Dombrain's
manner very amusing. She glanced rapidly at him with her fierce eyes,
and he wriggled uneasily in his chair.

"Don't look at me like that, you witch," he muttered, covering his
face with his large hands. "You've got the evil eye, confound you."

Mrs. Belswin, leaning forward, held up her forefinger and shook it
gently at the lawyer.

"It won't do, my friend; I tell you it won't do. You've tried
bullying, you've tried whining; neither of them go down with me. If
you have any business to do you've got to put it aside for me. If you
have to see clients you can't and won't see them till I choose. Do you
hear what I say, you legal Caliban? I've come here for a purpose, Mr.
Dombrain--that, I believe, is your present name--for a purpose, sir.
Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear. What is your purpose?"

She laughed; but not mirthfully.

"To tell you a story."

"I don't want stories. Go to a publisher."

"Certainly. I'll go to the Scotland Yard firm. Hold your tongue, sir.
Sneering doesn't come well from an animal like you. I have no time to
waste."

"Neither have I."

"That being the case with both of us, sit still."

Mr. Dombrain stopped his wriggling and became as a stone statue of an
Egyptian king, with his hands resting on his knees.

"Now I'll tell you my story."

"Can't you do without that?"

"No, my good man, I can't. To make you understand what I want I must
tell you all my story. Some of it you know, some of it you don't know.
Be easy. It's short and not sweet. Listen."

And Mr. Dombrain did listen, not because he wanted to, but because
this woman with the fierce eyes had an influence over him which he,
bully, coarse-minded man as he was, could not resist. When he
recollected what she knew and what she could tell, and would tell if
she chose, a cold sweat broke out all over him, and he felt nerveless
as a little child. Therefore, for these and divers other reasons, Mr.
Dombrain listened--with manifest reluctance, it is true, but still he
listened.

"We will commence the story in New Zealand twenty years--say
twenty-two years ago. One Rupert Pethram, the younger son of a good
family, come out there to make his fortune. He made it by the simple
process of marrying a Maori half-caste, called Jezebel Manners. You
see I don't scruple to tell everything about myself, dear friend.
Well, Mr. and Mrs. Pethram got on very well together for a time, but
she grew tired of being married to a fool. He was a fool, wasn't he?"

She waited for a reply, so Dombrain, against his will, was forced to
give her one.

"Yes, he was a fool--to marry you."

"The wisest thing he ever did in his life, seeing what a lot of
property I brought him. But I couldn't get on with him. My mother was
a pure-blooded Maori. I am only half a white, and I hated his cold
phlegmatic disposition, his supercilious manners. I was--I am
hot-blooded, ardent, quick-tempered. Fancy a woman like me tied to a
cold-blooded fish like Rupert Pethram. Bah! it was madness. I hated
him before my child was born; afterwards I hated him more than ever.
Then the other man came along."

"There always is another man!"

"Naturally! What would become of the Divorce Court if there wasn't?
Yes, the other man did come along. A pink and white fool. My husband
was a god compared to Silas Oates."

"Then why did you run away with Oates?"

"Why indeed! He attracted me in some way, I suppose, or I was sick of
my humdrum married life. I don't know why I left even Rupert Pethram
for such a fool as Silas. I did so, however. I gave up my name, my
child, my money, all for what?--for a man that tired of me in less
than six months, and left me to starve in San Francisco."

"You didn't starve, however."

"It is not my nature to act foolishly all my life. No, I did not
starve. I had a good voice, which I managed to get trained. I had also
a good idea of acting, so I made a success on the operatic stage as
Madame Tagni."

"Oh! are you the celebrated Madame Tagni?"

"I was. Now I am Mrs. Belswin, of no occupation in particular. I sang
in the States; I sang in New Zealand----"

"You didn't sing in Dunedin?"

"No, because my husband was there. Do you know why I came to New
Zealand--a divorced, dishonoured woman? No, of course you don't. I
came to see my child. I did see her, unknown to Rupert or to the child
herself. I was in New Zealand a long time watching over my darling.
Then I went again to the States, but I left friends behind me--good
friends, who kept me posted up in all the news of my child Kaituna.
Since I left her twenty years ago like a fool, I have known everything
about her. I heard in New York how Rupert had lost all his money,
owing to the decrease in the value of property. I heard his elder
brother had died, and that he had come in for the title. He is Sir
Rupert Pethram; I ought to be Lady Pethram."

"But you're not," sneered Dombrain, unable to resist the opportunity.

She flashed a savage glance at him and replied quietly.

"No, I am Mrs. Belswin, that's enough for me at present. But to go on
with my story. I heard how my husband had brought our child home to
the old country, and leaving her there had returned to New Zealand on
business. When this news reached me, I made up my mind at once and
came over here. I found out--how, it matters not--that my husband's
legal adviser was an old friend of mine, one Alfred Damberton----"

"Hush! not that name here!"

"Ah, I forgot. You are the respectable Mr. Alfred Dombrain now. But it
was curious that I should find an old friend in a position so likely
to be of use to me."

"Use to you?" groaned Dombrain, savagely.

"Yes; I have seen your advertisement in the paper for a companion for
a young lady. Well, I have come to apply for the situation."

"You?"

"Yes. Personally, and not by letter as you suggested in print."

Mr. Dombrain felt that he was in a fix, and therefore lied, with
clumsy malignity.

"That advertisement doesn't refer to your daughter."

"Doesn't it?" said Mrs. Belswin sharply. "Then, why refer to my
daughter at all just now?"

"Because!--oh, because----"

"Because you couldn't think of a better lie, I suppose," she finished,
contemptuously. "It won't do, my friend, I tell you it won't do. I'm
not the kind of woman to be played fast and loose with. You say it is
not my daughter that requires a chaperon."

"I do! yes I do!"

"Then you lie. What do you think private detectives are made for? Did
you think I came here without having everything necessary to meet an
unscrupulous wretch like you!"

"I thought nothing about you. I thought you were dead."

"And wished it, I daresay. But I'm not! I'm alive enough to do you an
injury--to have your name struck off the roll of English solicitors."

"You can't!" he retorted defiantly, growing pale again. "I defy you."

"You'd better not, Mr. Damberton! I'm one too many for you. I can tell
a little thing about your past career which would considerably spoil
the respectable position you now hold."

"No one would believe you against me. A respectable solicitor's word
is worth a dozen of a divorced woman."

"If you insult me I'll put a knife in you, you miserable wretch!" said
Mrs. Belswin, breathing hard. "I tell you I'm a desperate woman. I
know that you have advertised for a chaperon for my daughter, and
I--her mother--intend to have the situation under the name of Mrs.
Belswin."

"But your husband will recognise you."

"My husband is out in New Zealand, and will be there for the next few
months. When he returns I will deal with him, not you. This matter of
the chaperon is in your hands, and you are going to give the situation
to me. You hear, gaol-bird--to me!"

Dombrain winced at the term applied to him, and jumped up with a
furious look of rage.

"I defy you! I defy you!" he said in a low harsh voice, the veins in
his forehead swelling with intense passion. "You outcast! You Jezebel!
Ah, how the name suits you! I know what you are going to say. That
twenty years ago I was in gaol in New Zealand for embezzlement. Well,
I own it--I was. I was a friend of your lover, Silas Oates--your lover
who cast you off to starve. I lost money betting. I embezzled a large
sum. I was convicted and sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Well, I
worked out my term! I left the colony where, as Alfred Damberton, I
was too well known to get a chance of honest employment, and came to
England through America. I met you again in America. I was fool enough
to think Silas Oates might help me for old time's sake. I found he had
left you--left you alone in 'Frisco. You were little better than a
vile creature on the streets; I was a gaol-bird. Oh, a nice pair we
were! Outcasts, both you and I."

He passed his handkerchief over his dry lips as he paused, but Mrs.
Belswin made no sign in any way, but simply sat looking at him with a
sneer.

"When I left you," resumed Dombrain, hurriedly, "I came to England--to
my father. He was a lawyer in the country. He received me well--took
me into his office and admitted me into partnership. When he died I
came up to London, and have prospered since. I have changed my name to
Alfred Dombrain, and am respected everywhere. Your husband does not
know my story. He was recommended to me by a friend, and he has
employed me for some years. I have his confidence in every way. I am a
respectable man! I have forgotten the past, and now you come with your
bitter tongue and spiteful mind to tear me down from the position I
have so hardly won."

He dropped down exhausted into a chair; but Mrs. Belswin, still
smiling, still sneering, pointed to the safe.

"Take some more whiskey. You will need it."

"Woman, leave me!"

"Not till I leave as chaperon to my child."

"That you shall never have."

"Oh yes, I shall!"

"I say you shall not! You can go and tell my story where you please; I
shall tell yours; and we'll see who will be believed--Alfred Dombrain,
the respectable, trusted lawyer, or Mrs. Belswin, the divorced woman!
Bah! You can't frighten me with slanders. There is nothing to connect
Dombrain the solicitor with Damberton, the convict."

"Indeed! What about this?"

She held up a photograph which she had taken out of her pocket--a
photograph resembling Mr. Dombrain, but which had written under it--


_Alfred Damberton_.


"You may alter your face," said Mrs. Belswin maliciously, "but you
can't very well alter your handwriting. And now I look at you, I
really don't think there is much alteration. A beard when there used
to be only a moustache, more wrinkles, less smiles. Oh, I think any
one will recognise this for you."

Dombrain made a snatch at the photograph, but she was too quick for
him.

"Not quite. This is my evidence against you. I heard in America,
through my useful detectives, that you were lawyer to my husband; so,
thinking I might require your help, and knowing I shouldn't get it
without some difficulty, I took the trouble of writing to New Zealand
for a full report of your very interesting case. You've cost me a good
deal of money, my dear sir; but they pay well on the opera-stage, so I
don't mind. I have all the papers telling your little story. I have
this photograph with your own signature, proving the identity of
Damberton with Dombrain; so taking all things into consideration, I
think you had better do what I ask."

She had so completely got the better of Mr. Dombrain that she had
reduced him to a kind of moral pulp, and he leaned back in his chair
utterly crushed.

"What do you want?" he asked feebly.

"I want the situation of chaperon to Miss Kaituna Pethram.

"If I give it to you, as I can, will you hold your tongue
about--about--my past life?"

"Yes, certainly; provided that you never disclose that the divorced
Mrs. Pethram has anything to do with the respectable Mrs. Belswin."

"I agree to all you say."

"You will give me the situation?"

"Yes."

"I am engaged, then?"

"You are."

"As chaperon to Miss Pethram?"

"Yes; as chaperon to Miss Pethram."

Mrs. Belswin arose with a smile of triumph and took her leave.

"Beaten all along the line, I see. Let this be a  lesson to you, my
dear friend, never to put your thick head against a woman's wits!"




CHAPTER V.
THE PRODIGAL SON.


     "Oh, what becomes of our prodigal sons
      When worried by troublesome debts and duns.
      When fatherly loving is quite worn out,
      And how to exist is a matter of doubt?
      Well, some go writing in London town,
      A few rise up and a lot fall down,
      Many as squatters go south of the line
      And 'tend to their sheep instead of their swine,
      Dozens in African jungles now rest,
      Numbers ranch in the far wild west;
      But have they full or an empty purse,
      Have they lived decently or the reverse,
      Married or single, wherever they roam
      Our prodigal sons in the end come home."


When Mr. Clendon, Vicar of Deswarth, preached on the parable of "The
Prodigal Son" he little thought that it would one day be applicable to
his own offspring. Yet such was the case, for Tobias Clendon--called
after that celebrated character in the Apocrypha--came home from
Oxford, where he was supposed to be studying for the Church, and
resolutely refused to become a curate, with the chance of a possible
bishopric somewhere about the forties. The fact is, the young man had
contracted the fatal habit of scribbling, and having had a few
articles on dogcarts, poetry, Saint Simonism--such was the wideness of
his range--accepted by friendly editors, had resolved to devote his
energies to literature. He had not ambition enough to become a great
writer, nor enough modesty to sink to the level of a literary hack;
but seeing a chance of earning his bread and butter in an easy
fashion, he determined to take advantage of it and get through life as
happily as possible. Having, therefore, made up his mind to be a
scribbler of ephemeral essays, verse, stories--anything that paid, in
fact--he had also made up his mind to tell his respected parent, but,
having a wholesome dread of said parent, was afraid to do so.

Chance--meddlesome goddess--helped him.

He was rusticated for an amusing escapade arising from a misuse of
spirits--animal spirits and--and--other spirits. Unfortunately, the
college authorities did not look at the affair precisely in Toby's
way, so they banished him from Alma Mater, whom Toby henceforward
regarded as an unjust step-mother.

Being thus summarily treated, he went home to Deswarth, and was
received by his respectable parent with as strong language as his
position as vicar allowed him to use.

Clendon _père_ was a dry-as-dust old gentleman, who was always
grubbing among antique folios, and he had sketched out his son's life
in black and white. Clendon _fils_--this is the parental prophecy--was
to be a curate, a vicar, edit a Greek play--something of Æschylus for
choice--blossom into a full-blown bishop, keep a holy but watchful eye
on any possible vacancy in the sees of York or Canterbury, and die as
high up in the Church as he could get. It was truly a beautiful
vision, and Bookworm Clendon, burrowing in out-of-way libraries,
looked upon this vision as a thing which was to be.

But then that terrible _cacoeihes scribendi_, which spoils so many
promising Bishops, Lord Chancellors, Prime Ministers, had infected
the wholesome blood of Toby, and, in obedience to the itch, he
scribbled--he scribbled--oh, Father Apollo, how he did scribble!
Having scribbled, he published; having published he showed his printed
compositions to his father; but that gentleman, despising modern
print, modern paper, modern everything, would not look at his son's
effusions.

This narrow-mindedness grieved Toby, as he had hoped to break the
matter gently to his reverend sire; but as this could not be done,
instead of shivering on the brink like a timid bather, he plunged in.

In plain English, he told his father that he wished to be a
Shakespeare, a Dickens, a Tennyson, a--a--well select the most famous
writers in the range of literature, and you have the people whom Toby
wished to emulate in a nineteenth century sense.

After this the deluge.

No prophet likes to have his prophecies proved false, and Mr. Clendon
was no exception to the rule. Having settled Toby's career in life, he
was terribly angry that Toby should presume to unsettle it in any way.
Not be a curate, not be a vicar, not be a bishop--what did the boy
expect to be?

The boy, with all humility, stated that he expected to be a Dickens, a
George Eliot.

"George Eliot, sir, was a woman."

Well, then, a Walter Scott. Had his father any objections?

The reverend bookworm had several.

First objection.--Literature has no prizes. Money? Yes. Fame? Yes. But
no official prizes. If you go into the law, you may hope some day to
sit on the woolsack, which is stately but uncomfortable. If you prefer
the Church, you may attain the dignity of a bishop--even of an
archbishop. In medicine you may become physician to the court, and
physic royalty, which entails large fees and a chance of populating
the royal vaults in Westminster Abbey. Even in painting, the
presidentship of the Royal Academy is not beyond the reach of a
conventional painter who does not startle his generation with too much
genius. All these things are worth striving for, because they smack of
officialism. But literature--oh, shade of Richard Savage, what prize
is there in literature?

Suggestion by Toby.--The Poet Laureateship.

Which has no salary worth speaking of attached to it; and rhymes to
order are seldom rhymes in order. No, the Laureateship is out of the
question; therefore literature has no prizes.

Second objection.--Literature is a good stick, but a bad crutch,--a
remark of Walter Scott, which was uttered in the primeval times of
scribbling. Still, according to Mr. Clendon, who knew nothing past
that period, it held good to-day. If Toby went in for literature, how
did he expect to live till the fame period, seeing that he could earn
but little, and the paternal purse-strings were to be closed tightly?
Poetry. It doesn't pay.


          Verse
          Is a curse;
          Doesn't fill the purse.


Rhyme and reason both, according to Clendon _père_. Novels! Pshaw, the
field is overrun by three volume rubbish by talented lady scribblers.
Essays! No one wants essays when Lamb and Addison can be bought
cheaply. Altogether, literature has no money in it.

Third objection, and strongest.--You were intended for the Church; and
you must carry out my plans, even if against your own judgment.

Having thus stated his objections, Clendon _père_ ordered Toby to take
holy orders at once, and think no more of the draggle-tailed muse and
all her tribe.

Toby refused.

His father used clerical bad language.

Toby left the room.

His father cut him off with a shilling, and bade him leave the
paternal roof, which he did.

Here endeth the first Book of Tobias.

In London Toby had a hard time. He went through the mill, and did not
like it. He sounded the depths of the London ocean, which contains all
kinds of disagreeable things which appear not on the surface--fireless
grates, abusive landladies, obdurate editors, well-worn clothing. Oh,
it was certainly an unpleasant experience, but Toby sank to rise, and
never forgot, when wandering amid this submarine wreckage of London,
that he was a gentleman and had one definite object in view.

If a man keep these two things in mind, they are bladders which will
float him to the surface among successful crafts.

Therefore Tobias Clendon rose--slowly at first, then rapidly.

He wrote articles about the wreckage amid which he wandered, and had
them accepted by editors, who paid him as little as they could.
Afterwards he scribbled comic songs for opulent music-hall artistes,
which contained the latest ideas of the day and a superfluity of
slang. These efforts brought him into contact with the theatrical
profession, which is renowned for its modesty, and he put new wine
into old bottles by patching up old burlesques. In this cobbling he
was very successful, and what with one thing and another, he got on
capitally. From burlesques he advanced to little curtain raisers; he
wrote short abusive stories for charitably-minded society papers,
scathing articles on books by celebrated writers, in which he proved
conclusively that they did not know their business as novelists, and
altogether became a sort of literary Autolycus, being a picker-up of
unconsidered trifles in the literary line. This brought him in a good
income, and in a few years he actually could face his bankers without
blushing. Then he took a holiday, and during such holiday went to
Marsh-on-the-Sea, where he met Miss Valpy, who reminded him about his
father, and then----

"I am," said Toby, sententiously, "a prodigal son. I have lived in a
far country, and eaten husks with London swine. Unlike the young man,
however, I have risen above the profession of swineherd. I have become
friends with Dives, and he has bidden me to feasts where I have fared
sumptuously. The prodigal son began with money and ended with swine. I
began with swine and end now with money. This is a distinct
improvement on the old parable; but now 'I will arise and go to my
father.' I'm afraid he won't kill the fatted calf, but I don't
particularly mind as I detest veal; it's indigestible. He won't fall
on my neck because he's not a demonstrative old gentleman, but still
I'll go, especially as there is no dear brother to make things
unpleasant. My Lares and Penates I will collect, and the country of my
fathers will see me once more."

With this idea in his mind, Toby, who had left home in a third-class
carriage, returned in a first-class, and was puffed up accordingly.
With all such pomposity, however, he took a common sense view of
things with regard to the reception committee, and walked to the
vicarage with a becoming air of humility. He had left his father
grubbing among relics of Fust and Caxton, and on his return found him
still grubbing--a little older looking, a little dryer--but still
stranded among rare folios of the middle ages. Toby saluted this
paternal ghoul, and was received kindly, the ghoul having a heart
concealed somewhere in his anatomy.

"I am glad to see you again, Tobias," said Clendon _père_, with marked
cordiality. "I am a clergyman, and you offended me by not making the
profession hereditary. However, I am also a father, and I have missed
you very much, my boy--very much indeed--shake hands."

Which Toby did, and actually surprised a tear on the parchment cheek
of his father, which touch of nature making them both akin, had a
marked effect on the soft heart of the young man, and he fell into the
arms of his sire.

Thus far the parable was excellently interpreted.

But the fatted calf.

Ah! it was truly an excellent beast, that same calf, for it consisted
of several courses, and the wine was undeniable. Clendon _père_ looked
after his cellar as well as his folios, and after a good dinner father
and son clasped hands once more under the influence of '47 port, which
made them both sentimental.

"You will stay with me, Tobias, and comfort my declining years?"

"Certainly, father; but you will let me go to London occasionally?"

"Oh, yes, Tobias; you must attend to your business. By the way, what
is your business?"

"That of a scribbler."

"Ah! Richard Savage and Grub Street. Never mind, my boy, I've got
money enough for us both."

"No, not Grub Street. Nous avons change tout cela, eh, father! I make
about five hundred a year."

"What!--what, at scribbling?"

"Yes."

"Dear me," remarked Clendon _père_, eyeing his port, "what a lot of
money there must be in the world."

"My dear father, literature has improved since the Caxton period."

"But printing has not, Tobias. No, no! Nowadays they use flimsy paper,
bad type----"

"But the matter, father; the contents of a book."

"I never read a modern book. Pish! You can't teach an old dog new
tricks. I don't believe in your cheap literature."

"It's a good thing for me, at any rate, father."

"Of course. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good."

"Well, this wind has blown me to you with five hundred a year."

"Good, good! Yes, folios make one narrow. You shall expand my mind,
Tobias. You shall bring me into contact with the nineteenth century.
But I won't read any books but your own."

"I don't write books."

"No? Well, I'm thankful for small mercies. How long are you going to
stay with me?"

"Till you grow tired of me."

"Then, Tobias, you are settled here for the rest of your life."

"My dear father. By the way, I want to ask a friend of mine down
here."

"Not a woman?"

"No; I haven't got that far yet. A fellow called Archie Maxwell. He
used to go to school with me, and we're great chums.

"Tobias, no slang. You mean you are a David and Jonathan?"

"I do. That's about the size of it."

"Eheu, hinc illæ lachrymæ. I like not the nineteenth century talk. It
grates on the ear."

"I beg your pardon, father; but can I have Archie Maxwell down?"

"Certainly. Is he also in Grub Street?"

"Oh, no! He's an engineer."

"On the railway?"

"No; a civil engineer--builds bridges."

"Well, well, let the young man come; but he'll find it dull here."

"Oh no, he won't, because you see, father, there's a lady."

"Eh!"

"Miss Kaituna Pethram, whom he loves."

"Ho, ho! I know the young lady. She is a parishioner of mine. Her
father came into the title a year ago, and has gone out to New Zealand
again, leaving his daughter in charge of Mrs. Belswin."

"Mrs. Belswin?"

"Yes! a very charming lady who acts as chaperon."

"Poor Archie."

"What, are you afraid of the dragon who guards the golden apples?"
said the bookworm with great good humour. "Pooh! pooh! in my time
young men were not such faint-hearted lovers. If he really adores this
nymph of the ocean--she comes from New Zealand I believe--he'll soon
propitiate the dragon."

"Is it an amiable dragon?"

"Humph! I'm afraid not! Your Hercules must be stout-hearted."

"What a pity Mrs. Valpy and her daughter are not the chaperons still."

"Eh! why I think Miss Valpy requires a chaperon herself, but perchance
no Hercules eyes that golden fruit."

Silence on the part of Tobias, and a blush on his cheek.

"Tobias! Tobias," said his father, with uplifted finger, "you've been
looking over the garden wall of the Hesperides, and the golden fruit
of the Valpys tempts you. Eh! my son, you also are in love--with Miss
Valpy."

"Yes."

"And your friend is in love with Miss Pethram."

"Yes."

"And you both intend to stay with me for a time, so as to be near your
inamoratas."

"If you please, father."

Mr. Clendon smiled grimly and finished his glass of port, which he
really felt he needed.

"Cupid! Cupid! what have I done that thus I should be Sir Pandarus of
Troy in my old age. Tobias, go to bed."

"Good-night, father;" and he vanished.

Sir Pandarus groaned.

"Farewell, oh, lovely peace! I dwell no more under the shade of thy
desirable olive. Four lovers in one parish, and I the vicar thereof.
Alas! Alas! The Prodigal Son I sent abroad with curses has returned,
and he hath brought back his curse with him. Eheu infelici."




CHAPTER VI.
THE DRAGON.


     "An elderly dragon with cold grey eyes,
      Tongue that gibes at a lover rash,
      Ears quite deaf to pathetic sighs
      Uttered by men who are scant of cash.

     "But when a millionaire comes to woo,
      The dragon inspires him not with fear.
      Her sole idea of love that is true
      Is measured by so many pounds a year."


Thornstream Manor, the residence of the Pethrams for many generations,
was a quaint old house, surrounded by pleasant grounds. A grey
weather-beaten structure of two stories, built on a slight rise, on
which were wide terraces down to the green lawns below, which were
girt some distance away by a circle of ancient trees. The house itself
was a long, low, embattlemented place between two sharply pointed
gables, beneath which were diamond-paned oriel windows. Along the
front other wide low windows, and a massive door set in a heavy stone
porch. The roofs above of deep-red tiles, with twisted chimneys here
and there, and the whole house covered with a clinging garment of dark
green ivy, as if to shelter it from the cold winds blowing across the
park. Seen at the end of the drive as it emerged from the trees, the
white terraced rise topped by the grey ivy-covered house, with the
tint of red afforded by the roof, looked singularly peaceful and
pleasant. The goddess with the olive branch had established herself in
this pleasant domain, and a brooding air of Sunday quiet pervaded the
place, as if it were indeed that delightful Castle of Indolence
whereof one James Thomson discourseth so pleasantly.

The grounds were also charming--wide stretches of green lawn,
flower-beds filled with homely cottage flowers, still stone-rimmed
ponds, where broad-leaved water-lilies kept the sun from grilling the
hoary carp in the depths below. An antique dial with its warning
motto, and on the verge of the lush glass, heavily foliaged trees
making pleasant shades for the timid deer browsing round their gnarled
boles. White pigeons flashed in the blue sky round the grey walls of
Thornstream, or nestled among the trees with gentle cooings, while a
glimpse could be obtained every now and then of lazy cows in distant
meadows, chewing the cud of contentment. It was one of those scenes of
intense quiet which are only to be seen in full perfection in the
pleasant lands of pastoral England, a home, a veritable home, which
one engaged in the turmoil of the world would remember with regretful
longing. Peace, absolute peace, that most desirable of all blessings
was here. Peace, which youth scorns but which age prizes, brooded over
the homestead, and the Sleeping Beauty herself might have dreamed away
her hundred years in this happy English mansion without being
disturbed in any way.


     "And on an English home--grey twilight poured,
      On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
      Softer than sleep--all things in order stored,
      A haunt of ancient Peace."


"I never understood those lines of Tennyson until I saw Thornstream."

It was Kaituna who was speaking--Kaituna arrayed in a cool white
dress, standing on the terrace in the early morning looking over the
peaceful scene spread out before her. The birds were singing joyously
in the trees, the cool dew was lying on the grass, and this young
girl, reared in a far-distant country, was now viewing with dreamy
eyes the pleasant land of England.

Beside her was Mrs. Belswin, in a simple dress of black serge, with
all her splendid hair smoothed firmly back, and a pensive look in her
fierce eyes--eyes which had now lost in a great measure their savage
expression, and which filled with soft maternal love when they rested
on the straight slim form of her daughter. In the sordid lodging in
Bloomsbury, in a gaudy dress, with her real nature unrestrained in any
way, she had looked like a savage; but now, with all her feelings well
under control, her sombre dress, and her demure look, she appeared
quite civilized. The savage was there, however, all the same, and
should occasion arise to excite her in any way, a keen observer could
easily see that the thin veneer of civilization would vanish, and the
true instinct of the uncivilized being would flash forth, with a force
all the greater for suppression. Her voice also had altered, as it was
no longer strident or harsh in its tones, and in replying to Kaituna's
remark anent Tennyson, it was as soft and sweet as that of a
Quakeress.

"It is very beautiful in a mild way," she said quietly; "but I'm
afraid I should grow weary of this everlasting tranquillity."

"Oh, Mrs. Belswin, I'm sure that truer happiness can be found here
than in the world."

"I dare say you are right, Kaituna; but the sentiment sounds curious,
coming from one so young."

"It's the fault of my colonial training," replied Kaituna, with a
smile. "Life in New Zealand is very quiet, you know. When I came
home with papa I was quite bewildered by the noise and turmoil of
London--every one rushing here and there--restless crowds in the
streets, chattering women in the houses--no rest, no pause, no quiet.
Oh, it was terrible."

"And down here?"

"Down here it is charming. One can dream dreams in this delicious old
place, and take life easily, not at the railroad speed of London
folk."

"You are too young for a hermit, Kaituna."

"Oh, but I'm not a hermit, I assure you. I'm fond of gaiety. I
adore balls and garden-parties. I'm never tired of riding and
tennis-playing, but I can get all those in the country, and can live
slowly, which I like. The hurry-skurry of town life would kill me."

"You like England, then?"

"Oh, very much, very much indeed! It's a wonderful country; but my
home has my dearest love. Life there is so pleasant, so steady-going.
You can take pleasure at your own time, if you want to. Here in
England it is all fever and excitement. When I stayed in London I felt
as if it were a nightmare with the gas and glare and endless streets,
with their endless crowds rushing on--on, without rest or pause. Ah,
if you saw New Zealand I am sure you would like it. Do you know New
Zealand?"

"No," answered Mrs. Belswin, quietly. "I do not know New Zealand; but
I have been in Melbourne."

"Ah, that's too much like London."

"Say rather San Francisco. Melbourne is wonderfully like 'Frisco."

"Are you an American, Mrs. Belswin?"

"Yes; I was born in New Orleans."

"Then you are----"

"A Creole," finished Mrs. Belswin, quickly. "Yes, you can tell that
from my appearance. I have black blood in my veins. In America it is
thought a crime. Here it doesn't matter."

"I've got black blood in my veins also," said Kaituna, with a flush in
her olive-tinted cheek; "that is Maori blood. My mother was the
granddaughter of a chief."

Mrs. Belswin moved a few steps away, as she could not trust herself
to speak, so tumultuous were the feelings raging in her bosom. Her
child--her own child, and yet she dare not take her to her bosom and
tell her the truth. The girl's innocent words wounded her to the
quick, and it needed all the stoical resignation of her savage nature
to enable her to preserve a calm demeanour.

"I don't remember my mother at all," went on Kaituna, idly leaning her
arms on the terrace. "She died when I was a child; but I often picture
her to myself."

"And the picture?" asked Mrs. Belswin, unsteadily, her face turned
away.

"Oh, a tall, beautiful woman, with dark eyes and haughty bearing.
Proud to all, but loving to me. I once saw a picture of Pocahontas,
and I always fancied my mother a woman like that--wild and free and
majestic. Ah, it was a great sorrow to me that she died. I should have
loved her so. I used to envy other girls when I saw them with their
mothers, because I have none. Oh, it must be very, very beautiful to
have a mother to take care of you--to whom you can appeal for comfort
and sympathy; but--but--Mrs. Belswin, why, you are crying!"

She was crying--crying bitterly, and the tears ran down her dark
cheeks in great drops that showed how much she was moved by the girl's
idle words--tears that were caused by the terrible agony of carrying
on the part she was playing. Kaituna, in great wonder, approached her;
but at the light touch of the girl's fingers the woman shrank back
with a low cry of fear.

"Don't touch me!--don't touch me, child!"

Kaituna paused with a puzzled look on her face, upon which Mrs.
Belswin dried her eyes hurriedly, and took the girl's hand.

"I beg your pardon, Kaituna," she said, with forced composure, "but
you must not mind me, my dear. I am not very well at present. My
nerves are out of order."

"I hope I have said nothing to vex you?"

"No, dear, no! But I--I had a little child of my own once,
and--and--and she died."

"Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Kaituna, touched to the heart by this
pathetic confession. "I should not have spoken as I did."

"You did not know, my dear. It was not your fault. I lost my little
girl many years ago, but the wound is quite fresh, and it bleeds on
occasions. I am all right now, Kaituna--don't look so dismayed. We
have all our skeletons, you know. Mine--mine is a little child!"

"Dear Mrs. Belswin," said Kaituna, touching her with tender fingers,
"I have only known you a fortnight, it is true, but there is something
about you that draws me to you. I don't know what it is, as I don't
make friends easily, but with you, why, I feel as if I had known you
all my life."

"My dearest!" replied Mrs. Belswin, taking the girl in her arms with
fierce affection, "you do not know how happy your words have made me.
If my daughter had lived, she would have been just like you now--just
like you. Let me give you my love, dear--my dead love that has starved
for so many years."

She pressed the girl to her breast, but Kaituna hesitated. As she had
said, she was not ready in making new friends, but there was something
in the tones of Mrs. Belswin's voice, something about the look in her
eyes, in the pressure of her arms, that sent a thrill through her,
and, hardly knowing what she did, with sudden impulse she kissed the
woman on the mouth, upon which Mrs. Belswin, with an inarticulate cry,
leant her face on the girl's shoulder and burst into tears.

Was it Nature that was working here to bring mother and daughter
together?--Nature, that has her secret springs, her mysterious
instincts, which enable those of one flesh to recognise one another by
some hidden impulse. Who can tell? Science dissects the body, analyses
the brain, gives hard and fast reasons for the emotions, but there is
something that escapes her prying eyes, something that no one can
describe, that no one has seen--a something which, obeying the laws of
being, recognises its affinity in another body, and flies forth to
meet it. We boasted scientists of the nineteenth century have
discovered a great deal about that wonderful being--man, but there is
one secret which is hidden from all save God Himself, and that is the
secret of maternal instinct.

Suddenly they were disturbed by the sound of the gong, and hastily
drying their tears--for Kaituna had been crying as much as Mrs.
Belswin--they went in to breakfast.

Such a pleasant room, with bright, cheerful paper chintz-covered
furniture, and the white cloth of the table covered with hearty
country fare. Mrs. Belswin took her seat at the head of the table to
pour out the coffee, and Kaituna sat at the side, looking over the
bunch of homely flowers, brilliant among the dishes, out on to the
fair country beyond. By the side of her plate Kaituna found a letter
with the New Zealand postmark on it, and, knowing it came from her
father, opened it at once.

"Papa will be back in three months," she said, when she had finished
reading it. "His business will not take him so long as he expected."

"What is the business, dear?" asked Mrs. Belswin, with her face bent
over her plate.

"Selling land. You know, my mother brought him a good deal of
property, and he is now going to sell it."

"Going to sell it!" reiterated Mrs. Belswin, in angry surprise. "Why
is he going to do that?"

Kaituna was rather astonished at her tone, on seeing which Mrs.
Belswin hastened to excuse herself.

"I beg your pardon, my dear," she said apologetically, "but I thought
land in the colony was so very valuable?"

"So it is; but papa desires to establish himself in England altogether
now that he has come in for the title, so he wishes to sell his New
Zealand property and invest the money in some other way; besides the
value of property in the colony has decreased of late years."

"You seem to be well up in the subject, Kaituna."

"I could hardly help being so! Papa was always talking about the
Government and their dealings with the land. You see, Mrs. Belswin,
politics with us are more domestic than here. In England they deal
with kings and governments, but there we attend to the welfare of the
people--the parcelling out of the land, and all those kinds of things.
I'm afraid I've got but a hazy idea of the true facts of the case, but
you understand what I mean."

"Oh, I understand," replied Mrs. Belswin, composedly--and so she did,
a deal better than Kaituna herself. "So your papa is coming home in
three months. I suppose you will be very pleased to see him?"

"Oh, yes. I am very fond of my father. We are more like brother and
sister than anything else. People say that papa is supercilious and
haughty, but I never saw it myself."

"He could hardly be so to you."

"No! he is all that is good and kind. I try to make him as happy as
possible, for it was a heavy blow to him when he lost my mother."

Mrs. Belswin turned away her head to conceal a sneer.

"So I try to supply my mother's place as much as possible."

"I'm sure you succeed," said Mrs. Belswin warmly; "he can hardly miss
your mother when he has you beside him."

"That's what he says, but of course I know he says it only to please
me. A daughter cannot supply the place of a wife."

"In this case it seems she can," said the lady caustically; "but what
will he do when you marry?"

Kaituna blushed and cast down her eyes.

"Well, I--I have not thought of marriage yet."

"Oh, Kaituna!"

"No, really," said the girl, raising her clear eyes to Mrs. Belswin's
face. "I should not think of marrying without gaining papa's consent."

"Then you have not seen the prince yet?"

"The prince?"

"Yes, the fairy prince who is to awake the sleeping beauty."

Kaituna blushed again, and laughed in rather an embarrassed manner.

"Dear Mrs. Belswin, what curious things you say," she replied
evasively. "I have not seen any one in New Zealand I cared about, and
since my arrival in England I have lived so quietly that I can hardly
have met the fairy prince you speak of."

"When the hour arrives the fairy prince comes with it," said Mrs.
Belswin, oracularly. "My dear, you are too charming to remain with
your father all your life, as I am sure he must acknowledge himself.
Have the young men of to-day no eyes or no hearts that they can see my
Kaituna without falling in love with her?"

"I'm sure I don't know. No one has spoken to me of love yet."

"Ah! it's not the speaking alone, dear! You are a woman, and the
instinct of a woman can tell what a man means without him using his
tongue."

"But you see I am not versed in love lore."

"My dear, you are a delightful girl in the first days of innocence. I
am glad to see that the bloom of maidenhood is not rubbed off you by
premature wisdom in love-affairs. A girl who flirts from her teens
upwards, loses that delightful unconsciousness which is the great
charm of a maiden. You have lived secluded in New Zealand. You are
living secluded in England, and the world has passed you by. But the
fairy prince will arrive, my dear, and his kiss will awaken you from
the sleep of girlhood into the real life of womanly existence."

"I thought such things only happened in novels."

"No, dear, no. They happen around us every day. When you see a girl
with a blushing face and a dreaming eye, or hear a young fellow
singing gaily for very joy of life, you will know that love has come
to them both, and they are telling each other the beautiful story, in
the full belief that such story is quite original, though Adam told it
to Eve in the garden of Eden."

"It sounds delightful," sighed the girl, pensively. "I suppose you are
telling me your experience."

"My experience," echoed Mrs. Belswin, flushing acutely. "No, child,
no. I have had my romance, like all women, but it ended sadly."

"I understand," said Kaituna quietly; "you are thinking of your lost
child."

Mrs. Belswin was about to make some passionate rejoinder, but checked
herself suddenly, and went on eating her breakfast with forced
composure.

Kaituna also became silent, thinking over what had been said, and
there was no further conversation until the butler entered and handed
the girl a letter.

"From the vicarage, miss," he said ceremoniously, and retired.

The letter proved to be from Toby Clendon, being a few lines
announcing the fact that Mr. Maxwell was staying with him, and that
they would both come on that afternoon to Thornstream to renew the
acquaintance so pleasantly begun at Marsh-on-the Sea.

"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Belswin, staring in some astonishment
at the rosy face and bright eyes of the girl. "Nothing is wrong, I
hope?"

"No! no! I'm sure I don't look as if anything were wrong. It's this
letter from Mr. Clendon."

"Mr. Clendon?" repeated Mrs. Belswin, taking the letter handed to her
by Kaituna. "Is that the charming young fellow we met the other day?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, I see he has a friend staying with him, and they are going to
call this afternoon. Kaituna, I am a sorceress--a witch, my dear, I
should have been burnt in the middle ages as a practitioner of the
black art. Give me your hand."

"What for," asked Kaituna in some confusion, as Mrs. Belswin took her
by the wrist.

"For a magical ceremony! There! Now tell me. Is Mr. Clendon the
prince?"

"No! No! No!"

"That's very emphatic. I mistrust emphasis in a girl. Well, we will
dismiss Mr. Clendon, though he is very delightful. What about Mr.
Maxwell? Ah! Now I know! Your pulse leaped at the name. Your face is
rosy, your eyes are bright. By the white witchcraft I practise I
interpret these signs. You are in love, my dear."

"No!"

"And with Mr. Maxwell."

Kaituna snatched away her hands with a little laugh and covered her
burning face.

"You the sleeping beauty," said Mrs. Belswin, with mock severity. "My
dear, your sleep is over. The true prince has arrived and the hundred
years are at an end."

The girl made no reply, but between her fingers one bright eye looked
forth at her chaperon.

"I will talk to Mr. Maxwell this afternoon, and see if he is a man
worthy of you."

"Oh, I'm sure he is."

"Ah! you have betrayed yourself. It is the prince after all. But what
about your father?"

"My father will not cross me in this."

"Of course not, provided your prince is rich."

"Rich or poor; it doesn't matter. Papa will deny me nothing. He is the
kindest man in the world."

"Humph!" muttered Mrs. Belswin under her breath. "He has altered since
my time, then."




CHAPTER VII.
THE GARDEN OF HESPERIDES.


     "In a garden fair you met me,
      And I told you all my woes.
      Then, in case you might forget me,
      I bestowed on you a rose.

     "Love had captive to you brought me,
      For I felt his arrow's smart;
      So in mercy quick you sought me,
      And bestowed on me a heart."


Oh, wonderful! wonderful! and thrice wonderful was the soul of Vicar
Clendon seeing that in this mummified body, battered by the assaults
of sixty years, it still kept itself fresh and green in the very
heyday of perennial youth. In spite of his grubbing among dusty books;
in spite of the hardening process of continually celebrating
marriages; in spite of the pessimistic ideas which come with old age,
he could still feel sympathetic thrills when he heard the sighings of
two lone lovers. He should have frowned and looked askance on such
youthful foolery; he should have forgotten the days when Plancus was
consul, and he wooed Amaryllis with bashful courtesy; he should have
preached sermons a mile long on the sin of going to the temple of
Venus, but, strange to tell, he did not. This withered old husk
encased a fresh young soul, and the venerable clergyman felt a boyish
pleasure in the courting of these young men. Is the age of miracles
past, when such things can happen--when sober age can sympathize with
frolic youth without pointing out the follies of the world, as seen
telescopically from a distance of sixty years? No! oh, no! in spite of
cynicism, and pessimism, and various other isms, all belonging to the
same detestable class, there are still those among us whose souls
bloom freshly, though cased in antique frames.

"Your father," said Archie Maxwell, after making the acquaintance of
the bookworm, "your father, Toby, is a brick."

"My father," stated Toby solemnly, "is not a brick, for a brick is
hard, and the pater is anything but that. On the contrary, he is as
soft as butter. If you wish to express approval of my progenitor, O
quoter of slang, say that he is the ninth wonder of the world--which
he is."

"And why, O utterer of dark sayings?"

"Because he is an old man who can see his son in love without calling
him a fool."

This was true, and Toby appreciated the novelty of possessing such a
father; demonstrating such appreciation by being a most attentive son,
which exhilarated the old gentleman to such a degree that he became
younger every day in appearance: thereby proving this saying of a
forgotten sage to be true--

"The body takes its complexion from the soul, not the soul from the
body."

Archie Maxwell, having at the cost of many lies postponed his trip to
Buenos Ayres, has duly arrived, and, strange to say, the vicar takes a
great fancy to him. After living for so many years with no other
company than a rusty housekeeper and a library of rustier books, he is
quite delighted at the presence of two young men in the house, and
actually foregoes his after-dinner sleep in order to talk with
them while they smoke their pipes. Archie tells him all his history,
of his travels, his struggles, his income, his aspirations, his
love-affairs--in fact, everything about himself, and the old man's
heart warms towards this handsome, graceless youth, who he sees has
the makings of a fine man about him. He listens sympathetically to the
endless catalogue of Kaituna's charms, to the hopes and fears and
heart-burnings which are part of the disease of love, and then
undergoes the same thing in duplicate from Toby. Indeed, so genial is
he that both the young men wax eloquent on the merits of their
respective Dulcineas, and spare him no detail, however small, of their
perfections.

As to Toby's suit, Mr. Clendon thinks it will prosper if Thomasina is
that way inclined, as Mrs. Valpy is a widow and would be only too glad
to see her daughter in the safe keeping of such an excellent young
man; but when questioned about Archie's wooing, the sage is doubtful.
He has seen Sir Rupert and thinks him haughty and supercilious--not at
all the kind of man to bestow his daughter on a pauper engineer,
however good his prospects. The best thing he can do is to bid Archie
wait and hope. If Kaituna loves him, parental opposition may be
overcome; but the course of true love never did run smooth, and Archie
must be prepared for trouble. But as gold is refined by passing
through fire, so both these young lovers, if frizzled up in the
furnace of affection, may benefit by the ordeal, and prove their
mutual passions to be strong and enduring, whereas at present it may
merely be the effect of juxtaposition and a desire to pass the time.

Archie is horrified at this flippant view of the case being taken by
venerable age, and vows by the stars, the moon--yea--by the heart of
his sweet mistress, that the love he bears her is not of to-day or
to-morrow, but of all time, and that nothing shall prevent him
marrying the object of his passion, even if he should have to adopt
that last resource of young Lochinvar--a runaway marriage.

So things stand at present, and Toby sends a note over to Kaituna,
asking permission to renew their acquaintance with her; then, without
waiting for such permission to be granted--the note being a mere
matter of form--sets off Thornstream-wards with his friend Archibald.

Before they start on this errand of charity on the part of Toby, and
wooing on the part of Archibald, the sage discourseth.

"You are going to seek the Garden of Hesperides, but there you will
find no golden fruit. No; the dragons are better employed. They watch
two beautiful maidens, and eye jealously wandering knights, such as
yourselves, who would steal them. I am speaking not of the dragons,
but of the maidens. Nevertheless, from this quest I know not how you
will return. The dragon who guards the princess of Tobias is amenable
to reason, and if the son succeeds in gaining the love of the princess
the father may gain the consent of the dragon. But the other dragon,
Mr. Maxwell, is a fire-breathing beast, and even if you succeed in
overcoming this first danger your princess is still beyond your reach,
because of her father. True, at present he is away, but when he
returns, young man--oh, when he returns!"

"When he does it will be too late; for I shall have gained the heart
of his daughter."

"True. When the steed is stolen it is useless to shut the stable-door.
Go, Mr. Maxwell, I see you have all the egotism and confidence of
youth necessary to enable you to achieve this quest successfully."

So they went.

It was a bright summer day, and the sun shone brightly in a blue sky
dappled with fleecy clouds. Gently blew the wind through the trees,
rustling their foliage, wherein sang the joyous birds. Thrush and
black-bird and ouzel and redcap piped gaily on the swaying boughs in
very gladness of heart. At intervals there sounded the mellow voice of
the cuckoo, and from the blue sky rained the song of the lark,
invisible from the verdant earth. In the quaint gardens of Thornstream
Manor bloomed the flowers--roses, roses everywhere in rich profusion,
from pale cold buds to deeply crimsoned blossoms. A sudden flame
of scarlet geraniums burns along the foot of the garden wall, and
among their cool green leaves flash the orange circles of the
marigolds. Rosemary dark and sombre, _old man_, with its thin leaves
like grey-green seaweed, form beds of reposeful tint, overlaid by
brilliant coloured flowers, scarlet and blue and yellow; but the
prevailing tint is white. Foxgloves with delicate white bells round
which hum the noisy bees--scattered clusters of pale flushed roses,
other flowers with white petals all streaked and dappled and spotted
with innumerable tints. A beautiful garden, truly, and the thievish
wind stealing odours from the profusion of sweets carried them on
languid wings to Mrs. Belswin and Kaituna, sitting on the terrace.

They had erected a great Japanese umbrella at one end, and were
sitting beneath it in basket chairs. Between them stood a small
table, on which lay some feminine work and a yellow-backed novel,
but neither the work nor the novel were in requisition, for both
ladies were chatting to Toby and Archie, as they lounged near in their
cool-looking gray suits. Both gentlemen, by kind permission of the
feminine half of the party, were smoking cigarettes, and Mrs. Belswin,
knowing how it would shock Kaituna, bravely suppressed a desire to
have one also.

Very handsome she looked in her dark dress, with a bunch of crimson
poppies at her breast, but handsomer still looked Kaituna, her pale
olive face delicately flushed as she toyed with a heap of pale white
blossoms, and talked gaily to Archibald.

"I think instead of spoiling those flowers you might make me a
button-hole," said the audacious Archie in a small voice.

Kaituna looked doubtful.

"You have a button-hole."

"One of my own gathering," he said, throwing it away. "No man can
arrange flowers; now you being a woman----"

"Can arrange them charmingly. Don't pay me any more compliments, Mr.
Maxwell."

"Well, I won't, if you give me a button-hole."

"I have nothing here worth making up," said Miss Pethram, rising
suddenly and letting all the flowers fall on the terrace. "Come down
with me to the garden. Mrs. Belswin, Mr. Maxwell and I are going to
pick flowers."

"Very well, dear," replied Mrs. Belswin, languidly, "I do not mind so
long as I am not expected to come also."

"Two's company," muttered Toby softly.

"What did you say?" asked the chaperon quickly.

"Oh, nothing.

"We'll leave you two here to talk," said Kaituna, gaily. "Come, Mr.
Maxwell, you shall choose your own flowers."

They descended the steps into the garden.

"I'd rather you did so."

"I--oh, I should not know which to choose."

"Then, suppose I suggest something. A red rose, which means love, and
a white rose, which means silence."

"And the red and white roses together?"

"Mean silent love."

"Oh! I see you are versed in the language of flowers. Does it form
part of the education of an engineer?"

"No, but it does of every young man. Thank you, Miss Pethram. Two red
roses and no white one, that means double love. The love of a girl for
a boy, two buds; of a woman for a man, full blown blossoms."

"Why do you not say the love of a man for a woman?"

"Eh! ah, well you know, ladies first always. Let me ask you to put
these two red rosebuds in my coat."

Kaituna hesitated a moment, and looked down at the green grass,
seeking for some excuse. None feasible enough came into her mind, so,
still with downcast eyes, she took the flowers from his outstretched
hand and placed them in his coat. He was taller than she, and could
just espy her face flushing under the broad-brimmed straw hat, and she
must have felt the devouring passion of his eyes instinctively, for
her hands busied with the flowers trembled.

"You have given me no white rose, I see," said Archie, in an unsteady
voice, "so I am not compelled to keep silence. May I speak?"

"No--no--oh, no!"

She had finished fastening those obstinate flowers with a pin, and
they had revenged themselves by wounding her finger with a thorn.

"Oh! Oh!"

"Miss Pethram, what's the matter? Oh, have you hurt your finger?"

"Yes, but it's not very sore."

"Why, it's bleeding," he cried in alarm, taking her hand; "let me bind
my handkerchief round it."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes! You must obey your doctor. There! that's better."

He still held her hand, and before she was aware of what he was doing,
bent down suddenly and kissed it.

"Oh!" she cried, blushing, "you must not do that."

"Kaituna!"

"Mr. Maxwell! If you say another word I'll go back to my chaperon."

"But----"

"I won't hear another word! So there!"

Archie looked down disconsolately, not knowing what to say, when
suddenly he heard a gay laugh in the distance, and on raising his head
saw a white figure flitting away across the lawn towards the sun-dial.
He hesitated a moment, and then laughed softly.

"Faint heart never won fair lady."

Certainly nobody could accuse Archie Maxwell of being faint-hearted,
for he ran after his sweet enemy with the utmost courage. When he
reached her she was standing by the sun-dial, and the two spectators
on the terrace saw the two actors suddenly appear on the stage. One
spectator--a woman--frowned; the other--a man--laughed.

"Don't go, Mrs. Belswin," said Toby, seeing she was about to rise. "We
are having such a jolly conversation."

"That's a very artful remark, but it doesn't deceive me."

"Artful! I assure you, Mrs. Belswin, I am the most unsophisticated of
men--a perfect child!"

"So I should judge from your description of London life," said Mrs.
Belswin, drily, leaning back in her chair. "But perhaps you are not
aware, Mr. Clendon, that I am Miss Pethram's chaperon?"

"Happy Miss Pethram. I wish you were mine."

"I'm afraid the task of keeping you in order would be beyond my
powers."

"Do you think so?" observed Toby, sentimentally. He was a young man
who would have flirted with his grandmother in default of any one
better, and Mrs. Belswin being a handsome woman, this fickle youth
improved the shining hours. Mrs. Belswin, however, saw through him
with ease, not having gone through the world without learning
something of the male sex, so she laughed gaily, and turned the
conversation with feminine tact.

"You are a good friend, Mr. Clendon."

"I am! I am everything that is good!"

"Your trumpeter is dead, I see."

"Yes, poor soul! He died from overwork."

Mrs. Belswin laughed again at Toby's verbal dexterity, and then began
to talk about Maxwell, which was the subject nearest her heart. The
lady wished to know all about Archie's position, so as to see if he
was a suitable lover for Kaituna, and the man being a firm friend of
the love-lorn swain, lied calmly, with that great ease which only
comes from long experience.

"Mr. Maxwell is a great friend of yours, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes! We were boys together,"

"You're not much more now. What is his profession?"

"He's an engineer! Awfully clever. He'd have invented the steam-engine
if Stephenson hadn't been before him."

"Would he indeed? What a pity he wasn't born before the age of steam.
By the way, how is he getting on in his profession?"

"Splendidly! He's been in China, building railways, and at the end of
the year he's going out to Buenos Ayres to build a bridge."

"He's got no money, I suppose?"

"Well, no! He's not rich; but he's got great expectations."

"Has he? But you can't marry on great expectations."

"No; I can't, but Archie can."

"Indeed! You forget there are always two people to a bargain of
marriage."

"There's double the number in this case."

"How so?"

"There's Archie, Miss Pethram, Mrs. Belswin, and Sir Rupert Pethram."

There was a pause after this, as the lady was pondering over the
situation. Toby had his eyes fastened on the two figures at the dial,
and he smiled. Mrs. Belswin, looking up suddenly, caught him smiling,
and spoke sharply--

"Mr. Clendon! I believe you to be a sensible man. If my belief is
correct, stop laughing and listen to me."

Toby became as serious as a judge at once.

"I am not blind," continued Mrs. Belswin, looking at him, "and I can
see plainly what is going on. As you know, I am responsible to Sir
Rupert Pethram for his daughter's well-being, and this sort of thing
won't do."

"What sort of thing?" asked Toby, innocently.

"Oh, you know well enough. Mr. Maxwell making love to my charge is
ridiculous. Sir Rupert would never consent to his daughter marrying a
poor engineer, and I'm not going to have Kaituna's happiness marred
for a foolish love-affair."

"But what can I do?"

"Discontinue your visits here, and tell your friend to do the same."

"He won't do what I ask him."

"Then I'll take Kaituna away."

"It's no use. He'll follow. Archie's the most obstinate fellow in the
world, and he's too much in love with Miss Pethram to give her up
without a struggle. Why, do you know, Mrs. Belswin, he gave up a good
billet at Buenos Ayres because it would have taken him away from her."

"I thought you said he was going out there at the end of the year?"

"So he is. But it's not half such a good billet. The one he has given
up is worth two hundred pounds a year more."

"And he gave it up for the sake of Kaituna?"

"Yes! He's madly in love with her."

"He was very foolish to jeopardise his success in life because of a
love-affair, particularly when nothing can come of it."

"But why shouldn't anything come of it? I'm sure you will be a friend
to these lovers."

"These lovers," repeated Mrs. Belswin jealously. "Do you think Kaituna
loves him."

"I'm sure of it."

"You seem very learned in love, Mr. Clendon; perhaps you are in love
yourself."

A blush that had been absent for years crept into the bronze of Toby's
cheeks.

"Perhaps I am. I may as well tell the truth and shame the----

"Mr. Clendon!"

"Oh, you understand. I am in love, so is Archie. He loves your charge;
I love another girl. Be a kind, good friend, Mrs. Belswin, and help
Archie to make Miss Pethram Mrs. Maxwell."

"What about Sir Rupert?"

"Oh, you can persuade him, I'm sure."

Mrs. Belswin frowned.

"I have no influence with Sir Rupert," she said shortly, and rose to
her feet. "Come with me, Mr. Clendon, and we will go to Kaituna."

"You won't help them?"

"I can't, I tell you," she replied impatiently. "From all I can see,
your friend seems a true-hearted man, but I shall have to know him a
long time before I can say he is fit for my--for Miss Pethram. But
even if I approve it is of no use. Sir Rupert is the person to give
his consent."

"Well?"

"And he'll never give it."

Toby felt depressed at this, and followed Mrs. Belswin meekly to the
couple at the sun-dial. The said couple, both nervous and flushed, to
all appearances having been talking--Chinese metaphysics.

"Kaituna, don't you think these gentlemen would like some afternoon
tea?" said Mrs. Belswin sweetly.

"I dare say they would," replied Kaituna with great composure. "What
do you say, Mr. Clendon?"

She did not address herself to Archie, who stood sulkily by the dial
following the figures with his finger. Toby glanced from one to the
other, saw they were both embarrassed, and promptly made up his mind
how to act.

"I'm afraid we won't have time, Miss Pethram," he, replied, glancing
at his watch. "It's nearly four, and we have some distance to walk."

"Well, if you won't have tea you will take a glass of wine," said Mrs.
Belswin, looking at Archie; then, without waiting for a reply, she
made him follow her, and walked towards the house.

Toby followed with Kaituna, and surely never were maid or man more
unsuited to each other. He was bold, she was shy. He talked, she
remained silent, till they were in the drawing-room, and then the
feminine element broke forth.

"Mr. Clendon," she said, in a whisper.

"Yes! speak low if you speak love."

"What do you mean?"

"It's not mine. It's Shakespeare's. By the way, you wanted to say
something."

"I do! Tell him I didn't mean it."

She flitted away and Toby gasped.

"Tell who? Didn't mean what? Things are getting mixed. Thank you, I'll
take a glass of sherry."

How we all act in this world. Here were four people, each with
individual ideas regarding the situation, and yet they chatted about
the weather, the crops, the country--about everything except what they
were thinking about. Mrs. Belswin and Toby did most of the talking,
but Kaituna and Archie put in a word every now and then for the sake
of appearances.

At last the young men took their departure, and when left alone with
Kaituna, Mrs. Belswin drew her caressingly to her breast.

"I like your prince, my dear."

"I don't."

"Oh, Kaituna, you've been quarrelling."

"I haven't! He has! He doesn't understand me."

"Does a man ever understand a woman?"

"Of course! If he loves her."

"Then in this case there ought to be no misunderstanding, for I am
sure he loves you."

"Oh, do you think so? Do you really think so?"

"My dear," said Mrs. Belswin, as the girl hid her face on the breast
of the chaperon, "I am quick at judging a man. All women are. It's
instinct. I think Mr. Maxwell an honourable young fellow, and very
charming. He would make you a good husband, but your father will never
consent to your marrying a poor man."

"Oh, you don't know papa."

"Don't I?" said Mrs. Belswin grimly, and closed the discussion.

This was one side of the question--and the other?

"We have," said Archie, in deep despair, "been to the Garden of
Hesperides, and the dragon has beaten us?"

"Have you quarrelled with your mash?" asked Toby, leaving allegory for
common sense.

"My mash! Toby, you are growing vulgar. I did not quarrel with
Kaituna, but we had words."

"Several hundred, I should think. What was the row?"

"How coarse you are!" said the refined Archie. "There was no row. I
spoke of myself in the third person."

"When there are only two people, and those are of the opposite sex,
you shouldn't introduce a third person. Well, what did you say?"

"I asked her whether she would accept a poor man if he proposed to
her."

"And she said?"

"She said 'no.'"

Archie's face was tragic in its deep gloom, so Toby comforted him.

"Old boy!"

"Yes," said the despairing lover.

"She said she didn't mean it."

"What! Did she say that to you?"

"Yes."

"Toby," cried Archie, with great fervour, "I love that girl!"

"So you've said a hundred times."

"And I'll marry her!"

"Oh, will you?" said Toby, grinning. "I can paint your future: a
little cottage, a nice income, a charming girl----"

"Yes, yes!"

"Don't you wish you may get it?"

"Oh, Toby, if you only knew----"

"I do know. I know all about it, so don't rhapsodise. And I know
another thing; I'm hungry, so hurry up."




CHAPTER VIII.
MRS. BELSWIN'S CORRESPONDENCE.


     "The wisest of plans
      A letter upsets,
      The penny post bans
      The wisest of plans
      Tho' woman's tho' man's,
      And then one regrets
      The wisest of plans
      A letter upsets."


About three weeks after the visit of Archie and his friend, Mrs.
Belswin was seated on the fallen trunk of a tree in Thornstream Park,
meditating deeply over two letters lying on her lap. Around her the
heavy foliage of the trees rustled in the chilly morning air, above
her the sun shot golden arrows from the blue sky, and below her feet
the lush grass, starred with delicate woodland flowers, sloped gently
down to a babbling brook, the brown waters of which rippled noisily
over its smooth stones.

But Mrs. Belswin, with a frown on her face, paid no attention to these
things, being occupied with disagreeable thoughts, evoked by the
letters aforesaid; and after a pause she took up one impatiently, in
order to read it for the second time.


"Carissima Mia,

"Why have you not written to me for so long? Every day I say, 'She
will send to me a letter,' and every day I find the postman comes not.
This is not right conduct to him who adores thee, my Lucrezia, and
there is fear in my heart that I may lose thee. I am now singing at
the Theatre Folly, in an _opera comique_ called 'Sultana Fatima,' and
they pay me well, as they should, seeing I leave the grand Italian
Opera for this street music. But that my English is so good, I would
not have been the chief tenor here. It is not hard to sing, and I am
content since I waste not my time and am near thee. But thou, oh my
star adorable, must not stay long from him who hungers for thy smile.
When does the illustrious husband come again? for I know that he will
drive thee back to me, and we will go at once to my beautiful Italy.
Send me a letter and say when thou wilt come to me, or I swear that I
will come to thee in the country, in order to behold thee again. Thou
hast seen thy child those many months; now I will that thou should'st
return. I wait thy answer saying thou wilt return, or I myself will
behold thee in thy village. Cara signora, I kiss your hand,

     "Thine unhappy
             "Stephano."


When she had finished this, Mrs. Belswin let it fall on her lap, with
a shrug of her shoulders, and picked up the other letter, which
consisted of two lines----

"Pethram returns in three weeks, so unless you want trouble you'd
better clear out.--A. D."

"Had I?" said the reader, sneering. "I'm not so sure about that, Mr.
Dombrain. I'll leave this place when I choose. So Rupert Pethram is
coming home, and I, if I please, can see him. Husband and wife will
meet again after twenty years of separation. How dramatic the
interview will be! I can well imagine it, and yet I am not sure it
will take place. I cannot retain my position as chaperon to Kaituna if
he is in the house. I cannot disguise myself, for Kaituna would ask
the reason--besides, I'm too impulsive to act a part. If I go I part
from my daughter for ever; if I stay, Rupert will certainly recognise
me, and then he will force me to leave the house. What a terrible
position!--to be driven away after a glimpse of paradise; and yet I
can do nothing to help myself--positively nothing."

She stopped short, with a feeling of deep anger at her helplessness,
but she did not attempt to disguise the truth from herself--she could
do nothing. The law was on the side of her husband, and she could
never hope to regain the position she had forfeited by her former
folly. 'As to Stephano Ferrari----

"He'll do what he says," she muttered, glancing at the Italian's
flowery letter. "If I don't go to him, he will come to me, and, with
his hot foreign blood, may create a disturbance. I wouldn't mind for
myself, but Kaituna--I must consider Kaituna. If I refuse to go
with Stephano, he is quite the sort of man to tell her all, and that
would exile me from my daughter more than anything else. Rupert would
make me leave the house; Stephano would lose his temper at what he
calls my obstinacy--I should not care; but if Kaituna knew that I--her
mother--was alive, that I had lost my place in the world and become an
outcast, she would scorn me--my own child! Oh, I could not bear that,
it would kill me!"

With her face in her hands she rocked to and fro in an agony of grief,
and when she recovered herself somewhat, her countenance, haggard and
worn, showed how bitterly she felt the position in which she was
placed.

"If I could only die! I wish I could! Hell cannot be worse than the
life I live now. I am near my child, yet dare not tell her I am her
mother; but soon I shall have to go away, and be denied even the poor
consolation of being near her. If only I had the courage to kill
myself! But there, I have the courage, and would die willingly, were
it not for Kaituna. Oh, God! God! I have sinned deeply, but my
punishment is very heavy--heavier than I can bear!"

She had risen to her feet, and was walking to and fro in the narrow
space of the glade, swinging her arms in a very storm of passionate
grief. The mask she had worn for the last few weeks so carefully was
now thrown aside, and she abandoned herself to her agony of despair in
the most reckless manner. She wept, she cried, she raved, she flung
herself on the ground--in fact, she gave herself up wholly to her mood
of the moment. Truly the quiet English glade had never seen a stranger
sight than that of this savage woman abandoning herself to transports
of impotent fury.

"Why am I so helpless?" she cried furiously, lifting up her arms to
the blue sky. "If I have sinned, I have been punished. For twenty
years I have borne my punishment, but I can do so no longer. She is my
child--mine--mine--mine! They cannot take her from me. I am her
mother! God gave her to me, and man shall not take her away! I love
her better than her cold fiend of a father; she is my life, my soul,
my existence! If I leave her I shall die. I will not leave her! I will
not leave her! No! no! no!"

She stamped furiously on the ground, gnashing her teeth with rage, and
staring at the sky with fierce face and clenched hands; but after a
time her fury exhausted itself, and, sitting down on the fallen tree
again, she began to weep bitterly.

"My little child! oh, my little child! I can do nothing. I must leave
you, and go away alone. Ferrari loves me, but what is his love
compared to yours, dear. You have kissed me, you have placed your arms
round my neck, you have given my starved heart the love it desired;
and now--now I must give up all, and go away--for ever! Oh, cruel!
cruel! And I can do nothing!"

Rocking herself to and fro, she wept quietly for a time; then, drying
her tears, put the letters in her pocket and rose to go.

"I must not give way like this," she said to herself as she left the
glade. "It will do no good. I must see how I can manage to retain my
position. Rupert, Stephano, Dombrain--they are all against me. Three
against one, but I'll try my hardest to conquer them. It's a woman's
wit against men's brutality; but I'll fight--I'll fight and win. If I
win, I gain all. If I lose--oh, God! if I lose!--I surrender
everything."

The morning was very chilly, in spite of its being summer, and Mrs.
Belswin, having all the love for warmth inherent in those born in the
tropics, shivered at the cold east wind, but feeling too upset to
return direct to the house and face Kaituna's inquiring gaze, made up
her mind to take a brisk walk. She wore a heavy sealskin mantle, and
thrusting her hands into the deep pockets, walked quickly against the
wind, thinking deeply over her position.

It was truly a terrible dilemma in which she now found herself. Exiled
from her daughter for so many years, and all through her own fault,
yet she had been quite unable to stifle the natural instinct in her
heart. It may be that the desire to be near her daughter constantly
was all the stronger because she knew it was out of the question, and
the enforced suppression of her love in her own breast had given the
pleasure of living with Kaituna, even as a servant, a peculiar charm
of its own. It will doubtless be argued by some people that a woman
who could give up her child for the sake of a lover, could not have
had much maternal instinct; but then it must be recollected that Mrs.
Belswin had then acted on the impulse of a moment in doing so, and had
regretted her folly ever since. When she thought of all she had lost
for one moment of folly it made her mad with rage, and she would have
sacrificed anything to regain her forfeited position.

Thanks to her knowledge of how matters stood, and her own dexterity,
she had been enabled to gain her ends for at least some months, but
now her husband was coming home again she knew that she would have to
seek refuge in flight. She was a bold woman, a determined woman, and
all her life's happiness was at stake, yet she knew it was perfectly
useless to appeal to her husband for pity or help. By her own act she
had forfeited her right to approach him, and the act had brought its
own bitter punishment, by robbing her of the delight of gratifying her
strong maternal instinct. Like a tiger who desires more blood when he
has once tasted it, Mrs. Belswin had just experienced sufficient
delight in being near her child to make her passionately regret having
to depart. Plan after plan she thought of and rejected as useless,
because she saw quite plainly that she could do nothing against the
position held by her husband. Law, society, morality were all against
her, and she could only stand afar off weeping bitterly as she
surveyed the paradise from which she had banished herself.

"Oh, I could kill Rupert! I could kill him," she thought madly, "but
that would do no good. If I thought it would I should not hesitate. I
dare not tell Kaituna the truth, because she would shrink from me.
Rupert, once he knows I am here will not let me remain. If I sold my
soul it would be useless. I can do nothing except bear my punishment
till I die."

Suddenly an idea came into her head. Suppose Rupert Pethram were to
die before he came to Thornstream. In that case she would still retain
her position, and be happy for the rest of her life. But then there
was no chance of him dying--a healthy, strong man. And unless
something happened he would return to Thornstream and turn her out on
the world.

"If the ship would only go down! If God would only unchain the winds
of heaven and dash the ship to pieces on the rocks."

Mrs. Belswin, as it will be seen, was not a religious woman when she
thought thus, and was willing to sacrifice dozens of human lives in
order to get rid of her enemy. It was simply Balzac's mandarin over
again, and Mrs. Belswin, with her savage disregard of human life,
would have sacrificed all the mandarins in China, yea, China itself,
if by so doing she could have retained her position undisturbed.

However, there was but small possibility of either mandarin or ship
perishing to please her, so she began to wonder in her own mind how
she could get rid of Pethram before he could arrive at Thornstream.
Ah, if Stephano Ferrari----

Stephano Ferrari! The idea came to her like an inspiration, and she
hurriedly thought out a plan. Ferrari loved her, he would do anything
to get her to marry him. Well, she would do so provided he got rid of
Pethram and secured her position with her daughter. Murder! no, not
murder, but suppose Pethram disappeared? Then----

Her brain was in a whirl, her throat was dry with excitement, and she
leaned against a fence for a few minutes to keep herself from falling,
for the earth seemed spinning round her and the sky red as blood
before her eyes. With an effort she pulled herself together and looked
around.

"Mrs. Belk's cottage," she said, with a gasp of relief! "I'll go in
and rest."




CHAPTER IX
A RUSTIC APOLLO.


     "The marble statue of an antique god
      May win our admiration for a time,
      Seeing it lacks not any outward grace,
      But stands a type of flesh idealised.
      Yet as we gaze in silent wonderment,
      We weary of the irresponsive stone,
      Because the cold perfection wants a soul."


It was without doubt a charming cottage--such as one reads of in a
fairy tale. Clay walls, thatched roof, wide diamond-paned casements,
and twisted chimney, with all the violent colours subdued to a
pleasant neutral tint by the sun and rain, while ivy, rose-trees and
wistaria clambered over all, enclosing it in a network of greenery.

And the garden--oh, it was a most delightful garden; not too neat, but
all the handiwork of man softened by the gentle touch of nature. Tall
hollyhocks, odorous stocks, crimson-tipped daisies, flaunting dahlias,
and staring sunflowers grew together in riotous sweetness, breaking
bounds here and there as they nodded over the low white fence and
bent across the narrow path leading up to the rose-wreathed trellis
of the porch. There was an apple-tree, too, on one side--a gnarled,
moss-tufted apple-tree, already snowy with white blossoms, and on the
other a low-branched cherry-tree, looking like a frosted twelfth cake.
Pigeons fluttered around the eaves of the cottage, fowls strutted
among the flowers, and over all blazed the hot sun of summer from the
cloud-dappled sky. It was really charming in its rustic
picturesqueness, and Mrs. Belswin, pausing at the gate, looked
regretfully at this vision of bucolic ease so far removed from her own
feverish existence.

"If I had been a village girl I might have been a good woman," she
thought, walking up to the porch; "but I daresay I should have tired
of this innocent sweetness and gone up to the evil life of London, as
all village beauties have done."

On knocking at the door it was opened shortly by a tiny woman, old,
shrivelled, and evil-looking enough to have been the witch of the
cottage. Not that Mrs. Belk was ill-looking; on the contrary, she must
have been pretty when young, for she still retained a sufficiency of
beauty to warrant a second glance; but there was a restless look in
her dark eyes, a settled sneer on her thin lips, and a generally
discontented expression on her face which repelled the onlooker. Mrs.
Belswin had an intuitive capability of reading faces, and the first
glance she threw on this little figure with the withered face put her
at once on her guard. On her guard against a cottager! Mrs. Belswin
would have laughed at the idea. Still, the fact remains that Mrs. Belk
bore her character in her face, and Mrs. Belswin at once put herself
on her guard against Mrs. Belk. Hardly probable that these two women
would meet again. The cottager could never have it in her power to
harm the lady; but in spite of the absurdity of the situation, Mrs.
Belswin, with that inherent suspicion created by a long life of
duplicity and watchfulness, did not think it beneath her dignity to
pick and choose her words while talking to this humble woman, in case
chance should turn her into a possible enemy.

"I beg your pardon," she said slowly; "but I am very tired, and would
like to rest."

"There's a public a little way on, ma'am," replied Mrs. Belk,
respectfully, by no means inclined to entertain a stranger.

"I prefer to rest here," said Mrs. Belswin, coolly. "You know me, I
daresay--Miss Pethram's companion."

"Mrs. Belsin?" said the old woman, doubtfully.

"Let the lady come in, mother," remarked the slow soft voice of a man
inside the cottage. "Don't you see she looks tired?"

Whereupon Mrs. Belk with manifest reluctance moved to one side, and
Miss Pethram's companion entered the room to find herself face to face
with the handsomest man she had ever seen. He offered her a chair in
silence, and she sat down thankfully, while Mrs. Belk closed the door,
and the rustic Apollo stood leaning against the table looking at their
visitor.

Handsome! yes; splendidly handsome this man, in a massive Herculean
fashion. One who would be called a magnificent animal; for there was
no intellect in the fresh-coloured face, no intelligence in the bright
blue eyes, and his whole figure had but beauty and symmetry after the
fashion of a brute. He was very tall--over six feet--with long limbs,
a great breadth of chest, and a small, well-shaped head covered with
crisp locks of curly golden hair. His skin was browned by the sun, he
had a well-shaped nose, sleepy blue eyes, and his mouth and chin were
hidden by a magnificent golden beard which swept his chest. Nature had
lavished her gift of physical beauty on this man, but the casket
contained no jewel, for the soul which would have lent light to the
eyes, expression to the mouth, and noble bearing to the body, was
absent, and Samson Belk was simply a fine animal whom one would admire
like a soulless picture, but tire of in a few moments. Mrs. Belswin's
first thought was, "What a handsome man!" her second, "What a brute he
would be to the woman who loved him!"

They were a curious couple, the little withered mother and the tall
handsome son, dissimilar enough in appearance to negative the
relationship except for the expression of the face; for there, in the
countenance of the man, appeared the same expression that pervaded the
face of the woman. The eyes were not so restless, because they had
rather a sleepy expression, the sneer on the lips was hidden by the
drooping moustache, and the general look was more of ill-humour than
discontent: but in spite of the physical difference between them, no
one could have helped noticing, by the worst traits of the woman
appearing in the man, that this splendid specimen of humanity was the
offspring of this dwarfish feminine personality.

"You are Sir Rupert's head bailiff, are you not?" said Mrs. Belswin,
when she had sufficiently admired her host.

"Yes, madam, I have that honour."

He spoke in a slow sleepy voice, eminently attractive, and suited to
his appearance; a voice which, in its languor and oily softness, had
an accent of refinement and culture. Yet this man was a simple rustic,
a bailiff, one of the peasant class. It was most perplexing; and Mrs.
Belswin, clever woman of the world as she was, felt herself puzzled.
She was a woman and inquisitive, so she set herself to work to solve
this problem by a series of artful questions.

"Have you been a bailiff here long?"

"About four years, madam. I was bailiff to Sir Robert, and when Sir
Rupert came into the title he kindly kept me on."

"I should think you were fitted for better things."

Belk gazed at her in a slow, bovine fashion, and a spark of admiration
flashed into his sleepy eyes as he looked at this stately woman who
spoke in such a friendly manner.

"It's very kind of you to say so, madam, but I have no one to say a
good word for me."

"Ah! the rich never say a good word for the poor, my lady," said Mrs.
Belk, with fawning deprecation. "If looks go for anything, my Samson
ought to live in a palace. He's the finest wrestler in all the county,
and the best shot, and the most daring rider----"

"And the poorest man," finished Samson, with a coarse laugh, which
betrayed his real nature. "Aye, aye, mother, if I'd money to play the
swell, I'd cut a dash with the best of these fine, lily-handed gents."

"What would you do?" asked Mrs. Belswin, curious to find out how
different this man's soul was to his body.

"Do!" echoed the giant, folding his arms; "why, madam, I'd keep a fine
stable, and race my horses at the Derby. I'd marry a lady, and have a
fine house with servants, and the finest of wine to drink and food to
eat--that's what I'd do."

"A very modest ambition, truly," said Mrs. Belswin, with a scarcely
concealed sneer. "I presume you would not cultivate your brains."

"I've had enough schooling," growled Belk, stroking his beard. "Mother
made me learn things, and a fine time I had of it."

"You were never a good boy, Samson," said his mother, shaking her head
with a look of pride which belied her words. "Handsome is as handsome
does--that's what I always tells him, my lady."

"If it were handsome does as handsome is, your son would be a clever
man," replied Mrs. Belswin, rising to go.

Neither Mrs. Belk nor Samson were clever enough to understand this
remark, but after a time a faint idea of what she meant dawned on the
obtuse intellect of the giant, and he smiled approvingly.

"Won't you have a glass of milk, my lady?" asked Mrs. Belk, dropping a
curtsey.

"No, thank you!"

"May I have the honour of showing you the nearest way through the
wood, madam?" said Belk, hat in hand, resuming his polite manner, and
languid mode of speaking.

"No, thank you, I know my way," answered Mrs. Belswin, coolly; "many
thanks for your courtesy--good-day."

When she had vanished, Samson Belk stood for some minutes in a brown
study, then, recovering himself with a huge sigh, ordered his mother
to bring him a mug of beer.

"Eh, she's a fine madam that," he said, as he drank the ale; "got a
spice of the devil in her too. I wish I could marry her."

"That wouldn't do much good," said his mother contemptuously, "she's
only a companion. Now if you married Miss Pethram, you'd have all this
place, and be master here."

"Not much chance of that," growled Belk, putting on his hat; "she's in
love with that friend of parson's."

"A whipper-snapper."

"Aye, that he is. I could smash him with one hand; not any great
shakes with money either, as I've heard tell. What'll Sir Rupert say
to his courting?"

"Well, I heard at the great house this morning, that Sir Rupert was on
his way home."

Belk scowled and shook his broad shoulders in an uneasy manner. He did
not like Sir Rupert, who was a severe master, and therefore was not at
all pleased to hear that his term of liberty would soon be over.

"I hope accounts are all right, Samson," said his mother anxiously.
"Let Sir Rupert see you've been a good servant, lad."

"I'm good enough for the wage I get," growled Belk, sulkily; "if Sir
Rupert meddles with me, he'll get the worst of it; I'll stand no man's
handling, d----n me if I do."

He thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled off defiantly.

"Where are you going, lad?" asked his mother, as he paused at the
gate.

"To 'The Badger,'" retorted Mr. Belk, curtly, and hurriedly retreated
so as to escape his parent's expostulations.

"The lad's always there," said Mrs. Belk to herself as she closed the
door; "he's after no good I reckon. Eh, if I could only get some
money, I'd march him off to America, where he could live like a
gentleman. But there's no chance of that while rich folk have the
handling of the money."

Meanwhile, Mrs. Belswin was walking rapidly back to the house,
thinking over the curious couple she had just left.

"Not a bit like the ordinary people," she thought. "The mother's not
to be trusted except as concerns the son, and the son--well, he's
discontented with his lot. I wonder if Rupert finds him a good
servant. He must, or he wouldn't keep him on. But if Mr. Samson Belk
tries any games on with his master, I think he'll get the worst of
it."

"Good-day, Mrs. Belswin."

It was Gelthrip, the curate, who saluted her, a lank lean man, with
a hatchet face, lantern-jawed, and clean shaven, not by any means
what the world would term handsome. Dressed in black he looked like a
crow, and his hoarse voice--for he suffered from clergyman's soar
throat--was not unlike the cawing of those dreary birds. He was a
gossip, and very inquisitive. He supported a sick sister, and
professed High Church principles, and it was lucky that he should have
vowed himself to celibacy, for certainly no woman would have taken him
as her husband. He had long bony hands, and cracked his knuckles in
order to punctuate his sentences, and he talked without ceasing,
mixing up religion, gossip, literature, music, art, and science in one
heterogeneous mass of chatter.

Having drawn the cork of his eloquence by saying Good-day, and
touching his low-crowned hat, Mr. Gelthrip cracked his knuckles
cheerfully, and poured forth a flood of aimless nonsense.

"Good-day! ah, yes, it is a charming day, is it not. The blue of the
sky, with the lark singing so delightfully. You know Shelley's poem do
you not--Yes--Turner might paint that scene. Puts me in mind of his
Vale of Health, and this place by the way, is very healthy--plenty of
oxygen in the air for weak lungs. Ah--ah, my heart swells with
goodness towards the Creator of all things as I drink in the air. I
think I saw you coming out of Belk's cottage, Mrs. Belswin!"

"Yes! I went in there to rest for a few minutes."

"A great contrast, mother and son, Mrs. Belswin. The Witch of Endor
and Apollo, the Far Darter. Yes! but a touching instance of parental
affection, for she is devoted to her son. A devotion of which I regret
to say he's not worthy, Mrs. Belswin, not worthy, my dear lady. He
never comes to church. Passes his time in public-houses, and at
wrestling matches, and horse-races. A most godless young man."

"But surely Sir Rupert objects to this conduct?"

"He does not know, Mrs. Belswin. Belk, in a rough fashion, is crafty,
very crafty, but when the baronet returns I have no doubt he will hear
from others of the behaviour of this misguided young man. I deem it my
duty," continued Mr. Gelthrip, inflating his chest, "to inform Sir
Rupert of his servant's misdeeds."

"I don't think I would do that," said Mrs. Belswin, drily. "Sir Rupert
does not care about his private business being meddled with."

"Ah, you know Sir Rupert then?"

Mrs. Belswin bit her lip in vexation, for she saw that she had made a
mistake, and at once hastened to put herself right in the eyes of this
tale-bearer.

"No! of course not. I only speak from hearsay."

"Sir Rupert," said the curate in a dogmatic fashion, "does not, I
believe, care about the church, therefore, as you say, he may resent
my interference, but I would not be doing my duty as a clergyman if I
did not warn him of the dissipated ways of his bailiff."

"Do you think it is kind to deprive the young man of his situation?"

"In this case, Mrs. Belswin, I do. He is dissipated and neglects his
business. He has the handling of money, and, seeing he is always
betting on races, he may be tempted to--well, you know what I mean."

"I know this, sir," said Mrs. Belswin, with great spirit, "that you
are about to act a most unworthy part. If this man is as you say, warn
him, remonstrate with him, but don't take the bread out of his mouth
by getting him dismissed. Charity covers a multitude of sins. That
remark is in the Bible, I believe. If so, practise what you preach,
and you will be far more respected than if you drive this man to
despair by taking away his only means of livelihood. Good morning."

She bowed and walked off, leaving the curate staring after her with
open mouth, the stream of his eloquence being for once dried up.

Reflections on the part of Mr. Gelthrip.--"Where has this woman been
brought up that she manifests such little reverence for the cloth? A
dangerous woman, I am afraid, and not at all suited to be the
companion of Miss Pethram. I'm afraid I shall have to warn Sir Rupert
about her as well as about Belk. As for Belk! it is my duty--my duty
as a clergyman, to open his master's eyes to the deplorable state of
this young man. He gambles, bets, plays cards, drinks, all these
things entail money, and yet he spends far more than his salary, so I
must warn Sir Rupert of his bailiffs real character. Now, Mrs.
Belswin--ah!"

There was a good deal of spiteful meaning in the curate's "ah," and
there was no doubt that Mrs. Belswin had made a bitter enemy of this
well-meaning but meddlesome young man.

Reflections on the part of Mrs. Belswin.--"I've been preaching a
sermon to a man whose duty it is to preach one to me. Saul among the
prophets this time. I'm not sorry, for I hate those meek young men who
make mischief under the pretence of doing good. Why are these
clergymen so meddlesome? It's none of his business to enlighten Rupert
about Belk. If Belk is dissipated, I know Rupert will find it out
quick enough and discharge him. I shouldn't like to be either Rupert
or the curate if such a thing does come to pass, for Belk is a most
unforgiving man. I can see that in his face. I have made an enemy of
this Rev. Meekness. Well, he can't harm me until Rupert comes home,
and then--ah well, I'll see."




CHAPTER X.
A BOUDOIR CONSULTATION.


     "If two ladies talk together,
      Be it fine or rainy weather,
        Subjects three you'll find they handle--
      Love, sans diamonds and a carriage,
      Prospects of a wealthy marriage,
        Or the latest piece of scandal."


What do ladies talk about over five o'clock tea when no male is
present? Ah, that is one of the mysteries of Bona Dea, the ritual
whereof is known to none of the stronger sex. They doubtless discuss
fashions--for no woman, however affecting to despise the pomps and
vanities of this world, can contemplate the raiment of another woman
without blaming or praising the same, according to taste or price.
Very likely they make remarks about their neighbours, and hint, with
nods and winks mysteriously suggestive that--well, you know what.
Nevertheless, men in their clubs do exactly the same thing, and
scandal is by no means monopolized by ladies. However, the question
is: What do they talk about?--and as the votaries of the Bona Dea will
not tell us, we must be content to accept ambiguous smiles and
tightly-closed lips as answer.

On this occasion, however, the subject under discussion was love, and
four ladies--two married and two unmarried--were talking together on a
very pleasant subject; and the subject was the courting of Tommy Valpy
by Toby Clendon.

"I must admit," said Mrs. Valpy, in her usual heavy fashion, "that I
was astonished when the young man spoke to me."

"I wasn't," observed Tommy, with a maiden blush.

"Ah," from Mrs. Belswin, "forewarned's forearmed. We all know that."

"I'm very pleased to hear about it," said Kaituna, putting her arm
around Tommy's waist "Mr. Clendon is most delightful."

"But not so much so as another person," hinted the engaged young lady,
with wicked intuition, whereupon Kaituna grew red, and requested
another piece of cake.

"Love is all very well," said Mrs. Belswin, who was a practical
person; "but it won't keep the pot boiling. Now about his income."

"Eight hundred a year," declared Tommy, boldly. "We can live on that."

"No doubt; but is the eight hundred a year certain?"

"Well, three hundred is very certain, because it comes from his
father; but the remaining five hundred--well, you know," said Miss
Valpy, hopefully, "literature pays so well nowadays, and Toby's in the
first flight."

"I don't think so much of his literature," observed Mrs. Valpy,
stirring her tea. "He may or he may not make the income he says, but
the three hundred a year is absolutely certain."

"I hope you'll be happy, dear," said Kaituna, gaily. "I, of course,
will be bridesmaid."

Tommy looked at her friend significantly, and then laughed.

"We will be married together," she whispered confidentially.

"I'm afraid not. Mr. Maxwell has said nothing----"

"No? Then he has looked a good deal."

Both girls laughed again, and then Mrs. Valpy began to explain her
ideas for Tommy's trousseau, which interested every one.

The bride-elect and her mother were staying for a few days at
Thornstream, and on this evening were going over to dine at the
Vicarage in company with Kaituna and Mrs. Belswin.

Clendon _père_ was delighted at the choice of his only son, and was
giving this dinner in order to welcome his intended daughter-in-law to
his family circle of two. Tommy got on very well with the vicar, who
liked her vivacity and brilliant manner so much that he was actually
weaned from his beloved library, and the black-letter folios saw less
of their owner than they had done since the time when they had been
purchased.

Mrs. Valpy was also calmly satisfied with her daughter's engagement,
as her intended son-in-law was a very delightful young man, and,
moreover, had a rich father, the latter fact being the most important
in the good lady's eyes. If he dabbled in literature, well, let him do
so. It would serve to keep him out of mischief; but as for deriving
any solid benefit from novel-writing or play-scribbling, such an idea
never entered Mrs. Valpy's head. All she knew was that Toby was a good
son, and would make a good husband, besides which he could keep his
wife in comfort, so what more could a mother desire? The old lady
therefore sat in Kaituna's boudoir, smiling and nodding over her tea,
completely satisfied with herself and the world.

"By the way," said Kaituna, when the exhaustive subject of Tommy's
trousseau had come to an end, "you know of course, Mrs. Valpy, that my
father is on his way home."

"Yes, dear, I heard something about it," replied the old lady lazily.
"When do you expect him for certain?"

"In about a fortnight."

"So soon?" said Mrs. Belswin to herself. "In that case I have no time
to lose."

"You'll be glad to see Sir Rupert, I suppose?" asked Tommy, turning to
the companion.

"Oh, yes, of course! But I'm not sure if I shall be here when he
arrives."

"Not here!" ejaculated Kaituna, in dismay. "Oh, Mrs. Belswin!"

"I have to go up to town, my dear," said that lady, very slowly, "in
order to see a--a friend of mine."

She hesitated over the last word, knowing in her own heart the errand
which was taking her up to town.

"But can't you put off your visit for a time?"

"I'm afraid not."

Kaituna said nothing, but looked reproachfully at her friend,
whereupon Mrs. Belswin kissed her with a gay laugh.

"Don't look so scared, my child. I shall only be away for a few days."

"You will like Sir Rupert, I'm sure," said Mrs. Valpy, who had been
slowly following out a train of thought. "He is a most delightful
man."

"So I have always heard," replied the chaperon coldly.

"Perhaps he'll marry again," said Tommy, idly, more for the sake of
saying something than from any idea of Sir Rupert's matrimonial
intentions.

"No."

The answer came from Mrs. Belswin, and had escaped her against her
will; but on seeing the surprise her sudden ejaculation had created,
she explained herself with calm grace.

"Of course I mean that Sir Rupert would surely not think of marrying
when he has this dear child to comfort him."

"I don't think papa will ever marry again," said Kaituna, in a low
tone. "I wonder at your saying such a thing. He was too fond of my
mother to forget her easily."

Mrs. Belswin turned away her head and sneered, for she was too well
acquainted with Rupert Pethram's selfish heart to believe that he
regretted her in the least. Seeing, however, that the subject was a
painful one to Kaituna, and by no means relishing it herself, she
hastened to turn the conversation by saying the first thing that came
into her head.

"By the way, do you know I have an admirer here?"

"Not the vicar?" cried Tommy, clapping her hands.

"No; I'm not antique enough."

"Then Mr. Gelthrip?"

"Ah, he's too devoted to his sick sister. No! My admirer is that
handsome Mr. Belk."

"Papa's bailiff," said Kaituna, smiling. "Well, he is very handsome,
but I must confess I don't like his face."

"Nor do I," declared Tommy, boldly. "He's got the same disagreeable
countenance as his mother."

"From what I've heard I think he's a very dissipated young man," said
Mrs. Valpy, slowly.

"I suppose Mr. Gelthrip told you that," remarked Mrs. Belswin, with
curling lip. "So like him. He never opens his mouth except to destroy
a reputation."

"I'm afraid Belk has no reputation to destroy," laughed Tommy, jumping
up. "But we shall meet the Rev. Gelthrip to-night, and I declare it's
time to dress."

The clock chimed the half-hour, and the ladies went away to dress,
with the exception of Mrs. Belswin, who remained in her chair absorbed
in thought.

"In a fortnight," she muttered to herself slowly. "Ah! I must be
prepared for him. I'll try and see him in London, and convince him
that I must stay by my child. If he consents, well and good; if he
refuses----"

She stopped, drew a long breath, and clenched her hands.

"If he refuses--I'll see Ferrari."




CHAPTER XI.
THE ART OF DINING.


     "If you'd be a healthy sinner,
      Eat with judgment when at dinner,
      And remember with a shiver
      Man is governed by his liver;
      Viands rich and wine in plenty
      Spoil life's _dolce far niente_.
      He who shuns this vital question
      Suffers soon from indigestion;
      The corner-stone of dissipation
      Is to act with moderation."


When the sceptre of the Cæsars passed into the hands of St. Peter and
his successors, it carried with it among other fixtures--to use a
legal expression--the art of giving a good dinner. The clergy have,
therefore, always been famous for their attention to creature
comforts, and among the various arts which they rescued from the wreck
of the classic world, the art of dining is certainly one of which they
were most careful.

In England the fat abbots and portly monks of the past have been
transmuted, through the agency of that royal magician, Henry VIII,
into the comfortable bishops and delectable vicars of the present; but
the change is actually only in the Thirty-nine Articles, and the
science of gastronomy still has its wisest savants among the clergy.

It is true that some ascetics, wishing to return to the bosom of the
Romish Church, have denied themselves all dainties in favour of
lentils and pulse; but, unlike Daniel and his friends, they are no
fairer for doing so; yet the general run of curates (provided they are
well paid), rectors, vicars, deans, bishops, yea, even archbishops,
are worthy successors to the clerical gourmands of the Middle Ages so
satirised by Rabelais, and are as careful of their cellars and
kitchens as of their churches and parishioners.

Mr. Clendon, dry-as-dust grubber among ancient folios as he was, by no
means neglected the substance for the shadow, and satisfied his brain,
his stomach, and his palate in equal measure--the former by means of
choice editions, the latter by choice viands; but, truth to tell, he
to all appearances throve more on the library than on the kitchen.

The number of guests at dinner, according to some gastronomical
worthy, should never be less than the three Graces nor greater than
the nine Muses, so Vicar Clendon had taken this sage advice by
limiting the friends assembled round his hospitable board to eight
people, the sexes being in equal numbers, _i.e_. four of the one and
four of the other.

The host took in Mrs. Valpy. A most admirable arrangement, as both
were fond of their victuals, and thought eating preferable to talking,
especially when the cook was a good one, as happened in this case.

Mr. Gelthrip escorted Mrs. Belswin. Fire and water! Sweet and sour!
Black and white! Two galley slaves chained together against their will
could not have been less suited than the clergyman and the companion
were to one another. Good-breeding forbade either resenting the
juxtaposition, so they had smiles on their faces and rage in their
hearts at being thus coupled so unsuitably by their Amphitryon.

The engaged ones, of course, went dining-room-wards together--a good
omen of the future, in the eyes of both, hinting that they would thus
wander side by side towards the good things of this life.

Archie was squire to Kaituna. Ecstasy! Rapture! Bliss! Ah, how poor a
language is English when required to express the joy of two lovers
coming together for a whole evening, who have not expected Fate or
Cupid or Mother Venus to be so kind.

Out of compliment to the month of roses, Vicar Clendon gave his guests
a distinctly pink dinner, which was a novelty, both as regards viands,
wines, and artistic arrangements. In the centre of the white
tablecloth there was an oval, shaped of moist-looking emerald moss,
filled with loose rose-leaves, from the midst of which sprang rich
clusters of the flower in red, in white, and in yellow, set off here
and there by masses of green leaves. No intrusive epergne to hide the
faces of the guests from one another, but a tiny fountain shooting up
a silver thread that fell again in diamond spray over the odorous
blossoms below--rose-wreaths for the white bosoms of the ladies, rose
bouquets with entanglements of delicate maiden-hair fern for the men,
and on imitation rose-leaf menus the names of the dishes in purple
ink. Viands for the most part rose-tinted by an artistic cook, and as
for wines, there was claret deeply red, port amethystine in tint,
sparkling burgundy of rosy hues, and from the roof roseate light
suffused from a red-shaded lamp. The whole prevailing tint of this
unique meal was the rose-red of dawn, and Parson Clendon, smiling
benignly from the head of the table, felt that he had achieved a
distinct success in the way of originality, a thing to be proud of in
this century of used-up ideas.

"The Romans," observed the vicar, discursively, by way of providing a
subject of conversation, "the Romans would have enjoyed a meal served
up in this fashion."

"You are thinking of Vitellius," asserted Mr. Gelthrip, in a
dictatorial manner.

"No, sir! I am thinking of Lucullus. A gourmet, sir, not a gourmand."

Mr. Gelthrip, not being sufficiently learned either in French or
gastronomy to appreciate the subtlety of this remark, wisely held his
tongue and went on with his soup.

"If we were like the Romans, father, we should be crowned with
garlands of roses," said Toby, in order to keep the ball of
conversation rolling.

"Instead of which we wear the roses in our buttonholes," added Archie,
gaily; "not so graceful, perhaps, but more comfortable."

"Ah, we're not at all classic," observed the host, regretfully;
"dining with Lucullus we should have reclined."

"How uncomfortable!" said Tommy, saucily; "as bad as having breakfast
in bed."

"Which is where you generally have it," interposed Mrs. Valpy,
reprovingly.

"Ah!" said Toby, with a world of meaning in his tone, "I am afraid you
have not studied one Dr. Watts----"

"The early to bed man, you mean," cried Mrs. Belswin. "Horrible! I
never could see the use of his cut-and-dried little proverbs."

"His poems, madam, are very edifying," remarked Gelthrip, in a
clerical manner.

"Very probably; and like most things edifying, very dreary."

She said this so tartly that Clendon _père_ was afraid of the probable
rejoinder of his curate, so made the first remark that came into his
mind apropos of nothing in particular.

"Our conversation is like that of Praed's vicar, very discursive; we
began with the Romans, we end with Dr. Watts."

"I prefer the Romans," declared Archie, sipping his wine.

"Not their dining, surely," observed Kaituna.

"No," whispered Archie, literally _sub rosa_, for she wore a
half-opened bud in her dark hair, "because you would not have been
present. The nineteenth century, with all its faults, has one great
virtue; it allows us to dine with you."

Kaituna laughed in a pretty confused manner, whereupon Mrs. Belswin
flashed her glorious dark eyes sympathetically on the pair, for she
was now quite in favour of this, to all appearances, imprudent
marriage. Reasons two. First, the young couple loved one another
devotedly, which appealed to her womanly and maternal instincts.
Second, the match would be objected to by Sir Rupert, which pleased
the revengeful part of her nature. With these two excellent reasons
she was very satisfied, so smiled kindly on the lovers.

"Burgundy, sir?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Belswin."

That lady bowed cordially to her host and touched the rim of her glass
lightly with her lips. It is not now customary for gentlemen to drink
healths with the opposite sex at dinner, but 'tis an old-fashioned
custom, and therefore found favour with the vicar, lover of all things
antique, as he was.

"Drink to me only with thine eyes."

"A most excellent sentiment, Tobias," said his father, with a waggish
smile; "but we are not all so happily placed as you, my son."

"Every dog has its day, father."

"True! true! most true. 'Et ego in Arcadia fui.' Eh, Mr. Gelthrip?"

"I am not married, sir," responded that gentleman, stiffly.

"Nor is he likely to be," whispered Archie to his neighbour. "How
lucky--for the possible Mrs. Gelthrip."

"I'm not so sure of that," she replied in the same tone; "every Jack
has his Jill."

"Even I?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Oh! you are not certain?"

"How can I be certain? You do not wear your heart on your sleeve."

"Do I not?"

Kaituna was somewhat taken aback at this direct way of putting it,
and, not feeling inclined to reply in the only way in which she could
do so, looked round for a mode of escape from the pertinacity of her
companion. Help came from the vicar.

"Miss Pethram, I understand your father is coming home again."

"Yes, Mr. Clendon; I am pleased to say he is."

"Ah, no doubt! no doubt! Well, I can tell him you have been in safe
hands," responded the vicar, bowing to Mrs. Belswin, who acknowledged
the compliment with a somewhat doubtful smile.

"You have never seen Sir Rupert?" asked Toby, politely.

Mrs. Belswin started, drew her handkerchief--a flimsy feminine thing
of lace and cambric--across her dry lips, and laughed in an
embarrassed fashion as she replied--

"No, I have not seen him; but, of course, Kaituna has told me all
about him."

"Ah!" said the vicar, eyeing the rosy bubbles flashing in his glass,
"I remember Rupert Pethram very well before he went out to New
Zealand. He was a gay, light-hearted boy; but now, alas! tempora
mutantur et nos mutamur in illis."

"I can't fancy my father ever having been gay and light-hearted,"
cried Kaituna, doubtfully. "Ever since I can remember him he has been
so grave and solemn."

"Trouble! trouble!" sighed the vicar; "it changes us all."

Mrs. Belswin, affecting to arrange the wreath at her breast, darted a
lightning glance at the old man from under her long lashes.

"I wonder if Rupert told you anything," she thought, rapidly. "Bah!
what do I care if he did? This fool can do me no harm. There is only
one man I'm afraid of meeting--Rupert Pethram himself. Well, perhaps I
shall not need to meet him."

She smiled cruelly as she thought of the harm she proposed to do her
unfortunate husband, and listened idly to Mr. Gelthrip, who was
holding forth in his usual dogmatic style on the good which a moneyed
man like Sir Rupert could do to the parish of Deswarth.

"I hope, Miss Pethram," he said, turning to Kaituna, "that you will
urge upon your father the advisability of throwing open the picture
gallery at Thornstream to the villagers, in order to encourage a taste
for art."

"But they know nothing about art. The _Illustrated London News_ and
the _Graphic_ form their idea of pictures."

"They can learn, Mr. Clendon; they can learn," replied the curate,
easily. "I should like them to appreciate the old masters."

"Egad, it's a thing I could never do," cried Toby, flippantly. "I much
prefer the modern painters."

"You are a Philistine, sir."

"Humph!" said Toby, under his breath, "and this Samson is slaughtering
me with the jawbone of an ass."

"Then music," pursued Gelthrip, waxing eloquent; "a little Wagner."

"Very little," said Archie, slily; "all chords and no melody."

"I don't quite understand you," remarked Tommy, addressing Mr.
Gelthrip with a demure smile. "You believe in Doctor Watts and Richard
Wagner. Isn't it rather difficult to reconcile the two things?"

"Not at all, Miss Valpy. Wagner is understandable by the meanest
mind."

"Meaning himself," whispered Archie, with a laugh.

"The fact is," observed Mr. Clendon, with mock solemnity, "that when
my worthy friend can get our labourers to descant learnedly on Claude
Lorraine, Michael Angelo, and Titian, read and appreciate George
Meredith's novels--of whom, Tobias, I have heard you speak--and
understand the advanced school of music, of which I myself know
nothing, he will have accomplished his life's work."

"It would be a worthy career for a man," said Gelthrip, energetically.

"So I think," remarked Mrs. Belswin, dryly; "but if you make all your
labourers so learned, Mr. Gelthrip, I'm afraid they won't do much
work. Instead of hedging and ditching, they will take to admiring the
sunsets."

"And to analysing the music of the lark."

"Or comparing the latest novelist's description of Nature to the
disadvantage of the real thing."

Mr. Gelthrip bore all this sarcasm with equanimity, smiling benignly
all the time. He was an enthusiast on the subject, and had a hide
impervious to shafts of ridicule, however skilfully launched. His
scheme was simple. Sir Rupert had plenty of money, and, judging from
his daughter's description, seemed to be philanthropically inclined.
Mr. Gelthrip had full power in the parish--as his superior was too
much taken up with the middle ages to pay attention to the nineteenth
century--so he determined, with the aid of Sir Rupert's money and his
own brains, to make Deswarth a model village in the matter of culture
and high art. As to religion--well, Mr. Gelthrip was a clergyman, and
thought he could mingle religion and high art together so as to make
them palatable to his children-of-nature parishioners. Meanwhile his
ideas stood in this order: culture, high art, religion. Alas for the
possible model parish and the souls of its occupants!

This, however, is talk of futurity; but at present, the ladies, headed
by Mrs. Valpy, retired, leaving the four gentlemen to their wine.

"Tobias!" said his father, benevolently--a man must feel benevolent
with a glass of '34 port in his hand. "Tobias, to the health of your
bride."

"Thank you, father," replied Toby, gratefully, touching his lips with
the glass. "Archie! to the future Mrs. Maxwell."

"Ah! Ah!" remarked the old gentleman, smiling. "Has it gone as far as
that?"

"Not yet, sir."

Archie was blushing deeply, being an ingenuous youth, and unused to
such public compliments.

"I'll bet," whispered Toby, looking at him gravely, "that you'll have
something to say to me to-night over a pipe."

"Do you think so?" faltered Archie, toying with his glass.

"I speak," said Clendon _fils_, "I speak from experience, having
proposed and been accepted."

"I can do the first, but what about the second?"

"Faint heart," remarked Toby, judiciously, "never won fair lady."

"Then I'll take your advice this very night," said Archie,
desperately.

"I am," remarked Toby, as he lifted his glass, "a prophet in a small
way. Old boy, your hand. To the health of our double marriage--and no
heeltaps."

Archie finished his glass.




CHAPTER XII.
ARS AMORIS.


     'Tis very easy to make love;
       A smile--a pressure of the hand.
      A reference to the stars above,
       A "fly with me to some far land,"
      A sigh as soft as coo of dove,
       A kiss--the rest she'll understand.


Mr. Gelthrip, thinking no one but himself knew anything, had
contradicted his clerical superior on some point connected with the
introduction of printing into England, and the vicar in great wrath
had carried off his dogmatic curate to the library in order to prove
his case. The two elder ladies were talking about Sir Rupert as Mrs.
Valpy had met him a few months previously, and Mrs. Belswin was trying
to find out all about her quondam husband, in order to strengthen her
position as much as possible. At present she knew that she was
entirely at the mercy of Sir Rupert, so if she could discover
something detrimental to his character it might serve as a weapon
against him. The scheme which she hoped to carry through with the
assistance of Ferrari, was a dangerous one; and moreover, she was
doubtful if the Italian would consent to aid her; therefore she was
anxious to try all other methods of coercing her husband before
resorting to the last and most terrible expedient. She was a clever
woman, was Mrs. Belswin, and the instinct for discovery, which she
inherited from her savage grandparents, made her wonderfully acute in
cross-examining simple Mrs. Valpy, who not comprehending the subtlety
of her companion, told all she knew about the baronet in the most open
manner. The result was not gratifying to Mrs. Belswin; for with all
her dexterity in twisting, and turning and questioning, and hinting,
she discovered nothing likely to compromise Sir Rupert in any way.

"It's no use," she thought, with a feeling of despair in her heart,
"Rupert has it all his own way, and I can do nothing--nothing
except----"

She smiled significantly, and simple Mrs. Valpy, seeing that the
companion was looking at Toby and her daughter, who were amusing
themselves at the piano, misinterpreted the smile, and therefore spoke
according to her misinterpretation.

"They'll make a very happy couple, won't they, Mrs. Belswin?"

Mrs. Belswin, thus being appealed to, started, smiled politely, and
assented with much outward show of interest to the remark of the old
lady.

"It's so nice for Toby to have his home here," pursued Mrs. Valpy,
with much satisfaction; "because, you know, our place is not far from
the vicarage, so I shall not be parted from my daughter."

The other woman started, and laid her hand on her breast, as if to
still the beating of her heart.

"Yes; it would be a terrible thing to part with your only child," she
said in a low voice. "I know what the pain of such a separation is."

"You have parted from your child, then?" said Mrs. Valpy,
sympathetically.

Mrs. Belswin clutched her throat, and gave an hysterical laugh.

"Well, no; not exactly;" she said, still in the same low voice;
"but--but my little daughter--my little daughter died many years ago."

It was very hard for her to lie like this when her daughter was only a
few yards away, chatting to Maxwell at the window; but Mrs. Belswin
looked upon such necessary denial as punishment for her sins, and
accepted it accordingly.

"I'm very sorry," observed Mrs. Valpy, with well-bred condolence.
"Still, time brings consolation."

"Not to all people."

"Oh, yes, I think so. Besides, now you have that dear girl, Kaituna,
and she seems very fond of you."

"Yes."

She could say no more. The strangeness of the situation excited her to
laughter, to that laughter which is very near tears, and she was
afraid to speak lest she should break down.

"And then Sir Rupert will be so glad to find his daughter has such a
good friend."

The mention of the hated name restored Mrs. Belswin to her usual self,
and with a supercilious glance at the blundering woman who had so
unconsciously wounded her, she answered in her ordinary manner--

"I hope so! But I'm afraid I shall not have an opportunity of seeing
Sir Rupert at once, as I go to town shortly, on business."

"But you will return?"

"Oh, yes! of course I shall return, unless some unforeseen
circumstances should arise. We are never certain of anything in the
future, you know, Mrs. Valpy."

"No, perhaps not! At all events I think you will like Sir Rupert."

Mrs. Belswin sneered.

"Oh, do you think so?"

"I'm certain. Such a gentlemanly man. Quite young for his age. I
wonder he does not marry again."

"Perhaps he had enough of matrimony with his first wife," said Mrs.
Belswin, coolly.

"Oh, he was devotedly attached to her."

"Was he, indeed?"

"Yes! Simply worshipped her. She died in New Zealand when Kaituna was
a baby, I believe, and Sir Rupert told me how this loss had
overshadowed his life."

"Hypocrite!" murmured Mrs. Belswin, between her clenched teeth.

The conversation was becoming a little difficult for her to carry on,
as she dare not disclose herself yet, and did not care about
exchanging complimentary remarks on the subject of a man she detested
so heartily.

At this moment Toby struck a chord on the piano, and Tommy burst out
laughing, so, with ready wit, Mrs. Belswin made this interruption
serve as an excuse to break off the conversation.

"The young people seem to be merry," she said to Mrs. Valpy, and
rising to her feet, "I must go over and see what the joke is about."

Mrs. Valpy nodded sleepily, feeling somewhat drowsy after her dinner,
so Mrs. Belswin, seeing she did not mind being left to her own
devices, walked across to the piano and interrupted the two lovers,
for which interruption, however, they did not feel profoundly
grateful.

"Won't you sing something?" asked the companion, addressing Toby, "or
you, Miss Valpy?"

"Oh, my songs are too much of the orthodox drawing-room' type,"
replied Miss Valpy, disparagingly. "Now Toby is original in his
ditties. Come, let's have a little chin-music, Toby!"

"Wherever do you learn such slang?" said Mrs. Belswin, with a smile.

"Toby."

"I! Oh, how can you? I speak the Queen's English."

"Do you really?" said Tommy, laughing. "Well, I at present speak the
President's American, so go right along, stranger, and look slippy
with the barrel organ."

"If your mother hears you," remonstrated Mrs. Belswin, "she will----"

"Yes, I know she will," retorted Tommy, imperturbably; "but she's
asleep and I'm awake, very much so. I say, Mrs. Belswin, where's
Kaituna?"

"I think she's walking on the lawn with Mr. Maxwell."

"As a chaperon you should hunt them out," said Miss Valpy,
mischievously.

"Suppose I give the same advice to your mother," replied Mrs. Belswin,
dryly.

"Don't," said Toby, in mock horror; "as you are strong be merciful."

"Certainly, if you sing something."

"What shall I sing?"

"Anything," said Tommy, sitting down, "except that new style of song,
all chords and no tune."

Toby laughed mischievously and began to sing--


     "If I mashed her would she kiss me?
           No! no! no!
      If I bolted would she miss me?
           No! no! no!
      She knows I haven't got a rap;
      Besides, there is the other chap--
      At him, not me, she sets her cap;
           No! no! no!"


"Mr. Clendon," said Tommy, in a tone of dignified rebuke, "we don't
want any music-hall songs. If you can't sing something refined, don't
sing at all."

"I must collect my ideas first," replied Toby, running his fingers
over the piano. "Wait till the spirit moves me."

Mrs. Belswin had resumed her seat near the sleeping form of Mrs.
Valpy, and was thinking deeply, though her thoughts, judging from the
savage expression in her fierce eyes, did not seem to be very
agreeable ones, while Tommy leaned over the piano watching Toby's face
as he tried to seek inspiration from her smiles.

Outside on the short dry grass of the lawn, Kaituna was strolling,
accompanied by Archie Maxwell. The grass extended for some distance in
a gentle slope, and was encircled by tall trees, their heavy foliage
drooping over the beds of flowers below. Beyond, the warm blue of the
sky, sparkling with stars, and just over the trembling tree-tops the
golden round of the moon. A gentle wind was blowing through the
rustling leaves, bearing on its faint wings the rich odours of the
flowers, and the lawn was strewn with aerial shadows that trembled
with the trembling of the trees. Then the white walls of the vicarage,
the sloping roof neutral tinted in the moonlight, the glimmer of the
cold shine on the glass of the upstair windows, and below, the yellow
warm light streaming out of the drawing-room casements on the
gravelled walk, the lawn beyond, and the figures of the two lovers
moving like black shadows through the magical light. A nightingale
began to sing deliciously, hidden in the warm dusk of the leaves, then
another bird in the distance answered the first. The hoot of an owl
sounded faintly through the air, the sharp whirr of a cricket replied,
and all the night seemed full of sweet sounds.

Kaituna sat down on a bench placed under the drawing-room windows, and
Archie, standing beside her, lighted a cigarette after asking and
obtaining the requisite permission. The voices of the vicar and his
curate sounded in high dispute from the adjacent library; there was a
murmur of conversation from within, where Mrs. Belswin was talking to
the other lovers, and at intervals the sharp notes of the piano struck
abruptly through the voices, the songs of the nightingale, and the
charm of the night.

"What I miss very much in the sky here," said Kaituna, looking up at
the stars, "is the Southern Cross."

"Yes; I have seen it myself," replied Archie, removing his cigarette.
"You know I have travelled a great deal."

"And intend to travel still more!"

"Perhaps."

"You don't seem very sure, Mr. Maxwell. What about South America?"

"I thought I had told you that I had changed my mind about South
America."

Kaituna flushed a little at the significance of his words, and cast
down her eyes.

"I believe you said something about putting off your journey till the
end of the year."

"I'll put it off altogether, if a certain event takes place."

"And that certain event?"

"Cannot you guess?"

Duplicity on the part of the woman, who knew perfectly well the event
to which the young man referred.

"No, I am afraid I can't."

"Miss Pethram--Kaituna, I----"

"Hush! Mr. Clendon is singing."

It was only to gain time for reflection, as she knew that a
declaration of love trembled on his lips, but with feminine coquetry
could not help blowing hot to his cold.

And Toby was singing a bold martial song, with a curious accompaniment
like the trotting of a horse--a song which thrilled through the
listeners, with its fierce exultation and savage passion.


        On God and his prophet I seven times called me;
        I opened the Koran--the omen appalled me;
        I read it--thou wast to be bride to another;
        I knew my betrayer, 'twas him I called brother,
        Zulema! Zulema!

        I sprang on my steed as he waited beside me,
        Then rode through the desert with Allah to guide me;
        Fierce blew the sirocco, its terrors were idle;
        I galloped till dawn to be first at your bridal
        Zulema! Zulema!

        I rode to the tent-door, your father's tribe knew me;
        They dreamed of the glory they'd gain if they slew me;
        I dashed through the cowards--I met my betrayer,
        He fell from his saddle, and I was his slayer,
        Zulema! Zulema!

        You ran from your dwelling--your father's spears missed me;
        You sprang to my saddle with fervour to kiss me;
        We broke through the press of your kinsfolk, my foemen;
        I won thee, Zulema, so false was the omen;
        Zulema! Zulema!


"Ah!" said Archie, with a long breath, when the fierce cry had rung
out for the last time, "that is the way to win a bride."

Kaituna thought so too, although she did not make any remark, but the
shrill savagery of the song had stirred her hereditary instincts
profoundly, and even in the dim moonlight Archie could see the
distension of her nostrils, and the flash of excitement that sparkled
in her eyes. It gave him an idea, and throwing himself on his knees,
he began to woo her as fiercely and as freely as ever her dusky
ancestors had been wooed in the virgin recesses of New Zealand woods.

"Kaituna, I love you! I love you. You must have seen it; you must know
it. This is no time for timid protestations, for doubtful sighing.
Give me your hands." He seized them in his strong grasp. "I am a man,
and I must woo like a man. I love you! I love you! I wish you to be my
wife. I am poor, but I am young, and with you beside me, I can do
great things. Say that you will marry me."

"But my father!"

He sprang to his feet, still holding her hands, and drew her forcibly
towards him.

"Your father may consent--he may refuse. I do not care for his consent
or his refusal. Say you will be my wife, and no human being shall come
between us. I have no money. I will gain a fortune for you. I have no
home--I will make one for you. Youth, love, and God are on our side,
and we are made the one for the other. You must not say no! You shall
not say no. You are the woman needed to complete my life; and God has
given you to me. Lay aside your coquetry, your hesitations, your
fears. Speak boldly to me as I do to you. Let no false modesty--no
false pride--no maidenly dread come between us. I love you, Kaituna.
Will you be my wife?"

There was something in this akin to the fierce wooing of primeval man.
All the artificial restraints of civilisation were laid aside. The
doubts, the fears, the looks, the shrinkings, all these safeguards and
shields of nervous natures had vanished before this whirlwind of
passion, which bore down such feeble barriers set between man and
woman. As his eyes ardent with love, passionate with longing, flashed
into her own she felt her bosom thrill, her blood rush rapidly through
her veins, and, with an inarticulate cry, wherein all the instincts
she had inherited from her Maori ancestors broke forth, she flung
herself on his heaving breast.

"Kaituna!"

"Yes! yes! take me I take me! I am yours, and yours only."




CHAPTER XIII.
EXIT MRS. BELSWIN.


     She smiles she laughs! she talks of this and that--
     To all appearances a very woman.
     Ah! but that phrase bears deep interpretation--
     "A very woman" is a treacherous thing;
     Her smile's a lie--a lie to hide the truth,
     For when the time is ripe for all her schemes
     "A very woman" slips her smiling mask,
     And lo! behold, a look which means, "You die."


One who has been in strange lands, and ventured his life in far
countries, is by no means anxious to court again the dangers he has so
happily escaped. The traveller, telling his tales by his lately gained
fireside, shudders as he remembers the perils he has dared, the risks
he has encountered, and is thankful for his present safety, so
thankful indeed that he is unwilling to place his life for the second
time at the disposal of chance.

It was somewhat after this fashion that Mrs. Belswin viewed her
present security in contrast to her past jeopardy. She had been a
free-lance, and adventuress, an unprotected woman at the mercy of the
world, so hard and pitiless to such unfortunates; but now she had
found a home, a refuge, a daughter's love, a bright oasis in the
desert of affliction, and she dreaded to be driven out of this
peaceful paradise, which held all that made her life worth having,
into a stormy world once more. Through perils more deadly than those
of savage lands, through storms more terrible than those of the ocean,
she had passed into a haven of tranquillity; but now that she was
tasting of the pleasures of hope and repose, it seemed as though she
would once more be driven forth to battle with her fellow-creatures.

Her quondam husband held her fate in his hand. He had right and might
on his side, and she knew that she could expect no mercy from one whom
she had so deeply wronged. Had the positions been reversed she felt
that she would not have scrupled to enforce the powers she possessed,
and, therefore, never for a moment dreamed that her husband would act
otherwise. All she knew was that she was now in Paradise, that she
enjoyed her daughter's affection, ignorant as that daughter was of the
mother's identity, and that the husband of her youth, and the father
of her dearly-loved child would expel her from this hardly won
Paradise as soon as he discovered her therein.

This being the case, she did not waste time in asking for a mercy not
likely to be granted, but set herself to work to find out some means
of retaining her position in defiance of her husband's enmity and
hatred. After her conversation with Mrs. Valpy, she saw that Rupert
Pethram had glossed over the affair of the divorce in order to avoid
all suspicion of scandal against himself and the mother of his child,
for he was unwilling that the child should suffer for the sin of her
parent. This was certainly a point in her favour, as by threatening to
denounce the whole affair if she was not allowed to retain her
position she could force him to acquiesce in her demand, in order to
avoid scandal.

But then if he, though keeping the terrible affair secret from the
outside world, told Kaituna all about her mother's disgrace, thus
destroying the love which the girl had for the memory of one whom she
thought was dead--it would be too terrible, as she could urge nothing
in extenuation of her sin, and would be forced to blush before her own
child. No, nothing could be done in that way. Should she throw herself
on the mercy of the man she had wronged? Alas! she knew his stern
nature well enough to be aware of the hopeless folly of such an
attempt. Looking at the whole affair in whatever way that suggested
itself to her fertile brain, she saw no means of retaining her
position, her child or her newly-found respectability, except by
enlisting the sympathy of Ferrari and----

But it was too terrible. It was a crime. Guilty as she was, to do this
would render her still more guilty. Even if she succeeded in getting
her husband out of the way, and it was not discovered by the law,
there was still Ferrari to be reckoned with. It would give him a
strong hold over her, which he would use to force her into marriage,
and then she would be still separated from her child, so that the
crime she contemplated would be useless.

To see this woman raging up and down her bedroom was a pitiful sight.
Flinging herself on her knees she would pray to God to soften the
heart of her husband, then, realising how futile was the hope, she
would start to her feet and think again of the crime she contemplated
committing with the assistance of her Italian lover. She raged, she
wept, she sighed, she implored. Her mood changed with every tick of
the clock; from hope she fell into despair; from despair she changed
once more to hope--tears imprecations, prayers, threats, she tried
them all in their turn, and the result was always the same--absolute
failure. She was dashing herself in vain against an adamantine wall,
for in her calmer moments she saw how helpless she was against the
position held by her husband--a position approved of by law, approved
of by the world. She could do nothing, and she knew it.

Still, Ferrari!

Yes, she would go up and see him, for perhaps he could solve the
riddle which thus perplexed her so terribly. He would demand his
price, she knew him well enough for that. Well, she would pay it in
order to still retain possession of her child. Let her accomplish her
present desire and the future would take care of itself. So, Mrs.
Belswin, summoning all her philosophy to her aid, composed her
features, and told Kaituna that she was going up to London on
business.

"But papa will be here next week," said the girl in dismay.

"Yes; I'm sorry to go at such a time, dear," replied Mrs. Belswin,
with an immovable countenance, "but it is a very important matter that
takes me away."

"You will be back again soon?"

"In a fortnight at the least."

"Oh, I'm glad of that," said Kaituna, with a flush; "you know I want
you to help me gain papa's consent to my marriage with Archie."

Mrs. Belswin smiled bitterly as she kissed her daughter, knowing how
weak was the reed upon which the girl leaned. She ask Rupert Pethram
to consent to the marriage--she dare to demand a favour of the man she
had wronged for the child she had forsaken! She almost laughed as she
thought of the terrible irony of the situation, but, restraining
herself with her usual self-command, bade the girl hope for the best.

"Your father must like Mr. Maxwell, he is such a charming young
fellow," she said encouragingly, "and as you love him so dearly, Sir
Rupert, for the sake of your happiness, may perhaps overlook his want
of money."

"But you will speak to papa, Mrs. Belswin?"

"Yes; if I see your father on my return I will certainly speak to
him."

"How strangely you talk," said Kaituna, rather puzzled; "if you come
back in a fortnight you will be sure to see papa."

"Of course, dear! of course. I was only thinking that some unforeseen
accident----"

"Oh, no, no!"

"Kaituna, you love your father very dearly."

"Very, very dearly. He is all I have in the world."

It required all Mrs. Belswin's self-restraint to prevent her then and
there throwing herself into the girl's arms and telling her all. Such
a course, however, would have been worse than madness, so she was
forced to crush down her maternal feelings.

After this interview with Kaituna, she departed for London--departed
for the possible commission of a crime, and as the carriage left
Thornstream she looked back with a sigh to the girl standing on the
terrace.

"Perhaps I shall never see her again," she said, with a groan,
throwing herself back in her seat. "But no; that will never happen;
even if Rupert does turn me out of the house he will not tell Kaituna
anything to destroy her belief in her mother, so I shall some day meet
her with her husband."

Her lips curled as she said this, knowing well that Sir Rupert would
never give his consent to the marriage, and then she clenched her
hands with a frown.

"He must consent to the marriage--Kaituna's heart is set on it. He can
destroy my happiness, but I'll kill him before he destroys that of my
child."

And with this firm determination she left her husband's house--the
house in which she should have reigned a happy mistress and mother,
and the house into which she had crept like a disguised thief, the
house which she, in the mad instinct of her savage nature, intended to
deprive of its master.

While waiting on the railway platform for the London train, she saw
Samson Belk.

The relations between these two were peculiar. Ever since he had seen
her at his mother's cottage, Belk had followed her everywhere like her
shadow, much to Mrs. Belswin's astonishment, for, candid in all
things to herself, she could not conceive how a handsome young man
could leave younger women for one verging on middle age. Yet such
was the case. This bucolic man had fallen passionately in love, and
adored her with all the sullen ardour of his obstinate nature. He was
slow-witted, dull-headed, and it took a long time for an idea to
penetrate into his brain, but once the idea was there, nothing could
get it out again. This woman, so different from all he had known, who
spoke in a commanding way, who flashed her eyes fiercely on all, as if
they were her slaves, had, without a word, without a sign, brought to
his knees this uncultured man, who knew nothing of the deference due
to the sex, and whose only attributes were great physical strength and
a handsome exterior. Formerly, owing to these advantages, he had
gained admiration from all women, and in return had treated them with
brutal indifference, or scarcely veiled contempt; but now the
positions were reversed, and he was the abject slave of this imperious
queen, who looked down at him with disdain. It was a case of Samson
like wax in the hands of Delilah--of Hercules subjugated by Omphale;
and Samson Belk, with all his virile strength, his handsome face, his
stalwart figure, was crouching like a dog at the feet of Mrs. Belswin.

He looked somewhat haggard as he came towards her and took off his
hat, Mrs. Belswin nodding coldly to him in return.

"Well, Mr. Belk," she said, indifferently, "what are you doing here?"

"I heard you were going to town, madam."

"Yes? How can that possibly concern you?" Belk stood twisting his hat
round and round in a sheepish manner.

"I thought I might be of service to you," he stammered, looking at her
portmanteau.

"Thank you, but there is no need. The porters will attend to all
that," replied the lady, graciously. "But you don't look very well,
Mr. Belk. I suppose you've been drinking."

Candour was Mrs. Belswin's strong point, and looking at Belk as an
inferior animal, she treated him accordingly, but he seemed in nowise
displeased at her bluntness.

"No; I haven't been drinking, madam."

"That's just as well. You know Sir Rupert returns next week, and if he
found you to be dissipated, he'd dismiss you on the spot."

"Would he?" said Belk, sullenly. "Let him if he likes. You seem to
know Sir Rupert, madam."

"I? No; but I have heard about him."

"He's a hard man, what I've seen of him."

Mrs. Belswin was not going to discuss this subject with a servant like
Belk, so she turned indifferently away as the train came into the
station, and left him standing there, looking in sullen admiration at
her graceful form in the dark garments she now affected.

When she was safely installed in a first-class carriage, her rustic
admirer, who had seen personally after her luggage, appeared at the
window with some newspapers.

"You'll want them to read, madam," he said awkwardly, as she thanked
him. "I hope you'll have a pleasant journey."

"Thank you, Mr. Belk, I hope I shall."

"You'll be coming back soon I hope?"

He blurted out this question with a deep flush, and Mrs. Belswin
stared at him with undisguised astonishment She could not understand
the reason of this man's deference, for she judged it impossible that
he could be so deeply in love with her as all his actions seemed to
denote. Good-natured, however, when not crossed in any way, she
replied politely, as the train moved off--

"I shall return in a fortnight."

"If you don't," muttered Belk, as the long line of carriages
disappeared, "I'll follow you up to London."

"Good heavens!" said Mrs. Belswin, throwing herself back in her seat,
"what on earth can the man see in me to admire? I'm not a vain woman.
I never was a vain woman, and why that handsome young fellow should
leave youth to run after age is more than I can understand. It's
flattering; very much so; but," continued the lady, struck by a sudden
thought, "if Ferrari met my new admirer, I'm afraid there would be
trouble."

She laughed at the idea, and taking up the _Telegraph_ began to read,
but suddenly laid it down with a nervous start.

"Ferrari loves me! Belk loves me! I love neither, but only my child.
Rupert stands between me and my happiness. Which of these men will
remove him out of my path? Ferrari--a subtle Italian, Belk--a brutal
Saxon. Humph! The fox and the lion over again--craft and strength! I
can depend on them both, and Rupert----"

She struck her hands together with a triumphant laugh.

"Rupert Pethram, you are marching blindfolded into a trap."




CHAPTER XIV.
SIGNOR FERRARI DECLINES.


"Number One is the greater number; if I assisted Number Two it would
become the lesser."


Signor Ferrari was a gentleman who knew how to make himself thoroughly
comfortable; and, in order to do so, squandered his earnings in a most
spendthrift fashion. At present he was receiving a very handsome
salary for his singing in Sultana Fatima, therefore he denied himself
nothing in the way of luxury. He was a true Bohemian in every action
of his life, and accepted his fluctuating fortunes with the utmost
equanimity. If he fared badly on dry bread and water one day, he was
hopeful of oysters and champagne the next; and when the feast of Dives
was before him, made the most of it in eating and drinking, so as to
recompense himself for all future deprivations, which would be the lot
of poverty-stricken Lazarus.

While his voice lasted he was well aware that he could command an
excellent income which satisfied him completely; for when he grew old
and songless he was quite prepared to return to Italy, and live there
the happy-go-lucky life of his youth on polenta and sour wine. In his
impulsive southern fashion he loved Mrs. Belswin madly; but, strangely
enough, it never for a moment occurred to him to save money against
his possible marriage with her. If he starved, she would starve; if he
made money, she would share it; and if she objected to such a
chequered existence, Signor Ferrari was quite confident enough in his
own powers of will and persuasion to be satisfied that he could force
her to accept his view of the matter. This was the Ferrari philosophy,
and no bad one either as times go, seeing that a singer's livelihood
depends entirely upon the caprice of the public. As long as he could
get enough to eat, be the food rich or plain, a smoke, and plenty of
sleep, the world could go hang for all he cared. He lived in the
present, never thought about the past, and let the future take care of
itself; so altogether managed to scramble through life in a leisurely,
selfish manner eminently egotistical in fashion.

At present, being in the heyday of life, he was dining with Dives,
which was happiness enough in itself; but, in order that nothing
should be wanting to complete his felicity, he had received a letter
from Mrs. Belswin, telling him of her contemplated arrival. Under
these circumstances he had nothing left to wish for, and lounging on
the sofa in his sitting-room in a state of blissful contentment
awaited the coming of his fair friend.

"Buõno," said the signor, with smiling satisfaction, folding up the
letter and putting it in his pocket, "the singing-bird returns to its
nest. This time I will clip its wings, so that it flies not again. Per
Bacco, the kind heart of Stephano surprises himself, for who would let
his bird fly as he has done? But I fear not the jealousy, offspring of
suspicion. Ecco! she loves but me, and comes again to the nest. And
what a nest! Cospetto! My Lucrezia will be hard to please if she likes
not this palazzo del amor."

It was a very pretty nest indeed, from a lodging-house point of view,
although its incongruity of colouring and furnishing would have driven
an artist out of his mind; but then the signor was not exacting in the
way of harmonious effect, and, provided his dwelling was fairly
comfortable, felt completely satisfied. Lying on the sofa, he looked
complacently at the furniture, covered with painfully bright blue
satin, at the scarlet curtains, the green wall-paper, and at all the
wax flowers, Berlin wool mats, and gimcrack ornaments with which the
room was adorned. Ferrari had added to this splendid furnishing an
excellent piano for professional purposes, and numerous photographs,
principally feminine, of his artistic friends; so that he conceived
himself to be housed in a princely fashion.

It was three o'clock by the incorrect French timepiece on the tawdry
mantelpiece, and Ferrari was getting somewhat impatient, as Mrs.
Belswin had mentioned two o'clock as the time of her arrival; but with
his accustomed philosophy he manifested no anger at the delay.

"La Donna é mobile," he hummed, shrugging his shoulders, as he
strolled towards the piano. "Women are always late; it is one of their
charming follies. Ah! EH! EE! Diavolo! my voice is bad this day. These
English fogs are down my throat Ah! Eh! EE! Dio! What a note! Voce del
oca.


     "Ask not the stars the fate they deal.
      Read in my eyes the love I feel."


"That's a good song, that serenade to Fatima. It shows off my voice.
I'll sing it to exercise my high notes."

He did so, and was just in the middle of the first verse when Mrs.
Belswin made her appearance, upon which he stopped abruptly, and came
forward to greet her with theatrical effusion.

"Stella dora! once more you shine," he cried, seizing her hands, with
a passionate look in his dark eyes. "Oh, my life! how dear it is to
see thee again."

"You missed me then, Stephano?" said Mrs. Belswin, sinking wearily
into a chair.

"Missed thee, carissima!" exclaimed the Italian, throwing himself on
his knees before her and kissing her hand; "by this, and this, and
this again, I swear that all has been dark to me without the light of
thine eyes. But you will not leave me again, angela mia. Thou hast
come back for ever to be my wife."

Mrs. Belswin drew her hand away sharply and frowned, for in her
present irritable state of mind the exaggerated manner of Ferrari
jarred on her nerves.

"Do be sensible, Stephano," she said in a vexed tone. "You are always
acting."

"How can that be acting, cruel one, which is the truth?" replied
Ferrari, reproachfully, rising from his knees. "Thou knowst my love,
and yet when I speak you are cold. Eh, Donna Lucrezia, is your heart
changed?"

"My heart remains as It always was, my friend; but I've come up to see
you on business----"

"Oh, business!" interrupted Stephano, suspiciously. "Cospetto! You
want once more to leave me."

"For a time; yes."

"Oh, for a time; yes!" echoed Ferrari, mockingly. "Amica mia, you have
a strange way of speaking to him who adores you. Dio, you play with me
like a child. I love you, and wish you for my wife. You say 'yes,' and
depart for a time. Now return you to me and again say, 'Stephano, I
leave you for a time.'"

"I made no promise to be your wife," said Mrs. Belswin, angrily, "nor
will I do so unless you help me now."

"Help you! and in what way? Has the little daughter been cruel? You
wish me to speak as father to her."

"I wish you to do nothing of the sort. My daughter is quite well, and
I was perfectly happy with her."

"And without me," cried Ferrari, jealously; upon which Mrs. Belswin
made a gesture of irritation.

"We can settle that afterwards," she said, drawing off her gloves:
"meanwhile let us talk sense. I shall be up in town for a fortnight."

"And you stay, cara?"

"At an hotel in the Strand. I'll give you the address before I leave."

"Bene! I will then have you to myself for two weeks."

"It all depends on whether you will help me in what I wish to do."

"Ebbene! Is it il marito?"

Mrs. Belswin nodded, and the Italian burst out laughing.

"Povero diavolo. He has then come again."

"No! but he arrives next week."

"How pleased you are," said Ferrari, mockingly. "Oh, yes, he will be
so sweet to behold you."

"That's the very question! I don't want him to see me."

"Then return not to the little daughter."

"I must! I must!" cried Mrs. Belswin in despair. "I can't give up my
child after meeting her again. Twenty years, Stephano, and I have not
seen her; now I am beside her every day. She loves me--not as her
mother, but as her friend. I can't give up all this because my husband
is returning."

Signor Ferrari shrugged his shoulders and lighted a cigarette.

"But there is nothing more you can do," he said, spreading out his
hands with a dramatic gesture, "eh, carrissima? Think of what is this
affair. Il marito has said to you, 'Good-bye.' The little daughter
thinks you to be dead. If then you come to reveal yourself, il
marito--eh, amica mia! it is a trouble for all."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing! oh no, certainly! You have beheld the little daughter for a
time. Now you are to me again. I say, Stella 'dora, with me remain and
forget all."

"No, I will not! I will not!" cried Mrs. Belswin, savagely, rising to
her feet. "Cannot you see how I suffer? If you love me as you say, you
must see how I suffer. Give up my child, my life, my happiness! I
cannot do it."

"Dio! you cannot make the miracles."

"I can! I must! Do you think I will stay with you while my child calls
me?"

"With me you must stay, my Norma. I love thee. I will not leave you no
more."

"You can't stop me."

"Ebbene," said Ferrari, conscious that he held the advantage. "Go,
then, and see how il marito will behold you."

Mrs. Belswin felt her helplessness, and clenched her hands with a
savage cry of despair, that seemed to be torn out of her throbbing
heart. Up and down the gaudy room she paced, with her face convulsed
with rage, and her fierce eyes flashing with an unholy fire, while
Ferrari, secure in his position, sat quietly near the window, smoking
leisurely. His self-possession seemed to provoke her, ready as she was
to vent her impotent anger on anything, and, stopping abruptly she
poured forth all her anger.

"Why do you sit there smiling, and smiling, like a fool?" she
shrieked, stamping her foot. "Can you not suggest something? Can you
not do something?"

"Eh, carissima, I would say, 'Be quiet' The people below will hear you
cry out."

"Let them! What do I care? I am a desperate woman, Ferrari, and I am
determined to keep my position beside my child. I will stop at
nothing--nothing--not even murder!"

"Murder!"

Signor Ferrari let the cigarette drop from his fingers, and jumped up
with a cry of dismay looking pale and unnerved. She saw this, and
lashing him with her tongue, taunted him bitterly.

"Yes, murder, you miserable! I thought you were a brave man; but I see
I made a mistake. You love me! You want to be my husband! No, no, no!
I marry a brave man--yes, a brave man; not a coward!"

Ferrari winced, with an angry glitter in his eyes.

"Eh, Lucrezia. You think I am a brave man if I go to assassin il
marito. Cospetto! I am an Italian; but the Italians are not fools. If
another man loved you, and would take you away, I would kill him--yes!
But il marito--eh, that is not quite the same. I kill him and you
return to the little daughter for always. What gain to me, carissima?
I kill him, and your law gives me the rope. What gain to me? No, Donna
Lucrezia. Do what you love. Stab him with a stiletto, or give the
poison, I say nothing; but as for me to obey--Dio, the life is not
trouble to me yet."

"You are afraid."

He bounded across the room, and seized her roughly by the wrist.

"Devil-woman, I have no fear! You lie to speak so I You lie, figlia
inferna."

"Then why do you refuse to help me?"

"Per Bacco, I am no assassin. Il marito is not an enemy to me. To you
he is hateful. Revenge yourself as it pleases; but I--cospetto. You
ask too much."

He flung her away from him with a gesture of anger, and began to walk
about the room. Mrs. Belswin remained silent, savagely disappointed at
the failure of her plan, and presently Ferrari began to talk again in
his rapid, impulsive fashion.

"If there was any gain. Yes. But I see not anything. I would work
against myself. You know that, Signora Machiavelli. Ah, yes; I am not
blind, cara mia. While il marito lives, you are mine. He will keep you
from the little daughter. But he dies--eh, and you depart."

"No, no! I swear----"

"I refuse your swearing. They are false. Forget, il marito--forget the
little daughter! You are mine, mia moglie, and you depart not again."

Mrs. Belswin laughed scornfully, and put on her gloves again with the
utmost deliberation. Then, taking up her umbrella, she moved quickly
towards the door; but not so quickly as to prevent Ferrari placing
himself before her.

"Where go you?" demanded the Italian, between his clenched teeth.

"To find a braver man than Stephano Ferrari."

"No; you will find no one."

"Won't I? Pshaw! I have found one already."

The Italian sprang on her with a bound like a tiger, seized her hands,
and placed his face so close to her own that she could feel his hot
breath on her cheek.

"You have a lover, traditrice?"

"No."

"You lie! I believe you not!"

Mrs. Belswin laughed, and made an attempt to go away.

"Sit in that chair, infamous!"

"I will not."

"Sit in that chair, I order."

"You order!"

"Yes, I, Stephano Ferrari."

She looked first at the Italian, then at the chair; and his aspect was
so determined that, in order to avoid an unseemly struggle, she sat
down as desired, with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Now, tell me of this lover."

"There is nothing to tell."

"You lie!"

"I do not lie."

With eyes as fierce as his own, she looked straight at him, and it
became a question as to which of them had the stronger will. Her
determination to retain her position at any price, even at the cost of
her husband's life, had roused all her worst passions, and for the
first time since he had known her, the Italian averted his eyes with a
shudder of dread.

"Jettatura," he cried, recoiling from her malignant gaze, and making
horns with his fingers to avert the blighting consequences of her
look. Mrs. Belswin saw her advantage, and immediately began to play on
his superstition.

"I have the evil eye, you think. Yes; it is so. Why have you never
discovered it before? Because I gave you love. To those who cross me
not, I am kind; but an insult---- Ah! you shrink. Well, then, take
care. I never forgive. I never forget."

Ferrari, completely cowed by her manner, threw himself on his knees
before her, and held out his hands with a gesture of entreaty.

"Stella 'dora, leave me not. Behold me at your feet, cruel one. I die
in your anger."

Mrs. Belswin saw that she had gained command over him, but was too
wise to push her conquest too far; so, bending down, she gave him her
hand, which he covered with fierce kisses.

"Rise, Stephano, and I will tell you all. For two weeks I will be in
town, and with you all the days. You can call at my hotel if it
pleases you. If I decide nothing about my husband you can come down
with me to Deswarth, and we will face him together."

"But this lover?"

"I have no lover. I spoke in jest. Your devotion has touched me, and I
will reward it by becoming your wife. For the present," said Mrs.
Belswin, with a charming smile, "I will say 'a reverderci.' If you
send me a box I will come and hear you sing to-night."

Ferrari once more kissed her hand, there was a rustling of skirts, a
closing of the door, and she was gone.

The Italian stood where she had left him, with a scared look on his
face; and after a few minutes looked at the door through which she had
vanished, with a nervous smile.

"Jettatura!" he muttered, shivering. "Jettatura."




CHAPTER XV.
THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER.


     "Oh, I have seen the Southern Cross
      In Southern skies burn clear and bright,
      And I have seen the ocean toss
        Beneath its gleam in waves of white.
      Its beauty brought me no delight,
        For I was on a foreign shore;
      But now joy cometh with the sight
        Of England's chalky cliffs once more."


Quite unaware of the pitfalls prepared for him by his now nearly
forgotten wife, Sir Rupert Pethram had returned once more to England,
and rejoiced greatly, in his dry fashion, to find himself again under
his own roof-tree. Kaituna was delighted to have him home again, and
welcomed him with a filial affection that made a deep impression on
his somewhat hard nature.

He was not a favourite with the world, being so stiff and dry in his
manner that every one felt a feeling of uneasiness towards him;
consequently, he was unused to affection, except from his daughter,
whom he loved fondly in his own undemonstrative fashion. A difficult
man to get on with, at least people said so; and the haughty, distant
smile with which he greeted every one was enough to chill the most
exuberant expressions of friendship. Not even his residence in New
Zealand, where, as a rule, humanity is much more sociable than in
England, had eradicated the inherent exclusiveness of his nature.
True, in his young days he had been more friendly with his
fellow-creatures, but the episode of his wife's divorce had destroyed
his feelings of sociability entirely; and although, being an upright,
honourable gentleman, he was respected throughout the colony, he was
certainly not loved. He was a man who lived entirely alone, and,
except his daughter Kaituna, there was no one on whom he bestowed a
thought.

Yet he was not uncharitable. If he saw suffering he relieved it; if
any one desired help he was not backward in giving his aid; still,
even the recipients of his charity found it difficult to feel warmly
towards him in any way. He did not believe in gratitude, and therefore
never sought for it, but did his good deeds in a stolid matter-of-fact
fashion that robbed them of their charm in the eyes of the onlookers.
It seemed as though his unhappy married life had blighted his
existence, had frozen in his breast all feelings of tenderness towards
humanity, for he was eminently a man who acted from right motives, and
not from any feelings of impulse to relieve suffering or help his
fellow-creatures.

In appearance he was tall, slender, and rather good-looking, with a
thin, wrinkled face, scanty grey hair, and a darkish moustache. Well
dressed in a quiet fashion, undemonstrative and distant in his
manners, he embarrassed all with whom he came in contact; for the
well-bred coldness of his voice, and the supercilious look in his grey
eyes, and the _noli-me-tangere_ of his behaviour made every one around
him feel uncomfortable.

With Kaituna he was always as pleasant and agreeable as he was able to
be, but his daughter felt that any pointed display of affection would
be received with disapproval by her singular parent.

A man so straight-laced, so rigid in the due observance of all social
duties, could not but be annoyed at the absence of his daughter's
chaperon at a time when he was expected home. She was Kaituna's
guardian in his absence, responsible for her in every way, and he was
naturally anxious to see if Mr. Dombrain's choice was a good one.

Shortly after his arrival he broached the subject to Kaituna, while
waiting for his horse to be brought round, as it was his intention to
ride round the estate with Belk.

"Kaituna," he said, in his frigid voice, "when do you expect this lady
to return?"

"In about ten days, papa."

"Do you like her, my child?"

"Oh, papa, I love her."

Sir Rupert raised his eyebrows.

"That is a strong expression, and a mistaken one. My child, never give
your love to any one. They will betray you."

"Isn't that rather severe?"

"Not from my experience," answered Pethram, with emphasis. "But there,
there! do not look so sad, child. You are young yet, and all geese are
swans in your eyes. But about Mrs. Belswin. I am very much annoyed
that she should have gone away at this time. It is not courteous to
me, nor in keeping with her position as your companion."

"But she had to go about some business, papa," said Kaituna, rather
afraid at the frown she saw on her father's face.

"Business! business! Her business is here, child. I expect Mrs.
Belswin to give all her time to you."

"She has done so until now."

"And now is the most important time, as I wish to see if she is a good
companion for you."

"I'm sure you will like her very much, papa."

"Impossible. I like no one very much."

"Not even me?"

She threw her arms round Sir Rupert's neck, and his face relaxed
somewhat under her smile.

"There, there, child!" he said, pushing her gently away, "if I have a
weak spot in my heart it is for you. Now, good-bye at present I'm
going to see how things are looking."

So he went away in the bright, breezy morning, and Kaituna was left
alone in deep thought, wondering how she could tell him of the offer
of marriage made to her by Archie Maxwell. She was a brave enough girl
in most things, but felt decidedly reluctant to speak to her father
about a subject she knew would be disagreeable to him. Archie was
young, handsome, hopeful, and loved her dearly; but these four
excellent qualities would seem nothing in Sir Rupert's eyes as opposed
to poverty. The girl was in despair, knowing her father's iron nature
as she did, and longed for the return of Mrs. Belswin, in order to
have at least one friend to stand by her. It was true that Archie had
declared himself ready to speak to Sir Rupert at once; but Kaituna,
dreading the refusal of her father to countenance the engagement,
persuaded him to wait until her chaperon came back. Meanwhile, she
went off to her own room to read her lover's last letter; for as
Archie, not being duly accredited, could not come to the house, they
were obliged to correspond in a clandestine manner, which was not
without its charm to the romantic nature of Miss Pethram.

While, therefore, Kaituna was attending to her business, Sir Rupert
was attending to _his_. Accompanied by Belk, he rode over the estate,
looking into things, and exercised the young man's dull brains pretty
considerably by his shrewd questions concerning this and that and the
other thing. Sir Rupert Pethram had not been a penniless younger son,
nor graduated in New Zealand for nothing, for he knew as much about
land, and crops, and cattle, and top dressing as any man. Being thus
accomplished, he took occasion to read his bailiff a severe lecture,
which Belk received in sulky silence, on the slip-slop fashion in which
things were conducted.

"When I pay my servants well," said Sir Rupert, severely, "I expect
them to look after my interests thoroughly. There has been a great
deal of neglect here, and I expect you to place things on a much more
satisfactory footing. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir; I'll do my best."

"Your best will be my worst, I'm afraid, judging from what I've seen.
I'll give you a few months longer; but if you don't improve things in
that time, Mr. Belk, I'm afraid you and I will have to part company."

Belk was in a towering rage at thus being spoken to; but, as he wanted
to retain his situation, he held his tongue, nevertheless determining
in his own mind that he would repay Sir Rupert for his reproof as soon
as he was able. Fortune offered him an unexpected chance, of which he
took immediate advantage.

Returning home with Sir Rupert, a dogcart containing two young men
passed them on the road, the occupants of which nodded to Belk, whom
they knew slightly.

"Who are those gentlemen?" asked Sir Rupert, sharply.

"One is Mr. Clendon, the vicar's son, sir."

"And the other?"

Belk saw his chance; for, knowing all the gossip of the place, he was
aware that Kaituna's engagement was unknown to Sir Rupert; so in the
hope that it would be disagreeable, he spoke out straight.

"Mr. Maxwell, sir. The gentleman engaged to Miss Pethram."

"What the devil do you mean?" demanded Sir Rupert, haughtily.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I only answered your question."

Pethram looked keenly at the man, to read his real meaning; but Belk
kept his countenance with the greatest skill, so the baronet was
forced to believe that he had spoken in all good faith.

"You can go, Belk," he said curtly, turning his horse's head; "and
don't forget what I've said."

The bailiff looked after him with a savage look in his face.

"No, I won't forget," he said to himself, scowling. "That affair's
been kept from you, but you know all about it now. If I can find a
chance of hurting you, my fine gentleman, I'll do it, to pay you out
for your cursed pride this day."

Meanwhile Sir Rupert, outwardly calm, was riding home consumed with
rage. What! his daughter engaged to a man of whom he knew nothing--of
whose very name he was ignorant? It was infamous. And she had never
said a word about it. Good heavens! where was Mrs. Belswin, to permit
such a thing? Evidently it was common gossip. All the county knew it;
and his daughter, whom he loved and trusted, had withheld her
confidence.

"She's like her mother," said Sir Rupert, between his clenched teeth;
"deceptive in all things. Never mind, I'll get the truth out of her
before the day is an hour older, and then--Oh, these women! these
women! daughters and wives, they are all the same. They smile, they
kiss, they betray; and we poor fools believe them."

Touching his horse with the spur, he rode at full gallop up the
avenue, in order to relieve his over-burdened feelings; and, when he
was once more in his own study, sent for his daughter without delay.

Kaituna obeyed this unexpected summons with considerable trepidation,
having, with feminine instinct, guessed the reason for which her
father wanted to see her so suddenly. She found him standing in front
of the fireplace, with his hands behind his back, and a stern look on
his face--a look she had never before seen directed at her.

"Will you take a chair," said Pethram, with glacial politeness. "I'm
sorry to trouble you about a disagreeable matter; but, being your
father, I owe it to myself and to you to speak."

She sat down in the chair he indicated with a sinking heart, and
waited in silence to hear his reproaches. Sir Rupert, however, had no
intention of making any; he disliked a scene, and was moreover skilful
in using that irony which cuts like a knife, and which is far more
effective than unreasoning rage.

"So you have deceived me, Kaituna?"

"Father!"

"Am I your father? I hardly think so, when you conceal from me the
most important event of your life."

Kaituna had a considerable spice of the paternal nature in her, so she
took a hint from the baronet, and used his own weapons to defend
herself.

"I don't understand to what you allude, sir."

"Do you not? If, then, you will give me your attention for a few
moments, I will try and enlighten you. I saw a young gentleman in the
distance to-day, and asked Belk who he was. In reply I was informed
that it was a Mr. Maxwell, to whom you are engaged. Will you kindly
inform me if this is the case?"

Kaituna lifted her head defiantly.

"I love Mr. Maxwell, and wish to marry him."

"Indeed. I presume you never considered that it was necessary to
consult me?"

"I intended to do so, father, when--when Mrs. Belswin returned."

"Ah! Mrs. Belswin then knows all about this affair?"

"Yes."

"And is going to ask me to consent to the marriage?"

"Yes."

Sir Rupert walked up and down the room for a few minutes, then,
pausing before his daughter, spoke deliberately.

"I'm afraid you may think me somewhat inquisitive, but I should like
to know something about this Mr. Maxwell. Where did you meet him?"

"At Marsh-on-the-Sea."

"Indeed! And having fallen in love with you there, he followed you up
here."

"Yes! He was going to ask you to consent to our marriage."

"Very considerate of him; but as yet he has not done so. Who is my
future son-in-law?"

"Father," cried Kaituna, the tears coming into her eyes, "do not speak
so cruelly. He is a civil engineer, and I love him very--very dearly.
Mr. Clendon, the vicar, knows him. He is staying there just now."

"Very interesting indeed. Has he any money?"

"I don't know! I think not."

"So you were going to marry in this extremely doubtful fashion. I must
say the whole affair does equal credit to your heart and head."

"Father!"

"Pardon me! one moment. This estate is entailed, and should I die
to-morrow, you do not inherit a penny, as it goes to the next male
heir of the Pethrams. If, then, you do not make a good match, I
confess I do not see how you are to live."

Kaituna said nothing, but remained with downcast eyes, looking at the
ground, while her father went on speaking in a cold tranquil tone.

"Knowing that you would be penniless at my death, I went out to New
Zealand, sold all my property, and invested the money in an Australian
Silver Mining Company. You may be sure I did not do so without first
personally inquiring thoroughly about the prospects of the company.
From what I learned, I am sure that it will turn out well, and in the
event of its doing so, you will be an heiress. Under these
circumstances I can rest assured as to your future, should I die in an
unexpected manner."

"I understand, father, but--but--what are you going to do?"

"I am going to write to Mr. Maxwell, thank him for his very
gentlemanly behaviour, and refuse to sanction the match."

Kaituna flung herself on her knees before him.

"No, no! you will not be so cruel. I love him, papa! Oh, you don't
know how I love him."

"I know well enough, Kaituna. You love him so much that you would go
and live in a cottage, on dry bread and water. This is youthful folly,
and I decline to aid you to ruin your life in such a way. Mr. Maxwell
has behaved very badly----"

"No! No!"

"I say he has," replied Pethram, with emphasis; "no gentleman would
have acted as he has done. I will write him at once, and if he seeks
an interview he shall have it, so that I can tell him to his face my
opinion of his conduct."

"Father!"

"Not another word, Kaituna. Rise from your knees, for all your tears
won't alter my decision. I won't ask you to dismiss this gentleman; I
will do it myself."

His daughter, stung by his cold irony, sprang to her feet with a cry
of anger.

"Papa! Papa! Don't do that. I love him! I want to marry him!" Then,
after a pause, stamping her foot, "I will marry him."

"Will you? I'm afraid not," replied Pethram, coldly; "you are under
age, remember."

"Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do," cried the girl, tearfully,
raising her head.

"Behave like a sensible woman, and give up this madness."

"No, I will not. I will be true to Archie!"

Pethram shook his head with a vexed air.

"My dear child, you are really very foolish. I don't wish to argue any
more on the subject."

"You are going to write to--to Mr. Maxwell?"

"At once."

"And refuse to let him marry me?"

"Exactly."

"Then," said Kaituna, pausing a moment at the door, "I swear by the
name of my mother that I will be true to him."

She was gone in a moment, and Sir Rupert, over whose face had come a
grave, worn look, laughed discordantly.

"By the name of her mother," he said with a sneer. "Ah! she little
knows what her mother was."




CHAPTER XVI.
FOREWARNED IS FOREARMED.


     "'Tis ill work fighting in the dark,
         Though skilled you be in use of lance;
      A random thrust may stretch you sark,
         Though guided but by fickle chance.
      'Tis wisest, then, to fight in light,
         For you can judge your foeman's skill;
      And though in armour he be dight,
         Your lance may find some place to kill."


The interview which had taken place between Mrs. Belswin and her
Italian lover had been productive of a curious change in the demeanour
of the latter. From being master he became slave, from commanding he
changed to obeying; and taking advantage of this astonishing
transformation, Mrs. Belswin ordered her quondam master about like a
dog. She saw that by a single flash of her fierce eyes at a critical
moment she had inculcated the superstitious Italian with the idea that
she was possessed of the evil eye, and had by so doing taken all the
manhood out of him. This son of the south, who was decidedly brave in
the presence of physical danger, was so completely the slave of
superstition that he firmly believed Mrs. Belswin's eyes exercised a
malignant influence upon him, against which he was powerless to
struggle. Notwithstanding this terrible feeling, he was too much in
love with her to think of removing himself from the dread fascination
of her presence, and therefore, he accepted his new position with
superstitious resignation. Once or twice, indeed, he attempted to
exert his former authority; but the ominous gleam in Mrs. Belswin's
eyes, and the significant sneer on her lips, soon reduced him to
obedience, and he cowered at the feet of his sometime slave in abject
terror. It was not physical fear, it was not a want of manliness: it
was simply the effect of a supernatural terror acting upon a nature
singularly prone, both by birth and training, to yield to such weird
superstitions.

Having thus reduced Ferrari to such a state of bondage, Mrs. Belswin
thought that there would be no difficulty in making him put her
husband out of the way in some stealthy manner. Here, however, she was
entirely wrong, as Ferrari, being afraid of the English law,
absolutely refused to lend himself to the committal of a crime even at
the command of his evil genius. In vain, with all the artistic craft
of a woman, she prayed, implored, cursed, ordered. Ferrari would not
be moved from the position which he had taken up, in holding himself
aloof from the power of the law. Afraid of her in every other way, he
did exactly as she asked him, but in this special case his fear of the
visible power of justice was greater than his fear of supernatural
visitation from the glance of the evil eye, and after a fortnight's
battling Mrs. Belswin was obliged to confess herself beaten by the
steady refusal of her slave to obey her in what she desired most of
all things to be done.

By means of Belk she had kept herself thoroughly well acquainted with
all that had taken place at Thornstream during her absence. The
bailiff employed his mother, who was always haunting the great house,
to find out what was going on. So, the information she gave her son,
he, in his turn, retailed by letter to Mrs. Belswin in London. From
this source, therefore, the latter learned all about Sir Rupert's
return, the discovery of the engagement, and the dismissal of Archie
Maxwell by the angry baronet. On hearing all this news, Mrs. Belswin,
with rare resolution, made up her mind to go down to Thornstream and
see her husband face to face. She saw plainly that she could do
nothing criminal against him, and so determined to have an interview
with him, and throw herself on his mercy. If he granted her this all
would be well; if, however, he spurned her--well---- Mrs. Belswin
knitted her brows, clenched her hands, and drew a long breath. She was
a despairing, reckless woman, and would stop at nothing to gain her
ends, so it seemed as though Sir Rupert was in a very dangerous
position. The baronet was no coward, but he would certainly have felt
a thrill of fear had he known this meditated attack by his terribly
savage wife.

One effect of Ferrari's newly-born dread of Mrs. Belswin's
supernatural powers was that he followed her like a dog, and seemed
afraid to let her out of his sight. Formerly, having a full belief in
his power to draw her back to himself, he had not minded her being
away for certain periods; but now that he deemed his dominating power
was gone, he was afraid lest she should leave him altogether, and kept
a close watch upon all her actions. He was with her all day, and at
night, when forced to attend to his business, insisted that she should
come to the theatre and stay in a private box, where he could see
her during the performance. Mrs. Belswin did not wish to abuse her
newly-gained power over him, so acquiesced in his somewhat
unreasonable demands; but when she made her preparations to return to
Thornstream, he insisted upon accompanying her there.

"But what about your business?" objected Mrs. Belswin.

"That will be right, cara mia," he replied rapidly. "See you--we will
go down on Sunday--I do not sing that night; and I will return on
Monday--with you."

"I will not return on Monday."

"Signora, you will, I think so. On Sunday night you will behold il
marito. He will order you away; and what is left but to come back with
your faithful Stephano?"

"What you say is very true," said Mrs. Belswin, coolly, "but things
may turn out so that I can stay."

"Eh! have you the plan, Donna Lucrezia?"

"No; I leave everything to chance."

"Dio! what faith!" muttered Ferrari, lifting his hands; and the
conversation ended with Mrs. Belswin agreeing that Ferrari should
accompany her to Thornstream on Sunday afternoon.

With that profound belief in the unseen which is a strong
characteristic of half-civilised natures, Mrs. Belswin, seeing that
she could do nothing herself, left everything to chance, and expected
this blind faith to be rewarded by some miraculous intervention which
should change her husband's heart towards her. She had no grounds for
such belief, but, hoping against hope, kept repeating to herself that
all would yet be well, and that things would end happily.

Nevertheless, in spite of her striving to look upon the bright side of
things, she received something of a shock when, on arriving at the
Deswarth railway station, she saw Archie Maxwell advancing towards her
with a most lugubrious expression of countenance. Wishing to speak
with him, she sent Ferrari off to look after her portmanteau and drew
the disconsolate lover into the bare waiting-room, where they could
converse freely.

"Well?" asked Mrs. Belswin, sharply, looking at the downcast face of
the young man; "is all this true?"

"About Sir Rupert?"

"Yes, of course! What else would I speak of?"

"It's all true! quite true--worse luck!"

"He has refused to sanction the engagement?"

"Yes. I received a letter from him, in which he accuses me of acting
shamefully in winning his daughter's heart. Oh!" cried, Archie,
clenching his hands, "if he was not her father! You never saw such a
letter--a cruel, wicked letter! If he was not her father I would make
him apologise for its insolence."

"Oh," said Mrs. Belswin, cruelly. "So, being her father, you are going
to sit quietly down under this insult."

"What can I do?"

"Do! Oh, if I only were a man! Do! Why, marry Kaituna in spite of him.
Why don't you see Kaituna and urge her to marry you at once?"

"I have done so, and she refuses to disobey her father."

"Good heavens!" thought Mrs. Belswin savagely, "the girl is no
daughter of mine to allow herself thus to be robbed of the man she
professes to love."

She kept this sentiment to herself, however, and only said abruptly--

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm going up to town on business."

"Indeed! So you capitulate without a struggle?"

"No, I don't," replied Maxwell, flushing at the cold contempt
expressed in her tone. "I am going to see my employers about this
Buenos Ayres business which I put off till the end of the year. If I
can manage it I'll start for South America next month."

"Alone?"

"Not if I can help it. On my return I'll try and persuade Kaituna to
accompany me."

"And disobey her father?"

"There's no help for it," replied Archie, with a groan. "We love one
another very dearly, and I don't see why our lives should be spoilt at
the caprice of a selfish old man."

"What does your friend Mr. Clendon say?"

"He is entirely on my side."

"And Mrs. Valpy?"


"The same. They think Sir Rupert is an old brute,"

"So he is," muttered Mrs. Belswin, angrily.

"Well, Mr. Maxwell," she said aloud, "I also am on your side. It's a
shame that your lives should be spoilt for a caprice. But remember one
thing, Sir Rupert will cut his daughter off with a shilling."

"Let him. Kaituna and I can face poverty together."

"Poor innocents," said Mrs. Belswin, with a jeering laugh, "you don't
know what poverty is."

"You needn't speak so unkindly," replied Archie, rather hurt at her
tone, "I thought you wished me to marry Kaituna."

"So I do, but I don't want you to starve."

"We shall not starve. I can always make a good income."

"My dear sir," said Mrs. Belswin, candidly, "your income may be enough
for one but it certainly is not enough for two, particularly when the
other is a girl brought up as Kaituna has been. If you marry Kaituna
without her father's consent, you drag her down to poverty."

"Oh!"

"Yes, you do. It's no good glossing over those matters. Better look at
the hard simple facts, Mr. Maxwell, and you will find it best in the
long run. You love Kaituna, she loves you, and you look forward to
love in a cottage and all that kind of thing, which does not exist out
of novels. The reality, however, is not so pleasant."

"Then what am I to do? Give up Kaituna?"

"Certainly not. Kahuna's happiness is as dear to me as it is to you.
If you left her she would pine away, and I'm sure you would not be
happy."

"Mrs. Belswin," cried the young man in desperation, "I don't know what
you mean. You blow hot and cold; you are both for and against. You say
marry Kaituna, and then you add it is a selfish thing to drag her to
poverty. I don't understand your meaning."

"Oh, the density of lovers," said Mrs. Belswin, with an angry flash of
her fierce eyes. "You are like all men, my dear Mr. Maxwell, and never
see an inch beyond your nose. Does it never strike you that I am also
fond of Kaituna, and would do anything to insure her happiness."

"You?"

"Yes, even I. Oh, don't look so disbelieving, my friend. I may have
more power than you think with Sir Rupert."

"But you don't know Sir Rupert."

"Don't I?" replied Mrs. Belswin, grimly. "That's all you know. Well,
here is your train, Mr. Maxwell, so I'll say good-bye."

"But what are you going to do?" said Archie as they went out on to the
platform.

"I don't know--yet."

"Will you get Sir Rupert to consent to our marriage?"

"Perhaps."

Maxwell jumped into a first-class carriage with a sigh of despair, and
put his head out of the window for a moment as the train started.

"Mrs. Belswin!"

"Yes?"

"I don't know your meaning, but you seem to have some power, so I'll
leave the future happiness of Kaituna and myself in your hands."

"You will trust me?"

"Entirely."

"Very well; you will see your trust has not been misplaced."

Mrs. Belswin, however, was promising more than she could perform, and
stood frowning deeply as the train went off. From this reverie she was
aroused by a touch on her shoulder, and on turning saw Ferrari.

"Is that the man?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is it the one who is ready to do for you what I refuse."

She looked at him mockingly, and, woman-like, determined to torture
him.

"My good Stephano, if you knew that, you would be as wise as myself!"




CHAPTER XVII.
BEFORE THE STORM.


     Before the storm the woods are still,
     All Nature drowses as in sleep;
     Yet, tho' her slumbers she may keep,
     She feels a strange prophetic thrill,
          Before the storm.

     From heavy clouds on mount and hill,
     The thunders mutter--lightnings leap,
     And soon the heav'ns commence to weep,
     Such strained silence augurs ill,
          Before the storm.


Living at Thornstream was hardly very pleasant after the interview
between Sir Rupert and his daughter. Everything went on just the same,
but this very calmness was a foreboding sign of a coming tempest. The
baronet was deeply angered at what he considered Kaituna's feminine
duplicity, but hiding all such feelings under a mask of ultra
politeness, he treated her with a cold courtesy which was far more
irritating to the proud spirit of the girl than any outburst of wrath
would have been.

Inheriting, however, no inconsiderable portion of the paternal pride,
she, on her part, treated her father with distant politeness; so these
two proud spirits found themselves entirely separated, the one from
the other, by the insurmountable barrier of disdainful silence, which
they had each contributed to build. They lived under the same roof,
they took their meals at the same table, they interchanged the usual
remarks concerning daily events, and, to all outward appearances, were
the same to one another as they had ever been; but it was far from
being the case, for the confidence of the father in the daughter, of
the daughter in the father, had entirely disappeared, and they
regarded one another with mutual distrust.

It was certainly a very unhappy state of things, and was entirely due
to the peculiar views held by Sir Rupert, regarding his bearing
towards his womankind. Had he interviewed Maxwell personally, and
judged for himself as to his fitness to become the husband of
his daughter--had he spoken of the matter to Kaituna in a kindly
manner--had he made some allowance for the mutual love of these young
people, who had set aside conventional observations, things might have
been better. But, by ordering his daughter to give up her lover, as he
had formerly ordered his high-spirited wife to give up her friend, he
committed a fatal mistake, and as he had reaped the consequences of
such high-handed proceedings before by losing his wife, it seemed as
though history would repeat itself, and he would lose his daughter.
Had he shown Kaituna the folly of a hasty love match, had he entreated
her for her own sake to be cautious, had he requested her to consider
her determination--but to order, ah, that was the mistake he made.

Curiously enough, he never saw this. In all things he demanded an
absolute and unquestioning obedience from his household, so it never
for a moment struck him that the girl would dare to defy his
authority. Yet it was so; for in place of making her obedient, Sir
Rupert's blundering conduct had made her crafty, and she made up her
mind that she would never give up her lover.

Tommy Valpy stood her friend, and Kaituna met Archie at her house,
where they parted with many promises of remaining true to one another.
Then Kaituna returned to Thornstream, and resumed her mask of
politeness; while Sir Rupert, thinking she had obeyed him, and given
up her undesirable lover, was to a certain extent content, although
still suspicious of her apparent acquiescence in his wish.

Things were in this state when Mrs. Belswin arrived. On leaving the
railway station, after her interview with Maxwell, she had met Belk,
but did not stop to speak to him, being afraid of Ferrari's jealousy.
In this she was quite right, for Belk, seeing her driving past with a
stranger, scowled savagely as he took off his hat; while Ferrari,
noting the good looks of the young man, and seeing the scowl directed
to himself, guessed directly that this was the rival mentioned by Mrs.
Belswin.

"Mia cara," he said, artfully, as they drove on to Deswarth, "that
handsome gentleman who made the bow--is it your friend?"

"Friend," echoed Mrs. Belswin, carelessly--"oh, I've so many friends."

"Is it--" began Stephano, when Mrs. Belswin turned furiously upon him.

"Don't worry me, Stephano; don't you see I'm busy. Is that the man I
mentioned to you?--yes, it is. You see he is stronger than you, so
don't fight him unless you like. I don't care a morsel for either of
you. All I want is to stay by my child; and as you can't help me, you
coward, don't worry me with silly questions."

Ferrari said no more, but made up his mind to seek an interview with
the good-looking stranger, and find out whether Mrs. Belswin regarded
him with favour.

On arriving at Deswarth, which was a short distance from Thornstream,
Mrs. Belswin put the Italian down at "The Chequers Inn," told him to
wait there in concealment until she saw him again, and then drove to
the Hall.

Being determined not to see Sir Rupert until after dinner, in order to
discover in the meantime how the land lay, she went up to her own room
and sent for Kaituna, who was delighted to see her.

"Now you are here," said the girl kissing her friend, "you may perhaps
induce papa to let me marry Archie. You know----"

"I know all about it, my dear," replied Mrs. Belswin, with a maternal
air; "Mr. Maxwell met me at the railway station, and put me in full
possession of all the facts."

"And do you think papa will let me marry him?" asked Kaituna, timidly.

"I really cannot tell, dear, until I see your papa."

"At dinner?"

"No-o," responded Mrs. Belswin, doubtfully; "I'm tired after my
journey, so I'll have my dinner here. Afterwards I will ask for
an interview with Sir Rupert, so you and your papa can dine
_tête-à-tête_."

"No, I'm sure we can't," said Kaituna, in rather a tone of relief;
"Mr. Dombrain is here."

Mrs. Belswin faced round rapidly.

"Dombrain!" she echoed aghast. "Your father's solicitor."

"Yes."

"Now what does he want here, I wonder?" muttered Mrs. Belswin, more to
herself than to her auditor.

"He came down to make papa's will, I think," said Kaituna.

"His will!" echoed Mrs. Belswin, struck with a sudden thought.
"Kaituna, if your father dies, will he leave you well off?"

"Oh, I don't want papa to die."

"No, no! of course not," said her companion impatiently; "but one
never knows what might happen. But suppose he did die, you would be an
heiress no doubt."

Kaituna shook her head.

"I don't think so," she replied, slowly. "You see, Thornstream is
entailed on the male side, and none of it comes to me."

"But your father was well enough off in New Zealand."

"Why, how do you know that?"

"I don't know, dear," answered Mrs. Belswin hurriedly, seeing she had
made a slip; "I only presume so."

"He used to be well off, but he lost a lot of money lately, and this
time when he went out he sold all his property."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Belswin, drawing a long breath of relief, "then he
will have a large sum of money in hand."

"No, indeed! He has put it all into silver mining shares in
Melbourne."

"The fool!" muttered Mrs. Belswin, below her breath, "to risk his all
in such security."

"So you see, dear Mrs. Belswin," said Kaituna, pursuing her own train
of thought, "that if Archie wants to marry me for my money, I shall
not have any."

Mrs. Belswin caught the girl in her arms and kissed her with rare
tenderness.

"My dear," she said kindly, smoothing the dark hair, "Archie loves you
for yourself, not for your money. Now go downstairs, dear, and excuse
me to your father."

"And you will see him to-night about Archie?"

Mrs. Belswin gasped in a somewhat hysterical manner, and caught at the
mantelpiece for support, as she repeated the words.

"I will see him to-night--about--about--Archie."

Kaituna was satisfied and departed, but when the door was closed after
her, Mrs. Belswin rushed madly across the room, and, flinging herself
on her knees before the door, burst out into a terrible fit of crying.

"Oh, my dear! my dear!" she wailed, in a low moaning manner, "what can
I do? what can I do? If your father dies you will be left penniless;
if he lives I shall have to leave you forever--for ever, my dear--and
go away into the outer darkness. Oh, God! God! is there nothing I can
do?"

She looked up at the painted ceiling, as if expecting an answer, but
none came; so, rising wearily to her feet, she locked the door, and
dragged herself slowly towards the mirror.

"What an old, old woman I look," she muttered, peering into the glass.
"Grey hairs in the black; wrinkles in the smooth face. I wonder if he
will recognise me. Surely not! Twenty years make a great difference. I
will see him now in another two hours. He never dreams I am under the
same roof, unless Dombrain----"

She started, drew herself up to her full height, and clenched her
hands.

"Dombrain!" she said again. "Can he have revealed anything to Rupert?
I know he hates me, and would do me an injury if he dared. But he
cannot. No! I hold his secret; while I do that mine is safe with him.
Oh! how ill I feel, but I must not faint, I must not quail. I must be
brave--brave for my child's sake."

She bathed her face in cold water, took a small liqueur glass of
brandy, which she produced from the dressing-bag, and then went to lie
down for a time before facing her husband.

"To-night," she murmured, as her head sank on the pillows. "To-night,
Rupert Pethram, we measure swords. Let us see who will win. You or I!"




CHAPTER XVIII.
FACE TO FACE.


     "Oh, I was the husband and you were the wife;
        We met, and we married, and parted.
      Our meeting was happy, our marriage was strife:
        Our parting left each broken-hearted.
      Our hearts are now cured of their anguish and shame;
        We've learned each our lesson of sorrow;
      'Tis folly to need the same lesson again,
        And so I will bid you 'good-morrow.'"


Sir Rupert's study, which was one of the most comfortable apartments
in the house, was placed in the east angle of the building, so that
two of the walls were formed by the outside of the house. It was
lighted by four French windows, two of which were generally open in
fine weather, looking out on to the terrace.

It was furnished in a heavy, stately fashion, with cumbersome oaken
furniture, upholstered in green morocco, and the walls, hung with
velvety dark-green paper, were surrounded with low oaken bookcases,
the height of a man, filled with well-selected volumes. On top of
these cases were placed choice specimens of ceramic art, consisting of
red Egyptian water-jars, delicate figures in Dresden china, and huge
bowls of porcelain, bizarre with red and blue dragons. Interspersed
with these, quaint effigies of squat Hindoo idols, grotesque bronze
gods from Japan, and hideous fetishes from Central Africa.

Dainty water-colour pictures in slender gilt frames lightened the
sombre tints of the walls, and between these were highly polished
steel battle-axes, old-fashioned guns, delicate but deadly pistols of
modern workmanship, and dangerous-looking swords, all arranged in
symmetrical patterns. The floor of polished oak was covered with
buffalo skins from American prairies, opossum rugs from Australian
plains, striped tiger-skins from Indian jungles, and white bear-skins
from the cold north; while in the centre of the room stood the desk,
piled with books and loose papers. The whole room had a workmanlike
appearance and an air of literary comfort eminently attractive to a
bookish man.

On this night the two French windows were wide open, and into the room
floated the rich perfumes of the flowers, broken by the pungent smell
of a cigar which Sir Rupert was smoking as he sat writing at his desk.
At his feet on either side were heavy books, carelessly thrown down
after use, and scattered sheets of paper, while amid the confused mass
on the desk itself was the red blotting-pad and the white note-paper
on which he was writing. There was a lamp on his left, from beneath
the green shade of which welled a flood of heavy yellow light--so
heavy that it seemed to rest sluggishly on the floor and be unable to
rise to the ceiling, where the shade made a dark circle.

Within--the yellow lighted room, the silent man writing rapidly, the
steady ticking of the clock, and the acrid tobacco scent. Without--the
close night, moonless and starless, the air drowsy with heat, the
faint flower-odours, and the sombre masses of the trees sleeping dully
under the soporific influence of the atmosphere.

There was something weird in the uncanny stillness of the night, a
kind of premonition of coming woe, which would have certainly affected
the nerves of a highly-strung man; but Sir Rupert did not believe in
nerves, and wrote on carelessly without giving a thought to the
strange prophetic feeling in the air.

If he had only known he would have fallen on his knees and prayed for
the protection of his guardian angel until the red dawn broke through
the dread shadows of the fatal night.

The rapid scratching of the pen, the sharp peremptory tick of the
clock, and suddenly a distinct knock at the door. Sir Rupert raised
his head with an expectant look on his face.

"Come in!"

A woman entered, tall and stately, arrayed in sombre garments; she
entered slowly, with a faltering step, and paused in the shadow before
the desk. Sir Rupert, his eyes dazzled by the glare of the lamp, could
see her face but indistinctly in the semi-twilight, and only heard her
short hurried breathing, which betokened great agitation.

"Mrs. Belswin, is it not?"

The woman placed one hand on her throat, as if striving to keep down
an attack of hysteria, and answered in a low, choked voice--

"Yes!"

"I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you said, madam."

"I--I am Mrs. Belswin."

Sir Rupert started, and passed his hand across his face with a
confused sense of memory, but, dismissing the sudden flash of thought,
he arose to his feet, and pointed politely to a chair.

"Will you not be seated, Mrs. Belswin?"

She was foolish to betray her identity, but whether it was that her
resolution failed her, or that her nerve gave way, or that she
determined to forestall discovery, with an appealing cry she fell on
her knees.

"Rupert!"

"God!"

He tore the shade off the lamp. The heavy, concentrated, yellow light
spread through the room in clear waves of brilliance, and there on the
floor, with wild, white face, with outstretched, appealing hands, with
the agony of despair in her eyes, he saw his divorced wife.

"Rupert!"

Step by step he retreated before the kneeling figure, with startled
eyes and dry lips, until he leant against the wall, and thrust out
cruel hands to keep off this spectre of the past.

"You!"

"Yes. I--your wife!"

"My wife!"

He burst out into a discordant laugh, on which, like a wounded snake,
she dragged herself painfully along the floor until she reached his
feet.

"Keep off," he whispered, in a hoarse voice; "keep off, you shameless
creature!"

"But hear me."

"Hear you!--hear you!" said Sir Rupert, in a tone of concentrated
scorn. "I heard you twenty years ago. The law heard you; the world
heard you. What can you say to me now that I did not hear then?"

"Pity me. Oh, Rupert, pity me!"

"Pity you! You that had no pity on me! You that ruined my life--that
blasted my name--that made my home desolate! Pity you! I am not an
angel! I am a man."

The woman twisted her hands together, and burst out crying into floods
of hot bitter tears that burned and seared her cheeks--those cheeks
that burned with shame at the righteous scorn of the man who had
trusted her and whom she had wronged.

"What are you doing here?" said Pethram, harshly. "Rise and answer me.
Don't lie grovelling there with your crocodile tears."

"Have you no mercy?"

"None for such as you."

At these cruel words she arose to her feet with an effort and leaned
heavily against the wall, while her husband took his seat in stern
anger, as if she were a criminal brought before him for sentence.

"You are Mrs. Belswin?"

"Yes."

"My daughter's companion?"

"She is mine as well as yours."

"Silence!" he said, sternly. "Do not dare to claim the child which you
left so cruelly twenty years ago. Have you no shame?"

"Shame!" she replied bitterly. "Yes, I have shame. I know what shame
is--twenty years of bitter, cruel shame. God of mercy, twenty years!"

"Twenty thousand years would not be too much for your sin."

"Are you so pure yourself that you can judge me so harshly?"

"I am not here to argue such a question," he said, coldly, with a
cruel look in his eyes. "I want to know what you are doing here."

"I came as a companion to my daughter."

"And you told her----"

"I told her nothing," said Mrs. Belswin, vehemently. "So help
me, Heaven! she knows nothing. I am her companion, her paid
companion--nothing more."

"I am glad you have had the sense to spare my daughter the story of
your shame. How did you obtain the situation?"

"It was advertised, and I got it through Dombrain."

"Did he know who you were?"

"How could he? Do you think all the world knows the story of my
folly?"

"Your folly!" he repeated, with deep scorn; "your sin you mean.
Dombrain was a long time in New Zealand; he must have heard of the
case."

"If he did he never saw me. He did not recognise me."

Sir Rupert looked at her doubtfully, as if he would drag the truth
from her unwilling lips. She stood before him white, silent, defiant,
and he arose slowly to his feet.

"Twenty years ago," he said, coldly, "the law gave me my freedom from
you, and I thought never to see you again. Like a thief you have
entered my house during my absence. You have dared to contaminate with
your presence my child--yes, my child, not yours. She ceased to be
yours when you forsook her. How you obtained this entrance I will make
it my business to find out; but now that I know that Mrs. Belswin is
my divorced wife, I order her to leave my house at once. Go!"

She uttered a piteous cry, and stretched out her hands towards him in
an agony of despair.

"No, no! you cannot be so cruel."

"I am not cruel. By your own act you forfeited your right to remain
under my roof."

"But my child."

"Your child! Ah, you remember her now, after deserting her for twenty
years! Do you think I will permit you to contaminate her young life by
your presence? Do you think that I can see you day after day and not
remember what you were, and see what you are?"

His wife cowered before his vehemence, and, covering her face with her
hands, shrank against the wall.

"Rupert!" she said, in a low pleading voice, "do not be so harsh with
me. If I have sinned I have suffered for my sin. For twenty years I
have longed for a sight of my child, but until now I dared not see
her. Chance sent you away and gave me an opportunity of living with
her as a companion. She does not know who I am. She will never know
who I am, and as her paid companion she loves me! Let me stay beside
her and have some happiness in my wretched life."

"No; I will not! I wonder you dare ask me."

"I dare anything for my child."

"It is too late to talk like that--twenty years too late."

"You will let me stay. Oh, Rupert, let me stay."

"No!"

"For God's sake."

"No! No!"

"Reflect! Some day you may need mercy. How can you expect it if you
deny it to me?"

"You have heard my determination. Go!"

"Now?"

"At this moment."

"You would turn me out of your house like a dog?"

"I would, and I do! It is all that you deserve at my hands."

"Is there no mercy?"

"None--from me. Go!"

"I will not go," cried Mrs. Belswin, in despair. "I will not go, I
tell you."

Sir Rupert advanced towards the bell rope.

"Then I will order my servants to turn you out."

"But, Rupert, think. Kaituna will learn who I am."

"Better that than she should be contaminated by your presence."

The woman clasped her hands together, and then in a frenzy of rage
dashed across the room to pull him away from the bell-rope.

"You shall not! you shall not!" she shrieked, her fierce eyes flashing
with mad anger. "I will stay! I am a reckless woman! I love my child!
I will not go!"

"I have the power to make you go, and I will," said Pethram, coldly.

"Are you a man or a devil?"

"I am what you have made me."

"What I made you!" she hissed, in a voice shaking with bitter scorn.
"No! it is you who have made me what I am. I loved you when I married
you. As there is a God above, I loved you; but with your cold, cruel
words, with your sarcastic sneers, with your neglect you killed that
love. I had no friend. I was only a girl, and you crushed my heart. I
was dying for the love and tenderness which you refused to give me."

"I was a good husband."

"As the world says, 'A good husband.' You gave me a good home. You
surrounded me with every comfort. To all outward appearance, I had
nothing left to desire. Ah, how little you, with your cold, cruel
nature, know what a woman wants. I desired love! I desired tenderness,
but I did not get it. Oates was kind to me. He cheered my loneliness,
and in a moment of madness I went with him. I regretted it the moment
afterwards. I have regretted it ever since. God knows how miserable my
life has been. Now I have a chance of happiness, I will take advantage
of it. I will stay with my child; you can do what you like, you can
say what you like--I stay."

Without changing a muscle of his face, Sir Rupert heard his miserable
wife to the end, then advanced once more to the bell.

"You have said all; now go, or I will have you turned out."

Mrs. Belswin laughed scornfully.

"Do what you like," she said, indifferently. "You have said what you
will do; I have said what I will do."

For the first time Sir Rupert hesitated, and let his hand fall without
ringing the bell.

"You fiend!" he said, in a cold fury. "Having made my life miserable
before, you now come to do so again. But I knew I was never safe from
your malice. Dombrain, to whom I told all your vile conduct, said you
would come again."

"He said that? Dombrain said that?"

"Yes."

"And he is a fit judge of my conduct!" she burst out in passionate
anger. "Do you know who he is? Do you know what he was? A convict--an
embezzler--a man who has served his term in prison."

"My solicitor--Mr. Dombrain?" he said, incredulously.

"Mr. Dombrain!" she scoffed, sneeringly. "Mr. Damberton is his real
name, and it was by knowing what he was and what he is, that I forced
him to receive me as your daughter's companion. I would have spared
him had he spared me, but now--well, you know the worst of him."

"Yes, and I know the worst of you," he said, fiercely. "Oh, you played
your cards well. But I will turn you out of my house, and to-morrow I
will expose Dombrain or Damberton's real position to all the world."

"You can do what you like about him, but I stay here."

"You go, and at once."

"I will not," she said, desperately.

"Then I will shame you in the eyes of your own child," he replied,
resolutely, seizing the bell rope.

"No, no! not that!"

"I say I will. Either you go at once, or I call in Kaituna and tell
her who and what you are."

Mrs. Belswin writhed in anguish.

"Oh, I could not bear that! My own child! Pity, pity!"

"Will you go?"

"Pity! pity!"

"Will you go?"

"Yes, yes! My own child! I will go. Yes, don't ring the bell; I will
go now. But do not tell her--oh, Rupert, do not tell her!"

"I will tell nothing if you leave this house at once."

She dragged herself slowly towards the window, conscious that she was
beaten. Firm on every point, reckless to the verge of despair, the
thought that her own child should know her shame was too much even for
her.

"Oh, God! is there no mercy?"

"None! Go!"

On the threshold of the window she stood, with her tall form drawn up
to its full height, and her fierce eyes flashing with rage.

"You part the mother and the child. You drive me out of your house
like a dog. But remember with whom you have to deal. To-night it is
your turn; to-morrow it will be mine."

He looked at her with a scornful smile, and in a moment she was
swallowed up by the darkness of the night, from whence she had emerged
like a spectre of the past.




CHAPTER XIX.
THE OUTER DARKNESS.


     "I stand outside in the bitter night,
         And beat at the fast-closed door;
      'Oh, let me in to the kindly light,
         Give back to me days of yore.'
      But an angel says, with a frowning brow,
         'The past can no power restore,
      You must dwell in the outer darkness now
         For ever and ever more.'"


Through the warm summer night, her heart filled with rage,
humiliation, and despair, fled the unhappy woman, whither she knew
not. All she wanted was to escape from Thornstream, lest her husband,
seeing her by chance, should break his word and tell Kaituna what she
was. If he did so--oh, the horror of it for her daughter to know that
the mother whose memory she reverenced was alive, and an unhappy,
fallen creature! A thousand fiends seemed to shriek in her ears as she
ran onward, and it was only when she came against the trunk of a tree
and fell half-stunned on the cool grass that she stopped in her mad
career.

How cool was the delicate touch of the grass, how sweet the perfume of
the flowers. She buried her hot face among the primroses, and pressed
her aching breast against the chill bosom of the earth to still the
agonised throbbing of her heart.

Under the great tree she lay in an exhausted condition, thinking of
her failure to conciliate Pethram, of the past with all its follies,
of the present with its pain, and the future which looked so hopeless
and dreary.

It was all over. She had staked everything on the casting of a die,
and lost. Her husband had driven her away from the house, from her
child, and there was nothing left for her to do but to return to
London with Ferrari and marry him at once. Never again would she live
with her child. She might see her--yes; but without being seen--for
she knew that if she spoke again to Kaituna everything would be
revealed by Rupert Pethram. To destroy that beautiful memory of,
motherhood, which was the chief treasure of Kaituna's life--to show
herself in her true colours as a fallen and wretched woman--no, she
could not do that; better exile, better wretchedness, better death
than the terrible truth.

With a groan she sat up among the soft grass, her hands lying idly on
her lap, her wild face raised to the lonely sky. Yes, lonely, for
above there was nothing but clouds, black heavy clouds, as gloomy as
her own future. Oh, God! was there no hope? Was there----

Stay! the clouds part, rolling heavily to the westward, revealing a
glimpse of dark blue sky, and set therein like a diamond, the glimmer
of a star. Hope! yes, it was a sign of hope! a sign of promise! a sign
of comfort?

She thought she would go back to Ferrari and see if he could suggest
any plan by which she could turn the tables on her husband; so
brushing the dead leaves off her dress, she threw the lace kerchief
she wore round her neck over her head, after the fashion of a
mantilla, and walked rapidly down the avenue towards Deswarth.

The rapid motion of walking seemed to restore her nerve and with such
restoration she regained again the fierceness of her savage spirit.
The moment of softness was past, the good angel who had comforted her
with the star of hope fled away in terror, and over her head the angel
of evil, who had been her constant companion for so many years, now
spread his sable wings.

He had ordered her away. He had parted her from her child. This
man--her husband that used to be, who had ruined her life by his cruel
words and studied neglect. The blame of her sin rested on his
shoulders, and she had suffered in the eyes of the world. Now once
more he triumphed, and while he was resting, honoured and respected in
his own house, she was flying through the night like a guilty
creature.

"Oh!" muttered Mrs. Belswin between her clenched teeth, "if I was a
man I'd kill him. But I can do nothing! I can do nothing. Yet I don't
know. If I can persuade that cowardly Ferrari, or Belk. Belk would do
anything for me. What is to be done must be done to-night--to-morrow
it will be too late. Which way am I to turn?"

She paused a moment; pressed her hands on her beating heart, then
suddenly made up her mind.

"I will see Ferrari--first."

The Chequers Inn was just on the outskirts of Deswarth, and a
comparatively short distance from Thornstream, so it did not take Mrs.
Belswin long, at the rapid pace at which she was walking, to arrive
there.

It stood a short distance back from the road, and the night being hot,
all the doors and windows were open, letting the yellow light within
stream out on to the dark village street. On the benches outside a
number of yokels were drinking and talking loudly together about some
fortnight-old event which had just reached their out-of-the-way
parish. Mrs. Belswin, not wishing to be recognised, flitted rapidly
past them, and was standing in the passage hesitating whether to make
herself known to the landlord or not, when luckily at that moment
Ferrari came out of a side door with the intention of going into the
taproom. Like a ghost the woman glided forward and laid her hand on
his arm.

"Stephano!"

"You, cara mia."

The passage was so dark that he was able to recognise her by her voice
alone, and the noise from the taproom was so loud that only a quick
ear like his could have distinguished her low tones.

"Come into some room. I wish to speak to you."

"Here, then!" he said, drawing her into the room from whence he had
emerged, "what is wrong? Il marito! eh! Dio! By your face there is
trouble."

With a sigh of relief Mrs. Belswin flung herself wearily into a
chair, while Ferrari carefully closed the door and took up his
position on the hearthrug. Even in that moment of anxiety Mrs.
Belswin, with that noting of trivial things common to a preoccupied
mind, noticed the tawdry furnishing of the apartment--the gaudy
wall-paper, on which hung brilliantly coloured portraits of the Queen,
the Prince of Wales, and General Gordon; the vivid red of the
tablecloth, the dingy blue of the chairs, and the tarnished mirror
over the fireplace swathed in fly spotted yellow gauze. Ferrari had
evidently been smoking, for there yet lingered about the room the
odour of a cigar, and the atmosphere was slightly hazy with smoke,
while the smoky flame of a badly trimmed kerosene lamp faintly
illumined the whole place.

On a chair near the wall sat Mrs. Belswin, faint and weary, but with
an angry light in her wonderful eyes; and standing on the hearthrug
the Italian, his hands behind his back, and his body slightly bent
forward, eager, anxious, and expectant.

"II marito?" he repeated, inquiringly.

The woman made a gesture of assent, upon which Ferrari rubbed his
hands together with an air of satisfaction.

"Bene!" he said, smiling and showing his white teeth; "it is as I said
it would be. Il marito has said 'Depart,' and you, my Lucrezia, have
come back to the faithful one. Ah, che gioja! We will now leave this
fog land and go to my beautiful Italy--dolce Napoli. The waiting is
over, cara mia. You are to me at last, ah felicita!"

"You go too fast, my friend," replied Mrs. Belswin, with a cold look
of disapproval on her expressive face. "Do you think I will marry a
coward?"

"I am no coward! If a man to me dared to speak the word I would show
him I am Italian. It is your eyes--your evil eyes--that make me
afraid. But you will not be cruel to me again, bellissima," he added,
in a caressing tone. "You have come to say, 'I love thee.'"

"Listen, Stephano," said Mrs. Belswin, rising to her feet and crossing
to the Italian. "I wish to tell you what he said. No! do not touch me!
Wait! I saw my husband. He spoke cruelly to me; he made me leave his
house--yes, turned me out like a dog!"

"Cospetto!"

"Ah, that stirs your blood! I see your eyes flash! Can you see me--the
woman you love--treated in this manner? No! I am sure you love me too
much. You are Italian! You have a strong arm and a warm heart! Is it
not so?"

"But what wish you, Signora?"

"Kill him!"

She had caught the Italian by the coat with her two hands, and her
face was so close to his own that he felt her hot breath on his pale
cheek. With a gesture of alarm he shrank away, and was about to speak,
but she prevented him.

"You are afraid of the law," she went on hurriedly. "Do not be afraid.
Listen! He--that man I hate--the man who has treated me like a dog--is
in a room with open windows that lead on a terrace. Go there without
noise--wait in the shadow. Within all is light--without all is
darkness. Draw him to the window by some trick. When his figure is in
the light, shoot him with this!"

Ferrari gave a gasp, for she had thrust a small revolver into his
hand, upon which his fingers unconsciously closed.

"I cannot do it myself," went on the temptress; "I dare not. They
would find out who I was, and what I did. I bought this pistol to kill
him to-night, but my heart failed me. No one will think it is you. Go!
Go, if you love me, and kill him, I will be your wife--I will do what
you wish--I will go where you like--only kill him! Kill him!"

It was no civilised woman who was thus planning a murder in such a
cold-blooded manner. It was a savage, with all the blood-thirsty
instincts of a barbaric race. All the European side of this woman's
nature had vanished, and the primeval lust for blood dominated her
entirely. Ferrari felt this horrible truth as her face, distorted with
passion, pressed close to his own, and with a cry of fear thrust her
away, dropped the pistol on the floor, and covered his face with his
hands.

"Devil woman that you are! No!"

Mrs. Belswin whirled into the centre of the room like an enraged
tigress.

"You won't do it?" she hissed madly. "You won't help me? I was right.
You are a coward. Well, I will ask you no more--I will do it myself."

She picked up the pistol lying at his feet and turned to the door, but
with a cry of horror he sprang in front of her, and prevented her
exit.

"No, no! you are mad! You are mad! I will not let you go."

"Stand away! I will go."

"No, cara, think. Dio!"

Like a caged panther she looked round the room for a means of exit,
for, mad with rage as she was, she yet retained sufficient sense to
know that a scene at the "Chequers" would be detrimental to her plans.

"I must go! I must go!"

Her eye caught the window, and like a flash of lightning she sprang
towards it, tore it open, and bounded through into the darkness like a
panther, uttering a laugh of triumph as she vanished.

Ferrari darted forward, but stopped half-way across the room in
amazement.

"Dio! what a devil. I must go, or she will kill him."

He put on his hat and coat rapidly, and, closing the window, left the
inn by the door.

"My friend," he said to the landlord, "I go for a little walk. Addio!"

Luckily none of the labourers outside had seen Mrs. Belswin leave, as
she had slipped past them in the shadow, and the road to Thornstream
being perfectly deserted, she was free from discovery. Ferrari had
explored the neighbourhood that afternoon, so, knowing the way to
Thornstream, walked slowly along the road until out of sight of the
inn, then ran rapidly onward through the darkness, longing to catch a
glimpse of the flying woman speeding towards Thornstream with murder
in her heart.




CHAPTER XX.
A MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR.


     "Stark and stiff in the lonely night,
      Stiff and stark in the dawning light,
              There it lies
              With unseeing eyes,
      And placid face of a bloodless white.

     "Who hath slain this man by guilt and fraud
      Bears on his brow, deep-seared and broad,
              The blood-red stain
              Which is mark of Cain,
      Unseen by man but beheld by God."


The red light of dawn burned in the eastern skies, the first faint
thrill of life ran through the earth as the twitter of awakening birds
was heard in the green woods, then the glorious sun sent his beams
over the chill lands, bathing everything in golden splendour.
Thornstream Hall faced to the east, and the great shafts of sunlight
breaking through misty morning clouds, pointed downward like the
finger of God on to the terrace--to the open window of Sir Rupert's
study, and there in the splendour of sunrise lay a dead man.

Face downward he lay, with half of his body in the room, the other
half on the terrace, and the hands stretched out in the form of a
cross, clenched in the agony of death.

Last night--this morning--nay, but a few hours back, and this was a
living, breathing man, full of all the passions, sins, and hatred of
humanity; now an empty shell, a soulless husk, was all that remained
of Sir Rupert Pethram.

Then the servants began to move about the house attending to their
morning duties, and one--it was the housemaid--entered the study to
put it in order. There she saw the dead man, and with a terrible cry
fell senseless to the ground. Her cry brought in her fellow-servants,
there were expressions of incredulous wonder, exclamations of horror,
and then a general hubbub of voices.

In a few minutes all the household knew the terrible truth that Sir
Rupert had been found dead in his study, shot through the head, and
Dombrain came to the scene of the tragedy with horror on his face,
followed by Kaituna and Mrs. Belswin.

"For God's sake don't let Miss Pethram see it," said Dombrain to the
butler, "nor Mrs. Belswin. It is not a sight for women."

But it was too late; they were both in the room, and Kaituna with a
cry of horror fell on her knees beside the dead body of her father,
while Mrs. Belswin stood looking down at the corpse with an impassive
expression on her strongly-marked features.

The servants had left the room in order to send for the police, and
only three persons were left with the dead man--Kaituna, convulsed
with grief, kneeling by the body, and Mrs. Belswin standing beside
Dombrain, both silently looking--at the dead man? No. At the weeping
daughter? No. At one another? Yes.

The questioning look of Dombrain said--

"You were the dead man's enemy. Is this your work?"

Mrs. Belswin's eyes replied defiantly.

"I was, and am still, the dead man's enemy. I defy you to prove that
this is my work."

They eyed one another steadily for a few moments, and then the man's
eyes drooped before the fierce daring of the woman's.

There was silence in the room broken only by the sobs of Kaituna.

"Come away, my dear," said Mrs. Belswin, bending down with a caressing
gesture. "Come to your room; we can do no good here."

"Oh!" cried Kaituna, rising slowly from her knees; "who has done this?
My poor father! My poor father! Who has murdered him?"

Again a flash of suspicion between Dombrain and Mrs. Belswin.

"We do not know dear," said the latter, soothingly; "but Mr. Dombrain
has sent for the police. Perhaps they will find out the truth."

"They must! they must!" cried the girl, in an agony of grief. "Oh, it
is terrible. To have come back for this. To be killed under his own
roof by an enemy. Oh, why does God permits such things?"

"God permits many things," said Mrs. Belswin, bitterly, putting her
arm round the shrinking form of her daughter. "Come away, dear. All
that can be done will be done. The English police are clever, and may
perhaps capture the murderer."

Dombrain smiled, and Mrs. Belswin noticed the smile.

"Perhaps the murderer may escape," he said with emphasis, giving a
stealthy glance at Mrs. Belswin's coldly impassive face.

"He may escape man; but he will not escape God," cried Kaituna,
fervently. "Oh, come away, Mrs. Belswin, come away. I shall die if I
stay here."

"You will of course do everything that is necessary, Mr. Dombrain,"
said the chaperon, as she led the weeping girl to the door.

"Of course," he replied, stolidly. "I will arrange everything."

Mrs. Belswin looked at him steadily, and then left the room with the
heart-broken daughter, while Dombrain, left alone beside the corpse,
drew a long breath.

"What nerve," he said, under his breath; "what nerve."

The police came, took possession of the house, brought down detectives
from London, questioned every one, held an inquest, and--discovered
nothing. Well; it was a difficult case. The police are not infallible;
therefore they failed to discover the murderer of Sir Rupert Pethram.
If it had been a low London murder case, for instance, of the
Whitechapel poker sort, then, indeed, the criminal would not have
escaped human justice; but in this affair it was impossible to move in
any direction. Justice promised to do what she could, and did nothing.
That bandage over her eyes is often in the way, and in this instance
blinded her altogether; so whomsoever had killed Sir Rupert Pethram
was quite safe, as far as this stupid, blind, blundering Justice was
concerned.

Of course the police had a theory which explained everything, and
accomplished nothing. The daily papers argued one way, the police
argued another, the public gave their view of the matter; and after
great cry, there was little wool.

Sir Rupert, according to an intelligent jury, came by his death at the
hands of a person unknown, a verdict which was vague, and might mean
anything. Then he was placed in the family vault, and the title and
estates went to a distant cousin; Kaituna left Thornstream a penniless
orphan, and a new order of things began.

The new heir was a man of business, who was hard, and prided himself
on being hard. He had a large family; and thinking the Thornstream
rents was quite small enough to rear his dozen children--male and
female in equal proportion--declined to do anything for Kaituna, whom
he scarcely knew.

Mrs. Belswin, thereupon, stepped forward, and took Kaituna off to
London with her to see Mr. Dombrain, and ascertain, if possible, what
private property Sir Rupert had died possessed of. Mr. Dombrain was
quite happy to oblige Mrs. Belswin in every way and did what he could;
but that was comparatively little; so little indeed, that it made no
difference in the financial position of Kaituna, and she remained
dependent on the bounty of Mrs. Belswin.

But Archie Maxwell! Oh, he behaved admirably. On hearing of the death
of Sir Rupert, through the medium of the press, he came down at once
to Deswarth, consulted with Toby, and made every effort to find out
the assassin of Sir Rupert, but without success. Then he proposed to
marry Kaituna as soon as possible after the death of her father, which
arrangement was approved of by Mrs. Belswin, who added, however, that
they could not marry on nothing; and as Archie was not rich, and
Kaituna was now poor, there was nothing left for them but to wait.

This Archie agreed to do, after much persuasion, but meantime was with
Kaituna as often as possible. He came up to London with Mrs. Belswin,
helped her to select a comfortable lodging; and when his sweetheart
and her chaperon were established, went off on his own account to see
Mr. Dombrain.

"Has Miss Pethram absolutely nothing?" he asked.

"Really," says the solicitor, "I don't know if I can give you any
information----"

"Yes, you can! I am engaged to Miss Pethram, and I am going to marry
her as soon as I can. I don't want her money for myself, but I want
her to get her rights."

"Mr. Maxwell," said Dombrain, solemnly, "the late Sir Rupert was a
great friend of mine, and I would do anything for his daughter, but
I'm afraid that she inherits nothing but two thousand shares."

"Oh, indeed! In what company?"

"In the Pole Star Silver Mining Company, Limited Melbourne,
Australia."

"Are they worth anything?"

"Not even the paper they are written on."

"Hump!" said Archie, thoughtfully, "from what I heard of Sir Rupert, I
should hardly think he was a fool, and no one but a fool would invest
his money in a rotten company. Do you know anything of Australian
mining?"

"I know New Zealand," replied Mr. Dombrain, evasively, "but I'm not
acquainted with Australia. The mine may turn up trumps. On the other
hand it may not."

"Are these shares all the property left by Sir Rupert?"

"Yes! He had land in New Zealand; but when he came in for the title he
sold it all, and invested the money in these shares. He thought he
would be able to save money from the Thornstream rents, to leave to
his daughter, but as he occupied the position of master such a short
time, of course he saved nothing."

"And the new baronet, Sir Thomas, will do nothing for Miss Pethram?"

"Nothing!"

"What a scoundrel!"

Mr. Dombrain shrugged his shoulders, and declined to commit himself to
an opinion,--a legal opinion is worth seven shillings and sixpence, so
there is no use wasting that amount.

"By the way," said Archie, as he was going, "what do you think of this
murder?"

"I think it is a most mysterious affair," said Dombrain, after a
pause. "I can't account for it; I was staying in the house as you
know, and left Sir Rupert in his study quite hearty. I heard no pistol
shot, and in the morning he was dead. Most extraordinary."

"Had Sir Rupert any enemies?"

"My dear sir, we all have enemies," replied Dombrain, evasively.

"I dare say; but one's enemies don't go as far as murder as a rule,"
answered Archie, dryly.

"No! no! that is true. But really, Mr. Maxwell, you know as much about
the murder as I do, and I dare say are as completely in the dark."

"I shan't be in the dark long."

"How so?"

"Because I'm going to find out who murdered Sir Rupert."

"Take my advice and don't try," said Dombrain slowly.

"Why not?" demanded Maxwell, looking at him keenly.

"Because you'll discover nothing. How can you? The police have
failed."

"I don't believe in the police much," replied Archie lightly. "I may
succeed where others have failed. Good-bye. Mr. Dombrain, I am going
to see Miss Pethram, and will probably see you again about these
shares."

When Maxwell had departed the solicitor sat in deep thought for a few
minutes.

"I wonder," he said at length, "I wonder if he knows anything about
Mrs. Belswin."




CHAPTER XXI.
ARCHIE MAKES HIS PLANS.


     "If you are my friend,
      I set you this task.
      Aid me to an end,
      If you are my friend,
      Your comradeship lend.
      This secret unmask.
      If you are my friend
      I set you this task."


"Maxwell, Globetrotters, to Clendon, Vicarage, Deswarth.--Come to me
at once. Important."

Toby was a lover and therefore unwilling to leave the vicinity of his
beloved; but he was also a friend, and being of a kind, staunch
nature, speedily made up his mind to obey at once the telegram. His
father who sincerely regretted the misfortune which had befallen the
unfortunate Kaituna and her lover, warmly approved of his son's going
away; so, Toby's mind being at rest concerning the parental opinion,
he rode over to the Valpys, in order to see what Tommy thought about
the matter.

As he expected, she said he was to lose no time in going to Maxwell,
and also gave him several affectionate messages for Kaituna.

"You don't know how sorry I am for her, Toby," she said, with a sigh.
"Fancy losing your father and then all your money."

"Still Archie is left," observed Toby, wisely.

"Yes; I'm glad of that. She will always have him to protect her, and
that kind woman, Mrs. Belswin. Now then, Toby, don't you say there are
no good people in this world when Mrs. Belswin has acted as she has
done."

"I never said there were no good people in the world," retorted her
lover in an injured tone. "I only said that good people are few and
far between."

"Of course," went on Tommy, without noticing this defence, "Kaituna
could always have found a home with ma and I. I wish she had come here
instead of going to London; but Mrs. Belswin seems very fond of her,
and then Mr. Maxwell will marry her soon, so she will be happy some
day."

"I wonder why Mrs. Belswin is so very fond of Kaituna," speculated
Toby, idly. "Paid companions as a rule don't go beyond their wages in
the matter of affection, but Mrs. Belswin goes the entire bakery."

"Toby, don't be vulgar," replied Miss Valpy, reprovingly; "Mrs.
Belswin is a very superior woman."

"I hate superior women."

"Oh, thank you!"

"You're not a superior woman," said Clendon, laughingly.

"What am I, then?"

"The dearest girl in the world."

"I am! I am! You'll find that out when your wife's milliner's bill
comes in. Now, don't, Toby! There are more important things than
kissing."

"Not just now," replied Clendon, and kissed her twice. "Good-bye,
dearest I shall expect a letter every day."

"Will you really? How long will you be absent?"

"I don't know! It depends on what Archie wants to see me about."

"Well, I'll write. Good-bye, and take my love to Kaituna."

"Certainly; only I hope it won't get damaged during the transit."

So they parted, and Tommy returned to discuss Kaituna's future with
her mother, while Toby packed his portmanteau, and, after taking leave
of his father, caught the afternoon train to town.

Archie Maxwell, when engaged in foreign parts, underwent all
incidental hardships without a murmur, and accepted all disagreeables
with a philosophy beautiful to behold; but Archie Maxwell when in
London indemnified himself for all such hardships by giving himself as
many pleasures as his income permitted him. Being a young gentleman of
good family, he had a very reputable circle of acquaintances, he had
very pleasant rooms in the West End, and belonged to the
Globetrotters, which is, as every one knows, a very exclusive club.
Being clever in his profession, Archie made a very decent income, and
having no reason that he knew of to save money, spent every penny he
made with a kind of "it-will-be-all-right-in-the-end," philosophy; but
now that he was engaged to Kaituna, he made various excellent
resolutions about economy, and resolved to put by as much as possible
for the future home of Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell.

He was a very methodical young man, was Mr. Maxwell, and speedily
made up his mind what course to pursue, which course involved the
co-operation of Clendon--hence the telegram which brought the latter
up to town.

As Toby had let his chambers during his visit to Deswarth, Archie
offered to put him up for the night, which offer Clendon accepted with
avidity, as he too was on the economic tack. Oh, it was truly a
beautiful spectacle to behold these young men, formerly so careless of
money matters, now as careful of the shillings as they had been
careless of the pounds. On this night, however, as Archie was going to
arrange his future plans, he proposed to Toby that they should, for a
few hours only, revert to the dear old extravagant days and enjoy
themselves. To this Toby, who hankered after the flesh pots of Egypt,
agreed; so they arranged to have the best dinner which the
Globetrotters was capable of providing; and afterwards Archie was to
unburden his mind to his friend.

The Globetrotters is a very pleasant club, in an excellent situation,
and as the members are all travelled men of a sociable turn of mind,
the society to be found there is not to be despised from an
informative point of view. Had Marco Polo, or Christopher Columbus,
lived in the nineteenth century, they would certainly have been
members of the Globetrotters; and as for Ulysses--but then Ulysses was
fond of feminine society, so perhaps he would not have cared for the
exclusively masculine element of the club. At all events, when Archie
(who being a traveller, was a member) arrived with Toby--who being a
stay-at-home, was not--they found a great many pleasant people there,
including a bearded traveller, who had been lion-shooting in Africa;
another who had made arrangements to find out the North Pole, if he
was able; and several other nineteenth century productions, who all
knew and liked Maxwell. Archie, however, was too taken up with his
plans to waste much time in hearing adventures about big game
shooting, and artful savages; so he went off with Toby to a very
retired table, where they had an excellent dinner under the
supervision of a friendly waiter, who was as great a traveller as any
in the club, having been a steward on a P. & O. liner.

After dinner, during which they had discussed various topics, all
bearing on the Pethram murder, and their future married happiness,
Archie and his friend sought a secluded corner in the smoking-room,
ordered coffee and cigarettes, and, when they were thoroughly
comfortable, began to talk business.

"Toby," said Archie, reflectively, "we've known each other a good many
years."

"Seeing we were at school together I may say we have," replied
Clendon, smiling. "Come, now, Archie, you want me to do something, and
don't like asking."

"That's true, because I'm going to ask you to make a sacrifice."

"Not to give up Tommy?"

"No! no! I don't want to break your heart, old fellow; but I--I----"

"Well, what is the sacrifice?"

"I want you to leave England for a few months and go to Melbourne."

"What for?" asked Toby, aghast at this strange request.

"I'll tell you! I have been to Dombrain, who is the late Sir Rupert's
lawyer, about the will; and I find he has left Kaituna all his
personal property."

"Well, that's jolly."

"The personal property consists of shares in a silver mine, which at
present are worth nothing."

"Oh! that's not jolly. But what about Thornstream? Isn't Kaituna the
heiress?"

"No! Thornstream is entailed on the male side, and all the property
goes with the title. Had Kaituna been a man, she would have inherited;
but as she is a woman she doesn't get a penny."

"I see."

"The present baronet," pursued Archie, smoothly, "is a beastly
skinflint, and won't give Kaituna a penny; so had it not been for the
kindness of a stranger--I allude to Mrs. Belswin--I don't know what
the poor girl would have done."

"I do," said Toby, emphatically; "she would have gone to the Valpys,
who asked her to come; or to the vicarage, where the dear old pater
would have looked after her. Bless you, Maxwell, she would have been
all right."

"I know both your father and the Valpys are good kind people," replied
Maxwell with emotion; "and of course, if the worst came to the worst,
she could have married me at once, and we would have got on somehow.
Still all these possibilities do not make Mrs. Belswin's kindness any
the less."

"She's a good sort," said Clendon, feelingly. "Why, if Kaituna had
been her own daughter she couldn't do more for her than she is doing.
But get on with your story."

"Well, Kaituna, as I have shown you, gets nothing from Thornstream or
the present baronet; so all she inherits is her father's private
property. Now, in New Zealand he had a good deal of land, but when he
came in for the title he converted it all into cash, and with that
cash he bought two thousand shares in The Pole Star Silver Mining
Company, in Melbourne."

"Wasn't that rather rash?"

"I don't know. It certainly appears so. Now Dombrain assures me that
the shares are not worth the paper they are written on; but I've got
my doubts on the subject; so I want you to go out to Melbourne and
find out all you can about the mine."

"But what can I do? I know nothing about mining."

"Oh, you can find out from the brokers if the mine has any prospect of
turning out well. Dombrain is arranging all the will business, so as
soon as Kaituna is legally in possession of the shares I will send out
the scrip to you, and also a power of attorney. Perhaps the mine will
turn up trumps; if it does, you can sell, if not--well, there's no
harm done."

There was silence for a few moments, during which Toby was thinking
deeply, and his good-looking face wore a more thoughtful expression
than usual.

"Of course, Archie," he said at length, "I am anxious to oblige you in
all things; but you must admit that this is a little serious."

"Oh, yes. I told you it was a sacrifice," replied Archie, readily. "I
would go myself, only I have a strong reason for remaining in
England."

"May I ask that reason?"

"Yes. I want to find out who killed Sir Rupert."

"You'll never do that," said Toby, shaking his head. "Why, my dear
lad, the police could find absolutely no clue."

"The police be--blessed," retorted Archie, with contempt. "I am going
on my own ideas in this matter; and I'm going to get Mrs. Belswin to
help me."

"But she knows nothing."

"That's very likely; but she saw Sir Rupert on the night of his
murder, and if she can recollect her conversation, who knows but what
some chance word in it might lead to the detection of the murderer.
Besides, Mrs. Belswin is a very clever woman, and in a case of this
difficulty, women see clearer than men."

"Why are you so anxious to find out this murder?"

"Because I want to set Kaituna's mind at rest. The poor girl is
worrying herself about the affair; and if I can find out and punish
the assassin of her father, it will give her great relief."

There was again a short silence, and then Archie went on speaking:

"You see now, my dear lad, why I wish you to help me in this. I cannot
do both things myself at the same time; for if I go to Melbourne, the
murderer of Sir Rupert may escape; and if I stay and hunt for him, the
mine may turn out a success, and no one will be there to look after
Kaituna's interests."

"Does Kaituna know all your ideas," asked Toby, thoughtfully.

"Yes; and approves of them. So does Mrs. Belswin. You see, as she has
been such a good friend to Kaituna, I had to tell her everything."

"Of course; quite right," responded Toby, heartily. "Well, old fellow,
I'll tell you what. Some time ago _The Weekly Scorpion_ spoke to me
about taking a trip out to Australia, and writing up the colonies; so
if I accept that, I'll combine pleasure and business."

"That would be capital," said Archie, with a sigh of relief; "for to
tell you the truth, Toby, I was rather anxious about the money for you
to go with. Kaituna has none. I can't ask Mrs. Belswin; so I would
have had to find it myself."

"Archibald Maxwell," said Clendon, wrathfully, "do you mean to say
that you thought I would have been such a mean wretch as to let you
find all the expenses of my voyage?"

"Well, I couldn't ask you to give your time and money also."

"Oh, couldn't you? Don't be an ass, old chap. Had I gone without the
_Scorpion_ chips, I would have halved the ex's; but this newspaper
business cuts the Gordion knot. All I have got to do is to accept
their offer, and I shall get all my expenses paid, and a jolly good
price for my articles into the bargain, which cash can go to hurry up
my marriage."

"Well; will you go?"

"As far as I can see at present, yes," replied Toby, quickly; "but I
must speak to Tommy and the pater."

"They may object," said Maxwell, dolefully.

"Oh, no, they won't," retorted Clendon, gaily. "Bless you, a trip to
Australia is nothing nowadays. I could do it on my head. And I will
too, considering it's at the Antipodes."

Archie rose to his feet with a sigh of relief.

"I'm so glad there is a chance of your doing what I ask you," he said
gratefully.

"It all depends upon the home authorities," replied Clendon,
judiciously; "but I think you can set your mind at rest, old fellow.
I'll go home to-morrow, and wire you result of inquiries. I think you
can pretty well rely on everything being fixed up beautifully."

"You're a good fellow, Toby."

"I am! I am! My friends don't know half my virtues. But about this
detective business of yours, Archie, I'm afraid you won't find out
anything."

"I'll try, at all events. 'Nothing is done without trying.'"

"Oh, if you're going in for copy-book maxims, I've nothing more to
say."




CHAPTER XXII.
MRS. BELSWIN CONSIDERS WAYS AND MEANS.


     Fortune's a jade. When we don't require her,
       She ever beside us is staying.
     Fortune's a jade. For when we desire her,
       She never responds to our praying.

Mrs. Belswin was not a rich woman. When she left her husband she took
no money, naturally supposing that Silas P. Oates, who played the part
of co-respondent in the divorce case, would take care of her. Their
romance, however, came to an end, for the lady's temper being
uncertain, and the gentleman's income being equally so, things went
anything but smoothly, so they parted. Where her quondam lover went
Mrs. Belswin neither knew nor cared, but for her part she earned
enough to keep her comfortable by becoming an opera singer. She was a
handsome woman, with a fine voice and great dramatic powers, so as
time went on she took a first class position on the boards, and
therefore earned a great deal of money. Unfortunately, being
open-handed and careless in money matters, she spent her income as she
earned it, and when she arrived in England in search of her daughter,
found herself very badly off. Of course, owing to the peculiar
position she held at Thornstream, she had received no salary, as Sir
Rupert was the only one who could pay her, and when he saw her,
naturally the money question gave way to much more important matters.

After Pethram's death, Mrs. Belswin had taken possession of Kaituna
with the intention of marrying her to Maxwell, but now found herself
in London with a daughter to provide for and very little money in the
bank.

Ferrari, certainly, would have been delighted to have shared his
salary with her, but Mrs. Belswin had always kept the Italian at his
distance, and was determined not to give him any hold over her by
being in his debt. Since leaving Oates, she had lived a decent life,
earning her own money and asking favours from no one, so that although
she had led a somewhat Bohemian existence, yet, for the sake of her
child, she had kept herself pure. Reckless, vehement, careless as she
was of all outward appearances, no one could cast a stone at her in a
moral sense, and Ferrari, knowing this well, respected her for it. He
had often pressed her to take money from him, to be repaid by her
marrying him, but Mrs. Belswin, not being prepared to discharge her
debts in this way, had always refused. Even now, when her daughter
looked to her for support, and but a few pounds stood between her and
absolute want, she never thought of asking Ferrari for money, and had
he, suspecting her needs, offered it, she would certainly have
declined to take advantage of his generosity.

Therefore to appeal to Ferrari was out of the question. But what about
Maxwell?

No, Mrs. Belswin had her daughter's happiness too much at heart to
jeopardise the girl's future by an appeal to the purse of her future
husband. Besides, Maxwell was not rich, for she had heard him lament
to Toby Clendon over his lack of money, which made him an unacceptable
son-in-law to Sir Rupert.

Clearly, therefore, she could not ask Archie.

Of course there was Dombrain. No doubt, if she asked him he would give
her money; but suppose he refused to assist her? Ah, well, then she
could force him.

At this point of her meditations Mrs. Belswin stopped.

Could she force him? It was questionable. She did not like the way he
looked at her over the dead body of her husband. Certainly she knew
his secret and could damage his position in London, which he prized so
highly, but then, a worm will turn, and if appearances were against
her as they certainly were, about the death of Sir Rupert, he could
make things very disagreeable for her. Formerly she would not have
minded, but would have dared him in her old reckless fashion, trusting
to her indomitable will to carry her through safely, but now she had
Kaituna to think of as well as herself, so she determined to leave Mr.
Dombrain alone.

Ferrari, Maxwell, Dombrain. She could ask none of the three to assist
her, and yet something must be done. The terrible blow of her father's
death had left Kaituna prostrate with grief, and she looked to Mrs.
Belswin for every thing. Yes, the daughter, ignorant of the mother's
personality, depended upon the mother as she would have done had she
known the truth; and Mrs. Belswin, although concealing her real
relationship; acted towards her newly-recovered daughter with the
utmost tenderness.

Still, what about money?

There was the stage. She could resume her profession, but that would
entail time to obtain an engagement and constant absence from Kaituna,
who was not fitted in her present upset state of mind to be left
alone. So after going over all kinds of possibilities in her mind,
Mrs. Belswin found herself at her wits' end which way to turn for
assistance.

Coincidences happen in real life as well as in novels, and it was a
curious thing that Mrs. Belswin should find in a society journal the
name of Silas P. Oates mentioned as staying at the Langham Hotel.

Silas P. Oates, millionaire. Most extraordinary! He had arrived just
in time, for she could apply to him for money. He was her old lover;
he was the man who had ruined her life; he had deserted her
shamefully; but now he was rich, and had a right to help her. Yes, she
would call on him at once and ask him for assistance. For the sake of
the dead-and-gone days he would not refuse. So with a smile of
satisfaction Mrs. Belswin looked at the paper again.

"Mr. Silas P. Oates is accompanied by his wife and daughter."

Oh! he was married then--married and respectable--while she was still
tossing on the stormy waters of the Bohemian ocean. Ah, these men,
these men! they always have the best of it. They love, and ruin, and
forsake a woman, and then settle down into respectable members of
society; while the woman, who has lost all for their sake, is
condemned for the rest of her life to be the sport of one sex and the
scorn of the other.

Still, now that he was married she would certainly be able to obtain
what she wished, for he would not dare to refuse lest she should speak
to his wife and destroy his happiness.

It never struck Mrs. Belswin that to act in this way would be
dishonourable. She had been a free-lance for so long, and had been so
accustomed in fighting her way through the world to use all kinds of
weapons, that the means she intended to employ to extort money from
Oates seemed quite legitimate. Many a woman would have died rather
than have applied for help to the man who had basely deserted her; but
Mrs. Belswin, her moral sense blunted by constantly battling with the
stormy world, not only intended to get money from her old lover, but
intended to apply that money to secure the happiness of her innocent
daughter. Here is a text for the preacher on human nature. Does the
end in this instance justify the means? Strange things are done in
this world of ours, but surely nothing more fantastical or shameful
entered a woman's mind than to use her former disgrace as a means to
secure her daughter's ease and peace of mind. And yet Mrs. Belswin
could not see it--did not see it--and made up her mind to call on
Silas P. Oates the next day, and not leave him until she had his
cheque for a considerable amount in her purse.

To-day, however, Archie was coming in order to tell them about Toby
Clendon's proposed mission to Australia, and Kaituna was seated at the
window watching for his coming, while Mrs. Belswin pondered over the
problem of Silas P. Oates.

It was a dull little sitting-room, in a dull little house, in a dull
little neighbourhood, but then the aforesaid neighbourhood was
eminently respectable, and that satisfied Mrs. Belswin. In her dread
lest her daughter should be tainted by Bohemianism, Mrs. Belswin had
gone to the opposite extreme, and, with the assistance of Archie,
taken lodgings in a severely respectable quarter, where church bells
rang every other hour of the day, and nothing less genteel than a
four-wheeler was ever seen in the dingy street.

Their abode was situated in Grail Street, which was so deserted that
it put the reflective in mind of London during the plague, especially
as a hearse was no uncommon sight owing to the undertakers (Wilps &
Co., High Class Pauper Furnishers) being at the corner. All the houses
were sad-looking, in keeping with the corner establishment, and
Kaituna's face was sad also as she looked out on to the lonely road on
which fell the fine rain.

Dressed in black, with her hands lying listlessly in her lap, and her
face thin and worn with trouble, Kaituna looked a very different girl
in the dingy London lodging from what she had been at Thornstream.
Mrs. Belswin thought so as she glanced at her after answering the
money question, and went across to her with a look of anxiety on her
face.

"Kaituna, my dearest, do not look so sad," she said, tenderly bending
over the girl. "You make me feel so terribly anxious."

Kaituna pushed her thick hair wearily off her forehead, and sighed
deeply.

"I cannot help looking sad," she replied, listlessly; "I feel sad. A
few months ago and I was so happy; now everything is taken away from
me."

"Not everything, dear. You have still me."

"You!" echoed Kaituna, with a wan smile, taking the elder woman's
hand. "Ah, Mrs. Belswin, what should I have done without you, my good
angel!"

"Don't call me a good angel, dear," said Mrs. Belswin, hurriedly. "I
am not good. God help me! had I been good things would have been
different."

"I don't know what you refer to," replied Kaituna, simply, stroking
the hand she held. "All I know is that you have been good to me.
Without you I should have died. You are my only friend."

"You forget Archie," said Mrs. Belswin, with an attempt at lightness.

"No; I don't forget him, good, kind fellow; but, Mrs. Belswin, I
cannot hold him to his promise. I am poor now. It will be unfair for
me to drag him down. I must go away. I cannot stay to be a burden on
you--a burden on him. You must let me go."

"Where?" asked Mrs. Belswin, quietly.

"I don't know. I will get the position of governess somewhere. Mrs.
Valpy will recommend me. She knows what I can do."

"Then you wish to leave me?" said Mrs. Belswin, reproachfully.

"No, I do not; but how can I ask you to keep me like this? You--a
stranger!"

"A stranger!" said Mrs. Belswin, with a strange smile. "My dear, you
must not look upon me as a stranger. I told you my story once--about
my little child. Now you stand to me in that child's place. I love you
like a daughter! If you left me I should go mad. Leave me! No,
Kaituna, you must not--you shall not leave me. Promise that you will
always stay beside me!"

The vehemence of the woman frightened Kaituna, unnerved as she was by
what she had gone through, and she shrank back in alarm.

"Dear Mrs. Belswin----"

"Oh!" cried the woman, walking up and down the room with tears
streaming down her face, "for you to go away--to leave me, after all
that I have suffered. You do not know what you say. You call me a
stranger. I am a stranger. Yes! I am Mrs. Belswin, who was your hired
servant. But I love you, Kaituna, like a daughter. You will not leave
me--oh, my child, you will not leave me?"

She flung herself on her knees beside the girl, and looked up into her
eyes with a fierce intensity of gaze that moved the girl strangely.

"No, I will not leave you, since you wish me not to," she said gently;
"but indeed, Mrs. Belswin, I don't deserve such love."

Mrs. Belswin covered the hand she held with kisses, and sobbed
hysterically; then the strange creature suddenly dried her eyes, and
rose to her feet with a smile on her lips. It was the savage nature
all over. One moment all fury, the next calm and smiling. She never
controlled herself in any way, but let her natural moods and fancies
have full play; so the result was bizarre, and rather terrifying to a
more civilised nature. By this time, however, Kaituna, perhaps from a
secret chord of sympathy inherited from her savage progenitors, was
beginning to understand Mrs. Belswin's whirlwinds of passion and
sudden transitions from storm to calm; therefore, when the present
outburst was over, the two women chatted together quite easily, as if
nothing unusual had occurred.

"But of one thing I am certain," said Kaituna, after a pause; "that it
is not right for me to marry Archie at present. I am poor, so is he,
and I cannot consent to drag him down with me."

"My dear, you are too fine in your ideas," said Mrs. Belswin, with a
superior smile. "Archie Maxwell loves you, and if you refused to marry
him it would break his heart. Besides, perhaps the Pole Star shares
will be worth a lot of money."

"I'm afraid not. It's no use building up hopes on those. Ah, my poor
father. He thought to make me an heiress, but he has only made me a
pauper. My poor, poor father. Was he not a noble man, Mrs. Belswin?"

"Yes, dear; yes! But you forget I only had a short interview with
him."

"I remember, on the night he died--the night that he was murdered. Oh,
if I could only discover who killed him. But I can do nothing. I am
only a woman, and have no money to employ any one, so he must lie in
his grave unavenged. Oh, who will help me?"

The answer came in an unexpected manner from the servant opening the
door and announcing--

"Mr. Maxwell!"

"Curious!" murmured Mrs. Belswin: "that is the second coincidence
to-day."




CHAPTER XXIII.
BETTER LEAVE WELL ALONE.


     "When things to outward view are smooth,
      'Tis wisest to disturb them not.
      Restrain the prying eye of youth
      When things to outward view are smooth;
      For should ye seek to learn the truth
      Much evil may by chance be wrought.
      When things to outward view are smooth,
      'Tis wisest to disturb them not."


When he entered the room Archie looked very pleased, and a trifle
excited, which happy demeanour was noticed at once by Mrs. Belswin.

"Good news?" she asked, as he greeted her, and walked over to Kaituna
with the eager step of an expectant lover.

"Very good news," he replied gaily, "the best of news. Toby is going
out to Australia to look after your fortune, Kaituna."

"My fortune," echoed Kaituna, faintly, raising her eyes to his bright
face. "I'm afraid my fortune is a myth."

"Not at all! Not at all!" replied Maxwell, kissing her pale cheek.
"Your fortune at present is not in the clouds, but in the earth; and
when The Pole Star Company find that rich lode they are now looking
for, you will be a female Cr[oe]sus."

"I hope so, for your sake."

"I hope so, for both your sakes," said Mrs. Belswin, bluntly; "and
then there will be no more talk of breaking off the engagement."

"What, our engagement?" cried Maxwell, in an astonished tone, looking
from the one to the other. "Why, what do you mean?"

"Ask Donna Quixota there, my dear Mr. Maxwell. She has been talking
the high-flown nonsense which the virtuous heroine uses on the stage
when she appeals to the gallery. She knows you love her for herself
alone, and that I cannot live without her; yet she talks about leaving
us both on some absurd scruple of honour."

"My dear Kaituna, you are surely not in earnest," said Archie,
smoothing the girl's dark hair. "Mrs. Belswin is jesting, I suppose?"

"No! she is repeating my words in a slightly different way."

"But, Kaituna?"

"Now you are going to begin a discussion," said Mrs. Belswin,
good-humouredly, "so I will leave you for a time. But first, Mr.
Maxwell, tell me about your friend. You say he is going out to
Melbourne?"

"Yes! I got a letter from him to-day. Miss Valpy and his father are
both agreeable, and he starts by one of the Orient line in a
fortnight."

"But the money?" said Mrs. Belswin, in some dismay, thinking of her
straightened means. "What about the money?"

"Oh, that is all right," answered Maxwell in a satisfied tone.
"Providence has tempered the financial wind to the Clendon lamb. He is
going to write a series of articles on Australian cities for _The
Weekly Scorpion_, so the benevolent editor of that paper pays his
expenses."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Belswin, with a sigh of relief, turning towards the
door, "I'm so glad. It's a good omen for the silver mine. I hope he'll
come back as prosperous as he leaves. Now I'm going away for a few
minutes, so I'll leave you, Mr. Maxwell, to convince Kaituna that
things will turn out better than she expects."

When Mrs. Belswin vanished, Archie took Kaituna by the chin, and
turned her face towards his own.

"You wicked young woman," he said, laughing; "how can you speak, even
in jest, about leaving me?"

Kaituna rose to her feet, and walked backwards and forwards several
times in deep thought. Then she paused before Archie, and looked
steadily at him with her clear, honest eyes.

"Archie," she said, at length, "believe me, I did not speak without
reason. While my father was alive there was a chance of our marrying,
for I would have persuaded him to consent some time, and Mrs. Belswin
would have helped me. But he is dead, and I have not a penny in the
world. How then can I marry you, who have nothing but your profession
to depend upon, and that profession one which means constant
travelling? If you married me you would have to leave me, for we
should not be rich enough to travel together. You would find me a drag
upon you. Enough for one is not enough for two. I love you! You know I
love you! And it is for that very reason that I want to break off our
engagement, and not be a burden to you in the future."

Maxwell laughed, as she ended this long speech, and seizing her hands
drew her towards him.

"What a capital lawyer you would make," he said, with an indulgent
smile; "but let us look on the other side of the question. Say that
these shares turn out to be worth a lot of money, will you expect me
to give you up?"

"No, no! Oh, no!"

"Ah! you see then that the case is the same with me. You love me for
myself. I love you for yourself. It is no question of money between
us. With you as my wife, I would work hard. I shall only be too proud
to work for you. We shall not be rich; but we should be happy. No, my
dearest, I should indeed be unworthy of your love did I look at the
future from your point of view. I love you! You are mine; and rich or
poor, we will always be together."

"But----"

"But me no buts," said Maxwell, in a peremptory tone, putting his arm
round her neck. "You know what I say is right. You love me, do you
not?"

"Yes."

"And you will never leave me?"

Kaituna kissed him, with tears in her eyes.

"No; I will never leave you."

Archie pressed her to his heart with a cry of joy, and at this moment
Mrs. Belswin entered.

"Well, young people?"

"I have explained away all objections," said Maxwell, as Kaituna
withdrew her arms from his neck, "and we are going to marry on nothing
a year."

"Meanwhile," said Mrs. Belswin, satirically.

"Meanwhile," echoed Maxwell, rising, "I am going to speak to you for a
few minutes, and then take Kaituna for a walk in the Park. You'll take
compassion on a lonely bachelor, will you not, dearest?"

"Yes. I'll go and put on my things at once," said Kaituna, whose face
now looked much brighter than before.

"Archie."

"Yes."

"I am afraid you'll be a dreadful tyrant when I marry you."

She laughed, and ran out of the room, whereat Maxwell also laughed out
of sympathy; but when the door closed the laugh died away on his lips,
and he turned gravely to Mrs. Belswin, who had resumed her seat.

"Well," said that lady, with a half smile, glancing at him; "you look
as gloomy as a November day. What are you thinking about?"

"Sir Rupert's death."

Mrs. Belswin half expected this reply; but, notwithstanding, gave a
sudden start at the abruptness of his speech.

"You are still determined to find out the cause of his death?" she
said, slowly.

"I don't think there is any question on that point," he replied, with
emphasis. "He was shot, and I want to find out who shot him."

"What good will that do?"

"It will set Kaituna's mind at rest."

His listener played with the plain gold ring on her finger--the ring
which had been the symbol of her marriage with the murdered man--and
frowned.

"If I were you, I'd let sleeping dogs lie," she said, at length,
without raising her eyes.

"No! I will not! See here, Mrs. Belswin, I know quite well that
Kaituna is anxious to find out the murderer of her father. If she does
not it will embitter her whole life. She cannot bear to think of him
lying unavenged in his grave. Herself, she can do nothing, but I, her
promised husband, can."

"I'm afraid you over-calculate your powers as a detective."

"Perhaps I do," he answered, calmly; "but I'm going to try, at all
events, and see if I can unravel this mystery. Did I intend to let
sleeping dogs lie, as you phrase it, I would have gone out to
Australia myself to look after the silver mines, but as Clendon has
taken that trouble off my hands I am going to devote myself to finding
out the man who murdered Sir Rupert."

He spoke with such determination that she felt convinced he would
carry out his intention, and fidgeted about in her seat for a few
moments, then, walking to the window, stood looking out into the dull
street, while she made her next remark.

"I don't think it will do any good. Where the police have failed you
cannot hope to succeed."

"I hope to do so, with your help."

"My help?" she echoed, facing round suddenly so that her back was to
the light and her face comparatively in the shadow. "What can I tell
you?"

"Mrs. Belswin," said Maxwell, gravely, "you were one of the last
people who saw Sir Rupert alive."

"Yes, that is so," she answered without moving a muscle, "but I told
all I knew at the inquest."

"I suppose you did; but can you think of nothing else?"

She looked at him with a piercing glance, as if trying to read his
soul, but saw nothing that could make her think that he suspected her
in any way of being connected with the murdered man.

"I told all I knew at the inquest," she repeated. "I had an interview
with Sir Rupert about your marriage with Kaituna. He refused his
consent, and I left the study. Kaituna had gone to bed with a bad
headache, so I did not wish to make it worse by my ill news. Therefore
I retired to rest at once, and knew nothing more until the next
morning."

"You heard no pistol shot?"

"None."

"Strange!" said Maxwell, thoughtfully: "no one seems to have heard a
pistol shot, and yet such an unusual thing must have attracted
attention."

"You forget that Sir Rupert's study was some distance away from the
sleeping apartments, and I think at the time he was killed every one
was in bed."

"But he was not shot in the room, but from the terrace."

Mrs. Belswin started again,

"How do you know that?"

"I don't know it, I only presume so. The body was found lying half in
and half out of the window; so my theory is that Sir Rupert came to
the open window for a breath of air, and the assassin, concealed in
the shadow of the terrace, shot him through the head."

"It's a very excellent theory--still, it is only theory."

"Yes, I know that," said Maxwell, ruefully. "You don't know if Sir
Rupert had any enemies, Mrs. Belswin?"

"I! Why I did not even know Sir Rupert himself until I spoke to him
that night in his study."

There was no doubt that Mrs. Belswin was a magnificent actress, for
she uttered this lie without the least hesitation.

"No, of course not," answered Maxwell, after a pause. "I know he was a
stranger to you. Still he must have had enemies. I wonder if Kaituna
could tell me."

"Ask her!"

"No, I won't. It will only upset her. She is so agitated over the
whole affair. I'll go and see the detective who had the case in hand,
and I won't tell Kaituna anything until I can say, 'This is the
murderer of your father.'"

"It's a wild-goose chase."

"Perhaps. Still something may be discovered."

At this moment Kaituna returned, dressed for walking, and after
bidding fare well to Mrs. Belswin, Archie went out with his
sweetheart, leaving the chaperon still standing by the window.

Mrs. Belswin twisted her hands together, and looked at the carpet with
an angry frown.

"Something maybe discovered," she repeated in a thoughtful tone. "I
don't think so. The assassin came out of the night, fulfilled his
mission, and disappeared again into the night. Not all the machinery
of the law could find out the truth, and where the law failed I don't
think you'll succeed, Archibald Maxwell."




CHAPTER XXIV.
A MEMORY OF THE PAST.


       I.
   "The present becomes the future.
    Yes! but the present does not again become the past;
    Time goes forward forever--we cannot return on his footsteps,
    For the laws of the universe are unalterable, unchangeable and
      fixed.

       II.
   "Yet when I see you before me,
    I am inclined to doubt all that has existed since the shaping of
       the earth from chaos.
    For you appear as you did in those far-distant days,
    When love and sin made up the sum of our lives.

       III.
   "Phantom!
    Vanish again into the darkness from whence my memory hath
       called thee!
    As a God I have re-created thee--as a God I condemn thee to
       disappear.
    I live the present, the future--but the past I will not renew.
    Lest such phantoms as you should turn the past into the present."


In a private sitting-room of the Langham Hotel sat Mr. Silas P. Oates,
of New York City, millionaire, who had come to England with his wife
and daughter to spend his money, secure a titled husband for his only
child, and look round generally.

He had made his money in a somewhat unexpected way by sundry dealings
in stocks and shares, besides which he had bought a clever invention
cheaply of the inventor--a poor man--and by dint of dexterous
advertising and persistent pushing had boomed it into a big success. A
far-seeing man was Mr. Oates, none too scrupulous, who regarded his
fellow-men as so many sheep to be shorn of their rich fleece; but he
always kept to the letter if not the spirit of the law, and therefore
regarded himself as a keen business man, who had made his enormous
fortune honestly. All his little knavish tricks, his taking advantage
of his fellow-creatures when they were in difficulties, and his
unscrupulous, unblushing lying, he designated under the collective
name of business; and however scandalous his dealings might appear to
God, they certainly appeared legitimate to his brother business men,
who mostly acted the same way.

Therefore Silas was called "a sharp business man." All his twistings
and turnings and chicanery and sailing close to the wind went to pile
up the dollars; and however he might have ruined less clever men than
himself, however he imposed, gulled, and swindled the public, he was
generally admitted in the Land of Freedom to be a 'cute man, who was a
worthy representative of the great god Mammon. Charity, according to
the Bible, covers a multitude of sins, but money occupies a much
higher place nowadays in the covering process, and all the doubtful
ways by which he had acquired his fortune disappeared in the eyes of
the condoning world under the golden cover of the fortune itself.

This worthy product of the nineteenth century was a short, thin,
active little man, with a parchment-coloured skin, dark hair,
moustache, beard, eyebrows, and eyes, and a quick, delicate
restlessness about him, like a bright-eyed bird. He was dressed neatly
in a quiet gray suit, wore no jewellery, not even a watch-chain, and
was always on the alert to see something to his advantage. Outwardly,
he was a quiet, respectable, decent little fellow, who, as the saying
goes, would not harm a fly; inwardly, he was an astute blackguard, who
called his evil doing "business," who always kept well within the law,
and had dethroned the Deity in favour of himself. His past was bad and
tricky, so much so that it would hardly bear looking into by a man
with a conscience; but even though Mr. Oates had no conscience, he did
not indulge much in retrospection: not that he dreaded remorse, but
simply looked upon such dreaming as a waste of time.

At present he was perfectly happy. He had made a lot of money, he had
a pretty wife for whom he cared nothing, a charming daughter for whom
he cared a great deal, and was now going to show the Old World what
the New World could do in the way of making a splash. It was a very
enviable frame of mind to be in, and one quite beyond the reach of an
honest man, who would have been disturbed at the memory of how he had
made his money. But Silas only thought how pleasant it was he had made
so much money, for the making of which he had to thank no one--not
even God, who, in His inexplicable mercy permitted this gilded worm to
reap the golden reward of a life of legitimate legalised rascality.

Mr. Oates, therefore, was happy, and thought no one could upset that
happiness in any way; but he found out his mistake when the waiter
brought in a card inscribed, "Mrs. Belswin."

"Well, sir," drawled Silas, looking doubtfully at the card, "this lady
wants to look me up?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mrs. Belswin!" soliloquised the American in deep thought. "I can't
fix her nohow. Ask the lady to step this way."

"Yes, sir."

The alert, active waiter disappeared, and Mr. Oates pondered. He did
not know the name; he had only arrived in England the previous day,
and was unacquainted with any one. What then did this strange lady
want with him? Luckily, Mrs. Hatty K. Oates had gone out shopping with
her daughter, else the situation might have been awkward for Silas,
whose domestic hearthstone was not quite free from connubial rows
caused by jealousy. His wife, however, was away, and would not be home
for the next few hours, so Mr. Oates, feeling rather curious as to the
business of his fair visitor, was by no means sorry that he had a
chance of passing his afternoon in feminine society.

His visitor entered the room heralded by the waiter; then the latter
retired, closing the door carefully after him, leaving the pair alone.
The lady was dressed in black, and wore a heavy crape veil, which
suggested mourning to the astute Silas; and after he had gathered as
much as he was able from a keen glance at this draped veiled figure,
he politely placed a chair for her.

"You wish to see me, madam?" he asked, resuming his own seat.

"I do, for a few minutes. I am an old friend of yours."

Mrs. Belswin's voice was muffled by the veil, and moreover Silas had
not heard it for nearly twenty years, so he did not recognise his
visitor in the least, and was considerably puzzled by the concluding
part of her speech.

"An old friend!" he said doubtfully, smoothing his chin. "From the
States?"

"Yes; down 'Frisco way."

"Oh!"

Mr. Oates started. He had many acquaintances down 'Frisco way, but
they could hardly be called friends, as they very much disapproved of
his method of doing business.

"I've got an eye for faces," said Silas, in a jaunty manner, "so if
you put up that veil I've no doubt I can fix you."

"I'm afraid I shall startle you."

"I'm not easily startled, madam. My nerves are in good working order."

"Are they? Then I'll put them to the test."

Mrs. Belswin suddenly threw back her veil and bent forward so that her
face was in the strong light, whereupon Silas gave a whoop like a wild
Indian, bounded from his chair and gasped.

"I'm afraid you over-estimate the working order of your nerves,
Silas," said Mrs. Belswin, scoffingly; and then leaning back in her
chair, waited for Mr. Oates to make the next move in the game.

"Great Scott! It's Mrs. Pethram. I thought you were dead!"

"And wished it too, I've no doubt," said Mrs. Belswin, bitterly.
"Well, are you not glad to see me?"

"No!" replied Silas, truthfully; "I'm uncommon sorry."

"Ah! you've learned to speak the truth since I saw you last," observed
the lady, raising her eyebrows, "otherwise you're not much changed.
The same ugly little monkey with whom I ran away from New Zealand.
I've often wondered why I did run away with you," pursued Mrs. Belswin
with charming candour, "and now I see you again I wonder more than
ever."

Silas grinned in an uneasy manner. He would have preferred her to be
less cool, to pay more deference to his position, but she seemed as
candid as ever, and he almost expected to have something damaging
flung at his head, as had been her custom in the old days. It was a
very disagreeable position, so Silas rose to the occasion, and
immediately set to work to emulate her coolness, and find out how he
could circumvent this unwelcome visitor from the past.

"I see you're still in the vinegar line," he said easily, resuming his
seat. "I guess you did turn me over for a bit. It takes a pretty stiff
dose to do that, but this time you've raised Cain proper."

They were delightfully amiable to one another, the more so as a
feeling of distrust pervaded the whole conversation; but as Mrs.
Belswin wanted to waste no time, in case the wife of her former lover
should turn up, she opened fire at once--

"I dare say you're surprised to see me."

"It's no good beating round the bush. I'm surprised and sorry."

"You'll be sorrier before I've done with you."

"Hello! What are y' going to show your teeth about?"

"Nothing, if you'll do what I ask."

"See here, Mrs. Pethram," said Silas, leaning forward with his shrewd,
sharp, foxy face, "it's no good your tryin' to play low on me. I've
cut my eye teeth, I can tell you. You think you've got the whip hand
of me. That's as I take it. Well, you can drop that dodge. I ran off
with you to 'Frisco 'cause I was a born fool. I did love you, only you
were more like a redskin than a civilised woman. We agreed to part
company twenty years ago, and I've kept my part of the contract. I've
gone right along in the money line, and this time I've come home on
the winner. I'm married and straight now, and I don't want no one to
put things wrong between my wife and me. As you're an old friend I'll
act square by you if it's money, but if it's blackmail your looking
after, it's no go, and you'd better believe it."

Mrs. Belswin was in all things a headstrong, impulsive woman, without
any craft or power to disguise her feelings. She had come to Oates
with the fullest intention of threatening to tell his wife their
former relations if he refused to give her money; but here was her
adversary calmly placing the whole of her nefarious scheme before her,
and she felt completely nonplussed. Oates, on the other hand, was so
accustomed to trickery that Mrs. Belswin was a mere child in his
hands, and the course he was now adopting was certainly the only means
by which he could hope to checkmate her.

"Well, madam!" said Silas, triumphantly, seeing his plain speaking
had taken Mrs. Belswin aback, "what do you say?"

Mrs. Belswin acted like a fool, lost her temper and stormed.

"You despicable little wretch," she said, starting to her feet, with
her eyes blazing with anger, "how dare you speak to me like this? Was
it not for your sake that I lost my husband, my good name, my position
in the world? And yet you dare to taunt me with it. You are now rich,
married, and respectable. I, on the other hand, am poor--yes, poor,
otherwise my life for these last twenty years has been above reproach.
Oh, you may laugh! You judge me by yourself, but I tell you since I
left you I have led a decent life. The reason I refuse to tell you.
Now hear what I have to say. I would not have come to you unless it
was a case of dire necessity, I hate you too much to have ever desired
to set eyes on you again, but I was compelled to come, because I want
money. Give me a cheque for £500 and I won't trouble you again.
Refuse, and I'll tell your wife all."

"Will you, indeed?" sneered Silas, mockingly. "Don't try the
black-mailing game, for you won't bounce a cent out of me. That's so,
Mrs. Pethram. My wife knows all about you. I told her all when I was
married."

"That's a lie," said Mrs. Belswin, fiercely. "I don't believe it."

"I reckon it's true, though."

"I won't take your word for it, so I'll ask your wife."

"She'll be here at three-forty. You can wait."

It was all bravado on the part of Oates, as he was in deadly fear lest
his wife should come in and learn all. True this discreditable
connection had taken place before his marriage: but Mrs. Oates would
not take that fact into consideration, and would make things very
unpleasant for him. With all his cleverness and craft, Silas was a
coward at heart; so as Mrs. Belswin sat there, evidently determined to
await the arrival of his wife, he skirmished round, in order to find
out some weak spot in her armour by which he could beat her. Had he
betrayed fear, Mrs. Belswin would have at once perceived that she had
the advantage; but he did nothing but sit smiling before her, and all
she could do in her mad rage was to tell all to Mrs. Oates, thereby
cutting her own throat, and benefiting nothing by revelation.

"Say," queried Mr. Oates, airily, "why don't you look up Pethram?"

"He is dead.'

"Is that so?" said Oates, somewhat startled. "Died in New Zealand, I
guess?"

"No, he didn't. He died in England."

"What did you kill him for?"

It was simply an idle, malicious question, as Silas never for a moment
dreamed that the husband and wife had met, or that there had been
anything strange about the husband's death. Foolish Mrs. Belswin,
never thinking, flashed out at once, on the impulse of the moment,
quite forgetting that she was putting a sword into her enemy's hand.

"I didn't kill him. How dare you say so? No one knows who murdered
him."

Silas jumped up from his seat with an exclamation of surprise, as his
apparently idle question had evidently drawn forth something
important.

"Oh, he was murdered, then?"

"Didn't you know," said Mrs. Belswin, haughtily, "when you spoke to me
like that?"

"I know nothing," returned Silas, coolly. "I only spoke because I know
if you had met Pethram in one of your fiendish tempers you would have
put a knife in him."

Mrs. Belswin saw that she had raised a suspicion in the mind of Silas,
so was now careful as to what she said.

"You're talking at random. Pethram is dead, and some one shot him; I
don't know who. You can see all about it in the papers."

Silas made no answer, as he was thinking. Owing to Mrs. Belswin's
unsuspicious nature he had learned a very important fact, which might
possibly lead to his circumventing her demands for money. So he made
up his mind at once how to act, and acted.

"See here," he said, good-humouredly, pulling out his cheque-book;
"I'll do what I can for you. Tell my wife or not, if you like; but
now, if five hundred dollars are of any use, I'll give you that lot
straight off."

"Five hundred dollars," said Mrs. Belswin, coolly--"one hundred
pounds. Well, that will do in the meantime; but I'm to have the rest
next week, or I'll make things hot for you, Silas."

The American had his own opinion on the subject, but, with his
habitual craft, said nothing. Filling up the cheque, he gave it to
Mrs. Belswin, who took it without a word of thanks, and put it in her
purse.

"I've made it payable to Mrs. Belswin," said Oates. "That's your last
name, I guess?"

"It has been my name ever since I left you in 'Frisco," retorted Mrs.
Belswin, fiercely. "You need not insinuate that I have been leading a
bad life. I've no doubt my past would bear more looking into than
yours."

"You've the same old style, I see," said Silas, insolently, "all
gunpowder and dynamite. Well, I guess that now you've got what you
came for you'll get."

"As you elegantly phrase it, I'll get," rejoined the lady, letting
down her veil. "But let me hear from you next week about the rest of
the money, or I'll come and interview your wife."

"Oh, I'll write you straight," answered Silas, with a peculiar smile,
as he accompanied her to the door. "Good-bye, Mrs. Pethram--beg
pardon, Mrs. Belswin."

"Neither correct, sir," said his visitor, jeeringly. "My Lady
Pethram."

Silas closed the door after her, with a smile which faded from his
face when he found himself alone.

"Lady Pethram!" he echoed thoughtfully "I reckon then that Pethram got
his handle. Well, now I'd better look after that murder case, and then
I'll fix that she-devil right along the line."

Having thus made up his mind, he sent for a file of the _Daily
Telegraph_ of the previous month, and went steadily to work to read up
the Thornstream case, which he had no difficulty in finding. He also
discovered the address of a private inquiry office, and at once wrote
a letter instructing them to send him a detective. This business being
concluded, he lighted a cigar, rubbed his dry, lean hands together and
chuckled.

"Two can always play at a game, my lady," he muttered; "but this time
I guess you'll stand out."




CHAPTER XXV.
SILAS PLAYS HIS LITTLE GAME.


     "'Tis very hard to play the game of life;
       For tho' you keep your eye upon the board,
       And move your puppets in well-thought-out ways,
       Just when the winning seems within your grasp,
       Some pawn is touched by stealthy-fingered Chance,
       And straight the would-be victor looses all."


In his dingy office sat Mr. Dombrain before his desk, in deep thought;
and judging from the frown on his coarse face, his thoughts were not
of the pleasantest. He bit his hard nails, he pulled at his stubbly
red moustache, drummed on the table with his large hairy hands, and in
fact displayed all the symptoms of a man very much disturbed in his
mind. The cause of this disturbance was Mrs. Belswin, and, seeing that
he was alone, Mr. Dombrain for the moment threw off his professional
suavity and cursed the lady heartily. Had she been present, she would
have laughed at his outburst of wrath; but as she had just left the
room, he was free to make as rude remarks as he pleased, and he
certainly took full advantage of his solitude. The wrath of Mrs.
Belswin and the subsequent flattening out of Mr. Dombrain arose out of
the following circumstance.

The lawyer, seeing that Kaituna had been left penniless, except for
certain shares, which he truly assured her were not worth the paper
they were written on, had, in a spirit of philanthropy, offered to buy
those shares off her at his own price--which was a very small one--so
that Miss Pethram would have something to live on. He wrote a
letter--a generous and noble letter, from his point of view--in which
he offered to take these undesirable shares in the Pole Star Mining
Company off her hands at a great sacrifice to himself, and Mrs.
Belswin had answered the letter on behalf of Kaituna in person. As she
was a lady who never minced matters, however unpleasant, and moreover
never exercised any self-control, Mr. Dombrain had rather a bad time
of it for a quarter of an hour. He had seen that phrase in a French
novel, but had never thoroughly understood its significance until Mrs.
Belswin illustrated it to him in her own graphic manner. She said--oh,
he hardly remembered what she said, except that she used the word
"swindler" pretty often, and made several pointed allusions to the
disgrace of an ex-convict exercising an honourable profession in
London.

Mr. Dombrain could have said something rather disagreeable to her,
which would certainly have shut her up, but this modern Xantippe gave
him no opportunity of saying a word. She came, she saw, she raged,
stormed, crushed, conquered, and finally departed in a whirlwind of
passion, telling him that Clendon was going to look after the shares
in Melbourne, and that if he dared to try any tricks on her she
would--she would---- Mr. Dombrain shivered when he thought of what she
said she would do.

Now, however, that she was out of the room, and he had collected his
thoughts, scattered by her terrific onslaught, he began to think, and
after several minutes of thinking and frowning, he grinned. Not a
pleasant grin by any manner of means--a nasty Mephistophelean grin
that boded ill to his adversary. She had been unpleasant to him; well,
he could now be unpleasant to her, and in a way she wouldn't like. He
constructed a little scheme in his head which he thought would answer
his purpose, and was about to make a few notes relative to the same,
when a card was brought in to him.

"Silas P. Oates."

Mr. Dombrain shivered, and had the clerk not been present he would
have sworn. As it was, however, he merely told the clerk to show the
gentleman in, and then trembled at the thought of this second phantom
of the past which had succeeded to Mrs. Belswin. She knew about his
little mistake in New Zealand, so also did Mr. Oates; and Mr. Dombrain
groaned in dismay as he thought of the double chance of exposure now
threatening him. Did the American come as a friend, as an enemy, or in
ignorance? Dombrain hoped the first, dreaded the second, but felt
pretty confident that the third was the American's state of mind, as
he certainly would never connect Dombrain the solicitor with Damberton
the convict. However, it would be decided in another minute, so Mr.
Dombrain smoothed his hair, imposed a nervous grin on his mouth, and
waited the advent of this second bogie with inward fear but outward
calm.

The millionaire entered, quite unaware of the second shock which
awaited him; for his purpose in seeking out Mr. Dombrain was wholly
unconnected with the idea that he would find an old friend. The fact
is, Mr. Oates had read the Thornstream case, had noticed that Mrs.
Belswin was mixed up with it, and had sought out Mr. Dombrain--whose
name was also in the papers--with the idea of finding out the precise
position held by Mrs. Belswin in the house of her former husband. Sir
Rupert's solicitor could tell him this if it was drawn from him
artfully. Mr. Dombrain was Sir Rupert's solicitor, so to Mr. Dombrain
came the wary Silas, wholly ignorant of what awaited him.

Silas did not notice Dombrain particularly at first, but sat down in
the chair beside the table and cast about for some good idea wherewith
to begin an extremely awkward conversation. Dombrain saw that he was
not recognised, so kept his face in the shadow as much as possible,
and spoke in a low, gruff voice, as if his throat was stuffed with
cotton wool.

"I have called, sir," observed Mr. Oates, after a preliminary cough,
"to speak to you about the late Sir Rupert Pethram."

"Yes?"

"You, sir, I understand, were his lawyer. Is that so?"

"That is so," replied Dombrain, unconsciously dropping into the
Americanisms of the speaker.

"A friend of mine, sir," pursued Mr. Oates, after another pause, "was
connected, I believe, with the deceased. I allude, sir, to Mrs.
Belswin."

"Mrs. Belswin!"

The name so startled Dombrain, that he forgot his intention of keeping
his identity concealed from his visitor, and speaking in his natural
voice started forward so that his face was clearly seen by Silas. Now
Mr. Oates, in addition, to his many other gifts for getting the better
of his fellow creatures, possessed a remarkably retentive memory in
the matter of faces, and in spite of the alteration Mr. Dombrain had
made in his appearance, recognised him at once. This time his nerves
did not belie the reputation he gave them, and after a slight start he
leaned back in his chair with a slight, dry smile.

"I opinionate," remarked Silas, reflectively, "that I've been on your
tracks before."

"No!"

"It was," continued Silas, without taking any notice of the denial,
"it was in New Zealand, sir. Dunedin was the city. A healthy gaol,
sir, according to the guide books."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Dombrain, doggedly,
resuming his seat. "I never saw you before, and I'm a stranger to
you."

"Dombrain is a stranger, I confess," said Silas, fixing his clear eyes
on the sullen face of the man before him, "but I can size up the party
called Damberton without much trouble. I reckon I can tell you a story
about him, Mr. Dombrain, if you want particulars."

"No, no!" said Dombrain hoarsely, wiping his forehead; "it's no use
beating about the bush. I am Damberton, but now I'm quite respectable.
You surely are not going to----"

"I'm goin' to do nothin', sir. You ain't upsettin' my apple-cart. No,
sir. That's a fact, anyhow."

"Then what do you want me to do for you?" asked Dombrain, with a sigh
of relief.

"Well, now," replied Silas, thoughtfully, "that's just what I've got
to find out. Mrs. Belswin--hey! Do you know who Mrs. Belswin is?"

"Yes, the she-devil! Pethram's wife. She was here half an hour ago."

"Is that so? I say, you ain't playin' in the same yard, I guess. Not
much, when you call her names."

"I hate her!" said Dombrain, fiercely; "she is the curse of my life."

"I reckon she's been raisin' Cain here," observed Silas, shrewdly.
"Well, that ain't any of my business, but she's been tryin' the same
game on with me. Now I'm a quiet man, sir, and I don't want no
catamount spittin' round my front door, so I want you to put the set
on that lady."

"What can I do?"

"I've been readin' your noospapers, sir. They can't scream like the
American eagle. Not much! But I read all about that shootin' case, and
I see you were waltzin' round! hey! Mrs. Pethram wasn't far off
neither, I guess."

"No; she was companion to Miss Pethram."

"Well, you do surprise me, sir. I s'pose her daughter didn't rise to
the fact that Mrs. Belswin was her mamma."

"No; she knew nothing. Mrs. Belswin obtained the situation while Sir
Rupert Pethram was absent. When he returned she had an interview with
him, and----"

"And he passed in his cheques," concluded Silas, musingly. "Queer
thing that, anyhow."

"You don't think," began Dombrain hastily, when Silas interrupted him
promptly.

"I don't think at all," he said, rising and putting on his hat. "I
don't want to think. Compoundin' a felony isn't in my line nohow."

"But surely, sir----"

Oates, who had turned away, faced round suddenly, with a sharp look in
his foxy face which made Dombrain feel somewhat ill at ease.

"See here, Mister," he said slowly. "Mrs. Belswin's been round at my
hotel tryin' to get dollars. I gave her five hundred, and now this
bank's shut. She gets no more, I guess, this fall, because you'll tell
her she's not to come gavortin' round my claim no more."

"But I can't stop her."

"No?" said Silas, interrogatively, "I guess you can. See here, Mr.
Damberton, I know what you are--none better, and that's straight. You
know what Mrs. Belswin is, and if she plays low on you, sir, just ask
her where she got the little gun to fix up things with her husband."

"But she didn't kill him."

Silas laughed disbelievingly.

"I don't know nothin' of that game, sir. It's a cut beyond me, and
that's a fact. All I say is, that if Mrs. Belswin comes on the
war-path to my ranch, I'll tell some things about Mr. Damberton that
Mr. Dombrain won't smile at. You take me, sir, I fancy."

"Yes!" said Dombrain, slowly, while the great drops of sweat gathered
on his forehead, "I understand."

"Bully for you," replied Mr. Oates, in a friendly tone, going to the
door. "Good-mornin', sir. I'm pleased to see you again. It's like the
old days, and that's a fact."

Mr. Oates sauntered out with his hands in his pockets and Dombrain
flung himself in his chair, and, burying his face in his hands, sobbed
like a child.

"My God," he sobbed passionately, "am I to lose all after these
years?"




CHAPTER XXVI.
VAE VICTIS.


     "Those who went forth in brave array
      Return again at the close of day,
      With tattered banners that flaunted gay,
      And swords now broken that once could slay;
          Their march is sad and slow.

     "Oh, sorrow for those who could not die,
      Who, lion-hearted, were forced to fly,
      And now for ever in chains must lie;
      For hark, there rises the terrible cry--
          'Woe to the vanquished, woe.'"


When Mrs. Belswin received a letter from Mr. Dombrain asking her to
call, she was considerably astonished, as she had thought her last
interview with him would have pretty well resigned him to the loss of
her society. But evidently he was now throwing down the gage of
battle, so Mrs. Belswin, like an old war-horse at the sound of a
trumpet, felt a certain exultation at the thought of the coming fight,
and lost no time in assenting to the request of the solicitor.

What he wanted to see her about she could not imagine, unless it was
to make another offer for the Pole Star shares, and as she had already
set his mind at rest on that point, it seemed ridiculous to think that
he would waste his time in trying to encompass the impossible. She was
now quite at ease in her own mind regarding money matters, as the
hundred pounds she had obtained from Silas, together with what she
already had in the bank, would enable her and Kaituna to live in
comfort for the next three or four months in an economical way. Of
course, she quite expected to be in possession of the other four
hundred the next week, which would place them in affluence until the
report of Toby came home about the Pole Star shares, and judging from
the offer made by Dombrain, Mrs. Belswin, with feminine acuteness,
guessed that the shares were more valuable than they now appeared to
be, so that their sale in a few months would realise a decent sum for
Kaituna. If this turned out to be the case, Mrs. Belswin intended to
persuade Kaituna to marry Archie at once, and the future of her child
being thus secured, she cared little for herself. She could certainly
marry herself, as both Ferrari and Belk were devoted to her, but she
despised the first for his cowardice in the matter of removing her
husband, and the latter, in spite of his good looks, was of too lowly
a station for her to think seriously of in any way.

Since her departure from Thornstream, Belk had written to her several
times--ardent, passionate letters, which showed plainly how deeply in
love he was with her; and Mrs. Belswin could not but feel a thrill of
pride at the thought of her own attractions, even at the mature age of
forty-five. At present, however, she had more important things to
think of than marriage, and drove along to Dombrain's office in a
puzzled state of mind, trying to think of the reason why he wanted to
see her, so that she could be prepared to hold her own.

That Silas had stolen a march on her she never for a moment dreamed;
and had she guessed the real object of the interview sought by Mr.
Dombrain, she would doubtless have felt somewhat ill at ease. As it
was, however, she knew nothing; and thus, ignorance being bliss, she
walked boldly into the dingy office, and took her accustomed seat with
her usual defiant air.

Dombrain himself was rather nervous, although he now assumed a
bullying manner towards the woman he was afraid of. She had held a
power over him which had hitherto precluded him from talking to her as
he would have wished; but now he had discovered something about her
life which gave him the advantage, and he determined to use his power
to insult, sneer, and crush her; in fact, treat her in the same way as
she had hitherto treated him.

In spite of her violent temper, her foolish impulses, Mrs. Belswin was
not without a certain amount of feminine cunning; and, as she was
quite in the dark concerning the object of the interview, and,
moreover, did not like the ill-concealed look of triumph on the part
of the solicitor, she held her tongue, waiting for him to begin the
attack, so that a chance word might afford her an opportunity of
fathoming his motives.

"Well, Mrs. Belswin," said Dombrain, with a nasty grin on his
coarse-looking face, "and how are you to-day, after your conduct in
our last interview?"

Mrs. Belswin looked him up and down in a sneeringly insolent manner,
which made him writhe.

"I think I ought to ask that question," she said, disdainfully,
"considering that I left you crushed, like the little reptile you
are."

"Oh, no. None of those compliments, if you please. Last time you had
it all your own way; this time I have it all mine."

"Two can play at every game."

"Yes; but one generally holds trumps. This time I hold trumps. Do you
play cards, Mrs. Belswin? If so, you know that the game is to the
player with the strongest hand."

"I congratulate you on your knowledge of gambling. And may I ask what
you are talking about?"

"All in good time, Mrs. Belswin--all in good time. First and foremost,
I wish to know about your visit to Silas Oates. Ah! you start at that.
You are not quite so confident as you were at our last interview."

"I think you are mistaken," replied Mrs. Belswin, coldly. "There can
be nothing to interest you in my interview with Mr. Oates. If you
fancy your knowledge that I called on him makes me afraid, you were
never further from the truth in your life. I am not to be terrified by
an ex-convict."

It was the old threat that had formerly reduced Mr. Dombrain to
silence; but now it appeared to have lost its power, for the
ex-convict leaned back in his chair and laughed insolently.

"People who live in glass houses should not throw stones."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say."

"You seem to have been at your private whiskey-bottle," said Mrs.
Belswin, rising impatiently; "but as I am not in the mood to listen to
your drunken ravings I will go."

"Oh, no, you won't. Of course you can if you like; but you had better
hear what I have to say."

"I will give you five minutes," replied Mrs. Belswin, resuming her
seat, "no more."

"That will be enough. Now, just listen to me. Mr. Oates has called,
and informed me of your attempt to blackmail him. You have got one
hundred pounds, and he says he will not give you any more."

"That is a question that has nothing to do with you, sir."

"Oh, yes, it has," retorted Dombrain, coolly. "He asked me to stop you
from calling on him again, and I intend to do so."

Mrs. Belswin laughed long and loudly.

"Do you, indeed? And may I ask how you intend to stop me?"

Mr. Dombrain leaned across the desk, glanced round to make sure they
were alone, then whispered slowly--

"By asking you how you killed your husband."

She sprang to her feet with a pale face, her eyes flashing fiercely.

"It's a lie! You know I had nothing to do with it."

"I'm afraid a jury wouldn't take that view if they heard my evidence."

"Your evidence! the evidence of a felon."

"That's a pretty name, but instead of abusing me, you'd better look
after yourself."

Mrs. Belswin sat down again and spoke deliberately.

"I don't know what your object is in talking like this, but I will
take it as a favour if you will let me know precisely how you connect
me with my late husband's death. You say I killed him. You hint you
can prove it. That's a lie, because if that was the case I should be
in prison now. No! No! Mr. Damberton, you are not the man to spare a
woman."

"Certainly not you, who have made my life a hell for the last few
months."

"We can exchange these compliments afterwards. First your story."

Dombrain, who was growing weary of all this fencing, lost no time in
responding to this request, and began at once.

"As you know, I was staying at Thornstream on the night you arrived.
Ostensibly, I had come down to see Sir Rupert on business, but my real
motive was to see how you intended to meet him. You did not appear at
dinner, and I thought you would put off the interview until the next
day. I was tired with my day's work, and was about to retire to rest
when I saw you descending the stairs, upon which I hid myself, lest
you should see me."

"Coward!" ejaculated Mrs. Belswin, disdainfully.

"No, I was no coward, but had I been foolish enough to have spoken to
you, in one of your paroxysms of anger, you might have revealed my
true position to Sir Rupert, out of spite."

Mrs. Belswin thought how she had really done this, and how ignorant
the man before her was of his narrow escape from exposure--an exposure
only prevented by the death of Pethram.

"Therefore," resumed Dombrain, coldly, "I hid myself, but I watched
the door of the study. You entered there, and the door was closed. A
long time passed--the servants put out the lights, shut up the house,
and retired to rest. Miss Pethram, I have learned since, retired early
on account of a headache, and as the whole Thornstream household kept
country hours, by the time the clock struck ten--the hall clock I am
speaking of--all the house was asleep except you, Sir Rupert, and
myself. The half-hour sounded, still you had not left the study--the
three-quarters struck, but the door was still closed. I waited, and
waited, and wondered. Eleven sounded from the clock in the hall, and
at a few minutes past the door opened, and you appeared, pale and
ghastly, like a guilty spectre. Closing the door softly after you,
with a furtive look round, lest some one should be watching, you fled
upstairs, brushed past me, and went into your bedroom. This was all I
wanted to see. I knew you had met your husband, that he had not turned
you out of the house, so never dreaming that you had committed a crime
to screen your real self, I went to bed. Next morning----"

He flung open his arms with a dramatic gesture, quite in keeping with
the stagey way in which he had told the story, and became silent, with
his small eyes viciously fastened on the unfortunate woman before him.

She was sitting like an image of stone, pale and still, with tightly
compressed lips, and a lurid fire burning in her fierce eyes. Only the
nervous working of her hands lying in her lap betrayed her deep
agitation, and when he had finished, she looked at him with a smile of
disdain.

"And you saw all this wonderful thing like a cat in the dark," she
said, scoffingly.

"No! You know perfectly well that the hall lamp was still lighted, for
Sir Rupert himself had told the servants not to wait up, as he would
work late, and he would put it out himself. I saw perfectly well all I
have described and you know it."

"So you think I killed my husband?"

"I'm sure of it. According to the evidence at the inquest, the time of
his death was between ten and eleven. I can prove that you left the
room at eleven o'clock, so you must have left your dead husband behind
you."

"If you saw all this, why did you not tell it at the inquest?"

"Because I wished to spare you."

"No! No! Don't lie to me like that. I am your bitter enemy! Why did
you spare me?"

"I will tell you. Whether you killed Sir Rupert or not was nothing to
me, personally. My reputation as a lawyer is a great deal to me. Had I
denounced you, the result would have been----"

"That I should have told all about you, and you would have been struck
off the rolls. Ah! I thought you had some motive for sparing me. Well,
what do you intend to do now?"

"Tell all, unless you promise to leave Oates alone."

"If you do your position will still be lost."

"I know it, I know it!" cried Dombrain in despair; "but what can I do?
If I do not stop your going to Oates, he knows me, and he will tell
all. If I do stop you, then you in revenge will tell all."

"I see, you are between two fires," said Mrs. Belswin, calmly. "Well,
set your mind at rest; I will trouble Silas Oates no more."

"You will not?"

"No. All I wanted out of him was money, but as to that you will take
his place and be my banker."

"I?"

"Yes, you! Pshaw, man, you needn't look so scared! You know well
enough that the money will be returned to you when those shares are
sold."

"But they are worth nothing."

"So I thought until you wanted to buy them," said Mrs. Belswin, with a
sneer.

"You forget I hold your life in my hand!" cried Dombrain,
threateningly.

"Well, and I hold your position in mine," retorted Mrs. Belswin. "My
life is a great deal to me, your position is everything to you. I am
willing to leave Silas Oates alone if you give me money when I require
it; if not, you can denounce me when you like."

"And then you will be hanged!" said Dombrain, spitefully.

"Bah! I can prove your story to be a lie."

"How so?"

"I'll tell you now. Good heavens! did you think that if I was guilty
I'd think my life safe in your keeping? My neck against your position?
Bah! the thing is ridiculous. I can clear myself and ruin you at the
same time, but I want no scandal, nor my daughter to know who I am, as
she inevitably must had I to publicly defend myself of your charge of
murder. So you see that on my side I have as much a desire as you to
keep matters quiet. Now then, I'll leave Silas Oates alone, I will not
go near him; but if I want money you must supply it."

"I will do so--to any reasonable amount," replied Dombrain, hastily.
"But you say you are innocent?"

"And I am."

"After what I've seen I don't believe it. If you did not kill him, who
else had a motive?"

"How do I know? I was not in all the secrets of Sir Rupert's life. But
I can tell to you, so afraid of losing your pettifogging position,
what I dare not tell any one else. I saw Sir Rupert's dead body on
that night, but I did not kill him."

"Then you know who did?"

"No, I do not."

"Let me hear your story," said Dombrain, with a disbelieving smile.

"When I entered the study," began Mrs. Belswin, without further
preamble, "I saw my husband. He recognised me at once. We had a
stirring interview, and he turned me out of the house. I left by the
French window, where he was found lying dead; and in order to get
shelter for the night, I went to 'The Chequers' in Deswarth. I'm not
telling you all the story, mind you, but only what suits myself. In
the dock I should tell everything. Well, to resume. I waited at 'The
Chequers' for some time, and then determined to return to Thornstream
to say good-bye to my daughter, as I knew Sir Rupert would prevent me
seeing her the next day. I arrived on the terrace just when the hour
of eleven sounded. There was still a light in Sir Rupert's study, and
stealing along in the dark, I saw his dead body lying half in and half
out of the window. A full sense of the danger of my position flashed
on me, and I saw that if I was arrested I was lost. I dare not try to
enter the house by any door as they were all locked, and if a servant
admitted me I should have to account for my being out at that hour of
the night, which would lead to my being accused of the murder. The
only way to regain my own room in safety was across the dead body of
my husband, so I entered by the French window, left by the study door,
and regained my bedroom without any one having seen me--except you. I
did not kill him! I swear I did not!"

"I'm afraid that story would not go down in a court of law."

"I told you I had kept some of the story to myself. To use your
favourite illustration, I still hold my trump card."

There was silence for a few moments, during which Mrs. Belswin,
considerably agitated, used her smelling-bottle freely. Then Dombrain
spoke.

"Well, there's nothing more to be said."

"I think not," said Mrs. Belswin, rising. "You know my conditions!"

"And you know mine, I think," retorted Dombrain with a malignant grin.

She cast upon him a glance of supreme contempt, and went to the door.

"I'll see you again when I want money," she said, and vanished.

"Humph!" said Mr. Dombrain, thoughtfully; "if I can find out the part
of the story you won't tell, I may be able to stop your seeing me
altogether."




CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CASE.


     "Out of the night, and into the light,
        Comes the doer of evil deeds.
      Out of the light, and into the night,
        With a sin on his soul he speeds.
      But the hemp is sown, and the tree is grown,
      That will hang him high as a murderer known,
        Himself hath planted the seeds."


To be an amateur detective requires a certain amount of capital. There
are people "who know" to be discovered, and a search after them cannot
be successfully conducted without money; and when the people "who
know" are brought under the eye of the inquirer, they frequently
decline to speak unless well paid for their information. Money,
therefore, is essential to the success of solving a mystery, and when
Archie Maxwell sat down calmly to consider the aspect of affairs, he
found himself at once face to face with the question of funds.

He was young, he had talents, he had a profession; so with all these
endowments looked forward to making a fortune, which is the ambition
of every well-constituted youth in this age of gold. Unfortunately,
like the magical draught of Mephistopheles, time is required to make
money, and as every moment was of importance in finding out the
mystery of Sir Rupert's death, Archie could not waste four or five
years in getting together sufficient to prosecute his inquiries. It
was true that he was engaged to go out to Buenos Ayres at the end of
the year, but the firm who employed him were hard to deal with, and
refused to let him draw in advance of his salary. Toby was not well
off, so he could not apply to him for aid, besides which that young
man was already on his way to the Antipodes; so Mr. Maxwell found
himself with comparatively little money in the bank and a difficult
case to solve without funds.

Luckily Archie was of a very sanguine nature, and hopeful in a
Micawberish sense of "something turning up;" so making up his mind to
at all events make a start in the affair, he collected all the
newspaper reports of the inquest, and made himself thoroughly
acquainted with the ins and outs of the baronet's death.

It appeared, from the evidence of the butler, that on the night of the
murder Sir Rupert had informed him that he would be sitting up late in
his study, looking over some papers, and that the household could go
to bed at their usual time. Sir Rupert appeared cheerful, but somewhat
preoccupied, and went into his study shortly after dinner. The butler,
according to his instructions, locked up all the house, leaving the
hall lamp burning for Sir Rupert to put out, and then, with the rest
of the servants, retired to rest. He heard no pistol-shot, no sounds
of any one being in the house, and knew nothing about the terrible
event which had taken place until the next morning.

The housemaid stated that she had entered the study, according to her
usual custom, to put it to rights, and had there found the body of her
master lying half in and half out of the French window, which was
open. Her shriek of terror brought her fellow-servants to the spot,
and the police were sent for but she knew nothing more.

Miss Pethram deposed that her father had said good-night to her
shortly after dinner, and had retired to his study to attend to some
business. She remained in the drawing-room for some time with Mr.
Dombrain, her father's solicitor, who was then staying in the house,
and retired to bed about nine o'clock, as she had a bad headache. She
had heard no pistol-shot during the night There was nothing in her
father's demeanour that led her to think he contemplated suicide.

Mr. Dombrain, the dead man's solicitor, said that he had come down to
Thornstream in order to witness the signing of Sir Rupert's will. The
signing took place in the afternoon, and at night the baronet went to
his study to look over some papers. He (witness) offered to accompany
him, but Sir Rupert refused, as he said it was not necessary. Miss
Pethram retired to bed about nine o'clock, and as he was left alone,
he also retired half an hour afterwards. Sir Rupert never gave him the
least idea that he contemplated suicide--in fact, on the night of the
murder he seemed very cheerful. Witness was a very heavy sleeper, but
he certainly had heard no pistol-shot during the night, and it was
only next morning that he learned about the crime.

Mrs. Belswin, chaperon to Miss Pethram, gave her evidence, which was
rather important, as she was the last person who saw Sir Rupert alive.
She had been engaged when Sir Rupert was in New Zealand, and on his
arrival had gone up to London on business. She only returned on the
day when the crime was committed, and went to see Sir Rupert in his
study between eight and nine o'clock. She only had a short interview
with him, as they had nothing particular to talk about, and had gone
up to her room shortly after nine o'clock. Knowing that Miss Pethram
had retired with a bad headache, she did not disturb her, but went
straight to bed. Some of the servants might have noticed her going
upstairs to her room; she did not know. Sir Rupert was a complete
stranger to her. He seemed well and cheerful; certainly the idea of
suicide never crossed her mind for a moment. She heard no sounds of a
struggle nor any pistol-shot, and knew nothing of the committal of the
crime until next morning.

The doctor's evidence was to the effect that the deceased had been
shot somewhere between ten and eleven o'clock at night. The bullet,
penetrating the right eye, had entered the brain, causing death almost
instantaneously. From the slanting upward direction of the bullet from
the eye towards the back part of the head he would think the pistol or
gun had been fired from a low position. According to his idea, the
murderer had been crouching behind some shrubs on the terrace. Sir
Rupert came to the window, and, as the study was lighted, his form
would be clearly defined against the brilliant background. This was
the opportunity chosen by the assassin, who had fired from the
crouching position he occupied, so that the bullet had travelled
upwards and penetrated into the brain through the right eye.

During the evidence of this witness the bullet was produced to the
Court, and afterwards the Coroner summed up. Going on the evidence
produced, the jury brought in a verdict of murder against some person
or persons unknown. In addition to this bold report of the case, there
was a short leader, which theorised a great deal, but ultimately came
to the conclusion that nothing could be done to unravel the mystery,
and (as usual) complimented the police on their vigilance, a
compliment wholly undeserved, as, from all appearances, the case had
been conducted in a singularly slip-slop fashion, utterly unworthy of
English justice.

Being an engineer, Maxwell was consequently a mathematician,
therefore, having been trained in that exact science, he had a
singularly logical mind. Two and two, according to his way of looking
at things, made four, but in this instance he was doubtful as to
whether they did so. Everything in connection with the case was
wrapped in mystery, and there seemed to be no one on whom suspicion
could rest. All the people present in the house on the night in
question had given satisfactory accounts of their movements, except,
perhaps, Mrs. Belswin, and the only possible suspicion against her was
that she had been last in the company of the dead man.

This was all very well, but the committal of a crime pre-supposes a
motive, and as Mrs. Belswin, according to her own account, was a
complete stranger to Sir Rupert, it would certainly be very foolish to
even hint such a thing against her. She had seen the baronet, spoken
to him for a few minutes, and then retired to bed. Nothing could be
simpler, and whosoever had a hand in the murder it was certainly not
Mrs. Belswin, so Archie dismissed this fancy as a foolish one.

The curious part about the whole affair was that no one had heard any
report, and, as Sir Rupert had been shot the sound of the weapon
employed would certainly have been heard. Yet all present in the house
averred that they heard nothing; which was, to say the least, very
peculiar.

Judging from the evidence of the doctor, Sir Rupert was shot from the
terrace, which argued that the assassin must have been a stranger to
the house. With this idea in his head, Maxwell wondered whether any
suspicious stranger had been about the neighbourhood at that time, and
made up his mind to inquire. Sir Rupert, from all accounts, was not a
loveable character, and, in fact, his conduct towards Maxwell had been
anything but courteous, so that he was just the kind of man to have
enemies. This being the case, what was more probable than that some
man or woman whom he had wronged had followed him to Thornstream and
revenged themselves by killing him. It was rather a wild idea, still
it seemed the only feasible one, so Maxwell made up his mind to go
down to Deswarth, ask the hospitality of the vicarage for a few days,
and make inquiries regarding what strangers had been to the village on
that fatal day.

This was the conclusion he came to, but then the assertion of every
one that they had heard no shot was puzzling, and the more Maxwell
thought the more puzzled he became.

Suddenly an idea struck him and he jumped to his feet.

"I have it," he cried, "it was an air-gun."




CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHAT MRS. BELK FOUND.


     "Nothing appears,
      All is concealed;
      Chance interferes,
      All is revealed."


It was a great idea, and one which had never entered the brains of the
detectives employed in the case, so Maxwell looked upon it as an
earnest of success. He told no one about it, not even Mrs. Belswin,
nor Kaituna; but informing them that he was called out of town for a
few days on business, made his preparations for going to Deswarth, and
finding out all particulars regarding the case which had not come to
light at the inquest.

Then Chance interfered.

On the morning of his departure he was having breakfast at his rooms,
intending to catch the eleven train to Deswarth, when his departure
was postponed indefinitely by the appearance of a visitor.

And the visitor was Mrs. Belk.

She sent up her name to Archie, who told the servant to admit her,
wondering on what errand she had come--never for a moment thinking
that she could have anything to do with the Deswarth tragedy.

Mrs. Belk entered, neatly dressed in her widow's garb, with her mean
evil face looking smug and placid under the white frill of her widow's
cap. On seeing Archie she curtsied in an old-fashioned way, and, with
the natural deference of the lower orders, waited for him to speak
first.

"You wish to see me," he said, looking at her in some surprise, for
such an odd figure had never before entered his chambers.

Mrs. Belk, with another curtsey, signified that she did wish to see
him, and had come to London for that purpose. This reply having been
made, she shut her mouth with a snap, and waited, still giving no hint
of her errand.

"Will you not be seated, Mrs.--Mrs.----"

"Belk, sir," said the woman, seeing that Archie was at a loss,
"perhaps, sir, you may know my son, Samson Belk."

"Oh, yes! the good-looking bailiff," replied Maxwell, carelessly. "Is
he your son?"

"He is, sir," answered Mrs. Belk, her heart swelling with pride at
hearing the eulogy on her son's good looks. "He was bailiff to Sir
Rupert, but now he is bailiff to the new baronet, Sir Thomas Pethram."

"Indeed. I'm very glad his prospects are so good," said Archie
politely, wondering what all this domestic history had to do with him.

"His prospects ain't good, sir; and that's why I've come up to see
you."

"But, my good woman, what can I do?" cried the young man in amazement.

Mrs. Belk wriggled in her chair, sniffed significantly, and went on
talking apparently in a manner most irrelevant to the subject in hand.

"Sir Thomas," she said, with snappy deliberation, "is a hard man. Sir
Rupert was hard, there's no denying, and my boy--who is proud--didn't
get on with being crushed. If Sir Rupert hadn't died he would have
left his service; but as he did die, and Sir Thomas asked him to stay
on--he knowing all the ins and outs of the place--he did so, thinking
Sir Thomas would be a better master."

"And he was disappointed?"

Mrs. Belk nodded her head emphatically.

"You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," she said,
sententiously; "and that's what Sir Thomas is. A hard gentleman, sir,
who thinks my boy is a slave; so we are going to leave his service."

"But, Mrs. Belk," observed Archie, rather puzzled, "what on earth has
all this got to do with me?"

"I'm coming to that, sir," replied the woman, imperturbably; "me and
my boy wondered what we'd do when we left Sir Thomas; for situations,
Mr. Maxwell, are hard to get--especially for poor folks like us."

Maxwell nodded an assent, and waited until she came to the reason of
her visit.

"In the papers," pursued Mrs. Belk, with a faint smile of triumph on
her pale face, "me and my boy saw that strong men was being exhibited
in London, and all the gentry was mad on 'em."

"Yes, I believe that is the case. This strong man craze is in all the
music-halls."

"My son, sir, is called Samson, and he is as strong as a horse."

"Yes, I know that," said Archie, with the cordial admiration of
physical strength which one Englishman feels for another. "He is
tremendously strong. I've seen him do some wonderful things. Well, and
your son proposes to come up to London and exhibit his strength."

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Belk, with a look of triumph; "he does, sir.
It's my idea."

"I've no doubt it's a good one. While the craze lasts he may make
money; but after----"

"I'll take care of the money, sir," answered Mrs. Belk, grimly. "He'll
make hay while the sun shines, and I'll take care when the sun doesn't
shine that we'll have something to live on."

"Do you want me to help you in this, then?"

"In a sort of way, sir; but not for nothing."

Maxwell smiled.

"Really, I don't know what you can do for me."

"You wait, sir, and I'll tell. To git a start in London requires
money, and me and my son want fifty pounds to give us a start."

"Indeed. I'm afraid I can't advance the money."

"So you say now, sir; but when you know what fifty pounds 'ull buy,
perhaps you will."

Archie's curiosity was now fully aroused, owing to the significance of
her words. There was evidently something important behind all this
apparently idle preamble, and he waited with some anxiety as to what
she was going to tell him.

"You are engaged to Miss Pethram, sir, I'm told," said Mrs. Belk,
abruptly.

"Yes, I am. What then?" replied Maxwell rather haughtily, not liking
his private affairs being mentioned by a complete stranger.

Mrs. Belk bent forward in a mysterious manner, touched him on the
knee, then flung herself back in her chair with a searching look.

"Has she found out who killed her father?"

"Good God!"

Maxwell jumped to his feet with an ejaculation, and, one hand grasping
the back of his chair, stood looking at the mean figure before him in
silent amazement.

"What do you mean?" he demanded in a stifled voice.

The woman carried an obtrusive black leather bag, of no small size,
with a metal clasp, and this she shook slowly at him as she replied to
his question.

"In here," she said, in her monotonous voice--a voice that neither
rose nor fell, but kept on droning constantly in the same dreary
monotone--"in here I have something which may lead to the discovery of
the criminal."

Maxwell gasped. Was chance going to reveal the secret which he had
been so afraid was a secret for ever? He had been about to go down to
Deswarth on an apparently hopeless quest, without anything to guide
him to a conclusion; and lo! at the very time when he was starting,
this woman appeared from the clouds with the asseveration that she
knew something which would be a sure guide to the revealing of the
mystery.

"In that bag?" he said, mechanically, looking at it in a fascinated
fashion. "In that bag?"

With a cry of relief he advanced and stretched out his hands eagerly.

"Give it to me! What is it? Give it to me?" The woman put the bag
behind her back with a frown.

"No," she answered, in the same passionless voice. "Nothing for
nothing. I have told you what I wanted. Give me fifty pounds, and you
shall have it."

"But what is it?"

"A clue to the man who committed the murder."

"Give it to me at once!"

"Certainly--when I get fifty pounds." Maxwell reflected. He was not a
rich man, and fifty pounds was a great consideration to him. Still, in
his search he would probably spend that amount, and by giving it to
this woman he would perhaps learn the name of the criminal at once, so
it would be better to save time by acceding to her demand, and thus
arrest the assassin before he had time to leave the country. Therefore
he made up his mind to give it to her, and secure the evidence she
said was in the bag; but first he tried to find out exactly what that
evidence was worth.

"Do you know who committed the murder?"

"No, I do not. I found something which I think belongs to him, and may
lead to his detection. You shall have it for fifty pounds."

"Why do you come to me?"

"You are engaged to Miss Pethram, and it is to your interest to find
out who killed her father. Besides, you will pay me money. If I went
to Sir Thomas or to Sir Rupert's solicitor, they would probably refuse
to give me a penny, and I want the money for my son."

"If I give you a cheque for fifty pounds you will give me
this--this--whatever it is you have in your bag?"

"I will; but I don't like cheques. I'd rather have the money in gold."

"You mistrust me?"

"I don't like cheques," reiterated Mrs. Belk, doggedly.

Maxwell reflected a few moments, then made up his mind what to do, and
rang the bell. When the servant who attended to all the chambers in
the building entered, he handed him a cheque for fifty pounds, made
payable to bearer, and drawn on the Piccadilly Bank, a branch of which
was not far distant.

"Take a hansom and cash this at once--gold. Will you be long?"

"About ten minutes, sir."

The servant departed, and Maxwell turned to Mrs. Belk, who observed
ail these doings with a satisfied smile.

"You see I am treating you fairly," he said quietly; "and when the
messenger returns I will place those fifty pounds in your hands."

"Very well, sir. In return I will give you what is in here,"

"I do not like this distrust!" cried Maxwell, angrily.

"I am a country woman, sir; I know nothing of London ways."

She was evidently obdurate, and there was silence for a few minutes.
Then Archie made another attempt to extract information from her.

"Where did you find this--whatever it is?"

"I will tell you, sir, when you have it in your hands."

"Do you know to whom it belongs?"

"No, sir."

"It seems to me that I am paying a heavy price for what is of
comparatively little value."

"I may be able to tell you something in addition to giving this to
you."

"Likely to be of service in connection with it?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Humph! Is this clue which you have of value?"

"To you, yes."

"Of pecuniary value, I mean?"

"Yes, it is valuable."

"Then why did you not sell it instead of giving it to me for fifty
pounds?"

"Sir," said Mrs. Belk, coldly, "I am an honest woman. The thing is not
mine to sell. Money obtained dishonestly brings no good luck, and as
this money is for my son, I do not wish it to be cursed."

"The fifty pounds I now give you may be the price of a man's blood.
You are strangely scrupulous. You will not steal, but you will hang a
man."

"If he is guilty he deserves to die. Credit rather than blame is mine
for handing him over to justice."

Maxwell looked curiously at her.

"You speak above your station in life."

"Very probably," replied Mrs. Belk, indifferently. "I have had some
education."

This strange dialogue was interrupted by the entrance of the servant,
who handed Maxwell fifty pounds in gold and then took his departure.
The young man placed the money on the table and motioned to Mrs. Belk.

"Count it, please, and see if it is correct."

Mrs. Belk eagerly advanced towards the table, and dividing the money
into tens, counted it rapidly. Having done so, she took a small canvas
bag out of her pocket and put the gold into it.

"That is all right, sir," she said, with a sigh of relief, opening the
black bag. "You have behaved like a gentleman; I have the money I
want, and you have in exchange--this."

"This" was a small diamond pin in the shape of a star, with eight
points, and Maxwell took it in his hand with a sensation that he had
seen it before.

"Ah!" he said, thoughtfully, turning it over in his hands, "this is
the thing I have bought for my fifty pounds."

"Yes, sir."

"It is worth about twenty, I should say," said Maxwell, resuming his
seat. "But doubtless the story attached to it will render it more
valuable."

"There is no story, sir," replied Mrs. Belk, who had placed the gold
in her obtrusive black bag. "Simply this: I found that on the terrace
of the Hall on the morning after the murder. It was lying close to the
window."

"Indeed! And you think----"

"I think that it was dropped by the man who murdered Sir Rupert."

"How do you know it was a man?"

"That is a gentleman's scarf-pin, sir."

"Hah!" cried Maxwell, with a sudden start, "I know now where I saw
it."

"You saw it, sir?" asked Mrs. Belk, eagerly.

"Yes, on the scarf of the man I----never mind, I may be mistaken. Did
you tell your son you had found this?"

"No, sir. I wished to surprise him with the money. I have told no one
except you."

"I'm glad of that. Well, I think I have an idea; but surely he cannot
be guilty of the murder."

"Who, sir?"

Maxwell, who had risen to his feet, looked at her keenly.

"Have you any idea of whom I am talking?"

"None in the least, sir."

The young man walked to the other end of the room, then retraced his
steps slowly.

"Mrs. Belk," he said, after a pause, "do you know if there were any
strangers in Deswarth on the night of the murder?"

"Only one, sir. A furriner at The Chequers, and he went away next
morning."

"Do you think he knew Sir Rupert?"

"I do not know, sir. All I know is that I found that scarf-pin near
where the murder was committed. If it belongs to the furriner, he
killed Sir Rupert."

"What was he doing at Deswarth?"

"I do not know, sir."

"Humph! Well, say nothing about this to any one, Mrs. Belk. I will see
you again when I come down to Deswarth."

"You are coming down to Deswarth, sir?"

"Yes, to find out who killed Sir Rupert."

"I think you'll find him in London, sir," said the woman, with a grim
smile, as she stood with her hand on the door. "Good-morning, sir."

"Good-morning."

Maxwell stood a long time looking at the pin.

"Yes," he said aloud, "it certainly belongs to that man."

He had seen it in the scarf of Ferrari in the morning he met Mrs.
Belswin at the Deswarth station.




CHAPTER XXIX.
DANGER.


     "Woman, this stranger
      Knows not thy shame;
      Yet there is danger
      Hears he thy name.

     "Hide it, conceal it,
      Heed not the cost;
      Breathe it, reveal it,
      And thou art lost."


The diamond scarf-pin had been found on the terrace of Thornstream by
Mrs. Belk, so the man to whom it belonged must have been there on the
night of the murder, and the owner thereof, according to Maxwell's
firm conviction--on the testimony of his own eyes--was none other than
the stranger who had been in the company of Mrs. Belswin at the
Deswarth station. The first thing, therefore, to be done was to find
out who this stranger was, and demand from him an explanation of his
presence at Thornstream on that fatal night.

Maxwell, however, did not know this man whom he suspected of being a
murderer; he did not even know his name; but he could discover all
about him in two ways, one of which was doubtful, the other certain.

The doubtful way:

To go down to Deswarth and inquire from the landlord of The Chequers
the name, position, and business in the village of the man who had
stayed at the inn. This was doubtful in this way: that supposing the
stranger had come to Deswarth to commit this crime, he would naturally
give a false name to the landlord, so as to obviate the danger of
discovery, so Maxwell, with this idea in his head, plainly saw that
going down to Deswarth in order to interview the landlord would, in
all reasonable probability, be a waste of time.

The certain way:

To ask Mrs. Belswin the name of her companion, and the reason of his
coming to the village. Archie felt his old doubts about Mrs. Belswin
revive as he thought of the doubtful juxtaposition of this suspicious
character with the companion. Why had she gone to London at the time
of Sir Rupert's arrival? Why had she returned with a stranger, who had
been on the terrace on the night of the murder? And why had Sir
Rupert been murdered on the night of her return? Only one person could
answer all these inquiries, and that person was Mrs. Belswin. There
was certainly something very mysterious about her conduct; but
doubtless she would be able to give a satisfactory explanation;
otherwise---- A cold sweat broke out on Maxwell's brow as he thought
of the alternative.

Suspense is always more terrible than the event itself, and Archie,
full of suspicion against Mrs. Belswin and the unknown foreigner,
tortured his mind to a frightful extent over the possibility of this
woman being concerned in the murder. If, however, she was innocent,
she would be able to exculpate herself from any complicity in the
affair; but if she was guilty it was terrible to think that she was
the daily and nightly companion of Kaituna. She had possibly killed
the father! If so she might also kill the daughter. Was she some one
whom Sir Rupert had wronged, and who thus avenged herself by the hand
of another. The idea was terrible, and Maxwell, filled with the agony
of uncertainty, determined to go at once to Mrs. Belswin and demand an
explanation.

He made a point of calling that afternoon, and was lucky enough to
find Mrs. Belswin alone, as Kaituna had gone out on a shopping
excursion with Mrs. Valpy, who had come up to town the previous day.
Mrs. Belswin informed the young man of this, and invited him to wait
until Kaituna returned at the hour of five o'clock.

"Meanwhile," she said, ringing the bell, "sit down, and we will have
some tea."

Maxwell mechanically took a seat and glanced at the clock, the hands
of which pointed to four. This would give him a full hour to speak to
Mrs. Belswin before the arrival of Kaituna, and in that time he
expected to learn all he desired to know.

The lady seemed preoccupied, and as Maxwell was racking his brains to
invent some leading question, neither of them spoke for a few minutes.
The servant brought in the tea, and while Mrs. Belswin busied herself
with the cups, she for the first time noticed the unusual silence of
the young man.

"Well, Mr. Maxwell," she said, handing him his tea, with a smile,
"speech, I understand, was given to us to conceal our thoughts. You, I
perceive, conceal them without speaking."

"I have come to see you on a matter of business," said Archie,
abruptly putting down his cup on a small table near at hand.

The paleness of his face, the abruptness of his speech, the agitation
of his manner, at once put Mrs. Belswin on her guard, and a thrill of
fear shot through her heart--fear lest he should have discovered
anything about her past life which would be fatal to her living with
Kaituna. Her iron stoicism, however, prevailed, and she awaited with
outward calm, but inward perturbation, his next words.

"Mrs. Belswin," he said, slowly bending towards her, "do you know this
diamond pin?"

"Oh!" muttered Mrs. Belswin under her breath, recognising it at once,
"more misfortune."

"What do you say?"

"Before I answer your question, Mr. Maxwell," she observed, fixing her
keen eyes on his face, "I wish to know why you put it."

"Certainly, that is only fair. Do you remember the day I met you at
the Deswarth railway station?"

"Yes!"

"There was a stranger with you?"

"A stranger?"

"Pray do not evade the question," said Maxwell, in an annoyed tone; "I
mean the dark gentleman whom you sent off to see about your
portmanteau, and who accompanied you from town."

"How do you know he accompanied me from town?"

"I saw you both leave a first-class carriage together."

"That proves nothing. Travelling in the same carriage does not prove
that he accompanied me from town."

"But he looked after your luggage at your request!"

"Yes! he did so, certainly, but what does that prove?"

"Simply this, that you know the gentleman."

Mrs. Belswin would have liked to deny this, as she saw from the
production of the diamond pin, and the mention of Ferrari, that
Maxwell knew something; but she was so afraid, lest, failing her, he
should ask Kaituna, and so possibly discover more than she wished,
that she answered him frankly.

"Yes, I do know the gentleman."

"Ah! and you know his name?"

"Yes! His name is--but why do you want to know?"

"Because he wore this diamond pin on the day I saw him with you, and
this diamond pin----"

"Yes! yes!" cried Mrs. Belswin, breathlessly, clasping her hands.

"--Was found on the terrace of Thornstream the morning after the
murder."

The woman sprang to her feet, with a cry.

"Ferrari! impossible."

"Is his name Ferrari?"

"Yes! No! that is, Mr. Maxwell," she cried, seizing the young man by
the lappet of his coat "What do you mean? what do you suspect?"

"I mean that this diamond pin belongs to Ferrari, whom you have just
named. I suspect that he murdered Sir Rupert Pethram."

Mrs. Belswin uttered a cry of terror.

"No! no! It cannot be."

"Then let him prove his innocence."

"Prove his innocence?"

"Yes!" said Maxwell, with an air of determination. "I have made up my
mind to bring the murderer of Sir Rupert Pethram to justice.
Appearances are dead against this man, and I intend to put the matter
in the hands of the police."

"You will never find him."

Maxwell bounded from his seat, and crossing rapidly to Mrs. Belswin,
seized her wrist.

"Tell me," he said, imperiously, "have you any reason for wishing this
man to escape?"

"I!" she murmured, evasively; "I wish him to escape?"

"Yes! To all appearances he is your friend. He comes down with you to
Deswarth. A jewel belonging to him is found at the window of a room.
In that room a man is found dead. What does it all mean?"

"Wait!" cried the woman, wrenching herself from his grasp. "Wait; I
must think."

Maxwell obeyed, and returned to his seat with a cloud on his brow, for
the complicity of Mrs. Belswin in the affair now began to assume
gigantic proportions.

On her part, Mrs. Belswin saw at a glance the dangers by which she was
environed, and her active brain was already at work seeking some plan
by which she could extricate herself. She already saw that Maxwell
suspected her, and if he did so she trembled lest he should
communicate his suspicions to her daughter. With her hands pressed to
her burning face, she rapidly glanced at the aspect of affairs in
order to know how to act towards this young man, whose attitude
towards her was undeniably hostile.

If she refused to tell him anything he would put the matter into the
hands of the police, and they would immediately arrest Ferrari. In
doing so they would have no difficulty, as he, being a singer, was
easily to be found, and appearances were sufficiently strong against
him to authorise the granting of a warrant for his arrest. If Ferrari
were arrested he would certainly, urged by a fear of the law, reveal
all about her in his examination, and Kaituna would then learn that
Mrs. Belswin, the companion, was her mother. If she did so, Mrs.
Belswin trembled for the result of such a discovery, so at once she
made up her mind to promise Maxwell an interview with Ferrari, and
meanwhile warn the Italian of his peril. By this means she hoped that,
if guilty, Ferrari would at once fly from England; or, if innocent, he
would be able to exculpate himself without incriminating her, so that
in either case she would still preserve the secret of her true
relationship to Kaituna.

"Mr. Maxwell," she said at length, suppressing her agitation, "I will
tell you all I know, and then you can judge for yourself."

"Thank you, Mrs. Belswin," replied Maxwell, in a tone of relief. "I
think that will be the best way, as I am anxious to avoid the
interference of the police."

"And why, sir," demanded Mrs. Belswin, with a piercing glance.

The young man made no reply, but looked confused, upon which the woman
laughed bitterly.

"Ah, I see," she said with scorn; "you think that I, a stranger to the
late Sir Rupert, am implicated in his death."

"I have not said so, madam," murmured the young man, hastily.

"I swear before God," cried Mrs. Belswin, rising from her seat and
raising her right hand--"I swear before God that I know nothing of the
death of this man."

"But Ferrari----"

"I believe Ferrari to be innocent. Appearances are against him, it is
true, but that does not render him guilty. Listen, Mr. Maxwell.
Stephano Ferrari is a friend of mine, for I met him in America. Before
I came to England I was an opera-singer, and he was singing with me in
the same company. We are engaged to be married."

"You?"

"Yes. I wanted to rest my voice, and as I had but little money I
became companion to Miss Pethram. You know whether I have been a good
friend to her or not."

"You have been a good friend, certainly."

"My duties kept me near Miss Pethram, so I saw Ferrari but rarely, and
as he is devoted to me, naturally he missed my society. At the time I
left Deswarth, I came to London to see about my marriage, and on my
return--which was on a Sunday--Ferrari came down with me, as he was
not singing that night. Is there anything strange in this?"

"No; it seems quite natural," replied Maxwell, after a pause. "I would
act the same way towards Kaituna."

"Signor Ferrari," resumed Mrs. Belswin, coldly, "stayed that night at
The Chequers, and returned, I believe, next morning to town. I did not
see him, as, owing to the terrible death of Sir Rupert, I had to stay
with Kaituna. I do not know how he spent the night. I do not know at
what hour he returned in the morning."

"But this scarf-pin?"

"It is certainly his; but what of that? He may have come to
Thornstream to see me, and lost it on the terrace."

"If so, why did he not see you?"

"I do not know. I know nothing beyond what I have told you; but set
your mind at rest. Come here to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock, and
I will take you to Signor Ferrari, who will doubtless be able to
explain all to your satisfaction."

"You will?"

"Yes; at eleven to-morrow. I am sure he is innocent."

"I hope so," said Maxwell, heartily, "if only for your sake."

"You are still suspicious, I see," replied Mrs. Belswin, with a faint
smile. "Well, it is only natural, and I hope your suspicions will be
dispelled by Signor Ferrari's explanation. But now I must ask you to
permit me to retire, as all this exciting talk has given me a
headache. If, however, you will wait for Kaituna----"

"Not to-night, thank you," said Maxwell, hastily taking his hat and
stick. "I'm too disturbed to see her. Good-bye; I rely on your
promise. To-morrow at eleven."

"At eleven I will wait you," answered Mrs. Belswin, truthfully; "so at
present good-bye, and don't think worse of me than you can help."

Maxwell said nothing, but, bowing politely, left the room, while Mrs.
Belswin, annoyed at his silence, stood frowning angrily.

"He still suspects," she muttered, ringing the bell. "Ferrari must put
an end to his suspicions--if he can."

The servant entered the room.

"A hansom at once!"

She put on her cloak and bonnet and returned to the sitting-room to
wait for the cab.

"I'm in terrible danger," she said pulling on her gloves--"terrible
danger. One false step, and all may be known. Ferrari is my only hope.
Can he be guilty? Appearances are against him. If he is a murderer let
him suffer, as long as he keeps silence."

"The cab, ma'am."

Mrs. Belswin went downstairs.

"I don't care what happens," she cried, when driving away, "as long as
I keep my child."




CHAPTER XXX.
A CLEVER DEFENCE.


     "You say 'twas I! Indeed, sir, 'tis not so;
      My hands are innocent of this man's blood.
      Nay, never fear! I pardon what you say;
      Your judgment is misled by false report.
      Why! if you heed the idle tongues that wag,
      There's not an honest man would 'scape the law;
      For every act bears two interpretations--
      One good, one bad--so that our enemies
      Use that which fits in best with their desires,
      As evil witness 'gainst our true intents."


There is no doubt that peril sharpens the wits of all, therefore Mrs.
Belswin, in her interview with the Italian, proved herself such an
able diplomatist, that after some difficulty she obtained what she
wanted. According, therefore, to the arrangement she made with
Ferrari, he was to tell Maxwell as much as possible of his doings at
Deswarth without mentioning the name of Mrs. Belswin.

On first hearing of Maxwell's accusation, Ferrari wanted to fly, as he
plainly said it would be difficult for him to defend himself against
such a charge, although he swore on the crucifix that he was perfectly
innocent. Mrs. Belswin dissuaded him from this course, as she pointed
out, that if he acknowledged the truth of the accusation by flight,
Maxwell would immediately inform the police, and he would be arrested
before he could leave England. On the contrary, however, if he faced
the charge boldly, and explained the presence of the diamond scarf-pin
on the terrace to the satisfaction of the young man, he would not only
by doing so clear his own character, but might possibly lead to the
capture of the true criminal.

Ferrari agreed, therefore, to grant the interview desired by Maxwell,
and tell the truth without betraying Mrs. Belswin's true position
towards the dead man in any way; but during this very curious
conversation, both the man and the woman asked each other the same
question, "Are you guilty?" Mrs. Belswin solemnly swore that she was
innocent, and told Ferrari the same story as she had told Dombrain
concerning her doings on that night. This explanation satisfied the
Italian, and then in response to Mrs. Belswin's question as to his
innocence, he gave an account of how he had passed the night.

"After you departed, carissima," he said, volubly, "I went to seek
you, but the time was darkness. Cospetto! how black. I knew not the
villaggio, so I returned to the osteria in one few minutes."

"Were you in the hotel before eleven?" demanded Mrs. Belswin,
artfully.

"Cara mia, you fled at ten hours. I went. I came back at ten and ten.
So I could not have killed Il Marito."

Mrs. Belswin believed this story, as had he been out longer the
landlord would certainly have talked about it, and Ferrari would have
been arrested at once on suspicion. As it was she felt quite satisfied
that he was innocent; and having thus come to a complete understanding
with him, she departed.

Mrs. Belswin, therefore, declared that she was innocent.

Ferrari also declared his innocence.

If this were the case who was guilty?

Ah! that was to be revealed the next day to Archie Maxwell.

True to his promise the young man called for Mrs. Belswin at eleven
o'clock the following morning; and after a short interview with
Kaituna, to whom he talked on the most indifferent subjects, he
departed with the companion. Mrs. Belswin was fearfully pale, as all
her future depended upon the caution observed by Ferrari; and she was
afraid lest, carried away by his impulsive southern nature, the
Italian should reveal more than was desirable to Maxwell. She was not
afraid of being accused of the crime, as Dombrain alone could give
evidence as to her being in the room after the murder; and she had a
perfect understanding with him; but she was terribly afraid of
Maxwell's finding out her true relationship to Kaituna, in which case
she would certainly lose the companionship of her child, to retain
which she had fought so hard.

Maxwell was also somewhat preoccupied, as in spite of his desire to
think the best of Mrs. Belswin, all her conduct, her hesitations, her
equivocations, appeared so mysterious that he was forced to believe
that she knew more than she chose to tell. Her conduct, however, in
conducting him to a personal interview with Ferrari, was one argument
in her favour, for it never for a moment struck this simple-minded
young man that she had in any way prepared the ground beforehand.
Perfectly honest and straightforward in himself, Maxwell foolishly
supposed all other human beings to possess the same desirable
qualities; and, in the hands of two practised diplomatists, like the
Italian and Mrs. Belswin, he could not possibly hold his own. His life
had always been a perfectly open one, and although he was not rich, he
had never been put to any shifts for money in any way, consequently
his wits had grown somewhat rusty from want of exercise. Mrs. Belswin
and her friend, however, had led a reckless Bohemian existence, which
called for craft, courage, coolness and dexterity, in a very high
degree; therefore they were thoroughly competent in dealing with a
delicate affair like the present, which required subtle management.
Still, a blundering blue-bottle often breaks the web spun by the
craftiest spider; so Mrs. Belswin feared lest the straightforward
honesty of the young man should rush through all her careful schemes,
and by sheer boldness arrive at the truth.

On their arrival at Ferrari's chambers he was already waiting for
them, and Mrs. Belswin having introduced him to Archie, the three sat
down to talk. It was a fencing match, and the third fencer was
Maxwell, who not only had two opponents against him, but those same
opponents were gifted with powers of attack and parry of which he was
completely ignorant.

"You speak English, I see," said Archie to Ferrari, after the first
greetings had passed.

"Certainly, signor," replied the Italian, showing his white teeth. "I
have been long from Italy? Oh, yes. The estates of America."

"Where I had the pleasure of meeting Signor Ferrari," observed Mrs.
Belswin, ceremoniously.

At this the signor bowed, but made no remark, so Maxwell, seeing that
he would not commit himself to speech unless questioned, began at once
on the main object of the interview.

"Mrs. Belswin, I presume, told you I wished to see you, Signor
Ferrari?"

The Italian bowed.

"About an article of jewellery belonging to you?"

Ferrari bowed again.

"Which was found on the terrace at Thornstream, the residence of the
late Sir Rupert Pethram?"

The signor bowed for the third time and Maxwell, hot-blooded in all
things, began to lose his temper at this persistent silence.

"Well, sir," he said, sharply, "perhaps you will be kind enough to
inform me how this scarf-pin came to be on the terrace in question."

"One moment," said Ferrari, politely lifting his hand. "Will you
kindly tell me who found what you have?"

Maxwell hesitated a moment, but seeing no reason why he should conceal
the part Mrs. Belk had taken in the affair, spoke out boldly.

"A woman you don't know--Mrs. Belk."

"Dio!"

"Great Heavens!"

These ejaculations proceeded, the first from Ferrari, the second from
Mrs. Belswin, and in hearing them Maxwell looked suspiciously from the
one to the other.

"You seem surprised."

"So will you be surprised," said Mrs. Belswin, gloomily, "when you
hear what the signor has to tell you."

"I am at Signor Ferrari's service."

"Per Bacco! it is most strange," cried Ferrari, throwing himself back
on his sky-blue sofa. "Alfieri himself could have thought nothing so
terrible."

"The story, sir, the story."

"Eh, signor, I excite your wonder," said the Italian, equably. "Is it
not so? Dio, I myself am lost in fear. Signor, I will tell all."

Maxwell bit his nether lip with impatience at the leisurely way in
which Ferrari was acting, as he saw from the agitation of Mrs. Belswin
that the name of the woman who had found the scarf-pin moved her
powerfully.

"Signor," said Ferrari, gracefully, "I departed with the signora here
to the villagio on the day you saw me. Myself I waited at the osteria
you know of, I doubt not. The signora departed to the casa of Il----"

"Of Sir Rupert," interrupted Mrs. Belswin, quickly.

"Grazia, signora. To the casa of Seer Ruperts. I am alone, and I weary
of being myself at the osteria. See, then, signor, I take a leetle
walk for amusement. I come to the ground of Seer Ruperts, and there I
meet a galantuomo, handsome as the Apollo."

"Samson Belk?"

"Yes, the signora tells me that is his name. Well, this large one
orders me away from the place. I say 'no,' and he would fight me--the
box, signor, you understand. I am not afraid, and I tell him I am not
afraid. Then he says, 'I will put you in prison because you are on the
estate of Seer Ruperts.' At this I fear. I know not the English laws,
so I say, 'Addio, I will go,' but he, signor, answers, 'Not so.' Then
what am I to do? I cannot fight that large man; I have not the box. I
do not know the English laws, and he may truly place me in prison for
being on the grounds of Seer Ruperts. Then, signor, I think, 'Aha, the
money!' but not he refuses the money. Again I say, 'Signor, I will
give you my pin of diamonds if you let me depart.' He says, 'Alright.'
I give him the pin of diamonds. I go away; and that, signor, is all I
am informed of."

"But, signor," cried Maxwell, jumping to his feet in a state of
uncontrollable agitation, "by this story the diamond pin was in the
possession of Belk."

"Cospetto! I believe so!"

"And Belk must have lost it on the terrace."

"Doubtless, signor."

"Great heavens!" said Archie, violently, "his own mother found it. If
he committed the crime he is betrayed to the law by his own mother."

"Through ignorance," interposed Mrs. Belswin, quickly.

"Nevertheless it hands her son over to justice. Oh, it's horrible!
it's horrible!" and the young man covered his face with his hands.

"I regret this sorrow, signor," said Ferrari, composedly. "Dio, it is
a tragedy like Lucrezia Borgia. But I have told you the truth."

"Yes, yes!" muttered Maxwell, resuming his seat; "you could not make
up such a horrible thing."

"As to myself, signor," resumed Ferrari, quietly, "if you think a
doubt of me, the man of the osteria will tell you I was in the casa on
that night."

"You can prove an alibi?"

"But I do not understand, signor," said the Italian, in a perplexed
tone, looking inquiringly at Mrs. Belswin.

"Oh yes, he can prove an alibi," said that lady, quickly. "The
landlord of The Chequers can give evidence as to his being in the
house all night."

"I did take a leetle walk."

"A walk!" ejaculated Maxwell, lifting his head.

"But I returned at ten hours," finished Ferrari, triumphantly. "No,
signor, I have nothing to do with this death. I can swear it to your
police. The man I spoke to had my diamond. It is found on the terrace.
Ebbene! He alone can have lost it there."

"What motive could Belk have for killing Sir Rupert?" muttered Maxwell
to himself.

"Eh, who knows?"

Mrs. Belswin said nothing. Her eyes were cast down, and she was
tapping the ground nervously with her foot. The fact is she was in a
state of considerable trepidation, as she fancied she knew the motive
Belk had in killing Sir Rupert--a motive of which all but herself were
ignorant. Belk loved her. He was in intelligence little raised above
the brute of the fields; so if he had overheard the interview between
herself and Sir Rupert, and seen how ignominiously she was treated, he
might have--but no, it was too horrible; and with a cry she covered
her face with her hands.

"What is the matter, Mrs. Belswin?" asked Maxwell, looking at her
quickly.

Mrs. Belswin at once told a lie.

"It's so horrible to think of a mother being the means of her son's
death."

"We don't know if he is guilty yet."

"Then how can he explain his presence on the terrace on that night?"

"His presence there does not mean that he committed the crime. He may
be able to explain as well as Signor Ferrari."

"You doubt me, signor," cried Ferrari, wrathfully, starting to his
feet.

"I have not said so."

"But you think. Dio, I am not blind. Well, if you doubt, bring me to
this man, signor. I will make him tell all to you before me."

"Will you, then, come down to Deswarth with me on Sunday?"

"That is to-morrow! eh! yes, signor, I will come."

"And I too, Mr. Maxwell."

"You, Mrs. Belswin?"

"Yes; I cannot believe this horrible thing of that poor young man,"
said Mrs. Belswin, hurriedly. "I will also come. Do you intend to have
Belk arrested on Sunday?"

"No!" cried Maxwell, vehemently. "I want to hear what he has to say
first."

"I'm afraid your nature is too soft for a detective, Mr. Maxwell,"
said Mrs. Belswin cruelly.

"Do you think so," he answered angrily. "No! But look, Mrs. Belswin,
at the horrible position of the case. A mother betrays unconsciously
to death the son whom she adores. Oh! it's terrible."

"He may be innocent."

"Per Bacco, I hope so," cried Ferrari, anxiously. "I myself think it
is too much a tragedy."

"I will not speak to the police," said Maxwell, taking up his hat. "We
three will go to Deswarth together and confront this man. If he is
innocent so much the better. If he is guilty----"

"Well?" asked Mrs. Belswin, seeing him pause.

"I will do nothing!"

"Nothing?"

"No. If I took advantage of what Mrs. Belk told me to hang her son, I
should never have a moment's peace for the rest of my life!"

"But Kaituna?"

"She will think the same as I do," said Maxwell, quickly. "And you,
Mrs. Belswin--surely you would not counsel otherwise?"

Mrs. Belswin looked heavenward with a look of almost sublime pity on
her strongly marked face.

"No; I am a mother, and I know how a mother feels for her only child."




CHAPTER XXXI.
A TRAGIC SITUATION.


     "A deed's to be done. There is sin in the doing.
      Oh, see how the mother her child is pursuing!
      She smites him unknowing. Oh, mother, blind mother,
      Thy son thou hast slain--not the son of another!
      The deed thou hast done bodes a life-time of rueing;
      Thy son thou hast slaughtered, as Cain did his brother!"


It was on Friday morning that Mrs. Belk had her fatal interview with
Maxwell--fatal indeed to her son, to benefit whom that same interview
had been sought for. Had she not been of such a secretive disposition
she would have told Samson of the finding of the jewel and how she
intended to obtain money thereon as a clue to the assassin of Sir
Rupert, in which case he would doubtless have prevented her doing so.

Anxious, however, to surprise Samson with a piece of good news, she
had refrained from taking him into her confidence, and thus
inadvertently placed him in a situation of extreme peril. Ignorant of
this, however, she left Maxwell with the fifty pounds in her purse and
joy in her heart, thinking she could now give her son a chance of
making money by his physical strength. Determined to see for herself
what rivals he would have in the event of his entering the arena as "a
strong man," on Friday night she went to Totahoop's Music Hall, where
"The New Milo" was exhibiting his world renowned feats of strength.
After witnessing his performance, she was satisfied that her son had
nothing to fear in the way of comparison, and on Saturday night went
to a rival variety entertainment to see "The Modern Hercules." This
gentleman, in Mrs. Belk's opinion proved equally disappointing; so the
next day, which was Sunday, she departed for Deswarth with the full
conviction that her son, aided by the fifty pounds obtained from
Maxwell, would only have to appear before a London audience to easily
distance both the Milo and the Hercules.

She went down by the morning train, but on arriving at her cottage
found that Samson had gone to a town some distance away on an errand
for Sir Thomas, his new master, and would not be back again until the
afternoon. Under these circumstances she was forced to curb her
impatience and wait some hours before she could reveal the good news
to her son.

Meanwhile, as fate was thus delaying the warning to Samson which such
a revelation would have brought about, Archie Maxwell, accompanied by
Mrs. Belswin and her Italian friend, had arrived at The Chequers, from
whence they intended to go to Belk's cottage and demand an explanation
from him as to the discovery of the scarf-pin on the terrace at
Thornstream. Confronted with the landlord of The Chequers, Signor
Ferrari had no difficulty in proving to Maxwell that he was in the
house at ten o'clock on that fatal night, and as the doctor at the
inquest had asserted that Sir Rupert had been shot shortly before
eleven, Maxwell was forced to believe by this circumstantial evidence
that Ferrari was innocent of the crime. Mrs. Belswin had also recalled
to the young man's mind her evidence at the inquest, so he could not
possibly suspect her in any way, therefore to all appearances Belk was
the only person to whom suspicion pointed in any strong degree. This
being the case, after the interview with the landlord of The Chequers,
Mr. Maxwell and his two friends set off to Belk's cottage, where Mrs.
Belk was now impatiently awaiting the arrival of her son.

It seemed to Mrs. Belswin, superstitious as she was in the highest
degree, that Fortune was dead against her in every way. Firstly, she
had been beaten on every point by Silas Oates; secondly, it was only
by the merest chance that she had been able to conceal her identity
from Maxwell, in the matter of his accusation against Ferrari, and now
she was afraid of Samson Belk. Afraid, because the finding of the
scarf-pin proved conclusively that he was on the terrace on that
night, in which case he might have overheard her interview with Sir
Rupert. If this was the case, in order to save himself he would
certainly tell Archie all he knew, and she would be lost. There was no
time to see and warn him as she had done Ferrari, so she walked on to
the cottage with a set smile on her face and a deadly fear in her
heart.

On their arrival, Mrs. Belk opened the door, and was very much
surprised at such an invasion. However, she said nothing, but,
standing in her doorway, waited for an explanation of their visit.

"Is your son at home, Mrs. Belk," asked Maxwell, abruptly.

"No, sir," replied Mrs. Belk, dropping a curtsey, "but I'm expecting
him every minute."

"Oh, in that case we'll wait."

"Yes, sir, certainly!"

Mrs. Belk moved unwillingly on one side, as she was in a state of
considerable mystification as to the reason of Mr. Maxwell's
unexpected arrival; and they all entered the cottage. The little woman
gave them seats, and then stood waiting to hear what they had to say.
Maxwell's business, however, was with Samson Belk, and not with his
mother, so he preserved a masterly silence, in order to give her no
opportunity of finding out his errand, and perhaps, by a look, putting
her son on his guard.

"I hope nothing is wrong about the money, sir," said Mrs. Belk, after
a long pause.

"No! that is all right."

"Have you found out anything, sir?"

"You mean about the scarf-pin?" said Maxwell, evasively.

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Maxwell has found out the owner of it," interposed Mrs. Belswin,
coldly.

"I am the owner," said Ferrari, complacently.

"You?" cried Mrs. Belk, with a sudden flush on her face; "you, sir?"

"Even I, signora!"

Mrs. Belk felt quite taken back. She was quite sure that the owner of
the scarf-pin had killed Sir Rupert, yet, here he was, calmly
acknowledging that it belonged to him, which he certainly would not do
if he were guilty. The little woman looked from Ferrari to Maxwell,
from Maxwell to Mrs. Belswin; and saw in their eyes the same
expression---a look of pity. A sudden thrill of fear shot through her
heart, and she turned towards Maxwell with a cry of alarm.

"Sir! Sir!" she stammered, nervously, "what does this mean?--why do
you come here?"

"We want to see your son, Mrs. Belk."

"My son, sir? Is anything wrong? Oh, tell me, sir, Samson has been
doing nothing wrong?"

None of the three persons present answered her, so filled were their
hearts with pity for her coming agony.

"Is it anything to do with the diamond, sir?"

"Yes."

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Belk, with an expression of relief on her face,
"perhaps you think my son stole it?"

"Your son," said Mrs. Belswin, quickly. "Did he have that scarf-pin in
his possession?"

Mrs. Belk faced round fiercely.

"No ma'am; he knows nothing about it."

"Ebbene," murmured the Italian; "we shall see."

"What do you say, sir?"

"I say," replied Ferrari, coolly, "that the scarf-pin was mine, and I
gave it to--to--your son."

"To my son," shrieked Mrs. Belk, her pale face growing yet paler; "but
I found the diamond on the terrace."

"Per Bacco! Who loses finds."

Mrs. Belk kept silent for a moment, overwhelmed by the thought of the
perilous position in which she had placed her son, for in a single
instant she saw all; then, staggering against the wall, she gave a cry
which was scarcely human in its agony.

Scarcely had it died away, when hurried footsteps were heard, and the
door was dashed open to admit Samson Belk, with a look of astonishment
on his face.

"Mother! what is the matter? Mrs. Belswin?"

"Yes!" said Mrs. Belswin, advancing a step, "we have come----"

The mother saw the movement, and with a shriek of jealous rage, darted
between them, and flung herself into her son's arms.

"Yes, my son, yes!" she cried, convulsively; "they have come to kill
you! to hang you!"

"Mother!"

"They say you killed the master."

"It's a lie!"

Samson Belk placed his mother in a chair, where she sat in a
half-fainting condition, and turned fiercely towards the two men, like
a lion at bay.

"Now then," he said--his habitually slow voice, sharp and
quick--"what's all this?"

Maxwell held out his hand, and in the palm of it lay the diamond
scarf-pin.

"Do you know this?" he demanded, slowly.

Belk gave a mighty laugh of scorn.

"Know it? Yes, I know it. 'Tis the diamond I got from yonder chap."

"You acknowledge that he gave it to you, then?"

"Of course! Why shouldn't I?"

"Because I found it on the terrace, Samson," cried his mother, madly.

"Well, what of that; I lost it there, mother!"

"When did you lose it?" asked Maxwell, quickly.

Belk thought a moment, and then started as the full meaning of this
interrogation flashed across his dull brain.

"Eh! then you chaps say I killed Sir Rupert."

"We do not say so," said Maxwell, emphatically; "we only say that this
diamond scarf-pin, which you acknowledge to have had in your
possession, was found near the window where the body was lying."

"And that pin hangs me, sir?"

"Not if you can account satisfactorily for its being there."

"You ain't got the police, sir."

"No!"

"Samson! Samson!" wailed his mother, clinging to him, "say it was not
you killed the master!"

"Quiet, mother!" said her son, replacing her in the chair, "I can tell
my own story."

"You are innocent?" asked Mrs. Belswin, impulsively.

"Innocent!" repeated Belk, with scorn, "if I wasn't I'd have been off
to the States by this time. Sit down, gentlemen: sit down, madam, I
can tell you the truth."

All resumed their seats mechanically; but Belk leaned his mighty frame
against the wall and looked at them quietly. From Ferrari his eyes
wandered to Maxwell, and finally rested on Mrs. Belswin with a curious
expression, at which she turned pale.

"My God!" she murmured, clasping her hands tightly, "what is he going
to say?"

Belk guessed her thoughts, and reassured her at once.

"My story's only about myself," he said, abruptly looking at her
again, upon which she thanked him with a silent look of gratitude,
although she felt a thrill of fear at the thought that perhaps he knew
her secret.

"One word before you speak," said Maxwell, quietly. "As you know, I am
going to marry Miss Pethram, and I promised her to find out the
assassin of her father. Chance, in the person of your mother, placed
in my hands a clue which led me to believe that Signor Ferrari had
something to do with the crime----"

"Cospetto! what honour."

"Signor Ferrari, however," resumed Archie, quietly, "has proved his
innocence, and in order to do so has unintentionally made out a very
strong case against you, Mr. Belk. Whether you are guilty or not I do
not know; but, you see, I have not informed the police about anything
connected with the matter."

"And why, sir?"

"Because the clue was placed in my hands by your mother, and I would
not have it on my conscience, however guilty you may be, to take
advantage of the innocent betrayal of a son by his mother."

Mrs. Belk sobbed violently at this, and Belk, with a sudden flush,
held out his hand, but drew it back at once.

"No, sir," he said, bluffly, "I won't give you my hand yet, till
you've heard my story. I did get that diamond from the foreign gent as
he says. He was trespassing, and I could have made things hot for him,
but to get off he gave me the diamond."

"Do you think that was right, seeing Signor Ferrari is a foreigner and
ignorant of English laws?" asked Maxwell.

"I don't say it was right, sir," replied Belk with a queer look; "and
it was not altogether the trespass. There was something else I need
not tell you of that made me take his diamond."

Mrs. Belswin darted a sudden look on both men, who were eyeing her
jealously, and flushed a deep red; but Maxwell was so interested in
Belk's story that he did not notice her perturbation, and signed to
him to continue.

"Well, sir, I stuck the pin in my scarf careless like, as I was in a
hurry to go up to the Hall to see Sir Rupert."

"What hour was this."

"About four o'clock, sir. I went up to the Hall, and Sir Rupert, sir,
he was in his study; so instead of going in by the door, I went in by
the window."

"So you first went along the terrace?"

"Yes, sir! And as the pin was stuck in careless, I suppose it fell as
I went into the room by the window."

"Not impossible!" said Maxwell, thoughtfully.

"I saw Sir Rupert, took my orders, and then came home, sir, and didn't
go out again that night."

"Eh!" cried Mrs. Belk, starting up, "no more you did, lad; I can swear
to that."

"And so can Mr. Gelthrip, the parson, sir," said Belk, triumphantly.
"He called here in the evening, and I saw him. So you see, sir, as I
didn't go near the Hall until the next morning, I didn't have nought
to do with the killing."

"No; certainly not."

Maxwell heaved a sigh of relief at the turn things had taken, for if
both Mrs. Belk and the curate could prove that Samson had been at home
on that fatal night, the young man certainly could not be guilty.
Meanwhile, he wanted to get away and think the matter over; for what
with the story of Ferrari and the story of Belk, he was quite
bewildered.

"So my Samson is innocent," cried Mrs. Belk, triumphantly.

"Yes, and I'm glad to hear it," replied Maxwell, as he went out.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Belk, I'm pleased on your account, but sorry on my
own."

"Ebbene! but who killed Il----I am talking of Seer Rupert," cried
Ferrari, putting on his hat.

Belk shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know," he replied, nonchalantly; "the master had lots of
enemies, I reckon."

"Belk," cried Maxwell, overhearing this, "come to The Chequers
to-night, I want to speak to you."

"Very well, sir."

"You are not coming up to town with us then, Mr. Maxwell?" said Mrs.
Belswin, who was lingering behind.

"No! I wish to ask Belk some questions about Sir Rupert's enemies.
From what he says, it appears he had some, and Belk knows them."

Maxwell and Ferrari both went down to the gate, and Mrs. Belswin was
left alone with Samson, the mother still being in the house.

"Don't go," she said, in a low tone.

"Oh, yes, I'll go," he replied in the same tone, "I tell nothing."

"What?" she said, uneasily; "do you know anything?"

Belk looked at her with his languid eyes, and stroked his golden beard
slowly.

"I know what I know," he replied emphatically, and with this reply,
which roused all her suspicions, Mrs. Belswin was forced to be
content.




CHAPTER XXXII.
NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA.


     'Neath the shining southern cross,
       News of gain and news of loss,
       Silver veining hidden rocks
       Changes hourly shares and stocks:
       By the magic power of shares,
       Paupers turn to millionaires--
       Millionaires to paupers change;
       Transformation swift and strange.
       Genii, no, nor fairy kings
       Could not do such wond'rous things
       As are daily done by scores,
       On Australia's golden shores.


What passed between Maxwell and Samson Belk at their interview, Mrs.
Belswin could never discover; but as Archie did not in any way change
his manner towards her she was satisfied that her name had not
transpired during the conversation, or if it had, Belk had said
nothing detrimental to her in any way. As to Belk himself, she saw him
when he came up to London, but he refused to tell her whether he had
overheard the conversation between herself and Sir Rupert, and she was
therefore forced to remain in a constant state of uneasiness. Although
Belk denied that he had been out of the house after his return from
the four o'clock interview, and supported this assertion by the
evidence of his mother and the curate, yet Mrs. Belswin had a kind of
half suspicion that he had been on the terrace on the night in
question, and had heard more than he was willing to confess. But,
then, she argued to herself that, if this were the case, he would
certainly use his power over her to force her into marriage with him,
whereas he did nothing of the sort, but behaved as if he knew
absolutely nothing.

It was now three months since the famous interview at the Belk
cottage, and Samson had carried out the plan proposed by his mother.
He had appeared at a first-class music hall as the "Nineteenth Century
Samson," and, by his superior strength, had easily distanced his
rivals, both "The New Milo" and "The Modern Hercules." They, of
course, were furious at being eclipsed, but his mother was delighted
with his success; the music hall manager was charmed at the crowds
drawn by his new star, and perhaps the only person not thoroughly
happy was the star himself. The reason of this discontent was, that in
order to preserve his strength, he had to lead a very abstemious life,
both as regards food and drink, so that, although he was making a
large income, he was not enjoying it. Despite his discontent, however,
he still led his life of an ascetic, and saved all his money, which
was a marked contrast to his former extravagant ways; but then, he had
a purpose in economising, and the purpose was Mrs. Belswin, whom he
had made up his mind to marry, as soon as he was rich enough.

In the meantime, that lady was leading a sufficiently comfortable
life, as, when she ran short of money, she always drew on Dombrain,
who did not dare to refuse it to her. Kaituna still lived with her,
and, as some time had elapsed since the death of her father, she had
recovered nearly all her former vivacity, and was looking anxiously
forward to her marriage with Archie--a marriage which was soon to take
place, owing to the good news from Australia about the Pole Star
Silver Mine.

Toby Clendon had duly arrived in the land of the Southern Cross, and
had sent home brilliantly written letters of his travels, which
satisfied the editor, and delighted the readers of _The Weekly
Scorpion_, In addition to this excellent literary work, which, by the
way, was giving him a name in journalistic circles, he had made
inquiries about the Pole Star Mine, and although the information he
obtained was disheartening enough at first, yet, after a time the Pole
Star silver shares began to be inquired about, and in a few weeks were
actually worth money.

Archie, who had benefited by his mining experiences in the colony,
and, moreover, had made friends with an enterprising share broker, who
was, as they say "in the know," sent to Kaituna for the scrip lying in
the hands of Dombrain. After some difficulty, Archie, who acted as her
agent, obtained it from the unwilling Dombrain, and sent all the
scrip, to the value of two thousand shares, out to Toby, with a power
of attorney authorising him to deal with them as he judged best.

Acting by the advice of his stockbroker, Toby judged it best to hold
the scrip, as the shares were on the rise, and in a few days his
confidence in the mine was justified. A lode was discovered in the
Pole Star ground, which was said to rival the celebrated Comstock lode
in California, which sent all 'Frisco mad in the old days, and the
shares began to rise rapidly, so rapidly indeed, that Toby was
justified in thinking that Kaituna would be a great heiress after all.
They went from nothing up to twenty pounds a share; again by slow
gradations they rose to fifty pounds each, and Toby wanted to sell,
but his stockbroker still advised him to hold. In a month they were
worth one hundred pounds each, and Toby still held on. The excitement
in Melbourne was intense, and other silver mining companies began to
spring round the famous Pole Star, in several of which Toby invested
the salary he drew from _The Weekly Scorpion_. The surrounding mines
were very fluctuating in the share market, but the Pole Star itself
never faltered for a moment in its upward career, and at the end of
three months, Toby wired to Maxwell that the shares were now worth the
enormous value of two hundred pounds each.

Maxwell, in a state of great excitement, consulted Mrs. Belswin and
Kaituna, and they, considering that a bird in the hand was worth two
in the bush, decided to sell at that price. Instructions were wired
out to Clendon to realise without delay, which he did carefully by
selling the shares in parcels, as two thousand thrown on the market,
for no apparent cause, would have caused a drop in the price. The
selling took some time; but at the end of a month or so the whole two
thousand were disposed of, and the amount standing to the credit of
Miss Kaituna Pethram in The Bank of Australia was somewhere about four
hundred thousand pounds, which was certainly a very respectable
fortune for a girl formerly penniless.

Kaituna herself was wild with joy, and wanted to marry Maxwell at
once; but, strange to say, he that had urged on the marriage when she
was poor, now held back, lest it should be said he was marrying her
for her money. Mrs. Belswin, however, promptly settled all that, and
talked him over into getting married at once. Then a letter was
received from Toby, saying that he also had been successful in mining
speculations to the amount of some thousands, and was on his way home
to Miss Valpy and matrimony.

Ultimately the two girls decided that they would be married in the
same way, and Archie felt deeply grateful that things had turned out
so well; while Mrs. Belswin, confident now that Kaituna's happiness
was secured, both as regards income and marriage, looked upon her
life's work as over.

Of course she had to reckon with Ferrari who still urged her to marry
him; and as she had told Archie that she was engaged to the Italian,
she did not very well see how she was going to escape this match,
which was decidedly repugnant to her, as it separated her from her
child, and gave her to a man for whom she cared nothing. Belk also
hinted that his intentions were matrimonial as soon as he had amassed
sufficient money; so Mrs. Belswin lamented the good looks which had
placed her between two matrimonial fires. While she was in this
unpleasant situation, Fate, in the person of Mr. Dombrain, intervened
and decided the question in a highly unpleasant manner.

After his failure to convict Ferrari and Belk of the crime of murder,
Archie had quite given up the idea of finding out the assassin; and
Kaituna began to think that he would never be discovered. She proposed
to Archie when they were married, to devote their newly gained wealth
to seeking out the cowardly assassin; but Maxwell, who had grave
doubts about Mrs. Belswin, Ferrari, and Belk, endeavoured to dissuade
her. It will be said that if Maxwell had doubts like this, why did he
permit Kaituna to remain with the companion? But the fact is, all his
doubts were very undecided. He could not accuse Mrs. Belswin, as he
had no evidence to go on, so he was forced to remain quiet and let
things take their course.

In the acquirement of the money through the Pole Star Mine, in
thinking of the double marriage soon to take place, the death of Sir
Rupert was beginning to be almost forgotten, when suddenly it was
brought to the minds of all interested by a terrible event.

Mrs. Belswin was arrested on a charge of having committed the murder.




CHAPTER XXXIII.
MR. DOMBRAIN SHOWS HIS TEETH.


     An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth--
     That, as I take it, is Bible-truth.
     You have robbed me of my good name;
     I will bring you to want and shame.
     Both are wicked, so both shall fall--
     God in His Heaven shall judge of it all.


Mrs. Belswin brought it all on herself. She would play with fire, and
although a life-long experience had taught her how dangerous was that
pastime, she nevertheless indulged in it, even at the risk of burning
her fingers. Indeed, so many times had she rushed into danger in her
fierce, impulsive way, and so many times had she emerged scatheless by
sheer good luck, that she became reckless in her daring, and at last
the inevitable happened--she went too far.

Everything was now progressing smoothly, both with herself and with
those she loved. Kaituna had received an unexpected access of fortune,
so that the difficulties of her marriage with Archie Maxwell were now
removed by the power of gold; and Mrs. Belswin herself, living
constantly with her darling, had now nothing left to wish for.

Yes! there was one thing she desired, and that was to see Silas Oates,
in order to taunt him with the news of her good fortune. It was sheer
devilry made her do this, as she cared nothing for her old lover; but
some fiend having whispered in her ear that good fortune to her would
be gall and wormwood to the American, she one day went straight to the
Langham Hotel, in order to enjoy her triumph. Luckily for himself,
Oates was absent in Paris at the time, where he had gone on a matter
of business; but on his return he found Mrs. Belswin's card, and
naturally enough being ignorant of her real object in paying him a
visit, thought she had called for the sole purpose of getting more
money out of him.

Silas Oates, in a most unjust fashion, did not blame his quondam
lady-love for her persistency, knowing her real nature too well to
expect anything from her; but he blamed Mr. Dombrain for not keeping
his promise, and making Mrs. Belswin stop her pecuniary importunities.

The lady herself had entirely forgotten Mr. Dombrain and his threats,
or if she did remember them it was with a contemptuous sneer, as she
thought in her own heart that he could do nothing to harm her. But if
Mrs. Belswin thus proved forgetful of the solicitor, Silas Oates did
not. Mr. Oates was genuinely angry at the way Dombrain permitted Mrs.
Belswin to annoy him, so, as the unfortunate lawyer had omitted to
fulfil his promise of acting as watch-dog, the American determined to
punish him as he had threatened for his negligence.

Silas went about the affair in a way peculiarly his own, and in a very
few days Mr. Dombrain received a letter demanding an explanation of
certain allegations concerning his past made against him by an
American gentleman. The unfortunate man was quite stunned at the
suddenness of his calamity; nor was he comforted when a spiteful note
arrived from Silas, which stated that he had revealed everything about
the convict Damberton to the Law Society, as a punishment for the
negligence of the lawyer Dombrain. Of course the poor wretch could not
defend himself, although he made a feeble attempt to do so; and the
consequence of Mrs. Belswin's folly and Mr. Oates's letter was, that
Alfred Dombrain of London, Solicitor, was struck off the rolls, as not
fit to have his name inscribed thereon.

It was truly a terrible thing to happen to this man, who, not having
saved much money, now found himself reduced from an honourable
profession, which gained him a competence, to a disgraceful position
and absolute beggary. The loss of his money troubled him but little,
the loss of his name a great deal, for having once more regained the
esteem of his fellow-men by years of exemplary life, he felt keenly
the bitterness of being reduced to the same ignoble position he had
occupied years before. He tried every means in his power to escape the
disgrace, but the Law Society were relentless, and Dombrain, lawyer,
once more became that phantom of the past--Damberton, outcast.

Neither lawyer nor outcast, however, were satisfied to accept this
crushing blow without making some return thereto; and when Mr.
Dombrain found that all his ideas of respectability were at an end, he
turned round venomously to punish Mrs. Belswin, whom he considered to
be the main cause of his unmerited disgrace. He did not write to her,
he did not see her, he did not even mention her name to a soul, but he
went straight to the nearest police magistrate, told his story of what
had taken place at Thornstream on that fatal night, and, as a result,
obtained a warrant of arrest against Mrs. Belswin for the murder of
Sir Rupert Pethram. This being done, he departed, in company with two
detectives, to feast his eyes on the disgrace of this woman, who had
cost him his hardly earned position; and for the first time for many
days he laughed--not a pleasant laugh, but a nasty, sardonic, sneering
laugh, which boded ill to the liberty and peace of mind of Jezebel
Manners, alias Lady Pethram, alias Mrs. Belswin. In spite of the
tragic force of the whole matter, there was something positively
grotesque in the situation; for Silas Oates wronged by Mrs. Belswin,
had revenged himself upon Mr. Dombrain; and Mr. Dombrain wronged by
Silas Oates, had revenged himself upon Mrs. Belswin. It was a
three-cornered duel, to speak paradoxically, in which every one shot
at every one else, but the only person of the three principals who
came off scot-free was the American, and he appreciated the grim irony
of the situation.

Meanwhile Mrs. Belswin, quite unaware how dearly her attempt to see
Oates had cost her, was seated in company with Kaituna and Archie
Maxwell at afternoon tea, and the trio were talking about the Pole
Star shares, the expected arrival of Toby Clendon, and, of course,
about the approaching marriages.

"And you will be perfectly happy, Kaituna," said Mrs. Belswin, looking
wistfully at her daughter--the daughter whom she dare not acknowledge.

Kaituna caught hold of Archie's hand, with a quick flush and a look of
delight in her large black eyes.

"Yes, perfectly happy," she replied, smiling. "We are going to be the
Darby and Joan of romance, are we not, Archie?"

"I trust so, dear; but Darby and Joan! Oh, what a prosaic comparison.
No! Kaituna we will be--let me think--we will be like Lord Lovel and
Lady Nancy Bell in the old ballad."

"Fie, that is a worse comparison than mine! They were unhappy, and if
a red rose and a briar did grow out of their respective graves, I
don't know that such a miracle proves your case."

"Well, you certainly ought to be happy," said Mrs. Belswin, with a
quick sigh, as she realised how soon she was to lose the girl she
loved. "Health, wealth, and love--what a trinity of perfections."

"All of which are to be found in Kaituna. But you, Mrs. Belswin, what
about Signor Ferrari?"

"Oh, I have not made up my mind yet to marry him, Mr. Maxwell;
besides, I have another offer."

"Another offer?" cried Kaituna, gaily. "Oh, fortunate woman; and from
whom?"

"Mr. Samson Belk."

"Oh!" said Maxwell, smiling, "he is the other Romeo in the field.
Well, he is certainly very handsome----"

"And is very fond of me," interrupted Mrs. Belswin, quickly. "But all
the same I am not for him."

"Nor for Signor Ferrari either?" laughed Kaituna, going over to her
chaperon and putting her arms round her neck. "Ah, there is a third
person."

"I think you can pretty well guess whom that third person is," said
Mrs. Belswin, kissing the girl; "but Mr. Maxwell is going to rob me of
my third person."

"I cannot deny the soft impeachment," replied Archie, with a gay nod.
"As soon as Toby comes home we will be married."

The talk was certainly frivolous; but then, after all the trials these
three people had undergone, it was a great relief to chatter idly in a
desultory manner, especially when all three beheld the brightness of
the future. For them the storms and trials of life had passed--so they
fondly thought; and the elder woman, looking back at the dismal past,
thanked God in her heart for the peaceful present, while the lovers
saw before them nothing but a shining path, strewn with roses, leading
to the paradise of perfect felicity.

At this moment a knock came at the door, and the servant entered with
a frightened look on her face.

"Oh, mum," she said, going quickly to Mrs. Belswin, "there are three
gentleman to see you."

"Who are they?" asked Mrs. Belswin, in some surprise, never thinking
for a moment of the coming storm.

"Mr. Dombrain, mum, and----"

"Mr. Dombrain," repeated Mrs. Belswin, with a chill of fear at her
heart; "what does he want?"

"I want you, Jezebel Manners," said Dombrain, making his appearance at
the door, with a malignant grin on his coarse red face.

The moment she heard the name Mrs. Belswin knew it was all over, and
with a cry of agony held out her imploring hands to the lawyer.

"Oh, not before her! not before her!" she moaned piteously.

Kaituna, overcome with astonishment at this strange scene, went up to
Mrs. Belswin as if to protect her, but the woman shrank from her with
a moan of pain, and hid her face in her hands.

"What does this mean?" demanded Maxwell, as soon as he recovered his
breath.

"You will soon know," retorted Dombrain, savagely. "Jezebel Manners,
Pethram, Belswin, or whatever name you like to call yourself, I warned
you the last time we met what I would do if you played me false. You
have done so, to my ruin, my shame, my disgrace, and I have come to
drag you down to where you have hurled me. This is the woman,
officers."

One of the detectives advanced and touched Mrs. Belswin on the
shoulder.

"In the Queen's name, I arrest you----"

"Arrest her?" interrupted Kaituna, her face flaming with indignation;
"but for what--for what?"

"For the murder of Rupert Pethram."

Kaituna gave a shriek of horror, and seized Maxwell by the arm, while
he, scarcely less thunderstruck, stared at the detective with a look
of amazement on his face.

"It is false! it is false!" shrieked Mrs. Belswin, throwing herself on
her knees before Kaituna, "I swear to you it is false. I did not kill
your father."

"You did," said Dombrain, in a deep voice, "I saw you do it!"

"Liar!"

Mrs. Belswin sprang to her feet and made a bound forward, with a
fierce light flashing in her eyes, and it would have been a bad thing
for Mr. Dombrain had she succeeded in reaching him. The detective,
however, was on the watch, and throwing himself on the wretched woman,
had the handcuffs on her wrists in a moment.

"I cannot believe it! I cannot believe it!" moaned Kaituna, hiding her
face on Maxwell's breast.--"Mrs. Belswin, my kind good friend----"

"Your friend," scoffed Dombrain, with an ugly glitter in his
ferret-like eyes. "Yes, you don't know who your friend is!"

"For God's sake, silence!" shrieked Mrs. Belswin, pale to the lips.

"No, I will not keep silence, you fiend, who have ruined me. I will
tell all. Miss Pethram, do you see that wretched woman with the
handcuffs on--that guilty wretch who murdered your father, that----"

"I see Mrs. Belswin," cried Kaituna, with sudden fire; "I see the
woman who saved me from starvation, and I do not believe this base
charge you make."

With noble indignation she walked across to Mrs. Belswin, and threw
her arm round the poor woman's neck, while Archie, who respected and
liked the companion, mutely approved of the girl's generous action.

"Ah, you put your arm on her neck now," said Dombrain, with a sneer,
"but you will take it away when you know----"

"Dombrain!" cried the wretched woman, for the last time, "spare
me--spare me!"

"I will spare you as you have spared me."

"Be silent, with your cowardly threats, sir," said Kaituna, looking
proudly at him, "and do your worst. Who is Mrs. Belswin?"

"Your mother!"

Kaituna gave a cry, and recoiled from her companion.

"My mother!" she said, hoarsely. "It cannot be! my mother is dead."

Dombrain played his trump card.

"Your mother is alive! She stands there, and you can now know her for
what she is--a guilty wife--a divorced woman--and the murderer of her
husband."

Kaituna gazed at this gibing devil with a terrified stare in her
dilated eyes, then turned slowly and looked at her miserable mother.
The unhappy woman, with a grey worn face, haggard and scarred with
myriad wrinkles, made a step forward, as if to embrace her child, but
the girl, with a look of terror, shrank back, and fell in a faint on
the floor at the feet of Maxwell, while Mrs. Belswin sank on her knees
with a piteous cry, wringing her manacled hands over the unconscious
form of the daughter she had found--and lost.




CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN OPEN COURT.


     Who's sure of Life's game,
       When Fate interferes?
     For praise or for blame,
       Who's sure of life's game?
     A sentence--a name,
       Turns joy into tears,
     Who's sure of Life's game,
       When Fate interferes?


This strange case--particulars of which in some mysterious way got
into the daily papers--excited much curiosity in London, and when the
preliminary inquiry into the affair took place, the court was crowded
to suffocation. The public, of course, learned all about the matter
from the newspapers, but how the reporters managed to learn so much
was most extraordinary, as they gave an account of Mrs. Belswin's
previous life--of her presence, under a false name, in the house of
her late husband--of the murder of that husband--and of the wonderful
amount of money realised by the sale of the Pole Star shares for the
daughter of the murdered man, and the woman accused of the crime. All
this, more or less garbled and exaggerated, appeared in the leading
morning papers, and the "Pethram Paradox"--so it was called--took a
prominent place among the sensations of the day. Maxwell, deeply
angered at this publicity, which would make the public judge Mrs.
Belswin guilty, before she had a chance of defending herself, made
several attempts to find Dombrain, whom he suspected of being the
author of this malignant gossip in order to damage the chance of the
unfortunate woman during her trial, but Mr. Dombrain, suspecting that
he would be looked for, made himself scarce, and until the day of the
preliminary inquiry, nothing was seen or heard of him by those on the
side of Mrs. Belswin.

Kaituna, noble-hearted girl as she was, persistently refused to
believe her mother guilty; and, through Maxwell engaged the most
prominent legal talent of the day for her defence; but although she
sought an interview with Mrs. Belswin in jail, the unhappy woman
persistently refused to see her until she was publicly proved innocent
of the terrible crime laid to her charge. At this trying time Archie
Maxwell proved himself worthy of the high opinion entertained of him
by Kaituna, and acting as Mrs. Belswin's friend did everything in his
power to assist her during the coming ordeal. Signor Ferrari too, mad
with impulsive Italian wrath at the accusation made by Mr. Dombrain,
offered himself as a witness; but on discovering that his evidence
would be detrimental to Mrs. Belswin's defence, the lawyer declined to
take advantage of his offer. As for Belk, whom Maxwell thought would
be one of the first to come forward and help the unhappy woman he
professed to love, he kept persistently out of the way, and neither by
word nor deed showed that he took the least interest in her fate. When
the day of the preliminary inquiry therefore came, Mrs. Belswin was
left with only three friends who believed in her innocence--Kaituna,
Maxwell, and Ferrari, who were all present in court when she was
placed in the prisoner's dock.

She looked terribly pale and haggard, for Mrs. Belswin, having one of
those natures which are only strong through impulse, was quite unable
to bear up against the calamity which had befallen her. All her
fierceness, her iron nerve, her reckless daring, which had
successfully coped with so many perils, had now deserted her; for this
blow, so long dreaded, having descended, she seemed unable to fight
against it, and stood silently in the dock, a pale weeping woman,
quite unlike the Borgia-like creature of other days. The follower of
Mahomet will fight bravely as long as fortune goes with him; but when
the tide turns and he believes that it is the will of Allah that evil
should befall him, he says Kismet, and bows to the decree of Heaven.
Mrs. Belswin behaved in exactly the same way--she had fought bravely
against overwhelming odds to keep her daughter and her secret, but now
that the worst had come she thought it useless to struggle against
destiny, so resigned herself to the inevitable.

The counsel for the prosecution stated that this was one of the most
painful cases that had ever come under his notice. It would be
remembered that some months previously the public had been horrified
to hear of the murder of Sir Rupert Pethram, of Thornstream,
Berkshire; who had been shot while standing at the window of his
study. In spite of the utmost vigilance of the police the person who
had committed this dastardly crime could not be discovered; but now,
by the evidence of Mr. Alfred Dombrain, the prisoner was accused of
being the guilty person. The chain of circumstances which culminated
in the committal of this crime were so extraordinary that he would
take leave to inform the court of the whole affair, and the motive for
the murder would be clearly proved against the prisoner. It appears
that many years ago the deceased baronet--who at that time had not
succeeded to the title--had married in New Zealand, where he was then
living, the prisoner, Jezebel Manners, who was a half-caste, the
daughter of a Maori mother and a European father, a woman of violent
and rash temper. One child was born of the marriage, which turned out
to be very unhappy; and eventually Mrs. Pethram eloped with an
American, called Silas Oates. The late baronet obtained a decree
absolute against her, and remained in New Zealand, where he looked
after the welfare of his motherless child, while his divorced wife
went to San Francisco with the co-respondent Oates. The divorced woman
and her lover were together for some time; but he ultimately left her,
evidently being quite unable to bear with her outrageous temper. The
prisoner then went on the stage, and sang successfully in opera for
many years under the name of Madame Tagni. Finally, about eight months
previously, she came to England, and found that her husband, by the
death of his brother, had succeeded to the title, and was living at
Thornstream, in Berkshire, with his daughter Kaituna.

The prisoner, anxious to see her child again concocted a scheme by
which to enter the house as a companion to Miss Pethram. Sir Rupert
had gone out to New Zealand on business, and, according to his
instructions, Mr. Dombrain advertised for a companion for Miss Pethram
during his absence. The prisoner applied, and was engaged for the
situation by Mr. Dombrain, who was quite in ignorance of her
antecedents, and her connection with the late baronet. She took
possession of the situation, and while Sir Rupert was absent
everything went well. On his arrival, however, he had an interview
with the so-called Mrs. Belswin, and, recognising his guilty wife,
ordered her out of the house. This interview took place at night,
about nine o'clock, in the study at Thornstream; and Mrs. Belswin left
the house by the window, vowing vengeance for the course adopted by
her husband. Instead, therefore, of going away she lurked outside on
the terrace, and when her husband came to the window she shot him with
a pistol she had in her possession. Having committed this terrible
crime, she had coolly stepped across the body of the man she had
murdered, and re-entering the house went to her bedroom. All the
household being ignorant alike of her interview with the late baronet
and her antecedents, she was never for a moment suspected, except by
Mr. Dombrain. That gentleman, hearing the noise of Mrs. Belswin coming
upstairs, looked out of the door of his bedroom and saw her pass him.
Next morning, when the crime was known, he would have denounced her;
but owing to the darkness of the night was unable to be certain of the
identity of the woman who crept upstairs. The other day, however, he
taxed Mrs. Belswin with the crime; and although she denied it, yet
from her agitated manner he felt certain she was the criminal, upon
which he at once gave information to the police. Mrs. Belswin was
arrested on a warrant, and now stood charged with the murder of her
late husband, Sir Rupert Pethram. The first and only witness he would
call would be Mr. Alfred Dombrain, upon whose accusation the prisoner
had been arrested.

This skilfully worded speech made things look very black against Mrs.
Belswin; and when Dombrain stepped into the witness-box to
substantiate the terrible statements made by the counsel for the
prosecution, there were many who looked upon the prisoner's committal
for trial as a foregone conclusion.

Mr. Dombrain, having been duly sworn, stated that he had acted as the
legal adviser of the late baronet, and in pursuance of his
instructions had engaged the prisoner as a companion for Miss Pethram.
He was wholly ignorant of her former life, and that she was the
divorced wife of the late Sir Rupert, but as she seemed a suitable
person for a chaperon, he had engaged her at once, upon which she went
down to Thornstream in order to take up her duties. Upon the arrival
of Sir Rupert in England he had gone down to Thornstream in connection
with some legal business the late baronet wished to see him about Mrs.
Belswin was not at Thornstream on his arrival, as she had gone to
London a few days previous about some private matter; but she arrived
at Thornstream on the same afternoon as he did. She did not appear at
dinner, but on leaving the study after an interview with Sir Rupert
he had seen the prisoner enter. As she did not re-appear in the
drawing-room, where he was sitting with Miss Pethram, he retired to
bed, and he believed Miss Pethram also retired to bed, having a bad
headache. Towards eleven o'clock he thought he heard the sound of a
shot, but was not certain, although he sprang out of bed and went to
the door of his room. It was near the staircase, and as he leaned over
the banisters in the darkness, he heard the study door shut with a
slight noise, after which Mrs. Belswin came hastily upstairs, and
went into her own room. Next morning, when the crime was discovered,
she said she had not been out of her room at that hour. He was not
quite sure if it was Mrs. Belswin, as the staircase was dark. A week
ago she came to his office on business, and he accused her of having
committed the murder, which accusation she at first denied, but
afterwards half confessed to her guilt. He at once gave information to
the police, and she was arrested.

In cross-examination Mr. Dombrain said he had found out all about the
prisoner's relations with the deceased from some papers in his
possession, and knew Mrs. Belswin was the divorced wife from the
description given of her in the handwriting of the deceased.

COUNSEL FOR THE ACCUSED.--I see that at the inquiry into the death of
Sir Rupert you said you had not heard a pistol-shot.

MR. DOMBRAIN.--I was not certain and sooner than declare I heard, I
thought it best to reply in the negative.

COUNSEL.--Is it not true, Mr. Dombrain, that you have a grudge against
the prisoner?

DOMBRAIN.--No, it is not true.

COUNSEL.--The prisoner declares that she knew you in New Zealand.

DOMBRAIN.--It is a lie. I never was in New Zealand.

COUNSEL.--Not under the name of Damberton?

DOMBRAIN.--No.

COUNSEL.--I understand your name has been struck off the rolls.

DOMBRAIN.--I don't see what that has to do with the case.

COUNSEL.--Ah, you are rather dense; I will explain. Your real name is
Alfred Damberton. You were imprisoned in New Zealand for embezzlement,
and on your release you came to England. Is this not true?

DOMBRAIN (violently).--No sir! It is false! Who accuses me? The
prisoner!--and why? Because I have brought her to justice. Through her
lies I have been struck off the rolls, but I can prove myself
innocent, and will do so shortly!

COUNSEL.--I wish you every success, Mr. Dombrain, but I am afraid you
will find it difficult!

When Dombrain left the witness-box, the counsel for the prosecution
said he had no more witnesses to call at present, upon which the
counsel for the defence made a short speech, and said that as his
learned brother had set the example of brevity, he would do the same
thing, and only call one witness in defence of the prisoner. The name
of that witness was Samson Belk.

Mrs. Belswin looked surprised when she heard this name, not for a
moment thinking that Belk's evidence could do her any good; and
Kaituna also appeared to be astonished, as she knew how Belk had kept
out of the way since her mother's arrest. Maxwell's face, however,
wore a contented smile, and this smile was reflected in the
countenance of the defending counsel, so, without doubt, these two men
knew that Belk's evidence was valuable, and were prepared to abide by
the result.

Samson Belk, stepping into the witness-box, made oath according to
law, and gave the following remarkable evidence in favour of the
prisoner:--

He had been steward to the deceased baronet, and on the night of the
murder had come up to the hall to ask his master a question about the
discharge of farm hands. If was nearly eleven o'clock when he arrived
at the door of the hall, and he hesitated whether to disturb Sir
Rupert at that hour. However, seeing the light streaming out of the
window of Sir Rupert's study, he advanced along in that direction, but
on hearing angry voices he had hidden himself behind a bush on the
terrace, in order to see what was the matter. The voices were those of
Sir Rupert and another man, whose tones he did not recognise. The
other man was imploring Sir Rupert to keep some secret, but the
baronet refused, and said all the world would know the truth on the
morrow. The man began to threaten, and Sir Rupert thrust him out of
the window on to the terrace, telling him he would ruin him by
revealing everything. So strong had been the baronet's push that the
man fell down upon the side of the terrace near the balustrade, and
Sir Rupert, with outstretched hand, stood pointing at him. The light
of the lamp within shone on the man crouching at the baronet's feet,
and I saw him take out something--I did not know what--and point it at
Sir Rupert, who stood in the window. There was no sound, and yet the
baronet fell, and the man, with a cry of triumph, rushed away into the
darkness. Witness ran forward to see what was the matter with his
master, and found him dead. He (the witness) had had a quarrel with
Sir Rupert on that day, and being afraid lest, if he gave the alarm,
he should be accused of the murder, and could not defend himself, he
went away, and said nothing about it. The crime was discovered next
morning, but no suspicion was fixed upon him, as no one had known of
his presence on the terrace that night.

COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION.--But could you not denounce the man who
committed the crime?

BELK.--I did not know who he was--I never saw him before or since the
light fell on him through the window, until----

COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION.--Until when?

BELK.--Until I saw him to-day.

There was a great sensation in court, and every one looked at one
another in astonishment, while a gleam of triumph flashed from the
eyes of the prisoner.

COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION.--If you saw him to-day, as you say, do you
know his name?

BELK.--Yes.

COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION.--And the name of this man who killed Sir
Rupert?

BELK.--The man who accuses the prisoner of the murder--the man you
call Dombrain.

If there was excitement before, there was ten times more excitement
now, and the crier found great difficulty in reducing all present to
silence. There was a sudden pause in the noise, and the prisoner,
raising her eyes to heaven, said in a solemn voice--

"It is true! I am innocent of this crime. He has fallen himself into
the pit he digged for another."

Yes, she was innocent, and the man who accused her guilty; but
when they looked for Dombrain, in order to arrest him, he had
disappeared--vanished into the depths of mighty London, when he heard
his name coupled with that of murder.




CHAPTER XXXV.
EXPIATION.


     What fools are they who think God ever sleeps,
     Or views their follies with a careless eye.
     Fortune may heap her favours on their heads.
     Blithe Pleasure lull them with her jingling bells,
     And life for them be one long carnival;
     But in their triumph of prosperity,
     When all the smiling future seems serene,
     God; frowning, stretches out His mighty arm,
     And lo! the hungry grave gapes at their feet.


So Mrs. Belswin was delivered from her great peril, and was taken home
by Kaituna and her lover with great rejoicing. Maxwell, indeed, after
hearing the story of this woman, had hesitated for a moment as to
whether he ought to let her be with her daughter, seeing that she had
forfeited her maternal rights by her own act, but when he hinted this
to Kaituna she rebuked him with one sentence--

"She is my mother."

So Maxwell held his peace, and after Mrs. Belswin had been released
from her position of ignominy and shame, he had escorted both mother
and daughter to their lodgings. There he left them, and at Mrs.
Belswin's request, went to seek for Belk, and bring him there to
receive the thanks of the woman he had saved. Having departed on his
errand, Kaituna sat down beside her mother, in order to hear from her
own lips the story of her sad life.

With many sobs, Mrs. Belswin told the whole pitiful story of her sin,
which had brought her to such a bitter repentance, and, when she had
ended, fell weeping at the feet of the daughter she feared now
would despise her. Ah! she little knew the tenderness which the girl
had cherished for her mother, and which she cherished for her even
now, when the dead saint had changed into the living sinner.
Pitifully--tenderly she raised her mother from her abject position of
sorrow, and kissed away the bitter tears of shame and agony that fell
down the hollow cheeks.

"Mother!" she said, clasping her arms round the poor woman's breast,
"if you have sinned, you have also suffered. The one false step you
made has brought its own punishment; but why did you not tell me all
this before, and so have saved yourself this bitter agony?"

"Tell you before?" said her mother, sadly. "Child! child! what good
would such a confession have done? You could not have helped me."

"No, dearest; but I could have loved you. I could have made your life
less hard. Oh, mother! poor mother, how you must have suffered when I
treated you as a stranger."

"I did suffer," replied Mrs. Belswin, in a low tone, "but not so much
as you think, for even then you treated me more like a mother than as
a companion."

"And I was the little child of whom you spoke?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, blind! blind! how could I have been so blind as not to guess your
secret. You betrayed yourself in a hundred ways, my poor mother, but I
never saw it. But now--now that I know the truth, I see how blind I
have been."

"Ah, Kaituna, if I had only known you would have received me like
this, but I feared to tell you of my shame lest you should turn from
me in scorn."

"Hush! dear mother, hush!"

"And it was terrible to think that the little child I had borne at my
breast should spurn me."

"Mother!"

"Oh, my sin! my sin!" wailed Mrs. Belswin, rocking herself to and fro,
"how it has cursed my life--how it has turned the earth into a hell of
repentance."

"Do not say another word, mother," cried Kaituna, wiping the tears
from her mother's eyes; "the past is dead, we will speak of it no
more; but the future----"

"Ah, my child, the future for you is bright; you will marry your
lover, and have him by your side during the rest of your life, but
I--Child, I must leave you."

"Leave me?"

"Yes! you know what I am! You know my sin, my folly, my shame! I
cannot look into your clear eyes, my child, for I have lost the right
to be your mother. No, Kaituna, while you did not know me, and
believed your mother to be a pure good woman, I stayed beside you, to
love you and hear you talk of me as I once was; but now--now--ah, no!
no! I dare not remain in your presence, I dare not kiss you, for my
kisses would pollute your lips. I will go away--far away, and expiate
my sin!"

"But, mother, you will not leave me?"

"It is for your good, child--it is for your good!"

"You shall not leave me!" said Kaituna, winding her arms round the
elder woman's neck. "You have suffered enough for your sin, and for
the rest of your days I will help you to forget the past. Archie
thinks the same as I do. Come, mother, you will not leave me; promise
to stay beside me for ever."

"I cannot promise," cried Mrs. Belswin, breaking away from the tender
bonds that held her; "oh! what a paradox I am. When you did not know
me I wished to stay. Now you know I am your wretched, guilty mother, I
wish to fly. I must go! I must! Seek not to detain me, child. As ye
sow so shall ye reap! The Bible, Kaituna! the Bible--let me go to my
harvest."

Mrs. Belswin, with her savage nature maddened by the mental agonies
she had undergone, had worked herself up into one of those
uncontrollable fits of passion which made her so dangerous. She
had found her child, and now she was going to leave her of her own
free-will, because she could not bear to live with her own daughter,
who knew how vile she was. With a cry of agony, unable to bear any
more implorings from Kaituna, she flew to the door in order to escape;
but her daughter, who was determined not to let the poor distraught
creature go, perhaps to her death, sprang after her, and wrenching her
away, flung herself back against the door with outstretched arms.

"No! no!" she cried, panting with excitement, "that way lies death.
Oh, mother! mother! I know what you would do; but do not leave me. If
you have any pity in your heart for the child you bore let me keep
you ever at my side. Where would you go out into the darkness of
London?--to the terrible stormy streets--to the river--ah! the river!
is that what you think? No! no! mother! my own dear mother, you must
not let me mourn your death twice."

The evening sun was shining through the windows, touching the
furniture, the draperies, the mirrors, with soft gleams of light; and
Kaituna, with her head thrown back, and her arms outstretched, stood
against the door, while Mrs. Belswin, with a sudden cessation of her
mad anguish, stared vacantly at her daughter, and round the room.

Ah! what was that gleaming in the sunlight from behind a heavy purple
curtain--steel--the barrel of a pistol; and it was pointed full at
Kaituna, With a shriek of rage Mrs. Belswin, guessing the truth,
sprang in front of her daughter to shield her from harm, and in
another moment had fallen in a heap at the feet of the child she
loved. There was no sound of a report, and Kaituna in a state of
horrified amazement, fell on her knees beside her mother. As she did
so a man ran from behind the curtain, and wrenching open the door
flung down a pistol and spoke rapidly--

"I wanted to kill you!" he said, with a snarl, "to punish her; but she
came between you and the pistol, so let her die as she deserves to,
with my curses on her."

With a shriek Kaituna recognised him. It was Dombrain, and she sprang
to her feet to seize him; but eluding her grasp he ran out of the door
and down the stairs into the street. Kaituna could not follow him, as
her limbs tottered under her; but she managed to drag herself back to
her mother--the mother, alas, who was dying.

The red blood was welling slowly from a wound in her breast, and a
thick sluggish stream was stealing heavily along the polished floor.
Lifting the dying woman's head on her lap the girl cried aloud for
help upon which the servant came rushing in. She shrieked when she saw
Mrs. Belswin lying unconscious in her blood, and ran out to call in
aid--ran right into the arms of Maxwell, Belk and Ferrari, who were
just entering.

"Help! help!" cried the servant, rushing past them, "a doctor--a
doctor! She is dying."

"Kaituna!" exclaimed Archie with a sudden fear in his breast; and
without a moment's pause the three men rushed into the room, where the
girl was sitting with a look of agony on her pale face as she bent
over the unconscious woman.

"Kaituna!--Mrs. Belswin!"

"It is my mother--my poor mother," cried Kaituna, in an agony of
sorrow. "Have you caught him? Have you caught him?"

"Who?" shouted Maxwell and Belk, while Ferrari, in a paroxysm of
grief, threw himself beside the body of the woman he loved.

"Dombrain!"

"Dombrain?"

"Yes! yes! he was here! he shot my mother with that pistol. He has
just left the house."

"God!" cried Belk, starting, "he was the man we saw running down the
street." And he was out of the room in pursuit without saying another
word.

"A doctor! a doctor!" said Kaituna, imploringly, "Oh, Archie! she will
die, she will die!"

"Stella adora!" moaned the Italian, covering the cold white hand with
kisses.

"A doctor will be here in a few minutes," said Maxwell, approaching
the unconscious form of Mrs. Belswin; "the servant has gone for one.
Ferrari, help me to place her on the sofa!"

But Ferrari could do nothing but tear his hair, and cry endearing
words in Italian to the woman he loved; so Kaituna, pale as marble,
but wonderfully brave, helped Archie to place Mrs. Belswin on the
sofa. She was breathing heavily, and Maxwell, tearing open her dress,
strove to staunch the blood with his handkerchief, while Ferrari
remained on his knees, and Kaituna stood beside him with clasped
hands.

"Good heavens, she will bleed to death!"

Just as Maxwell spoke, the doctor entered with the scared servant, and
at once proceeded to examine the wound. Having done so he looked very
grave, and Kaituna caught him by the arm with a cry of terror as he
arose from his knees.

"She will live! she will live! Say she will live!"

"I'm afraid not, my dear young lady," said the doctor, gravely; "the
bullet has gone right through the lungs."

"Do you think she will die, doctor?" asked Maxwell, in a tone of
horror.

"Yes! I am sure of it!"

"Die!" cried the Italian, wildly, "no! no! Lucrezia--my beautiful
Lucrezia--you must not die."

"Take that man away," said the doctor, sharply, "and get me some
brandy."

Kaituna was the first to obey. The nerve of this girl was wonderful,
and notwithstanding all the agonies she had come through, she gave no
sign of fainting; and the terrible strain on her mind could only be
told by the pallor of her face.

"My brave girl," said Archie, as he assisted her to get what the
doctor required.

How slowly the hours passed in that room, where this poor woman was
dying. Yes, dying; for although the doctor did all in his power to
save her life, there was no hope that she would live through the
night. She was still lying on the sofa, from which she was unable to
be removed; and when she recovered consciousness, after the shock she
had sustained, she opened her eyes to see Kaituna kneeling fondly by
her side, and Maxwell, Belk, Ferrari, and the doctor, in the
background. Belk had not been able to find the assassin, who was lost
among the crowds that thronged the streets, so had returned in an
agony of grief to see the woman he loved die before his eyes without
being able to save her.

So strange the scene was in this little drawing-room, with the couch
upon which rested the dying woman standing near the piano, the glitter
of mirrors and ornaments in the dim candle-light, and the silent group
standing round the one who was passing away. Outside the sunlight had
died out of the sky, the purple twilight deepened to night, and the
melancholy light of the moon streamed in through the windows, the
blinds of which no one had troubled to pull down. In the passage
crouched the servant, sobbing as if her heart would break; but Kaituna
could not cry, she could only kneel there with tearless eyes, and a
look of anguish on her white face watching her mother die.

"Kaituna," said Mrs. Belswin, faintly.

"I am here, dear mother!"

"You are not hurt?"

"No! No!"

"Thank God," said her mother, with a tone of joy in her weak voice. "I
have paid the debt."

"With your life--with your life," moaned the girl, wringing her hands
in despair. "Doctor, can you do nothing?"

"Nothing."

"I know I am dying," went on Mrs. Belswin in a stronger voice, having
swallowed some restorative; "it is better so! Hush! hush! my poor
child! God knows what is best. If I sinned against you in the past, He
has permitted me to expiate that sin by saving you from death. Archie!
take her, take my darling, and make her a good husband."

"As there is a God above, I will," said Maxwell, solemnly, taking the
now weeping girl in his arms.

"My poor Stephano, is it you?"

"Ah, cara mia--cara mia," cried Ferrari, throwing himself on his knees
beside the sofa. "Do not leave me--do not!"

"Alas, Stephano, it is not in my power! Weep! weep, poor heart! Your
tears show me how much love I have lost--love that I did not deserve."

"And I?" said Belk, coming forward.

"You are a good man," said the dying woman, faintly, stretching out
her hand. "You will find some one to love you better than I would have
done."

"Never! Ah, never!"

"Believe me, what I say is true. Ah!" she cried, with a terrified look
on her face. "Kaituna, my dearest!"

In a moment Kaituna was on her knees again, bending over her mother,
with the hot tears falling from her eyes.

"Mother! mother! would you like to see a clergyman?"

"No, my darling no! I have sinned--I have sinned bitterly, but perhaps
God in His mercy will accept the expiation. Archie, be good to my
little child. Oh, my little girl, whom I lost for so many weary, weary
years, put your arms, your dear arms, round me, and let the outcast
die on the bosom of her child!"

The murmuring noise from the street penetrated into the room; the dim
light of the candles flickered and flared in the faint breath of the
wind, and there was silence among all kneeling there, save for the
sobs of Kaituna and the broken mutterings of the dying woman repeating
a prayer.

"Our Father, which art in Heaven----Oh, my child, my child, will he
forgive me--will He forgive me?"

"I'm sure He will, mother!"

"Half a savage, half civilised! Ah, if I had only been guided, I might
have been a good woman; but we were both wrong, Rupert and----
Kaituna, my little child, I--I am leaving you! Oh, my baby--kiss me, my
dearest--my little----"

Her head fell inertly on the encircling arm of the girl, and Kaituna
knew by the terribly calm look on the placid face that not all her
love--not all her money--not all her prayers, had availed to save from
death this mother whom she had lost and found--this mother who had
sinned and repented--this mother who had given her life to save that
of her child.




CHAPTER XXXVI.
A MEMORY OF THE PAST.


     "De Mortuis"--you know the phrase, I think;
      A kindly saying, such as poor humanity
      Mutters at times when talking of the dead;
      Therefore, I pray you, speak not any ill
      Of this poor soul who suffered, sinned, and died,
      Seeing her sinning brought her but to this;
      Yourself when gone may need a pitying word,
      When all your virtues with you are entombed,
      And naught remains but sins to curse your name.


So it was Dombrain, after all, who had committed this crime, and, by
accusing Mrs. Belswin of the murder, placed her life in jeopardy, in
order both to revenge and save himself. Had it not been for the
unexpected evidence of Samson Belk, without doubt the unhappy woman
would have been found guilty, and suffered in the place of the astute
Mr. Dombrain. When this ex-lawyer, ex-convict, and constant blackguard
heard himself accused of the crime, he slipped out of the court and
vanished before he could be arrested, knowing that he could make no
defence.

Part of his evidence was true, for he had been in the drawing-room, he
had seen Mrs. Belswin enter the study, but here his truth ceased and
his lies began. Fearing lest his name should be mentioned by the
infuriated woman during the interview, which would be sure to end in
the discomfiture of Mrs. Belswin the lawyer, trembling for his
respectable position, went to his bedroom and took his air-pistol, so
as to be prepared for emergencies. It is but fair to Mr. Dombrain to
say that he had no intention of using the weapon unless everything was
lost; so, creeping out of the house, he placed himself beside the open
window of the study, in order to hear what Mrs. Belswin would say.

In accordance with his expectations, she did tell Sir Rupert all about
him, and when Dombrain heard the declaration of the baronet that he
would denounce him, he knew that all was lost, and that the sin of his
early youth was going to cost him the respectable position of his
middle age. When Mrs. Belswin, thrust forth by her unforgiving
husband, fled out into the night, Dombrain, trembling, sick at heart
at seeing all that made his life worth living vanish, crouched still
beside the window, and here Sir Rupert, who had come out to make sure
that his divorced wife had taken herself off, found him.

Then an interview between the lawyer and the baronet took place, in
which the latter swore to reveal all the infamy of Dombrain, and have
him struck off the rolls. In vain the wretched man pleaded for mercy.
Coldly and inflexibly the baronet thrust him out of doors, the same
way he had done his wife; and then mad with anger at the terrible
future before him, Dombrain shot Sir Rupert, in the manner described
by Belk in the witness-box. After committing the crime and assuring
himself that his victim was dead, he coolly stepped across the body,
and took refuge in his own room, from whence he did not emerge for the
rest of the night. It was true, as he said, that his room was near the
head of the staircase, for he saw Mrs. Belswin leave the study as he
described, so it was then that the idea came into his head to secure
himself by sacrificing her, and thus both save and revenge himself at
one time.

On leaving the court after having been denounced by Belk, his rage
against all the world for his thwarted revenge and his perilous
position knew no bounds. He had no idea of escaping justice, but
determined before he was seized to punish the woman who had--as he
believed--dragged him down even lower than his former position. Then
he had simply embezzled money, but now he had committed a crime for
which he would lose his life; and thus, seeing that his doom was
fixed, he determined that Mrs. Belswin should suffer for placing him
in such a perilous position.

With this idea in his head, he took the air-pistol with which he had
killed Sir Rupert, and went to the lodgings of the dead man's daughter
and Mrs. Belswin. Skilfully managing to evade the notice of the
servant, he ensconced himself behind the curtains in the drawing-room,
and shot the unhappy woman as described. At first, knowing how bitter
it would be to Mrs. Belswin, he had intended to kill Kaituna, but the
unexpected action of the mother had saved the daughter from a terrible
death. Satisfied with his work, Dombrain threw down the pistol and
disappeared--disappeared into the depths of London, from whence he
never emerged. What became of him nobody ever knew. Whether he took
another name, and resumed his profession in provincial England;
whether he left the country; whether he died in the gutter, no one
ever discovered. Falling into the immense ocean of London like a drop
of rain, he became obliterated, lost, unknown, but no doubt in due
time he met his reward for his evil doings.

And his victim? Alas, poor soul, her troubles, her trials, her
follies, were all at an end, and a simple cross marked the place where
she was buried. To that humble grave, a year after the events
described, came Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, in reverence for the memory of
the woman--the mother who had given her life for that of her child.
Maxwell had married Kaituna in due course after a decent time had
elapsed from the death of Mrs. Belswin, and later on he had gone to
South America, on business connected with his profession; for, in
spite of Kaituna's wealth, Archie could not bring himself to live upon
her income. He had gone away for a few months to Buenos Ayres, and had
now returned to the side of Kaituna for ever. After much difficulty
she had persuaded him to accept her view of the question, and share
the proceeds of the Pole Star Mine. To this, after much hesitation,
Maxwell consented, and now the husband and wife had arranged to make a
tour of the world together. Before leaving England, however, they came
to Kensal Green cemetery to pay a last visit to the grave of the woman
who had sinned, but who also had suffered.

"Poor mother!" said Kaituna, as she leaned on the strong arm of her
husband. "What a terribly bitter life she had, and her death was
hardly less sad."

"She saved you, my darling," replied Maxwell, with a fond smile; "and
that, in her eyes, was recompense enough for the sudden ending of her
life."

"If that wretch who killed her had only been punished?"

"I've no doubt he is punished. It is true he escaped the hands of men,
but I am certain he will not escape the punishment of God. But come,
my dear Kaituna, these thoughts make you sad. Let us leave this dreary
place."

"Yes; but see, Archie, that withered wreath of roses! It has been
placed there by Ferrari, I am sure."

"But I thought he had gone to Italy."

"Only three weeks ago! He came to me and talked a great deal about our
poor mother, whom he loved very dearly in his own impulsive way. But
now he is back in his own country, he no doubt will forget about her.
Men have such short memories."

"Don't say that. Remember Belk."

"Oh, he will go the same way," said Kaituna, a little bitterly.
"Certainly he behaved very well, for he used to bring flowers here
every week, along with Ferrari. How these two men must have loved my
mother!"

"She deserved their love," replied Maxwell, after a pause. "She had
sinned, it is true, but she was bitterly punished for her sin. Well,
she lies here, and the two men who loved her have gone far away--one
to Italy, the other to America."

"Ah, all our friends go thus!"

"Not all, my dear. Remember Toby Clendon and his wife, who are living
so happily at Deswarth. We must go down and see them before we leave
England."

"No, no!" said Kaituna, with a sudden shudder. "I cannot bear to go
near Thornstream after those terrible events which cost the lives of
both my parents."

"Come, dear one," urged Maxwell, seeing how overcome she was with
emotion, "let us go away."

"One moment," replied Kaituna, kneeling beside the grave. "I must say
farewell to my poor mother."

And kneeling there in the long green grass, she breathed a prayer for
the soul of her unhappy mother, whose natural love had cost her so
dear.

Maxwell, who had removed his hat when he heard this prayer mount like
incense to the throne of God, quoted a text from the Scriptures in a
low voice--

"She suffered much, so much shall be forgiven of her!"



THE END.








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