To Glynn the terrible darkness, which seemed closing in deeper and deeper with each succeeding day over the fate of the fair girl he had learned to love so passionately, was appalling. He chafed against his own hopelessness, he exhausted himself in conjectures and restless going to and fro.
When Lambert came back from his fruitless journey to Marseilles, he seemed sunk in a strange, sullen apathy, nor did he accept Glynn's well-meant efforts to comfort and sustain him with cordiality. He declared his intention of remaining in Paris as the place where the earliest tidings of his missing daughter were most likely to reach him. He had already given notice of his intention to leave his apartments, and now dismissed Madame Weber and thebonne.
"I do not know where I may have to go, or what I may have to do," he said to Glynn. "I'll hang on here till my time is up, and then I'll take a room somewhere and just wait. You are very good, Glynn; you could have done no more if you had been my poor darling's affianced lover. I little knew you were a rich man, and partner in a great firm, when I offered you her poor little portion."
"Do not speak of it," said Glynn, with inexpressible emotion; "but treat me as a trusted friend. Tell me what conjectures you have formed as to her fate."
"I believe she is dead," said Lambert in a broken voice, and covering his face. "Had she been in life she would have managed to communicate with me. Now I have nothing left to live for but revenge."
"Have you any idea where to direct your vengeance?"
"I cannot answer yes or no yet, though if I'd answer any one it would be you, Glynn."
"That means 'Yes,'" returned Glynn.
Lambert did not reply. He seemed sunk in gloomy, hard resignation to a detested destiny. "You shouldn't wait on here, Glynn," he resumed, after a minute's silence. "You can do no good,—as they didn't find her within the first week it will just be a waiting race. We'll hit on the truth just by accident, that will be the way of it."
But Glynn could not tear himself from Paris. How often he recalled the circumstances under which he had uttered these words to Elsie; they were almost the last he had spoken to her. He could almost hear the soft, tremulous tones in which she promised to listen to his reasons for not being able to tear himself away. No, it was impossible that she could have had the smallest anticipation of the dreadful catastrophe which awaited her. Yet her very last words—her last look haunted him. The questioning, wondering glance, the half-whisper—"you puzzle me!"
Twice during this miserable period of indecision Glynn encountered Vincent,—once on the stair leading to Lambert's abode, and once in the Boulevards.
In the first instance he greeted Glynn with the frankest expression of sorrow and sympathy for the great misfortune which had befallen Lambert, mentioning his own deep grief, and his compassionate forgiveness of Lambert's injurious accusations against himself.
Glynn found Lambert in a state of furious excitement after this visit, and uttering violent half-unintelligible threats against Vincent.
On their second meeting Glynn tried to pass him, but in vain, and was obliged to listen to a string of suggestions and conjectures respecting the supposed fugitive which nearly drove him to throttle his interlocutor and fling him into the street under the hoofs of the passing horses, especially as he felt that Vincent's small, penetrating, watchful eyes were intently, searchingly fixed on his face while he spoke.
At length letters from his partners obliged him to quit the scene of so much suffering and disaster.
It was with the deepest reluctance that Glynn bid Lambert good-bye. The unhappy father still wore the same aspect of helplessness, of sullen submission to the irresistible. He scarcely heeded Glynn's announcement of his immediate departure, and merely answered his ardent request for the earliest information respecting any crumbs of intelligence in the affirmative. He put Glynn's card in his pocket-book mechanically. Yet he wrung his hand hard at parting, and bid God bless him, brokenly—yet heartily.
Glynn, not satisfied with Lambert's promise, obtained an interview with M. Claude, who was even more curt and immovable than ever. He, however, condescended to promise that he would not fail to let him know should any traces of the missing girl be found.
Glynn was not perhaps fully aware of the withering change which the torture of the last three weeks had wrought in him until he attempted to resume the routine of his former life. The color and flavor seemed to have been extracted from existence, nothing was left worth hoping for, working for, living for, and the heads of his firm exclaimed at his haggard, worn aspect.
The second day after he had resumed his attendance at the office he found himself too faint and dizzy to continue the writing on which he was engaged. His head ached intensely, his pulses throbbed. He rang, and began to explain to the clerk who answered his summons that he felt so ill he must return home; but before he could finish his sentence he fell heavily at the feet of his startled hearer. He was conveyed carefully to his own residence, which he did not leave for many weeks,—not till he had been brought to the verge of the grave by a fierce brain-fever.
A new year was opening on the just and the unjust—the fortunate and the unfortunate. Lady Gethin had arrived in town after a prolonged Christmas visit to some attentive relatives in one of the midland counties.
She was always pleased to be at home; she liked to exercise a friendly hospitality, and she was by no means afraid of a lonely evening, of which she never had too many.
It was the day after her return. Night had closed in; her dainty dinner was over, and she was established in her favorite chair beside a bright wood and coal fire in the smaller and cosier of her two drawing-rooms, which was lighted only by the ruddy glow of the fire and a shaded reading-lamp, by which she was perusing a new novel. She had laid down the book and was thinking, with an unusually softened expression on her strong face, of her favorite, Hugh Glynn. She had been intensely anxious about him during his severe illness. She had constantly visited his sick-room, and satisfied herself that nurses and servants were doing their duty. When his life was despaired of, she was grimly still, silent, and enduring, butsheknew that all the woman in her somewhat masculine nature had gone out, in maternal affection, to her husband's nephew.
When he was slowly struggling back to life and strength she accompanied him to a south coast bathing-place, and gave him the great benefit of her companionship, for she knew how to be sympathetically silent, as well as congenially talkative. In this prolongedtête-à-têteGlynn grew sincerely and gratefully attached to the outspoken free-thinking old woman, whose frank kindness was never oppressive, and whose uncompromising sincerity might convince the hardest sceptic of its reality.
Attachment brought confidence, and before they parted Hugh Glynn had told her the strange history of his sudden love for Elsie Lambert, of the hold it had taken of him in spite of reason, prudence, worldly wisdom—every motive that ought to guide a man of his maturity and experience. He even confessed to the weakness of regretting he had rejected Lambert's proposal of marriage with his daughter.
In the story of Elsie's disappearance, Lady Gethin was profoundly interested, though, to Glynn's disappointment and indignation, she did not hesitate to declare her belief that the young lady eloped voluntarily, and had probably since informed her father of her whereabouts—a fact which he might think it wiser not to divulge. She further declared that although she did not think the worse of Glynn for his infatuation, she thought he had had a great escape, and believed he would come to think so himself when he had recovered his health and resumed the ordinary routine of his life.
Reviewing these conversations Lady Gethin sat forgetful of her book, when the object of her thoughts was announced.
"Why didn't you come to dinner?" she exclaimed, holding out her hand.
"Because I have been dining earlier than usual at the house of a cousin of mine in the suburbs, where I have been officiating as god-father to his first-born son."
"A very patriarchal proceeding. Who is this cousin—do I not know him?"
"I think not; he is a cousin on my mother's side, and has a cure of souls at Clapham."
"Well, Hugh, and how are you? You look better and stronger."
"I am! I have turned the corner, and am beginning to pull mechanically against the collar once more."
Lady Gethin looked earnestly at him. He seemed taller than ever—gaunt and bony. His dark face was very colorless, his eyes sunken; yet his attitude and air had less of lassitude than when they had parted last.
"You have been across the Channel?"
"Yes, I ran over to Paris for a little change, just before Christmas. Paris draws me like a magnet."
"A magnetism you ought to resist. How is the beautiful city?"
"Beautiful as ever; but there is mischief in the air. However, I am no prophet. I wandered about the old scenes like a troubled ghost, and I saw Lambert."
"Indeed! I wish, Hugh, you would break away from all the painful associations with that man, you can do him no good."
"True; but I have the most profound pity for him, all the more that he seems by no means glad to see me. I fancy his terrible misfortune has affected his brain. He is sullen, and averse to speak of anything that leads up to the subject of his lost daughter, and yet he looks in surprisingly good health."
"Hehas not had a brain fever!" said Lady Gethin, significantly. "I suppose no trace whatever has been discovered?"
"Not the faintest. I succeeded in obtaining an interview with M. Claude, who reluctantly admitted that the French police have rarely been so baffled."
"It is a most extraordinary case," said Lady Gethin, and then hastened to change the subject. "I have had rather a pleasant time of it at the Kingsfords'. I went down the day before Christmas and only returned yesterday. The Deerings put up there for two nights on their way to Lord Arthur Saville's. Lady Frances was looking a little more alive; and really Deering can be very agreeable."
"He is, I suspect, a tremendously white-washed sepulchre."
"I cannot understand your suspicions of Deering," returned Lady Gethin; "as to his being mixed up with the Lambert affair, it is mere nonsense. What on earth could he have to do with such a man as you describe Lambert? He might have met him in a train, or on a steamboat, or a race-course, but it is impossible he could haveknownmuch of him."
"He did, however, I am certain," said Glynn, slowly and thoughtfully; "and you would agree with me had you seen them together. There was deadly enmity as well as acquaintanceship between them."
"Well, perhaps so," she returned. "Will you have a cup of coffee, Hugh? It will rouse you, you look sleepy anddistrait."
"Thank you; a cup ofyourcoffee will do me good."
Lady Gethin rang and ordered some to be brought, talking cheerfully on a variety of topics. But Glynn's attention wandered while he sipped the refreshing beverage, and as he put down his cup Lady Gethin exclaimed, "I don't think you have heard a word I have been saying!"
"Yes," he exclaimed, starting from his thoughts, "I have heard, but, I confess, not taken in the sense of what you have been saying. I am, perhaps foolishly, excited by an incident which occurred to-day, and as you are tolerably acquainted with all my weakness you may as well hear this instance too. I was, as I told you, at Clapham to-day; after the christening of my little godson we returned to luncheon at Heathcote's—at my cousin's house, and when the other guests had left he asked me to smoke a cigar with him in the garden. As we talked and walked up and down beside a railing and hedge of holly, which separates Heathcote's garden from the next, I heard some one speaking at the other side, and as I listened I could have sworn that the voice was Elsie Lambert's. It was soft and low, yet wonderfully distinct; then a highly-pitched woman's voice declared in French that she feared some task would be difficult. Again the voice that made my heart stand still said, 'Difficult, but not insurmountable; kindness and steadiness will overcome so much; I would trust them too——' Then I ceased to catch the words, though the well-known tones came to me again, as the speakers evidently turned away. Great heavens! I hear it still, it was Elsie's voice! I lost my head for a moment; I rushed to the railing, and thrusting my arms between them, tried to tear away some of the branches to look through. My cousin thought I had lost my senses, and begged for an explanation. I told him I felt certain that a lady I had been seeking in every direction was at the other side of the hedge. He said the adjoining grounds belonged to a ladies' school, and I asked him to accompany me to the house, and back me up in my inquiries, as he was known to the owner and the teachers. At last he consented. The parleying occupied some time, then we had to walk round by a road which ran the length of the two gardens, to turn again on reaching the common, and go a little way back to the gates of Montpellier House; altogether twenty minutes must have elapsed from the time I first heard the voice before I rang the bell at Mrs. Storrer's. As we approached a cab was driving away. On asking for the head of the establishment, we were informed that no one was at home but the head governess and the French teacher. Heathcote sent up his card, and begged to be allowed to speak to one or both of the ladies."
"Well," ejaculated Lady Gethin, "what did you find?"
"After a little delay we were ushered up stairs and were received by a lady, who recognized Heathcote. He left me to explain myself, which I did as well as I could, though it was not easy."
"'You heard a voice you recognized speaking in our grounds,' repeated the lady; 'it must have been either Mademoiselle Laroche, or Mademoiselle Moppert. They were in the grounds just now.'
"'May I see these ladies?'
"'Mademoiselle Moppert,—yes; but Mademoiselle Laroche has just driven away. Mademoiselle Moppert has come to replace her as French governess.' I confess I lost hope as she spoke, still I begged for an interview with the incoming teacher, and a servant was sent to request her presence. A glance at her was enough. She was a short, stout, elderly young lady, with piercing black eyes and distinct moustaches. I had to muster my best French and apologize elaborately. Then I begged for some information touching Mademoiselle Laroche. Was she French? 'Yes, undoubtedly,—from Picardy.' 'Was she tall, or short? slight, or stout?' 'She was,' the French governess said, 'about her height, and a little, yes, a very little thinner.' The Englishwoman added that she did not look in good health. 'Did she sing?' I asked. No, she had never sang or played while in Mrs. Storrer's establishment. How long had she been there? About seven months. She had been engaged in May last, but did not come till the middle of June. Where had she gone? It was understood she had made an engagement to go to India, but she was extremely reserved. No one knew much about her except Mrs. Storrer, who was spending the holidays with a friend at Cheltenham. This was all I could extract. Heathcote was desperately put out by my eccentric proceedings. I was obliged to return with him and to give some explanation of my conduct. Then I went to the cab-stand, and found out the number of the cab; and to the police-station, and commissioned a constable to ascertain where the cab had taken Mademoiselle Laroche."
"I think your time and trouble have been thrown away," said Lady Gethin. "A fancied resemblance to Miss Lambert's voice was but shallow ground to build any hopes upon."
"It was not fancied," said Glynn, leaning back and looking straight before him with fixed, dreamy eyes. "The tones struck my ear, my heart, with instantaneous recognition. I cannot believe that any two people could speak so much alike. I must say the description doesn't tally, nor is it possible to account for her being in a ladies' school in England; still, that voice!"
"My dear Hugh, your imagination is so saturated with the tragic ideas you associate with that unhappy girl's flight—I mean her disappearance," for Glynn turned sharply towards her, "that you can hardly trust your own impressions. I wish you would put the affair out of your head. You were quite right to help the poor father as much as you could; but now—let this chapter of your life be closed, and begin afresh."
"Excellent advice, but useless to me. I cannotforget!"
"Is it possible that on so short an acquaintance you were so severely hit?"
"Ay, in the first twenty-four hours of our acquaintance she touched my heart as no other woman ever did, and every subsequent interview added to her power. There was a sweet gravity about her which would be as charming in her white-haired age as in her fair youth! And yet so miserably faithless is this human nature of ours, there are moments when doubt plunges its jagged darts into me;—and for a hideous moment I think it possible she may have gone willingly with some unknown lover, but at any suggestion of the kind from another the doubt vanishes. It only gathers at rare intervals when I brood alone and grow morbid. In my saner moments I never doubt her; but the horror of the thing!—nothing diminishes that!"
He started up and began to pace the room. The anguish of his voice touched Lady Gethin, in spite of her conviction that he was weakly credulous.
"It is a terrible business altogether. What do you think of doing now?"
"I shall go down by an early train to Cheltenham to-morrow and see this Mrs. Storrer. My future movements will depend on what I gather from her."
"Shall you write to the father?"
"Not unless I have something definite to report. It would be cruel to rouse him out of his apathy by a gleam of false hope."
"You are a most unlucky fellow, Hugh; your life is quite spoilt by this entanglement."
"It is my fate," said Glynn. He rested his elbow on the mantelpiece and his head on his hand.
"You will return to-morrow night, I suppose?" said Lady Gethin.
"Most probably. I don't fancy I shall get any intelligence that will send me further afield."
"You must come and tell me your news as soon as possible."
"Of course I shall, gladly."
"Then dine with me the day after to-morrow. I shall not ask any one to break our solitudeà deux."
"Thank you. It is an infinite comfort to talk to you, though I know very well you are sceptical on some points where I cling to belief."
After some more conversation they parted, and Glynn, disturbed, but scarcely hopeful, went home to snatch what repose he could before his early start next day.
While Glynn was making his way to Mrs. Storrer's temporary abode through muddy streets and a chilling shower of sleet, Deering sat over a glowing fire in the particular apartment occupied by him in his town house. He was in London for a few days on his way to visit a sporting friend in Leicestershire, and was utilizing the time by an interview with his solicitor, who had already risen to take leave, when Deering's valet entered and handed a card to his master, who, glancing at it with a frown, said:
"Ask him to sit down; I will see him presently," and he continued the conversation with his legal adviser, though his eyes wandered more than once to the card which lay beside him.
As soon as he was alone, Deering rang and desired that the gentleman who was waiting should be shown up. In another moment the door closed on Vincent, who was magnificent in a grand overcoat, with a sable collar and cuffs, and a pair of sealskin gloves. His finery, however, was no stay to his self-esteem, for his light-colored, hatchety face had an uneasy, crestfallen expression.
"Well," said Deering, without further salutation, "have you any news? There—sit down."
"Yes, I have news; not very satisfactory news," said Vincent in his nasal, drawling tones. "He's off!"
"Lambert! And to America?" cried Deering.
The other nodded. "I tracked him myself, saw him on board the New York steamer, and saw her steam away down the Mersey."
"Then he sailed from Liverpool? What was the meaning of that?"
"Can't tell. I think you are wrong in your conjectures. I don't think he knows any more about his daughter than we do."
"His start for America proves nothing."
"Perhaps not; but for over seven months he has been watched night and day, as you know, and not a trace of any communication with any one except business men and that woman who brought up the girl has been found."
"We don't know what his communication with her may have masked?"
"Well, not more than three letters have passed between them in all this time; nor has he remitted money in any direction, or made any expeditions beyond his daily round. He has been pretty steady in his attendance at the Bourse, and done well in a quiet way, but his life has been visible and regular. He has bothered M. Claude periodically, and he looks a good deal changed; but, no! if he knew his daughter's whereabouts he never could keep from giving some sign. He is a fiery, impulsive, open-mouthed fellow, who would be too proud of doing you to keep silent about it. If he were not within reach of the policeman he'd givememy quietus."
"No doubt," said Deering, with calm, complete acquiescence. "What is the name of the woman in Wales?"
"Mrs. Kellett."
"I thought we might have got something out of her."
"Well, I did not," returned Vincent. "Lambert was so ready to apply to her. Moreover, the man that went down to the place found she had been ill in bed at the very time Miss Lambert disappeared."
There was a pause. "It is the strangest case, I should think, that French detective ever came across," resumed Deering. "I suppose he never was baffled before. Who has any interest in taking her away? Have you any theory?"
"Not much of one. I am sometimes inclined to think she went off with Glynn. He was, I suspect, far gone about her."
"No," said Deering, thoughtfully. "No; he was with me when Lambert broke in like a madman, and no one could have aped the horror and astonishmenthebetrayed. No, he doesn't know anything,—or didn't a few weeks ago; but I wish to heaven he hadn't got over that fever. Should we ever find the girl we shall have to reckon with him, and he is a formidable antagonist."
"He can be dealt with, I suppose."
Deering did not heed him; he moved uneasily in his chair. His brow contracted with a look of fierce resolution. "Have you telegraphed to the New York police?"
"I waited to see you first."
"You had better do so. They have a description of Lambert, I suppose?"
"I rather think not."
"Send it then."
"What, by wire?"
"Yes;—but wait,—do it through the French detective. I don't want to appear in the matter. They were rather taken with the notion that Lambert himself had made away with his daughter?"
"At first, yes; but the last time I saw M. Claude he seemed to have quite given up the idea."
"You never know what he thinks. Now, what has your journey cost you?"
"I don't care to take any money at present; I will write when——"
"No," interrupted Deering, imperiously, "no letters—I will neither write nor receive them—a telegram, if absolutely necessary. If you have anything to tell, come and tell it, you can always find my address at the Club, and never give up the search. Here are twenty sovereigns,—I have no more gold about me, and I'll not give you notes,—take them, I insist. It suits me better to pay when I have the opportunity. Remember—the sum originally promised if you can find her dead, double if you find her alive. Now you may go—stop—wait till the servant comes." Vincent paused, and as the door opened, Deering said distinctly in courteous tones, "I am very much obliged to you for taking the trouble to call—I am interested in your search—and wish you all success. Good-morning."
Lady Gethin was restless and expectant until the hour arrived at which Glynn was due. She was profoundly interested in the mysterious disappearance of the girl who had made so deep an impression on her favorite nephew. She would like her to be discovered safe and well; but above all things, married to some worthy person, and so secure from doing or receiving harm. Then she should like to see her, perhaps assist at her reconciliation with her father. Anyhow it was a great mercy that she was well out of Hugh's way, for really the folly and weakness of men were such, etc., etc.
Glynn was a few minutes late, but was cordially welcomed.
"I see you have found nothing," exclaimed Lady Gethin, as soon as they were alone.
"It was a wild-goose chase," he replied with a weary look.
"You must tell me all about it after dinner. You seem in want of a glass of wine,—you shall have some of my best Burgundy, it is a splendid tonic."
The friendly hostess was greatly distressed at her guest's want of appetite; she pressed, him to eat, and prescribed various nostrums, which he rejected. As soon as the servants had left the room he brightened a little, and drawing his chair nearer hers, began his story in compliance with her reiterated entreaty, "Come, tell me everything."
He had, he said, found the head of the Clapham establishment easy enough; she was a composed, ceremonious, typical school-mistress; civil, but guarded. She listened attentively to his story, and declared her willingness to tell all she knew about the young French lady who had just quitted her service. She had been recommended by some English friends at Dinan; and her chief attraction was the fact of her being a Protestant. Hitherto Mrs. Storrer feared the introduction of a foreigner into her select and sacred household, but had no reason to regret the entrance of Mademoiselle Laroche within its precincts. It was early in May last that negotiations between herself and the French teacher began; but she did not enter upon her duties till the 15th of June.
"That," said Glynn, interrupting himself, "was the day of the ball,—the day before her disappearance."
Mrs. Storrer described Mademoiselle Laroche as about middle height, inclined to be stout, with hair and eyes between dark and fair; not particularly graceful; and as to age,—well, it was hard to say—she might be twenty-one,—she might be twenty-five,—appearances are deceptive. As to her voice—yes, it was pleasant, unusually soft for a French woman; but nothing remarkable! If he wished for Mademoiselle Laroche's address, Mrs. Storrer would be happy to furnish it, though that would not be of much avail, as the family to whom she had gone were to start to-morrow or next day for India. She had not her address-book with her, but would send a note to the governess to forward it to Mr. Glynn.
"Finally, I showed her Miss Lambert's photograph, which I always carry about with me. She looked at it with a slow smile, and then turning it said: 'No, this is not Mademoiselle Laroche, this is a charming young lady.' Her quiet unconsciousness of any resemblance convinced me even more than her words that she could not know Elsie."
"Indeed," added Glynn, "a quiet young ladies' boarding-school seems the very last place where one could expect to find a girl so strangely and tragically lost. Yet even now, as I recall the voice I heard the day before yesterday, I cannot believe that I was mistaken! Is it not possible that a visitor might have entered and walked round the garden with the other two? unknown to the head governess."
"Of course it is possible, but very improbable. If Miss Lambert was carried away against her own will (which I do not believe), her captors would not let her go visiting; and if she aided in concealing herself, why, she would not seek acquaintances."
"True, and unanswerable. Still, when I think of the voice I heard little more than forty-eight hours ago, I cannot resist the conviction that if I could have burst through that accursed hedge I should have clasped Elsie—the real Elsie—in my arms."
"Good heavens, Hugh!wouldyou have clasped her in your arms?"
"I would! if she had not repelled me! I tell you I would give life itself,—to find—the Elsie Lambert I believed in."
"Yes, but can you hope to do so? Must you not admit that the balance of evidence isagainstsuch a find?" cried Lady Gethin, distressed, yet deeply interested.
"There are beliefs and instincts," returned Glynn, "the deepest—the strangest, respecting which one cannot reason! Shall we ever understand the 'wherefore' that is beyond and above our material sense?"
"Never," said Lady Gethin, sharply. "There is a something we cannot define or fathom that stirs us as though a second self was being evolved from the coarser everyday serviceable ego; but it will always escape our ken! Nor will it do to trust these bewildering, shadowy promptings; we must act in the living present by the light of that most uncommon faculty, common sense. These dreamy tendencies are not like you! This unlucky business has upset your mental balance, Hugh. You have done your best to find this poor girl; she has no claim whatever upon you. You must try to put her out of your head, and take up your life again."
"I suppose I must," he returned thoughtfully; "but it will be hard. Curiously enough I found a letter awaiting me when I returned, from Lambert, dated Liverpool, informing me he was to sail next day for New York, where he had some faint hope of finding a clue to his daughter. He must have passed through London. I am surprised he did not call on me. I did not think he would have avoided me."
"It looks odd," said Lady Gethin. "By the way, let me see the daughter's photograph; I did not know you carried it about, or I should have asked for it before."
Glynn took out the little case in which the picture was carefully enclosed, and gave it to her. Lady Gethin looked long and thoughtfully at it.
"A sweet face," she said, "somewhat sad; but a fine expression; it seems somehow familiar to me. Photographs are seldom true representations, and she may be very unlike the idea this suggests; but I wish I could remember who it is she reminds of."
"It has not been fortunate for Elsie that her face suggests memories," said Glynn. "I have a strong conviction that if she had not attracted Deering's attention at those Auteuil races she would be still safe under her father's care."
"You mean to say you think that a man of Deering's position, character, standing, would give himself up to such scoundrelism. Hugh! it is too absurd!"
"I know it is; I always dismiss the thought, and then it gathers again like a mist over the morass of doubt in which I am plunged. However, if he is responsible for her disappearance he certainly does not know where she is now; but he is seeking for her. Claude, the French detective, let out as much the last time I saw him."
"Depend upon it the father knows she is in America."
"You think so?Idoubt it."
"I wonder he is not more confidential with you. Does he know you were in love with her?"
"No, certainly not!"
"The whole affair is incomprehensible!—let me look at that photograph again! Who is it she reminds me of?"
Finding no reply in the stores of her memory, Lady Gethin shut up the case and restored it to Glynn, and to change the subject began to urge him to resume his former social habits and mix with his kind. "It will not render your chances of finding your lost love any the worse, perhaps better; for if you ever get a clue to her, I suspect it will be by accident. No one was ever really lost in this small world of ours unless, indeed, death folds its pall over the missing one."
"Yes, I shall probably find her; but how? and where?" said Glynn, with a sound of pain in his voice. "At any rate I shall follow your advice! I will try to shake off this despairing apathy; and, though I cannot turn phrases prettily, believe me I am warmly grateful for your sympathy, your forbearance; indeed, I do not know what I should do without it."
Glynn was true to his promise. He forced himself back to something of his old routine. He took a deeper interest in business than before, and found something of relief in the mental effort it obliged him to make.
Men said Glynn was greatly changed since that bad fever he had had. Women thought him more interesting. The truth was hardly suspected. It suited the authorities ofla sûretéthat theaffaire Rue de L'Evêqueshould not get into the public prints. The English newspapers had therefore never got hold of the story.
One of the chief interests in this new phase of Glynn's existence was to watch Deering, whom he frequently met.
That gentleman affected some intimacy with Glynn, and made many visits to the office of Messrs. Ottley, Hassali and Ince,aproposof his railway scheme.
Glynn did not reject his advances, though never lapsing into intimacy. Deering often spoke of Lambert, and volunteered the information that the New York police had their eye upon him, that he had arrived all right, landed, and gone away South almost immediately.
Gradually it dawned upon Glynn that Deering was watchinghim, that he suspected him of knowing more of Elsie's disappearance than any one else. He was careful not to let Deering see that he perceived this, and so, under the fair seeming of friendly acquaintanceship, the two men kept watch over each other with deadly pertinacity and keenness, Glynn keeping profoundest silence as to his conviction that he had heard Elsie's voice, a conviction that tormented him in all his silent, lonely hours. Often he accused himself of stupidity for too readily believing the stately Mrs. Storrer. But her quiet disavowal of all likeness in the photograph to her French teacher, coupled with Lambert's letter stating that he had some faint hope of finding a clue to his daughter in America, put him off the idea of hunting Mademoiselle Laroche further. Sometimes he felt that he would give all he possessed to shake himself clear of the haunting horror which poisoned his life. Then the memory of Elsie's sweet, grave, holy eyes would rise before him, and he felt that he could endure all things, hope all things, could he but find her, and restore her to what she was. On the whole, evil anticipations predominated. He had been greatly disappointed by Lambert's avoidance of him. He could not bear to think that the unhappy, bereaved father had withdrawn his confidence.
Thus battling with the fiends of doubt and fear that lacerated his heart, Glynn dragged himself on from day to day.
In the last week of February Deering's land-agent came to town, bringing with him maps, plans, and calculations. To Glynn's great surprise he proved to be a certain Dick Weldon, formerly one of his school-fellows. This recognition led to some intercourse. Glynn, without deliberate questioning, gathered a good deal of information, which threw a new light on Deering's character in some directions. On the subject of the quest which engrossed them both Glynn maintained a profound silence.
His old acquaintance dined with him, and they talked over bygone days and boyish escapades with zest, at least on Weldon's side. It was amazing to Glynn how fresh and full the details of past adventures—even small minutiæ—dwelt in his old acquaintance's mind, untroubled as it was by a crowd of varied experiences. He had, it seemed, led a quiet, busy life, humbly useful, but unexciting.
One cold, dry, dark evening Glynn had accepted an invitation to dine with Weldon at the hotel in Holborn where he usually stayed on his short visits to town.
Dinner was over, and both men were enjoying a cigar. The host had put one or two queries, evidently prompted by the curiosity which the contrast between Glynn's prosperity and his gloomy depression evoked, but he could draw forth no responsive confidence, and Weldon, falling back on his own interests, described his home, his wife, and children, pressing Glynn warmly to pay them a visit, when, to the great surprise of both, Deering was ushered in. He apologized shortly for his intrusion, and explained that he had just had private intelligence that the member for a borough town near Denham was dangerously ill, that even were he to recover it would be long before he could enter into public life again, and that he (Deering) wished to win the probably vacant seat. He therefore wished Weldon, who knew the local population, and was well able to feel its pulse, to leave town next morning, and put matters in train for an immediate canvass, as the retirement of the sitting member would most probably be announced in a day or two.
As soon as he could withdraw without too rude a display of indifference, Glynn rose to say good-night; when Deering, somewhat to his annoyance, proposed to go with him.
"I have no more to say now, Weldon. As soon as the death or retirement is declared, I will go down to Denham, and we will not let the grass grow under our feet!"
On reaching the entrance of the hotel, they stopped, intending to call a cab, and while waiting Glynn's attention was attracted by two cloaked and veiled women, who were standing close together just within the doorway. One was tall and stout, the other barely of middle size, her shoulders, even through the rain-cloak wrapped round her, showed unmistakable grace,—unmistakable and familiar; a small hat was entirely enveloped in a thick veil, which was tied over her face, the ends being brought loosely round the throat to the front. Glynn's eyes were riveted on this figure, while he seemed to be peering into the darkness, and felt nervously anxious not to direct Deering's notice to the object which attracted him.
"If he could only hear her speak!" He listened intently.
"It is useless, we must try an omnibus, it is really safer," he overheard the taller lady say. The other murmured something, and turning her head, displayed, in spite of her muffling, a morsel of white neck, and a glimpse of golden-brown hair. Glynn's heart beat. At all risks he must keep that girl in view; any mistake was better than to lose the faintest chance. But Deering must not know his suspicions. Surely the faint suggestions of a likeness would strike him also? But Deering made no remark, nor did he seem to see.
At last the taller of the two women said, "Come," and went forth into the street. At that moment an Islington omnibus drove up. She stepped forward under the nearest lamp, and tried to stop it by waving her umbrella. The vehicle was full, and the two cloaked figures walked slowly away towards Oxford Street.
"Excuse me," said Glynn, abruptly, "I am anxious to get home; I will walk on and take my chance of a cab."
"Very well," returned Deering, "I'll come with you."
Glynn was dismayed. Did Deering suspect, as he did, that this cloaked and veiled figure might be Elsie Lambert? If so, what could he do to save her from his recognition?
His heart thrilled with pain and delight at the bare idea of standing once more face to face with his lost love. What secrets would that meeting unveil? Meanwhile he never lost sight of the figures going on before them, and Deering spoke at intervals.
"There's an empty hansom at last," he cried.
"I am going on a little further," said Glynn. "But don't let me interfere with you."
"Oh! I don't mind walking with you; I have no engagement I care to keep," he replied.
"Why does he persist?" thought Glynn. "I am going to look in on an artist friend near Tottenham Court Road," he said aloud.
"Oh! very well; queer places these fellows put up in. By the way, I have had another report of our mutual acquaintance, Lambert. He is at St. Louis, and has changed his name for the third or fourth time."
"Indeed! then you must have had a telegram?"
"Yes, that is, our friends, Claude and Co., have communicated theirs to me. If Lambert begins to try concealment we'll find out something."
"I trust we shall," said Glynn mechanically, his eyes greedily following the two figures, lamp after lamp shedding its light upon them as they passed.
"Will he never go?" he thought, quivering with excitement.
It was an extraordinary situation to be thus dogging the footsteps of the quarry you wished to preserve from your fellow-hunter, and yet to be unavoidably leading that hunter on her track.
"I fancy you don't want me," said Deering at last. "If so——"
"Why should you think I do not?" interrupted Glynn, nervously afraid to betray his burning anxiety to be rid of him.
"I can't exactly tell why," said Deering, laughing, "but I am sure I am right."
"Well, do whichever you like," said Glynn with well-assumed indifference,—"come on with me to Tottenham Court Road, where you will be sure to find plenty of cabs, or pick up the first empty one we fall in with, and leave me to my fate."
Glynn was almost beside himself with hope, dread, and nervous tension.
Another Islington omnibus drove past and stopped. The two ladies darted to it, exchanged a hasty hand pressure, and then the shorter of the two mounted swiftly, and vanished into the interior.
"Good-night!" cried Glynn, abruptly; "the humble 'bus will suit me admirably."
Before his astonished companion could reply he was beside the vehicle, which was still standing, as a stout and irritable elderly gentleman was painfully disentangling himself from among the tightly-packed passengers.
"If you had only let me out first," he exclaimed angrily as he alighted.
"Trouble you for threepence," interrupted the conductor.
"Threepence! why, I only got in at Leather Lane."
"All right!—Islington!"
Another instant and Glynn occupied the stout man's place—nearer the door, but on the opposite side to the lady he was following—and they were rolling rapidly westward.
At first he would not let himself seem to see her, and by the light of the omnibus lamp he could hardly make out her features, so thick was the lace which concealed them. Suddenly he saw her start and draw her cloak closer together with a nervous movement. Had she recognized him?
Gradually, his eyes growing familiar with the light and the texture of the veil, the conviction grew upon him that he was not mistaken, that itwasindeed Elsie Lambert. It was by a powerful exertion of will that he controlled the burning impulse to address her, to take the place beside her vacated by an old lady. She could not leave the conveyance without passing him; he would be quiet and careful. But if her father was seeking her in America, how came she here, alone, and evidently disguised? What frightful confession of weakness, betrayal, and duplicity awaited him! for this night he would know everything. He had her in his grasp, and she should not escape. The minutes were like drops of lead, and still the commonplace everyday 'bus rolled on, its occupants little dreaming what elements of tragedy were enclosed within it.
At last he observed Elsie—yes, itwasElsie—murmur something to her next neighbor, who immediately called out—
"Conductor, Chapel Street for this lady."
The omnibus stopped. Glynn kept quietly in his place, but sprang out the moment she had passed him. The omnibus drove rapidly away.
The slight dark figure was but a few paces before him in a quiet street leading from the omnibus line. The longed-for, dreaded moment had come. He walked rapidly past her, turned round suddenly, and confronting her, exclaimed:
"Miss Lambert—Elsie! you cannot wish to avoid me?"
She stopped, and put out both her hands with a repellent gesture of helpless terror that touched Glynn's heart with immense pity.
"Is it possible you fear me?" he said, catching both her hands in his.
She was silent, motionless; but as he almost unconsciously drew her nearer to him, he felt that she was trembling so violently that she could scarcely stand.
"Do not fear, I will not betray you to any one. I will help you if I can. Will you not speak to me? Is it the Elsie I used to know?"
With a long, quivering sigh she whispered, "It is."
"Let me look at your face once more," said Glynn in a low intense tone. "Don't you know you may trust me?"
"It is not for myself I fear," she said in the same hushed, frightened voice, as she yielded to the movement by which he drew her under a lamp; and loosening her veil, she lifted it, raising her eyes with their well-remembered expression of thoughtful candor to his. How lovely they were! With what rapture Glynn read in them the confirmation of her assurance that she was the same Elsie he had loved and lost. But she was changed; the sweet eyes were unutterably sad, and the delicate cheek was less rounded. The soft lips were pale, and quivered nervously, and the hand he still held was thinner. She seemed unable to suppress the excessive trembling that had seized her. Glynn's whole soul went out to her in love and trust; he could hardly resist the impulse to clasp her to his heart, to shelter her against all ill in his bosom. But might she not be the wife of another man? Anything might have happened during the terrible blank; and, above all, he must win her confidence.
"Ah, yes, you are indeed the same. Why—why have you given us all this sorrow, this fearful anxiety? Think of what your poor father has suffered! Do you know that he has gone to America to search for you?"
"My father!" she repeated, "my poor dear father!" Then she paused, as if resisting the inclination to speak.
"I must not keep you here in the cold, dark street. I cannot let you go alone. May I not come with you?"
"Oh, no, no, no," she repeated; "you must let me go. I cannot, dare not let you come with me. I must not tell you anything."
"Now that I have found you, do you think I will lose sight of you again?"
"You will, I am sure, do what is best for me, and kindest," said Elsie, trying to be calm, and wrapping the veil round her face again. "Let us move on; we shall attract attention."
She did not resist when he drew her arm through his own, and they slowly paced up the street in which he had overtaken her.
"Do you think me capable of betraying you?" asked Glynn.
"No," after a pause, as if to plan her speech; "but I have more than myself to think of. You must not ask me any questions."
"Can you say nothing? Is there no way in which I can help you?"
"I fear not—I do not know—I—" she stopped and drew a long, sobbing breath—"I dare not speak. Any word might betray more than I ought."
"For your father's sake!—think of all he must endure. Have you any duty to come before what you owe him?"
He waited for her reply as for a sentence of life or death.
"Think of him! do Inotthink of him? My love and duty are his only. But"—she tried to withdraw her arm—"you must let me go; I dare not stay."
"I cannot let you go unless you promise to meet me again, or tell me where I may see you. No, I will not release your arm. Elsie—Miss Lambert, I have been seeking you for seven months; my brain has reeled at the horror of its own picture of your fate; I cannot let you go now. Why do you distrust me? Let me take you home. How could I leave you here in the dark alone?"
"Oh, do not torment me!" she exclaimed, and her voice expressed such pain that Glynn almost hesitated to persevere in his efforts to detain her. "In truth I long to take you with me; I am sure you are kind and true, and I fear to be alone; but I will brave anything, endure anything rather than say whence I came and whither I go. Do not be angry with me."
She burst into an agony of tears, leaning against him as if from sheer inability to stand alone.
"Good God! Elsie, whatcanI do to comfort and help you? I implore you to trust me. If I let you go now without retaining some clue by which I can find you, I can never forgive myself."
"I long to tell you much, all, but I must not. Yet I might get leave; I might write. Give me your address; Imaywrite to you."
"Will you promise this, solemnly, faithfully?"
"If I do, will you let me go? I am late already. He will be so anxious."
"He!who?" a throb of fierce jealousy vibrated through Glynn's heart. "If you promise to see me once more, when and where you will, I will trust you and let you go. You see, I have more faith in you than you have in me."
"No;youare free, I am not. I have faith in you, but—Well, promise for promise. I will promise to write to you before Friday night, if you will promise not to make any attempt to discover me until after I have written."
"Good; then promise for promise."
"I promise to write to you, and—and if possible to see you."
"There must be nothing about possibility," said Glynn, sternly. "Give me an unconditional promise, or I shall not leave you!"
She hesitated, and then said solemnly, "I promise."
"And I trust your promise," returned Glynn. "On my part I promise not to make any attempt to track you until I have received your letter, or rather until I have seen you."
There was a moment's silence, then Elsie, who seemed to recover herself a little, said softly, "Then, good-night!"
"I cannot part with you yet," cried Glynn, passionately; "I cannot bear to let you go alone. Tell me, did you recognize me in the omnibus?"
"Not all at once; a little while after I had got in. At first, for some time, I thought you did not know me—I hoped you did not."
"I knew you at the door of the hotel, and followed you."
She started. "Imustgo now, I have stayed too long. Call a cab for me, and tell the driver to go to the Great Northern Station. I will direct him after."
"I cannot bear to let you go alone."
"You must!" impressively. "I am braver than I used to be."
"At least hold my arm till we find a cab," said Glynn, pressing hers to his side, as they turned back to the thoroughfare from which the street led. Elsie submitted to his guidance silently. Glynn's heart beat strongly with mixed emotions. The rapture of meeting her was great—the fear of losing her still greater. His promise forbade his following her, and he seemed as far from solving the mystery of her disappearance as ever. She was moved at the mention of her father, yet not in the way he expected; she had evidently suffered. Was he culpably weak in letting her go? But he had no choice. He could not resist her tears, her distress.
Soon, too soon, they found a cab. Glynn scrutinized the driver; he did not look like a ruffian. With an effort he subdued his reluctance to part with her, and assisted her into the conveyance, remembering with a pang how he had handed her into the carriage after the ball and sent her forth to—he could not tell what wretchedness and wrong.
"You will be true to your word," he said, pressing her hand as he gave her his card.
"I will," she whispered. "Perhaps it may prove fortunate that I have met you."
"God grant it," he returned; then drawing back, said aloud, for the benefit of the driver, "You will let me know if you arrive all right;" and waited till the man had ascended the box, when he asked and obtained his ticket. That at least was something to have and to hold. Elsie drew up the window and leaned back well out of sight. The cab rolled away into the darkness, and Glynn was left standing alone. Collecting himself, he walked briskly away in a southwesterly direction. Lady Gethin was right, a mere accident brought him the fulfilment of his passionate desire—that which he had sought for with such agonizing eagerness. How strange that Deering should have been with him when he caught sight of something familiar in the neck and shoulders of the cloaked figure! He would not soon forget the torment of that walk along the dusky street, the dread of drawing Deering's attention to the object of his own intense observation, the difficulty of getting rid of him. Surely the stars in their courses fought for him (Glynn). Good must come out of so strange a turn of fortune's wheel. At least he had found Elsie safe—safe apparently from any pressing danger, and though looking ill and worn, comparatively well. He had therefore room for hope.
But she was evidently under the influence of some strong will, the pressure of some great necessity. Would she be true to her promise? Yes, a thousand times yes! With the sight of her fair, sad face, the sound of the tremulous voice, all his faith in her returned. It was marvellous the sort of tender reverence she inspired in him—this inexperienced creature, who was almost young enough to be his daughter, and utterly unlearned in the world's lore which was so familiar to himself! She was not even a highly-accomplished, deeply-read young lady. There was an old-fashioned charm of sincerity and earnestness about her infinitely attractive. But she must have undergone some severe shock, or trial. Her nerves seemed shattered. When should he know all? Would any blame attach to her? And Glynn answered his own question with a resolute "No." Then giving himself up to the first real intense passion he had ever felt, he resolved to win her, to wed her, to know even a few months' entire happiness—if she would share that happiness—unless the secret to be revealed hid some insurmountable barrier.
So far sure of his own consent, Glynn felt more composed; but the hours dragged fearfully.
The next day he had a visit in his private room from Deering, who was at the office on business, and said he was going to Denham for a few days. He then added that Vincent had presumed to call on him, to his great surprise, his excuse being, that he had heard from St. Louis that Lambert was there under another name, and had a wife and daughter with him; that the police were following him close, but could find no pretext at present for arresting him.
Glynn said very little in reply. He watched Deering keenly as he spoke, and came to the conclusion that he had no suspicion that Elsie was so near.
"I don't suppose we shall ever get to the bottom of the affair 'Rue de L'Evêque,' as the French detectives call it, till the law has got its grip on that scoundrel Lambert."
"I think he is more an adventurer than a scoundrel," said Glynn coldly; "and I confess I see no reason for supposing he is in the secret of his daughter's disappearance; but perhaps you know more than I do."
Deering looked at him with a quick, keen glance—a glance of dislike and distrust. "On the contrary,youwere the intimate friend, the favored guest of Lambert, and of his charming daughter, of whom I suspect he made a profitable investment."
"It is blasphemy to say so," exclaimed Glynn indignantly. "Lambert may have a queer history, but no irreproachable member of the best society could be a better guardian of his daughter than he was! Do not let him hear you utter such an insinuation, should you ever meet again, or you might not like his reply!"
Deering elevated his eyebrows contemptuously. "You are remarkably loyal," he said. "Well, good-morning; I shall probably see you next week."
Thursday passed and no letter; well, there were twenty-four hours yet to spare. Glynn dined that day with Lady Gethin, and as usual outstayed the other guests.
"I haven't seen you for an age, Hugh," she said, settling herself in her favorite chair. "You are looking better, as if some life was waking up within you; but you are very restless anddistrait; at dinner you did not seem able to attend to any one or anything for more than five minutes. Have you found any trace of the lost one?"
"I am too uncertain to talk about it—wait for a few days."
"Ah! then you have," cried her ladyship triumphantly. "I protest I would give my Louis Quatorze watch, diamonds and all, to know the truth of that extraordinary story, and to see the girl who has fascinated you—for she has—you know she has!"
"I will confess nothing, and discuss nothing with you, Lady Gethin," he returned laughing, and pulling his long dark moustaches. "I know the power ofyourfascination sufficiently to be aware that if I once began there is not a corner of my mind I would not turn inside-out for your inspection."
"Ah! that is all very fine," exclaimed Lady Gethin in high glee; "but you will not say a word more than you choose. If you ever find this young lady, you really must manage to let me see her."
"Would you come and see her?" asked Glynn, as delightful intoxicating possibilities floated before his eyes.
"Find me a decent excuse, and I'll come fast enough! Hugh, I suspect you know where she is?"
"I do not, indeed—I wish I did."
"Well, for Heaven's sake, do nothing foolish when she does appear, for you will find her, if she is above ground."
Friday, and no letter. Glynn kept indoors nearly the whole day, sent an excuse to the house where he was engaged to dine, and sat, trying to read, and watching for the last delivery. It came, but brought him no letter from Elsie.
Then he called himself a drivelling fool, a weak-minded idiot. Why had he allowed the tears and terror of that unhappy girl to delude him? He ought to have kept her in his grasp once he had found her. But he had been so sure of her keeping faith. Now his very faith was shaken. What might not be revealed if Elsie had deceived him?
He could not sleep. He spent the night in planning schemes of detection. He found in the depths of his present depression the measure of the height of hope to which he had risen yesterday.
Next morning he rose, fevered by want of sleep, and eager to begin his search. He was dressed before the eight o'clock post came in, and was already writing, when several letters were brought to him, one directed in a stiff, careful, unknown hand, bearing the postmark of "Clapham." He tore it open and read—"Come on Saturday at two. 30, Garston Terrace, Towers Road, Islington." These lines were unsigned, and might be meant for any one, as there was no address, yet Glynn never doubted that the lines were meant for him, and were written by Elsie Lambert. At two o'clock! How near and yet how far! little over six hours. How should he get through them? He had work at his office, and must arrange for a free afternoon; that was not difficult; he had not been regularly in harness since his severe illness. Then he must supply himself with money. It was impossible to say what steps might be necessary. He was glad Deering had gone out of town. There seemed a fatality about his connection with Lambert. He always came to the front when there was any stir in the Lambert affair.
At last it was time to go citywards. First, however, he drove to Deering's house and ascertained that he had gone out of town. The morning hours fled away swifter than he had hoped, though he had a hard struggle to attend to the business before him. But he had acquired a good deal of self-mastery in the course of his varied experience, and few of those with whom he came in contact would have guessed that his heart was perpetually repeating the words, "What disclosures await me?"
After a vain attempt to eat, he took the train to King's Cross, and then hailed a cab, desiring the driver to put him down in Towers Road. This proved a long, dusty thoroughfare. Nor did he find Garston Terrace till after many inquiries and walking some distance. It was a little crooked lane, where some exceedingly new houses looked over a field and a few trees. The door was opened by a fresh-colored, countrified-looking old woman, in a beautifully white cap. Glynn was utterly at a loss, he did not know for whom he should inquire. He feared to mention a young lady; he thought of asking if there were rooms to let in the house—of a dozen things for the instant or two, during which they stood gazing at each other. At last the servant or owner of the house said, in a broad accent—
"You'll be the gentleman to see Mr. Smith?"
"I am," returned Glynn, infinitely relieved.
"Walk in, please." When he obeyed she opened the door of a tolerably large room at the back of the house, which looked into a small garden, behind which was a high dead wall, separating it from a manufactory of some humble sort.
It was very simply furnished—simple to plainness—yet neither ugly nor uncomfortable. Here his conductress left him, and disregarding her invitation to take a "cheer," he stood by the fire, his eyes fixed on the door in a state of painful expectancy. The sound of footsteps overhead, the murmur of voices made themselves heard, then the door slowly opened, and Elsie herself came in softly. She was dressed in black, but not in mourning, and looked deadly pale; her eyes seemed larger and darker than they used. She made a step or two into the room, and then stopped, holding out both hands, a smile curving her lip, which yet trembled, as if on the verge of tears.
Glynn seized the hands she offered, and, in the rapture of seeing her again, kissed them more than once. "I have imagined such horrors that I cannot restrain my joy at finding you," he exclaimed, his voice broken with intense feeling. "Why have you caused us this cruel anxiety?"
"How good you are to care so much," she said, looking at him with a wondering expression. "You will find I am not to blame. Oh! I feared I should never get leave to write to you, that you would think I had broken my promise! I wished to send for you long ago. I know we can trust you."
"We!" Good heavens! was she married, then? "We!" he repeated hoarsely,—"who—who do you mean?—your husband and yourself?"
"My husband!" a smile gleaming over her face. "I am not married! No—my father."
"Your father!" letting her withdraw her hands. "He is in America, is he not?"
"He is here—here in this house."
"I feel bewildered," said Glynn, taking the seat she pointed to and drawing it near her. "Will you not enlighten me?"
"I know so little, and my father wishes to tell you everything himself. Ah! you will see him so changed." A quick sob caught her breath, but she went on calmly: "He was changed enough when he first came, but he has been seriously ill. He caught a bad cold when travelling here, and has had inflammation of the lungs. He is so weak; will you come to him? Now he has agreed to let you come, he is quite anxious to see you."
"In a moment. Tell me, how are you yourself? You look weary, as if you had suffered."
"I have. It has been such a wretched, miserable time, almost unbearable, until my father came—always hiding, always a mystery."
"And how did Lambert—how did your father find you?"
"My father findme?" with an air of astonishment. "Ah! he will tell you everything. Come up-stairs to him."
Glynn rose to follow her with a faint feeling of disappointment. She was evidently delighted to see him, full of faith in him, but utterly devoid of that delicious consciousness which no woman in love can quite conceal; and grief for the supposed loss of this girl had almost cost him his life!—while for the present the mystery was more mysterious than ever.
Elsie led the way up a narrow stair to the upper story, the same look of neat simplicity characterizing the rest of the house, and opening the door of a good-sized bedroom, she said, "Here is Mr. Glynn, dear."
In a large arm-chair, his feet on a footstool, and covered with a warm plaid, propped by pillows, and close to a good fire, sat, or rather reclined, Lambert, a small table near him, on which stood a medicine-bottle and glass. A door leading into another room stood open.
Elsie was right. Her father was wofully changed. His cheeks were hollow; his skin yellow and wrinkled; his once half-humorous, half-defiant expression was gone, and replaced by a watchful, pitiful look, like a creature always expecting a blow, pathetic too in its wistfulness. One thin, claw-like hand grasped the arm of the chair. As he turned to gaze eagerly towards the door, a smile of pleasure, a sort of relieved look beamed over his face as Glynn advanced. "Ah! this is kind—this is like a good fellow, as I always thought you were," he whispered in a weak, tremulous voice. "I have just been wearying to see you, but afraid, afraid!" He sank back on his cushions, still holding Glynn's hand, and gazing at him imploringly.
"You know, Lambert, I am worthy of some trust, and desire nothing more than to be of service to you," said Glynn, suppressing all tokens of his immense surprise, and speaking with studied calmness. "You must not fatigue or excite yourself. Now that you have allowed me to know your address, I can come often to see you, and do anything you want in the way of commissions."
"Ah! but we must take care—we must take care." He sighed deeply, raising and letting fall his poor wasted hand with a despairing gesture.
While he spoke Elsie had measured out his medicine, and now gave it to him, saying, "Try not to speak too much, dear father. I will leave you to have a nice visit from Mr. Glynn all to yourself," with a sweet, kind smile and thankful look. "I shall see you before you go." She closed the door between the two rooms.
"Lock the other one, lock it, Elsie," said Lambert eagerly.
"Yes, I will." She disappeared.
"Come near me, nearer; we must speak low," said the invalid.
Glynn brought a chair close to his.
"Tell me," said Lambert, more calmly than he had yet spoken, "do you think your old comrade a malefactor? do you think I am dodging the police because I hide away from every one?"
"No! There is something wrong, of course,—concealment always implies that; but I suspect you are more sinned against than sinning; at any rate, I repeat, if I can serve you——"
"Ay!" interrupted Lambert; "but to serve me you must know all, and that is more than I can tell to-day; but I have broken no law—I don't know that I ever did, though I have done queer things—not for thirteen years though, for all that time I have led a decent life; and now it's for the good as well as the evil I have done that I am persecuted! Glynn, all I can find strength to say is, will you help me to save my Elsie? Will you be her guardian, and take care of her little fortune?"
"I will," said Glynn; "but I trust and see every reason to hope that you will be her guardian yourself for many a year!"
"That has nothing to do with it," impatiently. "I want you to take charge of her money, without deeds or papers, or lawyers, for I can see no one. Just give me a written acknowledgment. Her money stands in the name of the good woman who was my darling's foster-mother, and she is not fit to manage it, and is afraid to keep it. But I trust you, Glynn! O God! Imusttrust you! and when the money is transferred to you, thenyoumust settle it on her, and appoint trustees." He paused, much exhausted.
"I will do exactly what you wish in the matter," said Glynn, anxious to soothe him, "and do my best to deserve the high confidence you place in me."
"Thank you, God bless you!" with a sigh of relief, laying his hand on Glynn's; "and you will lose no time about it. Mrs. Kellett shall call on you on Monday, and go with you to the brokers. The money is in Spanish bonds and Australian railways; it can be handed over to you with the stroke of a pen; but you know all that better than I do—ha, ha!" He laughed feebly. "I didn't know what a big boss you were when I wanted to make a match between my dear little girl and you."
"Miss Lambert deserves a better man than I am," said Glynn.
Lambert looked at him sharply. "There's one thing more, important enough, but not so pressing as the money. Do you know any lady that would be kind to Elsie, and look after her? she hasn't a lady friend in the world—those French women are no use. But mind, she must be strong, with either money or rank, and a resolute woman, who knows the world. Lord! it can't be easy to find a clever, well-placed, kindly woman."
"Far from it, yet not impossible. I will undertake to search for this rarity; but before I do I must know more. I cannot ask another to put the faith in you that I do."
"Fair enough, fair enough! Well, I'll tell you a lot in a few days; I daren't begin now, it would kill me."