"'Tis well to be off with the old love,Though you never get on with a new."
"'Tis well to be off with the old love,Though you never get on with a new."
"'Tis well to be off with the old love,Though you never get on with a new."
"'Tis well to be off with the old love,
Though you never get on with a new."
During the two of three weeks following their success with Gilead Beck the Twins were conspicuous, had any one noticed them, for a recklessness of expenditure quite without parallel in their previous history. They plunged as regarded hansoms, paying whatever was asked with an airy prodigality; they dined at the club every day, and drank champagne at all hours; they took half-guinea stalls at theatres: they went down to Greenwich and had fish-dinners; they appeared with new chains and rings; they even changed their regular hours of sleep, and sometimes passed the whole day broad awake, in the pursuit of youthful pleasures. They winked and nodded at each other in a way which suggested all kinds of delirious delights; and Cornelius even talked of adding an episode to the Epic, based on his own later experiences, which he would call, he said, the Jubilee of Joy.
The funds for this fling, all too short, were provided by their American patron. Gilead Beck had no objection to advance them something on account; the young gentlemen found it so pleasant to spend money, that they quickly overcame scruples about asking for more; perhaps they would have gone on getting more, but for a word of caution spoken by Jack Dunquerque. In consequence of this unkindness they met each other one evening in the Studio with melancholy faces.
"I had a letter to-day from Mr. Gilead Beck," said Cornelius to Humphrey.
"So had I," said Humphrey to Cornelius.
"In answer to a note from me," said Cornelius.
"In reply to a letter of mine," said Humphrey.
"It is sometimes a little awkward, brother Humphrey," Cornelius remarked with a little temper, "that our inclinations so often prompt us to do the same thing at the same time."
Said Humphrey, "I suppose then, Cornelius, that you asked him for money?"
"I did, Humphrey. How much has the Patron advanced you already on the great Picture?"
"Two hundred only. A mere trifle. And now he refuses to advance any more until the Picture is completed. Some enemy, some jealous brother artist, must have corrupted his mind."
"My case, too. I asked for a simple fifty pounds. It is the end of May, and the country would be delightful if one could go there. I have already drawn four or five cheques of fifty each, on account of the Epic. He says, this mercenary and mechanical patron, that he will not lend me any more until the Poem is brought to him finished. Some carping critic has been talking to him."
"How much of the Poem is finished?"
"How much of the Picture is done?"
The questions were asked simultaneously, but no answer was returned by either.
Then each sat for a few moments in gloomy silence.
"The end of May," murmured Humphrey. "We have to be ready by the beginning of October. June—July—only four months. My painting is designed for many hundreds of figures. Your poem for—how many lines, brother?"
"Twenty cantos of about five hundred lines each."
"Twenty times five hundred is ten thousand."
Then they relapsed into silence again.
"Brother Cornelius," the Artist went on, "this has been a most eventful year for us. We have been rudely disturbed from the artistic life of contemplation and patient work into which we had gradually dropped. We have been hurried—hurried, I say, brother—into Action, perhaps prematurely——"
Cornelius grasped his brother's hand, but said nothing.
"You, Cornelius, have engaged yourself to be married."
Cornelius dropped his brother's hand. "Pardon me, Humphrey; it is you that is engaged to Phillis Fleming."
"I am nothing of the sort, Cornelius," the other returned sharply. "I am astonished that you should make such a statement."
"One of us certainly is engaged to the young lady. And as certainly it is not I. 'Let your brother Humphrey hope,' she said. Those were her very words. I do think, brother, that it is a little ungenerous, a little ungenerous of you, after all the trouble I took on your behalf, to try to force this young lady on me."
Humphrey's cheek turned pallid. He plunged his hands into his silky beard, and walked up and down the room gesticulating.
"I went down on purpose to tell Phillis about him. I spoke to her of his ardour. She said she appreciated—said she appreciated it, Cornelius. I even went so far as to say that you offered her a virgin heart—perilling my own soul by those very words—a virgin heart"—he laughed melodramatically. "And after that German milkmaid! Ha, ha! The Poet and the milkmaid!"
Cornelius by this time was red with anger. The brothers, alike in so many things, differed in this, that, when roused to passion, while Humphrey grew white Cornelius grew crimson.
"And what did I do for you?" he cried out. The brothers were now on opposite sides of the table, walking backwards and forwards with agitated strides. "I told her that you brought her a heart which had never beat for another—that, after your miserable little Roman model! An artist not able to resist the charms of his own model!"
"Cornelius!" cried Humphrey, suddenly stopping and bringing his fist with a bang upon the table.
"Humphrey!" cried his brother, exactly imitating his gesture.
Their faces glared into each other's; Cornelius, as usual, wrapped in his long dressing-gown, his shaven cheeks purple with passion; Humphrey in his loose velvet jacket, his white lips and cheeks, and his long silken beard trembling to every hair.
It was the first time the brothers had ever quarrelled in all their lives. And like a tempest on Lake Windermere, it sprang up without the slightest warning.
They glared in a steady way for a few minutes, and then drew back and renewed their quick and angry walk side by side, with the table between them.
"To bring up the old German business!" said Cornelius.
"To taunt me with the Roman girl!" said Humphrey.
"Will you keep your engagement like a gentleman, and marry the girl?" cried the Poet.
"Will you behave as a man of honour, and go to the Altar with Phillis Fleming?" asked the Artist.
"I will not," said Cornelius. "Nothing shall induce me to get married."
"Nor will I," said Humphrey. "I will see myself drawn and quartered first."
"Then," said Cornelius, "go and break it to her yourself, for I will not."
"Break what?" asked Humphrey passionately. "Break her heart, when I tell her, if I must, that my brother repudiates his most sacred promises?"
Cornelius was touched. He relented. He softened.
"Can it be that she loves us both?"
They were at the end of the table, near the chairs, which as usual were side by side.
"Can that be so, Cornelius?"
They drew nearer the chairs; they sat down; they turned, by force of habit, lovingly towards each other; and their faces cleared.
"Brother Humphrey," said Cornelius, "I see that we have mismanaged this affair. It will be a wrench to the poor girl, but it will have to be done. I thought youwantedto marry her."
"I thoughtyoudid."
"And so we each pleaded the other's cause. And the poor girl loves us both. Good heavens! What a dreadful thing for her."
"I remember nothing in fiction so startling. To be sure, there is some excuse for her."
"But she can't marry us both?"
"N—n—no. I suppose not. No—certainly not. Heaven forbid! And as you will not marry her——"
Humphrey shook his head in a decided manner.
"And I will not——"
"Marry?" interrupted Humphrey. "What! And give up this? Have to get up early; to take breakfast at nine; to be chained to work; to be inspected and interfered with while at work—Phillis drew me once, and pinned the portrait on my easel; to be restricted in the matter of port; to have to go to bed at eleven; perhaps, Cornelius, to have babies; and beside, if they should be Twins! Fancy being shaken out of your poetic dream by the cries of Twins!"
"No sitting up at night with pipes and brandy-and-water," echoed the Poet. "And, Humphrey"—here he chuckled, and his face quite returned to its brotherly form—"should we go abroad, no flirting with Roman models—eh, eh, eh?"
"Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the Artist melodiously. "And no carrying milk-pails up the Heidelberg hills—eh, eh, eh?"
"Marriage be hanged!" cried the Poet, starting up again. "We will preserve our independence, Humphrey. We will be free to woo, but not to wed."
Was there ever a more unprincipled Bard? It is sad to relate that the Artist echoed his brother.
"We will, Cornelius—we will.Vive la liberté!" He snapped his fingers, and began to sing:
"Quand on est a ParisOn ecrit a son pere,Qui fait reponse, 'Brigand,Tu n'en as——'"
"Quand on est a ParisOn ecrit a son pere,Qui fait reponse, 'Brigand,Tu n'en as——'"
"Quand on est a ParisOn ecrit a son pere,Qui fait reponse, 'Brigand,Tu n'en as——'"
"Quand on est a Paris
On ecrit a son pere,
Qui fait reponse, 'Brigand,
Tu n'en as——'"
He broke short off, and clapped his hands like a school-boy. "We will go to Paris next week, brother."
"We will, Humphrey, if we can get any more money. And now—how to get out of the mess?"
"Do you think Mrs. L'Estrange will interfere?"
"Or Colquhoun?"
"Or Joseph?"
"The best way would be to pretend it was all a mistake. Let us go to-morrow, and cry off as well as we can."
"We will, Cornelius."
The quarrel and its settlement made them thirsty, and they drank a whole potash-and-brandy each before proceeding with the interrupted conversation.
"Poor little Phillis!" said the Artist, filling his pipe. "I hope she won't pine much."
"Ariadne, you know," said the Poet; and then he forgot what Ariadne did, and broke off short.
"It isn't our fault, after all. Men of genius are always run after. Women are made to love men, and men are made to break their hearts. Law of nature, dear Cornelius—law of Nature. Perhaps the man is a fool who binds himself to one. Art alone should be our mistress—glorious Art!"
"Yes," said Cornelius; "you are quite right. And what about Mr. Gilead Beck?"
This was a delicate question, and the Artist's face grew grave.
"What are we to do, Cornelius?"
"I don't know, Humphrey."
"Will the Poem be finished?"
"No. Will the Picture?"
"Not a chance."
"Had we not better, Humphrey, considering all the circumstances, make up our minds to throw over the engagement?"
"Tell me, Cornelius—how much of your Poem remains to be done?"
"Well, you see, there is not much actually written."
"Will you show it to me—what there is of it?"
"It is all in my head, Humphrey. Nothing is written."
He blushed prettily as he made the confession. But the Artist met him half-way with a frank smile.
"It is curious, Cornelius, that up to the present I have not actually drawn any of the groups. My figures are still in my head."
Both were surprised. Each, spending his own afternoons in sleep, had given the other credit for working during that part of the day. But they were too much accustomed to keep up appearances to make any remark upon this curious coincidence.
"Then, brother," said the Poet, with a sigh of relief, "there really is not the slightest use in leading Mr. Beck to believe that the works will be finished by October, and we had better ask for a longer term. A year longer would do for me."
"A year longer would, I think, do for me," said Humphrey, stroking his beard, as if he was calculating how long each figure would take to put in. "We will go and see Mr. Beck to-morrow."
"Better not," said the sagacious Poet.
"Why not?"
"He might ask for the money back."
"True, brother. He must be capable of that meanness, or he would have given us that cheque we asked for. Very true. We will write."
"What excuse shall we make?"
"We will state the exact truth, Brother. No excuse need be invented. We will tell our Patron that Art cannot—must not—be forced."
This settled, Cornelius declared that a weight was off his mind, which had oppressed him since the engagement with Mr. Beck was first entered into. Nothing, he said, so much obstructed the avenues of fancy, checked the flow of ideas, and destroyed grasp of language, as a slavish time-engagement. Now, he went on to explain, he felt free; already his mind, like a garden in May, was blossoming in a thousand sweet flowers. Now he was at peace with mankind. Before this relief he had been—Humphrey would bear him out—inclined to lose his temper over trifles; and the feeling of thraldom caused him only that very evening to use harsh words even to his twin brother. Here he held out his hand, which Humphrey grasped with effusion.
They wrote their letters next day—not early in the day, because they prolonged their evening parliament till late, and it was one o'clock when they took breakfast But they wrote the letters after breakfast, and at two they took the train to Twickenham.
Phillis received them in her morning-room. They appeared almost as nervous and agitated as when they called a week before. So shaky were their hands that Phillis began by prescribing for them a glass of wine each, which they took, and said they felt better.
"We come for a few words of serious explanation," said the Poet.
"Yes," said Phillis. "Will Mrs. L'Estrange do?"
"On the contrary, it is with you that we would speak."
"Very well," she replied. "Pray go on."
They were sitting side by side on the sofa, looking as grave as a pair of owls. There was something Gog and Magogish, too, in their proximity.
Phillis found herself smiling when she looked at them. So, to prevent laughing in their very faces, she changed her place, and went to the open window.
"Now," she said.
Cornelius, with the gravest face in the world, began again.
"It is a delicate and, I fear, a painful business," he said. "Miss Fleming, you doubtless remember a conversation I had with you last week on your lawn?"
"Certainly. You told me that your brother, Mr. Humphrey, adored me. You also said that he brought me a virgin heart. I remember perfectly. I did not understand your meaning then. But I do now. I understand it now." She spoke the last words with softened voice, because she was thinking of the Coping-stone and Jack Dunquerque.
Humphrey looked indignantly at his brother. Here was a position to be placed in! But Cornelius lifted his hand, with a gesture which meant, "Patience; I will see you through this affair," and went on—
"You see, Miss Fleming, I was under a mistake. My brother, who has the highest respect, in the abstract, for womanhood, which is the incarnation and embodiment of all that is graceful and beautiful in this fair world of ours, does not—does not—after all——"
Phillis looked at Humphrey. He sat by his brother, trembling with a mixture of shame and terror. They were not brave men, these Twins, and they certainly drank habitually more than is good for the nervous system.
She began to laugh, not loudly, but with a little ripple of mirth which terrified them both, because in their vanity they thought it the first symptoms of hysterical grief. Then she stepped to the sofa, and placed both her hands on the unfortunate Artist's shoulder.
He thought that she was going to shake him, and his soul sank into his boots.
"You mean that he does not, after all, adore me. O Mr. Humphrey, Mr. Humphrey! was it for this that you offered me a virgin heart? Is this your gratitude to me for drawing your likeness when you were hard at work in the Studio? What shall I say to your brother Joseph, and what will he say to you?"
"My dear young lady," Cornelius interposed hastily, "there is not the slightest reason to bring Joseph into the business at all. He must not be told of this unfortunate mistake. Humphrey does adore you—speak, brother—do you not adore Miss Fleming?"
Humphrey was gasping and panting.
"I do," he ejaculated, "I do—Oh, most certainly."
Then Phillis left him and turned to his brother.
"But there is yourself, Mr. Cornelius. You are not an artist; you are a poet; you spend your days in the Workshop, where Jack Dunquerque and I found you rapt in so poetic a dream that your eyes were closed and your mouth open. If you made a mistake about Humphrey, it is impossible that he could have made a mistake about you."
"This is terrible," said Cornelius. "Explain, brother Humphrey. Miss Fleming, we—no, you as well—are victims of a dreadful error."
He wiped his brow and appealed to his brother.
Released from the terror of Phillis's hands upon his shoulder, the Artist recovered some of his courage and spoke. But his voice was faltering. "I, too," he said, "mistook the respectful admiration of my brother for something dearer. Miss Fleming, he is already wedded."
"Wedded? Are you a married man, Mr. Cornelius? Oh, and where is the virgin heart?"
"Wedded to his art," Humphrey explained. Then he went a little off his head, I suppose, in the excitement of this crisis, because he continued in broken words, "Wedded—long ago—object of his life's love—with milk-pails on the hills of Heidelberg, and light blue eyes—the Muse of Song. But he regards you with respectful admiration."
"Most respectful," said Cornelius. "As Petrarch regarded the wife of the Count de Sade. Will you forgive us, Miss Fleming, and—and—try to forget us?"
"So, gentlemen," the young lady said, with sparkling eyes, "you come to say that you would rather not marry me. I wonder if that is usual with men?"
"No, no!" they both cried together. "Happy is the man——"
"You may be the happy man, Humphrey," said Cornelius.
"No; you, brother—you."
Never had wedlock seemed so dreadful a thing as it did now, with a possible bride standing before them, apparently only waiting for the groom to make up his mind.
"I will forgive you both," she said; "so go away happy. But I am afraid I shall never, never be able to forget you. And if I send you a sketch of yourselves just as you look now, so ashamed and so foolish, perhaps you will hang it up in the Workshop or the Studio, to be looked at when you are awake; that is, when you are not at work."
They looked guiltily at each other and drew a little apart. It was the most cruel speech that Phillis had ever made; but she was a little angry with this vain and conceited pair of windbags.
"I shall not tell Mr. Joseph Jagenal, because he is a sensible man and would take it ill, I am sure. And I shall not tell my guardian, Lawrence Colquhoun, because I do not know what he might say or do. And I shall not tell Mrs. L'Estrange; that is, I shall not tell her the whole of it, for your sakes. But I must tell Jack Dunquerque, because I am engaged to be married to Jack, and because I love him and must tell him everything."
They cowered before her as they thought of the possible consequences of this information.
"You need not be frightened," she went on; "Jack will not call to see you and disturb you at your work."
Her eyes, that began by dancing with fun, now flashed indignation. It was not that she felt angry at what most girls would have regarded as a deliberate insult, but the unmanliness of the two filled her with contempt. They looked so small and so mean.
"Go," she said, pointing to the door. "I forgive you. But never again dare to offer a girl each other's virgin heart."
They literally slunk away like a pair of beaten hounds. Then Phillis suddenly felt sorry for them as they crept out of the door, one after the other. She ran after them and called them back.
"Stop," she cried; "we must not part like that. Shake hands, Cornelius. Shake hands, Humphrey. Come back and take another glass of wine. Indeed you want it; you are shaking all over; come."
She led them back, one in each hand, and poured out a glass of sherry for each.
"You could not have married me, you know," she said, laughing, "because I am going to marry Jack. There—forgive me for speaking unkindly, and we will remain friends."
They took her hand, but they did not speak, and something like a tear stood in their eyes. When they left her Phillis observed that they did not take each other's arm as usual, but walked separate. And they looked older.
"What is it you see?A nameless thing—a creeping snake in the grass."
"What is it you see?A nameless thing—a creeping snake in the grass."
"What is it you see?A nameless thing—a creeping snake in the grass."
"What is it you see?
A nameless thing—a creeping snake in the grass."
Who was the writer of the letters? They were all in one hand, and that a feigned hand. Gabriel Cassilis sat with these anonymous accusations against his wife spread out upon the table before him. He compared one with another; he held them up to the light; he looked for chance indications which a careless moment might leave behind; there were none—not a stroke of the pen; not even the name of the shop where the paper was sold. They were all posted at the same place; but that was nothing.
The handwriting was large, upright, and perhaps designedly ill-formed; it appeared to be the writing of a woman, but of this Mr. Cassilis was not sure.
Always the same tale; always reference to a secret between Colquhoun and his wife. What was that secret?
In Colquhoun's room—alone with him—almost under his hand. But where? He went into the bedroom, which was lighted by the gas of the court; an open room, furnished without curtains; there was certainly no one concealed, because concealment was impossible. And in the sitting-room—then he remembered that the room was dimly lighted; curtains kept out the gas-light of the court; Colquhoun had on his entrance lowered the silver lamp; there was a heavy green shade on this; it was possible that she might have been in the room while he was there, and listening to every word.
The thought was maddening. He tried to put it all before himself in logical sequence, but could not; he tried to fence with the question, but it would not be evaded; he tried to persuade himself that suspicions resting on an anonymous slander were baseless, but every time his mind fell back upon the voice which proclaimed his wife's dishonour.
A man on the rack might as well try to dream of soft beds and luxurious dreamless sleep; a man being flogged at the cart-tail might as well try to transport his thoughts to boyhood's games upon a village green; a man at the stake might as well try to think of deep delicious draughts of ice-cold water from a shady brook. The agony and shame of the present are too much for any imagination.
It was so to Gabriel Cassilis. The one thing which he trusted in, after all the villainies and rogueries he had learned during sixty-five years mostly spent among men trying to make money, was his wife's fidelity. It was like the Gospel—a thing to be accepted and acted upon with unquestioning belief. Good heavens! if a man cannot believe in his wife's honesty, in what is he to believe?
Gabriel Cassilis was not a violent man; he could not find relief in angry words and desperate deeds like a Moor of Venice; his jealousy was a smouldering fire; a flame which burned with a dull fierce heat; a disease which crept over body and mind alike, crushing energy, vitality, and life out of both.
Everything might go to ruin round him; he was no longer capable of thought and action. Telegrams and letters lay piled before him on the table, and he left them unopened.
Outside, his secretary was in dismay. His employer would receive no one, and would attend to nothing. He signed mechanically such papers as were brought him to sign, and then he motioned the secretary to the door.
This apathy lasted for four days—the four days most important of any in the lives of himself, of Gilead Beck, and of Lawrence Colquhoun. For the fortunes of all hung upon his shaking it off, and he did not shake it off.
On the second day, the day when he got the letter telling him that his wife had been in Colquhoun's chambers while he was there, he sent for a private detective.
He put into his hands all the letters.
"Written by a woman," said the officer. "Have you any clue, sir?"
"None—none whatever. I want you to watch. You will watch my wife and you will watch Mr. Colquhoun. Get every movement watched, and report to me every morning. Can you do this? Good. Then go, and spare neither pains nor money."
The next morning's report was unsatisfactory. Colquhoun had gone to the Park in the afternoon, dined at his club, and gone home to his chambers at eleven. Mrs. Cassilis, after dining at home, went out at ten, and returned early—at half-past eleven.
But there came a letter from the anonymous correspondent.
"You are having a watch set on them. Good. But that won't find out the Scotch secret. Shewasin his room while you were there—hidden somewhere, but I do not know where."
He went home to watch his wife with his own eyes. He might as well have watched a marble statue. She met his eyes with the calm cold look to which he was accustomed. There was nothing in her manner to show that she was other than she had always been. He tried in her presence to realise the fact, if it was a fact. "This woman," he said to himself, "has been lying hidden in Colquhoun's chambers listening while I talked to him. She was there before I went; she was there when I came away. What is her secret?"
What, indeed! She seemed a woman who could have no secrets, a woman whose life from her cradle might have been exposed to the whole world, who would have found nothing but cause of admiration and respect.
In her presence, under her influence, his jealousy lost something of its fierceness. He feared her too much to suspect her while in his sight. It was at night, in his office, away from her, that he gave full swing to the bitterness of his thoughts. In the hours when he should have been sleeping he paced his room, wrapped in his dressing-gown—a long lean figure, with eyes aflame, and thoughts that tore him asunder; and in the hours when he should have been waking he sat with bent shoulders, glowering at the letters of her accuser, gazing into a future which seemed as black as ink.
His life, he knew, was drawing to its close. Yet a few more brief years, and the summons would come for him to cross the River. Of that he had no fear; but it was dreadful to think that his age was to be dishonoured. Success was his; the respect which men give to success was his; no one inquired very curiously into the means by which success was commanded; he was a name and a power. Now that name was to be tarnished; by no act of his own, by no fault of his; by the treachery of the only creature in the world, except his infant child, in whom he trusted.
He would have, perhaps, to face the publicity of an open court; to hear his wrongs set forth to a jury; to read his "case" in the daily papers.
And he would have to alter his will.
Oddly enough, of all the evil things which seemed about to fall on him, not one troubled him more than the last.
His detective brought him no news on the next day. But his unknown correspondent did.
"She is tired," the letter said, "of not seeing Mr. Colquhoun for three whole days. She will see him to-morrow. There is to be a garden-party at Mrs. L'Estrange's Twickenham villa. Mr. Colquhoun will be there, and she is going, too, to meet him. If you dared, if you had the heart of a mouse, you would be there too. You would arrive late; you would watch and see for yourself, unseen, if possible, how they meet, and what they say to each other. An invitation lies for you, as well as your wife upon the table. Go!"
While he was reading this document his secretary came in, uncalled.
"The Eldorado Stock," he said, in his usual whisper. "Have you decided what to do? Settling day on Friday. Have you forgotten what you hold, sir?"
"I have forgotten nothing," Gabriel Cassilis replied. "Eldorado stock? I never forget anything. Leave me. I shall see no one to-day; no one is to be admitted. I am very busy."
"I don't understand it," the secretary said to himself. "Has he got information that he keeps to himself? Has he got a deeper game on than I ever gave him credit for? What does it mean? Is he going off his head?"
More letters and more telegrams came. They were sent in to the inner office; but nothing came out of it.
That night Gabriel Cassilis left his chair at ten o'clock. He had eaten nothing all day. He was faint and weak; he took something at a City railway station, and drove home in a cab. His wife was out.
In the hall he saw her woman, the tall woman with the unprepossessing face.
"You are Mrs. Cassilis's maid?" he asked.
"I am, sir."
"Come with me."
He took her to his own study, and sat down. Now he had the woman with him he did not know what to ask her.
"You called me, sir," she said. "Do you want to know anything?"
"How long have you been with your mistress?"
"I came to her when her former maid, Janet, died, sir. Janet was with her for many years before she married."
"Janet—Janet—a Scotch name."
"Janet was with my mistress in Scotland."
"Yes—Mrs. Cassilis was in Scotland—yes. And—and—Janet was in your confidence?"
"We had no secrets from each other, sir. Janet told me everything.
"What was there to tell?"
"Nothing, sir. What should there be?"
This was idle fencing.
"You may go," he said. "Stay. Let them send me up something—a cup of tea, a slice of meat—anything."
Then he recommenced his dreary walk up and down the room.
Later on a curious feeling came over him—quite a strange and novel feeling. It was as if, while he thought, or rather while his fancies like so many devils played riot in his brain, he could not find the right words in which to clothe his thoughts. He struggled against the feeling. He tried to talk. But the wrong words came from his lips. Then he took a book; yes—he could read. It was nonsense; he shook off the feeling. But he shrank from speaking to any servant, and went to bed.
That night he slept better, and in the morning was less agitated. He breakfasted in his study, and then he went down to his office.
It was the fourth day since he had opened no letters and attended to no business. He remembered this, and tried to shake off the gloomy fit. And then he thought of the comingcoup, and tried to bring his thoughts back to their usual channel. How much did he hold of Eldorado Stock? Rising higher day by day. But three days, three short days, before settling-day.
The largest stake he had ever ventured; a stake so large that when he thought of it his spirit and nerve came back to him.
For once—for the last time—he entered his office, holding himself erect, and looking brighter than he had done for days; and he sat down to his letters with an air of resolution.
Unfortunately, the first letter was from the anonymous correspondent.
"She wrote to him to-day; she told him that she could bear her life no longer; she threatened to tell the secret right out; she will have an explanation with him to-morrow at Mrs. L'Estrange's. Do you go down and you will hear the explanation. Be quiet, and the secret."
He started from his chair, the letter in his hand, and looked straight before him. Was it, then, all true? Would that very day give him a chance of finding out the secret between Lawrence Colquhoun and his wife?
He put up his glasses and read the letter—the last of a long series, every one of which had been a fresh arrow in his heart—again and again.
Then he sat down and burst into tears.
A young man's tears may be forced from him by many a passing sorrow, but an old man's only by the reality of a sorrow which cannot be put aside. The deaths of those who are dear to the old man fall on him as so many reminders that his own time will soon arrive; but it is not for such things as death that he laments.
"I loved her," moaned Gabriel Cassilis. "I loved her, and I trusted her; and this the end!"
He did not curse her, nor Colquhoun, nor himself. It was all the hand of Fate. It was hard upon him, harder than he expected or knew, but he bore it in silence.
He sat so, still and quiet, a long while.
Then he put together all the letters, which the detective had brought back, and placed them in his pocket. Then he dallied and played with the paper and pencils before him, just as one who is restless and uncertain in his mind. Then he looked at his watch—it was past three; the garden party was for four; and then he rose suddenly, put on his hat, and passed out. His secretary asked him as he went through his office, if he would return, and at what time.
Mr. Cassilis made a motion with his hand, as if to put the matter off for a few moments, and replied nothing. When he got into the street it occurred to him that he could not answer the secretary because that same curious feeling was upon him again, and he had lost the power of speech. It was strange, and he laughed. Then the power of speech as suddenly returned to him. He called a cab and told the driver where to go. It is a long drive to Twickenham. He was absorbed in his thoughts, and as he sat back, gazing straight before him, the sensation of not being able to speak kept coming and going in his brain. This made him uneasy, but not much, because he had graver things to think about.
At half-past four he arrived within a few yards of Mrs. L'Estrange's house, where he alighted and dismissed his cab. The cabman touched his hat and said it was a fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of the year.
"Ay," replied Gabriel Cassilis mechanically. "A fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of the year."
And as he walked along under the lime-trees he found himself saying over again, as if it was the burden of a song:
"A fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of the year."
"How green are you and fresh in this old world!"
On the morning of the garden party Joseph Jagenal called on Lawrence Colquhoun.
"I have two or three things to say," he began, "if you can give me five minutes."
"Twenty," said Lawrence. "Now then."
He threw himself back in his easiest chair and prepared to listen.
"I am in the way of hearing things sometimes," Joseph said. "And I heard a good deal yesterday about Mr. Gabriel Cassilis."
"What?" said Lawrence, aghast, "he surely has not been telling all the world about it!"
"I think we are talking of different things," Joseph answered after a pause. "Don't tell me what you mean, but what I mean is that there is an uneasy feeling about Gabriel Cassilis."
"Ay? In what way?"
"Well, they say he is strange; does not see people; does not open letters; and is evidently suffering from some mental distress."
"Yes."
"And when such a man as Gabriel Cassilis is in mental distress, money is at the bottom of it."
"Generally. Not always."
"It was against my advice that you invested any of your money by his direction."
"I invested the whole of it; and all Phillis's too. Mr. Cassilis has the investment of our little all," Lawrence added, laughing.
But the lawyer looked grave.
"Don't do it," he said; "get it in your own hands again; let it lie safely in the three per cents. What has a pigeon like you to do among the City hawks? And Miss Fleming's money, too. Let it be put away safely, and give her what she wants, a modest and sufficient income without risk."
"I believe you are right, Jagenal. In fact, I am sure you are right. But Cassilis would have it. He talked me into an ambition for good investments which I never felt before. I will ask him to sell out for me, and go back to the old three per cents. and railway shares—which is what I have been brought up to. On the other hand, you are quite wrong about his mental distress. That is—I happen to know—you are a lawyer and will not talk—it is not due to money matters; and Gabriel Cassilis is, for what I know, as keen a hand as ever at piling up the dollars. The money is all safe; of that I am quite certain."
"Well, if you think so—But don't let him keep it," said Joseph the Doubter.
"After all, why not get eight and nine per cent. if you can?"
"Because it isn't safe, and because you ought not to expect it. What do you want with more money than you have got? However, I have told you what men say. There is another thing. I am sorry to say that my brothers have made fools of themselves, and I am come to apologise for them."
"Don't if it is disagreeable, my dear fellow."
"It is not very disagreeable, and I would rather. They are fifty, but they are not wise. In fact, they have lived so much out of the world that they do not understand things. And so they went down and proposed for the hand of your ward, Phillis Fleming."
"Oh! Both of them? And did she accept?"
"The absurd thing is that I cannot discover which of them wished to be the bridegroom, nor which Phillis thought it was. She is quite confused about the whole matter. However, they went away and thought one of them was accepted, which explains a great deal of innuendo and reference to some unknown subject of mirth which I have observed lately. I say one of them, because I find it impossible to ascertain which of them was the man. Well, whether they were conscience-stricken or whether they repented, I do not know, but they went back to Twickenham and solemnly repudiated the engagement."
"And Phillis?"
"She laughed at them, of course. Do not fear; she wasn't in the least annoyed. I shall speak to my brothers this evening."
Colquhoun thought of the small, fragile-looking pair, and inwardly hoped that their brother would be gentle with them.
"And there is another thing, Colquhoun. Do you want to see your ward married?"
"To Jack Dunquerque?"
"Yes."
"Not yet. I want her to have her little fling first. Why the poor child is only just out of the nursery, and he wants to marry her off-hand—it's cruel. Let her see the world for a year, and then we will consider it. Jagenal, I wish I could marry the girl myself."
"So do I," said Joseph, with a sigh.
"I fell in love with her," said Lawrence, "at first sight. That is why," he added, in his laziest tones, "I suppose that is why I told Jack Dunquerque not to go there any more. But he has gone there again, and he has proposed to her, I hear, and she has accepted him. So that I can't marry her, and you can't, and we are a brace of fogies."
"And what have you said to Mr. Dunquerque?"
"I acted the jealous guardian, and I ordered him not to call on my ward any more for the present. I shall see how Phillis takes it, and give in, of course, if she makes a fuss. Then Beck has been here offering to hand over all his money to Jack, because he loves the young man."
"Quixotic," said the lawyer.
"Yes. The end of it will be a wedding, of course. You and I may shake a leg at it if we like. As for me, I never can marry any one; and as for you——"
"As for me, I never thought of marrying her. I only remarked that I had fallen in love, as you say, with her. That's no matter to anybody."
"Well, things go on as they like, not as we like. What nonsense it is to say that man is master of his fate! Now, what I should like would be to get rid of the reason that prevents my marrying; to put Jack Dunquerque into the water-butt and sit on the lid; and then for Phillis to fall in love with me. After that, strawberries and cream with a little champagne for the rest of my Methuselah-like career. And I can't get any of these things. Master of his fate?"
"Have you heard of the Coping-stone chapter? It is found."
"Agatha told me something, in a disjointed way. What is the effect of it?"
Joseph laughed.
"It is all torn up but the last page. A righteous retribution, because if Phillis had been taught to read this would not have happened. Now, I suspect the will must be set aside, and the money will mostly go to Gabriel Cassilis, the nearest of kin, who doesn't want it."
"La langue des femmes est leur epee, et elles ne la laissent pas rouiller."
The grounds of the house formed a parallelogram, of which the longer sides were parallel with the river. In the north-east corner stood the house itself, its front facing west. It was not a large house, as has been explained. A conservatory was built against nearly the whole length of the front. The lawns and flower-beds spread to west and south, sloping down to the river's edge. The opposite angle was occupied by stables, kitchen-garden, and boat-house. Gabriel Cassilis approached it from the east. An iron railing and a low hedge, along which were planted limes, laburnums, and lilacs, separated the place from the road. But before reaching the gate—in fact, at the corner of the kitchen-garden—he could, himself, unseen, look through the trees and observe the party. They were all there. He saw Mrs. L'Estrange, Phillis, his own wife—Heavens! how calm and cold she looked, and how beautiful he thought her!—with half a dozen other ladies. The men were few. There was the curate. He was dangling round Phillis, and wore an expression of holiness-out-for-a-holiday, which is always so charming in these young men. Gabriel Cassilis also noticed that he was casting eyes of longing at the young lady. There was Lawrence Colquhoun. Gabriel Cassilis looked everywhere for him, till he saw him, lying beneath a tree, his head on his hand. He was not talking to Victoria, nor was he looking at her. On the contrary, he was watching Phillis. There was Captain Ladds. He was talking to one of the young ladies, and he was looking at Phillis. The young lady evidently did not like this. And there was Gilead Beck. He was standing apart, talking to Mrs. L'Estrange, with his hands in his pockets, leaning against a tree. But he, too, was casting furtive glances at Phillis.
They all seemed, somehow, looking at the girl. There was no special reason why they should look at her, except that she was so bright, so fresh, and so charming for the eye to rest upon. The other girls were as well dressed, but they were nowhere compared with Phillis. The lines of their figures, perhaps, were not so fine; the shape of their heads more commonplace; their features not so delicate; their pose less graceful. There are some girls who go well together. Helena and Hermia are a foil to each other; but when Desdemona shows all other beauties pale like lesser lights. And the other beauties do not like it.
Said one of the fair guests to another—
"What do they see in her?"
"I cannot tell," replied her friend. "She seems to me morefarouchethan ever."
For, having decided thatfarouchewas the word to express poor Phillis's distinguishing quality, there was no longer any room for question, andfaroucheshe continued to be. If there is anything that Phillis never was, it is that quality of fierce shy wildness which requires the adjectivefarouche. But the word stuck, because it sounded well. To this day—to be sure, it is only a twelvemonth since—the girls say still, "Oh, yes! Phillis Fleming. She was pretty, but extremelyfarouche."
Gabriel Cassilis stood by the hedge and looked through the trees. He has come all the way from town to attend this party, and now he hesitated at the very gates. For he became conscious of two things: first, that the old feeling of not finding his words was upon him again; and secondly, that he was not exactly dressed for a festive occasion. Like most City men who have long remained bachelors, Gabriel Cassilis was careful of his personal appearance. He considered a garden-party as an occasion demanding something special. Now he not only wore his habitual pepper-and-salt suit, but the coat in which he wrote at his office—a comfortable easy old frock, a little baggy at the elbows. His mind was strung to such an intense pitch, that such a trifling objection as his dress—because Gabriel Cassilis never looked other than a gentleman—appeared to him insuperable. He withdrew from the hedge, and retraced his steps. Presently he came to a lane. He left the road, and turned down the path. He found himself by the river. He sat down under a tree, and began to think.
He thought of the time when his lonely life was wearisome to him, when he longed for a wife and a house of his own. He remembered how he pictured a girl who would be his darling, who would return his caresses and love him for his own sake. And how, when he met Victoria Pengelley, his thoughts changed, and he pictured that girl, stately and statuesque, at the head of the table. There would be no pettings and caressings from her, that was quite certain. On the other hand, there would be a woman of whom he would be proud—one who would wear his wealth properly. And a woman of good family, well connected all round. There were no caresses, he remembered now; there was the coldest acceptance of him; and there had been no caresses since. But he had been proud of her; and as for her honour—how was it possible that the doubt should arise? That man must be himself distinctly of the lower order of men who would begin by doubting or suspecting his wife.
To end in this: doubt so strong as to be almost certainty: suspicion like a knife cutting at his heart; his brain clouded; and he himself driven to creep down clandestinely to watch his wife.
He sat there till the June sun began to sink in the west. The river was covered with the evening craft. They were manned by the young City men but just beginning the worship of Mammon, who would have looked with envy upon the figure sitting motionless in the shade by the river's edge had they known who he was. Presently he roused himself, and looked at his watch. It was past seven. Perhaps the party would be over by this time; he could go home with his wife; it would be something, at least, to be with her, to keep her from that other man. He rose,—his brain in a tumult—and repaired once more to his point of vantage at the hedge. The lawn was empty; there was no one there. But he saw his own carriage in the yard, and therefore his wife was not yet gone.
In the garden, no one. He crept in softly, and looked round him. No one saw him enter the place; and he felt something like a burglar as he walked, with a stealthy step which he vainly tried to make confident, across the lawn.
Two ways of entrance stood open before him. One was the porch of the house, covered with creepers and hung with flowers. The door stood open, and beyond it was the hall, looking dark from the bright light outside. He heard voices within. Another way was by the conservatory, the door of which was also open. He looked in. Among the flowers and vines there stood a figure he knew—his wife's. But she was alone. And she was listening. On her face was an expression which he had never seen there, and never dreamed of. Her features were distorted; her hands were closed in a tight clutch; her arms were stiffened—but she was trembling. What was she doing. To whom was she listening?
He hesitated a moment, and then he stepped through the porch into the hall. The voices came from the right, in fact, from the morning room,—Phillis's room,—which opened by its single window upon the lawn, and by its two doors into the hall on one side and the conservatory on the other.
And Gabriel Cassilis, like his wife, listened. He put off his hat, placed his umbrella in the stand, and stood in attitude, in case he should be observed, to push open the door and step in. He was so abject in his jealousy that he actually did not feel the disgrace and degradation of the act. He was so keen and eager to lose no word, that he leaned his head to the half-open door, and stood, his long thin figure trembling with excitement, like some listener in a melodrama of the transpontine stage.
There were two persons in the room, and one was a woman; and they were talking together. One was Lawrence Colquhoun and the other was Phillis Fleming.
Colquhoun was not, according to his wont, lying on a sofa, nor sitting in the easiest of the chairs. He was standing, and he was speaking in an earnest voice.
"When I saw you first," he said, "you were little Phillis—a wee toddler of six or seven. I went away and forgot all about you—almost forgot your very existence, Phillis,—till the news of Mr. Dyson's death met me on my way home again. I fear that I have neglected you since I came home; but I have been worried."
"What has worried you, Lawrence?" asked the girl.
She was sitting on the music-stool before the piano; and as she spoke she turned from the piano, her fingers resting silently on the notes. She was dressed for the party,—which was over now, and the guests departed,—in a simple muslin costume, light and airy, which became her well. And in her hair she had placed a flower. There were flowers all about the room, flowers at the open window, flowers in the conservatory beyond, flowers on the bright green lawns beyond.
"How pretty you are, Phillis!" answered her guardian.
He touched her cheek with his finger as she sat.
"I am your guardian," he said, as if in apology.
"And you have been worried about things?" she persisted. "Agatha says you never care what happens."
"Agatha is right, as a rule. In one case, of which she knows nothing, she is wrong. Tell me, Phillis, is there anything you want in the world that I can get for you?"
"I think I have everything," she said, laughing. "And what you will not give me I shall wait for till I am twenty-one."
"You mean——"
"I mean—Jack Dunquerque, Lawrence."
Only a short month ago, and Jack Dunquerque was her friend. She could speak of him openly and friendly, without change of voice or face. Now she blushed, and her voice trembled as she uttered his name. That is one of the outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual state known to the most elementary observers.
"I wanted to speak about him. Phillis, you are very young, you have seen nothing of the world; you know no other men. All I ask you is to wait. Do not give your promise to this man till you have at least had an opportunity of—of comparing—of learning your own mind."
She shook her head.
"I have already given my promise," she said.
"But it is a promise that may be recalled," he urged. "Dunquerque is a gentleman; he will not hold you to your word when he feels that he ought not to have taken it from you. Phillis, you do not know yourself. You have no idea of what it is that you have given, or its value. How can I tell you the truth?"
"I think you mean the best for me, Lawrence," she said. "But the best is—Jack."
Then she began to speak quite low, so that the listeners heard nothing.
"See, Lawrence, you are kind, and I can tell you all without being ashamed. I think of Jack all day long and all night. I pray for him in the morning and in the evening. When he comes near me I tremble; I feel that I must obey him if he were to order me in anything. I have no more command of myself when he is with me——"
"Stop, Phillis," Lawrence interposed; "you must not tell me any more. I was trying to act for the best; but I will make no further opposition. See, my dear"—he took her hand in his in a tender and kindly way—"if I write to Jack Dunquerque to-day, and tell the villain he may come and see you whenever he likes, and that he shall marry you whenever you like, will that do for you?"
She started to her feet, and threw her left hand—Lawrence still holding the right—upon his shoulder, looking him full in the face.
"Will it do? O Lawrence! Agatha always said you were the kindest man in the world; and I—forgive me!—I did not believe it, I could not understand it. O Jack, Jack, we shall be so happy, so happy! He loves me, Lawrence, as much as I love him."
The listeners in the greenhouse and the hall craned their necks, but they could hear little, because the girl spoke low.
"Does he love you as much as you love him, Phillis? Does he love you a thousand times better than you can understand? Why, child, you do not know what love means. Perhaps women never do quite realise what it means. Only go on believing that he loves you, and love him in return, and all will be well with you."
"I do believe it, Lawrence! and I love him, too."
Looking through the flowers and the leaves of the conservatory glared a face upon the pair strangely out of harmony with the peace which breathed in the atmosphere of the place—a face violently distorted by passion, a face in which every evil feeling was at work, a face dark with rage. Phillis might have seen the face had she looked in that direction, but she did not; she held Lawrence's hand, and she was shyly pressing it in gratitude.
"Phillis," said Lawrence hoarsely, "Jack Dunquerque is a lucky man. We all love you, my dear; and I almost as much as Jack. But I am too old for you; and besides, besides——" He cleared his throat, and spoke more distinctly. "I do love you, however, Phillis; a man could not be long beside you without loving you."
There was a movement and a rustle in the leaves.
The man at the door stood bewildered. What was it all about? Colquhoun and a woman—not his wife—talking of love. What love? what woman? And his wife in the conservatory, looking as he never saw her look before, and listening. What did it all mean? what thing was coming over him? He pressed his hand to his forehead, trying to make out what it all meant, for he seemed to be in a dream; and, as before, while he tried to shape the words in his mind for some sort of an excuse, or a reassurance to himself, he found that no words came, or, if any, then the wrong words.
The house was very quiet; no sounds came from any part of it,—the servants were resting in the kitchen, the mistress of the house was resting in her room, after the party,—no voices but the gentle talk of the girl and her guardian.
"Kiss me, Phillis," said Lawrence. "Then let me hold you in my arms for once, because you are so sweet, and—and I am your guardian, you know, and we all love you."
He drew her gently by the hands. She made no resistance; it seemed to her right that her guardian should kiss her if he wished. She did not know how the touch of her hand, the light in her eyes, the sound of her voice, were stirring in the man before her depths that he thought long ago buried and put away, awakening once more the possibilities, at forty, of a youthful love.
His lips were touching her forehead, her face was close to his, he held her two hands tight, when the crash of a falling flower-pot startled him, and Victoria Cassilis stood before him.
Panting, gasping for breath, with hands clenched and eyes distended—a living statue of thefemina demens. For a moment she paused to take breath, and then, with a wave of her hand which was grand because it was natural and worthy of Rachel—because you may see it any day among the untutored beauties of Whitechapel, among the gipsy camps, or in the villages where Hindoo women live and quarrel—Victoria Cassilis for once in her life was herself, and acted superbly, because she did not act at all.
"Victoria!" The word came from Lawrence.
Phillis, with a little cry of terror, clung tightly to her guardian's arm.
"Leave him!" cried the angry woman. "Do you hear?—leave him!"
"Better go, Phillis," said Lawrence.
At the prospect of battle the real nature of the man asserted itself. He drew himself erect, and met her wild eyes with a steady gaze, which had neither terror nor surprise in it—a gaze such as a mad doctor might practise upon his patients, a look which calms the wildest outbreaks, because it sees in them nothing but what it expected to find, and is only sorry.
"No! she shall not go," said Victoria, sweeping her skirts behind her with a splendid movement from her feet; "she shall not go until she has heard me first. You dare to make love to this girl, this schoolgirl, before my very eyes. She shall know, she shall know our secret!"
"Victoria," said Lawrence calmly, "you do not understand what you are saying.Oursecret? Say your secret, and be careful."
The door moved an inch or two; the man standing behind it was shaking in every limb. "Their secret? her secret?" He was going to learn at last; he was going to find the truth; he was going—— And here a sudden thought struck him that he had neglected his affairs of late, and that, this business once got through, he must look into things again; a thought without words, because, somehow, just then he had no words—he had forgotten them all.
The writer of the anonymous letters had done much mischief, as she hoped to do. People who write anonymous letters generally contrive so much. Unhappily, the beginning of mischief is like the boring of a hole in a dam or dyke, because very soon, instead of a trickling rivulet of water, you get a gigantic inundation. Nothing is easier than to have your revenge; only it is so very difficult to calculate the after consequences of revenge. If the writer of the letters had known what was going to happen in consequence, most likely they would never have been written.
"Their secret? her secret?" He listened with all his might. But Victoria, his wife Victoria, spoke out clearly; he could hear without straining his ears.
"Be careful," repeated Lawrence.
"I shall not be careful; the time is past for care. You have sneered and scoffed at me; you have insulted me; you have refused almost to know me,—all that I have borne, but this I will not bear."
"Phillis Fleming." She turned to the girl. Phillis did not shrink or cower before her; on the contrary, she stood like Lawrence, calm and quiet, to face the storm, whatever storm might be brewing. "This man takes you in his arms and kisses you. He says he loves you; he dares to tell you he loves you. No doubt you are flattered. You have had the men round you all day long, and now you have the best of them at your feet, alone, when they are gone. Well, the man you want to catch, the excellentpartiyou and Agatha would like to trap, the man who stands there——"
"Victoria, there is still time to stop," said Lawrence calmly.
"That man is my husband!"
Phillis looked from one to the other, understanding nothing. The man stood quietly stroking his great beard with his fingers, and looking straight at Mrs. Cassilis.
"My husband. We were married six years ago and more. We were married in Scotland, privately; but he is my husband, and five days after our wedding he left me. Is that true?"
"Perfectly. You have forgotten nothing, except the reason of my departure. If you think it worth while troubling Phillis with that, why——"
"We quarrelled; that was the reason. He used cruel and bitter language. He gave me back my liberty."
"We separated, Phillis, after a row, the like of which you may conceive by remembering that Mrs. Cassilis was then six years younger, and even more ready for such encounters than at present. We separated; we agreed that things should go on as if the marriage, which was no marriage, had never taken place. Janet, the maid, was to be trusted. She stayed with her mistress; I went abroad. And then I heard by accident that my wife had taken the liberty I gave her, in its fullest sense, by marrying again. Then I came home, because I thought that chapter was closed; but it was not, you see; and for her sake I wish I had stayed in America."
Mrs. Cassilis listened as if she did not hear a word; then she went on—
"He is my husband still. I can claim him when I want him; and I claim him now. I say, Lawrence, so long as I live you shall marry no other woman. You are mine; whatever happens, you are mine."
The sight of the man, callous, immovable, suddenly seemed to terrify her. She sank weeping at his knees.
"Lawrence, forgive me, forgive me! Take me away. I never loved any one but you. Forgive me!"
He made no answer or any sign.
"Let me go with you, somewhere, out of this place; let us go away together, we two. I have never loved any one but you—never any one but you, but you!"
She broke into a passion of sobs. When she looked up, it was to meet the white face of Gabriel Cassilis. He was stooping over her, his hands spread out helplessly, his form quivering, his lips trying to utter something; but no sound came through them. Beyond stood Lawrence, still with the look of watchful determination which had broken down her rage. Then she sprang to her feet.
"You here? Then you know all. It is true; that is my legal husband. For two years and more my life has been a lie. Stand back, and let me go to my husband!"
But he stood between Colquhoun and herself. Lawrence saw with a sudden terror that something had happened to the man. He expected an outburst of wrath, but no wrath came. Gabriel Cassilis turned his head from one to the other, and presently said, in a trembling voice—
"A fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of year."
"Good God!" cried Lawrence, "you have destroyed his reason!"
Gabriel Cassilis shook his head, and began again—
"A fine day, and seasonable——"
Here he threw himself upon the nearest chair, and buried his face in his hands.