this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed as ebook (#38901) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38901 ******************************************************************* ******************************************************************* this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed as ebook (#23046) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23046 ******************************************************************* ******************************************************************* this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed as ebook (#23046) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23046 ******************************************************************* transcribed from the text of the first edition by david price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk incognita: or, love and duty reconcil'd a novel by william congreve to the honoured and worthily esteem'd mrs. _katharine leveson_. _madam_, a clear wit, sound judgment and a merciful disposition, are things so rarely united, that it is almost inexcusable to entertain them with any thing less excellent in its kind. my knowledge of you were a sufficient caution to me, to avoid your censure of this trifle, had i not as intire a knowledge of your goodness. since i have drawn my pen for a rencounter, i think it better to engage where, though there be skill enough to disarm me, there is too much generosity to wound; for so shall i have the saving reputation of an unsuccessful courage, if i cannot make it a drawn battle. but methinks the comparison intimates something of a defiance, and savours of arrogance; wherefore since i am conscious to my self of a fear which i cannot put off, let me use the policy of cowards and lay this novel unarm'd, naked and shivering at your feet, so that if it should want merit to challenge protection, yet, as an object of charity, it may move compassion. it has been some diversion to me to write it, i wish it may prove such to you when you have an hour to throw away in reading of it: but this satisfaction i have at least beforehand, that in its greatest failings it may fly for pardon to that indulgence which you owe to the weakness of your friend; a title which i am proud you have thought me worthy of, and which i think can alone be superior to that _your most humble and_ _obliged servant_ cleophil. the preface to the reader. reader, some authors are so fond of a preface, that they will write one tho' there be nothing more in it than an apology for its self. but to show thee that i am not one of those, i will make no apology for this, but do tell thee that i think it necessary to be prefix'd to this trifle, to prevent thy overlooking some little pains which i have taken in the composition of the following story. romances are generally composed of the constant loves and invincible courages of hero's, heroins, kings and queens, mortals of the first rank, and so forth; where lofty language, miraculous contingencies and impossible performances, elevate and surprize the reader into a giddy delight, which leaves him flat upon the ground whenever he gives of, and vexes him to think how he has suffer'd himself to be pleased and transported, concern'd and afflicted at the several passages which he has read, viz. these knights success to their damosels misfortunes, and such like, when he is forced to be very well convinced that 'tis all a lye. novels are of a more familiar nature; come near us, and represent to us intrigues in practice, delight us with accidents and odd events, but not such as are wholly unusual or unpresidented, such which not being so distant from our belief bring also the pleasure nearer us. romances give more of wonder, novels more delight. and with reverence be it spoken, and the parallel kept at due distance, there is something of equality in the proportion which they bear in reference to one another, with that betwen comedy and tragedy; but the drama is the long extracted from romance and history: 'tis the midwife to industry, and brings forth alive the conceptions of the brain. minerva walks upon the stage before us, and we are more assured of the real presence of wit when it is delivered viva voce- segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem, quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, & quae ipse sibi tradit spectator.--horace. since all traditions must indisputably give place to the drama, and since there is no possibility of giving that life to the writing or repetition of a story which it has in the action, i resolved in another beauty to imitate dramatick writing, namely, in the design, contexture and result of the plot. i have not observed it before in a novel. some i have seen begin with an unexpected accident, which has been the only surprizing part of the story, cause enough to make the sequel look flat, tedious and insipid; for 'tis but reasonable the reader should expect it not to rise, at least to keep upon a level in the entertainment; for so he may be kept on in hopes that at some time or other it may mend; but the 'tother is such a balk to a man, 'tis carrying him up stairs to show him the diningroom, and after forcing him to make a meal in the kitchin. this i have not only endeavoured to avoid, but also have used a method for the contrary purpose. the design of the novel is obvious, after the first meeting of aurelian and hippolito with incognita and leonora, and the difficulty is in bringing it to pass, maugre all apparent obstacles, within the compass of two days. how many probable casualties intervene in opposition to the main design, viz. of marrying two couple so oddly engaged in an intricate amour, i leave the reader at his leisure to consider: as also whether every obstacle does not in the progress of the story act as subservient to that purpose, which at first it seems to oppose. in a comedy this would be called the unity of action; here it may pretend to no more than an unity of contrivance. the scene is continued in florence from the commencement of the amour; and the time from first to last is but three days. if there be any thing more in particular resembling the copy which i imitate (as the curious reader will soon perceive) i leave it to show it self, being very well satisfy'd how much more proper it had been for him to have found out this himself, than for me to prepossess him with an opinion of something extraordinary in an essay began and finished in the idler hours of a fortnight's time: for i can only esteem it a laborious idleness, which is parent to so inconsiderable a birth. i have gratified the bookseller in pretending an occasion for a preface; the other two persons concern'd are the reader and my self, and if he be but pleased with what was produced for that end, my satisfaction follows of course, since it will be proportion'd to his approbation or dislike. incognita: or, love & duty reconcil'd aurelian was the only son to a principal gentleman of florence. the indulgence of his father prompted, and his wealth enabled him, to bestow a generous education upon him, whom, he now began to look upon as the type of himself; an impression he had made in the gayety and vigour of his youth, before the rust of age had debilitated and obscur'd the splendour of the original: he was sensible, that he ought not to be sparing in the adornment of him, if he had resolution to beautifie his own memory. indeed don fabio (for so was the old gentleman call'd) has been observ'd to have fix'd his eyes upon aurelian, when much company has been at table, and have wept through earnestness of intention, if nothing hapned to divert the object; whether it were for regret, at the recollection of his former self, or for the joy he conceiv'd in being, as it were, reviv'd in the person of his son, i never took upon me to enquire, but suppos'd it might be sometimes one, and sometimes both together. aurelian, at the age of eighteen years, wanted nothing (but a beard) that the most accomplished cavalier in florence could pretend to: he had been educated from twelve years old at siena, where it seems his father kept a receiver, having a large income from the rents of several houses in that town. don fabio gave his servant orders, that aurelian should not be stinted in his expences, when he came up to years of discretion. by which means he was enabled, not only to keep company with, but also to confer many obligations upon strangers of quality, and gentlemen who travelled from other countries into italy, of which siena never wanted store, being a town most delightfully situate, upon a noble hill, and very well suiting with strangers at first, by reason of the agreeableness and purity of the air: there also is the quaintness and delicacy of the italian tongue most likely to be learned, there being many publick professors of it in that place; and indeed the very vulgar of siena do express themselves with an easiness and sweetness surprizing, and even grateful to their ears who understand not the language. here aurelian contracted an acquaintance with persons of worth of several countries, but among the rest an intimacy with a gentleman of quality of spain, and nephew to the archbishop of toledo, who had so wrought himself into the affections of aurelian, through a conformity of temper, an equality in years, and something of resemblance in feature and proportion, that he look'd upon him as his second self. hippolito, on the other hand, was not ungrateful in return of friendship, but thought himself either alone or in ill company, if aurelian were absent: but his uncle having sent him to travel, under the conduct of a governour, and the two years which limited his stay at siena being expired, he was put in mind of his departure. his friend grew melancholy at the news, but considering that hippolito had never seen florence, he easily prevailed with him to make his first journey thither, whither he would accompany him, and perhaps prevail with his father to do the like throughout his travels. they accordingly set out, but not being able easily to reach florence the same night, they rested a league or two short, at a villa of the great duke's called poggio imperiale, where they were informed by some of his highness's servants, that the nuptials of donna catharina (near kinswoman to the great duke) and don ferdinand de rovori, were to be solemnized the next day, and that extraordinary preparations had been making for some time past, to illustrate the solemnity with balls and masques, and other divertisements; that a tilting had been proclaimed, and to that purpose scaffolds erected around the spacious court, before the church di santa croce, where were usually seen all cavalcades and shews, performed by assemblies of the young nobility: that all mechanicks and tradesmen were forbidden to work or expose any goods to sale for the space of three days; during which time all persons should be entertain'd at the great duke's cost; and publick provision was to be made for the setting forth and furnishing a multitude of tables, with entertainment for all comers and goers, and several houses appointed for that use in all streets. this account alarm'd the spirits of our young travellers, and they were overjoy'd at the prospect of pleasures they foresaw. aurelian could not contain the satisfaction he conceiv'd in the welcome fortune had prepar'd for his dear hippolito. in short, they both remembred so much of the pleasing relation had been made them, that they forgot to sleep, and were up as soon as it was light, pounding at poor signior claudio's door (so was hippolito's governour call'd) to rouse him, that no time might be lost till they were arriv'd at florence, where they would furnish themselves with disguises and other accoutrements necessary for the prosecution of their design of sharing in the publick merriment; the rather were they for going so early because aurelian did not think fit to publish his being in town for a time, least his father knowing of it, might give some restraint to that loose they designed themselves. before sun rise they entred florence at porta romana, attended only by two servants, the rest being left behind to avoid notice; but, alas! they needed not to have used half that caution; for early as it was, the streets were crowded with all sorts of people passing to and fro, and every man employ'd in something relating to the diversions to come; so that no notice was taken of any body; a marquess and his train might have pass'd by as unregarded as a single fachin or cobler. not a window in the streets but echoed the tuning of a lute or thrumming of a gitarr: for, by the way, the inhabitants of florence are strangely addicted to the love of musick, insomuch that scarce their children can go, before they can scratch some instrument or other. it was no unpleasing spectacle to our cavaliers (who, seeing they were not observ'd, resolved to make observations) to behold the diversity of figures and postures of many of these musicians. here you should have an affected vallet, who mimick'd the behaviour of his master, leaning carelessly against the window, with his head on one side, in a languishing posture, whining, in a low, mournful voice, some dismal complaint; while, from his sympathizing theorbo, issued a base no less doleful to the hearers. in opposition to him was set up perhaps a cobler, with the wretched skeleton of a gitarr, battered and waxed together by his own industry, and who with three strings out of tune, and his own tearing hoarse voice, would rack attention from the neighbourhood, to the great affliction of many more moderate practitioners, who, no doubt, were full as desirous to be heard. by this time aurelian's servant had taken a lodging and was returned, to give his master an account of it. the cavaliers grown weary of that ridiculous entertainment, which was diverting at first sight, retired whither the lacquey conducted them; who, according to their directions, had sought out one of the most obscure streets in the city. all that day, to the evening, was spent in sending from one brokers shop to another, to furnish them with habits, since they had not time to make any new. there was, it happened, but one to be got rich enough to please our young gentlemen, so many were taken up upon this occasion. while they were in dispute and complementing one another, (aurelian protesting that hippolito should wear it, and he, on 'tother hand, forswearing it as bitterly) a servant of hippolito's came up and ended the controversie; telling them, that he had met below with the vallet de chambre of a gentleman, who was one of the greatest gallants about the town, but was at this time in such a condition he could not possibly be at the entertainment; whereupon the vallet had designed to dress himself up in his master's apparel, and try his talent at court; which he hearing, told him he would inform him how he might bestow the habit for some time much more to his profit if not to his pleasure, so acquainted him with the occasion his master had for it. hippolito sent for the fellow up, who was not so fond of his design as not to be bought off it, but upon having his own demand granted for the use of it, brought it; it was very rich, and upon tryal, as fit for hippolito as if it had been made for him. the ceremony was performed in the morning, in the great dome, with all magnificence correspondent to the wealth of the great duke, and the esteem he had for the noble pair. the next morning was to be a tilting, and the same night a masquing ball at court. to omit the description of the universal joy, (that had diffus'd it self through all the conduits of wine, which convey'd it in large measures to the people) and only relate those effects of it which concern our present adventurers. you must know, that about the fall of the evening, and at that time when the _aequilibrium_ of day and night, for some time, holds the air in a gloomy suspence between an unwillingness to leave the light, and a natural impulse into the dominion of darkness, about this time our hero's, shall i say, sally'd or slunk out of their lodgings, and steer'd toward the great palace, whither, before they were arrived, such a prodigious number of torches were on fire, that the day, by help of these auxiliary forces, seem'd to continue its dominion; the owls and bats apprehending their mistake, in counting the hours, retir'd again to a convenient darkness; for madam night was no more to be seen than she was to be heard; and the chymists were of opinion, that her fuliginous damps, rarefy'd by the abundance of flame, were evaporated. now the reader i suppose to be upon thorns at this and the like impertinent digressions, but let him alone and he'll come to himself; at which time i think fit to acquaint him, that when i digress, i am at that time writing to please my self, when i continue the thread of the story, i write to please him; supposing him a reasonable man, i conclude him satisfied to allow me this liberty, and so i proceed. if our cavaliers were dazled at the splendour they beheld without doors, what surprize, think you, must they be in, when entering the palace they found even the lights there to be but so many foils to the bright eyes that flash'd upon 'em at every turn. a more glorious troop no occasion ever assembled; all the fair of florence, with the most accomplished cavaliers, were present; and however nature had been partial in bestowing on some better faces than others, art was alike indulgent to all, and industriously supplyed those defects she had left, giving some addition also to her greatest excellencies. every body appear'd well shap'd, as it is to be suppos'd, none who were conscious to themselves of any visible deformity would presume to come thither. their apparel was equally glorious, though each differing in fancy. in short, our strangers were so well bred, as to conclude from these apparent perfections, that there was not a masque which did not at least hide the face of a cherubim. perhaps the ladies were not behind hand in return of a favourable opinion of them: for they were both well dress'd, and had something inexpressibly pleasing in their air and mien, different from other people, and indeed differing from one another. they fansy'd that while they stood together they were more particularly taken notice of than any in the room, and being unwilling to be taken for strangers, which they thought they were, by reason of some whispering they observed near them, they agreed upon an hour of meeting after the company should be broke up, and so separately mingled with the thickest of the assembly. aurelian had fixed his eye upon a lady whom he had observ'd to have been a considerable time in close whisper with another woman; he expected with great impatience the result of that private conference, that he might have an opportunity of engaging the lady whose person was so agreeable to him. at last he perceived they were broke off, and the 'tother lady seem'd to have taken her leave. he had taken no small pains in the mean time to put himself in a posture to accost the lady, which, no doubt, he had happily performed had he not been interrupted; but scarce had he acquitted himself of a preliminary bow (and which, i have heard him say, was the lowest that ever he made) and had just opened his lips to deliver himself of a small complement, which, nevertheless he was very big with, when he unluckily miscarried, by the interposal of the same lady, whose departure, not long before, he had so zealously pray'd for: but, as providence would have it, there was only some very small matter forgot, which was recovered in a short whisper. the coast being again cleared, he took heart and bore up, and, striking sail, repeated his ceremony to the lady; who, having obligingly returned it, he accosted her in these or the like words: 'if i do not usurp a priviledge reserved for some one more happy in your acquaintance, may i presume, madam, to entreat (for a while) the favour of your conversation, at least till the arrival of whom you expect, provided you are not tired of me before; for then upon the least intimation of uneasiness, i will not fail of doing my self the violence to withdraw for your release. the lady made him answer, she did not expect any body; by which he might imagine her conversation not of value to be bespoke, and to afford it him, were but farther to convince him to her own cost. he reply'd, 'she had already said enough to convince him of something he heartily wished might not be to his cost in the end. she pretended not to understand him; but told him, 'if he already found himself grieved with her conversation, he would have sufficient reason to repent the rashness of his first demand before they had ended: for that now she intended to hold discourse with him, on purpose to punish his unadvisedness, in presuming upon a person whose dress and mien might not (may be) be disagreeable to have wit. 'i must confess (reply'd aurelian) my self guilty of a presumption, and willingly submit to the punishment you intend: and though it be an aggravation of a crime to persevere in its justification, yet i cannot help defending an opinion in which now i am more confirm'd, that probable conjectures may be made of the ingenious disposition of the mind, from the fancy and choice of apparel. the humour i grant ye (said the lady) or constitution of the person whether melancholick or brisk; but i should hardly pass my censure upon so slight an indication of wit: for there is your brisk fool as well as your brisk man of sense, and so of the melancholick. i confess 'tis possible a fool may reveal himself by his dress, in wearing something extravagantly singular and ridiculous, or in preposterous suiting of colours; but a decency of habit (which is all that men of best sense pretend to) may be acquired by custom and example, without putting the person to a superfluous expence of wit for the contrivance; and though there should be occasion for it, few are so unfortunate in their relations and acquaintance not to have some friend capable of giving them advice, if they are not too ignorantly conceited to ask it. aurelian was so pleased with the easiness and smartness of her expostulation, that he forgot to make a reply, when she seem'd to expect it; but being a woman of a quick apprehension, and justly sensible of her own perfections, she soon perceived he did not grudge his attention. however she had a mind to put it upon him to turn the discourse, so went on upon the same subject. 'signior (said she) i have been looking round me, and by your maxim i cannot discover one fool in the company; for they are all well drest. this was spoken with an air of rallery that awakened the cavalier, who immediately made answer: 'tis true, madam, we see there may be as much variety of good fancies as of faces, yet there may be many of both kinds borrowed and adulterate if inquired into; and as you were pleased to observe, the invention may be foreign to the person who puts it in practice; and as good an opinion as i have of an agreeable dress, i should be loth to answer for the wit of all about us. i believe you (says the lady) and hope you are convinced of your error, since you must allow it impossible to tell who of all this assembly did or did not make choice of their own apparel. not all (said aurelian) there is an ungainness in some which betrays them. 'look ye there (says he) pointing to a lady who stood playing with the tassels of her girdle, i dare answer for that lady, though she be very well dress'd, 'tis more than she knows. his fair unknown could not forbear laughing at his particular distinction, and freely told him, he had indeed light upon one who knew as little as any body in the room, her self excepted. ah! madam, (reply'd aurelian) you know every thing in the world but your own perfections, and you only know not those because 'tis the top of perfection not to know them. how? (reply'd the lady) i thought it had been the extremity of knowledge to know ones self. aurelian had a little over-strain'd himself in that complement, and i am of opinion would have been puzzl'd to have brought himself off readily: but by good fortune the musick came into the room and gave him an opportunity to seem to decline an answer, because the company prepared to dance: he only told her he was too mean a conquest for her wit who was already a slave to the charms of her person. she thanked him for his complement, and briskly told him she ought to have made him a return in praise of his wit, but she hoped he was a man more happy than to be dissatisfy'd with any of his own endowments; and if it were so, that he had not a just opinion of himself, she knew her self incapable of saying any thing to beget one. aurelian did not know well what to make of this last reply; for he always abhor'd any thing that was conceited, with which this seem'd to reproach him. but however modest he had been heretofore in his own thoughts, yet never was he so distrustful of his good behaviour as now, being rally'd so by a person whom he took to be of judgment: yet he resolved to take no notice, but with an air unconcerned and full of good humour entreated her to dance with him: she promised him to dance with no body else, nor i believe had she inclination; for notwithstanding her tartness, she was upon equal terms with him as to the liking of each others person and humour, and only gave those little hints to try his temper; there being certainly no greater sign of folly and ill breeding, than to grow serious and concerned at any thing spoken in rallery: for his part, he was strangely and insensibly fallen in love with her shape, wit and air; which, together with a white hand, he had seen (perhaps not accidentally) were enough to have subdued a more stubborn heart than ever he was master of; and for her face, which he had not seen, he bestowed upon her the best his imagination could furnish him with. i should by right now describe her dress, which was extreamly agreeable and rich, but 'tis possible i might err in some material pin or other, in the sticking of which may be the whole grace of the drapery depended. well, they danced several times together, and no less to the satisfaction of the whole company, than of themselves; for at the end of each dance, some publick note of applause or other was given to the graceful couple. aurelian was amaz'd, that among all that danced or stood in view he could not see hippolito; but concluding that he had met with some pleasing conversation, and was withdrawn to some retired part of the room, he forbore his search till the mirth of that night should be over, and the company ready to break up, where we will leave him for a while, to see what became of his adventurous friend. hippolito, a little after he had parted with aurelian, was got among a knot of ladies and cavaliers, who were looking upon a large gold cup set with jewels, in which his royal highness had drank to the prosperity of the new married couple at dinner, and which afterward he presented to his cousin donna catharina. he among the rest was very intent, admiring the richness, workmanship and beauty of the cup, when a lady came behind him and pulling him by the elbow, made a sign she would speak with him; hippolito, who knew himself an utter stranger to florence and every body in it, immediately guessed she had mistaken him for her acquaintance, as indeed it happened; however he resolved not to discover himself till he should be assured of it; having followed her into a set window remote from company, she address'd her self to him in this manner: 'signior don lorenzo (said she) i am overjoy'd to see you are so speedily recovered of your wounds, which by report were much more dangerous than to have suffered your coming abroad so soon; but i must accuse you of great indiscretion, in appearing in a habit which so many must needs remember you to have worn upon the like occasion not long ago, i mean at the marriage of don cynthio with your sister atalanta; i do assure you, you were known by it, both to juliana and my self, who was so far concerned for you, as to desire me to tell you, that her brother don fabritio (who saw you when you came in with another gentleman) had eyed you very narrowly, and is since gone out of the room, she knows not upon what design; however she would have you, for your own sake, be advised and circumspect when you depart this place, lest you should be set upon unawares; you know the hatred don fabritio has born you ever since you had the fortune to kill his kinsman in a duel: here she paused as if expecting his reply; but hippolito was so confounded, that he stood mute, and contemplating the hazard he had ignorantly brought himself into, forgot his design of informing the lady of her mistake. she finding he made her no answer, went on. 'i perceive (continued she) you are in some surprize at what i have related, and may be, are doubtful of the truth; but i thought you had been better acquainted with your cousin leonora's voice, than to have forgot it so soon: yet in complaisance to your ill memory, i will put you past doubt, by shewing you my face; with that she pulled off her mask, and discovered to hippolito (now more amaz'd than ever) the most angelick face that he had ever beheld. he was just about to have made her some answer, when, clapping on her mask again without giving him time, she happily for him pursu'd her discourse. (for 'tis odds but he had made some discovery of himself in the surprize he was in.) having taken him familiarly by the hand, now she had made her self known to him, 'cousin lorenzo (added she) you may perhaps have taken it unkindly, that, during the time of your indisposition by reason of your wounds, i have not been to visit you; i do assure you it was not for want of any inclination i had both to see and serve you to my power; but you are well acquainted with the severity of my father, whom you know how lately you have disobliged. i am mighty glad that i have met with you here, where i have had an opportunity to tell you what so much concerns your safety, which i am afraid you will not find in florence; considering the great power don fabritio and his father, the marquess of viterbo, have in this city. i have another thing to inform you of, that whereas don fabio had interested himself in your cause, in opposition to the marquess of viterbo, by reason of the long animosity between them, all hopes of his countenance and assistance are defeated: for there has been a proposal of reconciliation made to both houses, and it is said it will be confirm'd (as most such ancient quarrels are at last) by the marriage of juliana the marquess's daughter, with aurelian, son to don fabio: to which effect the old gentleman sent 'tother day to siena, where aurelian has been educated, to hasten his coming to town; but the messenger returning this morning, brought word, that the same day he arriv'd at siena, aurelian had set out for florence, in company with a young spanish nobleman, his intimate friend; so it is believ'd, they are both in town, and not unlikely in this room in masquerade. hippolito could not forbear smiling to himself, at these last words. for ever since the naming of don fabio he had been very attentive; but before, his thoughts were wholly taken up with the beauty of the face he had seen, and from the time she had taken him by the hand, a successive warmth and chillness had play'd about his heart, and surpriz'd him with an unusual transport. he was in a hundred minds, whether he should make her sensible of her error or no; but considering he could expect no farther conference with her after he should discover himself, and that as yet he knew not of her place of abode, he resolv'd to humour the mistake a little further. having her still by the hand, which he squeez'd somewhat more eagerly than is usual for cousins to do, in a low and undistinguishable voice, he let her know how much he held himself obliged to her, and avoiding as many words as handsomely he could, at the same time, entreated her to give him her advice, toward the management of himself in this affair. leonora, who never from the beginning had entertain'd the least scruple of distrust, imagined he spoke faintly, as not being yet perfectly recovered in his strength; and withal considering that the heat of the room, by reason of the crowd, might be uneasie to a person in his condition; she kindly told him, that if he were as inclinable to dispense with the remainder of that nights diversion as she was, and had no other engagement upon him, by her consent they should both steal out of the assembly, and go to her house, where they might with more freedom discourse about a business of that importance, and where he might take something to refresh himself if he were (as she conceiv'd him to be) indisposed with his long standing. judge you whether the proposal were acceptable to hippolito or no; he had been ruminating with himself how to bring something like this about, and had almost despair'd of it; when of a suddain he found the success of his design had prevented his own endeavours. he told his cousin in the same key as before, that he was unwilling to be the occasion of her divorce from so much good company; but for his own part, he was afraid he had presumed too much upon his recovery in coming abroad so soon, and that he found himself so unwell, he feared he should be quickly forc'd to retire. leonora stay'd not to make him any other reply, only tipp'd him upon the arm, and bid him follow her at a convenient distance to avoid observation. whoever had seen the joy that was in hippolito's countenance, and the sprightliness with which he follow'd his beautiful conductress, would scarce have taken him for a person griev'd with uncured wounds. she led him down a back pair of stairs, into one of the palace gardens which had a door opening into the piazza, not far from where don mario her father lived. they had little discourse by the way, which gave hippolito time to consider of the best way of discovering himself. a thousand things came into his head in a minute, yet nothing that pleased him: and after so many contrivances as he had formed for the discovery of himself, he found it more rational for him not to reveal himself at all that night, since he could not foresee what effect the surprize would have, she must needs be in, at the appearance of a stranger, whom she had never seen before, yet whom she had treated so familiarly. he knew women were apt to shriek or swoon upon such occasions, and should she happen to do either, he might be at a loss how to bring himself off. he thought he might easily pretend to be indisposed somewhat more than ordinary, and so make an excuse to go to his own lodging. it came into his head too, that under pretence of giving her an account of his health, he might enquire of her the means how a letter might be convey'd to her the next morning, wherein he might inform her gently of her mistake, and insinuate something of that passion he had conceiv'd, which he was sure he could not have opportunity to speak of if he bluntly revealed himself. he had just resolv'd upon this method, as they were come to the great gates of the court, when leonora stopping to let him go in before her, he of a suddain fetch'd his breath violently as if some stitch or twinging smart had just then assaulted him. she enquired the matter of him, and advised him to make haste into the house that he might sit down and rest him. he told her he found himself so ill, that he judged it more convenient for him to go home while he was in a condition to move, for he fear'd if he should once settle himself to rest he might not be able to stir. she was much troubled, and would have had a chair made ready and servants to carry him home; but he made answer, he would not have any of her fathers servants know of his being abroad, and that just now he had an interval of ease, which he hop'd would continue till he made a shift to reach his own lodgings. yet if she pleased to inform him how he might give an account of himself the next morning, in a line or two, he would not fail to give her the thanks due to her great kindness; and withal, would let her know something which would not a little surprize her, though now he had not time to acquaint her with it. she show'd him a little window at the corner of the house, where one should wait to receive his letter, and was just taking her leave of him, when seeing him search hastily in his pocket, she ask'd him if he miss'd any thing; he told her he thought a wound which was not throughly heal'd bled a little, and that he had lost his handkerchief. his design took; for she immediately gave him hers: which indeed accordingly he apply'd to the only wound he was then griev'd with; which though it went quite through his heart, yet thank god was not mortal. he was not a little rejoyc'd at his good fortune in getting so early a favour from his mistress, and notwithstanding the violence he did himself to personate a sick man, he could not forbear giving some symptoms of an extraordinary content; and telling her that he did not doubt to receive a considerable proportion of ease from the application of what had so often kiss'd her fair hand. leonora who did not suspect the compliment, told him she should be heartily glad if that or any thing in her power might contribute to his recovery; and wishing him well home, went into her house, as much troubled for her cousin as he was joyful for his mistress. hippolito as soon as she was gone in, began to make his remarks about the house, walking round the great court, viewing the gardens and all the passages leading to that side of the piazza. having sufficiently informed himself, with a heart full of love, and a head full of stratagem, he walked toward his lodging, impatient till the arrival of aurelian that he might give himself vent. in which interim, let me take the liberty to digress a little, and tell the reader something which i do not doubt he has apprehended himself long ago, if he be not the dullest reader in the world; yet only for orders sake, let me tell him i say, that a young gentleman (cousin to the aforesaid don fabritio) happened one night to have some words at a gameing house with one lorenzo, which created a quarrel of fatal consequence to the former, who was killed upon the spot, and likely to be so to the latter, who was very desperately wounded. fabritio being much concerned for his kinsman, vow'd revenge (according to the ancient and laudable custom of italy) upon lorenzo if he surviv'd, or in case of his death (if it should happen to anticipate that, much more swinging death which he had in store for him) upon his next of kin, and so to descend lineally like an english estate, to all the heirs males of this family. this same fabritio had indeed (as leonora told hippolito) taken particular notice of him from his first entrance into the room, and was so far doubtful as to go out immediately himself, and make enquiry concerning lorenzo, but was quickly inform'd of the greatness of his error, in believing a man to be abroad, who was so ill of his wounds, that they now despair'd of his recovery; and thereupon return'd to the ball very well satisfied, but not before leonora and hippolito were departed. so, reader, having now discharg'd my conscience of a small discovery which i thought my self obliged to make to thee, i proceed to tell thee, that our friend aurelian had by this time danced himself into a net which he neither could, nor which is worse desired to untangle. his soul was charm'd to the movement of her body: an air so graceful, so sweet, so easie and so great, he had never seen. she had something of majesty in her, which appear'd to be born with her; and though it struck an awe into the beholders, yet was it sweetned with a familiarity of behaviour, which rendred it agreeable to every body. the grandeur of her mien was not stiff, but unstudied and unforced, mixed with a simplicity; free, yet not loose nor affected. if the former seem'd to condescend, the latter seem'd to aspire; and both to unite in the centre of perfection. every turn she gave in dancing snatcht aurelian into a rapture, and he had like to have been out two or three times with following his eyes, which she led about as slaves to her heels. as soon as they had done dancing, he began to complain of his want of breath and lungs, to speak sufficiently in her commendation; she smilingly told him, he did ill to dance so much then: yet in consideration of the pains he had taken more than ordinary upon her account she would bate him a great deal of complement, but with this proviso, that he was to discover to her who he was. aurelian was unwilling for the present to own himself to be really the man he was; when a suddain thought came into his head to take upon him the name and character of hippolito, who he was sure was not known in florence. he thereupon, after a little pause, pretended to recal himself in this manner: 'madam, it is no small demonstration of the entire resignation which i have made of my heart to your chains, since the secrets of it are no longer in my power. i confess i only took florence in my way, not designing any longer residence, than should be requisite to inform the curiosity of a traveller, of the rareties of the place. whether happiness or misery will be the consequence of that curiosity, i am yet in fear, and submit to your determination; but sure i am, not to depart florence till you have made me the most miserable man in it, and refuse me the fatal kindness of dying at your feet. i am by birth a spaniard, of the city of toledo; my name hippolito di saviolina: i was yesterday a man free, as nature made the first; to day i am fallen into a captivity, which must continue with my life, and which, it is in your power, to make much dearer to me. thus in obedience to your commands, and contrary to my resolution of remaining unknown in this place, i have inform'd you, madam, what i am; what i shall be, i desire to know from you; at least, i hope, the free discovery i have made of my self, will encourage you to trust me with the knowledge of your person. here a low bow, and a deep sigh, put an end to his discourse, and signified his expectation of her reply, which was to this purpose--(but i had forgot to tell you, that aurelian kept off his mask from the time that he told her he was of spain, till the period of his relation.) had i thought (said she) that my curiosity would have brought me in debt, i should certainly have forborn it; or at least have agreed with you before hand about the rate of your discovery, then i had not brought my self to the inconveniency of being censur'd, either of too much easiness or reservedness; but to avoid, as much as i can, the extreamity of either, i am resolv'd but to discover my self in part, and will endeavour to give you as little occasion as i can, either to boast of, or ridicule the behaviour of the women of florence in your travels. aurelian interrupted her, and swore very solemnly (and the more heartily, i believe, because he then indeed spoke truth) that he would make florence the place of his abode, whatever concerns he had elsewhere. she advised him to be cautious how he swore to his expressions of gallantry; and farther told him she now hoped she should make him a return to all the fine things he had said, since she gave him his choice whether he would know who she was, or see her face. aurelian who was really in love, and in whom consideration would have been a crime, greedily embrac'd the latter, since she assured him at that time he should not know both. well, what follow'd? why, she pull'd off her mask, and appear'd to him at once in the glory of beauty. but who can tell the astonishment aurelian felt? he was for a time senseless; admiration had suppress'd his speech, and his eyes were entangled in light. i short, to be made sensible of his condition, we must conceive some idea of what he beheld, which is not to imagined till seen, nor then to be express'd. now see the impertinence and conceitedness of an author, who will have a fling at a description, which he has prefaced with an impossibility. one might have seen something in her composition resembling the formation of epicurus his world, as if every atome of beauty had concurr'd to unite an excellency. had that curious painter lived in her days, he might have avoided his painful search, when he collected from the choicest pieces the most choice features, and by a due disposition and judicious symmetry of those exquisite parts, made one whole and perfect venus. nature seem'd here to have play'd the plagiary, and to have molded into substance the most refined thoughts of inspired poets. her eyes diffus'd rays comfortable as warmth, and piercing as the light; they would have worked a passage through the straightest pores, and with a delicious heat, have play'd about the most obdurate frozen heart, untill 'twere melted down to love. such majesty and affability were in her looks; so alluring, yet commanding was her presence, that it minged awe with love; kindling a flame which trembled to aspire. she had danced much, which, together with her being close masked, gave her a tincture of carnation more than ordinary. but aurelian (from whom i had every tittle of her description) fancy'd he saw a little nest of cupids break from the tresses of her hair, and every one officiously betake himself to his task. some fann'd with their downy wings, her glowing cheeks; while others brush'd the balmy dew from off her face, leaving alone a heavenly moisture blubbing on her lips, on which they drank and revell'd for their pains; nay, so particular were their allotments in her service, that aurelian was very positive a young cupid who was but just pen-feather'd, employ'd his naked quills to pick her teeth. and a thousand other things his transport represented to him, which none but lovers who have experience of such visions will believe. as soon as he awaked and found his speech come to him, he employ'd it to this effect: ''tis enough that i have seen a divinity--nothing but mercy can inhabit these perfections--their utmost rigour brings a death preferable to any life, but what they give--use me, madam, as you please; for by your fair self, i cannot think a bliss beyond what now i feel--you wound with pleasure, and if you kill it must be with transport--ah! yet methinks to live--o heaven! to have life pronounced by those bless'd lips--did they not inspire where they command, it were an immediate death of joy. aurelian was growing a little too loud with his admiration, had she not just then interrupted him, by clapping on her masque, and telling him they should be observed, if he proceeded in his extravagance; and withal, that his passion was too suddain to be real, and too violent to be lasting. he replied, indeed it might not be very lasting, (with a submissive mournful voice) but it would continue during his life. that it was suddain, he denied, for she had raised it by degrees from his first sight of her, by a continued discovery of charms, in her mien and conversation, till she thought fit to set fire to the train she had laid, by the lightning of her face; and then he could not help it, if he were blown up. he begg'd her to believe the sincerity of his passion, at least to enjoin him something, which might tend to the convincing of her incredulity. she said, she should find a time to make some trials of him; but for the first, she charged him not to follow or observe her, after the dissolution of the assembly. he promised to obey, and entreated her to tell him but her name, that he might have recourse to that in his affliction for her absence, if he were able to survive it. she desired him to live by all means; and if he must have a name to play with, to call her incognita, till he were better informed. the company breaking up, she took her leave, and at his earnest entreaty, gave him a short vision of her face which, then dress'd in an obliging smile, caused another fit of transport, which lasted till she was gone out of sight. aurelian gathered up his spirits, and walked slowly towards his lodging, never remembring that he had lost hippolito, till upon turning the corner of a street, he heard a noise of fighting; and coming near, saw a man make a vigorous defence against two, who pressed violently upon him. he then thought of hippolito, and fancying he saw the glimmering of diamond buttons, such as hippolito had upon the sleeves of his habit, immediately drew to his assistance; and with that eagerness and resolution, that the assailants, finding their unmanly odds defeated, took to their heels. the person rescued by the generous help of aurelian, came toward him; but as he would have stoop'd to have saluted him, dropp'd, fainting at his feet. aurelian, now he was so near him, perceiv'd plainly hippolito's habit, and step'd hastily to take him up. just as some of the guards (who were going the rounds, apprehensive of such disorders in an universal merriment) came up to him with lights, and had taken prisoners the two men, whom they met with their sword's drawn; when looking in the face of the wounded man, he found it was not hippolito, but his governour claudio, in the habit he had worn at the ball. he was extreamly surpriz'd, as were the prisoners, who confess'd their design to have been upon lorenzo; grounding their mistake upon the habit which was known to have been his. they were two men who formerly had been servants to him, whom lorenzo had unfortunately slain. they made a shift to bring claudio to himself; and part of the guard carrying off the prisoners, whom aurelian desired they would secure, the rest accompanied him bearing claudio in their arms to his lodging. he had not patience to forbear asking for hippolito by the way; whom claudio assured him, he had left safe in his chamber, above two hours since. that his coming home so long before the divertisements were ended, and undressing himself, had given him the unhappy curiosity, to put on his habit, and go to the pallace; in his return from whence, he was set upon in the manner he found him, which if he recovered, he must own his life indebted to his timely assistance. being come to the house, they carried him to his bed, and having sent for surgeons aurelian rewarded and dismissed the guard. he stay'd the dressing of claudio's wounds, which were many, though they hop'd none mortal: and leaving him to his rest, went to give hippolito an account of what had happened, whom he found with a table before him, leaning upon both his elbows, his face covered with his hands, and so motionless, that aurelian concluded he was asleep; seeing several papers lie before him, half written and blotted out again, he thought to steal softly to the table, and discover what he had been employed about. just as he reach'd forth his hand to take up one of the papers, hippolito started up so on the suddain, as surpriz'd aurelian and made him leap back; hippolito, on the other hand, not supposing that any body had been near him, was so disordered with the appearance of a man at his elbow, (whom his amazement did not permit him to distinguish) that he leap'd hastily to his sword, and in turning him about, overthrew the stand and candles. here were they both left in the dark, hippolito groping about with his sword, and thrusting at every chair that he felt oppose him. aurelian was scarce come to himself, when thinking to step back toward the door that he might inform his friend of his mistake, without exposing himself to his blind fury; hippolito heard him stir, and made a full thrust with such violence, that the hilt of the sword meeting with aurelian's breast beat him down, and hippolito a top of him, as a servant alarm'd with the noise, came into the chamber with a light. the fellow trembled, and thought they were both dead, till hippolito raising himself, to see whom he had got under him, swoon'd away upon the discovery of his friend. but such was the extraordinary care of providence in directing the sword, that it only past under his arm, giving no wound to aurelia, but a little bruise between his shoulder and breast with the hilt. he got up, scarce recovered of his fright, and by the help of the servant; laid hippolito upon the bed; who when he was come to himself could hardly be perswaded, that his friend was before him and alive, till he shew'd him his breast, where was nothing of a wound. hippolito begg'd his pardon a thousand times, and curs'd himself as often, who was so near to committing the most execrable act of amicide. they dismiss'd the fellow, and with many embraces, congratulated their fortunate delivery from the mischief which came so near them, each blaming himself as the occasion: aurelian accusing his own unadvisedness in stealing upon hippolito; hippolito blaming his own temerity and weakness, in being so easily frighted to disorder; and last of all, his blindness, in not knowing his dearest friend. but there he gave a sigh, and passionately taking aurelian by the hand, cry'd, ah! my friend, love is indeed blind, when it would not suffer me to see you--there arose another sigh; a sympathy seiz'd aurelian immediately: (for, by the way, sighing is as catching among lovers, as yawning among the vulgar.) beside hearing the name of love, made him fetch such a sigh, that hippolito's were but fly-blows in comparison, that was answered with all the might hippolito had, aurelian ply'd him close till they were both out of breath. thus not a word pass'd, though each wondred why the t'other sigh'd, at last concluded it to be only complaisance to one another. aurelian broke the silence, by telling him the misfortune of his governour. hippolito rejoic'd as at the luckiest accident which could have befall'n him. aurelian wondred at his unseasonable mirth, and demanded the cause of it; he answer'd, it would necessitate his longer stay in florence, and for ought he knew be the means of bringing a happy period to his amour. his friend thought him to be little better than a madman, when he perceiv'd him of a suddain snatch out of his bosom a handkerchief, which having kiss'd with a great deal of ardour, he took aurelian by the hand, and smiling at the surprize he saw him in; 'your florentine cupid is certainly (said he) 'the most expert in the world. i have since i saw you beheld the most beautiful of women. i am faln desperately in love with her, and those papers which you see so blotted and scattered, are but so many essays which i have made to the declaration of my passion. and this handkerchief which i so zealously caress, is the inestimable token which i have to make my self known to her. 'o leonora! (continued he) 'how hast thou stamp'd thine image on my soul! how much dearer am i to my self, since i have had thy heavenly form in keeping! now, my aurelian, i am worthy thee; my exalted love has dignified me, and rais'd me far above thy poor former despicable hippolito. aurelian seeing the rapture he was in, thought it in vain to expect a settled relation of the adventure, so was reaching to the table for some of the papers, but hippolito told him, if he would have a little patience he would acquaint him with the whole matter; and thereupon told him word for word how he was mistaken for lorenzo, and his management of himself. aurelian commended his prudence, in not discovering himself; and told him, if he could spare so much time from the contemplation of his mistress, he would inform him of an adventure, though not so accidental, yet of as great concern to his own future happiness. so related all that had happened to him with his beautiful incognita. having ended the story, they began to consider of the means they were to use toward a review of their mistresses. aurelian was confounded at the difficulty he conceived on his part. he understood from hippolito's adventure, that his father knew of his being in town, whom he must unavoidably disoblige if he yet concealed himself, and disobey if he came into his sight; for he had already entertain'd an aversion for juliana, in apprehension of her being imposed on him. his incognita was rooted in his heart, yet could he not comfort himself with any hopes when he should see her: he knew not where she lived, and she had made him no promise of a second conference. then did he repent his inconsiderate choice, in preferring the momentary vision of her face, to a certain intelligence of her person. every thought that succeeded distracted him, and all the hopes he could presume upon, were within compass of the two days merriment yet to come; for which space he hop'd he might excuse his remaining conceal'd to his father. hippolito on the other side (though aurelian thought him in a much better way) was no less afflicted for himself. the difficulties which he saw in his friend's circumstances, put him upon finding out a great many more in his own, than really there were. but what terrified him most of all, was his being an utter stranger to leonora; she had not the least knowledge of him but through mistake, and consequently could form no idea of him to his advantage. he look'd upon it as an unlucky thought in aurelian to take upon him his name, since possibly the two ladies were acquainted, and should they communicate to each other their adventures; they might both reasonably suffer in their opinions, and be thought guilty of falshood, since it would appear to them as one person pretending to two. aurelian told him, there was but one remedy for that, which was for hippolito, in the same manner that he had done, to make use of his name, when he writ to leonora, and use what arguments he could to perswade her to secrecy, least his father should know of the reason which kept him concealed in town. and it was likely, though perhaps she might not immediately entertain his passion; yet she would out of generosity conceal, what was hidden only for her sake. well this was concluded on, after a great many other reasons used on either side, in favour of the contrivance; they at last argued themselves into a belief, that fortune had befriended them with a better plot, than their regular thinking could have contriv'd. so soon had they convinc'd themselves, in what they were willing to believe. aurelian laid himself down to rest, that is, upon the bed; for he was a better lover than to pretend to sleep that night, while hippolito set himself again to frame his letter design'd for leonora. he writ several, at last pitched upon one, and very probably the worst, as you may guess when you read it in its proper place. it was break of day when the servant, who had been employed all the foregoing day in procuring accoutrements for the two cavaliers, to appear in at the tilting, came into the room, and told them all the young gentlemen in the town were trying their equipage, and preparing to be early in the lists. they made themselves ready with all expedition at the alarm: and hippolito having made a visit to his governour, dispatch'd a messenger with the letter and directions to leonora. at the signal agreed upon the casement was opened and a string let down, to which the bearer having fastned the letter, saw it drawn up, and returned. it were a vain attempt to describe leonora's surprize, when she read the superscription.--the unfortunate aurelian, to the beautiful leonora--after she was a little recovered from her amaze, she recollected to her self all the passages between her and her supposed cousin, and immediately concluded him to be aurelian. then several little circumstances which she thought might have been sufficient to have convinced her, represented themselves to her; and she was in a strange uneasiness to think of her free carriage to a stranger. she was once in a mind to have burn'd the letter, or to have stay'd for an opportunity to send it again. but she was a woman, and her curiosity opposed it self to all thoughts of that nature: at length with a firm resolution, she opened it, and found word for word, what is underwritten. the letter. madam, if your fair eyes, upon the breaking up of this, meet with somewhat too quick a surprize, make thence, i beseech you, some reflection upon the condition i must needs have been in, at the suddain appearance of that sun of beauty, which at once shone so full upon my soul. i could not immediately disengage my self from that maze of charms, to let you know how unworthy a captive your eyes had made through mistake. sure, madam, you cannot but remember my disorder, of which your innocent (innocent, though perhaps to me fatal) error made a charitable (but wide) construction. your tongue pursued the victory of your eyes, and you did not give me time to rally my poor disordered senses, so as to make a tolerable retreat. pardon, madam, the continuation of the deceipt, and call it not so, that i appear'd to be other than my self; for heaven knows i was not then my self, nor am i now my own. you told me something that concern'd me nearly, as to a marriage my father design'd me, and much more nearly in being told by you. for heaven's sake, disclose not to any body your knowledge of me, that i may not be forced to an immediate act of disobedience; for if my future services and inviolate love, cannot recommend me to your favour, i shall find more comfort in the cold embraces of a grave, than in the arms of the never so much admired (but by me dreaded) juliana. think, madam, of those severe circumstances i lie under; and withal i beg you, think it is in your power, and only in your power, to make them happy as my wishes, or much more miserable than i am able to imagine. that dear, inestimable (though undesign'd) favour which i receiv'd from you, shall this day distinguish me from the crowd of your admirers; that which i really applied to my inward bleeding wound, the welcom wound which you have made, and which, unless from you, does wish no cure; then pardon and have pity on, o adored leonora, him, who is your's by creation as he is heaven's, though never so unworthy. have pity on your aurelian. she read the letter over and over, then flung it by, then read it again; the novelty of the adventure made her repeat her curiosity, and take more than ordinary pains to understand it. at last her familiarity with the expressions grew to an intimacy, and what she at first permitted she now began to like. she thought there was something in it a little more serious, than to be barely gallantry. she wondred at her own blindness, and fancy'd she could remember something of a more becoming air in the stranger than was usual to lorenzo. this thought was parent to another of the same kind, till a long chain successively had birth, and every one somewhat more than other, in favour of the supposed aurelian. she reflected upon his discretion, in deferring the discovery of himself, till a little time had, as it were, weaned her from her perswasion, and by removing her farther from her mistake, had prepared her for a full and determinate convincement. she thought his behaviour, in personating a sick man so readily, upon the first hint was not amiss, and smil'd to think of his excuse to procure her handkerchief; and last of all, his sifting out the means to write to her, which he had done with that modesty and respect, she could not tell how to find fault with it. she had proceeded thus far in a maze of thought, when she started to find her self so lost to her reason, and would have trod back again that path of deluding fancy; accusing her self of fondness, and inconsiderate easiness, in giving credit to the letter of a person whose face she never saw, and whose first acquaintance with her was a treachery, and he who could so readily deliver his tongue of a lye upon a surprize, was scarce to be trusted when he had sufficient time allow'd him to beget a fiction, and means to perfect the birth. how did she know this to be aurelian, if he were? nay farther, put it to the extremity, what if she should upon farther conversation with him proceed to love him? what hopes were there for her? or how could she consent to marry a man already destined for another woman? nay, a woman that was her friend, whose marrying with him was to compleat the happy reconciliation of two noble families, and which might prevent the effusion of much blood likely to be shed in that quarrel: besides, she should incurr share of the guilt, which he would draw upon him by disobedience to his father, whom she was sure would not be consenting to it. 'tis strange now, but all accounts agree, that just here leonora, who had run like a violent stream against aurelian hitherto, now retorted with as much precipitation in his favour. i could never get any body to give me a satisfactory reason, for her suddain and dextrous change of opinion just at that stop, which made me conclude she could not help it; and that nature boil'd over in her at that time when it had so fair an opportunity to show it self: for leonora it seems was a woman beautiful, and otherwise of an excellent disposition; but in the bottom a very woman. this last objection, this opportunity of perswading man to disobedience, determined the matter in favour of aurelian, more than all his excellencies and qualifications, take him as aurelian, or hippolito, or both together. well, the spirit of contradiction and of eve was strong in her; and she was in a fair way to love aurelian, for she lik'd him already; that it was aurelian she no longer doubted, for had it been a villain, who had only taken his name upon him for any ill designs, he would never have slip'd so favourable an opportunity as when they were alone and in the night coming through the garden and broad space before the piazza. in short, thus much she resolv'd, at least to conceal the knowledge she had of him, as he had entreated her in his letter, and to make particular remarks of his behaviour that day in the lists, which should it happen to charm her with an absolute liking of his person, she resolv'd to dress her self to the best advantage, and mustering up all her graces, out of pure revenge to kill him down right. i would not have the reader now be impertinent, and look upon this to be force, or a whim of the author's, that a woman should proceed so far in her approbation of a man whom she never saw, that it is impossible, therefore ridiculous to suppose it. let me tell such a critick, that he knows nothing of the sex, if he does not know that woman may be taken with the character and description of a man, when general and extraordinary, that she may be prepossess'd with an agreeable idea of his person and conversation; and though she cannot imagine his real features, or manner of wit, yet she has a general notion of what is call'd a fine gentleman, and is prepar'd to like such a one who does not disagree with that character. aurelian, as he bore a very fair character, so was he extreamly deserving to make it good, which otherways might have been to his prejudice; for oftentimes, through an imprudent indulgence to our friends merit, we give so large a description of his excellencies, that people make more room in their expectation, than the intrinsick worth of the man will fill, which renders him so much the more despicable as there is emptyness to spare. 'tis certain, though the women seldom find that out; for though they do not see so much in a man as was promised, yet they will be so kind to imagine he has some hidden excellencies; which time may discover to them, so are content to allow, him a considerable share of their esteem, and take him into favour upon tick. aurelian as he had good credit, so he had a good stock to support it, and his person was a good promising security for the payment of any obligation he could lie under to the fair sex. hippolito, who at this time was our aurelian, did not at all lessen him in appearing for him: so that although leonora was indeed mistaken, she could not be said to be much in the wrong. i could find in my heart to beg the reader's pardon for this digression, if i thought he would be sensible of the civility; for i promise him, i do not intend to do it again throughout the story, though i make never so many, and though he take them never so ill. but because i began this upon a bare supposition of his impertinence, which might be somewhat impertinent in me to suppose, i do, and hope to make him amends by telling him, that by the time leonora was dress'd, several ladies of her acquaintance came to accompany her to the place designed for the tilting, where we will leave them drinking chocholate till 'tis time for them to go. our cavaliers had by good fortune provided themselves of two curious suits of light armour, finely enammelled and gilt. hippolito had sent to poggio imperiale for a couple of fine led horses which he had left there with the rest of his train at his entrance into florence. mounted on these and every way well equipt, they took their way, attended only by two lacqueys, toward the church di santa croce, before which they were to perform their exercises of chivalry. hippolito wore upon his helm a large plume of crimson feathers, in the midst of which was artificially placed leonora's handkerchief. his armour was gilt, and enammell'd with green and crimson. aurelian was not so happy as to wear any token to recommend him to the notice of his mistress, so had only a plume of skycolour and white feathers, suitable to his armour, which was silver enammelled with azure. i shall not describe the habits of any other cavaliers, or of the ladies; let it suffice to tell the reader they were all very fine and very glorious, and let him dress them in what is most agreeable to his own fancy. our gallants entred the lists, and having made their obeysance to his highness, turned round to salute and view the company. the scaffold was circular, so that there was no end of the delightful prospect. it seem'd a glory of beauty which shone around the admiring beholders. our lovers soon perceived the stars which were to rule their destiny, which sparkled a lustre beyond all the inferiour constellations, and seem'd like two suns to distribute light to all the planets in that heavenly sphere. leonora knew her slave by his badge and blushed till the lilies and roses in her cheeks had resemblance to the plume of crimson and white handkerchief in hippolito's crest. he made her a low bow, and reined his horse back with an extraordinary grace, into a respectful retreat. aurelian saw his angel, his beautiful incognita, and had no other way to make himself known to her, but by saluting and bowing to her after the spanish mode; she guess'd him by it to be her new servant hippolito, and signified her apprehension, by making him a more particular and obliging return, than to any of the cavaliers who had saluted her before. the exercise that was to be perform'd was in general a running at the ring; and afterwards two cavaliers undertook to defend the beauty of donna catharina, against all who would not allow her preheminence of their mistresses. this thing was only designed for show and form, none presuming that any body would put so great an affront upon the bride and duke's kinswoman, as to dispute her pretentions to the first place in the court of venus. but here our cavaliers were under a mistake; for seeing a large shield carry'd before two knights, with a lady painted upon it; not knowing who, but reading the inscription which was (in large gold letters) above the insolence of competition. they thought themselves obliged, especially in the presence of their mistresses, to vindicate their beauty; and were just spurring on to engage the champions, when a gentleman stopping them, told them their mistake, that it was the picture of donna catharina, and a particular honour done to her by his highness's commands, and not to be disputed. upon this they would have returned to their post, much concerned for their mistake; but notice being taken by don ferdinand of some show of opposition that was made, he would have begged leave of the duke, to have maintained his lady's honour against the insolence of those cavaliers; but the duke would by no means permit it. they were arguing about it when one of them came up, before whom the shield was born, and demanded his highness's permission, to inform those gentlemen better of their mistake, by giving them the foyl. by the intercession of don ferdinand, leave was given them; whereupon a civil challenge was sent to the two strangers, informing them of their error, and withal telling them they must either maintain it by force of arms, or make a publick acknowledgment by riding bare headed before the picture once round the lists. the stranger-cavaliers remonstrated to the duke how sensible they were of their error, and though they would not justifie it, yet they could not decline the combate, being pressed to it beyond an honourable refusal. to the bride they sent a complement, wherein, having first begg'd her pardon for not knowing her picture, they gave her to understand, that now they were not about to dispute her undoubted right to the crown of beauty, but the honour of being her champions was the prize they fought for, which they thought themselves as able to maintain as any other pretenders. wherefore they pray'd her, that if fortune so far befriended their endeavours as to make them victors, that they might receive no other reward, but to be crown'd with the titles of their adversaries, and be ever after esteem'd as her most humble servants. the excuse was so handsomely designed, and much better express'd than it is here, that it took effect. the duke, don ferdinand and his lady were so well satisfied with it as to grant their request. while the running at the ring lasted, our cavaliers alternately bore away great share of the honour. that sport ended, marshals were appointed for the field, and every thing in great form settled for the combat. the cavaliers were all in good earnest, but orders were given to bring 'em blunted lances, and to forbid the drawing of a sword upon pain of his highness's displeasure. the trumpets sounded and they began their course: the ladies' hearts, particularly the incognita and leonora's beat time to the horses hoofs, and hope and fear made a mock fight within their tender breasts, each wishing and doubting success where she lik'd: but as the generality of their prayers were for the graceful strangers, they accordingly succeeded. aurelian's adversary was unhorsed in the first encounter, and hippolito's lost both stirrups and dropt his lance to save himself. the honour of the field was immediately granted to them, and don catharina sent them both favours, which she pray'd them to wear as her knights. the crowd breaking up, our cavaliers made a shift to steal off unmarked, save by the watchful leonora and incognita, whose eyes were never off from their respective servants. there was enquiry made for them, but to no purpose; for they to prevent their being discovered had prepared another house, distant from their lodging, where a servant attended to disarm them, and another carried back their horses to the villa, while they walked unsuspected to their lodging; but incognita had given command to a page to dog 'em till the evening, at a distance, and bring her word where they were latest housed. while several conjectures pass'd among the company, who were all gone to dinner at the palace, who those cavaliers should be, don fabio thought himself the only man able to guess; for he knew for certain that his son and hippolito were both in town, and was well enough pleased with his humour of remaining incognito till the diversions should be over, believing then that the surprize of his discovery would add much to the gallantry he had shown in masquerade; but hearing the extraordinary liking that every body express'd, and in a particular manner, the great duke himself, to the persons and behaviour of the unknown cavaliers, the old gentleman could not forbear the vanity to tell his highness, that he believed he had an interest in one of the gentlemen, whom he was pleased to honour with so favourable a character; and told him what reason he had to believe the one to be his son, and the other a spanish nobleman, his friend. this discovery having thus got vent, was diffused like air; every body suck'd it in, and let it out again with their breath to the next they met withal; and in half an hours time it was talked of in the house where our adventurers were lodged. aurelian was stark mad at the news, and knew what search would be immediately made for him. hippolito, had he not been desperately in love, would certainly have taken horse and rid out of town just then, for he could make no longer doubt of being discovered, and he was afraid of the just exceptions leonora might make to a person who had now deceived her twice. well, we will leave them both fretting and contriving to no purpose, to look about and see what was done at the palace, where their doom was determined much quicker than they imagined. dinner ended, the duke retired with some chosen friends to a glass of wine; among whom were the marquess of viterbo and don fabio. his highness was no stranger to the long fewd that had been between the two families, and also understood what overtures of reconciliation had been lately made, with the proposals of marriage between aurelian and the marquess's daughter. having waited till the wine had taken the effect proposed, and the company were raised to an uncommon pitch of chearfulness, which he also encouraged by an example of freedom and good humour, he took an opportunity of rallying the two grave signiors into an accommodation: that was seconded with the praises of the young couple, and the whole company joined in a large encomium upon the graces of aurelian and the beauties of juliana. the old fellows were tickled with delight to hear their darlings so admired, which the duke perceiving, out of a principle of generosity and friendship, urged the present consummation of the marriage; telling them there was yet one day of publick rejoycing to come, and how glad he should be to have it improved by so acceptable an alliance; and what an honour it would be to have his cousin's marriage attended by the conjunction of so extraordinary a pair, the performance of which ceremony would crown the joy that was then in agitation, and make the last day vie for equal glory and happiness with the first. in short, by the complaisant and perswasive authority of the duke, the dons were wrought into a compliance, and accordingly embraced and shook hands upon the matter. this news was dispersed like the former, and don fabio gave orders for the enquiring out his son's lodging, that the marquess and he might make him a visit, as soon as he had acquainted juliana with his purpose, that she might prepare her self. he found her very chearful with donna catharina and several other ladies; whereupon the old gentleman, pretty well warmed with the duke's goodfellowship, told her aloud he was come to crown their mirth with another wedding; that his highness had been pleased to provide a husband for his daughter, and he would have her provide her self to receive him to-morrow. all the company at first, as well as juliana her self, thought he had rally'd, till the duke coming in confirmed the serious part of his discourse. juliana was confounded at the haste that was imposed on her, and desired a little time to consider what she was about. but the marquess told her, she should have all the rest of her life to consider in; that aurelian should come and consider with her in the morning, if she pleased; but in the mean time, he advised her to go home and call her maids to counsel. juliana took her leave of the company very gravely, as if not much delighted with her father's rallery. leonora happened to be by, and heard all that passed; she was ready to swoon, and found her self seized with a more violent passion than ever for aurelian: now upon her apprehensions of losing him, her active fancy had brought him before her with all the advantages imaginable, and though she had before found great tenderness in her inclination toward him, yet was she somewhat surprized to find she really lov'd him. she was so uneasie at what she had heard, that she thought it convenient to steal out of the presence and retire to her closet, to bemoan her unhappy helpless condition. our two cavalier-lovers had rack'd their invention till it was quite disabled, and could not make discovery of one contrivance more for their relief. both sat silent, each depending upon his friend, and still expecting when t'other should speak. night came upon them while they sate thus thoughtless, or rather drowned in thought; but a servant bringing lights into the room awakened them: and hippolito's speech, usher'd by a profound sigh, broke silence. 'well! (said he) what must we do, aurelian? we must suffer, replied aurelian faintly. when immediately raising his voice, he cry'd out, 'oh ye unequal powers, why do ye urge us to desire what ye doom us to forbear; give us a will to chuse, then curb us with a duty to restrain that choice! cruel father, will nothing else suffice! am i to be the sacrifice to expiate your offences past; past ere i was born? were i to lose my life, i'd gladly seal your reconcilement with my blood. 'but oh my soul is free, you have no title to my immortal being, that has existence independent of your power; and must i lose my love, the extract of that being, the joy, light, life, and darling of my soul? no, i'll own my flame, and plead my title too.--but hold, wretched aurelian, hold, whither does thy passion hurry thee? alas! the cruel fair incognita loves thee not! she knows not of thy love! if she did, what merit hast thou to pretend?--only love.--excess of love. and all the world has that. all that have seen her. yet i had only seen her once, and in that once i lov'd above the world; nay, lov'd beyond my self, such vigorous flame, so strong, so quick she darted at my breast; it must rebound, and by reflection, warm her self. ah! welcome thought, lovely deluding fancy, hang still upon my soul, let me but think, that once she loves and perish my despair. here a suddain stop gave a period also to hippolito's expectation, and he hoped now that his friend had given his passion so free a vent, he might recollect and bethink himself of what was convenient to be done; but aurelia, as if he had mustered up all his spirits purely to acquit himself of that passionate harangue, stood mute and insensible like an alarum clock, that had spent all its force in one violent emotion. hippolito shook him by the arm to rouze him from his lethargy, when his lacquey coming into the room, out of breath, told him there was a coach just stopp'd at the door, but he did not take time to who came in it. aurelian concluded immediately it was his father in quest of him; and without saying any more to hippolito, than that he was ruined if discovered, took his sword and slipp'd down a back pair of stairs into the garden, from whence he conveyed himself into the street. hippolito had not bethought himself what to do, before he perceiv'd a lady come into the chamber close veil'd, and make toward him. at the first appearance of a woman, his imagination flattered him with a thought of leonora; but that was quickly over upon nearer approach to the lady, who had much the advantage in stature of his mistress. he very civilly accosted her, and asked if he were the person to whom the honour of that visit was intended. she said, her business was with don hippolito di saviolina, to whom she had matter of concern to import, and which required haste. he had like to have told her, that he was the man, but by good chance reflecting upon his friend's adventure, who had taken his name, he made answer, that he believed don hippolito not far off, and if she had a moments patience he would enquire for him. he went out, leaving the lady in the room, and made search all round the house and garden for aurelian, but to no purpose. the lady impatient of his long stay took a pen and ink and some paper which she found upon the table, and had just made an end of her letter, when hearing a noise of more than one coming up stairs, she concluded his friend had found him, and that her letter would be to no purpose, so tore it in pieces, which she repented; when turning about, she found her mistake, and beheld don fabio and the marquess of viterbo just entring at the door. she gave a shriek at the surprize of their appearance, which much troubled the old gentlemen, and made them retire in confusion for putting a gentlewoman into such a fright. the marquess thinking they had been misinformed, or had mistaken the lodgings, came forward again, and made an apology to the lady for their errour; but she making no reply, walk'd directly by him down stairs and went into her coach, which hurried her away as speedily as the horses were able to draw. the dons were at a loss what to think, when, hippolito coming into the room to give the lady an account of his errant, was no less astonished to find she was departed, and had left two old signiors in her stead. he knew don fabio's face, for aurelian had shewn him his father at the tilting; but being confident he was not known to him, he ventur'd to ask him concerning a lady whom just now he had left in that chamber. don fabio told him, she was just gone down, and doubted they had been guilty of a mistake, in coming to enquire for a couple of gentlemen whom they were informed were lodged in that house; he begg'd his pardon if he had any relation to that lady, and desired to know if he could give them any account of the persons they sought for. hippolito made answer, he was a stranger in the place, and only a servant to that lady whom they had disturb'd, and whom he must go and seek out. and in this perplexity he left them, going again in search of aurelian, to inform him of what had passed. the old gentlemen at last meeting with a servant of the house, were directed to signior claudio's chamber, where they were no sooner entered but aurelian came into the house. a servant who had skulk'd for him by hippolito's order, followed him up into the chamber, and told him who was with claudio then making enquiry for him. he thought that to be no place for him, since claudio must needs discover all the truth to his father; wherefore he left directions with the servant, where hippolito should meet him in the morning. as he was going out of the room he espied the torn paper, which the lady had thrown upon the floor: the first piece he took up had incognita written upon it; the sight of which so alarum'd him, he scarce knew what he was about; but hearing a noise of a door opening over head, with as much care as was consistent with the haste he was then in, he gathered up scattered pieces of paper, and betook himself to a ramble. coming by a light which hung at the corner of a street, he join'd the torn papers and collected thus much, that incognita had written the note, and earnestly desired (if there were any reality in what he pretended to her) to meet her at twelve a clock that night at a convent gate; but unluckily the bit of paper which should have mentioned what convent, was broken off and lost. here was a large subject for aurelian's passion, which he did not spare to pour forth in abundance of curses on his stars. so earnest was he in the contemplation of his misfortunes, that he walk'd on unwittingly; till at length silence (and such as was only to be found in that part the town, whither his unguided steps had carried him) surpriz'd his attention. i say, a profound silence rouzed him from his thought; and a clap of thunder could have done no more. now because it is possible this at some time or other may happen to be read by some malicious or ignorant person, (no reflection upon the present reader) who will not admit, or does not understand that silence should make a man start; and have the same effect, in provoking his attention, with its opposite noise; i will illustrate this matter, to such a diminutive critick, by a parallel instance of light; which though it does chiefly entertain the eyes, and is indeed the prime object of the sight, yet should it immediately cease, to have a man left in the dark by a suddain deficiency of it, would make him stare with his eyes, and though he could not see, endeavour to look about him. why just thus did it fare with our adventurer; who seeming to have wandred both into the dominions of silence and of night, began to have some tender for his own safety, and would willingly have groped his way back again; when he heard a voice, as from a person whose breath had been stopp'd by some forcible oppression, and just then, by a violent effort, was broke through the restraint.--'yet--yet--(again reply'd the voice, still struggling for air,) 'forbear--and i'll forgive what's past--i have done nothing yet that needs a pardon, (says another) and what is to come, will admit of none. here the person who seemed to be the oppressed, made several attempts to speak, but they were only inarticulate sounds, being all interrupted and choaked in their passage. aurelian was sufficiently astonish'd, and would have crept nearer to the place whence he guessed the voice to come; but he was got among the runes of an old monastery, and could not stir so silently, but some loose stones he met with made a rumbling. the noise alarm'd both parties; and as it gave comfort to the one, it so terrified the t'other, that he could not hinder the oppressed from calling for help. aurelian fancy'd it was a woman's voice, and immediately drawing his sword, demanded what was the matter; he was answered with the appearance of a man, who had opened a dark lanthorn which he had by him, and came toward him with a pistol in his hand ready cock'd. aurelian seeing the irresistable advantage his adversary had over him, would fain have retired; and, by the greatest providence in the world, going backwards fell down over some loose stones that lay in his way, just in that instant of time when the villain fired his pistol, who seeing him fall, concluded he had shot him. the crys of the afflicted person were redoubled at the tragical sight, which made the murderer, drawing a poniard, to threaten him, that the next murmur should be his last. aurelian, who was scarce assured that he was unhurt, got softly up; and coming near enough to perceive the violence that was used to stop the injured man's mouth; (for now he saw plainly it was a man) cry'd out,--turn, villain, and look upon thy death.--the fellow amazed at the voice, turn'd about to have snatch'd up the lanthorn from the ground; either to have given light only to himself, or to have put out the candle, that he might have made his escape; but which of the two he designed, no body could tell but himself: and if the reader have a curiosity to know, he must blame aurelian; who thinking there could be no foul play offered to such a villain, ran him immediately through the heart, so that he drop'd down dead at his feet, without speaking a word. he would have seen who the person was he had thus happily delivered, but the dead body had fallen upon the lanthorn, which put out the candle: however coming up toward him, he ask'd him how he did, and bid him be of good heart; he was answered with nothing but prayers, blessings and thanks, called a thousand deliverers, good genius's and guardian angels. and the rescued would certainly have gone upon his knees to have worshipped him, had he not been bound hand and foot; which aurelian understanding, groped for the knots, and either untied them or cut them asunder; but 'tis more probable the latter, because more expeditious. they took little heed what became of the body which they left behind them, and aurelian was conducted from out the ruins by the hand of him he had delivered. by a faint light issuing from the just rising moon, he could discern that it was a youth; but coming into a more frequented part of the town, where several lights were hung out, he was amaz'd at the extream beauty which appeared in his face, though a little pale and disordered with his late fright. aurelian longed to hear the story of so odd an adventure, and entreated his charge to tell it him by the way; but he desired him to forbear till they were come into some house or other, where he might rest and recover his tired spirits, for yet he was so faint he was unable to look up. aurelian thought these last words were delivered in a voice, whose accent was not new to him. that thought made him look earnestly in the youth's face, which he now was sure he had somewhere seen before, and thereupon asked him if he had never been at siena? that question made the young gentleman look up, and something of a joy appeared in his countenance, which yet he endeavoured to smother; so praying aurelian to conduct him to his lodging, he promised him that as soon as they should come thither, he would acquaint him with any thing he desired to know. aurelian would rather have gone any where else than to his own lodging; but being so very late he was at a loss, and so forced to be contented. as soon as they were come into his chamber, and that lights were brought them and the servant dismissed, the paleness which so visibly before had usurped the sweet countenance of the afflicted youth vanished, and gave place to a more lively flood of crimson, which with a modest heat glow'd freshly on his cheeks. aurelian waited with a pleasing admiration the discovery promised him, when the youth still struggling with his resolution, with a timorous haste, pulled off a peruke which had concealed the most beautiful abundance of hair that ever graced one female head; those dishevelled spreading tresses, as at first they made a discovery of, so at last they served for a veil to the modest lovely blushes of the fair incognita; for she it was and none other. but oh! the inexpressible, inconceivable joy and amazement of aurelian! as soon as he durst venture to think, he concluded it to be all vision, and never doubted so much of any thing in his life as of his being then awake. but she taking him by the hand, and desiring him to sit down by her, partly convinced him of the reality of her presence. 'this is the second time, don hippolito, (said she to him) 'that i have been here this night. what the occasion was of my seeking you out, and how by miracle you preserved me, would add too much to the surprize i perceive you to be already in should i tell you: nor will i make any further discovery, till i know what censure you pass upon the confidence which i have put in you, and the strange circumstances in which you find me at this time. i am sensible they are such, that i shall not blame your severest conjectures; but i hope to convince you, when you shall hear what i have to say in justification of my vertue. 'justification! (cry'd aurelian) what infidel dares doubt it! then kneeling down, and taking her hand, 'ah madam (says he) would heaven would no other ways look upon, than i behold your perfections--wrong not your creature with a thought, he can be guilty of that horrid impiety as once to doubt your vertue--heavens! (cry'd he, starting up) 'am i so really blessed to see you once again! may i trust my sight?--or does my fancy now only more strongly work?--for still i did preserve your image in my heart, and you were ever present to my dearest thoughts.-'enough hippolito, enough of rapture (said she) you cannot much accuse me of ingratitude; for you see i have not been unmindful of you; but moderate your joy till i have told you my condition, and if for my sake you are raised to this delight, it is not of a long continuance. at that (as aurelian tells the story) a sigh diffused a mournful sweetness through the air, and liquid grief fell gently from her eyes, triumphant sadness sat upon her brow, and even sorrow seem'd delighted with the conquest he had made. see what a change aurelian felt! his heart bled tears, and trembled in his breast; sighs struggling for a vent had choaked each others passage up: his floods of joys were all supprest; cold doubts and fears had chill'd 'em with a sudden frost, and he was troubled to excess; yet knew not why. well, the learned say it was sympathy; and i am always of the opinion with the learned, if they speak first. after a world of condoleance had passed between them, he prevailed with her to tell him her story. so having put all her sighs into one great sigh, she discharged her self of 'em all at once, and formed the relation you are just about to read. 'having been in my infancy contracted to a man i could never endure, and now by my parents being likely to be forced to marry him, is in short, the great occasion of my grief. i fansy'd (continued she) something so generous in your countenance, and uncommon in your behaviour, while you were diverting your self, and rallying me with expressions of gallantry, at the ball, as induced me to hold conference with you. i now freely confess to you, out of design, that if things should happen as i then feared, and as now they are come to pass, i might rely upon your assistance in a matter of concern; and in which i would sooner chuse to depend upon a generous stranger, than any acquaintance i have. what mirth and freedom i then put on, were, i can assure you, far distant from my heart; but i did violence to my self out of complaisance to your temper.--i knew you at the tilting, and wished you might come off as you did; though i do not doubt, but you would have had as good success had it been opposite to my inclinations.--not to detain you by too tedious a relation, every day my friends urged me to the match they had agreed upon for me, before i was capable of consenting; at last their importunities grew to that degree, that i found i must either consent, which would make me miserable, or be miserable by perpetually enduring to be baited by my father, brother and other relations. i resolved yesterday, on a suddain to give firm faith to the opinion i had conceived of you; and accordingly came in the evening to request your assistance, in delivering me from my tormentors, by a safe and private conveyance of me to a monastery about four leagues hence, where i have an aunt who would receive me, and is the only relation i have averse to the match. i was surprized at the appearance of some company i did not expect at your lodgings; which made me in haste tear a paper which i had written to you with directions where to find me, and get speedily away in my coach to an old servant's house, whom i acquainted with my purpose: by my order she provided me of this habit which i now wear; i ventured to trust my self with her brother, and resolved to go under his conduct to the monastery; he proved to be a villain, and pretending to take me a short and private way to the place where he was to take up a hackney coach (for that which i came in was broke some where or other with the haste it made to carry me from your lodging) led me into an old ruined monastery, where it pleased heaven, by what accident i know not, to direct you. i need not tell you how you saved my life and my honour, by revenging me with the death of my perfidious guide. this is the summ of my present condition, bating the apprehensions i am in of being taken by some of my relations, and forced to a thing so quite contrary to my inclinations. aurelian was confounded at the relation she had made, and began to fear his own estate to be more desperate than ever he had imagined. he made her a very passionate and eloquent speech in behalf of himself (much better than i intend to insert here) and expressed a mighty concern that she should look upon his ardent affection to be only rallery or gallantry. he was very free of his oaths to confirm the truth of what he pretended, nor i believe did she doubt it, or at least was unwilling so to do: for i would caution the reader by the bye, not to believe every word which she told him, nor that admirable sorrow which she counterfeited to be accurately true. it was indeed truth so cunningly intermingled with fiction, that it required no less wit and presence of mind than she was endowed with so to acquit her self on the suddain. she had entrusted her self indeed with a fellow who proved a villain, to conduct her to a monastery; but one which was in the town, and where she intended only to lie concealed for his sake; as the reader shall understand ere long: for we have another discovery to make to him, if he have not found it out of himself already. after aurelian had said what he was able upon the subject in hand, with a mournful tone and dejected look, he demanded his doom. she asked him if he would endeavour to convey her to the monastery she had told him of? 'your commands, madam, (replied he) 'are sacred to me; and were they to lay down my life i would obey them. with that he would have gone out of the room, to have given order for his horses to be got ready immediately; but with a countenance so full of sorrow as moved compassion in the tender hearted incognita. 'stay a little don hippolito (said she) i fear i shall not be able to undergo the fatigue of a journey this night.--stay and give me your advice how i shall conceal my self if i continue to morrow in this town. aurelian could have satisfied her she was not then in a place to avoid discovery: but he must also have told her then the reason of it, viz. whom he was, and who were in quest of him, which he did not think convenient to declare till necessity should urge him; for he feared least her knowledge of those designs which were in agitation between him and juliana, might deter her more from giving her consent. at last he resolved to try his utmost perswasions to gain her, and told her accordingly, he was afraid she would be disturbed there in the morning, and he knew no other way (if she had not as great an aversion for him as the man whom she now endeavour'd to avoid) than by making him happy to make her self secure. he demonstrated to her,--that the disobligation to her parents would be greater by going to a monastery, since it was only to avoid a choice which they had made for her, and which she could not have so just a pretence to do till she had made one for her self. a world of other arguments he used, which she contradicted as long as she was able, or at least willing. at last she told him, she would consult her pillow, and in the morning conclude what was fit to be done. he thought it convenient to leave her to her rest, and having lock'd her up in his room, went himself to repose upon a pallat by signior claudio. in the mean time, it may be convenient to enquire what became of hippolito. he had wandered much in pursuit of aurelian, though leonora equally took up his thoughts; he was reflecting upon the oddness and extravagance of his circumstances, the continuation of which had doubtless created in him a great uneasiness, when it was interrupted with the noise of opening the gates of the convent of st. lawrence, whither he was arrived sooner than he thought for, being the place aurelian had appointed by the lacquey to meet him in. he wondered to see the gates opened at so unseasonable an hour, and went to enquire the reason of it from them who were employ'd; but they proved to be novices, and made him signs to go in, where he might meet with some body allow'd to answer him. he found the religious men all up, and tapers lighting every where: at last he follow'd a friar who was going into the garden, and asking him the cause of these preparations, he was answered, that they were entreated to pray for the soul of a cavalier, who was just departing or departed this life, and whom upon farther talk with him, he found to be the same lorenzo so often mentioned. don mario, it seems uncle to lorenzo and father to leonora, had a private door out of the garden belonging to his house into that of the convent, which door this father was now a going to open, that he and his family might come and offer up their oraisons for the soul of their kinsman. hippolito having informed himself of as much as he could ask without suspicion, took his leave of the friar, not a little joyful at the hopes he had by such unexpected means, of seeing his beautiful leonora: as soon as he was got at convenient distance from the friar, (who 'tis like thought he had return'd into the convent to his devotion) he turned back through a close walk which led him with a little compass, to the same private door, where just before he had left the friar, who now he saw was gone, and the door open. he went into don mario's garden, and walk'd round with much caution and circumspection; for the moon was then about to rise, and had already diffused a glimmering light, sufficient to distinguish a man from a tree. by computation now (which is a very remarkable circumstance) hippolito entred this garden near upon the same instant, when aurelian wandred into the old monastery and found his incognita in distress. he was pretty well acquainted with the platform, and sight of the garden; for he had formerly surveyed the outside, and knew what part to make to if he should be surpriz'd and driven to a precipitate escape. he took his stand behind a well grown bush of myrtle, which, should the moon shine brighter than was required, had the advantage to be shaded by the indulgent boughs of an ancient bay-tree. he was delighted with the choice he had made, for he found a hollow in the myrtle, as if purposely contriv'd for the reception of one person, who might undiscovered perceive all about him. he looked upon it as a good omen, that the tree consecrated to venus was so propitious to him in his amorous distress. the consideration of that, together with the obligation he lay under to the muses, for sheltering him also with so large a crown of bays, had like to have set him a rhyming. he was, to tell the truth, naturally addicted to madrigal, and we should undoubtedly have had a small desert of numbers to have pick'd and criticiz'd upon, had he not been interrupted just upon his delivery; nay, after the preliminary sigh had made way for his utterance. but so was his fortune, don mario was coming towards the door at that very nick of time, where he met with a priest just out of breath, who told him that lorenzo was just breathing his last, and desired to know if he would come and take his final leave before they were to administer the extream unction. don mario, who had been at some difference with his nephew, now thought it his duty to be reconciled to him; so calling to leonora, who was coming after him, he bid her go to her devotions in the chappel, and told her where he was going. he went on with the priest, while hippolito saw leonora come forward, only accompanied by her woman. she was in an undress, and by reason of a melancholy visible in her face, more careless than usual in her attire, which he thought added as much as was possible to the abundance of her charms. he had not much time to contemplate this beauteous vision, for she soon passed into the garden of the convent, leaving him confounded with love, admiration, joy, hope, fear, and all the train of passions, which seize upon men in his condition, all at once. he was so teazed with this variety of torment, that he never missed the two hours that had slipped away during his automachy and intestine conflict. leonora's return settled his spirits, at least united them, and he had now no other thought but how he should present himself before her. when she calling her woman, bid her bolt the garden door on the inside, that she might not be surpriz'd by her father, if he returned through the convent, which done, she ordered her to bring down her lute, and leave her to her self in the garden. all this hippolito saw and heard to his inexpressible content, yet had he much to do to smother his joy, and hinder it from taking a vent, which would have ruined the only opportunity of his life. leonora withdrew into an arbour so near him, that he could distinctly hear her if she played or sung: having tuned her lute, with a voice soft as the breath of angels, she flung to it this following air: i. ah! whither, whither shall i fly, a poor unhappy maid; to hopeless love and misery by my own heart betray'd? not by alexis eyes undone, nor by his charming faithless tongue, or any practis'd art; such real ills may hope a cure, but the sad pains which i endure proceed from fansied smart. ii. 'twas fancy gave alexis charms, ere i beheld his face: kind fancy (then) could fold our arms, and form a soft embrace. but since i've seen the real swain, and try'd to fancy him again, i'm by my fancy taught, though 'tis a bliss no tongue can tell, to have alexis, yet 'tis hell to have him but in thought. the song ended grieved hippolito that it was so soon ended; and in the ecstacy he was then rapt, i believe he would have been satisfied to have expired with it. he could not help flattering himself, (though at the same time he checked his own vanity) that he was the person meant in the song. while he was indulging which thought, to his happy astonishment, he heard it encouraged by these words: 'unhappy leonora (said she) how is thy poor unwary heart misled? whither am i come? the false deluding lights of an imaginary flame, have led me, a poor benighted victim, to a real fire. i burn and am consumed with hopeless love; those beams in whose soft temperate warmth i wanton'd heretofore, now flash destruction to my soul, my treacherous greedy eyes have suck'd the glaring light, they have united all its rays, and, like a burning-glass, convey'd the pointed meteor to my heart--ah! aurelian, how quickly hast thou conquer'd, and how quickly must thou forsake. oh happy (to me unfortunately happy) juliana! i am to be the subject of thy triumph--to thee aurelian comes laden with the tribute of my heart and glories in the oblation of his broken vows.--what then, is aurelian false! false! alass, i know not what i say; how can he be false, or true, or any thing to me? what promises did he ere make or i receive? sure i dream, or i am mad, and fansie it to be love; foolish girl, recal thy banish'd reason.--ah! would it were no more, would i could rave, sure that would give me ease, and rob me of the sense of pain; at least, among my wandring thoughts, i should at sometime light upon aurelian, and fansie him to be mine; kind madness would flatter my poor feeble wishes, and sometimes tell me aurelian is not lost--not irrecoverably--not for ever lost. hippolito could hear no more, he had not room for half his transport. when leonora perceived a man coming toward her, she fell a trembling, and could not speak. hippolito approached with reverence, as to a sacred shrine; when coming near enough to see her consternation, he fell upon his knees. 'behold, o adored leonora (said he) 'your ravished aurelian, behold at your feet the happiest of men, be not disturb'd at my appearance, but think that heaven conducted me to hear my bliss pronounced by that dear mouth alone, whose breath could fill me with new life. here he would have come nearer, but leonora (scarce come to her self) was getting up in haste to have gone away: he catch'd her hand, and with all the endearments of love and transport pressed her stay; she was a long time in great confusion, at last, with many blushes, she entreated him to let her go where she might hide her guilty head, and not expose her shame before his eyes, since his ears had been sufficient witnesses of her crime. he begg'd pardon for his treachery in over-hearing, and confessed it to be a crime he had now repeated. with a thousand submissions, entreaties, prayers, praises, blessings, and passionate expressions he wrought upon her to stay and hear him. here hippolito made use of his rhetorick, and it proved prevailing: 'twere tedious to tell the many ingenious arguments he used, with all her nice distinctions and objections. in short, he convinced her of his passion, represented to her the necessity they were under, of being speedy in their resolves: that his father (for still he was aurelian) would undoubtedly find him in the morning, and then it would be too late to repent. she on the other hand, knew it was in vain to deny a passion, which he had heard her so frankly own; (and no doubt was very glad it was past and done;) besides apprehending the danger of delay, and having some little jealousies and fears of what effect might be produced between the commands of his father and the beauties of juliana; after some decent denials, she consented to be conducted by him through the garden into the convent, where she would prevail with her confessor to marry them. he was a scrupulous old father whom they had to deal withal, insomuch that ere they had perswaded him, don mario was returned by the way of his own house, where missing his daughter, and her woman not being able to give any farther account of her, than that she left her in the garden; he concluded she was gone again to her devotions, and indeed he found her in the chappel upon her knees with hippolito in her hand, receiving the father's benediction upon conclusion of the ceremony. it would have asked a very skilful hand, to have depicted to the life the faces of those three persons, at don mario's appearance. he that has seen some admirable piece of transmutation by a gorgon's head, may form to himself the most probable idea of the prototype. the old gentleman was himself in a sort of a wood, to find his daughter with a young fellow and a priest, but as yet he did not know the worst, till hippolito and leonora came, and kneeling at his feet, begg'd his forgiveness and blessing as his son and daughter. don mario, instead of that, fell into a most violent passion, and would undoubtedly have committed some extravagant action, had he not been restrained, more by the sanctity of the place, than the perswasions of all the religious, who were now come about him. leonora stirr'd not off her knees all this time, but continued begging of him that he would hear her. 'ah! ungrateful and undutiful wretch (cry'd he) 'how hast thou requited all my care and tenderness of thee? now when i might have expected some return of comfort, to throw thy self away upon an unknown person, and, for ought i know, a villain; to me i'm sure he is a villain, who has robb'd me of my treasure, my darling joy, and all the future happiness of my life prevented. go--go, thou now-to-be-forgotten leonora, go and enjoy thy unprosperous choice; you who wanted not a father's counsel, cannot need, or else will slight his blessing. these last words were spoken with so much passion and feeling concern, that leonora, moved with excess of grief, fainted at his feet, just as she had caught hold to embrace his knees. the old man would have shook her off, but compassion and fatherly affection came upon him in the midst of his resolve, and melted him into tears, he embraced his daughter in his arms, and wept over her, while they endeavoured to restore her senses. hippolito was in such concern he could not speak, but was busily employed in rubbing and chafing her temples; when she opening her eyes laid hold of his arm, and cry'd out--oh my aurelian--how unhappy have you made me! with that she had again like to have fainted away, but he took her in his arms, and begg'd don mario to have some pity on his daughter, since by his severity she was reduced to that condition. the old man hearing his daughter name aurelian, was a little revived, and began to hope things were in a pretty good condition; he was perswaded to comfort her, and having brought her wholly to her self, was content to hear her excuse, and in a little time was so far wrought upon as to beg hippolito's pardon for the ill opinion he had conceived of him, and not long after gave his consent. the night was spent in this conflict, and it was now clear day, when don mario conducting his new son and daughter through the garden, was met by some servants of the marquess of viterbo, who had been enquiring for donna leonora, to know if juliana had lately been with her; for that she was missing from her father's house, and no conjectures could be made of what might become of her. don mario and leonora were surprized at the news, for he knew well enough of the match that was design'd for juliana; and having enquired where the marquess was, it was told him, that he was gone with don fabio and fabritio toward aurelian's lodgings. don mario having assured the servants that juliana had not been there, dismissed them, and advised with his son and daughter how they should undeceive the marquess and don fabio in their expectations of aurelian. hippolito could oftentimes scarce forbear smiling at the old man's contrivances who was most deceived himself; he at length advised them to go all down together to his lodging, where he would present himself before his father, and ingenuously confess to him the truth, and he did not question his approving of his choice. this was agreed to, and the coach made ready. while they were upon their way, hippolito pray'd heartily that his friend aurelian might be at the lodging, to satisfie don mario and leonora of his circumstances and quality, when he should be obliged to discover himself. his petitions were granted; for don fabio had beset the house long before his son was up or incognita awake. upon the arrival of don mario and hippolito, they heard a great noise and hubbub above stairs, which don mario concluded was occasioned by their not finding aurelian, whom he thought he could give the best account of: so that it was not in hippolito's power to disswade him from going up before to prepare his father to receive and forgive him. while hippolito and leonora were left in the coach at the door, he made himself known to her, and begg'd her pardon a thousand times for continuing the deceit. she was under some concern at first to find she was still mistaken; but his behaviour, and the reasons he gave, soon reconciled him to her; his person was altogether as agreeable, his estate and quality not at all inferiour to aurelian's; in the mean time, the true aurelian who had seen his father, begg'd leave of him to withdraw for a moment; in which time he went into the chamber where his incognita was dressing her self, by his design, in woman's apparel, while he was consulting with her how they should break the matter to his father; it happened that don mario came up stairs where the marquess and don fabio were; they undoubtedly concluded him mad, to hear him making apologies and excuses for aurelian, whom he told them if they would promise to forgive he would present before them immediately. the marquess asked him if his daughter had lain with leonora that night; he answered him with another question in behalf of aurelian. in short, they could not understand one another, but each thought 'tother beside himself. don mario was so concern'd that they would not believe him, that he ran down stairs and came to the door out of breath, desiring hippolito that he would come into the house quickly, for that he could not perswade his father but that he had already seen and spoke to him. hippolito by that understood that aurelian was in the house; so taking leonora by the hand, he followed don mario, who led him up into the dining-room, where they found aurelian upon his knees, begging his father to forgive him, that he could not agree to the choice he had made for him, since he had already disposed of himself, and that before he understood the designs he had for him, which was the reason that he had hitherto concealed himself. don fabio knew not how to answer him, but look'd upon the marquess, and the marquess upon him, as if the cement had been cool'd which was to have united their families. all was silent, and don mario for his part took it to be all conjuration; he was coming forward to present hippolito to them, when aurelian spying his friend, started from his knees and ran to embrace him--my dear hippolito (said he) what happy chance has brought you hither, just at my necessity? hippolito pointed to don mario and leonora, and told him upon what terms he came. don mario was ready to run mad, hearing him called hippolito, and went again to examine his daughter. while she was informing him of the truth, the marquess's servants returned with the melancholy news that his daughter was no where to be found. while the marquess and don fabritio were wondering at, and lamenting the misfortune of her loss, hippolito came towards don fabio and interceded for his son, since the lady perhaps had withdrawn her self out of an aversion to the match. don fabio, though very much incens'd, yet forgot not the respect due to hippolito's quality; and by his perswasion spoke to aurelian, though with a stern look and angry voice, and asked him where he had disposed the cause of his disobedience, if he were worthy to see her or no; aurelian made answer, that he desired no more than for him to see her; and he did not doubt a consequence of his approbation and forgiveness--well (said don fabio) you are very conceited of your own discretion, let us see this rarety. while aurelian was gone in for incognita, the marquess of viterbo and don fabritio were taking their leaves in great disorder for their loss and disappointment; but don fabio entreated their stay a moment longer till the return of his son. aurelian led incognita into the room veil'd, who seeing some company there which he had not told her of, would have gone back again. but don fabio came bluntly forwards, and ere she was aware, lifted up her veil and beheld the fair incognita, differing nothing from juliana, but in her name. this discovery was so extreamly surprizing and welcome, that either joy or amazement had tied up the tongues of the whole company. aurelian here was most at a loss, for he knew not of his happiness; and that which all along prevented juliana's confessing her self to him, was her knowing hippolito (for whom she took him) to be aurelian's friend, and she feared if he had known her, that he would never have consented to have deprived him of her. juliana was the first that spoke, falling upon her knees to her father, who was not enough himself to take her up. don fabio ran to her, and awakened the marquess, who then embraced her, but could not yet speak. fabritio and leonora strove who should first take her in their arms; for aurelian he was out of his wits for joy, and juliana was not much behind him, to see how happily their loves and duties were reconciled. don fabio embraced his son and forgave him. the marquess and fabritio gave juliana into his hands, he received the blessing upon his knees; all were over-joy'd, and don mario not a little proud at the discovery of his son-in-law, whom aurelian did not fail to set forth with all the ardent zeal and eloquence of friendship. juliana and leonora had pleasant discourse about their unknown and mistaken rivalship, and it was the subject of a great deal of mirth to hear juliana relate the several contrivances which she had to avoid aurelian for the sake of hippolito. having diverted themselves with many remarks upon the pleasing surprize, they all thought it proper to attend upon the great duke that morning at the palace, and to acquaint him with the novelty of what had pass'd; while, by the way, the two young couple entertained the company with the relation of several particulars of their three days adventures. twelfth night; or, what you will. a comedy. in five acts; by william shakspeare. revised by j. p. kemble. as now performed at the theatre royal, covent-garden. london: printed for longman, hurst, rees, orme, and brown, paternoster-row. edinburgh: printed by james ballantyne and co. dramatis personæ. duke orsino _mr barrymore_. valentine _mr claremont_. curio _mr treby_. sir toby belch _mr emery_. sir andrew ague-cheek _mr munden_. sebastian _mr hamerton_. antonio _mr cresswell_. roberto _mr jefferies_. friar _mr atkins_. malvolio _mr liston_. clown _mr fawcett_. fabian _mr farley_. first officer _mr king_. second officer _mr lambert_. olivia _mrs c. kemble_. viola _miss s. booth_. maria _mrs gibbs_. _gentlemen.--musicians.--sailors.--servants._ scene--_a city in illyria, and the sea-coast near it._ twelfth night; or, what you will. act the first. scene i. _the sea-coast._ _enter_ viola, roberto, _and two sailors, carrying a trunk_. _vio._ what country, friends, is this? _rob._ this is illyria, lady. _vio._ and what should i do in illyria? my brother he is in elysium. perchance, he is not drown'd:--what think you, sailors? _rob._ it is perchance, that you yourself were saved. _vio._ o my poor brother! and so, perchance may he be. _rob._ true, madam; and, to comfort you with chance, assure yourself, after our ship did split, when you, and that poor number saved with you, hung on our driving boat, i saw your brother, most provident in peril, bind himself (courage and hope both teaching him the practice) to a strong mast, that lived upon the sea; where, like arion on the dolphin's back, i saw him hold acquaintance with the waves, so long as i could see. _vio._ mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, whereto thy speech serves for authority, the like of him. know'st thou this country? _rob._ ay, madam, well; for i was bred and born, not three hours travel from this very place. _vio._ who governs here? _rob._ a noble duke, in nature, as in his name. _vio._ what is his name? _rob._ orsino. _vio._ orsino!--i have heard my father name him: he was a bachelor then. _rob._ and so is now, or was so very late: for but a month ago i went from hence; and then 'twas fresh in murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do, the less will prattle of,) that he did seek the love of fair olivia. _vio._ what is she? _rob._ a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count that died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her in the protection of his son, her brother, who shortly also died: for whose dear love, they say, she hath abjured the company and sight of men. _vio._ oh, that i served that lady! and might not be deliver'd to the world, till i had made mine own occasion mellow, what my estate is! _rob._ that were hard to compass; because she will admit no kind of suit, no, not the duke's. _vio._ there is a fair behaviour in thee, captain; and, i believe, thou hast a mind that suits with this thy fair and outward character. i pray thee, and i'll pay thee bounteously, conceal me what i am; and be my aid for such disguise as, haply, shall become the form of my intent. i'll serve this duke; thou shalt present me as a page unto him, of gentle breeding, and my name, cesario:- that trunk, the reliques of my sea-drown'd brother, will furnish man's apparel to my need:- it may be worth thy pains: for i can sing, and speak to him in many sorts of music, that will allow me very worth his service. what else may hap, to time i will commit; only shape thou thy silence to my wit. _rob._ be you his page, and i your mute will be; when my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see! _vio._ i thank thee:--lead me on. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _a room in_ duke orsino's _palace_. _the duke discovered, seated, and attended by_ curio, _and gentlemen_. _duke._ [_music._] if music be the food of love, play on, give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.--- [_music._] that strain again;--it had a dying fall: o, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing, and giving odours.- [_music._] enough; no more; [_he rises._ 'tis not so sweet now, as it was before. _cur._ will you go hunt, my lord? _duke._ what, curio? _cur._ the hart. _duke._ why, so i do, the noblest that i have: o, when mine eyes did see olivia first, methought, she purged the air of pestilence; that instant was i turn'd into a hart; and my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, e'er since pursue me. _enter_ valentine. how now? what news from my olivia?--speak. _val._ so please my lord, i might not be admitted; but from her handmaid do return this answer; the element itself, till seven years heat, shall not behold her face at ample view; but, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, and water once a day her chamber round with eye-offending brine: all this, to season a brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh, and lasting, in her sad remembrance. _duke._ o, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame, to pay this debt of love but to a brother, how will she love, when the rich golden shaft hath kill'd the flock of all affections else that live in her!- away before me to sweet beds of flowers; love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _a room in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ maria _and_ sir toby belch. _sir to._ what a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? i am sure, care's an enemy to life. _mar._ by my troth, sir toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your niece, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. _sir to._ why, let her except before excepted. _mar._ ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. _sir to._ confine? i'll confine myself no finer than i am: these clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. _mar._ that quaffing and drinking will undo you; i heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you have brought in here, to be her wooer. _sir to._ who? sir andrew ague-cheek? _mar._ ay, he. _sir to._ he's as tall a man as any's in illyria. _mar._ what's that to the purpose? _sir to._ why, he has three thousand ducats a-year. _mar._ ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal. _sir to._ fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo, and hath all the good gifts of nature. _mar._ he hath, indeed, all, most natural; for, besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a grave. _sir to._ by this band, they are scoundrels, and substractors, that say so of him. who are they? _mar._ they that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company. _sir to._ with drinking healths to my niece; i'll drink to her, as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in illyria: he's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top--see, here comes sir andrew ague-face. [sir andrew ague-cheek, _without_. _sir and._ sir toby belch! how now, sir toby belch? _sir to._ sweet sir andrew! _enter_ sir andrew. _sir and._ bless you, fair shrew. _mar._ and you too, sir. _sir to._ accost, sir andrew, accost. _sir and._ what's that? _sir to._ my niece's chamber-maid. _sir and._ good mistress accost, i desire better acquaintance. _mar._ my name is mary, sir. _sir and._ good mistress mary accost,--- _sir to._ you mistake, knight; accost, is, front her, board her, woo her, assail her. _sir and._ by my troth, i would not undertake her in this company. is that the meaning of accost? _mar._ fare you well, gentlemen. _sir to._ an thou let part so, sir andrew, 'would thou might'st never draw sword again. _sir and._ an you part so, mistress, i would i might never draw sword again. fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? _mar._ sir, i have not you by the hand. _sir and._ marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand. _mar._ [_takes his hand._] now, sir, thought is free: i pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink. _sir and._ wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor? _mar._ it's dry, sir. _sir and._ why, i think so; i am not such an ass, but i can keep my hand dry. but what's your jest? _mar._ a dry jest, sir. _sir and._ are you full of them? _mar._ ay, sir; i have them at my fingers' ends: marry, [_lets go his hand._] now i let go your hand, i am barren. [_exit_ maria. _sir to._ o knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: when did i see thee so put down? _sir and._ never in your life, i think; unless you see canary put me down: methinks, sometimes i have no more wit than a christian, or an ordinary man has; but i am a great eater of beef, and, i believe, that does harm to my wit. _sir to._ no question. _sir and._ an i thought that, i'd forswear it. i'll ride home to-morrow, sir toby. _sir to._ _pourquoy_, my dear knight? _sir and._ what is _pourquoy_? do, or not do? i would i had bestow'd that time in the tongues, that i have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: o, had i but follow'd the arts! _sir to._ then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair. _sir and._ why, would that have mended my hair? _sir to._ past question; for, thou seest, it will not curl by nature. _sir and._ but it becomes me well enough, does't not? _sir to._ excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and i hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. _sir and._ 'faith, i'll home to-morrow, sir toby: your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the duke himself, here hard by, wooes her. _sir to._ she'll none o' the duke; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; i have heard her swear it. tut, there's life in't, man. _sir and._ i'll stay a month longer. i am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; i delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. _sir to._ art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight? _sir and._ as any man in illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet i'll not compare with an old man. _sir to._ what is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? _sir and._ 'faith, i can cut a caper. _sir to._ and i can cut the mutton to't. _sir and._ and, i think, i have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in illyria. _sir to._ wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? my very walk should be a jig. what dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in?--i did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star of a galliard. _sir and._ ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-colour'd stock. shall we set about some revels? _sir to._ what shall we do else? were we not born under taurus? _sir and._ taurus? that's sides and heart. _sir to._ no, sir; it is legs and thighs. let me see thee caper:--ha! higher:--ha, ha!--excellent! [_exeunt._ scene iv. _a room in_ duke orsino's _palace_. _enter_ valentine, _and_ viola _in man's attire_. _val._ if the duke continue these favors towards you, cesario, you are like to be much advanced. _vio._ you either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love: is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? _val._ no, believe me. _vio._ i thank you.--here comes the duke. _enter_ duke, curio, _and gentlemen_. _duke._ who saw cesario, ho? _vio._ on your attendance, my lord; here. _duke._ stand you awhile aloof.--cesario, thou know'st no less but all; i have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul: therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her; be not denied access, stand at her doors, and tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow, till thou have audience. _vio._ sure, my noble lord, if she be so abandon'd to her sorrow as it is spoke, she never will admit me. _duke._ be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, rather than make unprofited return. _vio._ say, i do speak with her, my lord. what then? _duke._ o, then unfold the passion of my love. surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: it shall become thee well to act my woes; she will attend it better in thy youth, than in a nuncio of more grave aspéct. _vio._ i think not so, my lord. _duke._ dear lad, believe it; for they shall yet belie thy happy years, that say, thou art a man: diana's lip is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound: i know, thy constellation is right apt for this affair:--go:--prosper well in this, and thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, to call his fortunes thine. [_exeunt_ duke, curio, valentine, _and gentlemen_. _vio._ i'll do my best, to woo his lady: yet,--a barful strife!- whoe'er i woo, myself would be his wife. [_exit._ scene v. _a room in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ clown _and_ maria. _mar._ nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or i will not open my lips, so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence. _clo._ let her hang me: he, that is well hang'd in this world, needs to fear no colours. _mar._ make that good. _clo._ he shall see none to fear. _mar._ a good lenten answer: yet you will be hang'd, for being so long absent; or, to be turn'd away; is not that as good as a hanging to you? _clo._ many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out. _mar._ here comes my lady; make your excuse wisely, you were best. [_exit_ maria. _clo._ wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling! those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and i, that am sure i lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says quinapalus? better a witty fool, than a foolish wit. _enter_ olivia, malvolio, _and two servants_. bless thee, lady! _oli._ take the fool away. _clo._ do you not hear, fellows? take away the lady. _oli._ go to, you're a dry fool: i'll no more of you; besides, you grow dishonest. _clo._ two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend; for, give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him.--the lady bade take away the fool; therefore, i say again, take her away. _oli._ sir, i bade them take away you. _clo._ misprision in the highest degree!--lady, _cucullus non facit monachum_; that's as much as to say, i wear not motley in my brain. good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. _oli._ can you do it? _clo._ dexterously, good madonna. _oli._ make your proof. _clo._ i must catechize you for it, madonna: good my mouse of virtue, answer me. _oli._ well, sir, for want of other idleness, i'll 'bide your proof. _clo._ good madonna, why mourn'st thou? _oli._ good fool, for my brother's death. _clo._ i think, his soul is in hell, madonna. _oli._ i know, his soul is in heaven, fool. _clo._ the more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.--take away the fool, gentlemen. _oli._ what think you of this fool, malvolio? doth he not mend? _mal._ yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. _clo._ heaven send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! sir toby will be sworn, that i am no fox; but he will not pass his word for two-pence that you are no fool. _oli._ how say you to that, malvolio? _mal._ i marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; i saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone.--look you now, he's out of his guard already: unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagg'd.--i protest, i take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies. _oli._ o, you are sick of self-love, malvolio, and taste with a distemper'd appetite. to be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets: there is no slander in an allow'd fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove. _clo._ now mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well of fools! _enter_ maria. _mar._ madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much desires to speak with you. _oli._ from the duke orsino, is it? _mar._ i know not, madam. _oli._ who of my people hold him in delay? _mar._ sir toby, madam, your kinsman. _oli._ fetch him off, i pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: fye on him! [_exit_ maria. go you, malvolio:--if it be a suit from the duke, i am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [_exeunt_ malvolio, _and two servants_. now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. _clo._ thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool. _sir to._ [_without._] where is she? where is she? _clo._ whose skull jove cram with brains!--for here he comes, one of thy kin, has a most weak _pia mater_. _enter_ sir toby. _oli._ by mine honour, half drunk.--what is he at the gate, uncle? _sir to._ a gentleman. _oli._ a gentleman? what gentleman? _sir to._ 'tis a gentleman here,--how now, sot? _clo._ good sir toby,--- _oli._ uncle, uncle, how have you come so early by this lethargy? _sir to._ lechery! i defy lechery.--there's one at the gate. _oli._ ay, marry; what is he? _sir to._ let him be the devil, an he will, i care not: give me faith, say i. well, it's all one.--a plague o' these pickle-herrings. [_exit_ sir toby. _oli._ what's a drunken man like, fool? _clo._ like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman; one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him. _oli._ go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my uncle; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd: go, look after him. _clo._ he is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [_exit_ clown. _enter_ malvolio. _mal._ madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. i told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you: i told him you were asleep; he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. what is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial. _oli._ tell him, he shall not speak with me. _mal._ he has been told so; and, he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak with you. _oli._ what kind of man is he? _mal._ why, of man-kind. _oli._ what manner of man? _mal._ of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no. _oli._ of what personage, and years, is he? _mal._ not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a coddling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. he is very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think, his mother's milk were scarce out of him. _oli._ let him approach: call in my gentlewoman. _mal._ gentlewoman, my lady calls. [_exit_ malvolio. [illustration] _enter_ maria. _oli._ give me my veil. [_exit_ maria. what means his message to me? i have denied his access o'er and o'er: then what means this? _enter_ maria, _with a veil_. come, throw it o'er my face; we'll once more hear orsino's embassy. _enter_ viola. _vio._ the honourable lady of the house, which is she? _oli._ speak to me, i shall answer for her:--your will? _vio._ most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,--i pray you, tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for i never saw her: i would be loth to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penn'd, i have taken great pains to con it. _oli._ whence came you, sir? _vio._ i can say little more than i have studied, and that question's out of my part.--good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady of the house. _oli._ if i do not usurp myself, i am. _vio._ most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve. _oli._ i heard you were saucy at my gates; and allow'd your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. if you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me, to make one in so skipping a dialogue.--what are you? what would you? _vio._ what i am, and what i would, are to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation. _oli._ give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [_exit_ maria. now, sir, what is your text? _vio._ most sweet lady,--- _oli._ a comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. where lies your text? _vio._ in orsino's bosom. _oli._ in his bosom? in what chapter of his bosom? _vio._ to answer by the method, in the first of his heart. _oli._ o, i have read it; it is heresy. have you no more to say? _vio._ good madam, let me see your face. _oli._ have you any commission from your lord to negociate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. look you, sir, such a one as i, does this present. [_unveiling._ _vio._ 'tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: lady, you are the cruel'st she alive, if you will lead these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy. _oli._ o, sir, i will not be so hard-hearted. _vio._ my lord and master loves you; o, such love could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd the nonpareil of beauty! _oli._ how does he love me? _vio._ with adorations, with fertile tears, with groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. _oli._ your lord does know my mind, i cannot love him: he might have took his answer long ago. _vio._ if i did love you in my master's flame, with such a suffering, such a deadly life, in your denial i would find no sense, i would not understand it. _oli._ why, what would you? _vio._ make me a willow cabin at your gate, and call upon my soul within the house; write loyal cantons of contemned love, and sing them loud even in the dead of night; holla your name to the reverberate hills, and make the babbling gossip of the air cry out, olivia! o, you should not rest between the elements of air and earth, but you should pity me. _oli._ you might do much:--what is your parentage? _vio._ above my fortunes, yet my state is well: i am a gentleman. _oli._ get you to your lord; i cannot love him: let him send no more; unless, perchance, you come to me again, to tell me how he takes it. fare you well: i thank you for your pains:--spend this for me. _vio._ i am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse; my master, not myself, lacks recompense. love make his heart of flint, that you shall love; and let your fervour, like my master's, be placed in contempt! farewell, fair cruelty. [_exit_ viola. _oli._ what is your parentage? _above my fortunes, yet my state is well: i am a gentleman._----i'll be sworn thou art; thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, do give thee five-fold blazon:--not too fast:--soft! soft! unless the master were the man.--how now? even so quickly may one catch the plague? methinks, i feel this youth's perfections, with an invisible and subtle stealth, to creep in at mine eyes. well, let it be.- what ho, malvolio!- _enter_ malvolio. _mal._ here, madam, at your service. _oli._ run after that same peevish messenger, orsino's man: he left this ring behind him, would i, or not; tell him, i'll none of it. desire him not to flatter with his lord, nor hold him up with hopes; i am not for him: if that the youth will come this way to-morrow, i'll give him reasons for't. hie thee, malvolio. _mal._ madam, i will. [_exit_ malvolio. _oli._ i do i know not what; and fear to find mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe; what is decreed, must be; and be this so! [_exit._ scene vi. _a street before_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ viola, _and_ malvolio _following_. _mal._ sir, sir,--young gentleman: were not you even now with the countess olivia? _vio._ even now, sir. _mal._ she returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. she adds moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him: and one thing more; that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. receive it so. _vio._ she took the ring of me!--i'll none of it. _mal._ come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is, it should be so returned.--[_throws the ring on the ground._] if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [_exit_ malvolio. _vio._ [_takes up the ring._] i left no ring with her: what means this lady? fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd her! she made good view of me; indeed, so much, that, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue, for she did speak in starts distractedly. she loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion invites me in this churlish messenger. none of my lord's ring!--why, he sent her none. i am the man;--if it be so, (as 'tis,) poor lady! she were better love a dream. what will become of this? as i am man, my state is desperate for my master's love; as i am woman,--now alas the day!- what thriftless sighs shall poor olivia breathe! o time, thou must entangle this, not i; it is too hard a knot for me to untie. [_exit._ act the second. scene i. _a sea-port._ _enter_ sebastian _and_ antonio. _ant._ will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that i go with you? _seb._ by your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore i shall crave of you your leave, that i may bear my evils alone: it were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. _ant._ pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. _seb._ o, good antonio, pardon me your trouble. _ant._ let me yet know of you, whither you are bound. _seb._ no, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy.--but i perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what i am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself.--you must know of me then, antonio, my name is sebastian, which i called rodorigo; my father was that sebastian of messaline, whom i know you have heard of: he left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. if the heavens had been pleased, 'would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned. _ant._ alas, the day! _seb._ a lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though i could not overfar believe that, yet thus far i will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. [_he weeps._] _ant._ if you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. _seb._ if you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and i am yet so near the manners of my mother, that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. i am bound to the duke orsino's court, farewell. _ant._ the gentleness of all the gods go with thee! _seb._ fare ye well. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _a dining-room in_ olivia's _house_. sir toby _and_ sir andrew _discovered, drinking and smoking_. _sir to._ come, sir andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know'st,--- _sir and._ nay, by my troth, i know not: but i know, to be up late, is to be up late. _sir to._ a false conclusion; i hate it as an unfill'd can: to be up after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that, to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. do not our lives consist of the four elements? _sir and._ 'faith, so they say; but, i think, it rather consists of eating and drinking. _sir to._ thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.--maria, i say!----a stoop of wine! [_the_ clown _sings without_. [sir andrew _and_ sir toby _rise_. _sir and._ here comes the fool, i'faith. _enter_ clown. _clo._ how now, my hearts? did you never see the picture of we three? _sir to._ welcome, ass. _sir and._ i had rather than forty shillings i had such a leg; and so sweet a voice to sing, as the fool has.--in sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of pigrogromitus, of the vapians passing the equinoctial of queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. i sent thee sixpence for thy leman: hadst it? _clo._ i did impeticos thy gratillity; for malvolio's nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the myrmidons are no bottle ale-houses. _sir and._ excellent! why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. now, a song. _sir to._ come on: shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that? _sir and._ an you love me, let's do 't: i am dog at a catch. _clo._ by'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. _sir and._ begin, fool: it begins,--[_sings._] _hold thy peace._ _clo._ hold my peace!--i shall never begin, if i hold my peace. _sir and._ good, i'faith!--come, begin:--that, or something else,--or what you will. [_they all three sing._ _christmas comes but once a year, and therefore we'll be merry._ _enter_ maria. _mar._ what a catterwauling do you keep here! if my lady have not called up her steward, malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me. _sir to._ my lady's a cataian; we are politicians. malvolio's a peg-a-ramsay:--[_sings._]--_and three merry men be we._ _sir and._ [_sings._] _and three merry men be we._ _sir to._ am i not consanguineous? am i not of her blood? tilly-valley, lady!--[_sings._]--_there dwelt a man in babylon, lady, lady!_ _sir and._ [_sings_] _lady_,--- _clo._ beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling. _sir and._ ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do i too; he does it with a better grace, but i do it more natural. [_sings_.] _lady_,- _sir to._ let us have another. [_they all three sing and dance._ _which is the properest day to drink? saturday,--sunday,--monday_,- _mar._ for the love of heaven, peace. _enter_ malvolio, _in a gown and cap, with a light_. _mal._ my masters, are you mad? or what are you? _sir and._ [_sings._] _monday_,- _mal._ have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? _sir to._ [_sings._] _saturday_,- _mal._ is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you? _sir to._ we did keep time, sir, in our catches. sneck up! _mal._ sir toby, i must be round with you. my lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. if you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. _sir to._ [_sings._] _farewell, dear heart, since i must needs be gone._ _mar._ nay, good sir toby. _clo._ [_sings._] _his eyes do show his days are almost done._ _mal._ is't even so? _sir to._ [_sings._] _but i will never die._ [_falls on the floor._ _clo._ [_sings._] _sir toby,--o, sir toby,--there you lie._ _mal._ this is much credit to you. [clown _raises_ sir toby. _sir to._ [_sings._] _you lie._--art any more than a steward? dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? _clo._ yes, by saint anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too. _sir to._ thou'rt i' the right.--go, sir, rub your chain with crums:--a stoop of wine, maria! _mal._ mistress mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand. [_exit_ malvolio, _followed by the_ clown, _mocking him_. _mar._ go shake your ears. _sir and._ 'twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a hungry, to challenge him to the field; and then to break promise with him, and make a fool of him. _sir to._ do't, knight; i'll write thee a challenge: or i'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth. _mar._ sweet sir toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the duke's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. for monsieur malvolio, let me alone with him: if i do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think i have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: i know, i can do it. _sir to._ possess us, possess us; tell us something of him. _mar._ marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan. _sir and._ o, if i thought that, i'd beat him like a dog. _sir to._ what, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight? _sir and._ i have no exquisite reason for't, but i have reason good enough. _mar._ the devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass; so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on him, love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work. _sir to._ what wilt thou do? _mar._ i will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, he shall find himself most feelingly personated: i can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. _sir to._ excellent! i smell a device. _sir and._ i have't in my nose too. _sir to._ he shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him? _sir and._ o, 'twill be admirable. _mar._ sport royal, i warrant you. i will plant you two, and let fabian make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. for this night, to bed, and dream on the event. farewell. [_exit_ maria. _sir to._ good night, penthesilea. _sir and._ before me, she's a good wench. _sir to._ she's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; what o' that? _sir and._ i was adored once too. _sir to._ let's to bed, knight.--thou hadst need send for more money. _sir and._ if i cannot recover your niece, i am a foul way out. _sir to._ send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me cut. _sir and._ if i do not, never trust me, take it how you will. _sir to._ come, come; i'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now. _sir and._ i'll call you cut. _sir to._ come, knight,--come, knight. _sir and._ i'll call you cut. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _a hall in_ duke orsino's _palace_. _enter_ duke, _and_ viola. _duke._ come hither, boy:--if ever thou shalt love, in the sweet pangs of it, remember me: for, such as i am, all true lovers are.- my life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; hath it not, boy? _vio._ a little, by your favour. _duke._ what kind of woman is't? _vio._ of your complexion. _duke._ she is not worth thee then. what years, i' faith? _vio._ about your years, my lord. _duke._ too old, by heaven.--once more, cesario, get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty: tell her, my love, more noble than the world, prizes not quantity of dirty lands; the parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her, tell her, i hold as giddily as fortune; but 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems, that nature pranks her in, attracts my soul. _vio._ but, if she cannot love you, sir? _duke._ i cannot be so answered. _vio._ sooth, but you must. say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is, hath for your love as great a pang of heart as you have for olivia: you cannot love her; you tell her so: must she not then be answered? _duke._ there is no woman's sides, can bide the beating of so strong a passion as love doth give my heart:--make no compare between that love a woman can bear me, and that i owe olivia. _vio._ ay, but i know,- _duke._ what dost thou know? _vio._ too well what love women to men may owe: in faith, they are as true of heart as we. my father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be, perhaps, were i a woman, i should your lordship. _duke._ and what's her history? _vio._ a blank, my lord: she never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief. was not this love, indeed? we men may say more, swear more: but, indeed, our shows are more than will, for still we prove much in our vows, but little in our love. _duke._ but died thy sister of her love, my boy? _vio._ i am all the daughters of my father's house, and all the brothers too.- sir, shall i to this lady? _duke._ ay, that's the theme. to her in haste; give her this jewel; say, my love can give no place, bide no denay. [_exeunt._ act the third. scene i. olivia's _garden_. _enter_ sir toby, sir andrew, _and_ fabian. _sir to._ come thy ways, signior fabian. _fab._ nay, i'll come; if i lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. _sir to._ would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame? _fab._ i would exult, man: you know, he brought me out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here. _sir to._ to anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue:--shall we not, sir andrew? _sir and._ an we do not, it is pity of our lives. _enter_ maria, _with a letter_. _sir to._ here comes the little villain:--how now, my nettle of india? _mar._ get ye all three behind yon clump: malvolio's coming down this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own shadow, this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for, i know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him.--close, in the name of jesting! [_the men hide themselves._]--lie thou there; [_throws down a letter._] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [_exit_ maria. _enter_ malvolio. _mal._ 'tis but fortune; all is fortune. maria once told me, she did affect me: and i have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. what should i think on't? _sir to._ here's an over-weening rogue! _fab._ contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes! _sir and._ 'slight, i could so beat the rogue:- _mal._ to be count malvolio;- _sir to._ ah, rogue! _sir and._ pistol him, pistol him. _sir to._ peace, peace! _mal._ there is example for't; the lady of the strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. _sir and._ fie on him, jezebel! _fab._ now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him. _mal._ having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,- _sir to._ o, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye! _mal._ calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown;--having come from a day-bed, where i left olivia sleeping;- _sir to._ fire and brimstone! _fab._ o peace, peace! _mal._ and then to have the humour of state: and after a demure travel of regard,--telling them, i know my place, as i would they should do theirs,--to ask for my kinsman toby:- _sir to._ bolts and shackles! _fab._ o, peace, peace, peace! now, now. _mal._ seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: i frown the while; and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. toby approaches: courtsies there to me:- _sir to._ shall this fellow live? _fab._ though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace. _mal._ i extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control- _sir to._ and does not toby take you a blow o' the lips then? _mal._ saying, _cousin toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech_:- _sir to._ what, what? _mal._ _you must amend your drunkenness._ _sir to._ out, scab! _fab._ nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. _mal._ _besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight_;- _sir and._ that's me, i warrant you. _mal._ _one sir andrew_:- _sir and._ i knew, 'twas i; for many do call me fool. _mal._ what employment have we here? [_taking up the letter._ _fab._ now is the woodcock near the gin. _sir to._ o peace! an the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him,- _mal._ by my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very _c's_, her _u's_, and her _t's_; and thus makes she her great _p's_. it is, in contempt of question, her hand. _sir and._ her _c's_, her _u's_, and her _t's_: why that? _mal._ [_reads._] _to the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes_: her very phrases!--by your leave, wax.--soft!--and the impressure her lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my lady: to whom should this be? [_opens the letter._] _fab._ this wins him, liver and all. _mal._ [_reads._] _jove knows, i love: but who? lips do not move, no man must know. no man must know._--if this should be thee, malvolio? _sir to._ marry, hang thee, brock! _mal._ [_reads._] _i may command, where i adore: but silence, like a lucrece knife, with bloodless stroke my heart doth gore_; m,o,a,i, _doth sway my life_. _fab._ a fustian riddle! _sir to._ excellent wench, say i. _mal._ m,o,a,i, _doth sway my life_.--nay, but first, let me see,--let me see,--let me see. _fab._ what a dish of poison has she dressed him! _sir to._ and with what wing the stanniel checks at it! _mal._ _i may command where i adore._ why, she may command me; i serve her, she is my lady. why, this is evident to any formal capacity. there is no obstruction in this:--and the end,--what should that alphabetical position portend? if i could make that resemble something in me.--softly!--m,o,a,i. _sir to._ o, ay! make up that:--he is now at a cold scent. _mal._ _m_,--malvolio;--_m_,--why, that begins my name. _fab._ i thought he would work it out: the cur is excellent at faults. _mal._ _m_,--but then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: _a_ should follow, but _o_ does. _fab._ and _o_ shall end, i hope. _sir to._ ay, or i'll cudgel him, and make him cry, _o_. _mal._ and then _i_ comes behind. _fab._ ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels, than fortunes before you. _mal._ _m_,_o_,_a_,_i_;--this simulation is not as the former:--and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. soft; here follows prose.--[_reads. if this fall into thy hand, revolve. in my stars i am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. to enure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. she thus advises thee, that sighs for thee. remember who commended thy yellow stockings; and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: i say, remember. go to; thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers. farewell. she that would alter services with thee._ _the fortunate-unhappy._ day-light and champian discovers not more: this is open. i will be proud, i will baffle sir toby, i will wash off gross acquaintance, i will be point-de-vice, the very man. i do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. she did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered:--i thank my stars, i am happy. i will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. jove, and my stars be praised!--here is yet a postscript--[_reads._] _thou canst not choose but know who i am. if thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, i pr'ythee._ jove, i thank thee. i will smile; i will do every thing that thou wilt have me. [_exit_ malvolio. [_they advance from behind the trees._] _omnes._ ha! ha! ha! _fab._ i will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the sophy. _sir to._ i could marry this wench for this device. _sir and._ so could i too. _sir to._ and ask no other dowry with her, but such another jest. _sir and._ nor i neither. _fab._ here comes my noble gull-catcher. _enter_ maria. _sir to._ wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck? _sir and._ or o' mine either? _sir to._ shall i become thy bond-slave? _sir and._ or i either? _sir to._ why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad. _mar._ nay, but say true; does it work upon him? _sir to._ like aqua-vitæ with a midwife. _mar._ if you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors; and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if you will see it, follow me. [_exit_ maria. _sir to._ to the gates of tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit. _sir and._ i'll make one too. _fab._ and i. _omnes._ huzza! huzza! huzza! [_exeunt._ scene ii. _a public square._ _enter_ sebastian _and_ antonio. _seb._ i would not, by my will, have troubled you; but, since you make your pleasure of your pains, i will no further chide you. _ant._ i could not stay behind you; my desire, more sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; i fear'd besides what might befall your travel, being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger, unguided, and unfriended, often prove rough and unhospitable: my willing love, the rather by these arguments of doubt, set forth in your pursuit. _seb._ my kind antonio, i can no other answer make, but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks.--what is to do? shall we go see the reliques of this town? _ant._ to-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging. _seb._ i am not weary, and 'tis long to night; i pray you, let us satisfy our eyes with the memorials, and the things of fame, that do renown this city. _ant._ 'would, you'd pardon me; i do not without danger walk these streets: once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst orsino's gallies, i did some service; of such note indeed, that were i ta'en here, it would scarce be answered. _seb._ do not then walk too open. _ant._ it doth not fit me.--hold, sir, here's my purse; in the south suburbs, at the elephant, is best to lodge: i will bespeak our diet, whiles you beguile the time, and feed your knowledge, with viewing of the town; there shall you have me. _seb._ why i your purse? _ant._ haply, your eye shall light upon some toy you have desire to purchase; and your store, i think, is not for idle markets, sir. _seb._ i'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour. _ant._ to the elephant. _seb._ i do remember. [_exeunt._ scene iii. olivia's _garden_. _enter_ clown, _playing on a tabor, and_ viola. _vio._ save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by thy tabor? _clo._ no, sir, i live by the church. _vio._ art thou a churchman? _clo._ no such matter, sir: i do live by the church; for i do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church. _vio._ art not thou the lady olivia's fool? _clo._ no, indeed, sir; the lady olivia has no folly: she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands, as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; i am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words. _vio._ i saw thee late at the duke orsino's. _clo._ foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the sun; it shines every where. i would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master, as with my mistress: i think, i saw your wisdom there. _vio._ nay, an thou pass upon me, i'll no more with thee. hold, there's expences for thee. [_gives him money._ _clo._ now, jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard! _vio._ by my troth, i'll tell thee; i am almost sick for one.--is thy lady within? _clo._ would not a pair of these have bred, sir? _vio._ yes, being kept together, and put to use. _clo._ i would play lord pandarus of phrygia, sir, to bring a cressida to this troilus. _vio._ i understand you, sir: [_gives him more money._] 'tis well begged. _clo._ my lady is within, sir. i will construe to them whence you came: who you are, and what you would, are out of my welkin: i might say, element; but the word is over-worn. [_exit_ clown. _vio._ this fellow's wise enough to play the fool; and to do that well, craves a kind of wit: he must observe their mood on whom he jests, the quality of persons, and the time; and, like the haggard, check at every feather that comes before his eye. this is a practice, as full of labour as a wise man's art. _enter_ sir toby, _and_ sir andrew. _sir to._ save you, gentleman. _vio._ and you, sir. _sir to._ my niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. _vio._ i am bound to your niece, sir: i mean, she is the list of my voyage. _sir to._ taste your legs, sir, put them to motion. _vio._ my legs do better understand me, sir, than i understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs. _sir to._ i mean,--to go, sir, to enter. _vio._ i will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented. _enter_ olivia. most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you! _sir and._ that youth's a rare courtier!--_rain odours!_--well. _vio._ my matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. _sir and._ _odours_, _pregnant_, and _vouchsafed_!--i'll get 'em all three ready. _oli._ leave me to my hearing. _sir and._ _odours--pregnant--vouchsafed._ [_exeunt_ sir toby _and_ sir andrew. _oli._ give me your hand, sir. _vio._ my duty, madam, and most humble service. _oli._ what is your name? _vio._ cesario is your servant's name, fair princess. _oli._ my servant, sir! 'twas never merry world, since lowly feigning was called compliment: you are servant to the duke orsino, youth. _vio._ and he is yours, and his must needs be yours; your servant's servant is your servant, madam. _oli._ for him, i think not on him: for his thoughts, 'would they were blanks, rather than filled with me! _vio._ madam, i come to whet your gentle thoughts on his behalf:- _oli._ o, by your leave, i pray you; i bade you never speak again of him: but, would you undertake another suit, i had rather hear you to solicit that, than music from the spheres. _vio._ dear lady,--- _oli._ give me leave, i beseech you: i did send, after the last enchantment you did here, a ring in chase of you; so did i abuse myself, my servant, and, i fear me, you: under your hard construction must i sit, to force that on you, in a shameful cunning, which you knew none of yours: what might you think? have you not set mine honour at the stake, and baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts that tyrannous heart can think? to one of your receiving enough is shown; a cyprus, not a bosom, hides my poor heart: so let me hear you speak. _vio._ i pity you. _oli._ that's a degree to love. _vio._ no, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof, that very oft we pity enemies. _oli._ why, then, methinks, 'tis time to smile again: o world, how apt the poor are to be proud! [_clock strikes._ the clock upbraids me with the waste of time.- be not afraid, good youth, i will not have you: and yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, your wife is like to reap a proper man: there lies your way, due west. _vio._ then westward-hoe: grace, and good disposition 'tend your ladyship! you'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me? _oli._ stay: i pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of me. _vio._ that you do think, you are not what you are. _oli._ if i think so, i think the same of you. _vio._ then think you right; i am not what i am. _oli._ i would, you were as i would have you be! _vio._ would it be better, madam, than i am, i wish it might; for now i am your fool. _oli._ o, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his lip! cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing, i love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. _vio._ by innocence, i swear, and by my youth. i have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, and that no woman has; nor never none shall mistress be of it, save i alone. and so adieu, good madam; never more will i my master's tears to you deplore. _oli._ yet come again: for thou, perhaps, may'st move that heart, which now abhors, to like his love. [_exeunt._ scene iv. _a room in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ sir andrew, fabian, _and_ sir toby. _sir and._ no, faith, i'll not stay a jot longer. _sir to._ thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason. _fab._ you must needs yield your reason, sir andrew. _sir and._ marry, i saw your niece do more favours to the count's serving man, than ever she bestowed upon me; i saw't this moment in the garden. _sir to._ did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that. _sir and._ as plain as i see you now. _fab._ this was a great argument of love in her toward you. _sir and._ 'slight! will you make an ass o' me? _fab._ i will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason. _sir to._ and they have been grand jury-men, since before noah was a sailor. _fab._ she did show favour to the youth in your sight, only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart, and brimstone in your liver: you should then have accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have bang'd the youth into dumbness. this was look'd for at your hand, and this was baulk'd: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion: where you will hang like an icicle on a dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy. _sir and._ an it be any way, it must be with valour; for policy i hate. _sir to._ why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it: and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman, than report of valour. _fab._ there is no way but this, sir andrew. _sir and._ will either of you bear me a challenge to him? _sir to._ go write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent, and full of invention: taunt him with the license of ink: if thou _thou'st_ him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many _lies_ as will lie in thy sheet of paper; although the sheet were big enough for the bed of ware in england, set 'em down; go, about it. let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it. _sir and._ where shall i find you? _sir to._ we'll call thee at the _cubiculo:_ go. [_exit_ sir andrew. _fab._ this is a dear manakin to you, sir toby. _sir to._ i have been dear to him, lad; some two thousand strong, or so. _fab._ we shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver it? _sir to._ never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. i think, oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. for andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, i'll eat the rest of the anatomy. _fab._ and his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty. _sir to._ look, where the youngest wren of nine comes. _enter_ maria. _mar._ if you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into stitches, follow me: yon gull malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. he's in yellow stockings. _sir to._ and cross-gartered? _mar._ most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the church.--i have dogg'd him, like his murderer: he does obey every point of the letter that i dropped to betray him. he does smile his face into more lines, than are in a map: you have not seen such a thing as 'tis. _sir to._ come, bring us, bring us where he is. [_exeunt._ act the fourth. scene 1. _a room in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ olivia _and_ maria. _oli._ i have sent after him:--he says, he'll come. how shall i feast him? what bestow on him? i speak too loud.--- where is malvolio? _mar._ he's coming, madam; but in strange manner. he is sure possessed. _oli._ why, what's the matter? does he rave? _mar._ no, madam, he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best have guard about you, if he come; for, sure, the man is tainted in his wits. _oli._ go call him hither. [_exit_ maria. i'm as mad as he, if sad and merry madness equal be.- _enter_ malvolio, _in yellow stockings, cross-garter'd, and_ maria. how now, malvolio? _mal._ sweet lady, ho, ho. [_smiles fantastically._ _oli._ smilest thou? i sent for thee upon a sad occasion. _mal._ sad, lady? i could be sad: this does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering: but what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: _please one, and please all_. _oli._ why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee? _mal._ not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.--it did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. i think, we do know the sweet roman hand. _oli._ wilt thou go to bed, malvolio? _mal._ to bed!--ay, sweet-heart; and i'll come to thee. _oli._ heaven comfort thee! why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft? _mar._ how do you, malvolio? _mal._ at your request? yes; nightingales answer daws. _mar._ why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady? _mal._ _be not afraid of greatness_:--'twas well writ. _oli._ what mean'st thou by that, malvolio? _mal._ _some are born great_,- _oli._ ha? _mal._ _some achieve greatness_,- _oli._ what say'st thou? _mal._ _ and some have greatness thrust upon them._ _oli._ heaven restore thee! _mal._ _remember who commended thy yellow stockings_;- _oli._ thy yellow stockings? _mal_ _and wished to see thee cross-garter'd._ _oli._ cross-garter'd? _mal._ _go to: thou art made, if thou desirest to be so_;- _oli._ am i made? _mal._ _if not, let me see thee a servant still._ _oli._ why, this is very midsummer madness. _enter_ fabian. _fab._ madam, the young gentleman of the duke orsino's is returned; i could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure. _oli._ i'll come to him. good maria, let this fellow be look'd to.--call my uncle toby. [_exit_ fabian. let some of my people have a special care of him; i would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_exeunt_ olivia _and_ maria. _mal._ oh, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than sir toby to look to me? she sends him on purpose, that i may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. i have limed her.--and, when she went away now, _let this fellow be looked to_:--fellow! not malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. why, every thing adheres together.--well, jove, not i, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. _sir to._ [_without_] which way is he, in the name of sanctity? if all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and legion himself possessed him, yet i'll speak to him. _enter_ fabian, sir toby, _and_ maria. _fab._ here he is, here he is:--how is't with you, sir? how is't with you, man? _mal._ go off, i discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off. _mar._ lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not i tell you?--sir toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. _mal._ ah, ha! does she so? _sir to._ go to, go to; we must deal gently with him. how do you, malvolio? how is't with you? what, man! defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind. _mal._ do you know what you say? _mar._ la you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! pray, heaven, he be not bewitch'd. _fab._ carry his water to the wise woman. _sir to._ pr'ythee, hold thy peace; do you not see, you move him? let me alone with him. _fab._ no way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. _sir to._ why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck? _mal._ sir? _sir to._ ay, biddy, come with me.--what, man! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with satan: hang him, foul collier! _mar._ get him to say his prayers, sir toby. _mal._ my prayers, minx? _mar._ no, i warrant you, he'll not hear of godliness. _mal._ go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: i am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter. begone. ha! ha! ha! [_exit_ malvolio. _omnes._ ha! ha! ha! _sir to._ is't possible? _fab._ if this were played upon a stage now, i could condemn it as an improbable fiction. _sir to._ his very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. _mar._ nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air, and taint. _fab._ why, we shall make him mad, indeed. _mar._ the house will be the quieter. _sir to._ come, we'll have him in a dark room, and bound.--follow him, and let him not from thy sight. [_exit_ maria. but see, but see. _fab._ more matter for a may morning. _enter_ sir andrew, _with a letter_. _sir and._ here's the challenge, read it; i warrant, there's vinegar and pepper in't. _fab._ is't so saucy? _sir and._ ay, is it, i warrant him: do but read. _sir to._ give me.--[_reads._] _youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow._ _fab._ good and valiant. _sir to._ _wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why i do call thee so, for i will show thee no reason for't._ _fab._ a good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law. _sir to._ _thou comest to the lady olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter i challenge thee for._ _fab._ very brief, and exceeding good sense-less. _sir to._ _i will way-lay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me_,- _fab._ good. _sir to._ _thou killest me like a rogue and a villain._ _fab._ still you keep o' the windy side of the law: good. _sir to._ _fare thee well; and heaven have mercy upon one of our souls! he may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy_, andrew aguecheek.--if this letter move him not, his legs cannot: i'll give't him. _fab._ you may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. _sir to._ go, sir andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the garden, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. away. _sir and._ nay, let me alone for swearing. [_exit_ sir andrew. _sir to._ now will not i deliver his letter: for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. but, sir, i will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon ague-cheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, (as, i know, his youth will aptly receive it,) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. this will so fright them both, that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. _fab._ here he comes with your niece: give them way, till he take leave, and presently after him. _sir to._ i will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge. [_exeunt_ sir toby _and_ fabian. _enter_ viola _and_ olivia. _oli._ i have said too much unto a heart of stone, and laid mine honour too unchary out: there's something in me, that reproves my fault; but such a headstrong potent fault it is, that it but mocks reproof. _vio._ with the same 'haviour that your passion bears, go on my master's griefs. _oli._ here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture; refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you: and, i beseech you, come again to-morrow. what shall you ask of me, that i'll deny; that honour, saved, may upon asking give? _vio._ nothing but this, your true love for my master. _oli._ how with mine honour may i give him that which i have given to you? _vio._ i will acquit you. _oli._ well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well! [_exit_ olivia. _enter_ sir toby _and_ fabian. _sir to._ gentleman, heaven save thee. _vio._ and you, sir. _sir to._ that defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, i know not; but thy intercepter, full of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly. _vio._ you mistake, sir; i am sure, no man hath any quarrel to me; my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. _sir to._ you'll find it otherwise, i assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal. _vio._ i pray you, sir, what is he? _sir to._ he is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet consideration: but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob, nob, is his word; give 't or take 't. _vio._ i will return, and desire some conduct of the lady. i am no fighter. _sir to._ back you shall not, unless you undertake that with me, which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on; or strip your sword stark naked, (for meddle you must, that's certain,) or forswear to wear iron about you. _vio._ this is as uncivil, as strange. i beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. _sir to._ i will do so. signior fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. [_exit_ sir toby. _vio._ 'pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? _fab._ i know, the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more. _vio._ i beseech you, what manner of man is he? _fab._ nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. he is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of illyria: will you walk towards him? i will make your peace with him, if i can. _vio._ i shall be much bound to you for't: i am one, that would rather go with sir priest, than sir knight: i care not who knows so much of my mettle. [_exeunt._ scene ii. olivia's _garden_. _enter_ sir toby, _with_ sir andrew, _in a great fright_. _sir to._ why, man, he's a very devil;- _sir and._ oh! _sir to._ i have not seen such a virago. i had a pass with him,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,--- _sir and._ oh! _sir to._ with such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they say, he has been fencer to the sophy. _sir and._ plague on't, i'll not meddle with him. _sir to._ ay, but he will not now be pacified: fabian can scarce hold him yonder. _sir and._ plague on't; an i thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, i'd have seen him damn'd ere i had challenged him. let him let the matter slip, and i'll give him my horse, grey capilet. _sir to._ i'll make the motion: stand here, make a good show on't.--[_aside._] marry, i'll ride your horse as well as i ride you. _enter_ fabian _and_ viola. i have his horse [_to_ fabian.] to take up the quarrel; i have persuaded him, the youth's a devil. _fab._ [_to_ sir toby.] he is as horribly conceited of him; and pants, as if a bear were at his heels. _sir to._ [_to_ viola.] there's no remedy, sir; he will fight with you for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you. _vio._ [_draws her sword._] pray heaven defend me!--[_aside._] a little thing would make me tell them how much i lack of a man. _fab._ [_to_ viola.] give ground, if you see him furious. _sir to._ come, sir andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. come on; to 't. _sir and._ [_draws._] pray heaven, he keep his oath! _vio._ i do assure you, 'tis against my will. [_they fight._--sir toby _and_ fabian _urge on_ sir andrew _and_ viola. _enter_ antonio, _who runs between_ sir andrew _and_ viola. _ant._ put up your sword;--if this young gentleman have done offence, i take the fault on me; if you offend him, i for him defy you. _sir to._ you, sir? why, what are you? _ant._ [_draws._] one, sir, that for his love dares yet do more than you have heard him brag to you he will. _sir to._ [_draws._] nay, if you be an undertaker, i am for you. [sir toby _and_ antonio _fight_.] [sir andrew _hides himself behind the trees_.--viola _retires a little_.] _fab._ [_parts them._] o good sir toby, hold; here come the officers. _sir to._ [_to_ antonio.] i'll be with you anon. [antonio _shows great alarm_--sir toby _sheathes his sword_.]--sir knight,--sir andrew,- _sir and._ here i am. _sir to._ what, man!--come on. [_brings_ sir andrew _forward_.] _vio._ [_advances._] 'pray, sir, [_to_ sir andrew.] put up your sword, if you please. _sir and._ marry, will i, sir;--and, for that i promised you, i'll be as good as my word: he will bear you easily, and reins well. _enter two officers of justice._ _1 off._ this is the man; do thy office. _2 off._ antonio, i arrest thee at the suit of duke orsino. _ant._ you do mistake me, sir. _1 off._ no, sir, no jot; i know your favour well.- take him away; he knows, i know him well. _ant._ i must obey.--this comes with seeking you; but there's no remedy. now my necessity makes me to ask you for my purse: it grieves me much more, for what i cannot do for you, than what befalls myself. you stand amazed; but be of comfort. _1 off._ come, sir, away. _ant._ i must entreat of you some of that money. _vio._ what money, sir? for the fair kindness you have showed me here, and, part, being prompted by your present trouble, out of my lean and low ability i'll lend you something: my having is not much; i'll make division of my present with you; hold, there is half my coffer. _ant._ will you deny me now? is't possible, that my deserts to you can lack persuasion? do not tempt my misery; lest that it make me so unsound a man, as to upbraid you with those kindnesses that i have done for you. _vio._ i know of none; nor know i you by voice, or any feature. _ant._ o heavens themselves! _1 off._ come, sir, i pray you, go. _ant._ let me speak a little. this youth that you see here, i snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death; and to his image, which, methought, did promise most venerable worth, did i devotion. but, o, how vile an idol proves this god!- thou hast, sebastian, done good feature shame.- in nature there's no blemish, but the mind; none can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind: virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil. [_exeunt_ antonio _and officers_. _sir to._ come hither, knight; come hither, fabian. [_they retire together._ _vio._ he named sebastian; i my brother know yet living in my glass; even such, and so, in favour was my brother; and he went still in this fashion, colour, ornament; for him i imitate: o, if it prove, tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! [_exit_ viola. [_they advance._] _sir to._ a very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask fabian. _fab._ a coward, a most devout coward, religious in it. _sir and._ 'slid, i'll after him again, and beat him. _sir to._ do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword. _sir and._ an i do not!- [_exeunt._ scene iii. _the street before_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ sebastian _and_ clown. _clo._ will you make me believe, that i am not sent for you? _seb._ go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; let me be clear of thee. _clo._ well held out, i' faith! no, i do not know you; nor i am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--nothing, that is so, is so. _seb._ i pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--thou know'st not me. _clo._ vent my folly! he has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool.--i pr'ythee, tell me what i shall vent to my lady; shall i vent to her, that thou art coming? _seb._ i pr'ythee, foolish greek, depart from me; there's money for thee; if you tarry longer, i shall give worse payment. _clo._ by my troth, thou hast an open hand:--these wise men, that give fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years' purchase. _enter_ sir andrew. _sir and._ now, sir, have i met you again? there's for you. [_striking_ sebastian. _seb._ [_draws his sword._] why, there's for thee, and there, and there:--are all the people mad? [_beating_ sir andrew. _enter_ sir toby _and_ fabian. _sir to._ hold, sir, or i'll throw your dagger o'er the house. _clo._ this will i tell my lady straight--i would not be in some of your coats for two-pence. [_exit_ clown. _sir to._ come on, sir; hold. [_holding_ sebastian. _sir and._ nay, let him alone. i'll go another way to work with him; i'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in illyria: though i struck him first, yet it's no matter for that. _seb._ let go thy hand. _sir to._ come, sir, i will not let you go. come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on. _seb._ [_disengages himself._] i will be free from thee. --what would'st thou now? if thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword. _sir to._ what, what?--[_draws._]--nay, then i must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. [_they fight._ _enter_ olivia, _and two servants_. _fab._ hold, good sir toby, hold:--my lady here! [_exit_ fabian. _oli._ hold, toby; on thy life, i charge thee, hold. _sir to._ madam? _oli._ will it be ever thus? ungracious wretch, fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves, where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight! be not offended, dear cesario:--- rudesby, be gone!- _sir to._ come along, knight. [_exit_ sir toby. _oli._ and you, sir, follow him. _sir and._ oh, oh!--sir toby,- [_exit_ sir andrew. _oli._ i pr'ythee, gentle friend, let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway in this uncivil and unjust extent against thy peace. go with me to my house; and hear thou there how many fruitless pranks this ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby may'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go; do not deny. _seb._ what relish is in this? how runs the stream? or i am mad, or else this is a dream:- let fancy still my sense in lethe steep; if it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! _oli._ nay, come, i pr'ythee: 'would thou'dst be ruled by me! _seb._ madam, i will. _oli._ o, say so, and so be! [_exeunt._ scene iv. _a gallery in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ maria, _with a black gown and hood, and_ clown. _mar._ nay, i pr'ythee, put on this gown and hood; make him believe, thou art sir topas the curate; do it quickly: i'll call sir toby the whilst. [_exit_ maria. _clo._ well, i'll put it on, and i will dissemble myself in't; and i would i were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. _enter_ sir toby _and_ maria. _sir to._ jove bless thee, master parson. _clo._ _bonos dies_, sir toby: for as the old hermit of prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of king gorboduc, _that, that is, is_; so i, being master parson, am master parson: for what is that, but that? and is, but is? _sir to._ to him, sir topas. _clo._ [_opens the door of an inner room_] what, hoa, i say,--peace in this prison! _sir to._ the knave counterfeits well; a good knave. _mal._ [_in the inner room._] who calls there? _clo._ sir topas, the curate, who comes to visit malvolio the lunatic. _mal._ sir topas, sir topas, good sir topas, go to my lady. _clo._ out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest thou nothing but of ladies? _sir to._ well said, master parson. _mal._ sir topas, never was man thus wrong'd; good sir topas, do not think i am mad; they have bound me, hand and foot, and laid me here in hideous darkness. _clo._ say'st thou, that house is dark? _mal._ as hell, sir topas. _clo._ madman, thou errest: i say, there is no darkness, but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled, than the egyptians in their fog. _mal._ i say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and i say, there was never man thus abused: i am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it in any constant question. _clo._ what is the opinion of pythagoras concerning wild-fowl? _mal._ that the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird. _clo._ what thinkest thou of his opinion? _mal._ i think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion. _clo._ fare thee well: remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of pythagoras, ere i will allow of thy wits; and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. fare thee well. _mal._ sir topas, sir topas,- _sir to._ my most exquisite sir topas,- _clo._ nay, i am for all waters. [_takes off the gown and hood, and gives them to_ maria.] _mar._ thou might'st have done this without thy hood and gown; he sees thee not. _sir to._ to him in thine own voice, and bring us word how thou find'st him: come by and by to my chamber. [_exeunt_ sir toby _and_ maria. _clo._ [_sings._] _hey robin, jolly robin, tell me how thy lady does._ _mal._ fool,--fool,--good fool,- _clo._ who calls, ha? _mal._ as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as i am a gentleman, i will live to be thankful to thee for't. _clo._ master malvolio! _mal_. ay, good fool. _clo._ alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? _mal._ fool, there was never man so notoriously abused: i am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. _clo._ but as well! then you are mad, indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. _mal._ good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what i will set down to my lady; it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did. _clo._ i will help you to't. but tell me true, are you not mad, indeed? or do you but counterfeit? _mal._ believe me, i am not: i tell thee true. _clo._ nay, i'll ne'er believe a madman, till i see his brains. i will fetch you light, and paper, and ink. _mal._ fool, i'll requite it in the highest degree. i pr'ythee, be gone. _clo._ [_shuts the door of the inner room, and sings._] _i am gone, sir, and anon, sir, i'll be with you again, &c._ [_exit._ scene v. olivia's _garden_. _enter_ sebastian. _seb._ this is the air; that is the glorious sun; this pearl she gave me, i do feel't, and see't: and though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, yet 'tis not madness. where's antonio then? i could not find him at the elephant; his counsel now might do me golden service: for though my soul disputes well with my sense, that this may be some error, but no madness, yet doth this accident and flood of fortune so far exceed all instance, all discourse, that i am ready to distrust mine eyes, and wrangle with my reason, that persuades me to any other trust, but that i am mad, or else the lady's mad.--but here she comes. _enter_ olivia, _and a_ friar. _oli._ blame not this haste of mine:--if you mean well, now go with me, and with this holy man, into the chantry by: there, before him, and underneath that consecrated roof, plight me the full assurance of your faith; that my most jealous and too doubtful soul may live at peace: he shall conceal it, whiles you are willing it shall come to note; what time we will our celebration keep according to my birth.--what do you say? _seb._ i'll follow this good man, and go with you; and, having sworn truth, ever will be true. _oli._ then lead the way, good father: [_exit_ friar. and heavens so shine, that they may fairly note this act of mine! [_exeunt._ act the fifth. scene i. _the street before_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ clown _and_ fabian. _fab._ now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter. _clo._ good master fabian, grant me another request. _fab._ any thing. _clo._ do not desire to see this letter. _fab._ that is, to give a dog, and, in recompense, desire my dog again.--the duke orsino. [_exit_ fabian. _enter_ duke, viola, _and two gentlemen_. _duke._ belong you to the lady olivia, friend?--i know thee well: how dost thou, my good fellow? _clo._ truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the worse for my friends. _duke._ just the contrary; the better for thy friends. _clo._ no, sir, the worse. _duke._ how can that be? _clo._ marry, sir, they praise me, and make an ass of me; now my foes tell me plainly, i am an ass; so that by my foes, sir, i profit in the knowledge of myself; and by my friends i am abused: so that, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why, then the worse for my friends, and the better for my foes. _duke._ why, this is excellent. _clo._ by my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends. _duke._ thou shalt not be the worse for me; there's gold. _clo._ but that it would be double-dealing, sir, i would you could make it another. _duke._ o, you give me ill counsel. _clo._ put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. _duke._ well, i will be so much a sinner to be a double dealer; there's another. _clo._ _primo_, _secundo_,--_tertio_, is a good play; and the old saying is, the third pays for all. _duke._ you can fool no more money out of me at this throw: if you will let your lady know, i am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further. _clo._ marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty, till i come again: as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, i will awake it anon. [_exit_ clown. _vio._ here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me. _duke._ that face of his i do remember well; yet, when i saw it last, it was besmear'd as black as vulcan, in the smoke of war: a bawbling vessel was he captain of, for shallow draught, and bulk, unprizable: with which such scathful grapple did he make with the most noble bottom of our fleet, that very envy, and the tongue of loss, cried fame and honour on him.- _enter_ antonio _and officers_. what's the matter? _1 off._ this, please you, sir, is that antonio, that took the phoenix, and her fraught, from candy; and this is he, that did the tiger board, when your young nephew titus lost his leg: here in the streets, desperate of shame, and state, in private brabble did we apprehend him. _vio._ he did me kindness, sir; drew on my side; but, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me, i know not what 'twas, but distraction. _duke._ notable pirate! thou salt-water thief! what foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies, whom thou, in terms so bloody, and so dear, hast made thine enemies? _ant._ orsino, noble sir, be pleased that i shake off these names you give me; antonio never yet was thief, or pirate, though, i confess, on base and ground enough, orsino's enemy. a witchcraft drew me hither: that most ingrateful boy there, by your side, from the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth did i redeem; a wreck past hope he was: his life i gave him, and for his sake too, did i expose myself into the danger of this adverse town: drew to defend him, when he was beset; where being apprehended, his false cunning, (not meaning to partake with me in danger,) taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, and grew a twenty-years removed thing, while one would wink; denied me mine own purse, which i had recommended to his use not half an hour before. _vio._ how can this be? _duke._ when came he to this town? _ant._ to-day, my lord; and for three months before, (no interim, not a minute's vacancy,) both day and night did we keep company. _duke._ here comes the countess; now heaven walks on earth.--- but for thee; fellow, fellow, thy words are madness: but more of that anon.----take him aside. [antonio _and officers retire a little_. _enter_ olivia _and two servants_. _oli._ what would my lord, but that he may not have, wherein olivia may seem serviceable?- cesario, you do not keep promise with me. _vio._ madam? _duke._ gracious olivia,--- _oli._ what do you say, cesario? _vio._ my lord would speak; my duty hushes me. _oli._ if it be aught to the old tune, my lord, it is as harsh and fulsome to mine ear, as howling after music. _duke._ still so cruel? _oli._ still so constant, lord. _duke._ what! to perverseness? you uncivil lady, to whose ingrate and unauspicious altars my soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breathed out, that e'er devotion tender'd! what shall i do? _oli._ even what it please my lord, that shall become him. _duke._ why should i not, had i the heart to do it, like to the egyptian thief, at point of death, kill what i love? but hear me this: live you, the marble-breasted tyrant, still; but this your minion, whom, i see, you love, and whom, by heaven i swear, i tender dearly, him will i tear out of that cruel eye, where he sits crowned in his master's spite.- come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief. i'll sacrifice the lamb that i do love, to spite a raven's heart within a dove. [_exeunt_ duke _and gentlemen_. _vio._ and i, most jocund, apt, and willingly, to do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. [_going._ _oli._ where goes cesario? _vio._ after him i love, more than i love these eyes, more than my life; if i do feign, you witnesses above, punish my life, for tainting of my love! _oli._ ah me, forsaken! how am i beguiled! _vio._ who does beguile you? who does do you wrong? _oli._ hast thou forgot thyself? is it so long?- call forth the holy father. [_exeunt two servants._ _enter_ duke. _duke._ [_to_ viola.] come away. _oli._ whither, my lord?--cesario, husband, stay. _duke._ husband? _oli._ ay, husband: can he that deny? _duke._ her husband, sirrah? _vio._ no, my lord, not i. _oli._ fear not, cesario, take thy fortunes up; be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art as great as that thou fear'st. _enter_ friar _and two servants_. o, welcome, father!- father, i charge thee, by thy reverence, here to unfold (though lately we intended to keep in darkness, what occasion now reveals before 'tis ripe,) what thou dost know, hath newly past between this youth and me. _friar._ a contract of eternal bond of love, confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands, strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings; and all the ceremony seal'd in my function, by my testimony: since when, toward my grave i have travell'd but two hours. _duke._ o, thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be, when time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case? farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet, where thou and i henceforth may never meet. _vio._ my lord, i do protest,- _oli._ o, do not swear; hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear. [olivia _sends away the friar_. _enter_ sir andrew, _crying, with his head broke_. _sir and._ o, o,--for the love of heaven, a surgeon; send one presently to sir toby. _oli._ what's the matter? _sir and._ he has broke my head across, and has given sir toby a bloody coxcomb too: for the love of heaven, your help: i had rather than forty pound i were at home. _oli._ who has done this, sir andrew? _sir and._ the count's gentleman, one cesario: we took him for a coward, but he's the very devil incardinate. _duke._ my gentleman, cesario? _sir and._ od's lifelings, here he is:--you broke my head for nothing; and that that i did, i was set on to do't by sir toby. _vio._ why do you speak to me? i never hurt you: you drew your sword upon me, without cause; but i bespake you fair, and hurt you not. _sir and._ if a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me: i think, you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. _sir to._ [_without._] holla, sir andrew,--where are you? _sir and._ here comes sir toby halting, you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled your toby for you. _enter_ sir toby, _drunk, with his forehead bleeding_. _duke._ how now, gentleman? how is't with you? _sir to._ that's all one; he has hurt me, and there's the end on't.--sot, did'st see dick surgeon, sot? _sir and._ o, he's drunk, sir toby, an hour agone. _sir to._ then he's a rogue, a drunken rogue,--and i hate a drunken rogue. [_enter_ sebastian _behind_. _oli._ away with him: who hath made this havock with them? _sir and._ i'll help you, sir toby, because we'll be dress'd together. _sir to._ will you help an ass head, and a coxcomb, and a knave? a thin-faced knave, a gull! _oli._ get him to bed, and let his hurt be look'd to. [_exeunt_ sir andrew, sir toby, _and servants_. _seb._ [_advances_] i am sorry, madam, i have hurt your kinsman; but, had it been the brother of my blood, i must have done no less, with wit, and safety. [antonio, _seeing_ sebastian, _comes forward_. you throw a strange regard upon me, and by that i do perceive it hath offended you; pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows we made each other but so late ago. _duke._ one face, one voice, one habit, and two persons; a natural perspective, that is, and is not. _seb._ antonio, o my dear antonio! how have the hours rack'd and tortured me. since i have lost thee. _ant._ sebastian are you? _seb._ fear'st thou that, antonio? _ant._ how have you made division of yourself?- an apple, cleft in two, is not more twin than these two creatures. which is sebastian? _seb._ [_sees_ viola.] do i stand there? i never had a brother: i had a sister, whom the blind waves and surges have devour'd:- of charity, [_to_ viola.] what kin are you to me? what countryman? what name? what parentage? _vio._ of messaline: sebastian was my father; such a sebastian was my brother too, so went he suited to his watery tomb: if spirits can assume both form and suit, you come to fright us. _seb._ were you a woman, as the rest goes even, i should my tears let fall upon your cheek, and say--thrice welcome, drowned viola! _vio._ if nothing lets to make us happy both, but this my masculine usurp'd attire, away with doubt:--each other circumstance of place, time, fortune, doth cohere, and jump, that i am viola,--your sister viola. [_they embrace._ _seb._ [_to_ olivia.] so comes it, lady, you have been mistook. _duke._ if this be so, as yet the glass seems true, i shall have share in this most happy wreck:- boy, [_to_ viola.] thou hast said to me a thousand times, thou never should'st love woman like to me. _vio._ and all those sayings will i over-swear; and all those swearings keep as true in soul, as doth that orbed continent the fire that severs day from night. _duke._ give me thy hand; and let me see thee in thy woman's weeds. _vio._ the captain, that did bring me first on shore, hath my maid's garments: he, upon some action, is now in durance; at malvolio's suit, a gentleman, and follower of my lady's. _oli._ he shall enlarge him:--fetch malvolio hither:- and yet, alas, now i remember me, they say, poor gentleman, he's much distract. _enter_ clown, _with a letter, and_ fabian. how does malvolio, sirrah? _clo._ truly, madam, he holds belzebub at the stave's end, as well as a man in his case may do: he has here writ a letter to you: i should have given it you to-day morning; but as a madman's epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much, when they are deliver'd. _oli._ open it, and read it. _clo._ look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman: [_reads._] _by the lord, madam_,- _oli._ how now! art thou mad? _clo._ no, madam, i do but read madness. _oli._ [_to_ fabian.] read it you, sirrah. _fab._ [reads.] _by the lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it: though you have put me into darkness, and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have i the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. i have your own letter that induced me to the semblance i put on; with the which i doubt not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. think of me as you please. i leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury._ _the madly-used_ malvolio. _oli._ did he write this? _clo._ ay, madam. _duke._ this savours not much of distraction. _oli._ see him deliver'd, fabian; bring him hither. [_exit_ fabian. my lord, so please you, these things further thought on, to think me as well a sister as a wife, one day shall crown the alliance on't, so please you, here at my house. _duke._ madam, i am most apt to embrace your offer.- your master quits you; [_to_ viola.] and, for your service done him, here is my hand; you shall from this time be your master's mistress. _enter_ malvolio, _with a letter, and_ fabian. _duke._ is this the madman? _oli._ ay, my lord, this same: how now, malvolio? _mal._ madam, you have done me wrong, notorious wrong. _oli._ have i, malvolio? no. _mal._ lady, you have. pray you peruse that letter: [_gives_ olivia _the letter_. you must not now deny it is your hand;- (write from it, if you can, in hand, or phrase;)- or, say, 'tis not your seal, nor your invention. _oli._ alas, malvolio, this is not my writing; though, i confess, much like the character: but, out of question, 'tis maria's hand:- and now i do bethink me, it was she first told me, thou wast mad:- pr'ythee, be content: this practice hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee: but, when we know the grounds and authors of it, thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause. _fab._ good madam, hear me speak: i do confess, sir toby, and myself, set this device against malvolio here, upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts we had conceived against him: maria writ the letter, at sir toby's great importance; in recompense whereof, he hath married her: how with a sportful malice it was follow'd, may rather pluck on laughter than revenge; if that the injuries be justly weigh'd, that have on both sides pass'd. _oli._ alas, poor fool! how have they baffled thee! _fab._ malvolio!- _clo._ why,--_some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them_--i was one, sir, in this interlude; one sir topas, sir:--_by the lord fool, i am not mad_:--but do you remember? _madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you smile not, he's gagg'd_:--and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.--ha, ha, ha! _fab._ ha, ha, ha!- _mal._ i'll be revenged on the whole pack of you. [_exit_ malvolio. _oli._ he hath been most notoriously abused. pursue him, and entreat him to a peace. [_exit_ fabian. _duke._ he hath not told us of the captain yet; when that is known, and golden time convents, a solemn combination shall be made of our dear souls:--meantime, sweet sister, we will not part from hence--go, officers; we do discharge you of your prisoner. [_exeunt officers._ antonio, thou hast well deserved our thanks: thy kind protection of cesario's person, (although thou knew'st not then for whom thou fought'st,) merits our favour: henceforth, be forgotten all cause of anger: thou hast a noble spirit, and as sebastian's friend be ever near him.- cesario, come; for so you shall be, while you are a man; but, when in other habits you are seen, orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen. _the clown sings._ _when that i was and a little tiny boy, with hey, ho, the wind and the rain, a foolish thing was but a toy; for the rain it raineth every day._ _but when i came to man's estate, with hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 'gainst knave and thief men shut their gate; for the rain it raineth every day._ _but when i came, alas! to wive, with hey, ho, the wind and the rain, by swaggering could i never thrive; for the rain it raineth every day._ _but when i came unto my bed, with hey, ho, the wind, and the rain, with toss pots still had drunken head; for the rain it raineth every day._ _a great while ago the world begun, with hey, ho, the wind and the rain, but that's all one, our play is done, and we'll strive to please you every day._ [exeunt. the end. transcriber notes: passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. small caps were replaced with all caps. throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe". the character tags were italizied, even when before italizied text. throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. those words were retained as-is. errors and inconsistencies in punctuations and spelling were not corrected unless otherwise noted. on page 21, a comma after vio was replaced with a period. google books (oxford university) transcriber's notes: 1. page scan source: google books http://books.google.com/books?id=liagaaaaqaaj (oxford university) 2. the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. the last call. the last call. a romance. by richard dowling, author of "the mystery of killard," "the weird sisters," "sweet inisfail," etc. _in three volumes_. vol. ii. london: tinsley brothers, 8, catherine st., strand. 1884. [_all rights reserved_.] charles dickens and evans crystal palace press. the last call. * * * * * part i.--_continued_. the last call. chapter xx. when dora harrington released herself from old crawford's arms, he led her to a chair, and said: "i have no longer the shadow of a doubt that you are the daughter of my dora. it was, indeed, a lucky chance which made me in my despair last night turn my steps towards the river. and now," he added, "the next thing is to get some nice comfortable place for you. this old rookery would never suit. let us go and try if we cannot find a suitable, homely place, somewhere outside the city." "i told you, sir," said the girl timidly, "that when yesterday i found out all my money was lost in the bank, i had not a shilling to send a message to him." "to lavirotte?" "yes, sir." the old man took out a leather bag and handed it to her, saying: "this will be enough for the present. when it is all gone let me know." "but, sir," said the girl, holding the bag in her hand without opening it, "i do not want all this. a shilling will be sufficient for the present, if you will only let me go to the nearest telegraph office." "nonsense, child," he said. "you cannot be without money in london. there is more where that came from. if you wish to go immediately to the telegraph office, you may as well start now. i will meet you in an hour at ludgate circus." the young girl descended the ladders through the gloom of the tower, and opening the deep sunken door, emerged into the broad morning sunlight. she went to the telegraph office and wrote out the following message: "cannot say how sorry you are not well. could not telegraph yesterday. would go over, but have no money." when she had written out this message, she untied the string of the bag and poured the contents into her hand. she had expected to find a few shillings. she started with surprise. "gold! all gold!" she counted. "twelve pounds!" then for a moment she stood in thought, tore up the telegram she had written, and walked quickly back to the tower. here a difficulty presented itself. how was she to summon the old man from the top or from the pit? if he was above, the feeble sound of her hand beating against that door would never be heard, even at night. but now in the day, owing to the roar of traffic around, she could not make herself heard if he was in the pit beneath. what was she to do? this was the only door. under the circumstances she did not care to ask the aid of any passer-by, lest it might anger the old man. notwithstanding her conviction that the effort would be fruitless, she did knock at the massive door with her hand. there came no response. for a quarter of an hour she stood and knocked unavailingly. then she turned to go, and hastened to ludgate circus. she had taken no heed of time, and when she got to the circus she was horrified to find herself twenty minutes behind the time appointed. she glanced hastily round, but could not see the old man. then she carefully examined with her eye each of the four sections that make up the circus. she found no one she knew. the hurrying crowd and throng of vehicles 'confused her senses and her mind. the old man had not indicated to her the section in which he would meet her, and to her eyes, unaccustomed as they were to the ceaseless turmoil of traffic in the city, it seemed almost impossible to find anyone in that place. she waited half-an-hour vainly. then she began to despair. whither should she turn? that tower in porter street now seemed as inaccessible to her as the centre of the great pyramid. this dereliction of to-day was harder to bear than that of yesterday; for since her desperate resolve the previous night she had found a friend--nay, more, a close relative--who was also the friend of the man she loved, and who was willing and able to help her. had she not with her the proof of this willingness and this ability? then, as she betook herself once more in the direction of st. prisca's tower, she remembered he had said the money he gave her that morning would do for the present. she was therefore, of course, at liberty to employ the money as she chose. it was hers to use, for a grandfather had of course a perfect right to give his grand-daughter money, and the granddaughter had a perfect right to accept it. once more she found herself in the doorway of the tower. she stood a while looking up and down the busy way, when all at once, to her great joy, she saw the old man approaching. "my dear child, where have you been? i have been greatly frightened about you." she then explained to him what had occurred--how she had not noticed the time slipping by, and how, when she found herself in ludgate circus, she was twenty minutes too late. "well, there's no harm done so far," said crawford. "you sent your telegram, and now we shall go and look for a lodging." "no," she said, "i did not send it. i wrote it out and then tore it up. did you know, sir, that all the money in this bag is gold?" "yes," he said, "i keep my change loose always. did you expect to find notes?" "oh no, sir; but i thought as you were good enough to give this money you might perhaps allow me to do with it what i would most like. that is the reason i tore up my telegram." "certainly," he said. "you may do with it exactly what you please." "well then," said the girl, "will you consent to my going to ireland this evening?" the old man started for a moment. "i suppose you mean," he said, "to glengowra, to see lavirotte." she coloured, and said: "yes. if you do not object. he is ill, you know." "it is a long way for a young girl to go alone; too long i fear." "i am used to travelling," pleaded the girl, "i do not mind travelling in the least. i have travelled a great deal alone." "give me a little time to think," said the old man. "i cannot decide at the moment. this is no place to stand any longer. let us sit down somewhere. come with me." crawford led the way to a quiet room, where he ordered some light refreshment, and where they could speak without effort or restraint. they talked the matter over a little. at last he made up his mind. "i have resolved," he said, "that you should not go alone so long a journey." the girl looked disappointed; her eyes filled with tears. "oh!" she cried, "i wish you would give me leave." "nevertheless," said the old man, not heeding the interruption, "you shall go to ireland this evening. i will go with you." they were alone. she took his dark, wrinkled hand in hers and kissed it, and cried, "thank you, grandfather," and burst into tears. it was the first time the old man had been called grandfather, and the name seemed to re-awaken in his breast echoes of his old tenderness. he placed his other hand on her head, and drew her head down on his shoulder, saying softly: "weep, if it is good for your heart, my child. these are healing tears. you are, as far as i know, the one human being saved to me out of the shipwreck of my life. i will go with you to-night. he will recover speedily, you may be sure, and i will afterwards do all i can for you and him." then the detail of their journey was arranged. she was to get what things she required in lieu of those left with her landlady. he had some preparations to make too. that evening they both set out for dublin on their way to glengowra. chapter xxi. the gold and silver plate and the jewels of the great lord tuscar were the wonder and admiration of europe. sovereigns envied him for their possession. they had not been the result of one generation. the tuscars had for a couple of centuries been generals, admirals, statesmen, lawyers. they had, in fact, occupied every favourable position for earning high rewards and for wholesale plundering. they had plundered with a will. and now, in addition to fine estates in three english counties and a large slice out of "settled" ulster, and one of the finest houses in london, lord tuscar had the largest collection of plate and jewels owned by any nobleman in the three kingdoms. no one had ever attempted even to estimate the value of his treasures. his house was situated close to the river, at no great distance from st. prisca's church. those were times of troubles and dangers. great houses had been ruined and great houses made in an incredibly short space of time. men who had been at the zenith of power and riches yesterday were penniless exiles to-day, and the men who had subsisted upon the charity of foreign courts and foreign nobles a week ago, were now environed with all the circumstance and pomp of power and all the splendour of wealth. now, one of the most remarkable things in connection with the great tuscar treasure was, that for some years no one had seen more of it than the meaner exigencies of a great house required. some said the great lord had pawned it. at this most people laughed; for was it not known that, gorgeous as was the state and luxury with which he surrounded himself, his income exceeded his expenses? others said that although the time was over when monarchs playfully adopted the treasures of their nobles, the great earl had misgivings, and although one of the most favoured courtiers of the merry monarch, he had a morbid dread that his majesty might unjustly covet those precious stores. then there was an idea that as the tuscars had been enthusiastic royalists, and as the present earl was notoriously timid, he had, in dread of a second commonwealth, sent his plate and gems over seas. however the matter stood, there could be no doubt that the treasure was not now at tuscar house; and, moreover, it was alleged that only his lordship and one confidential person could tell the whereabouts of the hoard. it was towards the end of summer, and night. most of london had retired to rest. a strong wind was blowing from the east. the city was ill-lighted where it was lighted at all, and the streets dangerous after dark; so that most people who were honest and had anything to lose kept indoors. it was not a fashionable part of the city, but it was not unprosperous. as the night went on the wind increased, until about ten o'clock. then it blew fiercely. all at once in front of the shop of one, farryner, baker to the king, was raised a cry: "fire!" that was the beginning of it. in an incredibly short time, aided by the wind, farryner's house was burned out; but, before it was finally reduced to ashes, most of pudding lane was in flames. many of the houses were of wood, and offered no protest whatever against the development of the conflagration. an hour from the outbreak of the flames it was known farryner was burned out. two hours later it was known that london was in flames. now it could be seen that this was no incidental fire, to be dismissed finally at the end of the nine-days' wonder. this was a fire that would be remembered for years. three hours after midnight it was obvious that, if the wind continued in its present quarter for any great length of time, the fire would become a matter which history could never ignore. by this time a large portion of the population in the neighbourhood afflicted were afoot. now the fire leaped from street to street, as though with the agility of trained experience. now, when new material came in its way, it shot upward in spires of flame. later, these spires, bending under the pressure of the wind, made radiant viaducts for the fire across the darkened streets. and when they had done their deadly work, and the buildings opposite crackled and glowed, these huge beams of molten gold contracted as the source upon which they had fed failed them, and finally they made one wild, aspiring rush upwards when the roof fell, and the four walls of each house formed the crater of an iridescent volcano, which belched forth one huge mass of co-mingled smoke, and flame, and sparks, and flakes, and wands of fire. about this time the vast house owned by the great lord tuscar was threatened, touched, and fired. he, his suite and retinue, escaped by the river; and in a brief time, before the daylight yet broadened in the east, already red with the flames, tuscar house was beyond hope. now terror had fully seized the people. no efforts were made to save the buildings. those who could escape with their lives, and a few of the most portable of their worldly goods, were considered lucky. men and women might be seen hurrying through the streets frantically, moving west, carrying such of their possessions as could be borne a great distance. for now they had come to the conclusion that it was impossible to set a limit to the flames, and that the whole of london in a westerly direction might succumb. there had been a long, hot, dry season, and the houses burned bravely. they seemed but to need a touch from the fiery wind flying by to kindle them. despair reigned supreme. men and women went shrieking through the streets. the roar of the conflagration shook the air. the crash of falling houses made the solid ground tremble. people would not leave their homes until the flames had touched the walls, until the last ray of hope was obscured. then such as were not encumbered with children or goods flew through the streets, shrieking like demented beings. one of those most alarmed by the magnitude of the calamity and the terrors of that night was the great earl of tuscar. when he entered his barge to row up the river his feet trembled, and he could scarcely keep himself upright. he was elderly, and had been in failing health for some time. before they arrived at the stairs at westminster he complained of feeling faint; and when at last the barge ran alongside, they had to carry the great earl out, for he was dead. as the attendants were bearing the body of the great earl from his barge, a solitary man stood on the leads of the tower belonging to st. prisca's church, watching the progress of the flames. evidently he was very anxious, for his head and eyes moved continually from right to left. as each spot, which, a moment before had been black, sprang into flame, he shifted his feet restlessly like one feeling he ought to be gone, and yet daring to hope there was no need for flight. "if anything is to be saved," he said, "there is no time to lose." again he ran his eye over the increasing area of the fire. "the walls of the tower may stand," he thought. "they are much thicker than is common. but the church itself must go if the wind does not abate. the earl has already left, of course. the fire did not spare his stout walls, nor respect his greatness. he and i alone know where his treasure is hid. he will, of course, take measures to secure it after the fire. it could be nowhere safer than it is at present. no one suspects it is in the vault. people who saw the chests come believed they contained only the rescued archives of an abbey destroyed by cromwell. but let me see. supposing anything should have happened to him; supposing he was overtaken by the flames; suppose, from some cause or other, he should not be able to communicate the secret to anyone, how then could this treasure be discovered? how could it be so arranged that the secret might fall into no other hands than those entitled to know it, for may not i too perish in this terrible disaster?" he turned around, and leaving the embrasure in which he had stood, descended quickly to the room below. here a light was burning, and it could be seen that he who had watched the fire from the roof was a clergyman. "how is it to be done?" he thought, and pondered some seconds. at last he lifted a small box, and, going to some bookshelves, took out a few volumes. in two of these volumes he wrote something. "it will not do," he thought, "to make this matter so plain that anyone may understand it. if the earl is alive, by noon he will surely take some steps with regard to his treasure. if he is not alive, and i too have perished, it will be necessary some record should be left behind." he placed a copy of chaucer, in which he had written something, in the bottom of the box, then a few indifferent books, and then "mentor on hawking," in which he had written something also; then a few more indifferent books, and finally a piece of paper bearing these words: "search diligently if you would know what john henry plantagenet james, eighth earl, knew, if he be dead." on the outside of the box he fastened a piece of parchment on which he wrote: "a box of books. take this at once to the earl of tuscar, who will reward the bearer." then he locked the box, and, putting it on his shoulder, descended the ladders of st. prisca's tower. as he did so he said to himself: "i have not been too soon. the air here is already hot. i can smell the fire close by." as he was about half-way down, a sudden light in one of the openings attracted his attention. he started, and cried: "the flames have already struck the church." ere he reached the next loft it was but too plain the tower was already in flames. "my retreat cut off!" he exclaimed in despair. he looked down into the next loft. the floor and the foot of the ladder were alight, and exit was impossible. if there was any hope for him it must be upon the roof. he hastened thither. during the time he had been occupied with the books and writing, and in descending and ascending, the fire had made rapid, terrible progress. it had touched the church of st. prisca, and the smoke was already coming up the opening in the roof. it was quite plain now to the man on the leads that he was doomed. there were people in the streets below, but they were as helpless as he. "i must die," he said. "nothing can save me. there is but one chance for my preserving the secret." he approached an embrasure on the western side, and dropped the box into the street below. the box shot downward and was shattered into atoms. some paltry pilferer, a few minutes later, snatched up the books and put them into his bag. the label on the box and the manuscript-slip inside were never seen afterwards. the books were carried to kensington, whither a good deal of the salvage of the fire was brought; and the clergyman, who had tried to save the earl's secret, fell a victim to the great fire of london on the 3rd of september, 1666. chapter xxii. it was evening when lionel crawford and his grand-daughter arrived at glengowra. much of the excitement had by this time disappeared, and a tone of gentle disgust was to be observed among the inhabitants of that little town. was it not provoking, townfolk thought, that such a splendid opportunity for invective and commiseration should be wholly wasted? who could throw stones at lavirotte if young o'donnell did not? who could pity young o'donnell if he consented to receive the friendly overtures of lavirotte. the whole thing was an abominable conspiracy against comfortable living in glengowra. there was something to be grateful for, no doubt, in the first blush of that event at the cove, but it had led to nothing worthy of its parts; and a circumstance which had gone up the very largest of rockets, seemed destined to come down the most insignificant of sticks. when lionel crawford and dora harrington arrived in glengowra and went to maher's hotel, a new fillip was given to public curiosity. it was known by the speech of the grandfather and his grand-daughter that they were not of irish bringing up. there was, of course, no reason why they should be in any way connected with the great event of that week. yet, still it had been noised abroad that lavirotte had telegraphed to a miss harrington in london, and here now had arrived an old man and a young girl with unfamiliar accents. the shrewd people of glengowra made a connection between these facts, and came, in about ten minutes, to the conclusion that the young girl was miss harrington. in the back room of the confectionery hall, a man who had come out by the same train with the newly-arrived pair brought all news and surmises concerning them; and here, out of gratitude for small mercies, the company were for a time solaced by the fact that no one could offer a rational explanation of who the old man was. when crawford and dora were safely inside maher's hotel, the old man asked to be shown to a private sitting-room. "for," said he to dora, "i have been so long accustomed to the solitude of st. prisca's tower, that i cannot endure the company or curious gaze of strangers." he had no means of knowing up to this that lavirotte's illness was not a natural one, or that he and his grand-daughter were the subjects of peculiar interest to the good folk of glengowra. he rang the bell, and when the waiter came, said: "i should very much like to see the landlord, if you think he would oblige me by coming here." in a few minutes the proprietor entered the room. the old man lost no time in stating his case. he said: "we have come a long journey, and are tired. we are both deeply interested in a gentleman who is now lying ill here, mr. lavirotte, and are most anxious to know his present condition." the landlord looked from one to the other in some perplexity. "may i ask," said he, "the nature of the interest you take in mr. lavirotte?" the old man smiled, and said: "an irishman's answer." "an irishman's answer," said maher, "is often kindly meant." he glanced significantly, first at the old man, and then at the young girl. "perhaps you know," said crawford, "that mr. lavirotte telegraphed to a lady in london, in whose affairs he is interested?" "i wrote out the message myself." he paused a moment. "have i the honour of seeing miss harrington?" "this is miss harrington." "and you are, sir----?" he paused here. "her grandfather." "may i ask you, sir," said maher, "to step out with me for a moment?" "oh, sir, he is worse," cried the girl, looking appealingly at the old man. maher turned quickly upon her, saying: "i pledge you my word of honour, miss harrington, that, on the contrary, mr. lavirotte is much better; and that he has continued to improve ever since i telegraphed to you." "then," said the girl, "his illness must have been sudden." "rather sudden. if you, sir," he continued, turning to the grandfather, "will accompany me just down to the strand, i should feel greatly obliged. miss harrington will, if you approve of it, remain in this room until we come back, with my most emphatic assurance that mr. lavirotte is out of danger and getting on very well." maher did not wish the girl to meet even a chambermaid, lest the whole of the story might reach her at the one time, and give her a most painful and unnecessary shock. the substance of the conversation between the two clerks at the back of the confectionery hall had by this time become public property; and, of course, the hotel proprietor was one of the first men to hear all news. jaded as the old man was, he rose with alacrity, and accompanied maher. as soon as they were in the open air crawford turned on his companion, and said: "i am sure, sir, your intention is kindly. there is kindliness in your manner and face; but i hope you are not, through some benevolent motive, deceiving that child we have left behind." "i--deceiving her!" cried the landlord. "_i_ am not deceiving her." "i do not understand," said the old man, "what you mean by laying such emphasis on the word _i_." "i mean, sir, that although i am not deceiving her now (lavirotte is really getting better), someone else may be deceiving her." "you perplex and disturb me," said the old man. "i have no clue whatever to your meaning. pray, if you would be kind, be plain." "i take it for granted, sir, that you know mr. lavirotte." "i know mr. lavirotte, but not very well." for a moment or two the landlord was silent. his position was one of great delicacy and difficulty. he now held a profound hatred for lavirotte, and the look of that gentle, confiding young girl had touched him keenly. he pitied her. "i hope, sir," he said, "if i am bold enough to ask you a few questions, you will be so kind as not to fancy it is through curiosity." "i will do anything," said the old man, "if you will only go on." "there is a rumour here, which may be true or false, that mr. lavirotte met miss harrington in london, and that they were good friends there." "i see what you are driving at. they are engaged to be married." "precisely. you have not for some months past heard much of mr. lavirotte, have you?" "absolutely nothing, except your telegram. has he been ill all that time?" "no. he was not taken ill until a few hours before i sent that message to london." "what is the nature of his illness?" "he received an injury in a mysterious way, in a quarrel with another man, and neither he nor the other man will say anything about the quarrel, or the cause of it. but, of course, as in all cases of this kind, there is a general notion of what it was about. people say that jealousy led to it." "jealousy of miss harrington? i did not understand there was any likelihood of his being jealous of her." "nor is he, as far as rumour goes. the facts are that he attacked a young man in this place, and, after stabbing the young man, was rendered insensible himself, no one knows how." "stabbing!" exclaimed the old man with horror. "are you sure of that!" "there is no evidence he did. there is no doubt he did." "i am old," said mr. crawford, "and have lived a long time out of the ways of the world. i am slow, and do not understand. out of pity to my infirmities, be simple with me. i know something very unpleasant is coming. let me hear it at once." the two men had now reached the roadway that ran inside the storm wall. "it will rest you, sir, if we stand here and lean upon the wall. i will tell you everything i know in a few words. "the prettiest girl in this neighbourhood is a miss creagh. she is now in my house. one of the finest young fellows within twenty miles is mr. eugene o'donnell. he is now lying in my house. he is the man lavirotte stabbed. they were bosom friends. the story goes that about two months ago lavirotte made love to miss creagh and was rejected. a little later o'donnell made love, and was accepted. the wedding was to be in about a month, and to prevent it lavirotte tried to murder young o'donnell." "good god!" said the old man, "what a dreadful story, and what a scoundrel he must be! it is the most horrible thing that ever came near me in all my life." "it is very bad, sir, indeed. you will now, sir, understand why i wished to speak to you alone. shall we go back? i left orders that no one was to enter the private room, so that you can act now as you think best, and be quite certain that the young lady knows nothing of this most miserable affair. it is only right you should know that young o'donnell is also doing very well, and no fears are felt about his recovery." in perfect silence the two men walked back to the hotel. chapter xxiii. lionel crawford did not go straight to the room where dora was. he turned into the coffee-room, and there stood a while pondering. though he was a visionary, a dreamer, a philosopher, he had, before he became immersed in his present studies and pursuits, been, comparatively speaking, a man of the world. for although he had never mingled much in society, he had a tolerable knowledge of what people said and did. what would people say of such conduct as lavirotte's? they would call it abominable. what would people say of lavirotte? they would call him a scoundrel. here was a dilemma. if this strange, this unknown girl, were not to marry lavirotte but the other man, there seemed on the face of it to be no reason why he might not still marry dora. it was quite certain his grand-daughter had no hint that lavirotte's affections had strayed from her. this liking for miss creagh might have been only the errant fancy of an hour--of a day--of a week. it might turn out that the landlord had exaggerated the position of miss creagh in the matter, and that the encounter had been the result of heated blood, arising from some other cause. if things had only run on smoothly, without this wretched interruption of the fight, how satisfactory all would be. here was lavirotte, the owner of the tower, and he, the seeker for the treasure, already bound together in a kind of business contract. and here, then, as a second bond of union between the two, had come dora. his grand-daughter was to be the other's wife if things had not been disturbed. if lavirotte and he had shared the treasure equally between them, and then these two young people were married, the whole of the enormous fortune hidden under st. prisca's tower would, when he died, be theirs. it would be a thousand pities that such a match should be broken off. the most ordinary prudence pointed at the absurdity of such a step. it would be his duty to his grand-daughter, lavirotte, and himself, to take care that no such misfortune might befall. the agreement which existed between him and lavirotte had never been reduced to writing. neither of them had desired that it should. he knew that such an agreement would not be binding in law. if the finding and retaining of all the treasure was contrary to the law, no instrument embodying the disposal of all the property between him and lavirotte would hold for one moment. it would be a cruel shame if, after all his years of inquiry and anxiety, when he was working on the mere traditional rumour that a great hoard was concealed somewhere in the city, the labour of that time and the labour of his later years in the tower should all go for nothing, or next to nothing. lavirotte had been sceptical as to the existence of the treasure; had given him to understand he would not sink a penny in the speculation. if any difficulty arose between him and the owner of the tower now, that door might remain shut for a hundred years, until they were all dead, until the clue to the secret had been destroyed for ever. by some means or other this catastrophe must be avoided. it was too hideous even to think of. he must prevent it at any cost. how was he to prevent it? it was plainly his first business to see lavirotte and ascertain all he could from him. no doubt the frenchman would be more communicative to him than to others in whom he had no interest whatever. of course lavirotte would not recognise in him the grandfather of dora, but they had been acquainted some time and were partners in his secret, in his great undertaking. no doubt by this time the girl was becoming impatient for news of some kind. he would go to her first and reassure her, and then seek an interview with lavirotte. when he entered the room where dora was, she came to him eagerly and caught his hand and said: "have you seen him--is he better? what did he say?" "i have not seen dominique yet," said the old man, using the other's christian name for the first time. "oh, you are good to call him dominique. you have something to tell me." "i have nothing very new to tell you. it is quite true he is progressing most favourably, and there is no cause for alarm. this place is full of strangers, and the landlord thinks you will be most comfortable if you remain in this room a little longer until i see dominique." "you will not be long. i am so impatient to know all--to see him if i may." "i will make all the haste i can," and with these words the old man left the room. when lionel crawford entered the injured man's room the latter was prepared to see him, as word had been sent up before that crawford was coming. "it was exceedingly kind of you to come, mr. crawford," said the wounded man; "but, in the name of all that is mysterious, how did you find out i was hurt, or are you here merely by some extraordinary coincidence?" "let us not waste time now," said the old man, "with idle matters. i am in a hurry. by a mere accident, which i will explain to you later, i found out you were ill. i lost no time in coming, as, for several reasons, i was anxious to see you." "i suppose," said lavirotte, "you heard something of what has occurred since you came to this place?" "i will be candid with you," said crawford, "and tell you all i heard." when he had finished, he said: "is it true in substance?" the prostrate man admitted it was true in substance, and went on to explain: "i will tell you a little more about it than you seem to have heard, and what i am going to tell you will lessen me a good deal in your regard, for it will show you that the wind is constant compared to me. it is true i was engaged to someone in london. it is true that while i was engaged i fell in love with miss creagh. she would not have me. she accepted my dearest friend, eugene o'donnell, and in a moment of absolute madness i tried to take his life. he has forgiven me. we are friends again, and now i have only one great fear. it is that what has occurred may come to the ears of the girl i am engaged to in london, and so prejudice me in her opinion. for, you see, when i proposed to her she had a fortune of five thousand pounds, and now she has lost all that fortune in the terrible crash of vernon and son. if she heard of all this, it might make her think--in fact, it would look like it--that i made love to her when she had a fortune, and gave her up as soon as i found it swept away." "so that," said the other anxiously, "if you were up and about once more, and were free to travel, you would go to london, and, if you were in a position to do so, marry miss harrington." "that," said lavirotte eagerly, "is the only thing i could do which would atone to her in any way for my vile fickleness. it would, at the same time, prove to my dear friend, o'donnell, that i had not only abandoned all my pretensions to miss creagh, but that by marrying and going to london i had put a final barrier between myself and her, and gone into voluntary exile as a punishment for my crime. but, you see, as to marrying at present, that is completely out of the question. i was too poor before this affair, and now the whole town will turn against me, and i shall be obliged to leave the place. there will be no getting a crust for me here now." "but," said the old man, enthusiastically, "we must be very near our great fortune now. i work day and night, night and day. by day in the pit, by night on the top of the tower. i cannot be far off now. another six months and i surely must reach the chests in which the great treasure is hidden." his voice had fallen to a whisper, and the intense excitement with which he contemplated his final triumph had caused the sweat to break out upon his forehead. he grasped the counterpane convulsively. he could scarcely breathe. this was the first time for years he had spoken of the matter. it was the second time in all his life. "you shall be rich," he said. "and i shall be rich. i have tried over and over again to estimate what may be the value of that hoard, and the more i think of it the greater, i am persuaded, it must be. at first i thought two hundred thousand pounds might be the outside limit. but the more i read the more it grew, until at last i have come to the conclusion that it must be somewhere between a million and a million and a half." the excitement of the old man was intense. his eyes were fixed, his attitude and manner that of one fascinated by some glorious vision. the splendour of the image he had conjured up drew him wholly away from the present time and his surroundings. he had forgotten lavirotte, his own long journey, dora, everything but the one colossal figure of wealth triumphant gleaming before his mental vision. the wounded man shook his head sadly and slowly on his pillow. "if i am to wait, mr. crawford," said he, dreamily, "until we reach the goal at which you aim, i greatly fear i must starve. this illness will exhaust all the money i have. popular opinion will drive me from this town. i see nothing before me but ruin." the words seemed to recall the old man to the immediate circumstances of his position, but he did not clearly recover all he had said to lavirotte before. "all my money is not yet gone. does no means suggest itself to you of putting a little capital to some advantage? i don't think you can hope for much from your present occupation. without any danger to our great project i could, i think, find a few hundred pounds if they would be of any permanent use to you." "a little while ago," said lavirotte, in a melancholy tone, "i thought if i could get a few hundred pounds i should be able to put it to very profitable use. i have a voice, if this accident has not taken it away, and all my friends said that if i could devote a couple of years exclusively to its cultivation, i might succeed as a singer." "you are not yet too old," said the other, with interest. "take the money and try the experiment." "but i can have no excuse for taking from you money which i may never be able to repay." "you want no excuse," said lionel crawford, catching the injured man's hand. "why should i not help the future husband of my grandchild?" "your grandchild!" cried lavirotte, in astonishment. "who is she?" "dora harrington." chapter xxiv. this announcement of lionel crawford head an electrical effect upon dominique lavirotte. notwithstanding dr. o'malley's strict orders to the contrary, the frenchman sat bolt upright in the bed, looking ghastly in his bandages, and stared at the old man. "_you_, dora's grandfather!" he cried. his eyes starting in their sockets, and bloodless lips remaining open when he had spoken. "_you_, dora's grandfather! you are telling me a hideous lie. for what purpose are you telling me this hideous lie?" "hush!" cried the old man, alarmed lest lavirotte in his excitement should make allusion in similarly loud tones to his great secret. "you must not excite yourself. someone may hear you, and then how should we be?" lavirotte stared still, but uttered no word. the power of speech was taken from him by the nature of the statement made by the other man. had this dark-visaged ogre come here to worm the history of his perfidy to dora from him, in order to be avenged on him out of a confession from his own mouth? was this man about to add to his mental tortures a storm of intolerable abuse, or, taking advantage of his helpless state, finish the work which the night of that encounter had left undone? "you seem to misunderstand my intention altogether. i assure you all i have said and have to say is for your good, for our good, for the good of our great object." like all other men who have ever been possessed by the idea of discovering hidden treasure, all pursuits and considerations seemed of comparatively little moment compared with the thought which possessed him. like all other such men, he dreaded more than anything else the chance that his secret might become known to anyone not absolutely essential to success. lavirotte fell back, relieved and exhausted. there was no mistaking the wild earnestness of this strange-eyed enthusiast. "go on," he said faintly. "there can be nothing simpler or, i think, better, than i suggest," continued lionel crawford. "i cannot say, i do not know, how long yet it may take me to get down to where the plate and jewels lie buried. it may be a year, it may be more or less, six months at least, and not farther off than a year-and-a-half. you are, unfortunately, sceptical of the existence of any such treasure. i am as sure it is there as though i myself had buried it." "why not then use the money you speak of in employing men to dig for it under your superintendence?" asked lavirotte, peevishly. "do not talk so loud." lavirotte had, because of his weakness, spoken almost in a whisper. "do not talk such nonsense. employ men to dig, and have the whole thing town-talk in twenty-four hours! let a lot of mere day labourers within the magic spell, within touch of the thing i have brooded over and kept secretly apart from all the rest of the world for years and years! what profanation! i would rather forego all hope of ever enjoying final triumph than let the shrine of my dreams be defiled by unsympathetic hands!" the old man was once again back in dreamland, and unconscious that the present had any real existence, save that it was the roadway to the future. "but if there is any likelihood of long delay in--in finding this treasure" (lavirotte believed his visitor would come on the chests of precious articles belonging to the great lord tuscar on the same day that someone else found the philosopher's stone), "you will want all the money you have, and cannot afford to give it to me for the purpose of spending it on a speculation which may be as likely to succeed as----," he was about to say "your own," but substituted, "the search for the north pole. it seems to me that there is no earthly use in my even thinking of such a thing. i am beaten by fate, and the best thing i can do is to give in." this speech instantly recalled the old man to the subject in hand and the immediate surroundings of the case. apart from his ruling passion--the hidden gold and stones--he was simple, almost childlike. but anything which touched his darling project roused up in him a fiery spirit of intelligence no one under ordinary circumstances could anticipate. "no, no!" cried he. "you must not even think of giving in. you must make up your mind to succeed. you must succeed, not only for your own sake, but for the sake of dora as well." a faint smile came over lavirotte's face. "tell me more. tell me more. you give me hope. you make me aspire." the peevishness was fading out of lavirotte's manner and face. "it may be possible for me to redeem my character and my credit yet." "of course it is quite possible, quite easy for you to do so. there is not the least difficulty about the matter. is it a bargain?" after a little more talk it was arranged that lavirotte should take the money as an advance on his share of the great tuscar hoard. "and now," said lavirotte, "dear mr. crawford, don't you think that in this matter of making love to one girl while i was engaged to another, i deserved the very severest instead of the most merciful treatment at your hands?" "well," said the old man, "that's all past and gone now, and we all grow wiser as we grow older. it will, i suppose, be some days before you are up and about again. the landlord of this place has been very wise, and by his aid i have been able to keep all knowledge of the circumstances of your case from dora. there is no need why she should hear anything about it now, and as you are on the way to recovery, and we need not be anxious about your health, i fancy the best thing we can do is to get her away as quickly as possible from this. what do you think?" "i don't know," said lavirotte, gloomily. "you see, if she does not hear the truth now it will be like practising another deceit upon her. i shall have to act a part, and not a very creditable one." crawford became uneasy. he knew too little of dora to be able to judge how she would receive the whole story, and it seemed now to him a matter of the first importance that he should lose no possible hold of lavirotte. "you see," said he, "she will be shocked to learn that you have been hurt in an encounter, and are not ill in a natural way as she supposes. then you will have to explain almost everything, and it might be better that portion of the explanation should be postponed." lavirotte moved restlessly. "it is very difficult," he said. "i own it is very difficult. one hardly can know what to do. i want to spare her, of course, if i can; and i want to put myself right with her if i can." "then," said the old man, with a sudden gleam of intelligence in his eyes, "let mercy for her prevail. you see you have been in fault. suffer your own explanation to lie over for the present in order to spare her feelings. later on you can put yourself right with her." lavirotte sighed, and then asked, languidly: "what do you propose?" "that i should take her back with me to london at once, telling her that you are not allowed to see her in your present state of health; but that immediately on your recovery you will follow us to london, and that, in the meantime, i will take care of her." "perhaps, after all," said the injured man, "that is the best plan." now that the prospect of an immediate meeting between him and dora grew dim, he lost interest in the conversation, and the excitement of anticipation being withdrawn, the weakness of his condition asserted itself. after some more talk, it was finally agreed between the two men that lionel crawford's suggestion should be carried out. then it became the duty of the latter to inform dora of this decision. he found the girl in a state of the greatest excitement and anxiety. "oh!" she cried, "i thought you would never come. may i not see him now?" the old man took her by the hands and led her back to the seat she had risen from on his entrance. "my dear child," he said, "there is not the least cause for your anxiety about dominique's health. he is progressing most favourably. but it would be exceedingly unwise that he should see you now." "but you said i might see him. you promised i might see him!" "since i told you so i have been with him and learned more of his case. although he is most anxious to see you, he is persuaded that doing so would be injurious now. he will be all right in a few days. we have talked the whole matter over. i intend assisting him to a much better position than he now holds. i am authorised by him to make all preparations for your marriage." the young girl coloured, partly by surprise and partly by bashfulness. lionel crawford saw that these words had made an impression favourable to his views. "if we want to get him well and make him happy soon," he continued, "he and i agree that the best thing to be done is that you and i should instantly set out for london." "but it is very hard to have to go without seeing him," said the girl, confused by the new and unexpected turn affairs had taken, and elated by the assurance that the difficulties of her lover's worldly position were at an end, and that when next they met it would be to part no more. the old man saw that he had carried his point. he rose briskly, and said: "the sooner we are off the better. there is no use in our staying here an hour. being so near him when you may not see him would only add to your uncomfortableness. i will go and see at once how and when we are to get back. wait for me here." as he reached the bar, he found two young men there. one was in the employment of the railway at rathclare, the other in the post-office of that town. their backs were towards him, and they did not hear him entering the room. "maher told me," said the railway, "that an old man and a young girl have come to see lavirotte. that's the girl, no doubt, he made love to in london. maher wouldn't tell me their names; but i'll find out all about them when i get to london." "you may not find it so easy, my young man," thought lionel crawford. "i have kept a secret for years." chapter xxv. it was a sore disappointment to the town of glengowra when it found that its two interesting visitors had left, and left suddenly; having had, as far as current accounts went, no communication whatever with anyone in the place but the landlord of the hotel and lavirotte, neither of whom would give any information as to the strangers or their business. it was not, of course, until the next day that it became generally known two strangers had arrived and gone away. kempston, the fussy little magistrate, said it was a shame, a part of a scandalous plot to defeat justice, and that someone or other ought to be punished all the more severely on this account. the police became more gloomy and suspicious, and silent, and the general townsfolk, visitors included, felt that they had been robbed of an exciting item in the programme of crime. dr. o'malley was no exception to the general protest, but he took a rather different view of it. "i am told," he said to lavirotte, "that two highly mysterious and attractive strangers arrived last night. an old man, attractive, because venerable, and all that. a young girl, a seraph, a sylph, a miracle of beauty, attractive because of her loveliness. the old man has an interview with maher. the old man has an interview with you. the two slope. let us say, for argument sake, 'confound the old man, but what about the nightingale, the bride of abydos, the seraph?' here am i, dr. thomas o'malley, one of the lights of my profession, and a man who may at any time be called into consultation at the bedside of royalty, and yet i am not permitted to be fascinated. you know, lavirotte, i am not in the least curious, but who was this goddess, and why was i not permitted to see her?" lavirotte raised his hand and let it fall on the counterpane with a gesture of deprecation. "even i was not permitted to see her, o'malley." "but all those who did see her say she was adorable, divine. you arch hypocrite, you know all about her, and will not speak. at this moment there may be a telegram awaiting me at home, announcing that i have been created a baronet. how, in heaven's name, am i to get on without a lady o'malley? and once i am a baronet, a man of my appearance, parts, and position would be so assailed by ambitious and designing spinsters, that i should be compelled, in sheer self-defence, and in order to prevent myself committing bigamy, to turn my back upon the whole brood. what spite have you, lavirotte, against this dark-eyed wonder, that you would not give her a chance of becoming lady o'malley?" lavirotte affected to be languid, and said: "i really cannot give you any information, and you said i was not to talk much." "i'll take very good care you do not talk much while _i_ am present. _i_ never let anyone talk too much in my presence." "look here, o'malley," said the invalid, "i really must ask you to let me alone on this subject. i'm not equal to it just at present." "i know, my dear fellow. i won't worry you. i'm the least curious man in the world. as your medical adviser, i would recommend you, with a view to relieving your mind, to tell me all about this matter. but, as your friend, i would advise you to tell me nothing at all of it, unless you wish it all over the town in an hour." the busy little doctor left and proceeded to the room of the other patient. here he found mrs. creagh with o'donnell. she had insisted upon dividing the work of nursing with her daughter, and made the girl go home and lie down for some hours. under the circumstances of mr. o'donnell's business difficulties, his wife did not dare to leave him. she had paid a flying visit the morning after the encounter, and gone back to rathclare the following day. after the position in which her husband had been found that night, she did not dare to leave him for an hour. like a brave woman she faced all the world for his sake, and although no one blamed him for the ruin which had overtaken him, the pair were pitied universally, and pity is harder to bear than blame. the doctor found his second patient doing remarkably well; in fact, much better than could be expected. of course, mrs. and miss creagh had been cautioned, with all the others who might visit the sick room, to say nothing of the vernon disaster. "let me see," said the cheery little man; "let me see. i think you said your wedding was fixed for a month after the accident. well, if you don't want to be all right until a month, i'll have to give you some powerful medicine to keep you back. it's amazing, ma'am," he said, turning to mrs. creagh, who sat smiling pleasantly at the bedside. she was a plump, fair, good-looking woman, between fifty and sixty, with a genial, round face, and a gracious, cordial manner, which are better in a sick room than all the medicines in the pharmacop[oe]ia. "it is amazing, ma'am, how these young men will get well in spite of us doctors. we can generally manage to polish off the old people in a handsome, becoming, and professional way; but these young people are dead against us--or alive against us, what's worse. whenever, mrs. creagh, you hear of a doctor dying of a broken heart, it is _always_--mind, i say _always_--because of the stubbornness of the young people. ordinary men die of broken hearts because of love, or business, or something of that kind; but when a patient defies prussic acid, nux vomica, or aqua pura, it is all up with one of our profession." "by-the-way, o'malley," said o'donnell, "have you got a couple of hours to spare to-day?" "my dear fellow, pending the arrival of the official documents appointing me surgeon-in-ordinary to the queen, i can spare you a couple of hours." "then i'd be very much obliged to you," said o'donnell, "if you'd run into rathclare and see the old people. i am very anxious about them. i know the governor always has his hands full of business, and that my mother does not wish to be away from him, but i cannot help wondering why neither of them has come out. i am greatly afraid there must be something the matter with the governor. of course mrs. creagh or nellie writes twice a day, and we hear once a day; but i can't make out how neither of them has come here." "i'm sure your father is in excellent health," said o'malley; "but if it will relieve your mind in the slightest degree, i shall go in by the next train and come out with news." o'malley went straight to the railway station and took the first train leaving glengowra for rathclare. he of course knew, or guessed, why it was neither father nor mother came to visit the son; but under the circumstances it was best to humour eugene and see mr. and mrs. o'donnell. he found the old couple in the small library behind the dining-room. the window of this looked into the garden in the rear, and so was shielded from prying eyes. "dr. o'malley," cried the woman, rising to her feet, "have they been writing me lies? is he worse?" the old man was sitting at the table, on which lay a few open ledgers. in his hand he held a quill pen, with which he was making, tremorously, figures on a large sheet of ruled paper. at his wife's words he dropped the pen on the paper and looked up. then, hearing the noise of the pen fall, he looked down again, and cried: "confound it, i have blotted the sheet." at that moment the traditions of a lifetime of business were all upon him. he stood in the centre of the ruins of his beloved city, laid low by earthquake; the fiery heat of all his years of commercial toil were focussed on him then. he was making out _his bankrupt sheet_. the doctor replied instantly, taking no notice of what the old man had said: "on the contrary, mrs. o'donnell, i am come to tell you, thinking you would be glad to hear it by word of mouth from me, that your son is getting on infinitely better than i had ever dared to hope. you may make your mind quite easy that he will be up and about sooner than we thought at the best." the woman threw herself into a chair and burst into tears. "mary," said the husband, looking at her in perplexity as he sopped up the ink with a piece of blotting-paper, "i was so busy i did not hear. what did he say?" "he said that all is well at glengowra," said the woman, through her sobs. "he means, mary," said the old man, "that eugene is dead." she dried her eyes, ceased her sobs, and looked up. "no, james, no. he said eugene is better--getting on as well as can be expected, and that he will soon be up and about once more." the father put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, covered his face with his hands, and said in a feeble, tremulous voice: "it would be better if my boy was dead." mrs. o'donnell made a gesture of silence and caution to the doctor. then she rose and beckoned the latter to follow her out of the room. when they were in the hall she said: "the shock, the business shock, has been too much for his brain, i fear. ever since that awful night they found him in the strong-room with the revolver i am in dread if i leave him for even a minute. i must go now. god bless you for coming. good-bye. be good to my boy." that evening, when o'malley called to see lavirotte, he told him the scene he had witnessed that day in the library at o'donnell's. all at once the frenchman became strangely excited. he sat up in the bed, and cried out: "i have it, o'malley; i have it. i have done a great wrong to those people, but i think i see my way to setting it right again." "lie down, you maniac," said the doctor, pushing him softly back. "do you want to burst your bandages, or bring on fever? what do you mean?" "mean!" cried the other. "i mean to sell my last shirt rather than that eugene's father should come to ruin." "keep quiet," said the doctor. "keep quiet, or you will surely bring on delirium." "i have the means of doing it," cried lavirotte, fiercely, "and i will do it." by this time o'malley was bathing the injured man's head copiously. "if he gets delirium," thought the doctor, "it's all up with him." "i see the money," cried lavirotte, excitedly shaking his arms in the air. "half a million if it's a penny! that will clear james o'donnell, the noble, honourable james o'donnell, the father of my best, my dearest friend eugene. come here, eugene, and take it, every sovereign, every sou. it is all yours. take it, my boy; clear the old man, marry nellie, and god bless you and her, and then the devil may have me if he will only have the goodness to wait so long." "delirium," said the doctor, "has set in, and he will die." chapter xxvi. it was late that evening when o'malley left lavirotte. the doctor gave instructions that if the delirium increased he was to be called. in the case of the frenchman, two things puzzled the energetic little doctor. although unquestionably the patient was raving mad, his pulse was normal, and his skin moist. when the nurse came up to the sick room, she could find no sign whatever of delirium. lavirotte seemed as calm and collected as any judge on the bench. he asked was the doctor gone, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, said to the nurse: "bring me a pencil and some paper. i want to write a couple of short notes." "are you not afraid it would be too much for you, sir?" remonstrated the nurse. "no, no," said the other, decisively. "there is something on my mind, and i cannot sleep unless i get rid of it, so the sooner you get me what i want the better." the woman left the room, and in a few moments returned with what he required. then, on the back of a book, he wrote the two following notes: "my dear mr. crawford, "since i saw you last i have thought of a matter which makes it of vital consequence we should not lose an hour in realising your great hope. i therefore beg of you to do all you can in furtherance of the scheme. let me hear from you by return of post. the moment i am able to move i shall follow you to london. "give my dearest love to dora; say i am very sorry they would not let me see her when she was so near to me, and that to-morrow i will write her as long a letter as my strength will allow. "yours, most devotedly, "dominique lavirotte." the second was to this effect: "dear mr. o'donnell, "i am too weak to write you a long letter. i hope you will take the will for the deed. i cannot tell you how sorry i am for all that has lately occurred, and how deeply i sympathise with you in the business troubles which, because of no fault of your own, have come upon you. "you know, of course, that eugene and i are the greatest friends on earth. from news which i received to-day, and which i had little expectation of ever hearing, i have reason, good reason, to hope that within a very short time i am likely to come into possession of an enormous fortune--a fortune so large that it will make me one of the richest men in the kingdom. you are a man of business. to be precise, i expect about half a million. need i tell you what my first, my greatest pleasure, will be in this? it will be to place the whole of it absolutely at the disposal of my best friend's father, so that he may be led carefully out of the present storm into the calm waters of prosperous trade, in which his honour and his industry have already made his name a household word in ireland. "this note has run out much longer than i expected. good-night, my dear mr. o'donnell. god bless you. "dominique lavirotte." when he had finished his two letters he enclosed them in envelopes, directing the latter first. then suddenly he thought of what at first sight seemed an insuperable difficulty. how was he to address crawford's letter? if he wrote on the envelope, "st. prisca's tower, porter street," there was little doubt that in due time the letter would be returned to him through the dead-letter office. yet st. prisca's tower was the only address he knew for crawford in london. how stupid it was of him not to have asked for an address. at the time, he had thought dora or the old man should write to him first. since they had left, this idea had occurred to him, and now he felt himself hopeless of communicating it to crawford for the present. no postman would in his senses think of knocking at the massive door of that solitary tower, and if a postman, touched with lunacy, did knock with his knuckles, he would never receive a reply. he was fairly beaten. in this matter every hour was of value, of the highest value; and here he was paralysed by an unpardonable stupidity of his own. "will you ask mr. maher," he said to the nurse, "if he would be good enough to step this way? i want a word with him." when the landlord entered, lavirotte said: "mr. crawford, who was here last night, left for london without giving me his address. can you think of any means by which i might be able to find it out at once? the matter is of very great importance." the landlord looked with a keen glance at the sallow face and bandaged head of the prone foreigner. before crawford left, he had made a confidant of maher to the extent that all would yet be well between lavirotte and his grand-daughter, and he had bound maher, as an honourable man, to silence. he had, moreover, tried to persuade maher that lavirotte might not be quite so black as circumstances represented him. still the other could not help regarding lavirotte with a feeling the reverse of cordial. there could, however, be no harm, he thought, in helping lavirotte in this matter. he said: "mr. crawford came first-class." "yes." "from euston?" "from euston." "then telegraph to euston, address mr. crawford, first-class passenger irish mail, euston." the difficulty was solved, and in a few minutes lavirotte had forwarded the telegram, asking to what address he should send a letter to him in london. at the same time he posted his letter to mr. o'donnell. there was little or no chance of his receiving a reply that night, as the glengowra office would, in all likelihood, be shut before it could be forwarded there. next morning the answer came: "address letter to the cygnet hotel, porter street, e.c." lavirotte's letter to mr. o'donnell was delivered the morning after it was written. he put it aside as the work of a man not responsible for his actions; and yet, since it contained the first suggestion that it was possible his business might be saved, he felt a slight tenderness towards it, as a man, whose powers are altogether small, out of proportion to his ambition, feels a tenderness towards the one person who believes in his strength. immediately after it became generally known that vernon and son had stopped payment, mr. o'donnell had asked a few of his best friends to come and advise him as to his position. he explained to them that as far as the business in rathclare was concerned, he was perfectly solvent and capable of carrying it on, but that, as he understood the affairs of vernon and son were in a desperate and disgraceful way, and as the company was unlimited, he should be certainly ruined by the "calls." he would, he told them, be quite content to lose all the money he had invested in vernon and son, if he might only keep on the rathclare business as it was going; but that, of course, he was liable to the creditors of the bank up to the very last penny he had, and the chances were a thousand to one that, when vernon and son were completely wound up, he would find himself as poor as the poorest man in the parish. then he asked what they would recommend him to do with respect to the business. they tried to persuade him that things were sure to turn out much better than he anticipated, and they advised him to keep the business running exactly as it now was. he had adopted their advice, but his heart was no longer in his work, and he wandered about the place which he had reared from the foundation to the roof, and he looked at the trade which he had created, with a faltering step and a lack-lustre eye. the evening of the day he got lavirotte's letter was that following dr. o'malley's call. mrs. o'donnell had, in the few days between eugene's hurt and this, tried to induce the father to go out to glengowra and see their son. but he had declined, saying: "it would do neither him nor me any good. i can be of no use whatever to him now, after all my big promises to him. the boy's prospects are ruined, and, of course, for the girl's sake, that marriage must be broken off." this evening the mother felt more than ever anxious to see her son, and she made a strong appeal to the old man to take the train and run down to glengowra for an hour. "no," he said, wearily. "let me be, let me be. the very sight of the boy would be a reproach to me. he must see i was a fool to venture all my money, all my credit, with vernon and son." "don't say that, james. you know he is the best and kindest son that ever lived. besides, don't you see, as i told you before, it has all been kept from him?" "then it will be all the worse to hear him talk about his marriage and his prospects. i could not stand it, mary. i should go mad. i should let it all out to him, and kill him. my poor boy!" "well," said the mother, "come down to glengowra, and don't see him at all. he need not know you are there. come with me--just for company." the poor woman was torn between devotion to her husband and affection for her son. she durst not leave the old man alone at home, and her heart was breaking to see her only son, her only child, the infinity of her maternity. at this suggestion of his wife's, that he might go to glengowra without seeing his son, the old man looked up. "wait a moment," he said, and lifted a paper-weight off some letters of the morning. he took up lavirotte's and read it over carefully once more, then thrust it into his pocket, and said: "very well, mary. come along." he uttered these words more brightly and briskly than any he had spoken since the great crash had come upon him. when the old couple arrived at glengowra, they went straight to the hotel. the mother ascended to her son's room. the father sent his card up to lavirotte. he was requested to walk upstairs. when he entered the room lavirotte asked the woman to retire. "mr. lavirotte, i got your letter this morning, and i am extremely obliged to you for your kind words and for your offer of such enormous help. i most sincerely hope you may get your fortune; for, from all i have heard from eugene, no one in the world could deserve better. i have come especially to thank you for your kind offer; but, of course, mr. lavirotte, you know i could never accept it. i am a doomed man." "you shall, you must accept it," cried the prostrate man, energetically. "i should care no more for all the money in the world than for a handful of pebbles on the beach below. with the money in my possession, should i see my friends wanting it? besides, the sum i am to come into will be so great that even largely as you have suffered through that bank, i shall be able to spare you what you want to make good the breach, and still leave myself in absolute affluence." the manner of the frenchman was one of utter self-possession, and it confounded mr. o'donnell to find one so apparently sane talking such trash. "may i ask you," said the old man, "if it is a fair question, from what source you expect to acquire this fortune?" "i am under an oath of secrecy in the matter, and cannot tell you. but since i have been hurt, the person who is working the affair for me, or rather on our joint behalf, has paid me a visit, and assured me there is not the least prospect of failure or miscarriage, and that at the end of six, and certainly in less than eighteen months from this, i should be in possession of my share, not less than half a million sterling." the figures six and eighteen months appealed to certain possible exigencies in the mind of mr. o'donnell, and carried his mind away from the main prospect of the consideration to the details. "i suppose," he thought, "they will make the first 'calls' light, so as to get all they can out of the poorer shareholders. then they will go on increasing the sums of the 'calls' as the poorer ones drop off, and this they cannot do under a certain time. of course, i can pay the 'calls' up to a certain point, but when they reach the end of the poorer shareholders, and have to fall back on the five or six men of large means, i shall certainly be ruined. but i do not think they can reach the point at which i should be left absolutely penniless before eighteen months." lavirotte and mr. o'donnell talked on for half-an-hour in the same strain. the frenchman was careful to adhere strictly to his vow to crawford, and yet to say such things to the merchant as in the end convinced him there was at least something in the statements made by his son's friend. at last he looked at his watch, and saw there was no time to lose if they would catch the last train to rathclare. after a cordial parting with the frenchman he went down, and found his wife waiting for him. by this time both were radiant. one had firm faith in the recovery of her son, the other full assurance of the salvation of his position. chapter xxvii. mr. o'donnell got home that evening in remarkably good-humour. lavirotte had explained to him that his own hope of coming into this money had been absolutely nothing until the visit from the man who was working with him. so that here were two men who knew all about a certain chance, believing thoroughly in it. why should not he, a third, who knew absolutely nothing about the matter, accept their judgment? what a splendid thing it would be if, after all, the firm which he had created did succeed in weathering the storm! he had said nothing to his wife about the matter on his way to the station, in the train to glengowra, or from the glengowra station to his own home. he thought he would preserve the good news--by this time it had taken the substantial form of news in his mind--until they were quietly seated in his little library, where many of the projects leading to his fortune had been devised. when at last he reached that haven, he found the writing-table littered with the ledgers he had left upon it, and between the leaves of one of these ledgers was the completed rough balance-sheet he had made out. mrs. o'donnell was astonished to find her husband in such good-humour. she could in no way understand it, for he had not even seen their boy or noticed the progress towards recovery he was making. "the run has done you good, james," she said. "i told you it would. why, it has been as much to you as good news." "i should think it has," he said; "in fact, mary, i have heard the very best news while i was in glengowra. i have every reason to hope we may be able to save the business, anyway." "thank god!" cried the woman devoutly. there was a tone of incredulity in her voice. it was not easy to imagine that, after all the hideous certainties of ruin they had been facing for days, there was any prospect these certainties would melt away before doubts that might be shaped into hopes. they were now both seated in their accustomed easy-chairs. the old man caught the arms of his firmly, as though he now saw no reason why it should come under the hammer and pass away for ever from him. "yes," he said; and then he told her all that had passed between him and lavirotte, enjoining her to strict secrecy. then the wife lifted up her voice in praise of lavirotte, and thanksgiving for their great deliverance, and bargained with her husband for one thing--namely, that she should be allowed to tell the good news to nellie. "for," said the mother, "she heard the bad news, and bore it like a true-hearted woman! of course if she was only to think of him, she must have been very sorry to hear it, but when we remember it affected herself too, it must have been harder still to bear. eugene never heard the bad news. it is only now fair she should hear what lavirotte promises." it was there and then settled that the hopes aroused that evening should be made known to ellen creagh. next day mrs. o'donnell found herself under no necessity of keeping close to her husband, for he was not only not depressed and hopeless, but active, cheerful, and full of projects for the future. so she went early to glengowra, and, having taken the girl aside, told her all. nellie clasped her hands in mute stupefaction, and when she did speak at last, could say only: "mr. lavirotte! mr. lavirotte! has he really promised to do this, and do you think the thing is in his power? i never felt more bewildered in all my life." yes, it was enough to make one think one was dreaming. this lavirotte had asked her to marry him. he had said her refusal would ruin him. o'donnell had asked her to marry him, and she had consented. then this lavirotte had sought o'donnell's life. in the struggle both had been badly hurt. o'donnell had forgiven lavirotte. upon this came the absolute ruin of o'donnell's father, and the consequent ruin of his son also. by this commercial catastrophe the possibility of his marrying her was indefinitely postponed, and at the very moment when it might be supposed a man in lavirotte's position, and of his excitable temperament, would nourish hope anew of succeeding where he had failed before with her, he offered to rescue the father from ruin, and reinstate the whole family in affluence! "it is incredible," she said, after a long pause. "i cannot believe it possible." "but it is true," said eugene's mother. "believe me, my dear, it is true. my husband, after all his years and years in business, is not likely to make a mistake or be misled in such matters." "it may be true," said the girl, "but i cannot believe it." all things were now going on well with everybody. the old merchant was no longer in dread of bankruptcy. lionel crawford had got an additional hold on lavirotte. the two wounded men were progressing rapidly towards perfect health. lavirotte had forsworn his fickleness, and declared himself devoted to dora. the two men who had met in a struggle for life had shaken hands by proxy, and sworn friendship anew; and nellie and dora passed the happy days in the full assurance of the devotion of their lovers, and the speedy approach of their marriages. the time went quickly by. dr. o'malley called regularly at the hotel, and regularly reported favourably of the patients. now lavirotte wrote a few lines every day to dora, and she every day a long letter to him. and every day came nellie to sit a while with eugene, and hear his voice, and go away with strengthening consciousness that daily he grew more like his own self. once more lionel crawford was happy at his old work, excavating at the base of the old tower with increased vigour, and getting rid of the fruits of his toil with greater despatch. nothing, indeed, but good seemed to have come of that dark night's work. it is true that the police were still a little bitter over their disappointment, and that the townsfolk observed a more reserved attitude towards those connected with that affair. but if those chiefly concerned in the matter were content, the police and the people might be dismal and disagreeable if they pleased. in the town of rathclare, besides mr. and mrs. o'donnell, there was another person greatly pleased with the turn things had taken. this was mr. john cassidy, a gentleman of slight build, pale, small, impertinent, pretty face, the nose of which turned up slightly. he had an exquisitely fair moustache, an exquisitely fair imperial, and the most exquisitely made clothes a man on a hundred pounds a year could afford to wear in a provincial town in ireland. he had what he believed to be a very pretty english accent, although he never had been out of ireland. he wore a delicate yellow watch-chain purely as an ornament, for its use had no existence. he wore an eye-glass for ornament also. he had never been seen to smoke a pipe, and never much more than the tenth part of a cigar at a time. he was always scrupulously neat and consciously pretty, and spoke of the whole female sex as "poor things," as though it grieved him to the soul he could not make every woman alive absolutely happy by marrying her. he really wasn't a scamp, and had no offensive accomplishments or acquirements. he had a ravenous curiosity, particularly in love affairs. how it came to be that a man who devoted so much of his time to the courtship of others, should have himself the time to break and cast away all female hearts he encountered, no one could tell. it was the great prerogative of his genius to be able to do so. the chief source of his present amiable condition of mind was that he found himself about to start in a few days for london, and that, by way of an introduction to that vast place, he carried with him the clue to a mysterious love affair in which he was not a principal, and which he had sworn to follow up. he had sworn to his friend of the post office that he would discover what girl lavirotte was sweet on in london before he had made love to nellie creagh, and his efforts in such a case hitherto had seldom failed. he had no heart and no tact, but instead of these a wonderful power of going straight at the mark, and in a case of this kind demanding of a woman point-blank: "is it a fact that mr. lavirotte, while engaged to you, asked miss creagh to marry him? i'm interested in all subjects of this kind." mr. john cassidy had up to this been employed in the head office of the railway at rathclare, and was now about to separate himself from his dear friend, a clerk in the post office, and go to london, where something better had offered, and where he should have, he hoped, for the sake of womankind, a larger female audience to hearken to his attractions, and where, moreover, he should have a very handsome mystery of his own particular pattern to solve. chapter xxviii. the gloom of irreparable ruin had fallen on the house of vernon. the deeper its business affairs became investigated the more ghastly appeared the inevitable finish. at first people were doubtful as to whether the result of the failure would be this or that or the other, in connection with mr. vernon's social position. now it seemed there was no longer any room for speculation. bankruptcy of the worst kind would be the end. all at once a still more startling rumour got abroad. at first people whispered it only in quiet places, and only to confidential friends. then gradually a murmur arose. finally, within a month of the failure of the bank, and before yet the accounts had been fully investigated, people had been heard to say openly that william vernon ought to be made the object of a criminal prosecution and put in the dock. the panic of fear which had kept people's mouths shut, upon this suggestion, disappeared at once; and where there had been, a few hours before, but hints and faint whispers, and timid words of acquiescence, there was now a loud, clear, articulate demand for the impeachment of william vernon. there was, on the day of the bank's failure, scarcely less talk of that disaster than there was now of the passionate desire that this fraudulent speculator should suffer at the hands of the law. an evening paper hinted that steps of the kind ought to be taken at once. next morning, mr. william vernon was not to be found. he had left dublin--ireland--for some place unknown abroad--mexico it was supposed. a few days after the flight of vernon, the accountants, in whose hands the bank affairs had been placed, made a report, and upon this report was based the first call. it was not a heavy one. it ruined only a few people, and drove only one man mad. james o'donnell met this call promptly and cheerfully. it did not strain him in the least. he had put most of his savings into vernon's bank, but then he was a man of large prudence, and held a considerable reserve of ready money. indeed, after he had paid the first call he had still at command what people in moderate circumstances would consider a very large sum. when he got the acknowledgment from dublin, he showed it to his wife with a buoyant laugh, and said: "you see, mary, i am not yet quite a bankrupt. up to this i have met every engagement, this included, and, please god, i shall be able to meet all." although it had been hoped that there would have been no delay to the marriage of eugene and nellie, a variety of circumstances made it desirable that a postponement of about a month should take place. in the present posture of affairs it would have been impossible for mr. o'donnell to settle money on his son; or, indeed, to give him anything worth speaking of, beyond the salary he drew in connection with the firm. when eugene had recovered sufficient strength to bear the shock, he had been told of the misfortune which had overtaken his father in business. when he heard it he made little of it. he thought little of everything except his approaching marriage. it was nellie who broke the news to him. she had been timid, fearful, as she approached the subject. she had prepared the way by saying that all those people who were dear to him were in good health and spirits, but that a certain unpleasant thing had occurred--a very unpleasant thing--a terribly unpleasant thing of a purely business nature; in fact, his father had lost a vast sum of money--all his savings. the young man looked grave, and said he was very sorry for the poor old man; but that--as long as the business held they should be more than comfortable, and that he was sure nellie did not want riches such as would be his if this misfortune had not arisen. what exactly had happened? she told him all. he was serious, and said it was too bad--too hard on the governor, who was the best of men. in an interview later with his father, the latter told him that for the present he was not in a position to make any settlement whatever, but that if his son was contented to marry on his present salary, there would be no opposition. the son said he would be more than contented; that he had no extravagant habits or expensive tastes, and that he and nellie could manage very well on the five hundred pounds a year his father allowed him. the old man said he had felt quite sure his son would be satisfied; but what would nellie say, in the face of former promises he, the father, had made? the young man laughed a strong, joyous, wholesome laugh, and told his father that nellie would marry him on a pound a week. "for you know, sir," he said, "she is not used to luxuries. she does not want them, and she is the most sensible, as she is the best, girl in the world." then eugene's father told his son of what lavirotte had promised. "i am not surprised, father, to hear he has offered to help us. i always told you he was true as steel." at the word steel he winced, but recovered himself instantly. "people here don't like him, because they can't understand his quick southern ways. but the longer you know him the better you like him, and the more you'll trust him." when eugene spoke to nellie on the subject of his father's conversation with him, she confirmed his anticipations, and said: "you know, eugene, that five hundred pounds a year is a great deal more than a girl like me could ever reasonably have hoped for. why, it's a small fortune to one who has been a poor governess, and who never knew what it was to have even one hundred pounds a year." he took her in his arms and kissed her, and called her his own true, loyal darling, his best of girls, his wisest sweetheart, his only sweetheart. "and if the worst comes to the worst, nellie, even supposing that the lavirotte affair never turns up, you know i am young and once more strong, and if we had to go to america, love, i could hoe a field, or split rails, or conduct a car, or heave on a winch, or get a crust for the two of us somehow; and if the two of us mean, above all things, to be together, what are all other things to us compared to our being together?" she was of the same opinion, and so it was settled that at the end of the month to which the marriage had been postponed, it should take place as quietly as possible, but otherwise as though no trouble had overtaken the house of o'donnell. by this time lavirotte was established in london. lionel crawford had taken lodgings for dora in charterhouse square, and lavirotte lived in one of the streets leading from the strand towards the river. john cassidy was now regularly installed in his london situation, and had taken a genteel lodging in bloomsbury. his fellow clerks did not, as a rule, live so near the great centre of london. they had rooms in peckham, islington, kennington, and such ungenteel neighbourhoods. but no man with any pretensions to be handsome, a gentleman, and a lady-killer, could condescend to associate his name with such haunts of rabble london as peckham, islington, and kennington. up to this he had not been able to devote much time to what he was pleased to call "the lavirotte mystery." a variety of other matters claimed his most careful attention. on his arrival in london, he found that his coats, and collars, and ties, and socks, although the very best that his money would allow him to get in rathclare, were not at all the right things for a man of his antecedents in the matter of the fair sex. his clothes were, it is true, equal if not superior to those worn by the mere common, ordinary clerks with whom he was bound to associate, and whose coarse and ungenteel ways he was for a portion of the day obliged to endure. but then the clothes, which in rathclare had been those of a man of distinguished fashion, were, to his chagrin, in london no more than those proper to a mere common clerk. this was a terrible revelation to a sensitive soul. of course it could be remedied in the future; but how terribly the fact reflected upon the past, and fancy the figure he should have made in rathclare if he, when there, had only known as much as he did now. imagine how ladies would have stared and admired if he had but appeared in a costume such as he was now hastening to assume. dainty shoes, clocked socks, trousers that fitted the limb as the daintiest of gloves fit the hands of the daintiest of duchesses, coat and waistcoat which could only be put on before meals and when the lungs were empty, collars and scarfs designed by royal academicians and tenderly executed by tradespeople who might, if they would, have written sartorial epics; such were the splendours now preparing for his exquisite person. apart from the cares born of his tailor and outfitter, certain other little matters had to be arranged about his room. a japanese letter-rack had to be purchased and hung up for the reception of his prospective love-letters. open work, china dishes of elegant hues, although of cheap manufacture, had to be obtained and set forth for the reception of rose-leaves, photographs, and cards. the portraits of celebrated beauties had to be hung up, so that, should an acquaintance drop into his room, he might have an opportunity of showing his visitor the counterpart of his dearest friends. his fellow-clerks were coarse enough to consider him a humbug. his superiors at the office did not know whether he was an ass or not; but the clerks and the superiors agreed that he had two priceless virtues--he could tot all day long without making an error, and there was not a spot of extraneous ink on any folio of his books. by this time lavirotte was thoroughly restored to health. daily he paid a visit to dora. the course of their true love was running with idyllic smoothness. no suitor could be more tender, enthusiastic, constant-minded than he. dora's life was one long daydream. her former solitary life in london now seemed to her like a dreary unreality, forced upon her imagination merely that her present life might stand out in glory against so gray and sad a background. since lavirotte left london of old, the place had grown dull and dismal around her. now the whole city was bright and joyous once again. instead of being a vast chasm filled with unfamiliar things and unfriendly forms, and dark with her inner solitude, the buildings now were full of vital beauty, and the people of courteous friendliness. although she looked forward with pleasant anticipations to the time when she would not be even temporarily separated from dominique, she could not persuade herself that the future would be more happy than the present. she seemed to want nothing now beyond just a little more of his society. meanwhile lavirotte had availed himself of lionel crawford's offer and taken the money, and was getting lessons. but, in addition to these, he was now busy in another way. the idea of the treasure mastered him as completely as it had the old man. he seemed to take but a second-rate interest in his own affairs, and every hour he could spare from the lessons and dora was devoted to helping crawford in his work at st. prisca's tower. he had said to crawford: "there is no knowing when these poor o'donnells will want the money. you said we should have it in six to eighteen months. we must have it sooner, much sooner, as soon as ever we possibly can." and so he bent himself to the work as he did to any other work he took in hand--wholly, passionately, fiercely. the old man said he would kill himself. he swore he did not care so long as he might succeed. now that he had entered fully into the scheme of crawford, and was actively helping him, he, too, felt the wild pleasure of the search; the inexorable determination of not sharing the secret with anyone. no; it was their secret, and they two, unassisted by anyone who might betray them, should alone reach the golden goal. so absorbed was he in the work at the tower that he could think of little else, and felt rather put out when one morning he received a letter from eugene o'donnell, saying that he and nellie were to be married on wednesday next week, and asking him to come over a day or two beforehand, as became a best man. about this time mr. john cassidy found himself arrayed according to his taste, with his room in order for the reception of anyone he might care to ask in, and with his hands free to follow up the lavirotte mystery. chapter xxix. nothing could have been quieter than the marriage at rathclare. there was no display of any kind, no wedding-breakfast, no rejoicings. the men employed by mr. o'donnell had proposed subscribing and giving the bride a present, until they were told that anything of the kind would be inopportune. the presents which private friends sent were, out of respect to the few people who called, set forth in the dining-room. but, upon the whole, neither before nor after the marriage, was there anything connected with it which could give the people of rathclare the least pretence for uncharitableness. the bride and bridegroom drove away from the house early in the afternoon, with the intention of spending a short time on the continent, and then returning to rathclare. when they had gone, not more than half-a-dozen guests remained at o'donnell's. among these was lavirotte, who had promised to stay with the old folk that night. there was a very quiet dinner, and before one o'clock the old man and lavirotte found themselves alone in the dining-room. "i have been waiting for this opportunity, sir," said the frenchman, "when we should be quiet and alone, with no chance of interruption, in order that i might speak to you about the matter which is nearest my heart." the old man looked at lavirotte gratefully, and said: "you are alluding to the property you spoke to me of?" "yes," said lavirotte. "i am still in no position to talk freely of the matter; but this much i can tell you, that since i saw you last i have made it my business to ascertain as closely as possible our chances of success." "and they are?" said o'donnell, leaning forward and looking at his guest eagerly. "excellent, most excellent. nothing could be better. ever since i left glengowra i have devoted all my time to their furtherance, and i have come to the conclusion that, although i cannot now say with certainty the exact amount, no more than a few months need pass before you shall be in command of any sum of money you may require." "thank god!" cried the old man, throwing himself back in his chair, clasping his hands, and looking upwards. "you do not know what a blessed relief your words are to me; for no longer ago than this morning i had news from dublin to the effect that there is to be another and an immediate call, and that this will be at least double the former one." "how soon is this likely to come upon you? how soon shall you want the money for this call?" "within a few weeks. what distresses me most of all is other news which accompanies what i have already told you, to the effect that although the first demand had been very freely met, the general impression, the conviction, was that the second demand would be met by very few indeed in full, and that all of those who met it in part, and many of those who met it in full, would be absolutely ruined." "i do not exactly know the full meaning of what you tell me," said lavirotte. "will you explain?" "nothing is simpler. let us say a man held one one-hundred pound share. when the bank stopped, having lost all its capital and a vast quantity of the money lent to it and deposited in it, this man's hundred pounds was then not only gone, but the rest of his fortune also (the bank being unlimited) if the whole of his fortune was necessary to pay the last penny to the lenders and depositors." "that's very hard," said lavirotte. "very hard--cruel. now, the first call, let us say of fifty pounds, means that the man who held the one-hundred pound share is called upon to pay fifty pounds towards indemnifying the depositors and lenders." "so that if the man pays the fifty he loses a hundred and fifty?" "exactly. now, if the second call is double the first, he will, when he has paid that----" "he will have lost two hundred and fifty pounds on his original hundred pound speculation." "quite so. you see that. let us say nine out of ten can pay the fifty pounds, but not more than six out of ten can pay the hundred. now, my correspondent in dublin gives me to understand that nothing like six out of ten will be able to meet the second call, and that, in fact, the solvent shareholders after the second call will be only rich men; so that there will be no need for proceeding further gradually, and, in all likelihood, the third call will be for a very large sum indeed per share, two hundred and fifty, five hundred, or a thousand pounds perhaps." "mr. o'donnell, you will not consider me impertinent if i ask you, in strict confidence, whether you think you will be able to pay this second call?" "yes, i think i shall be able to pay the second call, but as far as i can see it will drain me to the utmost. my credit is now, of course, gone, and i am obliged to pay cash, so that after paying the hundred pound call i shall have barely sufficient capital to keep the business going. the business consists, of course, of the good-will, the plant, the stock, and the debts. all this put together would not go nearly meeting a third call of any such magnitude as i have spoken of." "and the result of that would be to you?" "that i should be a bankrupt and a pauper." "well," said lavirotte, going over and taking the old man by the hand, "meet the second at all hazards." he drew himself up then to his full height, raised his right hand to heaven, saying: "and i swear to you, mr. o'donnell, that i will answer for the third." the merchant rose from his chair and took his hand. "there is no use in attempting to thank a man for a service such as you promise. i will not try to say anything; i could not if i would." "be seated, sir, i beg you, be seated. think no more of the matter. rely on me. leave the rest to me. and now that we have settled the matter" (both men had sat down) "i wish you to answer me a question which affects a friend of mine, and is connected with vernon's bank. my friend is a minor. her affairs were in the hands of trustees. her trustees--or, i believe, trustee, more accurately--invested the money in vernon's bank, shares i presume. now, my friend has heard nothing from the bank about these calls. how is that?" "she has nothing to do with the matter. she has lost all her money." "yes; but what about the calls?" "the trustee has to pay those." "out of his own pocket?" "yes, out of his own pocket." "supposing him to be an honest man, and that he did everything for the best?" "supposing him to be an honest man, and that he did everything for the best." "what an infamous injustice! what an infamous injustice to a well-meaning, honest man!" "an infamous injustice you may say, supposing the man to be honest. he gets your friend's money on trust to invest. here is a highly respectable banking firm which will pay him, according to the market value of its shares, six or seven per cent. he is anxious his ward should have the most interest he can safely get for her money. he invests, and is ruined." lavirotte started to his feet, threw his arms above his head wildly, and, walking up and down the room, excitedly cried: "by heavens, mr. o'donnell, he shall not be ruined, i will see that he shall not be ruined. he did me a bad turn once, or rather he refused to do me a good one when he could; but i shall protect him against this execrable injustice, this infamous law." mr. o'donnell did not feel himself justified in asking any questions, and there was no further conversation of any interest that night. next morning lavirotte set off for london, arrived in due time, called upon dora first, and related to her all the interesting particulars of the marriage. she had but a reflected interest in the bride and bridegroom, and, therefore, the subject was soon exhausted. before this he had, of course, told her of the large fortune into which he hoped to come soon. they had, upon one or two occasions, talked over the loss of her money; but he had always tossed the matter to the winds as of no consequence when confronted with the mighty results he was expecting. now he had a matter of another kind to speak about. he asked her pointedly, elaborately, how upon the whole kempston had behaved towards her. she said that no one could have been more kind and considerate, and that the only occasion upon which she had any reason to complain of him, was when he refused to let lavirotte have the money or her to marry him. then lavirotte informed her that not only was her money swallowed up in the vernon whirlpool, but that kempston, her trustee, would inevitably be ruined owing to his connection with her and it. the girl was horrified. then lavirotte told her that he had sworn this man should not be ruined, and that he meant to keep his oath. she clung to him and kissed him, and praised him with all the dearest words of her heart, for his noble, his sublime generosity, and after some time he left her to see crawford. he found the old man more busy, more energetic, more enthusiastic, more hopeful than ever. lavirotte told him that since he had seen him last additional reason had arisen for haste. he did not go into detail. he merely said that business called him hence for a few hours; but that on his return he would throw into the work twice the energy he had previously displayed. "then," said the old man, "you are digging at once to find a treasure and a grave." "but in what a glorious cause!" cried lavirotte, in an excited voice. "the cause of honour, of justice, of reparation. when i have secured my dear friends from the disaster which now threatens them, and when i have paid back the prudent parsimony of this attorney a thousandfold, why should i not die! i shall never do a better thing in all my life, and when a man has done his best he ought to go, lest, peradventure, he live to do his worst, and die in doing it." "and dora?" the look of exaltation faded from the face of lavirotte. "and dora, my darling dora! my own sweet, trusting girl!" he cried, tenderly. "i do not understand myself; i am two beings; i have two natures. to myself i would be merciless to gain this final glory of assuaging the wrong i have done my friends, and in act forgiving the injury this man kempston has done to me. but dora! dora! then something else comes in, my other self, my weaker self, my better self, perhaps. any weakness is better than the tyranny of glory, than the lust of applause." he was silent for a while. the old man had listened to him without a word. "now, i must go and see that attorney, and show him that i am not the interested adventurer he took me for, and that if a little time ago i was willing to borrow a few paltry pounds, which in a year or two should in any case be my own, i am now willing to throw down thousands for him who never did me personally a service, simply because he was kind and good to the woman whom i love." lavirotte left the tower. chapter xxx. after the marriage and the going back of lavirotte to london, all things went on regularly in their old course. before the return of the bride and bridegroom from their continental tour, mr. o'donnell paid the second call. he had done so with extreme difficulty. it had taken every penny he could lay his hand upon; and, indeed, the way in which he was obliged to draw in money from those who owed it to him threatened to be of serious injury to his business. still he fought on bravely. the heart of the old man was stirred within him. his dogged nature was aroused to activity such as it had never known, even in his younger days. james o'donnell was at bay, and he would show the world what james o'donnell could do when his case seemed desperate. day and night he worked. his energy appeared inextinguishable. his resources seemed to increase with the demands upon them. his vision was clear, his judgment infallible, his instincts true, his premonitions verified. rathclare stood still and watched this miracle of new-born strength in the old man. people knew well enough that he had called in his last farthing, and that now, outside the four walls of his business place, he had not a hundred pounds in the world, beyond the book debts, which to claim hastily would be finally to destroy the business. when his son came back from abroad, he was more amazed than anyone else. the slow, plodding manner of late years had completely disappeared from his father, and instead he encountered the indomitable energy, the insatiable thirst for activity, and a judgment clearer and sounder than he had ever found in any other man. the newly-married couple took a small house in glengowra. every day eugene went in to business, and every day returned to glengowra in time for dinner. while eugene was away his father had written to him, saying he had paid the second call, and that, with the help of lavirotte, he would be able to pay the third, which would, he assumed, be the last. in dublin the opinion was that the third call would certainly be the last. the determination was to wind the whole thing up with the greatest possible despatch, and hide its infamy away for ever. it was possible for accountants, who had charge of the affair, to go over the share book, and place opposite every name, which had hitherto proved solvent, a very close approximation of the resources at the disposal of each; and it gradually oozed out that there would be no use in having a call of anything less than five hundred pounds, for if they had two hundred and fifty now, and another two hundred and fifty later on, they would simply have the same names recurring, since the men who could meet the two hundred and fifty could meet the five. in rathclare, at last, people began to believe that someone must have promised to sustain o'donnell at the final moment, for all agreed that unless the old man had lost his reason, there could be now no doubt he was certain to tide over the affair. he had made arrangements one, two, three years in advance. he was in treaty for purchasing adjoining buildings with a view to incorporating them in his vast store. he had ordered new lighters to be laid down for him in the dockyard. up to this he had always refused the mayoralty of the town, although he had for many years been a member of the corporation. now he allowed himself to be put forward as a candidate for next year. no bankrupt could be mayor. from first to last he had never once sought any communication with the vernons. now he seemed to think his old friend not so great a criminal as at one time he appeared. although he could not entirely forgive him, he spoke less harshly of him than of old, and was heard even to say once: "poor devil, how do we know how he was dragged into it?" meanwhile, lionel crawford and dominique lavirotte wrought with the energy of desperate men in the basement of st. prisca's tower. by day they dug and delved, lavirotte, being younger, carrying the fruit of their labour to the top of the tower. the slow and cautious mode of procedure adopted by the old man was too tedious for the fiery-hearted frenchman. "i'll risk the lofts," cried lavirotte, "if i were to perish beneath them. you may stick to your old plan if you like, but it is too slow for me. it would kill me. it would drive me mad, when i think of my friends over there, when i think of the approaching ruin which we may avert." mr. kempston was a bachelor, easy-going and somewhat indolent, when the first news reached him that vernon and son had closed their doors. hour after hour, and day after day, brought him nothing but a tedious aggravation of the worst reports, and gradually it dawned upon him that now, when he was no longer young, he was a ruined man. harrington, the father of dora, and he had been friends in youth. hence his trusteeship to the will. hence his guardianship of dora. he had always been a man of excellent business capacity; but outside his business he was inclined to be lazy, self-indulgent, extravagant. when younger, he was greatly devoted to what is called fun. now he liked rich living, good company, good clubs, and, if the truth might be told, a great deal more rather high whist than was good for his pocket. he paid the first "call" of the vernon bank with a groan. "when i have paid the second," he said, "i shall still have my profession--that is," he said bitterly, "if they don't make a bankrupt of me." then lavirotte came with his amazing promise of indemnity, and his still more amazing forgiveness. the elderly attorney groaned, smiled, shook his head, swore, thanked lavirotte profusely, said he'd take the help if it came, grasped lavirotte by the hand, swore again, gave lavirotte an excellent luncheon at his club, shook hands and said good-bye to lavirotte, and then swore mutely the whole way from his club back to his office. when the time for paying the second instalment arrived, he paid it without a murmur, and then swore no more. he had nothing to swear by. day by day lionel crawford and dominique lavirotte tore at the earth and clay and stones at the base of st. prisca's tower. day by day they grew nearer and nearer to the goal. crawford had told lavirotte what that goal would be like. he knew every stone of that tower from his old readings. they were to keep now to the centre, as near as possible, driving the pick down as far as ever they could. "if it meets anything hard," said the old man, "strike again with the pick a few inches all round, and if it meets anything hard all round, that's it--that's the conical roof of the vault. in that vault the chests have now lain buried more than two hundred years." at last, the accountants who had charge of the affairs of vernon and son issued the last call. it was for five hundred pounds per share. eugene wrote to lavirotte, and asked him, for god's sake, to be quick. lavirotte scarcely ate or slept. for days now he did not go near dora, even. he was wasted, haggard, thin. he had long ago given up living at his rooms off the strand. he and lionel crawford spent all their time now in the tower. once in two or three days he went to his lodgings to see if there were letters. the morning he went and found eugene's there he felt faint, and he had no sooner sat down in a chair than the fact that he had at last worn out all his energies came upon him. if death threatened him there he could not have arisen. for two nights he had not slept, and he had eaten little for the two days. the lofts had already shown unmistakable signs of impatience at the weight they bore. any moment they might come crushing down upon the two workers, burying crawford and himself and the stupendous treasure for ever, since outside that tower no living being knew what they sought. the sight of eugene's letter, and the sense that not only were his labours not completed, but that they must be redoubled, overcame him. he called for wine. they brought him some. he drank a little, and felt stronger. he thought if he drank a little more he might be able to get back to the tower before his drowsiness overcame him. he drank a little more wine, and, before he found himself sufficiently invigorated to move, he fell asleep in the chair. he did not awake for some hours. then he felt refreshed and stronger. "it was a shame for me," he said, "to fall asleep, but the sleep has done me good. now to work once more." he drove to within a hundred yards of st. prisca's tower, and there alighted. he walked up to the massive oak door, opened it with his key, and entered the tower. the darkness was cimmerian. he could see absolutely nothing. "crawford must be aloft." he looked down. his eye detected something unusual below. in the middle of the impenetrable gloom there was what seemed to him a phosphorescent glow, covering about two square feet of the bottom of the pit. the lantern by which they worked was not to be seen. what could this glow of light be? the lantern, when below, looked like a distinct yellow patch surrounded by circles of light, decreasing in brightness as they receded from the lantern. but the light below was perfectly equal. it was not more intense at the centre than at the edges, and, contrary to the case of the lantern, there was no dark patch in the centre. lavirotte descended the ladder in uneasy amazement, and approached the glowing space. it was not until within a few feet of it he discovered what it was. a hole! at the bottom, twelve feet below, an uneven floor. through the hole dangled a rope. on the floor below, the lantern by which crawford and he worked. close to the lamp, the prostrate form of a man. lavirotte seized the rope and descended. this was the vault in which they had hidden the treasure, unmistakably. he stooped and raised the lantern, casting the light slowly all round him, so that when he had finished his inspection nothing that was in that vault could be unknown to him. then he knelt down beside the prostrate form of the man, and turned the face upward. lionel crawford! there was no other way of getting out of that vault but by climbing up that rope. he tried to climb that rope and failed. his strength was gone. he sat down on the floor of the vault, and covered his face with his hands. with the exception of himself, the lantern, and the corpse of lionel crawford, the vault was empty! part ii. chapter i. for a while lavirotte sat on the floor of that vault, immovable. he was confounded, stunned. he found himself confronted by three terrible facts. there was no treasure here. here was the dead body of lionel crawford. here was he himself entombed. when he closed the door of the tower, he locked it on the inside, and put the key in his pocket. how was anyone to find out he was here? lionel crawford had told him that during all the months and months he had lived in that place no one, to his knowledge, had ever rapped at the door. was it likely anyone would rap now? and, if anyone did, what use would the rapping be? from the top of the vault to the threshold of the door was at least twenty feet; and he was twelve feet below the top of the vault. and all day long, around and about the base of st. prisca's tower the heavy traffic of one of the great waterside streets groaned and screeched and murmured, continually pierced by the shouts and oaths of men, until such a dull, dead, loud tumult reared itself against the walls of the tower that no single human voice could by any possibility be, in the daytime, heard without from where he now sat. by night things would not improve. if he happened to be on a level with the door leading from the tower into the lane, he could, no doubt, hear the footfall of the infrequent policeman. but here, thirty feet down, and with the concave shield of the vault between him and the doorway, and the massive door between him and the lane, it would be insanity to expect he could hear so slight a sound. there, it is true, dangled the rope through the hole. he could read the last chapter in the life of lionel crawford by the aid of that rope. would someone else, years, ay perhaps a century hence, be able to read the last chapter of his life by the aid of what would then remain of that rope? he saw how it had been with the dead old man. during his (lavirotte's) absence, crawford's pickaxe had struck upon the roof of the vault. crawford then felt that the labours of his life were at an end. while he (lavirotte) was sleeping, the old man must have worked like a giant. they had found the floor above the vault a few days ago. now, here was hard against the steel pick the very stone that kept the treasure from the old man's eyes. he could see crawford stoop in the dim light of the lantern, lean over his pick, grovel under his shovel, panting, praying, sweating, until a large space of the stonework of the roof had been cleared. then he could see the ardent, eager, tremulous haste of the old man as, bit by bit, he picked out the mortar from between the stones, until at last he had freed one stone, and succeeded in getting it out of the bed in which it had lain for centuries. to enlarge the orifice was a matter of no great labour or time. he simply put his arm through the hole, and swung a sledgehammer against the roof-stones until he had loosed them. then he removed them one by one, making the opening big enough to allow him to descend. when all was ready for going down he went up to one of the lofts and fetched a rope, tied one end of this rope to the foot of the ladder that dipped into the pit, or to several of the larger stones, or to the handles of one of the baskets filled with earth--to something which would more than counterpoise his weight. then, taking the lantern with him, and the hopes of years and the certainty of success, he had lowered himself into that blind void, in the full belief that within a minute from the time he began the descent he would be in possession of one of the largest treasures ever discovered by man on earth. he had slid down that rope. he had in all likelihood done as he (lavirotte) had done--swung the lantern hither and thither, round and round, until he had found out that the vault was empty, the treasure had been carried away, or had never been deposited there at all. then the shock had, no doubt, been too much for the overwrought nature, and the broken spirit of lionel crawford had fled. there was no reason to suppose that any vapours of the place had killed him, for while he died the light in the lantern lived. man has taken the wolf and made a servant of him. man has taken the fox and made a servant of him. he has called the two when fused, the dog. man has taken the heat of the sun and the blaze of the volcano, and has called the two when fused, fire. they are both his especial slaves. they are both his especial prerogatives. the dog is his creature. fire is his creature. neither exists without him. either will die where he cannot live. the light of the lantern had outlived crawford, which showed that he had not died of any exhaled or infiltrated poisonous gas. shock or exhaustion had killed the old man. what was to kill him, lavirotte? hunger? he shuddered and looked around. how horrible the thought of dying of hunger; there, within thirty feet of one of the great ways that, from early to late, was crammed and choked with all kinds of simple or rich or rare or exquisite food, endlessly moving westward for the sustentation of the great city. to die of hunger there, when the freight of one huge van now lumbering by would preserve a whole regiment from starving for a week, would give him enough food for years. to die of hunger there within five hundred yards of five thousand people, not the humblest of whom would refuse to share with him his crust, if that humblest of the upper earth but knew how dire his extremity. to die of hunger there, with money in his pocket, when, within a stone's throw of the door of that tower, there were ten places whose only business was to supply food, not to those who were absolutely hungry in the sense of their approaching death through hunger, but to those who were hungry in the ordinary trivial routine of the day. it seemed horrible. he took down his hands from before his eyes, and looked with horror around him. to be alone without any chance of delivery and in danger of death is bad, seemingly almost the worst condition in which a man could find himself; but to be alone, beyond succour, threatened by death, and in the presence of the already dead, is ten thousand times more appalling. in the former case we know to a certainty, we are assured beyond doubt that we shall die, but the realisation of death is unfixed and' shadowy. we have, ever since we can remember, known we should die. we have seen death, touched death, kissed the dear dead, seen the dead put finally away in the cold envicinage of earth. but few have sat looking at the dead, waiting for death. here to lavirotte death was approaching. there to lavirotte was an exemplar of the dead. as that was, he should be. the whole blue vault of heaven should vanish. the whole sweet plains and dales and hills of earth should be to him no more. no more to him than to _that_ lying there now before him. hope and love and joy and friendship, and the sweet commune with the great body of sympathetic man, where experience had first developed, expectancy had first arisen, and vague and splendid imaginings had had their hint and form, should all, all evanesce. here, upon what was to have been the completion of their joint great work, was to be no reward, but their joint death. of old he had smiled at crawford's enthusiastic belief in this buried treasure. then he had come to share crawford's beliefs and hopes. now he had come to share crawford's despair and grave. out of that vault there was no chance he should ever go alive. the friends whom he had striven to serve would believe him to have been a foolish braggart or a vicious liar. the girl whom he was to wed would know no more of his fate than though a whirlwind had plucked him up and cast him, unseen by man, into the middle of the sea. there would be no record of him when all was over, until, perhaps, a century hence reference would be made somewhere to his bones. it was hotter here than above-ground, much hotter. to die of hunger was, he had always heard, one of the most painful of deaths. yet here was he caged in by all adversity, destined to end his life for want of such things as no man above-ground need die for lack of, since, when all man's individual enterprise was marred or put away, the state stepped forth and said he shall not die for need of mere bread. it was much hotter here than in the cool broad streets, fenced with places where one could get wholesome food, and get that wholesome food--cheap. the sky was above those streets. he had seen the sky as he drove along the strand and fleet street to-day. the sky was blue, and to wave one's arms upwards towards it was to feel refreshed and cool. cool--cool--cool. it was getting hotter. as he had come along the strand that evening he had thought he would stop the cab at one of those many, many shops that hedged the way, and get a drink of something deliciously cool and bitter to take away the thirst which that wine had put upon him. but then he was so eager to reach the tower, he had forborne. now he was sorry. he had had only two glasses of that wine, and two such small glasses were very little good to quench thirst when one was thirsty. how much better it would have been for him to have taken a whole pint of milk, or cold, clear, sparkling water. if he had had either of these---the place was getting hotter and hotter. he looked at the candle in the lantern. it was burning low. in an hour he should be in the dark. what a pity he had not bought a lemon for a penny. how strange seemed the difference between a penny here and a penny in the strand or fleet street a little while ago. he had gold and silver in his pocket, and although he thought to himself as he drove along, "why should i give a penny for a lemon, when i know as soon as i get to the tower i shall be able to have as much water as i desire for nothing?" now he was in the tower, and he knew that on one of the lofts above was water more than any man could drink in many days, and yet he would have given all the silver he had in his pocket for one pint. the heat seemed to increase. he stood up. his limbs were scarcely strong enough to support him. his strength had left him wholly. he looked up at the opening over his head. he clutched the rope. he pushed his arms up as far as they would reach, then raised his feet from the ground. the hands would not support the body. the rope slipped through them. he fell awkwardly upon the hard floor of the vault. a subtle dust rose from the floor. it filled his eyes, his nose, his mouth. he rose into a kneeling posture. he pressed his eyelids down with his fingers. he blew the dust from his nose. he thrust out his dry parched tongue, and sought to clear it of the dust with the back of his hand. but his hand, too, was dusty, dry. oh, if he might have but one wineglassful of the water in the loft above! just one wineglassful to clear his mouth of the hideous dryness, and the still more hideous dust of two hundred years. just so much water as would suffice to lave the parched portions of his mouth, and carry away the foul savour. he had heard that to die of hunger was painful. he had heard that to die of thirst was madness. was he to die of thirst? chapter ii. thirst! it was an awful death, one of the worst that could befall man. he had read of it, heard of it both aboard ship and on the solid land. he had read how in china they kept malefactors seven or eight days without food or drink, until at last, having become already mad, they died. but in china or the broad plains of the pacific, to die of thirst was intelligible, tolerable. in china, a man must have done something more or less criminal, according to the notions of the people there; and at sea, one, when first launched without water, might live for a while upon the hope of a sail. but here was he now, absolutely innocent from a criminal point of view, doomed, beyond the hope of any sail, to final extinction by one of the cruellest of deaths. the candle in the lantern would not burn much longer. it would hold out for an hour or so, let him say. he had read that men can live seven or eight days without sleep, seven or eight days without food, seven or eight days without water. if in a warm climate a man had water alone, he might live for thirty days without food. but, supposing he had neither water nor food, there was little or no chance of his surviving the ninth day. what to him, in his present position, was the value of nine days, nine weeks, nine months; nine years? it was more than probable that since the great fire, more than two hundred years ago, no one had ever stood in the vault where he sat now. what likelihood was there that for two hundred years to come his peace would be disturbed by anybody, once his death-struggle was over? as he sat there he could see the clothes of the dead man tremble, owing to the vibration of the air caused by the enormous traffic going on overhead. but all the strong life above-ground was now as remote from him, as little allied to help he might expect, as the faintest cloud darkening in the east. yes, darkening in the east, for now he knew by the sounds around him--the sounds whose volume thinned while its pitch increased--that evening was coming on, and that soon upon the evening would come the night. when it was dead of night, and there was no longer any chance of feeling the touch of man through the vibration of the din, what should he do? nothing. whatever might come or go he could do nothing. he was powerless to climb that rope. the excitement which had sustained him at fever pitch for many days was now gone finally. he could no longer hope, not only to save his friends from financial ruin and realise a handsome fortune, but he could no longer hope to do more than drag on the most miserable of existences hour by hour, under conditions the meanest pauper would refuse to accept. here was he doomed to death, as surely as the condemned man in the condemned cell is doomed to death. in a certain number of days, in a certain number of hours, he must die, as inevitably as the sun must rise and set upon the broad, fair world above him. he had hoped greatly, and laboured greatly, and lost all--all--all. he put his hand in his pocket and felt his knife. would it not be best to die while he had the companionship of the light, the companionship of the spectacle of the dead? to all intents and purposes he was as dead as though he had been blown from the muzzle of a gun. morally, there could be no harm in his anticipating by a few hours, a few days of dreary pain, the fate which was inevitably before him. morally, he did not shrink from the knife. but in him was strong the brute instinct, the love of life for life's sake, for the infinite potentialities of hope that lie hidden in the last ragged remnant of existence. it would, perhaps, be better after all to wait until the lantern burnt out, and he was alone with silence and the dead. then he should possibly go mad, and it was incredible that the insane could suffer so acutely as he was suffering now. supposing, then, some fine delirium seized him, and he fancied himself to be pluto, and that this realm of darkness was his natural element, his habitual haunt; that hunger and thirst were the inevitable accessories of his gloomy rule, and that the dignity of his position was heightened by the fare which charon had just ferried across the styx, and now lay there before him! here the lantern went out. fool! fool! madman! what had he been thinking about? two things, only two, had been left to him--life and light. now the latter had been taken away from him for ever. for ever! what an awful phrase! here was he, who had no more than touched manhood, thrust downward by a malignant chance into a vile dark dungeon to die. here was he, who ought to be in the full plenitude of his youthful strength, unable to master the brief space hanging there in the darkness above him, between the invisible floor and the imperceptible roof. if in the heat and hurry of that morning, he had been asked to clamber up a rope three times the length of that now hanging above his head, he could have done so with perfect ease. but since he had left the tower that morning the shears of fate had been busy with his hair, and it was now almost as difficult for him to stand unsupported as it would then have been for him to put his back against the wall and shake down the solid foundations of the tower. and yet, what a paltry thing it was to die because he lacked the brute force to urge, himself upwards twelve feet along that rope. it seemed incredible that one so exquisitely formed, so superbly endowed with intelligence and the mastery of all forces that exert themselves on earth, should here lie prone, helpless, before a difficulty which half the brute creation would have regarded as no difficulty at all. it was all over with him. when it was all over with him how would it be with others who had depended upon him? he had promised mr. o'donnell a vast sum of money to meet the demands of the bank. now he could not even lay his body before that troubled man in assurance that he had done his best. he had promised to protect kempston from ruin. now he was powerless even to go and explain to kempston the reason of his failure. to go! all the bitterness of his present situation was wrought up in that one phrase--to go! he could now go nowhere until he went forth for ever. then the thought of dora came upon him. dora, the sweetest, the simplest, the truest, the most confiding sweetheart man ever had. he did not pity her for losing him. he pitied her for losing the lover rather than the man. he knew that all her soul was centred in him, that she waited eagerly for his coming, and grieved when he left; that she lived in one only hope--namely, that some day, and soon, she should leave the solitude of her present ways and come and be with him for ever, to soothe him with her gentle ministerings and cheer him with her anxious hopes. he thought of how she would leave her hand trustingly in his, lean her head trustingly on his bosom, take all he said to her as revealed truth, and, in token of gratitude for his love, hold up her sweet lips for his kisses. he thought of how he in the fickle wavering of his nature had been carried away from her beauty, which was the beauty, the dark beauty of his own folk purified and chastened by a less ardent sun, to the rich, ripe, northern beauty of sunnier hue, although remoter from the sun. he thought how for a while he had swerved from dora to nellie, and now he could not understand it, for the glamour was withdrawn, and he saw the unapparelled hearts of both. in nellie, he saw nothing now but the beauty, the unapproachable beauty which could never be more to him than the irresponsive beauty of a marble statue. in dora, he now saw beauty that was thoroughly informed with love, and that radiated towards him with all the responsive faculties of inexhaustive sympathy. her slightest word or gesture, was measured for his regard. her least syllable was designed to move his lightest mood to pleasant consonance. her smiles were those which came upon her face merely to show him that all the smiles and joyousness of her nature came forth but to greet and welcome him, and show him that all the smiles and joyousness of her nature were his wholly. what a contrast was here! the sunlight of success, the sunlight of love, the sunlight of heaven, shut out by one foul, crass adventure! the sunlight of life, of young life, of life before it had drunk under the meridian sun, extinguished for ever! "dominique lavirotte," he thought, "pray to the merciful god that you may go mad--speedily." chapter iii. of late lavirotte's visits to dora had been so infrequent and irregular that she did not know when to expect him, or when to be surprised that he did not come. three or four days often passed now without her seeing him. she knew he was busy, exceedingly busy, at st. prisca's tower, but busy with what she could not tell. for the past few weeks he had always seemed to her exhausted and taciturn. there was no falling off in his tenderness towards her. he seemed to love her more passionately than ever. but his visits were short, and he said little. it was three days before lavirotte got o'donnell's last letter that he visited dora. on going back from her to the tower he had thrown himself more blindly, more enthusiastically into the work of excavation than ever. in this final effort he had exhausted all his physical resources, with the result that when o'donnell's letter came his strength was completely wasted, and he was as helpless as a little child. when he had seen dora last he said he would come again soon--as soon as the important business upon which he was engaged would allow him. but he named no hour, no day. three days passed and she did not see him or hear from him. that was not unusual. a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh day might go by without arousing anything stronger than longing and disappointment in her heart. since she had come back from ireland she had never passed the threshold of that solitary tower in porter street. he had never asked her to come, nor had her grandfather. dominique had told her that matter of the first moment rested upon his uninterrupted attendance at the tower. he had taken her no further into his confidence. it would, he had said, be time enough to tell her all when all was known, and the hopes which moved him had been realised. beyond dora there was nobody else in london who had any distinct knowledge of where lavirotte and the old man lived. it is true, of course, that they had to get food, but this crawford always procured and brought into the tower, so that the likelihood was not a soul who supplied them with the necessaries of life had any distinct memory as to where they lived. and even if the people knew where they lived, there was no reason in the world why they should be uneasy because a certain old man who had for some time back bought milk, or bread, or meat of them ceased to come any more. it might be he had left the place. it might be he had taken his custom somewhere else. it might be he was dead in the ordinary and familiar ways of death, which require no extraordinary comment and exact no extraordinary cares. among the four millions of people who live within the mighty circle called london, it was unlikely one would take the trouble to inquire what had become of crawford and lavirotte. dora naturally would; but her grandfather had visited her in charterhouse square only two or three times since they had come back from ireland. she had no reason to expect a visit from him for one week, two weeks, three weeks. nor had she any reason to feel uneasy if dominique did not come to charterhouse square for several days. meanwhile, what was to become of him, lavirotte? while the candle yet burned he had made out that there was only one door into this vault, and that in the direction of what had formerly been the body of the church. crawford had told him that the ordinary entrance to that vault had been from the crypt of the church, but that with the destruction of the church the crypt had been destroyed, and now a solid bank of masonry and earth, thirty or forty feet thick, forming the lane at the back, lay between the vault and the cellars of the stores beyond. so long as the candle had lasted he did not seem to have severed his last connection with the earth above; but with the absolute darkness following the failure of the light, all the realities of the tomb, without the merciful absence of suffering, had come upon him. he was buried, and yet free to move. he could walk about, and yet the great tower standing over him was little better than a large headstone on his grave. he had committed no crime, and yet was condemned to die--to die the slowest and most painful of all deaths--by want of water. he had read about the black hole of calcutta. this place was about the size of that terrible dungeon. but how much better it would have been to die there a hundred years ago, surrounded by fellow-men--to die there quickly, in the distance of time between evening and day, instead of dragging out here, hour by hour, minute by minute, the terrible solitude of doom foreclosed. it had been a very hot summer, and now the autumn was at hand. the leaves had taken their earliest shade of yellow, and when the wind blew strongly the sicklier leaves fell. for months in london a fierce sun and a dry air had parched all they touched. nails in woodwork exposed to the sun had worked loose in their holds. it was the beginning of september, and people, thinking of a calamity which occurred more than two hundred years ago, said it was a mercy london was no longer built of wood; since if it was, and the fire should then break out with a strong wind behind it--as at the time of the great fire--what was now called the great fire would cease to be so named, and be referred to as the little fire compared with the gigantic proportions which a burning wooden london of to-day would afford. crawford and lavirotte had, owing to the dryness of the season, been able to get rid of the excavated earth by exposing it to the heat on the roof of the tower, and then casting it, handful by handful, through the embrasures. although no food ever was sent by tradespeople in the vicinity to the tower, it was generally known by the men who worked there that two men visited the tower. but why they lived there, or what their occupation was, no one knew. they had been seen to come in and go out. that was all. when lavirotte made up his mind that their means of making away with what they dug was out of proportion with his desire of getting downward, he had resolved to trust the lofts to a greater weight than had hitherto been put upon them; and finding loft number one but slightly cumbered with the larger stones crawford could not dispose of, he had determined to make it the chief depository of the excavated earth. over and over again crawford had told him the lofts were old, the beams rotten. he had ignored the warning, saying if they were to win at all they must win quickly, and that he would risk everything but delay. as the weight of earth upon the first loft increased, it gradually sank in the middle. lavirotte, cautioned by this, tried to find out the absolute condition of the beams, and to his great joy discovered, after carefully probing them, while slung under them in a loop of line, that they were comparatively sound. but the hotter the weather became, and the greater the burden upon the floor above grew, the more the joists bent downward. he did not care. he was certain the joists would not break. they showed no sign of chipping or splitting, and, in perfect fearlessness, he went on piling up the clay, taking, of course, the ordinary precaution to keep the weight as close as possible to the wall. gradually, however, owing to the inclination towards the centre, the clay slid slightly inward, and, as it dried in the hot air of august, the inner surface of the clay fell inward. before leaving the tower, the morning he got o'donnell's letter, lavirotte looked anxiously at the floor of the first loft. it was now concave above, convex below. but although he looked long and anxiously, he could see no sign of any of the joists giving way. "they will bend like yew," he said. "they will never break." he had omitted one calculation, that when they had bent to a certain degree, they would be withdrawn to a certain extent from their holdfasts in the wall, and when they were withdrawn from their holdfasts beyond a certain extent, they would slip out. on the morning of the day after lavirotte was entombed in the vault beneath st. prisca's tower, the joists of loft number one had been so far withdrawn from their supports in the wall that the loft was in equilibrio, and ten pounds more pressure on the floor would drag the whole loft down with all its burden into the hole beneath. chapter iv. there was no hope. what hope could there be for him, lavirotte, buried thirty feet below a roaring thoroughfare of london, with no possible means of communication with the upper world, a feebleness so great that it did not allow him to do more than stand, and twelve clear feet in the perpendicular between him and deliverance? under such circumstances how could anyone hope? what could anyone do? nothing. lie down and die. there was space enough to die, and air enough to make dying tedious. that was the worst of it. it was bad enough to die at any time; but to die when young, of no fault of one's own, and when dying happened to be tedious, was almost beyond endurance. and yet what could one do but endure? nothing. no action was possible. he could not without violence accelerate his death. by no power at his disposal could he retard it. it was dismal to die here, alone, unknown. it was chilling to think that the whole great, bustling world abroad would go on while, from mere hunger, or, still worse, thirst, he was panting out the last faint breaths of life in this hideous darkness here. there was no help for it. second by second, man lives through his life, is conscious of living; and when the proper time comes, hour by hour he is conscious that, owing to some failure in his internal economy, he is dying. but here was he, lavirotte, in the full consciousness of the possession of youth and of health, save in so far as health had been exhausted by trying labours and wasting fasts, about to die because there was no pitcher of water from which he might slake his thirst, no crust which could allay the pangs of hunger. suppose he had been upon the upper, gracious earth, without any of the money now in his pocket. suppose he had nothing but his youth and youthful elasticity of spirits, even feeble as he now was, he might pick up a living somewhere. he had education and good manners. he might not be able to earn two hundred pounds a year, but he could make a shilling, eighteenpence a day somehow, and on eighteenpence a day a man could live. on eighteenpence a day no man could have splendours or luxuries, but he might have water free from the fountain he had just passed in front of that church in fleet street, and water was a great deal. water was half life, more than half life--water was all life when one was thirsty, as he was now. then, for eighteenpence a day he might have food, not luxurious or exquisite food; but in his wanderings through london he had seen places where suppers were set forth at threepence--large bowls of boiled eels swimming in appetising gravy, with, to each bowl, a huge junk of milky white bread. he had, when his pocket was comparatively full of money, often seen the wearied artisan or factory "hand" eating with relish eel-soup and bread. he had stood looking in at the windows, and, being full-fed himself, congratulated himself upon the comfort, the luxury, these poor people enjoyed in their savoury evening repast. he had watched them go in tired and dreary, worn out with the mean commonplaces of hard work and insufficient wages. he had watched them sit down in a listless, careless way, as though they cared not whether the next hour brought them death or not. then, gradually, as the savour of the place penetrated them, and as the eager but delayed appetite became satisfied, he had seen a kind of attenuated conviviality arise between these poor folk, until, at the end, when they had finished their meal, they came forth congratulating themselves upon the cheapness, wholesomeness, and satisfying power of the food they had enjoyed. now, supposing in a shop he had a basin of this eel-soup, not merely soup, but soup with luscious, succulent flesh of the rich fish swimming about in that delicious liquor, and in his hand a piece of bread larger than one fist, but not quite so large as two, what should he do? first of all he would take the spoon--nay, not the spoon, the bowl itself, and quench his thirst and recruit his failing energies with a long draught out of that humble, yellow bowl. he would drink nearly all the liquid up, for he was parched and dry. abroad would be the sound of traffic and of human voices, stronger than the sound of traffic now beating against his ears. then, when he had slaked his thirst he would eat some of the bread--no, the bread was too dry. it would make him thirsty again. he would eat some of the fish, and sop the soft white bread in what remained of the soothing liquor. and when he had finished, he, too, would come forth with a contented mind, and supposing any trace of thirst remained, and he had no money to spend in fantastic ways of allaying thirst, he would go to some public drinking-fountain where there was an unlimited supply of water, and out of the clean white metal cups drink and drink and drink until this horrible dryness of mouth and throat had been finally removed, and he felt cheered and invigorated, and fit to face any difficulty or odds that might be against him. threepence, and he might enjoy what then seemed to him an unparalleled luxury! but supposing he were free and penniless, there was nothing to prevent him walking to the first drinking-fountain that offered and quenching his thirst, drowning his thirst in its free waters. he could have one, two, three, any number of cups of water, and, while drinking, he could touch his fellow-man, see the blue sky above him, and feel upon his cheek the wind made by passing men and vehicles. now was he here, young and full of notions of life, with no malady of ordinary growth upon him, merely the victim of an extraordinary accident, destined to die in darkness of thirst, of hunger, of despair. there was no hope for him. dora knew he spent most of his day in that tower. she did not know why. she would never think of seeking him there. and if she did seek him, if she came and knocked, she would get no reply. she would have no reason to assume more than that he did not hear, being there, or was absent from the place. if she called at his lodgings she would be told all they knew of him, and all they knew of him would not help her forward towards his present condition. he had no means of measuring time. his watch had ceased to beat, he could not tell how long ago. he held it up against his ear. it was silent. this silence seemed to him typical of the final silence which already surrounded lionel crawford, and which was now gathering around himself. through this silence now came a sound, it was the sound of something falling. something very small falling sharply, as it were, against the dull murmur of the traffic around him. he paused and listened. then he sprang to his feet, aroused by a tremendous crash which deafened his ears, shook him as though a great gale blew, and filled his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils with some thick air or dust, he knew not which, that for a moment threatened to suffocate him. the loft above had fallen. chapter v. before this tremendous noise and confusion had arisen, lavirotte had no means of ascertaining how time went. he was conscious of certain pauses and beats in the great noise of traffic above his head. the pauses and beats, he assumed, of traffic in the artery of time. but he knew nothing certain. he had kept no record whatever. he was conscious that there had been periods of activity and quiescence, just as he was conscious there had been periods of activity and quiescence in his youth, when he was a child. but, as in the remote past, he had lost all knowledge or record of the numbers of the period. his reason told him he could not have been a fortnight entombed. his memory told him nothing. abroad in the busy street and lanes close to st. prisca's tower, the fall of the lowest loft made a prodigious commotion. first of all, there was the roar of noise accompanying the fall of the floor, and of the tons upon tons of stones and clay lying on the loft. then out through the narrow windows of the tower sprang shafts of dust, forced furiously outward by the enormous pressure upon the air within. for a moment the tumultuous traffic of porter street was stopped, and men who would scarcely have minded the downfall of the warehouse out of which they were loading their vans or carts, stood in silent amazement at the inexplicable, tremendous subsidence which had occurred in the tower. those men who were familiar with the place were all the more amazed, because they believed there had been no possibility of the old tower uttering such a terrible note as that which had proceeded from it. they believed that the lofts of the tower were merely decayed wood. it was well known that the bells had been long ago removed, and as there had been in that tower, so far as the frequenters of porter street knew, nothing which could with profit be stolen, the interest in that tower to them had been less than in the monument. to people of this class the monument was something like the rainbow or the milky way. it had no effect on life, no influence upon wages, and, consequently, was altogether unworthy of consideration. rain and hail and snow influenced wages in so far as they impeded work, but not the monument, not st. prisca's tower, not the rainbow, not the milky way, controlled work, and therefore each, while it might be a matter for dreamy speculation under the influence of tobacco, was absolutely indifferent to the workmen frequenting porter street. few, except workmen, or those intimately connected with workmen, frequented porter street. you might walk there a whole day long with the assurance you would never meet a brougham or a hansom, a beau or a lady. it was as much out of the line of the fashionable world as kamtchatka. in nova zembla, in patagonia, in japan, in florida, you may meet an english nobleman, an english lady, but in the history of porter street it is not recorded that any member of the elegant world wandered there for a hundred years. the first effect of the tremendous crash, caused by the falling of the loft, was to paralyse activity for a short time. the next thing was to create discussion as to the possible source and cause of the crash. the third was to induce speculation as to the fate of anyone who might have been in the tower at the time of the catastrophe. then slowly, very slowly, those around the place began to realise the fact that someone--a man--more than one man--two men it was thought, of late--one man of old--two men of late--an old man some time ago--a young man latterly, had taken up their residence in that tower. this might account for something of the extraordinary in what had taken place. it might have been that owing to something or other done by these men, this enormous explosion--for so it seemed at first--had occurred. they may have had some object in blowing down the tower, or in some other violent onslaught against its integrity. if this were so, in all likelihood they were both now far beyond the range of any danger which could reach them from the tower. after a while, when speculation had become somewhat methodical and less vague, people began to remember that there was nothing particularly dangerous-looking about either of the men who had taken up their residence in the tower, and that in all probability neither of them had been actuated by any criminal designs. there for a while public opinion stood still, and men began to wonder what was the fate of their fellow-men, whose lives had for some time back been associated in their minds with the existence of the tower. slowly, gradually, the people who were familiar with porter street came to think that possibly the two men, whose appearance had been connected in their minds with that place for some time, had been imperilled or destroyed in the fall of the lofts. for to the outside public it had seemed that nothing less than the fall of the lofts could have produced so great a noise as they had heard. they had not taken into account that the beams of dust which shot across the street and lanes had reached no higher than the first loft, and they had not taken care to conclude that since no dust exuded through the higher windows, the likelihood was that the higher lofts were untouched. but after the first sense of arrest and confusion which came upon those within the scope of the sound, there arose the humane idea of rendering succour to the living, if the place contained anyone alive, or tendering services to the dead, supposing both had perished. then it was anxiously asked, was anything known as to whether either or both men were in the tower. it was well known that the old man now seldom came forth, that the young man brought in the provisions necessary for the two, and that even he was seldom for any long time absent from st. prisca's. moment by moment people began to recollect that the old man had not been seen out of the tower for many days, and that the young man had been seen to leave the tower and return. in such a crowded thoroughfare it was almost impossible that the door of the tower could be opened without exciting observation. it was also nearly impossible that any close observation could have been made. it is quite common for a busy man who lives close to a church clock that strikes the hours and the quarters, to hear and yet not heed the striking of the clock; so that you may ask him, after the striking, what has occurred with regard to the hour, and he may have been perfectly unconscious at the time the clock struck that he was observing the sound, and yet when asked he may be able to tell perfectly the time. so it was with these busy folk in porter street. they had never regarded those two men with any interest whatever beyond the interest one feels for a friendly but unknown dog, or for a man who is not likely ever in the course of life to have more than a passing interest for the observer. nevertheless, these busy folk who worked hour by hour, day by day, and the sum of whose life was made up in the sum of their work, and the mere material comforts and pleasures which the result of their work brought them, had insensibly drunk in the fact that two men had entered that tower, that neither of these men had come forth, and that now the likelihood was the lives of either or both of these men had been swallowed up in the catastrophe which had occurred. with men of the class who worked in porter street, thought is a very rarely exercised faculty. they have to carry huge weights, heave winches, stow goods, pack and manage vast bales, in the conduct of which the eye for space and the muscle for motion is all that is called into play. everything else is designed by the foreman, and each man has no more to do with every separate piece of goods than dispose of it as his strength will allow in the position the foreman indicates. hence men of this class are exceedingly slow to invent, and exceedingly quick to act. when the loft fell, all the men within hearing of the crash immediately ceased to work, and stood stupidly looking on as though they expected some miraculous manifestation. they did not remain inactive because of any disinclination to help, if help were needed, but they had not realised the fact that it was possible their great strength might be of avail to anyone suffering. all at once a woman cried: "my god, the men are buried!" and before the words were well out of her mouth, the crowd seemed to grasp the central idea that underneath the encumbrance of these lofts had been buried two men, who were formed in every way like themselves, and who, although not of their class, were nevertheless entitled to all that could be done for them. chapter vi. how were the entombed men to be delivered? various ways suggested themselves in the heat of the moment. it was plain to all that the first thing to be done was to force the door. this was no trivial matter. how it was to be forced was the consideration. there were those among the crowd who had seen the door open, and noticed the huge bolt of the lock which shot into an iron holdfast let into the solid stonework of the tower. they knew that the old man had never omitted to lock the door on the inside when he came in, and that the young man had been no less careful. there was a general belief that something secret, and, upon the whole, uncommendable, was going on in that tower, and the desire to rescue the two imprisoned men was largely augmented by curiosity. the laneway from which the door opened was seldom crowded. there was usually a brisk traffic up and down it; but in that part of the city the narrow laneways that feed the great thoroughfares are seldom blocked, although the main thoroughfares themselves may be impassable. a man in the crowd cried out: "someone get a pole or a beam, and we'll soon have them out." then several men rushed off in various directions. by this time the traffic in the laneways and in porter street itself was interrupted. the workmen ran out of the stores and wharfs, the waggoners and carters deserted their horses, and even the bargemen from the river had come up on hearing that some terrible accident had befallen st. prisca's tower. in a few minutes three men were seen advancing, carrying a heavy beam of wood. other men ran to help them. a dozen willing arms had now seized the beam, and a hundred men were anxious to lend their aid if opportunity offered. a way was cleared for the men with the beam. the people separated on both sides. the men turned out of porter street and ran up into the lane. the men engaged in carrying the baulk were too intent upon getting it to its destination as quick as possible to observe one fatal defect. one onlooker shouted out: "too long. too long." then the men carrying it swept up, way was made for them, and they tried to bring the beam into position for use as a battering-ram against the door. then the onlooker's words were confirmed by experience, and it was seen that it would be utterly impossible to use the baulk effectually as a ram, for, owing to the narrowness of the lane, it was impossible to get it at right angles to the door, and striking the door with it at an acute angle would not be likely to produce the desired effect. however, it was better to try this which was at hand, than to do nothing at all. in the meantime some better means might be devised of bursting open the door. once, twice, thrice, half-a-dozen times the men thrust the beam obliquely against the massive woodwork. it merely glanced off the thick stubborn oak, and more than two-thirds of its power was expended upon the solid and immovable stonework of the doorway. other pieces of timber were brought, but all proved too long to be of any effective use. the shortest, it is true, could be brought into a horizontal position against the door, but it allowed of no play, and therefore was incapable of receiving the necessary impetus. then the crowd began to clamour for sledges. a great, brown-bearded man, tall, lank, and rounded in the shoulders, broke away from the crowd crying: "i'll soon get it open; i'll soon break it in." this man was celebrated in porter street for his enormous strength. no sooner had he undertaken to burst in the door than all other efforts were suspended, in the full faith that he would make good his words. in a few moments he returned, bearing in each hand a square half-hundredweight. he hastened up to the door and said: "someone must hold me." but how are they to hold him? "i want," he said, "to put my back against the door, lift these up this way" (he raised the half-hundreds above his head as though they were no heavier than boxing-gloves), "then i'll bring them down against the door; but if it bursts open i don't want to fall in, for there's a pit inside." the difficulty now was how to hold him, and at the same time give him free play with the weights, and avoid any possibility of the weights in the downward swoop touching anyone who might aid him. some time was lost in trying to arrange so that he might be held, prevented from falling inward, and, at the same time, not impeded. at last he cried: "let me alone; i can manage it myself. stand back. don't be afraid of me." then they cleared a semicircle round him. he put his back to the door, raised his arms aloft, directly over his head, bowed himself backward, so that his head and heels alone touched the door, and his back was bowed forward as a bent bow is against the string. then, setting his teeth and putting all the energy of his body into the muscles of his arms and shoulders, he swung the two weights downward with prodigious force, loosed them from his hold when they came level with his legs, sprang forward, and turned swiftly round with a look of expectant success. the crowd cheered. the two half-hundredweights had crushed through the lower portion of the door as though it were so much cardboard. the lock remained unshaken. the blows had been delivered too low down, and, while the wood had given way, the iron had remained firm. then, while the people were standing admiring the result of his great strength, a man cried out: "here's a crowbar, bill. you can finish it with that." bill caught the crowbar in his hand, whirled it over his head as though it were but a walking-cane, leaped back from the door as far as the narrowness of the lane would allow him; then, holding the crowbar lightly in his hand, as a soldier holds his gun at the charge, he dashed forward and flung the crowbar with its blunt edge against the place where the lock held fast. the lock had been loosened on the door by the previous assault, and now, with a tearing screech, the bolts drew out of the tough wood, and the door swung back on its hinges. when bill had succeeded, and seen that he had succeeded, he turned round, surveyed the crowd steadily for a few moments, and then said: "that's my share of it. you do the rest." then, as one who had no further concern with the matter, he strode off, the people making way for him as he went. two or three men approached the door and looked in. below was a wild jumble of planks and beams and stones and earth, all mixed up, higgledy-piggledy, in the wildest confusion. it was impossible to make out anything clearly at first, owing to the dense dust that floated in the air. the men who had thrust in their heads withdrew them after a short time, partly suffocated and partly blinded by the fumes that arose out of the pit beneath. "ask is there anyone there," suggested one of the crowd. a head was thrust in through the open doorway, and a stentorian voice cried out: "anyone there!" to this a feeble voice replied from what seemed to be the bowels of the earth: "yes. help. water, for god's sake." "all right," shouted the man above. "we'll get you out safe enough. keep up your heart. are the two of you below?" "yes," answered the feeble voice; "but he is dead. quick, for god's sake, or i shall die. this dust is killing me." "keep up," shouted the man, "and we'll do the best. we'll get you out in a jiffy. there's a hundred of us here. how much of the place has fallen?" "i don't know," answered the voice below, growing fainter. "i think only the first floor. i can talk no more. i am dying." and then came some sounds, inarticulate and faint, the meaning of which the man above could not gather. a ladder was got and thrust down into the pit, and in a short time a score of willing hands were at work. the joists had drawn gradually out of the wall, and the eastern end being first freed, that side fell downward, shooting most of the stones and earth up into the pit at the eastern side. the floor doubled up in two from the north and south, almost like the leaves of a book, and in the fold of this a large quantity of clay and stones had remained. this folded part fell almost directly on the hole made by lionel crawford in the roof of the vault. the weight of the stones and the impetus they had gained in their fall was sufficient to cause them to smash through the doubled-up flooring, and some of them fell through the hole, carrying with them a portion of the roof of the vault. by this falling mass lavirotte had been struck and hurt, and under some of the flooring, earth, and stones he now lay partly covered, prostrate upon the ground of the vault. owing to the fact that most of the heavy stones and the great bulk of the earth had been shot to the eastern side of the tower, comparatively little entered the vault, and so lavirotte escaped instant death. the men working at his release found out after a short time, partly by his moaning and partly by looking through the hole in the fallen floor, that lavirotte was in the vault, and not immediately under the fallen floor. in less than an hour he was rescued. he was all begrimed with dirt and clay, insensible, battered, bleeding, almost pulseless. he was immediately placed in a cab and taken to an hospital. on his way he recovered consciousness and begged for water, which was given him. upon examination it was discovered that his injuries were not of much moment, and that exhaustion had more to do with his prostrate condition than the hurts he had received. for a long time he lay quiet, expressing no wish. at length he asked what had become of the body of his companion, and was told that it had been removed from the tower. he was asked if he had any friends with whom he desired to communicate, and he said no. now that lionel crawford was dead, there was no one in london whom he could call a friend. he did not wish that dora should hear anything of the result of that awful day, when her grandfather lost his life, and he all hope of the vast fortune upon which he had been building for some time. they told him that he would be able to leave the hospital in a few days. a few days would be quite time enough to tell her all the bad news. indeed, the longer she was kept in ignorance of it the better. to the inquiries of those around him, he had refused to give any reply beyond the facts that st. prisca's tower was his property; that he and the dead man, lionel crawford, had for some time back lived in the tower; and that, for reasons which he declined to state, they had both been engaged in excavating. john cassidy usually left his office at about four o'clock in the evening. as he was walking in the direction of his home on the afternoon lavirotte was rescued from the tower, his eye was arrested by a line in the bills of _the evening record_--"mysterious affair in porter street." as a rule, john cassidy did not buy newspapers. they did not interest him. his theory was that one could learn enough of public affairs from the conversation of others. but a mysterious affair always did interest him, and in this case he bought _the evening record_, and read in it a brief paragraph of what occurred in the tower, giving the names of the two men concerned. mystery on mystery! here was this man lavirotte mixed up in two inexplicable affairs in a space of a few months. on the previous occasion lavirotte had been found insensible, near a wounded man. now he was found insensible, near a dead man. in the paragraph there was no suggestion that any suspected foul play; and yet to him, cassidy, it seemed impossible that lavirotte was not in some way accountable for the death of the man found with him that day. cassidy was burning with anxiety to tell someone of lavirotte's former predicament. it would give him such an air of importance if he could add material facts to those already known in connection with this matter. there was no use in his going back to the office, for all his fellow-clerks had left. it was impossible for him to go home to his room burdened with this news. he therefore resolved to turn into the cleopatra restaurant in the strand, in the hope he might there find someone to whom he might communicate the startling addition to the news in the evening paper. it so fell out that he succeeded beyond his wishes. he found a group of men standing at the bar, and among these one named grafton, an artist whom he had known for some time, and through whom he hoped to find himself on the track of the lavirotte mystery, as he knew grafton was acquainted with lavirotte. "i say, grafton," said he, "that's a deuce of a mysterious thing that happened to-day in porter street. you know, of course, this is the lavirotte you told me you knew. he's back in london again, after being mixed up in a most extraordinary affair in my part of the world." then he related, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the group of men standing round, all he knew concerning the affair at glengowra. when he had finished, one of the bystanders, whom he did not know, said: "you would have no objection to my making use of what you say?" "in the press?" said cassidy, colouring with delight and importance. "yes," said the other. "i am connected with _the evening record_, and if you authorise me to do so, i should be greatly pleased to add just a line to our account of the affair. all i would ask or say: 'we understand that m. lavirotte, who was found insensible, was some little time ago mixed up with another mysterious affair in glengowra, in the south of ireland.'" cassidy gave a willing consent, and the addition suggested appeared in the special edition of _the evening record_. it was in the special edition of _the evening record_ that dora harrington saw her grandfather was dead, that lavirotte was injured, and that he had been mixed up in a mysterious affair in glengowra. chapter vii. the shock nearly overwhelmed dora. the double blow was too much for her, and when the landlady came into the room a short time afterwards she found the girl insensible on the floor. when she returned to consciousness she could not believe she had read the paper aright. she took it up again and went carefully over the passage with aching eyes. the solid ground seemed to be melting away under her feet, and all the material things around her were visionary, unreal, far away. the landlady at length made her talk, and with talk came tears, and with tears relief. she pointed out the paragraph to the woman, and told her she must go at once to the hospital and see about the whole affair. it was too horrible, she said, to think that her grandfather should be killed and her lover nearly killed in this enterprise, whatever it was, they were engaged upon. the woman was of a kindly and compassionate nature, and offered to accompany the girl. this offer dora gladly accepted, and the two set out. they ascertained at the hospital that lavirotte was going on favourably, but that they could not see him until next day. they went and saw the body of the old man at the mortuary, and, finding out that nothing could be done, returned to charterhouse square, greatly depressed and saddened; for the kindly woman shared the girl's grief, and felt for her desolate condition. next day, when dora called at the hospital she was admitted. she found lavirotte haggard, and worn, and wild-looking, but far less seriously injured than the newspaper report had led her to expect. it was not a place for a demonstrative meeting, and she had been cautioned not to excite the injured man. after the first words of the meeting she asked him all the particulars of what had occurred at the tower. he told her as briefly as he could. then for the first time she learned that her grandfather and her lover had been seeking for a treasure in that lonely place in porter street. he told her how the old man had been firmly persuaded a vast hoard had been hidden beneath the tower before the great fire, and had remained there ever since. while he, lavirotte, was away at his lodgings, looking for letters, the old man had found the top of the vault, had pierced the vault, and descended into it. then, no doubt, the shock of finding the work of years useless had been too great for him, and he had succumbed. he related how he, being then in a very weak condition from wearing anxiety and the want of food and rest, had returned to the tower, descended into the vault, and found himself unable to reascend. then later on came the crash, his own insensibility, and finally the rescue the afternoon before. in grief and pity she listened to him, and when he had finished she could think of nothing to say but that she hoped he would soon get strong again, and that she would do anything she could for him, and come to see him as often as they would let her. then he went on to explain how this terrible disappointment at not finding the treasure would not only leave him almost penniless, but would prevent him doing the service he had intended for o'donnell and kempston. he told her he had not replied to the letter he found from eugene at his lodgings, because he hoped that in a day or two he might be able to communicate the glorious news that the period of their affluence was at hand. now all this was changed. the whole aspect of his career was altered, and the first thing she would have to do for him was to telegraph to eugene, saying that all hope of succour was now at an end. it would be a cruel, a terrible, perhaps literally a fatal blow to the elder o'donnell, but that could not now be helped. he dictated to her the telegram, and she wrote it down. he also dictated a note she was to write to mr. kempston. then he said: "they tell me i shall not be long here; but how it is to be with me when i get about again i cannot say. misfortune seems to have marked me out as one upon whom she was to try all her arts." she said tenderly, advancing her hand to his: "don't say that, dominique." "forgive me, dora, darling. i was not thinking of you. i was speaking of only the business aspect of things. we shall be as poor as ever now." "but we were never rich, and yet we were--fond of each other, and very happy." "ay, darling, very fond of each other, and very happy, and will be always," he added, pressing the hand he had in his. "i was thinking only of you in the matter. when i had this dream of wealth upon me, i used to picture to myself what we should do when we became rich; how you should have all that art and luxury could produce." "i have never wished for wealth or luxury, dominique," she whispered. "i know i shall be as happy as i ever hoped to be, more happy than i ever deserved, with you. let us think no more of that treasure. it has brought no good to us up to this. why should we allow it to cause us sorrow now?" "ay, ay," he said. "we must make the best of it now. bad will be the best of it, but it might have been worse. you know i have a little money, and with it i shall be able to continue at the singing until i am good enough for the boards. then i shall be able to earn enough for us both, dora." "very little will be enough," she whispered, again pressing his hand. he returned the pressure, and said: "thank you, darling. they will not let you stay much longer now. i am sorry i am not able to be up; but i suppose they will do everything necessary about your grandfather. i want you to go to my landlord. he has some money of mine. tell him to arrange all about the funeral. you tell me there is no man in the house where you lodge, and the few men i know in london, i know scarcely sufficiently well to ask a favour of them. stop," he said; "there is grafton. i might ask him. he was very friendly to me when i was in london before. i remember where he lived. go to him and tell him all, and give him the money. that will be better." he gave her grafton's address, and after a little while she took her leave. she sought the artist and found him at home. he had two rooms in charlotte street--one a bedroom; the other served as studio and sitting-room. when dora called, he was not alone. having renewed his acquaintance with cassidy, he had invited the dandy to his place. cassidy and he were now having coffee. grafton hurried cassidy into the bedroom, which was separated from the sitting-room by folding doors. dora was shown up, and explained the circumstances of the case. grafton said he would be delighted to do anything he could for lavirotte and miss harrington. unfortunately there was a difficulty in the way. it was utterly impossible for him to leave his studio that afternoon or night, as he was at work on a block which would take him till five o'clock in the morning to finish, and he had just that moment received a telegram from the illustrated paper on which he worked, ordering him north to the scene of a great colliery accident the first thing in the morning. he was deeply grieved. he would try if he could possibly do anything. stop! a friend of his was in the house. he would go and ask him if he could manage to do what was required. he went out by the door leading to the landing, and from that landing through another door into the bedroom where cassidy was. cassidy flushed with surprise and pleasure when he saw a chance of his getting mixed up with the lavirotte affair. he told grafton he would ask them to give him a holiday to-morrow, and between this afternoon and to-morrow there would be plenty of time to arrange everything about lionel crawford, as, no doubt, the inquest was held that day. then grafton brought cassidy in and introduced him to dora, and said that he would act in every way as though he were grafton himself. dora expressed her great gratitude. "you know," cassidy said, "i shall go and see mr. lavirotte as soon as possible, and i have no doubt he will be glad to see me, for i come from the neighbourhood in which he lived, and know glengowra thoroughly." here the overwhelming desire to rise in importance in the eyes of dora, pleasantly or otherwise, mastered him, and he said: "perhaps you have seen the special edition of _the evening record?_" she said yes; that she had there first seen an account of the terrible affair. "it was i," said he, bowing and smiling, "who gave the information respecting the mysterious occurrence at glengowra, of which you, doubtless, know." by this time he was, of course, aware he was talking to the girl to whom lavirotte had made love when formerly in london. "i do not know anything about it," she whispered faintly. "i am exceedingly obliged to both of you." she said good-bye and went. when she was gone, cassidy said: "strange she doesn't know anything about the glengowra affair. i don't think it right she should be kept in ignorance of it. however, grafton, you haven't a minute to lose now. i'll be off down east and see what's to be done. i assure you nothing could give me greater pleasure than to act for you in this affair." chapter viii. when eugene o'donnell got the telegram he fell into despair. he durst not go to his father or his mother. up to this his father had been in the very best spirits, fully anticipating deliverance at the hands of lavirotte. now what was to become of them? ruin of the most complete kind stared them in the face. they would not have the least chance of saving anything from the wreck of their fortune, for james o'donnell was a man of scrupulous honesty, and would not lend himself to the least kind of fraud. when everything was sold up they would not be able to pay more than a small portion of the last call, and eugene knew his father too well to think he would conceal a single penny, or accept a favour at the hands of the bank. eugene did not know what to do. the telegram came to him when he was alone. he read it three times, put it in his pocket, and went out to try if a walk in the air would help him. insensibly his steps turned towards the station, where, a little later on in the afternoon, he would, in the ordinary course, find himself on the way to glengowra. when he got to the railway station he looked at his watch, and saw that there was just time for him to run out to glengowra and get back again before his ordinary time for leaving the office. he determined to run out and tell it first of all to nellie, upon whom he had learned to depend. she was greatly surprised to see him so early, ran to him with a smile, and, throwing her arms round him, said: "i cannot tell you why, but i was half expecting to see you earlier than usual. you have brought good news, i dare say, from lavirotte?" he shook his head, and said: "no; poor lavirotte has met with an accident." "met with an accident!" cried nellie, in surprise. "is it serious, and will he be able to do what he promised for your father?" "well, you see," said her husband, "this accident is likely to knock him up for some time, i suppose, and every hour is precious to us." the husband and wife were now in the little drawing-room overlooking the sea. he had sat down on a chair, dispiritedly. she stood opposite him, with eager, inquiring eyes. "so that you are afraid," said she, "that, after all, his promise may come to nothing." "yes," said eugene, "i am afraid it may come to nothing." she sank on a chair beside him, and cried: "good heavens, eugene, what is to become of us all?" "i don't know, nellie," he said gloomily, "i have not dared to tell the governor yet. i must tell him to-night, you know. he must at once decide upon what we shall do." "do you believe lavirotte met with an accident?" "certainly i believe. what object could he have in telling a lie?" "to screen his failure, if not worse." "what could be _worse_ at present than his failure?" "supposing he had deliberately deceived all through." "what earthly object could lavirotte have in deceiving us?" "well, he would tell neither you nor your father where he expected this money from. i don't like lavirotte. i don't trust him. i wish we never had anything to do with him. i think it was an unfortunate day you first met him." "look here, now, nellie. i believe lavirotte was perfectly sincere in this matter, as i believe he was sincere in his love of you, or in his desire to destroy me when under the influence of what must have been insanity. anyway, this is not the time to discuss his merits. we must think of what we ourselves have to do in this matter. how am i to break it to my father? after all he has gone through, i fear it will kill him or drive him mad. he has the fullest faith in lavirotte's turning up with the money in time. as i told you before, he has made arrangements for the future in the full faith that the help will be forthcoming." "i don't know how you are to do it, eugene. as you say, there is very little time, if he must know this evening. would you like me to go in and see your mother, or do you think i should only be in the way?" "i don't know, i'm sure. but i think, after all, it will be best if i open the subject to him." so it was decided that eugene should go back to rathclare, and make known to his father the bad news contained in the telegram. his visit to glengowra had no effect. it left a strong impression on nellie's mind, that in addition to lavirotte being, under great excitement, a dangerous lunatic, he was capable at ordinary times of deliberately and cruelly lying, if the statements he made were not the result of delusion. when eugene found his father, the latter was in the best of spirits. "well, my son," he cried cheerily, "any news from london? has our friend, our good friend, got the money? time is running very short now, and since we are going to pay the call, we may as well do the thing decently and be up to time." "do you think, sir, there is no chance of getting a later date for payment?" the father shook his head. "no, there is no chance," he said. "those who can pay must pay up at once. i am not myself uneasy about lavirotte, but i wish we had some news. it will be comfortable to hear the mill going when this awful banking affair is pleasantly settled; but i own the sound of the mill does not seem good for my ears just now. this, of course, will be all right in a few days. why do you ask if there is any chance of getting time, boy?" "because, sir, it has occurred to me that possibly we may want it." "but lavirotte knows the circumstances of the case; and with such vast expectations as he has, there can be no difficulty whatever in getting in the form of an advance any sum of money we may require." "that depends on the security he has to offer. do you know, sir, what is the nature of the security he has to offer?" "no, he would not tell me. he said he was under an obligation, and could communicate the matter to no one." "well, sir, may it not be that the property which he expects to come into will not realise quite as much as he anticipated? suppose it fell a little short of what you want, what should you do?" "borrow money on this place, of course," said the merchant, waving his hand over his head. "but in case, i mean, that what lavirotte could give you and what you could borrow on this place would not together make sufficient, what would you do?" "upon my word, eugene, you are in a very uncomfortable humour to-day. what earthly use is there in calculating upon chances or solving difficulties that will never arise? but i may answer you. i should of course sell the place. i should sell every stick of the place, every wheel, every ounce of stuff in it, my house, horses, plate, furniture, in fact everything that i have." by this time the face of the old man had lost its gay aspect. he had turned pale. his eyes were no longer sprightly, but fixed with a strange glitter, not turned directly towards his son--in fact, avoiding his son's gaze. it was as though he suspected--he more than suspected, he assumed--eugene had some bad news to give him, and that he would wait there patiently for the bad news to come without aiding his son's story by the display of curiosity. "but, sir, i have some reason to fear lavirotte will not be able to do all he said. i am disposed to think, on good grounds, that he will not have all the money we want in time." the son now avoided the father's face. they were sitting at opposite sides of the large office table. the son's eyes were turned towards the window looking into the quadrangle. the father's eyes were fixed vacantly upon the door of the strong-room behind his son, and to his right. "in that case," said the elder man, "i should mortgage." "i am very much disinclined to go on," said the young man, frowning heavily, "but i have no alternative. lavirotte will not be able to give you all you want, and i do not think you will be able to pay all." "then i shall sell. i shall sell every stick i have in the world." the old man's eyes became more fixed than ever; they never wandered from that door. his face became more pallid. with both hands he grasped the elbows of his chair. he sat well in the chair, leaning slightly forward, as though he expected someone who would try and pull him out of it. his son looked hastily at him for a moment, then turned his eyes away as hastily, and said slowly: "you must know, sir--you must by this time have guessed that i have had bad news from london, from lavirotte. you must try and bear up, sir, for all our sakes. it will be a bitter blow after the hope we have lived in for months." james o'donnell seemed to abandon the position he had taken up with regard to eugene's news. it would be folly any longer to affect ignorance that something terrible was coming, or to court delay. "what is the news from lavirotte?" he asked. "lavirotte is himself injured by some accident, and he has no longer any hope of realising the money he expected." "no longer any hope," repeated the old man. "no longer any hope, sir. we are not to rely on him for the least aid. what do you purpose doing, sir?" "i must think over the matter for a while, eugene." he looked calmly at his watch. "you have only just time to catch the train, and i would rather be alone at present." "if you would let me stay, sir, i would much rather remain with you. i can drive home later." "no, eugene; you may go now. i would rather be alone." the old man seemed quite calm and collected; in fact, so calm and collected, that eugene resolved not to go to glengowra by the train, but to run up to his father's house and to tell his mother what had occurred. when james o'donnell found himself alone, he got up slowly out of his chair, crossed the floor, opened the door of the strong-room, whispering to himself: "no longer any hope." he went into the gloomy chamber, and going to the safe, opened it and took something from it. when he returned to the office, he held the revolver in his hand and whispered to himself: "no longer any hope." he looked at his watch. it was just closing time. having placed the revolver on the table, he sat down in his chair, whispering in the same quiet voice, "i will wait till they are all gone," and repeated for the third time: "no longer any hope." at seven o'clock eugene returned to the private office, for which he had a key. to his astonishment he found his father's chair vacant and the strong-room door open. he went into the strong-room and examined it. the door of the safe was open. the drawer was pulled out. eugene turned sick. he leant against the wall and moaned out: "oh! what has the poor old man done!" then he pushed in the drawer, the door of the safe, the door of the strong-room, and having locked the door of the private office, hastened downstairs. he could find no trace of his father. he set half-a-dozen men to search the town quietly. up to next morning he failed to find any clue to james o'donnell. end of vol. ii. * * * * * * * * * * charles dickens and evans, crystal palace press. google books (oxford university) transcriber's notes: 1. page scan source: google books http://books.google.com/books?id=gyagaaaaqaaj (oxford university) the last call. the last call. a romance. by richard dowling, author of "the mystery of killard," "the weird sisters," "sweet inisfail," etc. _in three volumes_. vol. i. london: tinsley brothers, 8, catherine st., strand. 1884. [_all rights reserved_.] charles dickens and evans crystal palace press. the last call. * * * * * part i. the last call. chapter i. the sun was low behind a bank of leaden cloud which stood like a wall upon the western horizon. in front of a horse-shoe cove lay a placid bay, and to the westward, but invisible from the cove, the plains of the atlantic. it was low water, and summer. the air of the cove was soft with exhalations from the weed-clad rocks stretching in green and brown furrows from the ridge of blue shingle in the cove to the violet levels of the sea. on the ridge of shingle lay a young man, whose eyes rested on the sea. he was of the middle height and figure. twenty-seven or twenty-eight seemed to be his age. he had a neat, compact forehead, dark gray eyes, ruddy, full cheeks, a prominent nose, full lips, and a square chin. the face looked honest, good-humoured, manly. the moustaches were brown; the brown hair curled under the hat. the young man wore a gray tweed suit and a straw hat. he lay resting on his elbow. in the line of his sight far out in the bay a small dot moved almost imperceptibly. the lounger knew this dot was a boat: distance prevented his seeing it contained a man and a woman. dominique lavirotte, the man in the boat, was of the middle height and figure, twenty-four years of age, looking like a greek, but french by descent and birth. the eyes and skin were dark, the beard and moustaches black. the men of rathclare, a town ten miles off, declared he was the handsomest man they had ever seen, and yet felt their candour ill-requited when their sweethearts and wives concurred. with dominique lavirotte in the boat was ellen creagh. she was not a native of rathclare, but of glengowra, the small seaside and fishing town situate on glengowra bay, over which the boat was now lazily gliding in the cool blue light of the afternoon. ellen creagh was tall and slender, above the average height of women, and very fair. she had light golden-brown hair, bright lustrous blue eyes, and lips of delicate red. the upper lip was short. even in repose her face always suggested a smile. one of the great charms of the head was the fluent ease with which it moved. the greatest charm of the face was the sweet susceptibility it had to smile. it seemed, when unmoved, to wait in placid faith, the advent of pleasant things. during its moments of quiet there was no suggestion of doubt or anxiety in it. to it the world was fair and pleasant--and the face was pleasant and wonderfully fair. pleasant people are less degraded by affectation than solemn people. your solemn man is generally a swindler of some kind, and nearly always selfish and insincere. ellen creagh looked the embodiment of good-humoured candour, and the ideal of health and beauty. she was as blithe and wholesome as the end of may; she was a northern hebe, a goddess of youth and joy. the name of the young man lying on the shingles was eugene o'donnell. he lived in the important seaport of rathclare, where his father was the richest and most respected merchant and shipowner. there had james o'donnell been established in business for many years, and they now said he was not worth less than a quarter of a million sterling. mrs. o'donnell was a hale, brisk, bright-minded woman of fifty-seven, being three years her husband's junior. the pair had but one child, eugene, and to him in due time all the old man's money was to go. the o'donnells were wealthy and popular. the father had a slow, methodical way, which did not win upon strangers, but among those who knew him no one was more highly respected. without any trace of extravagance, james o'donnell was liberal with his money. he was a good husband, a good father, and a good employer. he had only one source of permanent uneasiness--his son eugene was not married, and showed no inclination towards marriage. the old man held that every young man who could support a wife should take one. he himself had married young, had prospered amazingly, and never for a moment regretted his marriage. he was prepared to give his son a share in his business, and a thousand a year out of the interest of his savings, if the young man would only settle. but although eugene o'donnell was as good-humoured and good-hearted a young fellow as the town of rathclare, or the next town to it, could show, and although there was not in the whole town one girl who would be likely to refuse him, and although there were plenty of handsome girls in rathclare, eugene o'donnell remained obdurate. it was lamentable, but what could anyone do? the young man would not make love, the father would not insist upon his marrying whether he loved or no, and there being at rathclare little faith in leap-year, no widow or maiden of the town was bold enough to ask him to wed her. while the young man lying on the shingle was idly watching the boat, the young man in the boat was by no means idle. the sculls he was pulling occupied none of his attention. he swung himself mechanically backward and forward. his whole mind was fixed on the face and form of the girl sitting in the stern. "and so, you really must go back to dublin?" he said ruefully. "yes," she answered with a smile. "i must really go back to dublin within a fortnight." "and leave all here behind," he said tenderly. "all!" she exclaimed, looking around sadly. "there is not much to leave besides the sea, which i always loved, and my mother, whom i always loved also." "there is nothing else in the place, i suppose, miss creagh, you love, but the sea and your mother?" "no," she answered, "nothing. i have no relative living but my mother, and she and the sea are my oldest friends." "but have you no new friend or friends?" she shook her head, and leaning over the side of the boat, drew her fingers slowly through the water. "the vernons," she said, "are good to me, and i like the girls very much. but i am only their servant--a mere governess." "a mere queen!" he said. "i have known you but a short time. that has been the happiest time of my life. _i_ at least can never forget it. may you?" suddenly a slight change came over her. she lost a little of her gaiety, and gathered herself together with a shadow of reserve. "i do not think, mr.. lavirotte, i shall soon forget the many pleasant hours we have spent together and the great kindness you have shown to me." "and you do not think you will forget _me?_" "how can i remember your kindness and forget you?" she asked gravely. "yes, yes," he said eagerly, "but you know what i mean, and are avoiding my meaning. perhaps i have been too hasty. shall i sing you a song?" "yes, please, if you will row towards home." then he sang: "the bright stars fade, the morn is breaking, the dew-drops pearl each flower and leaf, when i of thee my leave am taking, with bliss too brief. how sinks my heart with fond alarms, the tear is hiding in mine eye, for time doth chase me from thine arms: good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye." the boat was now well inshore. "lavirotte! lavirotte's voice, by all the gods!" cried eugene o'donnell, raising himself into a sitting posture. "doing the polite--doing the lover, for all i know. why has he stopped there? he will begin again in a moment." "when you go, ellen, will you give me leave to bid you adieu in these words?" "mr. lavirotte," she said, in doubt and pain, "i am exceedingly sorry that----" "it is enough," he said. "say no more. i am a ruined man." "he will not finish it," said o'donnell. "he is ungallant. i will finish it for him. "the sun is up, the lark is soaring, loud swells the song of chanticleer; the leveret bounds o'er earth's soft flooring: yet i am here. for since night's gems from heaven did fade, and morn to floral lips must hie, i could not leave thee though i said, good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye." the girl raised her head and listened for a moment, and then bent her head in some confusion. there was to her a sense of surprise in feeling that this song had, bearing its present associations, been completed by an unknown voice. lavirotte noticed the look of disquietude on the girl's face, and said lightly and bitterly: "you need not be uneasy, miss creagh. i know the man who finished my song for me, when there was no use in my going on with it. he and i are rival tenors. i will introduce you to him when we get ashore. we are the closest friends. he is the best of good fellows, and reputed--ah, i envy him--to be a woman-hater." at length the boat glided slowly through the green channel that led from the plain of the violet bay to the ridge of blue shingle. lavirotte handed the girl out as soon as they reached the beach, and, as he did so, said: "you have no objection to know my friend?" she was anxious to conciliate him in any way she might. "no," she whispered. "what a lovely voice he has." "better than mine?" he asked abruptly and harshly. "i--i," she hesitated, "am but a poor judge." "which means," he said bitterly, "that you are a good judge, and decide against me." by this time they were close to where o'donnell was. he was standing, and looking out to sea. "comrade," said lavirotte, touching him on the shoulder, "i am delighted to see you. i am in sore need of a _friend_. miss creagh has admired your singing very much. mr. o'donnell--miss creagh." "am i dreaming," thought o'donnell, "or is this beauty real?" chapter ii. there was around dominique lavirotte an air of mystery which kept the good simple folk of glengowra at bay. although, theoretically, frenchmen have always been popular in ireland, this applies rather to the mass than to the individual. there was nothing repulsive about dominique lavirotte. on the contrary, he had attractive manners, and although he spoke english with a broken accent, he spoke it fluently and faultlessly. he was agreeable in company, well-read, and possessed a shallow encyclop[ae]dic knowledge, by means of which he was enabled to give great brilliancy and point to his conversation. yet at certain moments he was taciturn, and if one attempted to break in upon his reserve he turned swiftly and snarled even at his best friend. according to his own account, he was descended from louis anne lavirotte, medical doctor, born at nolay, in the diocese of autun, somewhere about a hundred years ago, who was a most skilful physician, and one well versed in the english language. this dead doctor of a hundred years ago had devoted much of his attention while on earth to more or less obscure forms of mental disease, and had written a treatise on hydrophobia. dominique was very proud of this learned ancestor, and paid his relative of the last century the compliment of devoting some of his own time to the consideration of abnormal mental developments. indeed, some of those who knew him best said that there was a twist in his own mind, and that under extreme provocation, mental or physical, the brain would give way. lavirotte and o'donnell were as close friends as it is possible for men to be; and, notwithstanding the ten miles which separated their homes, they saw much of one another. each was young and enthusiastic, each sang tenor, and sang uncommonly well. in the town of rathclare, no young man was more popular than eugene o'donnell, and the people there thought it a thousand pities that he should select as his favourite friend a man who was not only not a resident of rathclare, but a foreigner, with mysterious ways and an uncertain temper. o'donnell laughed off all their expostulations and warnings, and said that in so far as his friend was a stranger and afflicted with a bad temper, there was all the more reason why someone should do him any little kindness he could. but the people of rathclare shook their heads gravely at the young man's temerity, and prophesied that no good would come to o'donnell of this connection. they did not like this foreigner, with his strange ways and mysterious retirements into himself. they were free and open-hearted themselves, and they liked free and open-hearted souls like o'donnell. they did not like swarthy skins; and now and then in the newspapers they read that men with swarthy skins drew knives and struck their dearest friends; that foreigners were treacherous, and not to be trusted with the lives, into the homes, or with the honour of law-abiding folk. they knew, it being a seaport, that foreigners spoke a gibberish which they affected to understand, and which was in reality no better than the language of satan. once a greek, an infamous greek, had been hanged in their town for an intolerable crime of cruelty committed on board ship; and somehow, ever since then, all foreigners, particularly swarthy foreigners, seemed in their eyes peculiarly prone to atrocious cruelties. what a luxury it must have been for this swarthy man of uncertain temper to meet and speak with ellen creagh, who was the very embodiment of all that is fair in the rich, warm sense of fairness in the north; and free in the sense of all that is open and joyous, and full of abounding confidence, in the north! during the fortnight in which he had been admitted to what he considered the infinite privilege of her society, he had fallen helplessly, hopelessly, madly in love. he had drunk in the subtle poison of her beauty with an avidity almost intolerable to himself. all the poetry and passion of his nature had gone forth ceaselessly towards that girl, as only the poetry and passion of southern blood can go forth. the violence of his feelings had astonished even himself. these feelings had grown all the more intense by the fierce repression in which he had kept them. for until that day in the boat he had never seemed to take more than a passing, polite interest in ellen. even then, in his dark and self-restrained nature, he had given no indication of the struggle within. the frenzy of his worship found no expression, and he took his dismissal with as much apparent indifference as though he had put the question to her merely out of regard to the wishes of others. yet when he said the words, "i am a ruined man," he meant the words, or rather he meant that he was determined to take an active part in his own destruction. "if i die," he thought, "what is death to me? the sun is dead, the moon is dead, the stars are dead, earth is dead, and perdition will be a release from this valley of phantoms. when life is not worth living, why should one live? i will not live. i have no cause against her, but i have cause against myself, for i am a failure." he had determined to make away with himself; he had made up his mind that he would not survive this terrible disappointment; he would go home that night and take some painless and swift poison, and so pass out of this vain world to the unknown beyond; he would not declare his intention to anyone, least of all to o'donnell, whose voice he recognised in the second stanza of the song; he knew where he could get the poison--from a friendly apothecary. they would hold an inquest on him, no doubt, and discover that he had done himself to death. her name might even get mixed up in the affair, but he could not help that. he meant to do her no harm; he simply could not and would not endure. when that meeting took place on the beach, whereat he introduced ellen to o'donnell, he had noticed the latter's start of amazed admiration. "what," thought lavirotte, "is he hit too; he, the invincible! he, the adamantine man, who has hitherto withstood all the charms of her lovely sex? it would be curious to watch this. will he too make love, and fail--succeed? ah." when this thought first occurred to lavirotte he paused in a dim, dazed way. of all men living he wished best to o'donnell, now that he might regard himself as dead. "if i am to die and she is to love, would it not be best that she should love him?" and while he was thinking thus, and as he was mentioning his friend's name to her, he saw her, too, start and seem for a moment confused. he could easily understand why it was o'donnell had started. such beauty as hers appeared potent enough to infuse the belvidere apollo with action. but why should she start? woman is not overwhelmed by the beauty of man, as man is by the beauty of woman. here it was that the demon of jealousy first entered the soul of dominique lavirotte; here it was he first inhaled the mephitic breath of jealousy, destined to poison all his life and to embitter the last moment of his existence. as the three turned away and left the blue shingle for the yellow road, the sun fell behind them, and almost imperceptibly the gray dusk of twilight gathered in the east. overhead the blue of day was becoming fainter and fainter, making way for the intenser blue of night. neither of the men seemed disposed to speak. the heart of each was full of new emotion--one of love, the other of jealousy; one of the first rapturous buoyancy of dearest hope, the other of degrading cark. nothing but the most ordinary commonplaces were uttered that night; and after the leave-taking each went a different way--she to the modest lodging where she spent her brief holiday with her mother; lavirotte to his quiet room, and o'donnell back to rathclare by the latest train leaving the village that night. when the last-mentioned got home, he astonished his father and mother by walking into the room where they were sitting, and saying abruptly: "sir, you have often advised me to marry, and i have put the matter off. are you still of your former mind?" "god bless my soul!" cried the father in astonishment. "god bless my soul, eugene, what's the matter?" he could get no further than this with surprise, and the question he asked was put merely as a matter of form, and not from any desire to ascertain the condition of his son's mind. but the mother was quicker--took in the whole situation at once, plunged at the heart of things, and asked breathlessly: "eugene, who is she?" he coloured slightly and drew back. his father was too slow, and his mother too quick for him. he preferred his mother's mode of treating the matter. the word "she" brought back to his enchanted eyes the vision he had seen on the beach. he said to himself: "my mother has no right to be so quick. for all i know to the contrary, she may be engaged to lavirotte." then aloud he said: "mother, i assure you, there is no 'she.' i never said two civil words to any girl in all my life." "eugene," she said, dropping into her lap the woollen stocking she was knitting for him, "no young man ever yet thought of marriage until thinking of some girl had put the thought into his head." he felt in a way flattered and fluttered. it was pleasant even for a moment to fancy that his mother, although she knew nothing of miss creagh, had suggested the notion he might marry her. he laughed and shook his head, and laughing and shaking his head became him. his mother looked at him half sadly, and thought: "no girl in all the world could refuse my boy--my handsome boy, my noble boy. and now one of them is going to take him away from me, who reared him, and have known him every hour since he was born." "eugene," said the father deliberately, "do i understand that you wish me to give you my opinions on marriage?" the young man burst into a loud laugh. he had got far beyond the theoretic aspect of the affair now, and his father's opinion would have made very little impression indeed when compared with the impression ellen creagh had left upon his heart. after this the three talked upon the subject of eugene's possible marriage, he telling them no more about the adventure on the beach than that the notion of marriage had been put into his mind by the sight of a most estimable young lady, in every way suited to him, but of whom he had only the slightest knowledge up to this. that night, when ellen creagh found herself in her own room, no thoughts of love were in her head. a feeling of pity for the fair young man she had met was uppermost in her head. it was not sentimental pity, but pity of a much more substantial and worldly kind. she had a letter to write, and sat down to write it. it began, "my dear ruth," and continued to narrate certain trivial matters connected with seaweed and shells. then it went on to say: "i have seen young mr. o'donnell, son of your father's great friend, here. i was quite startled when i heard the name. i was introduced to him by a friend who had told me of him before." when she had finished her letter, she addressed it to miss vernon, fitzwilliam square, dublin. she added a postscript, saying: "i hope you will soon get out of dublin. you must be weary of it this lovely weather. i shall write again in a few days." then she stood awhile at the table, musing over the events in the boat. "he could not have been serious," she thought. "i daresay if i had looked at his face i should have seen him smiling. anyway, he took it very quietly." that night dominique lavirotte slept little. "though he were my friend over and over again," he cried passionately, "he shall not. no! not if i were to----" here he covered his face with his hands. "what a horrible thought! i can see his white face now in the moonlight. why is it white? why is it moonlight? oh, god! was beauty ever such as hers?" chapter iii. it was in the full height of summer, and by the bland sea, and while gathering a bouquet of wild flowers for a girl clad in white, and sitting on a mound hard by, that eugene o'donnell had for the first time the courage to tell himself he was in love. a minute before and he had stood in great fear of this said love--it had seemed silly, childish, unworthy of a full-grown man in the perfect possession of all his faculties. and now, all at once, even while his back was towards her, and he was not under the glamour of her eye, the magic of her touch, the mysterious fascinations of her motions, when, apparently, nothing was going on in the bare daylight but the tranquil ripple of the waves on the shore below, this fear left him, and all at once he confessed to himself his love, and began to glory in it. once the flood-gate was broken down his nature knew no pause, saw no obstacle, appreciated no difficulty. turning round hastily, with the flowers in his hand and a laugh upon his lips, such a laugh as he had never laughed before, for now the whole nature of the man was stirred, he cried: "what a fool i have been, ellen." it was the first time he had called her by her name, and yet it seemed old and familiar to him. "what a fool i have been," he said, "to bother about these flowers." she blushed, and looked up timidly, and looked down bashfully, and smiled, and moved as though to rise, and then sat still. she was not familiar with her name upon his lips. "eugene," to her mind, seemed familiar, for from one reason or another, perhaps the love of brevity, she so called him when she thought of him. but to hear him call her ellen was as though her secret had been penetrated, and the fact that she called him eugene laid bare. "what a fool i have been to gather these idle flowers," he repeated. "they are but the symbols of what i could say so much better in words. may i speak?" she grew red, and then deadly pale, and seemed about to faint. her lips opened, but no sound came. "whether you give me leave or not," he said, "i must. ellen," he went on, "i think there is at this moment but one thing i believe impossible, and it is that i could ever go away from you. i never was in love before, and i don't exactly know the regular thing to say, but i'll tell you how i feel. if you were to get up off that mound now and walk away, supposing back to glengowra or to the world's end, i'd follow you. and i'd never cease to follow you, even beyond the world's end, until you turned back and put your hand in mine. that's better than these flowers," he said, tossing the bouquet from him. "it's straighter, anyway, ellen. will you give me your hand, dear?" he called her "dear," and after a little while her hand was raised slightly from where it lay, and he took it, and she let it bide with him. so the stupid flowers lay--nowhere; and two pure hearts, sweet with god's goodliest graces, were opened to the understanding of one another. then came moonlight nights to make the rich completion of the full day. he sang to her among the rocks, with the cool fresh sea washing beneath their unwearied feet. she sat clasped to him, and glad to be so clasped; and he sat strong beside her, and conscious of his strength. there was no worshipping on his part, no bowing down before a golden image. he took her to his heart in the beauty of her wholesome girlhood, as one takes a melody or a flower, without question and without any exaggeration of dearness beyond the exaggeration compelled by all beautiful things. these moonlit nights amid the rocks were the dearest things which had been, up to that, with him. there was no impediment in the course of his true love; his father was affluent; he had explained the whole matter at home; he had brought his sweetheart home, and there had she been approved of. her mother saw no reason why the handsome, good-natured, good-humoured, well-off young man should not marry her beautiful daughter; and the daughter, on her part, saw all the reasons between heaven and earth, and several others which had no existence in heaven or earth or the region between, why she should marry him. it was their custom in these moonlight nights to stroll down to that cove where their first meeting had taken place, and where the glamour of her beauty had first fallen upon him. here, of nights, were privacy, the moon and the sea, and the perfections lent to the moon and the sea by the cliffs and the rocks and the sounds of the sea (that are subtler than any voice); and now and then the sounds of the land, which take away the aerial perspective of the sea and bring to the soothed eye visions of homesteads and fallows, of sleeping woods and gentle useful beasts, of pious folk at rest by night and pious folk at rest for ever; and, over all, the limitless quiet of night. here on several occasions they sat for hours, from the late sunset, through the late dusk, into the dark. and once or twice, when he bade her good-bye at her mother's gate, he stole back again to the cove which had been the theatre of the magic drama in which he was acting. he now lived in the village, and often sat at the cove until the blue dawn blotted out the bluer night, and the seagulls awoke, and the sails of the fishing-boats out in the bay were trimmed for home. all this time, though he knew it not, a shadow dogged him, an evil shadow, a morally misshapen shadow, a pitiless dark shadow, that hid here and there where it could, behind wall, or tree, or rock, and ever glared unwholesomely. the shadow of a swarthy man, of a man that showed his teeth in the moonlight and fumbled something in his pocket; a sinister stealthy shadow, that boded good to no one, lurked, and dodged, and followed in the footsteps of the lovers like the evil genius of their career. when all had been settled between the lovers, ellen had written to mrs. vernon and obtained release from her duties in that household. a month had now gone by since that meeting on the shingle, and it was arranged that in another month the wedding was to take place. the course of true love was running as smooth as the planets in their orbits. the happiest man and woman in ireland were eugene o'donnell and ellen creagh. as the days went by that cove grew dearer to his heart; and even now, when the moon was making moonlight for lovers somewhere else, he, eugene o'donnell, could not keep away from it, nor could he sleep. one night he left her at her mother's gate and walked slowly down the road to the cove. it was dark for a summer night. yet still there was light enough to see a large object, say the figure of a man, fifty yards off. he knew the ground as a farmer knows his farm. following the declivity of the road he soon arrived at the broken ground. here was a high rock on the right, high enough to conceal a man; and here, behind this rock, was hidden a man with gleaming teeth, and in his right hand a gleaming blade. as o'donnell drew near the rock the man sprang forth, seized the other by the throat with the left hand, and, whirling up his right, whispered: "you shall never marry her." "lavirotte! lavirotte! my god, lavirotte, are you mad?" "yes, and you are dead." the hand holding the knife descended swiftly. chapter iv. instinctively o'donnell shot his left hand upward and seized the descending wrist. but the force in lavirotte's arm was too great to be overcome. the blow was diverted; but the long, keen blade tipped the shoulder, tore through the cloth of the coat, and buried itself in the flesh, just above the shoulder-blade. "heavens and earth, man! what's the matter?" cried o'donnell, rendered almost powerless, more by astonishment than pain. "death!" cried the infuriated man--"your death!--that's what's the matter." and, withdrawing the knife, lie raised his arm once more aloft. o'donnell now plainly saw that he was indeed dealing with a madman, or, at least, with a man who seriously intended taking his life. still retaining his hold on the right wrist, he seized lavirotte by the throat and shook him violently. the pain in his shoulder was nothing. it was no more than if he had been touched by a piece of iron just uncomfortably hot. yet he felt confused and queer in his head, as though he had received the blow on his head, rather than on his shoulder. lavirotte now seized o'donnell by the throat, and for a while, with the two hands raised in the air--the one holding the knife, the other the wrist of the hand that held it--the two men struggled fiercely. it was a matter of life and death. o'donnell had now lost all care for the cause of the attack, and was simply engaged in a brute attempt to defend his life against a brute attack. both men were mad. both men had now lost everything but the instinct of victory. all the faculties of each were concentrated upon the muscles each used--upon the advantages each gained--upon the chances each afforded. each now meant to kill, and to kill speedily--to kill with all the force, all the power, all the devices of his body. one was armed and whole; the other was unarmed and hurt. both were sensible that this conflict could not last many minutes. the two twisted and writhed and struggled abroad on the open way. now they swayed this way, now that. now, as though one were about to fall; now, as though the other. now one strove to throw the other by the aid of mere weight and muscle; now the other sought to win by the force of strangulation. meanwhile, above the heads of both rose the two upstretched arms--one hand clasped around a wrist, one hand holding a bloody knife. the two men's faces were livid. they breathed only now and then, and with terrible difficulty. their eyes were dilated and protruding, the nostrils wide set and quivering. for some time, he knew not how long--he never knew how long the fight lasted--o'donnell had felt something warm trickling down his back. he was bleeding freely. he was half suffocated. he felt he must succumb. for an instant everything was dark. suddenly he saw once more; his vision, his senses were restored, but only to reveal to him the fact that his powers were failing swiftly. the two men rocked and swayed in the broad roadway leading towards the cove. neither knew nor cared which way he went, so long as he might cling to the other. at the moment when o'donnell's faculties returned, after that instant's unconsciousness, the two men were struggling a few feet from the rock behind which lavirotte had hidden. "now," thought o'donnell swiftly, "for one last effort; if i fail he will kill me." suddenly relaxing his knees, he stooped so as to bring his head on a level with the shoulder of his antagonist; then, loosing his hold of lavirotte's throat, he seized him by the ankle, and, putting all his strength into his right arm and back, he sought to lift and throw the other. but his strength was gone; his head was dizzy; his eyes grew dim. finally, all was dark once more. he lurched heavily forward, striking his antagonist in the chest with his head. lavirotte stumbled and fell backwards. o'donnell struggled for a moment to regain his upright position, but his strength was spent; he was unconscious, and subsided in the middle of the road. now was lavirotte's opportunity. o'donnell could not have resisted a child. the most cowardly cut-throat that ever lifted steel need have no fear of him. the darkness increased as the night went on. by this time it had grown so great that it was impossible to see an arm's length. the sky, for all the light it gave, might as well have been the solid earth. no sound stirred the profound silence save the mellow washing of the waves upon the shore. it was sultry and suffocating. now and then the air panted, beating this way and that in little hot gusts that brought no freshness and left no coolness behind. although the murmuring of the sea filled the night with a low plaintive music, the silence seemed to deepen as the minutes went by. at length a form began to stir. for a while the man did not seem to know where he was, or the circumstances which had led to his condition. it was only by feeling around him he was able to know he was in the open air. he felt the road, the stones, the sunbaked clay of the road. then he listened intently awhile, and by his hearing confirmed the notion that he was in the open air. that was the murmur of the sea. these little puffs of wind that beat against his face showed he was not between walls. ah! now something of it came back. there had been a struggle of some kind, a fight with someone. what was it exactly? this was the road to the cove. of course it was. the sea lay beyond there somewhere. to the right, to the left, no matter where, the sea was somewhere near. it would be good to get down to the sea and lie down in its cool waters, for he was aching and burning. what a fearful thirst! his tongue was parched, baked dry as the baked clay on which he sat. he had been hurt, how or why he could not recollect. there had been a fight. that was all right. but why he had fought or with whom, these were the mysteries. oh! why did they not bring him some water? he was dying of thirst, and no one would come. he didn't remember going to bed. he never felt so sleepy in all his life before. it was a kind of deathly sleep, a sleep with no mercy in it, a sleep that promised no ease, no repose, no alleviation of the torturing uncertainties. such a bed, too; it was as hard as iron. what did they mean by giving so sleepy a man such a bed? what nonsense it was for his mother to sing a lullaby. he was a grown man, and needed no such inducement to sleep. oh, this terrible, tyrannical sleep that brought no ease, no repose. how strange that the cathedral organ should be booming away in the dark! if service was going on, why not have lights? lights! was it magic? no sooner did he think of them than the whole cathedral blazed out for one brief moment, and then fell back into darkness again. it was marvellous, incredible; and the cathedral seemed so vast, vaster than the reason could believe, although the eye had seen it. and, then, there was the music once again. why did the organist play only when the lights were out? that was the swell organ. it was the loudest organ he had ever heard. what seemed most incredible of all was the organ was big enough to fill the church, and did fill it, until it made the windows, the pillars, ay, the very ground itself tremble. ground! ay, surely it was the ground. how extraordinary that he should be lying on the ground! what was this so delicious and cool? cool and refreshing after that horrible dream of fighting with someone, and then waking on a road. and yet there was something in that dream, for this was a road. he sat up. it was very extraordinary. it was the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened to him in his life. was he alive, in the old familiar sense of that word? of course he was, for this was a road, and he knew it was a road, and---lightning--thunder--rain. what was that he had seen beside him? the rain was refreshing. it was cooling his head, collecting his thoughts. what was that he had seen beside him? more lightning--thunder--rain. what was that beside him? lavirotte--dead. chapter v. lavirotte dead! absurd. now he remembered how it had been. lavirotte had sprung upon him out of the shadow of that rock, and seized him and sought to kill him, because lavirotte was mad with jealousy, or with southern blood, or with something else or other, no matter what--mad anyway. and there was that burning sensation in his shoulder, and the fever in his blood, and that--ugh!--clammy feeling down his back, but lavirotte dead? no; the very notion was preposterous. now he remembered the struggle. another flash. another roar of thunder. another deluge of rain. he looked wonderfully like death in that blue light. and yet in that struggle he (o'donnell) did not remember having struck the other. it was a common tussle, an irregular wrestle, with the supreme interest of a knife added by lavirotte. that was all. yet he lay there motionless, and it must have been a considerable time since he fell. with great difficulty and a sense of oppression, o'donnell rose partly, and crawled towards the prostrate man. "dominique," he whispered, "dominique, what is the matter? rouse up." there was no response. the form of the frenchman lay there motionless, inert, nerveless. o'donnell raised an arm; it fell back again into the mud of the road, unsustained by any trace of vitality. "what can it be?" thought o'donnell, straightening himself, as another flash of lightning revealed the pallid face of lavirotte. he waited for the thunder to pass, and then, putting his hands around his mouth, shouted with all the strength that was left in him: "help! help! help!" the storm had not been unnoticed in the village, and many were awake. james crotty, boatman, had been roused by the first peal of thunder, had filled a pipe, undone the door of his cottage, and come out to see how the night went. his boat was moored in the cove, but as there was no wind his mind was easy about her. his wife and little ones were safe asleep in the cottage, and his mind was easy about them. at the best of times he was a light sleeper and a great smoker, and took a boatman's interest in the weather, fair or foul, but had a particular interest in the great conflicts of nature. while he was standing in the doorway he was within a few hundred yards of the two men below near the cove. his cottage was about half-way down the road, and it was quite possible to hear an ordinary speaking voice from where the men now were. when o'donnell's loud cry for help rang out in the stillness, crotty started, and then listened intently. no other sound followed. there was no mistaking the nature of that cry. he had heard the word as distinctly as though it were spoken in the dark room behind him. "it can't be any of the men," he said, meaning the fishermen of the place. "it is too early for any of the boats to be back, and too late for them to be going out. what can have brought anyone down there at this hour? i'd better go and see, anyway." he went down the little garden in front of his cottage, and gained the road. he turned to the left. then he went on slowly, cautiously, keeping to the middle of the road. "who's there?" he called out. "what's the matter?" "here," cried o'donnell faintly, "this way. help." the rain had now ceased, and the silence was intense. far out there in the darkness was the soft washing of the wavelets on the shore. no other sound burdened the night. guided by o'donnell's voice, crotty now walked on with decision. "what's the matter?" he called out again. "who is it?" o'donnell's voice answered from the darkness. "it is i, o'donnell." "oh, mr. o'donnell, is it you? what's the matter?" "i'm hurt, badly i think, and here is mr. lavirotte insensible. i know how i got my hurt." crotty was now close to the speaker. "that makes no difference; but i don't know how mr. lavirotte was hurt." "maybe 'twas a fight," said crotty, in a tone of interest. a fight is always an interesting thing, but a fight here and on such a night as this was something which crotty did not feel himself justified in treating with anything but the greatest respect. "never mind what has been," said o'donnell feebly. "the thing is to get him to the village and call a doctor. i can't be of much help. i am quite weak. come now, crotty, look sharp. knock them up at maher's, tell them to put a horse in, and be back here in no time, and let there be a doctor at hand by the time we get back. run now. don't lose a minute." "and leave you here by yourself, hurt? aren't you strong enough to walk as far as maher's, or my place even?" "no. be off. every second you wait is killing us." crotty started at the top of his speed, and in less than half-an-hour returned with a car from maher's hotel. he had brought a lantern, and he and the driver carried lavirotte to the car, and sat him up on it. then crotty got up and held the insensible man. o'donnell got up on the other side, and thus they drove to the hotel. here the doctor was awaiting them. "what's this, o'donnell?" he said. he knew the two men thoroughly. "you two have been quarrelling. what is the meaning of this? blood on both! nasty scalp wound. don't think the bone is broken. clear case of concussion. what did you hit him with?" "nothing," said o'donnell. "is it dangerous?" "dangerous! i should think it is dangerous. dangerous enough to mean manslaughter, it may be." "good heavens!" cried o'donnell, faintly. "i assure you i never struck him." "all right. stick to that. it never does to make admissions. what's the matter with you? blood and mud all over. cut off his coat. here, give me the scissors. no bleeding except here. ugly cut." "is it much?" said o'donnell, very weak now. "yes, it's a good hit." "will it do for me?" "i don't think so, if you have luck. he has a much better chance of going than you. what _did_ you hit him with, o'donnell? it was a terrible blow. something blunt--a stone, or something of that kind. it's a downright shame that two young fellows like you, of good education, and so on, should fall to hacking and battering one another in this brutal way, and at midnight, too. it's more like assassination than fighting. a woman in the matter, eh?" "for heaven's sake, hush, o'malley." "all right. i'm not a magistrate. my business is with the bruises, not with the row, or the cause of the row; but i'm sure it's a woman. men don't go ripping one another open for anything else nowadays." "i swear to you, o'malley, as far as i am concerned, there was no row, and that i did not strike him." "who else was with you?--although i'm not in the least curious. that was a tremendous blow. i can't make it out. if he had stabbed you first, i don't think you could have struck that blow. i can't make it out. i can't do any more for you now. you mustn't lie on it, you know." "o'malley," said o'donnell, "i want you to do me a great favour." "oh, my dear fellow, you needn't be afraid that i'm going to swear an information. it's nothing to me if two fellows go hacking and slashing at one another. i shouldn't like to see either of you killed outright for the finest woman in creation." "do stop, o'malley, like a good fellow. i'll tell you what you must do for me. i want you to break the matter to her to-morrow morning the first thing." suddenly the manner of the glib doctor changed. "my dear fellow, i have been very impertinent, very thoughtless, very rude, and as soon as you are quite well you shall punch my head, and welcome. i had clean forgotten that you are going to be married. when you do punch my head, i hope it won't be quite so terribly as poor lavirotte's. i'll do anything in the world i can for you. what am i to say? she's at her mother's, i suppose." "yes; she's at her mother's. the fact is, i don't exactly know what to say. i can't tell her the truth." "and you want me to tell her a lie, eh?" "no, no; i would not be so rude as to ask you to do anything of the kind. the fact of the matter is, i can tell and trust you----" "stop, o'donnell, don't. don't tell me anything you want to keep quiet. if you told me now 'twould be known in china at breakfast-time. i'm dying to know all about it, but, as your friend, i recommend you not to tell me a word of it. what shall i tell her?" "that i have been a little hurt." "lie no. 1. you are a good deal hurt." "that i shall soon be all right." "lie no. 2. for a man who wouldn't be so rude as to ask me to tell a lie, you are getting on marvellously." "and that you do not know how i got the hurt." "truth this time, by jove, for a change. and most unpleasant truth, too, for i really am most curious to know." "then you shall know." "no; as your friend i decline to listen. there, i promised to do the best for you. i'll lie as much as ever i choose, and confound your politeness for not asking me. there, now, you mustn't speak any more. you must keep as quiet as possible." and after a few words more of instruction the busy, talkative little doctor left o'donnell. lavirotte had been put in another room. o'malley went to him, and again examined his condition, and then left the hotel. when o'donnell was alone, he thought to himself: "i suppose if lavirotte recovers, we may be able to hush the matter up. but if he dies--great heavens, what a thought!--there will be a trial, and how will it go with me? i can prove nothing. i know nothing of how he came by this hurt. it will seem to anyone that we fought. it may seem that i was the aggressor. that i attacked him foully, and killed him ruthlessly while he was trying to defend his life. this is a terrible thought. it will drive me mad. why, they may bring in a verdict of murder! they may hang me. innocent men have been hanged before. hang me on the very day that i was to have been married. what can i do for you, nellie? what better can i do for you, nellie, than die here?" chapter vi. the next morning after the encounter on the road, all nature seemed refreshed, rehabilitated. the grass sparkled green with rain, the trees glittered in the sun, the air was pure and cool and sweet. not a cloud darkened the sky. the whole world seemed full of joy and lusty health. one felt that something had occurred, some burden had been withdrawn from the earth, some portentous influence had retired. early bathers were hurrying towards the strand before dr. o'malley was stirring. when he awoke, the events of the previous night at once flashed into his mind. "here's a nice pickle," he thought. "mysterious event--two men half-killed--both deserve to be killed, no doubt--eminent medical man called in--eminent medical man treats with the utmost skill--no confidence beyond confidence in his professional ability reposed in medical man--medical man entrusted with a mission--mission to console beauty--infernal nuisance!--infernal nuisance, tom o'malley! i suppose there's nothing for it but to keep your word, and do half-an-hour's clever lying to this miracle." between seven and eight o'clock the post was delivered in glengowra. "i'll wait till i see if there are any letters," said o'malley to himself. "my appointment as surgeon-general to the forces may at this moment be the property of her majesty's postmaster-general. i suppose if they do offer i must accept. oh, dear! why didn't i think of making love to this paragon? poor girl! it's no laughing matter for her this morning." the post brought no letter for dr. o'malley, and as soon as the carrier had gone by, o'malley put on his hat and set out for the house where mrs. creagh lived. the postman was still in the street, and o'malley gradually overtook him. at the rate the two men walked, allowing for time lost by the postman in delivering letters, the doctor would arrive at mrs. creagh's half-an-hour before the other. he found all stirring at the widow's place. he had some doubt as to whether he should tell the mother first; but, on second consideration, he decided that miss creagh was entitled to the earliest news. he knocked at the door and was shown in. "when nellie entered the room she was dressed in white, the same dress she had worn that day he threw away the flowers and used words instead. of all the things looking fresh to the doctor's eyes that morning she seemed freshest. the bloom of perfect health was on her cheek, the light of perfect health was in her eye. she wore no ornament but her engaged ring and a rose in her hair. "it's a pity," thought the little doctor, "that such a glorious creature as that should ever be troubled or grow old. what are kings and princes and all the powers and vanities of the world--what are all your roman triumphs--compared to such amazing perfection?" "a very early call," he said, "but i was up and i thought i'd look in. it would be impertinence to ask you how you are. i had a little business this way, and, as i said, i thought i'd look in." the girl smiled. her face remained unclouded. "i know a call at this hour is not convenient or considerate, but i had a little thing to say to you." "something to say to me?" she said, with a look of gentle surprise. what could he have to say to her so early? she smiled faintly as though to encourage him; for now it struck her suddenly that what he had to say was not pleasant. "the fact is, a little accident has occurred. i am a doctor, and know what i am saying. it is the merest scratch. you must not be alarmed. there now, sit still." she had risen. all the bloom had now left her cheeks. a little still lingered at her lips. "you may tell me, dr. o'malley. i know he is not dead. i can see that by your face. where is he?" "sit down. my dear young lady, you are going too fast. dead! why he's nearly as well as ever, and will be better than ever in a short time." "tell me all," she said. "may i go to him?" "i haven't seen him this morning yet. better wait till after breakfast." "where is he?" "at maher's." "dr. o'malley, tell me exactly what has happened." something strained and rigid in her voice warned him that he must be quick if he meant to be merciful. "there was a stupid quarrel of some kind," he said, "and he got a slight wound--i assure you not in the least dangerous." "with whom was the quarrel?" "with mr. lavirotte." "mr. lavirotte--mr. lavirotte! did mr. lavirotte _stab_ eugene?" "yes, a mere nothing, though, a pin-hole. you will be angry with me for causing you any uneasiness when you know how slight it is." "why did lavirotte stab eugene?" "because there was some foolish quarrel; i really don't know what. it's ridiculous to call the thing a stab; it's a mere scratch." "is lavirotte hurt?" "yes; he is more hurt than o'donnell. but putting the two hurts together, i assure you they're hardly worth talking of." the straightforward calmness of this girl was terrifying him. he was becoming fidgety, and not well able to gauge the value of the words he used. "you know the cause of the quarrel?" "upon my honour i do not." "you know the cause of the quarrel. we need not mention it now. you see how calm i am. you must tell me the truth. are you sure _neither_ of these men will die?" "i--i----" "mind, _sure?_" "i am as sure as man can be o'donnell will not die." "but lavirotte will?" "lavirotte may. it is impossible to say. i left him unconscious. he is unconscious still." "i will not wait till after breakfast. i will go now. stay a moment--i must tell mother, and get my hat; i will not keep you long." as the girl left the room, the postman turned into that street. as she came into the room again, with her hat and gloves on, the postman walked up the little garden and handed in a letter. it bore the dublin postmark, and was addressed to "miss creagh." her mother, who was in the hall, took the letter into the room where the doctor and the girl were standing. "a letter for you, nellie," the mother said. "will you keep it until you come back? it's from ruth, i think." "i'll take it with me," said the girl, and put the letter in her pocket. "ruth," she said, in the same calm, unmoved voice, "is one of my pupils in dublin. now, dr. o'malley, if you are ready, let us go." "she will not let me go with her," said the mother, in a tone of concern. "i am better alone, mother," said the girl, and she turned and moved out of the room. o'malley followed her, and in a few minutes, which were passed in silence, they were at the hotel. o'malley went upstairs to the room where o'donnell lay. "all going on well?" he said briskly to the patient. he went through the ordinary formalities. "yes," he said, "all going on well. very little fever. we shall have you all right in time for your wedding. you can go away then and pick up strength, amuse yourself for a month or two." "have you seen her?" asked o'donnell. "how did she take it?" "yes, i've seen her. she took it like an angel, like a heroine. i gave her leave to come and see you later." "when do you think she'll be here?" asked the invalid. "oh, at some reasonable time. young ladies don't visit at eight o'clock in the morning. you'll promise to keep yourself quiet when she does come?" "very quiet. did she get a great shock?" "not so much a shock as a turn. will you promise to be very quiet if i let her come soon? the fact is, o'donnell, she will be here in a few minutes. there, of course, you guessed it; she is here already; she came with me. now i'll go down, and she may come up and see you, but you must not talk too much." while the brisk little doctor was preparing o'donnell for the visit of nellie, the latter took out her letter and began to read it. suddenly her face, which had been pallid ever since she heard the bad news, flushed, and she uttered an exclamation of dismay. "such news," she cried, "and on this morning!" the letter ran as follows: "my dear nellie, i told you i would write you if there was any news. there is news, and very bad news, i am sorry to say. papa came home in the middle of the day quite unexpectedly, and told mamma that all was over and we were ruined. i don't think it's known in town yet, but mother told me everyone would know it to-morrow. this is dreadful. mamma and papa are awfully cut up. i write you this news at once, because, of course, dear, you are greatly interested in mr. o'donnell, and his father is in some way mixed up with papa. i hope it will not hurt your _friend_." then followed an account of some family matters, and the signature, "ruth vernon." "i must not say a word of this to eugene now," she thought. "he told me his father was very largely mixed up with mr. vernon. of course i could not tell eugene. i feared there was something wrong there, but i was bound in honour, and by my promise to ruth, not to speak of it to anybody living. when i met him first on the beach, and lavirotte introduced us, i was greatly struck by the coincidence that i should meet him, knowing as i did, that he might suffer greatly if anything happened to mr. vernon." in a few minutes o'malley came down and said she might go up. "he is getting on well," he said cheerfully, "and there's nothing in the world to fear." that day went over quietly at glengowra. early in the afternoon lavirotte recovered consciousness. the police had got scent of the affair, and were making inquiries. in the afternoon news reached the village that the great banking-house of vernon and son had failed for an enormous sum. it was kept from o'donnell, but lavirotte heard it. "i must telegraph to london," he said. "someone must write the telegram for me." the body of the message ran as follows: "vernon and son bankrupt. see about your money at once. am ill, and cannot go over." when the telegram reached london it was delivered to a young woman of twenty years of age, who grew pale and flushed, and flushed and pale again, upon reading it. "what?" she cried, "dominique ill. my darling suffering and i not near him. i will leave to-night for glengowra. stop! i must get money somewhere first. i have none, not a penny--the attorney told me he would have my money to-day. these people are pressing me for the rent. they are hateful creatures. i will go to the solicitor at once. i can pay what i owe then, and go over by to-night's mail." she put on her things. the landlady was waiting in the hall. the landlady would feel obliged if miss harrington would give her the rent now, before going out. she really must insist on being paid now. she could not afford to give six weeks' credit, and she had had an application for the rooms. there were six guineas for the rooms and ten guineas for meat and drink, sixteen in all. would miss harrington pay or leave, please? miss harrington would pay upon her return from her solicitor. oh, that old story about the solicitor! people could not go on believing this old tale for ever. if miss harrington did not bring the money with her, she need not come back that day. whatever she had upstairs would not pay half the bill, and indeed miss harrington ought not to go out with her watch and chain and leave struggling people so pressed for money. the tears were now falling fast from the young girl's eyes. she was alone, friendless, in london. she had not a coin in her possession. she took off her watch and chain and laid them silently upon the hall table. she made a great effort at self-control, and said, pointing to the third finger of her left hand: "i have nothing else of value but this. shall i leave it also? it was given to me by one very dear to me." "it would help," said the landlady, "and i have my husband and children to think of." then she took off the ring--his ring--the ring he had given her to wear until he gave her a simpler one with a holier meaning. she put the ring down on the table beside the watch and chain. then her heart hardened against this woman, and no more tears came, and bowing slightly she said good-bye and left the place, meaning never to return. she went to her solicitor's. he was away. would his managing clerk do? yes, anyone who could give her information about her affairs. the managing clerk had bad news--it was terrible news indeed. they had not been able to get the money from vernon and son. vernon and son were bankrupts according to to-day's reports, and all her money was gone. would there be none of it coming to her? no. owing to the way in which the money was lent there was no chance of getting any back. then she left the office, homeless, friendless, penniless. she had not even a shilling to telegraph to him--her dominique. whither should she go? where should she turn? to the river. chapter vii. dora harrington found herself in the strand, in the full light of a summer's day, homeless, friendless, penniless. her last chance was gone. vernon and son, who held all the money she owned in the world, had failed, and failed in such a way as to leave no prospect of her ever getting a penny out of the five thousand pounds confided to them. she was an orphan, and had spent much of her life out of these kingdoms. she knew nothing of business. mr. kempston, her solicitor, had been appointed her guardian, with full discretionary powers as to the disposal of her property. she and he had not agreed too well, for she had wished to marry lavirotte, and he had opposed her desires. she had wished to get control of her property, and had been denied, and the relations between her guardian and herself had of late been most straitened. only for his good-humour in the matter there would have been an open rupture. he had politely, but firmly, refused to agree to either of her suggestions. she had impulsively, warmly protested against what she called his interference in her affairs. two years ago she had first met lavirotte. she was then a young girl of eighteen. she met him at a concert of amateurs in london. he made love to her, and she fell in love with him. he proposed, and she had accepted. then he explained his position. he was not rich enough to marry. she told him she had a little money--she thought about five thousand pounds. he laughed, and said that might be enough for one, but was no good for two, adding, bitterly, that he did not know how he could possibly advance himself in the world. he was then the only photographer in the small town or village of glengowra, and the chance of his getting into any better way of making money did not seem likely to him. "you sing very well," she said. "you have a good voice, and you know music. have you never thought of music as a profession?" he had never thought of music as a profession until then. he was only twenty-two at the time. he knew very well he could not afford to go to italy or even to the conservatoire. he had no money laid by, nor was there any likelihood of his having money to lay by. then she suggested that he should borrow some of her. to this he would not listen. if he were not able to attain a competency himself, he would never put it in the power of fools to say that he had climbed into a profession aided by anyone, least of all by his future wife. after much talk and expostulation on her side, he was induced to agree to accept the loan of a few hundred pounds. then it was that she went to her solicitor and guardian, told him she had made up her mind with regard to her future, and that the man of her choice was a frenchman, by name lavirotte, and by profession a photographer in the town of glengowra, in ireland. the solicitor was considerably surprised, and said he should not be able to come to any decision for a few days. mr. kempston was a bachelor, and had no means of taking care of his ward beyond the ordinary appliances of his profession. he could not invite her to his bachelor home, and her income was not sufficiently large to warrant him in appointing a lady companion or chaperon of any kind; all he could do in her interest was to find her moderately comfortable lodgings, and see that she regularly received the dividends on her shares in the banking concern of vernon and son. mr. kempston was the sole surviving executor and trustee to her father's will, and in the exercise of his discretion he had invested her five thousand pounds in shares of vernon and son, unlimited. she knew nothing whatever of business, and mr. kempston's managing clerk, in alluding to her money as lent to the bankrupt firm, was simply using popular language, and attorning to the ignorance of business inherent in the female mind. he knew very well that she, being a shareholder, had not only lost all the money she owned, but was liable to the very last shred of her possessions for any further demands which might be made upon her with regard to this failure. he had felt himself fully justified in telling her she had lost all her fortune, that she was, in fact, a pauper; but he had not felt himself called upon to explain that later on she would appear in the light of a defaulter. dora harrington, now an outcast from home, and fortune, and friends, found herself in the great city of london absolutely without resources of any kind. her money was gone, she knew. her guardian and she were no more than business correspondents. her lover's position in glengowra forbade the hope he might ever be able to marry her, and she had within herself no art or knowledge by which she could hope to earn a living. what was now to be done? where should she eat that evening? where should she sleep that night? nowhere! where was nowhere? the river. and yet to be only twenty years of age, and beautiful, as she had been told, and still driven to the river by the mere fact of a few pounds this way or that, seemed terribly hard to one who knew she had done no harm. if he were but near her! but he was poor and hurt, and it would only help his pain if he knew that she had been cruelly hurt by fortune. and yet, how could she live? where could she go? whither should she turn? the world of life seemed closed against her, and only the portals of death seemed fit for her escape. to be so young, to love and be loved, and yet to have no avenue before one but that leading to the ghastly tomb, appeared hard indeed. it is true that of late her dominique had seemed less eager in his haste to write to her, less fervent in his expressions, less tender in his regard. but this may have been owing to his sense of inability to face the future with her maintenance added to the charges upon his slender means. there was no prospect of his advancing himself to any substantial result. he had written her, saying he had devoted much of his time lately to the cultivation of his voice and the art of music. that, in fact, he was now leading tenor in the choir of the church. but he was careful to explain to her that this meant no financial advancement, and that in fact it was to him the source of some small losses of time and money. besides, there was no one in glengowra who knew much of music save the two organists, and the knowledge of even these was not of much use to anyone who had to think purely of voice culture as opposed to instrumentalism. in the present there seemed no germ of hope. the future was a blank, or worse than a blank. and to-day, now, this hour, was an intolerable burden which could not be endured. and yet how was she to remove it? how was she to get from under this crushing sense of ruin? it was plain to her that the ardour of his affection was cooling, not owing to any indifference on his part to herself, but owing to the fact that he recognised, even with the prospect of her five thousand pounds a year hence, the impossibility of their union. now that five thousand pounds had vanished wholly, and the possibility of their marriage had been reduced to an almost certain negative. what should she do? what was there to be done? the answer to this question did not admit of any delay. between this moment and the moment of absolute want was but an hour, two hours, three hours, a condition which must arise absolutely by sunset. she could do nothing. it was possible to walk about the streets, no doubt, until death overtook her; but why should she wait for death. if death were coming, why should she not go and meet him half-way? still it was hard to die. to die now in the full summer, when one was young and full of health, although bankrupt in hope, when the sun was bright, and the air was clear, and great london at its most beautiful. to die now without even the chance of communicating with him, dominique? he, too, was ill, dying perhaps. yes, he was dying. his affection towards her seemed waning. he had no worldly prospect, and her little fortune was wholly gone. if death would only come in some pleasant shape she would greet it gladly; but the notion of wooing death was cold and repugnant. the waters of the river were chill, and full of noises and foul contagion. people had not willed themselves into life; why should they not be allowed to will themselves out of it? for hours she walked along the crowded streets of london. moment by moment faintness and the sense of dereliction grew upon her. the active troubles of the morning had passed away, and were now succeeded by a dull numbing sense of hopelessness. she had no longer the energy to protest against her fate. she moved through the crowded ways without hope, without fear, without anticipation, without retrospection. she had the dull, dead sense of being an impertinence in life, nothing more. she wished that life were done with her. life was now a tyrannical taskmaster, who obliged her to walk on endlessly, with no goal in view; who compelled her to pass among this infinite multitude, debarred of all sympathy with them, of all participation in their joys. at length the sun fell, and minute by minute the busy streets grew stiller. the great human tide of london was ebbing to the cool and leafy suburbs. she found herself in a neighbourhood which she had never before trodden. she had passed st. paul's, going east, and then turned down some dark, deserted way, until she found the air growing cooler and the place stiller. "i must be near the thames," she thought. "fate is directing my steps. the future is a blank. let the present be death." she was now beginning to feel faint from physical exhaustion. she had sought that solitary way because she found she could no longer walk steadily. she had eaten nothing that day. it was now close to midnight. this place seemed so sequestered, so far away from the feet of men, that she felt she might lie down and sleep until the uprousing of the great city. but she thought: "if i sleep here, i shall wake here, and what good will that be to me? if i sleep in the river, i shall wake--elsewhere." she found herself under a square tower. she leaned against the wall, irresolute or faint. she moaned, but uttered no word. in a few moments she placed her hand against the wall and pushed herself from it, as though repelling a final entreaty. then she staggered down the street and into a narrow laneway that led to the river. chapter viii. it was midnight, and as silent as the grave. the quality of the silence was peculiar; for although no sound stirred the air close at hand, there was, beyond the limits at which the ear could detect individual sounds, from minute to minute a tone of deep murmur, which would have been like the noises of a distant sea but that it was pulseless. overhead hung an impenetrable cloud of darkness. there was no moon, no star, no light from the north. looking right overhead, one saw nothing, absolutely nothing. the eyes of the living were, when turned towards the sky, as useless as the eyes of the dead. but casting the eyes down, one could see roofs, and towers, and spires, and domes, dim and ghastly in the veiled underlight, glowing upward from the streets of a vast city. no wind stirred. the broad river, with its radial gleams of light shooting towards the lamps, moved no more than an inland lake into which no stream whispers, from which no stream hurries forth. it was high water. looking down from the giddy height, no moving forms could be seen, a policeman had passed under a little while ago, and none would pass again for a little while more, except some thief on his way to plunder the living, or some poor, troubled, outcast brother on his way to the river to join the silent confraternity of the dead. the leads were slippery with dew and green slime; the battlements were clammy and cold. to look straight down one should raise himself slightly on the parapet of the embrasure. then he saw a perpendicular chasm, two hundred feet deep on his side, a hundred feet deep on the side opposite. on the four sides of the leads were four such chasms, and in all of them lay the dark heavy gloom of that summer night, save where once in each cleft there burned a fiery point--the gas-lamp--to scare the unlawful and light the harmless through the silent ways--part of the mighty city-labyrinth lying below. on the leads it was impossible to see anything. from parapet to parapet, from battlement to battlement, from embrasure to embrasure was to the eye a purposeless void. it was impossible to guide the movements except by the sense of touch; for although when one gazed downward on the roofs below, the chequered glow hanging above the street gave the eye purpose, when one drew back from the parapet all was dark, the dull reflection of the city's light did not reach upward far enough to illume the open space within the four walls. yet there was life and motion on those leads, in that darkness set in the solitude. a heavy, slow tread could be heard now and then, and now and then groans, and now and then words of protest and anger, bitter reproach, tremulous entreaty, fierce invective, and passionate lamentation. the voice was high and quavering like that of a woman overwrought, or a man overwrought or broken down by sorrows or by years. then these sounds would cease, the footsteps, the groans, the words, and the silence of a blind cave in which no water dripped, and which harboured only the whispering and confounded echoes of a far-off stream, fell upon the place and filled out the measure of its isolation. the slow measured tread of the policeman broke in once more upon the listening ear, gained, reached its height, and was lost in the still ocean of darkness. "i am accursed. nothing favours me. all is against me. no wind! no rain! wind and rain are my only friends. they are the only things which can now be of service to me, and for a week there has been neither." the querulous, complaining voice was hushed. the shuffling feet moved rapidly across the leads. then all was still once more. stop! what is that? in the street below an echo to the wail above? no words can be heard, yet the purport of the voice is unmistakable. the listener catches the import of those tones. he has heard similar sounds before. "it is a woman," he says. "men never whine here, and at this hour, going that way! in a quarter of an hour it will be all over with her. a quarter of an hour! how long have i been here, slaving and toiling day and night, carrying away bit by bit what lies between me and affluence, and to think that in a quarter of an hour, from one bell of the clock of st. paul's to the next, i might find an end to all my hopes, and fears, and labours, and lie at peace, as far as this world is. hark! why does she pause beneath? she cannot suspect, no one can suspect why i am here. all the dreary months of terror and sweat that i have spent here never drew from me one word, one sign which could give a clue." the figure of a woman in the street below could be seen dimly on the other side of the way. she leaned against the wall, irresolute or faint. she moaned, but uttered no word. in a few moments she placed her hand against the wall and pushed herself from it as though repelling a final entreaty. then she staggered down the street and into a narrow laneway that led to the river. "she is gone," said the voice in the darkness. "she is taking all her troubles with her to the greasy thames. why should not i, too, take all my troubles thither and end my care? a quarter past! before the half-hour strikes, i and my secret, my great secret, might be gone for ever. has she a secret, or is it only the poor want of bread and shelter, or is it unkindness, a hope destroyed, love outraged, affection slighted? why should i inquire?" from the narrow lane into which she had struck, a moan reached the listener's ears. "she is in no great haste. this is not the despair of sudden ruin to life or hopes. her misfortunes have crawled gradually upon her, with palsied feet and blows that maddened because they never ceased--not brave blows that drive one furious and to swift despair. _i_ am the victim of this slow despair. why should i drag out wearily, toilfully, in terrors that i make myself, the end of my old life?" again the woman groaned. "curse her! can she not go? who minds a woman more or less in the world? the world is overstocked with them. no one is here to pity her. why should she pity herself? it would be a mercy to her to take her and lead her to the brink and push her in. why, it would shorten all her pains. curse her, there she groans again. no rain, no wind to help me, and only these groans for a goad to my despair. i will not hear them any longer. my own troubles are more than i can bear. stay! that is a lucky thought. i'll go down and tell her that the police are here, coming for her, and that she has not a moment to spare." again the woman's voice was heard. "forty years ago i could not take that voice so coldly, for all women were then to me the sisters of one; my sweetheart then, my wife, the mother of my children, now the tenant of the neglected grave miles and miles and miles away out there. now all the children dwell in houses such as hers, and with her and them went out the life of me. i never cared to see the younger brood, for when my wife died it seemed to me that all who loved me, or whom i loved, came to me but to die, and so i steeled my heart against the new brood and slunk into myself, shut myself out from them and all the world, and took to lonely ways and solitude until i came to this." for a while no sound reached the ear. at last there was a sob, not a woman's voice this time, but a man's. "i hardened my heart against them, and the world seemed to have hardened its heart against me. i am lonely and alone. there is no wind. there is no rain. there has been no wind or rain for weeks. for weeks i have been ready for either, and either will not come. twice a day the river gains its full height, asking me to go with it out of my loneliness and my toil. heaven will not send rain or wind to me. heaven took my wife and happiness. heaven sent the river to me. i have often thought of going. i cannot leave this place and live. i cannot stay in this place and live. hark! i hear the first rippling of the river as it turns its footsteps towards the sea. what sound is that? she! five minutes by the clock and all will be over with her. what? striking half-past? idiot that i am! why should i burden myself with the despairs of another hour? i shall await the five minutes. for i should not care to be--disturbed. i should not care to hear or see--anything of her. i am alone. i would go alone. i am in no humour for company. i am too big with my own griefs to care for those of others. i have feasted on sorrow until i have grown enormous, colossal, distended beyond human shape. let my great secret die with me. let me die alone. i am a giant in the land of woes. i am giant despair. she has closed the door behind her ere this. it is time for me to knock. i have no farewells to take. that is lucky. not one heart in all london will beat one beat more or one beat less when i am gone." the feet trod the leads more vigorously than before. then a step was heard descending the ladder. chapter ix. st. prisca's tower stands alone in porter street, hard by the thames, on the middlesex side, and between blackfriars bridge and the tower of london. it is all that now remains, all that remained on that night, of st. prisca's church. city improvements had swept away the main portion of the building, and on that silent summer night, when that man descended from the leads of the tower, this square structure rose up, a mighty isolated shaft, two hundred feet above the pavement of the street and the three small alleys which skirted its other sides. in a short time after the voice ceased finally on the roof, the figure of a man--lionel crawford--emerged from the gloomy darkness of the tower door, and stood in the light of the lamp. lionel crawford was a man of sixty-five years of age, bent in the shoulders, and a little feeble in the legs. his walk was shuffling and uncertain, but still he seemed capable of great physical effort, if he chose to exert himself. his face was dark, and of a leathery colour. his eyes were dark, almost black, and protruded a little. his mouth was large, the lips full and heavy, the teeth still white and sound. the forehead was broad and high, and strongly marked with wrinkles, perpendicular and horizontal, dividing the forehead into four parts. two smooth, wide, arch-shaped spaces stood up over the brows, and above them, slightly retreating, two smooth convex expanses. his hands were large, ill-made, knotty. in the lamp-light he took off the soft felt hat he was wearing and disclosed a head bald to the apex, but having still around its lower edges and behind a thick covering of curly black hair. he was dressed in clothes which had been those of a gentleman at one time, but were now nothing more than the meanest device for covering the body and keeping it warm. when lionel crawford had stood in the light of the lamp for a short time he drew himself up to his full height, inflated his lungs, and looked around defiantly. to judge by his face, defiance was an attitude familiar to his mind. but here was no one to see it, only the callous walls, the imperturbable night. from the top of the tower he had marked the way taken by the woman. it was a continuation of the narrow alley into which the door of the tower opened. it led directly to the river, and in order to reach it from where he stood it was necessary to cross porter street. once more the measured tread of the policeman was heard approaching. lionel crawford drew himself back into the deep doorway of the tower, and waited until the footsteps had passed the end of the alley and died away in the distance. then he issued forth, turned to his left out of the doorway, crossed porter street with a brisk step, and plunged into the narrow way the woman had taken. before he had gone ten yards the place became as dark as a vault; it was impossible to see a yard ahead, and only that he knew the place well, he could not have proceeded without feeling his way. no ordinary man in an ordinary state of mind would, at such an hour, venture into that narrow, dark, forbidding way. but lionel crawford was an exceptional man, in an abnormal state of mind. from the time he left the top of the tower until he obliterated himself in the darkness, his mind had been in a dull lethargic state. he fully intended putting an end to his existence that night. that was his only thought. he should walk down to the end of that narrow lane. at the end of that narrow lane was a wharf, and from the edge of this wharf to the surface of the water he had only a few feet to fall. then all would be as good as over, for he could not swim, and it was not likely--the chance was one to a thousand--there would be anyone there to attempt a rescue. notwithstanding his familiarity with the place, he abated his pace a little and walked more with his old shuffling gait than when he had the light to guide him. all at once he stumbled and fell. "what is this!" he cried, as he tried to rise. his feet were entangled in something soft, which yielded this way and that, and for a while hindered him from rising. at last he rose, and leaning against the wall for breath, rubbed the sweat from his forehead. his faculties were numbed, and for a few moments he scarcely knew where he was or whither he had been going. the first thing he clearly recalled was that he had entered winter lane. then he realised the fact that in the dark he had tripped over something now lying at his feet. "but," he thought, "what can be here? what can be lying here at such an hour? i was down here to-day and the place was clear. now i remember i had intended going to the river. i had calculated on no one being at hand to prevent me. fool that i was! how could i have forgotten the watchman of the wharf. i dared not throw into the river the stones i get up with so much labour, lest he might hear me and hand me over to the police." he now was standing over what had tripped him. he stooped down and felt carefully, slowly, around him. his hand touched a face--a smooth, beardless face--the hat of a woman. what was this? a woman lying prostrate here, and at such an hour. he seized the form by the shoulders, and shook it. "what are you doing here?" he said. "wake up. what are you doing here?" there was a slight motion in the form of the woman. she made an effort to rise. he helped her. "what do you mean, woman," he said angrily, "by going to sleep in such a place at such a time, and tripping up an old man who is on his way to--his friend?" the woman answered in a feeble voice: "i don't remember exactly how it was. i did not go to sleep. i think i must have fainted." "but this is no place for you to be, woman, at this hour of night." "i did not mean to stop here," she said. "i meant to go to--the river." "_you_ meant to go to the river--to my friend, the river? so did _i_. you faint and trip me up. that may be an omen of good luck to both of us. come, although there is neither rain nor wind i feel in better humour now. are you hungry?" "i have no friend--no money." "are you young?" "twenty years of age." "too young to think of death. come with me. it cannot have been a mere accident that brought us two together. come with me, my child. i am old enough to be your grandfather. stop!" he cried, suddenly. "what is that? did you notice anything?" "no," answered the woman feebly. "do you know it _rains?_" he said. the tone of despondency at once left his voice, and was succeeded by one of exultation. "i told you," he said, "we did not meet for nothing. i have been praying and cursing for rain. i meet you, and here the rain is. twenty," he said, "and tired of life! nay, nay; that will not do. you have a sweetheart? i was young myself once." "yes." "and he is false?" "no, no. he is ill and poor." "i am alone, old, childless, friendless. you have stopped me on my way to the river, and brought the rain. one day, at any hour, i may be rich. if i live to win my gold, i shall share with you and your lad. it would be a piteous thing that a sweetheart of twenty should die. come with me; cheer up and come with me." he drew her arm through his and led her in the direction of the tower. "sweetheart," he said, "it makes one young again to think of saving love. i cannot see your face or figure; but all are sweethearts at twenty. what is his name?" "he is french," said she. "french! what is his name?" "dominique lavirotte." "dominique lavirotte!" chapter x. when lavirotte returned to consciousness, the day after the encounter on the road, he seemed to have but a hazy notion of what had occurred, and yet to have known that caution was necessary. he found one of the women of the house seated in the room. he asked her had he been hurt, and how he had been hurt. she said: "i don't exactly know. mr. o'donnell and you came here together. he is hurt, too." "much?" "his shoulder is cut, i believe. they tell me he is not very bad. maybe you know something about it?" "my head is hurt," he said, "and i cannot remember well. there is no danger he will die, is there?" "the doctor says no, but that he'll want good caring." then for a long time lavirotte was silent. "what does eugene say about it?" he asked at length. "does he know how he was hurt or how i was hurt?" "they did not tell me. i do not know." "will you take my compliments to mr. o'donnell, and ask him if he remembers what happened?" "i don't think i'd get much for my trouble if i did. the police have been here already trying to find out about the matter, and mr. o'donnell refused to tell them anything." "refused to tell them anything! dear eugene! dearest eugene. most loyal of friends! i always loved him." then there was another long interval of silence. "who is with my dear friend eugene?" "i don't know who is with him now. his father and mother were here early in the day. they have bad news i am told. some great man in dublin is closed." "some great man in dublin. did you hear his name?" "no; but they say it will be very bad for old mr. o'donnell." "will you ask mr. maher to come this way?" when the landlord entered, he said: "who is the great man that has failed in dublin?" "mr. vernon." "ah, mr. vernon. so i guessed. this will be bad for the poor o'donnells." "there are other things bad for the poor o'donnells as well," said the landlord, bitterly. "i am sincerely sorry for my dear friends. you know, mr. maher, they are the dearest friends i have on earth." "ah!" cried the other sarcastically. "i must telegraph to london. someone must write the telegram for me." "i will," said the landlord, grudgingly. "you are always so kind," said the invalid; "always so kind! you irish are, i believe, the kindest-hearted race in all the world." "and sometimes we get nice pay for our pains." then the telegram to dora harrington was written. "have mr. and mrs. o'donnell left, or are they with their son yet?" "mr. o'donnell is gone back to rathclare. mrs. o'donnell is with mr. eugene. it's a sorrowful business." "and nobody else?" "eh?" "and there is nobody else with mr. eugene o'donnell?" "i say it's a sorrowful business." "dreadful. i am profoundly sorry." "eh?" "a sorrowful business, i say, about the failure of the bank." "eh?" "my dear maher, you are growing deaf. you ought to see to this matter at once. dr. o'malley is a very clever man. you ought to mention the matter to him." "that'll do, now. you're bad, and i don't want to say anything to you. but my ears are wide enough to hear what they say." "who are _they_ that _say_, and what do _they say?_" "_they say_ that you stabbed mr. eugene o'donnell, one of the pleasantest gentlemen that ever put a foot in glengowra." "but he himself denies it." "he doesn't." "when the police came he would not tell them anything." "more fool he! but there, there--i won't say any more. this is against dr. o'malley's orders. he said you were not to be allowed to speak, or excite yourself. you may say what you like now, mr. lavirotte; i'll say no more. i'll obey dr. o'malley." "one more question and i have done. is there anyone but mrs. o'donnell with eugene?" "yes, miss creagh." "thanks; i am very much obliged to you. i will trouble you no more now." when the servant returned to the room, he said to her: "what a kind man your master is. notwithstanding his belief that i made an attack upon mr. eugene o'donnell, he was good enough to write a telegram for me, and to tell me some of the town gossip. i hear that miss creagh is in the sick room. i want you to do me a great favour, if you please. take my compliments to miss creagh, and say i would feel greatly obliged if she would favour me with a few moments' conversation." the attendant drew herself up. "it's not likely," she said, "miss creagh would come near you. when i was coming up, mr. maher told me you were not to talk or excite yourself." "do as i tell you, woman," he said sharply, "or i will get up out of this bed and dash myself out of the window, and you will be the cause of my death, and have to answer for it." the servant was cowed. she rose timidly and left the room. almost immediately the door reopened, and ellen creagh entered, followed by the servant. her pallor was now gone, and although her cheeks and lips had not the depth of bloom usually on them, she looked nearly her own self. she smiled faintly as she approached the bed on which lavirotte lay. "you wish to speak to me, and i have come." "yes," he said, "i wish to speak to you. may it be with you alone?" he looked at the servant in the doorway. she motioned the servant to withdraw, and then came close to the bed. "miss creagh," he said, "they tell me he will get better. they tell me he has given no account of what took place last night to--the police. has he told you what occurred?" "he has," she said; "to me, and to me only. he said to his mother that the secret was one concerning three only." "he and i being two, and you the third?" "yes," she said. "what do you wish me to do?" "first of all to forgive me, if you can." "i forgive you freely. he says you must have been mad." "i was," he said, "stark, raving mad. i was not responsible for what i did. i am in the most grievous despair about the matter." "he is sorry he injured you; but it was in self-defence." "_he_ injure me! not he. what put that into his mind? _i_ injured him. i will not pain you by telling you what i did. it was not i did it; it was a maniac, a demon. you must tell him quickly he did not injure me. in self-defence, in trying to guard himself against an accursed madman, he sought to throw me. we both fell close to a rock at the end of the cove road, and my head struck the rock. you will tell him this, will you not, miss creagh? it will relieve his mind. it will relieve the mind of my dear friend, my dearest eugene." "he will be glad to hear he did not do it, but sorry to know you are so much hurt. he does not blame you at all. he says his great anxiety to be up is that he may come to you and shake your hand." the tears stood in lavirotte's eyes. "god bless my boy," he cried. "god bless my boy, eugene. i am not worthy to know him. i am not worthy to know you. i am not worthy to live. i am not fit to die. i am an outcast from earth, from heaven, and from hell." "just before i left him to come and see you"--the young girl's colour heightened slightly--"i took his hand to say good-bye to him, even for this little time," she smiled. "i took his hand in mine; in this hand," holding out her right. "he said to me, 'you will tell lavirotte i am sorry i cannot shake his hand.'" she stretched out her right hand to his right hand lying on the counterpane. "if i take your hand now, it will be the nearest thing to touching his." "yes," said lavirotte eagerly, "it will be touching a hand that is dearer to him than his own." he took the warm white hand in his, and raised it to his lips reverentially. "now, the favour i have to ask of you is this: it far exceeds in magnitude the one i first thought of asking you." "what is it?" she said, briskly. "i am sure i shall be able to grant it." "you will ask him to let me be his best man at your wedding." again the young girl coloured. "i will, if you wish it, and i am sure he will consent." "will you ask him, for then i shall have something to say to you?" she left the room and returned in a few minutes. "nothing will give him greater pleasure. he is delighted at the notion. he would have asked you only----" here she paused. "i understand," he said. "only for what occurred once between you and me. i am told there is bad news, the worst news, of vernon and son to-day. do you believe in fate?" "i do not believe in fate." "i do," he said, "implicitly. i believe it was fated that you and i should never be more than friends, and that you and he should be everything to one another. and now fate appears to me in a new aspect. there is a chance--a very slender one, i admit--nay, a wonderful, foolish chance that i may one day come into some money, not in the ordinary way of succession, but by a romantic event. i will be perfectly frank with you. i will make a confession to you which i have made to no one else here. it will damage me more in your opinion than it could in the opinion of anyone else living. when i said those words to you that day in the boat, i was engaged to be married to someone now in london." the girl started. "you--you were not serious that day, you know. you only meant to pay me a compliment." "no, no," the wounded man cried quickly. "i meant ten thousand times more than i said. but there--let us drop that subject for ever. i am only too glad to think of it no more. i offered you my hand when it was not mine to give, and when you promised to give yours to another i tried to kill him. no man could have been baser or more unworthy than i. and yet there is a use in my baseness, for has it not given him an opportunity of forgiving me--fine-hearted gentleman as he is--and you of showing me that you are the noblest as well as the most beautiful woman alive?" "you are too hard upon yourself, and too generous to--us," the girl said, colouring. "i must not stay if you will talk in this fashion." "yes, stay by all means," he said, "for i have not done speaking yet. i will say no more on that topic. i have another secret to tell you. it will take some time. it is not unpleasant. it is, in fact, connected with the only property i own, and the possible consequence of my owning it. it is situated in london. it is only the tower of an old church--st. prisca's, in porter street, by the thames. i own that tower. it was built many hundred years ago. the rest of the church has been pulled down----" "here is dr. o'malley," said the girl. "miss creagh," cried the doctor in astonishment. "you here!" chapter xi. mr. william vernon was a venerable, benevolent-looking man of seventy years of age. his hair was white, his figure slightly stooped, his manner gentle, kindly, plausible. until the crash came, everyone believed he was the most prosperous man in the city of dublin. he had three fine private houses--one in dublin, a seaside residence at bray, and a castle in monaghan. his income was believed to be somewhere between twenty and forty thousand a year, and it was believed that he lived well within it. his savings were said to be enormous, and the general conviction was that he could retire in splendour on his money, invested at home and abroad. now all was confusion and dismay among those connected with him in business. so great was the excitement, two policemen had to be told off to guard the door of the bank. men and women, too, who were depositors or shareholders, refused to believe the news, and came down to the bank to see with their own eyes confirmation of the report. there, sure enough, were the massive oak, iron-studded doors closed in their faces, never again to be opened. as the hours rolled on, the depth and breadth of the calamity increased steadily. people who were supposed to have had nothing whatever to do with the bank divulged, in the excitement of the moment, the secret that they were shareholders or depositors. the credit of the whole city was shaken. who could be safe when the great house of vernon and son had collapsed? before nightfall three other large houses had suspended payment. they had gone down into the vortex. then it began to be realised that not only had the shareholders lost all their money invested in shares, but that every man who, as principal or trustee, held even one of these shares, was liable to the last shilling he had in the world. it had over and over again been suggested by outside shareholders that the business should be formed into a limited company. william vernon always shook his head at this, and said that if you limit the responsibility you limit the enterprise, and so reduce the profits. they were paying twelve per cent. on capital--did they want to cut down the earnings to eight? he assured them it would cripple the whole concern seriously, and he, for one, would retire from any responsibility if such a course were urged upon him. it had been suggested to him, in advocacy of this scheme, that limiting the company would enormously diminish the risk of the shareholders in case disaster should overtake the bank. he had replied to this with a shrug of his shoulders, a smile of half pity, half amusement, and said: "if you have any fear, why not sell out? if you have any confidence in my word of honour, you need have no occasion for fear." mr. william vernon had the reputation of unblemished honour. he was, moreover, an exceedingly pious man, belonging to one of the most rigid forms of dissent. no one questioned his word; no one sold out; and now all were ruined. mr. vernon had married late in life. mrs. vernon was twenty-five years his junior. his elder daughter, ruth, was now fifteen years of age; his younger, miriam, twelve. he had but these two children. mrs. vernon was a large, florid, comely woman, who, twenty years ago, when she was married, had been considered a beauty. she was now no longer beautiful. she was a well-favoured matron of forty-five, with an exaggerated notion of the importance of her husband, her children, and herself. he was courteous, insinuating, with a dash of infallibility. she was dignified, not to say haughty, with a great notion of the high position she occupied in the social world. she was not harsh or cantankerous with servants, but she never for one moment allowed them to think they were anything but servants--that is to say, beings of an immeasurably inferior order. during the time miss creagh had been in mrs. vernon's house as resident governess to her two daughters, the mistress had shown the governess respect in the form of conscious condescension. she had never for a moment allowed anyone to slight nellie, and even she herself had never slighted her. but, then, she never was by any means genial or cordial, or anything but rigidly polite; and rigid politeness is the perfection of rudeness. nellie had not, however, been unhappy in that house. she had conceived a great respect for mr. vernon, and had grown to love the two children. ruth was her favourite. the elder girl was flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, fair and pink, with a tendency to sentimental poetry and enthusiasm, and with a most excellent heart. miriam, on the other hand, was a brunette, brown-haired, brown-eyed, vivacious, invincibly loquacious, with a thorough contempt for everything that was not material to comfort, and with a heart which beat so fast for its own excitements, that it rarely had time to concern itself with anything else. mr. vernon had that summer postponed their going to their house at bray a month beyond the usual time. the crash had not come upon him unexpectedly. he and a few others knew for some time that it could not be avoided, but it might be put off. he was loath to leave dublin; and as his family never went to bray without him, he thought it better they should not go now, as if they did it might cause talk. bray is but half-an-hour or so from dublin; but he did not like to sleep so far away from the bank, for now important telegrams were coming at all hours of the day and night, and the delay of an hour might hasten the disaster. the immediate cause of the ruin was the failure of a trader in belfast, who owed the bank considerable sums of money, and had been encouraged by mr. vernon to play a risky business on the chance of making large profits. in fact, the relation between the belfast and dublin houses would not bear the light of day, and the large profits which, it was said, enabled the belfast house to pay a fancy price for money, had all been taken out of the capital lent by the bank. the belfast house had, some years ago, an extraordinary stroke of luck. it legitimately doubled its income in a year. it depended almost wholly on its export trade. it sent most of its goods to india and the colonies. during the good year it could not manufacture as quickly as it could sell. then it borrowed in order to increase its manufacturing powers. it built and set up new machinery. it exported more than it had orders for and stored abroad. this went on for some years, the output being in excess of the demands of the prosperous year, the sales less than before the prosperous year. the result of this could be seen--bankruptcy. nothing else was talked of in dublin all that day, all that night, in the clubs, in the hotels, between the acts at the theatre, in the private houses, in the tramcars, in the streets. no class seemed to be unaffected by the gigantic catastrophe. widows and orphans were ruined, trustees rendered penniless. commercial fabrics which had cost generations to build up, were now tottering to the fall. all this dreadful day mr. vernon sat in his study, a large back room on the first floor of his fitzwilliam square house. he now fully realised his own position. he had directly ruined hundreds, and indirectly, through them, thousands. for years the bank had practically been in a bankrupt state. for years the fact had been kept secret by means of false balance-sheets. for years the pious, bland william vernon had been the author of a gigantic fraud. what was coming now to him? an indictment? imprisonment? were a common prison and common prison diet coming to him in his seventieth year? all this time that he had been issuing false balance-sheets he had lived in splendour. he had kept his three houses, his horses, his domestic servants, his gardeners, his grooms, his coachmen. he had given dinners which were the talk, the admiration, the envy of dublin. his wines were the finest. he had a french cook; he had footmen of the shapeliest forms and politest manners. was he about to have, instead of his three stately houses--the city jail? instead of his dining-room--a prison cell? instead of his courteous footman--a gruff turnkey? instead of cliquot--gruel? instead of respect, honour, reverence--contumely, scorn, and curses? the present was bad enough. the future looked much worse. he did not allow himself to waste any of his energies in grieving for those who had lost through him. he said to himself: "they speculated and lost. they only lost money. i have lost all the money i once had, all the reputation, and now in my old age it is not unlikely i may lose my liberty. i have done the best i could. had i reduced my establishment, suspicion would have been aroused at once, and the blow would have come much sooner. if i had earlier exposed the position of the bank, ruin would have come then just as now. if after the first loss in belfast i sanctioned wild, mad speculation, it was in the desperate hope of recovering what had already been sunken. what i did, i did for the best. o'donnell will, of course, be the heaviest sufferer, but he has had his twelve per cent. for many years. i dare say he will not be able to save a penny out of his whole fortune. neither shall i out of mine." just as he came to the end of these self-justification reflections, these comfortable sophisms, mrs. vernon entered the room, dressed for going out. "going out, jane?" he cried all in astonishment. "yes," she said. "the house is so dull, i thought i'd take the brougham and call upon the lawlors." "take the _brougham_," he cried, "and call upon the lawlors! don't you know the lawlors are shareholders in the bank, and that they, too, are ruined?" "but," said mrs. vernon, drawing herself up, "the lawlors were old friends of mine. i knew them before you did. we were children together. they will be glad to see me, although you have been unfortunate in business." "glad to see you! woman, they would thrust you out of doors with curses. when people are ruined they do not pay much heed to friendship, nor are they over nice in the way they express their anger. as to the brougham," he said, "i have been stupid not to tell you, but i cannot think of everything. we could never with decency use the brougham, or anything of the sort, again." he threw himself back in his chair and laughed harshly for a few seconds. "i see nothing to laugh at in this disgrace and worry," said his wife, who thought herself the most injured person of all. "i am sure i am very sorry for you, william, when i consider the respectable position, the eminent position you held. i am sure you cannot say i was extravagant, or that i brought up the children extravagantly. you told me yesterday that my five thousand pounds are secured by the marriage settlement. why should i lose my old friends any more than the money my father gave me when we were married?" "because," he said, laughing harshly again, "you married what the world will agree to call a fraudulent scoundrel. when i laughed a moment ago at the thought of the brougham, the idea which occurred to me was--it is rather painful. shall i tell you?" "yes, you had better tell me, i suppose. _everything_ is painful now." "well," he said, "i thought that the next member of the family likely to drive would be myself, and the next vehicle in which i was likely to drive would be a black maria." "black maria, william," she said. "i do not understand you." "black maria, my dear," he explained, "is slang for a prison van. what is the matter, jane? you seem weak. help, outside there, mrs. vernon has fainted." the door opened. a footman entered. "if you please, sir, the brougham is at the door." the old man started and looked up, became suddenly pallid. "what did you say, james?" "i said, sir, that the brougham was at the door." "ha! ha! ha! as i live, james, i thought you said the black maria. fetch mrs. vernon's maid instantly. the mistress has fainted." chapter xii. when, on the night after the failure of vernon and son, lionel crawford heard from dora harrington the name of dominique lavirotte, and repeated it after her, he was filled with amazement. "this is the most extraordinary thing," he said, "that ever happened to me in all my life. dominique lavirotte," he repeated for the second time. "i am amazed!" "do you know him?" the girl asked. "well! why, he owns the place i am taking you to. it isn't much of a place. it is only the tower of an old church. they are always talking of buying it from him and taking it down. but you see it isn't big enough to give room for building a warehouse or store on the ground it occupies, and it is impossible to take in any other building with it. but come, sweetheart," he said; "when did you eat last?" "i--i had some breakfast." "but breakfast is a long way since. you are young, and must be hungry. here is the door of the tower." he took out a large key, and having turned the lock, thrust the door into the darkness. "now," he said, leading her in, "be very careful; there is a hole here. stand where you are until i find the lantern and matches." he groped about, and in a few seconds had lighted the candle in the lantern. then he took the young girl by the hand, and said: "this way." by the light of the lantern she could see that they were walking on two planks, which together were not more than eighteen inches wide. beyond the planks was a hole, the depth of which she could not guess. "don't be afraid," he said. "keep close to the wall and you are all right." the girl shuddered. she, who a few minutes ago was on her way to the river, now shrank from the notion of death. had she not met someone who knew her lover, someone who knew dominique, her darling dominique? this was to get a new lease of life, a new interest in worldly things, a fresh-filled cup from the fountain of hope. she clung closely to the wall, and followed the old man through the gloom. they reached a corner, and here found a ladder. "up this ladder," he said; adding, "what shall i call you? what is your name?" "dora," she said. "dora harrington." "then, dora, my dear child," he said, "keep close to the wall on this ladder, too, for there is no hand-rail, as you see." they mounted the ladder. it ran along two sides of the tower. then they found themselves on the first loft. the head of the ladder was unprotected by any rail. two other lofts they reached in a similar manner, she clinging closely to the wall. "this is my sitting-room," he said, with a laugh. "it is not very wide or long, but it is lofty, airy, and, although there is not much furniture, and the little i have is the worse of the wear, it will have a great interest for you, for it belongs to him, mr. lavirotte. sit down here, now, on this couch. the spring is not so good as it once was. you will have a cup of tea and some nice bread-and-butter. that little table over there is my kitchen. see," he said, "we do not take long to light the fire, and we shall have boiling water in a few minutes. boiling water," he said, "and the prospect of a nice cup of tea is better for you, sweetheart, than the cold thames. the prospect of--of--ugh! let us forget that unpleasant folly of ours." he had kindled the lamp in a small oil-stove, and set the kettle on the stove. "and now," he said, "while the water is boiling you shall tell me as much as you please about yourself." she was very tired, and for the present the mere rest was food and drink to her. it was pleasant to sit there, half-tranced with fatigue, to sit upon this couch which belonged to him, in the presence of someone who knew him, and with the prospect of succour from a friendly hand. the furniture in the loft was not, indeed, handsome. it never had been. when lavirotte lived in london he had furnished a couple of rooms, and upon leaving them found that he could get little or nothing for the furniture. so he carted it away to st. prisca's tower in porter street, and there it was when, at the request of lionel crawford, he let the tower to him. in the loft where dora harrington now found herself there were three ordinary chairs, one arm-chair, a couch, and two tables, besides the "kitchen." the walls were rough, unplastered brick. the roof of the loft was unceiled. under the table was a small piece of carpet. "my own room," said the old man, "is above this, and this shall be yours for to-night, and as long as you wish after, until you get a better one, or until he comes for you." "how can i thank you for your kindness? may i ask your name?" "lionel crawford," said the old man. "i live in the room above this, because my business requires me to be near the roof by night." "your business requires you," she said, "to be near the roof by night." by this time he had made the tea, and she had drunk a little, and begun to be refreshed. "can it be you are an astronomer?" "no, no," he said. "i am no astronomer, and yet all the matters of weather interest me greatly. the rain to-night may be worth a fortune to me." "you are a farmer, perhaps," she said. "or no, that cannot be; but you own land?" "not a rood. although i say i am much interested in the weather, i am neither interested in growing anything, nor in meteorology beyond the winds and the rains. by day i get as far away from the sun as i can, as close to the rich centre of the earth as i may. by night i aspire, i seek the highest point i can reach, and there i worship the clouds and the winds that they may befriend me." the old man was now sitting in the easy-chair, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on vacancy. he had a weird, possessed expression. he seemed to be looking at things far off, and yet clearly within the power of his vision. he seemed like one in a dream, and yet his words were as consequential and coherent as the reasoning in euclid. his might have been the head of an alchemist, or of some other man who dwelt with unascertained potentialities, with mystic symbols and orders and rites, with things transcending the ken of vulgar flesh, with subtleties of matter known to few, rare drugs, rich spices, the virtues of gems, the portents of earth and air, the mystic language of the stars, the music of the spheres. "and when it is winter," asked the girl, "you wish, i suppose, for sunshine and calms?" "no," he said. "never. always for rain and wind; wind and rain. wind in the daytime, and rain by night, winter and summer; all the year round." "and may i ask you," said the girl, timidly, "what you are?" "when i met you this evening," he said, in the same tone as he had employed since he became abstracted, "i was giant despair." "and now," she said, "what are you?" "the rain and you have come," he said. "i am now the humble disciple of hope." "and, sir, may i ask, have you no friends, no relatives?" "none that i know of," he said. "all my children are, i think, dead. my wife is dead. my best friends are the dead." "but surely, sir," she said, "there is among the living someone in whom you take an interest?" "no; no one. i am a client of the dead. if any good ever comes to me in life it will be out of the buried past. i doubt if good will ever come. i am too old and spent. i was too old and spent when i began my labours here. for years i had my great secret hidden in my breast. i nursed it, i fed it, i dreamed over it. for years i lived in this neighbourhood hoping some day or other to gain admission to this tower. i could not find out who owned it. it pays no rates or taxes. it is not registered in any name that i could ever find out. i had begun to think i should never get any nearer the goal, when one day as i was without the walls i saw a young man come up, thrust a key into the lock of the great door, and try in vain to move the rusty bolt. i watched him with consuming eagerness----" "this was some time ago?" "years, two or three years. i drew up to the young man and said: 'i fear, sir, it is a tougher job than you bargained for.' i offered to get him a locksmith, and in less than an hour we got in. the young man told me he had come from abroad----" "what was the young man's name?" asked the girl. "dominique lavirotte," said the old man, in the voice of a seer busy with things remote. "my dominique," she whispered; "my darling dominique." the old man went on without heeding the interruption. he had forgotten the connection between the girl and the man. "the stranger told me," said old crawford, "that although he had lived some time in england, he had now been for years abroad. this was all the property he had in the world, and he had never seen it before. he understood it was absolutely valueless, and he had merely come to see it now out of curiosity. 'for,' he said, 'is it not strange that in the city of london, where the rent of land is six shillings a square foot, i should own some for which i cannot get a penny the square yard? i wish i could get someone to buy it,' he said. "'you must not think of selling it,' said i. 'i have been waiting here years in the hope of meeting you.' "'why?' he cried in astonishment. 'do you want to buy?' "'no,' i said. 'may i speak to you a while in private?' the locksmith was standing by. then i took this handsome young man aside, and having made him swear he would not reveal the matter to anyone----" "what?" cried the girl, leaning forward eagerly. "that is _my_ secret," said the old man. chapter xiii. foe a while dora harrington and lionel crawford were silent, he still with the look of an enraptured visionary on his face, she perplexed, wondering, disturbed. what could this secret be which he, the man to whom she was engaged, never told her? one thing appeared plain to her, it was not a secret in which dominique was directly concerned. it was the old man's secret, communicated by him to her lover. yet it was not pleasant to think that dominique, who seemed so candid, so outspoken, so open, should have something which he had concealed from her. the notion of a secret was cold and dire. he had one: he might have many, as he had never even told her that he owned this queer tower, standing all alone in those dark, forbidding ways by the river. of late dominique had not written to her as often or as affectionately as of old. true, he was not in good spirits about his worldly prospects. she had told him over and over again, when he asked her, that she would marry him on anything or nothing. who or what was this old man, that he should be mixed up with dominique's affairs long ago; that he should have stood between her and the thames to-night? was it possible this old man would tell her nothing more? he had excited in her curiosity, vague fears. would he do nothing to allay either? thus to be saved from the fate she intended for herself that night, to find in her protector a friend of his, and then to be confronted with a mystery in which dominique had a part, were, surely, enough things to make this night ever memorable. "mr. crawford," said the girl, "i can never forget the service and the kindness you have done me. will you not do me an additional favour by telling me something of this secret which affects him?" the girl had finished the tea and eaten some bread by this time. "take off your hat," he said. "lean back and rest yourself, and i will tell you something more. "ten years ago i was as lonely a man as i am now. all my family had drifted away from me. most of them were dead. some of them had married, i know not whom. my studies always occupied me, and after the death of my wife, whom i tenderly loved, i went deeper than ever into my books. "most of my children left me when they were young, and went abroad. i had six children in all. from time to time one left me until all were gone, and ten years ago i had no more clue to the whereabouts of any than i have to-day, except that i knew some were in the grave. "i was then better off than i am now; but i have still enough to live on, and to buy a book now and then. my books are all above. all my interest lies in one direction, all my books treat of the same subject--the history of the past, the history of the men and women and places of old times. my interest in the present closed with the death of my wife. but, somehow or other, since the time of which i speak, ten years ago, i think i have grown less exclusively devoted to my favourite pursuit than i was at the time of the dispersion of my family. "i do not often speak to anyone except to those of whom i want to buy; but i cannot help thinking there is a link between you and me, for are you not betrothed to him who owns this tower, and has not this tower for ten years been the chief object of my attention, of my solicitude? was it not to him i first told the secret which i had carried with me eight years? is he not now the only person who knows my secret, and when the time comes for divulging that secret to a few, are not you to be the first to hear it? "well, ten years ago i was, as i have said, as much alone in the world as now. i had always a notion that something was to be discovered in connection with this porter street. here and there in my books there were vague hints, misty statements, that in this street had taken place something of the greatest importance, something which might in the greatest degree excite the interest of an archaeologist. but you see, the street is long, a mile long, i dare say, and to search every inch of a street a mile long would be altogether out of the question. "at that time i was living close by. there were certain old book-shops, between longacre and the strand, which i visited almost daily. here, one evening, i picked up a battered old volume for a few pence. it was dated 1625. it turned out to be of no great interest; but on bringing it home, i was struck by two facts--first, that the book, although battered, was complete; and, second, it contained some memoranda in manuscript, one bearing these startling words: 'a great fire has broken out, and is spreading towards us. there is not a minute to be lost. what can be removed is to be removed to kensington. _what cannot be removed is to be left where it now is_.' "this memorandum was dated: 'daybreak, 3rd september, 1666.' "it was, of course, in the spelling of the period. underneath this memorandum appeared the words and figures: 'speght's chaucer, page 17, lines 17 to 27.' "i have told you already that i had something like a hint of what i wished to find out. i am not free to tell you why the first of these memoranda interested me profoundly, and shone before me like a revelation. i seemed to be on the point of a great discovery, a discovery of the utmost importance to me, a discovery which had fascinated my imagination for years. "i am free to tell you why the second memorandum filled me with despair. it was essential that the book referred to in memorandum number two should be found. the clue in my possession was absolutely of no value without a copy of chaucer. before giving way to despair, i had looked over the passage in the reference. i had read over twenty lines above and below without being able to find the slightest hint to a clue. it was evident from this fact that the text of the poet threw no light on the subject, and that the intention of the man who had written the memorandum was that reference should be made, not only to the particular edition specified, but to an individual copy of that edition. "my despair was all the greater because i seemed to be half-way towards success. i could not rest indoors. i wandered forth into the streets without any definite object in view. to the average student of history, the discovery of this volume containing a reference to the great fire, written at the very moment it was raging, would have been inestimable; but to one who was in quest of a particular object, and had come within a measurable distance of it, without being able to touch it, this book was a curse. "before i knew where i was i found myself standing in front of the identical shop where i had bought the volume. i went listlessly over all the other books exposed for sale in front of the window. i saw nothing corresponding to the object of my search. "then suddenly a thought struck me. the book i had bought was valueless. a copy of this particular edition of chaucer would fetch money. i went inside, and asked the man if he had any other books belonging to the lot among which the one i had purchased was. "he told me he had several; that he bought the lot in an old, tumble-down house in wych street, where the books had lain for ever so long, and that they were reputed to be salvage from the great fire. "imagine my excitement, my delight, when i found a copy of speght's edition, and upon opening the volume, and referring to the passage indicated, i discovered writing on the margin. this writing was briefer than that in the former volume. it was simply: 'st. prisca's tower. see mentor on hawking, 1625.' this was the book i had bought a short time previously. the chain was now complete. the area of inquiry was absolutely limited to the ground upon which this tower now stands. in the great fire of charles's reign the church and tower of st. prisca had been attacked by the flames, and the church had been completely destroyed. the lower portion of the tower, however, was found by wren to be sufficiently good for the purposes of rebuilding, and so, about ten feet above the ground of these walls belong to the old tower. later on the modern church was pulled down; but for some reason, i cannot find out, the tower has never been interfered with since. "these books had evidently been carried away from the region of the fire to the fields where kensington now stands; and then, when the fire was subdued, carried back to wych street, where they had remained until the bookseller who sold them to me had bought them about ten years ago." here the old man finished his narrative, which had been delivered in a monotonous tone. his eyes were fixed, staring intently before him, and he seemed to be wholly oblivious of the fact that dora was listening to him. he was not, however, unmindful of her presence; for no sooner had he concluded, than he looked at her directly and said: "i have told you all i can; all i may. dominique lavirotte and i are the only persons who know the rest, and you know more than anyone else in the world except him and me. you must be tired now. i never told this story before, and, in all likelihood, i never shall again." it was now close to two o'clock in the morning. to the opening words of the old man dora had given little attention. in fact the events of that night, until she had begun to feel refreshed by the rest and tea, had left a very weak impression on her mind, and she would have found it hard to say whether the occurrences had been real or figments of her brain. as the story advanced, she had felt a more lively interest in it, and towards the end she found that she was listening with awakened curiosity. the old man said: "i will bring you down a rug, and then you must try and get a little sleep. i shall have to work a couple of hours yet in this welcome rain." he brought the rug and spread it over her, and then emerged once more upon the roof. chapter xiv. when crawford reached the roof it was still dark. the intense darkness of a few hours ago had passed away, and it was possible on the roof to see dimly the figure of the old man, the parapet, and the lead. towards each of the four corners of the lead the roof sloped gently, and in each corner was a shoot leading to a pipe. in each of the four corners, but so placed as not to obstruct the shoot wholly, and yet to impinge upon it, lay a heap of something. to each of those heaps the old man went in succession, moving the heaps so as to make them impinge a little more upon the gutter. when this was done he put down his spade, resting it against the parapet, and leaned out of one of the embrasures. all was still as death below. the darkest hour is the hour before the dawn; the most silent hour is the hour before the reawakening. it was raining heavily now. the old man did not heed the rain. his eyes were turned vacantly towards the east. he was watching for the dawn, not with eyes busily occupied on the dim outline of the huge stores and warehouses before him. his gaze was directed to the east simply because he knew that in the east the sun would rise, and that as the light grew broad, and the top of the tower was overpeered by lofty buildings on higher ground, he must, soon after daylight, intermit his work on the roof if he would keep his secret. when the gray had moved up in the east, the old man went his rounds once more, spade in hand. the rain still continued. when he had finished, he paused and leaned once more at the embrasure he had formerly occupied. "i always," he thought, "take care to keep the clay heaps about the same size. rain is very good, no doubt. it works off more than wind, except the wind is very high. the worst of the rain is that when the clay gets soaked through and cakes, i have to take it down to dry the minute the weather gets fine, and bring up more sieved earth, for the wind would have no effect on the hardened clay. at first i thought of putting all i excavated on the lofts; but i found them so old, and weak and shaky, that i durst not trust them beyond a little each. there, i have put all the large stones too big to carry out and leave quietly here and there. there are tons and tons of stones upon the lofts, and i am afraid the floors will bear very little more. it would never do to overload the lofts and have the labour of my two years all undone. the rain has stopped. it will help me no more. heaven send the wind. here is the day." it was now bright enough to see that the roof of the tower was covered all over with a coating of thin mud, washed into streaks here and there by the rain. in each corner lay a heap of clay. there were a basket and a large pail also on the roof. the old man now began to work energetically. he filled the pail with the mud, and in four journeys down to the first loft, succeeded in removing all that had been on the roof. then he carried up four large baskets of finely-sifted clay, and put one basket in each corner near the shoots, so that those who had seen the roof of the tower from afar off the previous day would notice very little, if any, difference, even with the aid of a glass; for the nearest building that overlooked the tower was a mile distant. it was now broad daylight, and as the old man stood, his work completed, all round him rose the muffled murmurs of awaking day. he was wet through, but he did not care for this. he was used to it. the rain and the wind were his great friends, and he hailed their advent with delight. it was plain what his object was. by day he worked in the base of the tower, at which the ground stood now twelve feet higher than at the time of the great fire, and twelve feet below this was the foundation of the tower. for two years lionel crawford had slaved in the daylight digging down towards the foundation. he had a pickaxe and shovel and sieve. when he had dug up some earth and rubbish, he sifted this on a piece of old carpet and carried the sittings up to the top loft, there to dry and become friable for the purpose of being got rid of on the roof. everything that would not go through the sieve, he carried out with him, and dropped here and there as occasion offered, and the larger stones, which he never put on the sieve at all, he carried up to the lofts. when he had wind instead of rain he stood on the tower in the dark, and when all was quiet, threw away the sifted earth to leeward, handful by handful. so that although he might thus in a night get rid of several hundred pounds weight of earth, no trace whatever of it appeared below the tower. when he was not helped by rain or wind he could not dispose of more than fifty or sixty pounds weight a night, without drawing attention to his operations. this quantity he got rid of by throwing handful after handful out of the embrasure all round the tower. when he found himself on the loft where he slept he took off his wet clothes, hung them up, and then lay down and slept. it was late in the forenoon when he awoke. he dressed himself and went down to what may be called the sitting-room. here he found dora awake. "if it would amuse you, child," he said, "you may light the fire and make the tea. it may be a novelty to you, and it will surely be a novelty to me if you do." dora arose with alacrity and busied herself about the simple preparations for breakfast. "it is a long time," said he, "since i had anyone--man, woman, or child--at a meal with me. sometimes i go out and have my dinner or supper or breakfast in the poor eating-houses around here; but that is not often. i have learned to shift for myself as well as robinson crusoe did in his time." when the breakfast was ready, dora said: "i am sure you will forgive me, but the excitement and confusion of last night have made me forget your name. yet i remember that when you mentioned it, it seemed familiar to me." "lionel crawford, my dear; lionel crawford is my name." "crawford," she said, musingly resting her chin upon her hand. "i do not know how i could have forgotten that name, for crawford was my mother's name before her marriage. it is not a very uncommon name in england, is it?" "not very," he said. "there are several families of the name in london alone." they were now sitting at breakfast. no contrast could be much stronger than that between the young, soft, gentle, beautiful girl and the leather-hued, gnarled-browed old man. the bright sunlight fell through two long, narrow windows high up in the thick walls of the tower. it tinged the white hand of the young girl lying listlessly on the table. it lit up from behind the rich curve of her cheek. it touched with gleaming, grave bronze the outline of her dark hair. the old man sat at the other side of the small table, looking with abstracted eyes at the partly illumined head of the young girl opposite. "ay," said the old man, "crawford is not an uncommon name. there were several of us brothers when i was young. i was the only one that married, and i believe all my children are dead by this time. their mother was sickly. she was everything to me while she was alive. no, crawford is not an uncommon name." "we used not to consider it a common name in canada," the girl said. the sunlight was gradually encroaching upon the mass of dark hair. "ah," he said, still with the abstracted air, "you were in canada. one of my daughters when she was young, a child of fourteen or fifteen, went to the united states." "how strange," said dora, shifting her position, and bringing all her head under the influence of the summer sunlight. "no," he said, "not very strange. a great lot of people from these parts go to the united states, and, as i tell you, crawford is not an uncommon name." "what i meant," said the girl, with a somewhat puzzled look on her face, "was that it is strange your daughter, whose name was crawford, should have gone to the united states when young. my mother went to the united states when young. she married there and then moved up to canada." "and you tell me your name is harrington, dora harrington? my girl's name was dora, too, and i heard she married a man named harrington. what was your mother's christian name?" "dora was her name," said the girl, rising. "what do you think, sir, of all this?" the girl was now standing, so that from crown to heel the full sunlight shone upon her. "it is extremely strange," said he, still in his absent-minded way, "for i heard that my daughter moved up after her marriage." suddenly the old man's eyes fixed themselves upon the illuminated figure of the girl. "i had not a good look at you before, child, and my eyes are dim with overmuch study. yes! as heaven hears me, there is a look of my dead wife about you, child. did they ever tell you you were like your mother? do you remember your mother?" "i remember her very little, sir. i was very young when she died. they told me i was not like her." "ay, ay. that is all in favour of my hopes, my child, for dora was not like my wife, and you are. marvellously like! i seem to feel the coil of forty years falling away from me." his eyes once more took the abstracted, faraway look of the lions. "forty years ago," he said, "i was young and blithe, strong-limbed, and not repulsive as i am now. i wooed my dora then, not in smoky london, but amid the green fields, and when the primroses were fresh with the early spring weather, and all the air was sweet with moist dews and fresh songs of birds. the leaves were all unsheathed, and each pulse of the wind brought a new perfume of the season. my dora!" "and you think me like her?" said the girl. "oh, if it should be, sir!" suddenly the old man lost his abstracted look. he rose and stretched out his arms towards her, looking keenly at her the while. "you are she," he cried. "you are my dora, my dead darling's grand-daughter. for her own daughter, whose child you are, was like me, all said." "oh, sir," cried the girl, "it is too much happiness for me to believe this true." "i want some happiness now, my child," said he, "and no happiness greater than this could come to me, for i am tired of loneliness. come to me, dora." the illuminated figure of the girl moved, passed out of the sunlight into the gloom of the room--into the gloom of the old man's arms. chapter xv. the police of glengowra were very inquisitive about the affair of that night. the town was exceedingly quiet, as a rule, and the fact that two well-dressed men had been engaged at midnight in a deadly encounter was unique and fascinating to the police mind. there was no doubt in the town or village, for it was indifferently called either, that the two men had fought, and that jealousy was at the bottom of the encounter. but both o'donnell and lavirotte held impregnable silence on the matter. neither would make any statement. lavirotte said they might ask o'donnell, and o'donnell said they might ask lavirotte; and it was known that no matter what may have occurred the previous night, the friendship of the men was now re-established. this last fact was gall and wormwood to the police. it was sheerly the loss to them of a golden opportunity. to think that the biggest crime which had been committed for years in the town should not be made the subject of a magisterial inquiry, was heartbreaking. what was the good of having crimes and policemen cheek by jowl, if they were not to come into contact? a policeman lounged all day about the door of maher's hotel, affecting to take an interest in the cars and carts passing by, and in the warm baths opposite, and to be supremely unconscious of the existence of maher's. nothing came of this. supposing each man should say his hurt was the result of an accident, there would be no evidence to prove the contrary, and the police would only get into trouble and be laughed at if they stirred in the affair. a fussy and blusterous justice of the peace made it his business to call at the hotel, see maher, and impress upon him the absolute necessity of doing something. dr. o'malley absolutely forbade any "justices of the peace, policemen, or such carrion," entering either of the sick rooms. he said to the magistrate: "don't you bother about this affair. i promise you, on the word of a man of honour, to let you know if either of the men is in danger of death, so that a deposition may be taken; and i promise you my word, as a man of the world, that if anyone goes poking his nose into this affair, one or both of these young men will have something unpleasant to say to that nose when they get about." this speech made the worthy magistrate extremely wroth. he stamped and fumed for a while, and muttered something about puppies, and left the hotel in dudgeon. still later in the day the sub-inspector of the district, who was a friend of o'malley's, and happened, by a miracle in which few will believe, to be a man of gentlemanly instincts and manners--called at o'malley's house, spoke of the weather, the regatta, the price of beasts at the last horse fair, the desirability of building a pier for the fishing-boats in the cove, the hideous inconveniences of not being able to get ice in glengowra in such roasting weather, the interesting case at the last quarter sessions, and finally, he said: "by-the-way, o'malley, if you do know anything about what occurred last night on the cove road, and if you can do so without any breach of good faith, tell me what you know?" "i don't know all about it," said o'malley, briskly; "and what i do know i am bound to keep to myself. the part of the case about which i am game to speak is the medical aspect of it, and of that i am free to tell you there is no cause to fear either of the men will die. now, that is all you want to know, because you're a good sort of fellow; you're not more than a thousand years old yourself. boys will be boys. have a cigar." thus the young sub-inspector left o'malley's house scarcely any wiser than he came. in the phrase, "boys will be boys," o'malley had conveyed to him an unmistakable impression that the theory of the fight was the correct one, and at the same time he recognised the skilful way in which o'malley avoided any breach of confidence. directly opposite maher's hotel were the warm baths, and a little to the right of these a shop, famous in the history of glengowra, and called by the pretentious name of the confectionery hall. this title was ludicrously out of proportion with the appearance of the place. the "hall," that is, the place open to the general public, was not more than twelve by fifteen feet. here were displayed on a counter, presided over by a thin-featured maiden lady of long ago ascertained years, cakes of various kinds and sorts and ages, sweetmeats of universal dustiness and stickiness, ginger-beer, lemonade, and bottled guinness and bass. sherry might, too, be obtained here in genteel quantities out of a cut-glass decanter, but the inhabitants of glengowra had a national antipathy to the spirit known as sherry and when they wanted anything stronger than bass or guinness, they asked for whisky. now, the great feature of the confectionery hall, as opposed in principle to a mere public-house, was that whisky could not be obtained at the counter. if a man wanted that form of mundane consolation, he was obliged to enter an inner penetralia, where not only could he have the "wine of the country," but an easy-chair to sit in and tobacco for his perturbed mind. towards the close of the evening of the day following the occurrence on the cove road, two young men were seated in this cave of nicotine discussing the event of the day, nay, of the year. both were out from rathclare for the cool evening by the sea, and in order to enjoy the most perfect coolness of the sea, they had retired to this back room, which was heavier to the senses and less open to the air than the stuffiest back slum of rathclare. both had of course heard the great glengowra news, and the great dublin news of the day. it happened that one of these young men was in the employment of the state--to wit, the post office, and the other in that of a public company--to wit, the railway. "i can't make it out," said the railway, "how it is that lavirotte should have fought o'donnell about nellie creagh, because a fellow told me that a good while ago--a couple of years, i think--when lavirotte was over in london, he had made it all right with some other girl there." "i don't like lavirotte, and i never did," said the post office; "but this i am sure of--that he had some great friend in london, and that his friend was not a man. of course i don't wish this mentioned, and i tell you it in confidence. i remember his coming over here. we make up the bags from glengowra at rathclare, and when he came here first, and i met him and knew his writing, i saw a letter from him to a miss somebody (i will not tell you her name) in london, and this letter went two or three times a week." "who was she?" inquired the others, inquisitively. "i won't tell. i have already told you more than i should. you must not mention the matter to anyone. i know you so long, old fellow, i am sure i may rely on you." "well," said the other, "i don't want to seem prying. in all likelihood i shall never see lavirotte or o'donnell again. i am off next week." "i am very sorry to lose you; but you're sure to come back to see the old ground shortly." "i don't think i shall," said the other, carelessly. "it costs a lot for the mere travelling, and you know none of my people live here about. anyway, when i get to london, supposing i am curious, which i am not, i can find out all about it; for i know an artist there who told me all about lavirotte and the girl." "how on earth did you find anything out about one man in such a big place as london?" "my dear fellow, london is at once the biggest and the smallest place in the world. you have never been there?" "no, never." "well, you see, most of the nationalities and arts and professions live in districts, chiefly inhabited by themselves; and when they do not, they have clubs and other places of resort where they meet. so that, in the case of lavirotte, who was then thinking of being a figure-painter, but hadn't got the talent, there was nothing unlikely in his meeting other men of similar ambition, and so it was he came across there the artist i know, who happened to have a studio in the house i lodged in." "i have often looked at the map of london and wondered how it was anyone ever found out where anyone else lived, even when he had the address. but i cannot understand how two friends can fall across one another accidentally in such a tremendously large place." "you have never been in dublin even, i believe?" said the railway. "no, never," said the other. "well, then, all i can tell you is, that if you walk from the college of surgeons in stephen's green to the post office in sackville street three times a day, you will meet any stranger who may happen to be in the city." for a little while both men were silent. then the post office said: "well, as there is but a week between you and finding out all about this girl and lavirotte, i may as well tell you, in strict confidence, that her name is miss harrington. i forget her address. she changed it often, but it did not seem a swell address to me. at first he wrote to her two or three times a week; but of late his letters have not gone nearly so often, although some one in london, i suppose this miss harrington, wrote him twice a week regularly. within the past two months i don't think he has written to her at all." while this conversation was going on in the back parlour of the confectionery hall, the policeman, who had during the day devoted most of his attention to the vehicles passing in front of maher's hotel and to the warm baths opposite, was relieved, and came over to the "hall" for a small bottle of guinness. it so happened that he had overheard, through the glass-door from the shop to the parlour, most of the conversation which had passed between the two friends. he heard the two friends rise to leave. before the handle of the door turned he was out of the shop. in a few minutes he was back in the police-station. "well, any news?" said the sergeant, gloomily. "i have heard something that may be useful," said the constable; and he detailed the conversation. "and we have found something which may be useful," said the sergeant. "after a long search among the stones we came upon the knife lavirotte stabbed o'donnell with. here it is, with lavirotte's name and o'donnell's blood upon it. it will go hard with us if we can't get lavirotte seven years on this alone." chapter xvi. in the vast pile of buildings owned by james o'donnell in rathclare, by day several hundred men were employed, by night several score; for the steam mills were kept going day and night, and got no rest from year's end to year's end, save from twelve o'clock on saturday night to six o'clock on monday morning. in the portion of the buildings devoted to milling operations most of the night-men were employed. in fact, so far as active employment was concerned, no men were engaged anywhere else in the place. there were, however, three watchmen for the other portions of the building. one of these was outside in the yard fronting the river, another was on the ground-floor of the granaries, and it was the duty of the third to wander about the upper lofts and corridors. of late these men had been cautioned to observe greater vigilance. it was well known in rathclare that the strong-room of james o'donnell always contained a large sum of money, and sometimes a very large sum. the man whose duty it was to examine the lofts passed along the corridor leading to the private office. all was right, so far. he always made it a habit to pause and listen at the door of the private room; for if an attempt was to be made upon the safe it should be from this place. the man went on in a leisurely way, ascended the next ladder he met, strolled along the lofts, ascended another ladder, sat down on a pile of empty sacks, and lit his pipe. smoking was not, of course, allowed, but then there was no one to see him. when he had finished his pipe he ascended to the top loft and walked all round from one end of the building to the other, pausing now and then to listen at the head of a ladder or at a trap-door, or to look out of a window into the deserted street below. this took a long time, for there was no need of haste. it was an understood thing among the watchmen that each should speak to the other two about once an hour. thus it would be known each hour that all was well throughout the building. the watchman now began to descend. he went down more rapidly than he came up. it was quite dark, and the silence was unbroken save by the noise of the machinery and the swirl of the river as it swept past the wharf and quays and ships below, and whispered among the chains and ropes. the three men generally met in fine weather such as this on the wharf. it was pleasant to the two men, whose business lay indoors, to breathe for a few moments the cool air by the river. from the wharf no portion of the offices could be seen. they looked into the great quadrangle round which the granaries were built. when the three men had stood and interchanged a few words they separated, each of the two going in his own direction, the third man remaining on the wharf. the man whose duty lay on the upper floors passed into the large quadrangle, round which the granaries stood. at first he noticed nothing remarkable; but when his eyes fell on the windows of james o'donnell's office he started visibly, and uttered an exclamation of surprise under his breath. the windows were full of light! what should he do? what could this mean? he had, of course, heard of the misfortunes which had fallen upon his master's house that day, but he made no connection between that fact and this extraordinary appearance. the warning against possible burglars was uppermost in his mind. although he was nearly sure no one was then in that office for an honest purpose, still he resolved to proceed with the greatest caution, and give no unnecessary alarm. he went out on the wharf and told the other man what he had seen. they both agreed that it would now be useless to try and overtake their other comrade, and that it would be best for the two of them to go to the office at once and see how matters stood there. when they got indoors they took off their boots and proceeded cautiously to the foot of the stairs leading to the offices. each carried a stout stick in his hand, and each man was physically qualified to take care of himself in a scuffle. they agreed it wouldn't do to get some more of the hands from the mill and proceed to the office as though they were sure of finding burglars there; for how could they tell that it was not the manager, or their employer himself, who had been obliged to come back owing to some urgent business? they crept cautiously up the stairs and found themselves in the corridor, upon which the office door opened. here all was dark and silent. here they were confronted by a difficulty they had not anticipated. if it should be that the manager or the proprietor had come back at this unseasonable hour, the proper thing would be, of course, to knock at the door and ask if all were right. but supposing there were burglars inside, knocking at the door would be simply to put them on their guard, and enable them to take up a defensive or offensive position before the others could enter: what was to be done? as if by a common instinct, the two men retired to the further end of the passage to hold a brief council. there was no means of escaping from that room except by this passage or the window. that window was not barred, and nothing could be easier than to get from it by a ladder or a rope. the first thing, therefore, to be ascertained was--did a ladder or a rope lead from that window to the ground of the quadrangle? it was then agreed between the two that one of them should go down and examine the window from the outside, while the other waited in the passage here and watched, the door until his fellow came back. one of the men descended to the ground-floor, got out into the quadrangle, and looked at the window, and the ground near the window. it was a dark night, and one could not see small objects distinctly. the man was not content with the evidence of his eyes alone. he stole over under the window, and placing his hand against the wall, walked forward and backward, ascertaining by touch that neither ladder nor rope connected the window with the yard. when he was satisfied on this point, he stole back to his companion and communicated the fact to him. so far all was well. they had not now to think of any means of exit but the one before them. still it was not easy to know what to do. now it occurred to them for the first time that it was not at all consistent with the belief burglars were at work that the gas should be fully ablaze. although there never had been an attempt to rob the mill on a large scale, or by violence, and the watchmen had no personal experience of burglars yet, it was their business to know something about how that predatory tribe carry on their operations. it was not likely such men would attempt to force the door of a strong-room, made on the very best principles, with the light turned fully up. a dark lantern and silent matches were more the manner of the midnight thief than the great openness and defiance of gas. it must surely be someone connected with the business. it was well they had not made a fuss about the matter, and now it would be well that they should delay no longer to prove their diligence by showing they had observed the unusual fact of the gas being burning. yes, there could be no longer any doubt their manager or employer was behind that door. there would be something absurd in the fact of two fine strapping fellows like them going up to that door in their vamps. it would show they had suspected someone was there who had no right to be there, and this might give offence. it would be best for them to put on their boots before knocking; besides, if they knocked as they were now, whoever was inside might think they had been prying. when they reached the open air they put on their boots quickly. then it occurred to them that, as they were now quite certain it was someone belonging to the business who was in the office, it would never do for two of them to appear at the door simultaneously. the duty of one man was to be on the wharf, and of the other to be on the lofts or in the passages, and if they had no suspicion wrong was going forward, why should the wharfman desert his post? they, therefore, agreed that the loftman alone should go back and prove his vigilance by knocking and saying that he had observed the light. the two parted. the loftman, starting with his usual measured tread, crossed the quadrangle, entered the dark passages, ascended the stairs, and knocked at the door. two minutes after he rushed out upon the wharf, exclaiming in an undertone: "do you know who's there?" "no. who?" "no one. come back with me and see if i am right. i can't believe my eyes. there isn't a soul there as far as i can see, in the office or in the passages." the two men went back to the passage, entered the private office, found the gas at full cock, and the place empty! chapter xvii. mr. o'donnell, towards the close of that unlucky day, found himself once more in his comfortable home at rathclare. within twenty-four hours, the life of his only son, the hope of his age, had been placed in danger; and all the earnings of a long and laborious life had been scattered to the winds by one tremendous blast of ill-fortune. he was not a communicative or demonstrative man. he took his pleasures soberly, gravely, and with little exterior show of delight. outside his business, which was large and engrossing, he cared for little save his wife, and son, and home. he had few wants, and a limited mind; but, like all men with few wants and a limited mind, he must have what he wanted, or life would not be worth living. he did not sigh or burst into exclamations when the bad news reached him. he was reading a newspaper at the time. he put down his newspaper, and asked his managing man, who brought him the news, to repeat his words. then, merely saying, "that is very bad news," he took down an account-book, and, having looked at how his affairs stood with the bank which had failed, put up the book in the safe, walked out of his office, and took the train to glengowra, where his son lay hurt, and where his wife was already in attendance on the injured man. now, he was back once more in his home alone. his wife was to stay that night at maher's hotel. in the present condition of his business affairs he did not feel himself justified in absenting himself from head-quarters. up to this he had very rarely been separated from his wife, even for a day. he seldom left his native town for more than a few hours, except when he went away for a week or so and took her with him. he sat in the deserted dining-room all alone. he always carried in his coat-pocket a small memorandum-book, in which he had jotted down the net results of all his business transactions, so that at any moment, and in any place, he could see pretty well how he stood. he seated himself in a large easy-chair, and having pulled down the gasalier, took out this book, and sat silently consulting the pages for a long while. by this time he had received full information from dublin. he knew now the case of vernon and son was absolutely hopeless. he was going over his book, not in the hope of finding out anything cheerful about his own affairs, but just merely to convince himself through his sight of what he was already convinced through his reason. when he had reached the end of the written pages, and had made a few figures with his pencil and arrived at a total, he tore out the page on which he had made this last calculation, and then carefully and delicately tore the page into little bits. he put down his pocket-book on the table at his elbow, and then sat for a long time arranging and re-arranging the fragments of the paper into various figures on the table at his side. when it was about eleven o'clock, a servant came and asked him if he wanted anything. no, he wanted nothing. they might all go to bed. when the servant had retired, he re-began his work with the fragments of paper. at twelve o'clock he seemed to have made up his mind that there was no good in trying any longer to arrange the pieces in a satisfactory way. he pushed all the bits together, swept them into his hand, and placed them on a tray, on which were some glasses, which he had not used. he took up the pocket-book again, and quietly tore out all the blank leaves. "these may be of use to someone else," he said. "they can never be of any use to me." he placed the blank leaves on the table, far in from the edge. "the books at the office will show how my affairs stand. this can interest no one. it was only on account of the money i considered myself worth, over and above my liabilities. i'll burn it;" and then forgetting that it was summer time, and that there was no fire, he threw the book into the grate, and rose. he felt in his pocket, and found that he had his keys. then he went into the hall, put on his hat, and left the house. he took his way to his principal place of business--the vast storehouse, wharf, and steam mill all combined. he opened a small postern in the main gate, trod a dark flagged passage, and reached the foot of a flight of stairs that led to the chief offices. this he ascended, and having reached his private room, lit the gas. for a while he stood in the middle of the room, looking vacantly round him. the office was luxuriously furnished; and in the wall opposite to the table at which mr. o'donnell usually sat, and facing him, was the door of the strong-room. he could hear the murmur of the water as it went by, if the engines had stopped. but the engines were going on at full speed, making money now--making money now for whom? that morning these twenty sets of stones had been whirling round, and at every rotation of each stone he, james o'donnell, was the richer. these stones were going round still, making money still; but for whom now? it was a dismal thing to stand there realising the fact that the fruits of his forty years' hard work, sagacity, enterprise, thrift had all been squandered by someone else--had all been squandered by this vernon, in whom he had reposed implicit confidence; who was so pious, so sleek, so plausible, and yet had led him on into this horrible position. he sat down in his chair, and his eyes fell upon the door of the strong-room. he had destroyed his pocket-book; his interest in his own private affairs was at an end. from what he had heard there was no chance of his saving a sixpence out of his large fortune. some other man would work the mill no doubt, for it would be a valuable asset in the affairs of vernon and son. it was hard to think of this fine mill, for which he had made the trade, and which he had built up from the foundation, passing away from him, now that he was too old to begin life again. in that strong-room opposite him there were the books. they were all in perfect order. _they_ had never been made the slaves of a false balance-sheet. they were the fair records of blameless transactions. every line in them could be verified. every shilling of expense could be accounted for. soon, very soon, he knew not exactly when, strangers would come and examine these books, and go through all the vouchers, but they should find nothing in that strong-room of his except flawless records of honest trade--and---the vacant look left his eyes. all at once an intense, eager light burned in them. he grasped the back of the chair, and rose stealthily, as though to avoid the attention of someone acting as sentinel over him, and who was half asleep. he stole noiselessly in the bright gaslight across the room. with elaborate caution he took the keys out of his pocket and fitted one to the lock. with a dull, heavy sound the bolts fell back. he drew himself a foot away, as though he expected that door to be pushed open, and something to issue forth and seize him and do him deadly hurt. he paused, breathing heavily. the door did not stir. he stretched forth his arm and drew the door towards him. it yielded slowly and swung out into the bright, handsomely furnished office, until it stood at right angles to the wall. again he paused, and peered into the dark cavity before him. he seized the outer edge of the door and steadied himself by it, leaned against it slightly so that it swayed slowly to and fro a little. his face was now flushed and covered with sweat. his hands clutched the door feverishly, frantically. his knees trembled so that he seemed in danger of sinking to the floor. "it would be a fit ending to my life. my life is of no further use to me or to those i love, or to the business i have made, nor even would it be any use to those whom i shall not be able to pay. for although no one could work the business as well as i, if things had not come to this pass, i am too old now to work for others where i have so long worked for myself." he let go the door and stood unsupported for a while. "if they should find in the strong-room of james o'donnell nothing but the unimpeachable records of his honest life, and his bones!" he seemed to gather strength from the thought. he drew himself up to his full height. the look of intense excitement gradually faded from his face. the tension of his hands relaxed, and he looked around with something like majesty in his gaze. he was a lion at bay, but indifferent. he walked up and down the room two or three times calmly, deliberately, as if he were disturbed by a thought greater than the hourly commonplaces of a busy day. he ran the matter carefully over in his mind. when in thinking of this deed first, and saying to himself his creditors would find nothing in that place but books, papers, and--he had paused at the word revolver. it was occasionally necessary for some of his clerks to carry large sums of cash a distance from rathclare, and when doing so the messenger always took with him his revolver. the lock by which the strong-door was finally secured could be turned only from the outside, but there was a strong latch of three large bolts which caught and kept the door closed when it was slammed. there were two keys to this door, but he had made it a rule never to entrust the second to anyone in his employment. when unable to be at his office at ten o'clock in the morning, or at closing time in the evening, he had always given the key he now carried with him to his manager, and had it left at his house the same night. the second key he had hidden behind some books in a bookcase which he always kept locked. but the three bolts which kept the door fast during the working hours of the day could be shot back from the outside by means of a key, a duplicate of which the manager had. in the strong-room that night there was a sum in cash of more than two thousand pounds. if he went into that strong-room and used that revolver, the sound would, in all likelihood, reach the ears of no one in the place, and nothing would be discovered for several days, as no one would suspect the main bolts were not shot, since he had been seen to lock the safe that day, and no one else could unlock it. he made up his mind that, come what might, he would end his life where his fortune had begun, and where now his ruin was complete. and still he could not think of bidding adieu for ever to the scene of his life-long labours without one more look at the books which had been so honestly kept, and which he had hoped to hand down unblemished to his son eugene. he took up a lamp which lay on one of the side tables, lit it, stepped into the strong-room, and drew the door sharply after him. there was a loud bang. the three bolts shot into their places. he was now in the strong-room with the records of his honest life, a revolver, his power of retreat cut off, and the determination not to survive the night of ruin. he had forgotten to put out the gas in his office. chapter xviii. the strong-room was about ten feet by fifteen, and no more than eight feet high. there were presses in it for the books, and an iron safe in which the cash and securities were kept. this safe, standing on tressels in a corner, was the one used by the house before the business expanded to its present dimensions. upon it the old man set his lamp, and putting two deed-boxes one on the other, he placed them near the safe for a seat. then he opened the safe, and taking out some of the securities it contained, placed them beside him. he adjusted his spectacles, and turned over the deeds and shares somewhat listlessly. the documents here represented a vast sum of money. here were deeds on which he held mortgages, title-deeds, stocks, and shares. he did not undo the tapes. he knew them all by sight, when and how he had acquired them. this was the result of one speculation, that of another. in his will this and this were left for life to his wife, and afterwards to his son and his son's children. this and this and this were to go absolutely to his son. he went on thus through all the documents in the safe. there was no hurry. it was still many hours to daylight. if all were over with him before people were stirring, all would be well. he had cut off his retreat. he could not now get out of that room even if he wished it. he felt glad that he had come in here. this was a kind of antechamber to the other world. there was no going back now, and if he could derive any consolation from the contemplation of the past by the light of these records, he might do so without injuring anyone. ay, these were for eugene. what would be his boy's fate? no doubt he would recover from the hurt, for he was young and hearty. but then how would he get a living? all his life he had been used to good things, and looking forward to a career of remarkable prosperity. now he was a beggar, an outcast from fortune. these properties and moneys had been intended for him. now they would go to the greedy creditors of vernon and son. it was too bad that just at the very moment his boy had made up his mind to marry, everything should be swept away from them. for some years the only anxiety he had felt was that his boy should marry some good amiable girl, and settle down in rathclare, so that he (the father) might feel that the successor to his business was at hand in case anything should happen to himself. he had not wished for money with the wife of his son. he had not wished for any social advancement. he was not a man who believed in family or society advancement. he wished his son to be an honest and prosperous trader in his native town, and when that sweet girl had been to their home a few times, he began to regard her as already his daughter. he had intended making her a wedding-present independent of what he was to do for eugene. here was what he had intended for her. these were the title-deeds of rose cottage, glengowra, which would do the young people for their summer home. it was a famous cottage for flowers, and there was grass for a cow, and there was a paddock, and a little lawn, and a large garden. just the thing altogether for a young couple in the summer time. let him look at what the property consisted of. he read over slowly the recital of all the things that went with rose cottage, the measurements of the land, and so on, as though he were about to buy, and it was necessary to be careful. then he folded up the paper softly, and tied it with the tape, and set it by him on the ground. he was not an imaginative man, but the few images which had visited him seemed all the more brilliant, because of their rareness. and one of the visions which had come to him lately, and which pleased him more than any other he had known for years, was that of eugene and nellie living in this rose cottage, and he and his wife coming out in the cool evening and having tea with them in the little arbour overlooking the sea. it would be strange and delightful, now that the vigour of his youth and the strength of his manhood had passed away for ever, to be the guest of his own son; to hear his son say, "welcome, father," and to see this tall, fair girl, who had such bright and pleasant ways, tending to his good-hearted, kindly old wife, mary. to see her placing the chair of honour for her, and making much of her, would be a thing to live for and enjoy. and then, later, there would be children who would call him grandfather, and, with their fresh young voices and gallant spirits, take away the feeling of toil and the weariness of years. what would mary do? mary, whom he had married long ago; and yet, now that he had come to the end of his life, it seemed but yesterday. he could see every event of their marriage-day more clearly than he could see what had happened yesterday; for his eyes had grown dim since then, and the magic charm of memory is that it forgets so well what it does not wish to retain. bah! it would never do to think of those times, and of his old mary left alone and poor upon the world. it would take the resolution out of him to think of her. it would rob him of his manhood to picture her destitute in the face of unsympathetic men. no. it would rob him of the last remains of vigour to fancy her standing alone and deserted, without a home or a meal. he had come into that room for the purpose of closing his life with his business career. eugene was young and full of spirits, and had many friends, and would soon get something to do, and be able to give his mother a little, and to marry. he must not take a gloomy view of the future for those he was leaving behind. if he wanted to keep up his resolution he must think of the future he was losing in this great crash. it was of eugene and eugene's wife he must think. the fact that he could be of no further use to his son, or his wife, or his son's wife, was the thought to keep him to his resolution. if things had gone otherwise with him he could have made those young lives so happy as far as worldly gear was concerned. what further use was he on earth? let him leave all at once. why should he confront this trouble and disgrace--trouble unearned, disgrace unmerited? he took up the documents from the floor and replaced them all carefully in the safe. it was in this safe the money was kept. he pulled out the drawer containing it. a week ago he would have thought this a comparatively small sum. now it seemed very large indeed. if it had been only so managed that this two thousand pounds could have been honestly saved from the wreck, it would have been sufficient to provide, in an humble way--but there! let the thought go. nothing could be saved--not a shilling. he closed the drawer, and then drew out the one next to it. this contained the revolver. the light of the lamp so fell that when the drawer was fully out only the barrel of the weapon was in the light. the old man stood looking at that glittering barrel. it was as though that barrel was a deadly snake slowly issuing from the darkness, and he was powerless to move, to avoid it. once more all his strength forsook him. his face flushed, his limbs trembled; he clasped his hands convulsively. he drew back a pace and almost fell against the opposite side. he put his hand before his eyes and groaned. "has it come to this with me," he said, "in my old age? can it be possible, i, who never did a dishonest act, must fly from life because of the dishonesty of another?" he put his hand up to his neck and tore his shirt open. he dropped his hands, threw up his head and looked around him. "great god! what is this?" the lamp was burning blue. his head was giddy. he was suffocating! chapter xix. suffocating? yes; there could be no doubt about it! up to this, james o'donnell had forgotten that the strong-room was almost air-tight, and that the air required by him and the lamp was about what should have been exhausted since he entered the room. for years he had been familiar with the great safe, and it had never before occurred to him that to shut any man up in it for a lengthened period would be almost certainly death. was he to die of suffocation, and under the circumstances of his present position? already his thoughts were becoming obscured. there was the revolver gleaming at him from the drawer. but his thoughts had taken a circuitous route; and although he knew that a short time ago the revolver had formed the main portion of an important design, he now could not connect it clearly or coherently with that intention. he was altogether occupied with the thought of suffocation, and but partially able to concern his mind with any other idea. how would it be if he died here, and of the death that threatened him? how would it be? he could not answer. he did not know. he felt a tightness across his forehead, an oppression upon his chest. the tightness and the oppression were little more than uncomfortable. he had scarcely a pain. in fact, he felt a pleasant languor out of which it would be a decided inconvenience to raise himself. then for a moment it came forcibly home to him that he was dying, and would die before succour of any kind could reach him. the motives which had led him to come there at such an hour, and which induced him to shut himself up and cut off all retreat, were now obscure. by a great effort he could dimly perceive that something was wrong with his business concerns. what was that? a noise without! a noise at the other side of the heavy iron door. who or what could make a noise outside there in the private office at such an hour? it was within the duty of no one to be in his private office at this hour. no one could now be there for any honest purpose. the propinquity of the material sounds enabled them to appeal to his reason more forcibly than the murmur of the mill or the river, or the tumultuous, distracting echoes of disaster beating through his brain. all at once the sounds, his physical and financial position, converged and were focussed upon a single relic of memory. long ago, in some book he had read of a famous cave called "the cave of dogs," somewhere in the south of europe, where, when men and dogs entered together, the dogs were suffocated by the exhalation lying close to the ground, while the men, because of their greater stature, moved on unharmed. he knew at this brief moment of active memory the same substance which now threatened his life proved fatal to these dogs. if he now raised himself higher in his suffocating chamber, was there any likelihood of prolonging his life by seeking air as high up as possible in the room? it is true he had no great desire to prolong his life. he had by this time forgotten he had had any desire to destroy it. yes, he would see if any virtue of life lay in the air above his head. he mounted upon the deed-boxes and thrust his head up. now he had pains and a tingling sensation, but the dimness and dulness of the intellect gradually diminished. the noise was repeated without. what could it be? his mind had by this time become comparatively clear. he now knew he had come to that place for the purpose of destroying his life, with the intention of obliterating the world from his perception simultaneously with the destruction of his fortune. but what were those noises which again broke in upon his ear? now he remembered. there was a considerable sum of money in cash in the strong-room. some thieves had got scent of this fact, and were now in the outer place with designs upon the gold and notes lying in the safe? if these wretches broke in when he was dead and carried off the money, and his dead body was found later there (his head was so stupid, that he could not see exactly what the inference would be), would it not seem in some way or other that he had applied the two thousand pounds to his own purposes--given them to his wife or son, say--and then destroyed himself? although he felt relieved from the suffocation he had endured in the lower air, he knew now that this relief could not last long, and that the air he now breathed would soon become as tainted as that which he had lately left. what should he do? to die in the midst of his commercial troubles--to die, leaving behind him an unblemished reputation, and to die the seeming thief of a paltry two thousand pounds, were widely different things. and yet he did not appear to have much room for choice, for should he continue as he now was and make no sign, he would, beyond doubt, die of suffocation; and if he made any sign and these men had the means to break in, and did break in before assistance came, they would no doubt sacrifice his life rather than forego their design of plunder. he paused for a moment in thought. then, holding his breath, he stepped down, took the revolver out of the safe, and got up on the deed-boxes once more. "i shall sell my life dearly," he said to himself, "if they force that door." standing bolt upright on the deed-boxes, he fixed his eyes steadily on the only means of ingress to that room. "it is not likely," he thought, "there are more than two or three of these ruffians, and i have six shots here. but how long will this air last? how long is it possible for a man to live on the eighteen inches more air i have gained since i mounted these boxes? for a man and--a lamp? i don't want the lamp. i have seen here all i desire to see. if they break in i will have no difficulty in seeing them, for my eyes will be accustomed to impenetrable darkness, while they must carry a light of some kind, which will enable me to make them out. i and the lamp. it is as though there was food in a ship for a certain time for two people. if the one dies the other will have the double share. if the lamp or i die now the survivor will have the double share. in this case the choice is easily made." he filled his lungs and blew down the chimney of the lamp. the darkness of the strong-room was now so intense that it was absolutely impossible to see any object, however large or however near. for all the purposes of sight the space enclosed by the four walls was an absolute void. the old man, of course, knew he was standing on two deed-cases in the strong-room of his business place; that he held a revolver in his hand; that there were burglars without and money within, and that he was threatened with suffocation. the question now was, whether they would succeed in bursting open that door before the rising tide of poisonous gas reached his nostrils. the lamp being now extinguished, and there being some ventilation to the safe, the deadly gas, which would be sufficient to destroy life, was rising at a greatly diminished rate. a little of the heavy carbonic acid succeeded in exuding through the lower portion of the slight spaces between the door, threshold, and jambs; a little of the pure exterior air infiltrated through the upper portion of the slight spaces between the door, lintel, and jambs. james o'donnell had no means of knowing at what rate the deadly gas was now rising, or whether it had ceased to rise at all, or whether it was declining. it was not impossible, nay, it was not improbable, that the deadly vapour might rise no higher than it had stood when he put out the lamp. it would not do for him to make the least noise, for the gas might still be rising, and in case he made a noise the burglars might be scared away for a time, only to return when he had succumbed to the deadly vapour, break open the room, and so blast his character for ever. it was now necessary for him to stand bolt upright in that ebon darkness, with his eyes fixed on what he knew to be the position occupied by the door. then, as soon as anyone opened that door, it would be his duty to fire, and to fire with as deadly an effect as possible, for he was an old man, no longer strong or active, and could not hope to succeed against even one man who would undertake such an enterprise, and the chances were there would be more than one in this. he had no means of computing time. in the disordered condition of his mind it was impossible to tell how the minutes went by. now for some minutes the sounds in the outer room had ceased. any moment they might be renewed. there would, of course, be a sound of hammering, although the sound would be very dull. he had once seen a burglar's hammer. it was made of lead, the face of it being covered with leather soaked in oil. the wedges used were always of wood. but no matter how muffled the blow, or how little noise the progress of the wedge made, the sound could not escape his ear. he took out his watch and listened to it. he counted the ticks, but found they conveyed no idea of time. the very sound of the watch confused his senses, and threw him into new perplexities. holding the watch to his ear, and the revolver in his right hand down by his side, he stood motionless for what seemed to him a very long time. it was strange, but still he heard no sounds of hammering. could it be that the first effect of the poisonous gas upon him had been to disturb his senses, and that the noises he fancied he heard had been the offspring of imagination? ah! they were beginning at last. he caught the sound of their first attempts. he knew it would take a considerable time to break in that door, and mentally he groaned at the notion of delay in his present perilous condition. suddenly he started as though he had been shot. the door swung open rapidly on its hinges. the full light of the office sprang with dazzling effect into the darkness where he stood. he was paralysed. "seize him!" cried a voice from without. then all at once, and before he had time to raise the arm in which he held the weapon, he was in the clutches of two men, who dragged him out ruthlessly into the glare of the office, and then started back from him. "it is the master himself!" james o'donnell staggered for a moment, dazed by the gaslight and the perception that the men who held him were no burglars, but the watchmen of the place, and that behind the door, as it now stood fully open with the day-key in it, was the manager of all his business, corcoran. when the watchmen made up their minds what to do they sent for mr. corcoran. he brought the key with him; and then all three, having taken off their boots, stole into the private office, and finding no clue there, the manager, with little hope of discovering anything, put his day-key into the lock, turned the bolt swiftly, and, to his astonishment, pulled open the door. his astonishment rose to perfect amazement when he found a man inside, and when that man turned out to be no less a person than james o'donnell. end of vol. i. * * * * * * * * * * charles dickens and evans, crystal palace press. google books (oxford university) transcriber's notes: 1. page scan source: google books http://books.google.com/books?id=pyagaaaaqaaj (oxford university) the last call. the last call. a romance. by richard dowling, author of "the mystery of killard," "the weird sisters," "sweet inisfail," etc. _in three volumes_. vol. iii. london: tinsley brothers, 8, catherine st., strand. 1884. [_all rights reserved_.] charles dickens and evans crystal palace press. the last call. * * * * * part ii.--_continued_. the last call. chapter ix. at half-past six a train left rathclare for dublin. the evenings were now cold and short. it was getting near winter, the end of autumn. as the train was about to start from the platform, a man with the collar of a large boat-cloak turned up about his ears, and a soft felt hat pressed low over his brows, stepped into an unoccupied first-class compartment, and took his seat. he did not speak to the guard who checked his ticket, nor had the guard any opportunity of seeing his face, as the man in the cloak kept his face carefully averted. he sat muffled up in the corner without moving, hour after hour, as the train sped on through the darkness. every time the speed slackened and they drew near a station at which they were to stop, he shook himself slightly, straightened his hat down over his eyes, and pushed up the collar of his cloak. all the way from rathclare to dublin fortune favoured him, if he desired to be alone. for, although they stopped several times, and came to a junction where he had to change, he succeeded in making his journey in solitude. on three occasions the door of the compartment in which he sat had been opened, and a passenger was about to step in. on each occasion that passenger drew back, repelled by the motionless, dark figure, and by a sense of solitude surrounding that figure. not one of the three passengers knew what it was which gave the air of this solitude, and yet each had felt that around that motionless figure were gloom and loneliness which startled and repelled. yet the reason was very simple. between that muffled form and the surrounding world there was no link, no band of union, however slight. there was an absolute figure, set in the absolute vacuity of the compartment. beside, above, or beneath that figure was no article such as is usually seen by a traveller. no baggage of any kind; no stick; no umbrella; no newspaper; no rug; no book; no bag. nothing but the bare figure and the bare compartment. under that hat and cloak a form of terror or of danger might lie hidden, and it would not be pleasant to sit there, when practically beyond human aid, speculating on what that hat and that cloak hid. it would be still less pleasant if suddenly that cloak and that hat revealed what they hid, and it was found to be a figure of menace or of danger. at the kingsbridge terminus, dublin, the solitary man got into a cab, and said briefly to the driver: "westland row station." when he arrived there he learned he was a couple of hours too soon for the holyhead mail. he paid the cabman, and went to a hotel close by, where travellers may wait up for the mail, and have food and drink while they wait. here he ordered some light refreshment, and getting into a corner of the large coffee-room, and turning his back to the room, he ate and drank without removing his cloak or hat. when it was announced that it was time to be stirring for the mail, the cloaked man rose, walked rapidly to the station, and took a first-class single ticket to euston. when he got on board the boat he secured a berth, lay down, and did not move until the passengers were summoned for landing. late in the forenoon he got into the train at holyhead. here he was not so fortunate as he had been in his irish journey. he had to share a compartment with three others. still he remained muffled up, silent, motionless. hour after hour went by, and he never moved, beyond occasionally adjusting the collar of his cloak or his soft felt hat. on his arrival in london he seemed undecided for a while as to what he should do, for he walked up and down the platform at euston until all the other passengers had left. he spoke to no one. he did not answer any of the porters who asked him if he wanted a cab, and, finally, he left the terminus on foot, and, taking a southerly direction, walked straight on for half-an-hour. it was now quite dark, and had been dark for some time. he did not look to the right or the left, but kept straight on through a line of dingy third-class streets. then, coming out on a busy thoroughfare, he took a hansom and gave the address of a quiet hotel in the city. when he arrived at his destination he said he needed no refreshment, and desired to be shown at once to a bedroom. had the gentleman no luggage? no luggage. the man seemed to hesitate. at this the traveller held out a handful of gold, saying: "take some of this; i shall be here a few days." the man still seemed to waver. "be good enough to keep five pounds for me until i want them, and let me have a bed at once." he was then shown to a room. he bolted and locked the door on the inside, and no more was heard of him till morning. then he rang his bell, and asked if he could have breakfast in a private room. he was told he could. he ordered his breakfast, and came down at the time he was told it would be ready for him. he remained in all that day, and passed the time in reading newspapers of the current day and of a few days back. when it was night he went out, drove to a street off the strand, and asked at a house there if mr. dominique lavirotte was in. mr. lavirotte was not in. he was still in the hospital, and would not be home until the third day from that. the traveller, still wearing the cloak and hat, drove back to his hotel, and spent the remaining three days indoors reading the newspapers. in the meantime, the inquest on the body of lionel crawford had taken place. the jury had returned an open verdict, and the mortal remains of lionel crawford had been committed to earth under the management of mr. john cassidy. lavirotte had been brought from the hospital to where the inquest was held, and told his story. the medical evidence was that there was no sign of violence before death on the body. the cuts and bruises discovered were consistent with lavirotte's story--that is to say, they might have been inflicted after death by the falling stones and wood. but the police were not quite satisfied. they had ascertained from the police at glengowra the particulars of the case in which lavirotte had played a part some months ago. they shook their heads, deplored the fact that the medical evidence was in accord with lavirotte's story, and had grave suspicions that what the medical evidence called syncope might have been the result of a drug and not of mere unaided nature. in fact, the police inclined to the belief there had been foul play. at about seven o'clock on the evening of the fourth, day after the traveller called first at lavirotte's lodgings he once more drove there, and without sending up a name asked if he might see mr. dominique lavirotte. word came down that the gentleman was to be shown up. when he was shown into the room, where lavirotte sat alone in an easy-chair, he threw aside his hat and cloak and said: "dominique lavirotte, you are suspected of murdering lionel crawford, as you are suspected of having attempted to murder my son. as i came along this street, and while i was delayed at the door, i saw two men idling about--i took them for detectives." "for god's sake, what do you mean, mr. o'donnell?" "that the police are watching you; that in all likelihood you will swing for the murder of that old man in that lonely tower; and that you deserve to swing for your attempt to murder my son, and your deliberate trifling with me in my cruel necessity." "i never trifled with you, mr. o'donnell," cried lavirotte feebly. "you lie, sir!" cried the old man, suddenly flushing up, drawing his right hand from his back pocket and placing the muzzle of a revolver within three feet of lavirotte's breast. chapter x. for a while neither james o'donnell nor dominique lavirotte moved. at last the old man said: "whether i shoot you or not is a matter of perfect indifference to me. there would be no pity, no shame in doing so. i look on myself as a dead man, and i am not only dead in my own eyes, but also dishonoured. i do not say you were the cause of my dishonour, but you are a criminal with regard to my son, and an unprincipled liar with regard to myself. i do not know why i am talking to you. the sight of your dead body would be better for me than those shaking limbs and that craven face. shall i put you out of your pain? shall i fire?" "for god's sake, mr. o'donnell, put down that dreadful thing, and let us talk like men." "you a man!" cried the old man, in a low, scoffing voice. "who, in the darkness of the night, sprang upon an unarmed man, who had never done you any harm, and sought to stab him to death without giving him one chance for his life! you, who not only did this, but did this to your greatest friend, call yourself a man! you are a low, mean, cowardly hound, and shooting is too good for you!" a queer look came into lavirotte's eyes. "if you put down that revolver," he said more collectedly, and with a ghastly smile, "i will tell you how all that thing happened. how is it that, although, as you say--to my shame i confess it--i made a murderous assault upon my dear good friend eugene----" "if you wish to live a few minutes longer," said james o'donnell, "you had better give up that horrible, lying slang of dear good friend eugene. i am in no humour to dry the crocodile's tears of an arch-blasphemous hypocrite like you." lavirotte seemed gaining courage. with a wave of his hand he put aside the old man's violent interruption and proceeded: "how is it that, after an occurrence such as you describe, eugene forgave me?" "because he is too noble and good a fellow for a cowardly wretch like you to know." lavirotte now smiled a smile of self-assurance and ease. "mr. o'donnell," he said, making a motion towards a chair, "have the goodness to sit down. this house is not all my own. i rent only two rooms, this one and the one behind. i do not think it would be fair of you to disturb the quiet of this house with anything so rude as a pistol-shot, or to shock the susceptibilities of my good friends here with anything so revolting as a murder. but if you will drop that revolver i'll tell you something about that affair with your son you never heard before, and which, perhaps, even to your blind and bigoted mind, may put a new aspect on the matter." the old man dropped his arm in mute amazement at this attack. he had come there with the intention of shooting lavirotte, after reproaching him violently for the injuries he had inflicted and the hopes he had betrayed. and now, here was lavirotte coolly turning on him, abusing him instead of sitting mutely under his reproaches, and smiling with as much assurance as though he were the person with the grievance who was about to extend mercy. "it would be," said lavirotte, "more convenient and comfortable if you sat down. i am scarcely strong enough to stand. you say you are a dead man. i am a man only very slightly alive." "i will never, sir," said the old man, "sit down in the presence of a scoundrel such as you, again." "i was never very intimate with you, mr. o'donnell----" "never, thank heaven, sir." "because i always had a natural aversion from fools." "fool, sir! fool! do you mean to say i am a fool?" "yes, a pitiable fool. who but a pitiable fool would entrust the savings of a lifetime to a sanctimonious old swindler like vernon? i never yet met a man who made a parade of his religion that was not as great a villain as his courage would allow. but i am getting away from the point. i was saying a little while ago does it not seem strange to you that eugene should forgive me utterly after i had attempted to murder him?" "i said no, sir. the boy was always distinguished by his generosity." "does it not seem strange to you that i, being eugene's great friend, should have made a murderous attack upon him without any cause known to you?" "no, sir; it does not seem strange. it would seem strange to me if you had acted according to any ordinary principle of honour or honesty." "but why, in the name of reason, should i attack eugene, my dearest and best friend?" "because he was your dearest and best friend, and it satisfied the demands of your vile nature that you should sacrifice the man who was your most intimate friend." "no; that was not the reason. that is what a shallow-pated fool might think. something of greater moment than the virtues or vices i possess was the cause of it." "ay, some foolish quarrel between two young men. perhaps you were both heated in argument; perhaps you had both been too free with liquor. but, however you put it, or however high the anger of you both may have gone, only a coward and scoundrel would take a man unawares and attempt to stab him. young men may have their quarrels; but in these countries, sir, young men do not in their quarrels use the knife!" the old man was still standing a few feet distant from the chair in which lavirotte sat. his left hand was clenched behind his back. his right hung down by his side, holding the revolver. "there was no quarrel of any kind. we had not even been together that night. i waited for him. i lay in hiding for him, and as he was passing by i sprang at him and tried to kill him without a word of warning." "infamous monster," cried the old man, shaking with rage. "do you mean to tell his father this?" james o'donnell's hand tightened on the revolver, and without raising his wrist he threw the muzzle slightly upward. "keep your hand still, sir. keep your hand still. you came here to shoot me because i had failed to keep a promise which i had every reason to hope i could keep. you came here to shoot me, because, through no fault of mine, but through your own stupid wrong-headedness, you, in the decline of life, found yourself commercially a ruined man. you have had a long and prosperous career. i have had nothing but struggles and difficulties and disappointments all my life, short as it is. suppose for a moment that eugene, without knowing it, ruined all my life, all my future." "i can suppose nothing so absolutely absurd." "then, sir, your want of imagination in this thing only confirms my former opinion of you--you are a fool. keep your hand quiet. it might be a satisfaction for you to murder me when you came in first, and when your faith in my wickedness was without a flaw. but it will not do now, and you would have no more comfort in shooting me at this moment than you would in facing all the widows and orphans made by that bank, that rotten concern which you in your infatuation believed to be sound, which paid you heavy dividends for your money and your consent to be stupid, and which in the end reduced thousands of simple, thrifty folk to penury. sir, will you put that pistol down on the table and take a chair?" this was even a still more unexpected attack than the former one. mr. o'donnell's mind was thrown into some confusion by finding that he was not only opposed in the field where he had made sure of success, but that his flanks were turned while he had been announcing victory to himself. never in the whole course of his life had anyone before seriously questioned even his judgment, not to say the foundations of his honesty. and here was the very man for whom he entertained the greatest contempt and loathing, calmly assuming a superior tone and impugning the honesty of one who had hitherto been regarded as impeccable. in a dazed, stupid way he put the revolver on the table and took the chair, as he had been asked. "now, sir, it is time you knew all. your son is now happily married to a woman i once madly loved. remember, i am not using the word 'madly' in any figurative or poetic sense; i am talking the commonest and most ordinary prose. i loved her madly, notwithstanding the fact that i was engaged to be married to another woman. and without knowing that he did it, and to tell the truth, after i had been rejected by her, he made love to her and succeeded. then it was that something rose within me, which you have to-night called by a variety of names, which others would call hate, jealousy, revenge, but perhaps which might be called insanity more truly than anything else. i am sure i must have been mad at the time. i remember nothing of it but a hurry in my head, a tumult in my blood, a wild desire to do something that i knew was not right, and yet which i knew i must do. then i remember no more until i awoke healed of the fever of madness and hurt in the encounter with eugene." he rose from his chair heavily as he spoke, crossed to the table where the revolver lay, took up the weapon, and said: "a capital revolver--a splendid revolver, sir--a six-chamber one. according to our own showing neither of us has much to live for; and according to your showing the hangman would be the only person seriously injured if i committed suicide. if you are disposed to have half of this i promise to take the other half, and then we shall both be quits." "are you mad again?" "not yet; but i feel it coming on." chapter xi. "personally," continued lavirotte, "i have no desire to shoot you. you are at perfect liberty to live. but as you were so sure a little while ago that you were a dead man, and i was one also, it doesn't make much difference who pulls the trigger. yet i think, before we take our final leave of the world, it would be just as well we had a quiet little chat." "you don't mean to say," cried james o'donnell, "that you would murder me in cold blood?" "how can i murder you in cold blood, or in heat, since you say you are already dead? when a man is dead to the law, as in the case of a man sentenced to death, no one ever thinks of calling the hangman's office that of a murderer. viewing your case from my point, i cannot see that death would be any grievous harm to you. by your stupid folly you have ruined yourself, your family, and been accessory to the ruin of hundreds. you are old, and have no reason to hope for any great prolongation of life. outside your own business you never have been remarkable for any quality which could now bring you bread. candidly, mr. o'donnell, i don't see any reason why you shouldn't die, and why i shouldn't shoot you." the old man was paralysed with horror, and did not speak. in the fury of his disappointment and despair it was easy for him to think he would come to london and kill lavirotte and then himself, but since he had entered that room, and lavirotte had spoken, a change had come over the whole aspect of affairs. he was no longer quite sure that he would be justified, morally or humanly, in killing lavirotte. he was no longer quite sure that he had any grievance at all against lavirotte. an hour before he was quite sure. he felt fortified by ten thousand reasons in the opinion that he was called upon to kill the man who had attempted to kill his son, and who had led him himself into a fool's paradise. now the notion of death was hateful to him. although every penny of his fortune might be lost in the gulf of vernon and son, and although his mill and other places of business would inevitably be sold, he might be appointed manager of the business; for no doubt it would be carried on by someone, and no one could be so fitted to manage it as he who had created it. the thought of his wife and his son came strongly back upon him, now that he found himself face to face with an armed man who had owned he was subject to fits of insanity, an armed madman towards whom he had, a few moments ago, used the strongest language. he now felt, for the first time, that what he had contemplated towards lavirotte would have been a crime, and serious doubts began to arise in his mind as to whether his own life was in reality ended. the first shock caused by the news eugene gave him had now passed away, and he was able to see with clearer vision what had been, what was, and what might be. at last he mustered courage enough to say: "whatever may have occurred before, mr. lavirotte, supposing you were justified in your attack upon my son, and in the promise you made to me of material help in my great difficulty, there could not be the shadow of a justification for your taking my life." "i don't seek for justification," said lavirotte. "you have no reason to suppose i desire justification. a while ago you used the vilest language towards me. it may suit me to take ample revenge for such language, when i may do so with safety." "safety!" cried the old man; "safety! how can you talk of safety? you told me a few minutes ago that there were other people in the house. if you fired they would hear the shot----" "shot," said lavirotte, with a sinister smile, "there are six here;" tapping the revolver, which he held in his right, with the forefinger of his left hand. "shots!" repeated the old man with a shudder. "good god! you don't mean to say you could shoot a man with that smile on your face!" "that is a question quite apart from the matter we are discussing," said lavirotte, smiling still more. "yes, they would hear the shots." "then there are the men i saw outside watching the place. they also would hear, and knowing that you and i were not friends----" "how should they know we are not friends? we have been friends up to this. your secret designs upon my life have not been, i assume, communicated to anyone." "yes, but they would come then and find me wounded, perhaps dead. they would find you here. they would know that you have had some unaccountable connection with the assault upon my son, were found in the vault with the dead body of that man crawford, and are now found here with another injured man, and with a revolver in your hand. all this would be strong enough, i am sure, to convince people that i had been the victim of foul play." "up to a certain point, sir, i quite agree with you; and if the facts were to be exactly as you have described them, i have no doubt whatever that an intelligent jury would string me up. but there is a slight difference between what you fancy would occur and what seems to me likely to happen. i will describe to you briefly what, to my mind, would occur. i would hold this revolver thus and pull twice, sending one bullet through the head to insure instant insensibility, sending a second through the cavity of the chest to secure ultimate death. then i would take this revolver and put it in your hand." lavirotte held the weapon in his right hand, and pointed at james o'donnell's head. with his left hand he touched the barrel as he spoke. "for god's sake put that thing down!" lavirotte laughed. "you have not yet been so long under the magic ordeal of its glance as i was a little while ago. within a minute some persons would be in this room. they would find me in a state of terrible excitement. they would find me calling for help at the door and at the window. they would find me a man absolutely distracted. they would find you either sitting in that chair dead or dying, or lying on the floor. they would find this revolver--your own revolver--in your hand, or close by, where you let it fall after committing suicide." "suicide!" "they would hear from me how you received news that i could not help you, although i had hoped to be able to do so; that you came over here to learn from me personally if there were not some chance of my being able to aid you, and that upon my telling you there was not, you, to my grief and horror, put an end to yourself. you see, sir," said lavirotte, lowering the revolver and throwing himself back in his chair, "your story could not be heard. mine would be the only one forthcoming, and on each of the six sides of the cube of my story is the hall-mark of truth." "but surely, mr. lavirotte," said the merchant, "anything i may have said or done would not be a sufficient excuse for your committing so terrible a crime as making away with an old man who had never done you any serious injury. i may have said violent, unjustifiable things; i own i have. but i said them in heat and in ignorance. you can understand that i spoke under tremendous excitement, and in the belief that you had, without provocation, assailed my son, and that you had, for no reason known to me, promised me aid in my great trial and forsaken me in the moment of peril." "then, sir, am i to assume that you hold me at my word, and that you believe when i attacked your son i was suffering under extreme excitement and not responsible for my actions?" "i believe what you say." "and that when i promised to help you out of the money i made certain i was about to receive, i was sincere?" "that," said the old man, with some hesitancy, "is a question i am not yet qualified to answer." "will you, sir, say that you are now as open to believe i was in good faith when i promised to help you as you were to believe i had committed an unprovoked assault upon your son when you came in here?" "i see no reason why i should not say so." "then, sir, we may take it that we have arrived at the end of what might have been a fatal talk. let us put an end to any further chances of fatality thus." he cocked the revolver, placed the butt of the weapon on the floor, held the barrel in his left hand, and placing the heel of his right foot on the hammer, he tore it out from its place, and flung the weapon on the table, saying: "now, sir, a child may play with it in safety." the old man rose up in supreme relief, and said: "i have often thought hard things of you. i shall never think them again. when i came in i believed i had matters all my own way, and that i should shoot you like a dog. i had the merciless intention of shooting you as you were. you then got the upper hand of me and had me at your mercy. i cannot now but believe all you have told me. will you shake hands?" "very gladly indeed," said lavirotte, with the tears in his eyes. "this is one of the happiest moments of my life. now it is only fair i should tell you upon what i grounded my hopes of being able to help you." lavirotte told james o'donnell the whole history of the treasure and st. prisca's tower. when it was over, the old man said: "why, in the name of goodness, did you not get twenty men to dig instead of risking both your lives in such a silly way?" "we did not wish that anyone beyond ourselves should know. we did not want to share our good luck with the crown." "there was no need to share your luck with the crown. the law of treasure trove has lately been altered." "good heavens!" cried lavirotte. "to think it is so, and that poor old crawford should have lived all his life and died the death he did, without knowing this!" chapter xii. the crash at last came on the firm of o'donnell. the business was sold; but the creditors would not be as severe on the old man as he would be on himself. they refused to leave him absolutely penniless; and when the whole affair was wound up he found he had a sum of money which, if carefully invested, would secure the declining years of his wife and himself against absolute want. eugene was offered the managership of the old business, but would not take it, saying, with words of gratitude for the offer, that he would rather seek his fortune in another field, and that rathclare would always in his mind be haunted by the ghost of their more prosperous years. he told his personal friends that while he was abroad on his honeymoon he had had his voice tried, and competent judges told him that, with study, he could make a living by it. he had always a desire to go on the stage. he was not too old to begin now. he intended selling up all his immediate personal belongings, and on the proceeds of the sale he calculated that he and his wife could, with great thrift, manage to live until he was able to earn money by singing. three months after the last call, james o'donnell and his wife had given up their large house in rathclare, and taken a modest cottage in glengowra, where they purposed passing the remainder of their days, and eugene o'donnell and his wife were settled in lodgings in london. by this time, all that had hitherto been concealed by lavirotte was revealed. he had anticipated cassidy's story by himself telling dora of the infatuation he had once experienced for nellie creagh; and having explained to her that this condition of mind or heart had immediately preceded the onslaught he made on o'donnell, she adopted his view, namely, that the whole thing was the outcome of an abnormal mental condition likely to arise once in the lifetime of the average man. he explained to her that upon certain occasions the sanest and greatest of men had behaved like idiots or poltroons, and that the very desperation of his circumstances at the time had left him to drift into a flirtation, which had never gone beyond a dozen civil words on one particular occasion. she believed all he said; and once she got over the first shock of the affair, banished it for ever from her mind, as though it had no longer any more existence than the moonlight of last month. lavirotte and o'donnell were now as inseparable as ever. they attended the same lessons together, and dora waited for lavirotte with nellie at eugene's lodgings, where the two unmarried lovers now met, when they met indoors. lavirotte had still some of the money lionel crawford gave him, and when the affairs of the dead man were investigated it was found that he had some money left. this naturally became dora's. eugene's reverse of fortune arose at a time when his father believed matters would still come right, and that there would be no risk in his son's marrying. but the reverse of fortune, or rather the disappointment of expectations, had come upon lavirotte before he was married, and while there was yet time to prevent a headlong plunge of their two lives into an uncertain future. he had put the whole matter cogently to dora. he had told her that both he and eugene were advised by the best judges to study music in italy for about two years before appearing on the stage. to ensure success this was essential. would it not then be wiser that they should wait as they now were, until he came back from italy fully qualified to take his place in the front rank of tenors? everyone said his voice was excellent. everyone said it required training. he proposed to go to italy with the o'donnells, and he suggested that she should stay where she was, in the lodgings she now occupied, until his return. eugene approved of this he said. nellie thought it hard on her, dora. dora smiled faintly, and sighed and said: "no doubt the men knew best. they were sure to be wiser over the affair than she." he said they were both very young still, and could afford to wait in order to be sure of success. when he was gone she wept to think that her life seemed destined to be one of delays in love. after all had been settled between her and dominique, he had been compelled to leave her, to leave london, and to live hundreds of miles away. the sea, and weary leagues of miles, had separated them long; and often in those early days of dereliction she had imagined that the space was bridgeless, and that he would never stand by her side again, take her hand in his, call her his own. then he had come to london, and that tyranny of search for the treasure had come between them and parted them again. before she knew, in that london period, what absorbed dominique's time, she had taken it for granted that it was something upon which there was little or no need to fear the risks. now, this separation between her and dominique, which would necessitate his going to italy, seemed of greater import than any which had occurred before. ireland was a portion of these kingdoms in which people spoke the same language as she did. she had the average knowledge of school-girl french, and could speak to him, after a fashion, in his own tongue. now he was to go among people of whom she knew little, and be subject to conditions with which she was wholly unfamiliar. what could be harder on a girl than that she should love as she loved, and be so constantly, so completely denied? it seemed to her that, notwithstanding his professions of unmixed devotion, there was always something which occupied more of his attention than thoughts of her. this was a cruel reflection for her, who could think of nothing but him all day, all night. he was the sun, the moon, of her existence. how could he, if she were to take his words literally, love her as she loved him, when he could say he loved her above all other things on earth, and yet could neglect her for the ordinary pursuits of material advancement? she did not understand such matters. she heard that love in woman was an essence, in man an accident. this she believed now. but why could not the accident of his love be complete, even for a while? why could not his regard for her be so all-absorbing as to make everything else seem small; her love for him dwarfed all other things when brought into comparison with it? but there was now no use in thinking, no use in even mental protest. he, being a man, was naturally wiser than she, being a woman, and there could be no doubt this going of his to italy was approved of by all other men, who were also wiser than she. it was in sorrowful mood she parted from him. the slenderness of their means, and the great distance between london and milan, made it unlikely he should return more than once or twice during the two years or so. he, however, promised faithfully to come back at the end of the first year, if not before, and on this understanding they parted; he, eugene o'donnell, and nellie getting into the train at charing cross, with brave words and encouraging gestures; she weeping a little there and then, and much after. they had arranged between them that each was to write to the other once a week. he was much better than this, for during the first two or three months he wrote her always twice, and sometimes thrice a week. then his letters dropped to once a week, and after that to once a fortnight. he playfully explained to her that as during the earlier portion of their separation he had exceeded his promise, he was persuaded she would now allow him a little latitude out of consideration of that. to this she answered in a cheerful letter that she was quite willing to adopt his suggestion. she wept in writing her cheerful letter, and cried in posting it. "if he wrote me twenty times a week," she cried, "when he first went away, i want to hear forty times a week from him now." as time went on, the letters from dominique to her decreased in frequency. a whole month passed without a line. then six weeks. then two months, and by the end of the first year he had not written to her for three whole months, although during that time she had never failed to write to him every week. at the end of the first year, eugene o'donnell said to his wife one day: "i don't think the godfather of our boy"--they had now a little son, a few months old--"is quite as attentive as he should be to dora, and i greatly fear he has got entangled, in some other affair. you know luigia?" "what!" cried mrs. o'donnell, in astonishment. "you don't mean that handsome flower-girl?" "yes," said eugene, "that handsome flower-girl to whom we took such a liking." for a moment mrs. o'donnell looked perplexed. "it would hurt me to the heart," she said, "to think that poor dora should have any further reason to suspect him. i do not like him, you know. how can it be that he who made love to dora, who is dark, should care for this handsome italian girl, who is fair-skinned and light-haired?" "the unusualness, partly," said eugene, "and partly, nellie, that she----" he paused, and did not finish the sentence. "that she what?" said the young wife, with a perplexed look upon her face. "that she resembles you." "good heavens, eugene! what a horrible thought! i shall never be able to look with patience at lavirotte again. who is this coming here?" "i don't know; i will go and see." after a few moments, eugene returned. "a telegram," he said, "with bad news, nellie." "my mother? your father? your mother? who is it?" she cried. "i know someone is dead." "yes," he said quietly, "but none of those." "then, in god's name, who?" "dora." she had come out of the sunlight, which pierced the windows of that tower, and had fallen swiftly beneath the shadow of the old man's arms. chapter xiii. the news of dora's death was a great shock to the o'donnells. the girl's landlady had telegraphed to them in order that they might break it to lavirotte. of late, o'donnell had begun to think that lavirotte was not treating dora very well, and nellie was distinctly of opinion that his conduct towards the poor girl was very far from what it ought to be. neither knew exactly to what extent his neglect had gone. he spoke little of dora of late. they knew she wrote to him regularly every week, and in palliation of the tone which he took when speaking of her, o'donnell said: "smooth water runs deep. he may be fonder of her than ever. it may be only his way of trying her constancy." at this mrs. o'donnell would become very wroth, and cry out: "trying her constancy indeed! that is an odd way for you who know everything about him to put it. whether is it he or she is more likely to be inconstant?" if lavirotte had had any notice that dora was ill, he had kept it to himself. the telegram was very brief. it simply stated that the girl died after a few days' illness, and that they were to break the news to lavirotte. in the face of her sad end, both their hearts softened towards the frenchman. whatever may have been his past, even if he had been a little careless of her, and had carried on an undignified flirtation with the flower-girl, luigia, it never occurred to either of them he had the faintest notion of finally abandoning dora. now there was but one thing to be thought of, and that was how they could best break the sad news. they sent for him, and it was agreed before he came that o'donnell should speak to him alone. "something wrong?" said lavirotte, on entering the room where he found eugene. "i wanted to see you particularly," said the other. "are you prepared for any unpleasant news?" lavirotte started and coloured, and looked uneasily about the room. "has anyone come from london? i swear to you, eugene, there is nothing in that luigia affair. i know i shouldn't have started even a flirtation. i am sure you did not tell dora. she has come to milan, and is with your wife? am i not right?" "no, dominique. no, my dear dominique. i wish she were." "then, the girl is dead?" cried lavirotte. "my dora is dead! tell me so at once, and put me out of pain, eugene!" "i had a telegram, dominique." "yes, yes. i know. you need say no more," said the frenchman, as he threw himself on a chair. "i am accursed! poor girl! poor child!" he covered his face with his hands and sobbed. eugene put his hand softly on the shoulder of his friend as a token of his sympathy, and then stole quietly out through the window into the little garden behind the house. he thought he would leave lavirotte alone in the first burst of his grief. in a few minutes o'donnell came back to the room and found it empty. he consulted for a short time with his wife, and they came to the conclusion that it was better not to follow lavirotte, but to leave him in solitude and grief. the afternoon passed away, and it was late in the evening before they decided that eugene should look him up at his lodgings. here again the irishman drew a blank. the signor had left that day for his country, for england, and would be away for example, a day for every finger--one, two, three, four, five. the signor had not said why he was going. he had taken nothing whatever with him but his purse, out of which he had given her, the landlady, before the signor went away, this gold piece, which was over and above the money due to her. he seemed in great grief and spoke to himself, not in italian, and it seemed to her, who now spoke english somewhat, not in english. it may have been french. it seemed as though he cursed and threatened, for he ground his teeth and shook his fists, thus, and thus, and again in this manner, the last greatly terrifying her, the landlady. and she left the room, fearing he might, without reason, take vengeance on her, who had done nothing. for he seemed as one distraught, as one mad, who might easily strike one who had done no harm. ah! was it so? his sweetheart dead! in that far-away country! then, perhaps, when he recovered from this he would marry luigia, who had the most wonderful hair in the world, and was so fair, as to seem as though she had come from the place where his, signor o'donnell's, wife had come from. luigia was a good girl, and not like others, and if the signor did marry her, she would make him a good wife; for having been poor she would know the value of his money. but the poor signor who had gone away that day was in no humour to think of marriage now. only of death and the grave. did signor o'donnell know of the sweetheart of the other? yes. and she was also fair, like the signora and luigia? no; dark. ah, how strange. how incomprehensible. here in this country they were nearly all dark, and when a fair woman came among them, no dark woman had a chance against her. but if what people said was true, there were the dark and the fair in the place from which the signora came, and a man could choose, after his liking, the dark or the fair. yet the poor signor, who had lost his sweetheart, had chosen, in his own country, a dark woman for a sweetheart, and here, for a sweetheart, a fair woman. he was fickle in love. had signor o'donnell noticed that luigia had a strong resemblance to the signora? luigia was a good girl. god keep her from harm. eugene came back and told nellie that lavirotte had suddenly left for london, without, as far as he knew, saying a word to anyone. according to what his landlady had said, lavirotte must have gone straight home, and gone from his lodgings to the railway station. what an odd fellow he was, not to say a word, not to take a portmanteau or even hand-bag with him, but dash off across europe just as they had seen him last. "you know, nellie," said eugene, putting his arm round his wife's waist, "i often told you i thought there was a screw loose in lavirotte, and every day that goes over confirms me more and more in this belief. it is a curious fact that some great-great-grandfather or other had a mania for mania, and wrote a book about something or other connected with the mind. of late lavirotte has said a lot to me about the injudiciousness of trusting to a voice for a living. he has told me, what is quite true, that until a voice has been tested on the stage and in front of an audience, no one can tell what it is going to be. it is just like an unacted play. it may be worth five pounds a week, or it may be worth five hundred. then he has said to me that he thinks his natural bent was towards medicine, and only that he had given up so much time now to the cultivation of his voice, he would certainly, if he had the money, become a doctor. "eugene," said nellie, "you have told me something of this before. all this talk about the impossibility of deciding the value of a voice until it is tested in front of an audience, seems to me to have a good deal to do with the fact that people, both here and in england, say your voice is better than his. whatever may be on the surface of his talk about his voice, i am sure at the bottom of it there is jealousy of yours." "nonsense, nellie!" cried eugene, good-naturedly. "you know what you are saying is absurd. such jealousy as you speak of is a lost art. as uncle toby said to the fly, lavirotte might say to me: 'go, go, poor devil! get thee gone--why should i hurt thee? this world is surely wide enough to hold both thee and me.' how could two men of second or third-rate voices, such as we have, even clash. there are hundreds of towns which want third-class tenors, and once we have taken to the boards there is no more likelihood of our meeting and clashing than of two twenty-fifth-rate comets meeting in space." "he is jealous by nature, eugene; and he is jealous of you." "if he is jealous of me, darling, it must be in regard to you." he pressed her to him, and kissed her forehead as he spoke. "you may put it what way you will, eugene, but you are a truer friend to him than he is to you." "god bless my soul!" cried her husband, "how _can_ you say so? did he not nearly lose his life in trying to get that treasure, with a view to saving our house?" "i suppose _i_ must believe that he believed he would get that money, and so be able to do you a service, but i do not know anything harder to credit." "why, he not only nearly lost his life, but he certainly injured his health in some way in that unfortunate undertaking at st. prisca's tower. the day he got the letter from me about the money for the last call, he fell asleep or fainted in a chair at his lodgings, and he tells me that ever since, his chest now and then feels strange." "according to what your father told us afterwards, it is very wonderful that neither of these men should have known anything about the law. for my part, eugene, i believe poor old mr. crawford was a sincere, half-witted man, and that lavirotte seemed to adopt the delusion of the old man in order that he might pose as your patron or benefactor, to balance the injury he had done you that dreadful night at the cove." "nonsense!" cried her husband. "men do not carry farces so far as to injure their health permanently." "if you were to talk till morning," said she, decisively, "you could not convince me he is not jealous." "of my voice?" "i don't say of that only." "of you?" "i don't say that either." "in the name of heaven, then, what is he jealous of? of baby?" laughed the husband. "do you think he is jealous of our having little mark?" at that moment the door opened, and a young italian girl entered, carrying the baby. "you needn't be so absurd, eugene," said the young mother, fondly taking her infant from the girl. "and yet," she added, kissing the child, "anyone might well be jealous of us about you, darling." "nellie, dear, you have capped the climax of absurdity." chapter xiv. before leaving milan, lavirotte had telegraphed to london, saying he would be over for the funeral. when he got to london he drove straight to charterhouse square. the landlady thought he looked wild, and two or three other sympathetic people who lived in the house said he ought to be looked after. but his words were sane, and he made only one request, which, under the circumstances, was reasonable--namely, that he might be allowed some time in the room alone with her. he went into that silent room where the dead girl lay, and closed the door softly behind him. it was broad daylight, and although charterhouse square is, at the busiest time of the day, comparatively quiet for a place in the city, he could hear the great muffled rumble of traffic that overhung the whole place, like a cloud that lay around on all sides, like a soft cushion against which silence beat. he drew down the lid and looked at the dead, the lovely dead. so like, and so absolutely unlike. all was here, and yet nothing. here was a mask, the pallid mask of his dearest love, his sweetest girl. here was the sleeping form round which his arms had often clung lovingly, tenderly, hopefully, with joyous anticipation of long years full of happiness, spent by them together. now all the charm was gone; all the sacredness had departed. there was nothing more worthy of his regard in these still, silent features, than in the wooden box which was to be the mute and viewless partner of their decay. here was the hair with which he had so often played, the unwrinkled brow which he had so often, with supererogatory fingers, smoothed. the eyes were closed; there was no longer any light in them. the light had gone out for ever. there was here a cessation of light, such as had occurred in that vault when the lantern failed. in those veiled eyes lay the darkness of the tomb, as in that vault, veiled from the light of heaven, had lain the darkness of the nether deep. the lips were closed and bloodless and placid. those were the lips that he had loved to kiss, that he had hoped to think were his for ever. the sculptor would have seen little change, the painter much, the poet more, the lover all. nothing was that had been. what had happened to the trustful spirit, quiet laughter, the quick irritability to smiles, the joyous movements of approach, when he was there, the sweet confidence, the gentle voice, the hand that came forth, anxious to be clasped, the yielding form? all, all the qualities, which had in time to him stood as divine expression of a beautiful decree, had passed into nothingness, had left no more behind than the wind leaves on the rock. all that was sweet and pure, guileless and joyous, vital and fresh, had gone away for ever, and left nothing. why should he call this dora? it could not hear him. it could not answer him. he might as well throw up his arms and plead his piteous grief into the vacant air. dora was dead, and this thing here was no more than the mask of dora. only the mask of dora, and yet a mask which he could not preserve. to-morrow they would take this coffin away and put it somewhere or other, he knew not, he cared not where. there would be a ceremony, at which people would look solemn, out of a general sense of fitness, rather than because of individual grief. they would lower that coffin down nine feet or so into the solid earth, and cover it up, and then come away. and the men whose business it was to attend to the material portions of the burial would stop at the first public-house and have a drink, after they had buried his dora. buried his dora! no, they could not. they could never bury her. they might bury this thing here--this phantom--this mask--this statue. they might put this away for ever, and in the inviolate darkness of the tomb it might crumble away and be no more to the future than a few old bones of an unknown woman. but for him they could never bury dora. they could never bury his darling dora! what! could it be that these pallid lips now lying smooth and close together had moulded his name, had whispered into his ear, had taken his kisses as the rich guerdon offered there for admission to the citadel of her heart, as the supreme offer of a subdued nature at the final barrier of an opulent town? those the lips, those the material lips, those the substantial lips which his lips had touched, and which, with such excellent flattery to his love, allowed themselves to be touched by his, not shrinking from his, not even seeming to shrink from his, but even slowly and modestly advancing to his with the whole head, the whole neck, the whole form---were they now going to bury these lips, this head, this neck, this form? darling, where are you? i am here. is there any place but here, where you may be? you have left something behind you as you went away. they have put it in a coffin. it is no good to me. why did it not go with you? why am i here? where am i? who am i that am here? i am not he that loved you once any more than this here is what i once loved. i shall wait until i go away before i love again. and when i have gone away as you have gone away i will love only you. and here upon the lips that are not yours, but which are the likest yours i ever saw, i swear this oath. so help me, god. when he left that room, when he had taken farewell of his dead sweetheart, he left the house, saying no more words than were absolutely necessary to the occasion. the funeral was to be the next morning. he said he would be there in time, but gave no other indication of his future actions. out of charterhouse square, he struck in a southerly direction until he reached porter street. into this he turned, and, walking rapidly, did not pause until he came to st. prisca's tower, the new door of which he opened. he entered the tower. little had as yet been done to the interior since last he saw it. above him yawned the vacant space which had formerly been cut in two by the fallen loft. that loft, in its fall, had carried with it the ladder which had run round the walls, and it was no longer possible to gain the second loft by the old means. but an ordinary slater's ladder had been used by crawford and him of old, to descend into the pit, and this would be long enough, if placed upon a projecting mass of masonry on a level with the street, to reach the second loft. he had brought a candle with him, had lit it, and stuck it against the wall. the light from this was, however, feeble. it reached but a short distance into the pit below; but a short distance into the vault above. how was he to drag up this heavy ladder from its position against the wall, into which it had been thrust by the falling loft? he caught the sides of the ladder, and with all his force sought to move it. in vain. it would not stir. he tried again and again. it resisted him implacably. then he descended it, finding in so doing that a few of the rungs had been knocked out of it by the falling loft. when he got down he stood on some of the wreckage, caught a rung close to his feet with both his hands, and threw the whole force of his body into one fierce, upward strain. the ladder still remained immovable. he let go the rung, drew himself up, and leaned against the ladder, panting hard. "my strength is gone," he said. "my strength is buried in this accursed hole. may the place be for ever accursed! i must get help." he mounted the ladder, opened the door of the tower, and accosted two men who were leaning against the opposite wall. they were willing to help, and followed him into the tower. one of them caught hold of the ladder, and shook it easily in its place, drawing it upward a foot or so. "i could have done that once," thought lavirotte. "i shall be able to do anything like that no more." under lavirotte's instructions, the two porters placed the ladder in the position he desired. he paid them and they left. then he ascended the ladder, and, following the upward way of the remaining stairs, reached what had been formerly his room. he felt greatly fatigued. the long journey from milan, the anxiety of mind, the vigil by the side of the dead dora, had all, no doubt, he thought, been too much for him. he looked around. the humble furniture of the place was all covered thick with dust. with a brush he removed the accumulation of months from the couch, and lay down. yes, he was very tired, and there was that dull, dead pain in his side--in his chest, here. he wondered what it could be. in the old days he must have strained himself when working in this place. and yet he did not remember any particular strain. this pain might really be nothing more than the result of the overwork he endured here more than a year ago. this was the first time he had rested since he had last spoken to o'donnell. it was very pleasant to rest here, secure from the sound and bustle of this tumultuous city. but dora was resting even more quietly than he. there was no comparison between the blessed quiet of her beautiful young face and the harassed quiet he now endured. oh, god! what a pain! what was that? for a moment he thought it might be death. chapter xv. the pain in lavirotte's chest did not last long, but when it had passed away he felt weak and dispirited. a while ago he had thought how good it was to be here, remote from the bustle and noise of the town below. now he felt oppressed by the thought that he was feeble, had suffered from some acute and paralysing pain, and was practically out of the reach of human aid. this tower seemed indeed fated to take a prominent if not a final part in his career. he had, more than a year ago, narrowly escaped death in the vault beneath. was he now threatened with death in this loft above? for he felt spent and broken, and as though the effort of getting down once more would be more than he ever would accomplish. it was plain to him something serious was the matter with him. three or four times before this he had felt the same pain, followed by the same prostration of body and depression of mind. he had never consulted anyone about it. if it was serious, let it kill him. if it was not serious, why should he care? why should he care about anything now? dora was dead and his life was in ashes. true, he had not been as faithful to dora as he might have been, but then who was perfect? and he had meant to marry dora; and he would have married dora only that dora had died. he was too weary to take off his clothes. it was better for him to lie thus than to run the risk of again experiencing that terrible pain. the lassitude now was tolerable, and gradually the despondency was lifting. he would sleep, and upon waking should be refreshed. when it was day, no doubt he would wake, or a little after day. there was no great hurry. they were not going to bury dora until noon; and he had come a long way, was overwrought, ill, and might indulge himself in a long, peaceful rest. it was the beginning of autumn, and he did not need, while sleeping, much, if any more covering. there was a rug on a chair hard by. he would just take off his boots, draw that rug over him, and go to sleep. lavirotte rose carefully from the couch, took off his boots, stretched out his arm, and seized the rug, shook the dust out of it, and drawing it up under his chin, sank back again upon the couch and was soon asleep. for a while he slept so soundly, so softly, one might have supposed he was dead. he did not move a muscle, and his breathing was so quiet it could not be heard by anyone standing near. the hours went by, and still he slept calmly, dreamlessly. towards dawn he turned slightly on his left side, and then, as though by magic, the vacant spaces of unconscious sleep became filled with images, at first confused and incoherent, with no more rational dependence upon one another than the inarticulate sounds produced by a deaf mute and organised arbitrary speech. first he was conscious of great peril, which threatened him, he knew not from where. it was an old enemy, someone he had once wronged, someone who had promised him forgiveness, and now withdrew that promise. was it a man or a nation, or some great law of nature, or some element of the supernatural that he had once outraged and that now threatened him, that now assailed him with fears, choked full of horror? choked--choked--choked full of horrors. no, not choked full of horrors. full of choking horrors. full of deprivation of breath. full of rigidity of lung. full of the smell of stifling brass and unutterable pains of sulphureous obstruction. this was better. this was an open prairie, and he, weary-limbed and sodden with fatigue, having accomplished innumerable miles of travel, had innumerable miles of travel still to accomplish through the rank, tall, tangled grass that pressed against his steps, up to his knees, and held back his feet as a shallow rapid might hold back the feet of one standing in it. overhead the sky was blue and pitiless; without a cloud, without the faintest promise of rain, which would refresh and cheer him. the grass at his feet was too bright for wholesomeness and hurt his eyes, as the sun above his head was too bright for wholesomeness and hurt his head, his neck, his back, seemed to parch and dry up the very essence of his spirits. it would be better if he could lie down; for, although the grass was too green with light, it was softer than this toil forward, and it would soothe the fiery heat of his muscles to stretch in delicious ease, even under that fierce sun. but he was powerless to do his will. he was powerless even to bend his back; he was powerless to bend to one side or the other. in no way could he alter the strain on the muscles of his legs. they burned him as though they were of red-hot steel; and yet onward and onward he must go, supported and projected by them. it was not now leagues that threatened him ahead, but infinity. for eternity he was destined to plod on over this fiercely hot, breathless plain, with the current of those tangled grasses always against his feet, on his head the furious heat of the sun, and in the muscles of his legs the fire of hell. hell! ah, yes! now he knew all. this was his punishment for what he had done. but what had he done? there was the bitterness of this great punishment. he did not know. but it was something so terrible that the angels above durst not breathe it lest they might pollute heaven, nor the demons in hell utter even its name, lest the plutonian fires might be raised to rages such as the damned had never known. what was this after all? a change in the aspect of affairs which a while ago had seemed immutable, eternal. no longer was the plain a solitude, yet still no human figure but his own was in view. yet he heard a sound behind him, and, turning, saw, a tall, lean, hungry-looking dog behind him. any companionship seemed better than the solitude of the green plain, the empty sky, and the pitiless sun. the dog was coming after him faster than he was walking. the dog would overtake him in time. no doubt the brute felt the loneliness as he did, and yearned for companionship of any kind. what was this? all at once the resistance to the progress of his feet seemed to have broken down. all at once the fiery agony had left his muscles. all at once the hurtful brightness of the green had deserted the grass. all at once the mad fervour had been withdrawn from the rays of the sun, and in its place had come a jocund, sprightly warmth, which surrounded the body like a soothing vapour, and drew upwards from the grasses healing balms. the solitude of the prairie was broken by the presence of the dog. the impediment in his progress had been laid. the fever had departed from his body, and he felt refreshed, invigorated. now he cared not how far he had to journey forward. he had the companionship of the dog, the vigour of youth, a soft and level way, and the freshness of an early summer morning around him. out of a life of hideous and useless labour he had been lifted into a life of vernal joyousness. he did not care now whether the toil of his march should finish with the day. in so far as he was, he was absolutely happy, and when the dog overtook him, and he could speak to and fondle it, he should desire no more. he looked over his shoulder. the dog was still a long way in the rear, but seemed to be overhauling him foot by foot. he called to the brute. it did not bark or look up. it seemed to take no notice of his voice, but kept on slowly, now diverging a little to one side, now to the other, but mainly keeping in a right line with him. what was there about this dog which seemed, now that it was closer, disconcerting? the brute came forward, hanging its head low, and as he swayed out of the right line of approach he snapped as though flies were attacking him, although no flies were on the plain. then there was something wrong about his eyes and mouth. although lavirotte called him he did not look up, and the jaws of his mouth were not closed, and the teeth of his mouth were visible, and in the angles of the jaws there was foam. the brute was now within fifty yards of him, and just at the moment when lavirotte's uneasiness at the unusual appearance of the dog had gained its height, something strange happened to the ground upon which lavirotte was walking. it grew soft, spongy, lutulent. his feet, which a few moments before had been full of springy vigour, were now clogged with the heavy mud into which, as he went onward, he at every step sank more and more, until at last he found he could make no further progress and was held immovably fixed. moment by moment he sank deeper. the mud now reached his knees, his hips, his waist, his ribs. only his head and shoulders rose above this devouring quicksand. then, as he believed all was lost, and when the mud had reached his arm-pits, the dog overtook him, and moving slowly, stood in front of him. with a wild shriek lavirotte thrust forth his arms and seized the huge ears of the bloodhound, crying: "he is mad! the dog is mad! i know it. we have always known this kind of thing, we lavirottes." the dog snapped at both his arms. with superhuman efforts, lavirotte avoided the fangs. all at once, with a wild growl and incredible strength, the bloodhound thrust his head forward and drove his long yellow fangs into lavirotte's chin. the eyes of the man and the eyes of the beast were now fixed on one another, and the eyes of the man saw that the eyes of the beast were those of eugene o'donnell. with a scream lavirotte started to his feet--awake. this was the morning of dora's funeral. chapter xvi. when lavirotte got to charterhouse square there was little time to lose. already the hearse and two mourning coaches were there. to himself he seemed not more than half awake. he went about the place like a man in a dream. he saw certain things occur, and he knew they were incidental to a funeral, but he made no connection between them and dora, between them and his own heart. he was a shadow attending the obsequies of a wraith. he was now connected with nothing material, and nothing connected with matter was now going forth. there was in his mind a formula which he adopted from others--namely, dora harrington was about to be buried, but this had no relation to his past, his present, or his future. the events of all that day were to him, afterwards, no more than a half-forgotten dream. he was conscious of having felt weary, tired, worn out. he was conscious of being in a kind of vicarious way, on his own behalf, present at a gloomy ceremonial. he was conscious that sadness was the leading characteristic of that ceremonial, and he was conscious of little else. when all was over he remembered getting back to the tower, clambering up with difficulty, mounting into the loft which had been his sleeping room, taking off his clothes (the first time for days), and lying down in an unmade bed. he remembered the sense of peace and quiet which had come over him in that bed, and the gradual approach of sleep, until at last all was blank. and then he remembered nothing until he saw the early light of the next day. he lay a long time looking at the light as it slowly descended on the wall. his mind became a sluggish whirlpool of memory. he could now see clearly all the events which had marked recent years. it may be said his life had not begun until he had met dora harrington in london; and from that point downward, to the hurry and whirl and abysm of to-day, he saw everything clearly, sharply. "i meant to be faithful to her," he thought. "i swore it, and i meant it, my dear, dead dora. what first made me miss a letter to you? let me see. ah, yes! i remember. i was to have written from glengowra on saturday, and on friday eugene o'donnell asked me to go for a long walk with him next day. we went inland, towards the mountains, and in the mountains we lost ourselves and did not get home until midnight, when it was too late to keep my promise to you, my darling. "that was the first letter i ever missed. ah, how many have i missed since? "then what happened? she who is now o'donnell's wife came between me and dora. her beauty carried me away. i was infatuated, fascinated, mad, and i forgot my dear girl for an empty dream; an idle, empty dream that no sane man would have heeded for a moment. then came eugene; and she who could not love me could love him, and i felt that i had lost both. this made me worse. i lost all command of reason, and tried to kill him. "then came that time at glengowra when we were both lying hurt, and the old man, her grandfather, came and induced me to take an interest in that phantom treasure; and all at once it occurred to me that if this treasure were found, i could be of the greatest service to the o'donnells, whom i had so deeply injured. "i came to london, to this very place, with the sole object of getting money to relieve the o'donnells. all was now right with dora. we were on as affectionate terms as ever we had been. but as time went on, and the days between the o'donnells and ruin became fewer, i gradually became more deeply absorbed in the work here, i gradually visited dora less frequently. i almost deserted her, for a second time, and although no estrangement ever arose between her and me, i felt guilty towards her. but i was carried away headlong by my passionate desire to rescue the o'donnells. "often as i worked, i knew i was overstraining my constitution; and when the supreme moment arrived, the urgent letter from eugene, and the absolute necessity for immediate success or failure, i broke down in my lodgings and returned here, only to find that i had been wasting my time and risking my life in a wild-goose chase. "then came the climax, and the narrow escape from sudden death. "all this seems strangely mixed up with the o'donnells--all my misfortune! then i go away; i go south with the o'donnells. i go south to study for the career which would enable me to marry dora, and i go south with the o'donnells. it appears i was fated never to be free from their presence, from their influence, once i met them, and that the presence and the influence were to have disastrous effects on my life. "i am awhile in milan when i meet luigia, who is light-haired, and red-cheeked, and blue-eyed, and tall and slender and lithe, like the other, who is now his wife. and first, out of a mere surprise, and a desire to know how far this likeness went, i took an interest in the child; an interest, a perfectly innocent interest, i swear to heaven. "i found her like the other in many ways--in gait, in carriage, in the bright liveliness of her expression, in the clear simplicity of her nature, in the straightforward unsuspiciousness of her regard. "at first i had merely stopped and spoken to the girl, and bought the flowers she had to sell. then i began a little chat now and then, until at last we met alone. but still there was nothing but a kind of bohemian friendship between us. i never said any words of love to her beyond the endearing words of her country, which have no meaning of love. still, in some way, the memory of that old infatuation i had for her who is now his wife came back upon me, and dulled the thought of dora; until at last, i do not know how, owing to some queer twist or turn of the brain, i seemed to think dora would not miss my letters, and that it was only a kind of puerile foolishness to write. and so my letters dropped. and so my girl, my dora, my darling, died. "here again is the inextricable thread, held by the o'donnells, bound up in my fate. there must be something in it. all this cannot be for nothing. i think it would be wisest for me to sever this connection with the o'donnells for ever. so far it has brought no good to either side. "for a long time i have been thinking of giving up all idea of singing in public, and turning to medicine. medicine is a fascinating study, and i'm sure i have a speciality that way. it runs in my blood; i was born with it. my celebrated ancestor, louis anne lavirotte, born at nolay, in the diocese of autun, founded what i may call our house, in so far as it has been distinguished by familiarity with great cerebral questions. it is true that none of his immediate relatives has proved as great as he, but still several have devoted themselves to medicine, and several have made a mark in mental pathology. his 'observations on symptoms of hydrophobia, following the mania,' may not be the greatest work of the kind, but it deserves a prominent place on the shelves of anyone investigating this mysterious form of disease, which has baffled man from the earliest records down to now. "i think i am myself peculiarly qualified to take up inquiry into particular forms of mental callousness or intensity, for i have what i believe to be a peculiar faculty of thrusting forth a portion of my mind into certain and limited psychological regions, into which i can find no one able to follow me. "i have often thought that in these moments of uncontrollable, mental crassness, i am suffering from merely an undue prolongation of a portion of my mind into unfamiliar regions, where it is surrounded by isolated and combined images, invisible to others, and to me at normal times, and then and there illumined by lights and affected by considerations which have no place in my own normal state, or in the regard of others. "the question of the difference between mind and mind, between the sane and the insane, the man with a fad and the man with a delusion, the man with a hallucination and the idiot, admits of such subtleties of thought and delicacies of definition, that i know of nothing more fascinating to the psychologist. "the study of the sane mind is in itself an unexplored continent, of which only the coast line is known. but when we reach the region of insanity, we are on the confines of an unexplored universe, from which, as yet, no light has reached us but nebulous blurs of doubt. "ay, upon the whole, i think it would be better to abandon all thought of the glitter and glory of the stage, which is but the glitter and glory compassable within four walls built by human hands. whereas, the glories of research in mental pathology are as infinite as the flight of thought itself, as incompassable as the fields of reason. "i'll do it. i am yet young enough, and now there is no hurry; no hurry, for she is dead. i have my life now before me. it is, after all, a paltry thing for a man to devote all the years of his manhood to posturing on a stage, and uttering notes which, once uttered, will be lost for ever. the voice of the poet is immortal. the voice of the singer dies with the breath that leaves him. the fame of one is momently recreated; the fame of the other momently dies for eternity. what man of ambition would pause to choose between the two? i will not. i will not abandon the substance for the shadow, the actual for the dream. my resolve is taken, and i will abide by it, come what may." lavirotte rose and went out. he had no fixed purpose as to what he should do with himself that day. he had no address in london. he had said nothing to o'donnell about leaving. when he found himself in the busy streets he felt lonely, desolate, derelict. there was not now even the dead to visit and despair over. no one in the world now had any interest in him. he was as much alone as any man ever on desert island. no point of contact connected him with the world around him, with the world abroad. he had told his landlady at milan that he was coming to london. that was all. no one else knew from him whither he had fled. she would not think of him. and yet it would be a ray in the dark vault of his solitude if one soul should think of him, and address him by name, followed by the most commonplace of words. it would be like touching the hand of a friend if his milanese landlady had written him a letter. he turned his steps towards the post office. he entered the place for strangers' letters. he advanced towards the counter. then, with a sardonic smile, he remembered that his milanese landlady was illiterate. never mind. she might have got someone to write for her. he asked if there were any letters for him. he was handed one. ah, she had. no, this was from o'donnell. chapter xvii. "my dear lavirotte, "i cannot tell you how deeply grieved we both were to hear the occasion of your flight from milan. your landlady, maria, told me the sad news. i was, indeed, greatly shocked and grieved to hear it. we can easily understand how it was, in the first terrible moment of your affliction, you should not care to come near even us. but i cannot help wishing that by some accident or another it had so chanced i left milan by the train that took you away, though i might not be allowed to intrude upon you in the journey. "my dear lavirotte, i know as well as anyone that under occasions of this kind words of consolation are generally outrages. my whole object in writing this letter is simply to say how sorry i am that i am not with you, and how sorry we both are for the cause which took you away. "i am _sure_ the best thing you can do, under the circumstances, is to come back here as quickly as ever you can. do not lose a moment. i am altogether thinking of you, and not of the desire either of us has to see you. to show you i am in earnest in this, if you tell me you will come, i will promise never to go near you until you give me leave. it is the commonest of commonplaces, but it is one of the truest, that hard work is the best way of occupying time, when time is bitter or heavy. my dear lavirotte, come back and plunge headlong into work. we will not trouble you. when you wish to see us you know where to find us. i will not now say any more, except what you well know already, that our hearts are, and always will be, with you. "yours as ever, "eugene o'donnell." when lavirotte finished reading this letter he fell into a long reverie. with head depressed and slow steps, he passed down cheapside, newgate street, and over the viaduct. a couple of hours ago it seemed to him his mind was made up beyond the possibility of change. and now he was not thinking of change. he was not thinking at all, but allowing to drift slowly across his imagination a long panorama of that future which he had resolved to abandon. he saw once more the life at milan, the life he had been leading, the life eugene would continue to lead for a while longer. he saw the moment when eugene would finally take leave of that city and come northward, perfected in his art. he saw eugene's arrival in london, with such good words for heralds as made him sought after in his profession. he saw obsequious managers with eugene, flattering him, coaxing him, pressing him to accept splendid engagements. he saw the admiring faces at the private trial of eugene's voice. he saw the smiles of delight, the hands that applauded. he saw the flush of triumph upon eugene's face, eugene's bows of acknowledgment. and behind all, he saw nellie. he saw her radiant, transfigured, divine, sitting apart, isolated from all by the exquisite delicacy of her beauty, the exquisite delicacy of her love, the exquisite delicacy of her spirit. he saw the glance that shot from eugene's faithful eyes to hers. he saw that in that room, that hall, the only thought between these two people was the thought of their love, the high and holy love of perfect faith, in which there is no more room for desire in the heart, in which the two spirits are not one in essence, but one in form, wherein neither exists apart, and each is complementary to the other. he saw these two married lovers had no need for words. they were with each other. that was enough. each of them knew what this meant, how much it meant, down to the utmost limit of their joint happiness. ah, what happiness was this! what joy, what unutterable rapture! to love thus wholly and without guile and without thought, without even consciousness of loving. what could be more! what could be more than this rich completion of spirit! what were all the gross, material ambitions of the world compared to such love as this! this was not the love of line and colour, the love of form and voice, the love of youth and sprightliness, the love of device or trick. time would be powerless against this. the line and colour, the form and voice had been to this but the prelude to the imperial theme. these two spirits were now commingling to the perfect tones of the most glorious anthem, chanted by the angels for the accord of man on earth. he saw the crowded theatre, the blaze of light, the circles of wealth, and youth, and beauty, and fashion, of title and distinction, hushed for the great moment. he heard the orchestra pick up a thread of silver melody. he listened as the orchestra seemed, in carelessness, to lose that hint of melody. he heard that hint again, from a single string, and then to a note of sonorous undertone, he saw the great tenor step forth. he heard that voice begin farther away than the most delicate breathing of the instruments below, like a murmur coming from mid-air, under the stars. the sound descended, broadening and mellowing as it came, until it touched the earth in notes of resonant manhood, and then burst forth, complaining loud. complaining of love denied, of true love lost for ever. he heard the song go on to the melodious climax of its final woe, and then he heard a mighty crash like the sound of an avalanche shot from a giddy, frozen cliff down a precipitous way to the valley below. he looked, he saw men on their feet cheering and clapping their hands, and women waving their handkerchiefs. women flung their bouquets, their bracelets, their rings upon the stage--these women drunk on a human voice. he heard the "bravos," the "encores," cried by thousands of throats, by those people who were at once the slaves and tyrants of eugene. then, again, he heard the orchestra pick up that silver thread of melody---he threw up his head. where was this? had he got so far? and how had he wandered here? ah! lincoln's inn fields! the college of surgeons! surgery, pain, disease, death! what a contrast to that great vision he had just seen! good god, what a contrast! he turned hastily out of lincoln's inn fields. he could not endure the dingy, decayed look of that rusty old square. he had once been told that the area of this square corresponded with the area of the base of the great pyramid. surgeons and embalmers, the great pyramid and mummies, lincoln's inn fields and ghouls! these were ghastly subjects. he had never noticed before how stark and bleak and cold, how skeleton-like the houses in lincoln's inn fields were. it was a horrible place at this time of year, when the leaves were dropping, when the leaves already down had begun to rot. the youth and manhood of the year were gone. it was in the sere, the yellow leaf. no wholesomeness or joy could now be hoped for until the spring was rife once more. the earth had ceased to aspire to heaven, and all the glorious and beautiful efflorescence of earth towards the sun was falling back once more to the dun clay from which, by the aid of silver rains and violet and ruby dews, the sun of spring had stolen such verdant marvels. the dun clay, the dun earth, surgeons and mummies, pyramids and ghouls; ah, there was no cheerfulness, no wholesomeness in any of them! think of an english river with willows and swans, and the light of summer, and the blue sky, and the delicate, slender, upward-pointing reflections in the water, and the music of the bees, and the inextricably-mingled odour of innumerable flowers, and the songs of birds, surprising the mellow shades of inner woods. and then the beauty of woman, and the strength and glory of youth in man, and the triumph and glory of song in man, and then the voice of song that made the birds seem but the lifting of one leaf amid the tuneful murmurs of a mighty wood, and the voice of woman answering to love in the accents of the song---surgeons and mummies, pyramids and ghouls. god made none of these for man. but all the others had the touch of his great handicraft, the imperial fashion of his august design, the tones of sound and colour, half hidden from the heedless, but revealed in their exquisite perfection to the poetic sense. surgeons and mummies, pyramids and ghouls. bah! overhead, what a gloomy sky! the sun was now shining on all the squares and streets of milan! chapter xviii. it was hard for lavirotte, after his life of aspiration after musical distinction, his devotion to the art, his study of it, his year at milan, to drop all this and take up a subject which, although it had, now and then, occurred to his mind as one likely to enthral him, had so little in consonance with that which he was about to lay down. it was hard for him, at one cast of the die, to turn his face away from all the bright, luxuriant pageantry that waits upon the gifted and cultivated human voice, and give his thoughts to bones, and the immediate clothing of bones; to disorders of the human frame, and the immediate occasion of these disorders; to the coarse familiarity of the dissecting-room, and the function of inquiry which must be attuned to callous sentiment. in the art of the singer, when the rudiments of his art are his, perception, sympathy, sentiment, exaltation of emotional ideas, are the basis upon which his success must rest. in the art of the doctor, rigid, frigid examination, and mathematical deductions must lead to the only results which he desires. lavirotte was torn anew with the conflict which years ago had raged within him. his resolution of that morning, although it then seemed firm as the solid earth on which he stood, now waved and swayed as though it were no more than an instable ship upon an unstable sea. eugene's letter had brought back to him vividly all his dreams of the past, and in that vision of eugene's future he had done little more than reproduce the dreams in which he had himself indulged as to his own career. his heart, as far as love was concerned, lay in the tomb, and to judge by his present frame of mind, there was no likelihood the sight of woman would ever again move him as it had when dora was the guiding star of his existence. yet he knew that with time the acuteness of his present suffering would pass away. he felt at that moment it would be cruel that his woe should leave him. but his reason told him it would. he knew that as years went by these love troubles of man's early life grew less and less until they seemed insignificant, paltry, ludicrous. but in this, the very height of his affliction, the notion his sorrow might die was an additional cause of torture to him. he knew that in his present state of mind the future was sure to display a gloomy and forbidding aspect. he knew that people, in the presence of great personal grief, were usually indifferent to any considerations but those of their grief. he knew that when a man loses all his fortune, it is no great additional blow to that man to hear that a horse of his is killed. he was quite prepared that the whirligig of time would, to some extent, set him right in the main affairs of life. but now he was in no humour to discount his present situation. his woe seemed to soothe him. it was the only consolation he had. still he could not banish from his mind the influence of that glorified vision. he could not get out of his mind the fact that some day, soon, the voice of eugene o'donnell would burst upon english ears and take them captive. to be a great tenor was one of the most glorious privileges given to man during his lifetime. the general, the statesman, the painter, had all during their lifetime periods of great triumph. there was no period when, like the statesman, he was out of power; when, like the general, his sword was sheathed in the days of peace; or when, like the painter, he was busy at his easel at the work which, when completed, would bring him applause. every time a popular tenor sang, the public testified to the utmost their enjoyment and appreciation. the tenor was not bound to any land. he needed no majority, no army, no colour-box. he was the only man who could make a fortune with absolutely no stock-in-trade except what nature and art had given him. he was equally effective by the tiber or the neva, in buda-pesth or chicago. climates or tongues had no power of limiting him. english, italian, french, german, it did not matter what his nationality, or what his language, he appealed to all hearts, to all peoples. in the face of this universality of tenors in power, what a limited hole-and-corner thing the art of medicine seemed. it was all locked up in crooked words, in dreary books. its terminology was supplied by the inarticulated bones of dead languages. the greatest glory it afforded was an article in a learned magazine, a reference to one's labour by some distinguished fellow-worker. how had he ever come to think of this as a career? it was no livelier than living in a vault, spending one's life in a charnel-house. bah! he would get away from this gloomy climate, and this still more gloomy idea of medicine. he would change his mind again. a man had a perfect right to change his mind. he would go south once more, to the land of colour and song, and devote himself anew to the glorious art he had long ago selected. he would be a singer--a tenor, a glorious tenor, an unrivalled tenor. he would be a head and shoulders taller than any of the pigmy tenors now on the boards. he would be town talk, world talk. he would be a second and a greater mario. everything was in his favour. he had a fine voice, fine manner, good stage presence, and he felt sure he could act. he would be greater than eugene. he had more go and dash about him than eugene, and there was not much to choose between their voices. some people said eugene's voice was more sympathetic and tender than his, and that he never could approach the irishman in _cantabile_ singing. but, after all, who cared much about _cantabile_ singing? what people liked most was to hear the whole organ, the full chest; and in the higher register of the chest he could walk away from eugene. he would not deny to himself that the quality of eugene's voice was superior. it might be eugene would never fail to melt his audience, but he, lavirotte, could rouse them, and in martial music would make eugene seem a tame and somewhat faded hero. what was this? here was o'donnell once more occupying all his thoughts, absorbing all his attention! it was only that morning he had fully considered his relation with the o'donnells, and traced their hand in every misfortune which had befallen him of late. taken in this regard, it seemed as though eugene was going to dominate the future. one of his reasons for thinking of taking up mental pathology as a career, was in order that he might escape from the circle in which eugene moved. if he had really adopted that gloomy art as a profession, and if, when he was finally committed to it and could not think of going back to singing, eugene made a great reputation on the boards, how should he feel? there was no doubt whatever he should feel extraordinarily jealous. there is no doubt whatever he could not endure to see eugene's triumphs. he could not go near the theatre, he could not read the reports in the newspaper, he could not hear with patience those praises of eugene. it would have been a fatal mistake for him to take to medicine and give up his present profession. it would have embittered all his life and made him feel an undying enmity towards eugene. yes, it would be much better for him to go on and qualify himself for opera, and spend the remainder of his life in friendly rivalry with eugene, rather than breed hatred of his friend by abandoning his beloved career. where was he now! ay, this was covent garden. this was to be the scene of his future triumphs. he and eugene were to be the leading tenors. they were to sing alternately, and public favour was to be slightly on the side of him, lavirotte. just slightly in his favour. enough to gratify him without hurting eugene. he would not like to hurt eugene. he would let no man hurt him. but he himself had little desire to play second fiddle. on the lyric stage he should be first, and eugene second. he did not want more money than his friend. they should each have a hundred a night, say, and he a little more popularity, a little more fame. he would not stop in this dingy, murky climate any longer. he would start at once for italy. he would be in milan before the end of the week. he would embrace his old friend eugene, take up his old studies, and fall once more into his old ways. lavirotte hailed a cab and drove back to porter street. he had little or no preparations to make for his departure, and that evening he was on the way to italy. he lost no time in calling on his friends. he found eugene and nellie at home. he shook hands cordially with both, and said: "of course, eugene, the minute i got back i came to see you and your wife." "and the boy?" said mrs. o'donnell with a smile, as the door opened and the child was carried into the room by its little italian nurse. "and the boy," said lavirotte, echoing her words, and touching the plump cheek of the child with the forefinger of his right hand. chapter xix. it was decided in less than a year from the death of dora harrington, that the _scala_ had done all it could for lavirotte. eugene o'donnell was to tarry still a month or so, and lavirotte decided not to leave milan until his friend was ready to go. during these twelve months lavirotte had been studiously quiet. he had given all his attention to his business, and if there ever had been any weakness on his part towards luigia, the death of dora and his visit to london seemed to have put an end to it. daily he had seen the o'donnells. daily he had shaken the hands of eugene and nellie. daily he had seen their boy, and danced him in his arms, or played with him, or sung to him. he had said privately to eugene: "once upon a time, when i was mad, i was in love with your wife. now i think i am in love with your boy. you know i am the last living member of my race. i am still a young man, it is true, but i shall never marry. my heart is in the grave with dora. still i cannot help feeling that i should like to leave behind me someone with my name. it was never a great name, as you know; yet once upon a time a lavirotte did something, and if the blood were continued, it might do something again. but all is over now, and my race is at an end. all is over, and there will be no more of mine." to such speeches as these, o'donnell had replied jestingly, saying: "you will be a widower twice before you die. mind, i shall be godfather to your eldest boy." lavirotte would simply shake his head sadly, and say: "ay, you shall be godfather, if ever there is need of one." then he would shake his head again, and sigh, and change the subject of conversation, as though it were distasteful to him. so the time slipped away, until at last it was decided that eugene should leave. neither he nor lavirotte had by this time much money left, and each felt the necessity of procuring immediate employment. when they reached london they took lodgings in percy street, fitzroy square. it was pleasant to be back once more within the sound of the familiar tongue. italy, with its blue skies and melodious language, was a thing "to dream of, not to see." not as in the weird poem, a thing of terror, but a thing of joy in memory, rather than of joy in experience. for, frenchman though lavirotte was by descent and birth, he was now more familiar with the northern idiom, and all his thoughts were framed in that tongue. both to him and o'donnell it was a relief to cease translating. when they were at milan, no matter how familiar the idea which presented itself, it had to be shifted from the accustomed words into other words. now each could listen at leisure, and drink in meanings without effort, and communicate ideas with, as it were, the primitive effort of the mere tongue. here was luxurious ease compared to toilful effort. here was a privilege greater than all the consciousness of having overcome an unaccustomed dialect. to think as freely as one who thinks in dreams, and utter one's thoughts as unsuspiciously as the rudest peasant who has never contemplated the possibility of error in his speech, was a new luxury, an unexpected, a seemingly undeserved boon, presented every morning at waking, and not withdrawn when the curtains of the night were closed. it was pleasant to get back once more to the familiar living, the familiar cooking, even the familiar dulness of the atmosphere. the evenings were already getting short, and more than one fog had visited london that season. but although eugene and lavirotte found themselves once more in london, fully equipped for the ocean in which each meant to launch himself, to neither did it seem there was any immediate chance of employment; and, in fact, all arrangements had been made for the remainder of that season. each found it necessary to practise the strictest economy. lavirotte had still something left, and only that eugene's father was able to spare, out of the little which remained to him from the wreck of his fortune, something for his son, eugene, his wife and child might have known what absolute hunger was. eugene had two rooms, and lavirotte one. they did not live in the same house, but they met daily, lavirotte coming to eugene's place, and spending an hour or so in the evening with his friend. "i shall not be able to hold out," said lavirotte on one occasion, "more than a couple or three months, if something doesn't turn up." "i should not have been able to hold out so long," said eugene, "only that my father was able to lend me a hand." "it's weary work, waiting," said lavirotte. "but still, i do not despair." "not only do i not despair," said eugene, "but i mean to succeed. neither of us is a fool, and there are worse men, at our business, making a living in london. why should we starve?" these were gallant words, but facts were hard upon the two. lavirotte was the first to meet with a piece of luck. it was not much. in some remote kind of way, through cassidy's agency, he was asked to sing at a concert in islington, and got a guinea for the night. when the expenses of gloves and a cab were taken out of this guinea, very little remained as remuneration to the singer. but still it was better to do something than nothing, and lavirotte was a few shillings less poor by the transaction. although he had not even yet abandoned hope of getting a hundred pounds a night, he no longer thought it likely he would reach such an el dorado soon. he would have been very glad to take ten pounds a night; ay, to take ten pounds a week. he would have been glad to take a pound a night. eugene had told him that he, eugene, would be glad to sing for nothing if he could only get an "appearance." each assured the other that he was worth half-a-dozen of those in the ruck of singers. each told the other, with perfect candour, he estimated his friend's value at not a penny less than fifty pounds a week. and yet each would there and then have been glad to sign an agreement at five pounds a week. mr. john cassidy had no longer any great interest in either of the pair. there was no longer anything to be found out about them. cassidy was not, in grain, unprincipled or immoral. he did not love mischief for mischief sake. he was simply a feeble, crawling thing. he could not help crawling. but he felt very much pleased at being able to befriend lavirotte. he owed no grudge to either man. in fact, he felt a certain kind of gratitude to lavirotte for having once supplied him with a matter in which he took a deep interest. he was still employed at the railway; and the concert, in which lavirotte sang, was one got up with a view to supplying means of presenting a testimonial to a superannuated servant of the company. there was, of course, no chance of a similar engagement coming lavirotte's way. eugene was present that night, and heard his friend sing. in all likelihood there never yet was a tenor absolutely free from jealousy, and eugene felt he would like to be in lavirotte's shoes, and he was certain he could have done at least as well as his friend. nay, if the truth must be told, he was certain he could do better. lavirotte, on his side, was haunted by an uneasy feeling of the same kind. his success was undoubted; but he knew very well that it was acquired by what eugene would call noise. he got as much applause as the heart of man could desire. he got two "encores." he was congratulated by the secretary and treasurer to the fund, and at the supper which followed the concert, he sang the "bay of biscay" with tremendous power and effect. eugene was at that supper also, and in response to the chairman's invitation, an invitation suggested by lavirotte, he sang. eugene sang "my pretty jane;" and then, partly because eugene's tender rendering of the ballad came upon those present as a surprise, and partly because lavirotte's public performance had prepared them, and partly because lavirotte's singing was so ill-proportioned to the room in which the supper was given that it hurt, almost, they did not encore lavirotte, and they did encore eugene. and then eugene, with great discretion and modesty, sang no new song, but repeated the last stanza of "my pretty jane," and sang it gentler than he had at first, singing as though it were a thing of no matter, no effort, as though he could not keep the melody back, but must, in good-humoured ease, let it float from him as a man lets pleasant talk float from him when he is in a careless mood. then, when eugene was done there was no tumult of applause. there was just only a murmur, which showed that men's hearts, and not their admiration, were stirred. two men who were not near him came and shook hands with him silently. no one had shaken hands with lavirotte. that night, eugene o'donnell told his wife that his song at that supper had been more successful than lavirotte's. that night, lavirotte told his heart the same story. chapter xx. although the immediate result of lavirotte's first engagement in london was so modest, still he had gained a start, and that, in his profession, was a great deal. o'donnell was not impatient. his position was grave, even serious. but still he did not give way. like lavirotte, he had now abandoned all extravagant pretensions, and would have been very glad to take the most modest salary. neither he nor lavirotte would even yet accept any subsidiary part. either would have gladly gone to the provinces for six guineas a week, but neither would take second part. lavirotte was offered the leadership of the tenors in a chorus. this he flatly refused, and with heat. he came to eugene and told him what he had been offered, and eugene agreed with him in thinking there was more affront than flattery in the offer. "let them," cried eugene, indignantly, "keep their five guineas a week. i'd rather see you, dominique, back at the old work again than degrade yourself by accepting such a position." from time to time eugene received small sums from glengowra. lavirotte had no such resources, and one day he came in to eugene and said: "i am paying eight shillings a week for my room, and there's st. prisca's tower idle all this time. i am not, you know, as rich as rothschild, and what is the good of throwing away money! i'm going to live in the tower again." "for heaven's sake, don't do anything of the kind!" said eugene. "why not?" asked lavirotte. "because the place is haunted," said o'donnell, with a shudder. "you are not such a fool," said lavirotte, "as to believe anything so superstitious." "i don't mean what i say literally, but poor mr. crawford lost his life there. you were very near losing your life there, and upon the sad occasion of your last visit to london you put up there. to say the least of it, that tower must have a very gloomy aspect in your mind." "gloom or no gloom," said lavirotte bitterly, "eight shillings a week are eight shillings a week. besides," he added, changing his tone and adopting a lighter manner, "i know they don't care for my caterwauling in the house i'm living in now, and st. prisca's tower is a splendid place for practising in. you might shout your voice away there, and not a soul would hear you. eugene, you must come and practise with me there. i haven't got a piano, that's true, and the way up is a very rough-and-ready one. but anyway you'll know you're welcome, and we can puzzle along with a fork." he took the fork out of his waistcoat pocket, struck it, sang the note, and then took the octave above. "true, isn't it, eugene?" he cried, laughingly. "as the tone of the steel itself," cried eugene. "let us try the garden bit in unison. here's 'faust.'" "damn 'faust'!" said lavirotte. "come on, i'll set you going: "the bright stars fade, the morn is breaking, the dew-drops pearl each bud and leaf, when i of thee my leave am taking, with bliss too brief." "no," said eugene. "not that. i remember----" "and do you think i forget?" chapter xxi. this was the first note of discord which had been struck between the two since the memorable night of the encounter near the cove. it was struck deliberately by lavirotte; o'donnell could not guess why. "i will not sing," said eugene. "what is the matter with you, dominique? you seem to be in rather a brimstone humour to-day." "ah," said lavirotte, shaking his head grimly, "the treacle period has passed." "nonsense," said eugene, "a young man like you! you ought to be ashamed of yourself. a young man like you ought to be ashamed to give way to such gloomy fancies. look at me. i have not got even one chance yet, and i have a wife and child depending on me." "ay," said lavirotte, "a wife and a child! and i have no wife, no child. i have earned a guinea, it is true, and you have earned nothing, since we came to london. it doesn't make much difference whether i ever earn another sovereign or not. what have i to live for? what do a hundred days mean to me? in a hundred days, even if i go and live at the tower, i shall be penniless." "and i," said o'donnell, "long before a hundred days, shall be a pauper with my wife and child looking to me in vain for food. what would you do, dominique, if you found yourself without money, and a wife and child asking you for bread?" "cut my throat." "what? and leave them to starve?" "well, cut their throats, and hang for them." "men who talk about cutting their throats never do it." "i own i don't think it's worth doing in my case. when a man has no other way of making a stir in the world, he may get his name prominently before the public by committing a great crime against his neighbour, or a folly against himself. eugene, i candidly own to you i am no hero. i am, in fact, a bit of a coward, as you may know; for, once upon a time, i did an unpardonably cowardly thing by you." "hush, man!" cried eugene, "have we not agreed to banish that subject for ever?" "to banish it from our talk, ay. to banish it from our minds, never." "i swear to you i never think of it, and it is ungenerous of you to assume i ever think of it. let us get away from these subjects, which are even more gloomy than st. prisca's tower. life is too short, and the destroying influences of time too great, for such criminal amusements as you are giving way to, dominique. as sure as you go back to that hideous tower you will fall into a melancholy. my dear old friend, i can't afford to have you ill----" "my dear old friend, you must afford to have me die." "upon my word, dominique, you are intolerable. i will have no more of your nonsense. when a man is in such infamous humour as you are now, there is nothing so good for him as the sight of youth and beauty." eugene arose, opened the door, and called, "nellie, bring the boy. here is dominique in the blues." in a minute in came the young mother, carrying the boy in her arms. "dominique in the blues!" she cried, laughing and shaking her rich hair about her shoulders. "do you hear that?" she said to her child. "uncle dominique in a bad temper, mark. what do you think of that?" she said, as she handed the blue-eyed, curly-haired, sturdy child to the frenchman. "it is a bad example for a godfather to give his godson. what! in the blues, dominique! must i go back and tidy my hair? eugene, how could you be so inconsiderate? you forget that when a mother is engaged in minding a great big child like mark, she can't be as tidy as she would wish to be." the boy went freely to lavirotte, and put his arms round him and clung to him, and called him "dom," and told him his mother was very naughty since she would not give him sweeties. "eugene," said lavirotte, suddenly, "i once knew a man who had a child about the age of this boy in my arms, and he was playing with the child in a perfectly friendly way, as i am now playing with your boy, and owing, mind you, to mere awkwardness, he let the child's back--just here, the small of his back--somewhat rudely touch the edge of a table, and the child lost the use of his lower limbs, and in time, a hunch appeared upon his back. amiable as you are, eugene, i wonder what you would say to me if, by accident, i hurt your boy so?" "dominique," cried the mother, hastily snatching her child from his arms, "what do you mean? there is something queer about you. your eyes are too quiet for your words." lavirotte laughed. "my eyes are too quiet for my words," he said "there is a good deal in that, and my mind may be too quiet for my eyes or--the other way." again he laughed. "i cannot make you out to-day," said eugene. "nor can i," said mrs. o'donnell. "mark, what is the matter with godfather?" the child had but one thought. his godfather was ill. he stretched out his hands to go to him. lavirotte shook his head sadly, and said: "you are safer where you are." within a week lavirotte once more took up his residence in st. prisca's tower. for some days eugene thought that the change had been absolutely beneficial to his friend. lavirotte's spirits seemed more equable; he made no further allusion to the gloomy subjects which had, for some time previous, haunted him. he told eugene that he had no notion how much more comfortable it was to practise alone, and in the tower, than in the old percy street lodgings. "in the first place," he said, "there is one of the lofts with nothing on it, and you can hear much better in an empty room all that is undesirable. i do four to six hours a day. come and visit me in my new diggings. you must come. of course, it's out of the way. no one but carters and fish-salesmen ever trouble porter street. but all so much the better. you might shout loud enough to stop a clock, and not a soul would hear. come, you will come; you must come." "i can't, go very well," said eugene. "nellie is out, and has left me in charge of the boy." "let us take mark with us," said lavirotte. "we can get an omnibus at the end of the street. it will amuse the child. mark, wouldn't you like to come in an omnibus?" "yes," cried the boy. "there you are, eugene. just leave a line or word with the landlady, and let us take the boy with us. he will be no trouble, and it is sure to amuse him. an hour's practice with me will do you no harm, and you have never yet been in my tower." eugene was persuaded, and went. the inside of st. prisca's was in exactly the same condition as when lavirotte had last lived there. in order to get from the ground floor to the second loft it was still necessary to ascend by means of the slater's ladder. "i know the place better than you," said lavirotte. "i'll carry the child and lead the way." when he was about to step from the ladder to the floor of the second loft, he said, with a strange laugh: "it's upwards of thirty feet from this to the top of the vault below. an awkward fall that would be. it would be worse for mark than even striking his back against the edge of a table. eh, eugene?" "in heaven's name, dominique, what's the matter with you? this place must have an unwholesome influence on you." "doubtless it has," laughed lavirotte, "but we're up safe at last, mark." "yes, uncle dom," said the child. and that was his first experience of st. prisca's tower. chapter xxii. about this time lavirotte made the acquaintance of edward fraser, a composer of music. fraser took a great liking to the volatile frenchman. he had him at his house frequently, and introduced him to many professional musicians. "you know," said he to lavirotte, "i'd be delighted to do anything i could for you; but the fact is, all engagements are made, and beyond a few concerts i don't think i can help you much. you see, you want leading business, and that's not easy to be got, at the best of times. i don't exactly know what i'm going to do with my opera yet. but if i decide to produce it this season, i'll certainly give you the refusal of the tenor part." this was a great hope for lavirotte. he hastened with it to eugene. eugene shook his hand, and congratulated him upon even a remote chance of such good luck. "it's a long way off, you know, even if it ever comes to anything. i wish to goodness, eugene, you had something of the kind to look forward to." "i wish to goodness i had," said the other. "but one must learn to wait patiently. i suppose i shall get a turn sometime." "i wish there was room for two of us in the new opera," said lavirotte dubiously. "you see, eugene, as fraser said, it's not easy to pick up leading business, and of course, nothing else would suit you." o'donnell shook his head and laughed. "beggars can't be choosers," he said gaily. "we wanted a hundred a night, you know, before we started from milan; and now i'd be glad to go on at a pound a night. i would not then have thought of taking anything less than the first part. i would not now care to be tempted very much with an offer of a second part, supposing the part was any good. what is the second part in the new opera like?" "from what i heard of it," said lavirotte, "it's the very thing for you, if you would take it--in fact, they are two excellent parts. i heard two very taking solos and a lot of the concerted parts. if you would entertain the notion, i'd speak to fraser and introduce you. "to tell you the truth, dominique, i'd be glad to get anything to do now. it's disgraceful that a fellow of my years should be taking money out of my father's very narrow means. "i'd be glad to earn four or five pounds a week anyway now. i suppose fraser would give as much as that." "i'm sure he would," said lavirotte. "more, i think. i have a notion he'd give his leading man ten pounds a week, and his second, six." "well, if you could get me six, dominique, i'd be delighted to take it." "i'll go back to him at once," said the frenchman. "i won't lose a moment, eugene. come, put on your hat. we may as well go together. chances like this don't grow on the hedge bushes. between you and me, i think fraser would hurry his share of the work if he were satisfied of being able to get good voices at this awkward time of the year. he tells me he knows where to get an excellent soprano, but that until he met me he was in despair about a tenor. a good contralto is, of course, not to be hoped for, and a sufficiently good baritone and bass will turn up, as a matter of course." by this time the two friends were in the street, hurrying off towards fraser's house. they found the composer at home. "this is my friend o'donnell, fraser. you have often heard me speak of him. we were rival tenors in glengowra and rathclare. we were fellow-students at the _scala_, and now we're going to be rival tenors in your opera, 'the maid of athens.'" fraser laughed good-humouredly, and said: "all right. if, mr. o'donnell, you sing as well as our friend lavirotte, we shall be very lucky in our tenors." "he sings better," said lavirotte, with a slight darkening of the face. "there is one thing i cannot rival him in, certainly," said o'donnell, "and that is generosity. i have no desire to compete with my dear friend as a tenor. he said there was a second part in your opera which i might suit. i haven't an engagement of any kind, and i am most anxious to get something to do. i'd rather lead the chorus than do nothing." "oh," said fraser, "if you sing anything like as well as lavirotte, you must not think of leading a chorus." "sing him something, eugene, and then he'll be able to tell whether you sing better than i or not." "i won't sing if you put it that way, dominique," said o'donnell, colouring slightly. "you know very well i do not want to go into rivalry with you." "there is no rivalry at all, mr. o'donnell. lavirotte is in one of his perverse moods. if i produce my opera this season, he shall have the refusal of the leading part. i have no one in my mind as the second tenor. now, if you'll sing me something, please, i shall be able to tell you whether i think the music would suit you." "what would you like," asked eugene, standing up to the piano. fraser was sitting in front of it, running his fingers over the keys. "whatever you think best. whatever suits you best." "what shall i sing, dominique?" "oh, a ballad," said lavirotte. "shall i start you?" "ay, give him a lead," said fraser. "the bright stars fade, the morn is breaking!" "damn it, lavirotte, are you mad or possessed by devils!" fraser had begun the accompaniment. he turned round in astonishment. "what on earth is the matter?" he said. "it's a good song, mr. o'donnell." lavirotte was laughing slyly, stealthily, behind his hand. o'donnell looked furiously at lavirotte. he was thoroughly roused. he pointed at lavirotte, and said: "he knows i do not sing that song. he knows it puts me out to speak of that song." the composer looked in amazement from one to the other. "perhaps," he said, "you will sing something else, mr. o'donnell? if you had a breakdown on it once i don't think it kind of lavirotte to remind you of it." "i never had a breakdown on it, mr. fraser," said eugene, taking his eyes off lavirotte, and fixing them on the composer. then he spoke with enormous distinctness, "but, mr. fraser, whenever i hear that song it pains me cruelly. it pains me as though you thrust a knife into me." lavirotte ceased to laugh. his hand fell from before his face. he turned ashy pale. "eugene!" he cried, "you hit below the belt." "no, sir, i did not," said eugene, indignantly. "you hit me unawares." "gentlemen," said fraser, "i am sure i am sorry any unpleasantness has arisen." "i beg your pardon, mr. fraser," said o'donnell, "i forgot myself for a moment. i forgot where i was. try to forgive me if you can, and to show you i have dismissed the thing from my mind, dominique, will you forget and forgive?" he held out his hand to the frenchman. lavirotte took the hand slowly, pressed it between both his, kissed it, and said: "eugene, i was wrong, you were right. that blow was delivered unawares, as another blow you remember." "that's right!" cried fraser heartily. "that's right, men! sit down, o'donnell, you're not fit to sing for a while. stop, i'll play you the overture to 'the maid of athens.' i have arranged it for the piano.... well, what do you think of it?" he cried when he had finished. "i fancy i can hear some of the melodies on the street organs, and to get my stuff on the street organs is the height of my ambition. that is fame. that is glory. now, o'donnell, what will you sing?" "'my pretty jane,'" said lavirotte. "sing 'my pretty jane,' eugene." "all right," said eugene. and fraser played the introduction. when o'donnell had ceased to sing, fraser turned round, caught him enthusiastically by the hand, and said: "positively lovely, my dear fellow! the quality is perfection. have you much of it? enough for the grand?" "i'm afraid not," said o'donnell, shaking his head. "i could manage in a small house very well. i haven't as much, you know, as dominique here." "but the quality, my dear fellow, the quality is exquisite. it's a bit of guiglini." o'donnell coloured with pleasure. lavirotte said: "you never sang that song better, eugene." "it couldn't be sung better. sims reeves himself might be proud of such an art. tenors are hard enough to get, but to get a tenor with brains and a heart is about the rarest thing in the world. you have brains, and a heart, o'donnell, and of course i needn't say that i'd rather have a song delivered as you sang now than the biggest shout of a forty-six-inch chested italian _robusto_." lavirotte put his hand quickly up to his left breast. again he turned ashy white. he seemed to gasp for breath. "are you not well, dominique?" cried eugene, placing his hand on him. "ah!" sighed lavirotte, "it's gone. for an instant the pain was great, and i thought i should suffocate. it is gone now. let us think no more of it. you are in splendid voice to-day, eugene. it was stupid of me to get ill just at that moment when i should have been applauding your success. fraser, i told you he could sing." "sing! i should think he can. try something else, o'donnell; something a little stronger." "very well," said o'donnell, "i'll give you one of the melodies, 'the bard's legacy.'" lavirotte shuddered. "i don't know it," said fraser. "hum it for me." then o'donnell began. "when in death i shall calm recline, oh, hear my heart to its mistress dear." "don't sing it, eugene," said lavirotte. "it's a gloomy beast of a song. when a fellow has just recovered from suffocation, it's not a good way to cheer him to shake shrouds before his eyes. sing 'la donna e mobile.'" o'donnell lifted his eyes slowly, and stared in a puzzled way at lavirotte. "are you ill still," he said, "or are you peculiarly dull to-day?" for the third time lavirotte's face paled. "this time, i swear to you, eugene, i am only dull. 'pon my soul, i am only dull." chapter xxiii. "mr. o'donnell," said fraser, "i hope you will not forget us now that you have once come. my wife is out, but i am sure she will be delighted to meet mrs. o'donnell. remember, you are to bring your wife with you, too, when you come next time." these were the composer's last words as he stood at the hall door, bidding good-bye to lavirotte and eugene. when mrs. fraser returned, he said to her in his enthusiastic way: "my dear harriet, you have missed a treat. lavirotte's friend, o'donnell, has been here. he has got a lovely voice, and sings exquisitely. he came to know if i would give him the second tenor part. i promised before i heard him sing, and now, by gad, harriet, i'm in a deuce of a mess." "why? you say he has a good voice, and sings well." "yes, yes. but, you see, i have promised the leading part to lavirotte. now lavirotte's voice is not to be compared with o'donnell's, and, by gad, i don't know how to get out of the fix." "if," said mrs. fraser, "this new man is better for the part, why not give him the part?" "but you see, they are bosom friends. they have been friends for years, been at the _scala_ together, and so on. why, while they were here there was very near being a scene between them. in fact there was a scene, in which lavirotte did something that enraged o'donnell, and o'donnell said something that made lavirotte grovel. i don't know what it was about, of course, but it looked very ugly while it lasted. i should not be at all surprised if lavirotte is a bit jealous of o'donnell's voice. i'm sure i don't know what to do. it would be a pity to throw away a voice like o'donnell's in the second part; and how am i to get rid of lavirotte?" "then you are resolved to produce the opera soon?" "oh, yes, if i can put o'donnell in the leading part. you see, i was only half satisfied with lavirotte. he is so hard, unsympathetic, metallic. i don't know how to manage it at all. you see, harriet, i want to make a success with this 'maid of athens.' i am sure if o'donnell sang it would be a success." "but can he not make a success in the second part?" "no, no," cried fraser, excitedly "that would be impossible. besides, the public would not stand it. they would guy the thing if they found the better man in the inferior part. oh, what a misfortune i ever promised lavirotte!" "surely there is some way or other out of it," said mrs. fraser. "i can't see it, harriet. i am in despair. it is the best chance there has been in london for years. at least i think so. of course you can never tell really until you have tested the thing practically in the theatre, with the lights up and your audience in front. but i'm game to put down the last penny i have in the world, and my reputation, that o'donnell could do the trick." "i cannot believe, edward," said mrs. fraser hopefully, "that there is not some way of managing the matter. could not mr. lavirotte understudy the leading part?" "eh? say that again, little woman," said the composer, sitting down to the piano and improvising a fantasia. he always quieted his mind in this way. "there may be something in what you say, harriet. an understudy! but would lavirotte consent? you know we couldn't ask him to sing in any other but the leading part, once it was offered to him. and then, to take a practical view of it, even if he would consent to understudy, he would be eating his head off the whole time. the management wouldn't get the least value for their money. in any case, i don't think lavirotte would consent. you know, those new men are always dying to get an 'appearance,' and i'm sure lavirotte would rather take a situation down a coal mine than cool his heels in the wings, while o'donnell had the boards." "well, but if you say there is a great chance of o'donnell making a success of the opera, it would be a thousand pities you lost that chance because of any hasty promise you made to lavirotte." "i don't think lavirotte has a particularly sweet temper; and, to tell you the truth, there is something in the man's eye which i do not like--something which makes me distrust him. i asked him to-day to give o'donnell a lead, and he started 'good-bye, sweetheart,' and, by gad, i thought for a minute that o'donnell would throttle him." "it seems to me," said the little woman, "that you are somewhat unfortunate in having come across this pair. a moment ago you appeared to think there was something dangerous about lavirotte, and now you say that o'donnell looked as if he wanted to do something dreadful to the other." "throttle him, my dear. throttle him was the word i used. a capital word, but not a woman's word, i own." "but surely it would be no harm for you to try if lavirotte would consent to understudy, if you are certain that the difference between the two men is so great. aren't they both very anxious to get engagements? and don't both want to earn money?" "yes, but everyone wants to earn money, and i have no doubt that lavirotte would rather take two guineas a week and sing the part than ten for walking about. stop," cried the composer. "something might be done with that." "pray, what is _that?_ i have not the gift of second sight." the composer rose from the piano, approached his wife, put his arm round her, kissed her, and said: "you're not half as stupid as you look, harriet. you sometimes get hold of a capital idea. but you require the great male intellect"--tapping his forehead--"to shape it for you. lavirotte, when he was here, nearly fainted. i have heard him complain before of certain attacks of this kind which he is subject to. you see, it would never do to have a man in such a position as first tenor, if that man were liable to faint. why, the very excitement of a first night sometimes knocks over strong men who have had years of experience. i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll throw myself on lavirotte's generosity, and say that what i saw here to-day has so disquieted me that, etc. you understand. i'll put it as nicely as i can. it isn't very easy to put such a thing nicely, but i shall do my best." here the matter dropped between husband and wife. that evening fraser wrote a note to lavirotte, asking him to call next day. in the gentlest and most considerate way, fraser explained to lavirotte that a first night of a new piece was most trying on the singers, and that to ensure success, it was essential all taking prominent parts in it should be, as near as possible, in perfect health. "i noticed here yesterday," said the composer, "that you almost fainted under the excitement of something which occurred between you and o'donnell. i think, too, i heard you say before you have now and then been seized with physical weakness. we have not spoken of business terms in connection with the opera. of course you know i am not finding the money. but i shall make all the engagements. now, if you like i'll give you your engagement at once, ten pounds a week for the run, on one condition." "what is that?" cried lavirotte eagerly. "that you allow some other man to create the part and sing until you have become so accustomed to it that there will be no fear of your suffering from this little ailment, whatever it is." lavirotte's lips got suddenly dry. he drew them backward over his teeth, and breathed a few hard breaths. "you mean," said he, in a low voice, "to let o'donnell create the part?" "i have said nothing to him about it, as yet, nor should i say anything to him without first speaking to you. i gave you my word you were to create the part if the opera was produced. after seeing what occurred yesterday, and knowing the great excitement of a first night, i would rather have the opera in that drawer than risk it if there were the least chance of a breakdown." "and you think," said lavirotte, "that i could consent to take the money, when my health did not allow me to earn it?" "now, my dear lavirotte, you must not be offended where no offence is meant. the first night is what i dread. you shall understudy the part, or, rather, the part shall be yours, and o'donnell, the understudy, run on at the last moment. stop, i have it. i shall engage you to create the part. i shall engage o'donnell if he will consent to understudy the part. we shall go on rehearsing on these lines, and if, three days before the first night, a first-class medical man says you are fit to go on, you shall go on. this need not be embodied in the agreement. we can keep our words, as men of honour, and we can keep this arrangement secret. even o'donnell shall not know; and his salary shall be six guineas a week, whether he sings or not. come, you can't ask me to do more than that. o'donnell has a wife and child to keep." "damn his wife and child," thought lavirotte. fraser was firm, and although it took an hour to get lavirotte to consent, he at length consented. and there and then the agreement was drawn up and signed. "now," thought fraser, "it's neck or nothing with me. i am sure it would be dangerous to let him go on the first night, and if i can only secure o'donnell, 'the maid of athens' will be the foundation of my fortune." when lavirotte got back to the tower, he threw himself, in a rage, on his bed. "this thing may kill me," he said, "but i'll sing the part as sure as heaven is above and hell beneath. damn o'donnell, his wife, and child." chapter xxiv. edward fraser was not the man to let grass grow under his feet. he set about the production with the utmost vigilance and despatch. the first thing he did was to call on o'donnell. he was introduced to mrs. o'donnell. he found her simply divine, he said, the greatest beauty in london, by gad. and, as to the boy (he himself was childless) he afterwards declared to his wife, that it was the handsomest, the most engaging, the most endearing little fellow in europe. as soon as he was free to talk about business he said: "o'donnell, i have firmly made up my mind to produce 'the maid of athens' with the least possible delay. before i had seen you i had, of course, arranged with lavirotte. will you understudy lavirotte's part at six guineas a week? of course, if there is a chance of your singing it, you shall go on, and i could not think of putting you second. but you know what our climate is like, and that a fellow may get a cold any minute." "you know," said eugene, colouring with pleasure, "i want an engagement, and i am not in a position to refuse one if i could possibly take it. but dominique and i have been such great friends all our lives, i could not think of taking any position which might seem to undermine his." "but, you see, that is the very thing i offer you--a position which will not seem to undermine his. so long as he is singing, of course you will not sing. but if he gets a cold, or anything of that kind, you take his place and keep it warm for him until he is quite well again. what can be more friendly than that?" "men are always jealous of those who understudy them, for they think that the understudies are always wishing for some accident to the men who are singing the parts. have you spoken of the matter to dominique?" "oh, yes! i have arranged it all with him. he agrees to what i suggest. i am sorry i cannot offer you as good terms as he is getting; but we could not afford more than six to one in such a position as yours. lavirotte's agreement is all drawn up and signed on the understanding that if i can secure you i will do so." after some more talk, eugene agreed to accept fraser's offer, and the composer went home greatly delighted with the day's work and the new acquaintance he had made. "harriet," he said when he got home, "i have fallen in love with mrs. o'donnell, and you must fall in love with her too. she is simply perfect. you must worship the boy. i know, if you saw him, you would never let him out of your arms." mrs. fraser simply shook her head, and sighed to think she had no boy of her own. the preparations for the production of the new opera were hastened, the oberon theatre secured, the rest of the company engaged, and the opera put in rehearsal. everyone who was privileged to hear the music agreed that the opera ought to be a great success, and most of the people thought that lavirotte would make a hit in his part. fraser was to conduct the opera himself, and he took the minutest care that nothing should be left undone to court success. about a month before the day fixed for the first appearance, o'donnell came to fraser's private room at the theatre, and said: "i want to ask you a question about my own business." "fire away, my dear fellow!" cried the hearty composer. "anything you like." "i am, as you know, fraser, at present in lodgings with my wife and child. we were thinking of taking a small house, and what i want you to tell me is, do you think i would be justified in doing so? do you think my engagement with you will be worth anything like six pounds a week for a considerable portion of the year?" "my dear o'donnell, i'm very glad you spoke to me upon the subject. take a small house, by all means; get what furniture is just necessary. i'll be guarantee for it. and, i'll tell you what i'm game to do this minute: i'll undertake, if you like, in writing, that you shall not average less than six pounds a week for the next twelve months, under existing circumstances, i cannot, at present, offer you more money than is in your agreement, but you can have the engagement, if you like, about the twelve months." o'donnell was delighted. "you really don't say so, my dear fraser!" "i do," he said. "you need not speak of this matter to anyone. i mean to stick to you. you are sure to make a mark. you are sure to make money. and, look here, i say, you know it isn't my money that's going into this speculation, and i have a little money of my own. never be hard up for a fiver. we like your wife, your boy, and yourself; and by gad, sir, we mean that you shall be a success." o'donnell went home in the highest spirits. that very day he and his wife set out house-hunting, and within a week they were settled in a little semi-detached house in cecil street, hoxton. among the furniture there was, of course, a piano, and o'donnell felt unexpectedly relieved to be able, as he expressed it, to shout and hammer the keys against the detached wall of his own house, where there was no fear of disturbing lodgers or neighbours. here, with his wife and child, and the old and faithful nurse who had looked after him when he was a child, he felt as though life was opening afresh to him, and as if there was more sunshine in the air than ever he had noticed before. "the first thing we have to do, nellie, is to get the frasers and dominique here to dinner, on the earliest day possible. of course i should never have known fraser but for dominique; and, indeed, half my good luck at the oberon, or more than half, is due to lavirotte." so it was arranged that on the first saturday after the o'donnells were settled in their home, the frasers and lavirotte should dine with them. the dinner passed off in the pleasantest manner. mark dined at the table, and lavirotte insisted on attending to the boy and giving him all the delicacies he could filch, to the great jealousy of mrs. fraser, who had taken an extraordinary liking to the mother and child. lavirotte seemed in better spirits and health than of late. he was quite cheerful, quite amusing. he made pretty compliments to the women, said good-humoured, whimsical, blunt things to the men, and when dinner was over and the men were alone, he threw himself into a chair and declared he had not enjoyed any little dinner so much, for a century. "you know, eugene, i was best man at your marriage, and godfather to your boy, and i really think i have forgotten my duty towards him. i never gave him a knife and fork, or even a mug. it was beastly neglectful of me. i feel in the best of spirits to-day. wasn't i in good voice at the rehearsal?" "capital!" said both men. "nothing could have been better." "you'll bring down the house, lavirotte," cried eugene. "i shall do my very best," said lavirotte. "i think my health has greatly improved within the past fortnight or so. i have not felt that old sensation of faintness, and going up and down the stairs to my eyrie does not distress me as it used. by jove, eugene, i feel as well as before that terrible time in the tower. no, i won't have any more. i'll go and look after my boy." lavirotte left the room. fraser shifted uneasily in his chair. "are you perfect in the part?" he said to eugene. "i think so," said the latter. "because," said fraser, "although lavirotte seems in better health than he was some time ago, no one knows what may happen." lavirotte did not go straight to the small drawing-room where the two women were seated. he went out to the little kitchen, and said to old bridget, the servant: "is the boy in bed?" "yes, he is, sir, and asleep," said the old woman. "let me go up and look at him before i join the ladies." "certainly, sir. i'll show you the room." she led the way upstairs. the boy was sleeping in a cot, his rosy cheek resting on his pink arm, his yellow hair hanging all about his head. there was another bed in the room. "that is yours, no doubt," said lavirotte, pointing to the second bed. "yes," she said, "i sleep here to mind him in the night; but he's no trouble." "and this window looks into what?" "the side passage." the old woman had turned up the paraffin lamp, and was holding it over the sleeping child. "you have no gas in the house?" "no; the master does not like gas." "you ought to be very careful with that lamp. many a sad thing happens owing to the use of paraffin lamps, where children are." he stooped over the sleeping child, kissed the boy's cheek, and then descended to the little drawing-room where the two wives sat. chapter xxv. from the day of that dinner forward, lavirotte seemed anxious to make up for what he then spoke of as the neglect of his little godson. one day he came and brought the mug with the boy's name and the date of his birth on it. another day he brought a spoon, a knife and fork. "you know, dominique," said eugene, "this is too much. we are not rich enough to take such presents." "ah!" said lavirotte. "you mean also that i am not rich enough to make them. but you see i was not quite at the end of my resources when this engagement turned up, and i shall be in receipt of what i must consider a handsome salary in a couple of weeks." "by jove, yes," said eugene. "i do not object to your being guilty of this extravagance if it does not inconvenience you at the moment. i know you will be comparatively well off. i am delighted you are in such good health." at this lavirotte looked strangely at his friend. "yes," he said, "i am all right now. but will it last? has fraser said anything to you about it?" "he has said to me, simply, what we all know--that a tenor, and particularly a tenor in this climate, is liable to be knocked up at any minute. beyond that he said nothing, i think, and all you have to do is to be careful of yourself, and see that you don't take cold. if you keep in only your present form, you are bound to make a great hit." "well, eugene, at least you are encouraging. my notion is, fraser thinks i shall never sing the part. but i will, if i died for it. my heart is set on it, and i would rather die than not go on." "nonsense!" said eugene. "you're talking in an exaggerated way. you will sing, and sing admirably. the audience will rise to you as one man, and next morning the newspapers won't know where to get words of praise for your performance." again a queer look came into lavirotte's eye. "i think, eugene, you are a very simple man." "i see no need for anything but simplicity in this matter. you know, dominique, i shall be greatly delighted to be understudy when the opera is started. of course, i'd rather have anything to do than look on, but there's no help for that." "no," said lavirotte, with an uncomfortable laugh, "there's no help for it unless fate steps in." "oh, confound it, dominique! give up your 'ifs.' i'm tired of them. here are nellie and the boy. let us drop shop." lavirotte rose quickly, went to mrs. o'donnell, took her hand and shook it tenderly. then, having lifted the boy in his arms, he kissed him and pressed him to his breast, and carried him about the room' saying: "you will grow to be a fine generous fellow, mark, like your father; and you will always be as good and gentle as your mother, although you never can be as beautiful. mark, dear, kiss your godfather, who has no wife, no son of his own. you'll always be fond of dominique, won't you, boy?" "of course he will," said eugene, taking the boy out of lavirotte's arms and fondling him tenderly. ever since the boy had come to eugene until now, there had always hung over the father's mind a certain cloud of gloom. for while he said to himself that nellie had come to him in the full light of her reason, and with the knowledge that his house had suffered great commercial disaster, between her coming and the birth of the boy greater disaster still had fallen upon them--ruin in fact--and when the boy was born he seemed to be the despairing leader of a forlorn hope. he had often looked at that boy, and wondered whether or not he should be able to find bread for him. the love he had for nellie was of a different character. it was more robust and less intimate. supposing his supplies failed absolutely, he could tell her there was no bread, and she would understand. but the little fellow could not understand. he would think that bread came, like the daylight, to all living things alike. he would simply know that he was hungry, and that heretofore when he was hungry he got food. and being hungry again, he would ask for food, and expect it. and if he (the father) had to tell him there was no food, had to try to quiet him with mere words and caresses, how should he, eugene, feel? and then, although the little fellow might be quieted for a while, he could not be for long, and he would cry piteously for food. and there would be none to give him. the boy would gradually weaken from hour to hour, until he ceased to cry, until he had no strength to cry. gradually the weakness would increase. his face would become pallid. his rounded pink limbs wasted. his breath short and faint. he would lie exactly as placed, without power to move his body, without power to move his limbs. the little eyes would remain half open. the little fingers could no longer close around the finger of father or mother. the pale lips, parted, would no longer have strength to close at the familiar kiss. then would come a moment when the eyes would open, the little nose become pinched, the little face haggard, and---it was too horrible to think of. god in his mercy had spared him that sight, and given him instead a comfortable, if small, home, sufficient simple food, and the assurance of the continuance of all these. now, more than ever, eugene's heart went forth to his wife and child. they were no longer threatened by want. they should now lack nothing needful for comfort. the little fellow was sturdy and able to walk, and it was the father's delight to go out with nellie and him, and walk along the streets of shops and see his wife buy the things needful for their small household, and some cheap luxury or toy for their child. it was to him a sensation of great delight that he might spend a few pence, ay, even a few shillings, without mortgaging the future heavily. he seemed suddenly to have shaken off a whole inheritance of care. he laughed frequently, and made light-hearted jokes. he sang to nellie and his boy for mere amusement, and he made humorously extravagant promises of what he should do for both when the full tide of his good fortune set in. "dominique and i," said he, "shall draw a line on the map, from london to constantinople, and we will toss as to who shall go east and who west, and thus we shall take the capitals of europe by storm. whichever goes east the first year, goes west the second. this will be fair, and thus we shall never clash. and you shall see all the capitals of europe, nellie, and the boy shall be poisoned with every possible sweetmeat that europe can devise. and i shall get awfully vain of my success, and wear the most extraordinary clothes tailors can invent. and like napoleon crossing the alps, in the peepshows, i shall always ride a white horse. and when i go into a new town all the people shall come out and do me homage, and we'll put up at the best hotels. and they will never ask me to pay a bill. i shall simply sing a song in the morning, and kiss my hand and go. a fine life ours will be. and there you are now, mark. there's a first-class chance for your getting a bath bun with the legal allowance of clinker in it." almost every evening now, lavirotte came. he said one evening: "i am thinking of taking a house in this neighbourhood, and i like yours very well." "you will be a richer man than i am," said eugene. "if you follow my advice you won't take a house in this street. they are all wretchedly built. look here," he said. "none of the doors fit. few of the latches shoot into the jambs or hasps." "that must be a great nuisance," said lavirotte. "and how about the locks and bolts?" "most of the locks and bolts are all right. but i am often uneasy when there is no one in the kitchen, and the bolts are not shot; for the spring-lock there enters the hasp so slightly that a good push would send the door in." "that is a pity," said lavirotte. "but, i suppose, you are not afraid of burglars here." "burglars! not i! it would not be worth the while of any burglar to make a set on a house such as this. but a petty thief, a hearth-stone boy, or a degraded old clothes-man might make a raid, and carry off a few shillings' worth." "quite true," said lavirotte. "but i think the danger is slight. by-the-way, eugene, i shall know the day after to-morrow something of the greatest importance, but which i may not now reveal. something in connection with the first night at the oberon. you will be there, of course, mrs. o'donnell?" "certainly. i am most anxious to witness your _dã©but_." "i suppose you won't take mark?' "oh, dear, no!" she said. "mark is always in bed at six o'clock." "that's right," he said. "all children should be in bed early." chapter xxvi. the morning of the second day after that visit of lavirotte to o'donnell, he was in a state of great excitement. that was the day his fate was to be sealed, as far as the medical certificate went. fraser and he had arranged that he should consult one of the most eminent west end physicians. he had been taking the greatest possible care of himself for some time. this morning he felt better than ever. he was determined that nothing should impair his chance of success. he rose early and had a light breakfast, which was the only meal he ever took in the tower. then he descended the tower slowly, and walked gently along porter street. it was still early; much too early to call on a great west end doctor. when he got to the end of porter street he hailed a hansom, and told the man to drive to hyde park. when he got there it was about ten o'clock. the day was fine for that time of year, and he thought a walk up and down in the fresh, clear air of the park would brace him, and make him more fit for the examination he had to undergo. "i must get my mind quiet," he thought. "i must pretend to myself this is a matter of no moment. i must not even let my mind dwell upon what my business is to-day. if i pass the examination i shall have three days for the excitement to wear off. and, no matter what the result of the examination is, i mean to sing the part. it is all very well for fraser to say i might suffer from stage fright, but no stage fright could be equal to the anxiety i should now be suffering if i gave way to it. if i can control myself now, i could control myself then. and see, i am as calm now as the idlest man that passes me by. "it would not be fair, it would be villainously unfair, for fraser not to let me sing the part after promising it to me. o'donnell was promised the second part before the trial of his voice. i know the first part perfectly, every note of it, and now it would be snatching the chance of fame from me to make me stand aside because of a wretched medical certificate." at last it was time to go; and, almost as though he had passed from the park to the great doctor's waiting-room in a dream, he found himself there, without any clear notion of any circumstances or thoughts by the way. he was fortunate this morning, and found the great man disengaged at the very moment he had appointed. the doctor was an old, good-natured, flabby, gouty-looking man. he was cheerful in his manner, and received lavirotte as though he knew instinctively there was nothing the matter with him beyond a little hypochondriasis. in a perfectly calm and collected manner lavirotte explained his case, and told the old physician of the business in which he was engaged, and the fact that his fitness would be put to the test three days hence. "i know," said the doctor, "i know. your profession is one which at the outset makes great demand on the nerves." then he asked him some questions about these slight seizures, and proceeded to his examination. he spent at least half-an-hour over the case, during which time lavirotte's pulse did not vary. then the old physician sat back in his chair, and looked at his visitor, still with a pleasant expression of countenance. "of course," he said, "men of your profession are naturally very anxious to fulfil all their engagements, and it is the source of great pecuniary loss to them when they fail to do so. but you know," he added, smiling pleasantly, "we must often think of something besides money. come, now," he said, "i am not able to give you a complete opinion of your case to-day. what would the pecuniary loss to you be, supposing you did not sing?" "nothing," said lavirotte. "i am paid whether i sing or do not sing. am i not to sing?" "i won't say that to-day. tell the manager. let me see, this is thursday--i would like to have till saturday morning before finally deciding." "then," said lavirotte, perfectly unmoved, "you think there is some likelihood of my not being able to sing?" "now, now, now," said the doctor, cheerfully. "have i not told you i would like to wait till saturday before forming an opinion?" "but my agreement is that i shall have a certificate from you three days before saturday. that is to-day." "let me see what can be done," said the old man, stroking his face. "i will give you a letter to the manager saying i would not like to decide finally until saturday. but that if this delay would break your engagement, i shall give you the certificate to-day. you can drive to the theatre, and if you do not return here within two hours, i shall assume that all is well, and that i shall see you on saturday." to this lavirotte consented, in the same unmoved way that had characterised him during the whole interview. he took the note and drove to the oberon. he sought fraser and handed him the letter. at first the composer looked disconcerted. "you see, lavirotte," he said, "there is some doubt." "give me the benefit of that doubt till saturday. that can do no harm. eugene is ready to take my part if the decision is against me." "very good," said fraser, reluctantly. "let us wait till saturday." all that day and all friday lavirotte preserved an imperturbable calm. all that day and all friday fraser was in a state of feverish anxiety. "it must be a touch-and-go affair with him," he thought, "if the doctors cannot say yes at once. the least error on the part of the doctor might lead to a terrible disaster, and i have risked my reputation on this opera. if he fainted on the stage, or behind, there might be a dreadful hitch. one thing i'm determined on, that o'donnell shall be dressed and made up for the part, and in the theatre half-an-hour before the curtain goes up." there was a full-dress rehearsal on friday, in which lavirotte went through his part with a calmness and certainty he had never displayed before. of all the performers, he betrayed the least hesitancy. he took every note with perfect ease. even fraser was surprised, and o'donnell congratulated him warmly when the rehearsal was over. lavirotte left the theatre soon, and went straight to st. prisca's tower. "did not dominique sing excellently today?" said o'donnell to fraser. "yes, he did," said fraser, constrainedly. "but you know, o'donnell, there is no trusting the future; and remember i tell you, in the most impressive way i can, that i may have to call upon you at the last moment to go on and sing the part. i am aware you know it perfectly, but i shall want to see you at the theatre not later than eleven o'clock on saturday. and again half-an-hour before the curtain goes up you must be ready in every respect to go on. mind, in every respect." when o'donnell got home that evening, he told nellie he thought there was something strange in lavirotte's manner, and that fraser seemed unnaturally anxious about the other's health. he then told her that lavirotte had gone through the part admirably that day, and that everyone noticed an improvement in his style. even fraser himself had to admit this. "i am to be at the theatre not later than eleven to-morrow, and all ready to go on half-an-hour before the curtain rises. that is, i must be dressed and made up at half-past seven. so that you will come into town with me when i am going in the morning, and wait about somewhere. i will be with you part of the time, of course, and we will be home together after the opera. we can get whatever we want in some restaurant." "and what about the boy?" "oh, as we arranged," said eugene, "he is to remain here. i'm sure bridget will take care of him, and put him to bed at the usual time. as you know, nellie, i should be very sorry that lavirotte's health prevented him; but still, suppose at the last moment he did not sing, would it not be a glorious thing if i got a chance and succeeded?" chapter xxvii. next morning, lavirotte was stirring betimes. he followed the same plan as on the thursday, getting quietly to the park and there lounging about for a while, until it was time to call at the doctor's. then, with a slow step and imperturbed face, he strode along, got to the house of the great man at the precise time agreed, and was instantly admitted to the study, where the doctor sat. "ah!" said the physician, rising. "my letter was effective. that is a good omen, let us hope." to-day there was no need for explanation. nor did it seem the great man had need to make so extended an examination. in a very short time he put down the stethoscope, rubbed his hands encouragingly, and said: "you told me the other day, when you were here, you would not lose any money by not singing to-night, and that you would, under your agreement, be entitled to draw your salary as though you had sung. now, you see, you are a young man, and i am an old one, and if i were in your shoes, instead of exciting myself at a stuffy theatre, i'd go to some nice quiet place, say some seaside place, and spend a while there." "i know," said lavirotte, rising quietly. "i understand what you mean." the doctor rose also, and putting his hand on the young man's shoulder, said: "now, you mustn't be too hasty. i am accustomed to say what i want to say." "and you do not find yourself in a position to give me the certificate i require." "i would most certainly recommend you not to put any undue strain upon yourself just now. come to me in a fortnight, suppose. we will then see what the rest has done you." "thank you," said lavirotte. "i am a ruined man." "nonsense!" said the doctor. "talk of being a ruined man, when you can say you will lose nothing!" "but you think there is something very bad the matter with me?" "i think any unusual excitement would be exceedingly injurious to you, and perhaps dangerous." lavirotte bowed and withdrew. he drove to the oberon, and went directly to fraser. "it is as i feared," he said calmly, deliberately, coldly. "he will not allow me to sing. i am very sorry for my own sake. from what he told me, i do not think i have long to live. fraser, you have done your best to be a good friend to me. it would be folly that a man in my condition should go on, when you have a better man in splendid health as a substitute. i won't come near the theatre to-night, but i'll look you up to-morrow. o'donnell will sing the part better than i could. i suppose, fraser, you don't mind keeping the thing open for me for a fortnight?" fraser was moved. at the first moment he was rejoiced to find that o'donnell was to sing the part. then he suddenly reflected that this must be a terrible blow to lavirotte, and that, moreover, these faintings must indicate something very serious. it was indeed hard that a young man, in the flower of his youth, should be stopped at the very threshold of his career by an affection which might incapacitate him from ever following that career. he assured lavirotte in the most cordial and emphatic manner that he was sincerely sorry; and upon hearing what the doctor had recommended with regard to the seaside, he insisted upon lavirotte taking a cheque for two weeks' salary, and then bade him begone, without a moment's notice, to some place calculated to improve his health. "is o'donnell here?" asked lavirotte. "i'd like to see him before i go." fraser sent for eugene. "you are to sing my part, old fellow," said lavirotte, when the other entered. "the doctor says i must not. i know you will do it better than i. i will not come near the theatre to-night. this is the important news i thought i should have to tell you. i must now say good-bye. you are all too busy for me to stop." o'donnell was quite overwhelmed. he took lavirotte's right hand in his, put his left on the shoulder of the other, and looked at him fixedly. "you're not ill; you're not really ill, my dear dominique! i can't believe it, and you will sing the part." lavirotte shook his head quietly. "ask fraser. he will tell you. he has suspected all along i might not be able for the part." "but you are able for it, better able for it than i am," said eugene, generously. "no, eugene," said lavirotte quietly. "my health, it appears, is not equal to the excitement, and your voice is more suited to the music. i am going away to the seaside, somewhere. i don't know or care where--to glengowra perhaps. i'm sorry i ever left glengowra. if i go there i shall call upon your father and mother, and tell them of the success you are sure to make to-night. give my love to your wife, eugene, and kiss your boy for me." "will you not come and see nellie?" said eugene, the tears standing in his eyes. "she is in town, and we can find her in a few minutes." "no, no, eugene. i cannot. i had better go away straight to my eyrie. good-bye, eugene. kiss the boy for me when you go home. you told me you would not bring him in to-day. the only thing i would like to see before setting out is your wife's face when you have sung in the trio and the solo, at the end of the second act. god bless you, my dear boy. thank you, a thousand times, fraser," and he was gone. the two men in the manager's room looked at one another strangely when they were alone. "did you ever think," said fraser, "that lavirotte was a little mad?" "he's sometimes queer," said eugene, guardedly. "now, o'donnell," said the other briskly, "you'll have to do the very best you can in the part." "i am sincerely sorry for the occasion of my taking it, but of course i will do my best." lavirotte went straight to the bank on which the cheque was drawn, got his money, and betook himself to his lonely chamber in the tower. o'donnell went straight to where he had left his wife, and told her the turn which events had taken. "what can be the matter with him?" asked nellie, her first thought being for the man whose health was threatened. "i don't know. he did not say," answered eugene, "and i did not care to ask. it must be something serious. and now i must run away, nellie, and you may not hope to see me again until the evening. i shall be very busy until then. go and amuse yourself somewhere, darling. come about half-past six to the theatre, stage door. i must be off now." time sped so quickly at the theatre that day, that eugene o'donnell could scarcely believe an hour had passed from the time he had seen his wife, until it was time for him to begin to dress. he had told his wife to come to him at half-past six. the curtain would not go up for an hour-and-a-half after this. at the time she arrived at the theatre he was engaged, and she had to wait for him. the doors were already open. as soon as the lights were turned up, she had been shown into a box, as everything was in confusion behind. here she sat, with the curtains drawn, expecting him every moment. suddenly he burst into the box, in the costume of a greek brigand. although she had seen him in the dress--he had put it on at home to amuse her and their boy--she did not at first recognise him, and started and rose in a fright. at last she cried out in a suppressed voice: "eugene, i did not know you. how splendid you look." "how can i tell her?" he said. "what!" she said. "what is the matter? has anything happened to lavirotte?" "no," he said, "but our house--nellie, bear up--has met a misfortune." "be quick." "and is in flames." "great god! and our boy, our child!" "is safe, no doubt." "who brought the news?" "lavirotte; come, we must go at once." "you are not certain about our boy? oh, eugene, you are not sure of the worst?" "no; i pledge you my word, i am not." "and when we find him safe with the nurse, who would die for him, will you be able to get back here in time?" "no; even if i could, i durst not try to sing to-night, after this." "and who is to sing the part?" "dominique." "dominique!" "dominique lavirotte." chapter xxviii. o'donnell and his wife drove furiously to hoxton. neither spoke the whole way. each was mute with terror, hope, and fear, all beating wildly about in their minds. when they reached cecil street there was no longer any doubt of the truth of lavirotte's story. the house was all in a blaze. a double line of police kept back the crowd, and several engines were busily at work. the cab drew up just outside the line of police. o'donnell told his wife to sit where she was. he had snatched up an overcoat and hat on his way from the theatre, and in the cab removed as much of the make-up as possible from his face, so that there was little or nothing unusual in his appearance. he was about to rush through the line of police when one of them caught him. o'donnell shook off the hand, and said: "it is my house. is my boy safe?" "beg pardon, sir. there's the inspector," said the policeman. o'donnell went up to the inspector, and cried excitedly: "this is my house. can you tell me if my boy is safe?" the inspector turned round and looked steadily at o'donnell for a second or two. "are you sure the boy was in the house?" "yes, quite sure; and an old servant. bridget is her name." "oh," said the inspector, looking at o'donnell again, "i think you may make your mind easy. we did not know there was anyone in the house. we heard it was mr. o'donnell's house." "my name is o'donnell, and my boy and servant were in the house when we left. the boy is between two and three years old." "you are quite sure the boy and woman were there at the time the fire broke out?" "when did it break out?" asked o'donnell. "at about half-past six; between that and seven." "oh, yes," said o'donnell. "they are sure to have been both there at that time. the boy always went to bed at six, and the servant never stirred out. she did not know a soul in the neighbourhood." "then, sir, i think you may make your mind quite easy. it is almost certain that upon the first alarm of fire she fled with the child from the house." "but where can she have fled to? i tell you she had no friends in the neighbourhood. we are only newly come here." "perhaps she might have known where you were." "oh, yes, she knew where i was. she knew i was to be at the oberon theatre tonight, and that my wife was to be with me. i was to have sung there to-night, but had to let a friend take my part when i got this news. do you really think, inspector, the boy is safe?" "well, you see, the chances are a thousand to one the servant is safe, because it isn't likely she was asleep at such an hour, and just after putting the child to bed; and 'twould be quite easy for any grown-up person to get out of a small house like that." "do you know where the fire broke out?" "in that room there, looking into the side passage." "why, that's where the boy and the servant slept." "then, sir, that makes me all the surer they are both safe, for the chances are that by some accident she set fire to the room and then ran away with the child." "i thank god," cried o'donnell fervently. "i will run and tell my wife; she is in a cab near." o'donnell ran back to the hansom. "good news!" he cried, "good news! the inspector tells me the boy and bridget are safe." mrs. o'donnell merely clasped her hands. she did not speak. her hands fell in her lap. her head dropped back. she had fainted. "policeman," cried o'donnell, "where is the nearest hotel?" the policeman told him. o'donnell jumped into the cab and drove to it. restoratives were applied, and in a short time she recovered consciousness. the people at the hotel had heard of the fire, and were willing to lend all the assistance in their power. a room was prepared for mrs. o'donnell, and when he had seen that everything was done for her comfort, eugene left her, promising to return soon. "you will bring him to me the moment you find him?" said the poor mother feebly. "i should be quite well if mark were here. i do not want you to leave me, but you must go and find our boy. if he and bridget are not at the theatre, you are sure to find him in some neighbour's house. anyone would take them in!" o'donnell assured his wife he would not lose a moment in bringing the boy, kissed her tenderly, and left her. as he returned to the fire, he thought: "i need not lose time going to the theatre. lavirotte and fraser know i am here and am likely to stay here, and they will be sure to send someone with news of the boy and nurse if they should turn up at the theatre." when he got back to the fire, he sought the inspector and asked him if any message had come from the oberon. the inspector replied in the negative. then o'donnell told him he was sure a messenger would come if bridget and the boy got there. then he asked the inspector: "wasn't it likely if bridget ran to any of the neighbours they would take her and the boy in?" "of course, they would be only too glad of the chance," said the inspector. "is there nothing can be done?" said o'donnell. "can i do nothing?" the inspector waved his hand towards the fire: "that's all in the hands of the firemen now. they had given up trying to save any of the furniture before you arrived. since you left me i have been making inquiries, and i find that before anyone entered the house the room over the passage was burnt out, and that nothing is known up to this of the child or the servant. i got a description of both the nurse and the boy from your next-door neighbour, and sent it to the office. word will be sent round from there, and the moment they have any news they are to forward it to me." "what had i better do, then?" said o'donnell, who was in a state of feverish restlessness. "if you will take my advice," said the inspector, "you will go back to mrs. o'donnell, and stay with her. we shall certainly have the first news, and i will send it on to you." "i can't," he said; "i can't go back until i have the boy with me. i told her i would go to her the moment i found him, and if i went without him she would get a great shock, for her first impression would be that i had bad news about him, and i should be unable to get that idea out of her mind for a long time, if at all, before he was brought to us. i cannot, i will not go back without him," said o'donnell, frantically. he now for the first time realised the fact that his boy might be lost to them for ever. "it will kill his mother," he added, "if anything happens to our child." then he put his hand before his eyes, and turned away from the inspector. the inspector turned away from him, issued some unnecessary orders in a loud voice, and walked off. o'donnell could not leave the spot. if good news were to come, that would be the first place it would reach. if it was his cruel fate that he should have to learn bad news, it should be extracted from the ashes of that blazing fire. no, he could not leave this spot. he could not return to his wife; and to go inquiring of neighbour after neighbour if he had seen mark, would be triple pain upon pain, disappointment upon disappointment, suspense unhappily resolved on suspense unhappily renewed. by this time it was growing late. the fire had spent its fury. there was no danger of its spreading, and the roof of the doomed house was expected every moment to fall in. o'donnell paced up and down restlessly inside the lines of police where the firemen were busy. now and then he spoke a few words to the inspector. now and then the inspector spoke a few cheering words to him. still no message came from the theatre. still no message came from the police-station. another hour dragged its weary length along; and still no message, no news, no tidings of any kind. gradually the inspector had seemed to lose hopefulness. he had begun to admit to eugene it was strange they heard nothing of the woman or the boy. he looked at his watch. "half-past eleven," he said. "i am surprised. and yet, i cannot but believe they have both escaped." suddenly there was a movement in the crowd outside the line of police. a sergeant came to the inspector, who was standing with o'donnell, and told him that a woman representing herself as the child's nurse was in the crowd. the inspector and o'donnell hastened to the spot where she stood. o'donnell was not able to speak. he saw she had not the boy with her. "when did you leave the house?" said the inspector. "at about half-past six." "you took the boy with you?" "no, sir. i left him in the house." "my god!" cried o'donnell. "then there is no hope?" this question, addressed to the inspector by o'donnell, was not answered. the policeman turned away, and, addressing one of the sergeants, said: "the crowd must stand farther back." o'donnell seized the railing of the house opposite his burning home, and said quietly to himself: "our little boy! our little mark is dead! we shall never see him again, never!" then he placed both his arms on the railings, and leaned his head on his arms, and the inspector led the woman away, and the sergeant kept the crowd farther back, and the people who had been looking at the fire through the windows facing where he leant, went away from their windows, drew down the blinds, and lowered the gas. they knew o'donnell by sight. they had watched what had passed, and they guessed that the father had been overwhelmed by the certainty of his child's death. chapter xxix. meanwhile the inspector had taken the nurse aside, and said to her: "this is a dreadful thing, that a man's house and his child should be burned." the woman was weeping and wailing bitterly. "i was deceived!" she said. "i was cruelly deceived. i don't know why they deceived me. i don't know why that woman deceived me. my beautiful boy! my beautiful child! it will kill his mother, and his father will never look at me again." "i don't ask you to tell me," said the inspector, "anything you don't like. don't tell me anything that's against yourself. if you get into any trouble over this matter i might find it my duty to tell all you told me. but if you like i will listen to anything you have to say." "i'll tell you all i know about the matter, and you may do what you like with me. you couldn't do anything to me i don't deserve. i should never have left the house. i would never have left the house only for the lie that was told me." "well, i will listen to what you have to say now, if you wish," said the inspector. the following is the story told by bridget, the nurse: "my master and mistress left the house early to-day, between ten and eleven o'clock. they said they would not be back till after the play was over. they left me everything the boy and myself should want, and told me i was to get his dinner and my own at the usual time, and his supper between five and six, and that i was to put him to bed at six, as usual. i am an old servant in the o'donnell family. i brought up mr. eugene himself, and they knew they could trust me. "i did everything they told me. i had nothing else to do all day but look after the boy, and get his dinner and my own, and his supper and my tea. i got his dinner and my own between one and two, and then he was with me about the house when i was tidying up, until it was time to get his supper and my tea, between five and six. "i hadn't much to do. there was no knock at the front door, and only a few at the side door, and no one was in the house from the time the master and mistress left, until that ragged boy called in the evening. "i had given the child his supper and put him to bed a little while, and was taking my tea in the kitchen, when there was a single knock at the side door. "i was just done my tea, so i let the knock wait for a minute or so, while i was finishing. then i got up and opened the side door, and i saw standing there, in the passage, a dirty, ragged boy, of about fourteen or fifteen years of age. "i did not like the look of him at all, and i asked him what he wanted. he said he wanted mr. o'donnell's house. "i told him this was it, and asked him what he wanted at mr. o'donnell's house. "he said he wanted to see mr. o'donnell's nurse, he had a message for her. "i said i was mr. o'donnell's nurse, and asked him what his business with me was. "he said he had a private message for me, that he was to give to nobody else. "i could make nothing of him. i didn't expect a message from anyone. he looked a bad boy, a common street boy that had no good bringing up. i did not ask him across the threshold. i said to him: 'well, if you have any message for mr. o'donnell's nurse, give it to me. there is no one near to hear.' "'are you the nurse?' said the boy,--after my telling him twice i was. "'yes,' said i, 'i am mr. o'donnell's nurse.' "'then,' said he, 'a woman told me to come and fetch you.' "'what woman, and where does she want me to go to?' i asked. "'oh, she's a most respectable woman; and she said she'd tell you her business when she saw you, and that she would not tell it to anyone but yourself.' "i thought all this very queer. he wouldn't tell anyone but me what his message was, and when i came to hear what it was, there was nothing in it he mightn't tell anyone. for what harm could there be in my going to see a woman, or in his asking me to go to see her? then i thought to myself, i won't stir a step with this bad-looking boy, and i said: 'tell the woman that sent you i don't know her. if she knew me she'd have told you her name, and why couldn't she have come herself?' "'i don't know any of these things. she certainly did tell me one thing that i forgot, and it was that if you came and heard what she had to say, it would do a whole lot of good to your master and mistress.' "when he said this i began to think: 'maybe 'tis some secret about the bank my old master lost all his money in, and no matter how ragged or dirty the boy may be, it is not my place to throw away any chance there may be of my master or his son getting back some of their money.' "so i said to the boy: 'wait here till i get my bonnet and shawl,' and with that i went upstairs to the room in which the child lay. he was wide awake. he would always go to sleep by himself, but never in the dark. so when i came down to my tea i left the lamp alight on the table. "i told the child i was going out, and if he'd be a good boy and promise not to get out of bed or go near the lamp, i'd turn it up higher. he promised not to stir. i took my shawl and bonnet, and came down. "when i got to the kitchen the ragged boy was sitting on one of the chairs, although i had told him to stay where he was. "i turned down the kitchen lamp, took the key out of the door, and pulled the door after me. the door shuts with a spring-latch, and there was no occasion to lock it. "the woman's messenger brought me along some streets i was never in before, until he came to a cross-road where there was a great deal of light and a lot of public-houses. "he pointed out one, and said it was there the woman was. i said i wouldn't go in, that i did not go into public-houses, and he said: 'well, wait a minute, and i'll tell her you're here.' "he ran in, and in a moment came out with a woman as dirty and as ill-looking as himself, and she said: 'why, bridget, won't you come in and have a glass?' "i said: 'no, i won't; i never go into such places.' i did not know her voice or her looks. and i didn't like her voice or her looks, and i wanted to have nothing to do with her. but when i heard her call me bridget as if she knew me all her life, and when i thought of the master and the mistress and their money that was lost, i felt i must anyway listen to what she had to say. i saw her give the boy some money. then he ran away. "then she asked me if i'd walk down a bit of the street with her, and i said i would, but that she must be quick in saying all she had to say to me. "by this time we had got out of the broad road and were in a kind of lane, with walls, and trees growing over the walls on each side. "she said she heard i was in a good situation, and that my old master had been very kind to me and had given me many presents. and with that we came under a lamp, and she said: 'i know you're in a hurry back. what i have to say to you won't take a minute, and i'll show you a short cut home. but while we're near the light, would you mind telling me the time?' "i took out my watch, which was one of the presents the old master had given me, and looked at it. there were two lanes crossing here. when i looked at my watch it was a quarter past seven. i got a great start to think i was out so long. i told her the hour, and said: 'show me the short cut, and tell me what you have to say at once.' "'that's the short cut,' said she, pointing straight on, and before i knew what was happening, she made a snatch at my watch, and ran down the cross lane as fast as she could. "the chain did not break. she was a younger and lighter woman than i am, and i knew i could not overtake her if i tried, and before i could think of anything, i lost sight of her in the darkness. "when i got back, which wasn't for more than an hour, i saw the house was on fire, and remembering all about the lamp and the child, i thought he must have turned it over, and set fire to the place. i hadn't the courage to stay, knowing what i had done. so i went away as fast as i could, and stopped away until now." when the nurse had ceased speaking, the inspector said nothing beyond: "the whole thing seems to have been a clumsy dodge to steal your watch." this explanation did not fully satisfy the inspector's mind, and he resolved to put the woman's story aside until he had more opportunity of thinking over it. o'donnell was once more pacing up and down. the flames were almost subdued. it was now past midnight, and the crowd, which had collected to see the fire, had gradually melted away. o'donnell, seeing that the inspector had turned from the nurse, approached him, and said: "there can no longer be the faintest hope. there can no longer be an excuse for hope. do you not think so?" "in all cases of the kind," said the inspector, softly and sadly, "it is impossible to be sure until we have positive evidence. the nurse has told me her story, and if it is true, i am afraid we must be prepared for the worst." "then my boy is dead!" cried o'donnell, in anguish. "for i am sure old bridget would not tell a lie to save her life. my boy! my little boy! this will kill his mother! my only fear is that it will not kill me." at that moment a man stepped quickly through the line of policemen, which was no longer very strictly kept. he put his hand on o'donnell's shoulder and said softly: "i recognised your voice, eugene. i heard what you said." "fraser, this is awful!" "it is a dreadful blow, my dear fellow, a dreadful blow! i went home. i have been greatly excited since, and in my excitement, i am ashamed to say i forgot you for a moment, and told the man to drive me home. my wife was not at the theatre; and, until she said something to me about you, i did not realise the fact that you might have worse news than the burning down of your house." "ay, i have the worst that we could have expected from the news lavirotte brought." "has anyone been here from the theatre?" "no. i have seen no one i knew since i left." "then you have not heard what has happened?" "no." "in the second act lavirotte fell insensible on the stage, and we had to drop the curtain and stop the piece." "good heavens! what a night of disasters! how is he?" "he recovered in a short time, and in spite of all we could do, and all the doctor could say to the contrary, insisted on being driven to porter street. he would allow no one of the company but jephson to go with him. as you say, it was a night of disasters; but, my dear eugene, yours is far the worst." "mr. fraser," said a new voice, "do you know anything of o'donnell?" "yes, jephson. he is here." "where?" said jephson. "here," repeated fraser, putting his hand on o'donnell. "i did not recognise you. i suppose you have told him what has happened, fraser?" "yes," said o'donnell. "how is lavirotte?" "dying," answered jephson. "he cannot last till daylight, and he says he cannot die without seeing you. can you come with me to him?" o'donnell moved over to the inspector, and asked: "when can we be quite certain of the worst?" "not until after daylight," answered the inspector. "then i will go with you, jephson. he is the dearest friend i have in the world, and i will not see my wife again until the evidence is complete." chapter xxx. when jephson and o'donnell were in the cab, the latter said: "dying! dying! dominique dying! and mark dead! my little mark dead! good god, what a night! today, jephson, this morning when i set out for the theatre there was no thought of grief in my mind, no forethought of misfortune. and now, here are misfortunes so thick upon us, that one cannot see them altogether. i suppose fraser is ruined? i thought of that at the time i was speaking to him. but it seemed to me it would be no kindness to mention the matter to him just then." "i don't think, o'donnell, to-night's misfortunes at the theatre will seriously hurt fraser. of course, under the circumstances of you and lavirotte being disqualified, the opera must be postponed for some time, until you, at all events, have recovered to-night's shock sufficiently to sing the part." "i shall never sing the part," said o'donnell, "that cost me my little child." then the two men were silent for a long time, until they reached porter street. here jephson said: "it is as well you should be prepared for a great change in lavirotte. you will hardly know him. i never saw such a change come over a man in a few hours. at the theatre he went through what he did of the part with the greatest dash and go. he never sang better; he never acted better at any rehearsal. the whole thing was going capitally. we were in the highest spirits. the audience were enthusiastic. everyone was called after the first act. if lavirotte had only got through that heavy scene in the second act, i do not believe he would have broken down. but it was too much for him. when he came back to consciousness he behaved like a lunatic. when he was told that the audience had to be dismissed he tore his hair, and swore and stamped like a man possessed. he would not go to any place but that hideous old tower of his. he would not let anyone go with him but me, not even the doctor, who said he was in an exceedingly dangerous condition. "when we got to the tower, he had to rest twenty times in getting to the horrible place where he sleeps. and when at last we reached the loft, he fainted again; and when he came quickly back to consciousness he would not let me put him to bed, but threw himself in his stage dress on the couch, and seemed to concentrate all his attention on listening. he was very quiet now, but still i think his reason is gone, for although there was not a sound, he kept leaning up on his elbow now and then, asking me: 'did you hear the boy's voice? did you hear him call?' "he meant, you see, the call-boy's voice. i tried to soothe him, and told him that we were no longer at the theatre, and not to worry himself with thinking of the call-boy's voice. at this he smiled, but said nothing. he did this five or six times. then, when after a long time he asked me to go for you, i reminded him that you were in great trouble, that your house was on fire, and that the last we knew of you was what he himself told us, of the possible loss or danger of your boy. "then again he asked me: 'did you hear the boy call?' and i said: 'no. you will not hear the boy call again to-night.' at this he not only smiled, but laughed, and said: 'you will go for eugene at once. he will not think me mad. he is my dearest friend.'" "my poor, poor dominique!" cried eugene. "he was godfather to my little boy that's gone." "i was afraid to leave him alone, but there was something in his manner i could not resist. this is the tower. i have taken the key with me. there is a lantern alight inside. get in. mind yourself there. wait till i lock the door on the inside. let me go first. there. can you see the rungs? stop, you will never be able to get up the ladder in that overcoat. take it off, and put it down on those boards." "but i, too, have my stage dress on." "never mind. so has he. take off the overcoat. there, that is better. this is the loft. lavirotte, are you awake?" "yes, more wakeful than i have been for many a day. god bless you, eugene, for coming. i have not much time now. i am waiting for the call. eugene, do you hear the boy call?" "no, no, dominique, my dear friend. keep yourself quiet, and you will hear the boy call when you have had a few days' rest, when you come back from the sea." eugene, in his stage costume, crossed the floor, and bending over his old friend, who lay pallid on the couch, in his stage costume, sat by his side and took dominique's hand in his. "i am not going to the sea, eugene. i am going to the ocean. bear with me a little while." jephson drew back, and stood beside the ladder which led to the loft above. "bear with me, eugene. i have a confession to make. do not interrupt me. excitement gives me pain now. you have come to me in the deepest depth of your own affliction to say a kind word to me in my last moments. you have lost your boy." "all hope is not yet gone." "you have lost your boy, and you have come to touch the hand of dominique, while yet it can be conscious of that touch. you have come to close my eyes for ever." "my dear, dear dominique!" "do not interrupt me. i have a confession to make. i have been jealous of you all my life, ever since i knew you. i need not tell you all that you already know. i have plotted against you with devilish cunning, cunning too deep and despicable for you ever to suspect. i could not bear that you should sing the part. i swore you never should. i took care you should not sing the part. let me tell you what happened after i left the theatre. i came here. i then looked calm. but i was mad. i had money in my pocket, and i bribed a wretch even almost as vile as myself to decoy the nurse of your child away from your house. "i was close by when this was done. a few minutes after, your house was discovered in flames. i brought you word at the theatre that your house was burning, and nothing was known of your boy." "oh god! oh god! dominique! and while the woman was away the child overturned the lamp, and he is dead!" "yes, eugene, i do not wonder at your starting away from me. but hear me out. hear me to the end. the boy did not overturn the lamp.... _i_ overturned the lamp." "_you!_ _you!_ which of us is mad? if i am sane, why should i not strangle you as you lie?" eugene was now at the other side of the table, leaning on it, and looking stupidly at the prostrate man. "because, eugene, i asked you to hear me out, and the last wish of a dying man is sacred." "dying _man!_ dying monster! dying murderer! where is my child?" for an instant lavirotte's hand moved under the couch on which he lay. he suddenly raised it. there was a flash, a loud report, that seemed to shake the walls of the tower. jephson sprang from where he stood. o'donnell never moved. the pistol fell from lavirotte's hand to the ground. he rose quickly from the couch, and, drawing himself up to his full height, stood on the other side of the table, facing eugene. o'donnell, too, drew himself up to his full height, and stared across the table at the other. lavirotte raised his right hand on high, and, pointing with his finger aloft, said: "did you hear the boy call?" jephson, who still stood close to the foot of the ladder, whispered in a thick voice: "don't touch him. he is only mad." lavirotte still stood, drawn up to his full height, in his stage costume, with his right hand thrust upward, and his forefinger pointing aloft. there was a silence which no mind could measure, and then a sound that made the cold sweat break out on jephson and o'donnell. "did you hear the boy call?" whispered lavirotte. suddenly the right arm relaxed and fell to lavirotte's side. his eyes left o'donnell's face, and were fixed on a corner of the tower to the left. "did you hear the boy call?" he repeated. "i would not let you sing that song the other day, eugene, but you have heard the boy call, and i must answer." almost imperceptibly he began lifting his left arm towards the left corner of the tower, where his eyes were fixed, and through which the ladder passed into the floor above. "i must answer this call. i must sing. i did not murder your boy. i stole him, that i might have the first call to-night. you heard the last call. i must answer the last call." then in a voice which had never been firmer or truer, he sang the first line and a half of the "bard's legacy:" "when in death i shall calm recline, oh, bear my heart----" he placed his right hand upon his left breast, still keeping his left hand rigid. "i can sing no more. look." turning their eyes in the direction he indicated, they saw descending from the loft above the figure of a small child, in white. "the bank is broken," said lavirotte, "but the treasure has been found here. take him back to her, eugene. close my eyes. this is all i can do towards answering the last call." before he fell, eugene caught him in his arms, laid him gently on the couch, and closed the eyes. the end. * * * * * * * * * * charles dickens and evans, crystal palace press. captain dieppe by anthony hope author of "the prisoner of zenda," "rupert of hentzau," etc., etc. doubleday, page & co. new york 1906 copyright, 1899, by anthony hope hawkins. copyright, 1899, by curtis publishing co. copyright, 1900, by anthony hope hawkins. contents chapter i. the house on the bluff ii. the man by the stream iii. the lady in the garden iv. the inn in the village v. the rendezvous by the cross vi. the hut in the hollow vii. the flood on the river viii. the carriage at the ford ix. the straw in the corner x. the journey to rome xi. the luck of the captain captain dieppe chapter i the house on the bluff to the eye of an onlooker captain dieppe's circumstances afforded high spirits no opportunity, and made ordinary cheerfulness a virtue which a stoic would not have disdained to own. fresh from the failure of important plans; if not exactly a fugitive, still a man to whom recognition would be inconvenient and perhaps dangerous; with fifty francs in his pocket, and his spare wardrobe in a knapsack on his back; without immediate prospect of future employment or a replenishment of his purse; yet by no means in his first youth or of an age when men love to begin the world utterly afresh; in few words, with none of those inner comforts of the mind which make external hardships no more than a pleasurable contrast, he marched up a long steep hill in the growing dusk of a stormy evening, his best hope to find, before he was soaked to the skin, some poor inn or poorer cottage where he might get food and beg shelter from the severity of the wind and rain that swept across the high ground and swooped down on the deep valleys, seeming to assail with a peculiar, conscious malice the human figure which faced them with unflinching front and the buoyant step of strength and confidence. but the captain was an alchemist, and the dross of outer events turned to gold in the marvellous crucible of his mind. fortune should have known this and abandoned the vain attempt to torment him. he had failed, but no other man could have come so near success. he was alone, therefore free: poor, therefore independent; desirous of hiding, therefore of importance: in a foreign land, therefore well placed for novel and pleasing accidents. the rain was a drop and the wind a puff: if he were wet, it would be delightful to get dry; since he was hungry, no inn could be too humble and no fare too rough. fortune should indeed have set him on high, and turned her wasted malice on folk more penetrable by its stings. the captain whistled and sang. what a fright he had given the ministers, how nearly he had brought back the prince, what an uncommon and intimate satisfaction of soul came from carrying, under his wet coat, lists of names, letters, and what not--all capable of causing tremors in high quarters, and of revealing in spheres of activity hitherto unsuspected gentlemen--aye, and ladies--of the loftiest position; all of whom (the captain was piling up his causes of self-congratulation) owed their present safety, and directed their present anxieties, to him, jean dieppe, and to nobody else in the world. he broke off his whistling to observe aloud: "mark this, it is to very few that there comes a life so interesting as mine"; and his tune began again with an almost rollicking vigour. what he said was perhaps true enough, if interest consists (as many hold) in uncertainty; in his case uncertainty both of life and of all that life gives, except that one best thing which he had pursued--activity. of fame he had gained little, peace he had never tasted; of wealth he had never thought, of love--ah, of love now? his smile and the roguish shake of his head and pull at his long black moustache betrayed no dissatisfaction on that score. and as a fact (a thing which must at the very beginning be distinguished from an impression of the captain's), people were in the habit of loving him: he never expected exactly this, although he had much self-confidence. admiration was what he readily enough conceived himself to inspire; love was a greater thing. on the whole, a fine life--why, yes, a very fine life indeed; and plenty of it left, for he was but thirty-nine. "it really rains," he remarked at last, with an air of amiable surprise. "i am actually getting wet. i should be pleased to come to a village." fortune may be imagined as petulantly flinging this trifling favour at his head, in the hope, maybe, of making him realise the general undesirability of his lot. at any rate, on rounding the next corner of the ascending road, he saw a small village lying beneath him in the valley. immediately below him, at the foot of what was almost a precipice, approached only by a rough zigzag path, lay a little river; the village was directly opposite across the stream, but the road, despairing of such a dip, swerved sharp off to his left, and, descending gradually, circled one end of the valley till it came to a bridge and thence made its way round to the cluster of houses. there were no more than a dozen cottages, a tiny church, and an inn--certainly an inn, thought dieppe, as he prepared to follow the road and pictured his supper already on the fire. but before he set out, he turned to his right; and there he stood looking at a scene of some beauty and of undeniable interest. a moment later he began to walk slowly up-hill in the opposite direction to that which the road pursued; he was minded to see a little more of the big house perched so boldly on that bluff above the stream, looking down so scornfully at the humble village on the other bank. but habitations are made for men, and to captain dieppe beauties of position or architecture were subordinate to any indications he might discover or imagine of the characters of the folk who dwelt in a house and of their manner of living. thus, not so much the position of the castle (it could and did claim that title), or its handsome front, or the high wall that enclosed it and its demesne on every side save where it faced the river, caught his attention as the apparently trifling fact that, whereas one half of the facade was brilliant with lights in every window, the other half was entirely dark and, to all seeming, uninhabited. "they are poor, they live in half the rooms only," he said to himself. but somehow this explanation sounded inadequate. he drew nearer, till he was close under the wall of the gardens. then he noticed a small gate in the wall, sheltered by a little projecting porch. the captain edged under the porch, took out a cigar, contrived to light it, and stood there puffing pensively. he was protected from the rain, which now fell very heavily, and he was asking himself again why only half the house was lighted up. this was the kind of trivial, yet whimsical, puzzle on which he enjoyed trying his wits. he had stood where he was for a few minutes when he heard steps on the other side of the wall; a moment later a key turned in the lock and the gate opened. dieppe turned to find himself confronted by a young man of tall stature; the dim light showed only the vague outline of a rather long and melancholy, but certainly handsome, face; the stranger's air was eminently distinguished. dieppe raised his hat and bowed. "you 'll excuse the liberty," he said, smiling. "i 'm on my way to the village yonder to find quarters for the night. your porch offered me a short rest and shelter from the rain while i smoked a cigar. i presume that i have the honour of addressing the owner of this fine house?" "you 're right, sir. i am the count of fieramondi," said the young man, "and this is my house. do me the favour to enter it and refresh yourself." "oh, but you entertain company, and look at me!" with a smile dieppe indicated his humble and travel-worn appearance. "company? none, i assure you." "but the lights?" suggested the captain, with a wave of his hand. "you will find me quite alone," the count assured him, as he turned into the garden and motioned his guest to follow. crossing a path and a stretch of grass, they entered a room opening immediately on the garden; it was large and high. situated at the corner of the house, it had two windows facing on the garden and two towards the river. it was richly and soberly furnished, and hung with family portraits. a blazing fire revealed these features to dieppe, and at the same time imparted a welcome glow to his body. the next minute a man-servant entered with a pair of candlesticks, which he set on the table. "i am about to dine," said the count. "will you honour me with your company?" "your kindness to a complete stranger--" dieppe began. "the kindness will be yours. company is a favour to one who lives alone." and the count proceeded to give the necessary orders to his servant. then, turning again to dieppe, he said, "in return, pray let me know the name of the gentleman who honours my house." "i can refuse nothing to my host--to anybody else my name is the only thing i should refuse. i am called captain dieppe." "of the french service? though you speak italian excellently." "ah, that accent of mine! no, not of the french service--in fact, not of any service. i have been in many services, but i can show you no commission as captain." for the first time the count smiled. "it is, perhaps, a sobriquet?" he asked, but with no offensive air or insinuation. "the spontaneous tribute of my comrades all over the world," answered dieppe, proudly--"is it for me to refuse it?" "by no means," agreed his host, smiling still; "i don't doubt that you have amply earned it." dieppe's bow confirmed the supposition while it acknowledged the compliment. civilities such as these, when aided by dinner and a few glasses of red wine, soon passed into confidences--on the captain's side at least. accustomed to keep other people's secrets, he burdened himself with few of his own. "i have always had something of a passion for politics," he confessed, after giving his host an account of some stirring events in south america in which he had borne a part. "you surprise me," was the count's comment. "perhaps i should say," dieppe explained, "for handling those forces which lie behind politics. that has been my profession." the count looked up. "oh, i 'm no sentimentalist," dieppe went on. "i ask for my pay--i receive it--and sometimes i contrive to keep it." "you interest me," said his host, in whose manner dieppe recognised an attractive simplicity. "but in my last enterprise--well, there are accidents in every trade." his shrug was very good-natured. "the enterprise failed?" asked the count, sympathetically. "certainly, or i should not be enjoying your hospitality. moreover i failed too, for i had to skip out of the country in such haste that i left behind me fifty thousand francs, and the police have laid hands on it. it was my--what shall i call it? my little _pourboire_." he sighed lightly, and then smiled again. "so i am a homeless wanderer, content if i can escape the traps of police agents." "you anticipate being annoyed in that way?" "they are on my track, depend upon it." he touched the outside of his breast pocket. "i carry--but no matter. the pursuit only adds a spice to my walks, and so long as i don't need to sell my revolver for bread--." he checked himself abruptly, a frown of shame or vexation on his face. "i beg your pardon," he went on, "i beg your pardon. but you won't take me for a beggar?" "i regret what you have said only because you said it before i had begged a favour of you--a favour i had resolved to venture on asking. but come, though i don't think you a beggar, you shall be sure that i am one." he rose and laid his hand on dieppe's shoulder. "stay with me for to-night at least--and for as much longer as you will. nobody will trouble you. i live in solitude, and your society will lighten it. let me ring and give orders for your entertainment?" dieppe looked up at him; the next moment he caught his hand, crying, "with all my heart, dear host! your only difficulty shall be to get rid of me." the count rang, and directed his servant to prepare the cardinal's room. dieppe noticed that the order was received with a glance of surprise, but the master of the house repeated it, and, as the servant withdrew, added, "it is called after an old member of our family, but i can answer for its comfort myself, for i have occupied it until--" "i 'm turning you out?" exclaimed dieppe. "i left it yesterday." the count frowned as he sipped his wine. "i left it owing to--er--circumstances," he murmured, with some appearance of embarrassment in his manner. "his eminence is restless?" asked the captain, laughing. "i beg pardon?" "i mean--a ghost?" "no, a cat," was the count's quiet but somewhat surprising answer. "i don't mind cats, i am very fond of them," dieppe declared with the readiness of good breeding, but he glanced at his host with a curiosity that would not be stifled. the count lived in solitude. half his house--and that the other half--was brilliantly lighted, and he left his bedroom because of a cat. here were circumstances that might set the least inquisitive of men thinking. it crossed dieppe's mind that his host was (he used a mild word) eccentric, but the count's manner gave little warrant for the supposition; and dieppe could not believe that so courteous a gentleman would amuse himself by making fun of a guest. he listened eagerly when the count, after a long silence, went on to say: "the reason i put forward must, no doubt, sound ludicrous, but the fact is that the animal, in itself a harmless beast, became the occasion, or was made the means, of forcing on me encounters with a person whom i particularly wish to avoid. you, however, will not be annoyed in that way." there he stopped, and turned the conversation to general topics. never had dieppe's politeness been subjected to such a strain. no relief was granted to him. the count talked freely and well on a variety of questions till eleven o'clock, and then proposed to show his guest to his bedroom. dieppe accepted the offer in despair, but he would have sat up all night had there seemed any chance of the count's becoming more explicit. the cardinal's room was a large apartment situated on the upper floor (there were but two), about the middle of the house; its windows looked across the river, which rippled pleasantly in the quiet of the night when dieppe flung up the sash and put his head out. he turned first to the left. save his own room, all was dark: the count, no doubt, slept at the back. then, craning his neck, he tried to survey the right wing. the illumination was quenched; light showed in one window only, a window on the same level with his and distant from it perhaps forty feet. with a deep sigh the captain drew his head back and shut out the chilly air. ah, there was an inner door on the right hand side of the room; that the captain had not noticed before. walking up to it, he perceived that it was bolted at top and bottom; but the key was in the lock. he stood and looked at this door; it seemed that it must lead, either directly or by way of another apartment between, to the room whose lights he had just seen. he pulled his moustache thoughtfully; and he remembered that there was a person whom the count particularly wished to avoid and, owing (in some way) to a cat, could not rely on being able to avoid if he slept in the cardinal's room. "well, then--" began dieppe with a thoughtful frown. "oh, i can't stand it much longer!" he ended, with a smile and a shrug. and then there came--the captain was really not surprised, he had been almost expecting it--a mew, a peevish, plaintive mew. "i won't open that door," said the captain. the complaint was repeated. "poor beast!" murmured the captain. "shut up in that--in that--deuce take it, in that what?" his hand shot up to the top bolt and pressed it softly back. "no, no," said he. another mew defeated his struggling conscience. pushing back the lower bolt in its turn, he softly unlocked the door and opened it cautiously. there in the passage--for a narrow passage some twelve or fifteen feet long was revealed--near his door, visible in the light from his room, was a large, sleek, yellow cat from whose mouth was proceeding energetic lamentation. but on sight of dieppe the creature ceased its cries, and in apparent alarm ran half-way along the passage and sat down beside a small hole in the wall. from this position it regarded the intruder with solemn, apprehensive eyes. dieppe, holding his door wide open, returned the animal's stare. this must be the cat which had ejected the count. but why--? in a moment the half-formed question found its answer, though the answer seemed rather to ask a new riddle than to answer the old one. a door at the other end of the passage opened a little way, and a melodious voice called softly, "papa, papa!" the cat ran towards the speaker, the door was opened wide, and for an instant dieppe had the vision of a beautiful young woman, clad in a white dressing-gown and with hair about her shoulders. as he saw her she saw him, and gave a startled shriek. the cat, apparently bewildered, raced back to the aperture in the wall and disappeared with an agitated whisk of its tail. the lady's door and the captain's closed with a double simultaneous reverberating bang, and the captain drove his bolts home with guilty haste. his first act was to smoke a cigarette. that done, he began to undress slowly and almost unconsciously. during the process he repeated to himself more than once the count's measured but emphatic words: "a person whom i particularly wish to avoid." the words died away as dieppe climbed into the big four-poster with a wrinkle of annoyance on his brow. for the lady at the other end of the passage did not, to the captain's mind, look the sort of person whom a handsome and lonely young man would particularly wish to avoid. in spite of the shortness of his vision, in spite of her obvious alarm and confusion, she had, in fact, seemed, to him very much indeed the opposite. chapter ii the man by the stream apart from personal hopes or designs, the presence, or even the proximity, of a beautiful woman is a cheerful thing: it gives a man the sense of happiness, like sunshine or sparkling water; these are not his either, but he can look at and enjoy them; he smiles back at the world in thanks for its bountiful favours. never had life seemed better to dieppe than when he awoke the next morning; yet there was guilt on his conscience--he ought not to have opened that door. but the guilt became parent to a new pleasure and gave him the one thing needful to perfection of existence--a pretty little secret of his own, and this time one that he was minded to keep. "to think," he exclaimed, pointing a scornful finger at the village across the river, "that but for my luck i might be at the inn! heaven above us, i might even have been leaving this enchanting spot!" he looked down at the stream. a man was fishing there, a tall, well-made fellow in knickerbockers and a soft felt hat of the sort sometimes called tyrolean. "good luck to you, my boy!" nodded the happy and therefore charitable captain. going down to the count's pleasant room at the corner of the left wing, he found his host taking his coffee. compliments passed, and soon dieppe was promising to spend a week at least with his new friend. "i am a student," observed the count, "and you must amuse yourself. there are fine walks, a little rough shooting perhaps--" "fishing?" asked dieppe, thinking of the man in the soft hat. "the fishing is worth nothing at all," answered the count, decisively. he paused for a moment and then went on: "there is, however, one request that i am obliged to make to you." "any wish of yours is a command to me, my dear host." "it is that during your visit you will hold no communication whatever with the right wing of the house." the count was now lighting a cigar; he completed the operation carefully, and then added: "the countess's establishment and mine are entirely separate--entirely." "the countess!" exclaimed dieppe, not unnaturally surprised. "i regret to trouble you with family matters. my wife and i are not in agreement; we have n't met for three months. she lives in the right wing with two servants; i live in the left with three. we hold no communication, and our servants are forbidden to hold any among themselves; obedience is easier to insure as we have kept only those we can trust, and, since entertaining is out of the question, have dismissed the rest." "you have--er--had a difference?" the captain ventured to suggest, for the count seemed rather embarrassed. "a final and insuperable difference, a final and permanent separation." the count's tone was sad but very firm. "i am truly grieved. but--forgive me--does n't the arrangement you indicate entail some inconvenience?" "endless inconvenience," assented the count. "to live under the same roof, and yet--" "my dear sir, during the negotiations which followed on the countess's refusal to--to well, to meet my wishes, i represented that to her with all the emphasis at my command. i am bound to add that she represented it no less urgently to me." "on the other hand, of course, the scandal--" dieppe began. "we fieramondi do not much mind scandal. that was n't the difficulty. the fact is that i thought it the countess's plain duty to relieve me of her presence. she took what i may call the exactly converse view. you follow me?" "perfectly," said dieppe, repressing an inclination to smile. "and declared that nothing--nothing on earth--should induce her to quit the castle even for a day; she would regard such an act as a surrender. i said i should regard my own departure in the same light. so we stay here under the extremely inconvenient arrangement i have referred to. to make sure of my noticing her presence, my wife indulges in something approaching to an illumination every night." the count rose and began to walk up and down as he went on with a marked access of warmth. "but even the understanding we arrived at," he pursued, "i regret to say that my wife did n't see fit to adhere to in good faith. she treated it with what i must call levity." he faced round on his guest suddenly. "i mentioned a cat to you," he said. "you did," dieppe admitted, eyeing him rather apprehensively. "i don't know," pursued the count, "whether you noticed a door in your room?" dieppe nodded. "it was bolted?" dieppe nodded again. "if you had opened that door--pardon the supposition--you would have seen a passage. at the other end is another door, leading to the countess's apartments. see, i will show you. this fork is the door from your room, this knife is--" "i follow your description perfectly," interposed dieppe, assailed now with a keener sense of guilt. "the countess possesses a cat--a thing to which in itself i have no objection. to give this creature, which she likes to have with her constantly, the opportunity of exercise, she has caused an opening to be made from the passage on to the roof. this piece of bread will represent--" "i understand, i assure you," murmured dieppe. "every evening she lets the cat into the passage, whence it escapes on to the roof. on its return it would naturally betake itself to her room again." "naturally," assented the captain. are not cats most reasonable animals? "but," said the count, beginning to walk about again, "she shuts her door: the animal mews at it; my wife ignores the appeal. what then? the cat, in despair, turns to my door. i take no heed. it mews persistently. at last, wearied of the noise, i open my door. always--by design, as i believe--at that very moment my wife flings her door open. you see the position?" "i can imagine it," said dieppe, discreetly. "we are face to face! nothing between us except the passage--and the cat! and then the countess, with what i am compelled to term a singular offensiveness, not to say insolence, of manner, slams the door in my face, leaving me to deal with the cat as i best can! my friend, it became intolerable. i sent a message begging the countess to do me the favour of changing her apartment. "she declined point-blank. i determined then to change mine, and sent word of my intention to the countess." he flung himself into a chair. "her reply was to send back to me her marriage contract and her wedding-ring, and to beg to be informed whether my present stay at the castle was likely to be prolonged." "and you replied--?" "i made no reply," answered the count, crossing his legs. a combination of feelings prevented dieppe from disclosing the incident of the previous night. he loved a touch of mystery and a possibility of romance. again, it is not the right thing for a guest to open bolted doors. a man does not readily confess to such a breach of etiquette, and his inclination to make a clean breast of it is not increased when it turns out that the door in question leads to the apartments of his host's wife. finally, the moment for candour had slipped by: you cannot allow a man to explain a locality by means of forks and knives and pieces of bread and then inform him that you were all the while acquainted with its features. dieppe was silent, and the count, who was obviously upset by the recital of his grievances, presently withdrew to his study, a room on the upper floor which looked out on the gardens at the back of the house. "what did they quarrel about?" dieppe asked himself; the count had thrown no light on that. "i 'll be hanged if i 'd quarrel with her," smiled the captain, remembering the face he had seen at the other end of the passage. "but," he declared to himself, virtuously, "the cat may mew till it's hoarse--i won't open that door again." with this resolve strong in his heart, he took his hat and strolled out into the garden. he had no sooner reached the front of the house than he gave an exclamation of surprise. the expanse of rather rough grass sprinkled with flower-beds, which stretched from the castle to the point where the ground dipped steeply towards the river, was divided across by a remarkable structure--a tall, new, bare wooden fence, constituting a very substantial barrier. it stood a few paces to the right of the window which the captain identified as his own, and ran some yards down the hill. here was plain and strong evidence of the state of war which existed between the two wings. neither the count nor the countess would risk so much as a sight of the other while they took their respective promenades. the captain approached the obstacle and examined it with a humorous interest; then he glanced up at the wall above, drawing a couple of feet back to get a better view. "ah," said he, "just half-way between my window and--hers! they are very punctilious, these combatants!" natural curiosity must, so far as it can, excuse captain dieppe for spending the rest of the morning in what he termed a reconnaissance of the premises, or that part of them which was open to his inspection. he found little. there was no sign of anybody entering or leaving the other wing, although (as he discovered on strolling round by the road) a gate in the wall on the right of the gardens, and a carriage-drive running up to it, gave independent egress from that side of the castle. breakfast with the count was no more fruitful of information; the count discussed (apropos of a book at which he had been glancing) the question of the temporal power of the papacy with learning and some heat: he was, it appeared, strongly opposed to these ecclesiastical claims, and spoke of them with marked bitterness. dieppe, very little interested, escaped for a walk early in the afternoon. it was five o'clock when he regained the garden and stood for a few moments looking down towards the river. it was just growing dusk, and the lights of the inn were visible in the village across the valley. fishermen are a persevering race, the young man in the soft hat was still at his post. but no, he was not fishing! he was walking up and down in a moody, purposeless way, and it seemed to the captain that he turned his head very often towards the castle. the captain sat down on a garden-seat close under the barricade and watched; an idea was stirring in his brain--an idea that made him pat his breast-pocket, twirl his moustache, and smile contentedly. "not much of a fisherman, i think," he murmured. "ah, my friend, i know the cut of your jib, i fancy. after poor old jean dieppe, are n't you, my boy? a police-spy; i could tell him among a thousand!" equally pleased with the discovery and with his own acuteness in making it, the captain laughed aloud; then in an instant he sat bolt upright, stiff and still, listening intently. for through the barricade had come two sounds--a sweet, low, startled voice, that cried half in a whisper, "heavens, he 's there!" and then the rustle of skirts in hasty flight. without an instant's thought--without remembering his promise to the count--dieppe sprang up, ran down the hill, turned the corner of the barricade, and found himself in the countess's territory. he was too late. the lady had made good her escape. there was nobody to be seen except the large yellow cat: it sat on the path and blinked gravely at the chagrined captain. "animal, you annoy me!" he said with a stamp of his foot. the cat rose, turned, and walked away with its tail in the air. "i 'm making a fool of myself," muttered dieppe. "or," he amended with a dawning smile, "she 's making a fool of me." his smile broadened a little. "why not?" he asked. then he drew himself up and slowly returned to his own side of the barricade, shaking his head and murmuring, "no, no, jean, my boy, no, no! he 's your host--your host, jean," as he again seated himself on the bench under the barricade. evening was now falling fast; the fisherman was no longer to be seen; perfect peace reigned over the landscape. dieppe yawned; perfect peace was with him a synonym for intolerable dulness. "permit me, my dear friend," said a voice behind him, "to read you a little poem which i have beguiled my leisure by composing." he turned to find the count behind him, holding a sheet of paper. probably the poet had his composition by heart, for the light seemed now too dim to read by. however this may be, a rich and tender voice recited to dieppe's sympathetic ears as pretty a little appeal (so the captain thought) as had ever been addressed by lover to an obdurate or capricious lady. the captain's eyes filled with tears as he listened--tears for the charm of the verse, for the sad beauty of the sentiment, also, alas, for the unhappy gentleman from whose heart came verse and sentiment. "my friend, you love!" cried the captain, holding out his hand as the count ended his poem and folded up the paper. "and you are unhappy," he added. the count smiled in a sad but friendly fashion. "is n't it the same thing?" he asked. "and at any rate as to me you are right." dieppe wrung his hand. the count, apparently much moved, turned and walked slowly away, leaving dieppe to his meditations. "he loves her." that was the form they took. whatever the meaning of the quarrel, the count loved his wife; it was to her the poem was written, hers was the heart which it sought to soften. yet she had not looked hard-hearted. no, she had looked adorable, frankly adorable; a lady for whose sake any man, even so wise and experienced a man as captain dieppe, might well commit many a folly, and have many a heartache; a lady for whom-"rascal that i am!" cried the captain, interrupting himself and springing up. he raised his hand in the air and declared aloud with emphasis: "on my honour, i will think no more of her. i will think, i say, no more of her." on the last word came a low laugh from the other side of the barricade. the captain started, looked round, listened, smiled, frowned, pulled his moustache. then, with extraordinary suddenness, resolution, and fierceness, he turned and walked quickly away. "honour, honour!" he was saying to himself; and the path of honour seemed to lie in flight. unhappily, though, the captain was more accustomed to advance. chapter iii the lady in the garden it is possible that captain dieppe, full of contentment with the quarters to which fortune had guided him, under-rated the merits and attractions of the inn in the village across the river. fare and accommodation indeed were plain and rough at the aquila nera, but the company round its fireside would have raised his interest. on one side of the hearth sat the young fisherman, he in whom dieppe had discovered a police-spy on the track of the secrets in that breast-pocket of the captain's. oh, these discoveries of the captain's! for m. paul de roustache was not a police-spy, and, moreover, had never seen the gallant captain in his life, and took no interest in him--a state of things most unlikely to occur to the captain's mind. had paul, then, fished for fishing's sake? it by no means followed, if only the captain could have remembered that there were other people in the world besides himself--and one or two others even in the count of fieramondi's house. "i 'll get at her if i can; but if she 's obstinate, i 'll go to the count--in the last resort i 'll go to the count, for i mean to have the money." reflections such as these (and they were m. de roustache's at this moment) would have shown even captain dieppe--not, perhaps, that he had done the fisherman an injustice, for the police may be very respectable--but at least that he had mistaken his errand and his character. but however much it might be abashed momentarily, the captain's acumen would not have been without a refuge. who was the elderly man with stooping shoulders and small keen eyes, who sat on the other side of the fire, and had been engaged in persuading paul that he too was a fisherman, that he too loved beautiful scenery, that he too travelled for pleasure, and, finally, that his true, rightful, and only name was monsieur guillaume? to which paul had responded in kind, save that he had not volunteered his name. and now each was wondering what the other wanted, and each was wishing very much that the other would seek his bed, so that the inn might be sunk in quiet and a gentleman be at liberty to go about his private business unobserved. the landlord came in, bringing a couple of candles, and remarking that it was hard on ten o'clock; but let not the gentlemen hurry themselves. the guests sat a little while longer, exchanged a remark or two on the prospects of the weather, and then, each despairing of outstaying the other, went their respective ways to bed. almost at the same moment, up at the castle, dieppe was saying to his host, "good night, my friend, good night. i 'm not for bed yet. the night is fine, and i 'll take a stroll in the garden." a keen observer might have noticed that the captain did not meet his friend's eye as he spoke. there was a touch of guilt in his air, which the count's abstraction did not allow him to notice. conscience was having a hard battle of it; would the captain keep on the proper side of the barricade? monsieur guillaume, owing to his profession or his temperament, was a man who, if the paradox may be allowed, was not surprised at surprises. accordingly when he himself emerged from the bedroom to which he had retired, took the path across the meadow from the inn towards the river, and directed his course to the stepping-stones which he had marked as he strolled about before dinner, he was merely interested and in no way astonished to perceive his companion of the fireside in front of him, the moon, nearly full, revealed paul's tyrolean headpiece mounting the hill on the far side of the stream. guillaume followed it, crossed the river at the cost of wet boots, ascended the slope, and crouched down behind a bush a few yards from the top. he had gained on paul, and arrived at his hiding-place in time to hear the exclamation wrung from his precursor by the sudden sight of the barricade: from the valley below the erection had been so hidden by bushes as to escape notice. "what the devil's that for?" exclaimed paul de roustache in a low voice. he was not left without an answer. the watcher had cause for the smile that spread over his face, as, peeping out, he saw a man's figure rise from a seat and come forward. the next moment paul was addressed in smooth and suave tones, and in his native language, which he had hurriedly employed in his surprised ejaculation. "that, sir," said dieppe, waving his hand towards the barricade, "is erected in order to prevent intrusion. but it does n't seem to be very successful." "who are you?" demanded paul, angrily. "i should, i think, be the one to ask that question," dieppe answered with a smile. "it is not, i believe, your garden?" his emphasis on "your" came very near to an assertion of proprietorship in himself. "pray, sir, to what am i indebted for the honour of this meeting?" the captain was enjoying this unexpected encounter with his supposed pursuer. apparently the pursuer did not know him. very well; he would take advantage of that bit of stupidity on the part of the pursuer's superior officers. it was like them to send a man who did n't know him! "you wish to see some one in the house?" he asked, looking at paul's angry and puzzled face. but paul began to recover his coolness. "i am indeed to blame for my intrusion," he said. "i 'm passing the night at the inn, and tempted by the mildness of the air--" "it is certainly very mild," agreed dieppe. "i strolled across the stepping-stones and up the hill. i admire the appearance of a river by night." "certainly, certainly. but, sir, the river does not run in this garden." "of course not, m. le comte," said paul, forcing a smile. "at least i presume that i address--?" dieppe took off his hat, bowed, and replaced it. he had, however, much ado not to chuckle. "but i was led on by the sight of this remarkable structure." he indicated the barricade again. "there was nothing else you wished to see?" "on my honour, nothing. and i must offer you my apologies." "as for the structure--" added dieppe, shrugging his shoulders. "yes?" cried paul, with renewed interest. "its purpose is to divide the garden into two portions. no more and no less, i assure you." paul's face took on an ugly expression. "i am at such a disadvantage," he observed, "that i cannot complain of m. le comte's making me the subject of pleasantry. under other circumstances i might raise different emotions in him. perhaps i shall have my opportunity." "when you find me, sir, prowling about other people's gardens by night--" "prowling!" interrupted paul, fiercely. "well, then," said dieppe, with an air of courteous apology, "shall we say skulking?" "you shall pay for that!" "with pleasure, if you convince me that it is a gentleman who asks satisfaction." paul de roustache smiled. "at my convenience," he said, "i will give you a reference which shall satisfy you most abundantly." he drew back, lifted his hat, and bowed. "i shall await it with interest," said dieppe, returning the salutation, and then folding his arms and watching paul's retreat down the hill. "the fellow brazened it out well," he reflected; "but i shall hear no more of him, i fancy. after all, police-agents don't fight duels with--why, with counts, you know!" and his laugh rang out in hearty enjoyment through the night air. "ha, ha--it 's not so easy to put salt on old dieppe's tail!" with a sigh of satisfaction he turned round, as though to go back to the house. but his eye was caught by a light in the window next to his own; and the window was open. the captain stood and looked up, and monsieur guillaume, who had overheard his little soliloquy and discovered from it a fact of great interest to himself, seized the opportunity of rising from behind his bush and stealing off down the hill after paul de roustache. "ah," thought the captain, as he gazed at the window, "if there were no such thing as honour or loyalty, as friendship--" "sir," said a timid voice at his elbow. dieppe shot round, and then and there lost his heart. one sight of her a man might endure and be heart-whole, not two. there, looking up at him with the most bewitching mouth, the most destructive eyes, was the lady whom he had seen at the end of the passage. certainly she was the most irresistible creature he had ever met; so he declared to himself, not, indeed, for the first time in his life, but none the less with unimpeachable sincerity. for a man could do nothing but look at her, and the man who looked at her had to smile at her; then if she smiled, the man had to laugh; and what happened afterwards would depend on the inclinations of the lady: at least it would not be very safe to rely on the principles of the gentleman. but now she was not laughing. genuine and deep distress was visible on her face. "madame la comtesse--" stammered the dazzled captain. for an instant she looked at him, seeming, he thought, to ask if she could trust him. then she said impatiently: "yes, yes; but never mind that. who are you? oh, why did you tell him you were the count? oh, you 've ruined everything!" "ruined--?" "yes, yes; because now he 'll write to the count. oh, i heard your quarrel. i listened from the window. oh, i did n't think anybody could be as stupid as you!" "madame!" pleaded the unhappy captain. "i thought the fellow was a police-agent on my track, and--" "on your track? oh, who are you?" "my name is dieppe, madame--captain dieppe, at your service." it was small wonder that a little stiffness had crept into the captain's tones. this was not, so far, just the sort of interview which had filled his dreams. for the first time the glimmer of a smile appeared on the lady's lips, the ghost of a sparkle in her eyes. "what a funny name!" she observed reflectively. "i fail to see the drollery of it." "oh, don't be silly and starchy. you 've got us into terrible trouble." "you?" "yes; all of us. because now--" she broke off abruptly. "how do you come to be here?" she asked in a rather imperious tone. dieppe gave a brief account of himself, concluding with the hope that his presence did not annoy the countess. the lady shook her head and glanced at him with a curious air of inquiry or examination. in spite of the severity, or even rudeness, of her reproaches, dieppe fell more and more in love with her every moment. at last he could not resist a sly reference to their previous encounter. she raised innocent eyes to his. "i saw the door was open, but i did n't notice anybody there," she said with irreproachable demureness. the captain looked at her for a moment, then he began to laugh. "i myself saw nothing but a cat," said he. the lady began to laugh. "you must let me atone for my stupidity," cried dieppe, catching her hand. "i wonder if you could!" "i will, or die in the attempt. tell me how!" and the captain kissed the hand that he had captured. "there are conditions." "not too hard?" "first, you must n't breathe a word to the count of having seen me or--or anybody else." "i should n't have done that, anyhow," remarked dieppe, with a sudden twinge of conscience. "secondly, you must never try to see me, except when i give you leave." "i won't try, i will only long," said the captain. "thirdly, you must ask no questions." "it is too soon to ask the only one which i would n't pledge myself at your bidding never to ask." "to whom," inquired the lady, "do you conceive yourself to be speaking, captain dieppe?" but the look that accompanied the rebuke was not very severe. "tell me what i must do," implored the captain. she looked at him very kindly, partly because he was a handsome fellow, partly because it was her way; and she said with the prettiest, simplest air, as though she were making the most ordinary request and never thought of a refusal: "will you give me fifty thousand francs?" "i would give you a million thousand--but i have only fifty." "it would be your all, then! oh, i should n't like to--" "you misunderstand me, madame. i have fifty francs, not fifty thousand." "oh!" said she, frowning. then she laughed a little; then, to dieppe's indescribable agony, her eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered. she put her hand up to her eyes; dieppe heard a sob. "for god's sake--" he whispered. "oh, i can't help it," she said, and she sobbed again; but now she did not try to hide her face. she looked up in the captain's, conquering her sobs, but unable to restrain her tears. "it's not my fault, and it is so hard on me," she wailed. then she suddenly jumped back, crying, "oh, what were you going to do?" and regarding the captain with reproachful alarm. "i don't know," said dieppe in some confusion, as he straightened himself again. "i could n't help it; you aroused my sympathy," he explained--for what the explanation might be worth. "you won't be able to help me," she murmured, "unless--unless--" "what?" "well, unless you 're able to help it, you know." "i will think," promised dieppe, "of my friend the count." "of the--? oh yes, of course." there never was such a face for changes--she was smiling now. "yes, think of your friend the count, that will be capital. oh, but we 're wasting time!" "on the contrary, madame," the captain assured her with overwhelming sincerity. "yes, we are. and we 're not safe here. suppose the count saw us!" "why, yes, that would be--" "that would be fatal," said she decisively, and the captain did not feel himself in a position to contradict her. he contented himself with taking her hand again and pressing it softly. certainly she made a man feel very sympathetic. "but i must see you again--" "indeed i trust so, madame." "on business." "call it what you will, so that--" "not here. do you know the village? no? well, listen. if you go through the village, past the inn and up the hill, you will come to a cross by the roadside. strike off from that across the grass, again uphill. when you reach the top you will find a hollow, and in it a shepherd's hut--deserted. meet me there at dusk to-morrow, about six, and i will tell you how to help me." "i will be there," said the captain. the lady held out both her hands--small, white, ungloved, and unringed. the captain's eyes rested a moment on the finger that should have worn the golden band which united her to his friend the count. it was not there; she had sent it back--with the marriage contract. with a sigh, strangely blended of pain and pleasure, he bent and kissed her hands. she drew them away quickly, gave a nervous little laugh, and ran off. the captain watched her till she disappeared round the corner of the barricade, and then with another deep sigh betook himself to his own quarters. the cat did not mew in the passage that night. none the less captain dieppe's slumbers were broken and disturbed. chapter iv the inn in the village while confessing that her want of insight into paul de roustache's true character was inconceivably stupid, the countess of fieramondi maintained that her other mistakes (that was the word she chose--indiscretions she rejected as too severe) were extremely venial, and indeed, under all the circumstances, quite natural. it was true that she had promised to hold no communication with paul after that affair of the baroness von englebaden's diamond necklace, in which his part was certainly peculiar, though hardly so damnatory as andrea chose to assume. it was true that, when one is supposed to be at mentone for one's health one should not leave one's courier there (in order to receive letters) and reside instead with one's maid at monte carlo; true, further, that it is unwise to gamble heavily, to lose largely, to confide the misfortune to a man of paul's equivocal position and reputation, to borrow twenty thousand francs of him, to lose or spend all, save what served to return home with, and finally to acknowledge the transaction and the obligation both very cordially by word of mouth and (much worse) in letters which were--well, rather effusively grateful. there was nothing absolutely criminal in all this, unless the broken promise must be stigmatised as such; and of that andrea had heard: he was aware that she had renewed acquaintance with m. de roustache. the rest of the circumstances were so fatal in that they made it impossible for her to atone for this first lapse. in fine, count andrea, not content now to rely on her dishonoured honour, but willing to trust to her strong religious feelings, had demanded of her an oath that she would hold no further communication of any sort, kind, or nature with paul de roustache. the oath was a terrible oath--to be sworn on a relic which had belonged to the cardinal and was most sacred in the eyes of the fieramondi. and with paul in possession of those letters and not in possession of his twenty thousand francs, the countess felt herself hardly a free agent. for if she did not communicate with paul, to a certainty paul would communicate with andrea. if that happened she would die; while if she broke the oath she would never dare to die. in this dilemma the countess could do nothing but declare--first, that she had met paul accidentally (which so far as the first meeting went was true enough), secondly, that she would not live with a man who did not trust her; and, thirdly, that to ask an oath of her was a cruel and wicked mockery from a man whose views on the question of the temporal power proclaimed him to be little, it at all, better than an infidel. the count was very icy and very polite. the countess withdrew to the right wing; receiving the count's assurance that the erection of the barricade would not be disagreeable to him, she had it built--and sat down behind it (so to speak) awaiting in sorrow, dread, and loneliness the terrible moment of paul de roustache's summons. and (to make one more confession on her behalf) her secret and real reason for ordering that nightly illumination, which annoyed the count so sorely, lay in the hope of making the same gentleman think, when he did arrive, that she entertained a houseful of guests, and was therefore well protected by her friends. otherwise he would try to force an interview under cover of night. these briefly indicated facts of the case, so appalling to the unhappy countess, were on the other hand eminently satisfactory to m. paul de roustache. to be plain, they meant money, either from the countess or from the count. to paul's mind they seemed to mean--well, say, fifty thousand francs--that twenty of his returned, and thirty as a solatium for the trifling with his affections of which he proposed to maintain that the countess had been guilty. the baroness von englebaden's diamonds had gone the way and served the purposes to which family diamonds seem at some time or other to be predestined: and paul was very hard up. the countess must be very frightened, the count was very proud. the situation was certainly worth fifty thousand francs to paul de roustache. sitting outside the inn, smoking his cigar, on the morning after his encounter in the garden, he thought over all this; and he was glad that he had not let his anger at the count's insolence run away with his discretion, the insolence would make his revenge all the sweeter when he put his hand, either directly or indirectly, into the count's pocket and exacted compensation to the tune of fifty thousand francs. buried in these thoughts--in the course of which it is interesting to observe that he did not realise his own iniquity--he failed to notice that monsieur guillaume had sat down beside him and, like himself, was gazing across the valley towards the castle. he started to find the old fellow at his elbow; he started still more when he was addressed by his name. "you know my name?" he exclaimed, with more perturbation than a stranger's knowledge of that fact about him should excite in an honest man. "it's my business to know people." "i don't know you." "that also is my business," smiled m. guillaume. "but in this case we will not be too business-like. i will waive my advantage, m. de roustache." "you called yourself guillaume," said paul with a suspicious glance. "i was inviting you to intimacy. my name is guillaume--guillaume sã©vier, at your service." "sã©vier? the--?" "precisely. don't be uneasy. my business is not with you." he touched his arm. "your reasons for a midnight walk are nothing to me; young men take these fancies, and--well, the innkeeper says the countess is handsome. but i am bound to admit that his description of the count by no means tallies with the appearance of the gentleman who talked with you last night." "who talked with me! you were--?" "i was there--behind a bush a little way down the hill." "upon my word, sir--" "oh, i had my business too. but for the moment listen to something that concerns you. the count is not yet thirty, his eyes are large and dreamy, his hair long, he wears no moustache, his manner is melancholy, there is no air of bravado about him. do i occasion you surprise?" paul de roustache swore heartily. "then," he ended, "all i can say is that i should like ten minutes alone with the fellow who made a fool of me last night, whoever he is." again guillaume--as he wished to be called--touched his companion's arm. "i too have a matter to discuss with that gentleman," he said. paul looked surprised. "m. de roustache," guillaume continued with an insinuating smile, "is not ignorant of recent events; he moves in the world of affairs. i think we might help one another. and there is no harm in being popular with the--with--er--my department, instead of being--well, rather unpopular, eh, my dear m. de roustache?" paul did not contest this insinuation nor show any indignation at it; the wink which accompanied it he had the self-respect to ignore. "what do you want from him?" he asked, discerning guillaume's point, and making straight for it. "merely some papers he has." "what do you want the papers for?" "to enable us to know whom we ought to watch." "is the affair political or--?" "oh, political--not in your line." paul frowned. "forgive my little joke," apologised m. guillaume. "and he 's got them?" "oh, yes--at least, we have very little doubt of it." "perhaps he 's destroyed them." guillaume laughed softly. "ah, my dear sir," said he, "he would n't do that. while he keeps them he is safe, he is important, he might become--well, richer than he is." paul shot a quick glance at his companion. "how do you mean to get the papers?" "i 'm instructed to buy. but if he 's honest, he won't sell. still i must have them." "tell me his name." "oh, by all means--captain dieppe." "ah, i 've heard of him. he was in brazil, was n't he?" "yes, and in bulgaria." "spain too, i fancy?" "dear me, i was n't aware of that," said guillaume, with some vexation. "but it's neither here nor there. can i count on your assistance?" "but what the devil does he pretend to be the count for?" "forgive the supposition, but perhaps he imagined that your business was what mine is. then he would like to throw you off the scent by concealing his identity." "by heaven, and i nearly--!" "nearly did what, dear m. de roustache?" said old guillaume very softly. "nearly dragged in the name of madame la comtesse, were you going to say?" "how do you know anything--?" began paul. "a guess--on my honour a guess! you affect the ladies, eh? oh, we 're not such strangers as you think." he spoke in a more imperious tone: it was almost threatening. "i think you must help me, monsieur paul," said he. his familiarity, which was certainly no accident, pointed more precisely the vague menace of his demand. but paul was not too easily frightened. "all right," said he, "but i must get something out of it, you know." "on the day i get the papers--by whatever means--you shall receive ten thousand francs. and i will not interfere with your business. come, my proposal is handsome, you must allow." "well, tell me what to do." "you shall write a note, addressed to the count, telling him you must see him on a matter which deeply touches his interest and his honour." "how much do you know?" paul broke in suspiciously. "i knew nothing till last night; now i am beginning to know. but listen. the innkeeper is my friend; he will manage that this note shall be delivered--not to the count, but to dieppe; if any question arises, he 'll say you described the gentleman beyond mistake, and in the note you will refer to last night's interview. he won't suspect that i have undeceived you. well then, in the note you will make a rendezvous with him. he will come, either for fun or because he thinks he can serve his friend--the count or the countess, whichever it may be. if i don't offend your susceptibilities, i should say it was the countess. oh, i am judging only by general probability." "supposing he comes--what then?" "why, when he comes, i shall be there--visible. and you will be there invisible--unless cause arises for you also to become visible. but the details can be settled later. come, will you write the letter?" paul de roustache thought a moment, nodded, rose, and was about to follow guillaume into the inn. but he stopped again and laid a hand on his new friend's shoulder. "if your innkeeper is so intelligent and so faithful--" "the first comes from heaven," shrugged guillaume. "the second is, all the world over, a matter of money, my friend." "of course. well then, he might take another note." "to the other count?" "why, no." "not yet, eh?" paul forced a rather wry smile. "you have experience, monsieur guillaume," he confessed. "to the countess, is n't it? i see no harm in that. i ask you to help in my business; i observe my promise not to interfere with yours. he is intelligent; we will make him faithful: he shall take two notes by all means, my friend." with the advice and assistance of guillaume the two notes were soon written: the first was couched much in the terms suggested by that ingenious old schemer, the second was more characteristic of paul himself and of the trade which paul had joined. "it would grieve me profoundly," the precious missive ran, "to do anything to distress you. but i have suffered very seriously, and not in my purse only. unless you will act fairly by me, i must act for myself. if i do not receive fifty thousand francs in twenty-four hours, i turn to the only other quarter open to me. i am to be found at the inn. there is no need of a signature; you will remember your--friend." guillaume put on his spectacles and read it through twice. "excellent, monsieur paul!" said he. "it is easy to detect a practised hand." and when paul swore at him, he laughed the more, finding much entertainment in mocking the rascal whom he used. yet in this conduct there was a rashness little befitting guillaume's age and guillaume's profession. paul was not a safe man to laugh at. if from time to time, in the way of business, he was obliged to throw a light brighter than he would have preferred on his own character, he did not therefore choose to be made the subject of raillery. and if it was not safe to mock him, neither was it very safe to talk of money to him. the thought of money--of thousands of francs, easily convertible into pounds, marks, dollars, florins, or whatever chanced to be the denomination of the country to which free and golden-winged steps might lead him--had a very inflaming effect on m. paul de roustache's imagination. the baron von englebaden had started the whole of that troublesome affair by boasting of the number of thousands of marks which had gone to the making of the baroness's necklace. and now m. guillaume--rash m. guillaume--talked of bribing captain dieppe. bribery means money; if the object is important it means a large amount of money: and presumably the object is important and the scale of expenditure correspondingly liberal, when such a comfortable little _douceur_ as ten thousand francs is readily promised as the reward of incidental assistance. following this train of thought, paul's mind fixed itself with some persistency on two points. the first was modest, reasonable, definite; he would see the colour of guillaume's money before the affair went further; he would have his ten thousand francs, or at least a half of them, before he lent any further aid by word or deed. but the second idea was larger; it was also vaguer, and, although it hardly seemed less reasonable or natural to the brain which conceived it, it could scarcely be said to be as justifiable; at any rate it did not admit of being avowed as frankly to guillaume himself. in fact paul was wondering how much money guillaume proposed to pay for captain dieppe's honour (in case that article proved to be in the market), and, further, where and in what material form that money was. would it be gold? why, hardly; when it comes to thousands of anything, the coins are not handy to carry about. would it be a draft? that is a safe mode of conveying large sums, but it has its disadvantages in affairs where secrecy is desired and ready money indispensable. would it be notes? there were risks here--but also conveniences. and guillaume seemed bold as well as wary. moreover guillaume's coat was remarkably shabby, his air very unassuming, and his manner of life at the hotel frugality itself; such a playing of the _vacuus viator_ might be meant to deceive not only the landlord of the aquila nera, but also any other predatory persons whom guillaume should encounter in the course of his travels. yes, some of it would be in notes. paul de roustache bade the serving-maid bring him a bottle of wine, and passed an hour in consuming it very thoughtfully. guillaume returned from his conversation with the innkeeper just as the last glass was poured out. to paul's annoyance he snatched it up and drained it--an act of familiarity that reached insolence. "to the success of our enterprise!" said he, grinning at his discomfited companion. "all goes well. the innkeeper knows the countess's maid, and the note will reach the countess by midday; i have described dieppe to him most accurately, and he will hang about till he gets a chance of delivering the second note to him, or seeing it delivered." "and what are we to do?" asked paul, still sour and still thoughtful. "as regards the countess, nothing. if the money comes, good for you. if not, i presume you will, at your own time, open communications with the count?" "it is possible," paul admitted. "very," said m. guillaume dryly. "and as regards dieppe our course is very plain. i am at the rendezvous, waiting for him, by half-past six. you will also be at, or near, the rendezvous. we will settle more particularly how it is best to conduct matters when we see the lie of the ground. no general can arrange his tactics without inspecting the battlefield, eh? and moreover we can't tell what the enemy's dispositions--or disposition--may turn out to be." "and meanwhile there is nothing to do?" "nothing? on the contrary--breakfast, a smoke, and a nap," corrected guillaume in a contented tone. "then, my friend, we shall be ready for anything that may occur--for anything in the world we shall be ready." "i wonder if you will," thought paul de roustache, resentfully eyeing the glass which m. guillaume had emptied. it remains to add only that, on the advice and information of the innkeeper, the cross on the roadside up the hill behind the village had been suggested as the rendezvous, and that seven in the evening had seemed a convenient hour to propose for the meeting. for guillaume had no reason to suppose that a prior engagement would take the captain to the same neighbourhood at six. chapter v the rendezvous by the cross beneath the reserved and somewhat melancholy front which he generally presented to the world, the count of fieramondi was of an ardent and affectionate disposition. rather lacking, perhaps, in resolution and strength of character, he was the more dependent on the regard and help of others, and his fortitude was often unequal to the sacrifices which his dignity and his pride demanded. yet the very pride which led him into positions that he could not endure made it well-nigh impossible for him to retreat. this disposition, an honourable but not altogether a happy one, serves to explain both the uncompromising attitude which he had assumed in his dispute with his wife, and the misery of heart which had betrayed itself in the poem he read to captain dieppe, with its indirect but touching appeal to his friend's sympathy. now his resolve was growing weaker as the state of hostilities, his loneliness, the sight of that detestable barricade, became more and more odious to him. he began to make excuses for the countess--not indeed for all that she had done (for her graver offences were unknown to him), but for what he knew of, for the broken promise and the renewal of acquaintance with paul de roustache. he imputed to her a picturesque penitence and imagined her, on her side of the barricade, longing for a pardon she dared not ask and a reconciliation for which she could hardly venture to hope; he went so far as to embody these supposed feelings of hers in a graceful little poem addressed to himself and entitled, "to my cruel andrea." in fine the count was ready to go on his knees if he received proper encouragement. here his pride had its turn: this encouragement he must have; he would not risk an interview, a second rebuff, a repetition of that insolence of manner with which he had felt himself obliged to charge the countess or another slamming of the door in his face, such as had offended him so justly and so grievously in those involuntary interviews which had caused him to change his apartments. but now--the thought came to him as the happiest of inspirations--he need expose himself to none of these humiliations. fortune had provided a better way. shunning direct approaches with all their dangers, he would use an intermediary. by heaven's kindness the ideal ambassador was ready to his hand--a man of affairs, accustomed to delicate negotiations, yet (the count added) honourable, true, faithful, and tender-hearted. "my friend dieppe will rejoice to serve me," he said to himself with more cheerfulness than he had felt since first the barricade had reared its hated front. he sent his servant to beg the favour of dieppe's company. at the moment--which, to be precise, was four o'clock in the afternoon--no invitation could have been more unwelcome to captain dieppe. he had received his note from the hands of a ragged urchin as he strolled by the river an hour before: its purport rather excited than alarmed him; but the rendezvous mentioned was so ill-chosen, from his point of view, that it caused him dismay. and he had in vain tried to catch sight of the countess or find means of communicating with her without arousing suspicion. he had other motives too for shrinking from such expressions of friendliness as he had reason to anticipate from his host. but he did not expect anything so disconcerting as the proposal which the count actually laid before him when he unwillingly entered his presence. "go to her--go to her on your behalf?" he exclaimed in a consternation which luckily passed for a modest distrust of his qualifications for the task. "but, my dear friend, what am i to say?" "say that i love her," said the count in his low, musical tones. "say that beneath all differences, all estrangements, lies my deep, abiding, unchanging love." statements of this sort the captain preferred to make, when occasion arose, on his own behalf. "say that i know i have been hard to her, that i recede from my demand, that i will be content with her simple word that she will not, without my knowledge, hold any communication with the person she knows of." the captain now guessed--or at least very shrewdly suspected--the position of affairs. but he showed no signs of understanding. "tell her," pursued the count, laying his hand on dieppe's shoulder and speaking almost as ardently as though he were addressing his wife herself, "that i never suspected her of more than a little levity, and that i never will or could." dieppe found himself speculating how much the count's love and trust might induce him to include in the phrase "a little levity." "that she should listen--i will not say to love-making--but even to gallantry, to a hint of admiration, to the least attempt at flirtation, has never entered my head about my emilia." the captain, amid all his distress, marked the name. "i trust her--i trust her!" cried the count, raising his hands in an obvious stress of emotion, "as i trust myself, as i would trust my brother, my bosom friend. yes, my dear friend, as i now trust you yourself. go to her and say, 'i am andrea's friend, his trusted friend. i am the messenger of love. give me your love--'" "what?" cried the captain. the words sounded wonderfully attractive. "'give me your love to carry back to him.'" "oh, exactly," murmured the captain, relapsing into altruistic gloom. "then all will be forgiven between us. only our love will be remembered. and you, my friend, will have the happiness of seeing us reunited, and of knowing that two grateful hearts thank you. i can imagine no greater joy." "it would certainly be--er--intensely gratifying," murmured dieppe. "you would remember it all your life. it is not a thing a man gets the chance of doing often." "no," agreed the captain; but he thought to himself, "deuce take it, he talks as if he were doing me a favour!" "my friend, you look sad; you don't seem--" "oh, yes, i do--yes, i am," interrupted the captain, hastily assuming, or trying to assume, a cheerful expression. "but--" "i understand--i understand. you doubt yourself?" "that's it," assented the captain very truthfully. "your tact, your discretion, your knowledge of women?" (dieppe had never in his life doubted any of these things; but he let the accusation pass.) "don't be afraid. emilia will like you. i know that emilia will like you. and you will like her. i know it." "you think so?" no intonation could have expressed greater doubt. "i am certain of it; and when two people like one another, all goes easily." "well, not always," said the captain, whose position made him less optimistic. the count felt in his waistcoat-pocket. dieppe sat looking down towards the floor with a frown on his face. he raised his eyes to find the count holding out his hand towards him; in the open palm of it lay a wedding-ring. "take it back to her," said the count. "really had n't you better do that yourself?" expostulated the captain, who felt himself hard driven by fate. "no," said the count, firmly. "i leave it all to you. put it on her finger and say, 'this is the pledge of love--of love renewed--of andrea's undying love for you.'" he thrust the symbol of bliss into captain dieppe's most reluctant hand. the captain sat and looked at it in a horrified fascination. "you will do it for me?" urged the count. "you can't refuse! ah, my friend, if my sorrow does n't move you, think of hers. she is alone there in that wing of the house--even her cousin, who was with her, was obliged to leave her three days ago. there she sits, thinking of her faults, poor child, in solitude! alas, it is only too likely in tears! i can't bear to think of her in tears." the captain quite understood that feeling; he had seen her in them. "you will help us? your noble nature will force you to it!" after a moment's hesitation, pardonable surely in weak humanity, dieppe put the countess's wedding-ring in his pocket, rose to his feet, and with a firm unfaltering face held out his hand to his friend and host. "i can refuse you nothing," he said, in most genuine emotion. "i will do what you ask. may it bring happiness to--to--to all of us!" he wrung the count's hand with a grip that spoke of settled purpose. "you shall hear how i fare very soon," he said, as he made for the door. the count nodded hopefully, and, when he was left alone, set to work on a little lyric of joy, with which to welcome the return of his forgiven and forgiving spouse. but it was hard on captain dieppe; the strictest moralist may admit that without endangering his principles. say the captain had been blameworthy; still his punishment was heavy--heavy and most woefully prompt. his better nature, his finer feelings, his instincts of honour and loyalty, might indeed respond to the demand made on them by the mission with which his friend entrusted him. but the demand was heavy, the call grievous. where he had pictured joy, there remained now only renunciation; he had dreamed of conquest; there could be none, save the hardest and least grateful, the conquest of himself. firm the captain might be, but sad he must be. he could still serve the countess (was not paul de roustache still dangerous?), but he could look for no reward. small wonder that the meeting, whose risks and difficulty had made it seem before only the sweeter, now lost all its delight, and became the hardest of ordeals, the most severe and grim of duties. if this was the captain's mood, that of the lady whom he was to meet could be hardly more cheerful. if conscience seemed to trouble her less, and unhappy love not to occupy her mind as it governed his, the external difficulties of her position occasioned her greater distress and brought her near despair. paul de roustache's letter had been handed to her by her servant, with a smile half reproachful, half mocking, she had seized it, torn it open, and read it. she understood its meaning; she saw that the dreaded crisis had indeed come; and she was powerless to deal with it, or to avert the catastrophe it threatened. she sat before it now, very near to doing just what count andrea hated to think of and captain dieppe could not endure to see; and as she read and re-read the hateful thing she moaned softly to herself: "oh, how could i be so silly! how could i put myself in such a position? how could i consent to anything of the sort? i don't know what 'll happen. i have n't got fifty thousand francs! oh, emilia, how could you do it? i don't know what to do! and i 'm all alone--alone to face this fearful trouble!" indeed the count, led no doubt by the penetrating sympathy of love, seemed to have divined her feelings with a wonderful accuracy. she glanced up at the clock, it was nearly five. the smile that came on her face was sad and timid; yet it was a smile of hope. "perhaps he 'll be able to help me," she thought. "he has no money, no--only fifty francs, poor man! but he seems to be brave--oh, yes, he 's brave. and i think he's clever. i 'll go to the meeting-place and take the note. he 's the only chance." she rose and walked to a mirror. she certainly looked a little less woe-begone now, and she examined her appearance with an earnest criticism. the smile grew more hopeful, a little more assured, as she murmured to herself, "i think he 'll help me, if he can, you know; because--well, because--" for an instant she even laughed. "and i rather like him too, you know," she ended by confiding to the mirror. these latter actions and words were not in such complete harmony with count andrea's mental picture of the lady on the other side of the barricade. betaking herself to the room from which she had first beheld captain dieppe's face--not, as the count would have supposed, as a consequence of any design, but by the purest and most unexpected chance--she arrayed herself in a short skirt and thick boots, and wrapped a cloak round her, for a close, misty rain was already falling, and the moaning of the wind in the trees promised a stormy evening. then she stole out and made for the gate in the right wall of the gardens. the same old servant who had brought the note was there to let her out. "you will be gone long, contessa?" she asked. "no, maria, not long. if i am asked for, say i am lying down." "who should ask for you? the count?" "not very likely," she replied with a laugh, in which the servant joined. "but if he does, i am absolutely not to be seen, maria." and with another little laugh she began to skirt the back of the gardens so as to reach the main road, and thus make her way by the village to the cross on the hill, and the little hut in the hollow behind it. almost at the same moment captain dieppe, cursing his fortune, his folly, and the weather, with the collar of his coat turned up, his hat crashed hard on his head, and (just in case of accidents) his revolver in his pocket, came out into the garden and began to descend the hill towards where the stepping-stones gave him passage across the river. thus he also would reach the village, pass through it, and mount the hill to the cross. his way was shorter and his pace quicker. to be there before the lady would be only polite; it would also give him a few minutes in which to arrange his thoughts and settle what might be the best way to open to her the new--the very new--things that he had to say. in the preoccupation of these he thought little of his later appointment at seven o'clock--although it was in view of this that he had slipped the revolver into his pocket. finally, just about the same time also, guillaume was rehearsing to paul de roustache exactly what they were to do and where their respective parts began and terminated. paul was listening with deep attention, with a curious smile on his face, and with the inner reflection that things in the end might turn out quite differently from what his astute companion supposed would be the case. moreover--also just in case of accidents--both of these gentlemen, it may be mentioned, had slipped revolvers into their pockets. such things may be useful when one carries large sums of money to a rendezvous, equally so in case one hopes to carry them back from it. the former was m. guillaume's condition, the latter that of paul de roustache. on the whole there seemed a possibility of interesting incidents occurring by or in the neighbourhood of the cross on the hillside above the village. what recked the count of fieramondi of that? he was busy composing his lyric in honour of the return of his forgiven and forgiving countess. of what was happening he had no thought. and not less ignorant of these possible incidents was a lady who this same evening stood in the courtyard of the only inn of the little town of sasellano, where the railway ended, and whence the traveller to the count of fieramondi's castle must take a carriage and post-horses. the lady demanded horses, protested, raged; most urgent business called her to pursue her journey, she said. but the landlord hesitated and shook his head. "it 's good twelve miles and against collar almost all the way," he urged. "i will pay what you like," she cried. "but see, the rain falls--it has fallen for two hours. the water will be down from the hills, and the stream will be in flood before you reach the ford. your excellency had best sleep here to-night. indeed your excellency must." "i won't," said her excellency flatly. and at that point--which may be called the direct issue--the dispute must now be left. chapter vi the hut in the hollow geography, in itself a tiresome thing, concerned with such soulless matters as lengths, depths, heights, breadths, and the like, gains interest so soon as it establishes a connection with the history of kingdoms, and the ambitions, passions, or fortunes of mankind; so that men may pore over a map with more eagerness than the greatest of romances can excite, or scan a countryside with a keenness that the beauty of no picture could evoke. to captain dieppe, a soldier, even so much apology was not necessary for the careful scrutiny of topographical features which was his first act on reaching the cross on the hillside. his examination, hindered by increasing darkness and mist, yet yielded him a general impression correct enough. standing with his back to the cross, he had on his right hand the slope down to the village which he had just ascended; on his left the road fell still more precipitately in zigzag curves. he could not see it where it reached the valley and came to the river; had he been able, he would have perceived that it ran down to and crossed the ford to which the landlord of the inn at sasellano had referred. but immediately facing him he could discern the river in its bottom, and could look down over the steep grassy declivity which descended to it from the point at which he stood; there was no more than room for the road, and on the road hardly room for a vehicle to pass another, or itself to turn. on all three sides the ground fell, and he would have seemed to stand on a watch-tower had it not been that behind him, at the back of the cross, the upward slope of grass showed that the road did not surmount the hill, but hung on to and skirted its side some fifty paces from the top. yet even where he was he found himself exposed to the full stress of the weather, which had now increased to a storm of wind and rain. the time of his earlier appointment was not quite due; but the lady knew her way. with a shiver the captain turned and began to scramble up towards the summit. the sooner he found the shepherd's hut the better: if it were open, he would enter; it not, he could at least get some shelter under the lee of it. but he trusted that the countess would keep her tryst punctually: she must be come and gone before seven o'clock, or she would risk an encounter with her enemy, paul de roustache. "however i could probably smuggle her away; and at least he should n't speak to her," he reflected, and was somewhat comforted. at the top of the hill the formation was rather peculiar. the crown once reached, the ground dipped very suddenly from all sides, forming a round depression in shape like a basin and at the lowest point some twenty feet beneath the top of its enclosing walls. in this circular hollow--not in the centre, but no more than six feet from the base of the slope by which the captain approached--stood the shepherd's hut. its door was open, swinging to and fro as the gusts of wind rose and tell. the captain ran down and entered. there was nothing inside but a rough stool, a big and heavy block, something like those one may see in butcher's shops (probably it had served the shepherds for seat or table, as need arose), and five or six large trusses of dry maize-straw flung down in a corner. the place was small, rude, and comfortless enough, but if the hanging door, past which the rain drove in fiercely, could be closed, the four walls of sawn logs would afford decent shelter from the storm during the brief period of the conference which the captain awaited. dieppe looked at his watch; he could just see the figures--it was ten minutes to six. mounting again to the summit, he looked round. yes, there she was, making her way up the hill, painfully struggling with refractory cloak and skirt. a moment later she joined him and gave him her hand, panting out: "oh, i 'm so glad you 're here! there 's the most fearful trouble." there was, of more than one kind; none knew it better than dieppe. "one need not, all the same, get any wetter," he remarked. "come into the hut, madame." she paid no heed to his words, but stood there looking forlornly round. but the next instant the captain enforced his invitation by catching hold of her arm and dragging her a pace or two down the hill, while he threw himself on the ground, his head just over the top of the eminence. "hush," he whispered. his keen ear had caught a footstep on the road, although darkness and mist prevented him from seeing who approached. it was barely six. was paul de roustache an hour too early? "what is it?" she asked in a low, anxious voice. "is anybody coming? oh, if it should be andrea!" "it's not the count, but- come down into the hut, madame. you must n't be seen." now she obeyed his request. dieppe stood in the doorway a moment, listening. then he pushed the door shut--it opened inwards--and with some effort set the wooden block against it. "that will keep out the rain," said he, "and--and anything else, you know." they were in dense darkness. the captain took a candle and a cardboard box of matches from an inner pocket. striking a match after one or two efforts (for matches and box were both damp), he melted the end of the candle and pressed it on the block till it adhered. then he lit the wick. the lady watched him admiringly. "you seem ready for anything," she said. but the captain shook his head sorrowfully, as he laid his match-box down on a dry spot on the block. "we have no time to lose--" he began. "no," she agreed, and opening her cloak she searched for something. finding the object she sought, she held it out to him. "i got that this afternoon. read it," she said. "it's from the man you met last night--paul de roustache. the 'other quarter' means andrea. and that means ruin." captain dieppe gently waved the letter aside. "no, you must read it," she urged. he took it, and bending down to the candle read it. "just what it would be," he said. "i can't explain anything, you know," she added hastily, with a smile half rueful, half amused. "to me, at least, there 's no need you should." he paused a moment in hesitation or emotion. then he put his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, drew forth a small object, and held it out towards his companion between his finger and thumb. in the dim light she did not perceive its nature. "this," said the captain, conscientiously and even textually delivering the message with which he was charged, "is the pledge of love." "captain dieppe!" she cried, leaping back and blushing vividly. "really i--! at such a time--under the circ- and what is it! i can't see." "the pledge of love renewed"--the captain went on in a loyal hastiness, but not without the sharpest pang--"of andrea's undying love for you." "of andrea's--!" she stopped, presumably from excess of emotion. her lips were parted in a wondering smile, her eyes danced merrily even while they questioned. "what in the world is it?" she asked again. "your wedding-ring," said the captain with sad and impressive solemnity, and, on the pretext of snuffing the candle which flickered and guttered in the draught, he turned away. thus he did not perceive the uncontrollable bewilderment which appeared on his companion's face. "wedding-ring!" she murmured. "he sends it back again to you," explained the captain, still busy with the candle. a long-drawn "o--oh!" came from her lips, its lengthened intonation seeming to express the dawning of comprehension. "yes, of course," she added very hastily. "he loves you," said the captain, facing her--and his task--again. "he can't bear his own sorrow, nor to think of yours. he withdraws his demand; your mere word to hold no communication with the person you know of, without his knowledge, contents him. i am his messenger. give me your love to--to carry back to him." "did he tell you to say all that?" she asked. "ah, madame, should i say it otherwise? should i who--" with a mighty effort he checked himself, and resumed in constrained tones. "my dear friend the count bade me put this ring on your finger, madame, in token of your--your reunion with him." her expression now was decidedly puzzling; certainly she was struggling with some emotion, but it was not quite clear with what. "pray do it then," she said, and, drawing off the stout little gauntlet she wore, she presented her hand to the captain. bowing low, he took it lightly, and placed the holy symbol on the appropriate finger. but he could not make up his mind to part from the hand without one lingering look; and he observed with some surprise that the ring was considerably too large for the finger. "it 's very loose," he murmured, taking perhaps a sad, whimsical pleasure in the conceit of seeing something symbolical in the fact to which he called attention; in truth the ring fitted so ill as to be in great danger of dropping off. "yes--or--it is rather loose. i--i hate tight rings, don't you?" she smiled with vigour (if the expression be allowable) and added, "i 've grown thinner too, i suppose." "from grief?" asked he, and he could not keep a touch of bitterness out of his voice. "well, anxiety," she amended. "i think i 'd better carry the ring in my pocket. it would be a pity to lose it." she took off the symbol and dropped it, somewhat carelessly it must be confessed, into a side-pocket of her coat. then she seated herself on the stool, and looked up at the captain. her smile became rather mocking, as she observed to captain dieppe: "andrea has charged you with this commission since--since last night, i suppose?" the words acted--whether by the intention of their utterer or not--as a spark to the captain's ardour. loyal he would be to his friend and to his embassy, but that she should suspect him of insincerity, that she should not know his love, was more than he could bear. "ah," he said, seizing her ungloved hand again, "since last night indeed! last night it was my dream--my mad dream- ah, don't be angry! don't draw your hand away." the lady's conduct indicated that she proposed to assent to both these requests; she smiled still and she did not withdraw her hand from dieppe's eager grasp. "my honour is pledged," he went on, "but suffer me once to kiss this hand now that it wears no ring, to dream that it need wear none, that you are free. ah, countess, ah, emilia--for once let me call you emilia!" "for once, if you like. don't get into the habit of it," she advised. "no, i 'll only think of you by that name." "i should n't even do as much as that. it would be a- i mean you might forget and call me it, you know." "never was man so unhappy as i am," he cried in a low but intense voice. "but i am wrong. i must remember my trust. and you--you love the count?" "i am very fond of andrea," said she, almost in a whisper. she seemed to suffer sorely from embarrassment, for she added hastily, "don't--don't press me about that any more." yet she was smiling. the captain knelt on one knee and kissed her hand very respectfully. the mockery passed out of her smile, and she said in a voice that for a moment was grave and tender: "thank you. i shall like to remember that. because i think you 're a brave man and a true friend, captain dieppe." "i thank god for helping me to remain a gentleman," said he; and, although his manner was (according to his custom) a little pronounced and theatrical, he spoke with a very genuine feeling. she pressed her hand on his before she drew it away. "you 'll be my friend?" he asked. she paused before she replied, looking at him intently; then she answered in a low voice, speaking slowly and deliberately: "i will be all to you that i can and that you ask me to be." "i have your word, dear friend?" "you have my word. if you ask me, i will redeem it." she looked at him still as though she had said a great thing--as though a pledge had passed between them, and a solemn promise from her to him. what seemed her feeling found an answer in dieppe. he pressed her for no more promises, he urged her to no more demonstration of affection towards him. but their eyes met, their glances conquered the dimness of the candle's light and spoke to one another. rain beat and wind howled outside. dieppe heard nothing but an outspoken confession that left honour safe and inviolate, and yet told him the sweetest thing that he could hear--a thing so sweet that for the instant its sadness was forgotten. he had triumphed, though he could have no reward of victory. he was loved, though he might hear no words of love. but he could serve her still--serve her and save her from the danger and humiliation which, notwithstanding count andrea's softened mood, still threatened her. that he even owed her; for he did not doubt that the danger, and the solitude in which, but for him, it had to be faced, had done much to ripen and to quicken her regard for him. as for himself, with such a woman as the countess in the case, he was not prepared to own the need of any external or accidental stimulus. yet beauty distressed is beauty doubled; that is true all the world over, and, no doubt, it held good even for captain dieppe. he had been loyal--under the circumstances wonderfully loyal--to the count; but he felt quite justified, if he proved equal to the task, in robbing his friend of the privilege of forgiveness--aye, and of the pleasure of paying fifty thousand francs. he resolved that the count of fieramondi should never know of paul de roustache's threats against the countess or of his demand for that exorbitant sum of money. with most people in moments of exaltation to resolve that a result is desirable is but a preliminary to undertaking its realisation. dieppe had more than his share of this temper. he bent down towards his new and dear friend, and said confidently: "don't distress yourself about this fellow--i 'll manage the whole affair without trouble or publicity." yet he had no notion how his words were to be made good. "you will?" she asked, with a confidence in the captain apparently as great as his own. "certainly," said he, with a twirl of his moustache. "then i 'd better leave it to you and go home at once." the inference was not quite what the captain had desired. but he accepted it with a tolerably good grace. when a man has once resisted temptation there is little to be gained, and something perhaps to be risked, by prolonging the interview. "i suppose so," said he. "i 'll escort you as far as the village. but what's the time?" he took out his watch and held it down to the flame of the candle; the lady rose and looked, not over his shoulder, but just round his elbow. "ah, that's curious," observed the captain, regarding the hands of his watch. "how quickly the time has gone!" "very. but why is it curious?" she asked. he glanced down at her face, mischievously turned up to his. "well, it's not curious," he admitted, "but it is awkward." "it's only just seven." "precisely the hour of my appointment with paul de roustache." "with paul de roustache?" "don't trouble yourself. all will be well." "what appointment? where are you to meet him?" "by the cross, on the road outside there." "heavens! if i were to meet him! he must n't see me!" "certainly not," agreed the captain with cheerful confidence. "but how are we to avoid--?" "ah, you put no real trust in me," murmured he in gentle reproach, and, it must be added, purely for the sake of gaining a moment's reflection. "could n't we walk boldly by him?" she suggested. "he would recognise you to a certainty, even if he didn't me." "recognise me? oh, i don't know. he does n't know me very well." "what?" said the captain, really a little astonished this time. "and there 's the rain and--and the night and--and all that," she murmured in some confusion. "no man who has ever seen you--" began the captain. "hush! what's that?" whispered she, grasping his arm nervously. the captain, recalled to the needs of the situation, abandoned his compliment, or argument, whichever it was, and listened intently. there were voices outside the hut, some little way off, seeming to come from above, as though the speakers were on the crest of the hill. they were audible intermittently, but connectedly enough, as though their owners waited from time to time for a lull in the gusty wind before they spoke. "hold the lantern here. why, it's past seven! he ought to be here by now." "we 've searched every inch of the ground." "that's paul de roustache," whispered the captain. "perhaps he 's lying down out of the storm somewhere. shall we shout?" "oh, if you like--but you risk being overheard. i 'm tired of the job." "the ground dips here. come, we must search the hollow. you must earn your reward, m. de roustache." the lady pressed dieppe's arm. "i can't go now," she whispered. "i 'm willing to earn it, but i 'd like to see it." "what's that down there?" "you don't attend to my suggestion, m. sã©vier." "sã©vier!" muttered the captain, and a smile spread over his face. "call me guillaume," came sharply from the voice he had first heard. "exactly," murmured dieppe. "call him anything except his name. oh, exactly!" "it looks like--like a building--a shed or something. come, he may be in there." "oh!" murmured the lady. "you won't let them in?" "they sha'n't see you," dieppe reassured her. "but listen, my dear friend, listen." "who 's the other? sã©vier?" "a gentleman who takes an interest in me. but silence, pray, silence, if you--if you 'll be guided by me." "let's go down and try the door. if he 's not there, anyhow we can shelter ourselves till he turns up." there was a pause. feet could be heard climbing and slithering down the slippery grass slope. "what if you find it locked?" "then i shall think some one is inside, and some one who has discovered reasons for not wishing to be met." "and what will you do?" the voices were very near now, and paul's discontented sneer made the captain smile; but his hand sought the pocket where his revolver lay. "i shall break it open--with your help, my friend." "i give no more help, friend sã©vier--or guillaume, or what you like--till i see my money. deuce take it, the fellow may be armed!" "i did n't engage you for a picnic, monsieur paul." "it's the pay, not the work, that's in dispute, my friend. come, you have the money, i suppose? out with it!" "not a sou till i have the papers!" the captain nodded his head. "i was right, as usual," he was thinking to himself, as he felt his breast-pocket caressingly. the wind rose to a gust and howled. the voices became inaudible. the captain bent down and whispered. "if they force the door open," he said, "or if i have to open it and go out, you 'd do well to get behind that straw there till you see what happens. they expect nobody but me, and when they 've seen me they won't search any more." he saw, with approval and admiration, that she was calm and cool. "is there danger?" she asked. "no," said he. "but one of them wants some papers i have, and has apparently engaged the other to assist him. m. de roustache feels equal to two jobs, it seems. i wonder if he knows whom he's after, though." "would they take the papers by force?" her voice was very anxious, but still not terrified. "very likely--if i won't part with them. don't be uneasy. i sha'n't forget your affair." she pressed his arm gratefully, and drew back till she stood close to the trusses of straw, ready to seek a hiding-place in case of need. she was not much too soon. a man hurled himself violently against the door. the upper part gave and gaped an inch or two; the lower stood firm, thanks to the block of wood that barred its opening. even as the assault was delivered against the door, dieppe had blown out the candle. in darkness he and she stood waiting and listening. "lend a hand. we shall do it together," cried the voice of m. guillaume. "i 'll be hanged it i move without five thousand francs!" dieppe put up both hands and leant with all his weight against the upper part of the door. he smiled at his prescience when guillaume flung himself against it once more. now there was no yielding, no opening--not a chink. guillaume was convinced. "curse you, you shall have the money," they heard him say. "come, hold the lantern here." chapter vii the flood on the river that paul de roustache came to the rendezvous, where he had agreed to meet the count, in the company and apparently in the service of m. guillaume, who was not at all concerned with the count but very much interested in the man who had borrowed his name, afforded tolerably conclusive evidence that paul had been undeceived, and that if either party had been duped in regard to the meeting it was captain dieppe. never very ready to adopt such a conclusion as this, dieppe was none the less forced to it by the pressure of facts. moreover he did not perceive any safe, far less any glorious, issue from the situation either for his companion or for himself. his honour was doubly involved; the countess's reputation and the contents of his breast-pocket alike were in his sole care; and just outside the hut were two rascals, plainly resolute, no less plainly unscrupulous, the one threatening the lady, the other with nefarious designs against the breast-pocket. they had joined hands, and now delivered a united attack against both of the captain's treasured trusts. "in point of fact," he reflected with some chagrin, "i have for this once failed to control events." he brightened up almost immediately. "never mind," he thought, "it may still be possible to take advantage of them." and he waited, all on the alert for his chance. his companion observed, with a little vexation, with more admiration, that he seemed to have become unconscious of her presence, or, at best, to consider her only as a responsibility. the besiegers spoke no more in tones audible within the hut. putting eye and ear alternately to the crevice between door and door-post, dieppe saw the lantern's light and heard the crackle of paper. then he just caught, or seemed to catch, the one word, said in a tone of finality, "five!" then came more crackling. next a strange, sudden circle of light revolved before the captain's eye; and then there was light no more. the lantern had been lifted, swung round in the air, and flung away. swift to draw the only inference, dieppe turned his head. as he did so there rang out a loud oath in guillaume's voice; it was followed by an odd, dull thud. "quick, behind the trusses!" whispered dieppe. "i 'm going out." without a word she obeyed him, and in a moment was well hidden. for an instant more dieppe listened. then he hurled the wooden block away, its weight, so great before, seemed nothing to him now in his excitement. the crack of a shot came from outside. pulling the door violently back, dieppe rushed out. two or three paces up the slope stood guillaume, his back to the hut, his arm still levelled at a figure which had just topped the summit of the eminence, and an instant later disappeared. hearing dieppe's rush, guillaume turned, crying in uncontrollable agitation, "he 's robbed me, robbed me, robbed me!" then he suddenly put both his hands up to his brow, clutching it tight as though he were in great pain, and, reeling and stumbling, at last fell and rolled down to the bottom of the hollow. for an instant the captain hesitated. but guillaume lay very still; and guillaume had no quarrel with the countess. his indecision soon ended, dieppe ran, as if for his life, up the slope to the top of the hill. he disappeared; all was left dark and quiet at the hut; guillaume did not stir, the lady did not stir; only the door, released from its confinement, began to flap idly to and fro again. the captain gained the summit, hardly conscious that one of those sudden changes of weather so common in hilly countries had passed over the landscape. the mist was gone, rain fell no more, a sharp, clean breeze blew, the stars began to shine, and the moon rose bright. it was as though a curtain had been lifted. dieppe's topographical observations stood him in good stead now and saved him some moments' consideration. the fugitive had choice of two routes. but he would not return to the village: he might have to answer awkward questions about m. guillaume, his late companion, there. he would make in another direction--presumably towards the nearest inhabited spot, where he could look to get more rapid means of escape than his own legs afforded. he would follow the road to the left then, down the zigzags that must lead to the river, and to some means of crossing it. but he had gained a good start and had the figure of an active fellow. dieppe risked a short cut, darted past the cross and straight over the road, heading down towards the river, but taking a diagonal course to the left. his intent was to hit the road where the road hit the river, and thus to cut off the man he pursued. his way would be shorter, but it would be rougher too; success or failure depended on whether the advantage or disadvantage proved the greater. as he ran, he felt for his revolver; but he did not take it out nor did he mean to use it save in the last resort. captain dieppe did not take life or maim limb without the utmost need; though a man of war, he did not suffer from blood fever. besides he was a stranger in the country, with none to answer for him; and the credentials in his breast-pocket were not of the sort that he desired to produce for the satisfaction and information of the local custodians of the peace. the grassy slope was both uneven and slippery. moreover dieppe had not allowed enough for the courage of the natives in the matter of gradients. the road, in fact, belied its cautious appearance. after three or four plausible zig-zags, it turned to rash courses and ran headlong down to the ford--true, it had excuse in the necessity of striking this spot--on a slope hardly less steep than that down which the captain himself was painfully leaping with heels stuck deep in and body thrown well back. in the result paul de roustache comfortably maintained his lead, and when he came into his pursuer's view was no more than twenty yards from the river, the captain being still a good fifty from the point at which he had hoped to be stationed before paul came up. "i 'm done," panted the captain, referring both to his chances of success and to his physical condition; and he saw with despair that across the ford the road rose as boldly and as steeply as it had descended on the near side of the stream. paul ran on and came to the edge of the ford. negotiations might be feasible since conquest was out of the question: dieppe raised his voice and shouted. paul turned and looked. "i 'm a pretty long shot," thought the captain, and he thought it prudent to slacken his pace till he saw in what spirit his overtures were met. their reception was not encouraging. paul took his revolver from his pocket--the captain saw the glint of the barrel--and waved it menacingly. then he replaced it, lifted his hat jauntily in a mocking farewell, and turned to the ford again. "shall i go on?" asked the captain, "or shall i give it up?" the desperate thought at last occurred: "shall i get as near as i can and try to wing him?" he stood still for an instant, engaged in these considerations. suddenly a sound struck his ear and caught his attention. it was the heavy, swishing noise of a deep body of water in rapid movement. his eyes flew down to the river. "by god!" he muttered under his breath; and from the river his glance darted to paul de roustache. the landlord of the inn at sasellano had not spoken without warrant. the stream ran high in flood, and paul de roustache stood motionless in fear and doubt on the threshold of the ford. "i 've got him," remarked the captain simply, and he began to pace leisurely and warily down the hill. he was ready for a shot now--ready to give one too, if necessary. but his luck was again in the ascendant; he smiled and twirled his moustache as he walked along. if it be pardonable--or even praise-worthy, as some moralists assert--to pity the criminal, while righteously hating the crime, a trifle of compassion may be spared for paul de roustache. in fact that gentleman had a few hours before arrived at a resolution which must be considered (for as a man hath, so shall it be demanded of him, in talents and presumably in virtues also) distinctly commendable. he had made up his mind to molest the countess of fieramondi no more--provided he got the fifty thousand francs from m. guillaume. up to this moment fortune--or, in recognition of the morality of the idea, may we not say heaven?--had favoured his design. obliged, in view of paul's urgently expressed preference for a payment on account, to disburse five thousand francs, guillaume had taken from his pocket a leather case of venerable age and opulent appearance. paul was no more averse than dieppe from taking a good chance. the production of the portfolio was the signal for a rapid series of decisive actions; for was not dieppe inside the hut, and might not dieppe share or even engross the contents of the portfolio? with the promptness of a man who has thoroughly thought out his plans, paul had flung away the lantern, hit guillaume on the forehead with the butt of his revolver, snatched the portfolio from his hand, and bolted up the slope that led from the hut to the summit; thence he ran down the road, not enjoying leisure to examine his prize, but sure that it contained more than the bare ten thousand francs for which he had modestly bargained. a humane man, he reflected, would stay by guillaume, bathe his brow, and nurse him back to health; for with a humane man life is more than property; and meanwhile the property, with paul as its protector, would be far away. but now--well, in the first place, dieppe was evidently not a humane man, and in the second, here was this pestilent river flooded to the edge of its banks, and presenting the most doubtful passage which had ever by the mockery of language been misnamed a ford. he was indeed between the devil and the deep sea--that devil of a dieppe and the deep sea of the ford on the road from sasellano. what was to be done? the days of chivalry are gone; and the days of hanging or beheading for unnecessary or unjustified homicide are with us, to the great detriment of romance. paul, like the captain, did not desire a duel, although, like the captain, he proposed to keep his revolver handy. and, after all, what was called a ford must be at least comparatively shallow. give it a foot of depth in ordinary times. let it be three or four now. still he could get across. with one last look at the captain, who advanced steadily, although very slowly, paul de roustache essayed the passage. the precious portfolio was in an inner pocket, the hardly less precious revolver he grasped in one hand; and both his hands he held half outstretched on either side of him. the captain watched his progress with the keenest interest and a generous admiration, and quickened his own pace so as to be in a position to follow the daring pioneer as rapidly as possible. as far as depth was concerned, paul's calculation was not far out. he travelled a third of his way and felt the ground level under him. he had reached the bottom of the river-bed, and the water was not up to his armpits. he took out the portfolio and thrust it in between his neck and his collar: it gave him a confined and choky feeling, but it was well out of water; and his right hand held the revolver well out of water too. thus prepared, yet hoping that the worst was over, he took another forward step. breaking into a run, the captain was by the edge of the stream the next moment, whipped out his revolver, pointed it at paul, and cried, "stop!" for although one does not mean to fire, it is often useful to create the impression that one does. the action had its effect now, although not exactly as dieppe had anticipated. flurried by his double difficulty, paul stopped again and glanced over his shoulder. he saw the barrel aimed at him; he could not risk disregarding the command, but he might forestall his pursuer's apparent intention. he tried to turn round, and effected half the revolution; thus he faced down-stream, and had his back to the full force of the current. although no deeper than he had feared, the river was stronger; and in this attitude he offered a less firm resistance. in an instant he was swept off his feet, and carried headlong down-stream, dropping his revolver and struggling to swim to the opposite bank. "i can't afford to have this happen!" cried dieppe, and, seeing how the current bore his enemy away, he ran swiftly some fifty yards down the bank, got ahead of paul, and plunged in, again with the idea of cutting him off, but by water this time, since his plan had failed on land. here it is likely enough that the two gentlemen's difficulties and activities alike would have ended. paul went under and came up again, a tangled, helpless heap of legs and arms; the captain kept his head above water for the time, but could do nothing save follow the current which carried him straight down-stream. but by good luck the river took a sharp bend a hundred yards below the ford, and dieppe perceived that by drifting he would come very near to the projecting curve of the bank. paul was past noticing this chance or trying to avail himself of it. the captain was swept down; at the right instant he made the one effort for which he had husbanded his strength. he gathered his legs up under him, and he stood. the water was only half-way up his thigh, and he stood. "now for you, my friend!" he cried. paul came by, quite inanimate now to all appearance, floating broadside to the current. leaning forward, the captain caught him by the leg, throwing his own body back in an intense strain of exertion. he lost his footing and fell. "i must let him go," he thought, "or we shall both be done for." but the next moment he felt himself flung on the bank, and the tension on his arms relaxed. the current had thrown the two on the bank and pursued its own race round the promontory, bereft of its playthings. drenched, huddled, hatless, they lay there. "a very near thing indeed," said the captain, panting hard and regarding paul's motionless body with a grave and critical air of inquiry. the next moment he fell on his knees by his companion. "perhaps he carries a flask--i 've none," he thought, and began to search paul's pockets. he found what he sought and proceeded to unscrew the top. paul gasped and grunted. "he 's all right then," said the captain. paul's hand groped its way up to his collar, and made convulsive clutches. "i 'd better give him a little more room," mused dieppe, and laid the flask down for a minute. "ah, this is a queer cravat! no wonder he feels like choking. a portfolio! ah, ah!" he took it out and pocketed it. then he forced some brandy down paul's throat, and undid his collar and his waistcoat. "a pocket inside the waistcoat! very useful, very useful--and more papers, yes! take a drop, my friend, it will do you good." thus alternately ministering to paul's bodily comfort and rifling his person of what valuables he carried, dieppe offered to the philosophic mind a singular resemblance to a finance minister who takes a farthing off the duty on beer and puts a penny on the income tax. the moon was high, but not bright enough to read a small and delicate handwriting by. the captain found himself in a tantalising position. he gave paul some more brandy, laid down the packet of letters, and turned to the portfolio. it was large and official in appearance, and it had an ingenious clasp which baffled dieppe. with a sigh he cut the leather top and bottom, and examined the prize. "ah, my dear banque de france, even in this light i can recognise your charming, allegorical figures," he said with a smile. there were thirty notes--he counted them twice, for they were moist and very sticky. there was another paper. "this must be--" he rose to his feet and held the paper up towards the moon. "i can't read the writing," he murmured, "but i can see the figures--30,000. ah, and that is 'genoa'! now to whom is it payable, i wonder!" "what the devil are you doing?" growled paul, sitting up with a shiver. "my friend, i have saved your life," observed the captain, impressively. "that's no reason for robbing me," was paul's ungrateful but logically sound reply. the captain stooped and picked up the bundle of letters. separating them one from another, he tore them into small fragments and scattered them over the stream. paul watched him, sullen but without resistance. dieppe turned to him. "you have no possible claim against the countess," he remarked; "no possible hold on her, monsieur de roustache." paul finished the flask for himself this time, shivered again, and swore pitifully. he was half-crying and cowed. "curse the whole business!" he said. "but she had twenty thousand francs of my money." the captain addressed to him a question somewhat odd under the circumstances. "on your honour as a gentleman, is that true?" he asked. "yes, it's true," said paul, with a glare of suspicion. he was not in the mood to appreciate satire or banter; but the captain appeared quite grave and his manner was courteous. "it's beastly cold," paul continued with a groan. "in a moment you shall take a run," the captain promised. and he pursued, "the countess must not be in your debt. permit me to discharge the obligation." he counted twenty of the thirty notes and held them out to paul. after another stare paul laughed feebly. "i am doing our friend m. guillaume no wrong," the captain explained. "his employers have in their possession fifty thousand francs of mine. i avail myself of this opportunity to reduce the balance to their debit. as between m. guillaume and me, that is all. as between you and me, sir, i act for the countess. i pay your claim at your own figures, and since i discharge the claim i have made free to destroy the evidence. i have thrown the letters into the river. i do not wish to threaten, but if you 're not out of sight in ten minutes, i 'll throw you after them." "if i told you all the story--" began paul with a sneer. "i 'm not accustomed to listen to stories against ladies, sir," thundered the captain. "she 's had my money for a year--" "the countess would wish to be most liberal, but she did not understand that you regarded the transaction as a commercial one." he counted five more notes and handed them to paul with an air of careless liberality. paul broke into a grudging laugh. "what are you going to tell old guillaume?" he asked. "i'm going to tell him that my claim against his employers is reduced by the amount that i have had the honour to hand you, m. de roustache. pardon me, but you seem to forget the remark i permitted myself to make just now." and the captain pointed to the river. paul rose and stamped his feet on the ground; he looked at his companion, and his surprise burst out in the question, "you really mean to let me go with five and twenty thousand francs!" "i act as i am sure the lady whose name has been unavoidably mentioned would wish to act." paul stared again, then sniggered again, and pocketed his spoil. "only you must understand that--that the mine is worked out, my friend. i think your way lies there." he pointed towards the road that led up from the ford to sasellano. still paul lingered, seeming to wish to say something that he found difficult to phrase. "i was devilish hard up," he muttered at last. "that is always a temptation," said the captain, gravely. "a fellow does things that--that look queer. i say, would n't that odd five thousand come in handy for yourself?" the captain looked at him; almost he refused the unexpected offer scornfully; but something in paul's manner made him cry, quite suddenly, almost unconsciously, "why, my dear fellow, if you put it that way--yes! as a loan from you to me, eh?" "a loan? no--i--i--" "be at ease. loan is the term we use between gentlemen--eh?" the captain tried to curl his moist, uncurlable moustache. and paul de roustache handed him back five thousand francs. "my dear fellow!" murmured the captain, as he stowed the notes in safety. he held out his hand; paul de roustache shook it and turned away. dieppe stood watching him as he went, making not direct for the sasellano road, but shaping a course straight up the hill, walking as though he hardly knew where he was going. so he passed out of the captain's sight--and out of the list of the countess of fieramondi's creditors. a little smile dwelt for a moment on dieppe's face. "i myself am very nearly a rascal sometimes," said he. crack! crack! the sound of a whip rang clear; the clatter of hoofs and the grind of a wheel on the skid followed. a carriage dashed down the hill from sasellano. paul de roustache had seen it, and stooped low for a moment in instinctive fear of being seen. captain dieppe, on the other hand, cried "bravo!" and began to walk briskly towards the ford. "how very lucky!" he reflected. "i will beg a passage; i have no fancy for another bath to-night." chapter viii the carriage at the ford the direct issue between her excellency and the innkeeper at sasellano had ended as all such differences (save, of course, on points of morality) should--in a compromise. the lady would not resign herself to staying at sasellano; the landlord would not engage to risk passenger, carriage, and horses in the flood. but he found and she accepted the services of a robust, stout-built fellow who engaged with the lady to drive her as far as the river and across it if possible, and promised the landlord to bring her and the equipage back in case the crossing were too dangerous. neither party was pleased, but both consented, hoping to retrieve a temporary concession by ultimate victory. moreover the lady paid the whole fare beforehand--not, the landlord precisely stipulated, to be returned in any event. so off her excellency rattled in the wind and rain; and great was her triumph when the rain ceased, the wind fell, and the night cleared. she put her head out of the rackety old landau, whose dilapidated hood had formed a shelter by no means water-tight, and cried, "who was right, driver?" but the driver turned his black cigar between his teeth, answering, "the mischief is done already. well, we shall see!" they covered eight miles in good time. they passed paul de roustache, who had no thought but to avoid them, and, once they were passed, took to the road and made off straight for sasellano; they reached the descent and trotted gaily down it; they came within ten yards of the ford, and drew up sharply. the lady put her head out; the driver dismounted and took a look at the river. shaking his head, he came to the window. "your excellency can't cross to-night," said he. "i will," cried the lady, no less resolute now than she had been at the inn. the direct issue again! and if the driver were as obstinate as he looked, the chances of that ultimate victory inclined to the innkeeper's side. "the water would be inside the carriage," he urged. "i 'll ride on the box by you," she rejoined. "it 'll be up to the horses' shoulders." "the horses don't mind getting wet, i suppose." "they 'd be carried off their feet." "nonsense," said she, sharply, denying the fact since she could no longer pooh-pooh its significance. "are you a coward?" she exclaimed indignantly. "i 've got some sense in my head," said he with a grin. at this moment captain dieppe, wishing that he were dry, that he had a hat, that his moustache would curl, yet rising victorious over all disadvantages by virtue of his temperament and breeding, concealing also any personal interest that he had in the settlement of the question, approached the carriage, bowed to its occupant, and inquired, with the utmost courtesy, whether he could be of any service. "it 's of great importance to me to cross," said she, returning his salutation. "it's impossible to cross," interposed the driver. "nonsense; i have crossed myself," remarked captain dieppe. both of them looked at him; he anticipated their questions or objections. "crossing on foot one naturally gets a little wet," said he, smiling. "i won't let my horses cross," declared the driver. the captain eyed him with a slightly threatening expression, but he did not like to quarrel before a lady. "you 're afraid for your own skin," he said contemptuously. "stay this side. i 'll bring the carriage back to you." he felt in his pocket and discovered two louis and two five-franc pieces. he handed the former coins to the driver. "i take all the responsibility to your master," he ended, and opening the carriage door he invited the lady to alight. she was dark, tall, handsome, a woman of presence and of dignity. she took his hand and descended with much grace. "i am greatly in your debt, sir," she said. "ladies, madame," he replied with a tentative advance of his hand toward his moustache, checked in time by a remembrance of the circumstances, "confer obligations often, but can contract none." "i wish everybody thought as you do," said she with a deep sigh. "shall i mount the box?" "if you please." he mounted after her, and took the reins. cracking the whip, he urged on the horses. "body of the saints," cried the driver, stirred to emulation, "i 'll come with you!" and he leaped up on to the top of a travelling-trunk that was strapped behind the carriage. "there is more good in human nature than one is apt to think," observed the captain. "if only one knows how to appeal to it," added the lady, sighing again very pathetically. somehow, the captain received the idea that she was in trouble. he felt drawn to her, and not only by the sympathy which her courage and her apparent distress excited; he was conscious of some appeal, something in her which seemed to touch him directly and with a sort of familiarity, although he had certainly never seen her in his life before. he was pondering on this when one of the horses, frightened by the noise and rush of the water, reared up, while the other made a violent effort to turn itself, its comrade, and the carriage round, and head back again for sasellano. the captain sprang up, shouted, plied the whip; the driver stood on the trunk and yelled yet more vigorously; her excellency clutched the rail with her hand. and in they went. "the peculiarity of this stream," began the captain, "lies not so much in its depth as in--" "the strength of the current," interposed his companion, nodding. "you know it?" he cried. "very well," she answered, and she might have said more had not the horses at this moment chosen to follow the easiest route, and headed directly downstream. a shriek from the driver awoke dieppe to the peril of the position. he plied his whip again, and did his best to turn the animals' heads towards the opposite bank. the driver showed his opinion of the situation by climbing on to the top of the landau. this step was perhaps a natural, but it was not a wise one. the roof was not adapted to carrying heavy weights. it gave way on one side, and in an instant the driver rolled over to the right and fell with a mighty splash into the water just above the carriage. at the same moment dieppe contrived to turn the horses in the direction he aimed at, and the carriage moved a few paces. "ah, we move!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "the driver 's fallen off!" cried the lady in alarm. "i thought we seemed lighter, somehow," said dieppe, paying no heed to the driver's terrified shouts, but still urging on his horses. he showed at this moment something of a soldier's recognition that, if necessary, life must be sacrificed for victory: he had taken the same view when he left m. guillaume in order to pursue paul de roustache. the driver, finding cries useless, saw that he must shift for himself. the wheel helped him to rise to his feet; he found he could stand. in a quick turn of feeling, he called, "courage!" dieppe looked over at him with a rather contemptuous smile. "what, have you found some down at the bottom of the river? like truth in the well?" he asked. "catch hold of one of the horses, then!" he turned to the lady. "you drive, madame?" "yes." "then do me the favour." he gave her the reins, with a gesture of apology stepped in front of her, and lowered himself into the water on the left-hand side. "now, my friend, one of us at each of their heads, and we do it! the whip, madame with all your might, the whip!" the horses made a bound; the driver dashed forward and caught one by the bridle; the lady lashed. on his side dieppe, clinging to a trace, made his way forward. both he and the driver now shouted furiously, their voices echoing in the hills that rose from the river on either side, and rising at last in a shout of triumph as the wheels turned, the horses gained firm footing, and with a last spring forward landed the carriage in safety. the driver swore softly and crossed himself devoutly before he fell to a rueful study of the roof of the landau. "monsieur, i am eternally indebted to you," cried the lady to dieppe. "it is a reciprocal service, madame," said he. "to tell the truth, i also had special reasons for wishing to gain this side of the river." she appeared a trifle embarrassed, but civility, or rather gratitude, impelled her to the suggestion. "you are travelling my way?" she asked. "a thousand thanks, but i have some business to transact first." she seemed relieved, but she was puzzled, too. "business? here?" she murmured. dieppe nodded. "it will not keep me long," he added gravely. the driver had succeeded in restoring the top of the landau to a precarious stability. dieppe handed the lady down from the box-seat and into the interior. the driver mounted his perch; the lady leant out of the window to take farewell of her ally. "every hour was of value to me," she said, with a plain touch of emotion in her voice, "and but for you i should have been taken back to sasellano. we shall meet again, i hope." "i shall live in the hope," said he, with a somewhat excessive gallantry--a trick of which he could not cure himself. the driver whipped up--he did not intend that either he or his horses, having escaped drowning, should die of cold. the equipage lumbered up the hill, its inmate still leaning out and waving her hand. dieppe watched until the party reached the zigzags and was hidden from view, though he still heard the crack of the whip. "very interesting, very interesting!" he murmured to himself. "but now to business! now for friend guillaume and the countess!" his face fell as he spoke. with the disappearance of excitement, and the cessation of exertion, he realised again the great sorrow that faced him and admitted of no evasion. he sighed deeply and sought his cigarette-case. vain hope of comfort! his cigarettes were no more than a distasteful pulp. he felt forlorn, very cold, very hungry, also; for it was now between nine and ten o'clock. his heart was heavy as he prepared to mount the hill and finish his evening's work. he must see guillaume; he must see the countess; and then-"ah!" he cried, and stooped suddenly to the ground. a bright object lay plain and conspicuous on the road which had grown white again as it dried in the sharp wind. it was an oval locket of gold, dropped there, a few yards from the ford. it lay open--no doubt the jar of the fall accounted for that--face downwards. the captain picked it up and examined it. he said nothing; his usual habit of soliloquy failed him for the moment; he looked at it, then round at the landscape. for the moonlight showed him a picture in the locket, and enabled him to make out a written inscription under it. "what?" breathed he at last. "oh, i can't believe it!" he looked again. "oh, if that 's the lie of the land, my friend!" he smiled; then, in an apparent revulsion of feeling, he frowned angrily, and even shook his fist downstream, perhaps intending the gesture for some one in the village. lastly, he shook his head sadly, and set off up the hill in the wake of the now vanished carriage; as he went, he whistled in a soft and meditative way. but before he started, he had assured himself that he in his turn had not dropped anything, and that m. guillaume's partially depleted portfolio was still safe in his pocket, side by side with his own precious papers. and he deposited the locket he had found with these other valued possessions. a few minutes' walking brought him to the cross. the exercise had warmed him, the threatened stiffness of cold had passed; he ran lightly up the hill and down into the basin. there was no sign of m. guillaume. the captain, rather vexed, for he had business with that gentleman,--an explanation of a matter which touched his own honour to make, and an account which intimately concerned m. guillaume to adjust,--entered the hut. in an instant his hand was grasped in an appealing grip, and the voice he loved best in the world (there was no blinking the fact, whatever might be thought of the propriety), cried, "ah, you 're safe?" "how touching that is!" thought the captain. "she has a hundred causes for anxiety, but her first question is, 'you're safe?'" this was she whom he renounced, and this was she whom the count of fieramondi deceived. what were her trifling indiscretions beside her husband's infamy--the infamy betrayed and proved by the picture and inscription in the locket? "i am safe, and you are safe," said he, returning the pressure of her hand. "and where is our friend outside?" "i don't know--i lay hidden till i heard him go. i don't know where he went. what do you mean by saying i'm safe?" "i have got rid of paul de roustache. he 'll trouble you no more." "what?" wonder and admiration sparkled in her eyes. because he was enabled to see them, dieppe was grateful to her for having replaced and relighted his candle. "yes, i was afraid in the dark," she said, noticing his glance at it. "but it 's almost burnt out. we must be quick. is the trouble with m. de roustache really over?" "absolutely." "and we owe it to you? but you--why, you 're wet!" "it's not surprising," said he, smiling. "there 's a flood in the river, and i have crossed it twice." "what did you cross the river for?" "i had to escort m. de roustache across, and he 's a bad swimmer. he jumped in, and--" "you saved his life?" "don't reproach me, my friend. it is an instinct; and--er--he carried the pocket-book of our friend outside; and the pocket-book had my money in it, you know." "your money? i thought you had only fifty francs?" "the money due to me, i should say. fifty thousand francs." the captain unconsciously assumed an air of some importance as he mentioned this sum. "so i was bound to pursue friend paul," he ended. "it was dangerous?" "oh, no, no," he murmured. "coming back, though, was rather difficult," he continued. "the carriage was very heavy, and we had some ado to--" "the carriage! what carriage?" she cried with eagerness. "oddly enough, i found a lady travelling--from sasellano, i understood; and i had the privilege of aiding her to cross the ford." dieppe spoke with a calculated lightness. "a lady--a lady from sasellano? what sort of a lady? what was she like?" the captain was watching her closely. her agitation was unmistakable. did she know, did she suspect, anything? "she was tall, dark, and dignified in appearance. she spoke slowly, with a slight drawl--" "yes, yes!" "and she was very eager to pursue her journey. she must have come by here. did n't you hear the wheels?" "no--i--i--was n't thinking." but she was thinking now. the next instant she cried, "i must go, i must go at once." "but where?" "why, back home, of course! where else should i go? oh, i may be too late!" unquestionably she knew something--how much the captain could not tell. his feelings may be imagined. his voice was low, and very compassionate as he asked: "you 'll go home? when she 's there? at least, if i conclude rightly--" "yes, i must go. i must get there before she sees andrea, otherwise, all will be lost." for the instant her agitation seemed to make her forget dieppe's presence, or what he might think of her manner. now she recovered herself. "i mean--i mean--i want to speak to her. i must tell her--" "tell her nothing. confront her with that." and the captain produced the gold locket with an air of much solemnity. his action did not miss its effect. she gazed at the locket in apparent bewilderment. "no, don't open it," he added hastily. "where did you get it?" "she dropped it by the river. it was open when i picked it up." "why, it 's the locket- how does it open?" she was busy looking for the spring. "i implore you not to open it!" he cried, catching her hand and restraining her. "why?" she asked, pausing and looking up at him. the question and the look that accompanied it proved too great a strain for dieppe's self-control. now he caught both her hands in his as he said: "because i can't bear that you should suffer. because i love you too much." without a doubt it was delight that lit up her, eyes now, but she whispered reprovingly, "oh, you! you the ambassador." "i had n't seen that locket when i became his ambassador." "let go my hands." "indeed i can't," urged the captain. but she drew them away with a sharp motion that he could not resist, and before he could say or do more to stop her she had opened the locket. "as i thought," she cried, hurriedly reclasping it and turning to him in eager excitement; "i must go, indeed i must go at once!" "alone?" asked captain dieppe, with a simple, but effective eloquence. at least it appeared very effective. she came nearer to him and, of her own accord now, laid her hands in his. shyness and pleasure struggled in her eyes as she fixed them on his face. "i shall see you again," she murmured. "how?" he asked. "why, you 're coming back--back to the castle?" she cried eagerly. the doubt of his returning thither seemed to fill her with dismay. the captain's scruples gave way. perhaps it was the locket that undermined them, perhaps that look to her eyes, and the touch of her hands as they rested in his. "i will do anything you bid me," he whispered. "then come once again." she paused. "because i--i don't want to say good-bye just now." "if i come, will it be to say good-bye?" "that shall be as you wish," she said. it seemed to dieppe that no confession could have been more ample, yet none more delicately reserved in the manner of its utterance. his answer was to clasp her in his arms and kiss her lips. but in an instant he released her, in obedience to the faint, yet sufficient, protest of her hands pressing him away. "come in an hour," she whispered, and, turning, left him and passed from the hut. for a moment or two he stood where he was, devoured by many conflicting feelings. but his love, once obedient to the dictates of friendship and the unyielding limits of honour, would not be denied now. how had the count of fieramondi now any right to invoke his honour, or to appeal to his friendship? gladly, as a man will, the captain seized on another's fault to excuse his own. "i will go again--in an hour--and i will not say good-bye," he declared, as he flung himself down on one of the trusses of straw and prepared to wait till it should be time for him to set out. the evening had been so full of surprises, so prolific of turns of fortune good and evil, so bountiful of emotions and changeful feelings, that he had little store of surprise left wherewith to meet any new revolution of the wheel. nevertheless it was with something of a start that he raised his head again from the straw on which he had for a moment reclined, and listened intently. there had been a rustle in the straw; he turned his head sharply to the left. but he had misjudged the position whence the noise came. from behind the truss of straw to his right there rose the figure of a man. monsieur guillaume stood beside him, his head tied round with a handkerchief, but his revolver in his hand. the captain's hand flew towards his breast-pocket. "you 'll particularly oblige me by not moving," said monsieur guillaume, with a smile. of a certainty a man should not mingle love and business, especially, perhaps, when neither the love nor the business can be said properly to belong to him. chapter ix the straw in the corner there was nothing odd in m. guillaume's presence, however little the lady or the captain had suspected it. the surprise he gave was a reprisal for that which he had suffered when, after the captain's exit, he had recovered his full faculties and heard a furtive movement within the hut. it was the inspiration and the work of a moment to raise himself with an exaggerated effort and a purposed noise, and to take his departure with a tread heavy enough to force itself on the ears of the unknown person inside. but he did not go far. to what purpose should he, since it was vain to hope to overtake the captain or paul de roustache? some one was left behind; then, successful or unsuccessful, the captain would return--unless paul murdered him, a catastrophe which would be irremediable, but was exceedingly unlikely. guillaume mounted to the top of the eminence and flung himself down in the grass; thence he crawled round the summit, descended again with a stealthiness in striking contrast to his obtrusive ascent, and lay down in the dark shadow of the hut itself. in about twenty minutes his patience was rewarded: the lady came out,--she had forgotten to mention this little excursion to the captain,--mounted the rise, looked round, and walked down towards the cross. presumably she was looking for a sight of dieppe. in a few minutes she returned. guillaume was no longer lying by the hut, but was safe inside it under the straw. she found dieppe's matches, relighted the candle, and sat down in the doorway with her back to the straw. thus each had kept a silent vigil until the captain returned to the rendezvous. guillaume felt that he had turned a rather unpromising situation to very good account. he was greatly and naturally angered with paul de roustache: the loss of his portfolio was grievous. but the captain was his real quarry; the captain's papers would more than console him for his money; and he had a very pretty plan for dealing with the captain. nothing was to be gained by sitting upright. in a moment dieppe realised this, and sank back on his truss of straw. he glanced at guillaume's menacing weapon, and thence at guillaume himself. "your play, my friend," he seemed to say. he knew the game too well not to recognise and accept its chances. but guillaume was silent. "the hurt to your head is not serious or painful, i hope?" dieppe inquired politely. still guillaume maintained a grim and ominous silence. the captain tried again. "i trust, my dear friend," said he persuasively, "that your weapon is intended for strictly defensive purposes?" the candle had burnt almost down to the block on which it rested (the fact did not escape dieppe), but it served to show guillaume's acid smile. "what quarrel have we?" pursued the captain, in a conciliatory tone. "i 've actually been engaged on your business, and got confoundedly wet over it too." "you 've been across the river then?" asked guillaume, breaking his silence. "it 's not my fault--the river was in my way," dieppe answered a little impatiently. "as for you, why do you listen to my conversation?" "with the countess of fieramondi? ah, you soldiers! you were a little indiscreet there, my good captain. but that's not my business." "your remark is very just," agreed dieppe. "i 'll give that candle just a quarter of an hour," he was thinking. "except so far as i may be able to turn it to my purposes. come, we know one another, captain dieppe." "we have certainly met in the course of business," the captain conceded with a touch of hauteur, as he shifted the truss a little further under his right shoulder. "i want something that you have," said guillaume, fixing his eyes on his companion. dieppe's were on the candle. "listen to me," commanded guillaume, imperiously. "i have really no alternative," shrugged the captain. "but don't make impossible propositions. and be brief. it 's late; i 'm hungry, cold, and wet." guillaume smiled contemptuously at this useless bravado, for such it seemed to him. it did not occur to his mind that dieppe had anything to gain--or even a bare chance of gaining anything--by protracting the conversation. but in fact the captain was making observations--first of the candle, secondly of the number and position of the trusses of straw. "are you in a position to call any proposition impossible?" guillaume asked. "it's quite true that i can't make use of my revolver," agreed the captain. "but on the other hand you don't, i presume, intend to murder me? would n't that be exceeding your instructions!" "i don't know as to that--i might be forgiven. but of course i entertain no such desire. captain, i 've an idea that you 're in possession of my portfolio." "what puts that into your head?" inquired the captain in a rather satirical tone. "from what you said to the countess i--" "ah, i find it so hard to realise that you actually committed that breach of etiquette," murmured dieppe, reproachfully. "and that perhaps--i say only perhaps--you have made free with the contents. for it seems you 've got rid of paul de roustache. well, i will not complain--" "ah?" said the captain with a movement of interest. "but if i lose my money, i must have my money's worth." "that 's certainly what one prefers when it's possible," smiled the captain, indulgently. "to put it briefly--" "as briefly as you can, pray," cried dieppe; but the candle burnt steadily still, and brevity was the last thing that he desired. "give me your papers and you may keep the portfolio." the captain's indignation at this proposal was extreme; indeed, it led him to sit upright again, to fix his eyes on the candle, and to talk right on end for hard on five minutes--in fact as long as he could find words--on the subject of his honour as a gentleman, as a soldier, as a frenchman, as a friend, as a confidential agent, and as a loyal servant. guillaume did not interrupt him, but listened with a smile of genuine amusement. "excellent!" he observed, as the captain sank back exhausted. "a most excellent preamble for your explanation of the loss, my dear captain. and you will add at the end that, seeing all this, it cannot be doubted that you surrendered these papers only under absolute compulsion, and not the least in the world for reasons connected with my portfolio." "my words were meant to appeal to your own better feelings," sighed the captain in a tone of despairing reproach. "you betray the count of fieramondi, your friend; why not betray your employers also?" for a moment there was a look in the captain's eye which seemed to indicate annoyance, but the next instant he smiled. "as if there were any parallel!" said he. "matters of love are absolutely different, my good friend." then he went on very carelessly, "the candle 's low. why don't you light your lantern?" "that rascal paul threw it away, and i had n't time to get it." no expression, save a mild concern, appeared on captain dieppe's face, although he had discovered a fact of peculiar interest to him. "the candle will last as long as we shall want it," pursued guillaume. "very probably," agreed the captain, with a languid yawn; again he shifted his straw till the bulk of it was under his right shoulder, and he lay on an incline that sloped down to the left. "and you 'll kill me and take my papers, eh?" he inquired, turning and looking up at guillaume. he could barely see his enemy's face now, for the candle guttered and sputtered, while the moon, high in heaven, threw light on the dip of the hill outside, but did little or nothing to relieve the darkness within the hut. "no, i shall not murder you. you 'll give them to me, i 'm sure." "and if i refuse, dear m. guillaume?" "i shall invite you to accompany me to the village--or, more strictly, to precede me." "what should we do together in the village?" cried dieppe. "i shall beg of you to walk a few paces in front of me,--just a few,--to go at just the pace i go, and to remember that i carry a revolver in my hand." "my memory would be excellent on such a point," the captain assured him. "but, again, why to the village?" "we should go together to the office of the police. i am on good terms with the police." "doubtless. but what have they to do with me? come, come, my matter is purely political, they would n't mix themselves up in it." "i should charge you with the unlawful possession of my portfolio. you would admit it, or you would deny it. in either case your person would be searched, the papers would be found, and i, who am on such friendly terms with the police, should certainly enjoy an excellent opportunity of inspecting them. you perceive, my dear captain, that i have thought it out." "it's neat, certainly," agreed the captain, who was not a little dismayed at this plan of guillaume's. "but i should not submit to the search." "ah! now how would you prevent it?" "i should send for my friend the count. he has influence; he would answer for me." "what, when he hears my account of your interview with his wife?" old guillaume played this card with a smile of triumph. "i told you that the little affair might perhaps be turned to my purposes," he reminded dieppe, maliciously. the captain reflected, taking as long as he decently could over the task. indeed he was in trouble. guillaume's scheme was sagacious, guillaume's position very strong. and at last guillaume grew impatient. but still the persistent candle burnt. "i give you one minute to make up your mind," said guillaume, dropping his tone of sarcastic pleasantry, and speaking in a hard, sharp voice. "after that, either you give me the papers, or you get up and march before me to the village." "if i refuse to do either?" "you can't refuse," said guillaume. "you mean--?" "i should order you to hold your hands behind your back while i took the papers. if you moved--" "thank you. i see," said the captain, with a nod of understanding. "awkward for you, though, if it came to that." "oh, i think not very, in view of your dealings with my portfolio." "i 'm in a devil of a hole," admitted the captain, candidly. "time's up," announced m. guillaume, slowly raising the barrel of his revolver, and taking aim at the captain. for the candle still burnt, although dimly and fitfully, and still there was light to guide the bullet on its way. "it's all up!" said the captain. "but, deuce take it, it's hardly the way to treat a gentleman!" even as he spoke the light of the candle towered for a second in a last shoot of flame, and then went out. at the same moment the captain rolled down the incline of straw on which he had been resting, rose on his knees an instant, seized the truss and flung it at guillaume, rolled under the next truss, seized that in like manner and propelled it against the enemy, and darted again to shelter. "stop, or i fire," cried guillaume; he was as good as his word the next minute, but the third truss caught him just as he aimed, and his bullet flew against and was buried in the planking of the roof. by now, the captain was escaping from under the fourth truss, and making for the fifth. guillaume, dimly seeing the fourth truss not thrown, but left in its place, discharged another shot at it. the fifth truss caught him in the side and drove him against the wooden block. he turned swiftly in the direction whence the missile came, and fired again. he was half dazed, his eyes and ears seemed full of the dust of the straw. he fired once again at random, swearing savagely; and before he could recover aim his arm was seized from behind, his neck was caught in a vigorous garotte, and he fell on the floor of the hut with captain dieppe on the top of him--dieppe, dusty, dirty, panting, bleeding freely from a bullet graze on the top of the left ear, and with one leg of his trousers slit from ankle to knee by a rusty nail, that had also ploughed a nasty furrow up his leg. but now he seized guillaume's revolver, and dragged the old fellow out of the hut. then he sat down on his chest, pinning his arms together on the ground above his head. "you enjoyed playing your mouse just a trifle too long, old cat," said he. guillaume lay very still, exhausted, beaten, and defenceless. dieppe released his hands, and, rising, stood looking down at him. a smile came on his face. "we are now in a better position to adjust our accounts fairly," he observed, as he took from his pocket m. guillaume's portfolio. "listen," he commanded; and guillaume turned weary but spiteful eyes to him. "here is your portfolio. take it. look at it." guillaume sat up and obeyed the command. "well?" asked dieppe, when the examination was ended. "you have robbed me of twenty-five thousand francs." the captain looked at him for a moment with a frown. but the next instant he smiled. "i must make allowances for the state of your temper," he remarked. "but i wish you would carry all your money in notes. that draft, now, is no use to me. hence"--he shrugged his shoulders regretfully--"i am obliged to leave your government still no less than twenty-five thousand francs in debt to me." "what!" cried guillaume, with a savage stare. "oh, yes, you know that well. they have fifty thousand which certainly don't belong to them, and certainly do to me." "that money 's forfeited," growled guillaume. "if you like, then, i forfeit twenty-five thousand of theirs. but i allow it in account with them. the debt now stands reduced by half." "i 'll get it back from you somehow," threatened guillaume, who was helpless, but not cowed. "that will be difficult. i gave it to paul de roustache to discharge a claim he had on me." "to paul de roustache?" "yes. it 's true he lent me five thousand again; but that 's purely between him and me. and i shall have spent it long before you can even begin to take steps to recover it." he paused a moment and then added, "if you still hanker after your notes, i should recommend you to find your friend and accomplice, m. paul." "where is he?" "who can tell? i saw him last on the road across the river--it leads to sasellano, i believe." dieppe kept his eye on his vanquished opponent, but guillaume threatened no movement. the captain dropped the revolver into his pocket, stooped to pull up a tuft of grass with moist earth adhering to it, and, with the help of his handkerchief, made a primitive plaster to stanch the bleeding of his ear. as he was so engaged, the sound of wheels slowly climbing the hill became audible from the direction of the village. "you see," he went on, "you can't return to the village--you are on too good terms with the police. let me advise you to go to sasellano; the flood will be falling by now, and i should n't wonder if we could find you a means of conveyance." he jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the road behind him. "i can't go back to the village?" demanded guillaume, sullenly. "in my turn i must beg you to remember that i now carry a revolver. come, m. guillaume, we 've played a close hand, but the odd trick 's mine. go back and tell your employers not to waste their time on me. no, nor their money. they have won the big stake; let them be content. and again let me remind you that paul de roustache has your twenty thousand francs. i don't think you 'll get them from him, but you might. from me you 'll get nothing; and if you try the law--oh, think, my friend, how very silly you and your government will look!" as he spoke he went up to guillaume and took him by the arm, exerting a friendly and persuasive pressure, under which guillaume presently found himself mounting the eminence. the wheels sounded nearer now, and dieppe's ears were awake to their movements. the pair began to walk down the other side of the slope towards the cross, and the carriage came into their view. it was easy of identification: its broken-down, lopsided top marked it beyond mistake. an instant later dieppe recognised the burly figure of the driver, who was walking by his horses' heads. "wonderfully convenient!" he exclaimed. "this fellow will carry you to sasellano without delay." guillaume did not--indeed could not--refuse to obey the prompting of the captain's arm, but he grumbled as he went. "i made sure of getting your papers," he said. "unlooked-for difficulties will arise, my dear m. guillaume." "i thought the reward was as good as in my pocket." "the reward?" the captain stopped and looked in his companion's face with some amusement and a decided air of gratification. "there was a reward? oh, i am important, it seems!" "five thousand francs," said guillaume, sullenly. "they rate me rather cheap," exclaimed the captain, his face falling. "i should have hoped for five-and-twenty." "would you? if it had been that, i should have brought three men with me." "hum!" said the captain. "and you gave me a stiff job by yourself, eh?" he turned and signalled to the driver, who had now reached the cross: "wait a moment there, my friend." then he turned back again to guillaume. "get into the carriage--go to sasellano; catch paul if you can, but leave me in peace," he said, and, diving into his pocket, he produced the five notes of a thousand francs which paul de roustache, in some strange impulse of repentance, or gratitude, had handed to him. "what you tell your employers," he added, "i don't care. this is a gift from me to you. the deuce, i reward effort as well as success--i am more liberal than your government." the gesture with which he held out the notes was magnificent. guillaume stared at him in amazement, but his hand went out towards the notes. "i am free to do what i can at sasellano?" "yes, free to do anything except bother me. but i think your bird will have flown." guillaume took the notes and hid them in his pocket; then he walked straight up to the driver, crying, "how much to take me with you to sasellano?" the driver looked at him, at dieppe, and then down towards the river. "come, the flood will be less by now; the river will be falling," said dieppe. "fifty francs," said the driver, and guillaume got in. "good!" said the captain to himself. "a pretty device! and that scoundrel's money did n't lie comfortably in the pocket of a gentleman." he waved his hand to guillaume and was about to turn away, when the driver came up to him and spoke in a cautious whisper, first looking over his shoulder to see whether his new fare were listening; but guillaume was sucking at a flask. "i have a message for you," he said. "from the lady you carried--?" "to the count of fieramondi's." "ah, you took her there?" the captain frowned heavily. "yes, and left her there. but it's not from her; it's from another lady whom i had n't seen before. she met me just as i was returning from the count's, and bade me look out for you by the cross--" "yes, yes?" cried dieppe, eagerly. "give me the message." for his thoughts flew back to the countess at the first summons. the driver produced a scrap of paper, carelessly folded, and gave it to him. dieppe ran to the carriage and read the message by the light of its dim and smoky lamp: "i think i am in time. come; i wait for you. whatever you see, keep andrea in the dark. if you are discreet, all will be well, and i--i shall be very grateful." the driver mounted the box, the carriage rolled off down the hill, dieppe was left by the cross, with the message in his hand. he did not understand the situation. chapter x the journey to rome it was about ten o'clock--or, it may be, nearer half-past ten--the same night when two inhabitants of the village received very genuine, yet far from unpleasant, shocks of surprise. the first was the parish priest. he was returning from a visit to the bedside of a sick peasant and making his way along the straggling street towards his own modest dwelling, which stood near the inn, when he met a tall stranger of most dilapidated appearance, whose clothes were creased and dirty, and whose head was encircled by a stained and grimy handkerchief. he wore no hat; his face was disfigured with blotches of an ugly colour and, maybe, an uglier significance; his trousers were most atrociously rent and tattered; he walked with a limp, and shivered in the cold night air. this unpromising-looking person approached the priest and addressed him with an elaborate courtesy oddly out of keeping with his scarecrow-like appearance, but with words appropriate enough to the figure that he cut. "reverend father," said he, "pardon the liberty i take, but may i beg of your reverence's great kindness--" "it 's no use begging of me," interrupted the priest hurriedly, for he was rather alarmed. "in the first place, i have nothing; in the second, mendicancy is forbidden by the regulations of the commune." the wayfarer stared at the priest, looked down at his own apparel, and then burst into a laugh. "begging forbidden, eh?" he exclaimed. "then the poor must need voluntary aid!" he thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out two french five-franc pieces. "for the poor, father," he said, pressing them into the priest's hand. "for myself, i was merely about to ask you the time of night." and before the astonished priest could make any movement the stranger passed on his way, humming a soft, and sentimental tune. "he was certainly mad, but he undoubtedly gave me ten francs," said the priest to his friend the innkeeper, the next day. "i wish," growled the innkeeper, "that somebody would give me some money to pay for what those two runaway rogues who lodged here had of me, their baggage is worth no more than half what they 've cost me, and i 'll lay odds i never clap eyes on them again." and in this suspicion the innkeeper proved, in the issue, to be absolutely right, about the value of the luggage there is, however, more room for doubt. the second person who suffered a surprise was no less a man than the count of fieramondi himself. but how this came about needs a little more explanation. in that very room through whose doorway captain dieppe had first beheld the lady whom he now worshipped with a devotion as ardent as it was unhappy, there were now two ladies engaged in conversation. one sat in an arm-chair, nursing the yellow cat of which mention has been made earlier in this history; the other walked up and down with every appearance of weariness, trouble, and distress on her handsome face. "oh, the bishop was just as bad as the banker," she cried fretfully, "and the banker was just as silly as the bishop. the bishop said that, although he might have considered the question of giving me absolution from a vow which i had been practically compelled to take, he could hold out no prospect of my getting it beforehand for taking a vow which i took with no other intention than that of breaking it." "i told you he 'd say that before you went," observed the lady in the arm-chair, who seemed to be treating the situation with a coolness in strong contrast to her companion's agitation. "and the banker said that although, if i had actually spent fifty thousand lire more than i possessed, he would have done his best to see how he could extricate me from the trouble, he certainly would not help me to get fifty thousand for the express purpose of throwing them away." "i thought the banker would say that," remarked the other lady, caressing the cat. "and they both advised me to take my husband's opinion on the matter. my husband's opinion!" her tone was bitter and tragic indeed. "i suppose they 're right," she said, flinging herself dejectedly into a chair. "i must tell andrea everything. oh, and he 'll forgive me!" "well, i should think it's rather nice being forgiven." "oh, no, not by andrea!" the faintest smile flitted for an instant across her face. "oh, no, andrea does n't forgive like that. his forgiveness is very--well, horribly biblical, you know. oh, i 'd better not have gone to rome at all!" "i never saw any good in your going to rome, you know." "yes, i must tell him everything. because paul de roustache is sure to come and--" "he 's come already," observed the second lady, calmly. "what? come?" the other lady set down the cat, rose to her feet, took out of her pocket a gold ring and a gold locket, walked over to her companion, and held them out to her. "these are yours, are n't they?" she inquired, and broke into a merry laugh. the sight brought nothing but an astonished stare and a breathless ejaculation-"lucia!" the two ladies drew their chairs close together, and a long conversation ensued, lucia being the chief narrator, while her companion, whom she addressed from time to time as emilia, did little more than listen and throw in exclamations of wonder, surprise, or delight. "how splendidly you kept the secret!" she cried once. and again, "how lucky that he should be here!" and again, "i thought he looked quite charming." and once again, "but, goodness, what a state the poor man must be in! how could you help telling him, lucia?" "i had promised," said lucia, solemnly, "and i keep my promises, emilia." "and that man has positively gone?" sighed emilia, taking no notice of a rather challenging emphasis which lucia had laid on her last remark. "yes, gone for good--i 'm sure of it. and you need n't tell andrea anything. just take all the vows he asks you to! but he won't now; you see he wants a reconciliation as much as you do." "i shall insist on taking at least one vow," said emilia, with a virtuous air. she stopped and started. "but what in the world am i to say about you, my dear?" she asked. "say i 've just come back from rome, of course," responded lucia. "if he should find out--" "it 's very unlikely, and at the worst you must take another vow, emilia. but andrea 'll never suspect the truth unless--" "unless what?" "unless captain dieppe lets it out, you know." "it would be better if captain dieppe did n't come back, i think," observed emilia, thoughtfully. "well, of all the ungrateful women!" cried lucia, indignantly. but emilia sprang up and kissed her, and began pressing her with all sorts of questions, or rather with all sorts of ways of putting one question, which made her blush very much, and to which she seemed unable, or unwilling, to give any definite reply. at last emilia abandoned the attempt to extract an admission, and observed with a sigh of satisfaction: "i think i 'd better see andrea and forgive him." "you 'll change your frock first, won't you, dear?" cried lucia. it was certainly not desirable that emilia should present herself to the count in the garments she was then wearing. "yes, of course. will you come with me to andrea?" "no. send for me, presently--as soon as it occurs to you that i 've just come back from rome, you know, and should be so happy to hear of your reconciliation." half an hour later,--for the change of costume had to be radical, since there is all the difference in the world between a travelling-dress and an easy, negligent, yet elegant, toilette suggestive of home and the fireside, and certainly not of wanderings,--the count of fieramondi got his shock of surprise in the shape of an inquiry whether he were at leisure to receive a visit from the countess. yet his surprise, great as it was at a result at once so prosperous and so speedy, did not prevent him from drawing the obvious inference. his thoughts had already been occupied with captain dieppe. it was now half-past ten; he had waited an hour for dinner, and then eaten it alone in some disquietude; as time went on he became seriously uneasy, and had considered the despatch of a search expedition. if his friend did not return in half an hour, he had declared, he himself would go and look for him; and he had requested that he should be informed the moment the captain put in an appearance. but, alas! what is friendship--even friendship reinforced by gratitude--beside love? as the poets have often remarked, in language not here to be attained, its power is insignificant, and its claims go to the wall. on fire with the emotions excited by the countess's message, the count forgot both dieppe and all that he owed to dieppe's intercession; the matter went clean out of his head for the moment. he leapt up, pushed away the poem on which he had been trying to concentrate his mind, and cried eagerly: "i 'm at the countess's disposal. i 'll wait on her at once." "the countess is already on her way here," was the servant's answer. the first transports of joy are perhaps better left in a sacred privacy. indeed the count was not for much explanation, or for many words. what need was there? the countess acquiesced in his view with remarkable alacrity; the fewer words there were, and especially, perhaps, the fewer explanations, the easier and more gracious was her part. she had thought the matter over, there in the solitude to which her andrea's cruelty had condemned her: and, yes, she would take the oath--in fact any number of oaths--to hold no further communication whatever with paul de roustache. "ah, your very offer is a reproach to me," said the count, softly. "i told you that now i ask no oath, that your promise was enough, that--" "you told me?" exclaimed the countess, with some appearance of surprise. "why, yes. at least i begged dieppe to tell you in my name. did n't he?" for a moment the countess paused, engaged in rapid calculations, then she said sweetly: "oh, yes, of course! but it's not the same as hearing it from your own lips, andrea." "where did you see him?" asked the count. "did he pass the barricade? ah, we 'll soon have that down, won't we?" "oh, yes, andrea; do let 's have it down, because--" "but where did you and dieppe have your talk?" "oh--oh--down by the river, andrea." "he found you there?" "yes, he found me there, and--and talked to me." "and gave you back the ring?" inquired the count, tenderly. the countess took it from her pocket and handed it to her husband. "i 'd rather you 'd put it on yourself," she said. the count took her hand in his and placed the ring on her finger. it fitted very well, indeed. there could be no doubt that it was made for the hand on which it now rested. the count kissed it as he set it there. at last, however, he found time to remember the obligations he was under to his friend. "but where can our dear dieppe be?" he cried. "we owe so much to him." "yes, we do owe a lot to him," murmured the countess. "but, andrea--" "indeed, my darling, we must n't forget him. i must--" "no, we must n't forget him. oh, no, we won't. but, andrea, i--i 've got another piece of news for you." the countess spoke with a little timidity, as if she were trying delicate ground, and were not quite sure of her footing. "more news? what an eventful night!" he took his wife's hand. away went all thoughts of poor dieppe again. "yes, it's so lucky, happening just to-night. lucia has come back! an hour ago!" "lucia come back!" exclaimed the count, gladly. "that's good news, indeed." "it 'll delight her so much to find us--to find us like this again, andrea." "yes, yes, we must send for her. is she in her room? and where has she come from?" "rome," answered the countess, again in a rather nervous way. "rome!" cried the count in surprise. "what took her to rome?" "she does n't like to be asked much about it," began the countess, with a prudent air. "i 'm sure i don't want to pry into her affairs, but--" "no, i knew you would n't want to do that, andrea." "still, my dear, it 's really a little odd. she left only four days ago. now she 's back, and--" the count broke off, looking rather distressed. such proceedings, accompanied by such mystery, were not, to his mind, quite the proper thing for a young and unmarried lady. "i won't ask her any questions," he went on, "but i suppose she 's told you, emilia?" "oh, yes, she 's told me," said the countess, hastily. "and am i to be excluded from your confidence?" the countess put her arms round his neck. "well, you know, andrea," said she, "you do sometimes scoff at religion--well, i mean you talk rather lightly sometimes, you know." "oh, she went on a religious errand, did she?" "yes," the countess answered in a more confident tone. "she particularly wanted to consult the bishop of mesopotamia. she believes in him very much. oh, so do i. i do believe, andrea, that if you knew the bishop of--" "my dear, i don't want to know the bishop of mesopotamia; but lucia is perfectly at liberty to consult him as much as she pleases. i don't see any need for mystery." "no, neither do i," murmured the countess. "but dear lucia is--is so sensitive, you know." "i remember seeing him about rome very well. i must ask lucia whether he still wears that--" "really, the less you question lucia about her journey the better, dear andrea," said the countess, in a tone which was very affectionate, but also marked by much decision. and there can be no doubt she spoke the truth, from her own point of view, at least. "would n't it be kind to send for her now?" she added. in fact the countess found this interview, so gratifying and delightful in its main aspect, rather difficult in certain minor ways, and lucia would be a convenient ally. it was much better, too, that they should talk about one another in one another's presence. that is always more straightforward; and, in this case, it would minimise the chances of a misunderstanding in the future. for instance, if lucia showed ignorance about the bishop of mesopotamia--! "do let's send for lucia," the countess said again, coaxingly; and the count, after a playful show of unwillingness to end their tãªte-ã -tãªte, at last consented. but here was another difficulty--lucia could not be found. the right wing was searched without result; she was nowhere. on the chance, unlikely indeed but possible, that she had taken advantage of the new state of things, they searched the left wing too--with an equal absence of result. lucia was nowhere in the house; so it was reported. the count was very much surprised. "can she have gone out at this time of night?" he cried. the countess was not much surprised. she well understood how lucia might have gone out a little way--far enough, say, to look for captain dieppe, and make him aware of how matters stood. but she did not suggest this explanation to her husband; explanations are to be avoided when they themselves require too much explaining. "it's very fine now," said she, looking out of the window. "perhaps she's just gone for a turn on the road." "what for?" asked the count, spreading out his hands in some bewilderment. the countess, in an extremity, once more invoked the aid of the bishop of mesopotamia. "perhaps, dear," she said gently, "to think it over--to reflect in quiet on what she has learnt and been advised." and she added, as an artistic touch, "to think it over under the stars, dear andrea." the count, betraying a trifle of impatience, turned to the servant. "run down the road," he commanded, "and see if the countess lucia is anywhere about." he returned to his wife's side. "one good thing about it is that we can have our talk out," said he. "yes, but let 's leave the horrid past and talk about the future," urged the countess, with affection--and no doubt with wisdom also. the servant, who in obedience to the count's order ran down the road towards the village, did not see the countess lucia. that lady, mistrusting the explicitness of her hurried note, had stolen out into the garden, and was now standing hidden in the shadow of the barricade, straining her eyes down the hill towards the river and the stepping-stones. there lay the shortest way for the captain to return--and of course, she had reasoned, he would come the shortest way. she did not, however, allow for the captain's pardonable reluctance to get wet a third time that night. he did not know the habits of the river, and he distrusted the stepping-stones. after his experience he was all for a bridge. moreover he did not hurry back to the castle; he had much to think over, and no inviting prospect lured him home on the wings of hope. what hope was there? what hope of happiness either for himself or for the lady whom he loved? if he yielded to his love, he wronged her--her and his own honour. if he resisted, he must renounce her--aye, and leave her, not to a loving husband, but to one who deceived her most grossly and most cruelly, in a way which made her own venial errors seem as nothing in the captain's partial, pitying eyes. in the distress of these thoughts he forgot his victories: how he had disposed of paul de roustache, how he had defeated m. guillaume, how his precious papers were safe, and even how the countess was freed from all her fears. it was her misery he thought of now, not her fears. for she loved him. and in his inmost heart he knew that he must leave her. yes; in the recesses of his heart he knew what true love for her and a true regard for his own honour alike demanded. but he did not mean that, because he saw this and was resolved to act on it, the count should escape castigation. before he went, before he left behind him what was dearest in life, and again took his way alone, unfriended, solitary (penniless too, if he had happened to remember this), he would speak his mind to the count, first in stinging reproaches, later in the appeal that friendship may make to honour; and at the last he would demand from the count, as the recompense for his own services, an utter renunciation and abandonment of the lady who had dropped the locket by the ford, of her whom the driver had carried to the door of the house which the countess of fieramondi honoured with her gracious presence. in drawing a contrast between the countess and this shameless woman the last remembrance of the countess's peccadilloes faded from his indignant mind. he quickened his pace a little, as a man does when he has reached a final decision. he crossed the bridge, ascended the hill on which the castle stood, and came opposite to the little gate which the count himself had opened to him on that first happy--or unhappy--night on which he had become an inmate of the house. even as he came to it, it opened, and the count's servant ran out. in a moment he saw dieppe and called to him loudly and gladly. "sir, sir, my master is most anxious about you. he feared for your safety." "i 'm safe enough," answered dieppe, in a gloomy tone. "he begs your immediate presence, sir. he is in the dining-room." dieppe braced himself to the task before him. "i will follow you," he said; and passing the gate he allowed the servant to precede him into the house. "now for what i must say!" he thought, as he was conducted towards the dining-room. the servant had been ordered to let the count know the moment that captain dieppe returned. how obey these orders more to the letter than by ushering the captain himself directly into the count's presence? he threw open the door, announcing-"captain dieppe!" and then withdrawing with dexterous quickness. captain dieppe had expected nothing good. the reality was worse than his imagining the count sat on a sofa, and by him, with her arms round his neck, was the lady whom dieppe had escorted across the ford on the road from sasellano. the captain stood still just within the doorway, frowning heavily. sadly he remembered the countess's letter. alas, it was plain enough that she had not come in time! just at this moment the servant, having seen nothing of countess lucia on the road, decided, as a last resort, to search the garden for her ladyship. chapter xi the luck of the captain it is easy to say that the captain should not have been so shocked, and that it would have been becoming in him to remember his own transgression committed in the little hut in the hollow of the hill. but human nature is not, as a rule at least, so constituted that the immediate or chief effect of the sight of another's wrong-doing is to recall our own. the scene before him outraged all the captain's ideas of how his neighbours ought to conduct themselves, and (perhaps a more serious thing) swept away all memory of the caution contained in the countess's letter. the count rose with a smile, still holding the countess by the hand. "my dear friend," he cried, "we 're delighted to see you. but what? you 've been in the wars!" dieppe made no answer. his stare attracted his host's attention. "ah," he pursued, with a laugh, "you wonder to see us like this? we are treating you too much _en famille_! but indeed you ought to be glad to see it. we owe it almost all to you. no, she would n't be here but for you, my friend. would you, dear?" "no, i--i don't suppose i should." did they refer to dieppe's assisting her across the ford? if he had but known-"come," urged the count, "give me your hand, and let my wife and me--" "what?" cried the captain, loudly, in unmistakable surprise. the count looked from him to the countess. the countess began to laugh. her husband seemed as bewildered as dieppe. "oh, dear," laughed the countess, "i believe captain dieppe did n't know me!"' "did n't know you?" "he 's only seen me once, and then in the dark, you know. oh, what did you suspect? but you recognise me now? you will believe that i really am andrea's wife?" the captain could not catch the cue. it meant to him so complete a reversal of what he had so unhesitatingly believed, such an utter upsetting of all his notions. for if this were in truth the countess of fieramondi, why, who was the other lady? his want of quickness threatened at last to ruin the scheme which he had, although unconsciously, done so much to help; for the count was growing puzzled. "i--i--of course i know the countess of fieramondi," stammered dieppe. the countess held out her hand gracefully. there could, at least, be little harm in kissing it. dieppe walked across the room and paid his homage. as he rose from this social observance he heard a voice from the doorway saying: "are n't you glad to see me, andrea?" the captain shot round in time to see the count paying the courtesy which he had himself just paid--and paying it to a lady whom he did know very well. the next instant the count turned to him, saying: "captain, let me present you to my wife's cousin, the countess lucia bonavia d'orano. she has arrived to-night from rome. how did you leave the bishop of mesopotamia, lucia?" but the countess interposed very quickly. "now, andrea, you promised me not to bother lucia about her journey, and especially not about the bishop. you don't want to talk about it, do you, lucia?" "not at all," said lucia, and the count laughed rather mockingly. "and you need n't introduce me to captain dieppe, either," she went on. "we 've met before." "met before?" the count turned to dieppe. "why, where was that?" "at the ford over the river." it was lucia now who interposed. "he helped me across. oh, i 'll tell you all about it." she began her narrative, which she related with particular fulness. for a while dieppe watched her. then he happened to glance towards the countess. he found that lady's eyes set on him with an intentness full of meaning. the count's attention was engrossed by lucia. emilia gave a slight but emphatic nod. a slow smile dawned on captain dieppe's face. "indeed," ended lucia, "i 'm not at all sure that i don't owe my life to captain dieppe." and she bestowed on the captain a very kindly glance. the count turned to speak to his wife. lucia nodded sharply at the captain. "you were--er--returning from rome?" he asked. "from visiting the bishop of mesopotamia," called the countess. "yes," said lucia. "i should never have got across but for you." "but tell me about yourself, dieppe," said the count. "you 're really in a sad state, my dear fellow." the captain felt that the telling of his story was ticklish work. the count sat down on the sofa; the two ladies stood behind it, their eyes were fixed on the captain in warning glances. "well, i got a message from a fellow to-night to meet him on the hill outside the village--by the cross there, you know. i fancied i knew what he wanted, so i went." "that was after you parted from me, i suppose?" asked emilia. "yes," said the captain, boldly. "it was as i supposed. he was after my papers. there was another fellow with him. i--i don't know who--" "well, i daresay he did n't mention his name," suggested lucia. "no, no, he did n't," agreed the captain, hastily. "i knew only guillaume--and that name 's an alias of a certain m. sã©vier, a police spy, who had his reasons for being interested in me. well, my dear friend, guillaume tried to bribe me. then with the aid of--" just in time the captain checked himself--"of the other rascal he--er--attacked me--" "all this was before you met me, i suppose?" inquired lucia. "certainly, certainly," assented the captain. "i had been pursuing the second fellow. i chased him across the river--" "you caught him!" cried the count. "no. he escaped me and made off in the direction of sasellano." "and the first one--this guillaume?" "when i got back he was gone," said the captain. "but i bear marks of a scratch which he gave me, you perceive." he looked at the count. the count appeared excellently well satisfied with the story. he looked at the ladies; they were smiling and nodding approval. "deuce take it," thought the captain, "i seem to have hit on the right lies by chance!" "all ends most happily," cried the count. "happily for you, my dear friend, and most happily for me. and here is lucia with us again too! in truth it 's a most auspicious evening. i propose that we allow lucia time to change her travelling-dress, and dieppe a few moments to wash off the stains of battle, and then we 'll celebrate the joyous occasion with a little supper." the count's proposal met with no opposition--least of all from dieppe, who suddenly remembered that he was famished. the next morning, the garden of the castle presented a pleasing sight. workmen were busily engaged in pulling down the barricade, while the count and countess sat on a seat hard by. sometimes they watched the operations, sometimes the count read in a confidential and tender voice from a little sheaf of papers which he held in his hand. when he ceased reading, the countess would murmur, "beautiful!" and the count shake his head in a poet's affectation of dissatisfaction with his verse. then they would fall to watching the work of demolition again. at last the count remarked: "but where are lucia and our friend dieppe?" "walking together down there by the stream," answered the countess. and, after a pause, she turned to him, and, in a very demure fashion, hazarded a suggestion. "do you know, andrea, i think lucia and captain dieppe are inclined to take to one another very much?" "it 's an uncommonly sudden attachment," laughed the count. "yes," agreed his wife, biting her lip. "it 's certainly sudden. but consider in what an interesting way their acquaintance began! do you know anything about him?" "i know he 's a gentleman, and a clever fellow," returned the count. "and from time to time he makes some money, i believe." "lucia's got some money," mused the countess. down by the stream they walked, side by side, showing indeed (as the countess remarked) every sign of taking to one another very much. "you really think we shall hear no more of paul de roustache?" asked lucia. "i 'm sure of it; and i think m. guillaume will let me alone too. indeed there remains only one question." "what's that?" asked lucia. "how you are going to treat me," said the captain. "think what i have suffered already!" "i could n't help that," she cried. "my word was absolutely pledged to emilia. 'whatever happens,' i said to her, 'i promise i won't tell anybody that i 'm not the countess.' if i had n't promised that, she could n't have gone to rome at all, you know. she 'd have died sooner than let andrea think she had left the castle." "you remember what you said to her. do you remember what you said to me?" "when?" "when we talked in the hut in the hollow of the hill. you said you would be all that you could be to me." "did i say as much as that? and when i was countess of fieramondi! oh!" "yes, and you let me do something--even when you were countess of fieramondi, too!" "that was not playing the part well." the captain looked just a little doubtful, and lucia laughed. "anyhow," said he, "you 're not countess of fieramondi now." she looked up at him. "you 're a very devout young lady," he continued, "who goes all the way to rome to consult the bishop of mesopotamia. now, that"--the captain took both her hands in his--"is exactly the sort of wife for me." "monsieur le capitaine, i have always thought you a courageous man, and now i am sure of it. you have seen--and aided--all my deceit; and now you want to marry me!" "a man can't know his wife too well," observed the captain. "come, let me go and communicate my wishes to count andrea." "what? why, you only met me for the first time last night!" "oh, but i can explain--" "that you had previously fallen in love with the countess of fieramondi? for your own sake and ours too--" "that's very true," admitted the captain. "i must wait a little, i suppose." "you must wait to tell andrea that you love me, but--" "precisely!" cried the captain. "there is no reason in the world why i should wait to tell you." and then and there he told her again in happiness the story which had seemed so tragic when it was wrung from him in the shepherd's hut. "undoubtedly, i am a very fortunate fellow," he cried, with his arm round lucia's waist. "i come to this village by chance. by chance i am welcomed here instead of having to go to the inn. by chance i am the means of rescuing a charming lady from a sad embarrassment. i am enabled to send a rascal to the right-about. i succeed in preserving my papers. i inflict a most complete and ludicrous defeat on that crafty old fellow, guillaume sã©vier! and, by heaven! when i do what seems the unluckiest thing of all, when, against my will, i fall in love with my dear friend's wife, when my honour is opposed to my happiness, when i am reduced to the saddest plight--why, i say, by heaven, she turns out not to be his wife at all! lucia, am i not born under a lucky star?" "i think i should be very foolish not to--to do my best to share your luck," said she. "i am the happiest fellow in the world," he declared. "and that," he added, as though it were a rare and precious coincidence, "with my conscience quite at peace." perhaps it is rare, and perhaps the captain's conscience had no right to be quite at peace. for certainly he had not told all the truth to his dear friend, the count of fieramondi. yet since no more was heard of paul de roustache, and the countess's journey remained an unbroken secret, these questions of casuistry need not be raised. after all, is it for a man to ruin the tranquillity of a home for the selfish pleasure of a conscience quite at peace? but as to the consciences of those two very ingenious young ladies, the countess of fieramondi, and her cousin, countess lucia, the problem is more difficult. the countess never confessed, and lucia never betrayed, the secret. yet they were both devout! indeed, the problem seems insoluble. stay, though! perhaps the counsel and aid of the bishop of mesopotamia (_in partibus_) were invoked again. his lordship's position, that you must commit your sin before you can be absolved from the guilt of it, not only appears most logical in itself, but was, in the circumstances of the case, not discouraging. google books (oxford university) transcriber's notes: 1. page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=3dcpaaaaqaaj _the datchet diamonds_ [illustration: "shall i shoot all three of you?" page 265. _frontispiece_.] the datchet diamonds by richard marsh author of "the crime and the criminal," "philip bennion's death," "the beetle," etc., etc. _illustrated by stanley l. wood_ london ward, lock & co., limited warwick house, salisbury square, e.c. new york and melbourne unwin brothers, the gresham press, woking and london. contents chapter i. two men and a maid. chapter ii. overheard in the train. chapter iii. the diamonds. chapter iv. miss wentworth's rudeness. chapter v. in the bodega. chapter vi. the adventures of a night. chapter vii. the datchet diamonds are placed in safe custody. chapter viii. in the moment of his success. chapter ix. a proposal of marriage. chapter x. cyril's friend. chapter xi. john ireland's warrant. chapter xii. a woman roused. chapter xiii. the detective and the lady. chapter xiv. among thieves. chapter xv. put to the question. chapter xvi. a modern instance of an ancient practice. chapter xvii. the most dangerous foe of all. chapter xviii. the last of the datchet diamonds. chapter xix. a woman's logic. chapter i two men and a maid the band struck up a waltz. it chanced to be the one which they had last danced together at the dome. how well he had danced, and how guilty she had felt! conscious of what almost amounted to a sense of impropriety! charlie had taken her; it was charlie who had made her go--but then, in some eyes, miss wentworth might not have been regarded as the most unimpeachable of chaperons. that cyril, for instance, would have had strong opinions of his own upon that point, miss strong was well aware. while miss strong listened, thinking of the last time she had heard that waltz, the man with whom she had danced it stood, all at once, in front of her. she had half expected that it would be so--half had feared it. it was not the first time they had encountered each other on the pier; miss strong had already begun to more than suspect that the chance of encountering her was the magnet which drew mr. lawrence through the turnstiles. she did not wish to meet him; she assured herself that she did not wish to meet him. but, on the other hand, she did not wish to go out of her way so as to seem to run away from him. the acquaintance had begun on the top of the devil's dyke in the middle of a shower of rain. miss strong, feeling in want of occupation, and, to speak the truth, a little in the blues, had gone, on an unpromising afternoon in april, on the spur of the moment, and in something like a temper, on a solitary excursion to the devil's dyke. on the downs the wind blew great guns. she could hardly stand against it. yet it did her good, for it suited her mood. she struggled on over the slopes, past poynings, when, suddenly--she, in her abstraction, having paid no heed to the weather, and expecting nothing of the kind--it came down a perfect deluge of rain. she had a walking-stick, but neither mackintosh nor umbrella. there seemed every likelihood of her having to return like a drowned rat to brighton, when, with the appropriateness of a fairy tale, some one came rushing to her with an umbrella in his hand. she could hardly refuse the proffered shelter, and the consequence was that the owner of the umbrella escorted her first to the hotel, then to the station, and afterwards to brighton. nor, after such services had been rendered, when they parted at the station did she think it necessary to inform him that, not under any circumstances, was he to notice her again; besides, from what she had seen of him, she rather liked the man. so, when, two days afterwards, he stopped her on the pier to ask if she had suffered any ill-effects from her exposure, it took her some five-and-twenty minutes to explain that she had not. there were other meetings, mostly on the pier; and then, as a climax, that masonic ball at the dome. she danced with him five times! she felt all the time that she ought not; she knew that she would not have done it if cyril had been there. miss wentworth, introduced by miss strong, danced with him twice, and when asked by miss strong if she thought that she--miss strong--ought to have three dances with him miss wentworth declared that she did not see why, if she liked, she should not have thirty. so miss strong had five--which shows that miss wentworth's notions of the duties of a chaperon were vague. and now the band was striking up that identical waltz; and there was mr. lawrence standing in front of the lady with whom he had danced it. "i believe that that was ours, miss strong," he said. "i think it was." he was holding her hand in his, and looking at her with something in his eyes which there and then she told herself would never do. they threaded their way through the crowd of people towards the head of the pier, saying little, which was worse than saying much. although charlie had been working, miss strong wished she had stayed at home with her; it would have been better than this. a sense of pending peril made her positively nervous; she wanted to get away from her companion, and yet for the moment she did not see her way to do it. beyond doubt mr. lawrence was not a man in whose favour nothing could be said. he was of medium height, had a good figure, and held himself well. he was very fair, with a slight moustache, and a mouth which was firm and resolute. his eyes were blue--a light, bright blue--beautiful eyes they were, but scarcely of the kind which could correctly be described as sympathetic. his complexion was almost like a girl's, it was so pink and white; he seemed the picture of health. his manners were peculiarly gentle. he moved noiselessly, without any appearance of exertion. his voice, though soft, was of so penetrating a quality and so completely under control that, without betraying by any movement of his lips the fact that he was speaking, he could make his faintest whisper audible in a way which was quite uncanny. whatever his dress might be, on him it always seemed unobtrusive; indeed, the strangest thing about the man was that, while he always seemed to be the most retiring of human beings, in reality he was one of the most difficult to be rid of, as miss strong was finding now. more than once, just as she was about to give him his dismissal, he managed to prevent her doing so in a manner which, while she found it impossible to resent it, was not by any means to her taste. finally, finding it difficult to be rid of him in any other way, and being, for some reason which she would herself have found it difficult to put into words, unusually anxious to be freed from his companionship, she resolved, in desperation, to leave the pier. she acquainted him with her determination to be off, and then, immediately afterwards, not a little to her surprise and a good deal to her disgust, she found herself walking towards the pier-gates with him at her side. miss strong's wish had been to part from him there and then; but again he had managed to prevent the actual expression of her wish, and it seemed plain that she was still to be saddled with his society, at any rate, as far as the gates. before they had gone half-way down the pier miss strong had cause to regret that she had not shown a trifle more firmness, for she saw advancing towards her a figure which, at the instant, she almost felt that she knew too well. it was cyril paxton. the worst of it was that she was not clear in her own mind as to what it would be best for her to do--the relations between herself and mr. paxton were of so curious a character. she saw that mr. paxton's recognition of her had not been so rapid as hers had been of him; at first she thought that she was going to pass him unperceived. in that case she would go a few steps farther with mr. lawrence, dismiss him, return, and discover herself to cyril at her leisure. but it was not to be. mr. paxton, glancing about him from side to side of the pier, observed her on a sudden--and he observed mr. lawrence too; on which trivial accident hinges the whole of this strange history. miss strong knew that she was seen. she saw that mr. paxton was coming to her. her heart began to beat. in another second or two he was standing in front of her with uplifted hat, wearing a not very promising expression of countenance. "where's charlie?" was his greeting. the lady was aware that the question in itself conveyed a reproach, though she endeavoured to feign innocence. "charlie's at home; i couldn't induce her to come out. her 'copy' for _fashion_ has to be ready by the morning; she says she's behind, so she stayed at home to finish it." "oh!" that was all that mr. paxton said, but the look with which he favoured mr. lawrence conveyed a very vivid note of interrogation. "cyril," explained miss strong, "this is mr. lawrence. mr. lawrence, this is mr. paxton; and i am afraid you must excuse me." mr. lawrence did excuse her. she and mr paxton returned together up the pier; he, directly mr. lawrence was out of hearing, putting to her the question which, though she dreaded, she knew was inevitable. "who's that?" "that is mr. lawrence." "yes, you told me so much already; who is mr. lawrence?" as she walked miss strong, looking down, tapped with the ferrule of her umbrella on the boards. "oh! he's a sort of acquaintance." "you have not been long in brighton, then, without making acquaintance?" "cyril! i have been here more than a month. surely a girl can make an acquaintance in that time?" "it depends, i fancy, on the girl, and on the circumstances in which she is placed. what is mr. lawrence?" "i have not the faintest notion. i have a sort of general idea that, like yourself, he is something in the city. it seems to me that nowadays most men are." "who introduced him?" "a shower of rain." "an excellent guarantor of the man's eligibility, though, even for the average girl, one would scarcely have supposed that that would have been a sufficient introduction." miss strong flushed. "you have no right to talk to me like that. i did not know that you were coming to brighton, or i would have met you at the station." "i knew that i should meet you on the pier." the lady stood still. "what do you mean by that?" the gentleman, confronting her, returned her glance for glance. "i mean what i say. i knew that i should meet you on the pier--and i have." the lady walked on again; whatever she might think of mr. paxton's inference, his actual statement was undeniable. "you don't seem in the best of tempera, cyril. how is mr. franklyn?" "he was all right when i saw him last--a good deal better than i was or than i am." "what is the matter with you? are you ill?" "matter!" mr. paxton's tone was bitter. "what is likely to be the matter with the man who, after having had the luck which i have been having lately, to crown it all finds the woman he loves philandering with a stranger--the acquaintance of a shower of rain--on brighton pier." "you have no right to speak to me like that--not the slightest! i am perfectly free to do as i please, as you are. and, without condescending to dispute your inferences--though, as you very well know, they are quite unjust!--any attempt at criticism on your part will be resented by me in a manner which you may find unpleasant." a pause followed the lady's words, which the gentleman did not seem altogether to relish. "still the fact remains that i do love you better than anything else in the world." "surely if that were so, cyril, at this time of day you and i would not be situated as we are." "by which you mean?" "if you felt for me what you are always protesting that you feel, surely sometimes you would have done as i wished." "which being interpreted is equivalent to saying that i should have put my money into goschens, and entered an office at a salary of a pound a week." "if you had done so you would at any rate still have your money, and also, possibly, the prospect of a career." they had reached the end of the pier, and were leaning over the side, looking towards the worthing lights. miss strong's words were followed by an interval of silence. when the gentleman spoke again, in his voice there was the suspicion of a tremor. "daisy, don't be hard on me." "i don't wish to be hard. it was you who began by being hard on me." he seemed to pay no heed to her speech, continuing on a line of his own-"especially just now!" she glanced at him. "why especially just now?" "well----" he stopped. the tremor in his voice became more pronounced. "because i'm going for the gloves." if the light had been clearer he might have seen that her face assumed a sudden tinge of pallor. "what do you mean by you're going for the gloves?" "i mean that probably by this time tomorrow i shall have either won you or lost you for ever." "cyril!" there was a catching in her breath. "i hope you are going to do nothing--wild." "it depends upon the point of view." he turned to her with sudden passion. "i'm sick of things as they are--sick to death! i've made up my mind to know either the best or the worst." "how do you propose to arrive at that state of knowledge?" "i've gone a bull on eries--a big bull. so big a bull that if they fall one i'm done." "how done?" "i shall be done, because it will be for reasons, good, strong, solid reasons, the last deal i shall ever make on the london stock exchange." there was silence. then she spoke again-"you will lose. you always do lose!" "thanks." "it will be almost better for you that you should lose. i am beginning to believe, cyril, that you never will do any good till you have touched bottom, till you have lost all that you possibly can lose." "thank you, again." she drew herself up, drawing herself away from the railing against which she had been leaning. she gave a gesture which was suggestive of weariness. "i too am tired. this uncertainty is more than i can stand; you are so unstable, cyril. your ideas and mine on some points are wide apart. it seems to me that if a girl is worth winning, she is worth working for. as a profession for a man, i don't think that what you call 'punting' on the stock exchange is much better than pitch-and-toss." "well?" the word was an interrogation. she had paused. "it appears to me that the girl who marries a man who does nothing else but 'punt' is preparing for herself a long line of disappointments. think how many times you have disappointed me. think of the fortunes you were to have made. think, cyril, of the trumpit gold mine--what great things were to come of that!" "i am quite aware that i did invest every penny i could beg, borrow, or steal in the trumpit gold mine, and that at present i am the fortunate possessor of a trunkful of shares which are not worth a shilling a-piece. the reminder is a pleasant one. proceed--you seem wound up to go." her voice assumed a new touch of sharpness. "the long and the short of it is, cyril--it is better that we should understand each other!--if your present speculation turns out as disastrously as all your others have done, and it leaves you worse off than ever, the relations, such as they are, which exist between us must cease. we must be as strangers!" "which means that you don't care for me the value of a brass-headed pin." "it means nothing of the kind, as you are well aware. it simply means that i decline to link my life with a man who appears incapable of keeping his own head above water. because he insists on drowning himself, why should i allow him to drown me too?" "i observe that you take the commercial, up-to-date view of marriage." "what view do you take? are you nearer to being able to marry me than ever you were? are you not farther off? you have no regular income--and how many entanglements? what do you propose that we should live on--on the hundred and twenty pounds a year which mother left me?" there came a considerable silence. he had not moved from the position he had taken up against the railing, and still looked across the waveless sea towards the glimmering lights of worthing. when he did speak his tones were cold, and clear, and measured--perhaps the coldness was assumed to hide a warmer something underneath. "your methods are a little rough, but perhaps they are none the worse on that account. as you say so shall it be. win or lose, to-morrow evening i will meet you again upon the pier--that is, if you will come." "you know i'll come!" "if i lose it will be to say goodbye. next week i emigrate." she was still, so he went on-"now, if you don't mind, i'll see you to the end of the pier, and say goodbye until tomorrow. i'll get something to eat and hurry back to town." "won't you come and see charlie?" "thank you, i don't think i will. miss wentworth has not a sufficiently good opinion of me to care if i do or don't. make her my excuses." another pause. then she said, in a tone which was hardly above a whisper-"cyril, i do hope you'll win." he stood, and turned, and faced her. "do you really mean that, daisy?" "you know that i do." "then, if you really hope that i shall win--the double event!--as an earnest of your hopes--there is no one looking!--kiss me." she did as he bade her. chapter ii overheard in the train it was with a feeling of grim amusement that mr. paxton bought himself a first-class ticket. it was, probably, the last occasion on which he would ride first-class for some considerable time to come. the die had fallen; the game was lost--eries had dropped more than one. not only had he lost all he had to lose, he was a defaulter. it was out of his power to settle, he was going to emigrate instead. he had with him a gladstone bag; it contained all his worldly possessions that he proposed to take with him on his travels. his intention was, having told miss strong the news, and having bidden a last farewell, to go straight from brighton to southampton, and thence, by the american line, to the continent on whose shores europe dumps so many of its failures. the train was later than are the trains which are popular with city men. it seemed almost empty at london bridge. mr. paxton had a compartment to himself. he had an evening paper with him. he turned to the money article. eries had closed a point lower even than he had supposed. it did not matter. a point lower, more or less, would make no difference to him--the difference would be to the brokers who had trusted him. wishing to do anything but think, he looked to see what other news the paper might contain. some sensational headlines caught his eye. "robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds! "an extraordinary tale." the announcement amused him. "after all that is the sort of line which i ought to have made my own--robbing pure and simple. it's more profitable than what daisy says that i call 'punting.'" he read on. the tale was told in the usual sensational style, though the telling could scarcely have been more sensational than the tale which was told. that afternoon, it appeared, an amazing robbery had taken place--amazing, first, because of the almost incredible value of what had been stolen; and, second, because of the daring fashion in which the deed had been done. in spite of the desperate nature of his own position--or, perhaps, because of it--mr. paxton drank in the story with avidity. the duchess of datchet, the young, and, if report was true, the beautiful wife of one of england's greatest and richest noblemen, had been on a visit to the queen at windsor--the honoured guest of the sovereign. as a fitting mark of the occasion, and in order to appear before her majesty in the splendours which so well became her, the duchess had taken with her the famous datchet diamonds. as all the world knows the dukes of datchet have been collectors of diamonds during, at any rate, the last two centuries. the value of their collection is fabulous--the intrinsic value of the stones which the duchess had taken with her on that memorable journey, according to the paper, was at least â£250,000--a quarter of a million of money! this was the net value--indeed, it seemed that one might almost say it was the trade value, and was quite apart from any adventitious value which they might possess, from, for instance, the point of view of historical association. mr. paxton drew a long breath as he read: "two hundred and fifty thousand pounds--a quarter of a million! i am not at all sure that i should not have liked to have had a finger in such a pie as that. it would be better than punting at eries." the diamonds, it seemed, arrived all right at windsor, and the duchess too. the visit passed off with due _ã©clat_. it was as her grace was returning that the deed was done, though how it was done was, as yet, a profound mystery. "of course," commented mr. paxton to himself, "all criminal london knew what she had taken with her. the betting is that they never lost sight of those diamonds from first to last; to adequately safeguard them she ought to have taken with her a regiment of soldiers." although she had not gone so far as a regiment of soldiers, that precaution had been taken--and precautions, moreover, which had been found to be adequate, over and over again, on previous occasions--was sufficiently plain. the duchess had travelled in a reserved saloon carriage by the five minutes past four train from windsor to paddington. she had been accompanied by two servants, her maid, and a man-servant named stephen eversleigh. eversleigh was one of a family of servants the members of which had been in the employment of the dukes of datchet for generations. it was he who was in charge of the diamonds. they were in a leather despatch-box. the duchess placed them in it with her own hand, locked the box, and retained the key in her own possession. eversleigh carried the box from the duchess's apartment in the castle to the carriage which conveyed her to the railway station. he placed it on the seat in front of her. he himself sat outside with the maid. when the carriage reached the station he carried it to the duchess's saloon. the duchess was the sole occupant of the saloon. she travelled with the despatch-box in front of her all the way to london. the duke met her at paddington. eversleigh again placed the box on the front seat of the carriage, the duke and duchess, sitting side by side, having it in full view as the brougham passed through the london streets. the diamonds, when not in actual use, were always kept, for safe custody, at bartlett's bank. the confidential agent of the bank was awaiting their arrival when the brougham reached the ducal mansion in grosvenor square. the despatch-box was taken straight to him, and, more for form's sake than anything else, was opened by the duchess in his presence, so that he might see that it really did contain the diamonds before he gave the usual receipt. it was as well for the bank's sake that on that occasion the form was observed. when the box was opened, it was empty! there was nothing of any sort to show that the diamonds had ever been in it--they had vanished into air! when he had reached this point mr. paxton put the paper down. he laughed. "that's a teaser. the position seems to promise a pleasing problem for one of those masters of the art of detection who have been cutting such antics lately in popular fiction. if i were appointed to ferret out the mystery, i fancy that i should begin by wanting to know a few things about her grace the duchess. i wonder what happened to that despatch-box while she and it were _tãªte-ã -tãªte?_ it is to be hoped that she possesses her husband's entire confidence, otherwise it is just possible that she is in for a rare old time of it." the newspaper had little more to tell. there were the usual attempts to fill a column with a paragraph; the stereotyped statements about the clues which the police were supposed to be following up, but all that they amounted to was this: that the duchess asserted that she had placed the diamonds in the despatch-box at windsor castle, and that, as a matter of plain fact, they were not in it when the box reached grosvenor square. mr. paxton leaned back in his seat, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, and mused. "what lucky beggars those thieves must be! what wouldn't any one do for a quarter of a million--what wouldn't i? even supposing that the value of the stones is over-stated, and that they are only worth half as much, there is some spending in â£125,000. it would set me up for life, with a little over. what prospect is there in front of me--don't i know that there is none? existence in a country which i have not the faintest desire to go to; a life which i hate; a continual struggling and striving for the barest daily bread, with, in all human probability, failure, and a nameless grave at the end. what use is there in living out such a life as that? but if i could only lay my hands on even an appreciable fraction of that quarter of a million, with daisy at my side--god bless the girl! how ill i have treated her!--how different it all would be!" mr. paxton was possessed by a feeling of restlessness; his thoughts pricked him in his most secret places. for him, the train was moving much too slowly; had it flown on the wings of the wind it could scarcely have kept pace with the whirlwind in his brain. rising to his feet, he began to move backwards and forwards in the space between the seats--anything was better than complete inaction. the compartment in which he was travelling was not a new one; indeed, so far was it from being a new one, that it belonged to a type which, if not actually obsolete, at any rate nowadays is rarely seen. an oblong sheet of plate-glass was let into the partition on either side, within a few inches of the roof. this sheet of plate-glass was set in a brass frame, the frame itself being swung on a pivot. desirous of doing anything which would enable him, even temporarily, to escape from his thoughts, mr. paxton gave way to his idle and, one might almost add, impertinent curiosity. he stood, first on one seat, and peered through the glass into the adjoining compartment. so far as he was able to see, from the post of vantage which he occupied, it was vacant. he swung the glass round on its pivot. he listened. there was not a sound. satisfied--if, that is, the knowledge gave him any satisfaction!--that there was no one there, he prepared to repeat the process of espial on the other seat. but in this case the result was different. no sooner had he brought his eyes on a level with the sheet of glass, than he dropped down off the seat again with the rapidity of a jack-in-the-box. "by george! i've seen that man before! it would hardly do to be caught playing the part of peeping tom." conscious of so much, he was also conscious at the same time of an increase of curiosity. among mr. paxton's attributes was that one which is supposed to be the peculiar perquisite of royalty--a memory for faces. if, for any cause, a face had once been brought to his notice, he never afterwards forgot it. he had seen through that sheet of glass a countenance which he had seen before, and that quite recently. "the chances are that i sha'n't be noticed if i am careful; and if i am caught i'll make a joke of it. i'll peep again." he peeped again. as he did so audible words all but escaped his lips. "the deuce! it's the beggar who was last night with daisy on the pier." there could not be a doubt about it; in the carriage next to his sat the individual whose companionship with miss strong had so annoyed him. mr. paxton, peering warily through the further end of the glass, treated mr. lawrence to a prolonged critical inspection, which was not likely to be prejudiced in that gentleman's favour. mr. lawrence sat facing his observer, on mr. paxton's right, in the corner of the carriage. that he was not alone was plain. mr. paxton saw that he smiled, and that his lips were moving. unfortunately, from mr. paxton's point of view, it was not easy to see who was his associate; whoever it was sat just in front of him, and therefore out of mr. paxton's line of vision. this was the more annoying in that mr. lawrence took such evident interest in the conversation he was carrying on. an idea occurred to mr. paxton. "the fellow doesn't seem to see me. when i turned that other thing upon its pivot it didn't make any sound. i wonder, if i were to open this affair half an inch or so, if i could hear what the fellow's saying?" mr. paxton was not in a mood to be particular. on the contrary, he was in one of those moods which come to all of us, in some dark hour of our lives, when we do the things which, being done, we never cease regretting. mr. paxton knelt on the cushions and he opened the frame, as he had said, just half an inch, and he put his ear as close to the opening as he conveniently could, without running the risk of being seen, and he listened. at first he heard nothing for his pains. he had not got his ear just right, and the roar of the train drowned all other sounds. slightly shifting his position mr. paxton suddenly found, however, that he could hear quite well. the speakers, to make themselves audible to each other, had to shout nearly at the top of their voices, and this, secure in their privacy, they did, the result being that mr. paxton could hear just as well what was being said as the person who, to all intents and purposes, was seated close beside him. the first voice he heard was mr. lawrence's. it should be noted that here and there he lost a word, as probably also did the person who was actually addressed; but the general sense of the conversation he caught quite well. "i told you i could do it. you only want patience and resolution to take advantage of your opportunities, and a big coup is as easily carried off as a small one." mr. lawrence's voice ceased. the rejoinder came from a voice which struck mr. paxton as being a very curious one indeed. the speaker spoke not only with a strong nasal twang, but also, occasionally, with an odd idiom. the unseen listener told himself that the speaker was probably the newest thing in races--"a german-american." "with the assistance of a friend--eh?" mr. lawrence's voice again; in it more than a suggestion of scorn. "the assistance of a friend! when it comes to the scratch, it is on himself that a man must rely. what a friend principally does is to take the lion's share of the spoil." "well--why not? a man will not be able to be much of a friend to another, if, first of all, he is not a friend to himself--eh?" mr. lawrence appeared to make no answer--possibly he did not relish the other's reasoning. presently the same voice came again, as if the speaker intended to be apologetic-"understand me, my good friend, i do not say that what you did was not clever. no, it was damn clever!--that i do say. and i always have said that there was no one in the profession who can come near you. in your line of business, or out of it, how many are there who can touch for a quarter of a million, i want to know? now, tell me, how did you do it--is it a secret, eh?" if mr. lawrence had been piqued, the other's words seemed to have appeased him. "not from you--the thing was as plain as walking! the bigger the thing you have to do the more simply you do it the better it will be done." "it does not seem as though it were simple when you read it in the papers--eh? what do you think?" "the papers be damned! directly you gave me the office that she was going to take them with her to windsor, i saw how i was going to get them, and who i was going to get them from." "who--eh?" "eversleigh. stow it--the train is stopping!" the train was stopping. it had reached a station. the voices ceased. mr. paxton withdrew from his listening place with his brain in a greater whirl than ever. what had the two men been talking about? what did they mean by touching for a quarter of a million, and the reference to windsor? the name which mr. lawrence had just mentioned, eversleigh--where, quite recently, had he made its acquaintance? mr. paxton's glance fell on the evening paper which he had thrown on the seat. he snatched it up. something like a key to the riddle came to him in a flash! he opened the paper with feverish hands, turning to the account of the robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds. it was as he thought; his memory had not played him false--the person who had been in charge of the gems had been a man named stephen eversleigh. mr. paxton's hands fell nervelessly on to his knees. he stared into vacancy. what did it mean? the train was off again. having heard so much, mr. paxton felt that he must hear more. he returned to the place of listening. for some moments, while the train was drawing clear of the station, the voices continued silent--probably before exchanging further confidences they were desirous of being certain that their privacy would remain uninterrupted. when they were heard again it seemed that the conversation was being carried on exactly at the point at which mr. paxton had heard it cease. the german-american was speaking. "eversleigh?--that is his grace's confidential servant--eh?" "that's the man. i studied mr. eversleigh by proxy, and i found out just two things about him." "and they were--what were they?" "one was that he was short-sighted, and the other was that he had a pair of spectacles which the duke had given him for a birthday present, and which he thought no end of." "that wasn't much to find out--eh?" "you think so? then that's where you're wrong. it's perhaps just as well for you that you don't have to play first lead." "the treasury is more in my line--eh? however, what was the use which you made of that little find of yours?" "if it hadn't been for that little find of mine, the possibility is that the sparklers wouldn't be where they are just now. a friend of mine had a detective camera. those spectacles were kept in something very gorgeous in cases. my friend snapped that spectacle case with his camera. i had an almost exact duplicate made of the case from the print he got--purposely not quite exact, you know, but devilish near. "i found myself at windsor station just as her grace was about to start for town. there were a good many people in the booking-office through which you have to pass to reach the platform. as i expected, the duchess came in front, with the maid, old eversleigh bringing up the rear. just as eversleigh came into the booking-office some one touched him on the shoulder, and held out that duplicate spectacle case, saying, 'i beg your pardon, sir! have you lost your glasses?' of old eversleigh's fidelity i say nothing. i don't call mere straightness anything;--but he certainly wasn't up to the kind of job he had in hand--not when he was properly handled. he has been heard to say that he would sooner lose an arm than those precious spectacles--because the duke gave them to him, you know. perhaps he would; anyhow, he lost something worth a trifle more than his arm. when he felt himself touched on the shoulder, and saw what looked like that almighty goggle-box in the stranger's hand, he got all of a flurry, jabbed his fist into the inside pocket of his coat, and to enable him to do so popped the despatch-box down on the seat beside him--as i expected that he would do. i happened to be sitting on that seat with a rug, very nicely screened too by old eversleigh himself, and by the stranger with the goggle-box. i nipped my rug over his box, leaving another one--own brother to the duchess's--exposed. old eversleigh found that the stranger's goggle-box was not his--that his own was safe in his pocket!--picked up my despatch-box, and marched off with it, while i travelled with his by the south-western line to town; and i can only hope that he was as pleased with the exchange as i was." the german-american's voice was heard. "as you say, in the simplicity of your method, my good friend, was its beauty. and indeed, after all, simplicity is the very essence, the very soul, of all true art--eh?" chapter iii the diamonds mr. paxton heard no more--he made no serious attempt to hear. as the german-american ceased to speak the train slowed into preston park. at the station mr. paxton saw that some one else got into the next compartment, forming a third, with its previous occupants, the rest of the way to brighton. mr. paxton had heard enough. the whirlwind in his brain, instead of becoming less, had grown more. his mental confusion had become worse confounded. he seemed unable to collect his ideas. he had attained to nothing like an adequate grasp of the situation by the time the train had arrived at its journey's end. he alighted, his gladstone in his hand, feeling in a sort of intellectual fog. he saw mr. lawrence--also carrying a gladstone--get out of the next compartment. a tall, thin man, with high cheekbones, a heavy moustache, and a pronounced stoop, got out after him--evidently the german-american. mr. paxton allowed the pair to walk down the platform in front, keeping himself a respectful distance in the rear. they turned into the refreshment-room. he went in after them, taking up his position close beside them, with, however, no sort of definite intention in his head. mr. lawrence recognised him at once, showing that he also had a memory for faces. he nodded. "mr. paxton, i believe." mr. paxton admitted that that was his name, conscious, on a sudden, of a wild impulse to knock the fellow down for daring to accost him. "what is your drink, mr. paxton?" that was too much; mr. paxton was certainly not going to drink with the man. he responded curtly-"i have ordered." "that doesn't matter, does it? drink up, and have another with me." the fellow was actually pressing him to accept of his pestilent charity--that was how mr. paxton put it to himself. he said nothing--not because he had nothing to say, but because never before in his life had he felt so stupid, with so little control over either his senses or his tongue. he shook his head, walked out of the refreshment-room, got into a cab, and drove off to makell's hotel. directly the cab had started and was out of the station yard he told himself that he had been a fool--doubly, trebly, a fool--a fool all round, from every possible point of view. he ought never to have let the scoundrels out of his sight; he ought to have spoken to the police; he ought to have done something; under the circumstances no one but an idiot would have done absolutely nothing at all. never mind--for the moment it was too late. he would do something to repair his error later. he would tell miss strong the tale; she would rejoice to find a friend of her own figuring as the hero of such a narrative; it would be a warning to her against the making of chance acquaintance! he would ask her advice; it was a case in which two heads might be better than one. reaching the hotel, he went straight to his bedroom, still in a sort of mental haze. he had a wash--without, however, managing to wash much of the haze out of his head. he turned to unlock his gladstone, intending to take out of it his brush and comb. there was something the matter with the key, or else with the lock--it would not open. it was a brand-new gladstone, bought with a particular intent; mr. paxton was very far from being desirous that his proposed voyage to foreign parts should prematurely be generally known. plainly, the lock was not in the best of order. half abstractedly he fumbled with it for some seconds, before it could be induced to open, then it was opened rather by an exertion of force, than in response to the action of the key. having opened it, mr. paxton found himself a little puzzled by the arrangement of its contents. he could not at first remember just where he had put his brush and comb. he felt on the one side, where he had a sort of dim idea that it ought to be, and then on the other. he failed to light on it on either side. he paused for a moment to consider. then, by degrees, distinctly remembered having placed it in a particular corner. he felt for it. it was not there. he wondered where it had contrived to conceal itself. he was certain that he had placed it in the bag. it must be in it now. he began to empty the bag of all its contents. the first thing he took out was a shirt. he threw it from him on to the bed. as it passed through the air something fell from it on to the floor--something which came rolling against his foot. he picked it up. it was a ring. he could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes. he sat staring at the trinket in a stupor of surprise. and the more he stared the more his wonder grew. that it was a ring there could not be the slightest shadow of doubt. it was a woman's ring, a costly one--a hoop of diamonds, the stones being of unusual lustre and size. how could such an article as that have found its way into his gladstone bag? he picked up another shirt, and as he did so felt that in the front there was something hard. he opened the front to see what it was. the shirt almost dropped from his hand in the shock of his amazement. something gleamed at him from inside the linen. taking this something out he found himself holding in his hand a magnificent tiara of diamonds. as he knelt there, on one knee, gazing at the gaud, he would have presented a promising study for an artist possessed of a sense of humour. his mouth was open, his eyes distended to their fullest; every feature of his countenance expressed the bewilderment he felt. the presence of a ring in that brand-new bag of his was sufficiently surprising--but a tiara of diamonds! was he the victim of some extraordinary hallucination, or the hero of a fairy tale? he stared at the jewel, and from the jewel to the shirt, and from the shirt to the bag. then an idea, beginning at first to glimmer on him dimly, suddenly took vivid shape, filling him with a sense of strange excitement. he doubted if the bag were his. he leant over it to examine it more closely. new brown gladstone bags, thirty inches in length, are apt to be as like each other as peas. this was a new bag, his was a new bag--he perceived nothing in the appearance of this one to suggest that it was not his. and yet that this was not his bag he was becoming more and more convinced. he turned to the shirt he had been holding. the contents of his bag had all been freshly purchased--obviously, this shirt had just come from the maker's too. he looked at the maker's name inside the neckband. this was not his shirt--it had been bought at a different shop; it had one buttonhole in front instead of three; it was not his size. he looked hastily at the rest of the things which were in the bag--they none of them were his. had he had his wits about him he would have discovered that fact directly the bag was opened. every garment seemed to have been intended to serve as cover to a piece of jewellery. he tumbled on to the bed rings, bracelets, brooches, necklets; out of vests, shirts, socks, and drawers. till at last he stood, with an air of stupefaction, in front of a heap of glittering gems, the like of which he had scarcely thought could have existed outside a jeweller's shop. what could be the meaning of it? by what accident approaching to the miraculous could a bag containing such a treasure trove have been exchanged for his? what eccentric and inexcusably careless individual could have been carrying about with him such a gorgeous collection in such a flimsy covering? the key to the situation came to him as borne by a flash of lightning. they were all diamonds on the bed--nothing but diamonds. he caught up the evening paper which he had brought with him from town. he turned to the list which it contained of the diamonds which had been stolen from the duchess of datchet. it was as he thought. incredible though it seemed, unless his senses played him false, in front of him were those priceless jewels--the world-famed datchet diamonds! reflection showed him, too, that this astounding climax had been brought about by the simplest accident. he remembered that mr. lawrence had alighted from the railway carriage on to the brighton platform with the gladstone in his hand;--he remembered now, although it had not struck him at the time, that that bag, like his own, had been brown and new. in the refreshment-room mr. lawrence had put his bag down upon the floor. mr. paxton had put his down beside it. in leaving, he must have caught up mr. lawrence's bag instead of his own. he had spoiled the spoiler of his spoils. without intending to do anything of the kind, he had played on mr. lawrence exactly the same trick which that enterprising gentleman had himself--if mr. paxton could believe what he had overheard him say in the railway carriage--played on the duchess of datchet. when mr. paxton realised exactly how it was he sat down on the side of the bed, and he trembled. it was so like a special interposition of providence--or was it of the devil? he stared at the scintillating stones. he took them up and began to handle them. this, according to the paper, was the amsterdam necklace, so called because one of the dukes of datchet had bought all the stones for it in amsterdam. it, alone, was worth close in the neighbourhood of a hundred thousand pounds. a hundred thousand pounds! mr. paxton's fingers tingled as he thought of it. his lips went dry. what would a hundred thousand pounds not mean to him?--and he held it, literally, in the hollow of his hand. he did not know with certainty whose it was. providence had absolutely thrown it at his head. it might not be the duchess's, after all. at any rate, it would be but robbing the robber. then there was the datchet tiara, the begum's brooch, the banee's bracelet; if the newspaper could be credited, every piece in the collection was historical. as he toyed with them, holding them to the light, turning them this way and that, looking at them from different points of view, how the touch of the diamonds seemed to make the blood in mr. paxton's veins run faster! he began to move about the bedroom restlessly, returning every now and then to take still another look at the shimmering lumps of light which were beginning to exercise over him a stronger and stronger fascination. how beautiful they were! and how low he himself had fallen! he could scarcely sink much lower. anyhow, it would be but to pass from one ditch to another. supposing he obtained for them even a tithe of their stated value! at this crisis in his career, what a fresh start in life five-and-twenty thousand pounds would mean! it would mean the difference between hope and helplessness, between opportunity and despair. with his experience, on such a foundation he could easily build up a monstrous fortune--a fortune which would mean happiness--daisy's and his own. then the five-and-twenty thousand pounds could be easily returned. compared with what he would make with it, it was but a trifle, after all. and then the main point was--and mr. paxton told himself that on that point rested the crux of the position--it would not be the duchess of datchet who would be despoiled; it was the robbers who, with true poetic justice, would be deprived of their ill-gotten gains. she had lost them in any case. he--he had but found them. he endeavoured to insist upon it, to himself, that he had but found them. true, there was such a thing as the finder returning what he had found--particularly when he suspected who had been the loser. but who could expect a man situated as he was to throw away a quarter of a million of money? this was not a case which could be judged by the ordinary standards of morality--it was an unparalleled experience. still, he could not bring himself to say, straight out, that he would stick to what he had got, and make the most of it. his mind was not sufficiently clear to enable him to arrive at any distinct decision. but he did what was almost equally fatal, he allowed himself, half unconsciously--without venturing to put it into so many words--to drift. he would see which way the wind blew, and then, if he could, go with it. for the present he would do nothing, forgetting that, in such a position as his, the mere fact of his doing nothing involved the doing of a very great deal. he looked at his watch, starting to find it was so late. "daisy will be tired of waiting. i must hurry, or she'll be off before i come." he looked into the glass. somehow there seemed to be a sort of film before his eyes which prevented him from seeing himself quite clearly, or else the light was bad! but he saw enough of himself to be aware that he was not looking altogether his usual self. he endeavoured to explain this in a fashion of his own. "no wonder that i look worried after what i've gone through lately, and especially to-day--that sort of thing's enough to take the heart out of any man, and make him look old before his time." he set his teeth; something hard and savage came into his face. "but perhaps the luck has turned. i'd be a fool to throw a chance away if it has. i've gone in for some big things in my time; why shouldn't i go in for the biggest thing of all, and with one bold stroke more than win back all i've lost?" he suffered his own question to remain unanswered; but he stowed the precious gems, higgledy-piggledy, inside the copy of the evening paper which contained the news of the robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds; the paper he put into a corner of the gladstone bag which was not his; the bag he locked with greater care than he had opened it. when it was fastened, he stood for a moment, surveying it a little grimly. "i'll leave it where it is. no one knows what there is inside it. it'll be safe enough. anyhow, i'll give the common or garden thief a chance of providing for himself for life; his qualms on the moral aspect of the situation will be fewer than mine. if it's here when i come back i'll accept its continued presence as an omen." he put on his hat, and he went out to find miss strong. chapter iv miss wentworth's rudeness miss strong was growing a little tired of waiting. indeed, she was beginning to wonder if mr. paxton was about to fail in still another something he had undertaken. she loitered near the gates of the pier, looking wistfully at every one who entered. the minutes went by, and yet "he cometh not," she said. it was not the pleasantest of nights for idling by the sea. a faint, but chilly, breeze was in the air. there was a suspicion of mist. miss strong was growing more and more conscious that the night was raw and damp. to add to the discomfort of her position, just inside the gates of brighton pier is not the most agreeable place for a woman to have to wait at night--she is likely to find the masculine prowler conspicuously in evidence. miss strong had moved away from at least the dozenth man who had accosted her, when she referred to her watch. "i'll give him five minutes more, and then, if he doesn't come, i'm off." scarcely had she uttered the words than she saw mr. paxton coming through the turnstile. with a feeling of no inconsiderable relief she moved hastily forward. in another moment they were clasping hands. "cyril! i'm glad you've come at last! but how late you are!" "yes; i've been detained." the moment he opened his mouth it struck her that about his manner there was something odd. but, as a wise woman in her generation, she made no comment. together they went up the pier. now that he had come mr. paxton did not seem to be in a conversational mood. they had gone half-way up; still he evinced no inclination to speak. miss strong, however, excused him. she understood the cause of his silence--or thought she did. her heart was heavy--on his account, and on her own. her words, when they came, were intended to convey the completeness of her comprehension. "i am so sorry." he turned, as if her words had startled him. "sorry?" "i know all about it, cyril." this time it was not merely a question of appearance. it was an obvious fact that he was startled. he stood stock still and stared at her. stammering words came from his lips. "you know all about it? what--what do you mean?" she seemed to be surprised at his surprise. "my dear cyril, you forget that there are papers." "papers?" still he stammered. "yes, papers--newspapers. i've had every edition, and of course i've seen how eries have fallen. "eries? fallen? oh!--of course!--i see!" she was puzzled to perceive that he appeared positively relieved, as though he had supposed and feared that she had meant something altogether different. he took off his hat to wipe his brow, although the night was very far from being unduly warm. he began walking again, speaking now glibly enough, with a not unnatural bitterness. "they have fallen, sure enough--just as surely as if, if i had gone a bear, they would have risen. as you were good enough to say last night, it was exactly the sort of thing which might have been expected." "i am so sorry, cyril." "what's the use of being sorry?" his tone was rough, almost rude. but she excused him still. "is it very bad?" then a wild idea came to him--one which, at the moment, seemed to him almost to amount to inspiration. in the disordered condition of his faculties--for, temporarily, they were disordered--he felt, no doubt erroneously enough, that in the girl's tone there was something besides sympathy, that there was contempt as well--contempt for him as for a luckless, helpless creature who was an utter and entire failure. and he suddenly resolved to drop at least a hint that, while she was despising him as so complete a failure, even now there was, actually within his grasp, wealth sufficient to satisfy the dreams of avarice. "i don't know what you call very bad; as regards the eries it is about as bad as it could be. but----" he hesitated and stopped. "but what?" she caught sight of his face. she saw how it was working. "cyril, is there any good news to counteract the bad? have you had a stroke of luck?" yet he hesitated, already half regretting that he had said anything at all. but, having gone so far, he went farther. "i don't want you to reckon on it just at present, but i think it possible that, very shortly, i may find myself in possession of a larger sum of money than either of us has dreamed of." "cyril! do you mean it?" her tone of incredulity spurred him on. "should i be likely to say such a thing if i did not mean it? i mean exactly what i said. to be quite accurate, it is possible, nay, probable, that before very long i shall be the possessor of a quarter of a million of money. i hope that will be enough for you. it will for me." "a quarter of a million! two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, cyril!" "it sounds a nice little sum, doesn't it? i hope that it will feel as nice when it's mine!" "but, cyril, i don't understand. is it a new speculation you are entering on?" "it is a speculation--of a kind." his tone was ironical, though she did not seem to be conscious of the fact. "a peculiar kind. its peculiarity consists in this, that, though i may not be able to lay my hands on the entire quarter of a million, i can on an appreciable portion of it whenever i choose." "what is the nature of the speculation? is it on the stock exchange?" "that, at present, is a secret. it is not often that i have kept a secret from you; you will have to forgive me, daisy, if i keep one now." something peculiar in his tone caught her ear. she glanced at him sharply. "you are really in earnest, cyril? you do mean that there is a reasonable prospect of your position being improved at last?" "there is not only a reasonable prospect, there is a practical certainty." "in spite of what you have lost in eries?" "in spite of everything." a ring of passion came into his voice. "daisy, don't ask me any more questions now. trust me! i tell you that in any case a fortune, or something very like one, is within my grasp." he stopped, and she was silent. they went and stood where they had been standing the night before--looking towards the worthing lights. each seemed to be wrapped in thought. then she said softly, in her voice a trembling-"cyril, i am so glad." "i am glad that you are glad." "and i am so sorry for what i said last night." "what was it you said that is the particular occasion of your sorrow?" she drew closer to his side. when she spoke it was as if, in some strange way, she was afraid. "i am sorry that i said that if luck went against you to-day things would have to be over between us. i don't know what made me say it. i did not mean it. i thought of it all night; i have been thinking of it all day. i don't think that, whatever happens, i could ever find it in my heart to send you away." "i assure you, lady, that i should not go unless you sent me!" "cyril!" she pressed his arm. her voice sank lower. she almost whispered in his ear, while her eyes looked towards the worthing lights. "i think that perhaps it would be better if we were to get married as soon as we can--better for both of us." turning, he gripped her arms with both his hands. "do you mean it?" "i do; if you do the great things of which you talk or if you don't. if you don't there is my little fortune, with which we must start afresh, both of us together, either on this side of the world or on the other, whichever you may choose." "daisy!" his voice vibrated with sudden passion. "will you come with me to the other side of the world in any case?" "what--even if you make your fortune?" "yes; even if i make my fortune!" she looked at him with that something on her face which is the best thing that a man can see. and tears came into her eyes. and she said to him, in the words which have been ringing down the ages-"whither thou goest, i will go; and where thou lodgest, i will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy god, my god; where thou diest, will i die, and there will i be buried; the lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me!" it may be that the words savoured to him of exaggeration; at any rate, he turned away, as if something choked his utterance. she, too, was still. "i suppose you don't want a grand wedding." "i want a wedding, that's all i want. i don't care what sort of a wedding it is so long as it's a wedding. and"--again her voice sank, and again she drew closer to his side--"i don't want to have to wait for it too long." "will you be ready to marry me within a month?" "i will." "then within a month we will be married." they were silent. his thoughts, in a dazed sort of fashion, travelled to the diamonds which were in somebody else's gladstone bag. her thoughts wandered through elysian fields. it is possible that she imagined--as one is apt to do--that his thoughts were there likewise. all at once she said something which brought him back from what seemed to be a waking dream. she felt him start. "come with me, and let's tell charlie." the suggestion was not by any means to mr. paxton's taste. he considered for a few seconds, seeming to hesitate. she perceived that her proposition had not been received with over-much enthusiasm. "surely you don't mind our telling charlie?" "no"--his voice was a little surly--"i don't mind." miss charlotte wentworth, better known to her intimates as charlie, was in some respects a young woman of the day. she was thirty, and she wrote for her daily bread--wrote anything, from "fashions" to "poetry," from "fiction" to "our family column." she had won for herself a position of tolerable comfort, earning something over five-hundred a year with satisfactory regularity. to state that is equivalent to saying that, on her own lines, she was a woman of the world, a citizen of the new bohemia, capable of holding something more than her own in most circumstances in which she might find herself placed, with most, if not all, of the sentiment which is supposed to be a feminine attribute knocked out of her. she was not bad-looking; dressed well, with a suggestion of masculinity; wore pince-nez, and did whatsoever it pleased her to do. differing though they did from each other in so many respects, she and daisy strong had been the friends of years. when mrs. strong had died, and daisy was left alone, miss wentworth had insisted on their setting up together, at least temporarily, a joint establishment, an arrangement from which there could be no sort of doubt that miss strong received pecuniary advantage. mr. paxton was not miss wentworth's lover--nor, to be frank, was she his; the consequence of which was that her brusque, outspoken method of speech conveyed to his senses--whether she intended it or not--a suggestion of scorn, being wont to touch him on just those places where he found himself least capable of resistance. when the lovers entered, miss wentworth, with her person on one chair and her feet on another, was engaged in reading a magazine which had just come in. miss strong, desiring to avoid the preliminary skirmishing which experience had taught her was apt to take place whenever her friend and her lover met, plunged at once into the heart of the subject which was uppermost in her mind. "i've brought you some good news--at least i think it is good news." miss wentworth looked at her--a cross-examining sort of look--then at mr. paxton, then back at the lady. "good news? one always does associate good news with mr. paxton. the premonition becomes a kind of habit." the gentleman thus alluded to winced. miss strong did not appear to altogether relish the lady's words. she burst out with the news of which she spoke, as if with the intention of preventing a retort coming from mr. paxton. "we are going to be married." miss wentworth displayed a possibly intentional mental opacity. "who is going to be married?" "charlie! how aggravating you are! cyril and i, of course." miss wentworth resumed her reading. "indeed! well, it's no affair of mine. of course, therefore, i should not presume to make any remark. if, however, any one should invite me to comment on the subject, i trust that i shall be at the same time informed as to what is the nature of the comment which i am invited to make." miss strong went and knelt at miss wentworth's side, resting her elbows on that lady's knees. "charlie, won't you give us your congratulations?" miss wentworth replied, without removing her glance from off the open page of her magazine-"with pleasure--if you want them. also, if you want it, i will give you eighteenpence--or even half a crown." "charlie! how unkind you are!" miss wentworth lowered her magazine. she looked miss strong straight in the face. tears were in the young lady's eyes, but miss wentworth showed not the slightest sign of being moved by them. "unfortunately, as it would seem, though i am a woman, i do occasionally allow my conduct to be regulated by the dictates of common sense. when i see another woman making a dash towards suicide i don't, as a rule, give her a helping push, merely because she happens to be my friend; preferentially, if i can, i hold her back, even though it be against her will. i have yet to learn in what respect mr. paxton--who, i gladly admit, is personally a most charming gentleman--is qualified to marry even a kitchen-maid. permit me to finish. you told me last night that mr. paxton was going a bull on eries; that if they fell one he would be ruined. in the course of the day they have fallen more than one; therefore, if what you told me was correct, he must be ruined pretty badly. then, without any sort of warning, you come and inform me that you intend to marry the man who is doubly and trebly ruined, and you expect me to offer my congratulations on the event offhand! on the evidence which is at present before the court it can't be done." "why shouldn't i marry him, even if he is ruined?" "why, indeed? i am a supporter of the liberty of the female subject, if eve