To this end I must efface myself, and must be known henceforth by another name than Fordham. That was easy, and I was stung by no reproach as to justification. If ever a man was justified in practising such a deceit it was I.
My musings were interrupted by the unclosing of the street door. The doctor was there, and Miss Cameron; he was bidding her take some repose.
"We must not have you break down," he said. "Ah, here is our friend. The fog has not swallowed him up."
"How can I thank you?" she said to me, holding out her hand. It trembled as it lay for a moment in mine, and her eyes shone with tears.
"By following the doctor's advice," I replied, "and by allowing me to call when I have had some rest myself. Your mother is no worse, I hope?"
The doctor—one of those sensible practitioners who help their patients to get well by bright words—answered for her.
"No, not worse, not at all, not at all. With heaven's help we'll set her up again. There, there, my dear, don't cry; and what are you about, stopping here in the cold? Go and lie down. I will send the medicine at nine o'clock."
As we walked away together he said: "It would be cruel to tell her the truth."
"Then there is no hope?" I said.
It seemed to me as if in those few words he had pronounced a sentence of death, and as if I were about to sustain a personal loss.
"Oh, yes, there is hope," he replied; "but for poor people the gates are closed."
I begged him to explain, and he did so. Mrs. Cameron was suffering not only from debility, brought on by want of nourishing food, but from a chest and throat complaint which would certainly result fatally if she remained in London. The pestilential air, the poisonous fog—they spelt death. She could not possibly live through the coming winter. She needed a purer air, wine, and better food, and these were out of her reach. By slaving day and night at her needle the mother and daughter earned eight or nine shillings a week. They had no rich friends. What could they do?
"It is a question of money?" I said.
"Yes, it is a question of money, though even then I do not say she will recover. The privations she has endured have made terrible inroads upon her constitution."
"But there would be a chance of recovery."
"Undoubtedly a chance of recovery. In fact, the only chance. It is painful to witness such cases, to stand by a bedside and see a life passing away which money would probably save; but there is no help for it. The poor girl will suffer terribly. I have seldom witnessed such love, such devotion. It is surprising how she keeps up."
"There is help for it, doctor," I said, "and I should like to see you to-morrow to speak about it."
"I am home for consultations till twelve. May I ask your name?"
"Fletcher," I replied.
Thus was the first stone in my self-banishment laid.
I passed the next few hours in a common lodging-house, and laid down on a bed without undressing. I dozed, but did not sleep, my mind being occupied in formulating a plan with regard to the Camerons. I rose at nine o'clock, washed, and had breakfast, and then went in search of apartments in a respectable house. I had little difficulty in finding what I required—three furnished rooms in a street inhabited by a decent class of people. The landlady murmured something about a reference, but I satisfied her with a month's payment in advance. The rent was moderate, and I arranged for breakfast, and the occasional cooking of a dinner if I desired. I gave, of course, the same name, Fletcher, retaining my Christian name. So I began my new life as John Fletcher.
At twelve o'clock I presented myself to the worthy doctor, and unfolded my plan. It was nothing less than the removal of Mrs. and Miss Cameron to Swanage, the climate of which place the doctor said would suit the invalid. I proposed that I should go down to Swanage to arrange where they were to stay, and that they should get out of London before the end of the week.
"All this will cost a great deal of money," said the doctor.
"Not so very much. They can live—perhaps in a farmhouse—for two or three pounds a week. I can afford it."
"Do you know what it means to them? They will look upon it as a fairy tale, and will be afraid of waking up and finding it a dream."
"As you see, it is no dream, and it is nonsense to talk of fairy tales. It is plain common sense. They will need warm clothing. Give them this—it will come better from you. I daresay there will be sufficient left to pay their fares down."
"Do you intend to accompany them."
"No, I shall remain in London; but there must necessarily be some correspondence between us."
"And still—pray don't be angry—I am puzzled and curious as to your motive."
"Let me put it to you in this way, doctor. You see now and then in the papers an acknowledgment from the Chancellor of the Exchequer of a parcel of bank notes from X. Y. Z., for unpaid income tax. It is called conscience money. The difference is that I have wronged neither man nor woman, yet what I am doing is an affair of the conscience. Will not this content you."
"It must." Then after a pause, "You have seen trouble?"
"Few men have had harder trials, bitterer disappointments."
"I regret to hear it. And now, who is to acquaint the Camerons with your scheme?"
"You."
"I decline. I will give them the money you have entrusted with me, and I will make Miss Cameron understand that it is imperatively necessary that her mother be removed without delay. The rest is in your hands."
"Very well—though I should prefer it otherwise."
"I am going now to see my patient, and I will prepare them for this change in their fortunes. You will probably see Miss Cameron in the course of the afternoon."
"Kindly tell her I will call at two o'clock. I shall leave for Swanage by the five o'clock train."
I make but brief reference to my interview with Miss Cameron. She was profoundly grateful for the services I was rendering them, but seemed, indeed, as the doctor had said, to fear that it was a dream from which she would presently awake, though the small sum of money I had sent her by the doctor's hands should have convinced her. I did not see her mother, our interview taking place in a lower room in the house, which the landlady placed at her disposal. It was difficult for her to understand why a stranger should step forward to befriend her, and my lame attempts at an explanation did not assist her to a better understanding of the matter.
Seeing her now in the daylight the impression I had formed of her was confirmed. Her features, without being handsome, were full of sensibility, and there was a pleasing refinement in her language and manners. What most attracted me in her were her eyes. Truth and resignation, and the strength which springs from a reliance upon the goodness of God, dwelt in their clear depths, and now, illumined by hope, they instilled in me a faith in her which from that hour has not been shaken. The faith she had in me touched me deeply. In contrast with the women it had been my ill-fortune to mix with she was an angel from heaven.
"You will hear from me in a day or two," I said. "Will your mother be strong enough to travel then?"
"The doctor says she will," she answered.
"Have you money enough to provide what is necessary for your journey?"
"More than enough," she said, bursting into tears.
I had to tear myself away.
The journey down to Swanage was one of the happiest I had ever taken; I had an object in life, and there was seldom absent from my thoughts the light of hope that shone in Miss Cameron's eyes. Suitable accommodation for her and her mother was easily obtained in a farmhouse near to the sea. The terms were exceedingly moderate, and in a letter to Miss Cameron, I bade her get ready, and requested her to meet me at the doctor's house on the following day. Then, for the first time, I signed myself, "John Fletcher."
At the appointed hour I met Miss Cameron, and giving her written particulars of the place I had taken for her, and instructions as to trains, I bade her good-bye and God-speed. I had debated whether I should accompany them to the railway station, and had decided not to do so. They were accustomed to look after themselves, and my presence would embarrass them, and add to their sense of obligation.
"Write to me as soon as you are settled," I said, "and let me know whether you are comfortable. If you are not, we will soon find another place for you. And mind, you are going down for your mother's health, and you are not to worry. Leave everything to me."
I pressed an envelope into her hand, and to cut short her thanks, hastily took my departure.
I had now plenty to occupy me. My first visit was to a solicitor, to entrust him with the execution of the plan I had laid down with respect to my wife—before doing which I had devoted some time to a careful survey of my pecuniary position. There had been much waste and extravagance on Barbara's part, and my little fortune had dwindled. I decided to allow her £300 a year, quite sufficient for her to live upon in comfort. That I should have to encroach upon my capital for the payment of this sum and for my own expenses did not cause me anxiety. I did not go beyond the next few years in my calculations; meanwhile I might be able to earn money. Whatever was my income, Barbara should have an equal share of it; she could not reasonably ask for more, having only herself to support. If a court of law were called upon to decide the matter she would probably have less. Upon £300 a year the house in Kensington could not be kept up, and I determined that it should be sold. All household debts contracted to date were to be discharged, and so much of the furniture as Barbara would not need in her new quarters was to be disposed of by auction. The solicitor undertook the management of this troublesome business, and I bound him down to absolute secrecy. Upon no consideration whatever was the slightest clue to my movements, and to the name I had assumed to be given to inquirers. I left him to prepare the necessary documents, and proceeded to my house, armed with written discharges of the servants in my employ. A cab I had engaged stood at the door, and a porter accompanied me into the house.
All the evil crew were there—Maxwell, my stepmother, Louis and Barbara. Her bloated face filled me with loathing. She gave me a sullen look.
"The prodigal son has returned," said Maxwell. "Where's the veal?"
I rang the bell, and the parlor-maid entered the room.
"Send all the servants up," I said to the girl, "and tell that woman, Annette, I wish to see her."
"What do you want the servants for?" demanded Barbara.
"You will see."
I heard them in the passage, and I opened the door for them, Annette coming in last.
"You sent for me madame?" she said in her smooth voice, gliding with catlike motion to Barbara's chair.
"I sent for you," I said.
"At your service, monsieur."
"It is like a scene in a drama," said Maxwell, with an attempt at jocularity. "Get to the action, John."
I handed the women their written notices of discharge, and gave them to understand that after the expiration of their month I would be no longer responsible for their wages.
"Take no notice of him," said Barbara, flushing up. "He is out of his senses."
With a nod she dismissed them, and they trooped out.
I turned to Annette and held out the discharge. She refused to take it, and it fluttered to the ground.
"I am in madame's service, monsieur."
"That is her affair and yours. You are not in mine. I discharge you. Your next month's wages will be paid, after which you will not receive another shilling from me."
"Upon what grounds am I discharged, monsieur?"
"You are not discharged, Annette," exclaimed Barbara.
"I know, madame. I take it only from you. I asked monsieur a question."
"Upon the grounds of treachery and unfaithfulness," I said, calmly.
"You hear," she said, appealing to the others. "It is slander. You are witnesses. It is not the first time—no, it is not the first time."
"Our law courts are open to you," I said. "Try them, and see what an English judge will say to you."
"Madame is perhaps right," she remarked, with a sly glance at the decanter of brandy on the table. "Monsieur is not in his senses." Her voice was as smooth as if she were paying me compliments, and her manner was entirely unruffled.
At this point Barbara started up in a fit of passion. "You monster!" she screamed, and would have thrown herself upon me had not Maxwell held her back.
"Hold hard, Barbara," he said. "Let us see the end of it. Don't spoil the drama. It is really a very good drama, John."
I went up to my bedroom, and rapidly packing my bag, called to the porter to take it to the cab. Then I re-entered the parlor.
"One last word," I said to Barbara. "In the presence of your friends I take my leave of you. This house will be sold soon, and you will have to reside elsewhere. My solicitor will write to you presently, and will make you acquainted with the arrangements I have decided upon. It is my fervent hope that we shall never meet again."
"By God, he is in earnest!" cried Maxwell.
As I left the room I saw Barbara staring at me with parted lips, and Maxwell, my stepmother, and Louis looking blankly at each other. Annette was smiling quietly, and playing with her cap strings.
On the following day I received a letter from Miss Cameron. They were very comfortable, the place was beautiful, the air delightful, her mother seemed to be better already. She signed herself Ellen Cameron, and hereafter I thought of her only as Ellen. It was not such a letter as an ordinary needlewoman would have written. The writing was that of a lady, and the wording appropriate and well-chosen. The signs of fair culture in it were very pleasing to me.
I did not reply to it immediately, thinking it unbecoming to show haste. In a day or two I wrote, expressing satisfaction at the report, and bidding her take advantage of every hour of fine weather. Acting upon the doctor's suggestion, I dispatched a hamper of fruit, wine, and jelly, and continued to do so at regular intervals. Ellen's thanks for these gifts were extravagant, and rather humiliated me. If thanks were due to either of us, it was she who should have been the recipient.
The task I had entrusted to my solicitor was one of extreme difficulty, but fortunately for me he was a man of inflexible resolution and perfect self-possession, qualities which made him more than a match for Maxwell, who undertook the management of Barbara's affairs. Every resistance was made to the carrying out of my plans, and a solicitor of doubtful reputation was employed by Maxwell to threaten and bluster. My own solicitor made light of this.
"It will do them no good to go to law," he said to me. "The only satisfaction they would get would be the bringing up of your name before the public. The fact of their employing a lawyer of such a character shows that they are aware of the weakness of their case. In no event would they benefit to a greater extent than you propose."
It was a wearisome and distressing business, and it is needless to say that I took no pleasure in it. I was animated by no sense of triumph, and was only upheld by my stern determination not to be turned from my purpose. Finally, Maxwell adopted other tactics. "The income you offer my poor sister," he wrote, "is utterly inadequate for her support. Through your misconduct she is now in such a deplorable state of health that the utmost care is needed. Make it five hundred pounds a year, and a public exposure of your brutality will be avoided. Within a few days of your marriage Barbara discovered that you had a mistress, and as a man of the world I know that there has been all through another woman in the case. It will be worth your while to make it five hundred pounds. I am not at the end of my resources, and if you refuse to act in a sensible way I will make it warm for you. You shall not have a moment's peace."
Finally, after the lapse of several weeks, the distressing affair was brought to a conclusion. The house was sold, and Barbara removed from it, taking with her the whole of the furniture, to which, for the sake of peace, I offered no objection. The worry and anxiety had affected my health. Living alone, with no friend to cheer me, I should have felt myself a complete outcast from the world had in not been for the regular correspondence I kept up with Ellen. Her letters were my only comfort, and I may truly say that they preserved the balance of my mind. Confident as I was in the justice of my cause it may have been that, but for the consolation I drew from them, I should have again given way to despair. The natural reserve which distinguished her letters when she first began to write to me had melted away, and she wrote now as to a friend of long standing.
It was at this period that I received a letter from her mother. She said that her daughter did not know she was communicating with me, and that her letter was posted by a servant in the farmhouse. There was something on her mind which she wished to impart to me, and she had also an earnest desire to see the friend to whom they were so deeply indebted. If my engagements in London would permit of it she would esteem it an honor to shake hands with their dearest friend and confide to him a secret which was oppressing her.
The request came opportunely. The good doctor had spoken of my changed appearance, and had advised me to go into the country for a rest.
"Would Swanage suit me?" I asked.
"I prescribe Swanage," he replied, smiling.
He knew me only as John Fletcher, and had no suspicion that I was a married man.
I now approach a period in my life which, in comparison with what I have already related, shines like a garden in an arid desert—a fair garden blooming with the flowers of peace and happiness. It is not easy to say when I began to love Ellen, and she has confessed that she does not know when she began to love me. Chance, or fate, led us to each other, and has led us to the end, which is very near. Much of the past I would undo were it in my power, but, although a miracle would be needed to free me from the peril in which I stand, I would not undo that part of it which Ellen and I shared together despite the fact that it may be said to have created the mystery in which I am entangled. I have read somewhere how a withered rose may be restored to freshness and sweetness. So was it with my life in the hour that Ellen and I first met.
I did not go down to Swanage immediately. With the knowledge that my enemies were at work, I waited a few days alert and on the watch, and when I reached the delightful spot it was by devious ways and cunning breaks in my journey which would have puzzled the smartest human bloodhound that could have been set to track me. Meanwhile I wrote both to Ellen and her mother, saying that I intended to visit them shortly and that no further letters were to be sent to me in London. That was all the notice I gave them, and when I presented myself it was at an unexpected moment.
The day was bright and fine, the sea calm and benignant, the air already fragrant with the promise of spring. I walked towards the farmhouse as a man newly born to joy might have done. Friends true and sincere awaited my coming, and those who have read these pages will understand what that meant to me.
Ellen sprang from the house at my approach. She had seen my form in the distance, and, as I came nearer, recognized and flew to welcome me.
"My friend!" she murmured, holding out her two hands.
I dropped my bag and clasped them. "Ellen—I beg your pardon, Miss Cameron!"
"No. Ellen, if you wish it."
We gazed at each other, she with a blush on her cheeks, but with no false modesty or reserve, and I in a dream of happiness.
"I have taken you by surprise?"
"The pleasantest of surprises. Every day we have been hoping you would come; every day we have been looking out for you."
"And your mother—how is she?"
"Better, she says, and brighter—Oh, so much brighter! What do we not owe you?"
"I beg you never to say that again. You owe me nothing. One day I may perhaps tell you what I owe you. Your mother is better. That is good news. And you—but I need scarcely ask."
"I have never been so well."
"More good news. The day is propitious. You saw me coming?"
"Mother and I were sitting by the open window. We are not overrun by company; that makes it all the more delightful."
"You are fond of the country?"
"I love it. We are closer to what is best in the world. There is my mother at the window. She thinks it so strange that she has never seen you."
"Well, she will see me now—and will be disappointed."
"No, no. That is not possible. You are her hero."
"Ah, that makes it all the more certain. We raise an ideal; best never to see it in flesh and blood. Reality is a disenchanter. Far better to continue to dream."
As I said this I gazed at Ellen, and there must have been a growing earnestness in my gaze. I had raised an ideal of her—had it met with disappointment? I was self-convicted.
"I recant," I added in a tone of satisfaction.
"I am glad," she said, and my heart beat more quickly at the thought that she understood me.
We were within a dozen yards of the farmhouse.
"Does your mother recognize us?"
"Hardly. She is very short-sighted."
"Let us walk quickly."
Mrs. Cameron rose, her hand at her heart, in a state of agitation. I observed that she rose with difficulty; before we reached her she sank into her chair.
"It is Mr. Fletcher, mother."
I prevented her from rising again, perceiving that she was not strong, and I did not interrupt the little speech in which she gratefully welcomed me. There was a strong likeness between her and Ellen; though worn with suffering, I noticed the same delicately cut features, the same trustful eyes, in which the spirit of goodness shone. Sitting there, talking to her, it seemed to me as if I had rejoined a family knit to me by close ties of sympathy and kinship. Ellen had taken up her work, and was busy with her needle.
"What is it you are making?" I asked.
"A dress for one of the landlady's children," she replied.
On a chair by Mrs. Cameron's side was another dress of a similar character.
"We are not good dressmakers," said Mrs. Cameron; "but we manage these little frocks very well. Our landlady has a large family."
"Are you working for money?" I inquired, gravely.
"Yes."
"But it is against the rules. You did not come here to work."
"We cannot be idle," said Mrs. Cameron. "It is not work; it is pleasure. When night comes we lay the needle aside. It was not so in London."
"So I have heard. Still, I repeat, you should not work."
"We should be unhappy without it. We do not tire ourselves. How long do you intend to stay in Swanage, Mr. Fletcher?"
"Several weeks, I hope. I am here for a holiday, by the doctor's orders."
Ellen raised her eyes.
"Then you are not well," said Mrs. Cameron, quickly.
"I have had a great deal of anxiety lately. Don't look troubled. It is over now—happily over."
"Oh, I am glad. Ellen, we must take care of Mr. Fletcher." The young girl nodded sympathetically. "There is a vacant room in the farmhouse."
"No, I will find a bedroom elsewhere; but if you will allow me, I will take my meals with you."
"It will be a great pleasure to us. There is another farmhouse half a mile away, where you can get a room. Ellen will show you the way. There is no hurry for a few minutes. We must go into accounts."
"Accounts?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Cameron, and at a sign from her, Ellen brought forward a small account book. "You have sent us more money than we need. We can't quite keep ourselves, but we can do something towards it. You will find the figures correct, I think, though we are not very clever at arithmetic."
It was useless for me to protest; they had their ideas of what was just, and seeing that I was giving them pain by objecting, I waived further objection, and looked through the book. Everything was neatly set down. I had sent them so much money; they had earned so much; their weekly account for board and lodging came to so much; and in the result there was a balance of four or five pounds, which they insisted belonged to me, and which I was forced to accept. If any proof were needed to convince me that I had been thrown into the society of ladies of scrupulous integrity and uprightness, it lay before me in this little account book; it increased my respect and esteem for them, and I thanked my good fortune for the association, and inwardly vowed never to desert them. What the mother had to impart to me was disclosed within twenty-four hours of my arrival. It was sufficiently grave, and strengthened my resolve to remain with them.
"My days are numbered, Mr. Fletcher," she said in a tone of much sweetness and resignation. "Ellen does not know the truth; I have kept it from her. Dear child, she has had enough to bear. She has nursed me for years, and does not see the signs which I feel are unmistakable and irrevocable. When the blow comes, she will suffer terribly; it would be cruel to destroy the peace we are now enjoying. It is peace, blessed, blessed peace—peace and rest; and I wait with patience, and with infinite confidence in the will of the Supreme. I think it will come soon, and as the dear friend whom God sent to us in our darkest hour, I wished you to know. Do not think it is an old woman speaking to you out of her fears. I do not fear death. There is a hereafter, and I shall see my dear child again when her time comes. I should welcome the hour when I am summoned were it not for my darling and for the grief in store for her."
"You are not old," I said in a low tone, "and there is still hope. Ellen tells me you are only forty-five."
"Yes, I know, I know, but my sands are run, and there is no appeal."
And, indeed, as I looked at her I felt there was none; death was in her face, which, in her daughter's presence, ordinarily wore a smile.
"There is no hope, Mr. Fletcher; the most skillful medical advice would not avail me now. What mortal could do for me you have done; you have prolonged my life, and I am inexpressibly grateful to you. Has Ellen told you we have no relatives?"
"No."
"We have none. Ellen will be left alone, to battle with the world."
"Not while I have life, Mrs. Cameron." She stretched forth her trembling hand, and the expression on her face was that of an angel in the act of blessing.
"Oh, dear friend, dear friend!" she murmured, and the tears ran down her cheeks. "God sent you to us—truly, truly!"
"It was for this assurance you sent for me."
"I hoped for it—prayed for it—and my prayers are answered. Sorrow is our heritage, but the world is full of goodness. God never sleeps; His watchful eye is eternally over us. You are young; never lose sight of this, never forget it, never lose your faith in Him. Ellen is brave; she knows no fear, and is prepared to fight the battle; faith and prayer are her support. There is something I ought to tell you about her, but I should like you not to mention it to her. Since we have been here she has had an offer of marriage. A gentleman—no, not exactly a gentleman in the ordinary sense—a man working for his living, came to this place in the performance of a duty. He was unknown to us, but, his duty performed, he came again—twice. He had seen Ellen, and confessed his love for her. I need not mention his name, for the affair is over, so far as we are concerned. She refused him, and he appealed to me, and frankly explained his position to me. His calling is not a high one, but he satisfied me that he could keep a wife in fair comfort. Anxious for Ellen's future, I spoke to her, and she listened patiently; she is never violent or unreasonable. Her answer to me was the same she had given to him. She would never marry a man she did not love. For one she loved she would make any sacrifice, endure any hardship, but where her heart was not engaged she could entertain no feeling but friendship—and that was not enough. I did not argue with her; I made no attempt to persuade her. The sentiments she uttered were my own, the lot she chose was the same I had chosen for myself. I married a poor man, and though he died early and my life has been a life of struggle, I never repented, never thought I had acted unwisely. So Ellen's suitor went away, but I doubt whether he will ever forget her. There was much that was good in him. Before he left he said that if it was ever in his power to serve her she had only to come to him and he would do his best for her. I am sure he loved her, and I am sure that Ellen, not loving him, did what was right. This is Ellen's secret, Mr. Fletcher."
"I will respect it," I said. "Unless she mentions it to me herself she will never know that I am in possession of it."
There was much more than this said during our interview, but I have given the gist of our conversation, and I left Mrs. Cameron with a sad feeling that her forebodings would be realized.
As, indeed, they were before the end of the month. She suffered no pain, but became so feeble that she could not take a step without support. She did not keep her bed; by the doctor's permission, and at her own wish, she sat at the window during the day in an easy chair which I obtained for her. There she could watch the advance of spring and breathe the balmy air; there she could see Ellen and me, whom she sent frequently into the open, saying it would do us harm to keep constantly in doors in such lovely weather. We never went far from her; the slightest motion of her hand, or her gentle voice calling "John" or "Ellen," brought us to her side, eager to do what she required. There was always a smile upon her face, a smile of peace, and content, and love, and I think her last days on earth were the happiest she had ever spent. She said as much: "I am quite, quite happy, dear children; do not grieve for me. In everything before me I see the goodness of God; I seem to see His face." When she raised her eyes to the bright clouds it was my firm belief that she beheld a spiritual vision of His glory, and when she lowered them to earth she saw a deeper meaning than we in the evidences of His wondrous power. She drew keen delight from the flowers and birds, from the air which floated from the sea, from the early budding of the trees. Not a murmur passed her lips, not a word of complaining. "I shall see all these things with a clearer eye presently," she said, "and bye and bye you will see them with me. Bear your trials patiently; do your work in the world, and let your mind dwell upon His love and goodness." She relied greatly upon me. It was I who carried her from room to room—Ellen not being strong enough for the task; it was I who sat by her side when she insisted upon Ellen taking a little rest during the day. Ellen needed this, for I knew, without being told, that she watched by her mother's bedside night after night without closing her eyes. Every evening I read aloud a chapter from the Bible; not in the stateliest church was truer devotion felt than in the room in which she lay dying. Once when we were alone, she said:
"Do you love Ellen?"
"With more than my heart, mother; with my soul."
It was her wish that I should call her "mother." On one occasion it escaped me inadvertently, and she asked me always to address her so.
"Ellen loves you," she said. "You are a good man. I leave her in your care."
She spoke constantly of Ellen, and related stories of her childhood, drawing from love's memory instances of Ellen's sweetness and unselfish affection.
"We have been very poor," she said, "but we had always one priceless blessing—love."
As with her towards Ellen, so was it with Ellen towards her mother. With tears in her eyes, the woman I loved related stories of the mother's continual sacrifices for her child; how she had nursed her through sickness, denied herself food for her, even begged for her. There was no shame in these privations; the recalling of them brought into play the tenderest feelings; all through, from mother to daughter, from daughter to mother, it was a song of love, which it did me good to hear. Unselfishness and self-sacrifice on either side, each striving to give the other the merit; poverty patiently borne, work which resembled slavery cheerfully undertaken, the hardest trials encountered with a brave heart; heroic qualities not properly recognized by mankind. Search behind the veil—there you will see the human pulse throbbing to the touch of attributes which it is not sacrilege to call divine.
I was lifted higher by this intercourse; the dust of self-complaining fell from me; I felt myself purified. New views of life opened themselves to me; I saw the poor in a different aspect. If saints are necessary, seek for them in courts and alleys; you will find the true ones clothed in rags.
Such were my thoughts then; such are my thoughts to-day.
I turn to the first pages of this Confession, and I recognize the littleness of spirit in which I wrote. I was forgetful of the lessons I learned from the lips of pure souls. I am reminded of them, and I will meet my fate bravely, without repining. The last day arrived. There was apparently no change in Mrs. Cameron. She sat at the window, smiling towards us. The birds were singing; the fragrance of flowers was in the air.
"Mother has fallen asleep," said Ellen.
Presently we want softly into the room, and stood by her side. We had gathered flowers which Ellen placed in a vase, within reach of the mother's hand. She liked simple flowers the best, modest stars, with tender color, which grow by the wayside. I held my breath; the light of love and pity shone in Ellen's eyes. Gazing intently at the white, still face, a sudden fear shot through me. I stooped, and placed my mouth close to hers.
"Mother!" cried Ellen, as I raised my head.
Never again on earth was that sacred word to receive an answer. Ellen and I were alone.
Twelve happy months passed by. We were still in Swanage, but had removed farther inland. It was by Ellen's desire that we remained; she wished to be near her mother's grave.
We lived in a small cottage, the walls of which were covered with roses and flowering vines. The few acres of land which belonged to us were rich in fruit-trees and bushes, which, with our flower and kitchen gardens, kept us busy pretty well all the day. What acquaintances we had—they were not many—were drawn from the ranks of the poor, by whom Ellen was loved as few women are. A quiet, happy life—if but the past could have been blotted out! I had not concealed my story from Ellen's knowledge, but before it was told I knew that I had won her love, and she knew that to live without her would be worse than death to me. For me she sacrificed herself, and I, in the selfishness of my heart, accepted the sacrifice only too gladly and willingly. Questioning my conscience I did not reproach myself, though sometimes I trembled for Ellen; and she, I am sure, never for one moment reproached me, and did not tremble for herself. If a cloud was on my brow she chased it away with tender words. Man's law prevented me from giving her my name; God's law joined us and made us one. The beauty of her character awoke all that was good within me; she was to me like the sun and dew to the opening flower.
I was guilty of one act of duplicity, and I bitterly repented it. I did not disclose to her my true name, but retained that by which I had introduced myself to her. She knew me only as John Fletcher.
Twelve happy months, and I had almost taught myself to forget. One morning Ellen whispered to me a secret which filled me with joy and fear. Into her heart fear did not enter; it was pulsing with the joy of motherhood; in a few months we should have a child.
I walked alone to the seashore deep in thought.
My sense of security was disturbed; I had now again to reckon with the world. A father owes a duty to his child which the world will not allow him to forget. And the mother!—yes, it was of Ellen I chiefly thought, and it was to her, presently, that my thoughts were chiefly directed. For, looking up, I saw within a dozen yards of me a man whose mocking eyes were following my movements. Though there was a change in his appearance I knew him immediately, and I caught my breath in sudden alarm. The man was Maxwell.
The change I had observed was in his circumstances. His shabby clothes and hat, his boots down at heel, his unshaven face, denoted that he had not prospered lately. But there was a light in his face as our eyes met resembling that of one upon whom had unexpectedly fallen a stroke of good fortune.
"How are you, John?" he said, advancing with outstretched hand. "But why ask? You look like a cherub—rosy, fat and sleek. I rejoice—and you, too, eh? What is there so delightful as the renewal of old affectionate ties, broken through a misconception? Do you see my hand held out in friendship? Better take it, John. No? You are wrong, brother-in-law, very wrong. You were always rash, always acting upon impulse, always fond of romance, always being led away by false notions of right and wrong. I frequently offered you advice which you would not take. In effect I was constantly saying to you, 'Be worldly, my boy; take the world as you find it, and make the best of it, not the worst.' That is my way, though it has treated me scurvily since we met. What do I do? Repine? Not a bit of it. 'Luck will turn,' said I to myself, and here's the proof. Luck has turned."
During this speech, which was very heartily spoken, he walked close to my side with a hateful affectation of cordiality. As I did not answer him, he continued:
"Why so silent, my dear John? Are you overcome by your feelings? Ah, yes, that must be it. Sudden joy confounds a man—makes it difficult for him to express himself. Now, I am never at a loss for words, but then I am older than you, more accustomed to ups and downs. I don't mind confessing to you—with a proper knowledge of your sympathetic nature—that I have had during the last twelve months any number of 'downs' and no 'ups' worth mentioning. All my little ventures and speculations have come to grief. Half-a-dozen times I have been on the point of making my fortune and have been baulked by want of cash. You don't play cards, I believe. I do. You don't care for racing. I do. You don't tempt fortune by crying double or quits. I do. It's in my blood. I give you my word I should have been as right as a trivet if it hadn't been that just at the critical moment I found myself cursed with an empty purse. Devilish hard, wasn't it, when a fellow has a rich brother-in-law who would have said, 'Here's my purse, old boy; go in and win.' The mischief of it was that this dear friend had run off to lotus-land, to revel in the lap of beauty and virtue, the world forgetting, but not by the world forgot. No, John, not by the world forgot. We bore the absent one in mind; we talked of his excellencies; we deplored his absence; we longed for his return to the fold."
He now went to the length of linking his arm with mine; I wrenched myself free.
"What is it you want of me?" I demanded.
"The oracle speaks," he cried, gaily. "What do I want? What does every one want?"
"Money?" I asked.
"Intelligence returns," he answered, "and we are getting into smooth water. Yes, John; money."
"Did you track me here?"
"John, John," he said, reproachfully. "Do I look like a spy? Did you ever know me to be guilty of a mean action?"
"Answer my question."
"Being in the witness box I use the customary formula. From information received I was led to suppose that the lost one would be found on this beautiful shore. I flew hither on the wings of love, anxious to serve him, to show my interest in his welfare, to promote his happiness."
"If I refuse to give you money?"
"It will be unwise, John, distinctly unwise, and will carry with it certain consequences exceedingly disagreeable to—let us say to a lady of spotless reputation. How pained I should be to set these consequences in motion! Is it not man's privilege to protect the weak? But, alas, John! alas! alas! necessity is a slave-driver, and compels tender hearts to lay on the lash!"
With his old mocking smile upon his face, he went through the pretense of drying his eyes.
"Speak plainly," I said. "If I disappoint your expectations, what will you do?"
"I will deal honestly by you, brother-in-law, and speak, as you desire, quite plainly. What will I do? Let me see. There is no place on earth, be it ever so remote and secluded, in which character is not at a premium. There are husbands who have wives, parents who have daughters. A woman comes to live among them who poses as Madame Virtue. She is good to the poor—it costs so little, John, to be good to the poor; the clergyman's wife visits her; she goes to church; she gives a basin of soup to an old woman. Cheap tricks, brother-in-law. Madame Virtue leads a happy life; she is respected; people greet her smilingly and affectionately, and say, 'There's an example for you!' Suddenly a rumor is set afloat that Madame Virtue is no better than she should be. Sad, very sad. The rumor is authenticated. A gentleman comes from the city and verifies the rumor. Madame Virtue has, of course, a reputed husband, who shares her popularity. The gentleman says he knows the saintly couple very well indeed, and that they are simply a pair of impostors. He offers to supply proof, and he does so upon the invitation of the clergyman and the local gentry. He regrets the necessity, but what can he do? He owes a duty to society. If there is one thing, John, I pride myself upon more than another, it is that I never shrink from the performance of a duty. What is the result in this instance? The clergyman's wife turns her back upon Madame Virtue, the local gentry likewise; the poor lose their respect for her, and talk of her behind her back. In a word, the saint is turned into a sinner. Judge the effect upon Madame Virtue, you, dear brother-in-law, who know her so much better than I. Have I put the matter plainly? There is even more to say which it might not be agreeable to you to hear. Take a turn or two on these beautiful sands, and think it over. I can wait."
I did not disguise from myself that for a time at least, I was in this man's power, and that his malice would carry him even farther than he had threatened. The effect upon Ellen would be serious. She valued the respect in which she was held, and drew happiness from the affection by which she was surrounded. Moreover, she was in a delicate state of health, and I dreaded the consequences which would follow Maxwell's malignity. At all risks, at all hazards, I must purchase his silence.
"You are in want of money," I said, "and you come to extort it from me."
"I am in want of everything," he retorted, "but I am still a gentleman. If you are not more particular in your language, I will set my heel upon you and Madame Virtue."
"Name your price," I said.
"Ah, now we are getting sensible. My price? I must consider. For to-day, fifty pounds—as an installment, John. This day week we will have another chat, and come to terms."
I knew it was useless to argue or protest; he held me bound and would show no mercy. I had not so much money about me, and I proposed to bring it in a couple of days to any address he named.
"No, no," he said. "You can come with me to the private boarding-house where I have engaged a bed, and can write me a cheque there. A man of means always carries his cheque-book with him. Unless you prefer to invite me to dinner at your lovers' nest."
"I will come with you," I said.
On our way he reproached me for not asking after Barbara, and I replied that I received all the news I wished to hear through my solicitor. He entertained me, however, with a long account of her, which I knew to be false, and to which I listened in silence. She was much better, he said, and was looking forward to the end of our differences. She had become a convert to the Catholic Church, and was held in the highest esteem by the priests and nuns; the children in the schools doated on her; she deprived herself to provide them with clothes and food; she prayed for me day and night, etcetera, etcetera. And all the time he regaled me with this tissue of falsehoods he was laughing at me in his sleeve. The truth about her was that her excesses had become even more frightful than in my experiences of her; she had not a sober hour, and was continually turned out of her lodgings. Maxwell was curious to ascertain how much of the truth I knew, but I did not satisfy him. At the boarding-house I wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, and made an appointment to meet him that day week, when we were to "come to terms."
I said nothing to Ellen of this meeting or of the misery into which I was plunged. To have made her a sharer in my unhappiness would serve me no good purpose. On the appointed day Maxwell and I met again, and then he named a sum so large that I hesitated. It amounted, indeed, to a third of what remained of my fortune.
"You refuse?" he said.
"I must," I replied. "I will not submit to be beggared by you."
"Sheer nonsense, John. I have made a calculation, and I know, within a hundred or two, how much you are worth. Cast your eyes over these figures."
To my surprise I discovered that his calculation was as nearly as possible correct, and that by some means he was fairly well acquainted with my pecuniary position.
"It is for you to decide," he said. "I have something to sell which you are anxious to purchase. You can make either a friend or an enemy of me, and you know whether it will be worth your while to buy. I don't deny that I am hard up, and that in a certain sense you represent my last chance. I am not fool enough to throw it away. Understand clearly—I intend to make the best of it. You see, John, I hold the reins, and I can tool you comfortably down a safe and pleasant road, or I can send you headlong to the devil—and in your company Madame Virtue. I have learned something since last week. You are living here under an assumed name, and I have a suspicion that Madame Virtue is not aware of it. Another trump card in my hand. It rests with me whether I bring about an introduction between Barbara and Madame Virtue, and whether I bring your excellent stepmother and Louis down upon you. There's no escape for you, brother-in-law. Best make a friend of me, my boy, and keep the game to ourselves."
In the end I consented, with some modification, to his terms, upon his promise that he would never molest me again; and so we parted.
Months passed and I heard nothing more of him. Gradually I recovered my peace of mind. We were living modestly within our means; peace had been cheaply purchased.
Our child was born, a boy. The delight he brought in our home cannot be described. He was a heavenly link in our love, and bound Ellen and me closely together. I will not dwell upon that joyful time. This confession is longer than I conceived it would be, and events of a more exciting nature claim attention.
One evening upon my return home, after transacting some business in Bournemouth in connection with my affairs, Ellen, speaking of what had occurred during my absence, mentioned a gentlemanly beggar who had solicited alms from her. He had told her a plausible tale of unmerited misfortune, and of having been brought down in the world by trusting a friend who had deceived and robbed him. She described the man, and my heart was like lead; I recognized the villain.
"He was so nice to baby," said Ellen, "and spoke so beautifully of our home. Poverty is much harder to gentlefolk who have been used to comfort than it is to poor people. I pitied him from my heart."
"Beggars do not always say what is true," I observed.
She looked at me in surprise. "He could hardly be called a beggar, John. Did I not do right in relieving him?"
"Quite right, dear," I said, with an inward prayer that I was mistaken in the man.
"I am quite sure he spoke the truth," she said, and there, as between us, the matter ended.
Before many hours had passed my fears were confirmed. I kept watch from the cottage, and saw Maxwell in the distance, coming in our direction. I went to meet him.
"This is friendly of you, John," he said. "Where shall we talk? In the society of the charming Madame Virtue and her sweet babe, or alone?"
"Alone," I replied. "I forbid you to present yourself in my house again."
"A tall word, John, forbid. It depends, my boy, upon you. Keep a civil tongue in your head, and be amenable to reason, and you shall continue to tread the path of righteousness and peace. Defy me, and up the three of you go. A pretty piece of goods, Madame Virtue, mild-tempered and long suffering, a different kind of character from my adorable sister. I can imagine a scene between them—Madame Virtue soft, pleading, reproachful; Barbara hot, flaming, revengeful. But perhaps I mistake. When a woman discovers that she has been betrayed and deceived she occasionally turns into a fury. I know something of the sex."
"You promised not to molest me again."
"Am I molesting you? I come in brotherly love to lay my sorrows at your feet. John, I am broke."
"That is not my business."
"Pardon me, it is. We are partners in goodness, mutually bound to spare a charming lady and her sweet babe from a sorrow worse than death. It is a mission I love; it appeals to my tenderest feelings. I feel good all over."
"You are a devil!"
"In humility I bow my head. Revile me, John, pour burning coals upon me; I shall enjoy it all the more. Here I stand prepared for the martyr's stake."
My blood boiled; I gave him a dangerous look. "You are trying my patience too far. Drive me to desperation, and I will not answer for the consequences."
"Drive me to desperation," he said, pausing to light a cigarette, "and I will hunt her into the gutter. I will make her life a living misery, and when the end comes she shall curse you with her dying breath. Nothing like frankness, dear John. Behold me, an epitome of it."
If I had not turned from him I should have committed some act of violence. It was thought of Ellen alone that restrained me, that enabled me to regain my self-command. He struck at her, not at me, and well did he know his power. When I was living with Barbara, I believed that suffering had reached its limit; I was to learn that I was mistaken. Hitherto I had suffered for myself, a selfish feeling affecting only my life and future, but now that another being had wound herself into my heart, a sweet and loving woman whose happiness was in my hands, my former misery seemed light indeed. And her babe—my own dear child! To allow passion to master me would have been unpardonable.
"Are you cooler, John?" asked Maxwell.
"In God's name," I cried, "tell me why you continue to persecute me."
"In God's name, I will. I regret to say, I am suffering from the old complaint, John. Misfortune pursues me, and if I don't have a couple of hundred pounds——"
I would hear no more. I went with him to a public-house, and wrote a cheque for the amount.
"You are a trump," he said, pocketing the cheque. "Upon my soul, if you had a better knowledge of me you would find I am not such a bad fellow, after all; but when needs must, John, the devil drives."
That night I told Ellen that we must remove from Swanage.
"I shall be very sorry, John, dear," she said. "Is it really necessary?"
"It is imperative, Ellen."
She sighed. "We have been so happy here."
"We can be happy elsewhere, dearest."
"Why, truly," she said, brightening up, "so long as we are together what does it matter where we live?"
My idea was to escape from my enemy; to hide ourselves in some corner in England, where we should be safe from his cruel persecution. After much study and cogitation I fixed upon Cornwall, and thither we went, and established ourselves in a cottage on the outskirts of Penzance. I was in a fever of alarm during the removal, and kept unceasingly on the watch, but observed nothing to cause me apprehension. When we were settled I breathed more freely; here, surely, in this remote place, we should be secure. Ellen was cheerful and bright, and she made me so. Her time was fully occupied; she had not an idle moment; she did not allow herself one. Our child, the garden, the home, kept her busy. Her consideration for me, the loving attention she paid to my slightest wish, even anticipated it, touched me deeply. Tenderness was expressed in every word she spoke, in every movement she made. It would be impossible for me to describe how dear she was to me. It is such as she who have raised woman to the position she holds in the scale of humanity.
What troubled me greatly was the state of my finances. The inroads made upon my purse by Maxwell's exactions were so serious that I foresaw the time when, if my wife's allowance was to be continued, I should find myself penniless. We were living at a moderate rate, our expenses being under three pounds a week. The money I had left, apart from the allowance to Barbara, capitalized, would bring in a little over fifty pounds a year, and I felt that I was daily jeopardizing Ellen's future and the future of our child, as well as my own. I was not a business man, and had no trade to which I could turn my hand; in England my only weapon was my pen—a poor weapon to most who have to live by it. The difficulty was solved presently by events of which I was not the originator. Meanwhile I wrote a short story which I read to Ellen, and was pleased with myself. Needless to say, she was delighted with it, and elevated me immediately upon the pinnacle of fame. Under a nom de plume, I sent it to a magazine; it was declined. I sent it to another magazine, with the same result. This second refusal came when we had been four weeks in Cornwall, and I went from my house to post it to a third editor when, almost at the door, I saw Maxwell.
"Again, John," he cried with brazen effrontery, "like a bad penny returned. I can't afford to lose sight of you. What a sly dog you are! but I am a slyer. It is an amusing game. Set a thief to catch a thief, you know."
"It is you who are the thief," I said, all my fears returning, "but you have had your journey for nothing this time. You can get nothing more out of me for the best of reasons; you have robbed me of almost my last penny."
"We shall see. So you thought to give me the slip. You may thank your stars you did not succeed. I have come to see you not on my account, but on Barbara's."
"You might have spared yourself the trouble," I said, coldly. "I have nothing to say to her; she can have nothing to say to me."
"That is where you are mistaken. Passion blinds you, John. Mind, I don't mean to say you have nothing to complain of. I see now that you were not suited to one another, and I dare say I was to blame in not opening your eyes before you married her. There were reasons. In the first place—I admit it frankly—I wanted to get rid of her. I am no saint, but she tired me out; honestly, I was sick of her. In the second place, she bound me down. 'It is my last chance,' she said. Why, she was engaged three times before you met her, and was found out in time by her lovers, who were not slow in beating a retreat. You were the unlucky one to fall into the trap, and though I've been hard on you I am sorry for you. In running away from her and taking up with another woman you did what I should have done if I had been in your place. However, it is all at an end now."
"At an end!" I echoed, regarding him with amazement
"At an end," he repeated, gravely. "You will soon be free, and then I suppose you will wash your hands of me. Well! Perhaps I shall have a bit of luck in another quarter. I don't mind telling you that I had a man watching you all the time you were in Swanage. I knew when you left and where you ran to. I could have been here three weeks ago if I wished, and I have only come to bring you the news. Barbara is dying."
God forgive me, the exclamation that escaped me was not one of horror, but of relief; and the next moment I was shocked at myself.
"She has behaved abominably," he continued, "but after all, she is your wife, and you can hardly refuse to see her, and whisper a word of forgiveness—supposing we are in time. I left her this morning; the doctor was with her, and said he doubted whether she would live over to-morrow."
"It is so sudden," I said, and still my thoughts continued to dwell upon Ellen and our child. "Has she been long ill?"
"She has not been ill at all in that sense," he replied. "It was an accident. Yesterday morning, when she was in her usual state—you understand, John—she slipped from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and broke her spine. The moment the doctor saw her he said there was no hope. Will you come?"
It was my duty; I should have been less than man had I hesitated. "Yes," I said, "I will come. When is the train?"
"It starts in an hour if you can get ready by that time."
"I will meet you at the station," I said, and went at once to Ellen to inform her of what had occurred. She approved of my going, and hastened my departure. For Barbara she had only words of pity, and her eyes overflowed in commiseration for the wasted life so near its end. In this crisis it would have been contrary to nature had we not thought of ourselves, and of what Barbara's death meant to us, but it was a subject we avoided. I breathed a blessing over our sleeping child, and promising to write to Ellen directly I got to London, I bade her good-bye.
Maxwell was at the station.
"Plenty of time, John," he said, "the train doesn't start for half an hour. You'll stand me a brandy and soda and a sandwich, I suppose. I haven't had a bite or a drink since the morning. I'm shipwrecked again. Serve me right, you'll say. So say I. I shall have to turn over a new leaf. Would you believe I had to travel third-class, and didn't have money enough to pay for a return ticket? Hard lines for a gentleman; but such is life."
"You'll have to travel back third-class," I said. "I have no money to waste."
He grumbled at this, but I paid no heed to him. After disposing of his brandy and soda he asked for another, which I refused. He laughed, and complimented me upon displaying a strength of character which he had not given me credit for. If I had not hurried him we would have missed the train.
Few people were traveling by it, and we had a compartment to ourselves. Such conversation as we had on the journey was of his seeking; meeting with no encouragement from me he leant back moodily and closed his eyes. Quite two hours passed without a word being exchanged, when suddenly he said:
"John, after Barbara's death you will marry Madame Virtue, of course. How soon after? I shall expect an invitation, old fellow."
I did not answer him, and he made no further attempts at conversation. At the end of our journey I asked him where Barbara lived.
"Islington way," he said, sulkily, and calling a cab, gave the driver the address.
The cab pulled up at the door of a wretched house in a narrow street between "The Angel" and the Agricultural Hall. I paid the man and followed Maxwell to the second floor, where, opening a door, he fell back, motioning me to enter first.
The room was in semi-darkness, the window-curtains being drawn down.
"Is that you, John?" a voice asked, and at the same moment the curtains were drawn aside.
It was the voice of my stepmother. From an inner room came the sound of driveling laughter.
As I turned and saw Maxwell standing with his back against the door, and an insolent smile on his face, suspicion entered my mind. It was to some extent confirmed when I observed the insolent smile reflected on the face of my stepmother.
"Barbara is still alive, dear brother-in-law," said Maxwell, laughing quietly to himself. "You are in time, you see. Oh, yes, you are in time."
I threw open the door of the adjoining room. A strange woman was there, standing by a chair in which Barbara was lolling. Except that she had grown more unwieldy, that her eyes were bleared and dim, and that her driveling mouth and hanging jaws gave her the appearance of a besotted hag, she bore no traces of a mortal illness such as Maxwell had described. The truth rushed upon me with convincing force. I had been tricked.
"Neat, wasn't it?" exclaimed Maxwell, as I closed the door upon the disgusting sight. "Would you believe," addressing my stepmother, "that our dear John was actually calculating the time when he would be free to marry the low woman for whom he deserted his lawful wife?"
"I would believe anything of him," said my stepmother.
"I warn you," I said. "Another such allusion, and I will thrash you within an inch of your life."
"Oh! I'm not to be frightened by threats," he blustered, "and I'm not going to quarrel with you."
"You will gain nothing by the trick you have played me," I said. "I am already making your sister an allowance which my means do not warrant, and which no court of law would compel me to pay."
"A pretense of poverty for which we are prepared. And we are prepared also to make your affairs public property unless you listen to reason."
"You are in the plot against me," I said to my stepmother.
"That is a lie," she replied, composedly. "I am not in any plot against you, but I am ready to give evidence when called upon."
"We are here, John, in the presence of a witness," said Maxwell, "for the purpose of coming to an understanding. You have had sufficient experience of me to be aware by this time that you are no match for me. If you wish to be left in peace, to lead any life you choose, you will have to pay for it. Shall I name the price?"
"It will be quite useless. You will never obtain another shilling from me."
"You shall have the opportunity to consider it, John. For one thousand pounds—a sum you can well afford to pay—you shall be left forever at peace, to go your own way to the devil. I will bind myself never to molest you again by any legal document you may lay before me. Consider it well, brother-in-law. What I offer is worth the price."
"It needs no consideration. You have my answer."
"I give you a week to think it over," he continued. "If then you persist in your refusal, I will dog you like your shadow—and not only you but the lady; observe how polite I am—in whom you take an interest. I will hunt you down and make your life and hers a daily misery. You may be able to stand it for a time. If I am any judge of appearances she will not. You have a gift of imagination. Imagine the worst I can do, and you will fall short of the reality. If not for your own sake, John, for hers, think it over."
"You have my answer," I repeated; and brushing him aside, I left the house.