Francis Marson was one of the most prominent men in Ironfields, owing to his immense wealth, his clear head, and his personal attributes. His father, a keen man of business, had been born and bred in the little village from which Ironfields had sprung, and when the discovery of iron in the vicinity had laid the foundations of the present world-renowned town, Francis Marson the elder had been one of the first to profit by the discovery. He watched his opportunity, bought land (with borrowed money) on which he believed rich veins of iron ore might be found, and when they were found, built a foundry, turned over the money, paid back what he had borrowed, and was soon on the high road to fortune. When firmly established he sent his only son to college, and then took him into the business, which henceforward was known as that of Marson & Son. In the fulness of time he was gathered to his fathers, and Francis Marson the younger stepped into the enjoyment of unlimited wealth.
The younger Marson (now iron-gray, severe, and stately) married the only daughter of Sir Miles Canton, of Canton Hall, and on the death of the old baronet that property came into the possession of Mr. and Mrs. Marson, who henceforth took up their residence in the old Tudor mansion.
Fortune having been thus kind to Francis Marson, thought it well to remind him that complete happiness was not the lot of any mortal, so robbed him of his wife, who died some years after giving birth to Florence Marson. On her death-bed, the young mother confided the child to her husband, and implored him to bring her up with Judith Varlins, the daughter of a distant relation. Judith, who was at that time twelve years of age and grave beyond her years, took this so to herself that little Florry was confided to her care, and henceforth devoted her life to the guardianship of the six-year-old child. Francis Marson, broken down by grief, went away on his travels, and the two children grew up together, went to school together, and when their school-days were over returned to Canton Hall in company with its master.
Now Florry Marson was a charming, golden-haired fairy of twenty years of age, while Judith was a stately brunette some six years older. Blonde and brunette, day and night, dark and fair, they were both equally charming in their own way, but as different in disposition as in appearance. Judith was mistress of the Hall, looked after the servants, received the company, and in fact acted as the elder sister, while Florry, bright-eyed and frivolous, did nothing but amuse herself. Francis Marson was fond of both the girls, but simply worshipped Florry, who lighted up the whole house like a sunbeam. Both Judith and the father combined to spoil her, and up to the age of twenty the life of Florry had been nothing but pleasure, gaiety, and sunshine.
Then came the episode of Sebastian Melstane, who had met Florry in London, and she, reckless in all things, had given away her frivolous little heart to this handsome, dark-haired artist. On making inquiries, Mr. Marson had found out sufficient about Mr. Melstane's past life to make him resolve his darling should never marry such a scamp, and he forbade Florry to think of him. Upon which Miss Florry, with her silly little head stuffed full of poetry and romance, regarded Melstane as a persecuted hero, and on his coming to Ironfields met him by stealth, wrote him letters, exchanged presents, and in fact did everything a foolish girl would do when flattered and loved by a romantic scamp.
Roger Axton, knowing Melstane's bad character, had put an end to these stolen meetings by telling Judith, and Florry was carried off to Ventnor. While there she still sighed after her lover, and when she returned to Ironfields saw him with difficulty, as Judith was too vigilant to let her remain long out of her sight. Then Melstane went to Jarlchester, and Florry said to Judith with many tears and sighs that she would be true to him, although she had now been engaged for some time to Mr. Jackson Spolger, the son of a man who had made his money out of a patent medicine.
Francis Marson had set his heart on this match, and although Florry violently protested against it, insisted that she should become engaged to Mr. Spolger, as he was anxious to place her beyond the power of Sebastian Melstane, and, moreover, Jackson Spolger was too wealthy a suitor to be rejected lightly.
Some days after Fanks' visit to Monsieur Judas at the end of November, Judith and Florry were both in the drawing-room of the Hall having afternoon tea.
It was a large, handsome apartment, furnished with great artistic taste, principally due to Miss Varlins, who had a wonderful eye for colour and effect. A curiously carved oaken ceiling, walls draped with dark red velvet which fell in heavy folds to the velvet pile carpet of the same colour, plenty of sombre pictures in oil in tarnished gilt frames, many small tables covered with nicknacks (selected by frivolous Florry), numbers of comfortable lounging-chairs, inviting repose, and a handsome grand piano littered with loose music (Florry again)—it was truly a delightful room. Then there were cabinets of rare china, monstrous jars of quaint design and bizarre colours, and flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere. Both ladies had a perfect passion for flowers, and even in this bleak month of November the most exquisite exotics were to be seen throughout the room in profusion, filling the air with their heavy odours.
Four windows at the other end of the room looked out on to the garden, but were now closed, for it was a cold afternoon, and the driving rain beat against the glass and on the leafless trees outside. A blazing fire in the old fashioned fireplace with its quaint Dutch tiles, a low table drawn near the hearth, on which stood the tea service, and Miss Varlins in a chair knitting quietly, while Florry flitted about the room like a restless fairy in the waning light.
A handsome woman, Judith Varlins, with a proud, dark face, and a somewhat stern expression, which always relaxed to tenderness when it rested on the diminutive form of Florry. And that young lady was very tiny, more like a piece of Dresden china than anything else, with her delicate complexion, her piquant face, glittering golden hair, and dainty figure. Clothed in white—Miss Marson always affected white—in some lacy material, soft and delicate like a cobweb, she formed a strong contrast to the sombre beauty of Judith in her plain, black silk dress.
And the little figure went flitting here and there, now at the windows, looking out into the chill twilight, then bending over some great bunch of flowers inhaling the perfume, at the piano striking a few random chords, hovering round the tea table, flashing into the red firelight, melting into the cold shadows, like to some will-o'-the-wisp, some phantom, some restless shadow rather than anything of this earth.
"Florry, my pet," said Judith, at length, pausing in her knitting, "you will tire yourself running about so much." Whereupon the fairy floated airily towards the fire, and settled lightly down, like thistledown, on a footstool, where she sat clasping her knees with her arms with a cross expression of countenance, a very discontented fairy indeed.
"For really," she said, at length, pursuing a train of thought that was in her shallow mind, "to be called Spolger—Mrs. Jackson Spolger. It's horrid! so is he. The monster!"
"Florry, Florry! don't talk like that about your future husband," remonstrated Judith; "it's not nice, my dearest."
"Neither is he," retorted Miss Marson, resting her chin on her knees and staring into the fire; "he's so lean, like a skeleton, and so crabbed—oh, so crabbed."
"But he loves you, dear."
"Yes, like a dog loves a bone. I know he's one of those men who hit their wives over the head with a poker; he looks like a poker man. I wish he was Sebastian, and Sebastian was he."
"Don't talk about Sebastian, my dear Florence," said Miss Varlins, severely—that is, as severely as she could to Florry; "your father would never have agreed to your marrying such a scamp!"
"He's no worse than other people," muttered Florry, rebelliously.
"I don't know about other people," replied Judith, coldly; "but I'm certain Sebastian Melstane would have made you a bad husband. However, he's gone now, and you'll never see him again."
"Never!"
"No, never! Mr. Melstane has passed out of your life entirely," said Judith, looking steadily at Florry, who appeared to be rather scared.
"What horrid things you say, Judith, you horrid thing," she whimpered, at length. "I don't know why Sebastian went away, and I don't know why he hasn't written to me. I thought he loved me, but if he had, he would have written. But he'll come back and explain everything."
"I'm certain he won't!" answered Judith, sternly.
"Why are you certain?"
"I have my reasons," said Judith, quietly.
It might have been the twilight or the dancing shadows of the fire, but as she spoke her face seemed to grow old and haggard for the moment, even to Miss Marson's unobservant eyes. Florry with her own blue eyes wide open, a terrified expression on her face, and a tremulous under-lip, suddenly burst into tears, and rising from her footstool, flung herself on her knees at the feet of her cousin, sobbing violently.
"Come, come!" said Miss Varlins, smoothing the golden head as it lay in her lap. "I did not mean to speak severely; but really, Florry, I was very sorry that Mr. Melstane loved you."
"I—I can't help it if he did," sobbed Florry, passionately; "it's not my fault if people will love me. There's Mr. Spolger—he's always making love, and that horrid, red-haired Frenchman; every time I go out he never takes his eyes off my face."
"What! that man at Wosk's?" cried Judith, with great indignation. "Surely he has not such impertinence!"
"No, he hasn't," replied Florry, sitting up and drying her eyes; "but he will look at me in such a way. I'm sure he's in love with me—the horrid thing."
"He was a friend of Mr. Melstane's, I believe," said Judith, angrily, "and you, no doubt, saw him during those foolish meetings with that man."
"No, I didn't," answered Florry, going back to her footstool; "I never saw him at all. And our meetings weren't foolish. I love Sebastian very much, only papa will make me marry this horrid Spolger thing."
"How many times did you see Mr. Melstane?"
"Five or six times here and once in London.
"Florry!"
"Well!" said Miss Marson, pettishly, "you asked me? I saw him in London that day I went to see Aunt Spencer, when we stopped in London on our way to Ventnor."
"Why didn't Aunt Spencer tell me of it, then?"
"She didn't know," answered Florry, penitently. "I met Sebastian on the way, and we were together for two hours. Then I went on to Aunt Spencer and told her nothing."
"And told me nothing also," said Judith, severely. "Upon my word, Florry, I did not think you were so deceitful! You met Mr. Melstane in London, and this is the first I hear about it."
"Well, you were so horrid, Judith," pouted Florry, playing with her handkerchief; "and Sebastian told me to say nothing."
"He's a bad man!"
"No, he's not," retorted Miss Marson, angrily; "he's a very nice man, and I love him very, very much, in spite of Mr. Spolger—there!"
Judith was about to make some angry reply, feeling thoroughly disgusted at Florry's duplicity, when the door was thrown open, and Mr. Marson entered the room.
A tall, severe-looking man, this Francis Marson, with a worn, worried expression on his face. He sighed wearily as he sat down near the fire.
"Oh, what a sigh—what a big sigh!" cried Florry, recovering her spirits and poising herself on the old man's knee. "What is the matter, papa?"
"Nothing, child, nothing," replied Marson, hastily, smoothing the golden hair of his darling. "Business worries, my dear; what I spoke about the other day."
"Oh!"
Florry drew down the corners of her mouth as if she were going to cry; then, suddenly changing her mind, she threw her arms round her father's neck, and placed her soft face against his withered cheek.
"Don't talk about business, papa," she said, coaxingly; "I hate it; it's so disagreeable."
"So it is for a frivolous young person like you, dear," said Mr. Marson, cheerfully; "but it's very necessary all the same. What would become of your thousand and one wants but for this same business you so disapprove of?"
"Oh, I wish I had a fairy purse," cried Florry, clapping her hands, "with a gold piece in it every time I opened it. It would save such a lot of trouble."
"A fairy world," said Mr. Marson, looking at her fondly; "that is what you would like. And you the lovely princess whom the handsome prince comes to awaken."
"Well, Florry has a prince," said Judith, quietly; "the Prince of the Gold Mines!"
She had not been paying much attention to the conversation between father and daughter, as she was evidently thinking deeply, and her thoughts, judging from the severe expression of her countenance, were not particularly pleasant. The last words of Mr. Marson, however, enchained her attention, and she made the remark about the prince on purpose to see if the old man knew how disagreeable the Spolger alliance was to his child.
"A prince!" echoed Florry, tossing her head. "And what a prince! He's more like an ogre."
"A very devoted ogre, at all events," said Judith, significantly.
"Spolger's a good fellow," observed Marson, hurriedly; "a little rough, perhaps, but his heart is in the right place. Beauty is only skin-deep."
"I suppose you mean—" began Florry, when her father interrupted her quickly.
"Florry," he said, angrily, "I forbid you to mention that man's name. I would sooner see you in your grave than married to Sebastian Melstane."
"There's no chance of that occurring now," interjected Judith, with sombre earnestness.
The fairy looked from one to the other with a scared expression of countenance, and seeing how severe they both looked, subsided into a white heap on the hearthrug, and burst into tears.
"How horrid you are, papa," she cried, dismally; "and so is Judith. I'm sure Mr. Melstane's very nice. He's so handsome, and talks so beautifully about poetry. He's like Conrad, and Mr. Spolger isn't, and I wish I was dead with a tombstone and a broken heart," concluded Miss Marson, tearfully.
Judith looked at Mr. Marson, and he looked at Judith. They both felt quite helpless in dealing with this piece of frivolity, whose very weakness constituted her strength. At last Mr. Marson, bending down, smoothed Florry's hair fondly, and spoke soothingly to her.
"My dear child," he said, quietly, "you know that all I desire is your happiness; and, believe me, you will thank me in after life for what I am now doing. Sebastian Melstane is a scamp and a spendthrift. If you married him, he would neglect you and make you miserable. Jackson Spolger will make you a good husband, and protect a delicate flower like you from the bleak winds of adversity."
"But he's so ugly," sobbed Florry, childishly; "just like the what's-his-name in 'Notre Dame.'"
"If you have such an aversion to marry him, Florry, then don't do it," said Judith, quietly. "I'm sure your father would not force you into a marriage against your will."
"By no means," said Marson, hastily. "I placed the case before you the other day, Florry, and I place it now. As you know, I have had great losses lately, and unless I can obtain a large sum of ready money I will be irretrievably ruined. Jackson Spolger has promised to put money into the business if you become his wife. I told you this, and you consented, so it is childish of you to go on like this, If you dislike Spolger so much, I will not force you to marry him; but I warn you that your refusal means ruin."
"You won't let me marry Sebastian Melstane," cried Florry, obstinately.
"No, I won't," retorted her father, angrily. "You need not marry Mr. Spolger unless you like, but you—you certainly shall not marry Sebastian Melstane with my consent; I would rather see you in your grave."
"Then I suppose I must marry Mr. Spolger," said Florry, dolefully drying her eyes.
"That is as you please," replied Marson, rising to his feet and walking slowly to and fro. "I don't want to sell my child for money. I simply place the case before you, and you are free to refuse or accept as you please. Yes means prosperity, no means ruin, and the choice is entirely in your hands."
Florry said nothing, but sat on the hearthrug twisting her handkerchief and staring at the fire.
"I would like to say one word, Florry," said Judith, bending forward. "If you did not intend to marry Mr. Spolger you should have said so at first; now the wedding-day is fixed for next week, your dresses are ready, the guests are invited, so it would be rather hard on the poor man to dash the cup of happiness from his lips just as he is tasting it."
"Nevertheless," said Marson, stopping in his walk, "late as it is, Florry, if you think that you cannot make Jackson Spolger a good wife, I will break off the match without delay."
"But that means ruin," cried Florry, tearfully.
"Yes!" said Marson, curtly, "ruin."
Florry sat thinking as deeply as her shallow little brain would allow her. She saw plainly that if she refused to marry Mr. Spolger, she would never gain her fathers consent to her marriage with Melstane, and as a refusal meant ruin without any chance of obtaining the wish of her heart, she did not see what was to be gained by being perverse. Shallow, frivolous, selfish as she was, she saw all this quite plainly, and, moreover, being too timid to brook her father's displeasure, she made up her mind to yield. Rising to her feet, she stole towards her father, as he stood in gloomy silence looking out on the wintry lawn, and threw her arms round his neck.
"Papa," she whispered, "I will marry Mr. Spolger."
"Of your own free will?" he asked, a trifle sternly.
"Of my own free will," she repeated, steadily. "I am sorry for Sebastian, for I do love him; but I don't want to vex you, dearest, so I'll be awfully nice to Mr. Spolger and marry him next week."
"My dearest," said Marson, in a tone of great relief, "you don't know how happy you have made me."
"Florry," cried Judith, rolling up her work.
"Yes, Judith," said Florry, leaving her father, and coming to her cousin.
"You are quite sure you mean what you say?" asked Miss Varlins, looking at her steadily.
"Quite sure."
"No more tears or crying after Sebastian?"
"Don't talk of Sebastian," said Florry, angrily. "I'll marry Mr. Spolger, and I dare say he'll make me happy."
Judith said no more, but resumed her work with a sigh; but Mr. Marson, coming towards the fire, was about to speak, when the door opened and a footman announced: "Mr. Jackson Spolger."
Jackson Spolger, proprietor of that celebrated patent medicine, "Spolger's Soother," was a long, lean, lank man, with a somewhat cross face, and a mildly irritable manner. Spolger the father had been a chemist, but having invented the "Soother," made his fortune thereby, owing to lavish advertising and plenty of testimonials (paid for) from hypochondriacal celebrities. Having thus fulfilled his mission in this world, and benefited his fellow men by the "Soother," he departed therefrom, leaving his money and his "Soother" to Spolger the son, who still carried on the advertising business, and derived a large income from it. He had been well educated, had travelled a good deal, and had a kind of social veneer, which, added to his money, entitled him to be called a gentleman. Although he suffered a good deal from ill-health, he never by any chance used the "Soother," which led ill-natured people to remark that it was made to sell and not to cure. Mr. Spolger, however, did not mind ill-natured people being too much taken up with himself and his ailments, of which he was always talking. He chatted constantly about his own liver, or some one else's liver, prescribed remedies, talked gloomily of his near death, and altogether was not a particularly agreeable person.
Being thus a diseased egotist, he carried his mania for health even into his matrimonial prospects, and loved Florry not so much on account of her beauty as because she looked delicate, and in a wife of such a constitution he thought he would always have some one beside him, on whom to practise his little curative theories. He always carried in his pocket a horrible little book called "Till the Doctor Comes," and was never so delighted as when he found some one sufficiently ill who would permit him to prescribe one of the remedies from his precious book. He preferred a chemist's shop to his own house, loved doctors above all other men, and contemplated passing his honeymoon in a hydropathic establishment, where there would be plenty of fellow-sufferers with whom to compare notes.
At present he was clad in a heavy tweed suit, and wore a thickly lined fur coat, galoshes on his feet, and a roll of red flannel round his throat.
"How do you do, Mr. Marson?" he said, in a thin, irritable voice, as he shook hands. "I hope you are well. You don't look it. Your hand is moist; that's a bad sign. Dry? Yes, mine is dry. I'm afraid it's fever. Diseases are so subtle. Miss Varlins, you look healthy. Florry, my dearest, what a thin dress for this weather!"
"Oh, it's all right, Mr. Spolger."
"Jackson," he interpolated.
"It's all right, Jackson," said Florry, gaily. "I'm quite healthy."
"Ah, yes, now," replied Mr. Spolger, darkly, sitting down; "but that thin dress means a chill. It might settle on the lungs, and you might be in your coffin before you know where you are."
"Nonsense, man," said Marson, in a hearty voice; "the room is quite warm. Won't you take off that heavy coat?"
"Not at present," answered Mr. Spolger, emphatically. "I always accustom myself to the temperature of a place by degrees. A sudden chill is worse than damp feet."
"Will you have some tea, Mr. Spolger?" asked Judith, for the footman had now brought in the teapot and a plate of toast.
"No, thank you," answered the hypochondriac, politely. "I'm undergoing a course of medicine just now, and tea in my present condition means death."
"Then have some toast," said Florry, laughingly, presenting him with the plate.
"Buttered," said Mr. Spolger, looking at the plate. "Horrible! The worst thing in the world for me! I take dry toast for breakfast, with a glass of hot water—nothing more."
"I hope you don't intend me to breakfast like that," said Florry, saucily.
"My dear, you can eat what you like," answered Mr. Spolger, solemnly producing his little book. "Should you suffer from your indiscretion, I have always got the remedy in this."
"Did the medicine Dr. Japix prescribed do you good?" asked Judith.
"Not a bit," said Spolger, slowly taking off his coat. "I still suffer from sleeplessness. However, I've got a new idea I'm going to carry out. Cold water bandages at the head, and a hot brick at the feet. There, now my coat is off I feel beautiful."
"Well! well!" said Mr. Marson, rather impatient of all this medical talk, "I hope you'll be quite well for your wedding."
"I hope so, too," retorted Spolger, with gloomy foreboding. "I've arranged all the tour, Florry. We go first to Malvern, a very healthy place, then to Bath to drink the waters. After that, if you like, we'll go abroad, though I much distrust the drainage of these foreign towns."
"Oh, let us go abroad at once," said Florry, eagerly; "to Paris. If you find it too lively, you can walk everyday in the Père-la-Chaise Cemetery."
"Don't jest on such a subject, Florry," said Judith, reprovingly.
"Oh, I don't mind," replied the lover, with gloomy relish; "we'll all have to go to the cemetery some day, so it's as well to get accustomed to the idea."
His three listeners looked rather depressed at this dismal prophecy, but said nothing, while Mr. Spolger told cheerful little stories of how his liver would treat him if he did not look after it. This led him to talk of medicine, which suggested chemists, which in their turn suggested Wosk & Co., so by-and-by Mr. Spolger began to talk of Monsieur Judas.
"A most estimable young man," he said, feeling his own pulse in a professional manner; "he has had typhoid fever twice, and suffers from corns."
"Tight boots?" asked Florry, flippantly.
"No, hereditary! Most curious case. But talking of Monsieur Guinaud—"
"Judas," said Miss Varlins, smiling.
"Yes, I hear they call him Judas on account of his red hair," replied Mr. Spolger, laughing carefully. "Well, as a chemist, he takes a great interest in Florry."
"In me?" cried the damsel, indignantly.
"Yes; he thinks you look delicate," said Mr. Spolger, complacently; "indeed, he suggested several remedies. And if you would see him—"
"No, no!" interposed Marson, quickly. "Really, Jackson, I'm astonished at you. If Florry requires to see a medical man, there is Dr. Japix; but as to letting a man like that Frenchman meddle with her health—why, the very look of him is enough."
"Consumption," said Mr. Spolger, sagaciously; "he looks delicate, I know."
"I think he is a very dangerous man," said Judith, in her quiet, composed voice; "he was a great friend of—" Here she checked herself suddenly.
"Of Melstane," finished Spolger, scowling. "Yes, I know that. And talking about Mr. Melstane—"
"Don't talk about Mr. Melstane," said Marson, sharply.
"Why not?"
Florry answered him, for she was evidently struggling with a fit of hysteria, and as he spoke she arose from her seat and fled rapidly from the room, followed by Judith.
"There," said Marson, in an annoyed tone, "how foolish you are to speak of that scamp!"
"I don't see why Florry shouldn't get used to his name," replied Spolger, sulkily. "Of course, I know she loved him, but it's all over now; he won't trouble her again."
"Why not?" demanded Marson, quickly.
"Because he's gone away. He had the impudence to call on me before he went, but I soon settled him, though he upset me dreadfully."
"What did he call about?"
Spolger was going to reply, when once more the door was thrown open, and the footman announced in stentorian tones:
"Mr. Roger Axton."
"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Axton?" said Mr. Marson, going forward to meet the young man. "I did not know you were down here."
"No! I came by this morning's train from town," replied Roger, shaking the old man's hand. "I trust you are well, Mr. Spolger?"
That gentleman shook his head as Axton sat down, and lights being brought in at this moment, looked sharply at the new-comer, answering his question in the Socratian fashion by asking another.
"Are you well?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Roger, hurriedly, "perfectly. I suffer a good deal from sleeplessness."
"You should try—"
"Spolger's Soother, I suppose?"
"No," said Jackson, solemnly, "I never recommend that to my friends. You should try morphia. Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing," answered Roger, faintly, for he had started violently at the mention of the drug, "only I'm rather nervous."
"You've been overworking, I suppose," said Mr. Marson, looking at him keenly; "burning the midnight oil."
"No, indeed! I've been on a walking tour."
"Very healthy exercise," said Mr. Spolger, approvingly. "I can't indulge in it myself because I've a tendency to varicose veins. What part of the country were you walking in?"
"Down Winchester way," replied Roger, raising his eyes suddenly and looking at Mr. Marson steadily.
"Oh, indeed!" answered that gentleman, with a start; "then I suppose you were near Jarlchester."
"I was at Jarlchester," said Roger, emphatically, "during the investigation of that case."
Both his listeners were silent, as if some nameless fear paralysed their tongues; then Marson looked at Spolger, and Spolger looked at Marson, while Roger glanced rapidly from one to the other.
At this moment Judith entered the room.
"Florry is better," she said, advancing; "she is— What, Mr. Axton!"
"Yes; I came down here to see a friend, and thought I would look in," replied Roger as she greeted him.
"I am very glad you did not forget us," she remarked, quietly resuming her seat. "Will you have a cup of tea?"
"Thank you!"
They were seated beside the tea-table, and were quite alone, as Mr. Marson in company with his future son-in-law had left their seats, and were now talking together in low whispers at the end of the room. Judith handed a cup of tea to Roger, and looked at him steadily as he stirred it with a listless expression on his worn face.
"You don't look well," she said at length, dropping her eyes.
"Mental worry," he responded, with a sigh. "I have undergone a good deal since I last saw you."
"In connection with that?" she asked, in a low voice.
"Yes! I received your letter in London, and went at once down to Jarlchester on a walking tour, that is, I made my walking tour an excuse for being there. I stayed there a week, and then received your second letter saying he was coming."
"And he came?" asked Judith, with a quick indrawn breath.
"He did."
"You saw him?" she continued, looking nervously towards the two whispering figures at the end of the room.
"Yes!"
"And got—and got the letters?"
"Of course," said Axton, in a tone of surprise. "I sent them to you—to the post office, as you desired."
"My God!" she said, in a low voice of agony, "I—I have not received them. I went to the post office every day to ask for a packet directed to Miss Judith, but have been told it had not come."
"Good heavens!" said Roger, with a start of surprise, "I hope they have not gone astray—I ought to have registered them."
"If you had I could not have obtained them," replied Miss Varlins, hurriedly; "you forget. The packet was addressed to Miss Judith, and the postmistress knows me so well, I could not have signed any but my own name without causing remark."
"You ought to have allowed me to send them here."
"Yes! and then Florry would have seen them."
"Nonsense!"
"There is always a possibility," said Judith, quickly; "but if these letters have gone astray, what are we to do?"
"Well, if—"
"Hush!"
She laid her hand suddenly on his arm to arrest his speech, for at that moment the voice, thin and peevish, of Mr. Spolger, was heard saying a name:
"Sebastian Melstane."
Judith and Roger both looked at one another, their cheeks pale, their manners agitated, and he was about to speak again when she stopped him for the second time.
"Listen!"
They could hear quite plainly, for the pair at the end of the room had moved unthinkingly near them, and Spolger was talking shrilly to Mr. Marson about the man of whom they were then thinking.
"He came up to see me before he went away. I was very ill, but he would see me, and we had a most agitating interview. Told me that he loved Florry—told me, her affianced husband. Said that she would never marry me—that he could prevent the marriage. Then he insulted me. Yes! held out a box of pills, and asked me if I had any ideas beyond such things. I knocked the box out of his hand and insisted upon his leaving the house. He went, for I was firm—very firm though much agitated. He left the box behind him. Yes, I found it after he was gone, and sent my servant down with it to his boarding-house. Oh, I was terribly agitated. He was so bold. But he won't come back again. No! he won't come back."
"How do you know that?" cried Roger, starting to his feet, in spite of Judith's warning touch.
"What! you were listening," said Mr. Spolger, angrily, coming near to the young man.
"I could hardly help hearing you, seeing you raised your voice," retorted Roger, sharply.
"Most dishonourable! most dishonourable!"
"Sir!"
"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" said Francis Marson, plainly, "you are in my house."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Marson," said Roger, ceremoniously, "I only asked Mr. Spolger a simple question."
"To which he declines to reply," replied Mr. Spolger, coolly.
"Why?"
Judith had risen to her feet and was clinging to Francis Marson's arm, while Roger and Spolger looked steadily at one another. The whole four of them were so intent upon the conversation that they did not see a little figure enter the door and pause on the threshold at the sound of the angry voices.
"You agitate me," said the valetudinarian, angrily. "I am not used to be agitated, sir. I was telling my friend a private story, and you should not have listened.
"I apologise," replied Roger, bowing. "I did not intend to give offence, but I wondered how it was you guessed Melstane would never return."
The little figure stole nearer.
"What do you mean?" asked Spolger, quickly.
Judith leaned on Marson's arm with her face deadly white and her eyes dilated, waiting—waiting for what she dreaded to think.
"I mean about the Jarlchester Mystery."
Mr. Marson said nothing, but with a face as pale as that of the woman on his arm, stared steadily at Roger Axton. At the mention of Jarlchester the figure behind came slowly along until Florry Marson, with a look of terror on her face, stood still as a statue behind her lover.
"I have read in the papers about the Jarlchester Mystery," said Spolger, in an altered tone.
"I guessed as much, and that was the reason you said Melstane would not return."
"No, no! What do you mean?"
"Mean that Sebastian Melstane died at Jarlchester, and you know it."
"Sebastian!"
They all turned round, and there stood Florry, with one hand clasped over her heart, and the other grasping a chair to steady herself by.
"Sebastian," she whispered, with white lips, "is—is he dead?"
Roger turned his head.
"Dead!" she cried, with a cry of terror. "Dead—murdered!" and fell fainting on the floor.
Eight o'clock in the evening by the remarkably incorrect clock on the mantelpiece, eight-thirty by Mr. Fanks' watch, which was never wrong, and that gentleman was seated in a private room of the "Foundryman Hotel" waiting the arrival of Roger Axton.
The "Foundryman" was not a first-class hotel, nor was the private room a first-class apartment, but it was comfortable enough, and Mr. Fanks was too much worried in his own mind to pay much attention to his personal wants. He was much disturbed about his old schoolfellow, as everything now seemed to point to Axton as a possible murderer—the conversation at Jarlchester, the evidence of Dr. Japix, the delicately insinuated suspicions of Judas—it seemed as though no doubt could exist but that Roger Axton was the person responsible for the death of Sebastian Melstane.
In spite, however, of all this circumstantial evidence, the detective hoped against hope, and resolved within his own honest heart not to believe Roger guilty until he had heard his explanation of the affair. He knew well that circumstantial evidence was not always to be depended upon, and Axton's prompt arrival in answer to his letter had inspired him with the belief that the young man must be innocent, otherwise he would hardly dare to place himself in a position of such peril. So Mr. Fanks, with the perplexity of his mind showing even in his usually impassive face, sat watch in hand, awaiting Roger's arrival and casting absent glances round the room.
A comfortable room enough in an old-fashioned way! All the furniture seemed to have been made at that primeval period when Ironfields was a village, but here and there some meretricious hotel decoration spoiled the effect of the whole. Heavy mahogany arm-chairs, a heavy mahogany table, a heavy mahogany sideboard stood on a gaudy carpet with a dingy white ground, and sprawling red roses mixed with painfully green leaves. An antique carved mantelpiece, all Cupids and flowers and foliage, but on it a staring square mirror with an ornate gilt frame swathed in yellow gauze, and in front of this a gimcrack French timepiece, with an aggressively loud tick, vividly painted vases of coarse china containing tawdry paper flowers, and two ragged fans of peacock's feathers. The curtains of the one window were drawn, a cheerful fire burned under the antique mantelpiece with its modern barbarisms, and an evil-smelling lamp, with a dull, yellow flame, illuminated the apartment. Mr. Fanks himself sat in a grandfatherly armchair drawn close to the fire, and pondered over the curious aspect of affairs, while the rain outside swept down the crooked street, and the wind howled at the window as if it wanted to get in to the comfortable warmth out of the damp cold.
A knock at the door disturbed the sombre meditations of Octavius, and in response to his answer, Roger walked into the room with a flushed face and a somewhat nervous manner. He did not attempt to shake hands (feeling he had no right to do so until he had explained his previous behaviour at Jarlchester), but sat down near the fire, opposite to his friend, and looked rather defiantly at the impassive face of that gentleman, who gave him a cool nod.
"Well," he said, at length, breaking a somewhat awkward silence, "I've lost no time in answering your letter."
"I'm glad of that, Roger," responded Fanks, gravely; "it gives me great hopes."
"How? That I'm not a criminal, I suppose."
Fanks said nothing, but looked sadly at the suspicious face of the young man.
"Silence gives consent, I see," said Axton, throwing himself back in his chair, with a harsh laugh. "Well, I'm sorry a man I thought my friend should think so ill of me."
"What else can I think, Roger?"
"He calls me Roger," said Axton, with an effort at gaiety. "Why not the prisoner at the bar—the convict in the jail—the secret poisoner?"
"Because I believe you to be none of the three, my friend," replied Fanks, candidly.
Roger looked at him with a sudden flush of shame, and involuntarily held out his hand, but drew it back quickly, before the other could clasp it.
"No, not yet," he said, hastily; "I will not clasp your hand in friendship until I clear myself in your eyes. You demand an explanation. Well, I am here to give it."
"I am glad of that," replied Fanks for the second time. "I'm quite aware," continued Roger, flushing, "that now you are at Ironfields you must be aware that I concealed certain facts in my conversation with you."
"Yes! You said you had not been to Ironfields, and that you did not correspond with Miss Varlins. Both statements were false."
"May I ask on whose authority you speak so confidently?" demanded Axton, coldly.
"Certainly. On the authority of Dr. Japix."
"Japix!" repeated Roger, starting, "do you know him?"
"Yes! I met him some time ago in Manchester, and I renewed my acquaintance with him down here."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted him to analyse those pills found in Melstane's room after his death."
He looked sharply at Roger as he spoke, but that young man met his gaze serenely and without flinching, which seemed to give Fanks great satisfaction, for he withdrew his eyes with a sigh of relief.
"Octavius," said Roger, after a pause, "do you remember our conversation at Jarlchester?"
Mr. Fanks deliberately produced his secretive little note-book and tapped it delicately with his long fingers.
"The conversation is set down here."
"Oh," said Roger, with sardonic politeness. "I was not aware you carried your detective principles so far as to take a note of interviews with your friends."
"I don't do it as a rule," responded Fanks, coolly; "but I had an instinct that our interview might be useful in connection with Melstane's case. I was right, you see. Roger," he cried, with a burst of natural feeling, "why did you not trust me?"
Roger turned away his face, upon which burned a flush of shame.
"Because I was afraid," he replied, in a low voice.
"Of being accused of the murder?"
"Yes!"
"But you can exculpate yourself?" said Fanks, in a startled tone.
"I hope so," replied Roger, gloomily; "but on my word of honour, Fanks, I am innocent. Have you read 'Edwin Drood'?"
"Yes!" responded Fanks, rather puzzled at what appeared to be an irrelevant question, "several times."
"Do you remember what Dickens says in that novel?" said Axton, slowly. "'Circumstances may accumulate so strongly even against an innocent man that, directed, sharpened, and pointed, they may slay him.'"
"True, true," answered Fanks, approvingly nodding his head; "such things have occurred before."
"And may occur again," cried Axton, with a look of apprehension. "I know that you suspect me; I know that circumstantial evidence could be brought against me which would put my life in danger; but on my soul, Fanks, I am innocent of Melstane's death."
"I feel certain you are," answered Octavius, gently; "but, as you say, circumstances are strong against you. Tell me everything without reserve, and I may be able to advise you; otherwise, I am completely in the dark."
"I believe you are my friend, Fanks," said Roger, earnestly. "I believe you know me too well to think I would be guilty of such a dreadful crime. Yes; I will tell you everything, and place myself unreservedly in your hands. But first tell me how it is you are so sure it was murder and not suicide!"
"Certainly! It is well we should both be on common ground for the better understanding of your explanation. Regarding the death of this Melstane, I own that at Jarlchester I was half inclined to believe in the suicide theory, and had it not been for the name Ironfields on that pill-box, which gave me a clue, would probably have acquiesced in the verdict of the jury. Following up the clue, however, I went to the chemists, Wosk & Co.'s, where the pills were made up, and discovered that originally there were twelve in the box. I could account for the disposal of six, so that ought to have left a balance of half-a-dozen."
"True! but if I remember, when I counted them at Jarlchester there were eight."
"Exactly! Two extra pills were placed in that box by some unknown person whom I believe to be the murderer of Melstane."
"Why?"
"Because I took the pills to Dr. Japix, and he analysed the whole eight; seven were harmless tonic pills, the eighth compounded of deadly morphia."
"What!" cried Roger, starting to his feet, "and Melstane died of morphia!"
"He did! Now do you understand? The murderer, whoever he was, placed two morphia pills sufficient to cause death in the box. Melstane took one in complete innocence and died, the other was analysed by Japix and found to contain sufficient morphia to kill two men."
"It's wonderful how you have worked it out," said Roger, with hearty admiration; "but how do you connect me with the murder?"
"I did not say I connected you with the murder," replied Fanks, hastily; "I only said there were suspicious circumstances against you. For instance, you had morphia pills in your possession."
"How do you know that?" asked Roger, with a start of surprise.
"Japix told me."
"Yes, and Japix prescribed them," cried Axton, starting to his feet. "I own that does look suspicious; but I can set your mind at rest on that point. Will you permit me to withdraw for a moment?"
"Don't talk nonsense, Roger," said Fanks, angrily; "of course I will."
Axton said nothing, but left the room, leaving Fanks considerably puzzled as to the cause of his departure. In a few minutes, however, he returned and placed in the detective's hands a box of pills.
"There," he said, resuming his seat, "if you count those pills you will find there are eleven. The original number was twelve; I only took one, and finding it did me no good, left the rest in the box. Am I correct?"
"You are," replied Fanks, who had counted the pills; "there are eleven here."
"If you have any further doubts, you can ask Wosk & Co., who made up the pills."
"There is no need. I believe you."
"But I would prefer your doing so," said Roger, urgently.
"Very well," replied Fanks, calmly putting the box in his pocket; "I will see about it to-morrow. But now you have set my mind at rest on this point, and I have told you my story, tell me yours."
Roger paled a little at this request, and remained silent for a few moments.
"Fanks," he said at last, with great solemnity, "you have your suspicions of me now, and perhaps when I tell you all, you may consider them to be confirmed. What then?"
"What then?" echoed Fanks, cheerfully. "Simply this. Knowing your character as I do, I don't believe you would be guilty of a cold-blooded murder, so when you tell me your story we will put our heads together and try to find out the true criminal."
"I'll be only too glad to do that," said Roger, gratefully, "if only to regain your confidence which I have lost."
"Well, go on with your story."
"I told you a good deal of it at Jarlchester," replied Axton, looking at the fire thoughtfully; "but I will reveal now what I concealed then. The first time I met Judith Varlins was in this town. I came down with letters of introduction from a London friend to Mr. Marson, and he made me free of his house—in fact, he wanted me to stay there; but though I am poor I am proud, so preferred to put up at Binter's Boarding-house."
"Yes, I know that place."
"How so?"
"I went there to see a Monsieur Guinaud."
"Then you saw an uncommonly good specimen of a scoundrel. He was a great friend of Melstane's, and they both hated me like poison. I don't know why Judas—that's his nickname here—did, but Melstane had a grudge against me because I put a stop to his secret meetings with Florry Marson by telling Judith."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because Melstane was such an out-and-out scoundrel that I did not want him to marry that silly little thing. If he had done so, he would have broken her heart. Well, when Judith became aware of these meetings, she took Florry off to Ventnor. I escorted them to London, where they stayed for a time, and then went on to the Isle of Wight. Shortly afterwards I followed them. I told you all that took place there. On our return to Ironfields about the middle of October, I believed Melstane met Florry by stealth, and I taxed him with it. We had a furious row, and I went off to London. While there I received a letter from Miss Varlins, telling me that Florry was engaged to Mr. Spolger, and that Melstane was leaving Ironfields for Jarlchester."
"How did she know that?" asked Fanks, sharply.
"I don't know; perhaps Florry told her. She, of course, could easily learn it from her lover; but what puzzles me is why Melstane went to Jarlchester at all."
"You have no idea?" said Octavius, looking at him keenly.
"Not the least in the world. I'm quite at sea as to his reasons."
"Humph! Go on!"
"Judith asked me to go to Jarlchester and await the arrival of Melstane, in order to obtain from him a packet of letters written by Florry, which he had in his possession."
"Yes," said Fanks, eagerly; "go on!"
"I went down to Jarlchester ostensibly on a walking tour, and received a second letter from Judith, telling me Melstane had left Ironfields, and was on his way down. On the day he was expected to arrive, I went for a walk, intending to return early. Unfortunately, however, I lost my way and did not get back until late at night. I found Melstane had arrived and gone to bed."
"Did you ask if Mr. Melstane had arrived?"
"No! I asked casually if a stranger had arrived, and they told me one had come from London, and described him, so of course I knew him at once."
"But why all this mystery?"
"Judith implored me to be careful," said Roger, quickly. "You see Florry's good name was at stake, and I wanted to get the packet of letters back with as little publicity as possible."
"Nevertheless, you rather overdid the mystery business! Well, what did you do when you found Melstane had gone to bed?"
"I went to bed also, and made up my mind to see him the next morning. Thinking of the letters, however, and knowing he was in the next room, I could not sleep, so as it was not then twelve o'clock, I thought I would go in and see him."
"Curious thing to make a visit to a man's room at that time."
"I dare say," replied Axton, tartly; "but you see, I was anxious to get the letters, and knowing that Melstane was a nervous man, particularly at night, I fancied I might get them back by playing on his fears."
"A most original idea!"
"Rather wild, perhaps, but not without merit. Well, I put on my things, took my candle, and went into his room."
"Ho! ho! so it was you that left the door ajar!"
"It was. I went into the room quietly, and saw he was sound asleep. On the table near the bed was a bundle of letters which he had evidently been reading."
"How did you know it was the bundle you wanted?"
"Because I recognised Miss Marson's writing on the top letter."
"Well, seeing that was the bundle you were in search of, what did you do?"
"Rather a mean thing—I stole them."
"Stole them! Upon my word, Roger, you are a nice young man!"
"In fighting with a man like Melstane, I had to make use of his own weapons," retorted Roger, coolly. "It seems dishonourable to you for me to go into a man's room and steal a bundle of letters; but I was dealing with a scoundrel; those letters contained the honour of a young and inexperienced girl whom he held at his mercy. If I had awakened him there would have been a row, he would have raised the alarm, and I would have got into trouble, so I did the best thing—the only thing to be done under the circumstances and stole the letters."
"Did you see the pill-box when you were in the room?"
"No, I was in such a hurry to go, having once secured what I wanted, that I did not stop to look at anything, but went back to my room."
"Leaving the door of No. 37 ajar," said Fanks, reprovingly, "foolish man."
"Ah! you see I was not experienced in midnight burglaries."
"Well, after you got back to your own room, what did you do?"
"I went to bed and slept soundly. Next morning I sent the packet of letters to Judith, and went off on a stroll. When I came back at night, I was horrified to learn Sebastian Melstane was dead. The rest you know."
"When you spoke to me, did you really and truly believe he had committed suicide?"
"Yes, I did," replied Roger, honestly. "I thought he had found out the loss of the letters, and seeing that his hold over Florry Marson was lost, had committed suicide in desperation."
"How did you account for the morphia?"
"I didn't attempt to account for it. All I knew was that I had secured the letters, that Melstane was dead, and that Florry was safe."
"So that's all. I wish you had told me all this at Jarlchester."
"I tell you I was afraid to do so. Look how black the case appears against me. I fight with a man here; I follow him down to Jarlchester; I have morphia pills in my possession; I go into his room at night, and in the morning he is found dead of morphia. Why, if I had told all this, I would have been arrested. Florry's name would have come up. That infernal Monsieur Judas would have put his spoke in, and I would very probably have been hanged on circumstantial evidence."
"I don't wonder you were afraid," replied Octavius, thoughtfully; "but seeing I was your friend, you might just as well have trusted me."
"You are a detective."
"I am your old schoolfellow."
"Then you believe I am innocent?"
"I do. If you were guilty, you would not have told a story so dead against yourself."
"Will you shake hands, then?" asked Roger, colouring and holding out his hand.
"By all means," replied Fanks, solemnly, and the two friends shook hands with honest fervour.
"Now, then," said Octavius, when this ceremony was concluded, "the next thing to be done is to find out who killed Melstane."
"It's an impossibility," cried Roger, in despair.
"No, I don't say that," answered Fanks, coolly. "At Jarlchester I had nothing to go upon, and yet look what I've discovered."
"You are a genius, Octavius."
"Egad! I've need to be to unravel this case," said Octavius, smiling. "It's the most difficult affair I ever took in hand."
"Do you suspect any one?"
"I can't say at present till I get things more in order. The first thing I want to know is, what were the contents of those letters?"
"I cannot tell you. I did not read them, of course, but simply packed them up and sent them to Miss Varlins."
"Oh, then she has got them?"
"No, she hasn't."
"Where are they, then?"
"Lost."
"Lost How so?"
"I can't tell you," said Roger, helplessly. "You see, Miss Varlins did not want them sent to the Hall, as Florry Marson might have got hold of them, and if she had, she's such a little fool, and was so much in love with Melstane, that she probably would have sent them straight back."
"Well, as they did not go to the Hall, where did they go?"
"To the post office in this place. The postmistress, however, knows Miss Varlins, and had the packet been addressed in that name, would have sent them up at once to the Hall. To make things safe, however, I directed the letters to Miss Judith, Post Office, Suburban Ironfields, and she was to call for them."
"I suppose she called?"
"Yes, every day, but the postmistress said no packet had arrived."
"Strange! The postal arrangements are very good as a rule. Letters don't often go astray. Addressed to Miss Judith, you say?"
"Yes."
Fanks pinched his chin thoughtfully between his finger and thumb, looked frowningly at the fire, and then looked up suddenly:
"Is the postmistress here intelligent?"
"No, the reverse. A snuffy old idiot."
"Oh!" said Fanks, smiling to himself; "then I wouldn't be surprised if she had delivered that packet to the wrong person."
"But there's no one else about here called Judith."
Mr. Fanks did not reply, but leaving his chair, went to the sideboard and brought back pen, ink, and paper, which he placed on the table near Roger.
"You're a very bad writer!" he said, calmly arranging the paper.
"No worse than the usual run of literary men."
"I'm sorry for the printers, if that is the case. The letter you sent me here, saying you were coming, is most illegible."
"Well, that letter has nothing to do with the case," said Roger, impatiently.
"I think it has a good deal to do with it, seeing it told me you were coming down here," replied Fanks, coolly. "However, this is not to the point. Take up that pen." Roger did so, looking considerably bewildered at the manner in which his friend was behaving.
"Now write me down the address you put on the packet." Axton obeyed quickly, and produced the following scrawl:
Handwritten address on packet"Miss Judith, Post Office, Suburban Ironfields"
"Humph!" said Fanks, looking at this specimen of caligraphy. "Most careless writing. Observe; you use the old-fashioned 's.' You don't dot your 'i's,' nor cross your 't's,' and, moreover, you curve your 'i' towards the next letter in the fashion of 'a.' So far so good. Now write M. Judas."
Handwritten 'M. Judas'Handwritten 'M. Judas'
Roger did so with no idea of what his friend had in his mind.
"There," observed Fanks, when this was completed, "do you see much difference between Judith and Judas, according to your writing?"
"No," said Roger, honestly, looking at them, "I can't say that I do. But what do you mean?"
"I mean that the postmistress—old and stupid, as you say she is—has made a mistake, and delivered the packet to Monsieur Judas."
"Absurd!"
"Not at all. Judith Varlins is generally called Miss Varlins, I presume, so the Christian name Judith would not occur to this old woman. On the other hand, the odd name Judas would, and knowing that extraordinary-looking Frenchman to be called Judas, she—I mean the postmistress—would naturally hand the packet over to him."
"But surely he would refuse to receive it?"
"I don't know so much about that. In the first place, he might have thought the packet was for him, and in the second, his natural curiosity would make him take it home to examine. When he found what the packet contained, he kept it."
"But why should he keep it?"
"How dense you are, Roger!" said Fanks, irritably. "He was a friend of Melstane's, and seeing the letters were addressed to Melstane, he very likely kept them by him to return to his brother scamp."
"Then you think Monsieur Judas has the packet?"
"I'm certain of it. We'll call and see what we can do to-morrow."
"All right; but why are you so anxious to get the packet?"
"For several reasons. I believe that packet to contain letters to Melstane, not only from Miss Marson, but from her father also; and I further believe," continued Fanks, sinking his voice to a whisper, "that in that packet is contained the secret of Melstane's death."
"But you surely don't suspect Mr. Marson?" cried Roger, aghast.
Octavius rolled up the paper upon which Roger had been writing and threw it into the fire as he answered, with marked emphasis on the latter part of his reply:
"I suspect no one—at present."