Chapter Fifty Three.

Chapter Fifty Three.Jules is from Home.“And that is the woman who told me she loved me!” said Stratton as he drew back behind the rocks and walked slowly away.There was a strangely mingled feeling in his breast; one moment it was horror, the next disgust, that they two should join hands: she so young and beautiful, he prematurely aged and little better than an idiot. Then it was misery—then despair, which swept over his soul to join forces and harrow him so that he felt that he could bear no more.It was the thought of Brettison that saved him just as the blood was rushing to his head and a stroke was imminent.He had left his friend apparently dying, and had rushed off to save Myra.“While I was wanted there,” he muttered in a weak, piteous way. “Ah, it has all been a dream, and now I am awake. Poor Brettison, my best friend after all.”For a few moments the blood flushed to his temples in his resentment against Myra, and then against Guest; for, after all that he had said to him on the past night, how could he entirely accept the position he occupied and remain tacit and content there with that man in his company?“Another slave to a woman’s charms!” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Poor old Percy! how can I blame him after what I have done myself for a weak, contemptible woman’s sake?”He stopped short, grinding his teeth together in resentment against himself; for Myra’s sadly wasted face rose before him with her eyes full of reproach.“It is not true,” he cried; “it is not true. She could not help herself. They have driven her to it, or else—No, no, I cannot think.”He moved on toward the cottage, threading his way more by instinct than sight among the rocks, but only to stop short again, horrified by the thought that now assailed him. That man—Barron or Dale—it was not safe that he should be trusted with Myra. It was madness after what had taken place.He thrust his fingers into his ears as if to shut out the voice that seemed to urge these things upon him; but the voice was within, and he hastened on more rapidly till he reached the cottage, where the fisherman’s wife was bathing Brettison’s forehead, and she gave him a frightened look as he entered.His old friend’s eyes were opened, and he looked wildly at Stratton as he entered, and feebly raised one hand.“Dale!” he whispered as he clung to Stratton.“Hush! don’t talk.”“I—must,” he said feebly. “Mind that he does not leave the place. To-night you must get help and take him away.”“I am right, then—he did attack you?”“Yes, not long after you had gone. I was asleep, when I was awakened with a start, thinking you had returned, but I was borne back directly. He had me by the throat. Malcolm, lad, I thought it was all over. I struggled, but he was too strong. I remember thinking of your words, and then all was blank till I saw a light in the room, and found these people attending me. I had awakened them with my groans. They do not grasp the truth. Don’t tell them. Let them think it is an affection of the throat, but we must never trust him again.”“There will be no need,” said Stratton bitterly.“What do you mean?”“He has gone.”“You have let him escape? No; you have handed him over to the police. Oh, my dear boy, you shouldn’t have done that. The man is mad.”“I told you I should not do so,” said Stratton coldly. “You are wrong.”“But you stand there. Good Heavens, man! Those two may meet. Don’t mind me. I am better now. Go at once.”“No, I shall not leave you till you are fit to move.”“It is not an illness, but an injury, which will soon pass off. Go at once. Man, do you not see that he may find her, after all.”“He has found her,” said Stratton slowly, and speaking in a strangely mechanical way.“What!”“Or they have found him.” And he told the old man all he had seen.Brettison heard him to the end, and then faintly, but with conviction in his tones, he cried:“Impossible! It cannot be true.”Stratton looked at him wistfully, and shook his head.“No,” he said, drawing a deep breath; “it cannot be true.”Brettison, whose breathing was painful, lay back watching his companion with dilated eyes, and then turned to the woman who had drawn back from the bed and waited while her visitor talked to his friend.“Madame,” he said in French, “Monsieur Cousin?”She turned from the window where she had been watching.“Out on the sands, monsieur,” she said in a startled way. “My good man says he is sitting with the new company who have come since yesterday to the house above.”“Where is your husband?”“Out, sir. He—he was obliged to go to theville.”“And still it is impossible,” said Stratton slowly as he looked appealingly in the old man’s eyes. “It cannot be true. Brettison, tell me that my mind is wandering; all this is more than I can bear.”“Shall I wait, monsieur?” asked the woman, who was trembling visibly.“No, I am better now,” said Brettison. “Leave me with my friend,”—and as soon as they were alone—“I shall not want a doctor now. There is some mystery here, Malcolm, lad, far more than we know.”“Thank God!” said Stratton, sinking into a chair and covering his face with his hands.“Stratton,” cried the old man fiercely, “is it a time to give up weakly like that?”The stricken man started to his feet, and threw back his head as if his friend’s words had suddenly galvanised him into life and action.“That man is not to be trusted for an hour. You know it, and yet you stand there leaving her in his hands. Even if it were possible that her father has condoned the past, he does not know what is familiar to us. But he has not. Boy, I tell you there is some mistake.”“What shall I do?” said Stratton hoarsely.“Go to them at once. Tell them of his attack upon me.”“They have forgotten the past, and will say it is the invention of a jealous enemy.”“Then I will go myself,” cried the old man; and, feeble though he was, he insisted upon dressing for his self-imposed task.“They will believe me,” he said; “and though I can hardly think there is danger to anyone but us, whom Barron seems instinctively to associate with his injury, Sir Mark must know the facts.”“Yes,” said Stratton gravely; “he must know. I will go with you now. He cannot doubt you.”The old man tottered a little, but his strong will supplied the strength, and, taking his stick, they moved toward the door.“We have done wrong, Stratton,” he said; “the man should have been denounced. I ought to have acted more wisely, but at first my only thought was to save you from the consequences of your misfortune, and keep all I knew from ever reaching Myra’s ears. Our sin has found us out, and there is nothing for it but to make a clean breast now.”Stratton hesitated for a few moments.“You are too feeble,” he said.“Oh, yes,” cried the woman, who came forward. “Monsieur is too ill to go out. It is horrible that he should be so bad at our poor house.”“You say your husband is out?”“Oh, yes, monsieur. I begged him not to go, but he said that he must go.”“Not to fetch a doctor?”“N–no, monsieur,” faltered the woman hysterically. “It is not my fault, monsieur; I begged him not to go—and—O Ciel! that it should have happened.”“No one blames you, my good woman,” said Stratton as she burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing, while Brettison looked at her strangely. “If he had been here he could have helped my friend down to the sands.”“And monsieur will forgive us,” sobbed the woman; “we are poor, honest people, and it is so terrible for your good friend to be like that.”“Quick!” said Brettison. “I am strong enough. Let’s get it over before something happens.”He clung to Stratton’s arm, and, supporting himself with his stick, he made a brave effort, and, gaining strength out in the soft sea air, he walked slowly but pretty firmly along by the foot of the cliff.“If Jules would only return,” sobbed the woman hysterically. “Oh, that such a misfortune should come upon our home! Poor gentleman! and he bears it like a lamb.”

“And that is the woman who told me she loved me!” said Stratton as he drew back behind the rocks and walked slowly away.

There was a strangely mingled feeling in his breast; one moment it was horror, the next disgust, that they two should join hands: she so young and beautiful, he prematurely aged and little better than an idiot. Then it was misery—then despair, which swept over his soul to join forces and harrow him so that he felt that he could bear no more.

It was the thought of Brettison that saved him just as the blood was rushing to his head and a stroke was imminent.

He had left his friend apparently dying, and had rushed off to save Myra.

“While I was wanted there,” he muttered in a weak, piteous way. “Ah, it has all been a dream, and now I am awake. Poor Brettison, my best friend after all.”

For a few moments the blood flushed to his temples in his resentment against Myra, and then against Guest; for, after all that he had said to him on the past night, how could he entirely accept the position he occupied and remain tacit and content there with that man in his company?

“Another slave to a woman’s charms!” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Poor old Percy! how can I blame him after what I have done myself for a weak, contemptible woman’s sake?”

He stopped short, grinding his teeth together in resentment against himself; for Myra’s sadly wasted face rose before him with her eyes full of reproach.

“It is not true,” he cried; “it is not true. She could not help herself. They have driven her to it, or else—No, no, I cannot think.”

He moved on toward the cottage, threading his way more by instinct than sight among the rocks, but only to stop short again, horrified by the thought that now assailed him. That man—Barron or Dale—it was not safe that he should be trusted with Myra. It was madness after what had taken place.

He thrust his fingers into his ears as if to shut out the voice that seemed to urge these things upon him; but the voice was within, and he hastened on more rapidly till he reached the cottage, where the fisherman’s wife was bathing Brettison’s forehead, and she gave him a frightened look as he entered.

His old friend’s eyes were opened, and he looked wildly at Stratton as he entered, and feebly raised one hand.

“Dale!” he whispered as he clung to Stratton.

“Hush! don’t talk.”

“I—must,” he said feebly. “Mind that he does not leave the place. To-night you must get help and take him away.”

“I am right, then—he did attack you?”

“Yes, not long after you had gone. I was asleep, when I was awakened with a start, thinking you had returned, but I was borne back directly. He had me by the throat. Malcolm, lad, I thought it was all over. I struggled, but he was too strong. I remember thinking of your words, and then all was blank till I saw a light in the room, and found these people attending me. I had awakened them with my groans. They do not grasp the truth. Don’t tell them. Let them think it is an affection of the throat, but we must never trust him again.”

“There will be no need,” said Stratton bitterly.

“What do you mean?”

“He has gone.”

“You have let him escape? No; you have handed him over to the police. Oh, my dear boy, you shouldn’t have done that. The man is mad.”

“I told you I should not do so,” said Stratton coldly. “You are wrong.”

“But you stand there. Good Heavens, man! Those two may meet. Don’t mind me. I am better now. Go at once.”

“No, I shall not leave you till you are fit to move.”

“It is not an illness, but an injury, which will soon pass off. Go at once. Man, do you not see that he may find her, after all.”

“He has found her,” said Stratton slowly, and speaking in a strangely mechanical way.

“What!”

“Or they have found him.” And he told the old man all he had seen.

Brettison heard him to the end, and then faintly, but with conviction in his tones, he cried:

“Impossible! It cannot be true.”

Stratton looked at him wistfully, and shook his head.

“No,” he said, drawing a deep breath; “it cannot be true.”

Brettison, whose breathing was painful, lay back watching his companion with dilated eyes, and then turned to the woman who had drawn back from the bed and waited while her visitor talked to his friend.

“Madame,” he said in French, “Monsieur Cousin?”

She turned from the window where she had been watching.

“Out on the sands, monsieur,” she said in a startled way. “My good man says he is sitting with the new company who have come since yesterday to the house above.”

“Where is your husband?”

“Out, sir. He—he was obliged to go to theville.”

“And still it is impossible,” said Stratton slowly as he looked appealingly in the old man’s eyes. “It cannot be true. Brettison, tell me that my mind is wandering; all this is more than I can bear.”

“Shall I wait, monsieur?” asked the woman, who was trembling visibly.

“No, I am better now,” said Brettison. “Leave me with my friend,”—and as soon as they were alone—“I shall not want a doctor now. There is some mystery here, Malcolm, lad, far more than we know.”

“Thank God!” said Stratton, sinking into a chair and covering his face with his hands.

“Stratton,” cried the old man fiercely, “is it a time to give up weakly like that?”

The stricken man started to his feet, and threw back his head as if his friend’s words had suddenly galvanised him into life and action.

“That man is not to be trusted for an hour. You know it, and yet you stand there leaving her in his hands. Even if it were possible that her father has condoned the past, he does not know what is familiar to us. But he has not. Boy, I tell you there is some mistake.”

“What shall I do?” said Stratton hoarsely.

“Go to them at once. Tell them of his attack upon me.”

“They have forgotten the past, and will say it is the invention of a jealous enemy.”

“Then I will go myself,” cried the old man; and, feeble though he was, he insisted upon dressing for his self-imposed task.

“They will believe me,” he said; “and though I can hardly think there is danger to anyone but us, whom Barron seems instinctively to associate with his injury, Sir Mark must know the facts.”

“Yes,” said Stratton gravely; “he must know. I will go with you now. He cannot doubt you.”

The old man tottered a little, but his strong will supplied the strength, and, taking his stick, they moved toward the door.

“We have done wrong, Stratton,” he said; “the man should have been denounced. I ought to have acted more wisely, but at first my only thought was to save you from the consequences of your misfortune, and keep all I knew from ever reaching Myra’s ears. Our sin has found us out, and there is nothing for it but to make a clean breast now.”

Stratton hesitated for a few moments.

“You are too feeble,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” cried the woman, who came forward. “Monsieur is too ill to go out. It is horrible that he should be so bad at our poor house.”

“You say your husband is out?”

“Oh, yes, monsieur. I begged him not to go, but he said that he must go.”

“Not to fetch a doctor?”

“N–no, monsieur,” faltered the woman hysterically. “It is not my fault, monsieur; I begged him not to go—and—O Ciel! that it should have happened.”

“No one blames you, my good woman,” said Stratton as she burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing, while Brettison looked at her strangely. “If he had been here he could have helped my friend down to the sands.”

“And monsieur will forgive us,” sobbed the woman; “we are poor, honest people, and it is so terrible for your good friend to be like that.”

“Quick!” said Brettison. “I am strong enough. Let’s get it over before something happens.”

He clung to Stratton’s arm, and, supporting himself with his stick, he made a brave effort, and, gaining strength out in the soft sea air, he walked slowly but pretty firmly along by the foot of the cliff.

“If Jules would only return,” sobbed the woman hysterically. “Oh, that such a misfortune should come upon our home! Poor gentleman! and he bears it like a lamb.”

Chapter Fifty Four.Barron-Dale has a Relapse.Brettison’s progress was slow, but he refused to sit down and rest.“We must get there,” he said; “we must get there.”Stratton shuddered slightly, and for the moment felt that he ought to press on; but he knew that his words would have ten times the force with the admiral backed up by Brettison’s presence, so he restrained himself and helped his companion along till they came in sight of the rocks, a good-sized boat keeping pace with them a couple of hundred yards out, its owners having hard work to stem the current which ran along the shore.“Is it much farther?” said Brettison at last. “I am weaker than I thought.”“Seventy or eighty yards; just beyond those rocks,” cried Stratton.“Hah, then I am strong enough,” cried Brettison, with a sigh of relief; and after a few moments’ pause he stepped out again; they passed the rocks, and the doubt which had existed in Stratton’s mind as to whether the party would still be where he left them was set at rest. But he started as he saw that they were gathered together as if there were some cause of excitement.“Come along,” he whispered quickly.They were hurrying along, when there was a joyful cry, and the sturdy Breton woman chosen for Dale’s attendant cried out:“Ah, monsieur; quick! quick! Here—help!”Stratton quitted Brettison’s side and rushed forward, to see, as the group opened, a sight that made his blood boil with rage.Dale was holding Myra’s wrist with his left hand and struggling violently with the admiral and Guest, who were afraid to exert their strength for fear of injuring Myra, who was supported by Margot with one arm, while with her strong fingers she grasped her patient’s wrist in turn.“Quick, monsieur!” cried Margot; “it is a fit. He is half-mad.”Forgetting everything but the fact that Myra was in this scoundrel’s grasp, Stratton sprang at him, catching him by the throat to try and make him quit his hold.“Mr Stratton!” cried Sir Mark in angry amazement.The name acted like magic. Dale shook himself free of the admiral and Margot, loosening Myra’s wrist in the act, and with an angry snarl, like that of some wild beast, fixed his hands on Stratton’s throat.In spite of his last meeting Guest flew to his friend’s assistance, and Margot bravely flung her arms about her patient’s waist; but in spite of all the man’s strength for the moment was gigantic, and, paying no heed to the others, he sought to vent his rage upon Stratton, who felt himself growing weaker and weaker in his enemy’s grasp.Twice over as they swayed here and there he caught sight of Myra’s face convulsed with horror while she clung to her cousin, and her look unnerved him so that it would have gone hard with him but for the arrival of a party of four men who had landed from the boat that had kept pace with them along the shore.One of these was the fisherman, the two others were a couple ofgendarmesand another fisher, and the two officers threw themselves into the fray, with the result that the next minute Dale was firmly secured and held.“This is the man, then,” panted one of the officers.“Yes,” said the fisherman from the cottage. “I say he tried to strangle this gentleman in the night at my place. Look at his throat.”“It is quite true,” said Brettison.“And you told us, monsieur,” cried the fisherman reproachfully, “that your friend was imbecile, and that we need not fear.”“Yes,” said Brettison sadly. “I was wrong, but I have been punished for my sin. Malcolm Stratton,” he continued, turning to his friend, who stood there with his breast heaving still, and gazing wildly at Myra, who met his eyes with a piteous look, mingled of gratitude, sorrow, and despair, “I call upon you for the sake of all here to denounce this man to the officers.”“I cannot,” said Stratton, with a quick look from Myra to Sir Mark and back. “That task shall never be mine.”“Will monsieur say those words in French?” said the officer who had spoken before, and who was busy brushing the sand from his uniform. “I understand English a little, but I cannot trust myself at a time like this.”“Forgive me, then, Sir Mark,” said Brettison firmly, and speaking now in excellent French, “and you, too, my child,” he said, taking and kissing Myra’s hand. “I have tried for your sake and that of the man I love as a son to spare you pain, but the time has come when this must end. Officers, this man, an imbecile save at rare intervals, when he has these violent homicidal fits, is James Barron, or Dale, a convict escaped from one of the English pris—”Myra uttered a wild cry and hid her face on her aunt’s breast.“Brettison!” roared Stratton.“Mr Brettison, have you taken leave of your senses?” cried Sir Mark. “James Barron!”“Bah!” said the convict, “the game is up. Henderson’s my name, Sam Henderson, James Barron’s fellow-prisoner and mate. Poor old Dandy Jem was shot dead that night! Where’s Stratton?” he cried, with a curious change coming over him. “Ah! there. Now, man, no shuffling. The game’s in my hands, you know. Come, pay up like a man. They’re waiting for you—at the church—my wife—what’s her name—pretty Myra—my mate Jem’s widow—gentleman James, sir—all the swell—but I did it—I engraved the notes.”He smiled and chuckled.“Proud of them. Puzzled the clever ones. The Rothschilds hardly knew, eh, Jem? Well, you always were a swell. And so you mean to marry the gal? Well, I warn you; it’s getting too hot. Better cut off together till the scent’s cold. There, I’ve warned you. I thought so: nabbed. All right, gentlemen, I’ll come quietly. Easy with my mate. Going to be married this morning. Do you hear, Stratton? married this morning! My wife, you can have her. My little widow. Hush! quiet, will you. We shall never do it. Oh, yes, I’m game. Ugh, hard work. They’re after us, and we shall have to rush ’em. Right, Jem. I’ll stand any risk. Hold together, and then down the rocks!”The man’s face was working horribly, and his eyes were dilated with excitement as he rambled on wildly, mingling up the past in one tangle of confusion as he, in brief, gave suggestions to the horrified listeners of the various scenes enacted in his life.“Now, then,” he whispered, “ready. Off. Ah!” he shrieked, “don’t shoot—don’t shoot. Cowards! Ugh! the water—a long swim—but it’s for life—for life; and poor old Jem—handsome Jem, shot—shot!”The man’s whole manner changed; the twitching of the muscles, the excited playing of the nerves, and the wild look in the eyes gave place to the vacant, heavy stare, and his hand rose slowly to his neck, and played about the back of his ear.“Shot,” he said, “shot,” looking up at the admiral and smiling. “A bullet—behind the ear—never found it yet—never found—”“Quick!” cried Stratton, stepping forward so as to hide the ghastly contortions that crossed the man’s face from the ladies clinging together in a frightened group.“Yes,” said Brettison, with a sigh of relief, “for Heaven’s sake, officers, take him away.”They bore him instantly toward the boat, just as Myra uttered a low sigh and fainted dead away.It was some minutes before she came to again, to find Stratton kneeling by her side holding her hand, while the others stood a little aloof.For a few moments there was a wild and wondering look in her eyes, but it was softened directly by her tears, as she whispered:“I don’t quite grasp it all, Malcolm. Only tell me that is it true—that you really love me, dear?”“As true as that I can hold your hand in mine, clear from all stain, and that you are free—my love, my wife.”“But,” cried the admiral in the further explanations which ensued, “do I understand, my lad, that you all along took this man for Dale?”“Of course.”“But you had surely seen him at my house?”“I saw from a distance the man arrested on the wedding morn, but he was surrounded by the crowd, and I never caught his face.”“But you were present at the trial,” said Brettison.“No. I never entered the court. I could not go to gloat over my rival’s fall. I merely waited for the result.”“I remember now; I saw you waiting there,” said Brettison thoughtfully. “And I, of course, saw the prisoners side by side, but from the gallery, right behind and far above. I never caught a glimpse of either face until they turned to leave the dock, and then it was this man’s only—the other prisoner went first.”“And I could not see in this wretched madman’s altered features the scoundrel I had seen in court!” cried the admiral.“Who could have dreamed it was the same?” cried Guest. “Poor wretch! his face was like an old well-worn shilling till that fit came on. Here! Mal, old fellow, quick!”“It is nothing—nothing,” said Brettison faintly as Stratton saved him from a heavy fall. “My encounter last night—a little giddy still. Your arm, my boy; I’m better now. Well; for have I not saved you both—brought you full happiness and joy?”

Brettison’s progress was slow, but he refused to sit down and rest.

“We must get there,” he said; “we must get there.”

Stratton shuddered slightly, and for the moment felt that he ought to press on; but he knew that his words would have ten times the force with the admiral backed up by Brettison’s presence, so he restrained himself and helped his companion along till they came in sight of the rocks, a good-sized boat keeping pace with them a couple of hundred yards out, its owners having hard work to stem the current which ran along the shore.

“Is it much farther?” said Brettison at last. “I am weaker than I thought.”

“Seventy or eighty yards; just beyond those rocks,” cried Stratton.

“Hah, then I am strong enough,” cried Brettison, with a sigh of relief; and after a few moments’ pause he stepped out again; they passed the rocks, and the doubt which had existed in Stratton’s mind as to whether the party would still be where he left them was set at rest. But he started as he saw that they were gathered together as if there were some cause of excitement.

“Come along,” he whispered quickly.

They were hurrying along, when there was a joyful cry, and the sturdy Breton woman chosen for Dale’s attendant cried out:

“Ah, monsieur; quick! quick! Here—help!”

Stratton quitted Brettison’s side and rushed forward, to see, as the group opened, a sight that made his blood boil with rage.

Dale was holding Myra’s wrist with his left hand and struggling violently with the admiral and Guest, who were afraid to exert their strength for fear of injuring Myra, who was supported by Margot with one arm, while with her strong fingers she grasped her patient’s wrist in turn.

“Quick, monsieur!” cried Margot; “it is a fit. He is half-mad.”

Forgetting everything but the fact that Myra was in this scoundrel’s grasp, Stratton sprang at him, catching him by the throat to try and make him quit his hold.

“Mr Stratton!” cried Sir Mark in angry amazement.

The name acted like magic. Dale shook himself free of the admiral and Margot, loosening Myra’s wrist in the act, and with an angry snarl, like that of some wild beast, fixed his hands on Stratton’s throat.

In spite of his last meeting Guest flew to his friend’s assistance, and Margot bravely flung her arms about her patient’s waist; but in spite of all the man’s strength for the moment was gigantic, and, paying no heed to the others, he sought to vent his rage upon Stratton, who felt himself growing weaker and weaker in his enemy’s grasp.

Twice over as they swayed here and there he caught sight of Myra’s face convulsed with horror while she clung to her cousin, and her look unnerved him so that it would have gone hard with him but for the arrival of a party of four men who had landed from the boat that had kept pace with them along the shore.

One of these was the fisherman, the two others were a couple ofgendarmesand another fisher, and the two officers threw themselves into the fray, with the result that the next minute Dale was firmly secured and held.

“This is the man, then,” panted one of the officers.

“Yes,” said the fisherman from the cottage. “I say he tried to strangle this gentleman in the night at my place. Look at his throat.”

“It is quite true,” said Brettison.

“And you told us, monsieur,” cried the fisherman reproachfully, “that your friend was imbecile, and that we need not fear.”

“Yes,” said Brettison sadly. “I was wrong, but I have been punished for my sin. Malcolm Stratton,” he continued, turning to his friend, who stood there with his breast heaving still, and gazing wildly at Myra, who met his eyes with a piteous look, mingled of gratitude, sorrow, and despair, “I call upon you for the sake of all here to denounce this man to the officers.”

“I cannot,” said Stratton, with a quick look from Myra to Sir Mark and back. “That task shall never be mine.”

“Will monsieur say those words in French?” said the officer who had spoken before, and who was busy brushing the sand from his uniform. “I understand English a little, but I cannot trust myself at a time like this.”

“Forgive me, then, Sir Mark,” said Brettison firmly, and speaking now in excellent French, “and you, too, my child,” he said, taking and kissing Myra’s hand. “I have tried for your sake and that of the man I love as a son to spare you pain, but the time has come when this must end. Officers, this man, an imbecile save at rare intervals, when he has these violent homicidal fits, is James Barron, or Dale, a convict escaped from one of the English pris—”

Myra uttered a wild cry and hid her face on her aunt’s breast.

“Brettison!” roared Stratton.

“Mr Brettison, have you taken leave of your senses?” cried Sir Mark. “James Barron!”

“Bah!” said the convict, “the game is up. Henderson’s my name, Sam Henderson, James Barron’s fellow-prisoner and mate. Poor old Dandy Jem was shot dead that night! Where’s Stratton?” he cried, with a curious change coming over him. “Ah! there. Now, man, no shuffling. The game’s in my hands, you know. Come, pay up like a man. They’re waiting for you—at the church—my wife—what’s her name—pretty Myra—my mate Jem’s widow—gentleman James, sir—all the swell—but I did it—I engraved the notes.”

He smiled and chuckled.

“Proud of them. Puzzled the clever ones. The Rothschilds hardly knew, eh, Jem? Well, you always were a swell. And so you mean to marry the gal? Well, I warn you; it’s getting too hot. Better cut off together till the scent’s cold. There, I’ve warned you. I thought so: nabbed. All right, gentlemen, I’ll come quietly. Easy with my mate. Going to be married this morning. Do you hear, Stratton? married this morning! My wife, you can have her. My little widow. Hush! quiet, will you. We shall never do it. Oh, yes, I’m game. Ugh, hard work. They’re after us, and we shall have to rush ’em. Right, Jem. I’ll stand any risk. Hold together, and then down the rocks!”

The man’s face was working horribly, and his eyes were dilated with excitement as he rambled on wildly, mingling up the past in one tangle of confusion as he, in brief, gave suggestions to the horrified listeners of the various scenes enacted in his life.

“Now, then,” he whispered, “ready. Off. Ah!” he shrieked, “don’t shoot—don’t shoot. Cowards! Ugh! the water—a long swim—but it’s for life—for life; and poor old Jem—handsome Jem, shot—shot!”

The man’s whole manner changed; the twitching of the muscles, the excited playing of the nerves, and the wild look in the eyes gave place to the vacant, heavy stare, and his hand rose slowly to his neck, and played about the back of his ear.

“Shot,” he said, “shot,” looking up at the admiral and smiling. “A bullet—behind the ear—never found it yet—never found—”

“Quick!” cried Stratton, stepping forward so as to hide the ghastly contortions that crossed the man’s face from the ladies clinging together in a frightened group.

“Yes,” said Brettison, with a sigh of relief, “for Heaven’s sake, officers, take him away.”

They bore him instantly toward the boat, just as Myra uttered a low sigh and fainted dead away.

It was some minutes before she came to again, to find Stratton kneeling by her side holding her hand, while the others stood a little aloof.

For a few moments there was a wild and wondering look in her eyes, but it was softened directly by her tears, as she whispered:

“I don’t quite grasp it all, Malcolm. Only tell me that is it true—that you really love me, dear?”

“As true as that I can hold your hand in mine, clear from all stain, and that you are free—my love, my wife.”

“But,” cried the admiral in the further explanations which ensued, “do I understand, my lad, that you all along took this man for Dale?”

“Of course.”

“But you had surely seen him at my house?”

“I saw from a distance the man arrested on the wedding morn, but he was surrounded by the crowd, and I never caught his face.”

“But you were present at the trial,” said Brettison.

“No. I never entered the court. I could not go to gloat over my rival’s fall. I merely waited for the result.”

“I remember now; I saw you waiting there,” said Brettison thoughtfully. “And I, of course, saw the prisoners side by side, but from the gallery, right behind and far above. I never caught a glimpse of either face until they turned to leave the dock, and then it was this man’s only—the other prisoner went first.”

“And I could not see in this wretched madman’s altered features the scoundrel I had seen in court!” cried the admiral.

“Who could have dreamed it was the same?” cried Guest. “Poor wretch! his face was like an old well-worn shilling till that fit came on. Here! Mal, old fellow, quick!”

“It is nothing—nothing,” said Brettison faintly as Stratton saved him from a heavy fall. “My encounter last night—a little giddy still. Your arm, my boy; I’m better now. Well; for have I not saved you both—brought you full happiness and joy?”

Chapter Fifty Five.The last Cloud.“Jules, you are a bad—a naughty!” cried Margot angrily. “You and your wife never tell me of what takes place while I sleep; you send me out with my patient, and never tell me he is dangerous; and then you rob me of my bread by getting him sent away. It is ruin, and I must go back to the town and starve.”“Never,” cried a pleasant little voice behind her; and she turned sharply round to see Edie and Guest, the former smiling through her tears. “Have no fear about that, my poor Margot. Come up to the house and help, as my poor cousin is very weak and ill.”“My faith, dear miss, I will,” cried the sturdy Breton woman.In fact, Margot’s hands were pretty full during the next month, for she had two patients to tend—at the little château and in the cottage just below.“Ah! bah, madame,” she said, looking up from her knitting. “What do I do? Nothing. The beloved miss grows better and more beautiful day by day, and is it I? Is it the good physician come from Saint Malo? Name of a little cider apple! no. Look at the dear old monsieur there.”She pointed with a knitting needle to where Brettison sat, propped up in a chair in the shadow of the rock with a table before him, and Miss Jerrold, who looked very old and grey and stately, turned her head, nodded, and went on with the embroidery about which her busy fingers played.“He says to me, ‘You must go up on the cliffs this morning, Margot, and bring me every flower you can find.’ I go, madame, and—”“One moment, Margot; you always forget I am mademoiselle, not madame.”“The greater the pity, mad’moiselle. You so young looking still you should be the beautiful mother of many children, or a widow like me. What of the monsieur? I take him every morning all the flowers, and there, see, he is as happy with them as a little child. Of my other sick one—look at her—”She pointed with the other needle just set free to where Myra and Stratton were also seated in the shade gazing dreamily out to where the anchored sailing boats rose and fell upon the calm blue water.Aunt Jerrold looked through her half-closed eyes, smiled and nodded again.“Faith of a good woman!” said Margot, “does she want a nurse, does she want a physician? No. The good doctor is by her side, and ever since the day when the bad man was taken I have seen the beautiful brown of the sea air and the rose of the sun come into her cheeks. It is a folly my being here now, but if mademoiselle and the great sea captain will keep my faithful services till they marry and be happy; and oh, mademoiselle,” cried Margot, turning her eyes up toward the sky, and displaying her white teeth, “the way that I adore the dear, dear little children!”“Margot!” cried Miss Jerrold austerely, and she rose and walked away.“Faith of a good woman! what have I said?” muttered Margot, looking now at where Guest and Edie had gone down to a rock pool in which they were fishing with their hands for prawns, but catching each other’s fingers instead deep down under the weeds. “They will all marry, and very soon. Ah! those old maids!”The one to whom she specially referred had gone to sit down now by her brother, who was scanning a vessel in the offing with his glass.“French man-of-war, Rebecca,” he said. “Fine vessel, but only a confounded imitation of one of ours.”“Yes, dear, I suppose so,” said his sister, and she went on with her embroidery.“Are you getting tired of the place, Mark?” she said suddenly.“Eh? Tired! What for? It’s beautiful and calm, and there’s water and a bit of shipping, and everyone seems to be happy and comfortable. Tired? No! Are you?”“Oh, no, dear, only I thought we could not go on much longer like this.”“Let fate alter it, then,” said the admiral gruffly. “Don’t catch me at it. Myra hasn’t suggested such a thing.”“She? No,” said Miss Jerrold quickly. “O Mark!” she cried, “I am so glad to see her happy once again.”“God bless her, yes. I think she must have had all the trouble meant for her life in one big storm, so that she may have a calm passage right to the end.”“I pray that it may be so,” said Aunt Jerrold fervently. “How happy she looks.”“Yes,” said Sir Mark, closing the glass through which he had watched her while his sister spoke.They were right, for the calm had come. Seated hand in hand, Stratton had told Myra in the soft, dim light of evening, while the waters murmured at her feet, all the tangle of his troubles, and she had literally forced him to tell her all again and again, for the narrative was never tedious to her as a twice told tale, while the knowledge of all that he had suffered for her sake drew the bond between them in a faster knot.On this particular morning, when all was bright and sunny, there yet was one cloud near, for a servant came out from the cottage to say that monsieur was wanted.Stratton sprang up, and Myra rose and clung to his arm, her eyes dilating with the dread of some new trouble. But he at once calmed her.“There can be no trouble now that we could not meet,” he whispered; and she sank back in her seat to watch him till he disappeared within the door.The officer who had arrested Henderson was standing in the little room Stratton used, and with him a thin, earnest looking man in black, who seemed to wear an official uniform as well as air.Bows were exchanged, and then the latter produced some papers.“I have come, monsieur, respecting the man Barron-Dale,” he said in very good English. “As you know, monsieur, we have been in communication with the English authorities, and, as we have reported to you from time to time, there has been a reluctance on their part to investigate the matter.”“Yes, I have heard all this,” said Stratton, trying to be calm.“They were disposed to treat him as an impostor, and at last sent us word definitely that Barron-Dale and Henderson certainly died in their attempt to escape from your great prison. The correspondence has gone on, monsieur, till now, and I believe that the English authorities were about to send an officer to investigate the matter; but, as you have been informed, the man has been growing worse and worse while ill in the infirmary of the prison at Barville. Yesterday he had a bad attack—a fit.”He paused for a moment or two, looking gravely at Stratton.“The difficulty is solved now, monsieur,” said the officer gravely. “He did not recover from the fit. Our doctors have found the cause of those attacks—a pistol bullet was imbedded close to the brain.”“The bullet from his own pistol,” thought Stratton. “The shot he meant for me.”A few minutes after Stratton left the officer, and went straight to where Myra was waiting, trembling with excitement.“There is some fresh peril, Malcolm,” she cried as she caught his hand.“No, dearest,” he said slowly; “the last cloud has passed away.”The End.

“Jules, you are a bad—a naughty!” cried Margot angrily. “You and your wife never tell me of what takes place while I sleep; you send me out with my patient, and never tell me he is dangerous; and then you rob me of my bread by getting him sent away. It is ruin, and I must go back to the town and starve.”

“Never,” cried a pleasant little voice behind her; and she turned sharply round to see Edie and Guest, the former smiling through her tears. “Have no fear about that, my poor Margot. Come up to the house and help, as my poor cousin is very weak and ill.”

“My faith, dear miss, I will,” cried the sturdy Breton woman.

In fact, Margot’s hands were pretty full during the next month, for she had two patients to tend—at the little château and in the cottage just below.

“Ah! bah, madame,” she said, looking up from her knitting. “What do I do? Nothing. The beloved miss grows better and more beautiful day by day, and is it I? Is it the good physician come from Saint Malo? Name of a little cider apple! no. Look at the dear old monsieur there.”

She pointed with a knitting needle to where Brettison sat, propped up in a chair in the shadow of the rock with a table before him, and Miss Jerrold, who looked very old and grey and stately, turned her head, nodded, and went on with the embroidery about which her busy fingers played.

“He says to me, ‘You must go up on the cliffs this morning, Margot, and bring me every flower you can find.’ I go, madame, and—”

“One moment, Margot; you always forget I am mademoiselle, not madame.”

“The greater the pity, mad’moiselle. You so young looking still you should be the beautiful mother of many children, or a widow like me. What of the monsieur? I take him every morning all the flowers, and there, see, he is as happy with them as a little child. Of my other sick one—look at her—”

She pointed with the other needle just set free to where Myra and Stratton were also seated in the shade gazing dreamily out to where the anchored sailing boats rose and fell upon the calm blue water.

Aunt Jerrold looked through her half-closed eyes, smiled and nodded again.

“Faith of a good woman!” said Margot, “does she want a nurse, does she want a physician? No. The good doctor is by her side, and ever since the day when the bad man was taken I have seen the beautiful brown of the sea air and the rose of the sun come into her cheeks. It is a folly my being here now, but if mademoiselle and the great sea captain will keep my faithful services till they marry and be happy; and oh, mademoiselle,” cried Margot, turning her eyes up toward the sky, and displaying her white teeth, “the way that I adore the dear, dear little children!”

“Margot!” cried Miss Jerrold austerely, and she rose and walked away.

“Faith of a good woman! what have I said?” muttered Margot, looking now at where Guest and Edie had gone down to a rock pool in which they were fishing with their hands for prawns, but catching each other’s fingers instead deep down under the weeds. “They will all marry, and very soon. Ah! those old maids!”

The one to whom she specially referred had gone to sit down now by her brother, who was scanning a vessel in the offing with his glass.

“French man-of-war, Rebecca,” he said. “Fine vessel, but only a confounded imitation of one of ours.”

“Yes, dear, I suppose so,” said his sister, and she went on with her embroidery.

“Are you getting tired of the place, Mark?” she said suddenly.

“Eh? Tired! What for? It’s beautiful and calm, and there’s water and a bit of shipping, and everyone seems to be happy and comfortable. Tired? No! Are you?”

“Oh, no, dear, only I thought we could not go on much longer like this.”

“Let fate alter it, then,” said the admiral gruffly. “Don’t catch me at it. Myra hasn’t suggested such a thing.”

“She? No,” said Miss Jerrold quickly. “O Mark!” she cried, “I am so glad to see her happy once again.”

“God bless her, yes. I think she must have had all the trouble meant for her life in one big storm, so that she may have a calm passage right to the end.”

“I pray that it may be so,” said Aunt Jerrold fervently. “How happy she looks.”

“Yes,” said Sir Mark, closing the glass through which he had watched her while his sister spoke.

They were right, for the calm had come. Seated hand in hand, Stratton had told Myra in the soft, dim light of evening, while the waters murmured at her feet, all the tangle of his troubles, and she had literally forced him to tell her all again and again, for the narrative was never tedious to her as a twice told tale, while the knowledge of all that he had suffered for her sake drew the bond between them in a faster knot.

On this particular morning, when all was bright and sunny, there yet was one cloud near, for a servant came out from the cottage to say that monsieur was wanted.

Stratton sprang up, and Myra rose and clung to his arm, her eyes dilating with the dread of some new trouble. But he at once calmed her.

“There can be no trouble now that we could not meet,” he whispered; and she sank back in her seat to watch him till he disappeared within the door.

The officer who had arrested Henderson was standing in the little room Stratton used, and with him a thin, earnest looking man in black, who seemed to wear an official uniform as well as air.

Bows were exchanged, and then the latter produced some papers.

“I have come, monsieur, respecting the man Barron-Dale,” he said in very good English. “As you know, monsieur, we have been in communication with the English authorities, and, as we have reported to you from time to time, there has been a reluctance on their part to investigate the matter.”

“Yes, I have heard all this,” said Stratton, trying to be calm.

“They were disposed to treat him as an impostor, and at last sent us word definitely that Barron-Dale and Henderson certainly died in their attempt to escape from your great prison. The correspondence has gone on, monsieur, till now, and I believe that the English authorities were about to send an officer to investigate the matter; but, as you have been informed, the man has been growing worse and worse while ill in the infirmary of the prison at Barville. Yesterday he had a bad attack—a fit.”

He paused for a moment or two, looking gravely at Stratton.

“The difficulty is solved now, monsieur,” said the officer gravely. “He did not recover from the fit. Our doctors have found the cause of those attacks—a pistol bullet was imbedded close to the brain.”

“The bullet from his own pistol,” thought Stratton. “The shot he meant for me.”

A few minutes after Stratton left the officer, and went straight to where Myra was waiting, trembling with excitement.

“There is some fresh peril, Malcolm,” she cried as she caught his hand.

“No, dearest,” he said slowly; “the last cloud has passed away.”

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