The two men sat beside the fire almost in silence. Jack was trying to get over his reluctance to go to the Hurst, and wondering what would become of him if he did not, and Una left him all alone in town; and Stephen was wondering whether it was time to strike the blow he meditated.
Very soon Jack jumped up.
“If you’ve had enough wine, let us join the ladies,” he said, and went toward the door.
Stephen followed him, but turned back to fetch his pocket handkerchief.
Lying beside it, on the table, was a rose which had fallen from the bosom of Una’s dress. He took it up, and looked at it with that look which a man bestows on some trifle which has been worn by the woman he loves, and then, as if by an irresistible impulse, raised it to his lips, kissing it passionately, and put it carefully in his bosom. As he did so, he raised his eyes to the glass, which reflectedone side of the room, and saw the slight figure of a woman standing in the open door and watching him.
The light from the carefully shaded lamp was too dim to allow him to see the face distinctly, but something in the figure caused him to feel a sudden chill.
He turned sharply and walked to the door; but the hall was empty and there was no sound of retreating footsteps.
“Some servant maid waiting to come in to clear the table,” he muttered.
But he returned to the dining-room, and drank off a glass of liquor before going to the drawing-room, from which ripples of Jack’s frank laughter were floating in the hall.
Lady Bell was seated at the piano, playing and singing in her light-hearted, careless fashion; Jack and Una were seated in a dimly-lit corner, talking in an undertone.
Stephen went up to the piano and stood apparently listening intently, but in reality watching the other two under his lowered lids.
The presence of the rose in his bosom seemed to heighten the passion which burned in his heart; and the sight of Jack bending over Una, and of her rapt, up-turned face as she looked up, drinking in his lightest word as if it were gospel, maddened him.
It was with a start that he became conscious that Lady Bell had ceased playing, and that she, like him, was watching the lovers.
“Miss Una and Mr. Newcombe seem very good friends,” she said, with a forced smile.
“Do they not?” said Stephen, in his softest voice. “Too good.”
Lady Bell looked up at him quickly.
“What do you mean?”
Stephen looked down at her gravely.
“Can you keep a secret, Lady Bell?” he said, hesitatingly.
“Sometimes,” she said. “What is it?”
Stephen glanced across at Jack and Una.
“I’m rather anxious about our young friends,” he said, his voice dropped still lower, his head bent forward withsuch an insidious smile that Lady Bell could not, for the life of her, help thinking of a serpent.
“Anxious!” she echoed, her heart beating. “As how?”
“Can you not guess?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“You—you mean that they may fall in love with each other. Well, they are not badly matched,” said Lady Bell, bravely, though her heart was aching.
“Not badly, in one sense,” said Stephen, after a pause; “but as badly as two persons could be in all others. They are a match as regards their means. They are both penniless.”
Lady Bell looked up with a start.
“Is—is Mr. Newcombe so badly off? I thought—that is, I fancied he had a wealthy uncle——” She paused.
“You mean Mr. Ralph Davenant,” said Stephen, calmly, and with an air of sadness. “I am sorry to say that he left everything which he possessed to a less worthy person—to me.”
Lady Bell looked at him inquiringly.
“To me,” he repeated, “and poor Jack was—well, disinherited, and left penniless. It is of him I think when I say that I am anxious about them; naturally, I think of him. Miss Rolfe is a friend of my mother’s, and has been used to a straitened life; but poor Jack does not know what poverty means, and in his ignorance may drift into an entanglement which may embitter her life. No man in the world is less fitted for love in a cottage, and nothing to pay the rent, than Jack Newcombe. You, who have seen something of him, must have remarked his easy-going, careless nature, his utter ignorance of the value of money, his unsuitableness for a life of poverty and privation.”
Lady Bell’s heart beat fast.
“But—but—” she said, “you have plenty.”
“Of which Jack will not take one penny. You see he is as proud as he is poor.”
“I like him for that,” murmured Lady Bell.
“Yes, so do I; though it pains and grieves me. If Jack would permit me to help him, Lady Bell, he might marry Una Rolfe tomorrow; but as it is, I fear, I am anxious. Another man would be wiser, but Jack has no idea of prudence,and would plunge head first into all the misery of such a union without a thought of the morrow.”
“And you—you think he loves her,” murmured Lady Bell; and she waited for an answer as a man on his trial might wait for the verdict of the jury.
Stephen smiled. He could read Lady Bell’s heart as if it were an open book.
“Loves her! No, certainly not—not yet. He is amused and entertained, but love has not come yet.”
“And she?” asked Lady Bell, anxiously, her eyes fixed on Una’s face.
Stephen smiled again.
“No, not yet. She is ignorant of the meaning of the word. I have taken some trouble to arrive at the truth, and I am sure of what I say. It is well for her that she is not, for anything like a serious engagement would be simply madness. Poor Jack! His future lies so plainly before him, and if he would follow it, the rest of his life might be happiness itself.”
“You mean that he should marry for money,” said Lady Bell, coldly.
“No, not for money alone,” murmured Stephen. “Jack is too high-minded to be guilty of such meanness; but is it not possible to marry for love and money, too, Lady Bell?”
Lady Bell turned her head aside; her heart beating fast. The voice of the tempter sounded like music in her ear. Why should not he marry for love as well as money? She had both. She loved him passionately, and she would pour her money at his feet to do as he liked with; to squander and make ducks and drakes of, if he would but give her a little love in return.
As she looked across the room at him, that awful, wistful longing which only a woman who loves with all her heart can feel, took possession of her and mastered her.
“Why do you tell me this?” she asked, sharply turning her face, pale and working.
“Because,” murmured Stephen, “because I have Jack’s interest so much at heart that I am bold enough to ask for aid where I know it can be of avail.”
“Do you mean that you askme?”she said, tremulously. “What can I do?”
“Much, everything,” he whispered, his head bent low, almost to her ear. “Ask yourself, dear Lady Bell, and you will understand me. Let me be plain and straightforward, even at the risk of offending you. There was a time, not many months ago, when I and his best friends thought Jack had made a choice at once happy and wise.”
Lady Bell rose and moved to and fro, and then sank down again trembling with agitation.
“You mean that—that he was falling in love with me?”
Stephen inclined his head with lowered eyes.
“It is true,” he said. “You cannot fail to have seen what all observed.” And he went on quickly—“And but for this fancy—this passing fancy—all would have been well. Lady Bell, I am speaking more openly than I ever have spoken to woman before. I am risking offending you, but I do so from the affection which I bear my cousin. Lady Bell, I implore you to help me in saving him from a step which will plunge him into life-long misery. He is totally unfitted to battle with the world; married wisely and well, he would be a happy and contented man; married unwisely and badly, no one can picture the future.”
Lady Bell rose, her face pale, her eyes gleaming under the strain which she was enduring.
“Don’t say any more,” she said; “I—I cannot bear it. You have guessed my secret; I can feel that. Yes, I would save him if I could, and if you are sure that—that there is no engagement——”
“There is none,” said Stephen, lying smoothly. “There can be none; the idea is preposterous.”
Lady Bell moved away as he spoke, and turned over some book on the table to conceal her agitation, and Stephen, humming a popular hymn tune, crossed the room and looked down at Jack and Una with a benedictory smile, as if he was blessing them.
“Are you aware of the time, and that Lady Bell’s hall porter is uttering maledictions for our tardiness?” he said, playfully.
Jack looked at his watch.
“By Jove! No idea it was so late. Are you ready, Mrs. Davenant?”
Mrs. Davenant woke from a sleep, and she and Una went upstairs.
“I see you have a new maid,” she said, when they came down again. “What a superior-looking young girl.”
“Is she not?” said Lady Bell, absently. “She is more than superior, she is interesting. She has a history.”
Stephen, standing by, folding and unfolding his opera hat, smiled.
“Very interesting; but take care, Lady Bell; I am always suspicious of interesting people with a history.”
As he spoke, a pale, dark face looked down upon him from the upper landing for a moment, then disappeared.
“You will come with us, Stephen?” said Mrs. Davenant, nervously.
“No, thanks. I should like the walk. Good-night,” and he kissed her dutifully, and shook hands with Jack and Lady Bell.
“Going to walk?” cried Mrs. Davenant. “It is very chilly, and you’ve only that thin overcoat.”
“I’ve a scarf somewhere—where is it?” said Stephen.
Una stooped, and picked up a white scarf.
“Here it is,” she said, laughing, and all innocently she threw it round his neck.
“Will you tie it, please?” said Stephen, in an ordinary tone, and Una, laughing still, tied it.
Stephen stood motionless, his eyes cast down; he was afraid to raise them lest the passion blazing in them should be read by all there.
“Thanks. I cannot catch cold now,” he said, as he took her hand and held it for a moment.
He put them into the brougham, and under the pretext of arranging her shawl, touched her hand once again; then he stood in the chilly street and watched the brougham till it disappeared in the distance.
Then he turned and walked homeward.
“One step in the right direction,” he muttered. “Take care, Master Jack; I shall outwit you yet.”
As he ascended the stairs of his chambers, Slummers came out to meet him.
“There is a—person waiting for you, Mr. Stephen,” he said.
Stephen stopped, and his hand closed on the balustrade; his thoughts flew to Laura Treherne.
“A—woman, Slummers?”
“No, sir, a man,” said Slummers.
“Very good,” said Stephen, with a breath of relief. “Who is it—do you know?”
Slummers shook his head.
“A rough sort of man, sir; says he has come on business. He has been waiting for hours.”
“I am very sorry,” said Stephen, aloud and blandly, for the benefit of the visitor. “I am sorry to have kept anyone waiting. But it is rather late——”
He entered the room as he spoke, and started slightly, for standing in the center of the apartment was Gideon Rolfe.
Notwithstanding the start Stephen came forward with outstretched hand and a ready smile of welcome.
“My dear Mr. Rolfe, I am indeed sorry that you should have been kept so long. If I had only known that you were coming——”
Gideon Rolfe waived all further compliment aside with a gesture of impatience.
“I wished to see you,” he said. “Time is no object to me.”
Stephen shut the door carefully and stood in a listening attitude. He knew it was of no use to ask his visitor to sit down.
“You have come to inquire about your daughter?”
“No, I have not,” said Gideon Rolfe, calmly. “I know that she is well—I see her daily. I came to remind you of our contract—I came to remind you of your promise that no harm should come near her.”
Stephen smiled and shook his head.
“And I trust no harm has come near her, my dear Mr. Rolfe.”
“But I say that it has,” said Gideon Rolfe, coldly. “I have watched her daily and I know.”
“To what harm do you allude?” asked Stephen, bravely.
“Do you deny that the young man Jack Newcombe is near her?”
“Oh,” said Stephen, and he drew a long breath.
Then he commenced untying the scarf, his acute brain hard at work.
Here was an instrument ready to his hand, if he chose to use it properly.
“Oh, I understand. No, I do not deny it; I wish that I could do so, for your sake and for Una’s,” he said gravely.
“Speak plainly,” said Gideon Rolfe, hoarsely.
“I will,” said Stephen. “Plainly then, Mr. Newcombe has chosen to fall in love with—your daughter! That accounts for his constant attendance upon her.”
Gideon Rolfe’s face worked.
“I will take her back,” he said, grimly.
Stephen smiled.
“Softly, softly. There are two to that bargain, my dear Mr. Rolfe. For Miss Una to go back to a state of savagery in Warden Forest is impossible. You, who have seen her in her new surroundings, and the change they have wrought in her, must admit that.”
Gideon Rolfe wiped the perspiration from his brow.
“I know that she is changed,” he said. “She is like a great lady now. I see her dressed in rich silks and satins, and coming and going in carriages, with servants to wait upon her, and I know that she is changed, and that she has forgotten the friends of her childhood—forgotten those who were father and mother to her——”
“You wrong Miss Una,” said Stephen, smoothly. “Not a day passes but she inquires for you and deplores your absence——”
“But,” went on Gideon, as if he had not been interrupted, “I have not forgotten her, nor my promise to her mother. In a weak moment, moved by your threats more than your persuasions, I consented to part with her, but I would rather she were dead than that should happen—which you say will happen.”
“Pardon me,” said Stephen, blandly, and with an evil smile. “I said that Mr. Newcombe had fallen in love with her; I did not say that he would marry her.Iwouldrather she were dead than that should happen,” and he turned his face for one moment to the light.
It was pale even to the lips, the eyes gleaming with resolute purpose.
Gideon Rolfe looked at him in silence for a moment.
“I do not understand,” he said, in a troubled voice.
“Let me make it clear to you,” said Stephen. “Against my will and wish these two have met and become acquainted. Against my will and wish that acquaintance has ripened into”—he drew a long breath as if the word hurt him—“into love, or what they mistake for love. Thus far it has gone, but it must go no further. I am at one with you there. You and I must prevent it. You cannot do it alone, you know. You have no control over Miss Una; you who are not her father and in no way related to her.”
Gideon Rolfe set his teeth hard.
“You see,” said Stephen, with a haggard smile, “alone you are helpless. Be sure of that. If you move in the matter without me, I will declare the secret of her birth. Stop! be calm! But you and I can put an end to this engagement.”
“They are engaged?” muttered Gideon Rolfe.
Stephen smiled contemptuously.
“My good friend, this matter has passed beyond your strength. Leave it to me. Yes, they are engaged; the affair has gone so far, but it must go no further. While you have been lurking outside area gates and behind carriages I have been at work, and I will stop it. I am not too proud to accept your aid, however. When the time comes I will ask your aid. Give me an address to which to write to you.”
Gideon Rolfe, with a suspicious air, drew a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote an address.
“This will find you?” said Stephen. “Good. When the time comes I will send for you; meanwhile”—and he smiled—“you can go on haunting area gates and watching carriages, but be sure of one thing, that this marriage shall never take place.”
Gideon Rolfe watched the pale face grimly.
“I must know more,” he said. “How will you put an end to this?”
Stephen smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.
“You want to see themodus operandi?How the conjurer is going to perform the wonderful feat? Well, it is very simple. My friend and somewhat cousin, for all his romance, will not care to marry a girl whose name is stained with shame. If I know my dear Jack, he will not care to make an illegitimate child of Gideon Rolfe, the woodman, Mrs. Newcombe.”
Gideon Rolfe started.
“You will tell him?” he said, hoarsely.
“Yes,” said Stephen; “I shall tell him the truth, of course concealing the proper names, and you must be here to confirm my statement. That is all you have to do. Mind! not a word of my uncle’s connection with the matter, or all is lost. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” said Gideon, hoarsely. “I care not by what means so that the marriage is prevented.”
“Nor I,” said Stephen, coolly; “and now we are agreed on that point. When I want you I will write to you. Until then—will you take any refreshment?”
Gideon Rolfe waved his hand by way of negative, and Stephen rang the bell. “Show this gentleman out, Slummers. Mind the lower stairs, the gas has been put out. Good-night, good-night.”
It was settled that Mrs. Davenant, Una and Stephen should go to the Hurst in a week’s time. Jack had definitely declined to go to the Hurst. He felt that he would rather bear the absence of Una for a week or two than go to the old house, haunted as it was, for him, with so many memories; but lo and behold, a few days after the dinner party, had come a note from Lady Bell’s father, asking him to visit Earl’s Court.
Of course, Jack accepted gladly enough, without a thought of Lady Bell, and only remembering that a good nag would take him from Earl’s Court to Hurst in an hour and a half, or less.
The week passed rapidly, and with something like restlessness Lady Bell organized all kinds of outings and expeditions, in all of which Jack’s services were found to be indispensable.
He could not exactly tell how it happened; but he seemed to spend almost as much time with Lady Bell as with Una. Now it was to go and try a horse which Lady Bell wanted to buy; then to select some dogs to take down to Earl’s Court; and, again, to buy and send down pony-carriages and dog-carts.
There was always something to take him to Park Lane, and though Jack felt inclined to kick at these demands upon his time, which would otherwise have been spent near Una, he could not see his way to refuse. Then he was fond of buying horses, and dogs, and carriages, and used to hold aleveeat Spider Court of disreputable-looking men in fustian corduroys, much to Leonard Dagle’s disgust.
“It seems to me, Jack,” he said, “that you have become Lady Bell’s grand vizier. Do you choose her dress for her?”
“Chaff away, old man,” said Jack. “It was only the other day that you were badgering me with being cool to her.”
“Yes, with a purpose,” said Leonard; “but that purpose has disappeared. Have you been to the Square yet this morning?”
“No; I’m going now. No, I can’t, confound it! I promised to see to the harness for the pair of ponies Lady Bell bought.”
Leonard smiled rather grimly.
“How Miss Una must love Lady Bell,” he said, ironically.
“So she does,” said Jack, sharply. “Now don’t pretend to be cynical, Len. You know as well as I do that I would spend every hour of my life by Una’s side if I could; but what can I do?”
“All right!” said Len, and he fell to work again.
Strangely enough now, that Jack was so much occupied with Lady Bell’s affairs, Stephen happened to find more leisure to visit his mother, and very often he accompanied her and Una to some concert or picture-gallery to whichJack was prevented from going. Stephen seemed, in addition, quite changed, and had become quite the man of pleasure in contrast to his former habits.
He rarely appeared at the Square without a nosegay or a new novel; he took the greatest interest in any subject which interested Una, and was as attentive to her as if he had been the most devoted of lovers. Now that Jack was so much absent, it was he who sat opposite her in the little brougham, who leaned over her chair at the theater, or rode beside her in the Row.
At first Una felt rather constrained by his constant attendance; she had been so used to have Jack at her side that she felt embarrassed with Stephen; but Stephen, whose tact was second only to his cunning, soon put her at her ease. She found that it was not necessary to talk to him, that she might sit by his side or ride with him for an hour without uttering a word, and was quite free to think of Jack while Stephen chatted on in his smooth, insinuating voice.
And so the very effect Stephen desired to produce came about; she got accustomed to have him near her, and got to feel at her ease in his presence. But how long the mornings seemed! and how she longed for Jack and wondered what he was doing! If anyone had openly told her she was jealous of Lady Bell, she would have repudiated the idea with scorn too deep for anything but a smile; and yet—and yet—that bright, happy look which Lady Bell had so much admired, grew fainter and fainter, and nearly disappeared, reviving only when Jack hurried in to spend a few hours with her, and then hurried off to keep some engagement with Lady Bell or on Lady Bell’s affairs.
But never by word or look did Una show that his absence pained her; instead, she was always the first to remind him of his engagements and to bid him depart.
At last the day arrived for her departure to Hurst. Lady Bell did not go down to Earl’s Court till three days later, and Jack, of course, had to remain in town for a day or two after that.
“It is the first time we have been parted for twenty-four hours since that happy day I learned you loved me, my darling!”he whispered as he held Una in his arms: “I almost wish that I had accepted Stephen’s invitation. But—but I could not sleep under the old roof—by Heaven, I could not! You cannot understand——”
“But I do,” murmured Una; “and I am glad you are not coming. If——”
And she paused.
“Well, darling?” asked Jack, kissing her.
“If you had said half a word, I would not have gone.”
“Why not?” said Jack, with a sigh. “Yes, I am glad you are going. You will see the old house in which I was so happy as a boy—which I once thought would have been mine.”
“Dear Jack!” she murmured; and her hand smoothed the hair from his forehead caressingly and comfortingly.
“Well, never mind,” said Jack; “it is better as it is. Perhaps I should have had the Hurst, and have lost you; and I would rather lose the whole earth than you, my darling! Besides, Stephen has turned out a better fellow than I thought him, and deserves all he has got, and will make a better use of it than I should. No, I am content—I have got the greatest treasure on earth!”
And he pressed her closer to him, and kissed her again and again until, from very shame, she slid from his grasp.
Stephen had engaged a first-class carriage, had even taken the precaution to order foot-warmers, though the weather was not yet winterish, and if he had been the personal attendant on a sovereign, and that sovereign had been Una, he could not have been more anxious for her comfort. He was so thoughtful and considerate that there was nothing left for Jack to do but go down to the station and see them off.
“Four days only, my darling,” he whispered, as the train was starting; “they will seem years to me.”
And he clung to her hand to the last moment, much to the disgust of the guard and porters, who expected to see him dragged under the train. Then he went back to Spider Court, feeling cold, chilly and miserable, as if the sun had been put out.
“Len, I wish I had gone!” he exclaimed, as he opened the door.
But there was no Len to hear him—the room was empty.
“Great Heaven! has everyone disappeared?” he exclaimed, irritably, and flung himself out of the house and into a hansom.
“Where to?” said the cabman, and Jack, half absently, answered:
“Park Lane.”
The man had often driven him before, and he drove straight to Lady Bell’s.
Jack walked into the drawing-room quite naturally—the room was familiar to him—and sat down before the fire; and Lady Bell came in with outstretched hand.
It was a comfort to have someone left, and Jack greeted her warmly, more warmly than he knew or intended. Lady Bell’s face flushed as he held her hand longer than was absolutely necessary.
“Thank Heaven! there is someone left,” he said, devoutly. “They have all gone, and Len is out, and——”
“I am left,” said Lady Bell. “Well, you are just in time for luncheon. I half expected you, and I have told them to make a curry.”
Curry was one of Jack’s weaknesses.
“That is very kind of you,” he said, gratefully. He felt, very unreasonably, neglected somehow. “You always seem to know what a fellow likes.”
“That’s because I have a good memory,” said Lady Bell, smiling down at him. “I shall take care to have plenty of curries at Earl’s Court. And, by the way, will you choose a paper for the smoking-room down there? I have told them that they must do it at once.”
Jack rose without a word; he had been choosing papers and decorations for a week past, and it did not seem strange. Luncheon was announced while they were discussing the paper, and Jack gave her his arm. Mrs. Fellowes was the only other person present, and she sat reading a novel, deaf and blind to all else. Not but what she might have heard every word, for the young people talked of the most commonplace subjects, and Jack was very absent-minded, thinking of Una, and quite unconscious ofthe light which beamed in Lady Bell’s eyes when they rested on him.
Then they rode in the Row; he could do no less than offer to accompany her, and Mrs. Fellowes wanted to see a piece at one of the theaters, and Jack went to book seats, and took one for himself, and sat staring at the stage and thinking of Una; but he sat behind Lady Bell’s chair, and spoke to her occasionally, and Lady Bell was content.
Hetley and Arkroyd were in the stalls, and saw him.
“Jack’s making the running,” said Lord Dalrymple, eying the box through his opera glass. “He’s the winning horse, and we, the field, are nowhere.”
And not only those two, but many others, remarked on Jack’s close attendance on the great heiress, and not a few who would have gone to the box if he had not been there, kept away.
Meanwhile, Jack, simple, unsuspecting Jack, was bestowing scarcely a thought on the beautiful woman by his side, and thinking of Una miles away.
The theater over, and Lady Bell put into the carriage, he looked in at the club, sauntered into the card-room, smoked a cigar in the smoking-room, and then went home to Spider Court.
Much to his surprise he found Leonard up, not only up, but pacing the room, his face flushed and agitated.
“Hallo!” exclaimed Jack, “what’s the matter? And where on earth have you been?”
“Jack, I have found her!”
“That’s just what I said some months ago!”
“Yes, I know. I have been thinking how strangely alike our love affairs have been. It is my turn now. I have found her!”
“What, this young lady, Laura Treherne?”
“Yes,” said Leonard, with a long breath.
“Tell me all about it,” said Jack. “Hold hard a minute, till I get something to drink. Now, fire away.”
“Well,” said Leonard, still pacing up and down, and seeming scarcely conscious of Jack’s presence, “I was walking in the park. You know the place, that quiet walk under the beeches. I was thinking of you and your loveaffairs, when I saw, sitting under a tree, a figure that I knew at once. For a moment I could not move, and scarcely think; then I wondered how I should get to speak to her; but presently, when I had pulled myself together, I saw that she had dropped her handkerchief, and I went and picked it up and took it to her.”
“A fine opening,” muttered Jack.
Leonard Dagle evidently did not hear him.
“Well, she started when I approached her, and merely thanked me with a bow, but I was determined not to let her go this time, and I said, ‘Pardon me, but we have met before.’ ‘Where?’ said she. ‘In a railway carriage,’ I said, and she looked at me, and trembled. ‘I remember,’ she said, and I swear I saw her shudder. ‘Since then,’ I said, ‘I have sought you far and near.’ ‘Why should you do that?’ she asked.”
“A very natural question,” interjected Jack.
“Then I told her. I told her that from that hour I had been unable to rid my mind of her face, that it had haunted me; that I had followed her and learned her address; and that though I had lost her I had sought her all over London.”
“Was she angry?” asked Jack.
“At first she was,” said Leonard, “very angry, but something in my voice or my face—Heaven knows I was earnest enough! convinced her that I meant no harm, and she listened.”
“Well,” said Jack, interested and excited.
“Well,” said Leonard, “we sat talking for an hour, perhaps more, and she has promised to meet me again; at least she admitted that she walked in the park every afternoon. I tried to get her address, but she told me plainly that she would not give it to me.”
“And is that all you learned?” asked Jack, with something like good-natured contempt.
“No!” replied Leonard. “I learned that she had been injured—oh, not in the way you think—and that she had some purpose to effect—some wrong to right.”
“And of course you offered to help her?” said Jack.
“I offered to help her; I laid my services, my whole time and strength, at her disposal; I went so far as to beseechher to tell me what this purpose, this wrong was; but she would not tell me, and so we parted. But we are to meet again. She is much changed; paler and thinner than when I saw her in the railway carriage, but still more beautiful in my eyes than any other woman in the world.”
“It is a strange affair,” mused Jack. “Quite a romance in its way. Isn’t it funny, Len, that both our love affairs should be romantic, and so much alike!”
“Yes,” said Leonard, “very. But mine has scarcely begun, while yours has ended happily, or will do so, if you do not play the fool!”
“What do you mean?” asked Jack, sharply.
“Where have you been to-night?” asked Leonard.
“To the theater with Lady Bell.”
“I expected as much,” said Leonard, and he fell to at his writing, and would say no more, though Jack stormed and raved.
Meanwhile the Davenant party had, thanks to Stephen, made a comfortable journey. They found a carriage and pair waiting for them at the station; not the ramshackle vehicle of the old squire’s time, but a new carriage from the best man in Long Acre, and they were rolled along the country lanes in a style Ralph Davenant would have marveled at.
Presently they came in sight of the Hurst, and Mrs. Davenant uttered an exclamation.
“Why, Stephen, it is altered!” she said.
Stephen smiled proudly.
Short as the time had been he had effected a radical change in the old house; a hundred workmen had been busy, and the ramshackle old mansion had been transformed. Wings had been added, the grounds had been newly laid out; the road, even, had been altered, and they drove through an avenue of thriving young limes.
Una, silent and interested, kept her eyes fixed on the house. She had often heard Jack describe it, but this palatial residence did not answer to his description. Stephen’s money and energy had entirely transformed the place.
The carriage pulled up at the entrance, and half a dozen grooms flew to the horses’ heads: footmen in handsomeliveries stood in attendance, and the servants formed a lane for their master to pass through. Una had often read of such a reception, but here was a reality.
Stephen helped her to alight, and took her and his mother on his arm, his head erect, a warm flush on his cheek.
Suddenly the flush disappeared and a frown took its place as he saw amongst the crowd gathered together at the entrance the parchment-like visage of old Skettle.
But the frown disappeared as he entered the house, and stood silent, listening to the approving comments of Mrs. Davenant.
“My dear Stephen,” she said, “you have certainly altered the place—I should not have known it. And is this what was the gloomy old Hall?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, proudly, and he glanced round at the alterations with an air of satisfaction, and looked at Una’s face for some sign of approval.
But Una was looking around anxiously. If it was so much altered, then it was not the old home that Jack knew and remembered.
“You will find everything altered and improved, I hope,” said Stephen.
Altered, indeed! They have even shifted the old staircase, so that it would have been difficult to have found the room in which the old squire died, exclaiming:
“You thief! you thief! what have you done with the will?”
Yes, indeed, there was great alteration. The old squire, if he had come to life again, would not have known Hurst as Stephen had made it. Masons, carpenters, and decorators had been at work to some purpose. Everything was changed, and unmistakably for the better.
Stephen looked around with an air of pride.
“They have been very quick,” he said. “I placed it in good hands. You will find everything you require up-stairs. You must know,” he said, turning to Una, “that I found the place little better than a barn, and have done my best to make it fit to receive you! You are looking at the portraits,” he added, seeing Una’s gaze wandering along the double line of dead and gone Davenants. Mostof them you would not have seen two months ago, they had been terribly neglected, but I have had them cleaned and renewed. That is the old squire, my poor uncle,” and he sighed comfortably.
Una paused before this, the last portrait of the series, and looked at it long and curiously, and the other two stood and watched her, Stephen with a keen glance of scrutiny and with a nervous tremor about his heart. If she could but know that she was looking at the portrait of her own father! Una turned away at last with a faint sigh. She was thinking that this was the old man who had once loved Jack and left him to poverty.
Mrs. Davenant shuddered slightly.
“He was a terrible old man, my dear,” she murmured, “and always frightened me. I trembled when he looked at me.”
“He does not look so terrible,” said Una, sadly.
Stephen fidgeted slightly.
“Come,” he said, “you must not catch cold. Your maids are here by this time. Will you go up to your room? The housekeeper will show them to you, and I hope you will find everything comfortable.”
Very slowly, looking to right and left of her, Una followed Mrs. Davenant up the broad staircase.
The place seemed to have a strange fascination for her; she could almost have persuaded herself that she had been in it before, and it seemed familiar, though so much changed from all likeness to Jack’s description of it.
They found the rooms upstairs beautifully decorated, and furnished in the most approved and luxurious style. Lady Bell’s house in Park Lane even was eclipsed.
“Stephen has made it a palace,” said Mrs. Davenant. “How I used to hate it in the old time! it was so dark and grim and gloomy, always felt dull and damp. Stephen tells me that he has had it thoroughly drained after the new fashion, and that it is quite dry. Such a palace as this wants a mistress; I wish he would marry.”
“Why do you not tell him so?” said Una, with a smile.
Mrs. Davenant shook her head nervously.
“That would do no good, my dear,” she said. “I sometimes think he will never marry.”
And she glanced at Una with some embarrassment. A dim suspicion had of late crossed her mind that if Una had been free, Stephen might have stood in Jack’s place. She could not help noticing Stephen’s close attendance on Una—a mother’s eyes are sharp to note such things.
If the old squire could have seen the dining-room and the elaboratemenuthat evening, he would have stared and sworn. Stephen had engaged a French cook; the appointments were as perfect as they could be; the servants admirably trained, and as to the wines the Hurst cellar stood second to none in the country.
It almost seemed as if he were sparing no pains to impress on Una all that the wife of Stephen Davenant would possess. And Una, more than half the dinner-time, was thinking of Jack, and fondly picturing the little house they had so often talked of setting up when the commissionership came home. Just at the same time, Jack was leaning over Lady Bell’s chair in the theater.
Stephen was in his best mood, and exerted himself to the uttermost. He described the neighborhood, planned excursions and expeditions; told innumerable anecdotes of the village folk, and played the host to perfection.
In a thousand ways he showed his anxiety for Una’s comfort; and after dinner he had the place lit up, and went over it, asking her opinion on this point and the other, and humbly begging her to suggest alterations. So much so that Una began to grow shy and reserved, and shrank closer to Mrs. Davenant; and Stephen, quick to see when he was going too fast, left them and went to the library to write letters.
Now, strange to say, of all the rooms in the house, this one room remained unaltered. He had not allowed it to be touched—indeed it was kept closely locked, and the key never left him night and day. Just as it had been on the night of the squire’s death, when Stephen stood with the stolen will in his hand, so it was now.
He never entered it without a shudder, and all the time he was in it his eyes unconsciously wandered over the floor and furniture as if mechanically searching for something.
It exerted a strange, weird influence over him, and seemed to draw him into it. Tonight he paced up and down, looking at the familiar objects, and making no attempt to write his letters.
His brain was busy, not with schemes of ambition and avarice, but of love. The blood ran riot in his veins as he thought that Una was under the same roof as himself, and one mighty resolve took possession of him.
“She shall never leave it but to come back as my wife,” was his resolve.
Even the lost will did not trouble him tonight. He had Una in his grasp, Una upon whom everything turned.
It was far into the morning before he went to bed, and at the head of the stairs he turned and looked round with a proud smile.
“All—all mine!” he muttered, “and I will have her, too,” and he went to sleep and dreamed, not of Una, but of Laura Treherne.
All through the watches of the night the pale, dark face haunted him. At times he saw it peering at him through the library window, at others it was pursuing him along an endless road; but always it wore a threatening aspect and filled him with a vague terror.
Some men’s conscience only awake at night.
If Una had been a queen visiting some distant part of her realm, more elaborate preparations for her amusement could not have been made.
Not a day passed but Stephen had got some proposition for pleasuring, and he never tired of hunting up some place to go.
One morning they would drive to some romantic and historic spot; another there would be some flower show orfete, which he insisted upon them seeing; on others, they would play lawn tennis in the now beautiful grounds. The fame of the new Hurst had spread abroad, and those of the county families who were in residence called at once, and dinner parties were given and accepted. So the weekglided by quickly, even to Una, who reckoned time by the day on which she would see Jack.
Every morning there came a scrawl—Jack’s handwriting was mysterious and terrible—from him; in every letter he expressed his longing to see her, and the hateful time he was having in town. But every letter had some mention of Lady Bell; and it was evident that he spent most of his time at Park Lane.
But Una was not jealous—she put away from her resolutely any feeling of that kind.
“I am so glad that Lady Bell is in town, and that Jack has some place to go to,” she said to Mrs. Davenant.
And Mrs. Davenant smiled; but sighed at the same time. To her, as to others, it seemed that Jack spent too much time in attendance upon the great heiress.
Stephen’s money flew, it was scattered about in every direction; but still he was not popular. Men touched their hats, but they never smiled as they had done at the old squire, and as they had done at Jack. There was something about Stephen that the Hurst folk could not and would not take to; and even while they were drinking with his money, they talked of Master Jack and shook their heads regretfully.
And Stephen knew it, and hated them all; but most of all hated old Skettle. It seemed as if the old man was ubiquitous; he was everywhere. Stephen could not take a walk outside the grounds but he came upon the old man; and, though Skettle always raised his hat and gave him “Good-day,” Stephen felt the small, keen eyes watching him. Of Hudsley he had seen nothing.
At last the county papers announced the important fact that Lady Earlsley had arrived at Earl’s Court, and Una knew that in two days she would see Jack.
That night Stephen was more attentive than ever. They had been dining out at a neighbor’s, and were sitting in the drawing-room, talking over the evening. The prospect of Jack’s coming had brought a glad light to Una’s eyes—a brighter color to her face. In two days she should see him! In her happiness she felt amiable and tender to all around her, and, for the first time, she responded to Stephen’s unceasing devotion. He had brought in fromthe new library a whole pile of books relating to the county, and was showing and explaining the illustrations.
“That is Earl’s Court,” he said; “a beautiful place, isn’t it? But Lady Bell has several grander places than that.”
“She is very rich,” said Una.
“Very,” he said, thoughtfully. “It’s a pity that she does not marry.”
Una smiled.
“She says that she will never marry,” she said.
Stephen looked up.
“And yet a little while ago they were saying that she would be married before the year was out.”
“Indeed!” said Una.
“It would be a grand match for any one,” said Stephen. “It would have been a great match for him.”
“For him?” said Una. “Who was it?”
Stephen started and looked embarrassed, as if he had made a slip of the tongue.
“Well,” he said, with a little, awkward laugh; “but—are you jealous? Perhaps I ought not to tell tales out of school, though the affair is off long ago, and he has made a happier choice.”
Una put the fire screen on one side and looked at him calmly. He was sitting almost at her feet. Mrs. Davenant was dozing in her accustomed arm-chair.
“Of whom do you speak?” she asked.
Stephen hesitated, as if reluctant to reply.
“Well,” he said, “it is mere gossip, of course, but gossip awarded the great prize of the season to a near and dear friend of yours.”
Una’s heart beat fast. She guessed what was coming.
“Tell me,” she said, in a low voice.
“Tut!” said Stephen, as if ashamed to retail such idle gossip.
“Well, they said that Jack meant to marry the great heiress.”
“It is not true,” Una said; but her color went, and left her quite pale and cold.
“Of course not,” said Stephen, cheerfully; “though I would not say but there was some excuse for the rumor. Jack was a great deal at Park Lane until he met—one whoshall be nameless.” And he looked up at her with a smile. “Why, they went so far as to congratulate him,” he said, laughing as if at an excellent joke. “And indeed I think if Jack had said ‘Yes,’ Lady Bell would not have said ‘No.’ So, you see, that you have made a veritable conquest!”
And he laughed again.
But there was no answering smile on Una’s pale face. It was not of Lady Bell she thought, but of herself and Jack.
It was true she had stepped in between Jack and wealth and prosperity—she, the penniless daughter of a woodman, had prevented his marrying the great heiress and becoming the master of Earl’s Court and all the Earlsley wealth! A chill passed over her, and she raised the screen to hide her face from Stephen’s eye.
“Yes, it would have been a great match for Jack,” he said, carelessly—“it would have set him on his feet, as they say. But he is still more fortunate.” And he sighed.
Una rose.
“I think I will go up now,” she said; and she went and woke Mrs. Davenant.
Stephen escorted them to the head of the stairs, smiling as if nothing had been said, and then went straight to the old library and rang the bell.
It was understood that no one was to answer the library bell but Slummers, and Slummers now appeared.
Stephen wrote two letters; one ran thus:
“My Dear Mr. Rolfe:—Be kind enough to be at my chambers tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”
The other was still more short; it was addressed to Mr. Levy Moss:
“Put on the screw at once.”
Calmly and leisurely he put them in their envelopes, as if the fate and happiness of two souls were not hanging upon them, and gave them to Slummers.
“Take the morning express and deliver these yourself,” he said, quietly. “I shall follow you by the midday train. When you have done so, find Mr. Newcombe and keep him in sight. You understand?”
“Quite, sir,” said Slummers, and disappeared as silently as usual.
It was Jack’s last day in town. Tomorrow he would be at Earl’s Court, and in the evening would be riding as fast as a horse could carry him to Una.
The hours seemed to drift with leaden wings.
It was no use going to Park Lane, for the blinds were down, and Lady Bell was at Earl’s Court. It was no use going to the club, for the whitewashers had taken possession of it; never had Jack been so utterly bored and wearied. At last he strolled into the park, and sat on one of the seats and stared at the Row, giving himself up to thoughts of Una, and picturing their meeting on the morrow.
He lingered in the park till dusk: then he went home to dress.
“Still writing, old man?” he said, as he entered, and laid his hand on Leonard’s shoulder.
“Halloa! is that you, Jack?” said Leonard, throwing down his pen. “I have been expecting you.”
“Why for?” asked Jack, yawning. Then he looked up curiously. “I wish I’d known it; I’d have come home. Look here, Len, we’ll go and dine somewhere; if there is anything left to eat in this howling desert of a London. If ever any man was bored to death and sick of it, I am this day. Twenty-four hours more of it, and I should chuck myself into the Serpentine! I never spent such a day——”
He stopped suddenly, for he became conscious that Leonard was standing, looking down at him with a grave and earnest regard.
“What’s the matter, old man?” he asked.
Leonard hesitated.
“Jack,” he said, at last, “Moss has been here.”
“Oh, has he?” said Jack, carelessly.
“Yes, and there is trouble about. He is pressing for his money.”
“What!” exclaimed Jack.
Leonard nodded.
“Yes, he means mischief; he made quite a fuss here. Said he had a heavy claim to meet——”
“Oh, I know that old yarn.”
“And that he must and would have money to meet those bills of yours.”
Jack looked grave.
“Did he mean it?”
“Yes,” said Leonard. “Thanks to you, I know Mr. Levy Moss by this time, and I am sure he was in earnest.”
“Confound him!” muttered Jack.
“Confounding him won’t pay him,” said Leonard, sensibly.
Jack rose and paced the room.
“What am I to do, Len?”
“I don’t know,” said Leonard. “If I could help you—but all I have wouldn’t meet one bill.”
“And I wouldn’t take it if it would,” said Jack. “But I can’t understand it! Only last week he was bothering me to take a hundred or two.”
Leonard shook his head.
“All I can tell you is, that he was simply furious. He said that he must and would have some money, that if you did not pay him he would——”
“Well?” said Jack, grimly.
“That he would put you through the Court,” said Leonard.
Jack turned pale.
“What am I to do?” he said. “I have been relying on the commissionership that Stephen promised, and Moss seemed quite willing to wait. I can’t find any money.”
Leonard shook his head.
“The man was furious. Worse than I have ever seen him. You will have to find some money somewhere. How much do you owe him?”
Jack tilted his hat on one side and scratched his head.
“Hanged if I know. He has let me have a great deal lately. Five hundred, perhaps.”
“Jack, you have been a fool,” said Leonard. “I told you that it was no use counting upon the place your cousin Stephen promised you.”
“I don’t so much care for myself, but Una, Una,” said Jack, with a groan. Then he jumped up. “Let us go and get some dinner, and think it over.”
They went to a well-known house in Strand, and Jack, careless Jack, ordered a dinner fit for a prince, and enjoyed it as he would have enjoyed it if he had been going to be hanged on the morrow.
“I don’t understand Moss,” he said. “He was everything that was agreeable and pleasant a few days ago.”
“And today he was like a wolf hunting for a bone,” said Leonard. “Hello, who’s this?” for a gentleman had entered the dining-room and approached their table.
“Why, it’s Stephen!” exclaimed Jack, forgetting Moss in a moment. “Just in time, Stephen, we’ll have another bottle of claret up. What on earth brings you to town? And how is—how are they all?”
Stephen sat down with a grave smile, and just sipped the claret, the best the house had on its list. And he sat and talked till the wine was finished, the greater part of which Jack drank, then he said:
“Jack, I want you to come to my chambers; I have something to tell you.”
“All right,” said Jack. “Leonard can find his way home very well.”
Stephen called a hansom, and they were rattled away to the Albany.
As they ascended the stairs, Stephen laid his hand on Jack’s arm.
“Jack, I am sorry to say I have bad news for you. You will be calm.”
“Bad news!” said Jack, and his heart stood still. “What is it? Una——”
“Yes,” said Stephen; “it is about Una. You will be calm, my dear Jack?”
Jack leaned against the balustrade and drew a long breath.
“Is she ill—dead?” he gasped.
“Neither,” said Stephen. “Come, be a man.”
“I am ready,” said Jack. “If she is neither ill nor dead I can bear anything else.”
Stephen opened the door, and Jack, entering, saw Gideon Rolfe standing on the hearthrug.
“Mr. Rolfe!” he exclaimed. “How do you do? I am very glad to see you!” and he held out his hand.
Gideon Rolfe nodded and turned aside.
“What is it? What is the matter?” asked Jack, turning to Stephen, who had carefully closed the door and stood with knitted brow and sad countenance.
At Jack’s question he glanced at Rolfe, and then, with a sigh, said:
“Yes, Jack, I will tell you. It will come better from me than Mr. Rolfe. Jack, you were right in suspecting that the business referred to Una. She is quite well—and happy. But—but I am afraid your engagement must cease.”
At this, Jack’s calmness came back to him, and with something like a smile, he said, scornfully:
“Indeed!”
“Yes,” said Gideon Rolfe, but Stephen held up his hand and silenced him.
“Perhaps you will tell me for what reason?” said Jack, quietly.
“For a sad, very sad reason,” said Stephen, in a subdued and mournful tone. “Jack, my heart bleeds for you——”
“Never mind your heart,” said Jack, curtly. “Come to the point, Stephen.”
“I sympathize with you deeply,” continued Stephen, not at all affronted. “The fact is, Mr. Rolfe has tonight made a communication respecting our dear young friend, which has completely overwhelmed me——”
“Let me see if it will overwhelm me,” said Jack. “What is it?”
“My dear Jack, it is a story involving shame——”
“Shame!” echoed Jack, and his brow darkened. “To whom?”
“To those who can feel shame no longer,” said Stephen; “but alas! its shadow falls on a young life as innocent and pure as the angels.”
“On Una?” demanded Jack, fiercely.
Stephen bowed his head.
“Yes, Jack. Una is a nameless child—she is illegitimate.”
Jack reeled and fell into a chair, and there he sat for a moment.
“It is a lie!” he said at last.
“It is true!” said the deep voice of Gideon Rolfe; and Jack, fixing his startled eyes on the rough, ragged face, knew that it was the truth.
With a groan he covered his face with his hands; then he started up and struck the table a blow that made Stephen wince.
“Well,” he exclaimed, with a short laugh—“well, what business is it of anyone’s but mine and Una’s? What do I care whether she is illegitimate or not? Let her be the daughter of whom she may, married or unmarried, it matters not to me. SheisUna, and that is enough!”
His voice rang out loud and clear as a bell’s tone, and he looked from one to the other defiantly.
“And now that is settled,” he said, sternly. “Let us come to particulars, to proof. Mr. Rolfe, though I know you are averse to our marriage, I believe you. I do not think you are capable of inventing a lie—a base, fiendish lie—to serve your ends. But all the same I ask, and not without reason, some proofs. First, who are Una’s parents?”
Gideon Rolfe was about to reply, but a glance from Stephen stopped him.
“That is the question I have implored Mr. Rolfe to answer,” he said. “I have entreated him to give us some information, but he declines. It is a secret which he says shall go down to the grave with him, unless——”
“Unless what?” demanded Jack, hoarsely.
“Unless you are still determined to hold Una to her engagement. Then——”
He paused, and Jack looked from one to the other.
“Well?”
“Then he declares he will go to Una and inform her of the shame that clings to her name.”
Jack uttered a low cry and sank back in his chair. He saw by what heavy chains he was bound. To get possession of Una he must inflict the agony of shame upon her.
If ever a man loved truly and nobly Jack loved Una. He would have died the death to spare her a moment’s pain; and here was this man threatening to darken and curse her whole life if he, Jack, did not relinquish her.
“Are you human?” he said, turning his eyes upon Gideon Rolfe with a wild, hunted gaze.
Gideon Rolfe smiled bitterly.
“I am human enough to prevent this marriage.”
Jack rose and confronted him.
“I will not give her up,” he said hoarsely. “I defy you!”
“Good!” said Gideon Rolfe. “Then I go to the girl and acquaint her with the true story of her birth. If I know her—and I do—she has sufficient pride to prevent her staining so honorable a family as the Davenants by marrying into it,” and he sneered bitterly.
Jack’s face flushed.
“You professed to love her,” he said. “Are you totally indifferent to her happiness?”
“No happiness could follow her union to one of your race,” said Gideon Rolfe.
Stephen trembled. He was playing a dangerous and desperate game. A word from Rolfe might put Jack in possession of Una’s real parentage, and Stephen would be ruined.
“My dear Jack,” he said, sorrowfully, “I have besought Mr. Rolfe, almost on my knees, to hold his hand, but he is like stone—immovable.”
There was a pause.
Jack stood, his brain in a whirl, his heart beating wildly. His frenzied brain saw the whole thing clearly. On one side stood his passionate love and his life-long happiness, on the other Una’s shame and agony.
“I love her so!” he moaned.
“You say that you love her,” said Gideon Rolfe, sternly. “Prove it by saving her from the knowledge of the shame which clings to her name. If your love is worth anything it will make that sacrifice. Remember, it is on your side only. She is young—a mere girl, a few weeks, months at most, and she will have learned to forget you.”
“That’s a lie, at least,” groaned Jack. “I know her better than you.”
“No matter,” said Gideon Rolfe, coldly. “Time will heal a disappointed love; no time can heal an undying shame.”
Jack rose and paced the room.
“Leave me alone for a few minutes,” he said hoarsely. “I must think this out; nothing you can say can influence me.”
At a signal from Stephen, Gideon Rolfe remained silent.
Five minutes passed and then Jack came to the light.
The handsome face was haggard and white and so changed that ten years might have passed over his head in those few minutes.
“Mr. Rolfe,” he said, and his voice was broken and hollow, “why you bear me such deadly enmity I cannot imagine, and you will not tell me?”
Gideon Rolfe made a gesture of assent.
“It is a mystery to me; I only know its results. Once more I ask you to relent, and spare the unhappiness of both of us.”
“I am resolved,” said Gideon. “Either relinquish her or I tell her all. The decision is in your hands. I do not doubt you will seize your happiness, even at the cost of her shame.”
“Then you wrong me,” said Jack. “Rather than she should know the shadow which hangs on her life I relinquish her.”
A light gleamed in Stephen’s eyes, and his lips twitched.
“This I do,” continued Jack, in a voice so low and broken that it scarcely reached them, “placing implicit trust in your assertion that she is—as you state.”
He drew a long breath.
“I dare not risk it; but if in the future I should find that you have played me false—if, I say, this should prove a lie, then I tell you beware, for, as there is a Heaven above us, I will take my vengeance.”
“So be it,” said Gideon Rolfe, grimly. “Now write,” and he pointed to a bureau on which stood pen and paper, as if prepared for use.
Jack started.
“You will not take my word?” he said, bitterly.
Gideon Rolfe hesitated; but, at a glance from Stephen, said:
“Let the knowledge that the engagement is at an end come from you; it will be better so.”
Jack went to the bureau and sank into a chair.
Yes, if the blow must be dealt it better be by his hands, as tenderly as possible.
He sat for some moments with his head in his hands, as utterly oblivious of the presence of the others as if they were absent.
Before him rose the lovely face with its trustful eyes; in his ears rang the musical voice which he should never hear again.
What should he write? Why should he write?
Stephen stole behind him.
“You will be careful to conceal the truth, my dear Jack,” he murmured.
Jack started, and turned upon him with a look that caused Stephen to shrink back behind the table.
“For what am I giving up what is most precious in life?” he said hoarsely.