Chapter Ten.

Chapter Ten.An unopened Bud.Myra Jerrold stood looking very calm and statuesque, with James Barron holding her hand.“Yes,” he said, “I am going now, but only for a few hours. I cannot live away from you. Only a fortnight now, Myra, and then good-bye to cold England. I take you to a land of beauty, of sunny skies, and joy and love.”“Can any land be as beautiful as that which holds one’s home?” she said.“No,” replied Barron quickly, “but that will be your home.”“Trinidad,” said Myra thoughtfully; “so many thousand miles away.”“Bah! what are a few thousand miles now? A journey in a floating hotel to a place where you can telegraph to your father’s door—instantaneous messages, and receive back the replies.”“But still so far,” said Myra dreamily.“Try and drive away such thoughts, dearest,” whispered Barron. “I shall be there. And besides, Sir Mark will run over and see us; and Edith, too, with her husband.”Myra’s manner changed. The dreaminess passed away and she looked quickly in her betrothed’s eyes.“Yes, I always thought so,” he said merrily. “’Tis love that makes the world go round. That Mr Stratton, your old friend, is below. Don’t you understand?”“No,” said Myra quietly, “not quite.”“I think you do, dearest,” he said, trying to pass his arm round her, but she shrank gently away.“Very well,” he said, kissing her hand, “I can wait. You will not always be so cold. Mr Stratton came to see your father on business, looking the lover from head to foot. I was sent up to you, and soon after our dear little Edie is summoned to the library. Come, don’t look so innocent, darling. You do understand.”“That Mr Stratton has come to propose for Edie’s hand?”“Of course.”Myra’s brow contracted a little, and there was a puzzled look in her eyes as she said gently:“Yes, he has been very attentive to her often. Well, I like Mr Stratton very much, Mr Barron.”“James,” he said reproachfully.“James,” she said, as if repeating a lesson, in a dreamy tone, and her eyes were directed toward the door.“I like him, too, now that I am quite safe. There was a time, dear, when I first came here, and had my doubts. I fancied a rival in Mr Stratton.”“A rival?” she said, starting and colouring. “Yes; but so I did in any man who approached you, dearest. But there never was anything—the slightest flirtation?”“No, never,” she said quickly.“Of course not; and I am so happy, Myra. You, so young and beautiful, to awaken first to love at my words. But are you not cruel and cold to me still? Our marriage so soon, and you treat me only kindly, as if I were a friend, instead of as the man so soon to be your husband.”Myra withdrew her hand, for the door opened, and Edith entered the room, looking troubled and disturbed.“Good-bye, then, once more, dearest,” said Barron, taking Myra’s hand, “till dinner time. Ah, Edie!” he said as he crossed to the door, which she was in the act of closing. Then, in a whisper: “Am I to congratulate you? My present will be a suite of pearls.”Edie started, and Barron smiled, nodded, and passed out. As he descended the stairs his ears twitched, and his whole attention seemed to be fixed upon the library door, but he could hear no sound, and, taking his hat and gloves from the table, he passed out of the great hall, erect, handsome, and with a self-satisfied smile, before the butler could reach it in answer to the drawing room bell.“Wedding a statue,” he said to himself. “But the statue is thickly gilt, and the marble underneath may be made to glow without a West Indian sun. So it was little Edie, then. He hasn’t bad taste. The dark horse was not dangerous after all, and was not run for coin.”He was so intent upon his thoughts that he did not notice a hansom cab drawn up about a hundred yards from the house, in which a man was seated, watching him intently, and leaning forward more and more till he was about to pass, when there was a sharppst-pst, which made him turn and scowl at the utterer of the signal.“Hi! What a while you’ve been.”“What the devil brings you here?” said Barron.“To find you, of course,” said the man sourly. “Thought you’d be there.”Barron looked quickly toward Sir Mark’s house, turned, and said sharply:“What is it?”“Jump in, and I’ll tell you,” whispered the man. “Getting hot.”Barron jumped into the cab, which was rapidly driven off after instructions had been given through the trap to the driver, and the next minute it was out of sight.Meanwhile, Edie had stood listening till she heard the hall door closed, and then turned to where her cousin was gazing thoughtfully at the window, not having moved since Barron left the room.“Listening to his beloved footsteps, Myra?” said Edie sarcastically.Myra turned upon her with her eyes flashing, but a smile came upon her lips, and she said:“Well, Edie, am I to congratulate you, too?”“What about?” flashed out the girl, bitterly mortified by the position in which she had been placed. “Being made a laughing stock for you?”“What do you mean, dear?” said Myra, startled by the girl’s angry way; but there was no answer, and, full of eagerness now, Myra caught her hands. “Mr Barron said just now that Mr Stratton came to propose for you.”“For me?” cried Edith bitterly. “Absurd!”“But I always thought he was so attentive to you, dear. I always felt that you were encouraging him.”“Oh, how can people be so stupidly blind!” cried Edie, snatching herself away. “It is ridiculous.”“But, Edie, he was always with you. When he came here, or we met him and his friend at auntie’s—”“Leave his friend alone, please,” raged the girl. Then, trembling at her sudden outburst, she continued seriously:“Always with me! Of course he was: to sit and pour into my ears praises of you; to talk about your playing and singing, and ask my opinion of this and that which you had said and done, till I was sick of the man. Do you hear? Sick of him!”A mist began to form before Myra’s eyes, gradually shutting her in as she sank back in her chair, till all around was darkness, and she could not see the unwonted excitement of her cousin, who, with her fingers tightly enlaced, kept on moving from place to place, and talking rapidly.But there was a bright light beginning to flash out in Myra’s inner consciousness, and growing moment by moment, till the maiden calm within her breast was agitated by the first breathings—the forerunners of a tempest—and she saw little thoughts of the past, which she had crushed out at once as silly girlish fancies, rising again, and taking solid shape. Looks that had more than once startled her and set her thinking, but suppressed at once as follies, now coming back to be illumined by this wondrous light, till, in the full awakening that had come, she grasped the sides of the chair and began to tremble, as Edie’s voice came out from beyond the darkness, in which externals were shrouded, the essence of all coming home to her in one terrible reproach, as she told herself that she had been blind, and that the awakening to the truth had come too late.“How could you—how could you!” cried Edie in a low voice, full of the emotion which stirred her. “You thought I loved Malcolm? O Myry, as if I should have kept it from you if I had. Like him? Yes, always as the dearest, best fellow I ever met. I didn’t mean it, dear. I never was sick of him; but he used to make me angry, because I felt that he almost worshipped you, and was making me a stepping-stone to get nearer. Well, why don’t you ask me why I did not speak?”There was no reply, and Edie went on as if she had been answered.“Of course I could not say a word. One day I felt sure that he loved you, and would confide in me; the next time we met he was so quiet and strange that I told myself it was all fancy, and that I should be a silly, match-making creature if I said a word. Besides, how could I? What would uncle, who has been so good to me, have thought if I had seemed to encourage it? And you, all the time, like a horrid, cold, marble statue at an exhibition, with no more heart or care, or else you would have seen.”Edie relieved her feelings by unlacing her fingers, taking out her handkerchief from her pocket and beginning to tear it.“And now,” she went on, “you tell me you believed that he cared for me, and suggest that but for this idea things might have been different. But they would not have been. You are a hard, cold, heartless creature, Myra. He was too poor for you, and not likely to buy you diamonds and pearls like Mr Barron does. Promise me pearls, would he! Insulting me as he did this morning! Why, I would rather have Malcolm Stratton without a penny than Mr Barron with all the West Indies and East Indies, too, for a portion. Malcolm is worth a hundred millions of him, and I hope you are happy now, for I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve broken the poor fellow’s heart.”Myra could bear no more, and turning sharply toward her cousin she stretched out her hands imploringly, as her pale face, with its wild looking, dilated eyes seemed to ask for help. But the look was not seen, for, bursting into a fit of weeping, Edie cried:“But it’s too late now! I hope you’ll be happy, dear, and uncle satisfied; but you will repent it, I am sure, for I don’t believe you love Mr Barron the slightest bit.”As she spoke those last words she left the room, and Myra was alone with thoughts which grew and swelled till she felt half suffocated, while, like some vibrating, echoing stroke of a distant knell, came the repetition of those two words, quivering through every nerve and fibre of her being:“Too late—too late—too late!”For the bud of love had been lying dormant in her breast, waiting to expand, and it was opening fast now, as she felt, but only to be withered as its petals fell apart.Hurried on by Barron’s impetuous advances, approved as a suitor by her father, her betrothed’s courtship had carried all before it. His attentions had pleased her, and she had reproached herself at times after he had complained that she was cold. One evening, when assailed by doubts of herself, she had appealed to her father and asked him if he wished her to marry Mr Barron, and she recalled his words when she had dreamily said that she did not think she loved him.“Why, of course I wish it, my darling,” he cried; “and as to the love—oh, that will come. Don’t let schoolgirl fancies and romances which you have read influence you, my child. You esteem Mr Barron, do you not?”She had said that she did, and then let herself subside into a dreamy state, principally taken up by thoughts of the change, the preparations for that change, and visions of the glorious country—all sunshine, languor, and delights—which Barron never seemed to tire of painting.But now the awakening had come—now that it was too late!That night, hollow-eyed, and as if he had risen from a sick bed, Malcolm sat writing in his chambers by the light of his shaded lamp. The old panelled room looked weird and strange, and dark shadows lurked in the corners and were cast by the flickering flames of the fire on his left.Since his return from the Jerrolds’ he had gone through a phase of agony and despair so terrible that his actions, hidden from all within that solitary room, had resembled those of the insane; but at last the calm had come, and after sitting for some time looking his position in the face, he had set to work writing two or three letters, and then commenced one full of instructions to Percy Guest, telling him how to act when he received that letter, asking his forgiveness, and ending by saying:I cannot face it. You will call me a coward, perhaps, but you would not if you could grasp all. I am perfectly calm now, sensible of the awful responsibilities of my act, but after what I have gone through since I have been here alone to-day I know perfectly well that my reason is failing, and that in a few hours the paroxysm will return, finding me weaker than before. Better the end at once than after a few months’ or years’ living death, confined among other miserables like myself.It was my all—my one aim, Guest, for which I toiled so hard, fighting for success. And the good fortune has come in company with a failure so great that the success is nothing.Good-bye.He read his letter over as calmly as if it contained memoranda to send to a friend prior to his departure on a short journey. Then, folding it, inclosing it in an envelope, he directed it, and laid it carefully beside the others on the table before sinking back in his chair.“Is there anything else?” he said quietly.At that moment the clock on a cabinet rung out the musical chimes of four quarters, and a deeper toned bell sounded the hour.“Ten,” he said, smiling. “Two hours more and then the beginning of a longer day.”He opened a drawer, took out a parchment label, and wrote upon it carefully:To Edward Brettison, when time is no more for his obliged and grateful friend, Malcolm Stratton.Rising from his chair he crossed to the cabinet, tied the label to one of the handles of the clock, then opened the door beneath, and laid bare a shelf of bottles, while a penetrating odour of camphor and other gums floated out into the room—a familiar odour to those who study natural history, and preserve specimens of insect or bird life.He had to move two or three bottles to get at one with a large neck and stopper, which he shook up and loosened several pieces of dull looking white crystal. One of these pieces he turned out on to the table by his letters, hesitated, and jerked out another. Then, setting down the bottle, he crossed the room to where a table-filter stood on a bracket, and returned with the largecarafeand a tumbler, which he filled nearly full of water. These two he set down on the table, and taking up one of the lumps of crystal he dropped it into the glass, taking care that no water should sprinkle over the side.He held it up to his lamp to see how quickly it would dissolve, set it down again, and dropped in the second piece before beginning to tap the table with his nails, watching the crystalline pieces the while.“Quick and painless, I hope,” he said quietly. “Bah! I can bear a little pain.”He turned in his chair with a laugh, which froze upon his lips as he saw his shadow on a panel a few yards away, the weird aspect of the moving figure having so terrible an effect upon his shattered nerves that he sprang from his seat and fled to the wall, where he stood breathing hard.“Yes, I know,” he cried wildly. “Only my shadow, but it is coming back—I cannot—it is more than man can bear.”There was a wild despair in his utterance, and he shrank away more and more toward the doorway leading to the further room. Then, as if making a supreme effort, he drew himself up erect, with his lips moving rapidly in a low murmur, stepped firmly toward the table and seized the glass.

Myra Jerrold stood looking very calm and statuesque, with James Barron holding her hand.

“Yes,” he said, “I am going now, but only for a few hours. I cannot live away from you. Only a fortnight now, Myra, and then good-bye to cold England. I take you to a land of beauty, of sunny skies, and joy and love.”

“Can any land be as beautiful as that which holds one’s home?” she said.

“No,” replied Barron quickly, “but that will be your home.”

“Trinidad,” said Myra thoughtfully; “so many thousand miles away.”

“Bah! what are a few thousand miles now? A journey in a floating hotel to a place where you can telegraph to your father’s door—instantaneous messages, and receive back the replies.”

“But still so far,” said Myra dreamily.

“Try and drive away such thoughts, dearest,” whispered Barron. “I shall be there. And besides, Sir Mark will run over and see us; and Edith, too, with her husband.”

Myra’s manner changed. The dreaminess passed away and she looked quickly in her betrothed’s eyes.

“Yes, I always thought so,” he said merrily. “’Tis love that makes the world go round. That Mr Stratton, your old friend, is below. Don’t you understand?”

“No,” said Myra quietly, “not quite.”

“I think you do, dearest,” he said, trying to pass his arm round her, but she shrank gently away.

“Very well,” he said, kissing her hand, “I can wait. You will not always be so cold. Mr Stratton came to see your father on business, looking the lover from head to foot. I was sent up to you, and soon after our dear little Edie is summoned to the library. Come, don’t look so innocent, darling. You do understand.”

“That Mr Stratton has come to propose for Edie’s hand?”

“Of course.”

Myra’s brow contracted a little, and there was a puzzled look in her eyes as she said gently:

“Yes, he has been very attentive to her often. Well, I like Mr Stratton very much, Mr Barron.”

“James,” he said reproachfully.

“James,” she said, as if repeating a lesson, in a dreamy tone, and her eyes were directed toward the door.

“I like him, too, now that I am quite safe. There was a time, dear, when I first came here, and had my doubts. I fancied a rival in Mr Stratton.”

“A rival?” she said, starting and colouring. “Yes; but so I did in any man who approached you, dearest. But there never was anything—the slightest flirtation?”

“No, never,” she said quickly.

“Of course not; and I am so happy, Myra. You, so young and beautiful, to awaken first to love at my words. But are you not cruel and cold to me still? Our marriage so soon, and you treat me only kindly, as if I were a friend, instead of as the man so soon to be your husband.”

Myra withdrew her hand, for the door opened, and Edith entered the room, looking troubled and disturbed.

“Good-bye, then, once more, dearest,” said Barron, taking Myra’s hand, “till dinner time. Ah, Edie!” he said as he crossed to the door, which she was in the act of closing. Then, in a whisper: “Am I to congratulate you? My present will be a suite of pearls.”

Edie started, and Barron smiled, nodded, and passed out. As he descended the stairs his ears twitched, and his whole attention seemed to be fixed upon the library door, but he could hear no sound, and, taking his hat and gloves from the table, he passed out of the great hall, erect, handsome, and with a self-satisfied smile, before the butler could reach it in answer to the drawing room bell.

“Wedding a statue,” he said to himself. “But the statue is thickly gilt, and the marble underneath may be made to glow without a West Indian sun. So it was little Edie, then. He hasn’t bad taste. The dark horse was not dangerous after all, and was not run for coin.”

He was so intent upon his thoughts that he did not notice a hansom cab drawn up about a hundred yards from the house, in which a man was seated, watching him intently, and leaning forward more and more till he was about to pass, when there was a sharppst-pst, which made him turn and scowl at the utterer of the signal.

“Hi! What a while you’ve been.”

“What the devil brings you here?” said Barron.

“To find you, of course,” said the man sourly. “Thought you’d be there.”

Barron looked quickly toward Sir Mark’s house, turned, and said sharply:

“What is it?”

“Jump in, and I’ll tell you,” whispered the man. “Getting hot.”

Barron jumped into the cab, which was rapidly driven off after instructions had been given through the trap to the driver, and the next minute it was out of sight.

Meanwhile, Edie had stood listening till she heard the hall door closed, and then turned to where her cousin was gazing thoughtfully at the window, not having moved since Barron left the room.

“Listening to his beloved footsteps, Myra?” said Edie sarcastically.

Myra turned upon her with her eyes flashing, but a smile came upon her lips, and she said:

“Well, Edie, am I to congratulate you, too?”

“What about?” flashed out the girl, bitterly mortified by the position in which she had been placed. “Being made a laughing stock for you?”

“What do you mean, dear?” said Myra, startled by the girl’s angry way; but there was no answer, and, full of eagerness now, Myra caught her hands. “Mr Barron said just now that Mr Stratton came to propose for you.”

“For me?” cried Edith bitterly. “Absurd!”

“But I always thought he was so attentive to you, dear. I always felt that you were encouraging him.”

“Oh, how can people be so stupidly blind!” cried Edie, snatching herself away. “It is ridiculous.”

“But, Edie, he was always with you. When he came here, or we met him and his friend at auntie’s—”

“Leave his friend alone, please,” raged the girl. Then, trembling at her sudden outburst, she continued seriously:

“Always with me! Of course he was: to sit and pour into my ears praises of you; to talk about your playing and singing, and ask my opinion of this and that which you had said and done, till I was sick of the man. Do you hear? Sick of him!”

A mist began to form before Myra’s eyes, gradually shutting her in as she sank back in her chair, till all around was darkness, and she could not see the unwonted excitement of her cousin, who, with her fingers tightly enlaced, kept on moving from place to place, and talking rapidly.

But there was a bright light beginning to flash out in Myra’s inner consciousness, and growing moment by moment, till the maiden calm within her breast was agitated by the first breathings—the forerunners of a tempest—and she saw little thoughts of the past, which she had crushed out at once as silly girlish fancies, rising again, and taking solid shape. Looks that had more than once startled her and set her thinking, but suppressed at once as follies, now coming back to be illumined by this wondrous light, till, in the full awakening that had come, she grasped the sides of the chair and began to tremble, as Edie’s voice came out from beyond the darkness, in which externals were shrouded, the essence of all coming home to her in one terrible reproach, as she told herself that she had been blind, and that the awakening to the truth had come too late.

“How could you—how could you!” cried Edie in a low voice, full of the emotion which stirred her. “You thought I loved Malcolm? O Myry, as if I should have kept it from you if I had. Like him? Yes, always as the dearest, best fellow I ever met. I didn’t mean it, dear. I never was sick of him; but he used to make me angry, because I felt that he almost worshipped you, and was making me a stepping-stone to get nearer. Well, why don’t you ask me why I did not speak?”

There was no reply, and Edie went on as if she had been answered.

“Of course I could not say a word. One day I felt sure that he loved you, and would confide in me; the next time we met he was so quiet and strange that I told myself it was all fancy, and that I should be a silly, match-making creature if I said a word. Besides, how could I? What would uncle, who has been so good to me, have thought if I had seemed to encourage it? And you, all the time, like a horrid, cold, marble statue at an exhibition, with no more heart or care, or else you would have seen.”

Edie relieved her feelings by unlacing her fingers, taking out her handkerchief from her pocket and beginning to tear it.

“And now,” she went on, “you tell me you believed that he cared for me, and suggest that but for this idea things might have been different. But they would not have been. You are a hard, cold, heartless creature, Myra. He was too poor for you, and not likely to buy you diamonds and pearls like Mr Barron does. Promise me pearls, would he! Insulting me as he did this morning! Why, I would rather have Malcolm Stratton without a penny than Mr Barron with all the West Indies and East Indies, too, for a portion. Malcolm is worth a hundred millions of him, and I hope you are happy now, for I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve broken the poor fellow’s heart.”

Myra could bear no more, and turning sharply toward her cousin she stretched out her hands imploringly, as her pale face, with its wild looking, dilated eyes seemed to ask for help. But the look was not seen, for, bursting into a fit of weeping, Edie cried:

“But it’s too late now! I hope you’ll be happy, dear, and uncle satisfied; but you will repent it, I am sure, for I don’t believe you love Mr Barron the slightest bit.”

As she spoke those last words she left the room, and Myra was alone with thoughts which grew and swelled till she felt half suffocated, while, like some vibrating, echoing stroke of a distant knell, came the repetition of those two words, quivering through every nerve and fibre of her being:

“Too late—too late—too late!”

For the bud of love had been lying dormant in her breast, waiting to expand, and it was opening fast now, as she felt, but only to be withered as its petals fell apart.

Hurried on by Barron’s impetuous advances, approved as a suitor by her father, her betrothed’s courtship had carried all before it. His attentions had pleased her, and she had reproached herself at times after he had complained that she was cold. One evening, when assailed by doubts of herself, she had appealed to her father and asked him if he wished her to marry Mr Barron, and she recalled his words when she had dreamily said that she did not think she loved him.

“Why, of course I wish it, my darling,” he cried; “and as to the love—oh, that will come. Don’t let schoolgirl fancies and romances which you have read influence you, my child. You esteem Mr Barron, do you not?”

She had said that she did, and then let herself subside into a dreamy state, principally taken up by thoughts of the change, the preparations for that change, and visions of the glorious country—all sunshine, languor, and delights—which Barron never seemed to tire of painting.

But now the awakening had come—now that it was too late!

That night, hollow-eyed, and as if he had risen from a sick bed, Malcolm sat writing in his chambers by the light of his shaded lamp. The old panelled room looked weird and strange, and dark shadows lurked in the corners and were cast by the flickering flames of the fire on his left.

Since his return from the Jerrolds’ he had gone through a phase of agony and despair so terrible that his actions, hidden from all within that solitary room, had resembled those of the insane; but at last the calm had come, and after sitting for some time looking his position in the face, he had set to work writing two or three letters, and then commenced one full of instructions to Percy Guest, telling him how to act when he received that letter, asking his forgiveness, and ending by saying:

I cannot face it. You will call me a coward, perhaps, but you would not if you could grasp all. I am perfectly calm now, sensible of the awful responsibilities of my act, but after what I have gone through since I have been here alone to-day I know perfectly well that my reason is failing, and that in a few hours the paroxysm will return, finding me weaker than before. Better the end at once than after a few months’ or years’ living death, confined among other miserables like myself.It was my all—my one aim, Guest, for which I toiled so hard, fighting for success. And the good fortune has come in company with a failure so great that the success is nothing.Good-bye.

I cannot face it. You will call me a coward, perhaps, but you would not if you could grasp all. I am perfectly calm now, sensible of the awful responsibilities of my act, but after what I have gone through since I have been here alone to-day I know perfectly well that my reason is failing, and that in a few hours the paroxysm will return, finding me weaker than before. Better the end at once than after a few months’ or years’ living death, confined among other miserables like myself.

It was my all—my one aim, Guest, for which I toiled so hard, fighting for success. And the good fortune has come in company with a failure so great that the success is nothing.

Good-bye.

He read his letter over as calmly as if it contained memoranda to send to a friend prior to his departure on a short journey. Then, folding it, inclosing it in an envelope, he directed it, and laid it carefully beside the others on the table before sinking back in his chair.

“Is there anything else?” he said quietly.

At that moment the clock on a cabinet rung out the musical chimes of four quarters, and a deeper toned bell sounded the hour.

“Ten,” he said, smiling. “Two hours more and then the beginning of a longer day.”

He opened a drawer, took out a parchment label, and wrote upon it carefully:

To Edward Brettison, when time is no more for his obliged and grateful friend, Malcolm Stratton.

To Edward Brettison, when time is no more for his obliged and grateful friend, Malcolm Stratton.

Rising from his chair he crossed to the cabinet, tied the label to one of the handles of the clock, then opened the door beneath, and laid bare a shelf of bottles, while a penetrating odour of camphor and other gums floated out into the room—a familiar odour to those who study natural history, and preserve specimens of insect or bird life.

He had to move two or three bottles to get at one with a large neck and stopper, which he shook up and loosened several pieces of dull looking white crystal. One of these pieces he turned out on to the table by his letters, hesitated, and jerked out another. Then, setting down the bottle, he crossed the room to where a table-filter stood on a bracket, and returned with the largecarafeand a tumbler, which he filled nearly full of water. These two he set down on the table, and taking up one of the lumps of crystal he dropped it into the glass, taking care that no water should sprinkle over the side.

He held it up to his lamp to see how quickly it would dissolve, set it down again, and dropped in the second piece before beginning to tap the table with his nails, watching the crystalline pieces the while.

“Quick and painless, I hope,” he said quietly. “Bah! I can bear a little pain.”

He turned in his chair with a laugh, which froze upon his lips as he saw his shadow on a panel a few yards away, the weird aspect of the moving figure having so terrible an effect upon his shattered nerves that he sprang from his seat and fled to the wall, where he stood breathing hard.

“Yes, I know,” he cried wildly. “Only my shadow, but it is coming back—I cannot—it is more than man can bear.”

There was a wild despair in his utterance, and he shrank away more and more toward the doorway leading to the further room. Then, as if making a supreme effort, he drew himself up erect, with his lips moving rapidly in a low murmur, stepped firmly toward the table and seized the glass.

Chapter Eleven.Fate!Barron was back to dine at the admiral’s that night, but the dinner was not a success. Myra was singularly cold and formal in her manner; Edie pleaded a headache; and the admiral was worried by recollections of the morning’s blunder, and felt awkward and constrained with his guest.Strive hard as he would he could not help making comparisons, and a curious feeling of pity came over him as he thought of Stratton’s blank face and the look of despair in his eyes, while he half wished that he had not allowed himself to be so easily won over to the engagement.“For he is, after all, nearly a stranger,” he mused as his son-in-law elect tried hard to secure Myra’s interest in a society anecdote he was retailing, to which she listened and that was all. “Yes, a stranger,” mused Sir Mark. “I know very little about him. Bah! Absurd! What should I know of any man who wanted to marry my girl? I might meet his relatives, and there would be a certain amount of intercourse, but if I knew them for fifty years it would not make the man a good husband to my poor girl. He loves her dearly; he is a fine, clever, manly fellow; there is no doubt about the Barron estate in Trinidad, and he has a handsome balance at his banker’s.”The ladies rose soon after, and Barron held the door open, returning slowly to his seat, and shrugging his shoulders slightly. For there had been no tender look as Myra passed out, and Barron’s thought was justified.“Don’t seem as if we were engaged. I hope,” he said aloud, “Myra is not unwell.”“Eh? Oh, no, my dear boy, no. Girls do come over grumpy sometimes. Here, try this claret, and let’s have a cozy chat for an hour before we go up.”“An hour?” said Barron, with a raising of the eyebrows.“Yes; why not? You’re not a love-sick boy, and you’ll have plenty of your wife by and by.”“Not a boy, certainly, sir. As to the love-sickness—well, I don’t know. But—yes, that’s a good glass of claret. Larose, eh?”“Yes. Fill your glass again.”“Willingly,” said Baron, obeying his host, and pushing back the jug, “for I want to talk to you, sir, very seriously, and one seems to get on over a glass of wine.”“To talk to me?” said Sir Mark sharply, for his nerves were still ajar. “Nothing the matter?”“Yes—and no.”“Look here, Barron,” cried Sir Mark excitedly, “no beating about the bush. If you want to draw back from your engagement say so like a man.”“If I want to draw back from my engagement, my dear sir? What in the world are you thinking about?”“I—er—well, your manner was so strange.”“Not strange, Sir Mark: serious. There are serious moments in my life. By the way, I have seen my solicitor again respecting the settlements, and the papers will be ready at any time.”“No hurry, sir, no hurry,” said Sir Mark, frowning. “Well?”Barron drew a long breath.“Well, what is it, man—what is wrong?”“Only the old story. When the cat’s away the mice will play.”“What do you mean?”“I’ve had bad news from my agent in Trinidad.”“Indeed!”“He writes to me by this mail that he has done his best, but the estate needs my immediate supervision—that he cannot exert the same influence and authority that I should.”“Losses?”“Oh, no; gains—that is, a little on the right side. But a little is absurd. Those plantations ought to produce a princely revenue.”The admiral looked at his guest keenly.“Well,” he said at last, “what does this mean?”“That in spite of everything—my own desires and the love I have for England—I shall have to run across as soon as possible.”“For how long?”“I cannot say—probably for a year.”“Hah!” ejaculated the admiral, with a sigh of relief. “A year before he would be compelled to part with his child.”“And under the circumstances, Sir Mark, I am obliged to throw myself upon your mercy.”“What do you mean?” cried the admiral in alarm.“Can you ask, sir?” said Barron reproachfully. “I know it is making a great demand upon you and dear Myra; but life is short, and I ask you if my position would not be terrible. It would be like exile to me. I could not bear it. I would say to my agent, ‘Let the estate go to—’ never mind where; but that would be courting ruin at a time when I am beginning to learn the value of money, as a slave of the lamp, who can, at my lightest order, bring everything I desire to lay at my darling’s feet.”“You mean,” cried the admiral hotly, “that you want the wedding hurried on?”“To be plain, Sir Mark, I do. In a month from now. I must go by the next mail boat but one.”“It is impossible, sir!” cried Sir Mark.Barron shook his head and the admiral changed his position in his chair.“But Myra?” he cried. “Oh, she would never consent to its being so soon.”“I believe our dear Myra would, in the sweetness of her disposition alone, consent, Sir Mark,” said Barron gravely; “and as soon as she knows of the vital importance of time to the man who will be her husband, she will endeavour to meet his wishes in every way.”“Yes, yes; she is a dear, good girl,” said Sir Mark; “but this is terrible: so soon.”“The time for parting must come, Sir Mark, sooner or later; and think: it is for her benefit and happiness. Well, yes, I must confess to my own selfish wishes.”“And then there is her aunt—my sister. She would never consent to—Yes, I know exactly what she would say—such indecent haste.”“Only an elderly lady’s objection, Sir Mark,” said Barron, smiling. “You are certainly bringing forward a real difficulty now, for I fear that I have never found favour in Miss Jerrold’s eyes. But surely she has no right to dictate in a case like this. Nay, let us have no opposition. I will appeal to Miss Jerrold myself. She is too high-minded and sweet a lady to stand in the way of her niece’s and my happiness. I am satisfied of that. Come, Sir Mark, look at the case plainly. You have been a sailor, sir, and know the meaning of sudden orders to join. Nothing would stop you. Mine are not so sudden, for I have—that is, at all risks, I will have—a month. My fortune is at stake—Myra’s fortune, I may say. Help me as you feel the case deserves.”The admiral was silent for a few minutes, during which he filled and emptied his claret glass twice.“You’ve floored me, Barron,” he said at last. “I can’t find an argument against you.”“Then you consent? And you will help me in every way?”“It is hard work, my boy—a terrible wrench, but I suppose I must. In a month,” he muttered; “so soon—and for her to sail right away for a whole year.”Barron wrung his hand hard and smiled.“How long will it be, my dear sir, before your old taste for the sea returns? Why, you’ll be running across before three months are past. Really I should not be surprised if you announced that you meant to come with us.”“Hah! Why not?” cried Sir Mark eagerly. “No, no; that would not do. But I certainly will run over before long.”“Do, sir,” cried Barron eagerly.“Barbadoes, Bahamas, Bermuda,” cried Sir Mark. “Why, I could take a trip anywhere among the islands. It’s all familiar ground to me. But poor Myra—a month; so soon. I don’t feel as if I am doing right, Barron; but there, it is fate.”“Yes, sir, it is fate.”

Barron was back to dine at the admiral’s that night, but the dinner was not a success. Myra was singularly cold and formal in her manner; Edie pleaded a headache; and the admiral was worried by recollections of the morning’s blunder, and felt awkward and constrained with his guest.

Strive hard as he would he could not help making comparisons, and a curious feeling of pity came over him as he thought of Stratton’s blank face and the look of despair in his eyes, while he half wished that he had not allowed himself to be so easily won over to the engagement.

“For he is, after all, nearly a stranger,” he mused as his son-in-law elect tried hard to secure Myra’s interest in a society anecdote he was retailing, to which she listened and that was all. “Yes, a stranger,” mused Sir Mark. “I know very little about him. Bah! Absurd! What should I know of any man who wanted to marry my girl? I might meet his relatives, and there would be a certain amount of intercourse, but if I knew them for fifty years it would not make the man a good husband to my poor girl. He loves her dearly; he is a fine, clever, manly fellow; there is no doubt about the Barron estate in Trinidad, and he has a handsome balance at his banker’s.”

The ladies rose soon after, and Barron held the door open, returning slowly to his seat, and shrugging his shoulders slightly. For there had been no tender look as Myra passed out, and Barron’s thought was justified.

“Don’t seem as if we were engaged. I hope,” he said aloud, “Myra is not unwell.”

“Eh? Oh, no, my dear boy, no. Girls do come over grumpy sometimes. Here, try this claret, and let’s have a cozy chat for an hour before we go up.”

“An hour?” said Barron, with a raising of the eyebrows.

“Yes; why not? You’re not a love-sick boy, and you’ll have plenty of your wife by and by.”

“Not a boy, certainly, sir. As to the love-sickness—well, I don’t know. But—yes, that’s a good glass of claret. Larose, eh?”

“Yes. Fill your glass again.”

“Willingly,” said Baron, obeying his host, and pushing back the jug, “for I want to talk to you, sir, very seriously, and one seems to get on over a glass of wine.”

“To talk to me?” said Sir Mark sharply, for his nerves were still ajar. “Nothing the matter?”

“Yes—and no.”

“Look here, Barron,” cried Sir Mark excitedly, “no beating about the bush. If you want to draw back from your engagement say so like a man.”

“If I want to draw back from my engagement, my dear sir? What in the world are you thinking about?”

“I—er—well, your manner was so strange.”

“Not strange, Sir Mark: serious. There are serious moments in my life. By the way, I have seen my solicitor again respecting the settlements, and the papers will be ready at any time.”

“No hurry, sir, no hurry,” said Sir Mark, frowning. “Well?”

Barron drew a long breath.

“Well, what is it, man—what is wrong?”

“Only the old story. When the cat’s away the mice will play.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had bad news from my agent in Trinidad.”

“Indeed!”

“He writes to me by this mail that he has done his best, but the estate needs my immediate supervision—that he cannot exert the same influence and authority that I should.”

“Losses?”

“Oh, no; gains—that is, a little on the right side. But a little is absurd. Those plantations ought to produce a princely revenue.”

The admiral looked at his guest keenly.

“Well,” he said at last, “what does this mean?”

“That in spite of everything—my own desires and the love I have for England—I shall have to run across as soon as possible.”

“For how long?”

“I cannot say—probably for a year.”

“Hah!” ejaculated the admiral, with a sigh of relief. “A year before he would be compelled to part with his child.”

“And under the circumstances, Sir Mark, I am obliged to throw myself upon your mercy.”

“What do you mean?” cried the admiral in alarm.

“Can you ask, sir?” said Barron reproachfully. “I know it is making a great demand upon you and dear Myra; but life is short, and I ask you if my position would not be terrible. It would be like exile to me. I could not bear it. I would say to my agent, ‘Let the estate go to—’ never mind where; but that would be courting ruin at a time when I am beginning to learn the value of money, as a slave of the lamp, who can, at my lightest order, bring everything I desire to lay at my darling’s feet.”

“You mean,” cried the admiral hotly, “that you want the wedding hurried on?”

“To be plain, Sir Mark, I do. In a month from now. I must go by the next mail boat but one.”

“It is impossible, sir!” cried Sir Mark.

Barron shook his head and the admiral changed his position in his chair.

“But Myra?” he cried. “Oh, she would never consent to its being so soon.”

“I believe our dear Myra would, in the sweetness of her disposition alone, consent, Sir Mark,” said Barron gravely; “and as soon as she knows of the vital importance of time to the man who will be her husband, she will endeavour to meet his wishes in every way.”

“Yes, yes; she is a dear, good girl,” said Sir Mark; “but this is terrible: so soon.”

“The time for parting must come, Sir Mark, sooner or later; and think: it is for her benefit and happiness. Well, yes, I must confess to my own selfish wishes.”

“And then there is her aunt—my sister. She would never consent to—Yes, I know exactly what she would say—such indecent haste.”

“Only an elderly lady’s objection, Sir Mark,” said Barron, smiling. “You are certainly bringing forward a real difficulty now, for I fear that I have never found favour in Miss Jerrold’s eyes. But surely she has no right to dictate in a case like this. Nay, let us have no opposition. I will appeal to Miss Jerrold myself. She is too high-minded and sweet a lady to stand in the way of her niece’s and my happiness. I am satisfied of that. Come, Sir Mark, look at the case plainly. You have been a sailor, sir, and know the meaning of sudden orders to join. Nothing would stop you. Mine are not so sudden, for I have—that is, at all risks, I will have—a month. My fortune is at stake—Myra’s fortune, I may say. Help me as you feel the case deserves.”

The admiral was silent for a few minutes, during which he filled and emptied his claret glass twice.

“You’ve floored me, Barron,” he said at last. “I can’t find an argument against you.”

“Then you consent? And you will help me in every way?”

“It is hard work, my boy—a terrible wrench, but I suppose I must. In a month,” he muttered; “so soon—and for her to sail right away for a whole year.”

Barron wrung his hand hard and smiled.

“How long will it be, my dear sir, before your old taste for the sea returns? Why, you’ll be running across before three months are past. Really I should not be surprised if you announced that you meant to come with us.”

“Hah! Why not?” cried Sir Mark eagerly. “No, no; that would not do. But I certainly will run over before long.”

“Do, sir,” cried Barron eagerly.

“Barbadoes, Bahamas, Bermuda,” cried Sir Mark. “Why, I could take a trip anywhere among the islands. It’s all familiar ground to me. But poor Myra—a month; so soon. I don’t feel as if I am doing right, Barron; but there, it is fate.”

“Yes, sir, it is fate.”

Chapter Twelve.Guest pays a late Visit.The crystals had dissolved in the glass as Stratton held it up and gazed fixedly at its contents, his face, stern and calm, dimly seen in the shadow, while the shape of the vessel he grasped was plainly delineated against the white blotting paper, upon which a circle of bright light was cast by the shaded lamp.He was not hesitating, but thinking calmly enough. The paroxysm of horror had been mastered, and as a step was faintly heard crossing the court, he was trying to think out whether there was anything else which he ought to do before that cold hand gripped him and it would be too late.He looked round, set down the glass for a moment by his letters, and thrusting aside the library chair he used at his writing table, he wheeled forward a lounge seat ready to receive him as he sank back, thinking quietly that the action of the terrible acid would perhaps be very sudden.Anything more?He smiled pleasantly, for a fresh thought flashed across his mind, and taking an envelope he bent down and directed it plainly, and without the slightest trembling of his hand, to Mrs Brade.“Poor, gossiping old thing!” he said. “She has been very kind to me. It will be a shock, but she must bear it like the rest.”He took a solitary five-pound note from his pocketbook, thrust it into the envelope, wrote inside the flap, “For your own use,” and moistened and secured it before placing it with the other letters.“About nine to-morrow morning she will find it,” he thought, “and then—poor soul! poor soul! The police and—I shall be asleep.”“God—forgive me!” he said slowly as, after a step in front of the easy-chair he had placed ready, he once more raised the glass, and closing his eyes:“To Myra,” he said, with a bitter laugh; and it was nearly at his lips when there was a sharp double knock at his outer door.A fierce look of anger came into his countenance as he stood glaring in the direction of the summons. Then, raising the glass again, he was about to drink when there was a louder knocking.Stratton hesitated, set down the glass, crossed the room, and threw open the doors, first one and then the other, with the impression upon him that by some means his intentions had been divined and that it was the police.“Having a nap, old fellow?” cried Guest hurriedly, as he stepped in, Stratton involuntarily giving way. “I was crossing the inn and saw your light. Thought I’d drop in for a few moments before going to my perch.”He did not say that he had been pacing the inn and its precincts for hours, longing to hear the result of his friend’s visit to Bourne Square, but unable to make up his mind to go up till the last, when, in a fit of desperation, he had mounted the stairs.“I will not quarrel with him if he is the winner. One was obliged to go down. I can’t afford to lose lover and friend in one day, even if it does make one sore.”He had taken that sentence and said it in a hundred different ways that evening, and it was upon his lips as he had at last knocked at Stratton’s door.Upon his first entrance he had not noticed anything particular in his friend, being in a feverish, excited state, full of his own disappointment; but as Stratton remained silent, gazing hard at him, he looked in his face wonderingly; and as, by the half light, he made out his haggard countenance and the wild, staring look in his eyes, a rush of hope sent the blood bubbling, as it were, through his veins. “Has she refused him?” rang in his ears, and, speechless for the moment, with his heart throbbing wildly, and his throat hot and dry, he took a step forward as he sawcarafeand water glass before him, caught up the latter, and raised it to his lips.But only to start back in wonder and alarm, for, with a hoarse cry, Stratton struck the glass from his hand, scattered its contents over the hearthrug, and the glass itself flew into fragments against the bars of the grate.“Here, what’s the matter with you, old fellow?” cried Guest wonderingly. “Don’t act like that.”Stratton babbled a few incoherent words, and sank back in the lounge, covering his face with his hands, and a hoarse hysterical cry escaped from his lips.Guest looked at him in astonishment, then at the table, where, in the broad circle of light, he saw the letters his friend had written, one being directed to himself.They explained little, but the next instant he saw the wide-mouthed, stoppered bottle, caught it up, examined the label, and held it at arm’s length.“The cyanide!” he cried excitedly. “Mal! Stratton, old chap! Good God! You surely—no, it is impossible. Speak to me, old man! Tell me, or I shall go mad! Did Edie refuse you?”Stratton’s hands dropped from his face as he rose in his seat, staring wildly at his friend.“Edie!” he said wonderingly.“Yes, Edie!” cried Guest excitedly as he bent down toward his friend. “Here, stop a minute; what shall I do with this cursed stuff?”Striding to the window, he threw it open, leaned out, and dashed the bottle down upon the pavement, shivering it and its contents to fragments.“Now speak,” he cried as soon as he had returned. “No fooling, man; speak the truth.”“Edie?” said Stratton again as he sat there trembling as if smitten by some dire disease.“Yes. You told me you were going to tell her of your success—to ask the admiral to give you leave to speak to her.”“No, no,” said Stratton slowly.“Are you mad, or have you been drinking?” cried Guest angrily, and he caught his friend by the shoulders.“Don’t—don’t, Percy,” said Stratton feebly. “I’m not myself to-night. I—I—Why did you come?” he asked vacantly.“Because it was life or death to me,” cried Guest. “I couldn’t say a word to you then, but I’ve loved little Edie ever since we first met. You were my friend, Mal, and I couldn’t say anything when I saw you two so thick together. She seemed to prefer your society to mine, and she had a right to choose. I’ve been half-mad to-day since you told me you cared for her, but I couldn’t sleep till I knew all the worst.”“I told you I loved Edith Perrin?”“Yes! Are you so stupefied by what you have taken that you don’t know what you are saying?”“I know what I am saying,” said Stratton, almost in a whisper. “I never told you that.”“I swear you did, man. You don’t know what you say.”“I told you I was going to see the admiral. All a mistake—your’s—mine,” he gasped feebly.“What do you mean?” cried Guest, shaking him.“I always liked little Edie, but it was Myra I loved.”“What?” cried Guest wildly.“I spoke to her father to-day, plainly, as—as—an honest man. Too late, old fellow; too late.”“Too late?”“She is engaged—to be married—to the admiral’s friend.”“Barron?”“Yes.”“I thought as much. Then it was all a mistake about Edie!” cried Guest wildly. “I beg your pardon, Mal. I’m excited, too. I’m awfully sorry, though, old man. But tell me,” he cried, changing his manner. “Those letters—that glass? Great Heavens! You were never going to be such a madman, such an idiot, as to—Oh, say it was all a mistake!”“That I should have been a dead man by this?” said Stratton solemnly. “That was no mistake,” he murmured piteously. “What is there to live for now?”

The crystals had dissolved in the glass as Stratton held it up and gazed fixedly at its contents, his face, stern and calm, dimly seen in the shadow, while the shape of the vessel he grasped was plainly delineated against the white blotting paper, upon which a circle of bright light was cast by the shaded lamp.

He was not hesitating, but thinking calmly enough. The paroxysm of horror had been mastered, and as a step was faintly heard crossing the court, he was trying to think out whether there was anything else which he ought to do before that cold hand gripped him and it would be too late.

He looked round, set down the glass for a moment by his letters, and thrusting aside the library chair he used at his writing table, he wheeled forward a lounge seat ready to receive him as he sank back, thinking quietly that the action of the terrible acid would perhaps be very sudden.

Anything more?

He smiled pleasantly, for a fresh thought flashed across his mind, and taking an envelope he bent down and directed it plainly, and without the slightest trembling of his hand, to Mrs Brade.

“Poor, gossiping old thing!” he said. “She has been very kind to me. It will be a shock, but she must bear it like the rest.”

He took a solitary five-pound note from his pocketbook, thrust it into the envelope, wrote inside the flap, “For your own use,” and moistened and secured it before placing it with the other letters.

“About nine to-morrow morning she will find it,” he thought, “and then—poor soul! poor soul! The police and—I shall be asleep.”

“God—forgive me!” he said slowly as, after a step in front of the easy-chair he had placed ready, he once more raised the glass, and closing his eyes:

“To Myra,” he said, with a bitter laugh; and it was nearly at his lips when there was a sharp double knock at his outer door.

A fierce look of anger came into his countenance as he stood glaring in the direction of the summons. Then, raising the glass again, he was about to drink when there was a louder knocking.

Stratton hesitated, set down the glass, crossed the room, and threw open the doors, first one and then the other, with the impression upon him that by some means his intentions had been divined and that it was the police.

“Having a nap, old fellow?” cried Guest hurriedly, as he stepped in, Stratton involuntarily giving way. “I was crossing the inn and saw your light. Thought I’d drop in for a few moments before going to my perch.”

He did not say that he had been pacing the inn and its precincts for hours, longing to hear the result of his friend’s visit to Bourne Square, but unable to make up his mind to go up till the last, when, in a fit of desperation, he had mounted the stairs.

“I will not quarrel with him if he is the winner. One was obliged to go down. I can’t afford to lose lover and friend in one day, even if it does make one sore.”

He had taken that sentence and said it in a hundred different ways that evening, and it was upon his lips as he had at last knocked at Stratton’s door.

Upon his first entrance he had not noticed anything particular in his friend, being in a feverish, excited state, full of his own disappointment; but as Stratton remained silent, gazing hard at him, he looked in his face wonderingly; and as, by the half light, he made out his haggard countenance and the wild, staring look in his eyes, a rush of hope sent the blood bubbling, as it were, through his veins. “Has she refused him?” rang in his ears, and, speechless for the moment, with his heart throbbing wildly, and his throat hot and dry, he took a step forward as he sawcarafeand water glass before him, caught up the latter, and raised it to his lips.

But only to start back in wonder and alarm, for, with a hoarse cry, Stratton struck the glass from his hand, scattered its contents over the hearthrug, and the glass itself flew into fragments against the bars of the grate.

“Here, what’s the matter with you, old fellow?” cried Guest wonderingly. “Don’t act like that.”

Stratton babbled a few incoherent words, and sank back in the lounge, covering his face with his hands, and a hoarse hysterical cry escaped from his lips.

Guest looked at him in astonishment, then at the table, where, in the broad circle of light, he saw the letters his friend had written, one being directed to himself.

They explained little, but the next instant he saw the wide-mouthed, stoppered bottle, caught it up, examined the label, and held it at arm’s length.

“The cyanide!” he cried excitedly. “Mal! Stratton, old chap! Good God! You surely—no, it is impossible. Speak to me, old man! Tell me, or I shall go mad! Did Edie refuse you?”

Stratton’s hands dropped from his face as he rose in his seat, staring wildly at his friend.

“Edie!” he said wonderingly.

“Yes, Edie!” cried Guest excitedly as he bent down toward his friend. “Here, stop a minute; what shall I do with this cursed stuff?”

Striding to the window, he threw it open, leaned out, and dashed the bottle down upon the pavement, shivering it and its contents to fragments.

“Now speak,” he cried as soon as he had returned. “No fooling, man; speak the truth.”

“Edie?” said Stratton again as he sat there trembling as if smitten by some dire disease.

“Yes. You told me you were going to tell her of your success—to ask the admiral to give you leave to speak to her.”

“No, no,” said Stratton slowly.

“Are you mad, or have you been drinking?” cried Guest angrily, and he caught his friend by the shoulders.

“Don’t—don’t, Percy,” said Stratton feebly. “I’m not myself to-night. I—I—Why did you come?” he asked vacantly.

“Because it was life or death to me,” cried Guest. “I couldn’t say a word to you then, but I’ve loved little Edie ever since we first met. You were my friend, Mal, and I couldn’t say anything when I saw you two so thick together. She seemed to prefer your society to mine, and she had a right to choose. I’ve been half-mad to-day since you told me you cared for her, but I couldn’t sleep till I knew all the worst.”

“I told you I loved Edith Perrin?”

“Yes! Are you so stupefied by what you have taken that you don’t know what you are saying?”

“I know what I am saying,” said Stratton, almost in a whisper. “I never told you that.”

“I swear you did, man. You don’t know what you say.”

“I told you I was going to see the admiral. All a mistake—your’s—mine,” he gasped feebly.

“What do you mean?” cried Guest, shaking him.

“I always liked little Edie, but it was Myra I loved.”

“What?” cried Guest wildly.

“I spoke to her father to-day, plainly, as—as—an honest man. Too late, old fellow; too late.”

“Too late?”

“She is engaged—to be married—to the admiral’s friend.”

“Barron?”

“Yes.”

“I thought as much. Then it was all a mistake about Edie!” cried Guest wildly. “I beg your pardon, Mal. I’m excited, too. I’m awfully sorry, though, old man. But tell me,” he cried, changing his manner. “Those letters—that glass? Great Heavens! You were never going to be such a madman, such an idiot, as to—Oh, say it was all a mistake!”

“That I should have been a dead man by this?” said Stratton solemnly. “That was no mistake,” he murmured piteously. “What is there to live for now?”

Chapter Thirteen.The Wedding Day.Four weeks had passed since Malcolm Stratton’s insane attempt—four weeks of an utterly prostrating illness from which he was slowly recovering, when, one morning, Guest entered the room where Brettison was seated by his friend’s couch, and made an announcement which wrought a sudden change in the convalescent.“I expected it,” he said quietly; and then, after a pause, “I will go with you.”Guest opened and shut his mouth without speaking for a few moments. Then:“Go—with me? You go with me? Why, it would be madness.”“Madness, madness, old fellow,” said Stratton feebly, “but I tell you I am quite strong now.”“Very far from it,” said Brettison.“And I say so too,” cried Guest. “Look here, old fellow, do you mean to assert that you arecompos mentis?”“Of course,” said Stratton, smiling.“Then I say you are not,” cried Guest, “and Mr Brettison will second me. You are weak as a rat in spite of all our watching, and feeding, and care.”“All this long, weary month,” sighed Stratton. “Heaven bless you both for what you have done.”“Never mind about blessings; be a little grateful to Mr Brettison, who has been like a hundred hospital nurses rolled into one, and give up this mad idea.”“But it is not mad,” pleaded Stratton. “I only want to go to the church. I am quite strong enough now. I want to see her married, that is all. Mr Brettison, you see how calm I am.”“Yes, very,” said the old botanist, smiling sadly. “Calm with your temples throbbing and your veins too full. My dear boy, if you go to that wedding, you will over-excite yourself and we shall have a serious relapse.”“If I do go?” said Stratton quietly. “I shall certainly have it. I mean to go.”He rose from the couch on which he had been lying, walked into the bedroom, and closed the door.“Did you ever see such a mule, Mr Brettison?” cried Guest as soon as they were alone. “I was a fool to come in and tell him I was going; but I thought he had got over it, and he knew it was to-day.”“You are going as one of the friends?”“Yes, Miss Jerrold asked me,” said Guest, rather consciously; “and of course he would have known afterward, and reproached me for not telling him. What is to be done?”“Certainly not thwart him,” replied Brettison. “I was going out into the country to-day.”“Collecting?”“Yes, my dear sir, a little. My great hobby, Mr Guest. But I will not go. We should do more harm than good by stopping him, so I’ll go to the church with him.”“But I dread a scene,” said Guest. “Suppose he should turn wild at seeing her lead up the aisle. Fancy the consequences. It would be cruel to the lady. It is not as if she had jilted him.”“Never cared for him a bit, did she?” whispered Brettison.“H’m! Well, sir, I don’t quite like to say. At all events, Miss Myra Jerrold accepted this Mr Barron before poor old Malcolm spoke a word, and I am convinced that she felt certain he did not care for her.”“An unfortunate business, Guest. Poor lad! poor lad! But there, he recovered, and any opposition would, I am sure, throw him back.”“But the lady?”“Have no fear; Malcolm Stratton will, I am sure, be guilty of no insane folly. I know him better than you, Guest.”“I think not,” said the young man, smiling.“We will not argue the point,” replied the old botanist, taking Guest’s hand. “We both think we know him better than anyone else, and after all have not half sounded the depths of his nature.”“Well, I leave him to you,” said Guest. “I have no time to spare. I’m off now, old fellow,” he cried, approaching the bedroom door.“All right,” cried Stratton cheerfully as he came back and held out his hand. “My kindest regards to Edie. Don’t be afraid, old fellow; I am going to behave sensibly. You need not fear a scene.”“But I—”“Don’t deny it, lad. Off with you,” said Stratton, smiling at his friend’s confusion; and he accompanied him out on to the landing. “God bless her!” he said. “I wish her every happiness with the man of her choice. It’s all over now, and I can bear it like a man.”They shook hands and parted, and when, an hour later, Guest saw Myra enter the room, where he was just snatching a hurried word with Edie, he was startled at the white, set face, and strange, dreamy eyes, which looked in his when he spoke to her.But what had been a bitter fight was at an end, and all its secrets hidden in the bride’s own breast. For a time, as it had dawned upon her that there was something warmer than friendship in her breast for Malcolm Stratton, she shrank in horror from the idea of pledging herself to the man she had accepted; but she fought with and crushed down her feelings. Stratton must, she felt, despise her now, and she was engaged to Barron. It was her father’s wish, and she had promised to be this man’s wife, while that he loved her he gave her no room to doubt.“Iwilldo my duty by him,” she said proudly to herself as she took her father’s arm; and as Guest was driven in another of the carriages to the church, he thought to himself that his friend had been blind in his love, for Myra was hard and unemotional as her cousin was sweet and lovable he misjudged her again as he saw her leave the church leaning upon her husband’s arm, while now he was privileged to escort Edie, one of the four bridesmaids, back to Bourne Square.“She never would have cared for poor old Malcolm,” he said to himself as he followed the newly married couple with his eyes, Barron careworn and nearly as pale as his wife, but looking proud, eager, and handsome, as he handed Myra into the carriage.“The happy pair,” whispered Edie as she placed her little hand upon Guest’s arm. “Get me to the carriage, please, as quickly as you can, or I shall cry and make a scene.”“Yes, yes,” he whispered back. “This way; but, Edie, I’ve been looking all round the church and can’t see him. Did you catch sight of Stratton?”“No,” said the girl with some asperity, “and did not wish to. I could only see that poor girl going through the ceremony, and I felt all the time I could read her thoughts. O Percy Guest, if she only had not had so much pride, or Malcolm Stratton had been as bold as he was shrinking and strange, this never could have been!”Back at Bourne Square, with all the hurry and excitement of a wedding morning. The house crowded with friends, and Sir Mark all eagerness to do the honours of his place well to all. Carriages thronged the roadway; a couple of policemen kept back the little crowd, and the admiral’s servants, re-enforced by half a dozen of Gunter’s men, had a busy time supplying the wants of the guests.“Well, you two,” said a voice, suddenly, behind Edie, who was listening to a remark made by Guest, “don’t look in that dreamy way at everyone. I’ve been watching you for ever so long. Don’t you know that this is the happiest day of Myra’s life?”“No, aunt,” said Edie shortly; “do you?”Miss Jerrold shrugged her shoulders.“Go and keep near her, my dear, till they leave. I haven’t the heart. Edie, am I a wretchedly prejudiced old maid, or is there something not nice about that man?”“Ah, there you are, Edie,” cried the admiral excitedly. “Myra is just going to cut the cake. Mr Guest, take my sister and give her some champagne. Edie, my dear, I don’t like poor Myra’s looks. I must see to the people, and have a word with James Barron before they start; and I’ve got to speak, too, and how to get through it I don’t know.”“What do you want me to do, uncle?”“What I told you, my dear,” cried the old man testily. “Go and keep with my poor darling till the last.”Edie crept to her cousin’s side and stayed there during the admiral’s speech, one which contained more heart than head; listened with heaving breast to the toast of the bride’s health, and to the well-spoken, manly reply made by James Barron. And so on till the time when the bride might slip away to change her dress for the journey down to Southampton, the wedding trip commencing the next day on board the great steamer outward bound for the West.“Guest, my lad,” said the admiral, drawing the young man aside, “servants are all very well, but I’d be thankful if you’d see yourself that Mr Barron’s carriage is up to the door in time. Myra is not well, and she has sent a message to me to beg that she may be allowed to slip away quietly with few good-byes. I suppose the people will have all the satin slipper and rice throwing tomfoolery.”“You may depend upon me, Sir Mark,” said Guest eagerly; and he set about his task at once, greatly to the butler’s disgust.The minutes went swiftly then; the guests gathering on the staircase and crowding the hall, while the carriage, with its servants, stood waiting, with an avenue of people down to the door.Guest was on the step seeing that the wraps and various little articles needed on the journey were handed in. Barron, looking flushed and proud, was in the hall, with his hand grasped by Sir Mark, and a murmur of excitement and a cheer announced that the bride was coming down, when the bridegroom’s carriage began to move on.The sudden starting of the horses made Guest turn sharply.“Hi! Stop! Do you hear?” he shouted, and several of the servants waiting outside took up the cry, “Coming down.” But the carriage moved on and a four-wheeled cab took its place, amid a roar of laughter from the crowd.At the same moment three businesslike looking men stepped into the hall, and before the butler and footmen could stop them they were close up to the foot of the staircase.Sir Mark turned upon them angrily, but one of them gripped his arm and said quickly:“Sir Mark Jerrold?”“Yes. What is this intrusion?”“Upstairs, sir, quick. Stop the young lady from coming down.”The man’s manner was so impressive that it forced Sir Mark to act, and he shouted up the broad staircase:“Edie! one moment—not yet.”Then, as if resenting the fact that he should have obeyed this man, he turned sharply in time to hear the words:“James Dale—in the queen’s name. Here is my warrant. No nonsense; we are three to one.”The bridegroom was struggling in the policemen’s arms, and in the hand which he freed there was a revolver.

Four weeks had passed since Malcolm Stratton’s insane attempt—four weeks of an utterly prostrating illness from which he was slowly recovering, when, one morning, Guest entered the room where Brettison was seated by his friend’s couch, and made an announcement which wrought a sudden change in the convalescent.

“I expected it,” he said quietly; and then, after a pause, “I will go with you.”

Guest opened and shut his mouth without speaking for a few moments. Then:

“Go—with me? You go with me? Why, it would be madness.”

“Madness, madness, old fellow,” said Stratton feebly, “but I tell you I am quite strong now.”

“Very far from it,” said Brettison.

“And I say so too,” cried Guest. “Look here, old fellow, do you mean to assert that you arecompos mentis?”

“Of course,” said Stratton, smiling.

“Then I say you are not,” cried Guest, “and Mr Brettison will second me. You are weak as a rat in spite of all our watching, and feeding, and care.”

“All this long, weary month,” sighed Stratton. “Heaven bless you both for what you have done.”

“Never mind about blessings; be a little grateful to Mr Brettison, who has been like a hundred hospital nurses rolled into one, and give up this mad idea.”

“But it is not mad,” pleaded Stratton. “I only want to go to the church. I am quite strong enough now. I want to see her married, that is all. Mr Brettison, you see how calm I am.”

“Yes, very,” said the old botanist, smiling sadly. “Calm with your temples throbbing and your veins too full. My dear boy, if you go to that wedding, you will over-excite yourself and we shall have a serious relapse.”

“If I do go?” said Stratton quietly. “I shall certainly have it. I mean to go.”

He rose from the couch on which he had been lying, walked into the bedroom, and closed the door.

“Did you ever see such a mule, Mr Brettison?” cried Guest as soon as they were alone. “I was a fool to come in and tell him I was going; but I thought he had got over it, and he knew it was to-day.”

“You are going as one of the friends?”

“Yes, Miss Jerrold asked me,” said Guest, rather consciously; “and of course he would have known afterward, and reproached me for not telling him. What is to be done?”

“Certainly not thwart him,” replied Brettison. “I was going out into the country to-day.”

“Collecting?”

“Yes, my dear sir, a little. My great hobby, Mr Guest. But I will not go. We should do more harm than good by stopping him, so I’ll go to the church with him.”

“But I dread a scene,” said Guest. “Suppose he should turn wild at seeing her lead up the aisle. Fancy the consequences. It would be cruel to the lady. It is not as if she had jilted him.”

“Never cared for him a bit, did she?” whispered Brettison.

“H’m! Well, sir, I don’t quite like to say. At all events, Miss Myra Jerrold accepted this Mr Barron before poor old Malcolm spoke a word, and I am convinced that she felt certain he did not care for her.”

“An unfortunate business, Guest. Poor lad! poor lad! But there, he recovered, and any opposition would, I am sure, throw him back.”

“But the lady?”

“Have no fear; Malcolm Stratton will, I am sure, be guilty of no insane folly. I know him better than you, Guest.”

“I think not,” said the young man, smiling.

“We will not argue the point,” replied the old botanist, taking Guest’s hand. “We both think we know him better than anyone else, and after all have not half sounded the depths of his nature.”

“Well, I leave him to you,” said Guest. “I have no time to spare. I’m off now, old fellow,” he cried, approaching the bedroom door.

“All right,” cried Stratton cheerfully as he came back and held out his hand. “My kindest regards to Edie. Don’t be afraid, old fellow; I am going to behave sensibly. You need not fear a scene.”

“But I—”

“Don’t deny it, lad. Off with you,” said Stratton, smiling at his friend’s confusion; and he accompanied him out on to the landing. “God bless her!” he said. “I wish her every happiness with the man of her choice. It’s all over now, and I can bear it like a man.”

They shook hands and parted, and when, an hour later, Guest saw Myra enter the room, where he was just snatching a hurried word with Edie, he was startled at the white, set face, and strange, dreamy eyes, which looked in his when he spoke to her.

But what had been a bitter fight was at an end, and all its secrets hidden in the bride’s own breast. For a time, as it had dawned upon her that there was something warmer than friendship in her breast for Malcolm Stratton, she shrank in horror from the idea of pledging herself to the man she had accepted; but she fought with and crushed down her feelings. Stratton must, she felt, despise her now, and she was engaged to Barron. It was her father’s wish, and she had promised to be this man’s wife, while that he loved her he gave her no room to doubt.

“Iwilldo my duty by him,” she said proudly to herself as she took her father’s arm; and as Guest was driven in another of the carriages to the church, he thought to himself that his friend had been blind in his love, for Myra was hard and unemotional as her cousin was sweet and lovable he misjudged her again as he saw her leave the church leaning upon her husband’s arm, while now he was privileged to escort Edie, one of the four bridesmaids, back to Bourne Square.

“She never would have cared for poor old Malcolm,” he said to himself as he followed the newly married couple with his eyes, Barron careworn and nearly as pale as his wife, but looking proud, eager, and handsome, as he handed Myra into the carriage.

“The happy pair,” whispered Edie as she placed her little hand upon Guest’s arm. “Get me to the carriage, please, as quickly as you can, or I shall cry and make a scene.”

“Yes, yes,” he whispered back. “This way; but, Edie, I’ve been looking all round the church and can’t see him. Did you catch sight of Stratton?”

“No,” said the girl with some asperity, “and did not wish to. I could only see that poor girl going through the ceremony, and I felt all the time I could read her thoughts. O Percy Guest, if she only had not had so much pride, or Malcolm Stratton had been as bold as he was shrinking and strange, this never could have been!”

Back at Bourne Square, with all the hurry and excitement of a wedding morning. The house crowded with friends, and Sir Mark all eagerness to do the honours of his place well to all. Carriages thronged the roadway; a couple of policemen kept back the little crowd, and the admiral’s servants, re-enforced by half a dozen of Gunter’s men, had a busy time supplying the wants of the guests.

“Well, you two,” said a voice, suddenly, behind Edie, who was listening to a remark made by Guest, “don’t look in that dreamy way at everyone. I’ve been watching you for ever so long. Don’t you know that this is the happiest day of Myra’s life?”

“No, aunt,” said Edie shortly; “do you?”

Miss Jerrold shrugged her shoulders.

“Go and keep near her, my dear, till they leave. I haven’t the heart. Edie, am I a wretchedly prejudiced old maid, or is there something not nice about that man?”

“Ah, there you are, Edie,” cried the admiral excitedly. “Myra is just going to cut the cake. Mr Guest, take my sister and give her some champagne. Edie, my dear, I don’t like poor Myra’s looks. I must see to the people, and have a word with James Barron before they start; and I’ve got to speak, too, and how to get through it I don’t know.”

“What do you want me to do, uncle?”

“What I told you, my dear,” cried the old man testily. “Go and keep with my poor darling till the last.”

Edie crept to her cousin’s side and stayed there during the admiral’s speech, one which contained more heart than head; listened with heaving breast to the toast of the bride’s health, and to the well-spoken, manly reply made by James Barron. And so on till the time when the bride might slip away to change her dress for the journey down to Southampton, the wedding trip commencing the next day on board the great steamer outward bound for the West.

“Guest, my lad,” said the admiral, drawing the young man aside, “servants are all very well, but I’d be thankful if you’d see yourself that Mr Barron’s carriage is up to the door in time. Myra is not well, and she has sent a message to me to beg that she may be allowed to slip away quietly with few good-byes. I suppose the people will have all the satin slipper and rice throwing tomfoolery.”

“You may depend upon me, Sir Mark,” said Guest eagerly; and he set about his task at once, greatly to the butler’s disgust.

The minutes went swiftly then; the guests gathering on the staircase and crowding the hall, while the carriage, with its servants, stood waiting, with an avenue of people down to the door.

Guest was on the step seeing that the wraps and various little articles needed on the journey were handed in. Barron, looking flushed and proud, was in the hall, with his hand grasped by Sir Mark, and a murmur of excitement and a cheer announced that the bride was coming down, when the bridegroom’s carriage began to move on.

The sudden starting of the horses made Guest turn sharply.

“Hi! Stop! Do you hear?” he shouted, and several of the servants waiting outside took up the cry, “Coming down.” But the carriage moved on and a four-wheeled cab took its place, amid a roar of laughter from the crowd.

At the same moment three businesslike looking men stepped into the hall, and before the butler and footmen could stop them they were close up to the foot of the staircase.

Sir Mark turned upon them angrily, but one of them gripped his arm and said quickly:

“Sir Mark Jerrold?”

“Yes. What is this intrusion?”

“Upstairs, sir, quick. Stop the young lady from coming down.”

The man’s manner was so impressive that it forced Sir Mark to act, and he shouted up the broad staircase:

“Edie! one moment—not yet.”

Then, as if resenting the fact that he should have obeyed this man, he turned sharply in time to hear the words:

“James Dale—in the queen’s name. Here is my warrant. No nonsense; we are three to one.”

The bridegroom was struggling in the policemen’s arms, and in the hand which he freed there was a revolver.

Chapter Fourteen.Stratton’s Thanksgiving.There was a slight struggle, the sharp click of steel, and before Sir Mark could find words to express his rage and astonishment, Barron was being hurried out of the hall by two of the men who had made the unceremonious entry, while the two policemen there for another purpose, in answer to some freemasonry of the force, opened the cab door, and saw the vehicle driven off.Sir Mark had meantime made an effort to follow, but the man who had spoken barred his way.“You scoundrel! Who are you?” roared the admiral. “What does this mean?”“Superintendent Abingdon, Great Scotland Yard, sir,” was the quiet reply. “It means, sir, that I’ve saved the young lady from a painful scene, and you from a terrible mishap.”“But, oh, there is some horrible blunder! That is my friend, my son-in-law, Mr Barron.”“No, sir, an alias. James Dale, whom we have wanted for months. Dodged us by keeping abroad. Couldn’t run him to earth before—stayed on the Continent; and he was off abroad again, but we were just in time.”“I tell you,” thundered Sir Mark, “it is a horrible mistake. Here, Guest—the carriage: we must follow them at once. Ladies, some of you—oh, here is my sister. Rebecca, go up to Myra and keep her in her room. A little mistake; Barron has been called away—a business mistake. Tell her to be calm. Now, sir,” he cried sternly to the officer, “you do not leave my side. Mr Guest, come with us.”“Where to, Sir Mark?” said the man quietly.“To Scotland Yard.”“Excuse me, sir; it is no mistake. I’ll go with you, of course, but you will thank me one of those days for being so prompt. You have been imposed upon by one of the cleverest scoundrels of his time. James Dale is—”“Mr James Barron, man.”“No, Sir Mark; James Dale, charged with swindling the Russian government of a tremendous sum by the issuing of forged rouble notes.”“What?”“And just off to Buenos Ayres.”“To the West Indies, man—to his estate.”“Yes, sir,” said the man dryly; “he’s going to his estate, but it isn’t there.”Sir Mark looked wildly round at the crowd of friends who were drawing away, and without another word accompanied the officer to the carriage, where, as soon as they were started, the latter addressed himself to Guest, the admiral having sunk back in one corner, trying to collect his thoughts, but only to begin listening intently.“No mistake, sir,” said the officer. “I wish for the gentleman’s sake there was. The prisoner has been carrying on the game for a long time with a copper-plate printer, a man named Henderson—Samuel Henderson. We took him an hour ago, and it was through a letter we found in his pocket that we knew what was going on here, and arrived just in time for the young lady.”Guest glanced at Sir Mark and met his eyes.“Quite the gentleman, our friend Dale,” continued the officer. “Schoolmaster once, I found. Speaks languages, plays, and sings. Great yachting man. Deceive anybody; but his game’s up now. Couldn’t live in England as it was. Where did he say he was going—West Indies, sir?”Guest nodded.“Well, he was going on farther south. He had taken tickets for the River Plate.”Sir Mark started violently.There was silence for a few moments, and Guest’s resentment against Myra died out as he thought of the poor girl in the power of a scoundrel thousands of miles from home.“Lady has money, I suppose?” whispered the officer from behind his hand.Guest gave a short, sharp nod, and then felt annoyed with himself, but the officer took no heed and went on:“Of course she would have, sir. Well, my gentleman will not be able to touch that, and I suppose there will be no difficulty about getting a divorce.”At those words a flood of thought flashed through Guest’s brain, and he recalled conversations held with Edie respecting the marriage, and the girl’s boldly expressed belief that her cousin would gladly have drawn back but for her promise and her pride.He would have hurried off to Benchers’ Inn with the information, but he was bound to go on to the police office and see the matter through with Sir Mark; and in due time they reached Scotland Yard, to find Barron, or Dale, in a kind of desk, listening carelessly to the evidence given by the officers who had helped to execute the warrant.But the man’s whole aspect changed as he saw Sir Mark and Guest enter.“Hah!” he cried; “at last. Now, Mr Inspector, or whatever you are, this is Admiral Sir Mark Jerrold, my father-in-law. The whole affair is one of mistaken identity. For Heaven’s sake, my dear sir, satisfy these people as to my responsibility, and act as bail for my reappearance. Of course there will be no Southampton to-day. How does Myra bear the shock?”Sir Mark’s opinion veered toward the speaker directly, and turning to the officer who had been his companion from the house, he found him smiling.“There, sir, I told you it was all a mistake.”“Yes, Sir Mark, you did,” said the man respectfully; and then to a couple of policemen: “Bring them in.”“The luggage?” cried Guest as he saw what was being borne in by the men.“Yes, sir,” said the officer. “I stepped back to give instructions to our men to bring on everything from the carriage, and the trunks sent on to Waterloo. They must be searched for incriminating evidence. The lady’s luggage will be sent back to Bourne Square at once.”“The insolence of the scoundrels!” cried Barron. “My dear Sir Mark, pray get this wretched business finished.”“I can save the gentleman a good deal of trouble, Dale,” said the inspector in charge.“Are you addressing me, sir?” said the prisoner haughtily.“Won’t do, Dale; the game’s up,” said the inspector, smiling. Then to Sir Mark:“I am sorry for you, sir, but this is no case for bail.”“But I will be his security for any amount,” cried Sir Mark, who crushed down the belief that he had been deceived.“Yes, of course, of course,” cried the prisoner.“No good, Mr Dale. You can renew the application to the magistrate,” said the inspector.He made a sign, and after a furious burst of protestations the prisoner gave up.“Communicate with Garner of Ely Place at once for me, Sir Mark,” he said at parting. “It will be all right. Comfort Myra, and tell her it’s an absurd mistake,” he continued as Guest was looking at a letter the detective officer held for his perusal; and then he turned indignantly as Barron held out his hand.Sir Mark was about to take it when Guest struck the hand down.“How dare you?” began the prisoner.“Don’t touch the scoundrel, Sir Mark,” cried Guest fiercely. “It is all true.”“You cur!” roared the prisoner. “You turn against me? But I know the reason for that: our friend the rejected in Benchers’ Inn.”“Come away, Sir Mark,” cried Guest. “The man is an utter knave.”“I will not believe it,” cried Sir Mark.“Read that letter, then,” said Guest quietly, “written on paper bearing your crest, from your own house, to his confederate Samuel Henderson, the printer of the forged Russian notes.”Sir Mark sat silent and thoughtful in the corner of his carriage as he and Guest were driven back, till they were near the house, when he turned suddenly to his companion.“Thank you, Guest,” he said warmly. “Nothing like a friend in need. Hang it, sir, I’d sooner take my ships into action again than meet my guests here at home. But it has to be done,” he said, “and our side beaten. I will not believe that Mr Barron is guilty, nor yet that I could have been made a fool. The man is a gentleman, and I’ll stand by him to the last in spite of all that is said against him. What do you say, sir—what do you say?”“Do you wish me to speak, Sir Mark?”“Of course.”“Then I say that the man is an utter scoundrel; that you have been horribly deceived; and that—there, I am making you angry.”“Not a bit, Guest; not a bit. I’m afraid you are right, but I must fight this out.”The door was reached and Sir Mark uttered a sigh of relief, for there was no crowd—not a carriage to be seen; and, upon entering the house, it was to find that every friend and visitor had departed.Sir Mark strode in upright and firm, and Guest stopped to say good-bye.“No, no, my lad; don’t leave me yet,” said the old man. “Come up and face the ladies first.”He led the way up into the drawing room, expecting to find Myra prostrate; but there was only one figure to greet him—his sister. The door, however, had hardly closed before Edie, who had been with her cousin, ran into the room flushed and eager.“Where is Myra?”“Lying down, uncle. We—auntie and I—persuaded her to go to her room.”“Is she much broken down—much—”“My dear Mark!” cried his sister sharply, “Myra is a sensible girl. Now, then, don’t keep us in suspense. Tell me: is it all true about that man?”“Yes, Rebecca—I mean no,” cried Sir Mark furiously; “of course not, and I’m going to instruct counsel and—damme, it’s some enemy’s work. I’ll pour such a broadside into him! Why, confound it all!” he cried, as a sudden thought struck him, and he turned to Guest, “this must be some of your friend’s work.”“Sir Mark!”“Oh, uncle!”“Don’t talk stuff, Mark,” cried his sister almost at the same moment. “Is it likely? Then it is all true. What an escape! Well, I’m glad it happened when it did.”Sir Mark gave a furious stamp on the floor, but turned calmly enough on Guest offering his hand.“You will excuse me now, Sir Mark.”“Eh? What? Going? Well, if you must. But don’t leave me in the lurch, my lad. Come back and have a bit of dinner with me. I shall be very dull. No; I won’t ask you here. It will be miserable. Meet me at the club.”Guest promised, and then shook hands with Miss Jerrold, who pressed his fingers warmly; but when he turned to say good-bye to Edie she was not in the room.“Too upset,” he muttered as he went down. “Might have said good-bye, though.”“Good-bye, Mr Guest,” came from the little conservatory half-way down to the hall; and there was Edie waiting. “No, no; don’t stop me. I must run up to Myra. Good-bye, Percy. Oh, I am so glad.”“Good-bye,Percy—good-bye,Percy,” Guest kept on saying to himself as he walked slowly along one side of the square. “Percy, for the first time. Good Heavens, Mal!” he cried, starting as a hand was thrust under his arm—“you? I was coming on. I’ve something particular to tell you.”“Thank you,” said Stratton quietly. “I know everything.”“What? I did not see you at the church.”“No; I had not the heart to come. I said I would, but I stayed away.”“Good. Right,” said Guest.“But I was obliged to come to see her go—for one glance unseen.”“And you saw the arrest?”“I saw the struggle in the crowd. A man hurried into a cab, which was driven off. I was some distance away—in the square.”“Ah!” ejaculated Guest, and then there was a pause, broken at last by Stratton, who said solemnly:“Saved from a life of misery and despair. Thank God! thank God!”

There was a slight struggle, the sharp click of steel, and before Sir Mark could find words to express his rage and astonishment, Barron was being hurried out of the hall by two of the men who had made the unceremonious entry, while the two policemen there for another purpose, in answer to some freemasonry of the force, opened the cab door, and saw the vehicle driven off.

Sir Mark had meantime made an effort to follow, but the man who had spoken barred his way.

“You scoundrel! Who are you?” roared the admiral. “What does this mean?”

“Superintendent Abingdon, Great Scotland Yard, sir,” was the quiet reply. “It means, sir, that I’ve saved the young lady from a painful scene, and you from a terrible mishap.”

“But, oh, there is some horrible blunder! That is my friend, my son-in-law, Mr Barron.”

“No, sir, an alias. James Dale, whom we have wanted for months. Dodged us by keeping abroad. Couldn’t run him to earth before—stayed on the Continent; and he was off abroad again, but we were just in time.”

“I tell you,” thundered Sir Mark, “it is a horrible mistake. Here, Guest—the carriage: we must follow them at once. Ladies, some of you—oh, here is my sister. Rebecca, go up to Myra and keep her in her room. A little mistake; Barron has been called away—a business mistake. Tell her to be calm. Now, sir,” he cried sternly to the officer, “you do not leave my side. Mr Guest, come with us.”

“Where to, Sir Mark?” said the man quietly.

“To Scotland Yard.”

“Excuse me, sir; it is no mistake. I’ll go with you, of course, but you will thank me one of those days for being so prompt. You have been imposed upon by one of the cleverest scoundrels of his time. James Dale is—”

“Mr James Barron, man.”

“No, Sir Mark; James Dale, charged with swindling the Russian government of a tremendous sum by the issuing of forged rouble notes.”

“What?”

“And just off to Buenos Ayres.”

“To the West Indies, man—to his estate.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man dryly; “he’s going to his estate, but it isn’t there.”

Sir Mark looked wildly round at the crowd of friends who were drawing away, and without another word accompanied the officer to the carriage, where, as soon as they were started, the latter addressed himself to Guest, the admiral having sunk back in one corner, trying to collect his thoughts, but only to begin listening intently.

“No mistake, sir,” said the officer. “I wish for the gentleman’s sake there was. The prisoner has been carrying on the game for a long time with a copper-plate printer, a man named Henderson—Samuel Henderson. We took him an hour ago, and it was through a letter we found in his pocket that we knew what was going on here, and arrived just in time for the young lady.”

Guest glanced at Sir Mark and met his eyes.

“Quite the gentleman, our friend Dale,” continued the officer. “Schoolmaster once, I found. Speaks languages, plays, and sings. Great yachting man. Deceive anybody; but his game’s up now. Couldn’t live in England as it was. Where did he say he was going—West Indies, sir?”

Guest nodded.

“Well, he was going on farther south. He had taken tickets for the River Plate.”

Sir Mark started violently.

There was silence for a few moments, and Guest’s resentment against Myra died out as he thought of the poor girl in the power of a scoundrel thousands of miles from home.

“Lady has money, I suppose?” whispered the officer from behind his hand.

Guest gave a short, sharp nod, and then felt annoyed with himself, but the officer took no heed and went on:

“Of course she would have, sir. Well, my gentleman will not be able to touch that, and I suppose there will be no difficulty about getting a divorce.”

At those words a flood of thought flashed through Guest’s brain, and he recalled conversations held with Edie respecting the marriage, and the girl’s boldly expressed belief that her cousin would gladly have drawn back but for her promise and her pride.

He would have hurried off to Benchers’ Inn with the information, but he was bound to go on to the police office and see the matter through with Sir Mark; and in due time they reached Scotland Yard, to find Barron, or Dale, in a kind of desk, listening carelessly to the evidence given by the officers who had helped to execute the warrant.

But the man’s whole aspect changed as he saw Sir Mark and Guest enter.

“Hah!” he cried; “at last. Now, Mr Inspector, or whatever you are, this is Admiral Sir Mark Jerrold, my father-in-law. The whole affair is one of mistaken identity. For Heaven’s sake, my dear sir, satisfy these people as to my responsibility, and act as bail for my reappearance. Of course there will be no Southampton to-day. How does Myra bear the shock?”

Sir Mark’s opinion veered toward the speaker directly, and turning to the officer who had been his companion from the house, he found him smiling.

“There, sir, I told you it was all a mistake.”

“Yes, Sir Mark, you did,” said the man respectfully; and then to a couple of policemen: “Bring them in.”

“The luggage?” cried Guest as he saw what was being borne in by the men.

“Yes, sir,” said the officer. “I stepped back to give instructions to our men to bring on everything from the carriage, and the trunks sent on to Waterloo. They must be searched for incriminating evidence. The lady’s luggage will be sent back to Bourne Square at once.”

“The insolence of the scoundrels!” cried Barron. “My dear Sir Mark, pray get this wretched business finished.”

“I can save the gentleman a good deal of trouble, Dale,” said the inspector in charge.

“Are you addressing me, sir?” said the prisoner haughtily.

“Won’t do, Dale; the game’s up,” said the inspector, smiling. Then to Sir Mark:

“I am sorry for you, sir, but this is no case for bail.”

“But I will be his security for any amount,” cried Sir Mark, who crushed down the belief that he had been deceived.

“Yes, of course, of course,” cried the prisoner.

“No good, Mr Dale. You can renew the application to the magistrate,” said the inspector.

He made a sign, and after a furious burst of protestations the prisoner gave up.

“Communicate with Garner of Ely Place at once for me, Sir Mark,” he said at parting. “It will be all right. Comfort Myra, and tell her it’s an absurd mistake,” he continued as Guest was looking at a letter the detective officer held for his perusal; and then he turned indignantly as Barron held out his hand.

Sir Mark was about to take it when Guest struck the hand down.

“How dare you?” began the prisoner.

“Don’t touch the scoundrel, Sir Mark,” cried Guest fiercely. “It is all true.”

“You cur!” roared the prisoner. “You turn against me? But I know the reason for that: our friend the rejected in Benchers’ Inn.”

“Come away, Sir Mark,” cried Guest. “The man is an utter knave.”

“I will not believe it,” cried Sir Mark.

“Read that letter, then,” said Guest quietly, “written on paper bearing your crest, from your own house, to his confederate Samuel Henderson, the printer of the forged Russian notes.”

Sir Mark sat silent and thoughtful in the corner of his carriage as he and Guest were driven back, till they were near the house, when he turned suddenly to his companion.

“Thank you, Guest,” he said warmly. “Nothing like a friend in need. Hang it, sir, I’d sooner take my ships into action again than meet my guests here at home. But it has to be done,” he said, “and our side beaten. I will not believe that Mr Barron is guilty, nor yet that I could have been made a fool. The man is a gentleman, and I’ll stand by him to the last in spite of all that is said against him. What do you say, sir—what do you say?”

“Do you wish me to speak, Sir Mark?”

“Of course.”

“Then I say that the man is an utter scoundrel; that you have been horribly deceived; and that—there, I am making you angry.”

“Not a bit, Guest; not a bit. I’m afraid you are right, but I must fight this out.”

The door was reached and Sir Mark uttered a sigh of relief, for there was no crowd—not a carriage to be seen; and, upon entering the house, it was to find that every friend and visitor had departed.

Sir Mark strode in upright and firm, and Guest stopped to say good-bye.

“No, no, my lad; don’t leave me yet,” said the old man. “Come up and face the ladies first.”

He led the way up into the drawing room, expecting to find Myra prostrate; but there was only one figure to greet him—his sister. The door, however, had hardly closed before Edie, who had been with her cousin, ran into the room flushed and eager.

“Where is Myra?”

“Lying down, uncle. We—auntie and I—persuaded her to go to her room.”

“Is she much broken down—much—”

“My dear Mark!” cried his sister sharply, “Myra is a sensible girl. Now, then, don’t keep us in suspense. Tell me: is it all true about that man?”

“Yes, Rebecca—I mean no,” cried Sir Mark furiously; “of course not, and I’m going to instruct counsel and—damme, it’s some enemy’s work. I’ll pour such a broadside into him! Why, confound it all!” he cried, as a sudden thought struck him, and he turned to Guest, “this must be some of your friend’s work.”

“Sir Mark!”

“Oh, uncle!”

“Don’t talk stuff, Mark,” cried his sister almost at the same moment. “Is it likely? Then it is all true. What an escape! Well, I’m glad it happened when it did.”

Sir Mark gave a furious stamp on the floor, but turned calmly enough on Guest offering his hand.

“You will excuse me now, Sir Mark.”

“Eh? What? Going? Well, if you must. But don’t leave me in the lurch, my lad. Come back and have a bit of dinner with me. I shall be very dull. No; I won’t ask you here. It will be miserable. Meet me at the club.”

Guest promised, and then shook hands with Miss Jerrold, who pressed his fingers warmly; but when he turned to say good-bye to Edie she was not in the room.

“Too upset,” he muttered as he went down. “Might have said good-bye, though.”

“Good-bye, Mr Guest,” came from the little conservatory half-way down to the hall; and there was Edie waiting. “No, no; don’t stop me. I must run up to Myra. Good-bye, Percy. Oh, I am so glad.”

“Good-bye,Percy—good-bye,Percy,” Guest kept on saying to himself as he walked slowly along one side of the square. “Percy, for the first time. Good Heavens, Mal!” he cried, starting as a hand was thrust under his arm—“you? I was coming on. I’ve something particular to tell you.”

“Thank you,” said Stratton quietly. “I know everything.”

“What? I did not see you at the church.”

“No; I had not the heart to come. I said I would, but I stayed away.”

“Good. Right,” said Guest.

“But I was obliged to come to see her go—for one glance unseen.”

“And you saw the arrest?”

“I saw the struggle in the crowd. A man hurried into a cab, which was driven off. I was some distance away—in the square.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Guest, and then there was a pause, broken at last by Stratton, who said solemnly:

“Saved from a life of misery and despair. Thank God! thank God!”

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