

The Scarlet Clue

by

Silas K. Hocking

White Tree Publishing Edition

Original book first published 1904

This abridged edition ©White Tree Publishing 2019

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-53-7

Published by

White Tree Publishing

Bristol

UNITED KINGDOM

wtpbristol@gmail.com

Full list of books and updates on

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The Scarlet Clue is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this abridged edition.

This book cover is from a black-and-white illustration in the original edition, selectively coloured electronically by Mark Orriss at https://www.orriss-design.co.uk/

About the Book

Rivals Arthur Teesdale and Douglas Grove start to fight over two young women. During the fight they fall off a small bridge in the Lake District, into a raging torrent. Neither young man is found, and both are presumed dead. An adopted girl seeks for information on her parents. Arthur Teesdale's young sister, Hope, is kidnapped by a woman wearing a cloak with a scarlet hood, and imprisoned in a mental asylum in a remote German castle. In this adventure story, Silas K Hocking takes the reader on an exciting search for several missing people. Who is the mysterious Nan o' the Fells? Can she be trusted? Jealousy starts to destroy lives, but true love will not be defeated. A full length adventure romance.

CONTENTS

COVER

ABOUT THE BOOK

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

1. ONLY SONS

2. FOREBODINGS

3. HOPE AND DESPAIR

4. A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR

5. A CONFESSION

6. LOVE AND DUTY

7. THE IRREVOCABLE PAST

8. TIME FOR REFLECTION

9. A VISITOR FOR DOUGLAS

10. THE ROAD TO FORTUNE

11. "THE HOUSE DESOLATE

12. A FRESH START

13. A DISCOVERY

14. ROMANCE AND REALITY

15. A LISTENER

16. A NEW MOTIVE

17. DIPLOMACY

18. A FRESH DISGUISE

19. FOLLOWING THE CLUE

20. TRAPPED

21. A PRISONER

22. A RESERVIST

23. NEW CONDITIONS

24. A FRESH CALAMITY

25. A FATEFUL DECISION

26. A SHADOW ON THE FELLS

27. APPREHENSION

28. A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE

29. BACKWARD GLANCES 242

30. THE CHATEAU OBERON

31. IN IMPRISONMENT VILE

32. THE SIGNAL

33. PLANS AND PURPOSES

34. THE MORNING CALL

35. THE FINAL EFFORT

36. ON THE TRAMP

37. SEARCHING FOR EVIDENCE

38. A NEW DEPARTURE

39. AVRIL MAKES A DISCOVERY

40. THE GAIN OF LOSS

41. NEARING HOME

42. MRS. MANN IS ASTONISHED

43. THE NICK OF TIME

44. SURMISES

45. LOVE AND LOYALTY

46. THE VICAR IS SURPRISED

47. BACK INTO THE LIGHT

48. ON THE WING

49. A CONFESSION

50. REUNION

ABOUT WHITE TREE PUBLISHING

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CHRISTIAN FICTION

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About the Author

Silas K. (Kitto) Hocking (1850-1935) was born in Cornwall in a tin mining area near St Austell. His father was a tenant farmer who also had a part share in a tin mine, which is why Cornwall and tin mining feature in several of Hocking's stories, based on first-hand experience. After he left school, Hocking started work as a mining surveyor, but was influenced by a young Methodist preacher who encouraged him to become an ordained minister. He moved from Cornwall to a Circuit in Newport in South Wales, and then to Liverpool.

Liverpool is where Hocking became famous as an author. Wikipedia lists nearly one hundred of his publications, the majority of which are books. In Liverpool, Hocking's appointment was near the docks, in the centre of the city slums. Two years later he married and wrote his most famous book, Her Benny, published in 1879, based on the street children of the city. It is claimed to be the first fiction book by any author to sell one million copies.

Hocking devoted more and more time to his writing, and in 1895 he retired from the ministry to devote all his time to writing. He was a committed pacifist, and hated all wars, something that comes out in his stories. Some of his books contain a clear Christian message, and others are adventure stories and romances without any strong moral or religious teaching. Although many are quite dark, with descriptions of violence, they have a standard of morality to be expected from a Methodist minister.

Silas K Hocking is a much neglected author today, and White Tree Publishing has selected a small number of his books with storylines and plots that have not dated.

Hocking had two sons, of whom one died young, and two daughters. He was not the only author in the family. His brother Joseph, and his sister Salome, also became bestselling writers of novels.

Hocking once met Conan Doyle, the author of the Sherlock Holmes stories. Discussing Holmes's problem with Moriarty, Hocking writes that he told Doyle, "Why not bring him out to Switzerland and drop him down a crevasse? It would save funeral expenses!" Doyle is reported to have laughed, but said it wasn't a bad idea. Hocking wondered later if he had influenced Doyle, because shortly afterwards Doyle did indeed cause Moriarty to disappear over the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. Sherlock Holmes also fell, as Doyle had decided to end the stories – although Holmes did reappear later when Doyle realised he had made a mistake!

White Tree Publishing has now published three books by Silas K. Hocking. Unedited copies of many of Hocking's books are available as modern reprints, or as scans from a variety of internet sites, as well as many original books from sites like Abebooks. White Tree Publishing only publishes carefully selected older titles, edited with modern punctuation, shorter sentences and paragraphs, and abridged where necessary in order to make them much more readable today. And no "photocopies" from original pages or bad OCR!

Silas K. Hocking died in September 1935 in London.

Publisher's Note

There are 50 chapters in this book. The last part of the book contains advertisements for many of our other books, so the story may end slightly earlier than expected. The last chapter (50) is marked as such.
Chapter 1

Only Sons

IT was the second day of the search, and most of those who had taken part in it had turned their faces towards home. For two days and a night they had tramped the fells and dales with every sense alert, but no trace could be discovered of the two missing men. To continue the search through another night seemed hopeless.

The rain swept down between the hills in blinding drifts; the wind had risen almost to a gale; the blinding darkness was closing in on every side. Far up the glens the roar of torrents could be heard above the hissing of the wind and the splashing of the rain. Below was the village of Bradenford, offering warmth and hospitality.

"We may as well make tracks for home," said William Hay, who had acted as leader of the band. "We have done all that mortal men could be expected to do."

"And a good deal more!" piped in Reuben Henn irritably.

"No, I will not say more," William answered mildly. "But we have done our best."

"I've not a dry rag on me," snapped Reuben, "and the rain is running out of the toes of my shoes."

"It's running out over the tops of mine!" Peter Derry interposed, with a laugh. "But that's a very small matter."

"Not so small," grunted Reuben. "I expect it'll mean rheumatics for the lot of us."

"And suppose it does?" interjected William Hay, with a blaze in his mild eyes. "Are we to think of ourselves, when precious lives are at stake? I confess my heart is too heavy to think of the rain or the cold."

"And mine also," answered several voices.

The next moment a shout came up from the valley below, borne fitfully on the breeze.

"What's that?" Peter Derry said, stopping short and placing his hand behind his ear.

"Perhaps they've found 'em," Reuben suggested. "Let us hurry down as fast as we can."

For the rest of the way nothing was said. Each man made a bee-line for himself. Now and then someone slipped and slid for a dozen yards before he could pull himself up. He made no complaint, however. A few bruises more or less was a matter of very little consequence. The main thing was to get first to the village and learn the news.

It was quite dark when they straggled into the dimly lighted streets and halted before the Traveller's Rest. A number of men were coming from the other direction. They had been making a search round the margin of the lake.

The searchers who had come down from the fells waited till the others had come within the circle of light flung out by the lamp above the door.

"Well," William Hay asked, "have you found anything?"

"Ay, we've found a hat."

"Whose hat?"

"The young squire's."

"Are you sure?"

"His name is inside."

"Let me look at it."

"You can't. Half a dozen of our fellows have taken it to the Hall."

"Poor old Sir Geoffrey will break his heart!"

"Ay, it'll go hard with him, but think of the girl. They were to have been wed in a fortnight!"

"He may turn up all right yet," Reuben Henn interjected. "Finding a hat ain't the same as finding him."

"I don't reckon there's much difference," was the reply.

"If he'd been alive he'd have turned up long afore this, and the parson's son with him."

"Then you reckon they're both dead?" Reuben asked, wringing the rain out of his tangled beard.

"Reckon it up for yourself," was the answer. "They were out on the fells together on Wednesday afternoon."

"And a lovely afternoon it was," broke in Peter Derry.

"But it had been raining for two days and nights before, like the very Deluge. The becks were full to the brim, several bridges had been washed away, and Black Ghyll Force was roaring worse than Niagara."

"But I don't see that that has anything to do with it," William Hay interposed mildly.

"Perhaps not, William, or perhaps it has a good deal to do with it. How did the young squire's hat get among the reeds down in the lake?"

"The wind might have blown it in."

"The wind might, if he had been in the neighbourhood, but there's no proof that he went near the lake on Wednesday."

"There's no proof of anything, for that matter."

"Oh yes, there is. There's proof that he and Douglas Grove were out on the fells together on Wednesday afternoon. There's proof that they did not care for each other any more than they ought to have done."

"Oh, come, Bob Grayson," William Hay said mildly. "You're hinting at things you've no right to hint at. Young men quarrel and make it up again constantly."

"But young men don't disappear every day in the week, leaving no trace behind them!"

"That's true enough," was the reply, "but we needn't assume that they quarrelled and ate each other up like Kilkenny cats, leaving only a single hat behind!"

"I'm not assuming anything," Bob Grayson answered shortly. "I've only stated facts. But I'm off home, for I'm drenched to the skin."

Bob's departure was the signal for a general movement. In a few minutes the band of searchers had dispersed in various directions, and the narrow street was left to the pitiless rain and to the wild and searching wind.

Meanwhile, in three homes in the neighbourhood, grief and dread held undisputed possession. Sir Geoffrey Teesdale hobbled through the rooms of his big house, in spite of his gout and weakness, like a man demented. For two days and nights he had neither eaten nor slept, and he believed he would never eat or sleep again until he knew what had become of his son, Arthur.

At first he stubbornly refused to believe that anything serious had befallen him. What was likely to happen to a young fellow of twenty-five? He was healthy, vigorous, athletic, and knew the whole countryside like a book. Besides, he was not of the rash and reckless sort. Hot-tempered he might be, and resentful of any kind of insult, but hare-brained he had never been. From his childhood he had been noted for his foresight and caution.

Moreover, at the present time, too much was at stake for him to run any risks He was on the point of marrying the sweetest girl in the whole district. The banns had already been published in Bradenford Church, and the day fixed for the wedding. Under such circumstances, Sir Geoffrey felt convinced that his son would take more than ordinary care of himself, and avoid even the appearance of danger.

When he did not turn up to dinner on Wednesday evening, Sir Geoffrey concluded that he was at Glen Villa with Mrs. Finch and Avril Guest.

"He might have let me know he was not coming back," he said to himself, as he sat down to his dinner in lonely state. "But I suppose I'll have to excuse him. Boys in love are not to be judged by ordinary standards." And a sad smile played over the old man's face. He recalled his own young days and the sweet face and smile that had been the inspiration of his early manhood and the solace of his maturer years.

For a while he forgot his son Arthur. The thought of his dead wife always awoke a tender chord in his heart. She was the best woman, he believed, that ever breathed, and when she passed out into the great silence he was inconsolable. That was twelve years ago. Arthur was only thirteen at the time, and their daughter Hope, a girl of six.

How swiftly the years had sped away! He kept his wife's memory so green that it seemed only as yesterday that she went away. His friends had suggested to him that he should marry again, but he had never seen anyone who could take her place. So the vacant chair at Rowton Hall remained vacant year after year; and now Arthur had grown to be a man, and was going to marry Avril Guest. Sir Geoffrey lived his own life over again in his son, and looked forward to the home-coming of the bride with all the enthusiasm of a youth.

Sir Geoffrey had insisted that they should live at Rowton Hall, and nowhere else.

"No, no, Arthur," he said. "I am too old now to be left alone. Let me have a couple of rooms to call my own, and I shall be satisfied. You and Avril shall have all the rest. She shall sit in your mother's chair and rule the household. I know she will do it wisely and well."

Up to the present everything had gone smoothly. There had been no hitch of any kind. Avril was a girl after Sir Geoffrey's own heart. She was not only good to look upon, but she was good in all other respects ‒ strong and capable, with a clear and healthy outlook upon life, and a heart full of charity to all.

It was true that from a mere material point of view Arthur Teesdale might have done much better for himself. As the heir of Rowton, he had the pick of the country, and deep and bitter were the heart-burnings when it became known that "he had thrown himself away," as many a fond mother expressed it, on a penniless bride.

Avril Guest was without fortune and almost without name. As far as she knew, she had not a relative in the world. Who or what her parents had been she had never been able to find out. Mrs. Finch of Glen Villa had adopted her when she was a child of two, and she had lived with her ever since, calling her Aunt.

Why Mrs. Finch had adopted her was part of the mystery that surrounded her life. Mrs. Finch herself did not appear to have a relative in the world, nor had she ever shown herself partial to children.

When Avril Guest reached her teens she became inquisitive. She wanted to know something about her parents ‒ wanted to know if Mrs. Finch was her real aunt; wanted to know why Mrs. Finch had adopted her, since she did not appear to be fond of children.

But Mrs. Finch was as close as an oyster. "Be content, Avril, with things as they are," she said quietly and without emotion. "You came to me as an April guest, and you are welcome. The happier you are the better I shall be pleased."

"Came to you as an April guest?" Avril asked, with wide-open eyes. "Is that how I came by my surname?"

"You have no cause to be ashamed of your name, Avril," Mrs. Finch answered, with a smile. "Now run away and do your lessons, and don't worry over matters that can do no good to you or anyone else."

Avril returned to the question a good many times after that. But when she discovered that Mrs. Finch was not to be drawn, and that every allusion to the matter made her irritable, she wisely refrained from pursuing the subject further.

Nevertheless, there were times when she felt intensely curious. No doubt it was reassuring to be told that there was nothing in her name that she need be ashamed of; yet, all the same, it was not pleasant to be kept in such absolute ignorance of her birth and parentage.

She felt it all the more when Arthur Teesdale began to court her. Her unknown background was the only drop of bitterness in her cup of joy.

"Is that all that troubles you?" he asked, with the love-light shining in his eyes.

"Yes, there is nothing else," she replied. And for answer he folded her in his arms and kissed her.

From that hour the stream of their love had flowed on without a ripple. For her loved one's name and wealth she cared nothing. The fact that some day, if he lived, he would be Sir Arthur Teesdale did not influence her in the smallest degree. She was not ambitious for social position. She shrank from presiding over the destinies of a big house, and could the choice of residence have been left with her, she would have selected nothing more pretentious than her home here in Glen Villa. Indeed, so great was her love for Arthur Teesdale that she would have dwelt in a cottage with him and been infinitely content.

She often wondered if there was another girl in the whole of England as happy as she. Her only regret was that she had no father or mother, brother or sister to rejoice with her. She wanted someone to share her joy. Her beloved was so good, so handsome, so fine-spirited, that it would almost have been a relief to her sometimes if she could have praised his fine qualities before others, and called upon them to witness his manifold excellences.

She could not talk much to Mrs. Finch about him. That good lady was exceedingly kind and considerate in her way, but she had no romance or sentiment in her nature. She was practical and matter-of-fact to the core. So Avril locked up her sweet and beautiful thoughts in her own heart, and looked forward, with a curious thrill, to the day when she would become Arthur's wife.

She did not trouble when, on the fatal Wednesday evening, he did not come as usual to see her. She was not of the apprehensive sort. Moreover, she was so certain of his love that it did not seem to be possible that anything on earth could separate them.

"Something has kept him," she said to herself, when at length she retired for the night. "He'll be certain to come across in the morning, and let me know what it was."

She knelt by her bedside and said her prayers with no feeling of apprehension in her heart. Coming events flung no shadow across her path. Her last thought was of her loved one, and with a smile upon her lips she fell asleep.

Two hours later Sir Geoffrey's coachman, Parkyn, came up to the garden gate of Glen Villa and stared for several minutes at the windows, but not a glimmer of light could be seen anywhere. Not a sound could be heard. Glen Villa, like its inmates, appeared to be fast asleep.

"It's of no use axin' if he's there," Parkyn said to himself, "for if he were there the lights would be on, and folks would be a-stirrin'." And he turned away and walked round to the back of the house, but the windows at the back were also in darkness. There was not even the glimmer of firelight on the panes.

"Perhaps he's only just left, and I've missed him," Parkyn said to himself. "Maybe he'll be at the Hall by the time I get back again." And he scratched his head in a reflective attitude. "At any rate," he went on, "it ain't no use waking 'em up and making 'em anxious when there may be no cause. Expect the boy is all right somewhere."

He turned and crept softly back into the road, and then hurried away with all his speed towards the Hall.

Sir Geoffrey stood bareheaded at the open door when he returned. He heard the coachman's footsteps crunching on the gravel, and called, "Is that you, Parkyn?"

"Yes, sir. Has the young master got home?"

"No, not yet, Parkyn. Haven't you seen him?"

"No, sir. The house is all in darkness, and I reckon everybody's asleep."

"And you didn't waken them?"

"Well, no, sir. I thought it best not to make 'em anxious. If they was awake they'd be worritin', and no good ever comes of worritin', as far as I know."

Sir Geoffrey did not reply. For several minutes he stood looking out into the darkness, listening for the sound of a footfall that did not come.

Beyond the park the fells rose dim and mysterious in the light of the stars. There was no sound save the swish of the wind and the faint roar of torrents far away up in the glens.

Sir Geoffrey shuddered, and a faint sigh escaped his lips; then he turned and hobbled slowly and painfully back into the house.

Chapter 2

Forebodings

THE distress and anxiety in Bradenford Vicarage was not a whit less than in Rowton Hall. Indeed, on the first night of the young men's absence, there was an element of fear in the vicar's heart that was absent from Sir Geoffrey's.

The vicar, the Reverend Henry Grove, knew that his son Douglas had met Arthur Teesdale on the High Peak road, and were seen together as it was growing dark near the wooden bridge that spanned the river above Black Ghyll Force. Under ordinary circumstances such a fact would have been a source of consolation to the vicar. Usually there is safety in numbers. Very few people cared to journey across the fells after dark alone, but in company it was constantly done.

There were circumstances, however, in the present case that, instead of being reassuring, were disquieting. Douglas Grove and Arthur Teesdale were scarcely on friendly terms. In times past they had quarrelled more than once, and neither had much good to say of the other.

By nature they were opposites, and antagonistic. They had nothing in common with each other. Arthur Teesdale was practical, Douglas Grove idealistic ‒ the one revelled in facts, the other in fancies. The squire's son believed in doing things, in turning everything to the best possible account. He had no faith in anyone who was not practical, who could not show that he was doing something for the material benefit of himself and his race.

The vicar's son lived in a different realm, and saw the world and things through different eyes. Douglas Grove was poetic and imaginative, caring less for the seen than the unseen. The material form was of less account to him than the spirit which animated it. Hence, instead of doing what was useful and practical ‒ what would butter his bread and put sugar in his tea ‒ he spent a good deal of his time in the realm of the abstract.

To the hardy dalesmen, writing sonnets was a waste of time, especially when there were ditches to be dug and roads to be mended. If the vicar had been a rich man, and could have afforded to keep his son in idleness, little would have been said. But the vicar was poor. Moreover, he had a young family of girls and an ailing wife, and it was generally considered disgraceful that Douglas should waste his time in doing what was of no practical value when he ought to be helping to provide for the wants of the household.

Arthur Teesdale shared to the full what was the prevailing sentiment. In his eyes Douglas Grove ‒ notwithstanding his good looks and pleasant manners and many excellent qualities ‒ was just a wastrel. To a practical nature like Teesdale's, who was always on the alert to make two blades of grass grow where only one grew before, it seemed incomprehensible that any able-bodied man ‒ unless he had a fortune at his back ‒ should idle away his time in dreams and fancies.

Yet, notwithstanding this, they might have kept on good terms with each other had not Douglas dared to fall in love with Arthur's sister, Hope. This was such a piece of barefaced effrontery that Arthur could hardly contain himself with rage. It was not that socially Douglas was not as good as his sister, but Hope was a mere girl, impulsive and impressionable, with a vein of romance in her nature that might easily be captivated by a handsome visionary like Douglas.

Arthur kept the news from his father, who was a good deal of an invalid, and threatened Douglas with a horsewhip if he dared to speak to his sister again. Douglas, who had a full share of pride and an invincible belief in his own powers and in his ultimate success, naturally resented Arthur's interference.

"You are not her father," he said indignantly. "You are only her brother, and what right have you to interfere?"

"I interfere for my father's sake and for hers. My father is an invalid, as you know, and my sister is only a child, and you ought to be ashamed to speak of love to her."

"I have as much right to love Hope as you have to love Avril Guest," was the reply.

"I deny it," was the angry retort. "Avril Guest is of age. Moreover, I am able to provide her with a home."

"Thanks to your having a rich father," Douglas sneered.

"I am not a burden to my father, at any rate," was the reply.

Douglas winced and bit his lip, for he felt he had no answer ready.

"But even if you were able to earn your own living," Arthur went on sneeringly, "I should none the less object to your taking advantage of my sister's youth."

"Hope is old enough to know her own mind."

"She is not old enough, and you know it. You are taking advantage of her motherless condition."

"I deny it! I have never taken any advantage. Her happiness and well-being are as dear to my heart as yours."

"Happiness, indeed! Do you imagine for a moment that you could ever make any woman happy?"

"Yes, I am presumptuous enough to imagine so much as that."

"You would breakfast, dine, and sup on kisses, I suppose?"

"I have no doubt kisses would have their place," was the answer. "But please do not imagine that because you are rich you have any right to sneer at my poverty. The world is not usually won in a day."

"Quite true, and usually it is not won without effort."

"I am as well aware of that as you are. You think I am idle because you know no better, and you are so blind that you imagine there is no world save that of sense."

Arthur Teesdale flung at him a look of scorn, then turned on his heel and walked away.

But when they met a few days later they renewed the contest. Once or twice they came near to blows, for they were both quick-tempered, and the poor man was as proud as the rich.

It soon became known in the neighbourhood that the young squire had quarrelled with the vicar's son, and that they were "at daggers drawn." What the cause of the quarrel was no one knew. A number of guesses were hazarded, but they were all wide of the mark.

A few weeks later Hope Teesdale was sent abroad to a boarding school, and Douglas Grove was left to nurse his love in secret and in silence. He knew well enough why she had been sent away: knew that Arthur Teesdale was at the bottom of it, and his love for the squire's son was not by any means increased in consequence.

But idealist and dreamer as Douglas was, he was not the man to relinquish a thing easily upon which he had set his heart. Hope Teesdale represented to him all that was best and noblest in womanhood. Her youth, her innocence, her loneliness appealed to his romantic nature. There was no future for him in which she did not hold the foremost place; no success that was worth having if she could not share it with him.

As yet he had not told Hope of his love in so many words. Perhaps he had shown it in his looks. Perhaps she had read aright the light in his eyes, and interpreted aright the tones of his voice. A woman's instinct in such matters is not often at fault.

Douglas had little difficulty in getting to know Hope's address from Miss Trite, the postmistress. She professed to be a great admirer of Douglas Grove, and she fawned upon Arthur Teesdale. So she gave to both the information they wanted. She encouraged Douglas to write to Hope, and informed the young squire that the vicar's son had received a letter from abroad in Hope's handwriting.

Arthur was furious, and declared in Miss Trite's hearing that he would twist Douglas Grove's neck.

Miss Trite grew alarmed, and prayed that her name might not be dragged into the quarrel. On the following day the young men met on the High Peak road. They were seen together near the bridge above Black Ghyll Force, and then the night fell. What became of them after, no one knew. Why they did not return to their homes was wrapped in mystery.

At the Vicarage, dinner was kept back an hour, and then the vicar went himself into the village to make inquiries. He went first to the reading room, then to the post office, then to the Traveller's Rest.

In the reading room he found a man who had seen the young men together on the High Peak road. At the post office he learned from Miss Trite what Arthur Teesdale had said on the previous day. At the Traveller's Rest he discovered two men who had seen them walking toward the bridge above the Force, and from what could be seen they appeared to be talking in an animated fashion.

The vicar returned to his home in an uneasy frame of mind. He said little to his wife. It was always his endeavour to keep all trouble from her as far as possible.

The dinner was spoiled, but he went through a show of eating, and did his best to betray none of his forebodings. What he feared he hardly knew himself. He could scarcely have shaped it into words if he had tried. That either of the young men would do any real harm to the other he could not bring himself to believe. Nor did it seem possible that two athletic young men could fall into any kind of danger on the fells. They knew their way about ‒ knew every glen and every stream, every rock and every precipice ‒ and could find their way to any point almost as well in the dark as in the daylight.

But such facts only made his son's absence the more inexplicable. Something must have happened, and something serious, or he would have been home long since.

He calmed the fears of his wife by telling her that there was no cause for alarm, as Douglas and Arthur Teesdale had gone out together, and that possibly Douglas was spending the evening with Arthur at Rowton Hall.

Mrs. Grove, who knew nothing of the feud between the young men, fell in with the suggestion at once. It sounded quite reasonable. And she retired early, as was her custom, feeling quite sure in her mind that Douglas would be at home long before midnight.

The vicar returned to his study, and tried to read, but all the time he was on the alert. At the least sound he started, and strained his ears to listen. A dozen times at least he felt sure he heard Douglas's footstep, and when the sound passed he heaved a long sigh of disappointment.

Ten o'clock passed, and eleven, and still the vicar sat on, trying his best to read the book that rested on his knee, and miserably failing. The house had grown strangely silent. The servants had gone to bed. His wife was fast asleep. Outside, the wind sighed fitfully in the trees, and now and then, borne faintly on its wings, came the sound of falling water

On the mantelpiece a small carriage clock ticked hurriedly and eagerly, as though afraid of getting behind in the race with time.

The vicar lifted his eyes from time to time, and looked hard at the face of the clock. The evening was wearing away rapidly. It was unlike Douglas to stay out late. He was always most considerate of the feelings of others. What could his absence mean?

He threw down his book at last, and seizing the poker dug it into the fire and sent a cheerful blaze roaring up the chimney. Then he stood with his back to the mantelpiece and stared with a bewildered and anxious air round the room. He felt that it was impossible to sit still any longer. Something must be done. The fear that haunted him vaguely and intermittently earlier in the evening was taking definite and permanent shape. Something had happened ‒ something that he had not courage yet to shape into words.

The hand on the dial pointed to half-past eleven. He could bear it no longer. He felt as though it would be a relief to scream.

Turning the lights low, he stole softly to the bedroom and listened. He could hear his wife breathing softly and regularly.

"She's fast asleep," he said to himself. "Thank Heaven for that!"

Then he moved slowly and silently downstairs. The hall light was still burning. The front door was on the latch. Buttoning his overcoat close up to his chin, and pulling his wide-awake hat low over his head, he opened the door silently and passed out into the night.

The Vicarage stood on high ground and overlooked the village. No one was stirring. Not a solitary footstep echoed along the narrow street. Not a light blinked in any window. The very hills seemed asleep.

For a few moments he stood with his hand on the garden gate and listened. In the valley below, the river Braden, swollen by the recent rains, rushed noisily over its stony bed toward the lake ‒ well known to tourists as Bridlemere. The wind was dying down into silence.

Rowton Hall was more than a mile away, but the vicar felt that he must go there first. He could not resist the conviction that the fate of his son was in some way bound up with that of the young squire. If Arthur Teesdale was at home, he would know what had become of Douglas. They had been seen together. To pretend ignorance would be to awake suspicion of foul play. He would have to answer straightforward questions in a straightforward way.

"I shall have to rouse the household," the Reverend Grove said to himself, as he hurried forward at his best speed. "They are all early birds at the Hall. But this is a matter that will not brook any further delay, and I must get at the truth at any and every cost."

As he drew near the house he was surprised to see a light shining through one of the downstairs windows. Then the door opened, and someone came out and stood in the porch.

The vicar quickened his steps, and a moment later he was conscious that the figure in the porch was coming to meet him.

"Who are you?" the butler called, in a low, anxious voice.

"Mr. Grove," he answered. "Is my son Douglas here?"

"Here? No. Is he missing also?"

"Missing also? Who else is missing?"

"Master Arthur went out this afternoon, and has not returned yet."

The vicar gave a gasp, and stood stock-still. A hundred questions seemed to rush through his brain. What did it mean? What tragedy lay at the back of it? What would the morning light reveal?

"Is Sir Geoffrey still awake?" he asked at length.

"Awake, sir? He's trapesin' up and down the house like a man demented. Since Parkyn came back from Glen Villa he's not been able to sit still a single moment."

"Whom did he see at Glen Villa?"

"Nobody," the butler answered. "They were all abed and seemingly asleep. So he knew, of course, the young master could not be there, and he corned back again."

For a moment the vicar hesitated. Should he go in and tell Sir Geoffrey that their sons had been seen together on the fells during the afternoon? Perhaps he had better not. It would only add to his anxiety. It would raise fears in his mind that were absent now.

"Won't you go in and see the master?" the butler asked.

"No, I think not. I'm anxious about my own son, and should only add to his anxiety. I thought perhaps Douglas might be here."

"He hasn't been here for months, sir."

"Is that so? Of course, young men go their own ways. I hope no evil has befallen either of them. Yes, I will hurry back, and see if my son has returned."

The butler made no reply, and the vicar turned on his heel and hurried off home again. He did his best to persuade himself even now that he had nothing to worry about; that the very fact that the young men were away together ought to be a reassuring circumstance.

They might have gone to the assistance of someone who had met with an accident, and found it impossible to return earlier, or even to send word as to the cause of their detention. Or.... Well, there might be half a dozen explanations. No doubt in the morning everything would be made straight and clear.

When the vicar reached his own door he put his ear to the keyhole for a moment to listen. But no one was stirring. The house was as silent as a church. Douglas had not come.

He let himself in as silently as he went out. He could not go to bed. Sleep was out of the question. The clock struck one just after he got back ‒ then two, then three.

The fire had gone out. He had forgotten to replenish it. His fears were gathering volume with every passing moment.

Should he tell his wife? It would he a relief to share his anxiety with someone.

He stole up into the bedroom and looked at her as she lay asleep. No, it would be cruel to wake her; and with a sigh he retraced his steps to his study.

Half an hour later he put on his hat and coat again, and stole out into the darkness. He must rouse his neighbours and ask them to join him in the search.
Chapter 3

Hope and Despair

IT was broad daylight before the search party got under way. The dalesmen slept soundly and got their wits together slowly. It took them a long time to dress by the light of a single candle. In some cases they had no light at all. Then they were bound to have some kind of breakfast ‒ they could not climb the bleak, cold fells on empty stomachs. The place of meeting was a considerable distance from some of the cottages, and time was exhausted in getting the company together.

When at length they did meet, there followed a mighty palaver. Late-comers insisted on having all the facts laid before them, and scarcely two of them could agree as to the best method to be adopted in starting the search.

The vicar led the way through the village past Glen Villa, the home of Avril Guest, and then up the High Peak road. Mrs. Finch was out in the garden gathering a few late flowers to adorn the breakfast table. At the tramp of so many feet she raised her head suddenly and stared. Then she rushed to the garden gate and beckoned to the vicar.

"What's the matter?" she asked anxiously. "Has there been an accident?"

"I hope not ‒ I hope not," he answered, trying to appear as unconcerned as possible. And then, in a few words, he told her how matters stood.

"You say that your son has not been home for the night?"

"That is so."

"And that Arthur Teesdale has been out all the night also?"

He nodded an affirmative.

"But what is your explanation?" she asked anxiously.

"I cannot explain," he said slowly, with downcast eyes. "I don't know what to think."

"Avril was expecting Arthur all last evening," she said, "but she had no suspicion that there might be trouble."

"Then she knows nothing yet?"

"Nothing. She looks forward to seeing him directly after breakfast."

"I hope he and Douglas will yet turn up safe and sound."

"But you have grave fears?"

"I cannot deny that I am exceedingly anxious. It is so unlike my son to keep late hours. He has always been considerate of the feelings of others."

"I don't know what Avril will think. I fear she will want to join in the search."

The vicar did not reply, but hurried on after his neighbours while Mrs. Finch turned back slowly into the house.

Avril was late down, for she had not slept well. She did not notice Mrs. Finch's preoccupied air, and before the coffee was poured out she had become interested in her letters ‒ mostly congratulatory ones on her approaching marriage to Arthur Teesdale.

Mrs. Finch nibbled at her buttered toast, and felt as though every attempt to swallow would choke her.

Now and then she glanced up at Avril, who, blissfully unconscious of impending trouble, smiled while she read.

"I'll let her get her breakfast first," Mrs. Finch said to herself. "Poor girl, I wonder when she will take another meal."

"Pardon me reading my letters, aunty!" Avril said apologetically, but without looking up, "but, really, some of them are too funny for anything!"

"Everybody is congratulating you, I suppose?"

"Some of them pretend to commiserate me, but of course they are only joking!"

"It is quite natural for people to have their little joke on such occasions."

"Yes, I suppose it is, but I wonder if all girls look forward to being married with such absolute confidence as I do?" And she raised such a happy, radiant face to Mrs. Finch that that good lady dropped her eyes suddenly and became interested in digging a black speck from her toast.

For a moment or two there was silence; then Avril said, "Are you not well, aunty?"

"I've just a little headache this morning. But get on with your breakfast, child. Your coffee must be getting quite cold."

"Oh, my coffee is all right," was the laughing answer. And she began resolutely to attack her breakfast.

Mrs. Finch had great difficulty in sitting still. Avril's bright, happy face was like a knife at her heart. The more she thought of what the vicar had told her, the greater became her distress. She felt that it was no ordinary mishap that had kept two young men out of their beds the whole of the night. She knew of the feud that existed between them, and a hundred vague possibilities loomed up before her.

By the time Avril had finished her breakfast Mrs. Finch's anxiety was written in every line of her face.

"Why, aunty, what is ailing you?" Avril asked sympathetically. "You look quite distressed."

"I am distressed, Avril, but I wanted you to finish your breakfast before telling you."

"Oh, aunty!" And the girl slipped out of her chair and came up to her side. "What is it? Do tell me. Have you heard bad news?"

"Yes, my child. I have heard news that has given me a good deal of anxiety."

In a moment Avril's thoughts flew to her loved one. He had not turned up the previous evening. "Is it about Arthur?" she asked, with wide-open eyes.

Mrs. Finch nodded an affirmative.

"Oh, do tell me what it is! Is he ill? Has he met with an accident? Is he ... oh no ... no! Don't tell me that he is dead!"

"I hope he is living and well, my child," Mrs. Finch answered, with a quaver in her voice. "Don't distress yourself unduly."

"But what is it? Oh, tell me what is troubling you."

"He went out yesterday on the fells, and ... and he has not returned."

"Not returned, aunty? Do you mean he has been out the whole of the night?"

Mrs. Finch nodded.

Avril walked slowly to her chair and sat down. The significance of the words entered her brain slowly. At first they produced a sense of relief. A dozen things might have kept him. He would be certain to turn up during the forenoon.

As the forenoon wore away and no news came, and she learned from her foster mother that when last seen, Arthur was with Douglas Grove near the wooden bridge above Black Ghyll Force, her anxiety took a much more definite turn. Fears that she dared not put into words began to haunt her. Horrible suggestions of foul play filled her imagination.

The bright morning gave place at the turn of the day to rain and wind. All the high peaks became swathed in dense masses of cloud. The sheep made their way down to the lower pastures. The tall poplars at the end of the garden bent and swayed before the force of the wind.

Early in the afternoon Avril donned her mackintosh coat and made her way to Rowton Hall. She felt as though she would scream if she remained any longer at Glen Villa.

The swishing of the wind and the beating of the rain suited her mood. It was a relief even to battle with the elements. Anything was better than standing still.

She found Sir Geoffrey hobbling from room to room in a state bordering on frenzy.

"Oh, my child, my child!" he exclaimed on catching sight of her. And he dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

"We must not give up hope, Sir Geoffrey," she said huskily. "Perhaps he has only met with a slight accident."

He raised his head slowly and looked at her, and the tears came into his eyes. "You are a brave girl," he said brokenly, "but you have given up hope yourself."

"Oh no, I have not," was the quick answer. "I keep hoping and praying all the time."

"You know he was last seen with Douglas Grove?" he said at length.

"Yes."

"I only learned that this morning," he went on. "If it had been any other man, I should feel reassured."

"But you do not think...." Then she hesitated, not daring to put the question into words.

"Douglas Grove has been very bitter against Arthur, as you know," he continued. "He has been heard to say things I do not care to repeat."

"I am afraid that neither loves the other very much," she answered, "but we cannot forget that they are both honourable men."

"They are young and proud and swift to anger, especially the vicar's son," Sir Geoffrey replied. "Oh, I do not know what to think. I am distressed beyond measure. What would I not give to hear my boy's footstep in the hall!"

Avril remained with Sir Geoffrey until it was dark. He was so broken down and helpless that she had not the heart to leave him. Moreover, in trying to comfort him she found the best solace for her own trouble.

On ordinary occasions she would have been afraid to tramp the deserted lanes between Rowton Hall and Bradenford after dark, but this evening she feared nothing. If Arthur Teesdale was dead she had no wish to live. The sooner she joined him in the silent land the happier she would be.

All the way home the wind sighed in the trees and splashed the rain in her face, but she heeded nothing. Her whole life was wrapped up in the man she had hoped so soon to marry. Without him the world was cheerless and dark, and the grave her only refuge.

It almost seemed to her that she did not know how much she loved him till now. His absence turned the world into an utter void. There was nothing left worth living for.

She got back into Bradenford in time to meet the vicar and his little band of searchers on their return ‒ but they brought no news with them. They had scoured miles and miles of the fells. They had waded through streams and slid down rocky precipices. They had searched the margin of every tarn they had come across, and scoured every glen and plantation. But neither sight nor sign nor sound of the missing men had been vouchsafed.

After rest and food and a change of raiment, the more stalwart of the men set out on the tramp again, accompanied by a number of fresh volunteers. The vicar was too utterly worn out and exhausted to continue the search. Moreover, his wife was in such a condition of nervous collapse that he felt his present duty was to remain by her side.

During the night of Thursday the searchers kept themselves within touch of each other. William Hay was elected leader, and the others loyally followed his commands. But when Friday morning dawned they spread themselves over a wider area, and practically swept the whole range of fells from Parkwater to Bridlemere.

But the day ended as it began, and when they foregathered as the darkness began to fall, it was unanimously agreed that it was of no use attempting to continue the search through another night.

On their return to Bradenford, news was brought of the finding of Arthur Teesdale's hat among the reeds at the upper end of Bridlemere. This gave a very definite and decided turn to the fears and forebodings that had been felt during that and the previous day. If his hat had been found in the lake, there was little doubt that his body was there also.

It was impossible to keep the villagers from talking. The sequence of events now seemed clear enough. The young men, who had quarrelled before, had quarrelled again ‒ and this time with fatal results. They had met in one of the loneliest places in the whole district. One of them had killed the other and thrown his body into the roaring torrent, which, swollen by the heavy rains, had quickly carried it into the lake below.

The hat had floated on the water, and had been swirled by the eddies among the reeds and rushes. The body had, doubtless, been carried farther out into the lake, and was lying at the bottom, serene and still. But in a few days it would rise to the surface, and would bear its own testimony as to what had been done.

Meanwhile, however, what of the other man? Discovering what he had done, he was doubtless making the best of his chance of escape. Luckily for him, he had got more than two days' start. But where could he go? It was difficult to get out of England without papers. Let the police once get on his track, and the case was up.

The finding of Arthur Teesdale's hat created consternation in the Hall, the Vicarage, and in Glen Villa. Sir Geoffrey gave up all hope of ever seeing his son alive again. Inclined by temperament to look at the dark side of things, he jumped at once to the conclusion that there had been foul play. In any straightforward, honest encounter he was quite sure his son was a match, and more than a match, for Douglas Grove.

In an outburst of grief and rage he ordered Parkyn to bring round the brougham and drive him to the Vicarage at once. He took Arthur's battered and water-soaked hat with him. The maid showed him into the library, and in a few minutes the vicar hurried down to him from his wife's bedside.

Sir Geoffrey was standing with his back against the mantelpiece, holding the hat in his hand. "You know this has been found, of course?" he said, holding out the hat and making a vain effort to keep his voice steady.

"Yes, I heard an hour ago. You are quite sure it is your son's hat?"

"Of course I am sure! His name is written inside. Now, I want to know of you what is the meaning of it."

"I do not know, Sir Geoffrey," the vicar answered mildly.

"You do not know?" the baronet retorted, with biting emphasis. "Then I will tell you. This is the consequence of bringing up a son in idleness!"

"I have no more brought up my son in idleness than you have," the vicar flashed. "If Douglas has not yet been successful in the profession he has adopted, I can assure you it has not been for want of trying."

"Profession?" the baronet sneered. "What profession, may I ask?"

"The profession of writing," the vicar answered proudly.

"Writing, indeed! The asylum for knaves and wastrels."

"Please speak of what you know, Sir Geoffrey. Your trouble is no excuse for using such language."

The stern, proud look in the vicar's eyes cowed the baronet, and he dropped into a chair and groaned.

"I am spent and heartbroken," he said, "and the finding of my boy's hat confirms every horrible fear and suspicion that has haunted me for two whole days."

"I have my fears and suspicions also," the vicar replied, "but I keep them to myself. Let us, as neighbours and Christians, avoid words that we may regret in the days to come. We are both bowed down by a common grief. Let us help each other, and pray for each other."

"I cannot pray," said the baronet, staring vacantly into the fire. "If my son is dead, I shall die an infidel. Oh, I believe ‒ I cannot help believing―"

But he did not complete the sentence. He rose suddenly to his feet, with clenched hands and white, drawn face.

The vicar stood aside while he passed out into the hall. He turned at length, with his hand on the door handle, and uttered a hasty "Goodnight," then pulled open the door and went out into the darkness.

"Drive me to Glen Villa," he said to Parkyn. And in a few minutes he was in Avril Guest's presence.

"You have heard the news?" he asked, scarcely daring to look into her troubled eyes.

"That they have found his hat?" she said, in a whisper.

"Yes."

"I heard it an hour ago."

"And have you hope still?" He waited for her answer as though his life depended on it.

"Yes, I have hope still," she answered, with brimming eyes. "I have not ceased to pray since this trouble came upon me, and God will not let me despair."

"Will you pray for me also?" he said huskily. And he turned and staggered out to his carriage, and in a few minutes was driving homeward through the wild and cheerless night.

Chapter 4

A Mysterious Visitor

THE vicar sat staring into the fire, when there came a hurried knock at his study door. At first he thought it was Sir Geoffrey come back again.

"Come in," he said, without turning his head. Then he looked up, expecting to see the baronet standing before him. "Oh, it's you, Mary, is it?" he said, in a tone of relief on discovering that it was the housemaid.

"If you please, sir, there's a woman at the door as wants to see you; and I don't think, sir, as how you'll want to see her."

"Why not, Mary?"

"Well, she's not a nice sort of woman, and I don't like the looks of her very much."

"Is she old?"

"Yes, she's middling old, and middling ugly too."

The vicar smiled, and answered, "We must not judge people by their looks, Mary."

"I don't, sir, but she was impident when I told her as how you wanted to be alone."

"Indeed?"

"Well, at least, she weren't as civil as she might be."

"Well, what did she say?"

"She said as how she had come to see you, and she was going to see you, if she stayed here all night."

"Then I think I'd better see her at once, and get the interview over."

"I don't think I would if I was you, sir."

The vicar raised at her a pair of mild, reproving eyes, and the girl blushed.

"I mean, sir," she stammered, "I don't think I would have her in the study."

"And why not, pray?"

"Well, sir, she ain't at all tidy, and she don't look as if she might be up to any good."

"I'll chance all that," he answered, with a smile. "Show her in at once."

The girl turned slowly round and left the room. She did not dare utter any further word of protest. Nevertheless, she strongly disapproved of her master's decision. She considered that he ought to have seen his visitor at the door, and on no account have allowed her to come into the house.

Crossing the hall, she pulled open the door, and confronted the dripping figure who stood wind-blown and defiant in the porch.

"The master will see you in his study," she said shortly, and in a tone that clearly indicated her strong disapproval.

"Of course he will," was the quiet answer. "You should have taken me to him at once, and not kept me standing here in the wind and rain."

"It's not for the likes of you to tell me what I ought to do," was the lofty answer. And she led the way to the vicar's study.

The Reverend Henry Grove was waiting with some curiosity the advent of his visitor. He heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. The next moment the door was thrown open, and she stood before him.

The vicar expected something out of the common, but he was scarcely prepared for the apparition that blocked the entire doorway.

She was considerably over six feet high, and broad in proportion. Her age might be anything between fifty and sixty-five. Her hair was grey and abundant; her face was tanned with sun and wind; her eyes keen; her mouth firmly set. In early life she probably had a fair share of good looks. There was a certain dignity about her appearance now.

She was dressed in coarse homespun, made with an entire disregard of either fit or fashion. A much-worn Paisley shawl dropped from her broad shoulders, from which dripped little pools of water on the vicar's carpet. Wisps of grey hair were blown all over her strong, resolute face. Her head was adorned by a worsted creation that was a cut between a nightcap and a tam o' shanter, and in her hand she carried a long staff, much like an alpenstock.

She showed no sign of fear or trepidation as she stood before the vicar. Her deeply-lined face was stern and impassive. Her eyes were keen and searching.

"You wished to see me?" Mr Grove asked timidly, much wondering whether he had done wisely in admitting this Amazon into his presence.

"Had I not wished to see you I should not have tramped over the fells on a night like this."

The vicar started, and gazed at her more keenly. She spoke like an educated woman, and certainly she carried herself with dignity.

"You have come a considerable distance?" he asked. And he noticed that the rain was dripping from her clothes and forming miniature lakes on the well-worn carpet.

"From beyond Snake Fell," she answered, "and I want you to go back with me."

For a moment he stared at her in silence.

"I am quite sane," she continued, "and mean what I say. If you don't go back with me you may live to regret it."

"I may live to regret it if I do."

"No, you will not. No man ever regrets doing the right thing."

"But why should I go with you?"

"I will explain that later on."

"But where would you take me?"

"To the Witch's Castle in the Dower Glen."

"I prefer to stay where I am, thank you!"

"No doubt you do. It is a cruel night for a tramp over the fells. Nevertheless, you must come with me, for much may depend on it."

"You speak in riddles," he said, in a tone of irritation. "What is there at stake? What is it that you are driving at?"

"It may be that life is at stake, and liberty, and all the other things that go to make life worth living."

"Whose life? Whose liberty?" he asked quickly.

"That is more than I can reveal. But time presses. Will you get on your greatcoat and come with me?"

"Certainly not," he answered, with a touch of indignation in his voice. "Why should I go on a fool's errand because you ask me to?"

"It is no fool's errand," she answered quietly. "I know you are in great trouble at the present time, and in great perplexity. There may be some measure of illumination at the other end."

"What do you know?" he demanded eagerly. "For God's sake, woman, if you know anything, don't keep it back!"

"I have not said that I know anything," she replied, "but all people may not be in the same state of ignorance. What if I could take you to one who does know?"

"What if you could? That is a tantalising question," he said bitterly. "Why beat about the bush? You must know that this is no time for trifling. The whole neighbourhood is distressed, while I am heartbroken."

"I have no desire to trifle with you, and if I could shorten the period of your anguish or uncertainty I would willingly do so. Do you think I have tramped over the fells on this night of tempest for my own pleasure?"

And she lifted a pair of defiant eyes and stared at him.

"I do not know what is at the back of your mind," he answered reflectively. "But will you answer me one question? Has your visit anything to do with ... with ... the disappearance of .. of the young men?"

"It may have much to do with it," she replied, "but this is not the place for confidences."

"Why not?"

"There may be many reasons. Moreover, time presses."

The vicar walked across the study and leaned his elbow on a bookcase. He did not like the prospect of going out on the fells on such a wild night and in such company. He could hear the rain splashing against the window and the wind rushing through the trees, and he could easily picture what the night would be like on the slopes of Snake Fell.

On the other hand, he would not like to let slip any chance of getting information on a matter that was tearing his heart with intolerable anguish. That his strange visitor might know something of importance was not unlikely.

But if she knew, why did she refuse to tell? Why all this mystery? Why demand that he should accompany her?

The vicar raised his eyes after a while, and looked again at his visitor. She was certainly not an inviting companion for a night journey across the hills.

"I really don't understand the object of your visit," he said at length. "You say you did not come here on such a wild night for your own pleasure, and that I can well believe. But if you know anything that is of importance, why not tell me what you know? I will respect your confidence, if that is what you wish, and I shall be unfeignedly grateful if you can relieve my anxiety and the anxiety of others."

"Are you afraid of me?" she asked, with a condescending smile. "Do you think I would do you any harm to you, a clergyman? Have you none of the faith that you insist upon in others?"

"We are not called upon to blindly trust any stranger that may happen to cross our path," he answered shortly.

"Then you are afraid?" she asked. "Afraid of a lonely, defenceless woman?"

"I own I do not like the enterprise, and on such a night," he answered.

"Very good. If you refuse to go with me, no more is to be said. I have done my duty. I have tried to serve you, and to serve others."

"Will you let one of the dalesmen, or my sexton if you like, go with me?"

"Certainly not! I was charged to bring you only."

"Will you pledge me on your word of honour that no trick is to be played upon me? What if I disappear, as my son and Arthur Teesdale have disappeared? Who are you?"

"I am a woman, alone and defenceless. I have no desire but to help you and help others. You will be led into no trap. But your presence is needed, your advice is needed, your help is needed. Is not that enough?"

"But by whom?"

"That I cannot tell you."

The vicar averted his gaze to the floor again, and appeared to be deep in thought.

"I will wait for you," she continued quietly, "where the field path strikes the High Peak road. But I will not wait for you many minutes. You have wasted much time already, and time may be valuable. There is one who is waiting for us both in great anxiety. Keep a still tongue ‒ for the present, at any rate. Now ring the bell and ask that hoity-toity servant of yours to show me out, and be quick to follow me."

The vicar rang the bell at once, and a minute later he heard the front door click, and knew that his strange visitor had gone forth into the night.

Almost mechanically he drew from a cupboard a pair of leggings, which he proceeded to fasten on. Then he turned down the light, and went into the hall, and took down a mackintosh from the rack, and buttoned it close about his throat.

He felt more or less like a man in a dream. It almost seemed as if some kind of spell had been cast over him. He was acting, not from any kind of conviction, but from some curious impulse.

For several moments he twirled his broad rimmed wide-awake hat in his hands. Then he went along the hall to the kitchen door and pushed it open.

"If your mistress asks for me," he said, speaking rapidly, "say that I have gone to visit a urgent case, and may not be back till late. Don't wait up. I have the key." And, without waiting for a reply, he retreated towards the front door.

Taking a heavy stick out of the umbrella stand, he pulled open the door, and stood for a moment or two under the porch. The night was pitch-dark; the wind was blowing half a gale; the rain was still coming down in torrents.

"It seems a fool's errand," he muttered to himself. "And yet I must know. The suspense is becoming intolerable."

Pulling the door to behind him, he plunged resolutely into the night. The lights down in the village twinkled intermittently. The river was roaring along its stony bed farther down the valley.

He did not hesitate, however. His early fear had given place to a burning curiosity. There was clearly a mystery somewhere, and, at all risks, he would probe it to the bottom.

The wind caught him every now and then, and battered him and twisted him about; but, instead of discouraging him, it awoke in him a feeling of exhilaration. It was a relief to feel that he was doing something, that he was going somewhere, that he was making some attempt to unravel a tangle of events that threatened to paralyse him.

He resolutely put aside the thought that he might be yielding to a confidence trick intended to entrap him and rob him. He had little or nothing about him that was worth stealing, and that anyone could have designs upon his life seemed too absurd to be believed.

At any rate, he was resolved to go through with the adventure now, whatever the consequences might be.

At the end of the field path he found his companion waiting for him.

"You have not kept me long," she said. "I knew you would not. Now we must push forward for all we are worth. Fortunately, the wind is at our back."

"Is there need of so much hurry?" he said at length, pausing and taking a long breath. "You must remember I am no longer a young man."

"Ah, I am thinking of one who waits for you."

"Is he so ill?"

"In mind, if not in body."

"Then it is a man?" he asked eagerly.

"You will know in good time," she answered.

"You are a strange woman. I confess I do not see the need of all this secrecy."

"Perhaps not. I am following my instructions. But we should be wiser not to waste our breath in talking, but to save it for climbing."

For a long time he did not reply, but trudged doggedly on by her side. The High Peak road was fairly broad and even, and there was comparatively little difficulty in following its windings, even in the dark.

The higher they got among the fells the fiercer blew the wind and the more pitilessly fell the rain. After a while they left the High Peak road, and struck up a narrow glen. Here the woman walked in front, and the vicar followed close behind. A mile up the glen they took a sudden turn to the right, and rounded a bare and windy summit.

Then they descended into another valley, and made their way along a path that was so rough that it might be the bed of a stream. Another turn ‒ this time to the left ‒ along the margin of a mountain tarn, till at length they came to what seemed a rocky precipice rising almost perpendicularly above them.

Here the vicar pulled up suddenly and gasped. The precipice protected them from the wind, and the rain seemed less pitiless than in the open. The vicar's eyes had also adjusted themselves to the darkness, and he was able to get a faint outline of his surroundings.

"Have we much farther to go?" he asked, raising his rain-soaked hat and wiping his hot forehead.

"No, we are almost there. You had better rest a bit and calm yourself. There may be a great surprise in store for you."

The vicar bit his lip, and his legs trembled slightly. "Do I go to meet joy, or sorrow?" he asked anxiously.

"There is no joy without sorrow," she answered. "No rose without its thorn."

"That is no answer to my question," he said impatiently. "You might let me know what you have brought me out to see."

"Have patience," she answered. "You will know in a few moments now."

She led the way round a sharp spur of rock, "Give me your hand," she said, in a hoarse whisper, and he obeyed.

The next moment a dark cavern seemed to open in front of them.

She gave his hand a sharp pull, and he found himself sliding down a steep declivity into impenetrable darkness. He tried to cry out, but he was so startled and alarmed that he had no power of utterance left. A thousand vague fears tore at his heart in a moment, while to increase his terror he heard a grating noise behind him, and knew that the door to the outer world was being closed.

Chapter 5

A Confession

BEFORE the vicar had recovered from his alarm a light was struck and a candle lighted, and he discovered that he was in a natural cave, with high-pointed roof and irregular and uneven sides.

"It is more comfortable here than it is outside," his companion remarked quietly, and she began to march forward in the darkness.

For a moment or two he hesitated. He was by no means sure that it was more comfortable than being outside. The silence was uncanny, and the little circle of light made by the candle only served to deepen and intensify the surrounding darkness.

While he hesitated, the glimmer of light moved farther and farther away from him. Should he follow, or should he turn in the other direction and try to find his way back into the outer world?

In another moment or two he would be left alone in utter darkness. Without waiting to debate the matter further, he rushed after the vanishing light. It seemed the only friendly thing left to him. If that failed, he was a lost man.

His companion did not look behind. Holding the light above her shoulder, she stalked forward, while the cave narrowed into a tunnel. At length a door was reached, indistinguishable in colour from the surrounding rock, and indeed looking like a part of it. Giving it a gentle push it flew open, revealing dimly another cave of very considerable dimensions, and divided by curtains stretched across it.

Through a curtain to the left a light shone conspicuously. The vicar halted for a moment in the doorway and tried to take in the scene. The woman disappeared behind a curtain through which the light shone. Faintly the sound of voices echoed through the place. The vicar strained his ears, but could not catch what was being said. Nevertheless, his heart gave a great bound. He felt he was on the threshold of some great secret or some important discovery.

After a moment or two the woman returned, and beckoning with her finger he followed with fast-beating heart. His keen and eager eyes took in the scene in a moment. A recess in the cave, with a curtain thrown across, formed a convenient sleeping apartment. The floor was carpeted with mats of plaited rushes. A rough wooden bedstead, a chair, and a small three-legged table on which a lamp stood, comprised the entire furniture. On the bed a human figure was clearly outlined.

The vicar advanced silently, but before he reached the bed the figure on it sat up suddenly. The light from the lamp fell full on his face. The vicar gave a little cry, and the next moment he and his son were locked in each other's arms, and the woman quickly and silently withdrew.

For several moments neither of the men spoke. Each struggled to master his emotion. The vicar's joy at finding his son Douglas alive completely overwhelmed him. After the long nights and days of agony through which he had passed it was like emerging from oppressive darkness into blinding sunshine.

The vicar was the first to break the silence. "Oh, my son, my son!" he sobbed. And then the tears that had filled his eyes rolled down his cheeks.

For a while no other word was spoken. Then Douglas gently pushed his father from him.

"I have a lot to say to you, father," he said, with a little gasp, "and I am not very strong yet. Would you mind sitting there, where I can look at you?"

The vicar obeyed at once, and there was a questioning light in his eyes as well as a look of apprehension.

"You wonder why I am here, of course, and how I got here, and why I did not send for you before?" Douglas went on. "And you are wondering also what has become of Arthur Teesdale, and what part I played in his disappearance?"

"That is quite true, my boy," the vicar answered. "We have all been in great distress, as you can easily imagine. But you will never imagine what a joy it is to me to find you alive."

"No, don't say that, father. Hear me out first, for I have a tragic story to tell. I cannot help thinking it would have been better if you had found me dead."

"Hush, Douglas! You cannot mean‒‒"

"Yes, father, I mean the worst you can imagine."

"The worst?"

"Yes, the worst."

"Is ... is ... Arthur Teesdale...." But he could not shape the question into words.

Douglas moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue before he answered; then he said, slowly and deliberately, "Arthur Teesdale is dead ‒ and by my hand."

"No, no!" the vicar almost shrieked. "That is too horrible!"

And he rose from his chair with white face and clenched hands, then sat down again suddenly, as though all strength had gone out of him.

"I must tell you the whole truth," Douglas went on, calmly and deliberately. "I sent for you in order to make a clean breast of it. When you have heard all the story you will be able to advise me what to do."

The vicar stared at him with wide open eyes but he seemed too overcome to make any reply. The joy of finding his son alive was submerged again in a fresh calamity. Perhaps it would have been better, after all, if he had found him dead.

For several moments the two men looked at each other without speaking, then Douglas went on again.

"I don't want to excuse anything, or keep back a single word of the truth; and I think I am willing to pay the full penalty of my crime. I was not willing at first, and tried to run away, but I was too weak to get far. Nan o' the Fells found me unconscious, and brought me here; and here I have lain ever since."

"Is this strange woman Nan o' the Fells?" the vicar asked, after a long pause.

"Yes."

"And does she know ... what you have done?"

"I think she has a shrewd guess. But she is in the main a silent creature, and not given to asking questions or to answering them."

"She is certainly not given to answering them," the vicar replied. "I could not get a single thing out of her."

"Then no one but yourself knows that I am here?"

"Not a soul, I presume. She came to the Vicarage long after dark. She refused to tell who she was or where she came from. She insisted on seeing me, and insisted on my following her. At first I point-blank refused, but she so whetted my curiosity, and threw such a spell over me, that in the end I was compelled to come, though my judgment and my fears protested all the time."

"She is a curious compound," Douglas said reflectively and in a whisper. "A mixture in equal quantities of love and hate, compassion and cruelty, honesty and intrigue."

"How have you found that out?"

"By listening to her talk. She has a curiously simple way of revealing herself. But enough of Nan. I want to talk about myself, for I am in a strait betwixt two."

"Go on, my son. Let me have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"You have heard that Arthur Teesdale and I were on the High Peak road together?"

"Yes, everyone in Bradenford knows that."

"We met by accident, and could not very well escape each other. I had no wish to quarrel with him. I don't think he wanted to quarrel with me."

"But you did quarrel?"

"Yes. One word led to another, and taunt led to taunt, but I did not think we should come to blows."

"Then you fought?"

"Well, not exactly. We had crossed the wooden bridge together above Black Ghyll Force, and then I left him and turned back, and he flung after me a bitter, biting taunt."

"What did he say to you?"

"Oh, it was all about Hope, his sister. He said I was a mean coward."

"And what did you say?"

"I called back that he was a liar and a good-for-nothing!"

"Well?"

"Well, he rushed at me like an infuriated lion. I was halfway across the bridge when I heard his footsteps, and turned suddenly to receive a blow on the jaw that fairly staggered me."

"And what then?"

"I hardly know what happened then. I suppose the devil entered into me, for I was conscious of only one thing, one impulse, one desire ‒ and that was to kill him! I cared nothing what became of myself or anyone else. I forgot you and mother and everybody. For the moment I was bent on murder. It wasn't a case of self-defence. I closed with him, having only one purpose in my heart, and that to drown him. I could not kill him any other way. I had no weapon of any kind. But kill him I would, even if I perished in the attempt. I don't know how long the struggle lasted. I was beside myself, and seemed to have the strength of two. I lifted him from his feet at last and threw him into the river!"

"You threw him in?"

"Yes."

"And he let go his hold on you?"

"No, he kept his grip on me till the water closed over us."

"Then you fell over the bridge together?"

"Yes, it was inevitable, for he hung on to me like grim death."

The vicar gave a little gasp, and a brighter light came into his eyes. "But how did you escape?" he asked.

"God alone can answer that question," was the reply.

"Did you lose consciousness, then, when you found yourself struggling in the water?"

"I think so. I remember a great roar in my ears, a swift rush, and a sense of falling through empty space. And then I knew nothing until I found myself on a broad slab of rock halfway down the falls."

"But how did you get there?"

"I don't know. I think I must have drifted to the side of the stream where the water was less furious than in the centre. I cannot account for my escape in any other way."

"The rock on which you found yourself was out of the reach of the main current?"

"Yes, I think so. But it was dark when I came to myself, and I was half covered with water. I don't know how I got out. I was dazed, and bruised from head to foot."

"But why did you not make your way home at once?"

"Why? Because I knew I was a murderer, and I wanted to escape. An unreasoning terror got hold of me. I wanted to get away as far as possible from the scene of my crime, and hide myself from everybody. But that feeling has largely passed away now. If you think best, I will give myself up to justice as soon as I can walk."

"If I think it best?"

"Yes. You are clearer-headed than I am. You know what is right. Arthur Teesdale is dead, and by my hand."

"But his body has not been found yet."

"That makes no difference. He fell, I expect, more into the middle of the stream, and so would be carried right down into Bridlemere. No one going over Black Ghyll Force in the centre of the stream could possibly escape."

"I fear that is true," the vicar said sadly.

"And it would have been better for me if I had gone over in the centre also."

"Don't say that. If your life has been spared, it has been spared for some wise purpose."

Douglas laughed bitterly. "I suppose the world's 'awful examples' have done some good in an indirect way," he said. "But I confess I do not want to be exhibited as one of them."

"No one will ever be able to hold you up, my son, as an awful example," the vicar said affectionately.

"Indeed, father? In what other light shall I appear?"

"I do not know, my boy. Time alone can reveal that."

"Do you imagine that after what has happened there can be any life before me that is worth living?"

"It is difficult to say what is worth living and what is not," the vicar answered evasively. "I must have time to think over what you have told me."

"But you surely do not think I should try to evade the law?" Douglas asked eagerly.

"I do not yet quite see what the law is," the vicar answered, with averted eyes. "You certainly did not go out with the intention of killing Arthur Teesdale."

"I did not go out with that intention. No. I did not know I was going to meet him. And when I did meet him I had no desire to quarrel with him. But, after he struck me, all that was changed. I became a murderer in heart and intention. I meant to kill him, and I did."

"Perhaps neither of you knew what you meant to do," the vicar replied, after a long pause. "You both struggled for the mastery. The sequel was an accident of your surroundings."

"What do you mean, father?"

"I mean that, had you been anywhere else, the same results could not have followed. Being on the bridge, a tragedy was inevitable."

"You mean that had he struck me a mile from the bridge, I should not have killed him."

"Exactly. But I am not convinced even now that you killed him."

Douglas shook his head, and tears came into his eyes. "It is natural, father, that you should try to make excuses for me. You have always been a good father to me. But ... but I can make no such excuses for myself."

"You are weak and ill, Douglas, and apt perhaps to take a too morbid view of things. Let us wait a few days, until you have regained some of your strength. Have you any bones broken?"

"No, I think not. But I have more cuts and bruises than I can count."

"You will soon get better of those, if you have no bones broken."

"I tried to walk just now, while waiting for you to come, but I fell full length on the floor."

"It is not the kind of place for you to pick up your strength in," the vicar answered, glancing round the strange apartment.

"It isn't a palace, certainly," Douglas said, with a smile. "But Nan is a good nurse, and not a bad cook."

"But how is the place ventilated?"

"There's a hole right up through the roof in the centre of the cave. It lets in the light, and, occasionally, the rain."

"And isn't the place frightfully cold?"

"Not any colder, I expect, than a prison cell."

The vicar rose to his feet and stretched himself. "You can't be moved for a few days yet," he said, after a long pause. "Meanwhile, we must consider what is best to be done."

"And won't you tell people I am alive?"

"I do not know what I shall do yet," he answered, with knitted brows.

"I think I would rather face all the consequences than make any attempt to escape."

"When we have learnt what is right, we must do it at all costs." And he bent over Douglas and kissed him affectionately.

"I am sorry to bring so much trouble on you," the young man answered. "Had I thought of that earlier, I ... I." Then his voice broke, and he turned away his head.

The vicar pressed his hand in silence, and then went outside the curtain. The sound of his footsteps brought Nan from her distant corner.

"You have been a kind woman," he said, with a shake in his voice, "and I thank you. My boy cannot be moved for a few days. Meanwhile, I can leave him with confidence in your hands."

"I will take care of him," she said. "Now let me see you safe back on the High Peak road."

And she walked on in front of him, holding the lamp above her shoulders.

At the top of the steep ascent, which he remembered well, she pushed aside a thin splinter of rock, and a moment later they were out in the open air.

She led him back in silence, and by a different way from that in which they came, until they struck the road they sought.

"You will come again?" she asked.

"Tomorrow night, if you will let me."

"I will be on this spot at eleven, and see to it that no one follows you."

"I will be careful," he answered. "My boy is dear to me."

So they parted. And he hurried down the winding road in the teeth of the wind and the rain, and yet he was conscious of neither. The tumult outside was as nothing compared with the tumult within.

Chapter 6

Love and Duty

IT wanted but an hour or two to daylight when the vicar quietly and unobserved stole into his house. He felt almost like a thief, and looked right and left, and listened intently before inserting his latchkey. There was no sound, however, save the roaring of the river and the wind swishing in the poplars. The village below appeared to be wrapped in profound slumber, and he noticed no light in any house save that which shone in Avril Guest's window at Glen Villa.

"Poor Avril!" he said to himself, as he stole stealthily past Glen Villa. "Her grief will be the hardest part of Douglas's punishment. Ah, if young people only reflected, how differently they would act."

He could not keep back a lump that rose suddenly in his throat at sight of that solitary beam of light piercing the darkness. It was so sad, so full of painful suggestions. Everyone else had sought his or her bed, and was doubtless locked in peaceful slumber. But Avril Guest kept lonely vigil, unable to sleep ‒ she who, but a few days previously, had been the happiest girl in the village, and who had looked forward with such confident assurance to the day of her marriage to Arthur Teesdale. Now all her bright hopes and dreams had gone out in darkness. Widowed before she was wed. Heartbroken in what should have been the hour of her triumph.

The vicar's heart yearned to go to the girl and try to comfort her. Then, with something like a groan, he remembered that he had no word of comfort to give. He could only confirm her worst fears, and tell her there was no room left for the faintest hope.

It was a painful and almost tragic position to be in, and he wondered if any other clergyman ‒ since clergymen began to be ‒ ever found himself in such trying circumstances. Avril Guest was almost as dear to him as one of his own children. He had seen her grow up from childhood, and had watched the unfolding of her character with infinite pleasure. He remembered Mrs. Finch first coming to Glen Villa and bringing the little orphan girl with her ‒ coming from no one knew whither ‒ and preserving then and ever since an inviolable silence respecting the past.

How the years had slipped away. How quickly the child had grown into a woman. How wonderfully the promise of her youth had been fulfilled. How beautiful she had become.

The vicar sighed as he remembered some hopes and plans of his own. Avril was the girl he would have chosen for Douglas, if he could have had his way. They had played together as children; had been friends and confidantes as youth and maiden; had honoured and trusted each other as man and woman: but the love that he had hoped to see never ripened.

He often wondered what Douglas was thinking about, and where he kept his eyes. Here was the very girl to appeal to his romantic and poetic nature. She seemed to lack nothing that an artistic temperament could desire. She was sweeter than the spring violets, more graceful than the daffodils, more generous than the sunshine.

"They're bound to love each other," the vicar used to say to himself, as he watched them growing into manhood and womanhood. "They are the very complement of each other ‒ both romantic, both artistic, both fond of Nature and poetry, and both terribly sensitive to everything that is discordant and unlovely."

Alas, however, for the vicar's hopes. Nature's perversity has become proverbial. Extremes meet. It was the practical, unromantic, big-boned athlete that caught Avril's fancy. Arthur Teesdale might care nothing for Nature, nor poetry, nor art. But he was strong and fearless and clear-headed. And Avril worshipped him as a sort of modern deity.

The vicar said nothing of his disappointment to anyone.

He remembered how he had gone his own way when he was young, and against the advice of his friends. Had married a pale, delicate girl who had been an invalid nearly ever since. Well, he had not been unhappy on the whole, though he did sometimes wish that his wife had more imagination and a larger fund of affection.

Douglas, strangely enough, had fallen in love with the squire's daughter, Helen, a girl not yet out of her teens. A girl, too, whose upbringing and surroundings scarcely fitted her to be the wife of a poor man, and whose family would throw every obstacle in the way of such an alliance.

The vicar heaved a big sigh as he entered his own silent house. Fortunately, no one was awake. His wife could sleep in spite of trouble. He lay down by her side without disturbing her, and waited for the daylight.

What should he do next? That was the question that troubled him. The conflict within him appeared to be between love and duty ‒ love for his son, and duty to the State. If Douglas had committed a crime, it was only right that he should pay the penalty. That was a self-evident proposition, and he did not dispute it for a moment.

But was he called upon to deliver up his own son? Would he not be justified in keeping silence, and in letting the agents of the law do their own work? Moreover, he was by no means certain that his son would get justice under present conditions. Feeling was already running strongly against him. He feared that the worst possible construction would be put upon his story. Then it had to be taken into account that Sir Geoffrey was a man of considerable influence and standing, and every magistrate and judge would sympathise strongly with him, so that it was just possible his son might have to suffer a penalty out of all proportion to his offence.

That there could be a verdict of Wilful Murder was, of course, out of the question. But a verdict of Manslaughter might be made to approach so near to it that a man might almost as well be charged with the greater crime and pay the death penalty and have done with it.

How, then, could he deliver up his only son to what was called justice, when it might mean delivering him up to injustice? He was not yet fully convinced that his son had committed a crime. He did not strike the first blow, and what followed after the striking of that blow who could judge, save God alone?

Both men were evidently blinded by passion. Both men struggled with each other, not knowing what the consequences would be. The falling into the river was an accident of the situation. It could not be said in fairness that Douglas threw Arthur in, or that Arthur threw Douglas in. They fell in together. Both were to blame, and perhaps the young squire was the more to blame of the two.

But was it likely that any bench of magistrates or any English jury would take that lenient view of the case? Who could tell what stories would grow into shape before the trial came on? What motives would be hunted up by clever counsel? What seemingly presumptive and circumstantial evidence would be marshalled in convincing array?

The vicar rolled from side to side and groaned in spirit. He had always cherished such absolute and unshaken faith in the justice and fairness of English courts of law, and was prepared to defend the jury system against all comers. In fact, he had defended the system again and again, and had claimed for it merits that were little short of infallibility.

Yet now, because his own affections were involved, he was actually deluging the whole system with doubts.

A cold sweat broke out over him at length. Was his reason deserting him, or was it that his moral vision was becoming obscure? Was he letting his affection blind his judgment, or was the trial of his love rendering his senses all the more acute?

He tried after a while to go to sleep, but before the kindly angel of slumber could touch him, his wife awoke.

"You were late in last night, Henry," she said fretfully. "What kept you so long?"

"I went to see a sick man," he answered, "and he had a confession to make to me, which kept me a long time."

"I wish you would not listen to confessions," she said. "I'm always afraid you will repeat them to me."

"And what would happen then, Grace?"

"Why, I should tell the first person I met. How you can keep so many secrets locked up in your own heart puzzles me."

"I never feel the least inclination to reveal secrets," he answered.

"Not even to me?"

"No, not even to you."

"They would not be secrets very long if I knew them. Well, you are quite right. I wish I knew the secret of the boys, Henry. You know I don't believe a bit that any real harm has overtaken them. If I did, I should not be able to sleep in my bed."

"It is fortunate for you that you are not imaginative," the vicar said, a little sadly.

"I should think so. Imaginative people are always conjuring up horrible things, and going halfway to meet trouble. I was dreaming about Arthur Teesdale and Douglas last night, and I feel quite sure that they are both alive."

"I wish I could think so," he answered, "but I cannot. No, no, Grace, we had better prepare ourselves for a great trouble."

"I will when I see it. I own I was terribly upset at first, but I am getting to look at the matter more rationally now. It's not likely that two strong, healthy young men would get into serious trouble."

He did not reply. He could not tell her what he knew. After more than twenty-five years of wedded life they had still little in common. He was fond of her. She was still pretty, in spite of her forty-six years, while her chronic ill-health always called out his deepest sympathy. But he did not understand her even yet. He was imaginative; she had no imagination at all. He was always looking into the future; she never looked beyond the hour. He felt deeply the smallest grief; she, after the first outburst of weeping, rose above it, and seemed to forget it. So they lived in their separate worlds. Marriage could never make them one.

During the day he went down to the lake and watched the process of dredging for Arthur Teesdale's body. The entire neighbourhood appeared to be out in boats. For the moment all interests were centred in the same object. Very little else was talked about from morning till night.

The day, however, ended as it began, and ancient dalesmen began to express their fears that the body had become entangled in the weeds and might never be recovered at all. Others laughed that idea to scorn. They argued that in the memory of man, nobody had been drowned in Bridlemere whose body had not been ultimately recovered.

The vicar found it impossible to engage in his usual work. He could neither read books nor make sermons. He could not even sit still. The day seemed interminable. He was impatient for night to come, when he would be able to visit his son again.

At ten o'clock, after most of the others had retired, he set off alone, avoiding the beaten tracks where he might be likely to meet people, and after an hour's tramp he found himself near the spot where Nan o' the Fells left him the previous night. No one appeared to be about, and he paused and listened intently for the sound of footsteps.

She came upon him while he was listening, as though she had dropped down from the clouds, and without speaking conducted him straight to his destination.

Douglas was eagerly awaiting his father's arrival. "I am glad you have come," he said, grasping the vicar's hands.

"You are better than you were yesterday?" the vicar said, with brightening face.

"In body ‒ yes. I've walked the whole length of the cave this afternoon."

"And have you decided in your own mind what is best for you to do?"

"I think so, father, but I would like to have your judgment on the matter first."

"I fear I have no judgment left, my son. I shrink from every course that is open. I hesitate, not knowing what is right or wrong."

Douglas listened, apparently unmoved, to all his father said. In reality, he was thinking about other things. Slowly his mind was being made up. One course was shaping itself before his eyes.

When his father had gone the previous night, he had sat down on his bed and buried his face in his hands. He was alone in the cave. Nan had gone with his father to show him the way home.

"If I were not his son," he said to himself, "he would advise me without hesitation to give myself up. It is because I am his son he hesitates. I will do it tomorrow or Monday. I shall be strong enough by then, and Nan will help me."

Then he raised his head and looked round the strange apartment.

"I might escape if I were to try," he said to himself. "I might disguise myself and leave the country. But what would be the good of it? Liberty is sweet, it is true, and yet liberty is scarcely worth having when all else is lost. No, I will face it out like a man."

When Nan returned from showing his father the way home, she found him limping up and down the cave.

"You are better?" she said, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Better in mind and in body," he answered. "I have settled at last what to do."

Now that his mind was made up, he felt happier than he had done since he recovered consciousness. "I may be a criminal," he said to himself, "but I will not be a coward."

The next day was Sunday, and he and Nan had all their meals out of doors. The recent storms had spent themselves. The westerly gales had settled themselves into a soft southerly breeze. The clouds disappeared behind the hills, and the sun shone cheerfully out of a pale blue sky.

"It is my last day of liberty, Nan," he said. "Tomorrow I give myself up. You have been good to me, and I shall never be grateful enough as long as I live. But I have reckoned up the whole case. Life in perpetual hiding, and feeling oneself a coward, would not be worth having. So I will go like a man and face my doom. I threw Arthur Teesdale in the river, Nan‒‒"

"He deserved it!" she snapped.

"And I must take the consequences of my action," he continued, without heeding. "When it is dark, Nan, you will help me down to the Vicarage. I should like to sleep one night more in my own bed. Tomorrow, farewell to everything!"

"They'll hang you!" she said. "The fools! Nevertheless, I am glad you have made up your mind."

So, when it was dark, they journeyed down the fells together until they came in sight of the Vicarage, then Nan left him, flinging out the one word "Farewell!" as she stalked away into the darkness.
Chapter 7

The Irrevocable Past

THE vicar and his wife were alone in the dining room. The girls had gone to bed, and Mrs. Grove was yawning in her chair. Conversation had tapered out into silence. Mrs. Grove was not a great conversationalist at the best of times, except when she got on the subject of her own ailments. For some reason this evening she did not reach that favourite topic.

The talk, such as there was, had been about Douglas and Arthur Teesdale. But the vicar was depressed and absent-minded. Never in his life before had he been under such a cloud. Never before had he gone through the Sunday services in such a perfunctory and half-hearted way. Never had he preached so badly.

The congregation had been painfully small both morning and evening, but what was much worse than that was the air of icy reserve that seemed to pervade the place. The warmth of sympathy which he had often felt was entirely absent. Eyes usually friendly looked at him with suspicion.

His appeals and exhortations, instead of awaking a quick response, seemed to produce the opposite effect. Perhaps he was hyper-sensitive, and apt to imagine things that had no existence. But all the day he fancied people were saying to him under their breath, "Physician, heal thyself. Set your own house in order before attempting to instruct us."

He tried his best to shake off the impression, and had he not overheard two men talking as he came back from church after the evening's service he might have succeeded.

"It's my opinion," said one, "that the parson's son has made away with the young squire."

"And mine too," was the reply.

"And, as I was a-sayin' to Reuben Henn this mornin'," continued the first speaker, "sich things come of bringin' up young men in idleness."

"Jest my opinion," replied the other.

And the two men passed out of his hearing.

The vicar only nibbled at his supper that night. The fragment of conversation indicated only too clearly what was being said and thought in the village, and his heart grew sick at the widening vista of his troubles.

"Poor Douglas," he said to himself, with something like a sob. "They have tried and condemned him already, and they have condemned me also for not educating him on different lines."

When supper had been cleared away, and the girls had gone off to bed, he threw himself into an armchair by the fire opposite his wife.

Douglas had asked him for guidance, and he had been unable to give it. He had left him to fight his own battle and struggle his own way into the path of right as best he could.

He could not help wondering what Douglas would do. He would go and see him again on the following night. Perhaps by that time he would have made up his mind.

Two voices kept speaking in his brain. One voice said, "Give him money, provide him with a disguise, and help him to get out of the country. He is your son ‒ and your only son ‒ and it cannot be a parent's duty to deliver him up to the executioners. It is your duty to shield him; to throw the bloodhounds of the law off the scent; to save him from the consequences of his momentary passion."

But another voice kept shouting, "Tell him to take his courage in both his hands and face the consequences. Let the evidence be sifted. Let him trust to the justice and fairness of English law, and if he is found guilty ‒ as probably he will be ‒ urge him to bear the penalty without whining."

He was turning these things over in his mind when there came a timid knock on the front door. He started, and looked at his wife. But she did not appear to heed it. A few moments later it was repeated. The maids in the kitchen evidently did not hear it, for there was no movement in the hall.

The vicar waited a second or two, then rose sharply to his feet and strode out of the room. Mrs. Grove looked after him inquiringly, but did not speak. She heard the door open, and a moment later an exclamation of surprise burst from the lips of her husband.

"I wonder if Douglas has come home at last?" she said to herself. "I shouldn't be at all surprised. Boys are such‒‒"

But she did not finish the sentence. The door was pushed suddenly open and Douglas staggered into the room, leaning on the shoulder of his father.

With a smothered cry Mrs. Grove leaped out of her chair, and rushed, sobbing, into his arms.

"Deal tenderly with your mother," the vicar whispered in Douglas's ear. Then he walked across to his armchair and sat down.

Mrs. Grove quickly dried her tears and began to laugh. "I knew you would come home, Douglas," she cried. "I've told your father so all along. But he evidently had no faith in young men being able to take care of themselves. Has Arthur Teesdale returned home at the same time?"

"I'm afraid not, mother."

"You know where he is, of course?"

"I fear he is at the bottom of Bridlemere."

"No! Surely not, Douglas!"

"I fear so, mother. You see, we both fell into the river above Black Ghyll Force. By a miracle I got out alive. He evidently had no such luck."

"Poor Arthur! What a thousand pities you were not able to pull him out. Oh, I do feel sorry for him and for Sir Geoffrey ‒ and for Avril. Poor Avril, she'll break her heart." And Mrs. Grove's tears began to flow afresh.

Douglas did not reply, but his face grew white at the mention of Avril's name. He himself might expiate his offence by long years of imprisonment, or by paying the penalty with his life; but he could not bring back to Avril the man she loved, nor restore to her the happiness she had lost. He could not give back to Sir Geoffrey the light of his eyes, nor restore to Hope the brother she worshipped so much.

For the moment it seemed to him as if neither punishment nor forgiveness was of any value. Suppose he were punished and the law vindicated, as it was termed, what good would it do? Who would be the better for it? It would undo nothing, restore nothing. The consequences would remain for all time and for eternity.

Suppose, on the other hand, he were pardoned. What then? What good would the pardon be to himself or anybody else? He could not forget that he had done the deed. The fact of it remained just as before, and the consequences of it continued. What would his pardon do for Avril or for Sir Geoffrey or for Hope? What would it do for Arthur if he had been sent unprepared into eternity?

Suppose he were pardoned, and went free among his fellows. What then? Would he ever forget? Would they? Would Avril receive him as in the old days? Would Hope return his smile with one infinitely brighter and sweeter? Would Sir Geoffrey welcome him to Rowton Hall? Would the ghost of Arthur speak to him from the vasty deep and assure him that all was well?

The inevitability of things never pressed itself with such force upon his heart as it did at that moment. As Douglas stood there in front of his mother he felt ‒ as he had never felt before ‒ that in one moment of passion he had wrecked for all time ‒ and, for all he knew, for eternity also ‒ not only his own life, but the lives of others, and others more dear to him than his own life.

It was not simply the awfulness of his crime that appalled him, but its irrevocability. How gladly he would undo what he had done, if he could. How gladly he would suffer, if by suffering he could restore what was lost. But if he gave his body to be burned, and his soul to eternal torment, he could not alter by a hair's breadth the awful facts. How could he make amends if he could not restore, if nothing was altered by his suffering?

He felt that he could endure any torments, if by so doing he could bring back Avril's loved one, and make her just as blissfully happy as she was at the beginning of the week.

He sank down into a chair at last, and stared helplessly into the fire. He looked haggard, and his cheeks were thin and drawn. His eyes were sunken, and burned with an unnatural brilliancy. His scalp was adorned with a number of plasters that Nan had put on, and his lips twitched nervously, in spite of his efforts to keep them still.

"You must be hungry, my son," Mrs. Grove said at length, starting to her feet. "I will ring for the supper to be brought back."

"No, no, mother," he cried hastily. "I would prefer just at present that the maids should not know I have returned."

"But why not, Douglas?"

"I have my reasons, mother. After they have gone to bed I will go into the kitchen and forage for myself."

"As you will, Douglas, though there is no necessity that you should do anything of the kind."

Douglas remembered his father's words, and dealt with his mother tenderly that night; and when she went to bed she had no suspicion of the real truth.

Douglas and his father sat up a full hour longer. They had a great deal to say to each other.

"And you have finally decided to give yourself up to justice?" the vicar asked, with a quaver in his voice.

"Yes, father. It seems the only right and manly thing to do."

"But liberty is precious, my boy."

"I don't know. Nothing, it seems to me, can be of much value anymore. Nothing can undo what has been done, nothing can restore what has been lost."

"But should we not make the best of what is left?"

"I'm afraid I'm incapable of reasoning the subject out, but it seems a healthy instinct which prompts men, when they have committed a crime, to give themselves up to justice and face the consequences."

"I will not try to dissuade you against it," the vicar said brokenly. "If you were not my son I should commend your action. But oh, my son, it will be hard for me ‒ hard for us all!"

"I know it, father. In this lies all the bitterness of the thing. I did not think of you and mother, and my sisters when I struggled with Arthur Teesdale on the bridge."

"And if you had thought of us, Douglas?"

"I should have acted differently."

"And what would have happened then?"

"I don't know."

"Would Arthur Teesdale have thrown you into the river if you had left yourself in his hands?"

"I do not know, father, what he would have done. His blood was up, as mine was. And when men are in a passion they do not act like men, but like savage brutes."

"It seems to me, Douglas," the vicar said, after a long pause, "that you have not committed a crime at all. You only acted in self-defence."

Douglas smiled sadly, and shook his head.

"You need not shake your head, my boy. If you had not thrown him into the river, he would have thrown you ‒ though, as a matter of fact, neither succeeded in throwing the other in. You fell in together."

"I know what was in my heart," Douglas answered. "I meant to kill him, and I did!"

"I think you are taking an unduly morbid view of the whole matter," the vicar replied. "However, I am glad, on the whole, you have decided to give yourself up."

"You are?"

"Yes. The law will bring unbiased minds to bear on the question, and I am inclined to think now that this is the best thing that can happen."

"I really don't much care what happens," was the reply. "Nothing can ever be the same again."

"Hope for the best, my boy; hope for the best. And we'll pray God‒‒"

"Even God cannot undo what I've done, father," Douglas interrupted hastily.

"Hush, my boy! Hush!" the vicar replied, with alarm.

"You know He cannot, father, so what is the use of pretending? Oh, I think if I were a clergyman I would preach to young men constantly about the impossibility of redoing their actions. I never realised the thing until now."

"But God can forgive, my boy. We must not forget that."

"But forgiveness does not undo anything. It's that fact that crushes me down. You will forgive me, I know, and God may forgive me, and in time even Sir Geoffrey may outgrow his bitterness. But ... but Avril and the squire and Hope are still left desolate. The vacant place will remain."

The vicar dropped his eyes, and was silent. The truth of Douglas's contention he could not contradict.

It was a great relief to Douglas to get once more between clean sheets in a warm and well-ventilated room. He allowed his candle to burn itself out, while he lay with wide open eyes staring at the furniture and at the walls.

He had a fancy that he would never come back into the room again ‒ that he would see it only in imagination and in dreams, so he tried to impress every detail upon his memory and upon his heart.

When at length the candle went out in darkness, he turned over on his side, and like a tired child fell fast asleep. The house was kept still next morning, and he slept on till far into the forenoon.

The October sunshine was flooding his room when at length he opened his eyes, and in a tree outside his window a bird was trilling merrily. He sprang up in bed with a start and a groan. Memory brought everything back in a moment.

He dressed himself in a warm suit of tweed.

"Prison cells are usually cold places, I am told," he said to himself, with a sad smile.

"I wonder if they will hang me?" he went on, as he buttoned a clean collar about his neck.

Then he put on his coat, and looked at himself in a panel of the wardrobe. He had certainly nothing to be ashamed of in his appearance, and yet the moisture gathered in his eyes as he looked.

"Poor old father!" he muttered. "I'm awfully sorry for him, and for mother and the girls."

He opened the door at length, and went down into the dining room. They were all waiting for him. Late as it was, breakfast had not been brought in. The vicar was determined that they should have breakfast together. The maids had been informed that Master Douglas had returned, so they manifested no surprise when they came into the room. His siters ‒ Milly, Jane, Ruth, and Rosalie ‒ were boisterous in their welcome, and hugged him until he gasped.

The Bible was open, and at the head of the table. When the maids came in, the vicar quietly took his place and read the Scripture for the day.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."

His voice broke a little both in the reading and in the prayer that followed. But on the whole he bore himself with great fortitude, though Douglas noticed that he ate scarcely any breakfast.

During the rest of the day Douglas busied himself in putting his affairs into something like order. He tidied his drawers and papers, and labelled his rejected manuscripts and his unfinished poems and stories, and wrote a number of letters to his friends.

The family had afternoon tea together in the drawing room; and, soon after, Douglas put on his overcoat and hat, then pushed open his father's study door and entered.

"You will explain to mother and the girls," he said, speaking in hard, unnatural tones. "I don't want a scene."

"Are you going now, my boy?"

"Yes, it's quite dark. Goodbye, and don't worry anymore than you can help."

The vicar would have thrown himself on his son's neck, but Douglas was too quick for him. Pulling the door to with a jerk, he walked swiftly across the hall, and out of the house.

The stars were beginning to twinkle overhead The wind had died away into silence. At the garden gate he paused and looked back for a moment, then turned and fled.
Chapter 8

Time for Reflection

THE police station stood at the far end of the village. It was a modern building, and the authorities were not a little proud of it, though for what reason was a puzzle to all meaner intelligences.

The officer in charge was seated in a wooden chair before the fire reading with apparent interest a local newspaper.

When Douglas Grove pushed open the door and entered, he looked up with a start, then sprang to his feet and stared as though not quite certain that his eyes were not playing him a trick.

"Why ... why," he gasped at length, "you are Mister Grove, the vicar's son, and one of the very men as has been and gone and got lost."

Douglas bowed gravely and smiled.

"Just fancy!" said the officer, reflectively rubbing his chin, "but where on earth did you spring from?"

"I've come from the Vicarage just now," Douglas answered. "I might have come earlier, but I had several things to put in order."

"You've brought some news of the young squire, I hope?"

"Not much. I've come to give myself in charge."

"What?"

"I mean it."

"Then you did it, after all?"

"Yes. We quarrelled on the bridge above Black Ghyll, and I threw him into the river."

"Pushed 'im in, you mean. You couldn't have thrown 'im in, in a fair struggle."

"Why not?"

"Why not? Because he were a bigger man nor you, and a mighty sight stronger!"

"As to the fairness of the struggle, that cannot matter much now, I expect. Anyhow, I did throw him in."

"And you remained a-standin' on the bridge?"

"Oh no, he hugged me too tightly for that, and we both went in together."

"Oh, indeed? But look 'ere ‒ I ought to have told you before ‒ you should be more careful what you say, as it'll be used agin you in evidence."

"I know all about that. However, we need not waste any more time talking. I suppose you are quite prepared to take me in charge?"

"Well now, this strikes me as a very hinteresting development. Prisoner gave himself up to justice of his own free will. Will you mind waiting a moment or two while I make a note of it?"

"I am at your service. And I presume it's as comfortable here as in the cells."

"More so, I should say, though that's neither here nor there. Let me see. You charge yourself with taking the life of the young squire?"

"You can put it in any way you like."

"I must say I'm sorry for you, sir."

"I'm sorry for myself, but such sorrow generally comes too late."

"I reckon that's a true word, sir. I've 'eard it afore many an' many a time. Ay, ay, it's a curious world, sir. 'Marry in 'aste an' repent at leisure,' but the repentin' don't 'elp things much ‒ the marriage stands firm as the 'Ouses of Parliament."

"You speak feelingly," Douglas said, with a smile.

"Well, p'r'aps I do and p'r'aps I don't, though I reckon if most folks 'ad their life to live over again, they'd make different arrangements, as it were."

"You think so?"

"Well, it seems to me as most folks do the big things o' life ‒ that is, the things as last, an' which there's no sort of way of getting out of. I was a-saying as most folks do them sort of things in kind o' fits of madness, if you'll excuse me a-sayin' so. Anger's madness, love's madness, jealousy's madness, revenge is madness. I've thought of them things lots an' lots of times. When folks ain't mad they hact square enough. But when love or anger or any of them things turn their brain, then it's all up a tree with 'em. They git married, they commit murder, they do all sorts of foolish things. Oh, I've studied them things for years!"

Douglas dropped into the officer's empty chair by the fire, and put his feet on the fender. In spite of the gravity of the situation he could not help feeling amused.

"You seem to have been a student of human nature," he said, after a pause.

"I, sir? Oh, well, you can't 'elp reflectin' now and then. As I often say, we do things first, an' reflect on 'em afterwards ‒ not that there's much good in reflectin' when the pot's broke. Still, we do it all the same. It's human nature, I suppose. I fancy you'll do a deal o' reflectin' now ‒ more'n you've ever done afore, very likely. But nothin' comes of it, that's the trouble."

"You mean‒‒"

"I mean you can't undo nothin'. If you git married, or marry the wrong girl, or do any other piece of foolishness, you may reflect afterwards till the grass grows in your ears, but you can't undo it. Yes, sir, I feel sorry for you. You'll 'ave a lot to think of."

"Do you generally comfort your prisoners in this way?"

"Well, No, not unless they set me a-thinkin' as you've done. Then some on 'em are mere lumps o' mud that you ain't got no sort of sympathy with ‒ them I never waste my time a-talkin' to. But you're a reflectin' sort ‒ I can see it in your eyes. Then you're young an' goodlookin', an' now the madness is over, why, I can kind of guess how you feel. I 'ad a fit of it once, an' it lasted me for over six months. I went stark blind, an' didn't know paint from pewter, nor a thundercloud from sunshine. Everything was bright while the fit lasted. Oh, lor! What a curious animal a man is, sir, when he's mad. But that sort of madness never lasts ‒ it goes off almost as sudden as it comes, an' you wakes up some fine mornin' to find you're in a lunatic asylum, but you aren't mad no longer. But there's no gettin' out. I tell you, sir, I'm sorry for you. You've got a lot of reflectin' to do."

Douglas did not reply. The humour of the situation was passing away, and the tragedy was coming into sight again.

"If you don't mind coming this way, I'll show you your room," the constable said, after a pause.

Douglas sprang to his feet without a word, and followed him.

There was nothing unusual about the cell. It struck cold and damp, as such places usually do. It had the usual furniture and was about the usual size, and was lighted from the passage by means of a grating in the door. Douglas did his best to choke back a shiver that ran over him from head to foot, then he threw himself on the hard bench that served for a bed, and closed his eyes.

"And so I've come to this, have I?" he said to himself bitterly. "I, a clergyman's son, brought up respectably and religiously, educated at Cambridge, and generally credited with having peculiarly lofty ideas. It's tragedy and comedy rolled into one."

He scarcely slept a wink that night. The cell was cold, the bed hard, the air heavy and stagnant; but the real enemy to sleep lurked within. If he could have strangled thought, and shut down the lid upon memory, he might have found a way into the land of pleasant dreams.

The night seemed interminable. He wondered if the light would ever come again. There was no clock within hearing distance, and it was too dark for him to see the face of his watch. He lay as still as he could ‒ lay till one side was so sore that he could no longer bear it. Then he turned on the other, and endured that as long as possible. The rough bed in Nan's cave was luxury in comparison.

And all the while his thoughts travelled between his father and the squire's daughter, Hope. They would suffer most, and he would suffer his keenest torture because of them. His mother would fret for a day, and perhaps go into hysterics, but she would quickly get over it. It was her nature ‒ neither sorrow nor joy gripped her deeply nor held her for long.

But his father was built on different lines, and shaped out of more sensitive stuff. He would suffer perpetually. The iron would enter into his soul and stay there. He would go quietly on his way, seeming to forget, but never forgetting; smiling pleasantly while he ministered to others, yet drinking the hemlock and the gall all the time.

And what of Hope Teesdale ‒ the girl who had stolen his heart, and made the world a fairyland for him? She would hate him now, and curse him in her prayers ‒ that was the bitterest thought of all.

"Hope, Hope," he cried softly to himself, as he stared into the darkness, "what have I done? What have I done?"

But no assuring whisper came to him out of the silence. The very name of his love sounded to him like the knell of despair.

A single moment of fierce and ungovernable passion had changed everything ‒ had turned the world into a desert, and robbed life of everything that made it worth possessing.

How fair the world had seemed that bright, breezy afternoon when he went out on the fells alone. It was a day of sunshine after a week of rain. He was glad to stretch his legs and expand his lungs after being cooped up so long indoors. Moreover, he had finished a story which he had been months in writing, and he had dreams of generous recognition, perhaps of fame. Hitherto success in any real sense of the word had eluded him. He had got a short story accepted now and then, had disposed of an article here and there, and once had been paid a guinea for a poem.

But, in spite of comparative failure, he still believed in himself. If he was ambitious, it was not without reason. He felt that there was stuff in him that might yet be turned to use. Some day he would come into his own.

He built beautiful castles as he wandered out on the fells that day, and Hope Teesdale reigned in every one of them. It was nothing to him that Sir Geoffrey would be horrified at the idea that her brother Arthur had openly set himself to keep them apart. Love laughs at bolts and bars, and youth never saw a castle yet that it could not storm.

It is true there had been no formal courting yet, for Hope was not out of her teens, but their eyes had been reading the same story to each other for years past. Possibly Hope would have disclaimed the idea of love; would have declared that she was too young to entertain such a thought, and, girl-like, would have laughed the suggestion out of court.

But when sitting before the mirror in her own room, brushing her abundant tresses of nut-brown hair, she would surely have declared to herself that Douglas Grove was the handsomest man she knew, and the cleverest, and the most chivalrous; that as a friend he was simply perfection; that she admired him immensely; and that if she chose to confide in him, and write him long letters when she was away, that was her lookout, and no one had any right to interfere.

Douglas had no doubt as to the place he occupied in Hope's heart, and he was quite confident that, given time and a reasonable opportunity, he would win his heart's desire. So, as he strode out over the hills that day, his heart was full of a brave confidence, and in spite of the fact that she had been sent abroad to school, and that Arthur Teesdale had threatened to wring his neck, there was not a gloomy foreboding in his heart.

In his pocket he carried a photograph of Hope, and every now and then he took it out and looked at it. Was the face homely, or beautiful? Were the lips just breaking into a smile, or only touched with scorn? Was that the shadow of a dimple on the rounded cheek, or only a crease?

He was quite sure that Hope Teesdale ‒ if not absolutely the loveliest ‒ was one of the loveliest girls that had ever walked the earth since Eve dwelt in Paradise.

He could scarcely remember the time when Hope had not filled his thoughts. As a mere youth, he had dreamed of Hope. He could scarcely imagine a life in which she had not the biggest place. To win her approval was his highest ambition. If she was pleased, nothing else mattered. If she smiled "Well done," he was happy. If she was disappointed, the praise of everyone else fell on deaf ears.

He could not help wondering what malicious fate had arranged that he should meet Arthur Teesdale on that day of all days, and that of all places on earth he should meet him above the Black Ghyll Force. It seemed as if some malevolent destiny had deliberately contrived the meeting, and that the meeting should be at that particular spot.

Unwittingly he had walked into a snare that a strange fate had set for him. Was there, after all, an unerring destiny that set the bounds of every man's life? Were we free agents, as we fondly and perhaps foolishly imagined we were, or were we only puppets moved by invisible strings?

He was still puzzling himself over this problem when the light of a new day began to steal into his cell. With a groan he rolled himself on to the floor and began to dress, and half an hour later his friend the policeman brought him his breakfast, and remarked that he looked as if he had been doing a good deal of reflecting.

The day passed without incident, but so slowly that it seemed like a week.

On the second night he slept, for he was completely exhausted in mind and body. At ten o'clock on the following day he was brought before a full bench of magistrates, and after formal evidence had been taken he was remanded for a week.

The magistrates looked at the prisoner and at each other with puzzled expressions. The magistrates' clerk stood up and whispered to their worships for a considerable time. It seemed evident that they were not quite certain how to proceed. No one had any charge to bring against the prisoner. He had charged himself, and given himself into custody. If he had chosen to walk out of the dock into the open air, it is doubtful if they would have tried to prevent him.

As, however, he did not choose to walk out or to deny what he told the policeman when he gave himself up, the only safe thing to do was to remand him, pending inquiries. Within a week there was little doubt that Arthur Teesdale's body would be found. When that event occurred, the prisoner would be charged on his own confession, and witnesses would be called who would testify that they had seen the prisoner and Arthur Teesdale together above Black Ghyll Force. Till then nothing more could be done, and Douglas walked quietly back to his cell, wondering how many more days would elapse before the lake gave up its dead.

Twenty-four hours later he received a little shock of surprise. He was sitting on his hard bed, looking fondly at the photograph of Hope Teesdale, when his door was pushed open, and Broxup, his gaoler, entered.

"There's no law agin your receiving visitors," he said. "And, as a matter of fact, if you'd like a little more liberty, seems to me you can have it, as you're 'ere on your own free will, as it were. Fact is, there's a young lady in my room as wants partic'lar to see you. And I've been wondering whether I should bring her in here, or take you to her in my room."

"Who is she?" Douglas asked abruptly.

"Well, as to that, that's neither 'ere nor there, and she didn't choose to tell her name."

"But you know her?"

"Well, p'r'aps I do or p'r'aps I don't. But shall I bring her in here, or will you come along with me?"

"I confess I don't want to see anyone," Douglas answered, with a blush.

"But we're bound to be civil to the ladies, sir, whatever may be our private opinions."

"And you won't tell me who she is?"

"She wished me not to. The fact is, I'm soft still where women are concerned."

"All right, then. I'll see her in your room, as you are so kind. This cell is scarcely the kind of place to receive a lady." He turned and followed his gaoler, much wondering who his visitor could be.

Chapter 9

A Visitor for Douglas

AVRIL GUEST waited in Sergeant Broxup's room with a curious sinking at her heart. She had heard with amazement the story that was on everyone's lips, and her own sorrow had been made doubly grievous in consequence.

At first she refused to credit it. "There must be some mistake somewhere," she declared. And she rushed off to the Vicarage to interview the vicar.

The vicar naturally gave her his own view of the story. He tried to make out that no one was very much to blame. Of course, it was wrong to quarrel, and unfortunate they should have quarrelled on the bridge. But he was quite sure that Douglas took a much too serious view of the case.

"But they did quarrel?" she asked, with dry eyes and trembling lips.

"Well, yes, I fear there can be no doubt of that."

"And they both fell into the river?"

"Yes, my child, that was the unfortunate part of it."

"And they were both swept down the Force?"

"That is so."

"And only one got out alive?"

"You see, Douglas was nearer the side where the water was shallower and not so swift."

"Then you believe I shall never again see Arthur alive?"

"Oh, my child, I would comfort you if I could, but it would be wrong to hold out hopes that would only end in disappointment."

She did not ask any further questions, and after a few moments she rose silently and left the room.

But later in the day the police court version reached her ears, in which Douglas Grove had deliberately charged himself with being the cause of Arthur Teesdale's death.

"It's as plain as the nose on your face," said Mrs. Finch vehemently. "And a clear case of murder ‒ that's what it is!"

"No, don't say that, aunty," Avril pleaded.

"But I do say it, and I stick to it. He's confessed it himself. What more do you want?"

"Of course, if they hadn't quarrelled it wouldn't have happened," Avril said tearfully. "Oh, why did they quarrel, I wonder?"

"Why did he push Arthur into the river? That's the question. Oh, the coward. Hanging is too good for him!"

"No, no, aunty, let's not use hard words. Better bear our grief silently."

"If it were the will of Heaven, I would be dumb," Mrs. Finch answered, with uplifted eyes. "But, in a case like this, it is your duty to be angry. Think of the meanness of it! Smiting down your loved one in the midst of his happiness and in the strength of his youth, and stabbing you in the back, as it were, on the eve of your wedding day!"

"He did not mean it, I am sure. He could not have known what he was doing."

"There you go again," Mrs. Finch cried, with eyes brimful of angry tears. "I'm surprised at you, Avril!"

Avril made no further reply, but on the following morning, without telling Mrs. Finch of her intentions, she went straight to the police station and asked to see Douglas Grove.

Douglas literally gasped when he stood before her, and a hot blush crimsoned his neck and face. He did not attempt to speak. He would have given thanks for an earthquake just then ‒ anything to hide him from those sad and reproachful eyes.

The harvest of his sin had ripened quickly. His punishment lay in the fact that he had made others suffer, and that he was powerless to repair the wrong. He would have given his life willingly if he could have brought back Avril's loved one to her, and seen the light of joy again in her eyes as he had so often seen it in the past.

"I came, Douglas, to get the truth from your own lips," she said, in low, tremulous tones, "for the burden is becoming intolerable."

He glanced round hastily, and saw that they were alone. Sergeant Broxup had considerately taken himself out of the room.

"Pray be seated, Avril," he said huskily. "Heaven knows I would lighten your burden if I could; but I cannot. What is done, alas, can never be undone."

"But they are saying in the village that you deliberately killed Arthur; that, because he was bigger and stronger than you, you must have stabbed him first, or pushed him in unawares."

"I am sorry they are saying such things," he said, clenching and unclenching his hands. "My sin is great enough, and the torment of it is great enough, without these additions."

"But you did not intentionally compass his death?" And she looked at him calmly and steadily.

"I am afraid I did, Avril." He spoke slowly and distinctly. "I wouldn't have given myself up to justice but for that. For three days I hid myself. But I discovered there could be no rest for me till I had paid the penalty."

"You premeditated the deed?"

"No, it was done in a moment of passion. He angered me, and I lost control of myself. I had only one desire, and that was to kill him."

"But it only lasted a moment, Douglas."

"Deeds are not to be measured by the time they take to accomplish."

"You would undo it if you could now?"

"I would give my life to undo it, Avril."

"Then your suffering is almost as great as mine?"

"My suffering lies in the fact that I have made you suffer; that by yielding to a momentary madness I have broken the hearts of those I love. If by suffering I could make you happy, how greatly I should rejoice!"

She looked at him for a few moments in silence, then held out her hand to him.

He dropped his eyes suddenly, and shook his head. "I cannot take your hand, Avril," he said, in a whisper.

"Why not, Douglas?"

"Because ... because there is a stain of blood upon mine."

"I do not see it," she answered, and turned toward the door.

He went at once and opened the door for her. She hesitated on the threshold, and looked at him again. "It seems to me you might have your liberty if you chose," she said.

"There can be no more liberty for me," he answered. And he closed the door behind her.

Sergeant Broxup came back into the room immediately. "There's a report just come in," he said, "that they've seen the body."

"Indeed?" And Douglas shuddered visibly.

"But they don't seem to have got hold of it yet," the constable went on, "though it's time they did. He's been in the water a week today."

"It seems to me like months," Douglas answered. And he walked slowly back to his cell.

Meanwhile, the excitement in the village was steadily growing.

The news that Bob Grayson had seen something deep down in the water ‒ that he could almost swear was a human body ‒ had spread like wildfire. By the time it reached the far end of the village it was asserted that Bob Grayson had not only seen something that looked like a body, but that the body of Arthur Teesdale had been recovered, that it was stabbed in the back, right through to the heart, and that the murderer had not even taken the trouble to pull out the knife.

One of the first to interview Bob Grayson was Hugh Teesdale, Sir Geoffrey's nephew, and first cousin to the missing man. He had come down from London without being sent for, and had installed himself in Rowton Hall as comforter-in-chief to his uncle.

Sir Geoffrey, in his grief and helplessness, was almost glad to see him. At any other time he would have much preferred his room to his company, and would not have hesitated to tell him so. But just now he felt so bewildered and helpless and broken, that when Hugh turned up late on Sunday night he welcomed him almost with effusion.

"It is kind of you to come," Sir Geoffrey said brokenly. "When did you hear?"

"Unfortunately, only last night, or I would have been here sooner. Have you sent to the school for Cousin Hope?"

"I have done nothing," Sir Geoffrey replied feebly. "Nothing at all. The blow has struck me helpless. And then, you know, I left everything to Arthur."

"Yes, Yes, I understand," Hugh said sympathetically. "But don't you think Hope should be sent for?"

"Why, of course she should. I wonder I have not thought of it before. But you see I left everything to Arthur, and now I feel like a man deprived of both his hands."

"Let me be hands to you for a few days, until you recover yourself, or until Hope comes home."

"If you would, Hugh ‒ if you would! It is kind of you to think of me, for I don't think I have paid you much attention."

"Don't mention it, uncle," Hugh said. "Shall I write to Hope at once, or shall I wait and send her a telegram in the morning?"

"Whichever you like. Perhaps the quickest way will be the best way."

"I might do both, uncle," Hugh Teesdale replied reflectively. "If I write to her tonight, and the letter will reach her, say, on Tuesday morning. I can advise her about trains, et cetera. Tomorrow I can wire to her, which will prepare her for the letter which will arrive later."

"She will have to travel alone, poor girl," Sir Geoffrey said hopelessly.

"She will not mind that. Moreover, it's perfectly safe travelling on the Continent these days."

"Yes, I suppose so. I can arrange for someone to meet her in London and buy mourning for her. Poor child, it will be a sad homecoming."

"It will, indeed. But we must bear up as well as we can."

And Hugh hurried off to the library to write a letter to his cousin Hope.

An hour later he returned and read it to Sir Geoffrey.

"Yes, that will do very well," the old man replied. "You have a good head for details, Hugh. That means she will get to Charing Cross on Thursday morning, and home on Thursday night."

"Now, I will go on to the village and post it. We must not miss the night mail up."

"Don't trouble, Hugh ‒ send Parkyn. You must be tired with your journey today."

"Not a bit, uncle. Besides, I shall enjoy the walk."

Hugh appeared to be in no hurry, however, to reach the village; for, instead of taking the direct road, he made a wide detour and found himself at length descending into a deep and thickly wooded glen.

For some distance he walked slowly and cautiously, then he stopped and gave a low whistle. In a moment or two the whistle was answered from somewhere below him.

He gave a satisfied grunt, and continued the descent. A little later he paused and whistled again, and this time it was answered by a figure moving out of the deep shadow of the trees and standing before him.

"Well?" the figure asked imperatively, and in a low whisper.

"It is all right," he answered. "The old fool is so bewildered and upset that he has quite forgotten to send for her."

"That is fortunate for thee. But if any good comes out of this, it is thy luck thou wilt have to thank and not thy wits."

"Don't be so hard upon a fellow. It wasn't my fault that I was out of town when your letter arrived."

"I know you are nearly always out of town when you're wanted."

"All right, have your own way, but I came down to my uncle at Rowton Hall as soon as I could get there. I suppose you will be happier when you've blown off steam."

"I've no more steam to blow off. We've got to get to business. A good deal of valuable time has been wasted already."

"No, not wasted, Nan. You have made friends of the vicar and his precious son, and won a reputation for generosity and motherly kindness."

"That may come in valuable or it may not. Anyhow, I couldn't help being kind to the lad who had so unwittingly played our game, and played it so well."

"It was scarcely our game, for neither you nor I would ever have done the trick."

"Perhaps not. But when the trick has been done by another, you and I would be fools, and worse, if we did not take advantage of it."

"I quite agree with you," Hugh said. "I hope he did the trick so well that there will be no fear of Sir Geoffrey's heir ever coming to life again."

"I think there is no fear of that."

"Nevertheless, it will be a comfort to me when Arthur Teesdale's body is found."

"That will be found in due time, Hugh, never fear. Remember, it's four days ago since it happened. Do you think if he were alive he wouldn't have turned up long before this? Hasn't he a bride waiting for him? And, depend upon it, nothing but death would have kept him from crawling to her side."

"By the bye, how's the beautiful Avril Guest taking it?"

"She bears up well, by all accounts."

"She'll get over it in time. Young people soon grow out of such troubles. Who knows, I may get my innings yet."

"Unlikelier things have happened, it's true, but I wouldn't advise you to build much upon that. Avril has a keen eye for character."

"Therefore she should appreciate mine."

Nan laughed a low, unmusical laugh, and went and leaned against a tree.

"And you say young Douglas Grove has decided to give himself up to the police?" Hugh asked, after a pause.

"That appears to be his fixed intention."

"I never thought much of his intelligence, but he seems to be a bigger fool than he looks."

"It's all a question of conscience," she answered. "Anybody who develops a conscience is bound to get into trouble sooner or later."

"But there's no earthly reason why he should have split upon himself. Nobody could have proved anything against him."

"They were seen together, you must remember. They appeared to be quarrelling at the time. It was known they were on bad terms with each other. It is commonly reported that they had both threatened they would do for each other. Grove saw clearly enough what the verdict of the public would be ‒ that his character was gone; that his career was spoiled; that nobody would believe in his innocence; that he might just as well be out of the world as in it. Hence, you can hardly wonder at his decision. And I am not sure that he has not done wisely in deciding to make a clean breast of it."

"I should say he is playing the part of a first-prize idiot."

"You would not have done anything of the kind, I know."

"Not likely! Catch me putting my head into a noose, knowing it was a noose. However, that's his lookout. He's played our game for us remarkably well, and for that we ought to be grateful. The great point now is, shall we be able to play successfully the trump cards he has put into our hands?"

"We shall be foolish if we don't," Nan answered.

"And yet the game is rather a ticklish one. Hope Teesdale isn't a baby, we must remember that."

"I am not likely to forget it," she answered. "Besides, that part of the game is mine to play. There is no reason why you should ever leave your uncle and Rowton Hall again."

"You are forgetting that my uncle, for some reason, loves me not."

"No, I am not forgetting. It would be a miracle if he did love you. Nature is strong. Human instincts don't often lead people astray. Nevertheless, you must play your part so well that you become necessary to him. And take good care not to overdo it, or he will see through the sham."

"I think I know what I am about," Hugh Teesdale answered. "But had we not better get into the cave while we discuss details? It would be awkward if we were overheard."

"Perhaps it would be safer," Nan answered.

And she turned and moved swiftly away, while he followed.

Chapter 10

The Road to Fortune

THE cave was at the bottom of the glen ‒ a small hollow beneath overhanging rocks, and almost completely hidden by a tangle of undergrowth. Nan pressed forward with unerring steps. She knew every inch of the neighbourhood, and could have found her way blindfold.

Hugh Teesdale walked cautiously, and with slower steps. He had only been once before, and remembered the path was an exceedingly narrow one. Nan halted for him every now and then, and when close to the cave she seized his hand and almost dragged him through the thicket.

Within, she struck a match and quickly blew it out. She saw that the cave was empty, and that was sufficient.

Seating themselves on two boulders, close together, they began to discuss, in low, hurried tones, the various points of the situation.

"We have waited many years, Hugh, for our chance to come," Nan said eagerly. "I have always believed that fortune would favour us, for the stars do not lie."

"Don't talk about the stars to me!" he said impatiently. "I have no faith in your astrology. The question is, what is to be our plan of operations? For, unless we act in concert, we shall spoil the game."

"Exactly. It is gratifying to discover that you see things so clearly."

"Don't be so superior, and imagine that you know everything. I have not lived thirty years, I hope, for nothing."

"Well, I hope not," Nan said, "though you have a good deal to learn yet. However, time presses. You are now but one remove from the Rowton estates and the vast fortune of your uncle, Sir Geoffrey Teesdale."

"And one remove may be as fatal as twenty."

"It may be, but it need not be. It's a lucky thing for you that Sir Geoffrey had not sent for his daughter Hope before you came."

"Yes, that is no doubt a stroke of good luck. As a matter of fact, all the strokes of good luck have come together."

"What have you said in your letter to the girl?"

"Just what you suggested when we met earlier in the evening."

"Will you post the letter tonight?"

"Just as you think best. You must have sufficient time to get to Badenworth before she starts."

"Has Sir Geoffrey seen the letter?"

"Seen it and signed it; but not the postscript."

"And what have you said?"

"Well, I commence by saying, 'You will have received telegram announcing serious accident to your brother.' I then go on to tell her that there can be little doubt that Arthur is dead, and that she must return home without unnecessary delay. In the postscript I tell her to leave Badenworth by the night train, and if possible I will arrange for an English lady to accompany her as far as Ostend, and see her safe aboard the boat. This lady will be tall, elderly, and will carry in her hand a black-edged letter. She will also supply her with money if she is in need; and, finally, I suggest that Mrs. Finch or some other lady from Bradenford will meet her at Charing Cross."

"That will do. And now about the trains for myself?"

"Well, there's a train that leaves Charing Cross for Dover about two p.m., running in connection with the express to Basle. You will reach Basle about six in the morning, and then it's about a four-hours' run to Badenworth."

"So that, without mishap, I should reach my destination about noon?"

"Exactly. The school is three miles out. You will be able to keep your eyes open, and the rest will be quite easy."

"You think it will be easy. The chances are that half the school will come down to the station to see the girl off."

"In which case I presume you will not reveal yourself?"

"Not likely. Basle will be a much more convenient place. There will be a long wait there, I expect, as usual, and a bewildering lot of trains running to all quarters."

"Exactly. And how do you propose to get rid of the girl?"

"For the present that is my business."

"You don't intend to take me into your confidence?"

Nan shook her head. "Not even you. You will have plenty to look after for yourself without worrying about other matters."

"Very good. Have you sufficient money for your expenses?"

"Plenty. Far more than I shall need."

"And clothes?"

She laughed scornfully. "Do you think I spend all my time here on the fells and never dress in anything but homespun?"

"On the contrary, I know you come up to London sometimes."

"And don't I dress to your satisfaction when I'm in London?"

"Well, sometimes you look considerable of a dowdy."

"Oh, indeed!" She had a scornful look on her face, which, however, he did not see. "I think I knew how to dress before you were born."

"That may be true, but it doesn't prove that you know how to dress now."

"You just attend to your own business, Hugh, and don't presume to instruct wiser heads than your own."

He laughed a dry, cynical laugh; then he said, "So I am to leave Hope entirely in your hands?"

"Entirely."

"But how am I to know that you have succeeded?"

"If she turns up at Charing Cross safe and sound you will know I have failed."

"And what then?"

"That will have to be considered. Hope is now the only obstacle in the way. It ought not to be difficult to get over so small a problem."

"The difficulty lies in avoiding suspicion. If we remove one obstacle and raise up ten, what do we gain?"

"You leave that to me, Hugh. I have not been thinking and dreaming and planning and scheming all these years to make you heir to the Rowton estates for nothing. I am prepared for almost any contingency."

"And when shall I see you again?"

"I don't know. That all depends on circumstances."

"And shall I hear from you?"

"You may hear of me. When I return I will leave the usual sign in the usual place."

"And you will enlighten me no further now?"

"No. You post your letter tonight. Tomorrow send the telegram, and tell Hope to wait for the letter that follows. Then quietly wait on events, and play the part of the sympathetic nephew. If you don't hear anything about me, don't worry. If we don't get detestably bad luck, the game is in our hands."

"I'm afraid I'm not exactly an optimist," he said, with a laugh. "However, nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"One word more. Listen to everything, and say nothing. We shall meet again soon, I hope. Now go and post your letter, and I will go and prepare for my journey."

They left the glen by different paths. Hugh was just in time with his letter. When he got back to Rowton Hall he found Sir Geoffrey restlessly pacing up and down the room and wondering what had kept him so long.

"I went for a longish walk," his nephew said in explanation. "I felt restless and anxious, and I thought if I tired myself out I should sleep all the better."

"Sleep? Ah, I hardly know what sleep is like," Sir Geoffrey said. "I sometimes think I shall never sleep soundly again till I'm at rest in the grave."

"Let's not give up hope altogether, uncle," Hugh said, in a tone of well-feigned sympathy. "You know they say no news is good news."

"No, no, Hugh, please don't preach to me that doctrine. I'm resigned to the worst. I know if Arthur were alive he would let us know."

On the following day the telegram was sent to Hope, and towards evening news reached the Hall that Douglas Grove had turned up alive, and had confessed to throwing Arthur in the river above Black Ghyll Force.

After that, the search was carried on in Bridlemere with redoubled energy, and on Wednesday evening news reached Bradenford, and was thence conveyed to the Hall, that the dead body of a man had been seen floating in the water.

Hugh Teesdale rushed off to Lake End with all possible haste, and there succeeded in interviewing Bob Grayson.

"I'm a'most sure," Bob said slowly, "that it was the body of a man I see floating deep down in the water. Much too deep to get hold of."

"But are you quite sure?" Hugh asked anxiously, for he was getting concerned lest by some fluke of fortune Arthur Teesdale should yet turn up alive and well.

"Well, no. Nobody can be quite sure of nothing in this onsartin world."

"Nevertheless, you are quite convinced in your own mind that it was the body of a man?"

"I be, sir. I be most sartin sure."

"And if it was the body of a man, it must, of course, be Arthur's body?"

"There ain't nobody else's body for it to be. Nobody else has got lost; nobody else has been thrown into the river; nobody else's hat has been found stranded among the rushes. So, sir, it must be he, and nobody else."

"But is it not quite time the body came to the surface?"

"Well, yes, it is about time now. They be keeping close watch down at Lake Foot to see as it don't float out at t'other end."

"Was the body floating in that direction?"

"Ay, and most uncommon fast, too. It seemed to me to have got into a current, and was just going ahead with rare speed."

"But suppose the body should float out at the other end. Would it be seen?"

"Well, it's just this way. It couldn't float far. A little way down the river is shallow, and they've put iron hurdles right across. So, you see, anything of any size as floats down now will be caught."

Hugh hurried back to the Hall and reported his interview with Bob Grayson to Sir Geoffrey.

The old man listened attentively, but said very little. "It's only a question of time," he murmured. "Bridlemere always gives up its dead."

Hugh slept little that night. He felt he was reaching a crisis in his life. After long waiting, fortune seemed almost within his grasp. He was pretty well satisfied now that Arthur Teesdale was dead. By tomorrow night he would know if Hope had turned up at Charing Cross.

Mrs. Finch had not been able to go to London to meet her, so Sir Geoffrey had despatched his housekeeper, Mrs. Mann.

A telegram had been received from Hope saying that she had received wire and letter, and was starting by the night train as advised.

So far everything appeared to be perfectly straightforward. The only question that agitated Hugh's mind was ‒ would she arrive?

He and Nan were playing the same game and for the same stakes, but he saw clearly enough that hers was a far more difficult part than his. He had to remain passive, while she was active.

As he lay awake in his big bedroom, looking at the stars through the uncurtained window, and listening to the low sighing of the wind in the elm trees, he could not help wondering in what way Nan proposed to get rid of Hope Teesdale. For himself, he felt sorry that Hope stood in the way of his fortune. If the Rowton estates had been entailed on the male heirs only, there would have been no necessity to get Hope out of the way. But as it was ‒ Arthur being dead ‒ Hope was heir-at-law. When Hope was dead, he would be heir-at-law.

He rather liked his "Cousin Hope," as he called her, and was sorry on the whole that she did not return the compliment. All things considered, he would rather marry her than bury her, but he had long since made up his mind that marrying her was out of the question. Hope, instead of showing any liking for him, manifested a positive aversion to him.

The only way, therefore, to the Rowton estates was over the dead bodies of both Hope and her brother. It was not a pleasant road to travel by. And for himself, though he was never troubled by any moral scruples, he was anxious, on many grounds, to avoid resorting to extreme measures.

Up to the present he had trusted mainly to the chapter of accidents, with the result that he had given up all hope of becoming Sir Geoffrey's heir. Arthur was going to get married, and in half a dozen years there might be heirs in abundance.

He was trying his best to reconcile himself to his fate, and make the best of such life as was open to him, when he received a communication from Nan o' the Fells, telling him that Arthur Teesdale was drowned, and urging him to meet her in the old meeting place, and at the usual hour.

As it happened, he was out of town when the letter arrived. But he hurried away to Cumberland at the earliest opportunity, and found Nan in a fever of rage and impatience.

As Hugh lay awake listening to the wind, and thinking of his future, a dozen ways of disposing of Hope Teesdale occurred to him. But none of them was satisfactory. Hope was a full-grown woman. Any attempt at foul play would be detected at once. To kill her might be easy enough, but he knew that Nan was not the kind of person to risk her neck.

Besides all that, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that Nan would resort to deliberate and coldblooded murder. It was true she was a creature of strange contradictions. There were, in fact, two Nans dwelling in the same body. There was Nan o' the Fells ‒ wild, daring, unconventional, living in a cave, spurning society, fierce in her invective, terrible in her hate, loving solitude, and nursing her wrath in silence.

And there was Nan of the city ‒ well educated, conventional, fond of music, gregarious, and subject to vanity.

Sometimes these two Nans seemed to dwell separate and distinct, and sometimes they met and mingled, and formed the most curious and contradictory blend. She would be fierce and tender at the same time; bless and curse with the same breath; would breathe out vengeance and slaughter at one moment, and the next would perform some act of heroic kindness and generosity.

Among the farmers of the fells she was looked upon as a little simple. The more superstitious regarded her as a witch, and generally gave her a wide berth. No one attempted to interfere with her, or follow her to her hiding places. She came and went at her own sweet will. Sometimes she would disappear for months at a stretch, then it would be whispered that she had been seen again.

What object or aim she had in life no one knew. She appeared to prowl about at all hours of the day and night, but chiefly at night. The dogs never barked at her, for some reason, nor was she ever apprehended for trespassing. She never begged, but was frequently known to dispense charity. So she remained a mystery ‒ a creature apart from her fellows. Very few people had ever come close to her. And so clever was she in disguising herself, that scarcely any two people would have described her in precisely the same terms.

The better and nobler side of her nature she revealed to Douglas Grove in her witch's castle. The other side came out in her conversation with Hugh Teesdale in the glen. A creature of such strange contradictions was capable of almost anything.

Hugh tried to comfort himself with the reflection that if Nan chose to put her neck into a noose ‒ that was her lookout. Whatever she might do, he was in no way responsible for it.

He fell asleep at length, and came down to breakfast late. During all the day he wandered up and down the grounds and in and out of the house, restless and ill at ease.

Mrs. Mann was to meet Hope that morning at Charing Cross Station. Would Hope be there? Sir Geoffrey appeared to be under no apprehension concerning his daughter. Lunchtime came and went, and no telegram had been received from Mrs. Mann.

Hugh began to feel anxious, and showed his anxiety on his face. If Nan had let Hope slip through her fingers he might be as far off as ever from the fortune he had coveted.

Two o'clock came, and three, and still no telegram.

"Nan has failed," Hugh said to himself. "Hope has turned up all right, and she and Mrs. Mann are shopping. They will wire when they get to Euston to say what time they will arrive."

A few minutes later he espied the telegraph boy coming up the drive.

"At last!" he muttered to himself, with set teeth. "I wonder what the news will be?"

Chapter 11

The House Desolate

THE telegram was from Mrs. Mann, and contained an announcement and a request. The announcement was that Hope had not arrived; the request was for further instructions.

Sir Geoffrey read the telegram as if not quite comprehending its importance. He was so stunned by the loss of his son that minor troubles did not seem to affect him.

"There does not seem to be anything to worry about," he said, glancing up at Hugh. "In a long railway journey delays are almost inevitable."

"Still, she ought to have reached Charing Cross by the afternoon boat train," Hugh answered reflectively.

"Yes, I suppose that is so. Still, I don't think there is anything to worry about. Hope isn't exactly a child."

"No, and in these days it is almost impossible to get lost. Shall I wire a reply to Mrs. Mann?"

"Well, yes, as she wishes it. Tell her not to worry, as most likely Hope will turn up tomorrow morning."

Hugh wrote out a telegram at once and handed it to the boy who had been kept waiting. Then he put on his hat and greatcoat, and started out for a walk alone.

So far everything appeared to work without a hitch, and he felt so elated in consequence that he was almost afraid to remain with Sir Geoffrey, lest his feelings should betray him.

Beyond the park, the foothills were cleft by deep ravines. Toward one of these ravines he made his way. Like all the rest, it was well wooded, besides which there was such a tangle of undergrowth beneath the trees that a hundred people might easily hide themselves.

He looked first for any sign of Nan's presence, after which he made his way to the cave where he and Nan had talked the previous Sunday night.

"Of course she's not had time to get back yet," he reflected. "But I do hope she'll get back soon. I'm curious to know in what way she has disposed of Hope."

Seating himself on a boulder, he pushed his hands deep into his pockets and grinned. He was not a pleasant looking young man at the best of times, but he looked positively fiendish when he showed all his teeth.

"Well, Nan is getting her revenge at last," he muttered to himself. "And the more she gets of it, the better for me. That's where my luck comes in."

And he laughed softly and mockingly.

"The worst of it is she holds the trump card," he went on, after a pause, "and keeps me securely under her thumb. I wish I knew for certain how much is truth and how much is bluff. However, when I'm safely installed in Sir Geoffrey's shoes I'll let her know who's master."

And he laughed again.

After a while his swarthy face grew grave. "By Jove;" he muttered to himself, "but it's a risky game, after all. I hope Nan isn't getting another trump card up her sleeve to play off against me in case of need."

He rose to his feet and looked out into the thicket, through which the twilight was beginning to struggle almost in vain.

"It's unfortunate for me," he reflected, "that there never was a Teesdale with my complexion before. I'm not surprised that Sir Geoffrey has always more or less mistrusted me, and that the aristocratic Arthur took no pains to hide his dislike. However, since Nan alone holds the secret, I think I'm safe enough. The mischief is, it gives her the whip-hand of me."

And he set his teeth together and scowled.

He was in a less jubilant mood when he returned to the Hall than when he left. The thought of Nan having perpetually the upper hand of him was not exhilarating.

He spent the evening with Sir Geoffrey, who seemed glad of his company, and who clung to him because there seemed nothing else left to cling to.

Sir Geoffrey talked about nothing but his son Arthur. The fate of Hope appeared entirely to have passed out of his mind. Hope had never occupied the place in his affections that Arthur had done. Hope was only a girl; and whether she was stupid or clever, healthy or sickly, beautiful or plain, seemed a matter of very little moment. Arthur was his second self ‒ his all.

Before retiring for the night, Hugh diplomatically suggested that he ought to return to London the following day, as he did not see he could render any further service by remaining.

Instantly Sir Geoffrey started to his feet, with tears in his eyes. "No, don't go, Hugh," he said pleadingly. "Really, I've no one left but you. It's hard to be left alone in one's old age. Stay a few days longer, in any case."

"I'm willing to stay any length of time," Hugh answered quietly, "if I can be of any real service to you. But I don't want to trespass on your kindness, uncle."

"Trespass on my kindness? My dear nephew, I can assure you the boot is on the other leg. I am trespassing on yours. I cannot tell you how much I have been touched by your consideration."

"No, no," Hugh protested, "it was my duty as your nearest relative, when I heard of your loss, to come to you. But please don't let me outstay my welcome."

Sir Geoffrey laughed feebly. "I hope, Hugh, you will stay till I have recovered my strength a little," he said. "And when Hope comes home, I shall not let her go away again."

On the following day a second telegram was received from Mrs. Mann, announcing that she had been to meet the morning boat train, and Hope was not among the passengers. Her luggage, however, had turned up, and was waiting to be claimed. The telegram concluded with a request for further instructions.

Sir Geoffrey read the telegram with a curiously bewildered expression in his eyes, then, turning to Hugh, asked what it meant.

"I really don't know what it means," Hugh replied slowly and sympathetically. "I sincerely hope no evil has befallen her."

"Evil?" Sir Geoffrey asked sharply. "What evil would be likely to befall her?"

"That is more than I can say. Railway travelling is supposed to be as safe in France and Belgium, Germany and Switzerland, as it is in this country."

"Exactly. And it's a frequented route Hope would have to travel by."

"It is certainly mysterious," Hugh answered reflectively, "and really one does not know what to advise in such a case. It seems as if the only thing open to us is to wait."

"We will wait until tomorrow morning, Hugh, and if she does not turn up then, we will put the matter into the hands of the Scotland Yard officials. But what am I talking about? Of course she will turn up. She isn't a hat-pin or a diamond ring, or any small trinket that might slip behind the cushions of a railway carriage."

"Of course she isn't, uncle. It is impossible she can have got lost."

"Quite impossible," Sir Geoffrey said decisively. "She may have got left behind somewhere. Girls are so stupid in such matters. I hope she hasn't got locked up for trying to smuggle goods through."

"She wouldn't be likely to do that, I think."

"Well, no, perhaps not. Still, one can never tell. Anyhow, we had better wire to Mrs. Mann to meet tomorrow morning's boat train, and in the meanwhile make all necessary inquiries of the railway officials. Also, to send a wire directly the train arrives tomorrow morning."

Hugh wrote out the telegram at once and despatched it. He was making himself necessary to Sir Geoffrey in many little ways, and breaking down bit by bit a longstanding prejudice and dislike.

The day seemed interminable both to Hugh and to Sir Geoffrey. They were on the alert all the time. They expected news from two quarters ‒ from the searchers on and round the lake of Bridlemere, and from Mrs. Mann, who they knew would wire directly she got any news of Hope.

As the day wore on, Sir Geoffrey's anxiety respecting his daughter steadily increased. It was easy to say it was impossible she should get lost. He had said the same thing respecting his son Arthur when he did not turn up that fatal Wednesday night.

He began to fear he had drifted into the backwater of a cruel destiny. Troubles, it was said, never came singly. What if he were doomed to lose both his children in the same week?

When once this idea got into his head it held him like a vice. Try as he would, he could not get rid of it. He staggered to his bedroom and tried to pray; but prayer seemed a mockery. His heart was heavy and rebellious; his tongue refused to shape his confused thoughts into words; his faith ‒ never a plant of vigorous growth ‒ seemed suddenly to wither up.

He tried to get consolation from Hugh, but it was Hugh's art to prepare him for the worst.

"I cannot deny that I am getting terribly anxious," Hugh said. And he wiped his eyes surreptitiously.

"Would you be sorry, Hugh," Sir Geoffrey asked, with sudden interest, "if ... if anything has happened to Hope?"

"Sorry, uncle? What do you mean by such a question?"

"Well, you cannot have forgotten that you are next of kin."

"I assure you, on my honour, it had never occurred to me!"

Sir Geoffrey looked at him dubiously. He would have liked him better if he had protested less forcibly. "I am glad you are at Rowton Hall," he said at length.

"Why, uncle?" Hugh asked, quailing a little before the steady light in the old man's eyes.

"If you had been anywhere else I might have doubted ‒ feared ‒ had my misgivings. Do you understand?"

"I fear I don't."

Sir Geoffrey dropped his eyes, and for several moments remained silent. "Forgive me if I have done you an injustice even in thought," he said at length, quite brokenly. "I cannot deny that you have behaved exceedingly well."

"But you have never trusted me?"

"Not as I should have done, perhaps. You are so unlike the Teesdales."

"But my mother was dark, was she not?"

"I do not know. I never saw your mother. My brother, your father, married ‒ I will not say beneath him, but out of our circle ‒ and went to live abroad. Your mother died, I believe, when you were quite young. Perhaps you remember her?"

Hugh shook his head.

"Ah, well, whether she was dark or fair I know not. I never spoke to your father about her."

"You and he were not good friends?"

"He seemed to resent having an elder brother, and would never take my advice. Moreover, as I did not marry as a young man, he was angry that I should marry in middle life."

"It is a pity when members of the same family are unable to agree," Hugh said piously.

"I don't think the fault was mine," Sir Geoffrey said, with a faraway look in his eyes. "Besides, he was well provided for, and so had no reason for complaint in that direction."

"I'm afraid he had rather extravagant tastes," Hugh answered.

"Still, he did not leave you badly off."

Hugh shrugged his shoulders almost unconsciously.

"Indeed, for a man of simple tastes, your income must be abundant," Sir Geoffrey went on.

"I am glad you recognise that I am a man of simple tastes," Hugh answered, lowering his eyes. "It's something to have even one virtue."

Sir Geoffrey turned away and did not reply. The thought of his own desolation swept over him again like an icy tidal wave, and seemed to stop the beating of his heart. There were moments when he felt that he must be labouring under some oppressive nightmare. The last week seemed more like a horrible dream than a reality.

Morning came again, and with it another telegram from Mrs. Mann saying Hope had not arrived, and she could glean no news of her in any quarter.

Sir Geoffrey dropped into his armchair and sobbed outright. He had nothing now to live for. His house was left to him desolate.

Enfeebled in health and heartbroken on account of the loss of his son, he could see no star of optimism anywhere. He gave up everything as lost.

"Hope has joined her brother," he said, the tears coursing each other down his withered cheeks. "Would that I could join them this very day!"

So genuine was the old man's grief that even Hugh felt uncomfortable in its presence. He comforted himself, however, with the reflection that one man's gain nearly always meant another man's loss. He was a dabbler on the Stock Exchange, and he ought to know.

With considerable tact, however, and well-feigned sympathy and commiseration, he pointed out to Sir Geoffrey that no news might be good news, and that had anything serious happened to Hope, there would be some account of it in the newspapers.

Sir Geoffrey, however, was too utterly spent and broken to be comforted. He was in the mood to look upon the dark side of everything."

"If I were only stronger, I could bear it," he said brokenly, "but I can do nothing. I can only sit here in my 'house desolate,' and wait. If I had your strength, Hugh, I would be off to London by the next train. I would engage a detective. I would go to Badenworth. I would follow her track. I would scour the whole Continent."

"Will you trust me to act for you?" Hugh asked, with hesitation. "You remember saying yesterday that you were glad I was here?"

"Pardon me, Hugh, but I am not myself at all. And really, if you left me now, I should collapse. Besides, it would not be fair to you. No, no, you are next of kin, and ... and ... would you mind touching the bell."

The butler appeared at once.

"Tell Parkyn to fetch round the brougham as quickly as possible."

"You surely are not going out?" Hugh asked, in surprise.

"I'm going to drive into Bradenford. I'm equal to that, at any rate."

And he rose at once and hobbled out of the room.

An hour later he was closeted with Mr. John Sharpe, the junior partner of Messrs. Evans & Sharpe, solicitors.

Mr. Sharpe looked grave, but readily undertook to do all that could possibly be done to find the whereabouts of Hope Teesdale.

"I'll go up to London by the next train," he said.

"And don't spare any expense," Sir Geoffrey said quickly. "Engage the smartest detective you can find. Get the newspaper men to take up the matter. We must get to the bottom of it, whatever the cost."

"Have you any fears? Any suspicions? Anything that would suggest a motive?" Mr. Sharpe asked.

"I fear the worst. That's all I can say," the baronet answered bluntly. "As for motives, what are the usual motives of robbers and murderers?"

"But if she were robbed or murdered we should have heard of it through the press."

"Not necessarily. Crimes are hidden for months and years sometimes. But it will be your business to find out what has happened."

"I will do my best," the lawyer answered, stroking his moustache.

"You can't do more." And Sir Geoffrey rose and hobbled out of the room.

During the next week, there was scarcely a paper in the United Kingdom that had not a paragraph headed, Mysterious Disappearance of a Young Lady.

Articles were written on the dangers of continental travel, especially to young and unprotected girls. English schoolmasters and schoolmistresses wrote letters to the press pointing out the folly as well as the danger of sending boys and girls abroad to be educated. Continental railway managers took up the challenge, and showed by figures that railway travel was much safer on the Continent than in England.

Meanwhile, descriptions of Hope were posted up in every police station throughout the country. Detective agencies were on the alert in all directions, while columns of gossip went the rounds of the daily and weekly press, much of it bearing not even the faintest resemblance to the truth.

In Bradenford the excitement was intense. The second possible tragedy following so closely on the heels of the first produced a feeling of horror and consternation that could not be put into words.

So the days passed away and grew into weeks, and there was no lessening of the suspense nor light thrown upon the mystery. On the contrary, the mystery deepened and the suspense became more and more intolerable. The lake was still watched and searched, but no body rose to the surface or was caught by the hurdles in the river. For once Bridlemere belied its reputation, and refused to give up its dead.

The authorities were at their wits' end to know what to do with Douglas Grove; for until the body of Arthur Teesdale was found, or some positive proof was forthcoming that he was dead, they had no real charge to bring against him. His own confession, unsupported by any other testimony, went for nothing.

After several weeks' absence, John Sharpe returned to Bradenford and owned himself defeated. Hope Teesdale had as completely vanished as if the earth had opened and swallowed her up. Not a trace of her could be discovered anywhere.
Chapter 12

A Fresh Start

SEVERAL of the county magistrates interviewed Douglas Grove in his cell, after which they held a consultation. With much learning and seriousness they discussed the pros and cons of the case. They hunted up precedents, and quoted authorities ancient and modern. They marshalled such facts and inferences as came within their cognisance, and they looked as wise as they knew how. After which, the chairman delivered judgment.

It was a somewhat rambling performance, and not particularly lucid, but as his brother magistrates agreed to it in form and in substance, there is no need whatever that it should be subjected to criticism.

Its direct bearing upon Douglas Grove was that his cell door was thrown open and he was told that he was at liberty to go where he liked, the only condition imposed being that he was to enter into certain undertakings, of a more or less formal character, to appear when called upon to do so.

Douglas had been six weeks under lock and key, and was pining more than he knew for a breath of freedom. Nevertheless, he left the court with a slow and dejected step, and faced the cold December wind with no feeling of buoyancy or exhilaration. He was a marked man, and he knew it. There was a stain upon his name that all the waters of Bridlemere could not wash away. He was at liberty through the merest accident. For some unaccountable reason the lake refused to give up its dead.

That Arthur Teesdale was lying somewhere at its bottom everybody believed. The magistrates who interviewed Douglas had not the slightest doubt on the point. Still, there was no proof of it ‒ his body had not been found ‒ consequently the case against Douglas broke down.

Moreover, the magistrates, after listening to all the gossip, and subjecting all the available evidence to the most careful analysis, came to the conclusion that the case against Douglas could never be very strong under any circumstances.

It seemed clear that in the reaction that followed the fatal struggle on the bridge, he had put the worst construction on his own action. A less sensitive man would have remained silent or found a hundred excuses for his conduct. There was no premeditated action. It seemed at most an unfortunate quarrel at an unfortunate time and in an unfortunate place. Had not the river been so swollen by the October rains, a good ducking would have been the only result of their encounter.

A murder charge was, therefore, out of the question. Neither did they see how a charge of manslaughter could be sustained ‒ even if Arthur Teesdale's body was found. But since it had not been found, and there was no actual proof that he was dead, there was no shadow of excuse for keeping Douglas Grove any longer at the country's expense.

After Douglas had recovered somewhat from the shock and horror of the situation, he was able to look upon the matter in a more sensible way. And though he could not shake himself free from the conviction that he had been the cause of Arthur Teesdale's death, and that a tremendous weight of responsibility rested upon him, he no longer called himself a murderer, nor saw in imagination stains of blood upon his hands.

Still, apart from this, the burden was a heavy one to be borne. He had robbed Sir Geoffrey of his son, and Avril Guest of her loved one. He had darkened two homes at least, and cut short a young life that was full of hope and promise. So that, in spite of every excuse and every extenuating circumstance, there still remained an unlifted burden that neither time, nor change, nor circumstance could ever remove.

When he left the police station he made his way slowly in the direction of the Vicarage. In order to avoid the village he struck out across the fields. He felt as though he could never look into the faces of his neighbours again. He had hardly courage to lift his eyes to the surrounding hills.

He knew that Bradenford could no longer be home to him. He must go away somewhere where he was not known. He must lose himself in the crowd, or dwell alone in solitude. He must forget himself as much as possible, forget the past and start afresh; and in time, by the help of God, he might find some new interest in life, and existence might become less a burden than it was today.

Broxup had kept him well posted up with news, so that he was not ignorant of the mystery that hung over the fate of Hope Teesdale. It seemed to him like an added punishment for his sins, an additional burden to the already overwhelming weight of his responsibility.

Troubles had come thick as snowflakes, but they could all be traced to the stupid and criminal quarrel on the bridge. If they had not acted like two fools, instead of there being misery all round there would have been happiness and rejoicing. How small the cause ‒ how great the consequence!

The fate of Hope, however, helped somewhat to draw away his thoughts from himself, notwithstanding the fact that he attributed whatever calamity had overtaken her to the insane quarrel between himself and her brother. Instead of constantly brooding over his own luckless condition, he found himself speculating on the chances of her being alive, and wondering whether, in the providence of God, the time would ever come when he would be able to help her, and so make some small atonement for all the sorrow he had brought into her life.

Despairing as he was about most things, Douglas could not bring himself to believe she was dead. Sometimes he almost wished he could, for there was a great fear in his heart that a worse fate had overtaken her. Five weeks had passed since she disappeared, and not a trace of her could be found. Every hint and clue had failed, every trail had ended in nothing.

He reached the Vicarage at length, and received a rapturous welcome. His sisters hugged him and kissed him, and laughed and cried by turns. The vicar stood apart, and surreptitiously wiped his eyes. Mrs. Grove, after shedding a few tears, hurried off into the kitchen. She was sure Douglas must be hungry, and to get him something to eat seemed to her to be the first and supreme duty.

As soon as Douglas could extricate himself from the embraces of Rosalie, the youngest and most humoured of the family, he retired with his father to the study to discuss plans for his future action.

"I cannot remain in Bradenford, father," he said, looking absently into the fire. "I should go mad if I did. I would like to get away tomorrow if I could, or even tonight. Don't think I don't love you, or that I don't love my home. It is part of the penalty I must pay."

The vicar looked at him with a dismal light in his eyes, but did not reply.

"I shall be able to earn my own living somehow," Douglas went on. "Not in the way I have hoped and dreamed perhaps, but that is a small matter. I shall have to start again. Forget the past, if possible; or, failing that, just endure to the end."

"You still take an unnecessarily gloomy view of the circumstances," the vicar replied, after a pause.

"Perhaps I do, father. I know I'm terribly sensitive, but I can't help it. I know people will look askance at me. Or if they don't, I shall imagine they do, which is much the same thing. All the trouble that has come to Avril Guest and Sir Geoffrey Teesdale will be laid at my door, and in a sense rightly so. There's no escape from the consequences of our folly and wrongdoing. I recognise that fully. Nevertheless, I shall be less miserable, less acutely sensitive, less afraid of recognising somebody, if I go right away from here."

"But where will you go to?"

"To London. The biggest crowd is there; the widest desert of streets. It is the place where the failures drift, as well as the successful people. I shall be within reach if wanted. And if I want to lose myself ‒ well, I shall be able to do it."

The vicar looked troubled, but he said nothing. He felt Douglas would have to take his chance and fight his own battles.

On the following evening, after it had grown dark, Douglas quietly took his departure. The vicar went to the station and purchased his ticket for him. Douglas waited outside until just before the train came in, then keeping his hat low over his eyes he clambered into the first empty compartment. With a silent pressure of his father's hand, the door was shut and the train bore him away.

He heaved a sigh of relief when the train was clear of the station, then began to make himself as comfortable as he could for the long, cold journey before him.

To while away the time, he took out of his portmanteau the manuscript of his completed story. It was the first long story he had written, and during its composition he had built many hopes upon it.

He had written a great many short stories, some of which had been published and paid for. But this was his first attempt at a long and serious novel, and naturally he regarded it with great interest, and even reverence. He had put into it his most mature thought, his most careful work. Portions of it he had written several times over, and though it still fell far short of his ideal, he could not help believing that it was worthy of recognition, and that if any publisher could be induced to look at it, publication would be sure to follow.

Douglas lingered fondly over its descriptive passages and thrilled over its tragic scenes. It was not fiction to him; it was a page out of real life. He had written it almost with his blood; had lived through all its scenes of comedy and tragedy; had entered into all the joys and sorrows of his hero and heroine, and made all their hopes his own.

Douglas reached London in the small hours of the morning, and finding a waiting room open and empty, he stole in and closed the door. Then, stretching himself on a bench, with his portmanteau for a pillow, he fell fast asleep.

He was cold and hungry, but he felt neither. He slept and dreamed ‒ dreamed of happiness and fame ‒ dreamed of honour and love. With Hope Teesdale by his side he wandered through pleasant valleys radiant in sunshine and carpeted with flowers.

No shadow of pain or trouble crept into his dreams; no note of misgiving fell upon the music of his life. The kind angel of sleep awoke no bitter memory, no painful regrets. For a brief hour of forgetfulness his soul wandered through paradise, and his heart thrilled with unspeakable joy. Then he returned again, with a sudden shock, to the bitter reality of life.

London was just beginning to stir when he at length stole, hungry and shivering, into the Euston Road. For several moments he stood still and looked up and down its forlorn and dismal length.

In the early hours of a winter's morning, there was surely no more cheerless looking place on earth than the Euston Road. "Is this London?" he asked out loud. "The city of pomp and splendour? This grimy thoroughfare, with its air of broken-down respectability, this pathetic cross between suburb and slum, this halfway-house between ancient pretension and modern aggression!"

The shabbily curtained windows and soot-begrimed gardens and rusty railings and dying trees on the one side, and on the other the indescribable medley of magnificence and mildew, modernity and decay, struck him with a sense of apprehension, almost of alarm.

He had no clear idea as to what he intended to do. The uppermost thought in his mind was that until he got work of some kind, he would have to practise the most rigid economy. For that reason he had not hailed a cab and been driven to some respectable hotel.

Hotels were expensive, and cab drivers knew how to fleece strangers from the country. He had handed over his portmanteau to the care of a porter at the Left Luggage Office, and was now speculating as to whether it would be safe for him to try to find his way on foot to Fleet Street or the Strand.

He had been in London only twice before, and had but a hazy idea of the lay of the city. The horse-drawn omnibuses at length began to rattle by ‒ green, red, blue 'buses, with unfamiliar place names painted on them. He looked at them hopelessly, and for some reason shrank from revealing his ignorance by inquiring their destinations of a conductor.

After Douglas had watched a dozen 'buses go by, he came to the conclusion that it would be unsafe for him to trust his life in any of them, especially as he had in his possession the manuscript of his story.

When he had come to this conclusion he bolted across the street, turned round in front of St. Pancras Church, and made his way southward as fast as he could.

It was plain sailing until he got to Holborn, and then his way seemed blocked again. Little Queen Street looked anything but inviting. Moreover, a few yards down it ended in Great Queen Street, and that seemed to lead in the wrong direction.

He took heart somewhat when a green omnibus passed him crowded inside and out, and he trudged on after it as fast as he could. But when he reached Drury Lane he halted again. The neighbourhood seemed to be getting more and more unsavoury.

He looked round for a policeman, but no one seemed to be about. So he struck into Long Acre, and ultimately got hopelessly lost amid the noise and confusion of Covent Garden.

At any other time this vast market would have interested him, but at the present moment he was too confused and alarmed to enjoy its sights and sounds. Fortunately, after a while a policeman came to his rescue, who showed him the way into the Strand.

He had not gone far, keeping his eyes well open, before he paused, then walked across the street to make sure. A little farther on another familiar name arrested his attention. He had reached unwittingly the very place he wanted. He had got into quite a nest of publishers of various sorts.

He discovered, however, after a number of inquiries, that he was much too early for business. The Londoner generally is not an early riser.

A friendly and old-fashioned coffeehouse furnished Douglas with an inexpensive breakfast; after which he felt in better spirits than he had done for a long time.

The fourth publisher he called upon promised to look at his manuscript, and to let him have his decision within a fortnight. Douglas hoped that such a matter might be decided in twenty-four hours. A fortnight seemed a most unreasonable time to keep an anxious man waiting. However, there was no help for it. It was something to get a publisher to look at his book at all. So he walked away, trying to feel that he was on the high road to success, even though the end might be a long way off.

Before the day ended he found cheap lodgings on the south side of the river. The rooms were mean enough, in all conscience, but they had the merit of cheapness. Moreover, they appeared to be fairly clean.

He slept soundly enough that night, though the bed was hard and the coverings none too plentiful. He was weary, both in mind and body. He fancied when he got into bed that he would not sleep for hours ‒ his surroundings were so strange, the room so detestable, and the roar of the streets so continuous. Yet scarcely had his head touched the pillow than the noise of the great city grew faint and far away, and soon fell on ears that were deaf to all earthly sounds.

So began his new life amid strange and uninviting surroundings.
Chapter 13

A Discovery

DOUGLAS GROVE hoped that the publisher or the publisher's reader would see all the beauties and excellences in his manuscript that he saw himself. He also saw the defects.

Messrs. Blade & Leaf admitted that there was merit in Douglas's book, but not sufficient to warrant the expense of its publication, unless the author was willing to share the risk.

Douglas would have been willing enough had he the money, and told Mr. Blade so, for he had unbounded faith in the merits of his book. But since his available stock of cash was painfully small, and was daily growing less, he had to walk away with his precious manuscript under his arm and try his fortune somewhere else.

By the time he had been in London two months he was pretty well ready to give up in despair. He had practically exhausted the entire list of publishers ‒ for nine out of every ten of them had made up their spring lists and refused to look at his book at all. The remaining tenth were afraid to run any risks with an unknown man, and handed back his precious manuscript with thanks.

During all these weeks Douglas had been doing his best to earn his living by his pen. It seemed the only way open to him, and he was getting desperately afraid he was a failure at that. He never realised so vividly before what a helpless creature a healthy, able-bodied man might be.

He often wondered how the myriads of people who jostled him on every side managed to earn their bread. He had no intention of being lazy; he did not believe he was lazy. He wanted to work, was prepared to do almost anything that was not degrading, and yet in all that vast world of London there appeared to be nothing he could do.

Now and then he got a paragraph accepted by a newspaper, but he did not always get paid for it, and he was too modest to demand money.

He spent his Christmas alone in his cheerless rooms. There was nothing to go out for. The manifest enjoyment of others only made his own misery the more acute. So he crouched over an almost empty grate from morning till eve, and listened to the city's roar, and dreamed of other and happier days.

He received a letter from his father the evening before, and a small hamper from his mother containing a few eatables and a pair of knitted gloves.

They did not know into what straits he was drifting. He did not write home often, but when he did it was always in a cheerful strain. He gave no hint of his struggles and failures, and they imagined that if he was not on the way to fortune, he was at least being comfortably provided for.

Bradenford, they told him, had settled down into its normal quiet again, and people had almost ceased to talk of the mysterious fates of Arthur and Hope Teesdale. Bridlemere had refused to part with the body of Arthur, and no trace of Hope had been discovered in any direction.

People had talked and talked until there was nothing left to say, and so by general consent the subject was allowed to drop. It still occupied a place in people's thoughts, and now and then somebody would sigh and say, "I wonder if ever the mystery will be cleared up?" But usually there would be no answer to the query. Even the most seasoned talker grew weary of saying the same thing.

By the end of February, Douglas Grove had got to the end of his tether. He had pawned his watch and some of his clothes. He had gone fireless and almost foodless for several days, and he was a week behind with his rent. It seemed to him scarcely worth while to try to prolong the struggle for existence any further.

He had nothing to live for, and it was clear he was not wanted. The world could do very well without him. If he, and ten thousand others as poor as he, slipped out of existence during the night, London would not miss them ‒ indeed, London would think it a good riddance.

Then why did they try to live? Why did they hang on to the skirts of existence with so much eagerness and tenacity?

He was debating this question with himself in his room, in a weary and listless fashion when his eyes lighted on a small periodical near the empty coal box. Probably the household servant had dropped it, or it might be the landlady herself had forgotten to pick it up. It was called The Chimney Corner.

He began to turn its pages with some measure of curiosity. It was made up mainly of short stories and anecdotes, with hints on health, happiness, and household management. There were thirty-two pages of it, including advertisements.

After a while he began to scan the stories. Some of them were not without merit. Wildly improbable, no doubt, but revealing a power of invention that seemed to him phenomenal.

"I suppose people get paid for doing this sort of thing," he said to himself. "I wonder if any of these editors would take my poor story, and run it as a serial?"

On the following morning he looked at the bookstall at Waterloo Station, and got the titles of some of the more respectable of the story-papers, after which he made his way into Fleet Street.

It was a bright, sunshiny morning, with a suggestion of spring in it, and as he walked along the sunny side of the street and was jostled by the crowd, he felt a little more hopeful than he had done for weeks past. He had attired himself in his best clothes, and looked the gentleman, whatever he might feel.

He had some difficulty in penetrating to the sanctum of the first editor he sought, but he was determined not to be beaten if he could help it. He was received in rather a chilly manner, but in the end the editor consented to look at the manuscript He admitted he was always on the lookout for suitable stories, and he paid for all he accepted at a uniform rate.

Douglas grew bolder, and asked if he had any odd work that he wanted doing.

"I am not particular what it is," he said desperately. "The truth is, I am down on my luck, and haven't earned a sixpence for the past fortnight. I'm ready to do anything that is honest."

The editor shook his head. "We have a number of men about the place who work for sixpence an hour, addressing envelopes and wrappers, and sending out circulars and free copies and that kind of thing; but I could not ask you to do work of that kind."

"Not ask me? Why not?" Douglas asked.

"Well," with a shrug of the shoulders, "the lads and men who do that kind of thing are scarcely gentlemen."

"If you will only give me the opportunity, I'll do it and be grateful," Douglas answered, with tears in his eyes.

"Do you mean it?"

"I was never more in earnest in my life. I tell you, when a man has been tramping the streets of London for weeks, trying in vain to earn an honest penny, he is glad of any kind of work that will keep him from starving."

The editor was a sympathetic little man at heart. He had known what it was to be uncomfortably poor, and had written miles of stuff in his younger days for the barest pittance, and had only climbed into his present position of modest comfort after the severest struggle. Hence the sight of his visitor's face twitching with emotion touched him almost more than he knew.

"I wish I had something better to offer you," he said. "But it's the best I have."

"I'll do it, and be grateful," Douglas answered. "May I begin today?"

"You may begin at once if you like." He touched a bell, at which a boy appeared from behind a wooden partition. "Show this gentleman down to the packing room," the editor said, "and tell Mugford I've sent him."

So Douglas started work at sixpence an hour, and by working overtime in his own lodgings he managed to make thirty shillings the first week, and felt that at last he was on the high road to fortune.

It was during the first week in March that, hurrying towards his lodgings one evening, his eye was arrested by an announcement on the show bill of an evening paper:

MISSING LADY DISCOVERED

At first he was not disposed to pay any attention to it. People were constantly getting lost and getting found again. Moreover, he had to be sparing of his ha'pennies. An evening paper was a luxury he indulged in only now and then.

But he had not gone many yards before he turned back again to where the boy stood at the corner. What if the missing lady was Hope Teesdale? Up to the present the mystery surrounding her fate had remained unsolved. All efforts to find her had proved futile. Sir Geoffrey waited for her homecoming in vain.

Douglas put a ha'penny into the boy's hand, and took the paper and began to walk slowly away. Suddenly he came to a standstill and leaned against a neighbouring lamppost. This is what he read:

The body of a lady, believed to be that of Miss Hope Teesdale, who so mysteriously disappeared some months ago, has been found in a small lake in the Austrian Tyrol. The body has evidently been in the water a considerable time, and is much decomposed, the face being quite unrecognisable. The clothes, however, and the contents of the pockets leave no doubt as to the lady's identity. There is, however, considerable mystery surrounding the affair. It will be remembered that in October last Miss Teesdale left her school at Badenworth to journey to London. She was seen off at the station by one of the mistresses and several of her school friends, after which she was never seen again. How she got into the Austrian Tyrol, and for what purpose, is not known. No doubt the strictest inquiry will be made into the affair.

Douglas read the paragraph almost at a glance, then stood staring at it like a man in a dream. The horse drawn traffic in the street rattled and surged, but he did not hear it or see it. The people on the sidewalk jostled him as they hurried to and fro, but he heeded nothing, felt nothing, comprehended nothing but the one fact that Hope Teesdale was dead.

How long he stood there he did not know. A few people looked curiously at him as they passed. He pulled himself together at length, and walked slowly away. He did not know till then what his hope had been during all the weary months he had been in London ‒ did not know how foolish had been the craving of his heart. But he understood now.

Seated in his stuffy little room he read the paragraph again, then stretched out his feet before his apology for a fire, and tried to think. He felt somehow that there was a tragedy behind Hope Teesdale's death, but what that tragedy was would probably never be known. On the whole, it might be a matter for thankfulness that she was beyond the reach of suffering and of shame.

But what had she suffered before death threw its protecting mantle over her? Through what paths of darkness and pain had she wandered? Had she been kidnapped ‒ decoyed ‒ robbed? Or had she missed her way ‒ got into a wrong train ‒ met with an accident ‒ lost her reason through some sudden shock? Who could tell the physical and mental agony she endured, the wild, delirious days and nights through which she had passed?

Douglas grew almost sick at the thought. His quick imagination conjured up a thousand horrible pictures. He fancied how she would fight and wrestle before she gave up.

Then his thoughts turned back to their last meetings before she was sent away to school. How full of life she was in those days. How bright and clear her eyes, how rosy her cheeks, how contagious her laughter. They were not close, and yet he loved her, and he would always believe she knew it and was glad of it. She took him more into her confidence than she did her own father. It was her suggestion that he should write to her from time to time.

"Arthur does not understand me," she said. "And, of course, father knows little of what is taking place in Bradenford. But you know all the news, and you understand." And she looked frankly and steadily up into his face.

Some people might not call her beautiful or even good looking, but she was beautiful in his eyes. Her broad, low forehead, her clear hazel eyes, her firm, square jaw, her full red lips, her perfect teeth, made a combination that in his eyes reached perfection.

During all the months he had been in London he had clung to the anticipation that Hope was still alive. It did not seem possible that one so young, so full of health and vigour, could be among the dead. But more than all, he had cherished the hope that some day he might befriend her; that by sacrificing himself for her benefit he might in some measure atone for the wrong he had perhaps unwittingly done.

How much that idea had been to him he did not know until now. It had kept him alive in those darkest of all days when he had been foodless and fireless and in debt. It had saved him when despair began to gnaw at his heart, and the river seemed the only inviting place in London. It had turned his eyes toward the stars when at night he walked across Blackfriars Bridge, and the twinkling lights below threatened to mesmerise him.

But all that was over now. That dream, like so many others, had gone out in utter darkness. He was glad that he was able to earn his living now, meagre and precarious though it was ‒ glad that the twinkling lights in the river no longer looked like friendly eyes ‒ glad that the summer was coming instead of the winter.

The next morning, while he sat munching his dry toast, and flavouring it with a grilled bloater ‒ a luxury he allowed himself twice a week ‒ his landlady handed him a letter which the postman had just left.

He smiled at the address in his father's well-known hand.

"John Douglas, Esq."

He had dropped the "Grove," and wished his father would drop the "Esq."

He tore open the envelope hurriedly, for he expected some further news about Hope, and in that he was not disappointed.

My dear Son,

You have doubtless seen in the papers an account of the finding of Hope Teesdale's body. We are all greatly agitated about it here, and speculation is running riot as to the cause of her death. Mrs. Mann has identified the body ‒ or, more correctly, has identified the clothes, the purse, some articles of jewellery, and a letter which was in Arthur's handwriting. It is expected the body will arrive here tomorrow or the day following. There is sure to be an immense funeral.

I hope my nerve will hold out while conducting the service. Sir Geoffrey, on the whole, bears up remarkably well, and is quite friendly with me again. I am sure also he feels much less bitter toward you than he did. He admitted to me the other day that he was getting to regard Arthur's death in the light of a painful accident. He said Arthur was a much stronger man than you, and you could not possibly have thrown him into the river, however much you tried.

Avril Guest takes the same view, I know, and I think most of the people now in the neighbourhood look at the matter in the same light. In fact, Sergeant Broxup holds to the belief that Arthur Teesdale threw you in, but that you held on to him so tightly that you dragged him in after you.

I refer to these things again now, for the finding of Hope's body has reopened the whole question, and nothing else for the moment is being talked about. In fact, a fresh search for Arthur Teesdale is being made all round the margin of Bridlemere. It would be a great comfort to Sir Geoffrey if he could give his son decent burial.

Hugh Teesdale has returned again to Rowton Hall ‒ I hear at Sir Geoffrey's request. You see, although only Sir Geoffrey's nephew, he is heir to the estates now, being next of kin. It is curious how strangely and mysteriously things work out. Six months ago there did not seem the remotest possibility of this sullen, lowbrowed nephew ever succeeding to the estates. And yet, in this, as in so many other cases, it is the unexpected that has happened.

Hugh Teesdale, I am sure, must reflect sometimes on the curious chances of life. Why should Hope Teesdale come to her end in such a mysterious way and at such an opportune time for him? It is foolish, however, to speculate on such questions. The ways of Providence are very inscrutable and past finding out.

Mrs. Finch grows feeble. I think Avril Guest finds great comfort and solace in waiting upon her. In ministering to the wants of others she gets balm for her own grief.

Your mother and the girls are about as usual. Rosalie keeps constantly asking when you are coming home. We are all glad that you are doing so well. Write soon with all the news.

Your affectionate father,

Henry Grove

Douglas read through the letter a second time, and then finished his breakfast; after which he donned his hat and coat and walked away towards the city. But he saw no step of the way that morning, saw no face in the crowd that he recognised. One sentence in his father's letter haunted him. He saw it everywhere. It echoed like bells through the chambers of his brain; it roared in the traffic; it screamed in the whistles of railway engines; it pattered through the clatter of hurrying feet.

"Why should Hope Teesdale come to her end in such a mysterious way and at such an opportune time for him?"
Chapter 14

Romance and Reality

DURING the next few days Douglas turned the query raised by his father upside down and inside out, but he could neither answer it nor dismiss it from his mind. That the death of Hope, following so closely upon the death of Arthur, was a stroke of good luck for Hugh was patent to everybody; but beyond that nothing could be said. From all he could gather, there had been nothing in the least suspicious in Hugh's conduct. He had acted throughout with much sympathy and good feeling.

At the time of the disappearance of Hope, Hugh Teesdale was at Rowton Hall, and in constant attendance upon Sir Geoffrey. Nor did he leave the Hall for several weeks after. All this, Douglas had gathered during his conversations with Sgt. Broxup, and from various allusions to Hugh in his father's letters. Hence any suggestion of conspiracy or foul play on the part of Hugh had not, to all appearance, the least vestige of foundation.

"I might just as well suspect Hugh of being mixed up in Arthur's disappearance," Douglas said to himself, "for that was just as great a stroke of good luck for him as the death of Hope. And certainly he had no hand in Arthur's death. I alone am responsible for that."

Yet, notwithstanding this style of reasoning, his father's question haunted him. There seemed to be something more than a mere coincidence in the disappearance of Hope.

Moreover, the disappearance was of so strange a character. A railway accident or a case of robbery or murder or sudden death would be understandable. If Hope's body had been found near the railway along which she had travelled, with the skull fractured or the throat cut and the pockets rifled, the motive would be clear, though the culprit might never be found.

But that the body should be found six months after her disappearance, and hundreds of miles away from the place where she disappeared, and according to the latest newspaper reports with no marks of violence upon it, presented a problem so bewildering that the very mystery of it fascinated him.

Day after day the newspapers came out with various theories to account for Hope Teesdale's strange disappearance, her long silence, and the ultimate recovery of the body.

A post-mortem examination had revealed a more or less congested condition of the brain. The boots were much worn, which indicated she had travelled about a good deal. Her watch, rings, and bracelets were intact, which implied that no one had attempted to rob her. But her purse was empty, which suggested that she had purchased for herself the necessaries of life.

How she got into the lake, and how she got into the Tyrol at all, were questions that only time or the Judgment Day could answer.

It was suggested by one paper that at Basle she got into the wrong train, and awoke next morning to the discovery that she was hundreds of miles away from where she ought to have been; that she became alarmed and lost her nerve; that she was afraid of being accused of travelling with a wrong ticket, or perhaps with no ticket at all; that she attempted to alight before the train stopped, and got slight concussion of the brain in consequence; that she wandered round for weeks in a more or less demented fashion, and ultimately, by accident or design, flung herself into the lake or into one of the rivers that emptied themselves into the lake.

But to this theory ‒ like every other theory put forward ‒ there were a great many objections. None of the railway guards or attendants of any of the trains leaving Basle on the night in question could remember an English girl travelling alone. Moreover, all the tickets were examined at various stages, and had anyone got into the wrong train, the mistake would have been rectified at the earliest possible point. Also, it was pointed out, no young girl could wander alone, homeless and unprotected, in any part of the country without attracting notice.

Douglas became quite extravagant in the purchase of newspapers. Sometimes he purchased as many as four halfpenny newspapers in a day. But none of them brought him any consolation or threw any light on the mystery. Theories and inferences there were in abundance, but anything in the shape of reliable evidence there was practically none.

In due course the body was conveyed to Bradenford, and laid to rest in the Teesdale family vault.

Douglas would have given almost anything to be there, to pay a last tribute of affection to the girl he loved; but he knew it was part of the penalty of his sin that that mournful satisfaction was denied him. Even if he could have faced the crowd of dalesmen and women who would gather round the grave, he had no means of getting there. He had been working hard and long to redeem the things he had pawned, and to get a few articles of clothing that were an absolute necessity. Hence a journey to Bradenford was out of the question.

He did sacrifice half a day's work on the day of the funeral, and spent the time alone in his own room. It was a bright, sunshiny day, with a warm westerly wind and a delicious sense of spring pervading everything.

On his windowsill and in the gutters of adjacent roofs the sparrows were making merry in the sunshine, and talking love to each other, as though there was no such thing as death in the world.

Douglas could have twisted their necks with a keen sense of satisfaction. Their happy and ceaseless twittering jarred upon his nerves, their courtship mocked his misery. Even the sunshine sent a shudder through him. He felt that there ought to have been no sunshine that day. The skies should have wept from dawn to dark, and all the bells of the city should have tolled.

In his imagination he saw the funeral almost as clearly and vividly as if he had been present; saw his father standing at the head of the grave with a white surplice on and an open book in his hand; saw the coffin, covered with flowers, being lowered into its dark abode; saw the squire bending over it with white, drawn face, trying to look calm and unmoved; saw the crowd of men and women pressing forward, with rugged faces and tearful eyes; saw the children, with scared and wondering looks, forcing their way into every nook and corner.

He got up from his chair at length and fell upon his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Through all the noise and tumult of the city, and rising clear and distinct above the roar, sounded his father's voice:

"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust...."

Douglas shuddered, and pushed his fingers into his ears. He could hear the rattle of the earth upon the coffin lid, hear the wind moaning in the pines that surrounded the churchyard, hear the stifled sob in many a woman's throat.

"O God, that I had died in her stead!" he moaned. He could bear the tension no longer, and a moment later he gave way to a tempest of tears.

When Douglas got back to his work next morning, he found a note from Mr. Woodey, the editor, asking him to call at his office. Without a word to anyone he turned and made his way up the narrow, rickety stairs, much wondering what was in the wind. Thoughts of dismissal flashed like lightning through his brain. Had he been discovered as a potential murderer, he wondered, or had he been failing in any way in his duty?

A cold perspiration broke out all over him, and he had a difficulty in keeping his teeth from chattering. If he lost his situation ‒ humble and badly paid as it was ‒ what would become of him?

He was in a state of extreme nervousness when he knocked at Mr. Woodey's door.

"Come in," came the quick response, in the editor's well-known and somewhat raucous voice.

Douglas pushed open the door at once and entered. One glance at Mr. Woodey's face, and he felt reassured. The editor was evidently in a good humour. He smiled benevolently, and even extended his hand to his visitor. "I daresay, Mr. Douglas," he began abruptly, "that you have been wondering what has become of your story that you left with me on the occasion of your first visit."

Douglas blushed and looked uncomfortable. "To tell you the truth," he said, "I had almost forgotten it. I came to the conclusion weeks ago that it was of no use to you or anyone else, and so I tried to put it out of my mind."

"Oh, well," said Mr. Woodey, with a little laugh, "it was not quite so bad as that. I must say it was not quite suitable for my purpose. You see, Mr. Douglas, different editors cater for different publics. Yours is a good story, well written ‒ excellently well written, I must say ‒ but still, it would not suit everybody."

"That seems pretty obvious," Douglas answered, with a laugh.

"For my own part," Mr. Woodey went on, "I believe that all readers love a rattling good story ‒ I mean a story with plenty of incident in it, a story that has some exciting situations, which offers the characters a chance of showing what they are made of."

"Yes," Douglas answered dubiously.

"Now, mind you," Mr. Woodey went on, "I don't say that yours is not an interesting story, but from my point of view there is not enough incident in it. It's very quiet, very pretty, and all that. But ... well, I needn't repeat what I have said before."

"Thank you," Douglas replied, without emotion. "It's kind of you to take the trouble to look at my story at all. Naturally, I thought rather well of it, but it seems quite clear that a writer is no judge of his own work. You need not trouble to return the manuscript. I don't want to see it again."

"Oh, but I have disposed of it!"

"Disposed of it?" Douglas asked, raising his eyebrows.

He thought of the wastepaper basket, the stoke room, the pulp-mill.

"That was why I sent for you," Mr. Woodey went on. "I want your consent, of course. I have acted as a kind of literary agent for you, if you will allow me to say so."

Douglas's face expressed his surprise, but he did not speak.

"It came about in this way," Mr. Woodey continued. "I read the story, and liked it, and it seemed to me a pity that it should be lost. There is good work in it, Mr. Douglas; and what is more, there is the promise of better work to come. Well, as I was saying, though it is altogether too lacking in incident for The Fireside Comforter, it struck me it would do for The Steeple. So I spoke to my friend Roe, the editor, about it, and he has made me an offer of twenty pounds for the serial rights, and fifty pounds for the entire copyright."

Douglas's face brightened in a moment, and his eyes sparkled. "This is good of you, Mr. Woodey!" he said impulsively. "How can I ever thank you?"

"Then you accept, Mr. Douglas?"

"Accept? I should think so, indeed. Why, fifty pounds will be a fortune to me!"

Mr. Woodey smiled complacently. "I may tell you," he went on, "that The Steeple is a respectable magazine. But you know it, perhaps?"

"No, I never heard of it."

"Oh, it has been in existence a great many years. And they say it has a fairly large circulation. But where it circulates, Heaven knows. I don't. Still, it is a respectable monthly ‒ dull, frightfully dull in my judgment ‒ still, quite respectable."

"And being dull and respectable, my story suits it?" Douglas asked, with a laugh.

"Well, I am afraid if your story had been exciting, it would have had no chance with my friend Roe."

"Anyhow, I have you to thank," Douglas said warmly, "and I do thank you most sincerely."

And he turned and picked up his hat.

"Just another word before you go," Mr. Woodey said, twisting round in his swivel chair. "The truth is, I want you to write a story for me."

"For you?"

"Yes, for The Comforter. You have the storytelling gift. But I want something stronger, more vigorous, with more 'go' in it, if you understand. Now, nearly all the stories sent in to me are badly done. There's no lack of incident, mind you; and there's 'go' enough after a sort; but they are not well constructed. They are not artistic. In other words, they are not literature. Now, what I want is a story that is vigorous, enthralling ‒ exciting, if you like ‒ but well written. Literature need not be dull, Mr. Douglas. And I believe, if you set your mind to it, you could write a story, strongly dramatic, and yet which should not offend the taste or outrage probability."

"I am not sure that I could," Douglas answered slowly.

"But I'm quite sure of it," Mr. Woodey said briskly. "The story you have written has lots of promise in it; and, what is more, I would like to give you a rise, if possible."

Douglas turned away his head to hide the moisture that came suddenly into his eyes. "You are more than kind, Mr. Woodey," he said slowly, without turning round.

"Then you'll try?"

"I will, with pleasure."

"And if you succeed, I'll pay you for the thing down on the nail."

"I'll leave the matter entirely in your hands," Douglas answered. "You've been a real friend to me."

"And look here," Mr. Woodey continued, "when you've written half a dozen chapters, bring them round to me and let me look at them. I shall be able to judge better then whether you are on the right tack."

And he held out his hand, which Douglas grasped warmly before leaving the room.

Douglas addressed fewer wrappers and envelopes that day than he had been in the habit of doing. His conversation with Mr. Woodey had changed his entire outlook. At last he had something definite in view. He saw opening up before him prospects such as he had not dreamed of for many a long month.

The tonic he so much needed was given to him just at the right moment. He was in danger of growing morbid. The fate of Hope Teesdale had shaken his nerves. His grief for her threatened to dominate every other feeling. His imagination could conjure up no picture but the funeral scene in Bradenford churchyard.

But now a new interest had been thrust into his life. He was bound to make an effort, if only out of gratitude to Mr. Woodey. He must force his imagination into other directions, and allow it to play round other scenes.

During the whole of the day he worked mechanically. Plots and counter-plots kept chasing each other through his brain. Stories told him by the dalesmen came back to him without any effort of his will. Scenes in his own life mixed themselves up with imaginary characters and imaginary situations, and before the day was done the outline of a story began to shape itself in his mind.

He walked to his lodgings that night without seeing a single individual. People jostled him in the street, but he did not heed them. The city roared as usual, but he heard no noise. He dodged hansoms and omnibuses by a kind of instinct. He was hundreds of miles away from London, among the green hills of his native county, and was holding conversations with all kinds of imaginary people.

For a week he dwelt in the narrow borderland between romance and reality, by the end of which time he saw his way clearly from the beginning to the end of his story. The plot at last had taken definite shape. The characters had begun to settle into their places. The scenery passed before him like a panorama; his heroine wore the face of Hope Teesdale.

Then something happened which scattered his romance to the winds, and left him in such a condition of doubt and misery and indecision as he had never known before.

He had started out from his lodgings, after his frugal dinner, to buy pens and paper so that he might begin his new story. It was quite dark, and the evening threatened rain.

He made his way hurriedly along the dingy street in which he lived into the Blackfriars Road, and was just emerging into the full glare of the gaslight when he paused suddenly with a gasp, and drew back.

Not three yards away from him a man and woman passed slowly, engaged in earnest conversation. The man he would not have noticed, but the woman arrested his attention in a moment. She was tall, straight, well proportioned, and dressed in a fashion considerably out of date. But it was her face that made him gasp. If it was not the face of Nan o' the Fells, then it was her double.

It was true her skin was no longer the colour of mahogany, while her grey hair was parted in the centre, and brushed smooth over her temples. But her features were the same: the straight nose; the dark, flashing eyes; the square, heavy jaw; the wide mouth; the tightly shutting lips. Surely no two people could be so exactly alike.

Then, also, her figure would arrest attention anywhere. She towered a full head above any other woman in the street, and carried herself with the stately swing which he remembered so well.

"It's Nan!" gasped Douglas, and he trembled from head to foot. "And her companion is Hugh Teesdale!"

He clenched his hands until the nails of his fingers cut into the palms.

A thousand vague fancies rushed through his brain in a moment; a thousand questions seemed to clamour for an answer. Why was Nan in London? Why was Hugh in her company? Where had they met? How did they become acquainted? What had they in common? What did their acquaintance mean? Where were they going? Had they known each other long? Treading upon the heels of each other, the questions rushed through his brain.

"I must probe this mystery to the bottom," he said to himself. "There may be more in this matter than I think."

He forgot all about pens and paper, forgot all about the story he was going to write. Here was a living story unfolding before his eyes, a story that might mean everything to him, a story that might contain in its pages the secrets of life and death.

"Whether they are bent on good or evil," he said to himself, "I must follow them and find out."

Buttoning his coat tightly around him, and pressing his hat firmly on his head he stole out of the semi-darkness into the more brilliantly lighted street. It was easy to keep Nan in view, her head towered so conspicuously above the rest.
Chapter 15

A Listener

IT was easy in the crowded and well-lighted streets to follow Nan and her companion without attracting attention. It was less easy when they suddenly turned a corner and disappeared down a narrow court, where only a gas lamp flickered feebly here and there at long intervals.

Douglas paused, and peered down the long, dim court before entering it. There were few people about. The children preferred to play in the Blackfriars Road, in the glare of the shop windows. Most of the houses were in darkness.

Nan and her companion walked on at the same steady pace, never casting a look behind them. Douglas kept as close to the houses as possible, and trod softly on the damp pavement.

The farther away from the Blackfriars Road, the more silent it became. Now and then a faint murmur of voices fell on his ear, and once a snatch of laughter, harsh and guttural, floated back to him. It was Nan's laugh, mirthless and bitter. He had heard it before and knew from the tone of it the mood she was in.

They turned again to the left, and for several moments he lost sight of them. Then he found himself in a rather broader thoroughfare, with small areas in front of the houses.

Steadily and persistently he plodded on after the constantly retreating figures. He had to be wary, for the street was almost deserted, and every footfall sounded distinctly on the hard pavement.

Another turn, and the street was dark and narrow again. The houses were tall, the windows flat, and the doors opened level with the pavement.

Halfway up the street Nan paused and fumbled in her pocket. Then she went up to a door, inserted a latchkey, pushed open the door, and stood aside for her companion to enter.

He hesitated for a moment, then plunged into the darkness and disappeared. The next moment the door was slammed, and that portion of the street was empty.

Douglas turned into the middle of the street and waited. In a few minutes a light was struck in the front room, and Nan came to the window and lowered the Venetian blind. One of the laths was splintered, and a long, triangular shaft of light came through.

Douglas stepped back a few yards while some people passed. Then he stole noiselessly up to the window and peered through. Only a small strip of the room was visible. He got his eye as close to the glass as possible, and took in as many of the details of the room as he could.

Hugh Teesdale was sitting with his elbows on the table, apparently studying the pattern on the cloth. Nan appeared to be mending the fire. After a while she also drew up a chair and sat at right angles with him, and then began what seemed to be an earnest conversation.

Douglas strained his ears, hoping that some of their words would penetrate the glass, but he was disappointed. He could see their lips moving, and every now and then Nan shook her head and shut her mouth tightly.

Hugh appeared to be trying to persuade her to do something or to tell him something, but no sound reached Douglas. He could only judge by their movements that the one was entreating, and the other resisting.

He turned away from the window at length, and walked to the other side of the street. He felt that he would give all he possessed ‒ which was not much ‒ and all he hoped to possess ‒ which was a great deal ‒ if he could find out what these two people were saying.

It was no ordinary matter that had brought them together. Of that he felt certain. Moreover, they appeared to be on terms of great confidence. Judging by their faces and gestures, Nan had a certain power over Hugh, and was conscious of the fact. But what gave her that power?

What was the bond that drew them to each other? Why should a young man of good family, a solicitor by profession, and with fairly ample means at his disposal, associate with a woman old enough to be his mother, and with no reputation whatever? There must be a reason for everything, and there was a reason for this meeting and this intimacy. But how was he to find it out?

It seemed a mean thing to spy upon people. Eavesdropping, he knew, was looked upon by all right-minded people as vulgar and ill-bred. Under ordinary circumstances he would scorn the action. Nevertheless, he felt, as he stood there in the quiet street, staring at the lighted window opposite, that there might be times and circumstances when eavesdropping would be perfectly justifiable.

At the back of his mind there was a thought which he did not attempt to shape into words ‒ that there was a conspiracy on foot. He knew enough of Nan ‒ had studied her character with sufficient care ‒ to be convinced that she was not a person to stand at trifles.

During the days and nights he had spent in the cave he had seen a good deal of her. He was profoundly grateful for what she had done for him, but he was keen-eyed enough to see there were two sides to her character. Capable she doubtless was of great kindness and generosity, and yet there was occasionally a gleam in her cold grey eyes that sent a shiver down his back.

Yes, she could be kind, and almost tender when it fell in with her mood or when it suited her purpose. But she could also be relentless in her cruelty when her interests lay that way.

He remembered now that she had expressed no word of regret at the untimely fate of Arthur Teesdale. On the contrary, she had hissed out a sentence that he had scarcely noticed at the time, but which now struck him with peculiar force. Why should it serve Arthur Teesdale right to be flung into the river and drowned? What did she know about him? What harm had he ever done to her? He remembered, also, that she had never uttered a word of sympathy with Sir Geoffrey. When his name was mentioned, she shut her lips tightly, and her eyes gleamed.

He had not noticed these things particularly at the time. He was in too great pain both in mind and body, too humbled about his own future, to pay much heed to anything that she might do or say. But everything came back to him now with intense vividness, and small things grew big with significance.

Who was this Nan o' the Fells? And why did she haunt those lonely hills at uncertain intervals? Evidently London was her home. Evidently, also, she was not without means. She could not live in London ‒ not even in Lambeth ‒ and take long railway journeys on nothing. And what was the object of these journeys? There was a reason for everything, and there must be a reason for this.

He stole up to the window again and peeped through the broken blind. Nan and Hugh were in the same positions, and still talking, and talking excitedly. He strained his ears again, but in vain. Only the faintest murmur reached him. No single sentence or even word could he shape out of the sounds.

With a little sigh he turned away and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He felt baffled and perplexed. The question his father had raised hammered at his brain once more. It was easy to talk about the long arm of coincidence ‒ and everybody knew, of course, that circumstances fell into curious combinations. But the old tag, "There's a reason for everything," haunted him. There was a reason at the back of the circumstances that culminated in Hope Teesdale's death. What was that reason?

One thing was clear. Hugh Teesdale profited by her untimely fate. But did he plan her death? That seemed impossible. He was at Rowton Hall at the time, and remained there for weeks after. Had he confederates, or a confederate?

Douglas's keys were lying at the bottom of his right-hand pocket. He crushed them in his hand until they hurt him. A suspicion leaped suddenly into his mind that turned him cold.

"Where was Nan at the time?"

The wind might have spoken the words in his ear as it sighed up the forsaken street. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, and turned them over and over in his hand, not thinking what he was doing.

Why should Nan stoop to such a crime? What interest could she have in Hope Teesdale's death? The only one who profited was Hugh. What was Hugh to her?

He looked at the keys in the dim light abstractedly. His subconscious was sorting them out, while he was thinking of Hope and Hugh and Nan.

This was the key of his portmanteau, and this of a wooden box in his room, and this was the key of a desk in the room in which he worked, and this was the key of his hatbox, and this was his latchkey.

He started and looked towards the door. Common locks were all built on the same pattern. One key would often open a score of them. Perhaps his key would open this one. The door was on the latch, he knew.

He looked up and down the street. No one was about. He did not give himself time to think. He acted on impulse, not on reason. Almost before he could think, his key was in the lock, and it turned without a sound. Was this a coincidence, or had he got hold of a master-key that would unlock half the doors in the neighbourhood?

Questions swam through his brain in shoals, but he had no time to debate them. The door was falling silently open, and the dark and empty passage gaped before him. He sat down on the damp pavement and pulled off his boots. He did not consider the danger he ran. Hardly considered what he intended to do.

Silently he rose to his feet, and silently and stealthily he crept into the passage. A single ray of light streamed through the keyhole. He did not put his eye to the keyhole. He put his ear instead. He had seen as much as he wanted to see. He was anxious now to hear.

The words spoken within fell distinctly upon his ear. It was Hugh's voice, and it ill concealed his anger. "Since you refuse to tell me what I ask, I refuse to do what you request!"

"You are a fool, Hugh, and you know it."

"I may be a fool, but I mean what I say!"

"But why do you refuse?"

"Because I do not believe it is the best course open."

"Have I not been right, up to the present?" Nan asked.

"You may have been. Time alone can tell that."

"Bah! You talk and act like a simpleton, Hugh. Why take nineteen steps and draw back at the twentieth?"

"Because the twentieth may not be necessary. A little patient waiting, and kindly Nature will do all that is necessary."

"It's well to assist Nature sometimes." Nan's voice sounded evil.

"It may be, sometimes; but I don't think it is in this case."

"But I'm sure it is. Nature left alone may take twenty years."

"That is not at all likely. There is a perceptible failing week by week and month by month. A year or two more at the outside will see the end."

"Don't be too sure, ugh. Creaking gates hang on a long time."

"But what's the use of being impatient?"

"It's all well enough for you to talk in that way. A year or two more or less may make little difference to you, for you are young; but at my time of life every year means a great deal. I want not only to see the fruits of my labour, I want to enjoy them."

"It seems to me you want to enjoy the fruits of my labour also!" he snapped.

"And why shouldn't I?" Nan demanded indignantly. "Where would you have been but for me? Isn't all your good fortune the outcome of my skill? Haven't I wrought for you, and you have entered into my labours?"

"Not much yet," he said bitingly.

For a moment there was silence. Then Nan spoke, in hard, bitter accents. "I suppose I'm a fool to expect gratitude in you. But I advise you not to reveal your ingratitude too much, lest you tempt me to undo all I have done."

"Is that a threat?" he gasped.

"You may interpret it in any way you like," she answered wildly.

"Then you mean to tell me that if you like you can undo what you have done?"

"I mean to tell you nothing," she answered. "I keep my secrets to myself."

"You keep your secrets so that you can bluff me."

"I should be a fool to render up to anyone the power I possess."

"And I should be a fool to put myself further under your thumb than I have already done," Hugh shouted.

"You will be a fool if you don't do what I suggest. Haven't I played your game satisfactorily up to the present?"

"You have. You have played it so well that I wish you would finish it!"

"I would finish it in a month if I stood where you stand ‒ if I had your opportunities. But you know I have not. I can go so far, but no farther. There is a fence, carefully erected and watched, and I cannot break through."

"And you think I am more nimble?"

"No, but you are inside, Hugh. If I have done the difficult task. Why should you shrink from the easy one?"

"But you refuse to tell me how you have done the difficult task."

"Well?"

"I am not sure that it is done to my satisfaction."

"Well?"

"If I do what you suggest, how do I know that the knots you have tied will not come loose?"

"They'll never come loose if you act sensibly, Hugh."

"You mean if I do your bidding?"

"Exactly."

Hugh struck heavily on the table. "It comes back to the same thing again," he said. "It's of no use arguing. We've gone round the circle half a dozen times already, and we always get in the end to the same point. You refuse to commit yourself, and I copy your example, and refuse to commit myself also."

"You will regret it."

"I don't care if I do."

"But you will care later on, when it's too late. Let me tell you plainly, Hugh, that unless you do this, all that we have built so far will tumble down."

"Ah, then you did not complete your task!"

"I did! I have told you again and again that I accomplished what I set out to do. You have no reason to fear anything."

"Then your threat is worthless!"

"I never threaten without the power to execute," she answered, after a pause.

For several moments there was silence. Douglas shifted his position a little, for he was getting stiff and cramped.

Then Hugh spoke again, angrily and defiantly. "Look here," he said, and he brought down his fist on the table with a bang, "either you are a fool, or I am one ‒ or we are both fools on a fool's chase. You have done it, or you haven't done it. If you have done it, your threat is idle. If you haven't done it, I should be the greatest idiot alive to go a step farther!"

Then there was silence again. Douglas put his eye to the keyhole, and caught just a glimpse of Nan's face. He had never seen it so drawn with passion. He saw, too, that she was baffled. Hugh had pushed her into a corner. There seemed to be no escape from the simple logic of the case. It was clear, also, that when it suited him he could be almost as stubborn as she. In fact, they were strangely alike in many ways.

"Look here!" Nan said at length, almost hissing the words, "you force me into telling you what I would rather have kept to myself."

Douglas got his ear close to the keyhole again, and his heart beat so loudly that he was half afraid it would betray his presence. At last he was going to listen to some secret that would give him a definite clue.

"The truth is, I want money ‒ and money I must have!"

Douglas heaved a faint sigh of disappointment. The secret was of no value, after all.

"Then why do you want money?" Hugh demanded. "What makes it imperative that you should have it? Somebody is blackmailing you. Somebody knows your secret, and you have to purchase his or her silence."

Nan laughed ‒ a low, scornful laugh. "You are too clever by half," she said. "Nobody is blackmailing me. I have to purchase nobody's silence. But there are obligations that must be met. If they are not met, there will be inquiry. And any such inquiry, even you must have brains enough to see, might be inconvenient."

Hugh stayed silent. It seemed that Nan had got the upper hand of him again.

He sprang to his feet at length. "This puts a new face on the matter," he said. "Why could you not tell me this at the first? Of course, every kind of inquiry must be avoided."

"Of course it must. I am glad you have sense enough to see it."

"How much do you want?" he asked huskily.

She named a sum, the amount of which Douglas did not hear.

Hugh muttered a deep oath under his breath, and for several moments there was silence.

"You are beginning now, I hope, to see the necessity for action?" Nan said at length.

Hugh, however, did not reply for several seconds. He stood twisting his hat in his hand and staring at the tablecloth. Then, suddenly raising his head, he said, "I must sleep over this!"

And the next moment he made for the door.
Chapter 16

A New Motive

DOUGLAS gave himself up for lost. In a moment a full sense of his danger rushed over him. He realised, as in a flash, how helpless he was in the hands of these people. They would stand at nothing in order to get him out of the way and silence him. And it would be easy for them to do both. There appeared to be no other people in the house. He might be murdered, and buried under the flags, and no one would ever know. No one had seen him enter the house. No one would be able to trace him to that neighbourhood.

A cold sweat broke out over him, and for a moment he seemed paralysed. He heard the door handle turn. The next moment a long, narrow beam of light struck the passage. In another instant he would be discovered.

Then the instinct of life came to his rescue and strangled his fear. He sprang to his feet ready to defend himself to the last gasp ‒ that seemed to be his only chance.

But the door opened no farther. He heard Hugh's voice again. Some final word he was speaking to Nan. Possibly he was arranging for the time and place of their next meeting. Douglas did not wait to hear. In his stockinged feet he ran lightly and noiselessly into the street, pulling the door closed softly behind him. There was a low click as the latch sprung forward, that was all.

He did not wait to put on his boots. He ran as though all the demons of darkness were at his heels. He turned the first comer he came to, and the second and the third. In fact, he became so bewildered at length in the network of narrow, mean streets that he was in considerable doubt if ever he would find his way out again.

Waiting a favourable opportunity, he put on his boots; then he looked up at the sky, but not a star was visible. He could hear, however, the roar of London, and it seemed to come from a certain direction. With this clue to guide him, he struck out at a good walking pace, and ultimately found himself in front of Waterloo Station.

"At last I know where I am," he said to himself, coming to a full stop, and wiping his hot forehead. "Well, I've had an adventure and I've made a discovery. Now I must try to riddle out and piece together what I've heard."

That, however, proved a more difficult task than he anticipated. He was not quite sure that he had always heard aright, and in several important places his memory failed him. Then, also, the two had been careful to give no clues in the matter of names or dates or places. At best he could only guess what they were driving at.

He spent the greater part of the night wide awake on his bed, staring into the darkness. He did not give a single thought to his contemplated story ‒ the plot of which had filled his mind for several weeks past. He had got hold of some links and clues to a real story, which was infinitely more interesting than any imaginary one.

It was the real story that he was impatient now to piece together, and his main difficulty lay in the fact that some of the chapters were missing ‒ chapters that contained the names of places and people, as well as records of motives that lay at the back of conduct.

For several days he went about his ordinary work almost like one in a dream. What he did, he did mechanically and without interest or enthusiasm. His thoughts all the time were somewhere else.

Each evening, after dark, he started out to try to find Nan's house, and each evening he returned baffled. All the streets were alike. All the courts were alike. All the houses were alike. It was a case of searching for the proverbial needle in a hayrick.

He grew terribly impatient at times, and felt that time and opportunity were being wasted. And yet all unconsciously his mind was being clarified, and facts and inferences were assuming their proper proportion and perspective. That he should argue from the known to the unknown was inevitable. By a process of unconscious cerebration his brain pieced the story together and supplied a working hypothesis when the facts failed.

It mattered little that names and dates were omitted. When he began to hammer out the sequence of events, the lettering on the guideposts became quite easy to read. Who was the creaking gate, and what was the twentieth step? What was the thing that Nan had done, or failed to do? And what was the fruit of her labours that Hugh Teesdale reaped?

So plain were the facts that it was almost impossible that inferences should be wrong. Douglas felt almost horror-stricken as the thing slowly unfolded itself before his eyes. There remained many gaps even at the finish, but the main outline was clear and definite enough.

Nan and Hugh Teesdale were confederates. That was the first fact. Why they should be so was not clear. What they had in common he did not know. That would have to be left for time to reveal.

The second fact was that they had plotted, and were still plotting, for a common end. Already Hugh had gained much from what Nan had done.

She had accomplished the more difficult task. What was the task? His brain supplied the answer in a moment. It was the removal of Hope.

The other task remained ‒ an easy task for Hugh, for he was inside the fence. She would accomplish it in a month if she had his opportunity. What was this task? Again his reason supplied the answer. It was the removal of Sir Geoffrey.

Hugh was prepared to wait. The old man was growing feebler month by month, and time would soon do all that was needed.

Nan was clearly impatient. She was growing old, and every year made a difference. Moreover, she was in want of money, and until Hugh succeeded to the estates she could get no money out of him.

This, then, was the situation, and these were the bare facts of the story. There was still much at the back that he could hardly even guess at. Why Nan should plot and scheme and steep her hands in crime for the sake of Hugh was a question that baffled him completely. But the problem that fascinated him most had to do with the disappearance of Hope. That this was the difficult task that Nan referred to, he had no doubt. This was the task that had exhausted her resources and left her short of cash.

What did that mean? And what was the meaning of her threats to Hugh? He got out his file of papers again and read over all the reports of the finding of Hope's body, but they gave him no encouragement. There seemed to be no doubt that Nan, or those whom she employed, had done her work all too well. That Nan had committed the actual crime, he doubted. The fact that she had to meet certain financial obligations convinced him that she had hired others to do the work. If she failed to meet their demands, there would be threats ‒ perhaps revelations.

Two things now remained to be done: first, to bring home the crime to the authors of it; and, second, to prevent further crime from being committed. But how was this to be done, and who was to do it?

Douglas felt instinctively that it was his work. He could not but see that his mad quarrel with Arthur Teesdale was the occasion, if not the cause, of the crime that had followed. With Arthur out of the way, the temptation arose to remove the other obstacle to the succession. Hugh had not only found a willing tool in Nan o' the Fells, but he had found one who hounded him on in the wicked enterprise, and who for some reason appeared to be more eager that he should get hold of the Rowton estates than he was himself.

"If I had not killed Arthur this would not have happened," Douglas said to himself bitterly.

His sin seemed to strike at him from every point of the compass. Wherever he turned, the consequences of his wrongdoing confronted him. Not only in that mad encounter with Arthur did he give place to the devil himself, but he loosed the restraints that bound other people. He opened the way for worse crimes to follow.

He never realised fully till now the truth of the saying, "That no man lives to himself." Conduct acted and reacted in a hundred subtle and unknown ways, and for some inscrutable reason the penalty of wrongdoing fell as heavily on the innocent as on the guilty.

"Yes," he said, as he sat staring at his empty grate one evening, "this is my work. It is the only atonement I can make."

Then he paused and pushed his hands deep into his pockets.

"But what is the use?" he went on. "What has been done cannot be undone. Suppose I could trace the crime to Nan, and get her hanged. What then? A life for a life. But what good comes of it? Hope is not restored; no one is made the better. I had better sit still and leave the execution of justice to God."

Then he rose suddenly from his chair and began to pace up and down the room.

"But what of Sir Geoffrey?" he said, with knitted brows. "His life, without doubt, is in danger. His removal is necessary to their scheme, and if Hugh shrinks from the task, Nan will execute it for him."

After a few minutes he sat down again. He felt how helpless he was. What could he do? He had neither time nor money at his disposal.

However eager he might be to act, he was crippled and fettered. He passed most of his night in trying to think out some plan of action.

Once he thought of going down to Rowton Hall in disguise and warning Sir Geoffrey of his danger.

He had received ten pounds from the editor of The Steeple on account of his story. How could he spend it better than in warning Arthur Teesdale's father?

But a little reflection convinced him that such a course would be inadvisable. Disguises were not easy. Moreover, Sir Geoffrey might mistrust him, in view of his fight with Arthur.

He finally decided to write to his father and tell him just as much as was necessary, and let him put Sir Geoffrey on his guard. He knew that on the whole his father was an exceedingly cautious man, and, as the vicar, he would deal warily with the matter.

When Douglas had despatched his letter to his father, his thoughts turned again instinctively to Hope. It was easy to say let the matter rest, but he could not let it rest. If only for his own satisfaction, he wanted the mystery cleared up. It was not for him to cry out for vengeance. He was the last man in the world who could do that with any degree of propriety. But his heart did cry out for absolute certainty. There was still an element of doubt hanging over one or two points, and he knew he would never rest until he had probed the matter to the bottom.

But in order to do what he wanted to do, he must have money. But where was he to get it? And how? So he came back to his story.

That evening he bought paper and pens on his way home, and directly his frugal meal was ended he plunged into his work. He wrote the first page or two several times over, and then he got fairly under way. He had no difficulty about plot or characters or situation. He had beaten out the whole thing beforehand on the anvil of his brain. His only business now was to transfer to paper what had seethed and simmered in his brain in the weeks gone by, and he wrote as fast as the ink would run from the pen.

He seemed to be hurried along by a force he could not resist. A new motive dominated him. He was not trying merely to fight poverty with his pen ‒ he was fighting mystery and crime. It was not for his own sake, but for Hope's.

It seemed as though Hope stood at his elbow, whispering in his ear, sending the blood rushing through his veins like fire. He had not written many pages before he had worked himself into a white heat. Sheet after sheet was finished and brushed from the table to the floor. He had no thought of time or place. Hour after hour passed unconsciously. All the bells in the neighbourhood struck the hour of midnight, but he heard none of them. He worked on and on, growing more eager and excited as the night wore away.

His heroine was Hope, his hero himself ‒ with a dash of two or three other people, for whose characters he had great respect. He quickly got intensely interested in the plot. Scene followed scene, and incident followed incident with wonderful rapidity. He was breathless, and rushed his puppets across the stage with the speed of the wind.

The morning began to dawn at last, but he did not heed it. He was deep in an exciting situation in which Hope was in danger of losing her life. How he thrilled as ‒ in guise of the hero ‒ he rushed to her rescue!

"Safe, my darling! Safe!" And he bent down and kissed her.

Then, with, a little gasp, he laid down his pen and stared about him. The gas was burning pale and sickly overhead; the light was streaming in horizontal bands through the Venetian blind; the floor was littered with sheets of paper.

He rose slowly from the chair and stretched himself. He felt as though he had awakened from a dream. He was aching in every limb. Turning to the small mirror over the mantelpiece, he was surprised to see how pale and haggard he looked. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes were bloodshot, his lips almost ashen.

"I had no idea it was so late, or so early," he muttered to himself. "How the time has flown. I wish I had a cup of strong coffee, and then I would begin again."

There was no one stirring, however. The house was perfectly still.

He stooped and picked up the sheets of paper and put them in order. Then he turned into his little bedroom, and without undressing threw himself on the bed, and in five minutes was fast asleep.

He was late that morning in getting into the city, and instead of going straight to the packing room, where he had a desk, he sought an interview with Mr. Woodey.

"You look ill," was the editor's greeting. "What is the matter with you?"

"There's nothing the matter, thanks," he answered, with a smile. "The truth is, I was working nearly all last night" ‒

"Working nearly all the night?" Mr. Woodey interrupted. "That will never do,"

"I've begun the story you talked to me about, and I got so interested ‒ so excited, I may say ‒ that I forgot all about the flight of time. And now I want to finish it without any breaks or delays."

"You want to give your whole time to it?"

"I do."

"Well, I shall be glad if you will. The truth is, one of my writers has failed me, and I'm bound to get a new story from somewhere."

"I'll do my best," Douglas answered, "and I'll bring you the first instalment tomorrow morning. You'll easily fill my place in the packing room."

Without waiting for any further words, he hurried back to his lodgings. The fire was still in his blood, and he was soon writing at express speed, oblivious to all his surroundings.

During the afternoon his landlady brought him a cup of tea and some bread and butter. He smiled gratefully, and soon cleared the plate. Then, with the half-empty teapot in front of him, he set to work again.

His frugal dinner was served at half-past seven. He did not ask what it was. He did not know whether it was well cooked or ill cooked. He ate it without thinking about it, and then set to work again.

His landlady got an idea that he was writing for a wager, and did not venture to interrupt him. She took away the empty dishes in silence, and closed the door softly behind her.

At eleven o'clock he asked her to bring him a cup of strong coffee, which he drank eagerly. Then, wrapping a wet towel about his head, he set to work again.

He wrote a little less rapidly than on the previous night, for he was more exhausted than he knew, but his imagination was as vivid and his thoughts ran as freely as ever.

Midnight came, and the streets grew still, and still he drove his pen across the sheets of paper. So excited was he that he grew impatient at the slow movement of his own creations. He was burning up his very blood in the white heat of his emotions. He never stopped to read what he had written. On and on without a pause the torrent of his narrative flowed.

And as he wrote, his story widened out into new and interesting vistas. Fresh characters came of their own accord and took their place upon the stage. Fresh situations were evolved without any contriving. He had started his characters on the journey, and for a while he led them. Then he discovered that they had changed places. He no longer led; he only followed.

He did not decide what they should do, he only chronicled what they did. He enjoyed immensely the new turn of affairs. He became interested also in noticing the play and interplay of character upon circumstance, and circumstance upon character. But strangest of all was the fact that the farther he advanced with his story, the farther away the end appeared.

For more than thirty hours on end he worked; and then, haggard and bleary-eyed, he took the first instalment of his story to Mr. Woodey, and waited for the verdict. He felt as though everything he possessed, or cared to possess, was trembling in the balance.

If Mr. Woodey approved, then he would be able to begin his investigations as soon as the story was completed. If, on the other hand, his work was rejected, then he would have to go back again to addressing envelopes and tying up parcels.

For himself he cared nothing; toil and poverty did not disturb him. The penalty of crime he was willing to bear. But Hope....

Until he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Hope was dead, and resting in the family vault in the dear old churchyard of Bradenford, there could be no rest for him, nor peace.
Chapter 17

Diplomacy

THE vicar was in deep in thought. The receipt of Douglas's letter had been like a match to a well-laid fire, or a sudden flash of light in a dark room. A dozen vague suspicions that had lain more or less unheeded at the back of his mind awoke into vigorous and clamorous life, and, once aroused, he discovered that they would not be silenced. He tried to shut them out and bar the door, but they would not be shut out. For the moment, at least, they were masters of the situation.

He wanted to prepare his next Sunday morning's sermon. He had just commenced to write, when Douglas's letter arrived. Sermon-making after its perusal was an impossibility. The vague fears and surmisings of months were focused in a single sentence.

Douglas did not say how he had come by his information. He was careful also not to mention names, but the main fact was stated definitely enough. Sir Geoffrey's life was in danger, and as vicar he must consider some way of protecting him.

"But how can I do it?" the Rev. Henry Grove said to himself, looking abstractedly out of the window. "If I tell him the truth, it will produce the very end I want to prevent. He's more nervous than a kitten now. His heart is frightfully weak, Dr. Storey tells me, and any sudden shock or anxiety, after all he's gone through, might prove fatal."

The vicar debated the question for the best part of the morning, then he put on his hat and sallied forth into the sunshine. The fresh air and the open country sometimes cleared his brain.

The weather was perfection. Spring in all its glory and splendour lay upon the land. The deep blue of the sky was accentuated by a few milk-white clouds that sailed lazily across the heavens. The tender green of the bracken gave vividness to the lower fells. The chestnuts everywhere were in full leaf, and the sycamores threw heavy shadows upon the ground. The wind scarcely stirred at all, and the still air was steeped in the fragrance of innumerable flowers.

He lifted his head and swept the circle of hills, then turned his face southward and rested his eyes for a moment on the placid waters of Bridlemere, which reflected in their clear, still depths the blue heavens above.

The vicar gave a little sigh, and his lips moved unconsciously. Arthur Teesdale's body had never been given up, and he wondered why the lake had been so greedy in this particular case, and in no other. He had often asked himself the same question, as hundreds of other people had done, but no reply was given. Bridlemere kept its secret well.

A little way up the road he passed Glen Villa, and noticed Avril Guest, Mrs. Finch's adopted daughter in the garden tending her flowers. He never looked at her but his heart ached. She was so patient and gentle, and her smile was as sweet as ever.

She heard his footsteps, and came to the garden gate to greet him. Her dress harmonised with the spring flowers. What she wore he had not the remotest idea. He was only conscious that she looked like a spring flower herself, and that her eyes reflected the infinite spaces of the heavens.

He wondered for a moment if he should say anything to her of Douglas's letter, but decided he would not. His business for the present was to elicit information, not to give it.

"You do not often get out so early in the day," she said, after their first greeting.

He smiled a little. "I was in no mood for work this morning," he said, "and I thought perhaps the fresh air would help to blow the cobwebs away."

"It seems a shame to be indoors on such a lovely day as this," she answered. "I have tried to induce aunty to come out and sit in the sunshine; but she prefers to sit indoors."

"She is no worse, I hope?"

"I hardly know. She protests herself that she is better, and yet I have a vague fear that she is slowly but surely failing. She has never recovered from the shock of last year."

"I fear we none of us have," he answered slowly. And his eyes instinctively sought the quiet waters of the lake.

"No, time seems only to deepen the pain, and make more keen the sense of loss of my fiancée. If we were only sure! It is the suspense and uncertainty that are so trying."

"Uncertainty?" he asked, turning his head quickly, and looking her straight in the eyes.

"You believe that Arthur is asleep in the lake yonder?" she said, looking away beyond it to a low range of wooded hills.

"Most assuredly I do," he answered.

"But I do not," she said quietly and firmly.

He looked at her in surprise. It was the first time she had said so much to him, and for the last few months Arthur's name had never passed between them.

"Then what do you believe, Avril?" he asked, after a pause.

She smiled wistfully, but did not turn her eyes. "I ... hardly know," she replied, with hesitation. "It is easy to say sometimes what you don't believe, but what you do believe is a very different matter."

"But what grounds have you for not believing that ... that he is at rest in the lake?"

"I fear I have no grounds at all," she said, still looking away to the low range of distant hills. "It is not a question with me of reason or logic. I am told that women as a rule know nothing about either. I fear I am not at all logical. It is just a matter of feeling."

He looked at her wistfully, and did not reply for several moments. It seemed to him a thousand pities that she should keep open the wound of her grief by cherishing such an illusion. He did not wonder now at the eager, expectant look that he had so often noticed in her eyes, nor that her cheeks gained no colour from the spring sunshine.

"She will never recover," he reflected. "Not while she hugs that foolish delusion. I did not guess that it was suspense rather than grief that was wearing her life away."

Then he spoke aloud. "I fear you are alone in your belief ‒ or in your doubt."

"I'm sure I am," she answered quickly, "but that makes no difference. The conviction is there. It's part of my being, and I cannot get away from it."

"Have you seriously tried?" he asked.

"No, I have remained passive. Our intuitions are not the outcome of effort, nor our beliefs either."

He shook his head doubtfully. If people could not believe by trying, what was the use of urging them to try. He did not attempt, however, to argue the question with her. Indeed, there were times when he was not at all sure that she was not right. So he turned the subject, and asked her if she had seen Sir Geoffrey lately.

"I saw him yesterday," she answered.

"I think he cherishes no illusions respecting Arthur?" he asked.

"No. He seems to be growing quite reconciled, though he does wonder that Bridlemere should have belied all its traditions."

"That is a puzzle to us all," he answered, "but there may be special reasons."

She did not reply, so he did not press the point. Moreover, he wanted to get hold of some information respecting Hugh Teesdale. Of late, the vicar had gone very little to Rowton Hall. He had a feeling that he was not always welcome. It might be only feeling, for on the surface at any rate Sir Geoffrey appeared to be as friendly as ever.

"Is Hugh Teesdale at the Hall?" he asked.

"He was returning again last evening," she replied. "He has been in London for some weeks."

"Sir Geoffrey seems to have taken very kindly to him of late."

"Yes," she answered, with some hesitation. "He appears to have grown quite fond of him. You see, he is next of kin."

"And is he generally with Sir Geoffrey when at the Hall?"

"As far as I can make out, he scarcely leaves him. One cannot hut admire his devotion."

"And Sir Geoffrey likes to have him near?"

For a moment she did not reply. Then lifting her eyes frankly to his, she said, "I can't quite understand it. In the old days they were not at all good friends, but ... but of course circumstances have changed. Sir Geoffrey is so helpless and broken; and then Hugh has made himself quite necessary to him."

"So I understand."

"It was quite sad yesterday to see how eagerly Sir Geoffrey anticipated his return."

"And Sir Geoffrey on the whole keeps fairly well?"

"I think he grows stronger. He is much better than he was during those dark days of last year."

"He certainly exhibited great fortitude when we laid poor Hope to rest."

"Hugh seemed to be the most stricken that day."

"You noticed that?"

"It seemed to me that his grief was needlessly obtrusive, particularly as he benefited so largely by her death."

"The Judgment Day will have many secrets to disclose," he said, after a long pause.

She glanced up at him with almost a startled look in her eyes. "You also have doubts?" she asked. "Perhaps intuitions?"

"I have my thoughts," he said, a little uneasily.

"And you do not altogether trust Hugh Teesdale?"

"I have not said so," he answered. "Do you trust him?"

"Why shouldn't I?" she asked. "He has always treated me with great sympathy."

So they parted, and neither was quite certain what was in the other's mind.

The vicar continued his walk, skirting round the foot of the fells. He came at length to the edge of a deep, wooded dell, but he did not descend into it. All such descents meant ascents, and he was not quite as nimble on his feet or light of weight as he used to be.

For a while he loitered in the shadow of the trees, then he turned his face towards home. The next moment he paused, arrested by the sound of footsteps and the rustling of leaves. Turning suddenly, he found himself face to face with Hugh Teesdale, who was making his way up the side of the glen.

Hugh did not appear to be over pleased at the encounter. His brow was clouded, and there was a questioning, if not an angry, light in his dark, shifting eyes.

"Good morning," the vicar said pleasantly. "I did not expect to see anyone in this secluded place."

"This is a favourite walk of yours, perhaps?"

"Nay, indeed. I don't remember ever coming so far as this glen before."

"I stumbled across it quite by accident this morning," Hugh replied, "and so I thought I would go down into it and explore."

"I presume you did not find much?"

"A tiny stream of water, that's all. There appear to be any number of such glens about."

"A country like this is full of surprises," the vicar answered. "One may spend a lifetime among these fells and yet leave the greater portion unexplored."

"Yes, I suppose that is so," Hugh answered indifferently, and he made a movement as though he wished the interview to end.

The vicar, however, had no such intention. It had suddenly occurred to him that he might turn this accidental meeting to account.

"I question if anyone in the district has ever thoroughly explored these fells, with the possible exception of Nan."

And he watched Hugh narrowly.

But Hugh betrayed no interest. He was busy pushing the end of his walking stick into the soft turf and pulling it out again. "Indeed," he said, in a bored tone, but he did not raise his eyes.

"I suppose you have not seen her about lately?" the vicar asked.

"Seen who?"

"Nan o' the Fells."

"And who is she?"

"I thought you knew her."

And the vicar eyed him again narrowly.

"I'm afraid I have not the honour of her acquaintance," Hugh said, with a laugh. "Is she the witch whom I've heard my uncle speak of?"

"I believe some people speak of her as a witch," the vicar answered.

"Ah, then I've never seen her," Hugh said stoutly. "You see, I'm not a native of these dales."

"But she does not spend all her time here. She comes and goes of her own sweet will. Sometimes she keeps away for months at a time."

"How interesting!"

"Well, that all depends," the vicar answered, colouring slightly. "To some people it may be interesting."

"To her family possibly, or to her vicar."

"I fear I cannot reckon her among my parishioners," the vicar replied, with a little laugh, "though I confess her movements are not without interest."

"I confess I never feel the least interest in such people," Hugh answered.

And then he made another movement towards the Hall. But the vicar had not done with him yet.

"Sir Geoffrey is keeping well, I hope?" he asked.

"No, not well exactly. I fear he will never be well again. His life appears to hang on a slender thread."

"I hope the thread will not break while you are with him."

Hugh looked up with a start, then smiled a little superciliously. "I fear I don't quite see the relevancy of that remark," he said quietly.

"I was thinking only of appearances, and how ready people are to jump to wrong conclusions."

"Your explanation still leaves me in the dark," Hugh replied.

But a spot of colour burned suddenly on his cheeks.

"It has always seemed to me most fortunate," the vicar went on, "that you were here at Rowton Hall when your cousin Hope so mysteriously disappeared."

"I don't see why," he answered quietly.

But the colour deepened on his cheeks and extended to his forehead.

"I admit, as I said before," the vicar continued, in a perfectly even tone of voice, "that people are hasty as a rule in jumping to conclusions, and on that account their conclusions are often altogether astray. Nevertheless, it is gratifying when they are able to speak well of us."

"I don't think it matters in the least what your average Tom, Dick, or Harry thinks. In nine cases out of ten he's a fool."

"I don't agree with you. Generally speaking, your average man is not a fool, and it often matters a great deal to us what he thinks."

"In which way?"

"Well, suppose, by way of illustration, that instead of being at Rowton Hall when Hope so mysteriously disappeared, you were travelling on the Continent. Don't you see what a mouthful might have been made of it?"

"Do you think they would have accused me of trying to get rid of her?"

"They might have done so."

"They might as well accuse you."

"Exactly. Only in my case I do not profit by her death."

Hugh started, and the colour faded suddenly from his cheeks. "I don't know what object you have in view," he said uneasily, "in observations of this kind."

"Conversation runs into accidental channels sometimes," the vicar answered, with a smile. "Let me see, it arose out of the condition of your uncle's health."

"And do you suggest that, since his health is so precarious, I should keep out of his way and leave him alone in his weakness and trouble?"

"Oh no, not at all. It is for you to decide what is best to be done. From all I can gather, Sir Geoffrey is likely to live many years yet."

"Who says so?" Hugh asked sharply.

"Dr. Storey says that with care he should live another ten years at least."

"That's nonsense! His heart is so weak that he may go off at any moment."

"There is always that danger, of course. Still, I hope, for your sake, that no accidents will happen."

Hugh flushed again and raised his head as if to speak, but thought better of it, and after a moment of silence he turned quickly on his heel and walked away.

The vicar waited for a moment or two, then turned his face in the direction of Bradenford.

"I believe I've spiked that gun ‒ at any rate for the present," he said to himself, with a smile. "Moreover, he's not the man to run unnecessary risks."

And he quickened his pace, for it was lunchtime.

Hugh leaned over a gate before he reached the Hall, and reflected.

"Curse him for a prating, meddling idiot!" he said to himself, and his brow darkened and his eyes flashed fire. "I wonder what the fool knows, or what he suspects? Why should he think I am acquainted with Nan? Can it be possible that we have ever been seen together? I shall have to put Nan on her guard, and the sooner I do it the better. Money or no money, the thing can't be done yet."

And he turned slowly from the gate and walked away.
Chapter 18

A Fresh Disguise

WHEN Nan o' the Fells next appeared in Cumberland she was so changed that her nearest relatives ‒ that is, supposing she had any ‒ would not have recognised her. She was attired in the cloak and bonnet of a hospital nurse, and exceedingly well she looked, in spite of her years and iron-grey hair.

She knew her part well, and had carefully rehearsed it before she came. It was a proud day for her when she drove through the gates of Rowton Hall in Sir Geoffrey's brougham, which had been sent to the station to meet her, and her eyes burned with a fiendish satisfaction.

She congratulated herself and she congratulated Hugh. Hugh was not such a fool as she feared. He had showed an amount of skill and ingenuity that she had not credited him with. It was true that his ingenuity was shown chiefly in extricating himself from a more or less unpleasant and difficult position. Still, that was nothing to his disadvantage. Indeed, in Nan's eyes, it was a distinct feather in his cap.

Hugh had become thoroughly alarmed at what the vicar had said to him. It was an aspect of the question that had scarcely occurred to him before, but directly it was put before him he saw it in all its force. Indeed, he could see little or nothing else.

Hitherto, Nan had taken the initiative in every case. He had lain passive, while she had schemed and contrived for him.

This had suited Hugh exactly. He was not an energetic young man, and if there was anything in the world he disliked it was taking trouble. His ideal of life was to be able to reach the coveted places without effort or exertion. So far, he had nothing to complain of in that respect, particularly during the last few months. The goal of his ambition was steadily drawing nearer, and, instead of climbing, he had actually been carried up the steps.

But there was still a step ‒ and a big step ‒ between him and the top. Until Sir Geoffrey was out of the way he was only the son of a younger brother. The rent-roll was nothing to him while Sir Geoffrey fingered all the money. For himself he did not mind so much. He was not of the impatient sort. He was young, and could afford to wait. Sir Geoffrey might live another ten years, but he did not think it was at all likely. Hence, for the sake of a year or two he was not disposed to take any risks. He would not have hesitated a moment in removing Sir Geoffrey if he could have been sure he would not be found out. But he had seen enough of the world to be convinced that all crimes were more or less risky, and a crime of this kind would be especially so.

But Nan was impatient, and he could not afford to offend her. Nan had his fate in her hands ‒ that was one of the drops of bitterness in his cup of life. There were several others, but that was one of the biggest. He was so little grateful for all that Nan had done for him that he would have rejoiced greatly if Nan had quietly sailed away into the unknown. Nan clearly had no intention, however, of doing anything of the kind. She had her own game to play, and in serving Hugh she would be equally serving herself.

Hugh spent several days in a moody and more or less distressful frame of mind. Try as he would, he could not get the vicar's words out of his head, and his fears read into them all kinds of sinister meanings. He began to fear that people regarded him with suspicion; that they had already guessed the desire and the purpose that were in his mind; and that, should anything happen to Sir Geoffrey, they would at once pounce upon him and accuse him of doing the old man to death.

Now that the vicar had pointed it out to him, he saw how strong the motive would appear. He was the only one ‒ as far as was known ‒ who would profit by Sir Geoffrey's removal. Consequently, his very presence in the house might excite suspicion, and if suspicion was once aroused, it would grow. It was the nature of such things to go on increasing.

On the following week he went up to London again, and sought out Nan in Lambeth. Nan laughed at him, and called him a coward; explained to him again that if he followed her instructions there would be no danger; that detection would be impossible; and finished up by declaring that she must have money.

Hugh returned to his rooms in no little distress of mind. Nan had silenced him, but she had not convinced him. He did not go back again to Rowton Hall for a month, but he wrote to Sir Geoffrey every day, most affectionate letters. Neither did he go to see Nan. On the contrary, he kept out of her way.

Every few days Sir Geoffrey wrote, and begged him not to stay away any longer than he could possibly help; that the old house seemed like a prison when he was not there; that he felt more and more lonely as the days went by. Now, since his children were no more, he was the only one he could look up to or lean upon.

So pitiable were the letters, so steeped in the grief of an old man whose house was left to him desolate, that had Hugh possessed any heart at all, he would have defied Nan and taken his chance. But his lips curled scornfully as he read the old man's words. Nevertheless, he preserved the letters carefully, thinking they might stand as a certificate of character in the days to come.

At the end of a month came a brief letter from Sir Geoffrey, written in pencil, saying that he was afraid he was declining even further in health, and urging Hugh to come back to Rowton Hall as soon as possible.

Hugh's dark and shifting eyes glowed with a curious light while he read the letter. Then he flung himself into an armchair and stared at the floor.

The vicar's words still haunted him. If Sir Geoffrey was going to die, he did not want to be present. Perhaps Nature, after all, held the trump card, and was going to play it! Then suddenly an idea occurred to him ‒ an idea so brilliant that he almost gasped. He marvelled at his own cleverness. He did not know before that his brain was capable of so fine a conception. The more he thought about it the more he liked it. It lifted him out of the region of risk ‒ that was the main thing. Anything that had in it an element of personal danger he fought shy of.

As soon as it was dark, he crossed Waterloo Bridge and made his way by many twists and turns to Nan's humble and obscure abode.

"What, back again so soon?" she asked, as soon as she closed the door behind him.

"I have never been out of town," he answered.

"What? Do you mean to tell me you have not been to Rowton Hall since you were here last?"

"That is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," he answered.

For several moments Nan yielded herself to a most expressive silence; but her face was a study, and her eyes uttered volumes.

Hugh kept the table between them, and waited.

The storm broke at last, and was tropical in its tempestuousness. Hugh did not speak. He let the storm rage. He had heard many outbursts from Nan, but nothing that could compare with this. It was no mere display of summer lightning. The air grew thick and lurid, and Nan's language was picturesque beyond description.

"Why don't you speak?" she cried at last. "Why don't you answer back? It's mean to stand there gaping like a frightened fool!"

"There's no room to talk when you are about," he answered mildly. "To let loose any more adjectives in this room would burst the windows out!"

She dropped into a chair as if exhausted, and came near to tears. But wet eyes would proclaim her weakness, and no one should accuse her of that.

"I expected by this that something would have happened!" she cried. "I felt sure of you this time; and here you've been idling in London and doing nothing!

"On the contrary, I've been attending to my business and trying to earn an honest penny."

"Trying? How much have you earned?"

"Fifty pounds."

"Have you so much in your pocket?"

"No, but I can get it tomorrow."

"I want a hundred pounds," she answered, "but fifty may serve for the moment."

"You shall have it. And now, having exhausted the resources of the English language, perhaps you will listen for a moment while I talk."

"Go ahead!" she cried angrily.

"And don't interrupt me any more than I interrupted you."

She shut her lips tightly and clasped her hands across her knee.

Hugh had not proceeded far, however, before her face relaxed and her lips parted into something akin to a smile; but she did not speak until he had finished.

"It will work!" she said, springing to her feet. "But why did you not tell me this when you came?"

"You gave me no chance," he answered.

"I gave you every chance," she said. "But I believe you take a pleasure in seeing me angry."

"On the contrary. When your face is seamed with passion you are not good to look upon," he replied, with a laugh.

She scowled at him half angrily; then her face relaxed again. "If we can work this," she said, "it will be better than all my dreams. It's a lovely idea. Just lovely!" And she closed her eyes and smiled.

"You seem to have a peculiar affection for Sir Geoffrey," he said ironically.

"I have," she answered. "A very peculiar affection. Ah me, what years I have waited. But I never expected this. Hugh, you are a genius to have thought of it!"

"Don't crow too soon," he said. "It may be more difficult to bring off than we imagine."

"Not if you play your cards well. You have got the right side of him. He will do anything you suggest."

"But I don't want to suggest any more than I can possibly help. You understand, if you come to Rowton Hall, it will not be through my recommendation?"

"I understand," she said eagerly. "Now, you had better return to Cumberland as soon as possible."

"I shall go down by the midnight express," he said.

"That will do; and tomorrow or the day following Dr. Broadfoot will look out for a letter or a telegram, and Dr. Broadfoot will recommend a nurse, and that nurse will go down fully equipped for her task." And Nan laughed a low, guttural laugh.

Hugh lost no time in reaching Rowton Hall, where he found, as he expected, Sir Geoffrey somewhat seriously ill. His gout was aggravated by a bad bronchial attack, which added to the weakness of his heart made Dr. Storey a little more anxious than usual.

"I am glad to see you, Hugh," Sir Geoffrey said almost tearfully. "I knew you would come when you learned I was ill. I'm afraid I'm in for a bad spell of it. You won't go away till I'm better, will you?"

"I must return to town again in a day or two at the very outside," Hugh answered in sympathetic tones.

"Oh no, no! You must not. You must not, really!"

"I'm sorry, uncle, but I've a very important case in hand."

"But I'm an important case."

"That is so, but I'm neither a doctor nor a nurse."

"I've precious little faith in doctors, Hugh," the old man answered peevishly.

"At any rate, you need good and careful nursing."

"That's what Storey says. And would you believe it, he wants me to have one of those hospital nurses here! Some chit of a girl! Think of it!"

Hugh smiled to himself, for he knew Sir Geoffrey's deep-rooted objection to the class of nurse Dr. Storey recommended.

"I don't think it's sensible," Sir Geoffrey went on. "They can have neither wisdom nor experience. A nurse ought to be an elderly person, not a chit of a girl just home from boarding school."

"Quite right, uncle," Hugh answered gravely. "I think, with you, a nurse should be a woman of experience."

"Of course she ought! Training and experience are the main things. But you can't get it. All the hospital nurses, as far as I can make out, are mere girls, and I don't believe in them."

"Of course there are nurses who have had plenty of experience."

"Not in our local hospital, Hugh," Sir Geoffrey interrupted.

"Then why not send to Manchester or Liverpool, or, better still, to London? I have it, uncle! Let me write to Dr. Broadfoot, of Stanley Street, to send down a thoroughly experienced and competent nurse."

"Would he do it?"

"I'm sure he would. It would be a trifle more expensive than getting a local nurse, but I don't think a pound or two are to be considered in a case like this."

"And you recommend this course?"

"Well," Hugh answered diffidently, "I don't press it, of course; but it seems to me imperative you should have a nurse of some kind."

"I'll have none of our local makeshifts," Sir Geoffrey said irritably.

"As you will," Hugh answered, and he turned and left the room. But half an hour later Sir Geoffrey sent for him again.

"I know I'm in for a bad time, Hugh," he said, with emotion, "and if that be so, I shall need somebody to look after me. Mrs. Mann can't, and you can't, and I hate to be ordered about and have the house upset by a chit of a girl. Will you write to that London doctor of yours, and ask him to send down a sensible, elderly body ‒ one that can be trusted to keep her place and do her duty?"

"I will do so at once, uncle." And with an eager and sinister light in his eyes, he left the room.

Three days later, Nan appeared upon the scene. Even Hugh scarcely recognised her when he met her in the hall. He had seen more than one of Nan's disguises, but such a complete transformation he had never seen before.

He had waited in considerable apprehension for her appearance, and had resolved to leave the house and return to London directly on her arrival.

When she stepped out of the brougham and walked with confident step into the hall, he could hardly believe his own eyes. The butler bowed sedately, and Mrs. Mann came hurrying in from the housekeeper's room.

Hugh stepped up to the newcomer with a smile. "You are the nurse from London, I presume?" he asked.

"Yes, I am Nurse Wilkes," she answered.

And she glanced up at him with questioning eyes as much as to say, "Shall I do?"

"I am glad you have come," he said. "I am Sir Geoffrey's nephew. I have to return again to London tonight, but I know I shall be able with confidence to leave my uncle in your hands."

And he glanced at her significantly.

"I will do my best," she answered.

And her lips curved in a slight smile.

Then Mrs. Mann introduced herself, and Hugh bowed and retreated, feeling greatly delighted at the success of his manoeuvre.

A few minutes later he went to Sir Geoffrey's room to say goodbye to him. Now Nan was here, he never expected to see the old man again, and his heart was in a strange tumult in consequence.

His hopes and ambitions were being realised in a most rapid and unexpected way. He was confident that Nan would do her work in the most thorough and satisfactory fashion.

"Must you go, Hugh?" Sir Geoffrey said, almost tearfully.

"I must, uncle. I am very sorry. But I think you will be in good hands. I have seen the nurse."

"Has she arrived?"

"Yes, a few minutes ago."

"And what is she like?"

"Well, she is older than I expected. But she looks strong and competent, and she seems to me to have a kind and sympathetic face."

"You say she is elderly?"

"Yes."

"So much the better. I hate chits of girls upsetting things. I hope I shall soon be better, Hugh."

"I am sure you will, uncle. Keep your heart up, and look at the bright side of things. The doctor and nurse, between them, will soon get you through."

The old man looked up wearily, but he did not see the light of triumph that was in Hugh's eyes, nor did he detect the note of exultation in his voice.
Chapter 19

Following the Clue

MEANWHILE, Douglas Grove had finished his story, and with a hundred pounds in his pocket had started for the Continent. He felt more hopeful and cheerful than he had done since the shadow fell which so cruelly darkened his life. At last he had discovered a way of earning a living. He could write in a way that met with Mr. Woodey's approval, and Mr. Woodey was prepared to pay good prices.

Moreover, he was not employing what gifts he had for mean or base ends. He had put the best of which he was capable into his story. He had wanted to crowd more incident into it, but Mr. Woodey had been at his elbow, and the story was more readable in consequence, while the style of it and the moral quality had not suffered in the smallest degree.

He had nothing, therefore, to reproach himself with. His hundred pounds had been honestly earned. He was not ashamed of what he had written. He only hoped he might be able to maintain the note he had struck.

But what gave him the most intense satisfaction was the fact that he was able at last to begin the investigation to which he had consecrated himself and all he possessed. He gave no hint to his father in the many letters he sent of the hopes and fears that possessed him. For all he knew, he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp. He had only vague surmises to go upon ‒ a mere jumble of scraps and hints and fancies of his own.

Yet as the weeks had passed away, one of his surmises at any rate had grown into an absolute conviction, and that was that Nan o' the Fells was responsible for Hope Teesdale's disappearance. It seemed clear enough that she had not only conceived the plot, but had executed it, and that she had kept the secret of it absolutely to herself. She had not even taken Hugh into her confidence. She kept it as a kind of sword of Damocles which she could dangle over his head at any time when she wished to bring him to her feet.

This threat of Nan's, which she had flung at Hugh again and again, was to Douglas most hopeful. The hope at best was so feeble that he hardly dared to look at it lest it should go out into utter darkness.

He never allowed himself to anticipate it, or build anything upon it. It was so flimsy and shadowy that it remained an impression rather than a real hope ‒ the shadow of a hope rather than a hope itself.

But feeble as it was, and groundless as it seemed, it was better than nothing. It focused all his thoughts and all his efforts and all his speculations. It kept his eye steadily fixed in the same direction. It saved him from giving way to despair in face of difficulties.

On leaving London he made his way direct to Badenworth, where he interviewed the stationmaster and several of the porters, after which he visited the school Hope had attended, and continued his inquiries.

The information he gained, however, was of the most meagre kind. One or two facts were interesting, and might in the end prove to be of importance. For instance, he learned that she wore a long grey cloak, the hood of which was lined with scarlet. Also, that she had a bow of scarlet velvet in her hat.

The English mistress and two of the pupils saw her off at the station. She was greatly distressed by the news she had received, but bore herself quietly and bravely. That was the extent of the information he gained at the school.

The stationmaster and porters could add little or nothing more. The stationmaster remembered the young English lady leaving. He had been told she had received bad news, and he was greatly concerned for her.

"Would the train stop between Badenworth and Basle?" Douglas asked.

"Oh yes, several times."

"And she would have an opportunity of leaving the train?"

"If she so desired."

"Was it an ordinary corridor train?"

"Yes."

"And the conductor would pass up and down it frequently?"

"Yes, frequently."

"Have you ever interviewed the conductor on the matter?"

"No, I have not. In fact, I do not know who the conductor was."

"Do you think you could find out?"

"Oh yes, most certainly."

"Then I will stay here till I have an opportunity of interviewing the conductor," Douglas said. And he made his way back to his hotel.

Three days later the conductor was found, and Douglas journeyed to Zurich to meet him. The beginning of the interview was disappointing. The man could remember nothing. It was so long ago. Nine months! Who could remember the ordinary, everyday events of nine months previously?

Douglas described her appearance, her height, her complexion, her dress, her cloak with the scarlet hood.

The conductor raised his eyes suddenly. "Did she travel first class?"

"No doubt she would."

"Alone?"

"I expect so."

"Would she be in trouble?"

"Yes, great trouble."

"Ah, then, I remember. She was alone. She was young, quite young, and her eyes were red, as if she had been weeping."

"You saw her between Badenworth and Basle?"

"Several times."

"Did you speak to her?"

"Only to ask for her ticket. Oh yes, I remember the bright red hood to her cloak. Yes, I remember that."

"And did she leave the train between Baden worth and Basle?"

"Oh no. Now you have mentioned the cloak, I remember her getting out of the train at Basle."

"And was she alone?"

"Quite alone."

"You are sure no one travelled with her?"

"Absolutely sure."

"And you saw her no more after reaching Basle?"

"No, I never saw her again."

Douglas took the next train to Basle, where he commenced the somewhat difficult task of interviewing the officials of the large railway centre.

He commenced with the stationmaster, but he knew nothing, and appeared to care less. The various inspectors appeared to be equally indifferent. The manager of the buffet was next interviewed, but he raised his hands matter-of-factly, and shook his head.

"How could I know? People were passing in and out, day and night, thousands of them. I take little notice. Ladies when travelling are all alike."

Douglas mentioned the cloak with the scarlet hood and the bow of scarlet in her hat.

The manager turned his head a little to one side, and began to reflect. Consciously or sub-consciously he had received an impression, but it was vague. But the impression, vague though it was, awakened his curiosity. He became interested in Douglas and in his quest.

He called the head waiter to him, and then two or three of the other waiters. Douglas was glad he had purposely selected a slack time for his interview.

The head waiter remembered nothing, but when the cloak with the scarlet hood was mentioned, the eyes of one of the waitresses lighted up in a moment.

"Oh, I remember," she said eagerly. "It was a long time ago. It was back ... oh, in the cold weather and the long nights. She had a beautiful grey cloak that reached down to her knees. She threw it over the back of her chair while she got supper. I remember admiring it so much, and the bright scarlet hood. And she had a very tall lady with her."

Douglas almost jumped. "Yes," he said eagerly, "what was the tall lady like?"

"Well, she was very tall, with hair beginning to turn grey. She seemed to be a pleasant lady, and was attentive to the young one."

"And did the young lady seem fond of the old one?"

But this question was left unanswered. The girl smiled and shook her head, and indicated by expressive gestures that she either did not take sufficient notice, or was not able to judge.

She was quite certain, however, that the young lady and the tall elderly one came into the buffet together; that they sat down at the same table; that the elderly lady ordered the supper and paid the bill; and that they left just before the departure of the Constance train.

This seemed to Douglas a genuine clue, and after thanking the manager and tipping the girl, he went on to the platform and began interviewing the porters.

This went on for two or three days without leading to any tangible results. At last, however, by persistent inquiry and questioning, he hit upon the right individual.

The man had not very much to tell, but like the others he remembered the cloak with the scarlet hood. They got into the Constance train. He was certain of that, for he fetched a couple of foot-warmers for them, and afterwards he got a pillow for the young lady.

"And didn't the elderly lady require a pillow?"

"Not she. She sat bolt upright, and didn't seem in the least tired."

"And you think the young lady was tired?"

"Yes, she seemed quite done up."

"And did they both speak French?"

"The old one did ‒ and German also. The young one seemed too tired to talk."

Douglas felt that his next step was to get hold of the conductor of the Constance train. But this was no easy matter. In the nine months that had elapsed between October and July there had been many changes. Some of the employees had been promoted, some had been dismissed, some had died, some were invalided, and others had sought employment in other directions.

He managed, however, after a little manoeuvring, to get one of the inspectors interested. Time books, wage books, and ledgers were hunted up and examined. And at length the names of the conductors on the Basle and Schaffhausen section were brought to light.

Douglas interviewed them all in due course, but none of them could remember Nan and her charge. For once, it appeared, the cloak with the scarlet hood had failed to attract attention. Douglas taxed their memory in every way he could think of, but all to no purpose.

He was much disheartened when his interview with the last of the conductors came to an end. He was brought to a complete standstill. Just when his hope of success seemed to be growing bright, it was suddenly eclipsed. What to do next was a problem that for the moment seemed insoluble.

Douglas felt heavy of heart. He returned to his hotel, and tried to think out the problem afresh. He was baffled, but he would not own himself beaten. He was discouraged, but he was not in despair. For a moment he was foiled, but time was surely on his side.

Moreover, he could not overlook the fact that he had been able to gather together some valuable evidence. He had traced Hope to Basle, where it was as clear as noonday she had fallen into the hands of Nan o' the Fells. The meeting was not accidental. It had been carefully arranged. Nan knew evidently what time she would arrive at Basle, and most likely Hope had been advised from Rowton Hall ‒ and that meant advised by Hugh ‒ that an elderly English lady would meet her and take charge of her.

So far the evidence pointed there unmistakably. It also pointed to the fact that, instead of taking the train travelling north, they had gone in the direction of the Tyrol. But at this point he had lost the scent.

"But I shall find it again," he said to himself resolutely. "The Scarlet Clue will turn up again sooner or later."

Meanwhile the various porters and conductors had been discussing the matter among themselves, and in this way the thread was picked up again.

One of the conductors remembered he was off work for a week during the previous October, and that the man who had taken his place had since been made inspector at Kissenburg.

Douglas was eating his breakfast slowly, and with little appetite, when a note was handed to him by a waiter.

"The man's at the door, sir," the waiter said by way of explanation.

In the hall was the railway inspector he had made friends with. "I hope, sir, we've found the right conductor at last," he said, and he proceeded to tell his story.

An hour later Douglas was on his way to Kissenburg.

It was slow travelling and the weather was intensely hot, but he thought nothing of the discomforts, and on the whole he was wonderfully patient at delays. If he could only unravel the mystery of Hope's disappearance, nothing else would matter.

He found the inspector without difficulty ‒ an alert young man, who was evidently determined to make his way.

Douglas began by recalling to the inspector's mind a week in the previous October during which he acted as conductor of a train running between Basle and Constance.

"Oh yes," he said, with a smile, "I remember the circumstance very well."

"And during that week you were on night duty?"

"That is so."

"Now, I want you to recall, if possible, one particular night ‒ the Tuesday night, I think, or it may have been the Wednesday night. Among your passengers was a young lady ‒ tall, good looking, and wearing a large grey cloak with a scarlet hood."

"Oh yes, I remember her well," was the answer. "She was a first-class passenger, and was accompanied by a very tall lady, old enough to be her grandmother."

"Exactly. The very people I am searching for."

"The young lady was evidently ill, and the old one, I judge, was fetching her home from school. Well, she was lying down all the time, and once I noticed the old lady putting a smelling-bottle under her nose. So I concluded she was not over-well."

"Did they travel far with you?"

"They got out at Constance."

"And did you see them again?"

"No. You see, I returned by the next train to Basle."

"And what time did your train reach Constance?"

"About three in the morning."

"And would the train go on farther?"

"Well, you see, the train would be split up there, and one portion of it would go in one direction, and another portion in another."

"And did the young lady seem ill when she left the train?"

"Well, if I remember aright, she seemed half asleep; but the old lady was wide awake enough."

"Thank you. That advances me another step," Douglas said, with a smile. "And now I shall have to make inquiries about the next train to Constance."

At Constance he began to proceed with his inquiries in the usual way, except that, instead of beginning with the stationmaster, he began with the porters.

He was not long in discovering a porter who remembered seeing a young lady wearing a large cloak with a scarlet hood. He remembered, also, that she was in a train that travelled into Bavaria, but he could remember nothing of her companion.

After several days of hunting and inquiry. Doublas found the conductor of the train, who had a hazy recollection of the people in question, but he was able to give no definite information. He had an idea that they travelled on to Felakirsch, but he was not sure. The train stopped at a good many stations. People were constantly getting in and getting out. The time was so long ago that it was impossible for him to remember anything with distinctness.

If they left the train at Felakirsch it was possible that it was for the purpose of changing into another.

So with this vague and indefinite information, Douglas pressed forward on his journey again.

"I'm on the right track," he said to himself, "and if I have to inquire at every wayside station in Europe I'll get to the bottom of it. But why should Nan bring her all this distance if she meant to murder her? Why didn't she poison her, or strangle her, or throw her under the carriage wheels? She had Hope in her power during the whole of the night. It seems more than likely that she had stupefied her by some narcotic. Why, then, did she not get off at some wayside station in the middle of the night and make an end of her?"

The more Douglas pondered over these questions the stronger grew a conviction that from the beginning had held a more or less uncertain place in his mind.

"If Nan meant murder," he said to himself again and again, "why did she come all this distance to commit it? And if she did not mean murder, what was the purpose of such a railway journey?

"I must not hope too much," he continued, "for if I'm wrong, the disappointment will be all the harder to bear. But I can't help hoping a little. Oh, Hope! Hope! I'd give my life to look on your dear face again."
Chapter 20

Trapped

WHEN Hope Teesdale, on alighting from the train at Basle, almost ran into the arms of Nan o' the Fells, she was not in the least surprised. She had almost expected that someone answering to Nan's description would have met her at Badenworth. On the whole, however, she was not sorry that the English lady of whom she had been advised was not there. She had money enough to take her to London, and in her present mood she preferred being alone to having company. Nor could she understand why her father should object to her travelling alone.

She was no longer a girl, though she was still at school. If she was not out of her teens, she would be in a month or two. And a young woman of twenty was, in her judgment, quite capable of taking care of herself.

Moreover, grief seeks solitude. She wanted to ease her heart in a passion of tears. She had felt ever since the receipt of the fatal news that she would choke, that the sympathetic chatter of her school friends only tended to aggravate her pain. She wanted to hide her head somewhere, and have "a good cry."

The effort to be brave, to beat back the agony of her grief, to answer the kind inquiries of her companions, exhausted her to such an extent that she was afraid she would collapse altogether.

Hence it was a positive relief to find that no one turned up at Badenworth to meet her. As far as Basle, at any rate, she would be able to travel alone. She waved her adieus as the train moved out of the station with a sense of thankfulness, and then dropped into a corner of the empty compartment and gave way to a tempest of weeping.

Oh, what a relief it was to sob her heart out for her drowned brother in silence, with no one to disturb her, with no inquisitive eyes to take notice of her tears, with no one to ask her harrowing questions.

For a full hour she wept without restraint. No one came to disturb her. Even the ticket collector left her in peace. And in that hour she saw, or fancied she saw, all the grim and painful realities of the situation. The death of her brother changed everything. She trembled to think what the effect would be upon her father. Arthur was the light of his eyes, the joy and crown of his life.

And what of herself? How would she fare in the new condition of things? Arthur was heir to the estates and to the title. Suppose her father died ‒ killed by this sudden shock. What would become of her? Would she be thrown friendless and practically penniless upon the world, or would she come into possession of the property? That was a question she had never heard discussed. But as a woman could not become a baronet, she much feared that her cousin Hugh would slip into her brother's place and become master of the situation.

For a few minutes her indignation got the better of her grief. For some reason she disliked her cousin intensely, a feeling that she knew was shared by her brother, and by her father in a less degree. There was something about Hugh that made her shrink from him instinctively. His swarthy complexion, his hard cruel mouth, his weak retreating chin, his cold shifting eyes, created in her a feeling of revulsion.

What if her father should die and Hugh should come into possession of Rowton Hall! The very thought of it seemed to dry up the fountain of her tears.

Then, by an easy transition, her thoughts stole away to Douglas Grove. He was her friend, in any case, and when all else failed her he would come to her rescue.

She raised her head and looked out of the window and smiled. The dull green landscape swept swiftly past, but she did not see it. She was hack again among her native hills. She saw the blue-grey summits rising above her, below the shining waters of the mere, while by her side walked Douglas Grove.

She looked up into his soft grey eyes and saw the smiles play over his handsome, sensitive face. She listened while he talked to her of many things ‒ of books, of poetry, of music, of Nature, of art ‒ and in her ears his voice was like the sound of falling water.

She wondered again, as she had often wondered during her banishment from home, why it was that Douglas made so much of her, sought her out on every possible occasion, and always seemed so happy when in her company.

In her own eyes she was only a commonplace girl. She was not a bit clever ‒ at least, so she told herself ‒ and if she had learned to appreciate poetry and the ever-changing loveliness of Nature, it was only because he had taught her to look at these things through his eyes.

To spend an afternoon with Douglas out on the fells seemed a liberal education. It was like taking down the window shutters and letting the daylight into the rooms. She saw a hundred things that she did not know existed before. And every now and then he turned his head, and their eyes met.

And what glorious eyes he had! How deep they were, and eloquent! Could she read aright, she wondered? Could she interpret the meaning of those gentle glances? Could she fathom the secret that lay far back in those wonderful depths?

She had often dreamed of Douglas of late, and woven all kinds of fancies about his name. Suppose he should speak to her with his lips what his eyes had so often spoken! Would she be glad or sorry?

She knew her father regarded Douglas Grove with more or less of disfavour, while her brother Arthur made no secret of his contempt. But Arthur did not understand him. Arthur was so intensely practical. Poor Arthur!

The tears came again unbidden, and she hid her face among the cushions and wept afresh.

She was quite calm and collected when she stepped out of the train at Basle, though her eyes were still red. Nan was on the lookout for her, and espied her in a moment.

"You are Miss Teesdale?" she said, as Hope almost ran into her arms.

Hope lifted her eyes gratefully, for the voice was low and musical, and it was pleasant to hear her native language spoken so far away from home.

"Yes, I am," she answered. "Are you the lady who is to accompany me as far as Ostend?"

"Yes, I am Mrs. Wilkes. Your father has requested me to see you safe on board the boat."

"You know my father, then?"

"I knew him well years ago, but I have lived so long abroad that I have much doubt if we should recognise each other if we met."

"I do not remember your name," Hope said, a little awkwardly.

"No, it is not likely he would talk about me, though we occasionally correspond ‒ or, more correctly, he corresponds with my husband, which is the same thing, you know." And Nan smiled ever so sweetly.

"Your husband is not with you here?"

"No. He is a doctor, with a large practice, and could not get away. But I am used to travelling all over the Continent by myself."

"It is kind of you to take so much trouble on my account, though I am not the least afraid of travelling alone."

"I do not think there is much danger," Nan answered, in her most soothing tones. "Still, it is not quite the correct thing for a young girl to travel alone; and of course your father will be much better satisfied."

"Yes, father seems nervous for some reason. For the life of me I cannot tell why."

"Well, you see, my dear, when your father and I were young, travelling was a very different thing from what it is today, and naturally old feelings and prejudices cling to people."

"Yes, I suppose that is so," Hope answered quietly.

"We shall have nearly an hour to wait here," Nan went on, after a pause. "I have already booked a compartment in the Ostend train. So I think the best thing we can do now will be to get some refreshment."

"I don't feel in the least hungry," Hope answered.

"Nevertheless, my dear, you must eat. You will need all your strength for what lies before you." And Nan led the way to the refreshment room.

Hope was not at all sorry when the meal was at an end. The glare of the room and the ceaseless chatter of the people grated upon her nerves. It was a relief to get back again into the dimly lighted train.

Nan got a porter to bring a couple of foot-warmers, then she hired a pillow, and insisted on Hope lying down.

"You will be all the better for stretching yourself, my dear," she said. "And if you can get a good sleep you will be better still."

Hope did as she was told. She was grateful to Nan that she did not try to probe the wound in her heart that was aching so terribly.

It was a relief, also, to be saved from further worry about the journey. Nan got the tickets, and tipped the porters, and got the compartment reserved.

"You are really very good," Hope said, as she closed her eyes wearily. "Will it be long before the train starts?"

"No, only about ten minutes. Does your head ache, my dear?"

"Rather. It has been a tiring and exciting day."

"And very likely you did not sleep last night?"

"No, I don't think I slept a wink. The telegram gave me such an awful shock, and the letter was worse than the telegram."

"Yes, yes. I don't wonder that your head aches. It would be strange if it did not. Suppose you smell at these salts? I am sure you would find relief."

Hope obeyed again. She was too tired and heart-sore to resist anything. A curiously pungent odour came from the bottle when the stopper was raised. It stole over her senses, soft and soothing as the sighing of summer wind.

"Oh, that is delightful," she murmured. And after that, all pain and grief and weariness seemed to pass away. She was vaguely conscious that the train had started on its journey, but she felt no jolting, and was quite indifferent as to when the journey might end.

The hours passed away uncounted, and when at length they had to change trains, she walked like one in a dream. She did not ask where she was, or why they had to change. She troubled herself about nothing. Everything was right, and she was quite happy.

The daylight came at last, but she did not know what day it was. Mountains lifted up their summits to the skies, but she felt no surprise at anything. She found herself driving somewhere in a closed carriage. Whose carriage it was she did not know. It might be her father's carriage. These tall mountains might be the fells above Bradenford. The stretches of water in the distance might be Bridlemere ‒ or it might be that she was asleep, and dreaming.

Nothing seemed real, but that did not worry her. To think was too great an effort. She was quite content to take things as they came. She was happy ‒ not in any intense or ecstatic way. Happiness was akin to pain sometimes, but there was no pain in her happiness. She was in a condition of dreamy delight. There were no ruts or curves or sharp edges anywhere. The world was the best of all possible places, and life was just a dream.

There was no looking back or looking forward. No memory or regret, no longing or anticipation.

Now and then some dim, far-off memory stole across her brain, some suggestion of pain, or worry, or loss; but it was too elusive to be caught. Whatever it might be, it was over and past, and her brain refused to be vexed by it any more.

The pale October sun rose higher and higher in the sky. The carriage wound its way in and out between lofty hills. Stretches of green country opened up now and then. A great river roared somewhere, and once the music of bells floated on the air. Then a lofty and forbidding wall came into view, then a opening with massive studded doors, then a sparsely furnished room with a bed in it. Someone helped her into bed ‒ she did not know who ‒ and then came oblivion.

When she opened her eyes again she found herself in darkness ‒ darkness bewildering and oppressive. She looked in all directions, but there was not a ray of light anywhere. She sat up in bed and listened, but not a sound broke the stillness ‒ the stillness was like that of a vault. It seemed to lie like a weight upon her ears. The moaning of the wind or the rattle of a window would have been an infinite relief.

"Where am I?" she said to herself, with a gasp. "What has happened? What is the matter with me that my head swims so?"

And she pressed her hands to her throbbing temples, and tried to think.

But for once her brain refused to do her bidding. She was dimly conscious that something had happened recently, something painful, but whatever it was it eluded her.

She reached out her hand and felt the bedclothes. She touched the wall at the back of her bed, but the touch awoke no answering memory.

A great terror shook her after a few moments. She failed to realise clearly her own identity. The link between the present and the past had snapped. She was sure of nothing save that she was alone ‒ alone in darkness and silence, not knowing where she was, or even who she was.

"Surely I cannot be dreaming?" she said to herself, with wide open and affrighted eyes. "I must be labouring under some terrible nightmare. I shall awake directly and find myself...."

But memory refused to connect her with any place.

"I must have died," she said to herself, with a great sob.

She sprang out of her bed in her terror, and her bare feet came in contact with the bare, polished floor.

The sudden cold seemed to clear her brain.

"Where am I?" she gasped. "This is not my room. This is not school. This is not‒‒"

And she sank in a heap upon the cold floor.

The deadly fumes of the narcotic with which she had been dosed seemed to clear away from her brain like mist from off the fells.

Hugging her knees and staring into the darkness, she saw point after point come into view, just as at home she had seen the spurs of the hills come into view when a breeze had sprung up after rain.

Bit by bit the events of the last day or two unravelled themselves before her startled eyes. She remembered the telegram announcing that her brother had met with a serious accident, followed by the letter saying that he was dead, and commanding her to return home.

She remembered starting on her journey, her arrival at Basle, her meeting with the tall woman with the soft, gentle voice. She remembered getting supper at the buffet, their return to the train, her stretching herself on the seat with a pillow under her head which Mrs. Wilkes had hired. And then....

Yes, she remembered the smelling bottle, the pungent odour, the delicious dreaminess that stole over her, the‒‒‒

She pressed her hands to her temples again. But no, her brain would carry her no farther. All the rest was as a dream when one awakes ‒ bits of it seemed to peep at her from behind corners, and then suddenly vanish. Before memory could reach out its hand and seize them they were gone.

She went back again to the beginning of her journey, and traced its successive stages. She came again to the point where she lay down, as she believed, in the Ostend train, but she could get no farther. What had happened since was a complete blank.

"Where am I?" she cried, and she stared helplessly and appealingly round her.

After a moment she rose to her feet and bent her head slightly forward. There was a patch in the darkness that seemed less inky black than the rest. Reaching out her hands, she moved slowly towards it. She came in a few steps to a deeply recessed space in a bare wall.

Was it a window, or simply a narrow slit in a great thickness of masonry, such as she had seen in old castles?

She pushed her hands forward until her fingers came into contact with a thick, heavy blind. Instantly she pulled it aside, and a faint glimmer of light came through; but nothing was to be seen or heard. It was almost as dark outside as within.

"Oh, what has happened to me?" she moaned. "Where am I? What is the meaning of this awful darkness and silence? What is this terrible place in which I find myself?"

She tried to make a tour of the room, and bruised herself terribly in the process.

"Help! Help! Help!" she screamed. But not even the echo came back to her.

By and by she found what she thought was a door, and she tugged at the iron ring that served as a handle, and beat against the heavy panels with her hands, and screamed till she had no voice left. Then she sank senseless upon the floor.

Chapter 21

A Prisoner

WHEN Hope recovered consciousness she found the first faint rays of an autumn dawn struggling feebly into the room. Raising herself to a sitting posture, she stared round her with a perplexed and bewildered air. In the feeble light of the dawn she felt less terrified than she did during the darkness. Moreover, her brain was clearer, and it was impossible that she should give way wholly to despair.

After a few minutes she rose to her feet, not without pain ‒ for she was stiff with cold, and cramped with lying so long in one position on the bare floor. Steadying herself by holding fast to the bedpost for several seconds, she walked at length to the narrow slit, deep in the wall, which served for a window.

She quickly discovered three of these windows, all the same size, and so darkened by heavy blinds that scarcely a ray of light could come into the room. When the blinds had been drawn aside, however, the gathering dawn had a chance, and by its light she was able to take in the size and contents of this prison.

It was not a very encouraging prospect that opened up before her. The room was partly circular, the floor was of dark oak, and was so solid that to stamp on it with her bare feet made no sound whatever. The door had a circular top, and was built as solidly as the floor and of the same material.

There was an open chimney, broad enough and deep enough to receive an ordinary kitchen stove. The walls were unplastered and unrelieved by any picture. In one corner stood the bed; and in the circular part of the room, and near the window was a round table. A small armchair, a chest of drawers, and a washstand completed the furniture.

The windows revealed little save the fact that the place was encircled by lofty mountains. The right-hand window revealed portions of what seemed an ancient castle. The left-hand window looked straight at the face of a mountain.

With a little gasp she turned away from the window and stole back into bed. Fortunately, the bed was comfortable, and there were sufficient clothes to keep her warm.

For a long time she lay still and tried to think, but it was not easy to get her thoughts into anything like consecutive order. A thousand questions seemed to be beating on her brain at the same moment, and she had no certain answer for any of them.

The only thing that seemed clear to her was that she had been kidnapped. But by whom, and for what purpose? To these questions, however, she had no answer.

"I'm a prisoner," she said to herself, "but I'm not dead. I'm alive, and I'm hungry, so I reckon I must be fairly well. Where I am and why I am here I've not the ghost of an idea; but that I've got to find out, and I will find out too, if it takes me seven years to do it."

The fact that she was alive convinced her that her captors, whoever they might be, did not intend to kill her. If murder was their object, they could have accomplished their purpose without going to so much trouble and expense.

The thought of brigands crossed her mind, but she quickly dismissed it. Brigands did not dwell in castles. Had she found herself in a cave there might be reason for suspecting something of the kind.

The dawn rapidly increased till by and by a beam of pale sunshine darted across the room. It seemed to her like a harbinger of good hope and liberty. It spoke to her of God, of His presence and power. God was alive, for here was His sunshine stealing into her prison. Surely He had sent it to comfort and encourage her, by reminding her of the fact that He still kept guard over the world.

She sprang out of bed and began to search for her clothes, but there was not a suggestion of them anywhere. She looked under the bedclothes, under the bed, opened all the drawers, pulled the washstand from its place, but all to no purpose. There was not a vestige of wearing apparel in the room.

For a while she stood still and stared at the heavy door; then she crept back into bed again. Her heart was beating fast, and some ugly possibilities began to suggest themselves to her. But she was determined not to give way to despair until compelled to.

"It's fairly early yet," she said, "and somebody will be stirring soon. It can't be possible that this place is uninhabited, and I am locked up here to starve and die by slow inches."

But the very suggestion of such a thing caused a cold sweat to break out all over her. The idea was too horrible to be contemplated, and she fought against it with all the strength and courage she had.

"What object can anyone have in torturing me to death?" she said to herself. "I never did anyone any harm. I have no enemies. It can't be to anyone's advantage to kill me‒‒"

Then she stopped suddenly and stared at the blank wall in front of her. A thought darted like a flash of lightning through her brain. There was an individual who might possibly profit by her death. If her brother Arthur was dead, she might be the only obstacle in the way of her cousin Hugh coming into possession of the property.

When once this thought possessed her she could not get rid of it. It was like a seed that took sudden root. It fixed itself upon her attention in every conceivable way. She could see a reason for everything that had happened to her.

She remembered now that the letter she had received from Rowton Hall announcing the death of her brother, though signed by her father, was not written by him. She remembered, too, that the instruction given respecting her journey to England was in the postscript, and was not initialled by her father.

Who had written the letter? Who had made arrangements for someone to meet her at Basle? Who could have sufficient interest in the matter to plot for her removal? Who but her cousin Hugh?

His face seemed to come up before her as she stared at the blank wall, and she shuddered at the picture. She remembered how once he had tried to court her. She recalled his thin, cruel lips; his small, cunning eyes; his weak, retreating chin; and she put up her hand before her eyes to shut out the sight.

At last it seemed to her she had got hold of one end of the thread, but it brought her no consolation. She might as well be in the hands of brigands as in the power of her cousin Hugh. Indeed, she would be much better off. Brigands would demand a ransom, and when that was paid she would be liberated ‒ but Hugh would accept no ransom. If, as she feared, she had been kidnapped at his instigation, then nothing but her death or her perpetual imprisonment would answer his purpose.

Her brain began to work with great rapidity. A whole vista of horrors opened up before her.

"He will not keep me alive any longer than he can help, that's certain," she said to herself. And her eyes grew wide with terror. "Dead people cannot escape. Dead people cost nothing to keep. Dead people tell no tales. But why did he adopt this method of disposing of me? Whose house is this? Why am I provided with a comfortable bed?"

She shut her eyes after a while, that she might think out the problem more clearly.

"Perhaps the woman lacked the courage to murder me outright," she said to herself. "Perhaps she had not the opportunity. Besides, they say 'murder will out,' and so she might be afraid. But locking someone up in a lonely place like this is not murder. And as there will be no possibility of anyone ever searching for me or recognising me, perhaps they'll poison me, or drop me into a well."

The perspiration broke out again in big beads upon her forehead. She was not without her full share of courage. She had come of a race of fighters and resisters. Whatever else the Teesdales had been, they had never been cowards, and she was a Teesdale to the tips of her fingers. But what was the use of courage in a place like this?

If she could meet her foes in the open, she would try to battle with them gladly. To die fighting might have something of glory in it; but to die like a rat in a hole, to die all alone, untended and uncared for, would daunt the most resolute spirit that ever lived.

As yet no sound broke the oppressive silence. She appeared to be the only living creature in the place, left alone to starve and die.

"The cowards!" she said, rising suddenly to a sitting posture. And the tears welled suddenly up in her eyes ‒ tears of self-pity and despair.

Her spirit was not broken yet. Hastily brushing her hands across her eyes, she said, with a look of defiance, "But I'm not dead yet; and I'm not going to die, either, without a struggle."

And she sprang out of bed once more, and went towards the fireplace. There was a heap of light-grey ashes between the brass dogs, as though there had been a fire in the room recently.

Each side of the dogs the hearth was quite clean, and she walked into the large, open chimney, and looked up.

It seemed to be of the same width to the top. She had seen such chimneys in ancient and ruined castles in England. Two or three men, if they had ladders, could go up abreast.

For several moments she stood, looking up. There was a sense of comfort in being so near the open air. Her room was evidently on the top storey. She could see the clouds sailing by overhead. Once she caught a glimpse of a bird far up in the sky.

"Oh, if I were a bird!" she said. "If I had wings like a dove!"

And the tears came into her eyes again.

The next moment she started, and bent her head forward in a listening attitude. A shrill, muffled cry came from somewhere ‒ a deep, piercing note, but so far away that only the softest echo of it reached her ears. For several moments she listened intently with fast-beating heart. Then the sound was repeated.

"It's a woman's cry," she said to herself, with blanched bps. "It's a cry of terror and despair. Oh, I wonder what place this is ‒ what earthly inferno set here among the peaceful mountains."

She stole quietly back, and sat down on the side of the bed.

A third time the cry came, like a long-drawn wail. She lifted her head and turned her face first in one direction, and then in another, but from what direction the sound came she could not determine. It was too far away and too indistinct to be located.

For a few moments her teeth chattered with a new horror. She felt as though she had got into some devil's den, where helpless women were murdered for the sport of fiends.

She recovered herself after a while. Blood-curdling as the cry was, it was almost a relief after the long and oppressive silence. It suggested that the place was inhabited, that she was not the only live creature in it.

Then another sound caught her ear, and she crept close up to the door and listened. There was no keyhole, nor lock, nor bolt. There was an iron ring, by which the door might be pulled open when the bolts were drawn on the other side. But she was completely at the mercy of whoever might be outside. They could come in, but she could not go out.

This discovery lent a fresh horror to the situation. New vistas of suffering opened up before her quickened imagination. There might be in store for her, something worse than death. She might live to regret that she had not been murdered outright.

After a few moments she drew back from the door, and crept into bed again. A wild light of terror was in her eyes. Her teeth chattered like someone stricken with high fever. Someone was coming towards the room, she was sure. There was a distinct shuffle of feet drawing nearer and nearer. Not a firm, decisive tread echoing along a corridor, but a hesitating and more or less stealthy shuffle.

Was someone coming to murder her? If so, she could offer no resistance. She knew she was helpless and defenceless.

Once she thought of pushing up the chest of drawers against the door; but a moment's reflection convinced her that such a means of defence would be worse than useless. She could only wrap herself up in the bedclothes and wait. She had only her teeth and finger-nails with which to fight for her life, but she was prepared to use both to the last gasp.

At length there was a sound of shooting of bolts. Then a key was slowly inserted in the lock. She heard it grate as it was turned deliberately round. The next moment she saw the door being pushed slowly and cautiously open.
Chapter 22

A Reservist

IT is necessary at this point, for the proper unfolding of our story, that we return to the heated meeting between Arthur Teesdale and Douglas Grove above Black Ghyll Force. That both young men should believe themselves morally guilty of murder was not unnatural. Each believed that he had thrown the other into the raging torrent, from which escape was almost impossible.

But if Douglas Grove had reason for believing this, Arthur Teesdale had much more reason. He knew that he was the aggressor; that after they had parted he turned back, and while Douglas was on the bridge had struck him in the face. Of what followed after the blow was struck he had very little recollection. He knew Douglas closed with him, and for a few moments they were locked in each other's arms.

That he had thrown Douglas into the torrent he had no doubt whatever. He was much the stronger man of the two, and in any physical encounter Douglas was bound to be worsted.

The plunge into the cold water brought him suddenly to his senses, and he struck out to save his life. He saw his companion swept over the cataract, and the next moment his own head came into violent contact with one of the supports of the bridge.

In a moment he was stunned, but not rendered unconscious. In a more or less dazed condition he scrambled out among the rocks and eddies, and after shaking himself for a second or two on the bank he rushed off into a neighbouring plantation of firs.

His first thought was his own safety. He was still too dazed to think clearly or consecutively, but he suspected the struggle on the bridge had been witnessed, and if so, the police would be soon on his track. Defence he had none. He remembered now, with consternation, that he had threatened to twist Douglas Grove's neck.

He could not hide from himself the fact that he had been the aggressor, and had struck the only blow that was struck. And if anybody had witnessed the struggle it would be clear to him, or her, as noonday ‒ that if Douglas had put forth all his strength it was purely in self-defence.

Two courses were open to him: the one to give himself up to justice, the other to try to escape. That Douglas was dead he had not the least doubt, for he had seen him swept over the Force. That he was responsible for his death seemed to him a self-evident proposition. Should he face the penalty and allow himself to be slung up inside the walls of a prison like a common murderer, or should he make a dash for freedom?

It did not take him two minutes to decide that question. He felt under no moral compulsion to give himself up. He was not built that way. Moreover, the thought of a Teesdale being tried for murder, to say nothing of his being condemned and executed, was intolerable. There was nothing left, therefore, but to try and make good his escape. How that was to be done he did not know. His brain was too confused to form any plan.

The full consequences of his act had scarcely begun to dawn upon him. His one thought was his own safety. For the moment even Avril was forgotten. The marriage, of course, could not take place. He realised that fact with an acute sense of agony. What the future might unfold he could not imagine; he made no attempt to look far ahead. To make the present moment secure was his chief concern. The future would have to take care of itself.

After he had recovered somewhat from his exhaustion, caused by the struggle and immersion, he set off at a run, keeping his back turned upon Bradenford and making for the least inhabited part of the district. For a mile or two he kept well within the shadow of the trees; then the darkness fell, and he took himself to the open country.

The instinct that guided him was that of the animal which seeks to get as far away as possible from its pursuers. He had no sort of plan in his mind, but he had a vague hope that something would turn up, that in the chapter of accidents some stroke of fortune would come his way.

The night drew in rapidly, the wind came down the gulleys and glens in fierce gusts, and now and then a splash of rain smote on his face. The farther he ran the more uncertain he became of the neighbourhood.

Path there was none; the surrounding hills lost themselves in darkness; he stumbled into pits and ditches without seeing them; bruised himself without knowing how badly he was bruised; and exhausted his strength at a rate that he was not conscious of. His pace gradually slowed into a feeble limp. His wet clothes clung to his limbs and impeded his progress. His brain seemed to get more and more confused.

How long he ambled along the slopes of the fells he did not know. He had no means of recording time, nor of measuring the distance he had travelled. He did not know if he had been pursuing a straight line or travelling in a circle.

The rain began to fall steadily and persistently. That, however, did not trouble him. He could be no worse drenched than he was already from the river. What did trouble him was the fact that he was getting footsore. The sense of exhaustion began to weigh him down. His steps became steadily slower and more uncertain. Yet he had no thought of giving in. If he must die, he would die struggling. He could not even give himself time to rest. He was compelled to keep moving, or he would soon become numbed with the cold. The wind grew steadily colder and more searching; the night seemed to become blacker with every step he took.

At length he paused and heaved a long sigh. A little distance away a tiny point of light glimmered fitfully through the darkness. From whence it came, or what it portended, he did not know. For the moment he did not much care. He was rapidly reaching that point of exhaustion which breeds indifference to everything.

The light seemed friendly, and he made for it. He found himself at length before a small cottage. The light came through an upstairs window. He walked straight up to the door and lifted the latch. He did not stop to consider whether he was doing wisely or unwisely. He might, for all he knew, be walking into the very peril he was anxious to escape, but he was too far spent to trouble about such matters.

The door opened into a small living room. There was no passage. A feeble fire glimmered in a grate, before which a man sat with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.

At the sound of the opening door he rose suddenly to his feet and stared at the intruder. "Who are you?" he demanded fiercely.

"Don't be angry," was the reply of Arthur Teesdale to the amazed cottager whom he had so startled by his abrupt entrance. "I've just lost my way in crossing these fells, and seeing your light I made for it."

He had decided on the role he would play on the spur of the moment.

"There's no light in this room," the man said, in a hoarse whisper.

"But there is in the room above," Arthur answered.

"Ay, but there won't be long, I fear," the man said brokenly. "I reckon she's dying."

"Who is dying?" Arthur asked.

"My missus. And we've only been wed a year."

"Oh, I am sorry," Arthur answered sympathetically. "I wouldn't have intruded had I known."

"You're welcome to rest a bit," the man answered. "I've known what it is to lose my way myself."

And he lighted a candle and placed it on the mantelpiece.

Arthur drew nearer the fire and reached out his hands toward it.

"You look pretty well done in," the man said. "There's a chair there by the table. You'd better pull it over."

Arthur acted upon the suggestion at once. He never remembered feeling so exhausted in his life before.

The occupier of the cottage sat down again and looked into the fire. "You've been having a roughish time of it, I'm thinking," he said, without raising his eyes.

"You're right," Arthur answered. "I've had a rough time. I've bruised myself from top to toe. I've come near drowning more than once. I've torn my clothes in getting over fences, and I've worn my shoes nearly off my feet."

"And got no job, I expect?"

"Got nothing but hunger and bruises. It's enough to make a man enlist."

"Don't do that, man. Take my advice."

"Why not?"

"Why not? Because I've tried it, and know what it is. And think of it. You're not done when you think you are."

"Well, what does that matter?"

"When a fellow's single it mayn't make much odds ‒ that is, if he likes soldiering, which I simply loathe. But take my case."

"Well, what is your case?"

"I'm on the reservist list, and am ordered now out to South Africa."

"Have you to go already?"

"I ought to be on my way now. But, man alive, how can I leave her? I tell you I can't leave her. I'll be tried as a deserter first."

"You'd better not," Arthur answered seriously. "It's hard on you, I admit. But if you fail to answer there'll be‒‒"

"Oh yes, I know all about it," the man answered, in a tone of sullen defiance. "But if she wakes up and finds I'm gone, it'll kill her; I know it will. I can't do it, and I won't. I care more for my wife than for all the governments in the world!"

And he spat into the fire viciously.

"You say you ought to be on your way already?"

"Ay, I'm due to sail from Southampton the day after tomorrow. If I don't report myself in London by tomorrow evening ‒ well, there'll be ructions."

"Yes, there definitely will be ructions," Arthur answered. "Will you let me look at your papers?"

A sudden thought had occurred to him, but he wanted to know the facts before he committed himself.

"The instructions are clear enough," he said, after a pause. "I don't see how you can possibly get out of it."

"Of course I can't get out of it," the man said defiantly. "If I were in Manchester or London I might get some idiot who was a bigger fool than myself to swop places with me!"

"Would a substitute be allowed?" Arthur asked.

"Not if it was known, I reckon, but I've heard of it being done. Of course, the game's risky to both parties."

"Look here," Arthur said suddenly, "would you let me take your place?"

"Do you mean it, man?"

"I do. I'm down on my luck just at present, and I'd be glad of the change. I'm prepared to take the risks, if you are."

"Prepared? Why, man alive, I'm prepared to risk deserting!"

"Then we'd better waste no more time than we can help. By the bye, though, does your employer know you are a reservist?"

"No, nobody hereabouts."

"You are sure?"

"Quite sure."

"I see by your papers that your name is James Brown."

"Exactly."

"Well, I shall have to be James Brown for the future. Now, tell me all about yourself ‒ when you enlisted, where you served, who were your officers, when you got your discharge. You see, if I'm to be you, I must know all about you."

"You're really serious over the business?"

"I was never more serious over anything."

"Well, I must say you're a bloomin' fool; but that's your lookout. And remember, if you regret it, don't blame me."

"All right, I'll take all risks and not blame anybody."

For the next half-hour the man did nearly all the talking.

Arthur interjected a question now and then. Three times over he told his story, till Arthur had it well off by heart. Then he rose to his feet.

"Look here," he said, "as we've swopped places, we'll also have to swop clothes. I can't go to London in sopping wet rags."

"Quite right, mate," the man answered. "You and me are 'bout of a size. Come into this little room. I've had to sleep here since Mary's been ill."

"Has she been ill long?"

"The baby were born day before yesterday."

"And is your wife alone?"

"No, her mother is with her. She corned up from Hampshire last week."

"And the baby?"

"That's gone to heaven. But I won't mind if only Mary can be pulled through."

"Does your wife's mother know that you are a reservist?"

"No, she knows I have been a soldier. Mary knows, of course. An' the fear that I might be called out has been almost killing her."

"She doesn't know, then, that you have been called up?"

"No, I've kept it from her so far; but I've been 'most afraid to go near her lest she should worm it out of me. Her eyes are that sharp, you know."

"You will be able to make her mind easy now."

"Oh, I hope so. But, mate, I don't understand your wanting to take my place."

"Don't try to understand. And if your wife gets better, as I hope she will, I'd advise you to go away from this place to some other part of the country where nobody knows you. You see, if the secret comes out you'll be in big trouble."

"And you too."

"Well, in a sense, we shall both be in the same box, but you might get the worst of it."

"I'll keep my eyes open, mate, never fear. You have lifted a load from my mind."

Arthur was busy changing his wet clothes for dry while this conversation was carried on. He spent no more time over the process than he could possibly help. Every now and then he paused sharply and listened. He was fearful all the time lest someone should have followed him.

It was a great relief to get into dry clothes again. The fit was not anything to boast of. The coat might have been home-made. The collar was of an antiquated shape, and much frayed at the edges.

"It's my second-best suit," the man explained, a little bit ruefully.

"You're fortunate in having a better one!" Arthur answered, with a laugh. "Now lend me a pair of scissors, so that I can cut off my moustache. I must be as much like James Brown as possible."

Brown watched this process with a critical eye.

"If you were a bit better lookin'," he said, "you'd a'most pass for me anywhere."

"Ah, well, I must be content with such looks as I have," Arthur answered, with a smile. And he viewed himself critically by the aid of a candle and a cracked looking-glass. "By the bye," he went on, after a pause, "you'd better keep these clothes of mine out of sight. It might lead you into trouble if anybody found them here. If folks once get to asking questions, there's no knowing where they'll end."

"I hope I ain't no fool," was the reply.

And then the two men came quietly out into the living room.

There was no sound from the room above. Mrs. Brown and her mother were evidently fast asleep.

Arthur pulled open the front door and looked out into the night. The rain had stopped, and a waning moon faintly illumined the darkness.

"It ain't more'n four mile or so to Bufferley Junction," Brown said. "If you put your best leg foremost, you'll be able to catch the night mail."

"Come outside and give me a few instructions about the road," Arthur said.

And the two men walked a few hundred yards away together.

When Brown returned to the house a smile was playing round the corners of his mouth.

"Yon chap's a bloomin' idiot," he said to himself, "but that's his lookout. As for me, I've nothin' to worry 'bout now but Mary. If she gets better I'll be the happiest man in England."

And he crept silently upstairs to see if she was still asleep.
Chapter 23

New Conditions

FOR two days and nights Arthur Teesdale halted on the borderline between dreams and realities. In the main he acted with great caution and prudence, but he was never quite sure of himself. His head had never ceased to ache since it came into contact with the support of the bridge, and sometimes he felt as if the world and everything in it were entirely topsy-turvy.

In due course he presented himself at army headquarters and was supplied with the necessary outfit, after which he journeyed with a trainload of others to Southampton. During the journey he felt ill and not a little light-headed, but by exercising all the willpower he possessed he kept himself on his feet. So much was at stake that he could not afford to yield to any kind of weakness. If he could only hold out until the ship had sailed he would not mind so much what happened.

In the hurry and excitement of the time there had been no question raised as to his identity. He had all his papers in proper order, and as he had held the position of captain in the local volunteer force, he was fairly well up in military terms and technicalities.

There were shouting crowds at the railway stations, bands playing while they marched to the ship's side, girls crying and waving their handkerchiefs while the great vessel was loosed from her moorings, and a mighty shout from the men and boys when the propeller began to churn the water into foam.

To Arthur it all seemed like some incoherent dream. The whole story seemed so impossible. He pinched himself again and again to make sure that he was not still dreaming.

Perhaps it was fortunate for him that he was still unable to think consecutively, still unable to realise all he suffered and all he had lost. The dominant thought in his mind was his own safety. Once out on the wide heaving sea he would be able to think out calmly the events of the last few days ‒ be able to think of other people as well as himself. At present even Avril was but a shadowy image in his mind. Everything was obscured by the sense of his own personal danger.

Before the white cliffs of England, however, faded away over the wide waste of sea he was lying below in his hammock in a state of utter collapse, unconscious of the present and without memory of the past.

He had borne up as long as he was able ‒ had fought back his weakness with strong and resolute will, had struggled against the mental fog that too surely was settling down on his brain, with all the tenacity of his nature. But when the nervous strain was over, when at length the fear of detection passed away from him, he collapsed suddenly like a pricked bubble, and lay limp and unresponsive in his hammock, oblivious of his surroundings and insensible alike to joy or grief.

For a day or two no one paid much heed to him. The doctor, who had never been to sea before, was too ill even to attend to his own wants, and a sick soldier was a matter of no consequence when nearly every man on board ‒ omitting the crew ‒ was more or less out of action.

Fortunately, Arthur was not conscious of any neglect, and if he let out any secrets during his delirium there was no one to pay any attention to him. Below deck the air was full of confused sounds. After the bands playing in the streets and the crowds shouting until they were hoarse; after the marching and parading, the waving of handkerchiefs and the beating of drums; after the tears of the women and the goodbyes of the girls ‒ had come the realities of the situation.

The pomp and circumstance were good while they lasted. The blare of bands and the beating of drums helped to take the sting out of the parting and soften the sound of goodbyes. But under deck there was neither pomp nor circumstance, but only misery and discomfort.

Arthur Teesdale was mercifully unconscious of his own sufferings.

By the end of a week, however, Nature asserted herself. His strong and vigorous constitution came to his rescue. The darkness rolled away from his mind like mists from mountain slopes, and he awoke one morning to the discovery that the ship was ploughing her way through untroubled waters, and that on the wide stretch of sea the summer sun was shining.

He looked around him on the empty hammocks, and listened to the tramp of feet overhead, and for a moment or two a puzzled expression came into his eyes. Then all the truth came back to him in a flash, and with a sigh he turned himself wearily on his side and closed his eyes again.

During the next few days he had plenty of time for reflection, but his reflections were not of a cheerful character. Now that the excitement was over, and he was able to look back with a certain calmness on what had happened, he saw with intense vividness what in that moment of madness he had brought upon himself.

"I have lost everything," he said to himself bitterly. "I have nothing left that is worth living for. Oh, Avril, Avril, what have I done?"

This was the burden of his lament day after day. Bare existence was left to him, but nothing else. Not even his own name could he any longer claim. He was Private James Brown, and for all he knew there might be fifty other Browns on board that troop ship, many of whom were going out to find a grave under the Southern Cross.

It was a relief to him when at length he was strong enough to be helped on deck. The sweet sea air revived him like magic. For several days he was allowed to recline on a mattress almost from morning till night, and from his corner he could watch his comrades drill and see the sailors at their work.

A little later he was able to walk slowly up and down the deck. The doctor told him one day that he had a nearer squeak than he knew, and that he ought to be thankful he was alive.

He smiled, but he made no answer. So day by day his strength came back, and with growing physical strength there was a corresponding increase of mental vigour.

By the time the voyage was ended, he faced the facts of the situation doggedly, and with no little courage. He had lost everything. Father, sister, home, friends, name, future ‒ all were gone. Even Avril, who was more than life to him, had gone down in the general wreck, and he was left alone to begin afresh in a new world, under new conditions, and under an assumed name.

It was not a pleasant prospect, but Arthur Teesdale was nothing if not practical. He argued to himself that it was of no use crying over spilt milk. That his case was painful there was no denying, but he would have to make the best of it. The past was dead, and he must bury it as decently as possible ‒ not without tears and regrets; but since it was dead, the sooner he put it out of sight and forgot it the better. Of course, the forgetting would not come for a long time.

In time, no doubt, the past would become as a dream to him, a dream that would slowly fade, and grow more and more unreal, as the years sped away.

Perhaps if his life were spared he might go back, when he had grown old and unrecognisable, and wander over the scenes of his early life again; see Hope as a middle-aged or elderly woman, with a family of children around her; see Avril, perchance, leaning upon the arm of some stranger, and giving all her love and trust to one whose face he had never seen before.

Strangely enough, he did not think often about Douglas Grove. And yet, perhaps, it was not so strange, after all. He regretted taking, as he believed, Douglas's life ‒ regretted it because of the consequences it dragged in its wake; but it was not a matter that lay heavy upon his conscience. He was not sensitive to the sacredness of human life, as was Douglas. He was of a different moral order.

Week after week of fighting passed away, and grew into months. The intense heat of summer gave place to the intense cold of winter, and still the tide of war rolled on. Arthur behaved himself in a way that won recognition from his superiors more than once. He had come of a fighting stock.

His courage in the main was an absence of fear. He was not gifted with a vivid imagination. He never looked far ahead, or anticipated danger. He endured weariness and hardships without complaint. Indeed, he enjoyed the excitements of the campaign. It made him forgetful of himself, kept him from brooding, and filled all his waking hours with interest.

What the future might have for him he did not stop to inquire. The past he put aside and tried to forget. He got no letters from home; he heard no news; he was alone in the world, and friendless.

So the days passed away, and grew into weeks and months, and then ‒ well, the English newspapers described it as a "regrettable incident." There were many such incidents during those dark days. The little company of which Arthur was a unit was cleverly ambushed. Of course, they fought desperately against overwhelming odds, fought till all their ammunition was spent, and then fought at the point of the bayonet.

In the end few British soldiers were left alive to tell the story. All the ground was strewn with dying and with dead, friend and foe inextricably mixed in heaps of gashed and maimed humanity.

As soon as the issue of the conflict had been decided ‒ a foregone conclusion from the first ‒ the wounded were picked out from among the dead, and carried away to the enemy's camp to be ministered to by the enemy's doctors. The dead were laid out in solemn and appalling rows, with their bloodstained, passion-lined faces upturned to the sky, while their late comrades and enemies dug a hasty trench in which they were to lie without coffins or shrouds until the morning of the resurrection.

In one of those solemn rows lay Arthur Teesdale.
Chapter 24

A Fresh Calamity

ON the very day that Nan o' the Fells came to Rowton Hall, dressed in the garb of a nurse, Mrs. Finch passed quietly and unexpectedly out of life. Avril, who had watched her mother fading slowly for months past, had no suspicion that she was near her end. Neither had the doctor any thought that she would go so suddenly.

She had seemed no worse than usual during the morning. She had come downstairs after her late breakfast unaided; had even walked a few steps into the garden, and stood and gazed upon the glorious hills radiant in the summer sunshine. She smiled as she did so, and said to herself that it was good to be alive.

She appeared to have no presentiment that her end was so near. She was conscious of the fact that she had lost strength of late, though she was unwilling to admit it even to herself. She believed she had yet many more years of life. She had so much to do before she took the last solemn journey, so many business affairs to put straight, so many papers to destroy.

She often wondered why she had so long delayed going through her papers and weeding out the worthless documents. Some of the papers related to Avril, and it would be better, so she believed, that Avril should never see them. She ought to have destroyed them years ago, but for some reason she had hesitated and delayed. She had a stupid prejudice against destroying papers. Some of them had cost much thought and labour, and it seemed almost wrong to commit them to the flames.

And yet if they were not destroyed before she died, they might fall into Avril's hands, and that, of course, would be an infinite pity. Better Avril should never know. She was proud and sensitive, and knowledge in her case might hang like a cloud across the whole of her life.

Hitherto Avril had lived in happy ignorance. If she suspected any mystery surrounding her birth and parentage, she never suspected the truth. The truth had been carefully and successfully hidden, and it would be to her happiness that it should never be revealed.

"I will burn those papers when I get a little stronger," Mrs. Finch said to herself as she came back slowly from the garden, and dropped wearily into her armchair. "Yes, I will burn the papers. I ought to have done it years ago. There may be no hurry, for of course I shall live years yet. Still, when they are out of the way I shall feel easier in my mind."

And she put on her spectacles and picked up her favourite newspaper.

Avril came in from the kitchen a few minutes later, looking almost cheerful. Optimism had never quite died out of her heart, though it was a hope she could never discuss with her aunt; for Mrs. Finch felt as certain as she did of her own existence that Arthur Teesdale would never be seen alive again. Because Bridlemere had refused to give up its dead, that was no proof to the old lady that the dead was not there.

Nevertheless, she was thankful that Avril bore her loss so bravely and patiently. It was much pleasanter to have her hopeful and sweet-tempered than to see her walking about the house tearful and despairing. Avril Guest had stubbornly refused to wear black, or put on any sign of mourning, for Arthur might turn up any day, might come upon them when least expected.

So she resolved that she would be always on the lookout for him, and always ready with a welcome. Had he walked in at any hour of the day she would not have been greatly surprised. She would only have welcomed him with a more ardent gladness, and an expression of greater delight in her eyes.

It is true she had her dark days ‒ days when the hard facts of the situation beat down her hope, and triumphed for the moment over her buoyant faith; days when the sun seemed to go out in darkness, when the fells and fields wrapped themselves in gloom, and the becks and streams sang in a minor key. But hope always triumphed in the long-run.

"In God's good time," Avril would say to herself, "I shall know and understand. He is only trying me now, preparing me for better service. I shall come out of the darkness by and by, into His own beautiful light."

Had she been of a less hopeful and sanguine disposition she might have seen her aunt who had adopted her was surely reaching the end of her journey. That her strength was failing she knew, and now and then she had a misgiving lest this subtle sickness should be mortal. But the doctor always spoke encouragingly, and her own unfailing hope did the rest.

"She will pick up again after a while," Avril would say to herself. "She suffers no pain; and it is not to be expected that she should have the strength and energy of youth. She will be with me yet for many a long year."

So she kept a smiling face amid all the gloom that had settled down upon Glen Villa. Even when the days seemed dark to her she kept her despondency to herself. She would not worry her aunt with her own nameless and groundless fears.

"I hear you have been out in the garden, aunt," Avril said as she came in, smiling, from the kitchen.

"Just a little way, Avril. I wanted to look at the fells in the sunshine."

"They look glorious today. But you should have seen them at dawn, when only the ridges were tipped with gold, and all their slopes were hidden by a blue, mysterious haze."

"I prefer them when the noon sun is shining upon them," Mrs. Finch answered. "I don't like mystery. When you cannot see, imagination plays such pranks."

"Ah, that's just the beauty of it," Avril said, with a little laugh. "Imagination can fill all the invisible places with such wondrous things."

"With such horrid things, you mean!" Mrs. Finch interjected. "No, no, Avril, I don't want to be driven to imagine things that have no existence. The real things are horrible enough."

"Ah, I see what you are thinking about," Avril said, glancing at the newspaper.

"It's a terrible war in South Africa," Mrs. Finch replied, taking off her spectacles and wiping them. "There's another of those 'regrettable incidents' reported again this morning."

"I've not had time to look at the paper today," Avril answered; "and, indeed, I'm almost afraid to open it sometimes. Day after day it is full of such awful tales of suffering that I am half afraid that even reading these daily accounts will harden me, and make me indifferent to human suffering."

"Oh no, Avril, you will never become indifferent. It would be almost a mercy if you were a little less sensitive than you are."

"And yet I am sure, aunty, we are all of us becoming a little hardened. You remember the terrible shipwreck the other day, when twenty people were drowned? But no one seemed to take any notice of it. One felt almost instinctively that the drowning of twenty men was a mere nothing when every day the papers are full of names of men who have either been slaughtered on the battlefield or died of wounds in the hospitals."

"It is terrible, Avril. I can hardly sleep at nights sometimes thinking about it. I wish I could bring myself to believe that war is a right way of settling our quarrels, but somehow I can't."

"It is all puzzling," Avril answered. "I never read the papers now, but I want to be out there among the wounded and suffering. It seems almost selfish to be here in ease and luxury while out there men are dying by hundreds."

"There seems to have been a terrible slaughter yesterday," Mrs. Finch said, after a pause, and she put on her glasses again. "Our men fought stubbornly, by all accounts, but they were terribly outnumbered. They just walked into a trap, and were cut to pieces before they could get out again."

"And yet our officers are supposed to be so clever," Avril said, looking out of the window.

"Boys, my dear!" said Mrs. Finch sharply. "Peacocks with fine feathers and the brains of a Jenny wren!"

"Oh, aunty!"

"Read the account for yourself, my dear. Such stupidity is terrible."

A few minutes later Avril went out into the garden to gather flowers to decorate the rooms. The vicar passed by as she snipped off the blooms with a pair of scissors, and paused for a moment and looked at her.

He sighed as he did so. He could not help it. It seemed almost a wrong that a life so sweet as hers should be darkened by so great a sorrow. Yet her face showed but little sign of the grief that was gnawing at her heart. It was pale, certainly, and her eyes had in them a far-away look; but her cheeks were as rounded as ever, and her smile as sweet as in the old days of unclouded happiness.

She looked up at length, and their eyes met.

"And how is your aunt today?" the vicar asked in his most cheery manner.

"I think she is rather better than usual," Avril replied.

"I am glad to hear it. This lovely weather ought to do her good."

"She has been out in the garden for a little while this morning, but her strength is soon exhausted."

"You should try to get her out a little every day," the vicar went on. "There's nothing, you know, like making hay while the sun shines."

"That's what I tell her," Avril answered, with a smile, "but people generally like to go their own way."

"Yes, that is so," the vicar answered, shaking his head. "I'm just going across to the Hall to see how Sir Geoffrey is. Dr. Storey fears he's in for a bad time."

"I really wonder he has borne up as well as he has, and so long."

"Oh, nonsense, my child. With care and good nursing he ought to live twenty years yet. But he's very obstinate. He never sends for the doctor until he is compelled, and as for having a nurse ‒ well, you should hear him talk when the subject is mentioned."

"But I'm told he has a nurse from London now," Avril replied.

"I've heard the same thing, but I almost doubt it. However, I'm going across to the Hall to make inquiries. You'll remember me kindly to your aunt? Tell her I'll call in and see her in a day or two."

"I'll tell her. I hope Mrs. Grove and the girls are well?"

"About as usual, thank you." And, raising his hat, the vicar marched away.

Avril spent a few minutes longer in the garden, and then went back into the house. The rooms seemed dark and cool after the warm brilliance of the outer sunshine. Mrs. Finch was still in her armchair, with her head bent forward a little as though she had fallen asleep.

"Are you asleep, aunty?" Avril asked, holding a large bunch of flowers in front of her.

But, getting no answer, she spoke again. "You should not sleep in the daytime, aunty."

And she touched her on the shoulder, but there was no response in word or look.

"Aunty, aunty, are you asleep?" she called.

The next moment she gave a startled cry, which brought one of the maids in from the kitchen.

They had never seen death before, yet they recognised its presence in a moment. The doctor was fetched with all possible haste, but he only shook his head. An hour later the whole village knew that Mrs. Finch had died suddenly in her chair, and that Avril Guest was alone in the world, without a single relative to give her counsel or guidance.

For a week, Avril lived like one in a dream. She remained quite calm and collected, never even shedding a tear. She felt herself as though she had been chiselled out of stone. All power of feeling seemed to have been taken away, but she could still think and act. She gave orders about everything, and saw that everything was properly carried out. Nothing was neglected at the funeral; no detail was overlooked.

The vicar returned to the house after the last rites had been performed, along with John Merton, the solicitor, and a few special friends. There was no surprise in the will. Everything was left to Avril without reserve and without conditions. She was free to do as she liked, to go where she liked, to live as she liked.

The vicar looked at Avril, and so did John Merton, but she seemed quite unmoved and unconcerned. She had not awaked yet from the curious lethargy into which the shock of her aunt's death had thrown her.

The awaking came a few days later when looking through her aunt's papers. She started on this task in a listless and indifferent mood. She felt no real interest in anything. Most of her faculties appeared numbed. She could think clearly enough, but she could not feel. Nothing seemed to matter; nothing was of any moment.

It was the lawyer who suggested that she should go carefully through her aunt's papers, so that she might understand the nature and character of her possessions. It seemed a matter of little moment to her just then what she possessed. Nevertheless, in obedience to the solicitor's wish, she started with a big box in her aunt's room. It was full of papers of all sorts ‒ some docketed, some loose, some tied up with tape, some packed away in envelopes. There were letters and agreements, and diaries and certificates, and to her uninitiated eyes all seemed equally valueless.

The first day led to no important discovery; but the second day she found a letter that puzzled her greatly, and set her hunting for others. By the end of the third day she was in a maze of mystery, and was stirred to the finger-tips with anxiety and excitement. By the end of the fourth day she had straightened out the tangle, and sat on the floor gazing blankly into space, as though she had received a mortal wound.

She was wide awake enough now, and able to feel through every nerve and fibre of her being. The first blow numbed her, the second stretched every nerve on the rack.

She did not go to bed that night. She sat alone in her room, staring into the darkness and trying to face the new calamity that had fallen upon her.
Chapter 25

A Fateful Decision

WHEN the dawn began at length to struggle into the room, Avril rose from her chair and went and drew up the blind and threw open the window. The cool morning air blew sweet and strong upon her face, and the tender green of the hills was like balm to her weary eyes. No one was stirring yet. The very trees seemed to be asleep.

All the night she had sat thinking, trying to shape some plan of action, trying to face without shrinking the new condition of things that loomed suddenly in front of her. Now, with the dawn, the half-formed plans and purposes that had vexed her during the night began to take definite shape, and what she had deemed at first the most awful calamity of her life began to show itself with a new and less forbidding face.

The birds began to twitter by and by under the eaves, and in the branches of the trees, and their shrill notes touched her heart with a new and strange emotion. The young birds called, and the parent-birds answered, and the answer to the call awoke a sense of longing in her heart that she had never felt till now.

All her life she had never known what it was to have the love of either father or mother. How much she had missed she had scarcely even paused to inquire. Never having possessed, she was hardly conscious of any sense of loss. Mrs. Finch had always been kind to her, and though she hardly met all the need of the heart, yet that mattered little, especially after Arthur Teesdale whispered the story of his love in her ear.

But now, when she was bereft of everything ‒ when loved one and guardian had both vanished into the great silence ‒ her heart cried out for what she had never known ‒ the love of a parent. Perhaps it was the knowledge that had come to her that awoke the longing into life. Her mother was dead, she knew ‒ had died a few days after she was born ‒ died of shock and a broken heart ‒ so she had learned from the papers Mrs. Finch had left behind.

But there was no proof or hint that her father was dead. In all probability he was living still, and in the prime of his manhood, for a man of forty-five should be at his best.

Socially he might be an outcast, and in the eyes of the world a criminal, though she could read he had paid the penalty of his crime; yet he was her father, and that fact, bit by bit, began to dominate and outweigh all other considerations.

At first, the discovery that her father was a forger, and had been sentenced to a long term of penal servitude, struck at her heart like the fangs of a scorpion, and seemed to dry up all the blood in her veins. The loss of her aunt, the loss even of her loved one, seemed as nothing in comparison with the fact that she was the child of a criminal.

From many points of view it might be a calamity to have a father who was not a good man ‒ a father who had disgraced his name and broken his wife's heart; but to one so utterly alone as she was, so friendless and defenceless, it was something to discover that she had a father at all. So the first horror of the discovery passed slowly away, and a new feeling began gradually to take its place.

It might be that very taint in her blood that made her heart go out to this unknown man, this moral reprobate; or it might be the Saviour's voice calling her to service and to holy sacrifice.

If the Saviour of all gave His life for the outcast and rebellious, ought she to shrink from devoting her life to this man, whose blood flowed in her veins, and who, in spite of his sins and follies, was united to her by the closest of all ties?

Of course, the discovery might mean social ostracism for herself. In that, in large measure, lay the horror of the first discovery. Her love-dream was at an end, whatever might come or go. If Arthur Teesdale were to come to her that very day, she would have to tell him she could never now be his wife. Even if he were willing to take her, knowing that she was the child of a convict, she would never consent. She had too much regard for Arthur, and for the honour of his name and the happiness of his future, to burden him with her presence.

So it mattered little to her now whether Arthur Teesdale was living or dead. From henceforth he was dead to her, and she to him. No more would she watch and wait for his coming, no more weave golden fancies about his name. The beautiful dream that had glorified her maidenhood and given zest to life and gladness to mere existence was at an end for ever.

Arthur Teesdale might some day return, but she would not be there to greet him ‒ and if he searched for her he would not be able to find her.

She watched the sun rise over the fells and drink up the mists that lay in the deep ravines; watched the dewdrops glisten and disappear as the sun first kissed them, then absorbed them; watched the birds preen their wings by the little fountain in the garden; watched the bees come out of their hive and float away on the still, scented air; watched the smoke begin to curl slowly up from the Vicarage chimney; then she turned away from the window and sank once again in her armchair.

Below she heard the maids stirring. They would soon sound the gong for her ‒ ay, and soon sound it for the last time. She would have to go away from Bradenford. That conviction had been forming in her mind all the morning. It was a matter of certainty now. She would be sorry to go, for many reasons. She had lived among those beautiful hills all her life. All her memories were focused in this one spot, and she did not believe there was another place in the British Isles half so beautiful as the Lake District.

But after the discovery she had made, she could not remain. There were other discoveries that she wanted to make. In her aunt's papers there were hints of things that not only puzzled her but distressed her. She would never have any real peace until she had probed the whole matter to the bottom.

She hardly knew whether to blame or commend Mrs. Finch for the part she had played, for she was a proud woman, and her pride had been touched in the most sensitive place. Avril understood now why her aunt could never be got to talk about the past, and why she appeared not to have a friend or an acquaintance in the world outside Bradenford, and yet she had only lived in Bradenford for eighteen or nineteen years. Where had she spent the other forty years of her life, and how?

Some of these questions received a partial answer in the papers she had left behind, but there still remained a good deal that was not clear.

In far-away Devonshire there was a village or hamlet that might hold the secrets she was so anxious to unravel. Some people in her circumstances might say, "Let the secrets remain. Burn all the papers, and lock up such knowledge as you possess in your own heart." But she knew that was not her nature.

Knowing as much as she did, Avril could not rest without knowing more. Even if she were sure the fresh knowledge would mean fresh pain, she would still go forward. Her own happiness was a matter that no longer concerned her. The day of happiness was over. She had had her share.

For two glorious years the cup of joy had never been absent from her lips. The bliss of loving and being loved she had known in its perfection. She had drunk deeply of the intoxicating cup, and had seen the world and life in all the glamour of perfect love. No girl had ever been happier than she. Perhaps it was in the nature of things that such happiness could not last. She was thankful that she had tasted the delicious draught, but the cup of happiness belonged to the things that had been and never could be again.

The vicar called on Avril once or twice, but finding her preoccupied he did not remain long. When at length she told him that she was going away from Bradenford he stood aghast and almost speechless.

"But surely there is no necessity," he said at length. "All your friends and acquaintances are here."

"But I may have relatives in other places," she said, with a feeble attempt at a smile.

"But I always understood that your aunt was the only relative you had in the world."

"The only one who took much interest in me, perhaps. Still, that may not be entirely their fault."

"Then you are going on a round of visits, I presume?"

"No, I do not think so, but of course I shall be guided by circumstances. Some day I may return here. Or I may never return."

"But ... but," he said hesitatingly, "suppose ... suppose .. well, that is, suppose your hope should prove to be well founded? That is, suppose Arthur Teesdale should not really be dead?"

"I think it is too late ... to discuss that now, Mr. Grove," she said hesitatingly.

"No, I am not so sure of that," he said doggedly. "Do you know, a fresh idea has come into my mind of late."

"Indeed?" she asked.

"It was after the last conversation I had with you on the matter. I thought at the time ‒ if you will excuse me saying so ‒ that you were foolish and obstinate. But somehow your hope and confidence infected me in a way I could not understand, and then one day, all of a sudden, a thought shot through my mind."

"Yes?" she asked.

"Well, I thought if Douglas escaped with his life, why may not Arthur Teesdale have done the same? He was the stronger man of the two, and the better swimmer."

"But he has never shown himself since."

"Exactly. Suppose he was haunted with the same idea that Douglas had ‒ namely, that he had killed his friend. You know that Douglas first considered the chance of escaping out of the country. He is sensitive and imaginative, as you know, and he could not rest until he had given himself up to justice."

"But is not Arthur as honourable?"

"In a case of that kind everything depends on the point of view. Arthur might have argued that it was an unlucky accident, but an accident that might cost him his life. In the excitement of the moment he might have considered his own safety, and so got out of the country."

"But would he not have communicated with his father, or with me?"

"A hundred things may have happened. He may have been ill all these months, or afraid. One thing is certain: his body has not been found, and there is strong presumptive evidence that he is not lying under the waters of Bridlemere."

"Yes, yes, that is the one fact I have built upon all the time, though in truth I have never been able to argue the question. Only I have had an impression, or a presentiment ‒ call it what you like ‒ that he is not dead, and that some day he will turn up again."

"And if he does, and you are not here?" the vicar asked.

"That will make no difference," she answered, with a smile. "The world is not such a big place."

"Of course you are quite right in that," he said, not understanding her answer. "You will keep in touch with your old friends. And do you know, I have a strong hope that I shall see you happy yet."

"It is always good to be hopeful," she said, smiling at him again.

"Ah, if one's hope could be only realised, what a difference it would make," he said reflectively. "If Arthur Teesdale were to turn up alive it would change the face of everything. Douglas would be able to come back from his banishment, Sir Geoffrey would grow young once more, and you would be as happy again as the birds."

"And what of yourself?"

"Oh, I think I should renew my youth, like the eagles. The Vicarage would seem a different place if only that shadow could be lifted, and Douglas could return."

"But he can return if he likes."

"If he likes? Ah, my child, could you return if you were in his place? He believes he killed Arthur, and he knows that most of the people here believe he did. No, my child, I am afraid he will never come back."

"He is doing well for himself, I trust?"

"He has done well indeed. At present ‒ I don't mind telling you ‒ he is trying to find out how Hope came by her death."

"Poor Douglas!"

"Don't say a word to anyone. It seems to me a morbid kind of undertaking. But he was extremely fond of the girl."

"He loved her, Mr. Grove."

"Well, yes, I suppose you are right. There's no accounting for these things. If only Douglas had seen things through my eyes."

"That might not have mended matters." And she glanced shyly up into the vicar's face and smiled, for she had a shrewd suspicion of what was in his mind.

"Well, no, perhaps not. Love seems to go by the rule of contrary."

"Do you think so?"

"Well, for some reason or other, people seem to marry the most unlikely people. Older people, as they look on, can generally see pretty well what the upshot will be; for you see, my dear, love, as it is called, without affinity, without comradeship, without reverence, will soon wear into holes."

"Can there be love without affinity and without reverence?" she asked.

"Young people don't always look deeply," he answered evasively. "They are content with what is on the surface. They are charmed by a pretty face, or pretty manners, and are carried away by an fleeting emotion."

"Some young people may be," she answered shyly. "I don't think Douglas was."

"Oh, he was bitten deeply, I admit. Though, between ourselves, it was always something of a puzzle to me. Hope was a mere girl, and to speak plainly I never could quite see where the attraction came in."

"It would be a dull kind of world," she answered, "if everybody saw alike."

"Yes, I suppose it would be. But I am worried about Douglas. I sometimes fear Hope's tragic end, coming upon all the rest, has a little unhinged him."

"I don't wonder if it has. I'm sure he was awfully fond of her. And if I were in his place, I think I should like to find out how she came by her end."

"But what good can it do, my dear?"

"I don't think that is always the supreme question," she answered. "We are sometimes urged forward by an impulse we cannot resist. We never stop to consider whether we shall gain or lose."

"But don't you think we ought to stop and consider? I fear impulse is not often a safe guide. Are you sure, my child, you are doing wisely in leaving Bradenford, even for a time? Let me urge you to give the matter a little further consideration."

And the vicar picked up his hat and began to twirl it between his hands.

"I have thought everything out carefully," she answered.

"And will you take no one with you?"

"No, I shall go alone."

"And will you be away long?" he asked, with a note of anxiety in his voice.

"I may never come back again," she answered.

For several moments he looked at her in silence. "I do not quite understand you," he said slowly. "It seems to me a serious and a perilous step to take."

"It is the right step," she answered, looking up into his face with a smile. "I have heard you say often that the path of duty is the path of safety."

"Yes, I have often said it, and I believe it," he answered. "But in your case, you see, I am not sure that it is your duty."

"But I am sure, Mr. Grove."

He turned and looked at her, and waited, hoping that she would take him further into her confidence. But she was in no mood to do that. And when at last he took his departure, it was with a feeling of considerable misgiving in his heart.

He had been nearly thirty years vicar of Bradenford, and yet never before had he been faced by so many perplexing problems. Instead of his life gliding into a calm and restful eventide, the sky became more stormy and the waters more troubled. He was worried about his son, worried about Sir Geoffrey, worried by the mystery that still hung over the fate of Arthur Teesdale, worried by the comings and goings of Hugh; and now a fresh worry was added to all the others.

Why, in the name of common sense, should Avril ‒ whom he loved like one of his own children ‒ take it into her head to leave Bradenford, and go forth, Heaven knew whither or for what purpose?

The vicar walked to his home deep in thought, and shook his head as he walked. He was not at all pleased with the turn of events, and deep down in his heart he could not help feeling just a little piqued that Avril did not take him more fully into her confidence.

"I fear it is of no use worrying over other people's affairs," he said as he threw himself into his study chair. "They'll go their own way, in spite of everything you may say or do."
Chapter 26

A Shadow on the Fells

AVRIL went away as quietly and with as little fuss as possible. With the assistance of Mr. Merton the solicitor, she managed to let her house furnished. Mr. Merton was to collect the rent and bank it for her, and generally to act in her interests.

Sergeant Broxup was very much disappointed, and came to see Avril about the matter. It was the sergeant's hope that Avril would lock up her house, and leave it in his charge. He foresaw, under such an arrangement, a few benefits that would be sure to come his way.

He pretended not to have heard that she had let her house. "My missus have been a-tellin' me that she's heard down in the village as you think of goin' away for a bit of a change."

And the sergeant twirled his helmet round on his finger and smiled benignly.

"Yes, I am going away," she answered. "For once, common report speaks truly."

"And a wise thing to do, miss, I should say. The truth is, change is a good thing for man an' beast. Unfortunit for some of us, we can't get a change. We're tied by the leg, as it were. Not that we desarve any better, for it's our own doin'."

"Yes?" she asked innocently, not seeing exactly what Broxup was driving at.

"You see, miss, things in this world once done they're done, and you're done also in a way. I've often thought 'pon it when on my beat or sitting at home meditative by myself ‒ that is when I'm allowed to meditate; for when a man has got a missus, he ain't no longer his own master, as it were."

"Is that so, Broxup?" she asked, with a little laugh.

"It's very much so, ma'am, as I can assure you. An', you see, there's no escapin' from it either."

"But you wouldn't like to escape from it, would you?"

"Well, in a general sort of way, that is what I should call a leadin' question," Broxup said, with a laugh. "You see, I was kind of a-arguin' the question generally. I had a long talk once on the subject with the vicar's son that time he gived himself up, you remember."

"Yes."

"Oh, well, I look upon Douglas Grove as a terrible nice young man, but mistook as to facts; and a conscience as is bound to give him trouble if he gives way to it."

"But we should always follow our conscience, Broxup."

"Not at all, miss; and you would say the same if you was in the force. If you take notice of conscience it'll give itself airs and lead you no end of a dance. No, miss, sense is the thing that should be followed. Not conscience, nor feeling, nor any of them things that can't be worked out by arithmetic, as it were. We follow feelin's when we are young, and what a mess we get into frequent."

"Is that so?"

"So, miss? I reckon it is so. An' the worst of it is what's done is done. An' there's no way of undoin' it. Young Mr. Grove and myself discussed that question once till after midnight, an' we both agreed. Sensible young man is the vicar's son."

Avril smiled, and suggested that her visitor should take a seat.

Broxup fell in with the suggestion in a moment. There was nothing he enjoyed so much as enlarging on his favourite theme to someone who was willing to listen to him.

"I dropped into the little chapel the other Sunday evening and heard Mr. Wilson preaching about repentance, and all that. And I must say it was pleasant kind of talk to hear, an' comforting, too, in a way." And Broxup put his helmet on the floor, that he might use his hands the more freely.

"Mr. Wilson is a good man, I believe," Avril said quietly.

"I believe he's a good man, but considerable up in the clouds at times. If he were in the force for a year he'd learn a thing or two. You see, it's all very well to talk about repentance and forgiveness, and all them things; but if a man's made a fool of hisself ‒ married the wrong girl, for instance ‒ well, he may go on repentin' till his teeth drop out, but it don't alter nothing."

"Oh yes, it may alter a good deal. He may grow a better man through having to fight and struggle and bear his cross through life."

Broxup shook his head and grunted. "It's clear you ain't been there, miss," he said. "If a man goes on repentin' all his days, and no good comes out of his repentin', he grows bitter an' kind of cynical. I've seen it, miss, again and again."

"Then you think no good comes out of repenting?" she asked.

"Good or not, miss, you can't help repentin' if you've made a mistake or done a ridiculous thing. But what I'm a-sayin' is, repentin' don't undo nothin'. You've just got to grin and abide. There's the fact, an' you've got to face it. If one could only turn back ‒ begin over again, as it were ‒ mend the stick that you broke; gather up the water spilt on the ground. But no, miss, it can't be done. I'm constantly, in my humble way, preachin' it to young men."

"It's a useful sermon to preach," Avril said gently. "Only with repentance we must preach forgiveness. God can forgive and undo."

"Well, as for that, miss, maybe He can undo, but seems to me He don't. He may change the relationship, as it were, but the facts remain, and the punishment keeps along all the time. I tell young men as wants to get married to be sure first thing that they've got the right girl."

"A very important consideration, no doubt."

"Though there, again, there's no knowin' what they're like till you've got 'em," Broxup went on. "Seein' 'em in their best and on Sundays they look little angels, as purty as flowers an' as sweet as honeysuckle. An' they're up to all sorts of purty little tricks for pleasin' you, too. They looks at you out of the corner of their eye, and they dimples their cheeks, an' their voices is soft as runnin' water, an' their clothes smell like banks o' violets, an' you think you could love 'em seven days a-week an' holidays thrown in. But lor, miss, I don't know if it's ever struck you, but seems to me that most of 'em, when once they're wed, lose all their purty little ways, and don't care how they look; and all the music goes out of their voices, and they become as waspish and draggle-tailed as a bumble-bee with the toothache."

"Perhaps that is the fault of the men," Avril said seriously. "It seems to me that the men in Bradenford tire of their wives all too soon, and neglect them on the smallest excuse."

"But do you think the men would tire of 'em, miss, if they kept themselves sweet and purty as they used to do in the courtin' days?"

"I fear some of them would."

Broxup shook his head again, and stooped and picked up his helmet. "I hope you'll excuse me," he said. "Talking all this time and a-hinderin' you very likely, but I just come round to say as how I'll be glad to give a heye to the 'ouse while you're away, and keep the burglars off, and them things."

"Thank you, Broxup; but I've let the house furnished. Or rather, Mr. Merton has let it for me."

Broxup looked distressed. "You mean the lawyer?" he asked.

"Yes. You see, he was my aunt's solicitor for a good many years."

"And he's goin' to look after things while you're away?"

"Well, yes, until I decide what I shall do further."

"Well, miss, I hope you'll enjoy yourself. An' I hope as how you'll soon come back again. I'll keep my heye on things all the same. I've no doubt lawyers be useful people in their way."

"Oh yes, I think they are," she said, with a laugh.

"Well, a pleasant time to you, miss." And Broxup donned his helmet and walked away.

An hour later Mr. Merton called for final instructions. Like the vicar, he was somewhat piqued that Avril did not take him more fully into her confidence. He would have liked to have kept a hand on Avril's property, and been her chief adviser, but it was evident she meant to go her own way. Her aunt had left her sole executrix as well as legatee, and as the property was entirely in marketable scrip there were no complications to be straightened out.

She went away without telling anyone her plans. A few of her nearest friends saw her off at the station. She took a ticket to London, and travelled by the morning express. But what she intended to do when she got to London no one knew.

There were dark lines under her eyes, as though she had not slept during the night; but her voice never once faltered when she said goodbye, nor did she suggest to anyone that she might not come back again.

The vicar returned from the station feeling depressed. Avril was almost as dear to him as any one of his own children. Had she been going away to certain happiness the parting would have been painful to him, but for her to go away as she had done, practically leaving behind her no trace, was as though someone had struck him a heavy blow.

He could not help feeling that her going to London was a mere blind, an easy way of throwing her friends off the scent. It was evident she wanted to be alone, to go her own way without outside interference, to do something upon which she had set her heart without let or hindrance.

But what was that something? And was it a right thing for her to undertake? If it was, why did she hide it from her friends and refuse to take anyone into her confidence? The more he thought about the matter, the more distressed he got. It was not like Avril to be so close and secretive.

If she had been older, and more used to the ways of the world, he would have been less troubled. But she was little more than a girl. She had been to London a few times, but she knew nothing about life in that great city, and she had no one there who could befriend her.

"It seems like sending a lamb into a pack of wolves," he said to himself as he walked slowly homeward with bent head. "It may be all right for a young man ‒ though London is a dangerous place even for young men ‒ but for a young woman ‒ an innocent, trusting young woman ‒ it's the very mouth of doom."

He slackened his pace as he climbed the steep hill toward the Vicarage, and at the garden gate he stopped and took off his hat. It was a lovely prospect that surrounded him, and one that he never tired of contemplating. Hill and valley, river and lake, wood and meadow, rock and crag made up a picture that, in its way, was unequalled for loveliness. In the thirty years during which he had been vicar of Bradenford, how often had he stood on the same spot and looked away across the lake to the purple hills beyond!

In those thirty years nothing in the wide prospect had changed. He had seen it in all seasons and in all weathers, and the very steadfastness of the hills had been to him an assurance of the unchanging power and goodness of God. Men might come and men might go, but the hills remained. The lake still reflected in its peaceful depths the sky above, the river still sung in the valley night and day alike, the rocks still lifted up their serrated fronts and laughed defiance at the storm.

There might be changes in the outward aspect of things. The shadows came and went, the mists gathered and dispersed, the sunshine bathed the hills in gold or left them in the shadow of a cloud; but the things themselves remained unchanged. Wrapped in snow, or smothered in storm, or bathed in sunshine, the everlasting hills were always there, and always speaking to him of the unfailing mercy of God.

He had felt sometimes of late that but for the steadfastness of Nature, his faith would have given out. What he had called Providence was becoming to him more and more of a mystery. Advancing years, instead of yielding him a more abiding peace, kept steadily robbing him of what he treasured most. The dreams of other years were vanishing into smoke; the castles he had built in the air had nearly all fallen into dust.

Douglas, his firstborn, was a wanderer, almost an outcast, hiding himself in the great Modern Babylon under an assumed name. His four girls at home lived daily in the shadow of their brother's disgrace. His own influence for good was weakened, because it was believed he had not ruled aright his own household. His wife was in danger of becoming a confirmed hypochondriac, in consequence of the events of the last few months.

On the placid bosom of the lake the shadows came and went, and on the far-off mountains the light burned fierce and strong; but somehow God had no comforting message for him today. The going away of Avril threw a shadow over everything. It meant another mystery, an added problem to the many that remained unsolved.

Sir Geoffrey was seriously ill, and by all accounts growing daily worse. His low-browed nephew, Hugh, whom no one loved or trusted, was being carried by a curious combination of untoward events into full possession of the estate. His two children had been taken from him within a week of each other, while the elder of them had not been given even Christian burial.

It was all perplexing to the vicar, and he sighed deeply as he replaced his hat and walked slowly into the house.

Rosalie, the youngest born, met him in the hall, and held up her chubby face to be kissed. "Mammy has been saying," she said, with a whimper, "that Duggy will never come home any more."

"Your mammy should not say that," he said, with a reproachful tone in his voice. "Your mammy is not well, my darling. I hope Douglas will come home again some day."

"But he's been gone away so long, daddy, and I do want to see him, ever so much."

"We all want to see him," he said tenderly, "and, please God, he will come back again soon."

"The naughty girls in the village say he daren't come home 'cause ... 'cause‒‒"

"No, don't, don't!" he cried eagerly, and he caught her in his arms, and smothered the words with a kiss. "Never mind what the girls in the village say. They don't know what they are talking about."

"But I do mind what they say," she said, with a sob. "Oh, if I were only a big boy I know what I would do to them!"

He kissed her again, and carried her up into his study, and fished out a storybook for her, which she soon got interested in, while he dropped into an armchair and tried to think.

Meanwhile, Avril was sobbing quietly in a corner while the train bore her swiftly toward London. Fortunately, she had the compartment to herself nearly all the distance, so that she could have her cry undisturbed.

She had no idea that the parting would be half so bitter, until she came to the actual experience. She never felt so utterly friendless as she did when the train began to move swiftly out of the station. She was glad when the last goodbye was spoken and she was fairly on the wing. But the sense of loneliness and desolation that swept over her was overwhelming.

Not even Robinson Crusoe, on the island of Juan Fernandez, was more friendless than she. On and on the train sped through ripening cornfields and parched pasture lands, but she heeded nothing. The reaction after the long tension had come. Her courage and resolution seemed suddenly to evaporate. She was no longer certain she had chosen the right path. Indeed, she was not sure she was not flying in the face of God.

As the afternoon waned, and the train slackened toward its destination, and on every side stretched away a dreary wilderness of smoke blackened brick houses, her courage sank to zero. What if, after all, she had done the wrong thing? What if this great city should prove to her ‒ as it had proved to so many others ‒ the grave of all her hopes?

She stood at length on the platform of the great terminus in a state of utter bewilderment. On every side people jostled, and shouted, and elbowed their way in this direction and that, while over all rose a confused noise of street traffic, human voices and escaping steam. It seemed to her as though she had got to the end of the world. Nobody noticed her, nobody offered to look for her luggage, and for the moment she was too bewildered to think.

Unbidden, the tears came into her eyes and almost blinded her. Then, with a sudden movement, she brushed them away with her gloved hand.

"This will never do," she said to herself. "I must not play the coward on the threshold. I have chosen my lot, and I must face it whatever comes or goes."
Chapter 27

Apprehension

THE vicar awoke in the middle of the night with a start, and with a vague sense of impending trouble. His heart was beating at a terrific rate, while big drops of perspiration rolled down his face.

"That was a nasty dream," he said to himself, as he turned over on his side. And he closed his eyes and tried to sleep again. But his heart was still beating painfully fast, and all his nerves seemed strung up to the highest point of tension.

"It's the result of a late supper, I expect," he went on. "I ought to know better than indulge in late suppers at my time of life, and yet I do it. How slow we are to learn wisdom!"

He settled himself a little more comfortably, and tried to forget the dream that had so startled him.

But the more he tried to forget, the more vividly the dream came up before him. All its details repeated themselves over and over again. He had seen Sir Geoffrey lying on his back, with his nephew, Hugh Teesdale, bending over him, his knee upon his chest, and his hands clutching the old man's throat.

The vicar had felt as though glued to the spot on which he stood. He tried to move, but could not; tried to cry out, but no sound escaped his lips. He could only stand still and stare while his neighbour was slowly strangled before his eyes.

The vicar turned over on the other side and tried to put away the horrible vision, but it haunted him in spite of everything. Sir Geoffrey's staring eyes seemed to look at him out of the darkness.

The purple skin, gradually becoming livid as the heartbeats grew weaker, seemed to become more and more realistic. He heard again the gurgling sound that escaped the dying man's throat ‒ saw the mute appeal in the rapidly glazing eyes.

"Stupid, tiresome things are dreams!" he said to himself, with a feeling of irritation. "Of course no notice ought to be taken of them. But it is curious how the mind, started on a certain track, turns back to it again and again." And he tried to centre his thoughts on something else.

For a little while he succeeded, but only for a little while. Without will or volition, his thoughts turned back to the same subject, and he found himself debating it as though it were a matter of serious and urgent moment.

"If Hugh were still at the Hall I might have some reason to feel uneasy," he said to himself. "But Hugh is not at the Hall. The hint I gave him proved effective, and it may be regarded as quite certain now that, however strong the temptation may be, he will resist it. No, no, he'll be doubly careful, lest any shadow of suspicion should fall on him.

"And as for dreams ‒ well, it is said they always go by the rule of contrary. The squire is in safe hands. What with Dr. Storey and the London nurse, everything, humanly speaking, that can be done for him will be done. The nurse is no mere novice. Quite an elderly person, I am told ‒ a woman with a level head and a large experience. I wonder who recommended her to Sir Geoffrey. Ah!"

The vicar turned himself suddenly on to his back and stared toward the window, through which the dawn was beginning faintly to reveal itself.

A new thought had lodged itself in his brain. What if Hugh had recommended her? What if she was in league with him? What if Douglas's suspicion was true, and the squire was really and truly in danger of his life?

The vicar's heart began to beat fast again. There might be nothing in his dream, and yet it had started a new train of thought which pained him almost as much as the dream itself.

Douglas evidently believed that Hugh would stick at nothing. He did not say so in so many words, but his letter clearly conveyed that impression. This was Hugh's supreme opportunity. Arthur was out of the way, so was Hope; hence the temptation to remove Sir Geoffrey would be doubly strong.

Hugh might be in want of money. To come into possession of the property quickly might be an imperative necessity. Once in possession, there would be no difficulty in raising a heavy mortgage on the estates and in turning Sir Geoffrey's personal property into hard cash.

Even if Arthur should be alive, and should turn up later on, Hugh, in the meantime, might have so completely feathered his nest that he would be able to snap his fingers at him.

The vicar sat up in bed and stared at the window. "Of course, if Hugh means mischief," he went on, "it will be his cue to keep himself out of sight. He is too cunning a rascal to reveal his own hand in the affair. I wonder I never thought of that before. He will have an accomplice ‒ a woman, perhaps. Who knows? For all I know to the contrary, Hugh may be as surely doing Sir Geoffrey to death as if he had his knee upon his chest and his fingers at his throat!"

The perspiration began to stand in big beads again on the vicar's forehead, and his breath came and went in gasps. He got out of bed at length, and went and pulled up the blinds and looked out upon the fells over which the pearly light of morning was beginning to steal. His wife slept serenely on, and showed no sign of waking. For a while he stood still, watching the white vapours lift slowly from the lower slopes of the hills.

"Surely I am working myself into a fever for nothing," he said to himself at length, and he sighed heavily. "No one could do any harm to Sir Geoffrey without being found out."

He came back to his bed and lay down again. But the subject still haunted him. He might be able to keep his body still, but his brain refused to be passive. He grew quite irritable at length.

"What is the use of worrying?" he said to himself impatiently. "Suppose, for argument's sake, that the worst I can think of is here! Suppose this nurse is in the pay of Hugh ‒ a most unlikely thing. Suppose she has been got into the house for the deliberate purpose of making away with the squire ‒ a still more unlikely thing. Suppose she attempts to strangle him. Bah, the thing is absurd! I ought to know better than worry myself into a fever over a stupid dream."

Then something seemed to whisper in his ear, "There are other ways of killing a dog than choking it with butter."

"She might poison him, of course," he said to himself, with a little gasp. "Such things have been done, and done under the very noses of doctors. I'll call round and see Storey today. It might be well to put him on his guard."

The sun was well above the ridge of the fells before the vicar fell asleep again, and for an hour or two he slept heavily and dreamlessly.

After breakfast, instead of going at once to his study, he put on his hat and made his way down into the village. He was resolved to put a few judicious questions to the doctor, which if they did not set him on his guard might ease his own anxiety.

The doctor was in his consulting room with a patient, so the vicar was shown by the maid into the drawing room, where he waited with as much patience as he could command. There were a few picture books and magazines in the room, which he scanned absently and without interest; a few engravings on the walls, which he studied with a little more interest. Then he turned his attention to a small collection of curios in a cabinet. But nothing interested him long.

If there was one thing the vicar hated, it was being kept waiting. He had a feeling that as the vicar of the parish he ought to be attended to at once.

The door was thrown open at length, and Dr. Storey entered. "Sorry to have kept you waiting," he said, extending his hand. "Nothing amiss, I hope, with Mrs. Grove or the children?"

"No, they are quite well, thank you, just at present ‒ that is, the girls are quite well, and Mrs. Grove is no worse than usual. The truth is, I feel considerably worried about Sir Geoffrey. I heard yesterday that he was not going on as well as anticipated."

"Oh, that is only village rumour," the doctor answered lightly. "People seem to forget that Sir Geoffrey is not by any means a young man. Moreover, he is old for his age. He has been a creaking gate, you know, for a good many years."

"Yes, I am aware of that. But it would be a great relief to know that he is likely to pull through this illness all right."

"I don't see why he should not," the doctor answered slowly, looking out of the window at the same time. "Of course, the uncertain factor in a case like his is the heart. One never knows exactly how soon or how suddenly it may give out."

"Then you are by no means sure of pulling him through?"

"Well, no, it is impossible to speak positively. If he were a younger man, with a normally healthy heart, I should say there would be no danger at all."

"There is nothing peculiar in his case?"

"Nothing at all. May I inquire why you ask such a question?" And the doctor suddenly faced round from the window.

"Well, I think," the vicar said uneasily, "that I am a little over-anxious and unstrung. The events of the last few months have been unsettling, as you know, and between ourselves I don't want to see Hugh Teesdale in possession of Rowton Hall."

"As an old friend of Sir Geoffrey's, that is only natural, of course," the doctor answered, with a smile. "It may be, also, that you are prejudiced against Hugh ‒ as I find many people are ‒ though my own judgment is that he will make a good lord of the manor."

"You think well of him?"

"I am bound to speak as I find, of course, and I must say that since all this trouble came upon his uncle, he has behaved handsomely."

"He is not at the Hall, I think?"

"No, but he writes to his uncle every day ‒ most affectionate letters. And I believe the only thing that keeps him from being in constant attendance on Sir Geoffrey is the fear that if the illness by any chance should take a fatal turn, people might blame him. You see, he is the only one who is directly interested in Sir Geoffrey's death."

"You are satisfied with the nurse, I presume?"

"Quite satisfied. And what is more to the point, Sir Geoffrey is quite satisfied also. You know we had great difficulty in persuading him to have a nurse at all."

"Is it not unusual to send to London for a nurse?"

"Quite unusual. But this woman is highly qualified, highly recommended, and is, moreover, quite an elderly person."

"You know the doctor who recommended her?"

"Not personally, but he stands high in the profession."

"Did you write to him?"

"No, I believe Sir Geoffrey wrote to him himself. We knew, from previous experience, that he was going to be ill, and so he took his nephew's advice and wrote to Dr. ... I forget his name for a moment ... and asked him to send down an elderly and properly qualified woman."

For a few moments there was silence. The vicar looked uneasy, and walked to the window and looked out into the garden.

Then, facing quickly round, he said abruptly, "Excuse me, doctor, but may I ask if you see any grounds for a suspicion that there may be collusion. That is‒‒" He halted suddenly. He found it was not easy to put his thoughts into shape.

The doctor glanced at him inquiringly for a moment, then burst into a low laugh. "Really, vicar," he said, "I don't quite see what you are driving at. Between whom could there be collusion? Hugh and his uncle, or―"

"No, no, you quite misunderstand me. But if Hugh has any personal ends to serve, he may be in league with the nurse."

"My dear vicar, do be careful what you are saying," the doctor said seriously. "Have you really considered what your words imply? Let me entreat you not to talk in this way to other people."

The vicar grew hot. He often gave advice to other people, but he did not relish the doctor giving advice to him. "I am not in the habit of talking indiscriminately," he said, a little shortly, "but to you, a doctor, I hope I may be able to speak quite frankly, and in perfect confidence."

"Of course, that goes without saying. I should never dream of repeating our conversation."

"I don't deny that I may be unduly suspicious," the vicar went on, "but like Pilate's wife I have suffered many things in consequence of a dream. Not that I attach any importance to dreams whatever, only in this case it started a train of thought which I have been compelled to follow."

"And you have arrived at the conclusion," broke in the doctor, "that there is a conspiracy ‒ to put the matter frankly ‒ to make an end of Sir Geoffrey?"

The vicar laughed nervously. "I should not have put the matter quite so bluntly," he said, "though I may as well confess that I am not prepossessed in Hugh Teesdale's favour. In short, I do not like him, and I could not trust him."

"I suppose people cannot help their likes and their dislikes," the doctor said mildly, "and I hold no brief for Hugh Teesdale. Nevertheless, I am sure you do him an injustice. He is in an unfortunate position, I grant, in some respects. I am sure he feels it himself. And you may take it from me, he is extremely anxious that his uncle should recover. As for the nurse, he knows absolutely nothing about her. I believe they have never met each other, but on that point I will not be quite sure."

"Then you think I may make my mind quite easy?"

"My dear vicar, there is nothing to worry about at all. Sir Geoffrey's illness is running the usual course. Of course there are complications, which make the case more difficult. But with care and good nursing ‒ both of which he has ‒ I think he will pull through."

"I hope he will. I sincerely hope and pray he will. I should like him to be living when Arthur turns up alive and well."

"My dear vicar, what are you talking about?" the doctor said, in alarm.

"I'm not joking," said the vicar, picking up his hat and twirling it in his hand, a habit he had when seriously in earnest. "For weeks past the conviction has been growing upon me that Arthur Teesdale is not dead."

The doctor smiled and shook his head.

"Of course I've nothing to base my convictions upon, save the fact that his body has never been found. Nevertheless, I believe he'll yet be seen alive in Bradenford. And when that time comes, I hope Sir Geoffrey will be alive."

"Have you talked in this strain to other people?"

"Only to Avril. And, as you know, nothing would persuade her that Arthur was dead."

"In a girl such a belief may be excusable," the doctor said, in a tone of mild contempt, "but really, Mr. Grove, I am surprised at you!"

"At your time of life you ought to be surprised at nothing!" the vicar retorted, a little maliciously. "But good morning. I must apologise for wasting so much of your time. I promise not to be so thoughtless again." And, with a nervous little laugh, he walked away.

Dr. Storey returned to his consulting room with an uneasy feeling in his mind that the vicar was going to be ill.

"I fear there'll be a nervous breakdown," he said to himself, "and really I don't wonder. It is surprising, considering what he has passed through, that he has kept up as well as he has."

Half an hour later the doctor set out in the direction of Rowton Hall. He honestly believed he regarded all the vicar's suspicions as childish nonsense. Nevertheless, those suspicions were not without their influence on him. They made him watchful, and particularly careful in his diagnosis.

In Sir Geoffrey's room he sniffed at the medicine glass, and tasted the patient's gruel. He did this when the nurse's back was turned, but a convenient hand mirror enabled her to watch all his movements.

"He doesn't catch me napping if I know it!" Nan reflected. And she smiled broadly.

For a few days Dr. Storey dropped in at unexpected times. Then he flung his suspicions to the winds.

"The vicar is getting into his dotage," he said to himself disdainfully. "I'm a fool for giving to the matter a second thought."

Sir Geoffrey got no better, however. Fresh complications arose that had not been anticipated. His gout certainly improved, while his bronchitis seemed to be yielding to treatment; but the action of the heart became more and more erratic, while the general weakness steadily increased.

Dr. Storey began to look grave, and called in a specialist from Manchester, who after a superficial examination of the patient and a general conversation on the course of treatment, said that Dr. Storey could not do more than he was doing. It was just a question whether Sir Geoffrey's strength would or would not hold out.

Nan chuckled when the specialist had taken his departure. "There will be no more inquisitive noses prying about now," she said to herself. "As for Dr. Storey, he's got over his suspicious fit. I feared he was going to give me trouble once, but he's come out on the right side. All the rest will be plain sailing."

She walked up to the side of the bed and looked with a fierce, vindictive gleam in her eyes at the sleeping man.

"When he awakes," she said to herself, "we will have a little conversation ‒ the best and the last."
Chapter 28

A Woman's Vengeance

THE great house was as still as a vault. Sir Geoffrey was asleep, and Nan o' the Fells kept watch by his side. In her coal-black eyes was a look of triumph, while her mouth worked constantly as though she chewed.

The doctor had told her that he would not call again until the following morning.

"I can do nothing further for him," he said. "And I should tell you that he may go at any moment."

"You think there is no chance for him?" Nan asked, with downcast eyes.

"I do not say that. It all depends on the amount of vitality he has. Yet it would not surprise me in the least if he does not live the day out."

"I am very sorry," Nan said, in a tone of well-feigned sincerity. "I always like my patients to get well. For them to die seems almost like a confession of failure."

"But they cannot all get well," the doctor said, with a smile.

"Yes, I know that. Still, as nurses, we are jealous for our profession."

"And rightly so," the doctor answered briskly. "But you must remember that Sir Geoffrey is not a young man."

"I am not forgetting that," she replied. "Still, I wish he could have been pulled through. I have done my best for him."

"You have done splendidly," the doctor answered. "Now I must be away. Dr. Siemens approves of everything we have done."

Nan returned to the bedside with an exultant gleam in her eyes. The hour of her triumph had come at last; also the hour of her revenge. She had waited many years for this day ‒ had nursed her hatred in secret and in silence.

A woman of a less passionate nature would have forgotten and forgiven, but Nan never forgot and never forgave. She believed she had been wronged. That was enough. The sense of her wrong, instead of growing less as the years passed away, grew more bitter and poignant. Time brought no healing balm, no softening touch. Her pride had been wounded, her vanity touched.

She vowed in the first bitterness of her soul that she would have her revenge, and she renewed that vow daily, waiting with a patience that knew no weariness and heeded no discouragement.

How or in what way she was to get her revenge she did not know, but she had faith in the Fates, or in Destiny. All things came to those who waited, provided they waited long enough, and did not fling away their opportunity when it came.

As she looked back upon the past now, she almost wondered that she had not despaired. What long years had fled since this man, lying helpless before her, had humbled her in the dust. And yet it seemed only as yesterday. The intervening years of waiting and suffering seemed to vanish, and the past and the present came together.

It had not been difficult to keep the flame of her anger alight. There was always plenty of fuel with which to feed the fire. Moreover, she had so chosen and arranged her life during all these years that the sense of wrong was accentuated by every hardship she endured.

As she looked down upon the helpless and sleeping man there was no softening of the hard lines about her resolute mouth. His weakness touched no chord of pity in her heart; his suffering awoke in her no feeling of sympathy.

She remembered only that she had suffered, and that he had been the cause of it all. If any prompting of pity rose in her heart, she crushed it back. She was not going to play the coward after waiting so long.

She turned away at length and sought her own adjoining room, and when she came back to the bedside a complete transformation had been wrought in her appearance. The nurse's cap, the false hair, the white collar and cuffs, the gold-rimmed pince-nez had disappeared. It was almost impossible to believe she was the same woman.

"I wonder if he will recognise me when he awakes?" she said to herself, with a look of triumph in her eyes. "I think he will. If he does not, I shall soon be able to refresh his memory."

The sun was dipping toward the west when at last the sleeper began to stir. The butler had gone into the village for medicine. The housekeeper, she knew, would be asleep in her own chair. The servants' hall was too far away for any sound to reach them. There was nothing to hinder her from carrying out her purpose to the very letter.

"Nurse," Sir Geoffrey called at length, but in a voice so feeble that it could scarcely be heard across the room.

"Yes," she answered, coming from behind his bed, and standing where he could not see her.

"Would you mind raising me a little?" he said, in a whisper. "I feel very weak today."

She came forward suddenly and raised him ‒ none too gently. Then she stood back a pace or two, that he might look at her.

For a moment he stared at her in surprise, then he asked, in a hoarse whisper, "Who are you? Where is my nurse?"

"I am your nurse," she answered. "And now that I have taken off my nurse's disguise, you ought to recognise me."

"But I do not know you," he said, his lips becoming livid and his eyes almost starting out of his head. "But whoever you are, you have no business here."

She laughed mockingly, and drew up a chair and sat down opposite him.

"I shall remain here when you are carried out," she said, "so you may as well make your mind easy on that score."

"I do not understand," he said, rubbing his hand feebly across his eyes. "Am I awake, or am I dreaming?"

"You are wide awake enough," she answered harshly. "But you won't be awake long. So listen, for I have a lot to say to you."

"But ... but who are you?" he gasped.

"You know well enough who I am," she answered mockingly.

"No, no," he said feebly. "You remind me of someone I knew many years ago, but ... but she went abroad. She ... she ... I am not sure she is living."

"Look at me well," she said, turning her face towards the light. "Am I so changed that you have forgotten me?"

"But you cannot be Nancy Epworth!" And a shudder ran through him from head to foot.

"Yes, I am Nancy Epworth," she answered. "For many years I have been your neighbour ‒ off and on. You have seen me many times at a distance, but you never recognised me as 'Nan o' the Fells.' But you see, I have kept near you. I have warmed the hands of my hate at the fire of your prosperity. I have bided my time. Now my opportunity has come."

"What opportunity? What do you mean?"

"For the last five or six weeks I have nursed you. Ha, ha, do you think I would let such an opportunity slip?"

He stared at her, and his lips moved as if he meant to speak, but no words came.

"I don't wonder that you stare," she went on mockingly. "You did not expect to meet me at the finish, did you? You thought long ago that you had got rid of me for ever. But a wronged and humiliated woman isn't so easily got rid of."

"I never wronged you," he whispered faintly.

"Oh no, of course not! A man thinks a woman so much beneath him that she cannot be wronged. To trifle with a girl's affections, to win her love, to promise to marry her, then to fling her aside, scorn her, trample upon her, laugh at her misery, and make merry over her humiliation ‒ that is nothing, of course! Women esteem it an honour to be treated in such a way!"

"We should never have agreed," he said feebly.

She laughed again ‒ mockingly and bitterly. "You made that discovery when Jane Rowton hove into sight. She was a craft with masts of silver, and sails of gold. She was heiress to the Rowton estates. It was nothing that she was sickly and anaemic. She had plenty of gold. Even a title might follow in her wake. Oh yes, you suddenly discovered that Nancy Epworth had a temper. She had been an angel up to then. Her face was the fairest you had ever looked upon, her figure the most perfect you had ever seen. Her eyes reflected the blue of heaven ‒ so you said. You see, I have not forgotten the beautiful speeches by which you won my confidence and stole my heart."

"All young men are apt to make mistakes," he said.

"But all young men are not called upon to trample women in the dust. Do you think I can ever forgive your mockery ‒ your laughter ‒ your studied insults? No, no, I have bided my time and nursed my revenge."

"But you got married?"

"Ay, for a home, for protection, for the wherewithal to live; and for a year or two I was an old man's darling. I never loved him, of course. I had given my heart to you, and you had crushed it into powder as the earthenware pot is crushed between the iron pots. You ruined my life, turned my love into hate, changed the honey of my better nature into wormwood and gall. I should have been a good woman, but for you. You awoke the demon in me, which has never slept since. I have lived for one thing ‒ to have my revenge. And I have been having it for the last six weeks."

"What would you do by me?" he asked faintly, and he shook through every fibre of his body.

"It is not a question what I would do by you," she answered, with a bitter laugh. "It is what I have done. You have reached the end of your journey."

"Do you mean I shall not get better?" he asked, with a look of horror.

"Do you take me for a fool?" she sneered. "Do you think I would let such an opportunity slip when it was within my grasp? Ah, you knew the Nancy Epworth of the old days ‒ the bright, confiding girl ‒ but it is evident you do not know Nan o' the Fells! I have not endured cold and hunger, want and privation, for nothing. Dwelling in a cave has not made a saint of me, I can assure you."

"It has made a fiend of you!" he whispered, lifting a feeble and trembling hand as if to ward her off.

"Perhaps it has," she said, with a mocking laugh. "At any rate, it has made me strong and fearless and self-reliant."

"But why do you say all this to me?" he asked.

"To torment you," she answered. "Oh, I might have let you die in peace ‒ not knowing that I was here, speeding you on the last long journey. But that would not have suited my purpose. It is revenge I have waited for, and now I am getting it."

"Is it a pleasure to see me suffer?" he gasped.

"It is honey and nectar," she answered. "I have not tasted a draught so sweet before in my life. And there is more to follow. I think your strength will hold out until you have heard me to the end."

"Go on," he muttered.

"You think your daughter Hope is asleep in the family vault in Bradenford churchyard. Let me tell you that she is not dead."

"Not dead?"

"No, she may live a year or two yet. She will most likely go raving mad. Most of them do. She is in a lunatic asylum on the Continent."

He sprang suddenly up in bed and tried to seize the bell rope, then fell back with a groan, utterly exhausted.

Nan poured some neat brandy between his teeth, and after a few moments Sir Geoffrey revived and stared helplessly at his tormentor.

"You think I am lying to you," she said, with a bitter laugh, "but I can assure you I am speaking the sober truth. I met Hope at Basle, and passed myself off as your friend come to chaperone her. By the following evening she was fast asleep in her new quarters in the heart of a wild and desolate country. So safely guarded that escape is impossible. She will be as mad as a hatter in a year, and in two years she will be in heaven ‒ or somewhere else."

"But Mrs. Mann identified the body!" he gasped feebly.

"She identified the clothes. You see, one of the inmates had died ‒ they none of them live very long ‒ and it was easy to dress the body in Hope's clothes, and after a month or two discover it in a lake a good distance away. You see, I am giving you what they call the plan, in order that you may be convinced that I am speaking the truth."

"But why treat an innocent child so cruelly? She had never wronged you."

"But her father had. I have been able to strike at the father through the child. Lovely, isn't it? You cannot think how sweet revenge is!"

"It is fiendish!" he gasped. "Oh, if I had but strength!"

"I have waited until the doctors gave you only a day more to live. I would have lengthened out the period of your retribution had it been safe to do so."

"But you will release Hope when I am gone?" he pleaded, and the tears started in his eyes and for a moment blotted out his vision.

"Oh, you have not heard all yet by a long way," she said, with a laugh. "When you have heard all, you will see there can be no release for Hope, except by death."

"But why?" he asked.

"Well, you see, Hope stands in the way of the succession."

"What succession?"

She laughed again. "Where would poor Hugh be if Hope turned up alive?"

"But what is Hugh to you?"

"He is my son, that is all."

"Your son?" And Sir Geoffrey's eyes looked as if they would start out of their sockets.

"You think he is your brother's son!" And she laughed merrily. "Did you ever know before a Teesdale so dark as he? Ah, it was a happy fluke. I need not explain all the circumstances now, but the living child was substituted for the dead one. The story would take too long to tell. I had no notion at the time that my son would in the end step into your shoes, but it is a just retribution, and almost leads me to believe in God."

Sir Geoffrey groaned, and held up his hand feebly in deprecation.

"Shakespeare says there's a divinity that shapes our ends," she went on in the same tone. "Perhaps he was right. Divinity or destiny or fate. What's in a name? When I saw the chance of substituting my living child for your brother's dead one I thought only of my boy's welfare and my own freedom. I was hard pressed at the time, as I have often been since. But, on the whole, fortune has favoured me. I had to fight hard for what poor Dick left me; but I won in the end. And here I am, to solace your last hours ... and taste the sweetest cup that was ever pressed to my lips."

"I could never have believed that you could have grown into such a wicked woman," he said feebly.

"I am what you and circumstances have made me," she answered. "Since you flung me over and trampled upon me, I have had to fight for my life. Alone, unloved, unprotected, in a hard and bitter world, I have grown upon what I have fed ‒ grown as the vultures grow! I have had to be as cunning as a serpent, and never miss an opportunity that is thrown in my way. So, when young Grove threw your son into the river, I saw a new chance ‒ a chance for me, and a chance for my son. Oh, I have been lucky, on the whole."

"So you and Hugh are in league?"

"Of course we are. Our interests are identical. I wanted him to kill you, but he had not the nerve. But he has cunning, which is just as good. He conceived the idea of getting me here as your nurse. Oh, how my heart exulted when I first came into this house and knew you were in my power. I had hoped for some chance of paying off old scores, but you always eluded me. I watched for you on the fells as a vulture watches for its prey, but you never went alone. You might have suspected my presence‒‒"

"I never did. I had almost forgotten you."

"Oh yes, men easily forget ‒ especially those they have wronged! But women have longer memories. I almost feared sometimes that my chance would never come. And then, all unwittingly, the vicar's son played my game for me. How I blessed that young man! I felt as though I could not do enough for him."

"Douglas would not bless you if he knew."

"Very likely not, but we are all instruments in the hands of destiny. We trace the writing on the page unconsciously, and cannot read what we have written, though it blaze before our eyes in lines of fire."

"You talk wildly," he said, in a faint whisper. "I believe in the good providence of God. God will not leave me in your hands."

She laughed again in rollicking fashion. "Your God should have prevented my coming here!" she said.

Then she grew sober for a minute.

"But you have spoken the truth after all," she went on. "You will not be left in my hands; and yet, do you know, I shall release you? My hands will unbolt your prison doors, and your spirit ‒ you ‒ will drop into the unfathomable abyss of space. Ah, you shudder, but it may not be so bad as you think. Somewhere in the illimitable space you may find a resting place. And if it should prove a pleasant place, why, you may bless me for setting you free. You look toward the light. You well may, for it is the last sunset you will see."

She drew up the blind and let the slanting sunshine fill the room. It lay like a soft film of gold upon the coverlet, and rekindled for a moment the fire in the pale eyes of the sufferer.

"There, am I not good to you?" she said, turning round and coming towards the bed. "I am not all devil, you see, even in my worst moods. Ay, I have known pleasure in doing deeds of kindness. But for your withering and blighting hand upon me, I might have grown into a good woman. But I am what I am because you cursed me. Now I will cease talking to you for a while, and let you meditate upon what I have told you. You have several hours to live yet. About midnight I will let you take your departure. It is well that such as you should die in the dark."

She turned and walked into her own room.
Chapter 29

Backward Glances

SIR GEOFFREY lay quite still, with his face turned toward the window. He was almost too weak to move, but his brain was as clear and active as it had ever been. Outside, the birds chirped sleepily in the trees and the wind breathed softly now and then among the branches; but no other sounds broke the stillness of the afternoon.

Sir Geoffrey made no attempt to move. He knew it was useless. He could only lie still and wait the end. If he had strength to cry out, his crying would answer no purpose. His servants never came near him. They would have to come through the nurse's room to reach him, and they would never think of doing that without Nan's permission. She had absolute authority in the matter. She kept his room clean, prepared his gruel, and administered his medicine. He was in her hands completely, and he had seen revenge, determined and relentless, shining in her eyes.

"She is killing me by slow inches," he said to himself, "and Storey does not know, and the specialist has no suspicion. And tonight she intends to complete her work. And she will do it, unless God intervenes."

And he closed his eyes, and for a few moments his lips moved in prayer.

He was less horrified at the thought of dying than a younger man might have been. He had outlived the glamour and enthusiasm of youth. The day of golden romance had long since passed away. The fires of passion had died down into smouldering ashes. There was only the quiet drab of mere existence left, and yet that in itself seemed worth struggling for. It seemed hard to die in the summer time, and die by the hand of a woman he had once admired.

He closed his eyes for a while, and the past came back vividly to him. He could not deny that there was much truth in what Nan said. He had not treated her well. He had flung her over because he saw the chance of a better matrimonial alliance, and he had flung her over with unnecessary harshness.

He had been anxious to justify his conduct, and was pleased when he saw he had succeeded in turning her love into hate. He had believed that the more she hated him, the more quickly she would forget him, and the less she would fret over the broken engagement. So he fancied he was justified in being harsh and relentless and cruel.

He little guessed what he was doing when he turned her fierce and passionate nature into bitterness ‒ did not realise what a woman of her type might become. A wax doll creature, all puff and powder, would have sobbed herself to sleep for a night or two, perhaps, and then forgotten her fickle loved one in the smiles of some fresh Romeo that came her way.

Nan was of a different type. There was nothing negative about her. She was positive to the tips of her fingers. When she loved, every fibre of her being thrilled to its music; and when she hated, her whole soul went out in a tempest of passion and rage.

Had Geoffrey Teesdale been wiser he would have seen how dangerous it was to play with such a nature as Nan's. And had he been less worldly-wise he would have treated her differently.

She was the only child of a country doctor ‒ a clever, wayward child, with a turn for medicine and a leaning toward the occult and esoteric. As a girl she was as straight as a lath and as strong and agile as an Amazon. Before she was twenty she had any number of admirers, but for some reason she favoured Geoffrey Teesdale above them all.

Many people wondered why, for Geoffrey was considerably her senior, nor had he much in the way of good looks to commend him. For a while all went well. Geoffrey was proud of the beautiful young Amazon whose heart he had won ‒ proud of her eyes, her hair, her figure; proud of her wit, her brilliance, her fearlessness; proud of her attainments, her knowledge of chemistry, her acquaintance with literature.

But Geoffrey was ambitious and poor ‒ ambitious for social success rather than for greatness and fame. So it came about that when Jane Rowton crossed his path, and he saw the chance of marrying a fortune, and perhaps winning a title later on, he resolved to put all other considerations aside, and go in and win, for she was as good as she was rich, and beautiful to boot.

It was easy to tear the image of the beautiful Nancy Epworth from his heart, for he did not love her with a genuine affection.

Nan was left an orphan soon after, and went abroad to live. Then came news that she had married a man old enough to be her father. After that, nothing more was heard of her or seen of her. In due time Geoffrey Teesdale married his heiress ‒ a sweet and beautiful soul ‒ and took up his abode at Rowton Hall. Here he became a person of considerable social distinction, became lord-lieutenant of the county, entertained royalty even, and was rewarded in due course with a baronetcy.

On the whole he was supremely happy. He was loyal and devoted to his wife; and if she did not possess all his heart at the first, she did later on.

She died when Hope was still a child, and Sir Geoffrey built a costly vault for her in Bradenford churchyard, and laid her to rest amid many signs of genuine grief.

Now and then he wondered what had become of Nancy Epworth, wondered if she was still alive, wondered if her mature life had fulfilled all the promise of her youth.

It was not unpleasant sometimes to dream of those passionate years when they were so much to each other. Now and then he regretted he had treated Nancy so harshly. He might have rooted out the flower of her love with a gentler hand, but he never guessed all the mischief he had wrought, never imagined that the worst side of her nature could grow until it dominated everything. Verily the curse he had hurled at her had come home to roost. He had sown dragon's teeth without knowing it.

As he lay with closed eyes in the warm light of the waning day it all seemed like some strange dream. He had never imagined that retribution could strike with so sure an aim and with such terrible force, never imagined that retribution could be so disproportionate to the offence. He had only done what thousands of other young men had done. To jilt a woman is not usually considered a crime. Surely a young woman's heart was supposed to be an exceedingly elastic thing, and a blow or a puncture more or less was deemed to be of little consequence.

Clearly, however, it was not so in all cases. To destroy a life might be an easier thing than was generally supposed. A single blow might shatter the most perfect work of art, and a bitter word might destroy one of God's fairest creatures. The seed of thirty years ago had at last ripened into harvest.

Sir Geoffrey prayed again, and prayed earnestly. Prayed for forgiveness, and for strength that he might be able to forgive; prayed for courage that he might meet his fate ‒ if his fate it was to be ‒ without flinching.

"The son of a soldier should never show the white feather," he said to himself. "Moreover, he will not say die till he is compelled."

Once he wondered if Nan could be coaxed into a different frame of mind. Would it be possible to recall to her those old days, and influence her by some of the old blandishments. But his heart revolted at the thought. This was not the woman he had really loved. Another soul looked at him from out the deeps of space.

He had heard of loved ones who had quarrelled in their youth ‒ gone their different ways ‒ joined hands with others, brought up families, and in their widowhood come together again, and so renewed the romance of their youth.

"No, I would rather die," he said to himself, "and die by her hand, than save my life by linking it to hers. She is a woman no longer. She is a demon. She says I have made her what she is. If so, may the Lord forgive me!"

A little later the temptation came to him in a new form. There was his child Hope to be considered. He had little doubt that what Nan had told him on that point was true. It was in keeping with all the rest. It was just the kind of thing she would be able to conceive and execute. She knew the Continent well, could speak French and German almost as fluently as her mother-tongue. Moreover, her story held so well together. She had been afraid to murder the child ‒ had not the heart, perhaps, and lacked the opportunity. So she had locked her up in a German asylum for the insane. It was a diabolical thing to do, but it entailed comparatively few risks.

He pictured his high-spirited, wayward girl beating herself to death against the walls of some gloomy dungeon, crying and ever crying for help that never came, appealing to the Lord for deliverance, but appealing in vain.

Perhaps by this time she was raving mad. The perspiration broke out all over his face, and rolled down upon his pillow.

It was indeed a diabolical plot, and all this was done out of revenge, and for the purpose of pushing her villainous son into a position he was not entitled to.

Sir Geoffrey looked appealingly toward the window through which the warm, generous light was streaming into the room. It was a strange nemesis ‒ if nemesis it was ‒ the son of the woman he had jilted succeeding him at Rowton Hall.

"And I cannot prevent it," he whispered to himself, with unspeakable bitterness. "Oh, I would do almost anything to rescue my child, and prevent that scoundrel from inheriting my property. But Nan will listen to no appeal now. She has committed herself too deeply. She has confessed to me the full measure of her crimes, and she cannot draw back, even if she would. What a blind fool I have been not to see through Hugh's hypocritical ways. How easily and completely he has duped me.

Sir Geoffrey's heart-breaking groan brought Nan again to his side. She had now resumed her nurse's uniform.

"Please go away," he said feebly, "and let me die in peace."

"Oh no," she answered. "I prefer to be with you. You cannot guess with what eagerness I have anticipated this day. And I am not going to deny myself the pleasure of seeing you suffer."

"Have you no pity in your heart?" he whispered plaintively.

"Not a spark for you," she answered decisively. "For you I have only hate and bitterness and revenge. Ah, you little guessed what you were doing when you turned my love into hate. You thought that because I was only a woman it did not matter how you treated me."

"I own I did not treat you well," he admitted feebly. "I was harsh with you in order that you might the sooner forget me. I meant it all for the best."

"Oh, it has been all for the best!" she laughed mockingly. "Nothing could have turned out better. You won a fortune for me and mine. My son will be lord of the manor, and I shall he his housekeeper with all the privileges of his mother. Oh, it is a lovely arrangement. Nothing better could have been devised. The only drawback is, we have been kept waiting a rather long time, but by next week we shall be in full possession, and I can assure you we shall make up for lost time."

He writhed under the sting of her words, but was too overcome to speak.

"You should not look at me with such a light of anger in your eyes," she went on. "Anger is not a fit preparation for death. Moreover, it would be more becoming of you to rejoice that, after all these years, you are able to make reparation for the wrong you did."

He shut his eyes tightly and turned away his head.

"What, turning away from the sunshine?" she said, in mocking tones. "Well, I am surprised. I drew up the blind for you that you might see the sunset, and now you close your eyes to it. It seems to me a case of cutting off your nose to spite your face. I wouldn't be petulant, if I were you. It is your last chance. It is the last sunset you will ever see. Tonight, when it grows dark, I shall send you on a long journey alone."

His lips moved again, but no sound escaped them.

"By tomorrow evening," she continued, "Hugh will be here to superintend the funeral. Poor boy, he is getting terribly impatient; and I don't wonder. I am getting impatient myself, for we are both in need of money. You see, it costs a good deal to keep Hope locked up. Poor child, it's rather rough on her, I admit, but a rapid exit can be arranged. It's astonishing what can be done with money."

"Are you a devil in human shape?" Sir Geoffrey asked wearily, opening his eyes again and staring at her.

"Well, thanks to you, I believe there is a good bit of devil in me. You used to call me an angel. Do you remember? Those were not bad times, were they? Do you ever think of them, and how you used to praise my hair, my eyes, my lips, my chin? I was a silly fool, was I not? But I have grown wiser since."

"You have done worse," he gasped, "and you ought to be ashamed."

"But I can assure you I am not the least bit ashamed " She laughed. "Indeed, I pride myself on my patience and on my skill. You cannot say I have not waited a long time; and you must admit I have not spoiled my plans by too hasty action. Why, I might have poisoned you the night of my arrival, or I might have strangled you in your sleep. My fingers itched to be at your throat, but I restrained myself. I have curbed my anger and my hate, and waited upon you all these weeks ‒ waited on you with so much patience and gentleness and skill that Dr. Storey is quite loud in his praise of me. Hence, instead of being ashamed of myself, I am proud of myself."

"Your pride will be turned into loathing yet," he said, with a sudden effort. "The just God will not let such as you go unpunished."

"He has evidently not let you go unpunished!" she said, with a sneer. "The truth is, you have had the good things so long that it is only right that you should have a taste of the other thing; while I, having had only evil things all these years ‒ loneliness and cold and deprivation ‒ should, in the fitness of things, have a taste of prosperity at last. And really such a sanctuary as this will be very pleasant after storm. Oh, I have had some rough times on these fells watching for you. But you were always a coward! You were afraid to go out alone. Was it your conscience that troubled you? How gently I would have done for you had I met you alone! But it was not to be. The stars decreed that I should meet you here, that I should watch over you in your last hours, and speed you on your journey."

"How will you do the deed?" he asked, after a pause.

She took a small phial from the bosom of her dress and held it up before him.

"My father taught me the nature and properties of this drug," she said, with a smile. "You see, it is quite colourless, and it has no smell. Whether it has taste or no, I cannot tell. One drop on the tip of your tongue, and your troubles will be at an end. You will feel no pain. There will be no convulsions. You will become drowsy after a while, and fall into a gentle and seemingly natural sleep. From that sleep you will never wake. Look, the sun is setting now! Would you not like to fall asleep with the dying of the day?"

His eyes stared at her appealingly, but he seemed unable to speak.

"You see, you have no power to resist me," she said, approaching the bed. "Your little day of fret and struggle is over. I had thought of waiting till midnight ‒ the time when churchyards yawn, and all that kind of thing. But why should I wait any longer?"

Seeing his lips move, she bent her ear to listen.

"I thought you wanted to torment me as long as possible?" he said.

"I do. Revenge is undeniably sweet, but I am beginning to thirst now for possession. When I see you lying here white and still, then I shall know that all my plans have ripened into their glorious harvest."

"It will be a harvest of scorpions," he whispered slowly and distinctly.

"I am prepared to risk all that," she said with a laugh. "I give you five minutes in which to say your prayers and make ready for your lonely journey."

"I can be no more ready than I am," he said distinctly.

"I must say I admire your pluck," she said, proceeding to take the stopper out of the phial. "I have always vowed you were a coward, and at heart I am inclined to think you are still. And now let me warn you that it is of no use your attempting to resist me. I do not want to use violence."

He closed his eyelids gently, as if in token of assent.

"Two minutes out of the five are gone already," she said, glancing at the clock, "and the sun has quite disappeared. Now I will leave you for three minutes, so you can pray. You see, I have some regard for your future welfare."

The wind got up a little with the sunset, and he lay listening to its whispering in the trees. Everything seemed weird and strange to him. The moments sped away one by one. He could hear his heart beating now, and through the silence of the room came the faint ticking of the clock.

He tried to pray, but he had no strength to shape his thoughts into words. Moreover, it seemed to him as though the time for prayers had passed.

He heard at length the rustle of a dress, and knew that Nan was returning to his room. He had no thought of resisting. He opened his eyes and smiled as she came toward the bed, then calmly waited for what she would do.
Chapter 30

The Chateau Oberon

MEANWHILE, Douglas Grove had not been idle. No professional detective ever followed up a clue with more diligence or with more enthusiasm than he. And the further he carried his investigations, the more hopeful he became. He stayed at the smallest and cheapest inns he could find, travelled third class everywhere, and economised at every possible point.

Now and then, to relieve the tedium of the long evenings and the sleepless nights, and to divert his thoughts from the all too pressing object of his search, he wrote short stories, and despatched them to Mr. Woodey. He knew that his friend, if he could not use them himself, would try to send them to some other quarter; and he was not without hope that when he returned to London again he would have a few pounds to receive.

For a while he lost the trail of Hope Teesdale completely, but he never gave up. In his pocket he carried a revolver.

"I shall pick it up again sooner or later," he said to himself. "At one of these wayside stations I shall hear of the girl with the scarlet hood."

And so it proved. The stationmaster issued tickets, signalled trains, attended to passengers' luggage, and despatched parcels. Only four trains in the day stopped at Vaalkirche, and passengers were almost as rare as flies in amber.

The peasantry of the neighbourhood were a stay-at-home people, and visitors to the Chateau Oberon, nine miles away among the mountains, were by no means numerous. Moreover, more visitors went to the chateau than ever returned again. There was, of course, a reason for that. Douglas found the stationmaster quite disposed to be friendly, and even communicative. For three hours he would have nothing to do, and time was apt to hang heavy on his hands.

A solitary Englishman dressed in tourist's garb excited in him no surprise. Englishmen were such strange people, and had such strange tastes. They seemed to be always rambling about somewhere, and often in the most out-of-the- way places. It was true they did not often alight at Vaalkirche, but he had heard of them in other places; and if one came, others might follow.

In the interests of the railway company, and perhaps the neighbourhood at large, it was his duty to be as helpful and communicative to strangers as possible.

"Oh yes," he replied to Douglas's question, "there are many places of interest in the neighbourhood. But you see the place has not become famous yet. When it becomes known, people will flock here, of course."

Douglas offered the stationmaster a cigar, and sat down in the shadow of the station house.

The stationmaster smiled, and his heart warmed to the stranger.

"You English do smoke very good cigars," he said. And he sniffed at the smoke with the air of a connoisseur.

"Now, as I am on the lookout for interesting places, and, I may add, interesting people, what have you to show me?" Douglas asked, looking across the railway track to the steep slopes of the mountains.

"Ah, we have mountains," he said, with a wave of the hand. "Fine mountains, the remains of two glaciers, a lake, a waterfall, and the great Chateau Oberon, all within twelve miles."

"Any good hotels?" Douglas asked.

The stationmaster shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "You see, the people do not come. I often wonder whether the people bring the hotels, or the hotels bring the people."

"That is a moot point, certainly," Douglas said, with a laugh. "The chances are that if some speculator were to erect a big hotel or sanatorium, and then advertise the place widely, extol its invigorating atmosphere, the curative properties of its springs, and the grandeur of the scenery, the people who have gone everywhere and seen everything would flock here in crowds."

"Perhaps you will be that friend," the stationmaster suggested eagerly.

Douglas laughed heartily, and shook his head. "I am afraid hotel-building is hardly in my line. But what about this great Chateau Oberon?"

"Ah, it is a fine place, but quite hidden away and lost among the mountains."

"Is it a very old place?"

"No, not so very old. It was built by a French nobleman ‒ very rich and very odd. Some people said he was not quite right in his head. He hated crowds, and was always afraid somebody would kill him. So he built this great chateau. It stands on a little plateau high up on the side of a hill. It is surrounded by high and forbidding walls, and is so strong that it would keep out an army."

"And does this Frenchman live there still?"

"Indeed, no. He has been dead many years."

"And who lives there now?"

"Ah, well, that is hard to say. You see, for many years it stood empty. None of the count's relations would live there. It was advertised for sale, but no one would buy it. Then a few years ago a Dr. Schlinger took it. Whether he bought it or only rents it I do not know."

"Then this doctor must be a wealthy man?"

"Ah, well, he is a specialist, you see. He has given his life to the study of insanity."

"Oh, I understand. Then he has turned the place into an asylum?"

"He treats patients there from all parts of Europe. He is wonderfully clever, they say."

Douglas drew in his breath sharply. He had heard of Austrian asylums for the insane, run by private enterprise, and so conducted that those who had friends in them were not usually troubled with them again.

"Is this chateau far from here?"

"About nine miles, and there is a good road all the way."

"And I presume this station is used by the patients and their friends?"

"Some come this way, and some drive from Osbrocken, twelve miles on the other side."

"And have many come this way of late?"

"Not very lately. Not for two or three months. For some reason they are more numerous at the fall of the year, when the leaves begin to drop and the nights get dark."

"Autumn is generally a depressing time," Douglas said thoughtfully. "I suppose you know the patients at once when you see them?"

"Well, as for that, there is not often much chance of seeing them. A closed carriage comes down from the chateau with a couple of female warders ‒ for they are all women patients. Then as soon as the train comes in, the patient is whipped across the line and into the carriage in no time, and before you have time to look round almost they are off."

"But don't they ever protest? I am told people who are insane are sometimes very disruptive, and refuse to do what they are told."

"Well, I have seen one or two hold back like. But, bless you, these warders have a wonderful way with them. Sometimes the patients seem fast asleep, and have to be carried to the carriage; but it is ail done in a jiffy, and without the least fuss."

"And do their friends go with them to the chateau?"

"Sometimes, but often as not they go straight on by the train they came in by."

"And leave their poor unfortunate family member in the hands of strangers?"

"No good would come of saying goodbye. You see, if the thing has to be done, it is as well it should be done quickly and with as little fuss as possible."

"And how many do you suppose have come this way during the last nine months, say?"

"You mean since the beginning of autumn?"

"Yes."

"Well, let me see. There was only one in October, three in November, none in December or January, one in February, and two about the end of March. That's seven, isn't it?"

Douglas nodded. "Yes. And you say there was no trouble with any of them?"

"Well, not anything that you would call trouble. One of the cases in November did shriek a bit. I reckon she was a bit hysterical; but, bless you, they were driving away in no time."

"And do you remember the October case?" Douglas asked, with a little catch in his breath. "I think you said there was only one in October?"

"Let me see, now. I don't often forget when I set myself to remember. Oh yes, that was the case of a youngish person. Quite off her head she was."

"You did not see her, I suppose?"

"Well, yes, as it happened, I did see her. A rather pretty young woman she was, too. But, bless you, one look at her eyes was enough to satisfy anybody that she was quite demented."

"Why, what were her eyes like?"

"Well, if you've ever seen anybody sleeping with their eyes open, it was just like that. No look of intelligence in them, you understand. She was just as docile as a lamb."

"And had she friends with her?"

"Just one. Her mother, I should fancy. A particularly tall and well-set-up woman, though getting on in years."

Douglas grasped the end of the seat tightly to steady himself, for he was trembling in every limb. He had one more question to ask which would settle the matter in all probability beyond doubt, but he feared he would not be able to steady his voice sufficiently to ask it. For several moments he shut his teeth tightly. Then, making a tremendous effort at self-control, he said in a tone of apparent indifference, "You say this patient was young and rather good-looking. Do you remember how she was dressed?"

"Well, yes, I do, for she had a particularly nice warm cloak on ‒ a cloak that covered her almost from head to foot!"

"Yes?" Douglas asked, with a gasp.

"I'd never seen a cloak just like it before, and I could not help thinking how well it would suit my wife, for she suffers terribly from the cold in the winter. And there was a hood at the back lined with red. I can assure you it did look comfortable."

Douglas grasped the seat with both hands.

"But, of course, sir," the stationmaster went on, "it's no use wishing for things that are out of your reach. A cloak like that would cost a heap of money, I expect; and there ain't many luxuries that come in the way of a station master or his wife, I can assure you."

"I suppose you are not extravagantly paid?" Douglas said, still gripping the seat tightly.

"Well, I reckon we're not, sir. Still, the work isn't hard, so we have to throw the good against the bad."

Douglas did not reply for several moments. He was in great fear lest the stationmaster should see his agitation. At last, after weeks of searching, he had got to the bottom of the mystery. And his heart thumped so loudly against his side that he was afraid his companion would hear it.

He thought he understood now why Nan was so much in need of money, and how it was still possible for her to hold such a threat over the head of Hugh.

"It will cost her a good deal to keep Hope locked up in the chateau," he said to himself, "and what is more, the asylum owners will not put an end to her, unless they are pretty well paid for it. Most likely it will be to the interest of this Dr. Schlinger to keep her alive. She will be worth more to him living than dead. I wonder if I shall be able to thwart this diabolical scheme before Hope is driven hopelessly mad?"

"Is there any way of getting to the Chateau Oberon except by walking?" he asked at length. "I confess I should like to see the place, now that I am in the neighbourhood."

"Well, there's no denying that we are a bit behind the times here at Vaalkirche," the stationmaster said a little ruefully. "There ain't the conveniences that there ought to be. A good hotel here, with horses and carriages, would make all the difference in the world."

"Then it is very evident, if I want to explore the wonders of this neighbourhood I shall have to do so on foot," Douglas said.

"Well, sir, a farmer's dray or a miller's cart don't offer much in the way of comfort to my thinking. I would as soon go afoot myself."

Douglas pulled out his watch and looked at it for a moment in silence.

"It's too late, sir, to do much today," the station master said, "but if you want a good bed ‒ clean, and not unreasonable in price, and a good breakfast tomorrow morning ‒ why, you couldn't do better than go along to the Railway Inn."

"I suppose you could send along my portmanteau?" Douglas asked.

"I could bring it along myself, sir. I've nothing to do just at present."

"You needn't hurry," Douglas said. "I'll walk along and see what accommodation they have."

"I'm sure you'll be suited, sir, and they've nobody in at present, so they'll be sure to have a bed at liberty."

"So much the better." Douglas walked away, leaving the stationmaster to follow at his leisure.

Vaalkirche could scarcely be called a typical Tyrolean village. It hardly deserved the name of village at all. Clustered round a small church were a few houses, and beyond these, dotting the meadows and the hillsides, were a number of chalets.

The inn was close to the church, and was the smallest and most primitive he had yet taken lodgings in. However, as the bed appeared to be clean and well aired, he did not mind. The absence of carpets, and practically of furniture, was a mere detail. He had known nothing of luxury for many months past.

After he had ordered dinner he set out to explore the neighbourhood, but there was practically nothing to see. A fertile valley high up among the mountains, shut in by tall, pine-clad hills ‒ that was all. A lonelier spot he had never visited.

He wandered up the valley for a mile or two, and then retraced his steps. The sun had already disappeared behind the western range of mountains, though it wanted an hour or two yet to sunset.

"I expect in the winter the sun scarcely gets into this valley at all," he said to himself. "What a place in which to spend a lifetime."

His dinner was ready by the time he got back to the inn, and as he had scarcely tasted anything since breakfast he did full justice to the simple fare.

After dinner, the stationmaster and the landlord joined him, and for an hour or two they talked of the possibilities of Vaalkirche, and the chances of its becoming a great tourists' resort. No further allusion was made, however, to the Chateau Oberon. Douglas was anxious not to appear interested either in the chateau or its inmates.

The landlord and the stationmaster did most of the talking. It was only by an effort that Douglas could show the smallest interest in the subject of conversation. His thoughts were elsewhere. The pleading eyes of Hope Teesdale seemed to look at him from every point of the compass, and he was impatient for the morrow to come to see the place of her imprisonment and form some idea of the chances of effecting her release.

As soon as he could conveniently do so, he excused himself and retired to his own room. But he was too excited to sleep. Hour after hour he lay with wide-open eyes, listening to the tinkle of the cowbells high up on the hillsides, and to the low murmur of a stream in a neighbouring glen.

The village was soon asleep. One after another the lights disappeared from the chalets. Later, a waning moon crept slowly up behind the mountains and peeped into his room.

It was a strangely still and restful night, but Douglas felt there could never be any rest for him again until Hope had been rescued from her prison house and restored to her father.

Sometimes he feared he was too late. Nine long months had passed away since her abduction, and if she had been all that time in an asylum for the insane, among those lonely and solemn mountains, was it likely her nerves and brain had survived the tension?

"I think I should go out of my mind in a month in the summertime," he said to himself. "Then what must she have endured during those awful months of winter?"

The picture he conjured up drove him almost mad with rage. The heartless cruelty of Hope's imprisonment appalled him.

It was far on into the morning before he fell asleep, and then he remembered no more until a knock came to his door and he was told it was time to get up.

He ate a hearty breakfast of new-laid eggs and honey, and then he set out on his nine mile tramp to the Chateau Oberon.

It was nearly noon when, rounding the spur of a mountain, the frowning walls of the chateau came into sight. For a moment or two he stood stock-still and stared almost aghast at the fortress-like building.

"I shall never rescue her," was his thought. "If I could get in by strategy I should never get out again. And to carry such a place by force is out of the question. No English law can help me here. I cannot prove she is within, and even if I could, what then? There may be a dozen ways of disposing of her before help could reach her." And he sat down by the wayside and groaned.

"I can only hope she is dead," he said to himself bitterly. "Far better that she should be dead than be alive in such a place."
Chapter 31

In Imprisonment Vile

WHEN Hope found her room invaded by a stern and somewhat forbidding-looking female, dressed in the garb of a nurse, her fears considerably subsided, and with a little cry of relief she sank back upon the bed and waited for the intruder to speak.

The nurse or warder came slowly and cautiously into the room. She did not know what mood the new patient would be in. She was docile enough when she arrived the previous day, and appeared to be under the influence of some powerful narcotic. She fell fast asleep directly she was put to bed, and appeared to be still asleep when the lights were put out for the night.

But what had happened during the night, Mrs. Ritzen did not know, and she was anxious to discover. So she pushed the door open with great caution, and peeped before boldly venturing into the room.

Hope was standing by the bed in a fiercely defiant attitude, her hands clenched, her head thrown back, and her eyes ready to start out of their sockets.

Mrs. Ritzen eyed her patient calmly and steadily for a moment or two, reflecting, as she did so, that she feared this was a patient who might need a good deal of managing.

Finding that Hope exhibited no dangerous tendencies, the door was pushed farther open, and Mrs. Ritzen came fully into view.

"I hope you have had a good night's rest," she said, speaking in German.

"No, I have not," Hope answered, struggling hard to choke back her sobs. "I have been awake nearly all the night, and have been half dead with terror."

"Oh dear, there's nothing to be frightened of," was the answer. "There's no fear of robbers or burglars in this place!"

"But where am I? And how did I get here?" Hope demanded.

"Well, taking the last question first, you came here in a carriage yesterday with your aunt."

"I have no aunt," Hope retorted angrily.

"Oh, well, she was a friend of yours, we'll say. She said you needed change of air and toning up."

"I don't need either," Hope said. "I want to get home. I've lost my only brother, and my father needs me."

"Oh, well, we'll have to see to that. You would like to dress, no doubt, and have some breakfast?"

"I should, indeed. But why were my clothes taken away?"

"Well, as to that, I'm afraid I can't answer all your questions. You see, I'm only a nurse, and don't know everything."

"But you haven't told me yet what this place is."

"Oh, I can't tell you everything in a moment. But it is a nice place, I can assure you, and the patients are all well treated."

"Patients? What patients? Is the place a hospital, or what?"

"Well, no, it is not exactly a hospital. It is more like a hydropathic establishment, you know. Oh, you'll soon pick up, and be as well as ever."

"But I'm not ill," Hope persisted. "I was never ill in my life, but I'm in great trouble about my brother Arthur, and I want to get home to my father as quickly as possible."

"That is quite natural, my dear. And after breakfast we'll see what the doctor has to say about the matter."

"Well, be quick, for I'm impatient to get out of this place. And please send Mrs. Wilkes to me at once."

"Mrs. Wilkes?" the woman said, in a questioning tone.

"Yes, the lady who brought me here. I wonder what her object was?"

"I'm afraid she's not here at present."

"Not here?"

"Well, not now. I've no doubt she'll be calling again to see how you are getting on. But when she saw you comfortably settled, she said there was no need that she should stay."

Hope felt a cold perspiration break out all over her. The real truth was dawning upon her bit by bit, and her worst fears were being realised.

"Please fetch my clothes," she said, with a little gasp, and she covered her face with her hands.

Mrs. Ritzen moved out of the room backwards, keeping her eyes steadily fixed upon her patient.

"Yes, it's true enough," she said to herself. "She's one of the fancy patients, and I'm afraid there'll be trouble with her. But if she stays long enough she'll be as mad as the rest of them."

She was not long before she was back again, and then followed a storm. Hope vowed that she would not wear the clothes that were brought her.

"How can I?" she cried indignantly. "I never wore such coarse, common things in my life ‒ and I never will!"

Mrs. Ritzen, however, explained that her boxes had not arrived, and that the clothes she came in had got drenched with rain.

"But you've had time enough to dry them," Hope protested.

"No, dear, we have not. You must remember it is early morning yet."

So in the end Hope submitted with the best grace. Hour after hour she sat and gazed at the strongly barred window, asking herself, "Will deliverance never come?"

But that was a day of revelations to Hope, and of humiliations. Bit by bit the truth leaked out. At every point she was met by evasions or by direct falsehoods. She was not certain she got a truthful answer to any question. The only thing she was certain of was that she was a prisoner.

It was a week later that she discovered she was in an asylum for the insane She realised she was in danger of losing her mental balance through sheer terror and anxiety when she made the discovery, and instead of completing the work it had a contrary effect.

"But I'll not be driven mad!" she said to herself, with energy. "If I go mad I shall never escape. I shall simply shrivel up and die. No, no, that will be playing into the hands of my enemies ‒ into the hands of Hugh Teesdale ‒ for he's the one who will benefit. I must keep all my wits about me and wait my opportunity."

Gradually she settled down into a state of perfect docility; and if now and then she did not feign insanity, she came near to it.

She discovered that she was in no personal danger ‒ for the present, at any rate ‒ and gradually the conviction grew upon her that no direct attempt was to be made upon her life. No doubt it was believed that, incarcerated in a place like that, she would not live long.

"But I intend to live as long as possible," she would say to herself resolutely. "And, God helping me, I will foil Hugh Teesdale yet!"

That Hugh was at the bottom of her abduction became a settled conviction. She was quick-witted enough to see the sequence of events, and all that it implied.

"He thinks I shall go mad or die," she would say to herself, with a resolute light in her eyes, "but I intend to do neither."

She gave up arguing and protesting after a while. She wore the clothes that were provided for her, ate the food that was brought her, and appeared to accept the inevitable.

Had she been of a moody disposition she would have pined herself to death, or had she been less healthily optimistic she would have given way to despair. But she was so hopefully constituted that she never quite lost heart. A dozen things might happen, none of which she could foresee. And it was her duty to be ready for every emergency, and be able to turn to account every chance of escape that might come her way.

For a month she remained a prisoner in the room in which she first found herself. She was allowed a few books, also writing materials, and she spent a part of each day in writing make-believe letters to her friends. These letters she sealed and addressed, and gave them to Mrs. Ritzen to be posted. She knew well enough, in spite of Mrs. Ritzen's fib that they should be sent off at once, and they would never get beyond the walls of her prison.

She concluded, and rightly, that they would fall into the hands of Dr. Schlinger, and he would trace in them the sure growth of insanity. So she deliberately set herself to deceive the great brain specialist. It proved an interesting occupation, and helped to keep her brain alive and alert.

She grew pale with so much confinement and so little exercise, but on the whole her health suffered little. Being confident no direct attempt was to be made on her life, she slept soundly, undisturbed by dreams or fancies. And at meal times she ate heartily.

"I must keep up my strength," she would say to herself, "whatever happens."

At the end of a month she was allowed a little more liberty, and by the New Year she was allowed to take her meals with about a dozen other women who were quite harmless, but hopelessly demented.

The part she had to play was a difficult one, and she felt it to be so. Now and then she was haunted by the fear that in spite of herself she would gradually lose her reason. And but for her unyielding and undaunted will, and the clear, strong purpose that dominated her, the chances are she would have broken down either mentally or physically.

She saw clearly that the more docile she became, and the nearer she approached in manner and conduct to harmless insanity, the more liberty she would have ‒ and it was liberty she pined for, and which she was determined to win.

She realised if she was once allowed to get outside her prison she would be able to reconnoitre and make plans for escape. While she was kept shut up in the house, escape was impossible. Through the small slits of windows in the circular corner of her room she could discover little or nothing. The window nearest the fireplace looked out against the sheer face of a cliff that rose perpendicularly from the deeps below. The centre window commanded a view of the valley, flanked by lofty mountains and cut short by a sudden bend.

The window farthest from the fireplace looked along the face of the wall to another circular projection some considerable distance away.

It was at the centre window that she spent most of her time. Now and then she caught a glimpse of a human being walking or driving past, but they were so far away that at best their features were only dimly outlined. Nevertheless, the sight of a miller in his cart, or a farmer in his dray behind a pair of oxen, or somebody astride a horse, always seemed to put new strength into her.

"I'm still alive," she would say to herself, "and if I've only strength to hold out I shall win."

She never wavered in that confidence. The idea of being ultimately defeated she would not cherish for a moment.

Now and then as she sat at her window she would wonder if Douglas Grove would ever come that way, and if he did, would she recognise him, and would she be able to make her presence known?

"I think I should know him a mile away," she would say to herself. And her eyes would grow moist with tears.

It was only natural, perhaps, that next to God her hope should centre in Douglas Grove. Her brother Arthur was surely dead, and her father was getting old and an invalid, and only Douglas was left who cared enough for her to make any real effort to find her. That was the line of her thoughts constantly.

Douglas did care. She had no doubt of that, and she cared for him. Douglas was strong and resolute and clever, and he would never rest until he had discovered her whereabouts. So she watched for his coming constantly, and yet she never despaired for a moment because he did not come. God was not dependent on one method. A dozen things might happen. Her chief care was to be ready when the opportunity came.

Spring came at length, and the snow melted on the mountains and the brown earth came into sight again. By pressing her face close to the window nearest the chimney she could catch a glimpse of the pine trees that grew close to the edge of the precipice that rose high above. All the other trees were far away. Sometimes she could hear them rustling when the nights were still.

The window was not wide enough to put her head out. She put her hand out sometimes and felt the rain or snow. But when the soft south wind began to blow, and the snow melted and the heather and whimberry bushes showed green again, she opened that window constantly, and looked up to the edge of the perpendicular cliff to where the heather began to purple at the foot of the pines and the tall whin berry bushes made excellent cover.

"If I were only a bird," she would say to herself, "how soon I should be free!"

The edge of the cliffs where the pines grew, though high above her, did not seem more than a dozen yards away. When the wind got up, the hum of the pine needles seemed close to her ear. For that reason, this window became the centre one her attention.

Before April was out, her liberties were so far extended that she was allowed to walk in the big courtyard that practically surrounded the chateau. She never greeted anything with so much delight before, as she did that permission. And yet she never came so near despairing as she did that day.

To dream of any plan of escape seemed worse than folly. On three sides the chateau was surrounded by a wall so high and so well protected on the top that no human being could climb over it. On the fourth side ‒ at the back ‒ rose a perpendicular cliff, on the face of which there was scarcely foothold for a bird.

She looked first at the wall and then at the cliff with a feeling of dismay. It seemed as if the mountain had been sawn through perpendicularly, in order to make room for the chateau.

Mrs. Ritzen was with her when she made her first circuit of the courtyard. In the centre was a large square of green turf, but not a flower grew anywhere, and the walls were quite bare of creeper or plant.

Hope stayed silent. She was almost afraid to talk lest her voice should betray her disappointment.

Mrs. Ritzen treated her well, and Hope encouraged her in this.

"You see how well you are protected here," Mrs. Ritzen said, waving her hand toward the walls. "Nobody can get in to harm you. No robber or burglar could ever come near."

"Yes, we are well protected," Hope said simply, but with a terrible sinking of the heart.

"And are you ever afraid now?"

"Oh no, I know nobody could ever get in here. And isn't it nice to be safe?"

Mrs. Ritzen smiled knowingly, and said, "It is nice, my child."

So, as the summer advanced, Hope was allowed the free use of the corridors, the public rooms, and the courtyard. She was looked upon by the officials as quite simple and quite harmless. She never gave any trouble, never complained, never talked about the past, and never mentioned the future.

It was a difficult role to play, and she often feared she would break down. Deliverance seemed such a long time in coming, and she wondered how many winters and summers she could endure in such a place, and yet keep her reason.

She was not badly treated on the whole. The bad treatment was reserved for the disruptive and hysterical ones. Now and then shrill cries and shrieks rang all through the house, in spite of the thick stone walls and heavy doors. Hope often wondered how many poor women, as sane as herself, had been incarcerated by uncaring relatives within those gloomy walls, and had beaten themselves to death ‒ like caged birds against their prison bars ‒ or had become hopelessly insane. It seemed to her impossible that people could live there for many years and yet keep their reason.

There were only a few of the inmates who were allowed the free use of the courtyard ‒ a dozen at the outside ‒ but these were all docile, and to all appearances perfectly content. They never shouted or screamed, or went near the porter's lodge, or attempted to attract attention in any way. They wandered round and round in the most aimless fashion, rarely speaking to each other, and apparently indifferent to everything in heaven and earth.

As the summer advanced and the weather got hot, Hope sometimes rose with the dawn and came down into the courtyard for the mere delight of breathing the fresh morning air blowing strong and sweet across the mountains. Sometimes she would be for an hour or two hours quite alone. She never appeared to take notice of anything or anybody. But her thoughts, nevertheless, were always busy. She never talked about the past, but was constantly dreaming it over again. Everything connected with the old days she idealised now.

It was with difficulty she could keep the tears back when she thought of the wicked treachery that had been practised on her. It seemed such a sordid, such a heartless and diabolical thing, and now and then her heart would rise in hot anger and indignation. But she thought as little of her wrongs and sufferings as possible. Her business was to anticipate deliverance and to encourage a hopeful disposition.

She was sure God had not forsaken her, and in His own time He would send deliverance. Not to believe that would be to lose faith in God altogether. So she clung, with childlike simplicity, to the belief that God was near her, that He heard her when she prayed, that He would watch over her during all her period of suffering, and by and by bring her into freedom.

And somehow, too, she fancied Douglas Grove would be the instrument God would use to effect her release.

Douglas loved her ‒ she was sure he did. She had seen it in the light of his eyes, heard it in the tones of his voice, felt it in the grasp of his hand.

Her reason said it was impossible that anyone could release her, but her faith laughed at impossibilities. Nothing was impossible with God.

So the summer wore slowly on. Leafy June came to an end, and July came in warm and sultry.

She was sitting one day by the centre window, looking down into the valley and dreaming of home, when suddenly, round the bend of the hill a man came into sight. Instantly her eyes kindled and her heart throbbed with a feeling almost of envy. He came swinging round the corner with a vigorous and elastic step. Did he value his freedom, she wondered. Then he stopped suddenly and stared at the chateau. For a moment she caught her breath, and her eyes grew moist with excitement.

With a little cry she jammed her face between the stone mullions of the window, her lips moved, and she tried to cry out, "Douglas! Douglas! I am here!"

But no words came. She could only gasp and stare, while tears of hope and excitement rolled down her face and dropped on the hard stones on which she leaned.
Chapter 32

The Signal

AS Douglas stood staring at the massive castellated walls of the chateau, with a feeling of dismay growing at his heart, he saw, or fancied he saw, a white hand thrust through one of the slits of the rear tower, and waved for a moment. A moment later there was the flutter of a white pocket-handkerchief.

His heart gave a great bound, and seemed to leap into his throat. He made no sign, however, that he had seen the signal. For all he knew, a hundred eyes might be looking at him from the various windows, and he would have to be as wary as a serpent if he was to accomplish his mission.

Of course, the hand he had seen might not be Hope's. He was too far away for any eyes ‒ unless they were sharpened by love or suffering ‒ to recognise his face. And there might be scores of poor creatures within those forbidding walls who would fly signals of distress to anyone who might chance to pass that way. Hence he was not disposed to build too much on what he had seen.

Nevertheless, it was something, and helped to soften the feeling of dismay with which he regarded the gloomy and forbidding prison.

"It may be Hope," he said to himself, as he continued his way up the valley. "Perhaps she has thought of me as her deliverer. Oh, I trust she has! And yet I can never win her now. When she learns that it was I who killed her brother ‒ if she ever does learn it ‒ she will loathe me. Nevertheless, I should like to save her, like to restore her to her father. It might be regarded as some small atonement."

The road branched off into two directly. One led by a series of curves and zigzags up to the front entrance of the chateau. The other continued up the valley in the direction of Osbrocken. Douglas took the latter, and walked briskly on until the chateau was behind him and out of sight. Then he sat down for a few minutes and tried to consider what further steps he should take.

During the morning he had thought of a dozen plans, but the first glimpse of the chateau had dissipated them all, and he was left with a feeling of utter helplessness, almost of despair.

After a few minutes he rose to his feet and began to climb the mountain behind him.

"From the top I shall be able to look down upon the roof of the place," he said, "and the layout will be spread before my eyes."

It was a steep climb and a tiring one, for the day was hot, and when he got among the pines not a breath of air seemed to stir.

At last, however, he turned the crown of the hill, and the way began to dip steeply toward the chateau.

"Now I shall have to be careful," he said to himself, "for this ends in a precipice. If I fall down that, there will be a sudden termination to my expedition."

He sat down at length among the whinberry bushes, and threw his left arm round the trunk of a young pine tree. Below him lay the chateau, and so near that he almost fancied he could fling a pebble into one of its chimneys.

But what interested him most for the moment were the courtyards. There were two of them, an outer and an inner. The outer one was much the smaller, and was not taken out of the inner, but projected beyond it. Indeed, it looked as though it had been built after the inner wall was completed.

On one side of this outer courtyard was the porter's lodge, and on the other a larger building that might be the doctor's residence. Hence anyone arriving at the chateau would be admitted into this outer courtyard. Here he would find himself in front of the doctor's house, and unless he was a privileged person he would never get any farther.

The entrance to the main building from the outside world was through the porter's lodge, and then round by the left-hand wall by a covered way, and so through the left wing at the extreme end of the building.

Douglas pressed his teeth together tightly as he surveyed this arrangement. For a while he sat perfectly still, wrapped in thought.

"Suppose I were to call on this Dr. Schlinger," he reflected, "and pretend I had some relative ‒ a wife, a sister ‒ I wished to put under his treatment. Should I get beyond that outer courtyard? I very much doubt it. And even if I were admitted into the main building, should I be any better off?

"Suppose I could arrange some day on which to bring my supposed wife, and I brought with me, thickly veiled and dressed in the garb of a woman, some strong, determined man. Could we get through that porter's lodge, all round by that covered way, into the main building, and so to Hope's room, and bring her out alive?"

While he was debating this point, a closed carriage drove up to the outer gate or door, which was thrown open by two stalwart porters. The carriage drove at once into the courtyard, and out stepped two warders, a nurse, and a gentleman. A moment later a lady was lifted bodily out of the carriage and whisked into the porter's room. The gentleman attempted to follow, but the two porters blocked the path in a moment.

He appeared to protest, and for a minute or two gesticulated excitedly, then he followed the doctor into his house ‒ or someone whom Douglas supposed to be the doctor. Ten minutes later he returned to the courtyard, entered the carriage, and was driven away in the direction of Vaalkirche.

"Just as I expected," Douglas muttered to himself. "Visitors from the outside world are not admitted to the presence of the inmates. Now, what is to be my next move?"

It was already considerably past noon, and he was beginning to feel hungry, so he pulled some sandwiches out of his pocket and began to eat them, reflecting deeply all the time. Whether his sandwiches were ham or beef, brown bread or white bread, he had not the remotest idea. He ate because he felt weak and hungry, but his thoughts were on other things.

When the last crumb had disappeared down his throat, he rose slowly and began to make his way, almost on his hands and knees, nearer to the edge of the precipice. Fortunately there was no lack of undergrowth, while the pine grew on the very brink of the cliff.

At last he got as near as he dare venture. Directly below him was the circular crown, or tower, with a slit window out of which he had seen a hand thrust and a handkerchief waved. Could it be that he was within twenty or thirty yards of Hope's prison?

His heart beat fast as he crouched behind the trunk of a tree and strained his eyes towards the narrow slits that served for windows. He would shout to her if he dared ‒ call her by her name ‒ but that might spoil everything. If he ever accomplished anything it could only be by the greatest possible caution.

As yet he had not the ghost of a plan in his mind. No sooner did he think of a scheme than he rejected it. The place was so strongly built and so safely guarded that all ordinary methods of attack would be worse than useless. If he did anything at all, it must be by strategy. But, alas, he was not skilled in that direction.

He shut his eyes after a while and tried to think. His first business was to make sure Hope Teesdale was alive and a prisoner in the chateau. How was that to be accomplished? He could not go to the lodge and inquire, for that might thwart the very end he had in view. Most likely she had been taken there under an assumed name. Her very protestations that she was not what she was represented to be might be regarded as evidence of her insanity.

Yet what other course was open to him? A white hand thrust through the window proved nothing, and the window was too narrow for the owner of the hand to show her face. If she could push the cloak through with the scarlet hood he would be certain that it was she who had signalled to him. But that she did not do. Perhaps such an idea would never occur to her. Perhaps her cloak had been taken from her.

The sun was beginning to dip slowly in the west, and the valley below was becoming steeped in a purple haze. He was nine miles away from Vaalkirche, and would have to walk all the way back, and walk back feeling more hopeless than when he came. It was humbling to be so absolutely foiled ‒ to be compelled to dismiss all his plans and schemes as worthless.

He opened his eyes at length with a little groan. Then he crept forward on his hands and knees until once more he reached the very brink of the precipice. Lying flat on his face, with his shoulder against the trunk of a pine, he craned his neck until he could look down the face of the cliff.

It appeared to be as smooth as glass for the most part, and in places as perpendicular as a wall. How near he was to the window from which he had seen the hand wave, and yet what an awful gulf lay between. Was it Hope's hand, he wondered. And if so, ought he to rejoice? Surely it was far better that she should be asleep in Bradenford churchyard than that she should be alive in the Chateau Oberon!

But how could he find out if she was still alive? The question came back again and again, but he could find no answer. He seemed as helpless as if he were in another planet. And yet that question lay in front of all the rest. He could do nothing until he knew.

"Perhaps I had better get back to Vaalkirche," he reflected, at length. "It is evident I can do nothing here at present. Perhaps when I have slept over the matter, my brain will feel less muddled."

He began to creep back from his not too comfortable or secure position. Then suddenly a thought occurred to him, and he sat bolt upright, looking as startled as though a pistol had been discharged close to his ear, and he went forward again.

Hope remained at the centre window, staring with aching eyes down into the valley, and wondering sometimes whether she was awake or dreaming. She had seen many people pass up and down that valley, and she had so accommodated her eyes to long distances that she could distinguish the features of people much farther away than once had been possible to her, but never until today had she seen anyone that in the least reminded her of Douglas Grove.

Though she had hoped and prayed, and waited and expected, she had been under no illusion until now. She had never said of anyone, "He reminds me of Douglas."

But today she had seen Douglas himself, or she had dreamed she had. Could it be possible that her imagination had been playing tricks with her ‒ that for the first time during all these days and terrible months she was the victim of a mere fancy?

"No," she said resolutely, "I am not of the fanciful sort. Had I been, I should have lost my reason months ago. It was Douglas ‒ my own Douglas!" And a warm blush swept over her neck and face. "He has been searching for me all these months, and at last he has discovered the place where I am buried alive. I knew he would. I knew he loved me, and this is proof of it. Oh, Douglas, Douglas!"

And her eyes shone with happy tears.

She waited at the window hour after hour, hoping he would show himself again. She was a little distressed that he paid no attention to her signal, and feared he had not seen it. Every few minutes a smothering wave of doubt swept over her, and she pinched herself to be sure she was wide awake. The shadows of the mountains began at length to lie across the valley, and distant objects began to grow obscure; but she had not the courage to tear herself away from the window.

"He may return," she kept saying to herself. "I saw him pass up the valley. He will guess I am here, or else why did he come at all?"

Then she lifted her head with a quick and startled movement. Clear on the evening air rose the rich, flute-like notes of a thrush. The bird might be close to her window, so loudly it sang. Trill upon trill ‒ now rising, now falling to a long, deep note, rich as that of the nightingale.

"Oh, how lovely," she cried. "Think of a thrush singing here in the middle of summer. How good of the sweet bird to come and sing to me. It's like home in the springtime."

For a moment or two there was silence, and then the bird song began again.

What an exhilarating song it was. It seemed like a song of hope and joy and victory. It brought back a hundred memories of other days when she used to ramble on the fells of the dear homeland, sometimes alone and sometimes in the company of Douglas Grove.

How strange that in the long months of her imprisonment no thrush had ever come to sing to her before.

For a moment she hesitated, while a bright, eager light came into her eyes. Then she sprang to the window nearest the fireplace and jammed herself into the deep space.

"It's Douglas!" she said to herself. "Of course, no English thrush would sing here in the summer. Why did I not think of it before? He can imitate nearly every bird that sings. Oh, Douglas, Douglas!"

She pulled open the narrow pane and pressed her face to the opening.

Down from the edge of the cliff the songster was still warbling, deep and full and unrestrained. Then it paused, and in that pause Hope responded with a faint chirping.

Then came a signal she remembered so well. How often Douglas had indicated his whereabouts by it in the old time! Her heart almost stood still, but she managed to chirrup a timid note like that of a robin on a bough.

It was followed up on the edge of the cliff by a trilling note of ecstasy.

Hope put out her white hand and waved it; then she got her face as near the bottom of the window as possible and looked up. For a moment a rush of tears blinded her, then her vision cleared. Almost close to the brink of the precipice, and surrounded by a tangle of bushes, was the face of the man she loved.

She wanted to scream, to laugh, to shout ‒ to do anything that was absolutely frantic. Fortunately for her, she had no breath left. Her heart was throbbing at almost lightning speed. She could only utter a faint chirping between her gasps.

She saw a glad smile light up his face. Dark as was the deep window recess in which she sat, she felt sure he had caught a glimpse of her face, and he had responded by a trilling note of triumph. Then she raised her hands and pulled down the heavy coils of her hair, and putting her head close to the opening, she waved a rich tress in the breeze. For a few moments there was silence. Then a low, tremulous note died softly away in the distance.

When she looked up again the face was gone, but from far away among the pines she heard the thrush's song growing fainter and fainter. "Cheer up! Cheer up!" it kept saying; and her heart leapt in gladness and gratitude to the sound.

She closed the window at length, and went to her bedside and knelt down and prayed. She forgot the long agony of the last nine months; forgot all the fears that had threatened to overwhelm her; forgot her grief and bereavement. There seemed only room in her heart for one dominating emotion, and that was gratitude.

God had heard her prayers and seen her tears, and had sent Douglas Grove to set her free. How Douglas was going to do it she did not know, nor did she stop to inquire. To her it seemed impossible, but nothing was impossible to God.

To that fact her faith clung and remained unshaken.

Freedom might not come tomorrow or the day following, but that it would come sooner or later she was convinced. Douglas had found her. Was not that enough?
Chapter 33

Plans and Purposes

DOUGLAS journeyed back with mixed feelings. Triumph and despair struggled within him for the mastery. One moment he was disposed to sing for joy, the next to wring his hands with despondency. That he had found Hope alive was like sunshine after winter's storms and cold. The sight of her glorious hair, waved in the wind, thrilled him to the very depths of his being; the faint glimpse he got of her face set his heart beating so tumultuously that his very joy became a pain.

But when he thought of what she had endured, and what she might still have to endure; when he considered how closely she was guarded and how absolutely impossible it seemed to effect her release, his song was turned into mourning, and his joy to the most abject despair.

He was a long time in reaching Vaalkirche, and for two reasons. In the first place, instead of returning the way he had come, he imagined he could get a nearer way skirting the mountains to the right, and in the second place he spent considerable time in exploring what he imagined at first was an ancient ruin or cave dwelling, but which he concluded afterwards was a curious geological formation.

The wonder was he did not break his neck, for he stumbled several feet down a narrow fissure between moss-grown rocks, and picked himself up considerably bruised and shaken, and not a little bewildered.

"What a fool I was not to look more carefully where I was going," he said to himself, rubbing his knees and elbows, and wondering if he had broken any bones.

Satisfying himself on that point, he began to explore his surroundings. He was halfway down an irregular flight of steps that might have been hewn out of the rock by some prehistoric race. Descending to the bottom, he found a series of circular caves, that reminded him of air bubbles in a piece of glass. Clearly the place was of volcanic origin, and had been subjected at one time to intense heat.

So interested did he become in exploring the hollows and caves and air holes that he forgot the flight of time. Light came through a series of cracks and fissures, though in the farther caves he had to strike a light to see anything at all.

There appeared to be only one way out, and that was by way of the steps down which he had stumbled, and the entrance to which was completely hidden by wild rhododendrons.

Carefully marking the spot ‒ though why he should do so he hardly knew ‒ he hurried forward in the direction of Vaalkirche.

It was considerably after dark when at length he stumbled down the mountainside just opposite the little church, and saw the welcome light of the Railway Inn shining out across the valley. The landlord and the stationmaster were both in the doorway, and greeted him most effusively. They were afraid he had got lost among the mountains, or else that some accident had befallen him.

"I'm all right, except for a few bruises," he said in reply to their greeting. "But I'm terribly hungry."

"Ah, that's right," said the landlord. "Dinner has been waiting for you since dark."

And both he and the stationmaster followed Douglas into the small dining room. They were curious to hear what he thought of the country round about, and the chances of its becoming a popular tourists' resort.

"I don't think much of the Chateau Oberon," Douglas said in reply to a question from the stationmaster, "but the country round about is magnificent. I intend to stay here a while, and explore it thoroughly. It's a grand field both for the botanist and the geologist."

"Ah, I thought you would like it," the stationmaster said, rubbing his hands and smiling broadly. "I have always said that Vaalkirche only wants to be known to be appreciated. If you praise it when you get to your country, others will come."

"Of course, I've only seen a little bit of it yet," Douglas said, helping himself to some more stewed chicken. "Tomorrow I'll have another look round."

"And you will be pleased with everything ‒ everything," the stationmaster said enthusiastically.

"Well, I hope so," Douglas said, with a smile.

Douglas slept less that night than he did the previous one. Hour after hour he lay debating the question, "How can I release my darling Hope?"

At first he was inclined to think his best course would be to return to England at once, and go straight to Sir Geoffrey and tell him of his discovery, and leave him to effect Hope's rescue in the best way he could. But after reflecting on the matter for some time he decided against it.

Suppose Sir Geoffrey, armed with any powers that the British Government might give him, were to come and demand the release of his daughter? Dr. Schlinger would deny, of course, that his daughter was there. And if the place were searched, would arrange, no doubt, that she should not be found.

"No, no," Douglas said to himself, "such a course would instantly put her life in jeopardy. Dr. Schlinger and Nan will hang together in this matter, and no doubt the doctor will keep Hope alive as long as possible, for directly she dies, his power of blackmailing Nan for her keep will be at an end. Nor is that all. If Hope were to die, Nan's power over Hugh would be at an end. It's a curious business. They are all playing for their own hand."

While he decided against going to England and telling Sir Geoffrey, he also decided against every other scheme that presented itself. There was no plan his brain could devise that seemed to offer the least prospect of being successful.

He got up next morning soon after dawn, and, arming himself with a small telescope and an alpenstock, and stuffing his pockets with sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, he started once more on the expedition.

It was still early in the morning when he found himself once more on the edge of the cliff overlooking the courtyard of the chateau. He did not expect to see anyone moving about for another hour at least. Hence he was surprised to see a solitary figure, dressed in rough blue serge, walking slowly up and down the courtyard.

For several moments he surveyed the figure indifferently.

"Some poor creature, I suppose," he said to himself as he glanced toward the narrow windows of Hope's room.

"I expect she is fast asleep," he said to himself, with a sigh. "I must send a note of optimism to her when she awakes. My poor darling. Shall I win her freedom, I wonder?"

The figure out in the courtyard turned the corner, and came down the end of the chateau toward the cliff. Douglas craned his neck farther and farther over the precipice. Then he pulled his telescope out of his pocket and adjusted it, and as he did so he gave a start, and could hardly repress an exclamation.

"It's Hope," he said to himself, with a gasp. "But how changed she is!"

Then the notes of a thrush began to float out on the still morning air, wild and triumphant.

Hope lifted her face in a moment, and Douglas's eyes filled as he looked at her through his small telescope. Her eyes seemed so large, her cheeks were so pale and thin, while her step seemed to have lost all its vigour and elasticity, and her figure all its roundness.

"My poor Hope," he muttered to himself.

But he knew there was no time for sentiment or emotion, so gulping down a lump in his throat he began to trill again some bird notes, and by the aid of his telescope he could see a joyous smile breaking over her face.

"She understood," he said to himself.

And he did his best to put a message into his bird song.

Douglas returned early to Vaalkirche that day, and wrote a letter to Hope. Then he got a large fir-cone and scooped out the inside of it with his penknife. Into this hollow he put his letter, folded neatly and carefully, and wedged in so tightly that there was no fear of it falling out. On the top he fitted in a bit of wood, so that the cone might look as if it had not been tampered with.

The next morning he started with the dawn, before anyone was stirring. There was no sign of life at the chateau when he reached his position on the edge of the cliff.

Hiding among the bushes he began to twitter like a lark. A moment or two later a white hand was thrust through the window and quickly withdrawn. Douglas ceased his birdsong and waited. Ten minutes passed. Then his heart gave a great bound as he saw Hope walking across the courtyard.

"Tweet, tweet!" he called, and she raised her eyes in a moment; and when she did so he flung out his fir-cone, and watched it as it dropped at her feet.

She stooped and picked it up, and hid it in her bosom in a moment. Then without raising her eyes again, she turned and walked away in the opposite direction.

Douglas watched her for several minutes, then creeping slowly back among the pines, he made his way once more across the mountains in the direction of Vaalkirche.

He did not pause this time to examine the cave dwellings. He was in too great a hurry to get back to the inn. At last an idea had struck his brain that seemed to offer some chance of success, but it wanted elaborating. It was too crude as yet to be of any practical value. Nevertheless, it was a beginning.

"It may be only a seed," he said to himself, "but it will grow to something by and by."

He spent the rest of the day sitting under the awning of the veranda, deep in thought.

"Ah, you do well to rest here in the shadow," the landlord said, "for it is hot ‒ very hot!"

"It is a trifle warm," Douglas said, looking up with a smile.

"Warm, do you say?" The landlord shrugged his shoulders, dropped into a wicker chair, and began to smoke in silence.

Douglas's idea germinated slowly, but he did not despair. The landlord joined him several times during the afternoon, and tried to draw him into conversation, but he was in no mood to talk. His brain was too intent on a scheme for Hope's release.

After dinner the stationmaster came across to the inn as usual. He was interested in Douglas, and hoped he would be the forerunner of many other tourists.

They sat out under the veranda until the stars came out, but the stationmaster and the landlord did nearly all the talking. Douglas listened now and then in a dreamy, indifferent way, but in the main he scarcely heard anything that was said. His thoughts were elsewhere. His head was rocked by a very tempest of emotions. Now and then the tears came very near his eyes.

When he was not busy evolving his scheme for the rescue of Hope Teesdale, he was trying to imagine what her feelings would be. She, of course, would realise just as vividly as he did the immense difficulties there were in the way; and just now all her hope would be centred in him. What if he should fail her? For if he failed, it would be far worse for her than if he never made the attempt.

At present it was quite evident Hope was allowed some measure of liberty, but if it were discovered that any attempt was being made to effect her release, that liberty would be denied her, and she would either go stark mad or pine herself to death.

"I must not fail," he kept saying to himself. "It is no use starting on any half-considered scheme. And yet, for Hope, the days will now seem longer than ever. Oh, Hope, my Hope."

By the following morning he had fairly well thought out his scheme and greatly to the surprise of the stationmaster he started off by the earliest train to Constance. He knew that he could not get what he wanted at Vaalkirche or any of the other villages in the neighbourhood. Moreover, his plans would have to be carried out with great secrecy. If the landlord or the stationmaster got to know what he was after, they might inadvertently spoil his scheme at the outset.

If his own life or liberty had been at stake he would not have felt nearly so concerned. Indeed, for himself he cared little. Apart from this one enterprise he felt he had little worth living for. The shadow of his crime ‒ or what he believed was his crime ‒ hung over him constantly.

He did his best to appear cheerful, and yet the sorrow was never absent. Try as he would, he could not forget what he had done. He had killed a man. In a moment of ungovernable passion he had sent the brother of the girl he loved into eternity. That was the black, unrelieved shadow that lay across his life, and which he feared sometimes that neither time nor eternity would lift.

To save Hope was the only possible reparation he could make, and so it became the dominating purpose of his life.

He did not tell the landlord or the stationmaster how long he intended to be away, but as he took with him scarcely any luggage, they imagined he would be away only one night at most. Hence, when several days passed away, and he did not put in an appearance, they began to be concerned.
Chapter 34

The Morning Call

MEANWHILE, Hope was in such a fever of excitement that she did not know how to contain herself. What she had been hoping for and praying for so long had at last been realised. Douglas had found her, seen her, communicated with her; and that he would ultimately release her, she had no doubt.

If he could not effect her release in any other way, she believed he would bring a regiment of British soldiers and batter down the place. But that she could be left in captivity much longer, now that the place of her imprisonment was known, she did not believe for a moment.

When she picked up the fir-cone that had fallen at her feet, she guessed in a moment that some kind of message was contained in it. Hiding it in the bosom of her dress, she hurried back to her room as quickly as she could, pushing her chair behind the door so that Mrs. Ritzen should not surprise her if she came unexpectedly into the room.

She pulled out the cone from her bosom and began to carefully examine it. It was some little time before she discovered the wooden stopper, so ingeniously had Douglas fitted it. Then she discovered she had no way of getting it out, for she was not allowed the possession of a penknife, or, indeed, of anything by which she might do herself personal damage.

After trying several minutes what her nails would effect, and discovering that the stopper would not move, she put the cone under her foot and slowly crushed it. She had no difficulty then in extracting the little cone of white paper, but she was in such a state of excitement that she trembled from head to foot, and the whole room swam before her eyes.

Before attempting to read the letter she carefully swept up the pieces of cone and threw them out of the window, then she opened the door and looked along the corridor. No one, however, appeared to be about. The house was only just beginning to stir. Mrs. Ritzen was not likely to visit her for some time yet.

Closing the door again, she quickly unrolled the little cone of paper, and began to read. The writing was small, but she recognised it in a moment. There was no address, or date, or signature, and not a single word of endearment, although she did not notice that during the first reading. She was too intent on the message to notice the language in which it was couched.

Have patience. Days, perhaps weeks, must elapse before anything can be done. Be very cautious, and for the world don't let anyone suspect, through anything you may do or say, that the place of your imprisonment has been discovered. Your life may depend on the secret being well kept. A body was found months ago dressed in your clothes. It was identified by Mrs. Mann, and buried in Bradenford churchyard. Hence any open demand for your release would be met by a denial of any knowledge of you. And if force were used, you would probably be despatched before help could reach you. I mention this to put you on your guard. You must be liberated ‒ if at all ‒ by strategy, not by force. Hence, go on from day to day as you have been in the habit of doing. Walk in the courtyard early in the mornings ‒ the earlier the better ‒ and when you hear the lark's song look up. If my plan succeeds, it will require nerve on your part as well as my own. As far as appearances go, the chances are against us. Hence you must be prepared to risk even your life. I cannot tell you yet what my scheme is, for it is only beginning to take shape in my mind; but some morning very early ‒ before anyone else is stirring ‒ I hope I shall be on the cliff where the "thrush" has its nest. You will hear a note, then you must watch and wait, and be ready to act, bravely, fearlessly, thinking nothing of danger. Be prompt, when the time comes. Be fearless, and may God help us both."

A soft step sounded in the corridor, and Hope thrust the note into her bosom, and went and stood before the little dressing table.

"What, up early again?" Mrs. Ritzen asked.

"The early morning is the only part of the day when one can walk," Hope answered listlessly, and without looking round.

"It is hot after the sun gets up," Mrs. Ritzen conceded.

"For that reason I walk in the cool of the morning. The air is sweet, blowing across from the mountains. Don't you think so?"

"I suppose it is. But I don't believe in losing my sleep for the sake of the morning air."

"Ah, but I go to bed early," Hope answered. "You see, there is nothing to stay up late for."

"You need to go to bed early if you get up at such unearthly hours," Mrs. Ritzen said, a little peevishly. Then she turned on her heel, and left the room.

Hope gave a sigh of relief, then rushed to the door and listened as the woman's footsteps died away in the distance.

"I shall be safe now till breakfast time," she said.

She pulled Douglas's letter out of her bosom, and read it a second time; and then it was that she noticed that there was not a single word of endearment nor a single expression of affection in it from beginning to end.

"It is strange he should be so reticent," she mused, the warm colour stealing up into her face. "In the old days, when he wrote to me, I could read such a lot between the lines. He used to suggest volumes and volumes, but now he says nothing. I mean nothing about us ‒ that is, I might be no more to him than anybody else. But then, of course, I must be, or he would not have searched for me as he has done. Oh yes, he cares, or he would not take so much trouble."

And the colour deepened on her cheeks again.

She fell to dreaming of what would happen when Douglas set her free. He would have a claim upon her then, and of course would speak of it freely. It would be sweet to listen to words of love from his lips, and there would be no reason why she should not respond.

Arthur would not be there to raise any objection ‒ poor Arthur ‒ and she brushed her hand across her eyes, while her father would be too overjoyed to have her back again to raise any objection. So the course of their love would run smooth at last, and they would journey along the primrose way of life hand in hand, and would forget all the trouble and darkness that lay behind.

She was quietly happy all that day, but her face betrayed no sign. When she walked in the courtyard she kept her eyes bent upon the ground. She gave less trouble than any of the patients. Outwardly she appeared never to worry about the past or the future. She lived day by day as a child might, and was quietly interested in the most trivial things. Mrs. Ritzen honestly believed the poor young lady was one of those harmless patients that only an expert could be sure that anything ailed them.

Hope had played her part so long and so successfully that she had much less difficulty now than at first. No one appeared to suspect her, which was all to the good. She had free run of all the public rooms in the house, and as Dr. Schlinger was paid handsomely for her maintenance, and he saw the prospect of largely increasing his demands, he made up his mind to keep Hope alive. Of course, for a big sum indeed she might be allowed to slip away into the land of silence, but as yet no sufficient inducement had been offered him.

Hope read her letter again before she retired for the night, and then her mind fixed upon another part of it. "You are supposed to be dead. A body was found months ago dressed in your clothes."

It revealed to her more clearly than anything else had done, the determined character of the conspiracy. She understood now why her clothes had been taken away. It was never intended that she should regain her liberty. No doubt it was thought that in a few months, or a year or two at the outside, she would pine herself to death. Murder would be avoided in the technical sense of the word, but she was to be just as effectually removed.

"But we shall foil them yet," she said to herself, with her eyes towards the windows, from which the light was slowly fading. "Yes, we shall foil them." And her eyes lighted up with a great expectation. "Dear old Douglas, how good of him to continue the search when everybody else believed I was dead."

And she fell to dreaming again of that happy day when he would take her in his arms and tell her that he loved her.

Time passed with terrible slowness. The nights and days seemed interminable. She was so excited that she got scarcely any sleep, and she had the utmost difficulty in forcing down the food at meal times. Moreover, she was in constant dread lest by any word, or look, or action, she should betray her secret; while now and then she was haunted by the fear that Douglas might fail.

She read the last part of the letter over and over again. "As far as appearances go, the chances are against us. Hence you must be prepared to risk even your life."

"Oh, I am prepared," she would say to herself, wringing her hands. "I would rather die than fail now. But we shall not fail. God will not let us."

This was her sheet-anchor still. Nothing was impossible with God. Now and then the lamp of her faith burned low, and had she not fed it constantly at the fount of prayer, it would have gone out altogether.

As the days passed away, and she listened in vain for the song of the lark or the jubilant note of the thrush, her heart sank unconsciously, and into her eyes came a look of apprehension ‒ almost of terror. She found it more and more difficult to walk about with the same unconcerned demeanour she had been in the habit of doing. She kept her eyes down most of the time, for she knew they would tell tales if she raised them, and every now and then her heart beat so fast that she was unable to speak.

Every morning she got up with the dawn, and sometimes even before the day was quite awake. As she walked slowly in the courtyard she would strain her ears to catch the twitter of the lark, and the tears would come unbidden into her when no song of thrush or lark broke the morning.

"Oh, I wonder where Douglas is?" she would say to herself. "I wonder what he is doing."

Meanwhile, Douglas Grove was busy perfecting his scheme. He was convinced there was only one way for Hope to escape, and that was up the face of the cliff. To do that he would have to let down a rope or a ladder. But to both these plans there seemed insurmountable objections. Hope could not climb a rope, and there was no ladder long enough to reach to the bottom.

If he had a windlass and a pulley, she could throw the loop round her waist, and he could pull her up that way; but to erect a windlass in sight of the chateau would be impossible. To drag her up hand over hand would require half a dozen men at the top, and he was afraid to take even the stationmaster into his confidence.

At last, after much deliberation, he hit upon the idea of a rope ladder. But that would have to be made of tough hemp, and light bamboo spreaders here and there, or he would not be able to get it by himself to the top of the cliff.

He had to go to Basle to get what he wanted, and when his ladder was completed in two lengths, he had it packed in two market baskets and despatched by rail: one basket to Osbrocken and the other to Vaalkirche.

He fetched the one from Osbrocken first, and conveyed it during the night to the top of the hill and hid it among the bushes. With the basket that landed at Vaalkirche he had a little more difficulty. The stationmaster was curious, and would have much enjoyed examining the contents. However, it was conveyed to the Railway Inn without anyone being the wiser, and safely lodged in Douglas's bedroom. There it remained for a night and a day. But during the second night Douglas stole quietly out of the house, taking his burden with him.

He took the valley road, being the easier, and reached the hill overlooking the chateau half an hour before the dawn. He was exhausted, though he was scarcely conscious of it. He felt he had reached the supreme moment of his life. Only one thing mattered. If he failed now, nothing else would be worth considering. If he could not rescue Hope, he wanted to die with her.

He lay on his face for several minutes among the whinberry bushes, and listened; but nothing was stirring ‒ no sound came up from the chateau below; no light shone from any window that came within his range of vision.

"It's our only chance," he said to himself, "and we must run all risks."

His heart beat so violently and his hands trembled so that he could hardly hook together the two parts of the ladder. But that feat was accomplished at last, and then he began to unroll the coils with great care, for the bamboo spreaders were disposed to make a clatter.

The top of the ladder left two lengths of rope which he carefully fastened round two pine trees which grew a little distance apart.

He waited then, and drew a long breath. Should he signal to Hope first, or should he lower the ladder down the face of the cliff and wait?

After he had debated this point for several minutes he decided on the latter course. His ladder might not be long enough, and it would be better to settle that point before he went any further. If it was too short, he would have to get another length made, which would mean another week's delay, and perhaps the discovery of his scheme.

With a trembling hand he began at length to lower his ladder down the face of the cliff. It made no noise as it slid over the edge of soft earth and moss.

Down, down, down! And then he gave a little gasp. He felt it had touched the bottom, and there were still a few feet to spare. He let it slide, however, until the ropes that held it to the trees were quite taut.

"Now for the supreme moment," he said to himself, trembling violently.

The dawn was just beginning to steal above the mountains. Not a sound broke the stillness.

Then a low "tweet, tweet" sounded from the edge of the cliff. Hope heard it in her room, and rushed to the window and waved her hand for a moment.

How she finished dressing herself she never knew. It seemed to her as though all the excitement of her life was crowded into a single moment.

"The day of my redemption has come," she kept repeating to herself, a light of a great joy shining in her eyes.

She stole along the corridor and down the stairs without a sound. There was no need to bolt the door leading into the courtyard, for during the hot weather it was left open all night long.

Hope glanced timidly round her, but no one appeared to be stirring. She wanted to run, but restrained herself. What plan Douglas had devised for her escape she could not imagine. She was eager to see and know, but she kept herself well in hand. Liberty and life were trembling in the balance. A false move now might spoil everything. So she walked out slowly, as was her wont, with a demure look on her face and her eyes bent upon the ground.

She turned first to the right, as she was in the habit of doing; then to the left, across the whole width of the courtyard, then to the left again, with her face toward the cliff.

High overhead was a soft trilling note, as though a lark were far away in the unfathomable blue, singing its morning song at the gate of heaven.

She raised her eyes swiftly to the edge of the cliff and caught a glimpse of Douglas Grove's face, and, at the same moment, she saw the rope ladder sheer up the face of the rock.

"Quick, quick; cheer up!" a bird seemed to call from somewhere among the pine trees.

She did not hesitate a single moment. Setting her teeth firmly together, she sprang at the rope and began to climb. It was not an easy task. It lay so near the face of the rock in some instances that she could hardly get a foothold. As she got higher, it swayed more and more. She knew if she looked back she would turn giddy, so she shut her eyes and felt her way up.

Her progress seemed terribly slow to Douglas, as he leaned over the edge of the cliff and watched her.

"Cheer up! Cheer up!" sounded out a cheerful thrush note. And it put new courage into her.

The ladder was swaying violently, and she began to feel sick and giddy, but she struggled on bravely. She bit her lip until it bled, and her hands were already chafed with the rope; but the pain kept her from growing faint.

Douglas ventured at length to whisper down to her, "Keep your eyes shut, and come on steadily. You will soon be at the top now."

She was three-fourths of the way up, and the swaying of the rope was getting less, but her strength was giving out fast and there seemed to be no skin left on her fingers. Everything was spinning round her, and she was conscious of the awful depth beneath.

Then Douglas uttered a startled exclamation. A porter was walking across the courtyard. Would he see them?

Hope heard his exclamation. "What is it?" she asked, in a tone of terror.

"Be quick," he whispered, "or we are lost!"

"Are we discovered?" she asked.

And she gathered up, for a last effort, all her strength and energy.

The porter turned the corner and came in sight of the ladder, with the human figure near the top.

With a muttered exclamation he sprang forward, seized the ladder, and began to mount it with the agility of a panther.
Chapter 35

The Final Effort

IT seemed to Douglas Grove that his heart stood still for several minutes. It was clear that Hope was quite spent, and she was yet several feet from the top. Her face was deadly pale, her hands were dripping with blood, and blood was on her lips.

To Douglas's excited imagination she was scarcely making any progress at all, and his great fear was that she would lose her grip and fall down the awful abyss. To make matters worse, the ladder was swaying more than it had ever done before, in consequence of the violent exertions of the porter below.

"Keep your heart up," he called. "There are only a few steps more."

She did not answer, but he saw a spasm of pain sweep over her upturned face.

He held his breath and waited. It was all he could do, except to pray silently that God would give the brave girl strength for one final effort. It would be terrible if she failed at the last.

"You are doing splendidly," he called. "Just one final spurt. Never fear the rascal who is following you."

She opened her eyes with a terrified look, and he saw her lips move, but no word escaped them.

"One step more!" he called.

The next moment her face was on a level with the edge of the cliff. Her hair was hanging loose.

He reached out his hand and grasped her hair and wound it swiftly round his hand.

"Now another step," he called excitedly.

Her eyes were open, but there was no light in them. She reached out her torn and bleeding hand mechanically and grasped the next rung of the ladder. She lifted her foot to the rung below. Her breast was on a level with the top. Then he felt her sway. Her face became like the face of the dead.

"Be brave!" he shouted in her ear.

And he drew her by her hair with all his might.

She fell forward helplessly, her feet and legs hanging over the giddy height. And in that moment Douglas felt as though the strength of two had come into him. With one hand grasping a young pine tree, and the other still wound round her hair, he drew her forward as though she were a log of wood, until she lay, face downward, several feet from the edge of the cliff.

Quickly loosening his hand from the tangle of her hair, he thrust it into his pocket and drew out his jack-knife.

"There is no help for it," he said to himself. "If that giant comes upon us now we are lost."

It had seemed minutes ‒ it might be hours ‒ since the porter began to ascend the ladder, yet in fact it was only a few moments. He was not far up yet. The ascent was more difficult than he imagined.

Douglas cut through the first rope in a second, and the ladder swayed helplessly on one side. The porter, guessing what had happened, seized the taut rope and began to slide swiftly down; but he was yet a good many feet from the bottom when Douglas cut through the other strand, and he fell in a heap to the ground.

"It'll not kill him," Douglas said to himself, "but if it keeps him speechless for an hour or two so much the better."

He then turned his attention to Hope. She was quite unconscious, and had the appearance almost of one dead. He took his brandy flask from his pocket and tried to get a few drops of the stimulant between her tightly shut teeth, but without success.

The next moment a groan came up from the deeps below. "I fear the rascal is recovering," Douglas said to himself. "The sooner we get away from this place the better."

He caught Hope in his arms and hurried away with her over the brow of the hill. He had prepared himself for this contingency. He quite expected she would collapse when the tension was over; had calculated on the chances of her not getting either to Osbrocken or to Vaalkirche. Fortunately, he had stumbled by accident on a half-way house, and had provisioned it during the interval.

"I shall be able to get her to the cave dwelling," he said to himself, "even if I have to carry her all the way."

She was only a shadow of her former self, and seemed to Douglas scarcely heavier than a child. The morning air blew fresh and cool along the slopes of the mountains; the rising sun was behind him.

Every now and then he looked at Hope's white, drawn face, and pressed her closer to his chest. The mingled joy and pain of those moments no one knew or could ever know. She was in his arms, but she was not for him. He had rescued her from a fate worse than death, but only that she might pass more completely than ever out of his life.

Once or twice he pressed his lips close to hers. He could not help it, and she would never know. It would be something to remember in the dark, lonely years that would follow.

For some distance their way lay through a pine wood, then they came out on to the bare side of the mountain. Across this open space Douglas hurried with all the speed he could command.

Then another pine wood threw its shelter over them, and he walked at a slower pace. Hope hung a perfectly dead weight in his arms, and showed no sign of regaining consciousness. He felt after a while that his own strength was beginning to give out, but the knowledge of what was at stake was like a spur in his side.

In a sheltered nook he rested for a while, and then he trudged on again. He was beginning to get concerned about Hope, she was so long in coming round. Now and then he cast a look behind him, but no one appeared to be on his track. Not that he was greatly frightened at either Dr. Schlinger or his keepers. He had felt from the first that if he could only get Hope outside the walls of the chateau, all real danger would be past.

Nevertheless, he was not anxious for an encounter just at present. Two or three determined men might give him a good deal of trouble, and in the event of their killing him, they would have no difficulty in getting Hope under lock and key once more.

But that was a contingency he would not allow himself to consider for a moment. He was not of the fighting sort. He had a horror of taking human life. The memory of Arthur Teesdale was a perpetual torment to him. And yet he knew no one would take Hope from him until he had discharged every round in his revolver.

At length he rounded a jumble of rocks that he had kept in sight for the last quarter of an hour, pushed aside the rhododendron bushes, and dropped down between moss-covered walls. He had visited the place several times since his first visit, and knew exactly which way to turn.

Laying his burden down on the hard floor, he went to a little pool of clear water that had gathered at the foot of some rocks at the back of the cave. Filling his hands, he came back and sprinkled it over her face. In a few moments she heaved a long sigh, then she opened her eyes and stared up into his face.

For a moment her memory seemed at fault, then everything came back to her with a rush.

"Oh, Douglas, are we safe at last?" she cried.

"I think so," he answered, making an effort to keep his voice steady.

"Oh, how good you have been to me! I thought I was going to fail at the last moment. How did I get up the last steps?"

"I pulled you up."

"How?"

"By the hair of your head."

She gave a little shudder, and then sat up and stared round her. "But where are we now?" she asked.

"In a cave among the mountains."

"But how did I get here?"

"I carried you. It was as I feared. Directly the tension was over you collapsed."

"But one of the porters followed me?"

"Yes, but he did not get far."

"Why?"

"Because I cut the rope."

"Oh, Douglas!"

A look of terror came into her eyes. "There was no help for it," he answered, "and he had not got far. I expect I gave him a bad headache, but he isn't dead. I heard him groaning a little later."

"Then he will alert the house, and we shall be followed."

"I don't think we shall be discovered here; and if we are, we shall be able to defend ourselves."

"Do we stay here long?"

"I hope not. When you are strong enough to undertake a long tramp, we will march."

"Oh, I am strong enough now, she said excitedly. "Let us get as far away from the horrible place as possible." She rose to her feet, and began to stride up and down the cave.

"You are shaky yet," he said, with a smile. "But when you have had a square meal you will perhaps feel better."

"Oh, I don't think I can eat anything!" she said, with trembling lips.

"And I'm afraid I have nothing to tempt your appetite with," he said. "And what there is is rather stale, for I brought it here yesterday morning. But at any rate you can drink something."

He took his flask from his pocket, pulled off the cap, and partly filled it with water, then added some stimulant to it.

"I promise you it is vile-tasting stuff," he said. "At least, that is my opinion, but it will stimulate you."

She drank it off almost at a gulp, then pulled a wry face, and a moment later broke into a low laugh.

"You are improving," he said, looking fondly at her.

"I tell you I am strong enough for anything," she replied.

And she looked up into his face, her eyes beaming with confidence and affection.

"And will you do what I tell you?" he asked. "That is, what I wish you to do?"

"I will do anything," she answered. And her eyes looked frankly into his.

"I have done my best to anticipate every difficulty and every contingency," he said slowly, "and I have made my plans accordingly. I do not know what legal powers this Dr. Schlinger may possess, and so I do not wish to try conclusions with him. I want, rather, to outwit him. And my plan is that you should dress yourself as a boy."

"As a boy?" she asked, with a blush. "But how? That is‒‒"

"If you will go into the next cave but one," he said, pointing to an opening, "you will find in a paper parcel a complete suit of clothes. I think they will fit. You are tall and straight, but sadly thin at present. The boots are too large, I know, but I have filled the toes with cotton wool, and put in some socks. Your hair will be a difficulty. I would not like to cut it off, if that could be avoided. Perhaps you can do it up on the top of your head. You may find the cap rather large, but it will be necessary to cover your head well. Now run away, and by the time you have finished, I will have breakfast ready."

It did not take him long to spread a piece of brown paper on a ledge of rock, and display on it a few sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. That done, he crept softly to the top of the steps and looked out between the bushes. He remained there for some considerable time and scanned the hillsides in all directions, but no one was in sight.

"They've scarcely had time to start in pursuit yet," he said to himself. "They will try the road first, not the tracks through the forest, so I think we may make ourselves comfortable for a while."

His heart was beating fast. The nearness of Hope thrilled him through every fibre of his being. Wan and wasted as she was, she seemed, in his eyes more beautiful than ever. Nine months of waiting and suffering had put a new expression into her eyes, a new tone into her voice.

She might be less carefree than when in the old days they rambled over the fells together. The ring of girlish, untroubled happiness might have gone from her voice, but there had come in its place something better and nobler. He felt, without the least irreverence, that she had been made perfect through suffering.

He returned at length to the cave and waited. Everything was still. He was half disposed to think sometimes that he was the victim of a vivid dream. That Hope was alive and free seemed almost too good to be true. He recalled again that dark day in the city of London when he thought that all the church bells ought to ring out a muffled peal because Hope was being buried. Could it be true that she was alive ‒ that he had rescued her from a living tomb?

A sound of shuffling feet came from an inner cave, and a glad smile swept over his face. It was all true. He was not dreaming. He had carried out his purpose; Hope was here, alive and free.

He did not feel the least impatient ‒ nay, he was glad of the quiet halt. He was not sure he wanted to go any farther. He would willingly end his days where he was if only he might see Hope now and then and be allowed to worship her. He could not hide from himself the fact that the sooner he got her to England the sooner would end the thrill of joy which her presence inspired. He had won her to lose her, rescued her to part with her. That was the bitter irony of the situation.

Yet for the moment the dominant note in his heart was victory. He had rescued her; rescued her by his own skill and resource; rescued her single-handed. Nothing could obliterate that fact.

She might learn to hate him later on, might pass him by without a glance of recognition, might refuse to mention his name; but the fact remained all the same ‒ it was to him she owed her freedom. However much she might regret the fact, however much she might wish that some other hand had come to her rescue, to him it would be an abiding joy and an unfailing source of satisfaction.

Meanwhile, Hope was doing her best to array herself in the unfamiliar and uncomfortable garments that he had provided for her. This, without a looking glass or anything that could be substituted for it, was no easy task. When she saw her feet in the thick-soled laced shoes she almost laughed outright. However, with a couple of socks in each they felt quite comfortable.

Then the collar and necktie presented quite a formidable difficulty. She never felt the lack of a looking-glass so much before in her life. Her hair she could manage without much trouble, though she would have been glad of a few more hairpins. When she pulled on the large peaked cap, she would have given almost anything if she could have seen her reflection.

"If I look such a sight as I feel," she said to herself, "I shall deceive nobody. Probably when Douglas sees me he will tell me to go back to my skirts."

For several minutes after she had finished dressing she walked up and down the cave and tried to familiarise herself with her new and strange attire.

"There's no denying that it's a comfortable rig-out," she said to herself, a mirthful light coming into her eyes, "and as far as I can judge an uncommonly good fit. But I do hope Douglas will not be shocked when he sees me."

For several seconds she stood still, while a grave look settled upon her face.

"I know men hate women to look unwomanly," she said to herself, "and Douglas especially is awfully particular. And yet it is his wish that I should disguise myself, so he can't think the worse of me. If he does, it will be cruel of him."

For a few minutes longer she busied herself in gathering her own discarded garments together and wrapping them in the paper from which she had taken the other clothes.

Douglas was beginning to wonder how much longer she would be, when he heard a footstep in the cave adjoining, and the next moment Hope stood before him.
Chapter 36

On the Tramp

DOUGLAS stared at her, scarcely believing his own eyes. He had expected a change certainly, but was scarcely prepared for such a complete transformation. In the place of Hope was a tall, handsome youth, whom for a moment he did not recognise in the least.

"Am I not satisfactory?" she asked, with a blush and a pout.

"On my word," he said seriously, "I thought for a moment that some trick had been played on me!"

"Am I so much altered?"

"Altered? I never could have believed clothes would make so much difference."

"And do I look like a man?" she asked ruefully.

"Like a man? No!" he said, with a laugh. "You look just like a lad of fourteen."

"Oh, that is not so bad, but I feel myself to be such an awful sight."

"You are not a sight at all," he said, still laughing. "You look a remarkably good-looking boy."

"Oh, that is all nonsense!" she said, with a blush. "Nobody could be good-looking in things like these!" And she looked ruefully over her garments.

"I am sorry they are not to your taste," he said soberly. "I did the best I could; and really they are a most excellent fit."

"No, no," she said quickly, "you misunderstand me. I think the clothes are beautiful. Please do not think I am dissatisfied. I am more grateful to you than I can tell. I would go about in rags if you wished me to."

"But I don't wish you to, and you shall wear these things not a moment longer than is necessary. My object is to get you clear away without any complications."

"I am in your hands, Douglas," she said pleadingly, "and I will do whatever you tell me."

Her words sent a sudden thrill to his heart, and he felt he would have given anything if he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her. This, however, was neither the time nor the place for sentiment.

He had set himself a stern task, and he was resolved to carry it through to the end.

Looking down into her clear, pleading eyes, he said, with a smile, "Then try to eat some breakfast. It is homely fare, I admit, and stale at that, but you will need all your strength."

"I had forgotten all about food," she answered, "but now I think of it, I am feeling quite hungry."

"That's right," he answered, "and when you've done eating, if you'll allow me, I'll stain your hands and neck and face a little. You look too pale for a boy."

For several minutes no other word was spoken. Hope attacked the sandwiches with great vigour and not a little success. They had nearly finished their meal when Hope looked up with a little start. "Did you hear that?" she said, in a terrified whisper.

"I heard nothing," he answered. "What was it like?"

"They are searching for us," she said, clutching his arm. "That's Dr. Schlinger's voice."

He held his breath, and listened. Surely enough, through the fissures of the cave came the faint sound of human voices. But Hope's sense of hearing was far more acute than his. He would not have noticed the sound at all had she not called his attention to it.

"What shall we do?" she gasped, in a faint whisper. "The doctor is sure to find us. He knows every nook and corner in these mountains."

"He may not know this place," Douglas said in a defiant whisper; and he took his revolver out of his pocket and laid it on a ledge of rock in front of him. Then from another pocket he took a little box of colouring matter. "It will not stain permanently," he whispered. Then dipping his finger in it, he began to rub it over her cheeks.

"Don't be frightened," he whispered. "If they come here we will bluff first, and if that fails we will fight."

The sound of voices grew louder and louder, while Douglas went quickly on with his work.

"They are getting nearer every moment," she gasped, trembling from head to foot.

"Let them come," he said defiantly. "They will not recognise you now if they do." He added a few more touches to her cheeks, which changed in a remarkable degree the expression of her face.

By this time there was a distinct thud of footsteps almost directly over their heads. Then a pause. Then a voice called from some distance away. Then the footsteps moved on. Hope clung to Douglas's arm and held her breath. Then the footsteps grew fainter, and she began to breathe freely again.

"They don't know of this place," he whispered, "but they have come uncomfortably near."

She did not reply. She was listening intently, with her eyes bent upon the ground.

"What do you hear?" he asked.

"Only the murmur of voices now," she answered, "but they are growing fainter."

"I hear nothing," he replied. "But you go into the inner cave, and I will take a peep between the bushes."

"No, please don't leave me," she said, clinging to his arm.

"You can come with me if you'd rather," he said, with a smile.

"I would very much rather," she answered eagerly. "You think I am an awful coward, no doubt, but if you knew what it was to be shut up in that place you would not wonder that I am so nervous."

"My poor Hope," he said tenderly, "I‒‒" Then he broke off suddenly and turned away his head. Words were on his tongue which he felt he had no right to utter.

"I am not the least surprised you are nervous," he added a few moments later, "but come with me and we will reconnoitre together."

For several minutes they stood in the narrow gap between the rocks and peered between the bushes, but no one was in sight.

Then Douglas crept out stealthily on his hands and knees, and finally rose to his feet. Southward two figures were vanishing in the direction of Vaalkirche ‒ doubtless the two people who had come so near their hiding place.

He gave a little chuckle, and sat down on a boulder. Hope crept to his side and looked apprehensively about her.

"You are still nervous?" he asked.

"I can't help it, Douglas," she replied. "It's all so new, so strange, so wonderful, that I'm half afraid I shall wake up and find it's a dream."

"You'll get used to the situation after a bit," he replied, "but whatever you feel, you will have to put a bold face on the matter. Remember for the present you are a boy, and you've got to play the part."

"Do I look my part?"

"Splendidly!" he said, with a laugh. "Especially since you got tanned."

"But what do you fear?"

"I hardly know. You must remember we are not in England. Dr. Schlinger may get the local authorities to assist him in his search; may assert that you are some particular person who is undeniably mad; may have legal authority enough to arrest us both. He will most likely have the railway stations watched. Descriptions of your personal appearance will be sent in all directions, and possibly a reward offered for your capture.

Hope looked shocked."We must not forget, also, that you are supposed to be dead and buried. To fall into the hands of the police might be nearly as bad as falling directly into the hands of Schlinger. What is called 'the law' is just as stupid in this country as in England. To prove that you are yourself is not always so easy as it looks."

"Then you think by this disguise we shall outwit Dr. Schlinger and everybody else?"

"That is my plan, at any rate. And as these two people have disappeared, I think we may commence our tramp."

"But do you know the way?"

"I think so. I have a good map with me which I have carefully studied, and I judge if we walk steadily from now till tomorrow morning we shall reach N‒‒‒. I want to avoid all the small railway stations, where our presence might excite remark. At N‒‒‒‒ there will be crowds of tourists, and we shall find the railway station thronged. Once there, our difficulties will be at an end."

"Let's start at once," she said. "I am eager to be on the move."

"You feel really fit?" he asked, with a smile.

"I'm quite recovered," she answered. "I am really. My scalp is sore where you caught hold of my hair, but I don't mind that. And my hands are not in the best condition, but they will soon heal. In every other respect I am equal to anything."

"All right," he answered, "let's go back into the cave and pack up."

"Pack up?" she asked.

She jumped up and followed him down the rough, uneven steps. From one of the "air bubbles" he pulled out a couple of knapsacks ‒ one full, the other empty.

"This is mine," he said, slinging the full one on his back. "It contains our victuals for the next twenty-four hours. And this is yours," he said, pointing to the empty one. "You must stuff into it your discarded clothes. You will want them later on."

"They are in the far corner," she answered.

"All right. I'll wait here till you are ready."

She was back in a few minutes, with her knapsack slung over her shoulders.

"I think we should be quite safe in walking to Osbrocken," he said. "Your disguise is perfect. But we'd better not run any risks."

He pulled an alpenstock out of a hole in the rock and handed it to her.

"Why, Douglas, you have thought of everything," she said admiringly.

"I've tried to," he answered. "I'd rather die than fail now."

She darted a keen, inquiring glance at him, but did not reply. But in the days that followed she often recalled his words.

Five minutes later they were out in the open again, and on the move. Vaalkirche was southward, Osbrocken to the north ‒ twelve miles beyond the Chateau Oberon. To the west there was a gap between the mountains, for which they made. They walked in single file, Hope setting the pace and Douglas bringing up the rear.

They made no attempt at conversation. Hour after hour they plodded on, and through a seemingly uninhabited country. Now and then they saw a cowherd high up on the slopes of the mountains, and here and there they passed a chalet that seemed to be empty.

After they had tramped about four hours they halted by a stream in the shadow of pine trees, and Douglas fetched more sandwiches and boiled eggs from his knapsack.

They had nearly finished their repast when they were startled by the tramp of feet behind them.

Douglas's hand slid to his hip-pocket for his gun. Hope gave a gasp, and her lips, which were not dyed, grew pale.

In another moment two men came up and halted in front of where they sat.

"Have you seen a woman pass this way?" one of them inquired.

"Not this way," Douglas answered indifferently. "Why do you ask?"

"Because we are in search of one ‒ a lunatic, in fact ‒ and we have an idea she may have come this way?"

"Had she a man with her?'

"Well, we are not certain on that point, but it is more than likely she would have."

"A man with a beard turning grey?"

"Can't say. It's the woman we're after."

"Would she be dressed in a blue serge dress?"

"Yes, that's her," they answered eagerly.

"Without hat or bonnet?"

"Yes, yes. Where did you see her?"

"Tall, and quite young ‒ say not more than twenty-five?"

"That's the very party," they cried eagerly.

"They must have been those people, Fritz," he said, turning to Hope, "that we saw making for the gully about three miles back."

Hope nodded, and began to feel more comfortable.

"Which gully do you refer to?" the men asked.

Douglas rose to his feet and said, "Come this way."

The men followed him to a clearing a few yards away.

"You see that gap?" he said, pointing northward.

"Ay," they answered, "but there's no path that way, and it leads to nowhere."

"I know nothing about that," Douglas answered, with a laugh. "Perhaps there's some place up there where they could hide."

"Ay, that's likely enough," one of the men said. "But how long ago was it that you saw them?"

"Can't say to half an hour," Douglas answered, "but say two hours. When you are out botanising time passes quickly."

"Then they've got a long start of us."

And turning quickly, they hurried back the way they had come.

"Oh, Douglas, you are clever!" Hope said, as he came back to her. "I nearly died of fright."

"You are a long way from being dead yet," he said, with a laugh. "But I think it is quite time we were on the move again."

She sprang to her feet in a moment. "I am quite ready," she answered, and they started forward once more.

About five in the afternoon they halted a second time, and made a further inroad on their stock of provisions. By this time Hope was beginning to limp badly, and Douglas saw only too plainly that her strength was rapidly giving out. She would not admit to it, however, and declared she was good for any distance.

It was growing dusk when they reached a small village containing a church, an inn, and some dozen small houses.

"We'll put a bold face on the matter," Douglas said.

Going up to the inn, they ordered supper. While that was being prepared, and Hope was getting a wash and a rest, he went and interviewed the landlord.

"Heard anything down this way of the patient that escaped last night or early this morning from the Chateau Oberon?" he asked.

"No. Has one of them escaped?"

"So we heard farther back. In fact, we came across two men who were searching for her."

"Found her by this time, most likely," the landlord answered.

Douglas nodded. "If a young woman comes this way without hat or bonnet, and dressed in blue serge, you may guess she's the individual they're after."

"She'll not be likely to get as far as this," was the reply. "This is out of the track altogether."

"How far is it to N‒‒‒?" Douglas asked, after a pause.

"Well, a matter of twenty-five miles."

"I suppose we could not get a conveyance to take us there tonight?"

"Well, you could if you were willing to pay for it."

"We've been a bit delayed, and are anxious to catch the early morning express if possible."

"Oh, well, there need be no difficulty about that." He pulled a big watch from a fob-pocket. "It's just nine now. If you start tonight at eleven, say, you'll get there by three tomorrow morning, or soon after ‒ well, say four, so as to allow for delays."

"Suppose we start at half-past ten," Douglas said. "That would give us time to get an early coffee and a brush up before the train starts."

"Exactly. Well, I'll have a conveyance ready by 10.30."

Hope was thankful to have a freshly cooked supper, and considering all things she did ample justice to it. But she was apprehensive all the time, and started painfully at every sound.

At 10.30 sharp the conveyance was announced. Douglas took his seat by the side of the driver, and Hope climbed in behind. The night was dark and still, the road seemed interminable, and the hours crept on at a snail's pace. At length the day began to break, and soon after the considerable town of N‒‒‒ loomed into sight.

It was with a sigh of relief they found themselves in the big and busy station, but it was not until the train began to move that Hope felt she was really safe.

In crossing the Channel, Hope had a private cabin, and so was able to discard her boy's attire before reaching the English coast. In London Douglas lent her money to purchase some new clothes, and a day later they drove together to Euston Station, and he purchased a ticket to Bradenford.

"But you are coming with me?" she said, when he handed her into the railway carriage.

"No," he said wistfully, "my task finishes here."

"But I want you to come."

"I am sorry, but I cannot go with you."

"But why?"

"You will learn when you get home."

"Oh, Douglas, and after all you have done for me!"

"That is my reward," he answered. "I shall never cease to be grateful that I have been able to serve you."

She glanced at him inquiringly and, he thought, a little reproachfully. But there was no time for explanations.

The train was beginning to move, and she was leaning out of the window.

"Goodbye, Douglas." And he held her hand for a moment. "I shall see you again soon?"

"No," he answered, with averted eyes,"you will not see me again. Farewell!"

He let go her hand. Her face grew suddenly white. He saw her lips move, but no sound reached him. The next moment he was staring vacantly after the retreating train.

chapter 37

Searching For Evidence

DOUGLAS walked out of Euston Station feeling gloomy and depressed. Overhead the sun shone brilliantly, but he did not heed it. The train that bore Hope away had taken from him the one thing he cared for ‒ the one person who was more to him than all the world besides.

In Euston Road he paused for a moment or two and looked up and down the busy thoroughfare. He could not help recalling that other day when, chill and miserable and almost in despair, he stood on the same spot and contemplated a very different scene. It was early morning then, and winter time. All the trees were bare, and the street was desolate and sordid in the extreme.

Today, its meaner aspects were hidden. The tall trees in Euston Square and Endsleigh Gardens were in full leaf, and threw their shadows right and left. There were splashes of vivid colour in all directions. Brilliant sunshades and brightly coloured dresses dotted the moving panorama.

He heaved a sigh and crossed over by St. Pancras Church. Newspaper boys were hurrying up from King's Cross shouting, "Great British victory!"

"Terrible slaughter of Boers!"

"De Wet surrounded!"

But he did not take the trouble to buy a paper. In Woburn Square he got into comparative quiet, and with eyes bent upon the ground he walked along slowly, thinking of all that had been and of all that might have been but for one mad act of his. How crowded with tragedy the months had been since, and all because he had given the rein to passion and hurled Arthur Teesdale into the torrent.

That act was like the loosening of a stone at the foot of an avalanche. What a number of innocent people were suffering today in consequence. His own father and mother, his four sisters, Sir Geoffrey Teesdale, Avril Guest, Hope ‒ all were in sorrow; while, worse than all, a door had been opened for the committal of a deliberate and sordid crime by Hugh Teesdale and his confederate, Nan o' the Fells.

"I'm better off than I deserve to be," he said reflectively. "And I have this comfort, that I have frustrated one of the foulest plots that was ever hatched. What a delightful surprise it will be to Sir Geoffrey when he discovers that Hope is not dead, but alive and well! I should like to see the meeting. It will be like new life to the poor old man. And won't there be rejoicing in Bradenford! Hope's father will have the bells rung, I am sure. I should like to be there, but it cannot be." And, with a sigh, he raised his head and quickened his pace.

He passed down in front of the newly opened Russell Hotel, and was just about to cross Guildford Street when he pulled up with a start and an exclamation of surprise. There was no possibility of avoiding the encounter, and the recognition was instantaneous on both sides.

"Avril!"

"Douglas!"

He extended his hand timidly, and she grasped it warmly. It was clear she cherished no resentment toward him.

"I thought you never came to London?" he said.

"I came up ten days ago," she answered. "Since then I have been to Devonshire, and I returned here again yesterday."

"And do you return to Bradenford again soon?"

"No, not soon," she answered slowly.

"Had you been returning today, you might have had company," he said.

"Indeed?"

"I have just been to Euston to see her off."

"Your mother?" she asked.

"No, not mother," he said gently and a little sadly. "But I think you will never guess."

"Mrs. Mann has not been up to town again, has she?"

"I think not. No, you will be surprised, I am sure, and pleased also. I have just left Hope Teesdale."

"Hope Teesdale?" she said, with a start, and with a look almost of horror in her eyes. "Are you dreaming?"

"Oh no, I am quite wide awake. I would like to tell you the whole story, if I may."

"But do you mean to assure me that Hope is alive?"

"I do. At any rate she was half an hour ago; and, please God, she will reach Bradenford this evening."

"But ... but she was buried! I was at the funeral."

"That was part of the plot which she will expose directly she gets home, and I have no doubt Sir Geoffrey will take prompt action to punish the plotters."

"If he is able. But I fear Sir Geoffrey is too ill to recover. Indeed, I should not be at all surprised to read in the papers that he is dead."

"Oh, I hope not. It would be a terrible blow to Hope. She has no idea that he is dangerously ill."

"He may pull through, of course. But won't you come with me into the Russell Hotel, where we can talk freely? I am staying here for a few days."

There happened to be no one in the waiting room at the time, and for an hour they talked without restraint.

Douglas told Avril all the story of his search for Hope, and how he found her and how he rescued her.

Avril listened with almost breathless interest, and when he had finished she said, "But why did you not see her safe home to her father?"

"I could not do that. No, no, I can never go to Bradenford again. All the people in Bradenford are not so generous as you are."

"Perhaps not; but then, you know, I have never believed that Arthur is dead."

He shook his head gloomily, but did not reply.

"And even if I were sure, I do not think I should blame you as much as you blame yourself," she went on.

He glanced up at her with a questioning light in his eyes. "You were both foolish, no doubt," she said, after a pause. "You both gave way to passion, both struggled for the mastery, both fell into the torrent together."

"Yes...."

"And both got out again."

"No, no, only I got out."

"How do you know that? If you got out alive, why not he? He was the stronger and the better swimmer of the two."

"But he has never been seen since."

"Suppose he believed he had killed you, and ran away to escape the consequences?"

"I never thought of that." he said, with a start.

"Bridlemere has never been known to keep its dead," she went on. "Hence the conviction has grown upon me that he is alive somewhere."

"But if he had read the papers ‒‒"

"If he managed to get out of the country," she interrupted, "he might have had no opportunity of seeing the papers."

"That is true," he answered slowly.

"And if you were so positive that he could not have escaped, he might be equally positive that you ‒ who were not so much of an athlete as he ‒ were inevitably drowned."

"If I could only cherish such a hope, it would be like new life to me," he said, looking absently out of the window across the square.

"Did you explain the circumstances to Hope?" she asked, after a pause.

"No, I had not the courage. Moreover, I feared that if she knew she would so hate and despise me that she would not allow me to render her any further assistance."

"She will never forget what you have done for her. Women are not the ungrateful things that some men take them to be."

"I am sorry for such men. But you will be seeing Hope soon?"

She did not reply. And a moment or two later he took his departure.

As he made his way through Lincoln's Inn toward Fleet Street, he could not help reflecting that Avril had been reticent respecting herself. She gave him no hint as to her future movements. She had been to Devonshire, and had returned to London. That was practically all she had told him. Was she going to search for Arthur Teesdale?

He did not think so, for though Avril stubbornly refused to believe he was dead, she spoke of him in a tone of quiet resignation, as though he could have no more place in her life.

What, then, was Avril's future to be? And why did she so deliberately evade every question that in any way bore on the subject?

"Perhaps old Father Time will unravel things a bit sooner or later," he said, with a sigh. And then he quickened his steps in the direction of Mr. Woodey's office.

Meanwhile, Avril was seated in her bedroom, wrapped in thought. The last few weeks had been full of surprises, and she could not help wondering what fresh surprise was in store for her, and if it were possible for any turn of fortune's wheel to bring back the joy she had lost.

She was considering, too, whether she had been wise in being so reticent about herself. Douglas Grove had been her lifelong friend. They had grown up from childhood together, and she knew that nothing would please him so much, nothing help so much to take the sting out of his pain, as to be allowed to be her friend still.

That she needed someone to advise her, she felt acutely. She was uncertain of herself, and almost afraid to trust her own judgment. She had reached a point in her life when some definite action would have to be taken.

She had made a discovery in Devonshire ‒ several discoveries, in fact; but instead of making her path more clear, they had tended rather to darken it.

Her object in going to Devonshire had been to find out the truth about her father. She rather hoped she might find him ‒ perhaps befriend him. That he had committed a crime was no reason why he should be spurned. To her simple and ingenuous mind it was a reason why he should be helped.

Mrs. Finch, in her papers and diaries, had left behind any number of clues, so that at the beginning of her quest she had no difficulty whatever.

Hillcombe was a sleepy little town of some four or five hundred houses, the centre of a small weaving industry and the home of two or three people of distinction.

Avril had no difficulty in securing comfortable apartments, for which she paid a week in advance. The day after she got settled she began to make inquiries, but to her surprise the names of Finch and Guest were unknown in Hillcombe.

Foiled in this direction, she started on another tack. Her landlady was elderly and had lived in Hillcombe all her life; hence she had an intimate knowledge of the local history of the town for a generation.

It was easy to draw her on to talk about the past, Indeed, Mrs. Willis enjoyed nothing better. A sympathetic listener quickened her memory and gave eloquence to her speech. In the history of Hillcombe both tragedy and comedy found a place, though tragedy was much more to Mrs. Willis's taste than comedy; and she rehearsed it in much greater detail, and with a finer flow of language.

"Was there not a celebrated forgery case some twenty years ago or more?" Avril inquired timidly.

"And to think you should have heard of that even in London!" Mrs. Willis said, with pride in her tones. "And yet, after all, I don't wonder in the least. It occupied two whole days at the Assizes, and was one of the most remarkable cases ever known. I suppose it is talked about still in London? Dear me, how news does travel, and is handed down, as it were, from father to son!"

"I don't think I ever heard the particulars," Avril said evasively, "but of course you will remember all about it, Mrs. Willis."

"Of course I do, ma'am ‒ of course I do. But, as for that, most people in Hillcombe remember it as though it were yesterday. It was a difficult case, and even now nobody seems quite sure that the judge and jury got to the rights of it."

"Indeed?"

"Well, you see, ma'am, it was this way. Young Harry Courtney was as nice a young fellow as ever drew breath‒‒"

"Was Courtney his name?" Avril asked, with a little gasp.

"Now to think you should have forgotten that!" Mrs. Willis said reproachfully. "But then, of course, names do slip people's minds, don't they? But as I was saying, nobody had never known a single thing against the young man. He was handsome, pleasant to everybody, and had only been married six months."

"Whom did he marry?"

"Well, as to that, it was a kind of runaway match. Old Mr. Courtney was dead against it ‒ wouldn't give his consent nohow. And would you believe it, the old man tried to make out afterwards that they hadn't been legally married at all!"

"But of course nobody believed him," Avril said indignantly.

"Well, as to that, there are some people who are always ready to believe everything, as long as it is bad enough. And then, you know, the poor young thing died about six months after he was committed. And I did hear that the marriage lines could not be found; but what became of the baby nobody seems to know to this day."

"Oh, there was a baby, was there?" Avril asked, with pretended indifference.

"A fine healthy little girl, the doctor said, but whether it is living or dead the good Lord alone knows. Dear me, if she's alive she'll be a woman by now."

"But how came it about that the baby was lost sight of in that way?"

"Well, you see, the poor young mother's sister took charge of it, and soon after went off to London to live, taking the baby with her. Well, London, they say, is a terrible big place, and folks may easily get lost there, particular if they don't want to be found. Anyhow, I believe nothing has been heard of them since."

"Was she a married lady?"

"Oh, bless you, no! And never likely to be. She was twenty years older than her sister, and as stiff as starch and as forbidding to the men as a thorn hedge."

"What was her name?"

"Dewsbury ‒ Miss Elinor Dewsbury. But they lived four miles from Hillcombe, quite out in the country. I believe Miss Elinor was much against her sister marrying young Harry Courtney, and tried to persuade her that he was after her money. However, the young things were in love with each other. And love is a curious thing, as most people find out sooner or later."

"Is that so?" Avril asked, with a smile.

"Of course it is so. And if you haven't found it out yet, believe me, you will before you're very much older. Anyhow, young Harry Courtney and Miss Marian Dewsbury were determined to have each other, in spite of everybody ‒ and have each other they did. Poor things, they had but a short time of happiness together. The terrible disgrace of it killed her."

"You mean of the forgery?"

"Why, of course. There weren't no disgrace in loving each other and marrying each other, even though her sister did pull a long face, and his father swore till he was black with rage."

"But why did anybody object?"

"Well, you see, old Tom Courtney, as we always call him, had set his heart on Harry marrying a girl with a heap of money ‒ a Miss Jones from Cardiff. Old Tom was trustee or something of the sort, and some curious things were said at the time about the way he managed her estate. Anyhow, Harry hated the sight of her, and vowed he wouldn't marry her if there wasn't another woman in the world.

"Old Tom badly wanted money at the time, it was said, and Miss Marian Dewsbury's money was so fastened up that nobody could touch it but herself. Then, too, there had been some feud between Tom Courtney and Robert Dewsbury years before, and old Tom declared he would rather see his son swing on the gallows than he should marry a Dewsbury."

"Well?"

"Well, I don't think anybody knows the rights or wrongs of it. But a big lot of money was got out of the bank by means of a forgery ‒ though what became of the money I don't know. None of it was found on Harry. Some people say old Tom fingered it himself. Anyhow, Harry was convicted and sent to prison for ten years."

"And what became of him when he regained his liberty?"

"Old Tom gave him money and sent him abroad. He never came to Hillcombe. He knew, of course, that his wife was dead, and he was told that his baby was dead also. So he had nothing to come back for. Old Tom met him at Dartmoor ‒ at least, so the story goes. It is said he only served just over seven years, his conduct was that good."

"And does anybody know where he is now?"

"In Africa, I believe. At least, he was two years ago, for my nephew William is quite sure he saw him in Grahams town."

"And what became of his father?"

"Oh, bless you, he's living still. And a more miserable man don't exist in Hillcombe. He's that nervous that he has a policeman to sleep in his house every night, and if he gets a finger ache he sends for the doctor at once ‒ he's that afraid he's going to die. My own belief is he's something on his conscience, for people don't get nervous like that for nothing."

"Perhaps he grieves about his son?"

"Old Tom Courtney grieve about his son?" And Mrs. Willis looked scorn at the suggestion. "You don't know him, ma'am. He's as hard as nails, and as grinding and as niggardly as they make 'em."

Mrs. Willis nodded and went out of the room to fetch in her lodger's tea.
Chapter 38

A New Departure

AVRIL GUEST remained several days at Hillcombe, but without adding largely to her stock of information. What Mrs. Willis did not know of local history was hardly worth knowing, and such personal matters as she was unwilling to communicate were not of the least importance.

Avril returned to London feeling she was still only at the beginning of her quest. She had made several discoveries ‒ discoveries that from some points of view were of considerable importance ‒ and yet, as regarded the main object she had in view, she feared she was almost as far away as ever.

The discovery that Mrs. Finch had never been married, that her real name was Elinor Dewsbury, that her own name was not Avril Guest but Avril Courtney, and that her father in all probability was still alive, was of considerable interest to her. But the things she most wanted to know were as much a secret as ever.

She tried in vain to discover where her father and mother had been married. Mrs. Willis, when asked on the matter, was ready with any number of stories, more or less apocryphal, but none of the gossip of Hillcombe furnished Avril with the clue she wanted.

She caught more than one glimpse of her grandfather, and shrank from him. He was old and lean and forbidding, with a face like iron, and a wide, cruel mouth that was always on the move. Until she saw him, she had seriously considered the advisability of making herself known to him. Perhaps he would take a fancy to her. Perhaps his hard heart would relent towards his son. Perhaps she might get from him the information she desired.

But the first glimpse she got of his face dispelled these fond illusions. His restless, suspicious eyes; his hard, relentless jaw; his bitter, cynical smile, left no hope in that direction, and set her wondering as to whether the son was anything like the father.

"If my father is anything like that man, I don't think I want to know him," she said to herself, almost with a feeling of despair.

So her heart became torn by a conflict of emotions. All the people from whom she made inquiries were unanimous in their verdict that "young Harry Courtney" was as nice a young man as anybody could wish to know, and until the forgery of the bank papers there had not been a stain upon his character. But on the other hand, there was the old man with his hard, bitter face, and she could not help recalling the old adage about what was bred in the bone.

Suppose her father were a real forger, and that forgery was the least heinous of his crimes? Suppose he lacked honour as well as honesty? Suppose he were a deceiver, as well as a thief? Suppose the sneer of old Tom Courtney was true?

Avril returned to London racked with doubts and misgivings. It was good to hear all the pleasant things that were said about her father, but they did not prove what wanted proving.

Why did her aunt go away from Hillcombe, change her name, pretend she had been married, destroy her identity almost, and hide herself completely for twenty years? Why, instead of calling her by her real name, did she label her Avril Guest? Did her aunt believe that forgery was the worst of her father's crimes? Or did she believe that a darker shadow still lay across her life?

Sometimes she succeeded in driving away all these doubts as ungenerous and unworthy, and would argue with herself that it was her duty to search for her father and find him; and that if he had sinned, it was all the more her duty to raise him up and lead him back again into the way of truth and honour.

But ‒ and there was always a "but" in the case ‒ she could forgive a great deal, but there was one thing she could never forgive, and it was that fear that came back again and again.

Sometimes she felt disposed to take the worst for granted, as it seemed probable her aunt had done, go away to some quiet place where no one knew her, change her name again, and try to forget about the past. On the face of it, that seemed the most common-sense thing to do. Her old happy life was at an end in any case. Even if, as she believed, Arthur Teesdale was alive, even if he should return to Rowton Hall, she could never meet him again on the old footing. The heir of Rowton Hall could never wed the daughter of a convicted forger. Even if he were willing to do so, she would never consent. That volume of her life was completed and closed.

But what next? That was the question that troubled her. Should she take the worst for granted, and hide herself somewhere and try to forget? Or should she take the best for granted, and search for evidence in the hope that she might prove the best to be true?

She sat for a long time after Douglas had gone ‒ now inclining to one course, now to another. Once or twice the tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. It seemed hard to be thrown so helpless and defenceless upon the world. Up to the disappearance of Arthur Teesdale her life had been so untroubled, so full of peace and happiness.

She had dreamed such happy dreams and built such beautiful castles in the air. She could scarcely imagine a happier girlhood than hers had been, and before her girlhood ended had come the infinitely greater happiness of loving and of being loved.

She had often wondered in those opulent days if there was another girl in England so fortunate as herself. Every possible ambition seemed to be within her reach. Love and wealth and social position were all laid at her feet, and as far as human eyes could see there was no shadow anywhere of coming trouble. Now everything was swept away as with an avalanche.

Across the street in the square the birds were singing as though they were in the country. She could hear their clear, shrill notes above the roar of the traffic, but they brought no hope to her heart today.

Then the raucous note of a newsboy rent its way through the din: "Great British victory! List of killed and wounded!"

Avril rose to her feet and made her way slowly down the stairs. She had not looked at the papers for the day. She would look at them now. Reading about the war might help to distract her thoughts. She was in danger of thinking too much about herself.

The latest editions were lying on the table. She picked up a sheet printed on green paper, and dropped into an armchair. The first page was occupied by an article on the wisdom of the War Office, which she did not read. The second page was devoted to political notes, which she also passed over. The third page was embellished by a cartoon which was both amusing and instructive. The fourth page contained two columns of names ‒ men who had been killed and wounded at Roodewal.

She ran her eyes down the lists, and then paused with a little gasp.

"Henry Courtney."

The name seemed to stand out distinct from all the rest, as though printed in blacker type.

"Henry Courtney!" she said, half aloud. "It is not a common name, and he was in Grahamstown a year before the war broke out."

The name was in the list of wounded. The battle was fought a month before.

For a long time Avril sat staring at the paper, but only seeing that one name. He might be living. He might be dead. Should she go and search for him ‒ go to a country aflame with war, go alone and unprotected, go on the off chance of getting the information she wanted?

On the face of it, it seemed the maddest idea that could enter the head of an individual supposed to be sane.

"Yet why not?" Avril asked herself. "What matters it where l go? I have no one to consider but myself. I may as well begin life afresh in South Africa as here.

"Of course there will be risks," she went on, "and hardships, and all sorts of difficulties. But what of that? It will be a change, at any rate, and I shall be glad of anything that will take me out of myself."

The more she thought about it, the less the madness of the idea alarmed her, and the more the spirit of adventure in her grew. She rose to her feet with the idea of going to the shipping office and securing a berth in the first Cape steamer, but before she reached the door she hesitated, then turned back.

The undertaking was so big for one who knew so little of the world, that she felt it would be unwise to act upon a sudden impulse. She had never been out of England. She had not the remotest idea what Africa would be like ‒ its vastness, its loneliness, its interminable railway journeys, its fiercely excited condition, did not occur to her. She measured everything by England, forgetting England was but a garden-patch compared with the vast stretches of country that lay under the Southern Cross.

"I will sleep on it first," she said to herself.

She retired to bed early with that good intention, but she spent most of the night wide awake. She was so excited that she gave the shy angel of sleep no chance. By morning, however, her mind was made up.

"I cannot stagnate here," she protested to herself. "I shall go mad with brooding unless I do something. The worst may be worse than I know, but I must find out all the same, even if I spend all my life in doing it."

Four days after Avril had come to that resolution, she was on the wing ‒ or more correctly on the wave. Her voyage to the Cape was as uneventful as a voyage could be, but it was something of a shock to discover that she got so quickly into winter. London was sweltering in the dog-days when she left ‒ three weeks later she found herself in mid-winter.

Directly she landed, her troubles began. There was no one to meet her, no one to advise her, no one to show her the smallest measure of sympathy. Everyone appeared intent on turning the war to good account. It was harvest time with merchants and speculators and hotel-keepers, and they were evidently determined to make the most of their opportunity.

The railways, she discovered, were almost exclusively in the hands of the military authorities; and, as she was only a woman, and unused to pushing her way, she was subjected to innumerable delays and to quite needless hardships.

But hers was a nature that grew and strengthened under difficulty. Her courage increased with the demands made on it. She often felt astonished at her own audacity, and was half inclined sometimes to doubt her own identity

At Grahamstown she discovered that a man of the name of Henry Courtney had lived there for nearly three years. Nobody seemed to know very much about him. He had a small business as commission agent, which he threw up at the outbreak of the war, offered himself for active service, and was sent at once to the front.

Further inquiries elicited that he appeared to be quite alone in the world. No one had ever heard him speak of either friends or relatives in England. He lived with a native servant in a small house on the outskirts of the town, never went into company, and never, by any chance, alluded to his past life.

His habit of life appeared to be simple. He bore an excellent reputation, never drank, and was never known to go into bad company.

All this accorded well with what the man she was in search of had been before he committed the crime which had ruined her life.

The farther she proceeded, the more excited she became. She felt convinced she was at last on the right track. Harry Courtney of Grahamstown was the Harry Courtney who had married her mother, and no doubt he was the one who had been wounded at Roodewal.

To get to Roodewal was a matter, however, of considerable difficulty. She had not proceeded far on her journey before she discovered she was in the region of officialdom. Again and again she was turned back because she had not complied with this regulation or with that regulation, which to her mind seemed absolutely childish.

In time, however, after endless delays and disappointments, she reached the point she desired, only to discover she was too late. The man she desired was not there. The hospitals were full of soldiers ‒ some suffering from wounds, some from fever, some slipping rapidly down through the dark gateway of death, and some gradually winning their way back to life.

The doctors and nurses were so overworked that they had no time to attend to Avril or make inquiries on her behalf. She had become so used to rebuff, however, that she was not easily disconcerted.

When she had satisfied herself that no one answering to the name of Henry Courtney was in the hospital, her next business was to ascertain if he had ever been there, and, if so, what had become of him.

It took her three days to get an answer to the first of these questions, and twenty-four hours later she was told that he had died of his wounds.

With a little cry she dropped into a seat, and felt as though the earth were sinking away beneath her. This, then, was the end of her quest. She had come thousands of miles to find ‒ nothing! All her labour and hardship, all her planning and scheming were in vain. There was nothing left for her now but to retrace her steps ‒ go back all the long and weary way she had come; go back to loneliness and to brooding; go back to the task of eating her heart out with useless repining.

She looked up with a start. A wounded soldier was carried past her, and in a moment the whole drift of her thought was changed. In England she would be useless; here, at least, she would be able to do some good. She knew something, at any rate, about nursing, and what she did not know she could learn. The hospitals were sadly under-staffed. Helpers were needed everywhere.

She rose to her feet with the light of a new resolution shining in her eyes, and followed the ambulance that bore the wounded soldier.

"I will not return," she said to herself. "I will stay and try to do some good. Why should I selfishly hug my grief when there are so many sick and suffering around me that need to be helped and ministered to?"
Chapter 39

Avril Makes a Discovery

IT was the time of early spring, and fighting was still going on. Avril forgot her own sorrow and disappointment in ministering to the needs of others. The hospital tents were kept so full that there was no time for brooding or vain regrets. And when she could get away from duty, she fell asleep at once through sheer exhaustion.

So the days and weeks passed away, almost uncounted. She became quite expert in bandaging wounds, and even in assisting at operations. She was surprised at her own nerve. The sight of blood no longer turned her sick, and the face of the dead no longer appalled her. Not that she became less full of pity or less tender-hearted. It was only that her strength and courage increased with the demands made upon it.

She felt sometimes as though the experiences of the last year had changed her into an entirely different being. When occasionally she permitted her thoughts to stray back to the old days of quiet and peaceful dependence, she hardly recognised her present self, so wide and deep was the gulf between the old life and the new.

In the old life she had no care or responsibility. Everything was done for her; her life was shaped by a stronger will. No storm was permitted to blow upon her; no care for the morrow ever shadowed her mind. Now, instead of being cared for, she had to care for others. Instead of others thinking for her, she had to think for herself. Instead of leaning upon the strong, she was the strong bearing the burdens of the weak.

Her fellow-workers noticed her devotion, her patience, her unfailing good humour and cheerfulness. As the days got a little longer, and the weather more genial, she occasionally took a short stroll outside the camp. During the dark days of the winter she had gone nowhere and seen no one outside the circle of patients and fellow-workers. She had accepted as final the statement that her father had died of his wounds, and so prosecuted her inquiries no further.

She was glad that she had found some work to do, and she was doing it with all her might. She rarely made any attempt to look into the future. To live for the day was quite enough; tomorrow would have to care for itself. Now and then the thought suggested itself to her mind that she would end her days in South Africa. There was nothing to call her back to England, and possibly she would more easily forget where there were fewer things to remind her of the past.

It was a warm, bright afternoon when she took a little longer walk than usual. The doctor had insisted on her getting more fresh air and outdoor exercise.

"We shall be having you on our hands if you are not careful," he said, with a laugh. "So take my advice and get into the sunshine when you can."

It was in obedience to his suggestion that she climbed to the top of a neighbouring kopje and sat for half an hour in the sunshine. The tide of battle had rolled northward, and all the land as far as eye could reach seemed empty and deserted. No sound of any kind broke the stillness of the afternoon. Not even a bird twittered or a stray lamb called to its mother.

Presently Avril rose, descended the kopje, and made her way slowly back toward the camp.

She had got within a few hundred yards of the first tent, when she noticed an invalid soldier walking slowly in her direction. At first she paid no attention to him, for her thoughts were busy with other things. Then something in his walk and general appearance struck her as being familiar.

As he drew nearer, the impression of familiarity increased. It was evident, however, he did not notice her. Indeed, he appeared not to notice anything. He walked slowly and aimlessly, rolling his head from side to side, and staring vacantly at nothing in particular.

She watched him intently, with growing interest, and even anxiety. There was a look about him that reminded her of something or someone long forgotten. Memory began to ransack the chambers in which lay hidden the things of the past. Her heart began to beat at twice its normal rate.

Then suddenly she paused, and placed her hand to her side. Her breath came in gasps; her eyes opened to their widest; her legs trembled so much that she could scarcely stand.

The soldier came slowly on, and looked at her shyly, as a child might do. Her face caught his fancy, and he dropped his eyes and actually blushed.

"It cannot be he!" she gasped. "And yet were ever two people so much alike?"

The soldier raised his head again, and their eyes met.

She ran towards him with a little cry. "You are Arthur Teesdale!" she said, with a gasp.

He started back, with a look of surprise on his face. Then he shook his head, and blushed to the roots of his hair.

She stood stock-still in front of him and stared, and he looked timidly into her face. But there was no light of recognition in his eyes.

For a moment her eyes fell to the ground. Was she awake or dreaming? Had her senses left her, or was she labouring under some strange hallucination?

Here in the flesh before her was Arthur Teesdale, the man she loved. And yet only in the flesh was he there ‒ the spirit was gone. His eyes were empty, like the eyes of those who walk in their sleep.

She looked at him again ‒ swept him from head to foot. It was impossible that she could be mistaken. Did she not know every line of his face? Had she not studied it with more care than ever student studied a book? Could love forget so soon? Among a million men she could pick him out. It was only when she looked into his eyes that a doubt troubled her. The man behind ‒ that which she had adored ‒ had vanished. The light of recognition had gone.

"Oh, Arthur!" she cried, forgetting all her previous resolutions, "don't look at me like that. Speak to me!"

But he only shook his head, and drew away from her as though the tones of her voice frightened him.

"Do you not know me?" she cried.

"No," he said, slowly and hesitatingly. It was the first word he had spoken, and its tone thrilled her like a strain of music.

"Not know me?" she said entreatingly. "Why, I am Avril! I am ... I am...." But her voice died away into an inarticulate wail. She saw he did not comprehend.

"I am James Brown," he said deliberately, like a child who has been taught its lesson.

She almost staggered from him, as though he had struck her a blow. She would not have felt it so much if she had seen him lying dead. And yet she was loth, even now, to give up all hope.

"Think again!" she said pleadingly. "Try and recall the past. Do you not remember Bradenford? Do you not remember Rowton Hall?"

He shook his head slowly.

"But surely you cannot have forgotten your sister Hope."

"Hope? Hope?" he asked, with knitted brows and half-closed eyes, and he pressed his hand to the side of his head and seemed to be trying to catch some fleeting memory that refused to be caught.

"And don't you remember the vicar?" she went on. "And Douglas Grove? You quarrelled on the bridge, and fell into the river together. And you thought he was drowned!"

"My name is James Brown," he repeated, coming back to his lesson.

"But how long has it been James Brown?" she asked, coming closer and looking him straight in the eyes.

"You ... are ... very ... pretty!" he said, smiling frankly at her. "I saw you yesterday."

"No, not yesterday. It was a year ago. Don't you remember our walk on the fells, and being caught in the rain?"

"You tell funny stories," he said, with a smile.

Her hands fell weakly to her side, and the tears filled her eyes. It was so pitiful ‒ so inexpressibly sad. Her love for him seemed to melt into an infinite compassion. She wanted to take him to her heart and comfort him ‒ to teach him ‒ to recall for him the fleeting shadows of the past; to awaken the slumbering mind, if possible, to its old activity.

Surely this was a work that even the child of a forger might do. The dream of being his wife was now doubly at an end, but could she not be his friend ‒ his guide ‒ at least for a little while until his own family took charge of him? In that way her life would not, like a desert stream, lose itself in the sands. There would be something to live for ‒ something to save her mind from preying upon itself.

He stood and looked at her while these thoughts were passing through her mind ‒ looked at her with knitted brows and a puzzled expression on his face as though her face or her voice touched some chord of memory and set it vibrating through his brain.

"I saw you yesterday," he repeated quite abruptly.

"You are sure you have seen me before?" she asked eagerly, for she felt if memory began to work at all, it might in time be able to unravel all the past.

"Yes," he answered promptly.

"And do you know my name?"

He looked at her inquiringly for a moment or two, then shook his head.

"My name is Avril Guest," she said slowly, and she watched him narrowly as she spoke.

For a moment his brows contracted, and he rubbed his hand across his forehead; then he looked up with a smile and said, "You are very pretty."

Avril gulped down a sob and bent her eyes again to the ground. The tragedy of the strong, handsome, clear-headed man she had adored being reduced to this was almost more than she could bear. And yet she would not admit to herself that the case was hopeless. The fact that he persisted he had seen her before seemed a beginning. If his memory could recall anything at all, it might go on to recall all the rest.

"If I am pretty," she said after a pause, "what of your sister Hope?"

"Hope?" he said quickly, and for a moment his eyes brightened. Then the light faded out of them again, and he shook his head.

"Hope is your sister," she said. "Hope Teesdale. Don't you remember her big brown eyes and happy laugh?"

"Her eyes? Whose eyes?"

"Hope's."

He reached out his hand suddenly, as though he would grasp something that floated past, and a pained and puzzled look came into his eyes.

Then he said again. "My name is James Brown."

For several moments they stood looking at each other in silence.

Then Avril said, "May I walk with you?"

He nodded, and Avril turned and walked by his side toward the kopje she had just left.

He toiled slowly up its steep slope in silence, and when he reached the top he sat down on a flat-topped stone, and looked wistfully across the veldt.

"Do you remember Brandsfell above Bridlemere?" she asked, after a long pause, sitting on the ground at his feet.

He started, and looked at her with a curiously penetrating light in his eyes.

"In the sunshine," she went on, "Bridlemere shines like a great sheet of polished silver, but in rainy weather, when the water rushes down from Black Ghyll Force, it is dark and sullen. Cannot you imagine Bridlemere out there between the hills?" And she reached out her hand and pointed with her finger.

He looked for a few seconds in the direction she indicated, then slowly shook his head.

"Was it not yesterday we climbed Snakesfell?" she persisted.

"Yes, yesterday," he answered quickly. "I saw you yesterday."

"And we looked for Nan, but we did not see her."

"Nan?" he inquired.

"Yes, Nan o' the Fells!"

"Nan?" he repeated again in a questioning tone.

"Do you remember Nan? People said she was a witch, and lived in a cave; but they could not find her cave."

For a moment or two he puckered his forehead and closed his eyes. Then he looked down at her and smiled. But he did not speak for several minutes. Then he said slowly and deliberately, "My name is James Brown."
Chapter 40

The Gain of Loss

AVRIL GUEST lost no time in hunting up such facts as were available respecting Arthur Teesdale, and drawing her own inferences from them. She did not reveal what she knew about him, and gave no hint of the relationship in which he had stood to her.

No one had very much to tell. A soldier on the battlefield is just a number or a name, and nothing more. It is taken for granted he belongs to somebody ‒ that he has friends or relatives in some part of the world.

The soldier known as James Brown never talked about the past ‒ never wrote letters or received them ‒ never appeared to take the least interest in anything outside the immediate business of the hour. He was a reservist, and had served in one of the Lancashire regiments. He had come out among a shipload of others, had behaved exceedingly well, had come through several severe engagements without a scratch, and in the end very nearly got buried alive.

This last item interested Avril greatly. It was a disabled soldier who told her the story and illustrated his narrative by sundry diagrams which he drew on the floor with his crutch.

"You see, miss, it was this way," he said. "We was a-marchin' over roughish ground, believing that the coast was clear and that the enemy was at least four miles away. We was a-goin' to surprise 'em. That was our game. Surprise 'em, did I say? Well, miss, two can play at that game. Perhaps we did surprise 'em by the simple way we walked into the trap they laid for us. The newspapers, I see, called it a 'regrettable incident.'

"Well, like enough it was, but some of our fellows had no time to regret it. Before the end of five minutes they took no further interest in the proceeding. But it was sharp while it lasted, you may be quite sure. When the ammunition gave out we charged with our bayonets; then we fought with the butt-end of our rifles. I got a bullet through my foot fairly early, but I hardly knew it. When yer blood's up like that you don't feel nothin' much.

"I looked up, and saw Brown fighting like a demon. He was as strong as two. But a blow from the butt-end of a rifle bang on the head brought him down like a log. He just dropped without so much as a groan, and lay as still as the dead.

"It was all over in a few minutes. We had to give in, of course. We might as well have done so at first, for anybody could see we hadn't a chance. But givin' in ain't English.

"The wounded were cared for as soon as possible, and sent back to camp. The dead was buried just close to where they fell ‒ laid side by side in a big trench.

"They was just layin' Brown down by the side of a comrade when he opened his eyes and stared. The man that was a-carryin' him dropped him of a sudden and gave a yell. If he had kept his eyes shut three minutes longer he'd 'a' been covered up. And I don't know if in his case it wouldn't have been better. That rap on the head clean knocked all the memory out of him. When he corned to he didn't know nothing, and he's had to learn nearly everything over again like a baby."

"Did you see much of him before that day?" Avril asked.

"Oh ay, a goodish bit. But he were a quiet sort of a bloke. Some of us had a-noticed he was not altogether what he seemed to be."

"Why so?"

"Well, you see, miss, his 'ands were soft. And then he didn't talk like a common soldier. It ain't difficult to tell when a man is a real gent. I reckon he'd come down in the world a goodish bit."

"Did he ever say anything about his people?"

"Never a word, miss. We tried to get him sometimes to talk about the old country, and would ask him if he weren't a-goin' to write to his sweetheart. But he'd only smile in a sad sort of a way. Poor Dick Barker used to swear some gal had jilted him. Dick 'ad been jilted himself, and he said he knew the symptoms. Poor Dick!"

"Was he killed?"

"Ay, in that regrettable incident. He were one of the first to drop. I don't think he minded, for he took it terribly to heart about his gal takin' on with another chap."

"But Brown would not own that he had been jilted?"

"He would never say nothing one way nor another, miss. I never knowed anyone so close in my life before."

On the day following, Avril managed to get an interview with the doctor.

"I have called on you respecting Private James Brown," she said.

"Do you know anything of him?" he asked eagerly.

"I think I know something about his people," she said evasively.

"If you do, it will be a great relief," he interrupted, "for we can gain absolutely no information respecting him."

"He seems to have completely lost his memory."

"That is true, and I very much doubt if it will ever come back to him."

"He has received some injury to his head?"

"He has. And if he has friends, they ought to know of his condition. I don't think he will be of the least use as a soldier again."

"Might not an operation be of service to him?"

"Not such an operation as we could undertake here. We have not the appliances."

"Then he could get his discharge?" she asked.

"Most certainly."

"Do you know anyone who is returning to England who could be trusted to look after him, and deliver him into the hands of his friends?"

"I know the very man. My friend, Dr. Forrest, who is now at Valfontein, is returning next week."

"Would you give me a note of introduction to him?"

"With pleasure. And in the meanwhile I will see Colonel Cooper, who will be pleased, I am sure, to hear that you know something of his friends."

Avril took Dr. Forrest more fully into her confidence. After explaining the nature of her errand, she said, "I don't want the matter to be made the subject of gossip here, but his name is not James Brown. It is Arthur Teesdale. He is the only son of Sir Geoffrey Teesdale, of Rowton Hall, Cumberland. He ran away from home under rather painful circumstances, and his friends are absolutely convinced he is dead. As a friend of the family, I should like the matter to be kept perfectly quiet for the present."

"I will respect your wishes and your confidence," Dr. Forrest said, "but are you absolutely certain of your man?"

"Absolutely certain. Moreover, I want you to understand that a good deal hangs upon his turning up alive. It will mean the happiness and the good name of one person at least."

"Indeed?"

"Sir Geoffrey, if he is still alive, will explain everything to you. I need not go into details now. But if you will take Mr. Teesdale straight to his father without giving a hint to any living soul on the way, you will do a great service."

"You spoke of his father being still alive as though you had some doubt on your mind."

"Yes, he was dangerously ill when I left England."

"And suppose he should be dead?"

"Mr. Teesdale has a sister, to whom the sight of his face will be as new life."

Dr. Forrest looked thoughtful.

"I know this will mean a good deal of trouble to you," Avril went on. "There will also be considerable expense. I will, however, make myself responsible for the latter."

"Please don't mention it," he said quickly.

"If you undertake the task, it is only fair that I should undertake the cost," she replied, with a smile. "He will need care during the entire journey."

"I will see to it that he wants for nothing."

"Thank you so much. And he will travel with you merely as Private James Brown?"

"Yes, I will not mention the other matter to anyone."

"It will be the dead of winter when you reach England, and of course dark when you reach Bradenford Station, so it is not likely anyone will recognise him."

"But won't his sudden appearance, and in so painful a condition, be a great shock to his friends?"

"Well, yes, perhaps the shock will be great," she said reflectively, "but better that than that he should fall into the hands of some other people. But I have it. Instead of going direct to Rowton Hall, take a cab and drive to the Vicarage. The vicar will go on with you, and prepare the way."

"What is the vicar's name?"

"The Rev. Henry Grove. You will find him a most excellent man, and you may rely absolutely upon his judgment.'

When Avril had gone, Dr. Forrest took a walk into the country to reflect.

"There's more in this affair than appears on the surface," he said to himself. "I wish I had asked a few more questions."

And he raised his officer's hat and scratched the back of his head. "An uncommonly pretty girl," he went on, "and has evidently means at her disposal. I wonder who she is, and why she takes such an interest in the matter? I was a fool not to ask her name. If I'm not careful, I may be made to look foolish at the other end."

And he scratched the back of his head again.

"Anyhow," he said grimly, "I've got to go through with the business now. And I will, too. Shouldn't be surprised if I'm not in for a pretty little adventure."

Avril saw Arthur several times before his departure, and did her best to awaken in him some memory of the past, but without any real success. Now and then his eyes would sparkle for a moment at the mention of some familiar name or event, but the light would go out as suddenly as it came.

She shed a good many tears on the day he went away. It was a sad ending to a sweet and tender romance. She could not even be his nurse. She would gladly have devoted her life to his service. The daughter of a forger might be his friend and companion, but a very little reflection had convinced her that his proper place was his own home, and the sooner he got home the better. His presence at Rowton Hall would mean the recovery of Douglas Grove, who would be able to hold up his head once more, and perhaps aspire to the hand of Hope, the girl he so dearly loved.

His presence would mean, also, the complete discomfiture of Hugh Teesdale, for like most other people she distrusted this low-browed young man, and was never able to shake off the feeling that his presence meant mischief at Rowton Hall.

Avril felt as though all the interest had gone out of her life when Arthur Teesdale went away. There seemed to be nothing else to live for ‒ her mission was ended. Henceforth she would have to dwell apart from those she loved, and dwell alone.

Then an ambulance wagon drove up and three fresh cases were carried into the hospital.

Instantly her thoughts were turned into another channel.

"No," she said to herself, with a sad smile, "my mission is not ended yet."

For several days, however, in spite of herself, her thoughts strayed away to Arthur Teesdale, and her heart went out to him in a great longing. The fact that he did not know her ‒ that his mind was that of a little child ‒ did not weaken her love in the smallest degree. It was as though the maternal instinct had been awakened in her. She wanted to care for him, to mother him, to watch over him as a mother would watch over a sick child. And it seemed to her a horribly cruel thing that she, who loved him more than anybody else in the world, was doomed to stand aside and not be allowed even to see him.

Now and then she found herself speculating on the strange and unaccountable chances of life. How constantly it was that the unexpected happened. Instead of finding the thing you searched for, you found something else that you never dreamed of finding.

She had come to Africa in search of her father, and had found the man she loved instead. There seemed to be a curious irony in many of these happenings. If her aunt had only burnt her papers, she would never have left Bradenford, and never have learned the secret that had dug an impassable gulf between herself and the man she loved, and never have discovered that he was still alive. She had to lose him before she could find him; give him up before she could give him back; discover she could not have him before she discovered how deep and abiding was her affection.

And yet the law of compensation came in everywhere. If she had not first lost him, she would not have found him; and the satisfaction of finding him and sending him back to his own would always be hers. Nobody could rob her of that.

As the days passed away and grew into weeks, she tried to picture the scene at Rowton Hall when Arthur arrived. Her excitement was almost as great as if she had been actually with him. She counted the hours between the arrival of the ship at Southampton and their arrival in London. And a day later she began to count the hours between Euston and Bradenford.

Making allowances for difference in time, she remained awake nearly all one night in a tremor of excitement, and tried to picture what would happen from minute to minute.

"Oh, I would give all I possess to be there!" she said to herself, looking out across the lonely and silent veldt.

"I should like to see the meeting between father and son ‒ between Hope and her brother. Let me try to be happy in their happiness, and pray with them that surgical skill and tender nursing and the sight of familiar faces and scenes will bring back to Arthur all seems lost.

"No, not all," she went on, correcting herself. "Not all. Some things can never be restored. The old days are gone beyond recall. The old ties are broken for evermore. For the rest of our lives Arthur and I are strangers."

She fell asleep at length, and awoke late in the morning to discover a fresh surprise awaiting her.

Chapter 41

Nearing Home

AS Hope Teesdale journeyed alone to Bradenford, she discovered that her heart was the centre of a curious and conflicting set of emotions. She did not know until just before the train started that Douglas Grove was not going to accompany her, and she had scarcely recovered from her surprise when the train began to move out of the station.

He had been something of a puzzle to her from the moment she recovered consciousness in the cave where he had conveyed her after her escape from the chateau. There was a certain restraint and aloofness in his manner which she never remembered in the old days ‒ a certain absence of emotion, a certain indifference, which she could not account for or explain.

But his final words of farewell had almost struck her dumb. What was the meaning of them? What was the change that had come over him? What did it foreshadow?

She pushed her head back into a corner of the compartment and closed her eyes. During her long imprisonment she had thought more of Douglas than of anyone else in the world. She had watched for his coming morning, noon, and night; had built all her hopes of escape on his skill and resource, and had never doubted his love for a single moment.

Watching for him, dreaming of him, her love had steadily increased. He filled all the chambers of her imagination, and coloured every fancy.

There was no paradise for her in which he did not reign supreme, no future in which he was not all in all.

"Douglas will find me some time," was the burden of her optimism during all those weary months. "And when he finds me, he will tell me of his love. And I shall lift my face to be kissed, and answer him in the words he will want to hear."

But she never knew how deep and passionate was her love ‒ how all-consuming it was ‒ until the day when he came to her rescue. She felt as though she had no wish or desire in the world that was not his. They belonged to each other. He had proved his right to her and his own worth at the same time.

But what she had expected, and even longed for, had not taken place. He had been from the first moment as self-possessed and as cold as the veriest stranger. Neither by look nor word nor tone had he revealed the slightest trace of affection. He might have been a police officer, or any casual acquaintance from Bradenford.

How much all this had puzzled her and pained her he never guessed. Her heart ached for some glance of affection, for some tone in his voice that should set her heart throbbing. At every halting place, at every turn of the road almost, she hoped that he would reveal himself as something more than a mere friend, but his self-possession never left him for a moment.

When he was not watching her, she looked at him with reverence and with unbounded gratitude. She felt he had changed in many ways ‒ and, save for the one thing, for the better. He was graver, certainly, but that became him; but also he was more self-reliant, and at the same time more modest and diffident. The "youngness," as she put it, had worn off. He was no longer a youth: he was a strong, serious, thoughtful man.

If she had never seen him until that day he came to her rescue, she imagined she would still have loved him. How could she help it, when he had done so much for her? No word of thanks could repay such a debt as she owed to him. He had won her heart, whether he cared for it or no.

Hope had watched him furtively as he stood on the platform by the open door of her carriage. How handsome he looked in his grey flannel suit and straw hat! How self-possessed he was!

"I must be more to him than a mere stranger," she kept saying to herself, "or he would not take all this trouble. Think of all he has endured ‒ the watchfulness, the weariness, the fatigue. How he must have planned and schemed; and what money he must have spent ‒ and he cannot be well off. Oh yes, he must care for me!"

But there was no look in his eyes, no tone in his voice, that confirmed her in this hope. He stood there by the open door apparently unmoved and unconcerned.

What did it mean? Was he afraid she did not love him? Or was he too reserved to presume upon what he had done? Or was he waiting until she had time to recover herself? Or had he discovered that he did not care for her?

A hot wave swept over her neck and face, which, however, he did not see.

"Perhaps I'm a fright," she said to herself. "Besides, he's seen me dressed up in boy's clothes. No doubt he's awfully disappointed in me, or perhaps he's seen somebody he likes better. Oh, I wish he was like he used to be!"

While these thoughts were passing through her mind the train began to move, and then had followed the hurried and inexplicable farewell.

The joy of going home was sadly discounted. Instead of looking forward, as the train pushed its way farther and farther north, she kept looking back. It was not so much of her father she thought, as of the man who had won her heart, but who appeared to have no love to give in return.

Before she reached Preston, however, her pride had come to her rescue. "If he can be cold," she said to herself resolutely, "so can I! Besides, I ought not to forget in any case that I am a Teesdale!"

By and by the green hills of her native county began to loom into sight, and her nerves began to thrill with excitement. No one knew of her coming. No one, in fact, knew she was alive. What a surprise it would be to everybody when she appeared in Bradenford! What would her father say? What would the vicar say? What would everybody say?

"I must let father see me first," Hope said to herself. "Dear old father, what a sea of trouble he has gone through during the last year. But it will be some recompense to have me back alive and well."

Then she thought of her brother Arthur, and her eyes filled. "It will hardly seem like home," she reflected, "without Arthur. But I shall have to make up to father all I can for what he has lost. It seems strange that Douglas would not talk about Arthur. There appears to be some mystery somewhere. I wonder if I shall find out everything when I get home?"

For a few moments she became interested in the familiar aspects of the country. The sight of the distant fells awoke a thousand tender memories. She was a child again, without worry or trouble.

"It will be lovely to get home," she said at length, her eyes filling. "Lovely to see dear old father and Mrs. Mann and Parkyn. I hope Hugh won't be there. If he is there I think I shall scream.

"And yet I don't know," she went on, after a pause. "It will be rather a pleasure, after all, to see his discomfiture. And I shall charge him to his face with kidnapping me, for of course he is at the bottom of it. He wanted to get me out of the way so that he might get Rowton Hall.

"Yes, I rather hope he will be there," she continued, after a long pause. "Won't those black eyes of his gleam with anger and fright! I expect he'll try to run away, but I know father will probe it to the bottom. I hope he will be able to discover Mrs. Wilkes ‒ a tool of Hugh's, no doubt. If only Douglas would undertake the task, it would be easy, for he's so clever. But I don't suppose he will. He said his mission was ended."

Then the train pulled up at a junction and an old farmer got into her compartment. His face was red, his eyes hazy. He had been to a cattle show, and had imbibed rather more than was his custom, and so was disposed to be neighbourly and communicative.

"Warm afternoon, aren't it?" he asked, wiping his moist brow. "I've been to a cattle show, and a rare good show it's been. I expect you've never been to a cattle show? Ah, well, you're young yet, and have got a lot to larn, eh, miss? Oh yes, you've a lot to larn. I s'pose you're a stranger i' these parts?"

"Not quite. I've been here before."

"Don't seem to know yer face. However, that's neither here nor there, though I knows most people within twenty mile of Bowerdale. Going far this road?"

"To Bradenford."

"Oh ay, I know Bradenford. Growing place, too. I s'pose you don't know if the squire's livin' still?"

"What squire do you mean?"

"Why, there ain't no more than one squire i' Bradenford ‒ Sir Geoffrey. He's been terrible ill for a long time past, and caan't last much longer, 'tis said. Had a specialist down fra Manchester to see him and a nurse fra London, but nothin' seems to do him no good, by all accounts. But then, you see, he ain't quite young. And he's had a sore lot of trouble ‒ a sore lot of trouble, I say. Both children took from him within a week of each other, and in no ordinary way, neither. So that if he goes to the next world nobody can be surprised, though everybody'll be sorry; for he's the right sort, is Sir Geoffrey, while as for that nephew of his that'll succeed him ‒ well, as I says, he's a nasty one, he is, an' nobody don't take to him overmuch."

The old farmer did not notice his companion's dilating eyes and white, drawn face while he talked. Hope let him ramble on, for she seemed for the moment to have no power to ask him any questions. Before, however, he reached a full stop she had recovered herself a little.

"Did you say that Sir Geoffrey is dangerously ill?" she asked, with a gasp.

"He's close to the finish, by all accounts. In fact, I shan't be a bit surprised to hear he's gone; and a sad loss it will be."

"And is his nephew at the Hall?"

"Well, as to that, miss, I caan't just say for sartin. I hears as how he comes and goes. You see, he lives in London, and by all accounts has heaps o' business there. So he ain't able to stay long when he comes down, though 'tis said he's most devoted to the squire."

"And is Sir Geoffrey devoted to him?"

"Well, miss, they do say he's took to him wonderful of late. You see, the squire ain't got nobody else, and it comes 'ard on an old man to be left desolate in his declining years. Ah, if the young squire hadn't been murdered‒‒"

"Murdered?" Hope interrupted, with a gasp, and her face grew as white as the dead.

"Well, I call it murder, at any rate. Do you mean to say you did not hear all about it at the time?"

"I heard almost nothing. Do tell me. I have been out of the country."

"Oh, well, it was more than a nine days' talk, I can assure you. But the hanging didn't come off because the young squire's body couldn't be found. But the vicar's son confessed to doin' it fair and square."

"The vicar's son?" Hope gasped, and her eyes seemed ready to start out of her head.

"Ay, young Grove. They ought to have hanged him accordin' to my thinking, for when a man confesses that he's done the job, what more proof do you want?"

"But I don't quite understand," Hope said, in a whisper.

"Oh, well, it seems they had a bit of a quarrel up on the bridge above Black Ghyll Force, and what did young Grove do but he catches the other unawares and throws him into the river."

"Did he confess to doing that?"

"Well, not to the unawares business, but that must be taken for granted, for in any fair and square fight the young squire would have licked him into fits."

"Yes?" Hope asked impatiently.

"Well, after he'd done the deed, he hid himself up on the fells for two or three days and nights, but it seems his conscience got the better of him, so he comes down into the village and went straight to the police station and gived himself up."

"Yes?"

"Broxup, the policeman, says he was quite calm-like over the business, and never made no attempt to hide nothing. He said he'd done it in a fit of mad passion, and he was ready to pay the penalty."

"Well, and what happened then?"

"Oh, well, that's the funny part of it. Nothing really happened. He remained in the lock-up a week or two, but as nothin' could be proved against him, why, he was let out."

"What do you mean by nothing proved?"

"Well, I don't profess to understand these things, but the law in the main is a terribly stupid thing. As far as I can make out, the lawyers argued this way ‒ that there was no proof whatsomever that the young squire was dead. His hat was found floating in Bridlemere, but his body's never been found. Well, you see, there was nothing to hold a hinquest on. Young Grove said they struggled on the bridge together, and both fell into the raging river at the same time, 'cause as how he said the young squire wouldn't let go.

" Well, the lawyers argued that if one got out alive the other might have got out alive. But, of course, that was all nonsense, for if he were alive he'd have shown himself. Then it was said that if he were dead there could be no proof that he'd been murdered, 'cause as how they were a-wrestling on the bridge, and both went in together. So that it might be nothin' more nor an accident."

"But you say Mr. Grove confessed that he deliberately threw him in?"

"Oh ay, he didn't make no bones about that matter. He says the young squire struck him, an' that murder came into his heart. And I say his word should be took. But when them lawyers get hold of a thing they make black white. I says, and I sticks to it, that when a man owns up himself that he's committed murder, he ought to be hanged."

"But if it should turn out after all that it was not murder...?"

"Oh ay, that's all right in its way. But I reckon a man knows best himself what he's done. The vicar, of course, stuck to it that his son was no more guilty of murder than he was. And, most curious of all, the young lady whom young Arthur Teesdale was going to wed holds with the vicar, so they do say. An' I must say myself it's curious the body was never found."

"And what does Sir Geoffrey think?"

"Well, as to that, I don't think anybody knows for sartin. I believe he wanted to string up Douglas Grove at the start, but he sobered down after a while. You see, when a man's ill and in trouble the fight goes out of him."

"And what do the people generally think in Bradenford?"

"Oh, well, some think one way, some another. Some stick up for young Douglas Grove still, and some would like to lynch him if they could lay hands upon him. But of course he keeps out of their way. As soon as he was let out of gaol he just slinks out of the place, and nobody ain't never seen him since. 'Tis said that he's living up in London under another name. In any case, he's ashamed to show his face in Bradenford, and I don't wonder. But here's Lauderfoot Station. I do get out here. There's only one station more, and you're at Bradenford."

And, with a broad smile on his face, he stumbled out of the carriage.

For the rest of the distance Hope travelled alone, glad of the solitude. She felt she needed time to recover herself. The news she had heard had bewildered, almost confounded her. Her heart was in an agony of fear respecting her father, while her brain reeled at the thought of what Douglas Grove had done.

She understood now his reticence, his aloofness, his coldness. And she was glad he had acted as he had done. "He has, at any rate, the instincts of a gentleman," she said to herself. But she could not reason about the matter yet. She felt herself growing numb in every fibre of her being.

She roused herself at length and pulled a thick veil from her bag, which she tied round her hat and pulled over her face.

"I must get to Rowton Hall if possible without anyone recognising me," she said.

She felt herself trembling from head to foot as the train began to slow down for Bradenford Station. All her luggage was contained in a small bag in the carriage with her.

She swept the platform as the train came to a standstill, but there was not a single face she recognised. Seizing her bag, she sprang quickly out of the carriage, and while the other passengers were looking after their luggage she hurried away. There were two cabs waiting outside. She rushed up to the first and pulled open the door and put her bag on the seat.

"Drive me to Rowton Hall," she said, without raising her eyes. And she stepped inside and closed the door.

The cabby whipped up his horse at once.

"Oh, I hope father is still alive," she said to herself, with a gasp. And she lay back in the carriage and closed her eyes.
Chapter 42

Mrs. Mann is astonished

HOPE dismissed her cab at the gate, and hurried rapidly up the drive, bag in hand. She was in such a state of excitement that she was scarcely conscious of her surroundings. It was the culmination of the long period of nervous tension through which she had passed.

She neither saw nor heard. The familiar shape of the surrounding fells, the tall elm trees, the banks of rhododendrons, the twitter of the sparrows, the flute-like note of the thrushes ‒ all these things passed unheeded.

One painful and persistent question was hammering at her brain, "Is father still alive?" All other questions were swallowed up in this. She forgot herself, forgot Douglas Grove, forgot her long and painful captivity, forgot all she had passed through since. If her father was not alive to greet her, then her release and home-coming would be shorn of all their triumph and gladness.

Almost better not to come here at all than to return and find that the only one who loved her, and to whom she could turn for comfort and protection, was numbered among the dead.

"Oh, it would be too cruel!" she said to herself, as she turned into a narrow path between banks of evergreens that led to the side door.

Her heart was beating so fast she could scarcely breathe, her legs were trembling so much that she seemed to have no control over them.

She glanced with a frightened expression up at the windows. The next moment she gave a little cry, and stood still.

What did the drawn blinds mean? Was she too late? Had the gentle spirit of her father already passed out into the great silence?

"It may be to keep the sun out," she said to herself, after a little pause. "Mrs. Mann is careful."

And she hurried forward again, hoping almost against hope. The sun was just beginning to dip behind the western hills, and the uneven panes of glass in the Hall windows were flinging back his departing rays. From out of the south came the long sigh of the wind, which moved swiftly over the tree-tops, and died away into silence.

After the noise and rattle of the train, the silence seemed almost oppressive. Except for the twitter of the birds and the occasional sighing of the wind, no sound broke the stillness. All nature seemed to be waiting and expectant.

The side door, as she expected, stood open. It led direct to the housekeeper's rooms, and to Mrs. Mann she would go to know the best or the worst. If she went to the front door, she knew she would find it bolted; and the bell rang so loudly that it could be heard all over the house ‒ and she was in no humour to attract attention to herself just then. If she showed herself to the butler first, she knew he would be so excited that he would not be able to keep himself within bounds, but Mrs. Mann had more self-control.

On the doorstep she paused for a moment to recover herself. No sound of any kind came from within. The place might have been deserted, so still was everything. She could almost hear the beating of her own heart.

She advanced two or three steps into the narrow hall, and paused again. No sound, however, came from any part of the house.

"Are they all dead?" she said to herself, with a little gasp.

Then she pushed open the door, and marched boldly into the housekeeper's room.

Mrs. Mann was seated with her elbows on the table and her face in her hands, but at the opening of the door she looked up suddenly, then rose slowly to her feet, and stared at the intruder.

Hope still had her thick veil drawn over her face. Mrs. Mann did not recognise her, and was therefore not a little surprised that any stranger should have the impertinence to make her way to her room unannounced. Before she had time to recover herself, Hope broke the silence by exclaiming, "Oh, I am thankful somebody is alive!"

The tones of her voice struck Mrs. Mann as being familiar, and yet she had no thought of Hope. She had no more doubt that Hope was lying asleep in Bradenford churchyard than she had of her own existence.

Mrs. Mann drew herself up with dignity ‒ not only was the intrusion unwarrantable, but the form of greeting could scarcely be called respectful.

"I beg to say‒‒" Mrs. Mann began in her severest tones, but she was not allowed to finish the sentence.

"Why, Mrs. Mann, don't you know me?" Hope exclaimed, reaching out her hands towards her.

"I cannot say I have that honour," she answered. And she deliberately adjusted her pince-nez, and stared.

Hope pulled off her hat and veil at the same time, flung them on the table, then turned her face towards Mrs. Mann, and waited.

Mrs. Mann's mouth fell open, and her eyes caught a startled and terrified expression. Then, with a little gasp she sank back into her chair and panted. Her first conviction was that it was Hope's ghost come back from the dead. Mrs. Mann was a firm believer in ghosts. The only thing that caused her to doubt in the present case was the thought that ghosts did not usually, if ever, prowl about in the daylight.

She made an effort to speak, to cry out, but her tongue seemed to be paralysed. She could only sit still and stare, and inwardly pray that the dread apparition might speedily take its departure.

Hope knew by instinct what was passing through Mrs. Mann's mind, and in spite of her terrible apprehension an amused smile spread itself over her face.

"Why, Mrs. Mann," she said, half playfully, "I declare you don't seem at all pleased to see me."

But Mrs. Mann, instead of replying, seemed on the point of collapsing.

"Come, Mrs. Mann," Hope said a little sternly, "you ought not to give way to silly fears in this way. I am not so changed that you do not know me."

"But ... but...." Mrs. Mann gasped, and then the words stuck.

"I know what you would say," Hope replied "But I am not dead, as you see. I am here in flesh and blood. Now, rouse yourself up and tell me how my father is."

"But are you really Miss Hope?" Mrs. Mann gasped. "Are you sure my eyes are not deceiving me?"

"Quite sure, Mrs. Mann. I'll tell you all about it by and by. Now, tell me quickly, is my father living?"

"He's just living, Miss Hope, and that's all that can be said."

"God be praised!" Hope answered devoutly. "Now, I will go to him at once."

"No, no, Miss Hope!" And the housekeeper sprang at once to her feet. "Such a sudden shock as your presence would give him might kill him."

"Joy never kills," Hope answered brightly. "Seeing me will help to cure him."

"If he were not so far gone, but you don't know how ill he is. Oh dear, I can hardly believe my own senses yet!"

"I can assure you I am real flesh and blood," Hope answered, with a smile.

"But I saw a body dressed in your clothes. Oh, I felt sure it was you! I hadn't the least shadow of a doubt. And ... and‒‒"

"Yes, I know all about that," Hope interrupted, "but the wicked plot has failed. I'll tell you the whole story when I have time, but I must see father first. I'm dying for a sight of his dear face."

"Let me go and prepare the way. The nurse is very particular, and allows nobody in the room without her permission."

"I'll ask nobody's permission to go into my father's room," was the indignant answer. "And what is more, Mrs. Mann, I shall go to his room alone."

"But think of what the effect will be on him?"

"If he's beyond hope of recovery, the sight of me cannot do him any harm, and there's just the possibility that the shock may do him good. I've heard of such things before now."

"I don't think Dr. Storey would allow it if he were here."

"But he is not here?"

"No, he will not come again until tomorrow morning, unless he is sent for."

"And I presume Hugh Teesdale is not here?"

"No, but we are expecting him any day. He may be down by the last train tonight for all we know to the contrary."

"I suppose he regards himself as practically master of the place now?"

"I'm afraid he does, Miss Hope, though I must admit he has been exceedingly kind and attentive to the master. No one could be more thoughtful than he has been."

"Oh, no doubt. No doubt. It will be somewhat of a disappointment to him when he discovers I have turned up alive."

"Do you really think so, Miss Hope?" And the good woman lifted her hands almost hopefully.

During the past nine months Hugh had been doing his best to worm his way into the good graces of Mrs. Mann, and not altogether without success.

"I'm sure of it," Hope said emphatically. "I rather hope he will turn up tonight. I should like to see my worthy cousin once more, at any rate."

"But you never liked him, Miss Hope."

"And for very good reasons, Mrs. Mann. And I have more reasons for disliking him today than ever I had. But enough of Hugh Teesdale. I am going up now to see my father."

"As you will, Miss Hope, but you will have to go through the nurse's room to get to him."

"Through the nurse's room?"

"Yes, miss. His own room door is always kept locked on the inside."

"That seems a great piece of impertinence, does it not?"

"Well, you see, those trained nurses generally take a good deal upon themselves."

"I'm surprised at my father having a nurse at all."

"Well, so is everybody, for that matter. And for a long time he stuck out, and declared none of them should come near him."

"And how was he brought to yield at last?"

"Well, I think Master Hugh persuaded him a good deal. He said a London doctor he knew would send down a nurse of experience ‒ not a mere chit of a girl, but a woman of considerable age and knowledge."

"And was this nurse sent down from London?"

"Oh yes, and she stands quite at the top of her profession."

"And she was sent down on Hugh's recommendation?"

"Oh no. Mr. Hugh knew nothing about her at all. Some clever doctor whom Mr. Hugh knows sent her down."

Hope began to feel anxious. Anything in which Hugh had a finger she mistrusted. She did not forget the letter he had sent to her ‒ presumably from her father's dictation ‒ by which she was deliberately decoyed into the hands of Mrs. Wilkes. And if Hugh got a nurse down from London, what was more likely than that he had some wicked and sinister end in view?

It was as clear to her as daylight that Hugh had plotted to get her out of the way, so that he might, on the death of Sir Geoffrey, come into possession of the estates. What more likely, then, than that he would plot to get Sir Geoffrey out of the way at the earliest possible opportunity? The sooner Sir Geoffrey took his departure, the sooner would he be lord of the manor.

"Was Hugh here when the nurse arrived?" Hope asked, after a pause.

"Yes, miss, but he went away directly after."

"Did he see her?"

"Just for a moment."

"And did he know her?"

"Oh no, I'm sure he didn't. He told me afterwards he was surprised to find she was such an elderly person."

"Oh, an elderly person, is she?"

"She must be sixty if she is a day. But she is wonderfully strong and active, and as straight as a lath. You see, Sir Geoffrey was determined he would have no young, inexperienced girl to nurse him."

"What is she like?" Hope asked, with a curious sense of foreboding oppressing her.

"Well, she is tremendously tall, to start with. As tall as a man, with iron-grey hair, and keen black eyes, and a protruding chin. I reckon she must have been good looking in her young days."

Hope sat down on the arm of a chair, and pressed her hand to her side. She tried not to let Mrs. Mann see how anxious she felt, but it was extremely difficult.

"Are you not very well?" Mrs. Mann asked.

"I feel tired and a little giddy," Hope answered, "but I shall be all right in a moment."

"I suppose you have had nothing to eat. And here have I been forgetting myself entirely. You must please forgive me, Miss Hope, but really I feel startled out of my seven senses." And she moved towards the bell.

"No, no, Mrs. Mann, don't ring for anyone yet. I want to know something more about this nurse."

"I don't know any more about her, except that she is quiet and silent, and Dr. Storey is quite satisfied."

"Has she large, yellow, uneven teeth?"

"Well, now that you mention it, she has."

"And her name, Mrs. Mann?"

"She calls herself Nurse Wilkes."

Hope set her teeth firmly together, and was silent for several seconds. She felt herself trembling from head to foot. All her worst fears were realised. Here was the dastardly plot still in operation. The same agents at work, the same daring and cunning in evidence. Remembering Mrs. Wilkes ‒ as she called herself ‒ her strength of arm and will; remembering how she had been deceived and drugged and trapped, she was almost afraid to encounter her now. And yet she felt that not another minute was to be lost.

There was no time to send for the police. And even if the police were there, what could they do? She knew little about the law, but she was under the impression that there would have to be a warrant before there could be an arrest.

"Mrs. Mann," she said suddenly, "you must stand by me in this. Mrs. Wilkes is the woman who drugged me and kidnapped me. It is all part of the same plot. They mean to kill my father, and we've not a moment to lose!"

"Oh, nonsense, Miss Hope," Mrs. Mann said.

"I tell you it is not nonsense. Go into the kitchen and fetch all the servants to my father's room. Don't make a noise. I'm terribly afraid to face that woman, but it must be done. And I'll do it if she kills me. Think of my father being left alone to the mercy of such a demon as she!"

"But, child, child," exclaimed Mrs. Mann, aghast.

"Don't 'child' me, please," Hope said sternly, "but do as I tell you. Go to the kitchen at once and fetch up the servants. Don't give them any reason, and please don't make a noise!"

"But they'll be skeered out of their wits when they see you."

"But they need not see me just now, or know that I am in the house. I'll wait at the top of the stairs till you are ready to follow. I want you all to be near me. Do you understand? That woman will stick at nothing. Come into the room after me, and be ready to act directly you hear me call."

"But she cannot harm you, Miss Hope."

"There's no knowing what she may try to do when she finds herself cornered. Now be off, and do what I have told you."

Mrs. Mann hurried off to the kitchen without another word, while Hope stole silently, and with many misgivings, up the broad and thickly carpeted stairs.

For a few moments she waited at the top, and then she saw Mrs. Mann appear, followed by the butler and all the maids. She waited until they had begun to mount the stairs, and then she hurried forward to the nurse's room which opened out of the room occupied by her father.

Turning the handle without a sound, she pushed the door open and peeped in, but no one was visible. The next moment came the sound of a harsh, triumphant voice from her father's room.

"The same voice!" she said to herself, with a little gasp. "I should know it among a thousand."

The servants were pressing close on behind, but not a whisper was heard.

"Now is my opportunity," she said, with a fast-beating heart. And summoning all her strength and resolution, she walked boldly into her father's room.
Chapter 43

The Nick of Time

NAN stood for several moments, glass in hand, contemplating the face of her victim. She saw he had long since passed the point of resistance. He would do what she wished him to do without protest.

The wineglass she carried in her hand was less than a third full of a colourless liquid, but its effect when taken would be swift and certain. She had no fear now of discovery. Dr. Storey would grant a certificate of death without the least misgiving. That was the advantage of being cautious.

If she had hurried matters she might have aroused suspicion, but she had had strength enough to curb her impatience. She had bided her time ‒ she had made her triumph complete.

"The three minutes I gave you," she said at length, "are up, and more than up. I hope you have made your peace with God?"

He made no reply, neither did he open his eyes. He had no desire to look upon her hard, cruel face again.

"I have some cordial in this glass," she went on. "It is a sovereign cure for all pain and for every disease. When you have drunk it you will sleep sweetly and, I may add, soundly. Don't you think I am good to you?"

His lips moved slightly, but no sound escaped them.

"Ah, ah," she went on, "what an hour of triumph this is, to be sure. How beautifully things have worked together. Hugh will make a splendid lord of the manor, and I shall reign here like a duchess. I expect you wish now that you had never turned my love into hate.

"What? Speechless? Well, well, I am not surprised. I always said you were a coward at heart. But I am keeping you from your nap. Now I will raise you a little and give you this cordial to drink. And mind, if you refuse it, it will be the worse for you."

The next moment there was the rustle of a dress in the adjoining room, followed by a quick footstep. And before she had time to turn round the glass was dashed from her hand, and Hope stood before her with flashing eyes and resolute face.

"What ... what? You?" Nan exclaimed, with terror-stricken face, and she staggered several paces back from the bed.

"Yes, it's I," was the dauntless answer. "You thought you had made me a prisoner for life, but you have failed. You‒‒"

But Hope did not finish the sentence. Nan sprang at her like an enraged tiger, and seized her by the throat.

Hope struggled and screamed, but it was only for a moment or two that Nan held her. The sight of Mrs. Mann and the butler in the doorway convinced her that her game was up. The only thing she had to consider now was her own safety.

Loosing her hold upon Hope, she sprang at the intruders and bowled them over by sheer force of the impact. Those who were behind made way for her to escape ‒ they were too terror-stricken to make any attempt to detain her. She rushed past them like a whirlwind, and had vanished before they knew what the commotion meant.

Mrs. Mann picked herself up, gasping and trembling, and altogether too frightened to speak. The butler remained seated on the floor for several moments. The shock had been so sudden that for the life of him he could not tell what it meant. He stared helplessly from one to another, then he caught sight of Hope in the adjoining room, and he sprang to his feet as though he had been shot, and made for the door.

"Don't let her escape!" Hope called, and the sound of her voice acted like magic. Everyone stopped dead and faced her.

"Don't be frightened," she said, seeing the wondering look in their eyes. "I'm not a ghost. But prevent Mrs. Wilkes from getting away if possible."

And then she turned back to her father.

Sir Geoffrey had half raised himself in his bed, and was leaning on his elbows, staring wildly about him.

The commotion had begun and ended so suddenly that he had hardly realised yet what had happened.

Hope caught him in her arms as he was about to sink back again in his bed, and pressed his head to her bosom.

"Oh, my darling father," she said brokenly, "am I in time to save you?"

He looked up into her tear-dimmed eyes wearily and wonderingly. "Hope?" he whispered, as though not quite certain that his eyes were not deceiving him.

"Yes, Hope. Your own little girl Hope," she said, the tears running down her face.

Mrs. Mann came forward and propped Sir Geoffrey up with pillows. He kept his eyes still fixed on Hope's face, as though by no means certain that he was not labouring under some hallucination.

"She said you were in an asylum," he said feebly, after a long pause.

"But I have escaped, father. Oh, I will tell you all the story some time, but you must get stronger first."

"She was going to poison me," he said in a low whisper, an expression of terror sweeping over his face.

"Yes, yes, I know. I knocked the glass out of her hand. She is the tool of Hugh."

"She is Hugh's mother," he said slowly and impressively.

"His mother?"

He half closed his eyes in token of assent. "Some day," he went on, after a long pause, "I will tell you more if ... if God spares me."

"I feel sure God will spare you," she said, forcing back the lump in her throat that threatened to choke her. "He has brought me home to you to help you get well."

He looked at her steadily for a moment, and then his eyes filled. "My little girl!" he whispered. "Oh, my little girl!"

"I shall keep near you now, and nurse you till you get well."

"Yes, yes, you will not leave me again. Oh, God is good to me!"

For several minutes neither of them spoke again. Hope sat on the bed holding his wasted hand in hers, while Mrs. Mann bustled round the room and tried to get some medication ready that would give a little strength to the patient.

Meanwhile, Nan managed to leave the house without the smallest difficulty, though in her haste she was compelled to leave all her belongings behind. Slipping silently out at the side door, she hurried along the narrow path which Hope had traversed but a short time before, and was soon outside the lodge gates and in the shadow of an extensive plantation that stretched far up the hillside.

For a moment she paused and listened. But no sound broke the silence. The long twilight was rapidly deepening into night. The swallows had retired to their nests, the thrushes and blackbirds had hushed their songs. A solitary bat darted silently and swiftly here and there, but that was the only sign of life.

Plunging into the plantation, she hurried up the hillside with swift and resolute steps. She was on familiar ground ‒ there was scarcely a square yard on all that wide sweep of fells she did not know. After a while she turned to the left and began to descend a deep and thickly wooded ravine. There appeared to be no path, but Nan did not halt for a single moment. And so silently did she walk that there was scarcely the snapping of a twig.

At the bottom was a stream of water and a scarcely discernible path along its margin. Moreover, it was so dark that only one familiar with the way could have made any progress at all. Nan did not pause a single instant. At the end of the dell was a cave, and when she reached its shelter she sat on a ledge of rock and panted. She knew the place well. She and Hugh had used it as their meeting place for years past.

"So this is the end, is it?" she said to herself bitterly. "Foiled in the very moment of my triumph. Defeated when I was sure of victory. And I have made such a fool of myself too. In order to torment him I let out all my secrets. Even if he dies ‒ and I expect he will ‒ he will let out to the girl all I have told him. Poor Hugh, whatever comes or goes, his game is up now as well as mine."

For several moments she stared vacantly into the darkness, though her brain was too baffled to think. Then she pulled herself together by a sudden effort.

"But how, in the name of all the fates, did that girl escape?" she went on. "I examined the place myself. Schlinger assured me that escape was impossible. No one had ever been known to get within measurable distance of escape. He told me also that twelve months of it, or so, generally sent them off their head completely. There must have been somebody else's wits at work as well as hers. And if so, then our game must have been suspected."

For a moment or two she clenched and unclenched her hands nervously. It was not pleasant to think she had been outwitted. But who could it be? Had someone been dogging her steps all the time? Were her places of hiding known? Had her various disguises been penetrated? Had somebody become possessed of her secrets?

She started to her feet at length, and listened; but save for the sighing of the wind up the glen, not a sound could be heard.

"Even if she managed to get clear of the chateau," she went on, "how did she get to England? Who supplied her with money? How was she not tracked and captured? She must have had a confederate, and somebody with a good deal of skill and cunning and resource. Has that confederate come with her to Rowton Hall, and, if so.... Great heavens, they may be upon me any moment!"

And she put her hand behind her ear and listened again.

"I'm not afraid of the servants," she said, after a pause. "And for a while the girl will be too taken up with her father to think of me. Perhaps the shock will kill him, and if so, I shall have plenty of time to get away. But I'm in the tightest corner I've yet been in, and I've got to get out of it somehow."

She retired to the far end of the cave at length, and struck a match. On a ledge of rock above her head was a basket lined with oilcloth. She took it down and opened it, and took from it a few articles of disguise which she exchanged for her nurse's cap and cuffs and apron.

"If I could only get to Snakesfell," she said to herself, "without being observed, I should be safe. Nobody knows of that cave but the vicar and his son, and I don't believe either of them would be able to find it again. And yet I suspect the vicar. Why did he talk to Hugh as he did? I wonder if he is at the bottom of this."

The snapping of a twig out in the glen startled her. Putting her hand to her ear she listened intently, but no other sound broke the silence. After a few minutes she began to breathe freely again.

"I shall have to take the risk," she said at length. "It's dark enough on the fells by this time. And if those fools of servants do anything, they'll make for the village, of course, and wake up old Broxup. My way lies in the opposite direction."

After a few minutes she put the basket back in its place, and then stole silently out of the cave. She paused every few yards and listened intently. At the top of the glen she looked around eagerly, then struck up the hillside with all the speed she could command.

She felt nervous and apprehensive when she got out of the shadow of the trees. Stretching away into the night were the bare and treeless fells, crossed by innumerable paths, and rising steeply toward a rocky crown, which was invisible in the darkness.

After a while she ventured to look back, and for a time she watched with curious interest the twinkling lights of Bradenford. Then she knelt down and put her ear close to the ground.

"If the fools are after me, they've lost the scent!" she said to herself, with a chuckle. "I shall be able to outwit them yet."

For another hour she toiled up the steep sides of the fell. Then she paused in the shadow of a perpendicular cliff of rock, and finally disappeared as suddenly as if the earth had opened and swallowed her up.
Chapter 44

Surmises

NAN was quite right in her estimate of the servants. When they got downstairs and discovered that the nurse was nowhere visible, they heaved a sigh of relief ‒ several sighs, in fact ‒ and proceeded to bolt all the doors, as if afraid she might come back.

There might be a sufficient reason for trying to detain the nurse, but no reason had been given; and as she was clearly no longer in the house, they did not feel it their business to go hunting her out of doors. From their experience upstairs, she was by no means a nice person to hunt, and, taking all things into account they thought it rather a fortunate circumstance that she had taken herself off without giving any further trouble. So they settled themselves in various attitudes of comfort, and began discussing the situation.

The event they were most interested in was naturally the appearance of Miss Hope on the scene. The cook even now was by no means sure that it was the young mistress.

"My own opinion is," she said solemnly, "it ain't her at all."

"Then who is it?" asked the under-housemaid.

"Why, her ghost, to be sure! Ain't she dead and buried? Didn't we all of us go to the funeral? And if she's dead and buried, how can she be here?"

"But ghosts only come in the dark, and then they vanish if you look at them. And they don't speak and give orders," was the reply.

"Oh, well, this ain't an ordinary ghost," the cook persisted. "You see, the master's a-dyin', and she's a kind of death-token as well."

"Oh, that's all nonsense!" the butler chimed in. "Whether she be Miss Hope or no, she's real solid flesh and blood."

"Besides, Mrs. Mann is with her all the time," the housemaid persisted.

"Well," said the cook, "I don't stick to it that I'm right in every partickler, but I have my doubts."

"I ain't got no doubts at all," broke in the scullery-maid. "I looked her fair and square in the face. She's altered. She ain't so plump, and she ain't so much colour, but she's Miss Hope down to the ground!"

"Ay, ay," said the butler, "I don't think there's any doubt that it's she safe enough. And it's my opinion Nurse Wilkes is in some way at the bottom of it."

"At the bottom of her coming to life again?"

"No, at the bottom of the other thing."

"Fiddlesticks!" broke in the cook, who was decidedly cross at finding herself in such a minority.

"Well, it may be fiddlesticks, or it mayn't be, but she always struck me as bein' a strange sort o' a nurse. I'm beginning to think now she was here for no good purpose."

"Oh, get away with you!" said the cook. "The doctor thought a heap of her."

"That's nothing to do with it," the butler persisted. "If everything was fair and square, why was she so frightened when Miss Hope appeared before her? And why did she fly at her throat, and then, seeing the rest of us, why did she bolt as though she was shot?"

"Ay, and why did Miss Hope call to us to stop her?" said the under-housemaid.

"And why did she knock the glass out of her hand?" demanded the scullery-maid. "Ghosts don't knock glasses about!" And she looked triumphantly at the cook.

These questions were evidently too many and too complicated for the cook to answer, so she wisely kept silent.

Then a ring came to the kitchen door bell, and they all started to their feet and looked at each other.

"Well, now, who can that be?" the cook asked. And her lips trembled a good deal.

"Hadn't you better go and see?" the butler suggested.

"Go and see yourself!" was the retort. "It ain't my place to be openin' doors."

"But it's the kitchen door," the butler persisted.

The ring was repeated. And then Betty the scullery-maid showed her courage. "I do believe you all think there be ghosts knocking about," she said. "But I don't believe in none of 'em, so here goes!" And she went at once and unbolted the door and threw it open.

She half expected to see Nurse Wilkes standing before her, and was not a little relieved to discover that it was only Parkyn the coachman.

"You seem terribly slow tonight," Parkyn said, a little shortly.

"Yes, we've more important matters on hand than openin' doors," Betty said saucily. And she marched back into the kitchen.

Parkyn looked round on the group of idle domestics with a slight curl of the lip. In his judgment there was far too much gossip in the servants' hall.

"Out on strike?" he asked, with an indifferent air.

"No, but we're terrible upset," said the cook.

"Upset is not the word for it," chimed in the butler. "We're excited, if you like. I feel tremendously exhilarated."

"You look it," said Parkyn. "Who's been standing treat?"

"Nobody. But haven't you heard any news?"

"They're saying in Bradenford that a fresh nurse from London arrived this evening," Parkyn answered. "Is that what you refer to?"

"Who's saying that?" the housemaid asked.

"Pilcher drove her here in his cab. Says she had no luggage scarce, and that she's quite young. Dismissed him at the gate, and carried her bag up to the house as though she knowed the way. Have you seen her?"

"Ay!" they answered in chorus. "And who do you think she is?"

"I don't think nothing about her," said Parkyn, with quiet scorn. "It ain't my place to think about nurses, an' them sort of people."

"You ought to have met her at the station with the brougham," said the butler.

"Oh, indeed! I should say a cab was quite good enough for her."

"You'd better not say so in her hearing," said the butler mysteriously, "or you might be ordered to move on."

"I'd say so in anybody's hearing," Parkyn persisted. "I reckon I know my place."

"Doubtful," said the butler. "People who know their place don't speak slightingly of their betters."

At this there was a general titter from the other servants.

Parkyn looked from one to the other inquiringly. Evidently there was more in the wind than he suspected.

"Look here," he said shortly, "what's up? What's all this mystery and sniggering about? If you've got anything worth telling, out with it!"

"Well," said the butler pompously, "we're all of opinion here that a cab is not good enough to fetch Miss Hope from the station, and we're sorry you should think so."

"Miss Hope?" said Parkyn. And he dropped into a chair and gasped.

"I thought that would bring you down to your level," the butler said, a little maliciously.

Parkyn straightened himself in a moment. "Look here," he said, "that ain't a fit subject to joke about. Miss Hope is dead, as you all know, and the master's lyin' at death's door. Such levity ain't becomin'!"

"But the joke is she ain't dead," chimed in Betty. "She's as much alive as you be."

"Not dead!" gasped Parkyn. And his lower jaw dropped, and remained in that position.

"But seriously‒‒" said Parkyn.

"We are serious," they all interrupted. "There's been such a scene here as you never saw."

"You mean that Miss Hope has come to life again?"

"She's never been dead," said the butler. "She turned up this evening, and nearly skeered Mrs. Mann out of her wits. Then Mrs. Mann fetched us, and we all followed her to Sir Geoffrey's room. And a good job we did, or that Nurse Wilkes would have strangled her."

"A lot you did to stop her," interrupted the housemaid. "Why, she bowled you over like a ninepin!"

"I don't deny it," said the butler. "But all the same, it was a good job we were there."

"But what's the nurse to do with it?" Parkyn demanded.

"That's where we're all boggled," was the reply. "Such a scene there was as you never saw. Nurse Wilkes was a-giving Sir Geoffrey some medicine, and Miss Hope knocked the glass out of her hand. Well, then.... But I can't tell you what then; but she's gone!"

"Who's gone?"

"Why, Nurse Wilkes, to be sure. Miss Hope called on us to stop her, but we might as well have tried to stop an earthquake. She was out of the house afore we knew what we were about."

The next moment Mrs. Mann appeared in the doorway, and every eye was turned in her direction.

"I want you to ride into Bradenford and fetch Dr. Storey at once," she said, turning to Parkyn. "Tell him the master believes he's been poisoned. There's no time to be lost. Ride as fast as you can."

"And is it true Miss Hope is alive?" he asked.

"Quite true. She's with him now. It's the most touching sight you ever saw. I can't keep from crying when I'm in the room."

Parkyn bounded out of the room as though he had been shot out of a catapult, and five minutes later was galloping away through the darkness in the direction of Bradenford at the speed of the wind.

As he passed the church the vicar was just turning in at the gate. Dark as it was, Parkyn recognised him easily.

"Hurrah!" Parkyn cried, waving his hat, and not slackening his gallop for a moment. "Miss Hope's alive and has come home!"

"What? What?" the vicar cried, turning suddenly round and gasping.

"Miss Hope is alive!" came back on the wind. And Parkyn and his mare vanished in the darkness.

In front of the reading room a little crowd had gathered, to whom Parkyn shouted the same message as he went galloping past.

There was no time for inquiries. The flying horseman had no time to answer questions. Wherever a villager stood outside his door or loitered in the street the same bit of news was flung at him, and before he could recover from the shock, and gather his scattered wits together, arkyn had vanished in the distance.

So in the space of ten minutes all Bradenford knew that Hope Teesdale had returned, and all Bradenford was agog with wonder.

The vicar turned back to the Vicarage and informed his wife, and then hurried away as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of Rowton Hall.

Dr. Storey was enjoying his after-dinner pipe when the clatter of hoofs stopped suddenly in front of his house. The next moment there was a mighty rat-tat-tat at the door.

He waited undisturbed until the door was thrown open, and then he started to his feet. He could hear the words shouted by Parkyn quite distinctly.

"Tell the doctor to come to the 'All this blessed minute. The master's poisoned. The nurse has cleared out. And Miss Hope's come home again!"

"What's that?" he exclaimed, rushing to the door.

"Get on to your hoss this minute!" Parkyn shouted. "I'll tell you on the road. But the master's poisoned, and Miss Hope's alive, and the nurse has skedaddled, and there's hullabaloo at the 'All!"

A few minutes later two riders were galloping up the street side by side, while the villagers thronged their doorways and looked.

They passed the vicar on the way, but did not pause to answer any questions. Dr. Storey flung his rein to Parkyn when he alighted at the door, flung his hat on the hall table, and rushed up the broad stairs as though all the demons of darkness were at his heels.

Passing through the nurse's room, he stood for a moment in the second doorway and brushed his hands across his eyes.

Hope was still sitting on the bed, holding her father's wasted hand in hers, and covering it with kisses and tears. Sir Geoffrey lay with eyes closed, a peaceful smile playing over his pallid face.

"He looks no worse than usual, at any rate," the doctor said to himself, "but I wonder the surprise has not killed him."

The next moment he stood by the side of the bed.

Hope looked up with a start, then a smile of relief lighted up her face. "I am so glad you have come," she said. "That woman has been doing him to death."

"I do not quite understand," he said, looking fixedly at Hope, as though not quite certain his senses were not deceiving him.

"There's no time for explanation," she said. "I've given you the bare fact. Now you must do your best."

Sir Geoffrey opened his eyes slowly and wearily, and, seeing the doctor, he smiled. "You must pull me through somehow," he whispered. "I've something to live for again now." And his eyes filled. "Besides, I'd like to cheat that bad woman if possible."

Hope got off the bed and left her father and the doctor together. She was feeling worn and exhausted. She had scarcely tasted food all day, and the dust of the journey was still upon her.

On the landing she came face to face with Mrs. Mann.

"I've got a nice supper ready for you, Miss Hope," she said, "and you'll find your own room just as it was when you went away."

Without a word, Hope hurried away to the room she had occupied since childhood. She felt strange for a moment, notwithstanding the familiar aspect of everything. So much had been crowded into the last nine or ten months that it seemed years ago since she last crossed the familiar threshold.

She fought back her tears resolutely, but her eyes would fill every now and then in spite of everything. She made no attempt to change her dress.

"This will do for tonight," she said, surveying herself in a tall mirror. "Tomorrow I'll get out some old dresses, or get measured for some new ones."

She spent several minutes in brushing and arranging her hair, and then she descended the broad staircase slowly to find herself face to face with the vicar.

Chapter 45

Love and Loyalty

"THE Lord be praised!" the vicar said reverently, when Hope stood before him. "It is indeed you."

"Yes, it is I, Mr. Grove," she said, with a smile. "But I can hardly realise even yet that I am safe home again."

"It is like a dream to me," he answered. "We were all so sure you were dead."

"I should have died, Mr. Grove, but ... but for your son."

"But for Douglas?" he asked eagerly.

She bowed her head in token of assent.

"Then you have seen him lately?"

She bowed her head again. She found it more difficult to talk about him than she had imagined.

"I am glad you have seen him," he went on, "for in truth we were getting extremely anxious about him. We have not heard from him for many weeks."

She did not reply for several moments, then she said suddenly, "Do you believe, Mr. Grove, that he meant to kill Arthur?"

"No, I don't," he answered emphatically; "and what is more, the conviction has been growing upon me for months that Arthur is not dead."

She seized his hand suddenly and looked eagerly up into his face. "You have reasons?" she asked, with wide-open eyes.

"I have, my child."

"Then please come with me into the dining room. Mrs. Mann has laid supper for one, but she will soon provide another cover. Oh, there is so much I want to know."

The vicar raised no objection. His hurried walk had made him hungry, while the sight of Hope's face and the news of Douglas's safety further whetted his appetite.

Hope dismissed the servants directly she had taken her seat. "The vicar and I will wait on ourselves," she said.

As soon as they had withdrawn, she turned to her companion and said, "Now, tell me everything, Mr. Grove. Oh, I am dying to hear all the news!"

"Then Douglas did not tell you?"

"He was reticent ‒ not at all like his old self, and I wondered why. I have discovered since. I fell in with a farmer in the train, who told me about the accident. And, of course, now I understand why Douglas was so silent."

"It has been a great grief to him. In fact, it has darkened his life, for he will admit of no excuse for himself. He says he yielded to an impulse to kill."

"But your explanation, Mr. Grove, and your reasons for believing that Arthur may not be dead?" she asked.

For the next ten minutes the vicar talked, and with great fluency. He had turned the matter over in his mind so often that he had all his arguments, not only at his fingertips, but at the tip of his tongue. Hope listened without speaking, and when the vicar had finished she heaved a sigh.

"You think my arguments are not conclusive?" he asked.

"Not quite," she answered slowly. "Oh, I wish I could believe what you believe. But it seems to me, in the balance of probabilities, it is more probable that my brother is dead than alive."

"But, in any case, you do still believe my son is a murderer?"

"No, no, Mr. Grove," she said quickly. "Such a word ought not to be used. It was a sad and regrettable accident. Poor Douglas. I am sorry for him."

"It adds to his burden by remembering all the trouble that has been brought upon others, poor Avril among the rest."

"Where is she, and how is she?" Hope asked eagerly.

"I don't know where she is. Some time after her aunt died she decided she would go away from Bradenford, and she carried her resolution into effect."

"Then Mrs. Finch is dead?"

"Yes, she went off suddenly and unexpectedly. Bradenford is greatly changed." And the vicar sighed.

Hope could have sighed in chorus, for she felt that her homecoming had almost as much pain in it as pleasure.

"But you have told me nothing about yourself yet," the vicar said at length.

"I have scarcely had time to sort out things," she said slowly, "and, indeed, it would be a relief to me if I could forget."

"Has your experience been so painful?"

"For nine months I have been shut up in an asylum for the insane in the Austrian Tyrol."

"An asylum?" the vicar gasped.

"An asylum, Mr. Grove; and but for your son I should have been there still."

"But why ... that is, who ... that is, I mean‒‒"

"You mean who locked me up?" she interrupted.

"Exactly."

"Who would be interested in locking me up, Mr. Grove?"

"Ah, then you suspect what Douglas and I have suspected?"

"It is more than a suspicion with me. A woman met me at Basle and pretended she had come to see me safe home. She represented herself as being a friend of my father's, drugged me, no doubt, for when I came to myself I found myself a prisoner."

"Great Scott!" the vicar said, and then apologised for his language.

"But that is not all. When I got here this evening I found this same woman installed as my father's nurse."

"No!"

"I hope they've got her locked up somewhere, but I fear she has escaped. I've really had no time to inquire."

"Then you think‒‒" the vicar began, with wide-open eyes.

"She was going to poison my father," Hope went on without heeding. "But I was just in time to prevent the deed. I hardly knew how I had courage to do what I did, for she's as strong as a lion."

"Then she is the tool of Hugh‒‒"

"She is his mother, Mr. Grove. Father told me so. Hugh is not a Teesdale at all."

"But‒‒"

"I can't explain things, Mr. Grove. The story is too complicated. Perhaps father does not choose to tell all he knows. This woman is an old enemy of my father's, for why I don't know. She has nursed her revenge for years, and bided her time. When poor Arthur was taken she saw her chance, and seized it. It would scarcely be right, perhaps, to say she is the tool of Hugh. It would be more correct to say he is the tool of his mother."

"Good heavens, it is like a page out of a romance."

"I am unable to grasp all the story yet," Hope went on reflectively. "I've suffered so much that my brain has not recovered."

"But how did Douglas find you?"

"Ah, that I do not know. He suspected a plot, and then followed up a clue that fell in his way. As I look back on my escape, it seems nothing short of a miracle."

"And have you any evidence that connects Hugh with this plot?"

"I have none at all. But this Mrs. Wilkes has confessed everything to father, never thinking he would live to reveal it."

"Then we must wait until your father recovers."

"It seems like it. Oh, I hope he will recover. But father thinks now that the woman has been slowly poisoning him ever since she has been here."

"What does Dr. Storey think?"

"I don't know. I have left him with father."

"Do you know, Hope," the vicar said solemnly, "I have had my fears for a long time past. Douglas first aroused my suspicions, and I have been on the alert ever since. I went to see Dr. Storey not so long ago, but he only laughed at me. The plot has been cleverly laid and cleverly executed."

"But it has failed, Mr. Grove," she said, a glad light leaping into her eyes, "and thanks altogether to Douglas."

"It will seem to him some small measure of reparation," he said, with a sigh. "Poor Douglas, it is hard that all his hopes should be blighted at a single stroke."

"I shall never forget what he has done for me," she answered, with averted eyes. And then a knock came to the door, and a moment later Dr. Storey entered.

"Well?" both Hope and the vicar asked at a breath.

"Sir Geoffrey is considerably better than might have been expected," he said. "The sudden shock, instead of doing him harm, appears to have done him good."

"But the poison, doctor?" Hope asked.

"I can find no traces of it yet," he said evasively. "There are certain symptoms, I admit, that might indicate poison, but I shall know better in a day or two."

"But is my father going to live?"

"I hope so, Miss Teesdale. Indeed, I think he will. I see no reason why he should not. But we must not be impatient." And after a few commonplace remarks, he took his departure.

The vicar remained another hour, and then walked home through the silent lanes like a man in a dream.

It was late when Hope retired to rest, and even then she was unable to sleep. It was delightful to be in her own home again, and find herself surrounded with objects familiar from her childhood. And if she could only have put a brake upon her thoughts and shut down the lids upon her memory, she would quickly have dropped off into a dreamless and refreshing sleep. But that was what she had no power to do.

She was intensely anxious about her father, and, tired as she was, she wanted to sit up with him during the night. But for his very decided protest, she would have done so. Every sound that broke the silence of the night startled her, and she would sit up in bed with fast-beating heart and listen.

She did not realise how completely unstrung she was. In the old days she had scarcely known what fear was, and to be apprehensive of either evil or danger was the last thing that troubled her. Now a thousand fears oppressed her, and legions of nameless horrors seemed to gather in the darkness and stare at her with lidless and unblinking eyes.

When she was not thinking of her father, her thoughts turned to Douglas Grove. She understood now the meaning of his reticence and aloofness, nor could she help approving his conduct.

"Poor Douglas," she would sigh. And then her thoughts would go back to the days they had spent together, and to the days that preceded her release.

She knew well enough that their dream had come to an end ‒ that their unspoken love must remain unspoken. After what had happened, the romance that had been so beautiful to both of them, and had glorified the world for them, lay shattered like a broken vase.

He might love her still, she felt quite sure he did. The way he had searched for her, schemed for her, sacrificed for her, suffered for her, was proof enough that his love had suffered no diminution.

And how easily he might have taken advantage of her ignorance and her gratitude. If he had spoken a word of love in those days, her heart would have leaped out to him in a moment. She owed her life to him, and he knew it. Everyone else had given her up as dead, and it was only because he loved her, and love could not be satisfied with mere negative proof, that he had spent all his savings in hunting up evidence.

She could almost have forgiven him if he had spoken fondly and lovingly to her. Nevertheless, she was thankful now that he had not. His self-restraint won her admiration; his reticence proved him a true gentleman. In many respects he was more worthy of her love than he was in the old days. The fire had tried his character and ennobled it.

But if he had played a thousand times more heroic part, it could not affect the future. The tragic fate of her brother would come up between them for all time. Nothing could blot out the fact that he had quarrelled with her brother, and that quarrel resulted in a fatal ending.

She shed a good many tears as she lay tossing on her pillow that night.

The usual breakfast time found her fast asleep. Mrs. Mann had peeped into her room more than once, but had not the heart to awaken her.

She looked wan and pale, Mrs. Mann thought, but that was not to be wondered at. "We'll have the colour back into her cheeks again before the summer ends," she said to herself, as she stole softly out of the room and closed the door.

When Hope did at length awake, as soon as possible she hurried away to her father's room and was delighted to find him looking better than on the previous night.

"Oh, my darling father," she said, kissing him. "I'm sure you're going to get better. God brought me home in the nick of time to save you."

"I believe He did, my child," Sir Geoffrey answered, the tears filling his sunken eyes. "He has been better to me than I deserve."

"But you surely did not deserve to be poisoned by that wicked woman?" she said indignantly.

"I have deserved many things," he said uneasily, "but my prayer is that God will be merciful."

"And I have been praying nearly all the night that He will spare you. But here comes Dr. Storey. He is early this morning."

"Not so early, my child. You have slept late."

"Is it so late?" she asked, glancing up at the clock. "I had no idea." And she hurried out of the room.

For nearly a week Sir Geoffrey's life trembled in the balance. Dr. Storey came to see him several times a day, and occasionally spent a whole night at the Hall. Hope never left the house during the whole of these anxious days. She was constantly in attendance upon her father, and nothing would induce her to go beyond call. Neither would she see any visitors.

All the countryside was anxious to look upon her face again. The story of her incarceration in an asylum for the insane, and her rescue by Douglas Grove was told far and wide, and it was something of a disappointment that neither of the actors in this startling little drama was on view.

Fortunately for Hope, perhaps, she was quite oblivious of all the talk that was going the rounds. While her father's life trembled in the balance she was interested in nothing.

But at the end of a week Sir Geoffrey took a decided turn for the better. Dr. Storey rubbed his hands in great glee, and was ready to pat himself on the back.

Meeting Hope at the top of the stairs, he said, in his most cheery manner, "Now run out into the garden and get a little sunshine, and don't look worried any longer. Your father is going to pull through."

"Are you sure, doctor?"

"As sure as I can be of anything in this world. Yes, yes, he's safely turned the corner. Now, make your mind easy and go out for some fresh air."

It was not until a week after this, however, that Hope ventured into Bradenford, and then she got such a reception that she was glad to take refuge in the Vicarage.

She had always been a favourite with the villagers, but she was completely unprepared for such warmth of loyalty and devotion. Had she been the Queen, the people could not have been more anxious to see her. They crowded round her wherever she went, and made the hills echo with their cheers.

"Do see me safe home, Mr. Grove," she said to the vicar in a voice that alternated between laughter and tears. "The people are ready to smother me with kindness."

"Ay, they are delighted to have you among them again," he said, with a genial smile. "It's like the dead coming to life again."

During their walk to the Hall, Hope stayed silent. She wanted to ask the vicar if he had heard from Douglas, but was uncertain how to put the question. She kept hoping the vicar would allude to him in some way, and several times she tried to lead the conversation in his direction, but without success.

At length she took the plunge, and put the question point blank.

"Oh yes!" he answered, looking at her with interest. "We had a letter about a week ago. He was then leaving England for a tour round the world."

"A tour round the world?" she asked, in surprise.

"As far as I can make out, it was the very day he saw you off. He was introduced to an American gentleman who wanted a companion to travel with him over the world. This American, by what I can gather, had become suddenly rich, and so he resolved to travel and see what there was to be seen. He got as far as London alone, and found it somewhat slow. He had read nothing ‒ knew nothing, in fact, outside his own business. He made a spasmodic attempt to get at what he wanted by the aid of guidebooks, but found that too great a tax upon his brain. So at last he hit upon the idea of 'hiring,' as he called it, an educated gentleman for a companion ‒ someone who would tell him what he ought to know, show him what he ought to see, explain to him why such a place should be visited, and why such a picture ought to be admired."

"Oh, I see," Hope said, with a laugh, "knowledge on the hire system!"

"Exactly. And Douglas, poor boy, fell in with the idea at once. 'The farther from England the better,' he wrote to me. I wish the lad could get above the cloud, but it seems he can't. He will be away a year at least, he says, perhaps longer. Between ourselves, I should not be surprised if he never came home again. 'I want to forget, father,' he said in his letter; 'and anything that will enable me to forget I shall welcome.'"

"Yes, I understand," Hope said, with a sigh; and then the subject dropped.
Chapter 46

The Vicar Is Surprised

IT wanted but a few days to Christmas. The weather was raw and moist and melancholy. The lanes were puddles, the hillsides quagmires, the becks roaring torrents of peat-stained water. In the valleys the bare trees stood wet and shivering, the fells were drenched with mist, the tarns were twice their usual size.

Bradenford was half deserted. The lodging house keepers had shut up their houses and emigrated to the towns for the winter. The coaches and horses had ceased to ply between Bradenford and Keswick. Bridlemere was unrelieved by a single sail. A damp, brooding melancholy appeared to hang over the whole place The approach of Christmas brought as yet no note of mirth or gladness.

The vicar was in his study busy with his Christmas sermon, but he made very little headway with it. He would write a few sentences, and then set to work to revise them. The short afternoon was waning rapidly. He had laboured at his sermon for several hours, and still it was far from finished. He was half inclined to destroy what he had written and start afresh on some entirely different subject.

He sat nibbling the end of his penholder when the front door bell rang. He got up from his chair and drove the poker into the fire, and sent a cheerful blaze roaring up the chimney.

"I wonder who it can be?" he said to himself. He was in the mood to welcome anything that would distract his thoughts from his sermon.

A strange voice sounded in the hall ‒ a man's voice.

The next moment a knock came to his study door, and the housemaid entered. "If you please, sir, there's two gentlemen in the 'all as wants to see you."

"Did they give their names?"

"No, sir, but they seems quite respectable."

"Oh well, show them up."

"Yes, sir," and the maid disappeared.

A moment or two later the door was thrown open again, and two men entered. It was nearly dark in the study save for the firelight. The vicar stood on the hearthrug with his back to the fire. One of the visitors hung back and stood half-hidden behind the other. The foremost broke the silence.

"I must apologise for troubling you," he said. "My name is Dr. Forrest, and I have reason to believe you will recognise my companion, and be glad to see him."

"Indeed?" the vicar said, in a questioning tone. "I am not aware that we have ever met before?"

"It is some time since, I think, and he may have altered a great deal."

"Let me get a light," the vicar said uneasily. He struck a match and turned on the gas, then he turned round and contemplated his visitors again.

For a moment he looked at the one who was spokesman, then his eyes wandered to the other who appeared to be diffident and ill at ease. One step forward he took, then he stood stock-still, and for a moment struggled in vain to speak.

"Arthur?" he gasped at length. "Arthur Teesdale? Heaven be praised!" And he rushed forward and grasped his visitor's hands in his.

Arthur looked quietly into the vicar's face, but there was only a momentary light of recognition in his eyes. It faded as quickly as it came.

"Do you not recognise me?" the vicar said in a tone of pained surprise.

"I fear I don't," was the quiet answer.

"Why, Arthur, you have known me from being a child."

"Doctor Forrest keeps telling me I am Arthur Teesdale," he said, "but I think he must be mistaken. My name is James Brown."

"Your name is nothing of the sort," the vicar interrupted shortly. "Let me see your left arm. There should be the mark of a burn upon it the size of half a crown."

Arthur stripped up his sleeve without reluctance and showed the mark.

"There, I knew it!" said the vicar triumphantly. "But, goodness gracious, I should know you anywhere! You have scarcely changed at all! But please sit down, and let us talk matters over. Good gracious, I am not dreaming, am 1? What a day this is to be sure! But how is it you don't remember me?"

Arthur drew his hand across his eyes and knitted his brows. "I try to remember things," he said, "but it is no use. For a moment I seem to remember, and then it is gone."

The doctor sat silent and watchful. He was anxious to see how much old scenes and old associations would do.

"But you remember your father, of course, and Hope?" the vicar asked.

"Hope? Yes." And his eyes brightened for a moment, then he shook his head.

"And Avril?" the vicar went on. "You surely remember Avril?"

Arthur shut his eyes, and a smile played round his lips for a moment. "I dreamed something once," he said at length, "but I have forgotten it."

"Then what do you remember?" the vicar asked anxiously.

"I remember the fighting, but not much; and I remember the hospital and the nurses, and the kopje I used to climb; and I remember the ship and the sea."

"But your childhood and your college days, and your father and sister, and Avril and my son Douglas?"

"The sparks go out suddenly," he answered wistfully. "I cannot catch them."

"But you remember the war?"

"Not much; but when I was getting better they told me my name was James Brown. I remember that very well."

"But your name is not James Brown ‒ your name is Arthur Teesdale, and for more than a year you have been mourned as dead."

Then the vicar turned to Dr. Forrest. "Can you explain things?" he said.

"Not very much," was the reply. "I became acquainted with Mr. Teesdale only a day or two before I left South Africa. A nurse who had recognised him came to me and asked me if I would see him safe home to his father."

The vicar turned to Arthur suddenly. "Would you mind if we left you for a few minutes?" he asked.

"Oh, not at all," was the reply.

"Come this way, doctor." And the two men left the study together.

Leaving Arthur in the study by himself, the vicar and Dr. Forrest proceeded to the dining room.

"Now," said the vicar, shutting the door and turning the key in the lock, "please let me hear the whole story. One cannot very well talk before him. But, first, do you think there is any chance of his recovery?"

"Not, I should say, without an operation, though he has improved greatly since we left Cape Town."

"But with an operation you think his memory might come back?"

"I think it is possible. He was wounded badly in the head, and there is certainly still some pressure on the brain."

"But how did he get the name of James Brown?"

"That I can't tell. He evidently went out to Africa as a reservist, and probably, I should say, under that name."

"And you say a nurse in one of the hospitals recognised him?"

"That is so."

"Do you know the nurse's name?"

"I do not. I only saw her once, and forgot to ask her. I think she was only fresh out from England."

"What was she like?"

Dr. Forrest described her.

The vicar scratched his head and looked perplexed. His thoughts at once flew to Avril, and certainly the doctor's description would apply to Avril in almost every detail. But if it were she, why did she not return at the same time? If Avril had found her loved one, it was unaccountable that she would let him go out of her sight again, and that she would trust him entirely to the care of a stranger.

"You say this nurse admitted that she was a friend of the family?"

"Oh yes, and she evidently knew all about them."

"Why did you come to me first?"

"It was at her suggestion. She said Sir Geoffrey Teesdale was ill ‒ indeed, she was not sure he was alive."

"He has been near death's door," the vicar interrupted.

"So she understood. And, on second thoughts, she decided it would be better for me to come here first. She said you would go on with us to the Hall and prepare the way."

"That I will with pleasure!" the vicar said, his face beaming. "Dear me, it is the most wonderful thing I ever heard of. More wonderful even than the return of Hope. I felt sure in my mind he was alive somewhere. I beg pardon, Dr. Forrest, I am afraid I'm thinking aloud."

The doctor smiled, but did not reply.

"Perhaps we had better go on at once to the Hall?" the vicar went on.

"I think so, or I fear my cabby will be getting impatient."

"Is he waiting?"

"Yes, I thought I had better keep him."

"I am sorry my wife is not in," the vicar said. "She is at a sewing meeting, and the girls with her. They are all busy making things for the soldiers in Africa."

"They are well employed, at any rate," the doctor said, with a sad smile; and then they returned to the study.

They found Arthur seated in the vicar's armchair, staring dreamily into the fire. He looked up when they entered, and smiled. He was bright enough in many ways ‒ quick in picking up things, observant of everything that was passing around him, and eager to learn. Moreover, the force of habit came to his assistance in a hundred little things. He was something more than a child, and yet his memory of the past ‒ except for occasional, momentary flashes ‒ was a complete blank.

"We will go on and see your father and sister now," the vicar said.

"Yes," he answered simply, and a few minutes later the trio were jogging slowly along the dark and sodden road toward the Hall.

Meanwhile, Sir Geoffrey and Hope were sitting in the firelight in the baronet's library. Hope had read to her father until it had grown too dark to read.

"Don't ring for lights yet," Sir Geoffrey said. "I like the firelight. It flings so many shadows into the room and revives so many happy memories."

"I like the firelight also," Hope said, laying down her book and hugging her knees. And in a few minutes she was in the land of dreams.

For several minutes no sound was heard save the crackling of the fire. Sir Geoffrey was thinking of Nan and her son, and wondering what had become of them. Hope was thinking of Douglas Grove, and feeling not a little resentful of the fate that had doomed them to dwell apart.

For the last few months she had made a brave attempt to put Douglas out of her life and out of her thoughts. She had told herself it would be foolish to go on bemoaning what could not be helped, and that as a sensible individual the proper thing would be to face the inevitable, forget all about Douglas Grove, and let the future take care of itself.

That her reasoning was sound she had no doubt, but her heart refused to be coerced. Directly she found herself alone, her thoughts went wandering away in spite of herself to the vicar's son. She recalled constantly those days when he came to her rescue, and lived over again the exciting events of her escape. She thought of his patient devotion, his unwearied love and loyalty.

She pictured his heartache and despondence in the long weeks and months since he said farewell. If their separation was hard for her, she knew it was a hundred times harder for Douglas. She found a hundred excuses for him, and if there ever had been anger or resentment in her heart, it had all vanished. Despite that one tragic and far-reaching deed, he was her hero still. He had given way to momentary anger, as any other man might have done, but that he had meant no evil she was quite sure.

Suddenly Sir Geoffrey broke the silence. "It is strange how completely that woman and her son have hidden themselves."

Sir Geoffrey spoke of Nan as "that woman," and he kept the secret of the past to himself.

"They are not worth worrying about, father," Hope answered, without looking up.

"I don't know about that," he said reflectively. "There's no knowing what a desperate woman of that kind may do, and a thief like Hugh ought not to be at large."

"But he will not be able to rob you anymore."

"I should hope not, indeed. But he robbed me to some purpose while he was about it."

"I never could understand how he did it," she replied, without looking up.

"I blame my banker in some measure," Sir Geoffrey said. "He ought to have inquired more closely. But, you see, Hugh was regarded as my heir. He lived here with me, and I trusted him a great deal. Then when I fell ill he got his chance. He wrote a letter to my bankers, and forged my signature to it, while that woman witnessed the signature. In this letter my bankers were informed that I authorised Hugh to sign cheques in my stead, and also to transact such financial business as might arise.

"The rascal, among other things, professed to buy some cottage property, and got out fifteen hundred pounds in hard cash to complete the purchase, and then handed in a lot of bogus deeds to the banker to be placed among my other securities. Of course he did not imagine I should live to find out his rogueries."

"And I suppose the banker thought he was dealing practically with his own property."

"I suppose so. Nevertheless, I cannot absolve him from all blame."

"Oh, well, father, better lose your money than your life," she said brightly. "You've got me back again; and then, you know, your health is better now than it has been for years past."

"I'm not denying, child, that I have a lot to be thankful for," he said absently. "Yet, all the same, I should like to get a clue to the whereabouts of those people."

For a few moments there was silence, then the front door bell rang; and a few minutes later the vicar bustled excitedly into the room.
Chapter 47

Back Into the Light

HOPE saw in a moment that the vicar was carrying some exciting piece of news, and her own heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. Perhaps Hugh had been arrested. Perhaps Mrs. Wilkes had ended her life. Perhaps something had happened to Douglas. Perhaps‒‒

But the vicar cut short her reflections by beginning to talk about the weather and the near approach of Christmas, and the latest news from the seat of war.

Hope watched him narrowly. She could see he was tremendously excited, and was labouring to get by a roundabout way to some subject that was uppermost in his mind. She sat completely still, and made no attempt to interrupt the flow of his conversation.

He got from the war to Douglas, and from Douglas to Avril, and from Avril to Arthur, and then for a moment he stuck. Sir Geoffrey glanced at him uneasily, while an expression of pain swept over his face. Any allusion to his son was like tearing open a wound that was beginning to heal.

The vicar floundered back again to the subject of the weather, and then again to the war, and ended up by a point-blank question that seemed to convey nothing in particular.

"Did you ever seriously consider the possibility of your son Arthur turning up some time alive?"

Sir Geoffrey glanced up at him reproachfully. But Hope sprang to her feet in a moment.

"You have news of him?" she said excitedly. "Your surmise has come true. Arthur is ... is...."

"Yes, I have news," he interrupted, "but pray don't excite yourself. Be seated, I entreat you."

"I don't understand," said Sir Geoffrey feebly. "This is a painful subject to me."

"Yes, yes, I know, but I have good news for you. Painful news. I always stuck to it that if Arthur was dead, his body would be found."

"Yes, yes, but get to the point," Hope said impatiently. "Is Arthur dead?"

"No, he is not. But he has been badly wounded. His memory is a blank. But don't despair. Surgery can work wonders."

Hope sank back in her chair and gasped. And for a moment it was not of her brother she thought, but of Douglas Grove.

Sir Geoffrey struggled to his feet and stood before the vicar white and trembling. "This is not a joke?" he asked falteringly.

"Joke? I should think not, indeed. Why, I have seen Arthur with my own eyes."

"Seen him?"

"Yes, seen him!"

Hope sprang out of her chair as though she had been shot, rushed out of the room into the hall, pulled open the front door, and plunged into the darkness. Down the drive she ran with the fleetness of the wind. She had fancied while she sat dreaming in the firelight that she heard the sound of wheels. Now she understood what the sound meant.

Outside the gate was a cab dimly outlined in the feeble light.

"Arthur, are you there?" she cried excitedly.

"Hope!" he called suddenly in a momentary flash of memory, and he pushed open the door.

Then he paused. He had forgotten again where he was and who he was.

But Hope knew his voice in a moment, and had her arms round his neck before he comprehended what had happened.

Dr. Forrest was left to introduce himself, and Hope led Arthur up the drive, Dr. Forrest bringing up the rear. whilst the cabman, without waiting to be paid, drove back to Bradenford in a most exciting gallop to spread abroad such scraps of news as he had been able to glean.

In the hall they came face to face with Sir Geoffrey and the vicar. And again a flash of memory lit up Arthur's eyes.

"My father," he cried. "I know you!"

And Sir Geoffrey ran forward sobbing, and fell on his neck.

For a moment or two Arthur looked at the white bowed head on his shoulder, then he drew himself away. He was a stranger again in a strange place, struggling in vain to pierce the mystery of the past.

For the rest of the evening there was no further flash of memory. Arthur sat in an armchair near the fire, quiet but observant, watching with interest the faces about him, but taking no part in the conversation.

Hope did her best to recall to her brother some memory of the past, but without success.

"The sparks go out," he said, "and I cannot catch them."

Sir Geoffrey's face was a study. Emotions of the most conflicting character struggled within him for mastery. Now and then he drew his hand slowly across his eyes, as if not quite certain whether he was wide awake or dreaming. Every few moments his eyes lit up with a sudden joy, and then a spasm of pain swept across his face. To see his son alive was an unspeakable gladness, and yet to see his eyes a blank was an overwhelming sorrow.

Dr. Forrest remained until the following day, and then returned to London commissioned by Sir Geoffrey to send down without delay the greatest surgeon and brain specialist he knew.

It was toward the end of February that Arthur Teesdale awoke from what seemed a long and troubled dream. The science of surgery had won another of its notable triumphs.

To the uninitiated it seemed nothing less than a miracle. The man most concerned, however, was the least conscious of what had been accomplished. He awoke from his stupor slowly and with many relapses, and by the time he was wide awake his dream had vanished.

Later on, he knew that several months had been cut out of his life. From the moment he fell under the butt-end of a Boer rifle till the day the doctor lifted a portion of his skull and took a clot of blood from his brain was a complete blank to him, and no effort of memory was ever able to recall it.

When he came home to Rowton Hall those few months comprised the whole of his life. Now they were lost to him, buried in the deep waters of complete forgetfulness. The hospital, the kopje, the ship, the sea, which he constantly talked about ‒ for they were the most conspicuous things in his memory ‒ had now completely vanished. From June to February his mind held no record. It was as though he fell asleep when the Boer rifle struck him, and awoke eight months later in his own bed at Rowton Hall. He had lost the months to regain the years ‒ sacrificed the lesser for the greater.

For many days after the operation he knew little or nothing. The effects of the anaesthetics did not wear away directly. Moreover, it was part of the treatment that his brain should be kept inactive and unexcited for some time. He lay for the most part as if asleep, and when he was awake it appeared too great an effort to worry about anything.

He was being nursed in his own bedroom in Rowton Hall, but there were no familiar face was near him. Strange doctors and strange nurses kept watch night and day. There was nothing to recall to him the past or awaken in his brain painful memories. So he lay day after day on the borderland between sleeping and waking, undisturbed by memories of the past, untroubled about the future.

Then came the time when it was seen that there was no further need to induce sleep or forgetfulness by artificial means. He slept naturally and soundly, and his brain was steadily recovering its normal and healthy condition.

He awoke late one morning and looked steadily around him with a light of intelligence in his eyes. The pale February sun filled the room with a clear, mellow radiance. By his side a nurse sat reading.

For several minutes he turned his head slowly from side to side. Then he spoke. "Where am I?" The voice was the feeblest whisper, and scarcely stirred the still air of the room.

"You are among friends," the nurse answered, rising and bending over him. "You have been ill, but you are getting better. Don't try to think, and don't worry, but just lie still and wait for health to come back."

He smiled and closed his eyes, and soon after seemed to be fast asleep again.

Later in the day he asked the same question, and got almost the same answer, but he was not satisfied. "We fell into an ambush yesterday," he said, after a long pause. "The enemy were three to one."

"Yes, you were badly wounded," the nurse answered. "But don't worry about it now. You are getting better."

He closed his eyes again and seemed satisfied, and during the rest of the day he asked no further questions, and scarcely opened his eyes. The night that followed was filled by a long and refreshing sleep.

With the dawn of a new day his eyes were open again.

"This is not a field-hospital, nurse?" he said, in a questioning tone.

"No, you are among friends."

"Was I taken prisoner?"

"No, but you have been unconscious for a good many days. When you get stronger all questions will be answered."

Later in the day he startled the nurse by saying, "This room seems familiar. It's just the shape and size of.... But, of course, it can't be the same?"

"Bedrooms are often much alike," she said, with a smile. "Now, take this food, and don't worry."

The next morning he was by no means easy to pacify, and after the nurse had consulted with the doctor it was deemed best to let him know how matters stood.

"You say I have been unconscious several days," he said to the doctor. "How many days?"

"Oh, dear me!" he answered, with a laugh, "I have not counted them!"

"A good many?"

"Yes, a good many. Don't you remember getting better and coming to England with Dr. Forrest?"

"To England? Am I in England?"

"You are at Rowton Hall. And here comes your sister to see how you are." And the doctor and nurse at once left the room.

There was a look of terror in Arthur's eyes as Hope bent over him. "I don't understand this," he said, with a gasp. "Has everything been found out?"

Hope saw in a moment what was at the back of his mind. "You are thinking of Douglas Grove," she said. "He is quite well, and will be delighted to hear that you are safe."

"Douglas quite well?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Perfectly well," she said, with a smile. "Why shouldn't he be?"

"You are quite sure, Hope, that Douglas is alive and well. I had an impression that‒‒"

"Then make your mind easy, Arthur. Douglas is well, but like the rest of us he has wondered what had become of you."

"And Avril. How is Avril?" And his eyes filled.

"She is very well also. She is away visiting friends at present. Now, haven't you asked questions enough for today? Remember you are an invalid, and it is important you should not excite yourself."

"One more question, Hope. Is father well?"

"Yes, very well for him. He will come and see you directly."

"Thank God!"

He closed his eyes, and Hope saw the tears steal from underneath the lashes and roll down his cheeks.

Later in the day Sir Geoffrey came into Arthur's room, but for several minutes neither was able to speak to the other. To the old man this was his son's true home-coming ‒ the other seemed like a painful dream.

"I have been ... very ill, father," Arthur faltered at length.

"You have been very ill, my son, but by the mercy of God you are getting better."

"I was wounded in Africa. It seems but two or three days ago."

"It was a good many weeks ago, my son. You have had a serious operation."

"Did you know I went to Africa?"

"Indeed, no, we thought you were dead. Much has happened since you went away."

"I ought not to have gone," he said slowly, after a pause. "I see it now. But I was unnerved, and my head ached terribly, and I thought‒‒"

"Don't worry about that now," Sir Geoffrey interrupted. "Forget the painful, and look on the bright side. All's well, you know, that ends well."

"I knew you would all be terribly anxious," he said, with closed eyes. "But there seemed to me no help for it. I did not know, you see. A life is always precious."

"Yes, yes, my boy. But don't recall those days just now."

"I'd better make a clean breast of it," Arthur went on quietly. "I struck him on the bridge, and then threw him into the river. I never thought it possible he could get out alive."

"Well, he did; and you got out alive too. The strange thing is, Douglas thought he had drowned you."

"No?"

"He did. But it's too long a story for today. It will all come out in good time."

"And Douglas got out of the river none the worse?"

"None the worse, except for the loss of his peace of mind."

"I should like to see him. I want to apologise, for I behaved badly."

"All in good time, my son, all in good time. You have talked quite as much as is good for you today."

And Sir Geoffrey touched the bell for the nurse.

A few weeks later, Arthur was able to leave his bedroom, and on sunshiny days was wheeled into the garden and took a keen delight in watching the buds and flowers unfold. The fresh air was like a healing tonic, and he began to gather strength rapidly. Every day made a difference to him, and with increase of bodily strength there was a corresponding increase of mental vigour and perception.

But one thing still troubled him, and kept him from regaining perfect health. He could gain no tidings of Avril anywhere. He set inquiries afoot in all directions, but with no results. She had vanished completely, leaving no trace behind her.

On the supposition that the nurse who had recognised him in Africa was she, he telegraphed to the hospital camp, to Valfontein, to Grahamstown, to Cape Town, and to a number of other places, but all to no purpose.

The nurse, whoever she might be, who had recognised him at the hospital camp, left that place late in December, since which time she had not been heard of. It was understood that some near relative turned up unexpectedly one morning, and fetched her away. But for what purpose, and where they had gone, no one knew.

To Arthur this seemed conclusive proof that the nurse could not be Avril, for she had not a near relative in the world.

Mr. Merton, Avril's solicitor, was as ignorant of her whereabouts as the rest. When last he heard from her she was in London. He had an impression that she intended to travel, as she had sufficient means and nothing to do. He would not be surprised if she turned up any day.

The vicar was less hopeful. He felt confident that Avril was changed in some way. Something had happened ‒ he did not know what ‒ that appeared to have deflected the whole current of her life. She had never been quite the same since her aunt's death.

He sometimes suspected that she had made some discovery in going through her aunt's papers which had upset all her plans. On no other hypothesis could he account for her going away from Bradenford at all.

So Arthur came back into the light to discover that there was still a dark spot on the landscape. He could see that mistakes and false steps in life were not, after all, like stones thrown into a pool, leaving, after a few moments, no mark or trace. The consequences of his conduct remained still.

Hope did her best to keep him cheerful, but there was a bitter drop in her own cup, and it was not always easy to preach optimism to him while she dwelt within the shadow of despair.
Chapter 48

On the Wing

TOWARD the end of May the doctor suggested that Arthur should take a long sea voyage. On the road to recovery he seemed to have reached a full stop. During the last week or two he had made no progress at all.

At first he refused to listen to the suggestion. He declared he never wanted to leave Rowton Hall again, and that another long absence from home was the very last thing he would listen to. He discovered, however, after a few days that he was not so averse to the idea as he had thought. In truth, he was getting restless, in spite of himself.

Avril's unaccountable silence and absence were beginning to weigh upon his mind, and he began to understand what she and his father and Hope must have felt when he disappeared, leaving no trace behind.

"I am beginning to reap what I have sown," he said to himself, with not a little bitterness. "The measure I have meted to others is being measured to me again."

Moreover, the views of the vicar influenced him greatly. Possibly Avril had made some painful discovery, and was fighting some secret grief alone and in silence.

All this tended to depress him, and to retard his recovery. He became restless and irritable. Remaining inactive became a pain to him. He felt he would have to do something in self-defence.

One morning he startled his father by saying, "If Hope will go with me, I will go."

"Go where?" his father inquired.

"Anywhere. Take the long sea voyage the doctor wants me to take."

"Hope would be much better at home."

"I am not so sure of that. She needs toning up, as I do. But here she comes. Let's suggest it to her."

Hope kissed her father and brother, and then took her seat at the head of the table.

"Arthur has been making a proposal," Sir Geoffrey said, looking up from his porridge.

"Indeed?"

"He wants you to go with him on a long sea voyage."

"Glorious!" she exclaimed, laying down the teapot suddenly. "Do you really mean it, Arthur?"

"I'm not disposed to go alone, at any rate," he said, "but if you will go with me, I think it would be rather jolly!"

"If father can spare me?" she said, looking at him inquiringly.

"It will be very dull without you," Sir Geoffrey answered, without looking up. "Still, it's coming summer, and I've no doubt I shall be able to manage for a month or two," he added with a smile.

"Then it's settled," Arthur replied. "And I vote the sooner we get away the better."

Within a fortnight they were on the wing. Hope was in the highest spirits. Anything that would take her out of herself she rejoiced in. They spent two or three days in London, and then went on to Southampton where they embarked on the Carthage, bound for Melbourne, by way of the Cape.

During the long voyage they talked freely to each other of all they had passed through. There was little to be done during the long, uneventful days in which they were thrown upon each other for entertainment. Long before they reached Melbourne every detail of their several experiences was known to the other.

Hope gave no hint of her love for Douglas Grove, but she hid nothing of his generosity, his patience, his skill, his resource, his magnanimity.

"I did Douglas a grave injustice in the old days," he said to her one day, as they sat side by side on the deck looking out over the wide, restless sea.

"I don't think you ever quite understood each other," she answered thoughtfully.

"He seemed to me so impractical," he replied. "The hard facts of life seemed of less importance to him than notions and dreams, which as far as I could see were of no practical value."

"Are not the dreams of one generation the accomplished facts of another?" she asked, with a smile.

"In some cases, no doubt. But there are some dreams that remain dreams. There is nothing of value in them. They are all gossamer and rainbow glitter, and they can never be anything else. You cannot convert them into gold or into goods."

"But gold and goods are not the only things that are worth living for. We don't live by bread alone; and Jesus said a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of things which he possesseth."

"And yet one must have the gold and the goods all the same."

"Oh yes, they have their place, no doubt. But life is more than meat. To feed and clothe the body is a small matter in the sum total of life. What you call the impractical things are, I fancy, the best part of life still."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, I mean the gossamer and the rainbow gold ‒ the colour of the woods and the fragrance of the flowers; the sunshine on the fells and on the sea; the music of the wind and the singing of the birds; the daydreams that come to us when we are alone; the fancies we weave out of the air and silence; the invisible things that touch our spirits; the thoughts that come to us, we know not how. These are the things, after all, that make life worth living."

"Douglas used to talk in that way," he said, after a pause.

"And was he not largely right?" she asked. "I grant we must have food and clothes and a house to live in. But when we have got that, what then? We may multiply the houses and the dishes and the dresses and the servants by a thousand, or by ten thousand, but we really add nothing to life. Until we can get away from the material and visible and sensuous, we hardly begin to live."

"You seem to have learnt your lesson well," he said, with a smile.

"How so?" she asked.

"You talk the very stuff Douglas used to reel off by the yard."

"Oh yes, he was fond of poetry, no doubt. And all that was beautiful in Nature gave him infinite delight. By the mere exercise of fancy he could turn a hole in the hillside into a marble hall. But he was practical also. Think how he searched for me and found me and rescued me."

"Yes, yes, I have misjudged him. There was a side of his nature which I did not see."

"You each saw what most predominated," she answered. "He thought you cared only for coin and cattle, and the hard, material things of life."

"Perhaps I cared too much for these things," Arthur answered, with a distant look in his eyes. "I have learnt a good deal since that fatal October night."

"And forgotten a good deal also!" she said, with a mischievous smile.

The long voyage came to an end at length, and both felt the better for the fresh, bracing air, the freedom from worry, and the absence of all associations that awoke painful thoughts. It was mid-winter when they arrived in Melbourne, with a dry, cold air, and a temperature that demanded constant exercise.

Their first idea was to return to England the way they had come, but discovering that a large steamer was leaving for San Francisco in the course of ten days, calling at a number of the South Pacific Islands on the way, they decided they could not do better than return home by way of San Francisco and New York.

As they had brought with them no introductions, and the weather was not entirely favourable to sightseeing, they found time in Melbourne hung heavily on their hands, and they were not at all sorry when the day came for them to board ship again.

It was nearly dark when they reached the wharf alongside which the Agamemnon lay. The wind was blowing half a gale, and all the passengers were anticipating a miserable time of it for the next day or two.

Wrapped in furs and ulsters, and muffled to the eyes, they jostled each other on the deck and trod on each other down the companionway, and finally vanished along the dimly lighted passages, each one to his own or her own stateroom.

Among the few passengers who remained on deck were two gentlemen who appeared to be quite indifferent to both wind and cold.

They were evidently seasoned travellers, and knew how to adapt themselves to all conditions of climate and weather.

"I calculate we're in for a dirty night," said Mr. Abraham Slingbow, the elder of the two. "And I must say they do get seas in these latitudes."

"Possibly we shall run into brilliant sunshine tomorrow morning," his companion answered.

"Oh, like enough. But I always pity folks beginning a voyage in dirty weather. I collided with a young lady just now who evidently expected trouble."

"Why?"

"Well, she wanted to know if I could direct her to No. 36. So I said I would go with her and show her, which I did. She appeared thankful. She said she would retire at once, which I said was a pity, as dinner would come on about six, or soon after. 'Dinner!' she said, and she raised a pair of most bewitching eyes to mine, which laughed misery."

"Laughed misery, eh?"

"Well, I guess it was this way. She was going to make the best of it, and she saw the comic side, too; and she felt the miserable side, and her eyes showed both things, if you understand."

"I think I do," the other said, with a smile.

"I shall keep my eye on No. 36," Mr. Slingbow went on, "for a finer set-up or a handsomer figure I guess I haven't seen since I left Chicago, more than a year ago."

"Did you find out her name?"

"No, but I guess I shall do so before we've been out many days. Ah, now we're off! They're beginning to loose her." And Mr. Slingbow hurried away to the other side of the deck.

Douglas Grove remained where he was. He had been travelling with Mr. Abraham Slingbow nearly a year, and sometimes got rather more of his company than he wanted. Not that Mr. Slingbow was in any sense of the word a disagreeable travelling companion or an exacting employer, for he was not. His temper was imperturbable, his good humour chronic, his dissertations on men and things vastly entertaining. Nevertheless, there were times when Douglas felt he wanted to be alone and think his own thoughts undisturbed.

Douglas had hoped he might get some news from home at Melbourne, and was not a little disappointed that he was leaving again before a letter could arrive. His heart was still in Bradenford, his thoughts were never absent long from Hope.

The last letter he had received from home was dated December 20th, and he found it waiting for him some months later in Calcutta. They had been through China since then, and Japan and Borneo, and three days ago arrived in Melbourne, and now they were on the wing again with their faces towards home.

Home! He wondered if he would ever go home again. Mr. Slingbow had offered to give him a start in Chicago, and there was more scope in the new world than in the old. Why should he return to England? Why go back to the place where he would be constantly reminded of what he had lost? Would it not be far better if he turned his back entirely upon the past, and made a fresh start in a new country and under new conditions 1

These questions often clamoured for an answer as they were clamouring now, but he had no answer to give. His brain said one thing, his heart another. It seemed foolish to go back, and yet to live and die without another sight of Hope's face seemed too terrible to be contemplated.
Chapter 49

A Confession

MEANWHILE, old Tom Courtney had reached the end of his journey ‒ a journey which, his neighbours said, had more ins and outs in it than ups and downs. He had lived unloving and unloved, caring only for his own interests, and ready to sacrifice everything and every person who stood in his way.

For the last few years his life had been a torment. He lived in constant dread of something he had no name for. He hired a policeman to sleep in the house, and was not sure even then that the policeman might not be bribed to rob him or murder him.

That he had not a friend in the town he knew full well, but that fact in itself did not trouble him ‒ indeed, he rather gloried in it. When he was told that people feared him, he grunted with keen satisfaction. He liked even to see the children run when he shook his stick at them.

Why he should grow nervous in his old age he did not know. He fought against the feeling as long as he was able, and was bitterly angry when he felt himself forced to yield. The nameless terror ‒ whatever it might be, or whatever it might spring from ‒ steadily grew. Its cold, clammy tendrils seemed to wind themselves round his heart and to hamper his breathing.

Somebody once suggested to him that he had an uneasy conscience, and he grew livid with anger. An uneasy conscience, indeed! To have it suggested that he had a conscience at all was an insult. An uneasy conscience, in his judgment, implied a weak mind and a defective will.

He fell down in the street one day in a fainting fit, and was carried home by half a dozen policemen and laid in his bed. When he recovered consciousness he found his doctor standing by his bedside.

"Well, what ... is the ... meaning of this?" he gasped.

"It means that you are very ill," the doctor answered.

"Am I going to get better?" he asked, with glaring eyes.

"You want a truthful answer?"

"Yes, out with it, whatever it is!"

"Then you will not recover."

"You lie!" he snarled, half raising himself in his bed. Then he fell back exhausted.

"I will call in another doctor if you wish," the doctor answered mildly, when his patient had somewhat recovered himself.

"No, I want no other doctor. You are all in a ring."

"You wish to be left alone, then?"

"No, no, don't leave me. Keep me alive as long as you can. How long can you give me?"

"I fear you won't live the day out."

"You don't mean that!" he said, glaring at the doctor with terror-stricken eyes.

"Nothing is to be gained by hiding from you the truth," was the quiet answer. "If you have any worldly affairs you would like to attend to, you should lose no time over it."

Old Tom closed his eyes and groaned. What he had dreaded had come at last. Neither locks nor bolts nor policemen had been able to keep it away. It had come, too, in broad daylight. He had been smitten down in the street. The perspiration stood in big drops on his forehead and rolled in cold rivulets down his face.

"Send for Capes," he gasped at length.

"You mean the solicitor?"

"Ay, get him here as quick as you can. I may as well put things straight. Nothing matters when you're dead."

While waiting for the lawyer, the doctor sat himself down by the bedside with his finger on the wrist of his patient.

"I suppose you can keep a secret?" Tom said, without opening his eyes.

"Doctors have to keep many secrets," was the answer.

"Ay, I suppose so. Skeleton in every cupboard, eh? Tragedy in everybody's life? Well, well, I don't suppose I'm different from other people. We all fight for our own hand, and bad luck to those who stand in our way."

"We should always respect the rights of others," the doctor answered.

"We should respect our own interests and safety. That's my doctrine. A man's own life comes first."

"Not always. A man should value honour rather than life. What is the world to a man if he has lost his soul?"

"I'm not talking about the future," Tom grunted.

"Nor am I," the doctor answered. "I'm talking about the present. What shall it profit a man if he gain the world and lose his honour, his vision of truth and justice, his sense of right, his consciousness of the favour of God?"

Tom groaned, and turned his head restlessly from side to side.

"Maybe you're right," he said at length. "I've gained my own ends ‒ succeeded in doing what I set out to do. But I haven't been happy over it. There's no denying that."

"We're not made happy by what we've got," the doctor answered, "but by what we are."

"Then I suppose I'm a bad 'un," was the abrupt reply. "The mischief is, in gaining your own ends you make other people suffer, especially your own flesh and blood."

"But you've no relatives, I understand?" the doctor said.

"I have a son somewhere."

"But he gave you trouble, and so‒‒"

"I gave him trouble," Tom interrupted. "You think he disgraced me. It was I who disgraced him. He made me angry, I admit. Married against my will ‒ married a woman whose people I loathed. But that was nothing, except that I made it an excuse to myself. But I was the criminal ‒ not Harry. But here comes Capes. You needn't go, doctor. I'm going to make a clean breast of it. You can witness my signature. Here, give me something!" And he lay back exhausted.

The doctor gave him a stimulating draught, and in a few minutes he began to talk again.

"You're right, doctor," he began. "I'm slipping away. I feel it. I'm slipping out into space, into silence, into darkness. Here, Capes, write down what I tell you. I don't leave much money behind. People think I'm rich, but I'm not. I ought to be, but the money wouldn't stay, somehow. But what's left belongs to Harry. I give it all to him.

"He's out in Grahamstown ‒ or was at the beginning of the war. I branded him with disgrace, and drove him out of the country. There was no other way by which I could save my own skin. I was sorry to do it ‒ very sorry, for I liked the lad in a way ‒ but I liked myself better. So I sacrificed him to save myself. Not a very brave thing to do, but he was young and would get over it. A year in prison would have killed me. People said the document was a clumsy forgery. I suppose it was. But the way I contrived that, if ever it was found out, suspicion should not fall on me was not clumsy. I call it clever."

And a gleam of satisfaction came into the old man's eyes for a moment.

"Yes, it was clever; but it was hard on Harry. I don't think he ever suspected. You will find all the proofs in the safe yonder. Write it all down, Capes. I was the forger. I did the trick. And I pocketed the money too. But it did me no good in the end. I lost it all, and a good deal more at the back of it. Some more of that stuff, doctor, please. I'm getting toward the finish."

For several minutes he lay gasping, while the lawyer wrote rapidly.

"I've not much more to say," he went on at length. "You can telegraph to Harry when I'm dead. I don't want to see him. No, I couldn't look into his eyes. But when I'm buried let him come back and take what few sticks there are. This is a will and a confession all in one.

"Make it plain, Capes, that Harry's been innocent all the way through. I did the trick, understand. I'm a forger. But the law can't touch me now. I'm beyond it. Have I much longer, doctor?"

"I fear not."

"Well, it doesn't matter. Since it must come, let it come quickly."

"Wouldn't you like to see a clergyman?" the doctor asked.

"No. I'll have to take my chance. You can't undo in five minutes what it's taken you eighty odd years to do. The Great Judge will have to do by me as He thinks fit."

The lawyer laid down his pen and began to read what he had written. Tom listened, with closed eyes and heavy, laboured breathing.

"Give me some more of that stuff, doctor," he said, when the lawyer had finished, "and call up anybody you like to witness my signature."

He signed his name with a firm and steady hand. "There!" he said, in a tone of triumph. And he fell back on his pillow.

He rallied once or twice, but only for a few minutes at a time. And just as the sun was disappearing behind the hills, he breathed out his soul into the hands of the Great Judge.

Before midnight there was scarcely a soul in the town that did not know that old Tom Courtney was dead; that he had made a dying confession that he was the forger, and that his son Harry was an innocent man.

Harry Courtney was sitting on the balcony in the afternoon sunshine. By his side sat Avril, busy with her sewing. Now and then he looked at her and smiled. He felt her presence compensated him for a great deal. After much tribulation he had come into comparative peace.

He had discovered her almost by accident. Invalided from the army back to Grahamstown, he learned that a young lady, fresh out from England, had been inquiring for him. After a while he traced her to Reboth, and startled her one morning by appearing at the hospital and announcing that he was Harry Courtney.

He had no idea who she was, or why she wanted him. But the mere fact that somebody from England did want him excited his curiosity, and he could not rest until he had probed the matter fully.

Avril did not make her identity known at once, though she was impressed by his frank, open countenance and clear, honest eyes. At the very first moment of their meeting she represented to him that she was making inquiries on legal grounds. She was related to the Dewsburys of Devonshire, one of whom had married a Mr. Courtney, but the marriage certificate could not be found. In fact, its very existence had been called into question.

"Its existence called into question, did you say?" he cried. And his face grew white.

"Yes. Can you assist me in the matter?"

"I should think I can!" he answered. "I have a copy in my own possession. And a dozen copies may be obtained. Why, Marian Dewsbury was my wife!"

Avril heaved a big sigh of relief, and her eyes filled.

"May I ask," he said at length, looking at her wonderingly, "in what way you are related to the Dewsburys?"

"You may," she answered, raising her face and smiling. "Marian Dewsbury was my mother!"

"Your mother! I must be dreaming ‒ or you are!"

"No, I think we are both wide awake," she answered, with a smile. "You see, you were told, after ... after ... you regained your liberty that your little girl was dead."

"Then you know I have been in gaol?" he asked, with trembling lips.

"Yes, I know. And I thought ‒ that is, if that cruel doubt of which I spoke just now could be removed ‒ I would like to find you and comfort you. I knew the world would be against you, and if your own child would not stand by your side, why, who was likely to do so? So you see, that is why I have come. Are you glad to see me?"

"Glad to see you? Oh, my‒‒" And then his voice broke, and he turned and walked away, while big sobs shook his frame.

He came back to her at length, with a strange, wistful look in his eyes, but for several moments he seemed unable to speak.

Then he said brokenly. "I ought to have recognised you, for you are the image of Marian. But I do not understand your coming to me."

"I wanted to see my father," she answered simply.

"But, knowing what I am, can you trust me? Besides, is it fair to yourself?"

"You may have done wrong once," she said, "but your face is honest. And you have done your duty since."

"I have tried," he said, "but nothing can remove the stain."

"You have suffered enough," she answered. "Indeed, you have suffered far too much. And it's my place to comfort you now, if you will let me."

He seemed almost afraid of her for a while, but when she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him, all reserve broke down.

Since then they had been sharing a little house by the coast. He was still suffering from his battle wounds, but was gradually regaining strength.

A telegram was handed to him, and his face grew pale. He felt as by a kind of instinct that something important had happened. For a moment he hesitated, then he tore open the envelope and read. Avril looked up from her work and watched him intently.

He stared at the telegram long after he had taken in its contents. Then he walked across to Avril and took her face between his hands and kissed her. She saw by the light in his eyes that good news had come.

"May I see?" she asked.

He handed her the telegram, and waited.

"Your father dead. Your innocence established. Come at once," were the words she read.

She looked up at him, her eyes beaming, her face aglow.

The next moment they were clasped in each other's arms. There was no need for words. Silence was more eloquent than speech.

Within a month they were in London, when they said goodbye to each other for a few days ‒ he journeying west down to Devonshire, and she north to Cumberland.

"Father would like me to live in Devonshire, I know," she said to herself, as the train bore her away through the green country, "but he will like Bradenford when he sees it. And I must be near Arthur. Poor Arthur, he will not know me. But I may be a comfort to him, all the same ‒ and to Sir Geoffrey also. Oh, I shall have such a lot of people to look after now!"

The tears were very near her smiles, but on the whole she was quietly happy. She had had her share of grief, and there was still a wound in her heart, which she did not suppose would ever heal.

But on the other hand she had a great deal to be thankful for. She was no longer a lonely orphan. She had found her father, and he was almost all that her heart could desire. And then she could be near Arthur again, and that was something, even though he would never recognise her.

All the pain that her aunt's papers had created in her heart had been dissipated. The disgrace from which her aunt had hidden, and in consequence of which she had changed her name, no longer existed. Her father's good name was established, and from henceforth he would be able to hold his head as high as any man. So she mused as the train bore her on and on.
Chapter 50

(Last Chapter)

Reunion

AS soon as Hope Teesdale got to her cabin she turned on the electric light and began to make things "shipshape" for the night. This did not take her long, and when it was completed she sat down on the couch and surveyed critically the little room in which she would have to spend her nights for the next month or five weeks.

Overhead the tramp of feet and the sound of voices made themselves plainly heard, while from neighbouring cabins came a curious medley of sounds.

After a few moments Hope fell to thinking, and her thoughts took a somewhat melancholy turn. Travel had its charms, and a long sea voyage was not without its compensations. But there were drawbacks to everything. A ship's cabin was but a poor substitute for her large and beautifully furnished room at home. Then by an easy transition her thoughts turned to Douglas Grove.

It seemed to her a cruel freak of fate that directly one gulf was closed a fresh one should have opened up between them. She was sure even Arthur would not object to Douglas courting her now. And yet, as unlucky fate would have it, when the last barrier had been removed, and the way seemed clear for her to have a perfectly smooth course, he was away somewhere on the other side of the world and did not know of the good things that had happened. She got up from her couch at length and shook herself.

"It's foolish to brood," she said, with a yawn. "What can't be cured must be endured. And some day we shall be sure to meet again. He will not remain away for ever. And when he gets to know ‒ as he is sure to get to know some time ‒ that Arthur is alive and well, why, of course he will come to Bradenford. Perhaps we shall find him there when we get back. Wouldn't it be delightful if we did!"

And she went and stood before the little mirror and began to tidy her hair.

Then the great ship began to move away from her moorings, but with scarcely a sensation of motion.

"I think I'll have a turn on deck," she said to herself, "before we get into the open sea. It'll be stuffy enough below before evening. I wonder where Arthur is. Very likely he's on deck waiting for me." And pinning to her hair a brightly coloured tam-o'-shanter, she was soon mounting the companionway to the deck.

The Agamemnon was gliding easily away before the wind, so that its force could scarcely be felt. "Oh, this is delicious," she said, "after the stuffy atmosphere below." And she began to pace up and down the deck with firm and vigorous steps.

There were very few people about. One solitary figure stood in the shadow of the bridge, and appeared to be as motionless as though he had been carved in stone. Each time Hope passed she glanced up at him, but it was impossible to distinguish his features in the dim light and in the shadow of the bridge.

Yet there was something in the pose and general outline of this immovable figure that struck her as being familiar.

"I wish he would come out of the shadow," she said to herself. "I wonder what his face is like."

Similar thoughts were passing through the man's mind at the same moment.

"How well that girl carries herself," he said to himself, as Hope passed and repassed him. He shifted his position a little to look after her. "A girl with such a figure ought to have a face to match. It will be disappointing if she has not."

She passed him again, walking a little more slowly.

"How much she reminds me of Hope," he reflected. "Hope! I wonder if I shall ever forget her, or at least remember her only as a very beautiful dream? Let me see, it is nearly a year since we parted at Euston Station. It seems more like ten years, and yet my heart aches for her today as much as ever."

Hope stood leaning over the bulwarks a few yards away from him. A light in the rigging struck faintly the side of her face.

"I wonder who she is?" he said to himself. "She appears to be alone, and yet it is hardly likely. I suppose all her friends are below."

He moved out from the shadow of the bridge and walked in her direction. He went beyond her, and leaned over the bulwarks a few yards away. Her face was in the shadow again, and the light fell more fully on him.

Douglas considered if he might dare speak. They appeared to be alone on deck. All the other passengers had disappeared. He shifted his position a foot or two nearer. If she wanted to get away, he would give her an opportunity of doing so. She stood quite still, however, and appeared to be watching the faintly outlined hills in the far distance.

"She can but snub me," he reflected. "And it seems stupid for two human beings to stand here within a few yards of each other without speaking."

He came a step nearer, and said, "I'm afraid we're in for a dirty night."

She turned in a moment and gasped. Had he struck her to the ground she could not have felt more helpless. To reply was out of the question. She could only stare at him.

The light from the rigging caught his face for a moment as he turned to walk away.

"So I've put my foot into it, have I?" he muttered to himself. "Well, it doesn't matter." And he took a long stride across the deck.

She reached out her hands to him in an appealing gesture. He did not see them, however as he made for the starboard side.

She rushed after him and touched him lightly on the sleeve. "Please pardon me," she said, "but your voice so startled me that I could not speak for a moment."

It was now his turn to gasp and stare, while a thousand questions seemed to rush through his mind. It was Hope's voice, Hope's figure, Hope's manner of walking! But, no, every individual has his or her double, it is said.

"We have surely met before," he said, in an agitated tone of voice. And he raised his face so that the light struck upon it.

"Then I am not mistaken!" she cried. "You are Douglas Grove!" And she extended both hands to him.

"Hope?" he said. And he took her hands in his, forgetting everything. "Hope Teesdale? Is it possible?" And he drew nearer and looked her steadily in the face.

"The world's but a little place, after all!" she said, with a laugh.

"But ... but...." he gasped, still holding her hands and staring into her face.

"It is rather curious after all that we should have stumbled across you in this way," she interrupted.

"Then you are not alone?" he asked.

"Oh no, Arthur is with me."

He dropped her hands as though he had been shot. Doubts as to his sanity began to rush through his brain.

"Of course, you have not heard," she said hurriedly. "Arthur was discovered eight or nine months ago, his memory a blank. But he is all right again now."

He gasped a fervent "Thank God!" and leaned up against the deckhouse for support.

"We were all so sorry that there was no chance of sending the good news to you, but no one knew where you were," she went on.

"But I got a letter from father dated the 20th of December," he said. "That is not more than six months‒‒"

"It was on the 22nd of December that Arthur arrived home," she answered.

"And you say he is on board this ship?"

"Yes, I expected to find him on deck. He had a serious operation toward the end of January. It was necessary to bring his memory back, and he is taking a trip round the world now to complete his convalescence."

"But why did he go away? That is‒‒"

"Oh, he thought he had killed you," Hope interrupted, with a merry laugh, "and so ran away to escape consequences."

Douglas caught her hands again, and squeezed them till they ached, but she did not flinch or cry out.

"I feel as though my brain is unable to take it all in," he said, after a pause.

"And yet it will be a commonplace after a few days," she answered. "It is wonderful how soon we settle down to things. Before we left Bradenford we both felt as though we had never been away."

"And your father?"

"He is wonderful. He seems to have taken a new lease of life. But come with me, and let us hunt up Arthur. I know his cabin number."

He followed, not without reluctance, for he felt he had a thousand more things to say and a thousand questions to ask. Now and then he rubbed his hand across his eyes as though still in doubt as to whether he was awake or dreaming. The transition from gloom to gladness, from despair to hope, from darkness to light, had been so sudden and so startling that he felt as though the centre of gravity had been shifted.

They found Arthur busy unstrapping a portmanteau.

"Look, Arthur, whom I have brought to see you!" she cried out rapturously.

He turned suddenly and looked up. Then he sprang to his feet and grasped eagerly Douglas's outstretched hand.

"Now I will leave you," Hope said brightly, "and go and dress for dinner." And she slipped out of the cabin and pulled the door to behind her.

When they met an hour later at dinner, there were not three happier-looking people in that ship's company.

Arthur and Hope during their voyage out had become seasoned sailors, so they suffered no ill effects from the dirty weather that lasted two or three days.

During the weeks that followed, Arthur found himself more frequently in the company of Abraham Slingbow than anyone else. He did not complain, however. He had interfered once between Douglas and Hope, and with tragic results; and he was not going to make the same mistake again.

When he saw them sitting side by side in the sunshine, or pacing up and down the deck together, he could not help feeling they deserved the happiness that was so plainly written on their faces.

They parted company at San Francisco. Douglas's contract would end at Chicago a few weeks later.

During their last night on board the Agamemnon Douglas and Hope remained on deck long after all the other passengers had disappeared.

"I need not tell you, Hope, that I love you," he said in quiet, even tones, as they sat together in the light of the stars.

"No, Douglas, you have proved your love in a thousand ways."

"And you can love me a little in return?" he asked.

"No, not a little, Douglas, but a very great deal. I should be a strange woman if I did not love you, Douglas, and love you with all my heart and soul."

He drew her to his heart and kissed her.

Hope smiled. "No other woman, I think, ever had such devotion shown to her as you have shown to me. I pray God that He may make me worthy of you."

"Hush, Hope my darling, it is I who should pray that prayer."

"Then we will both pray it, sweetheart, and try to be all to each other that we want to be."

"How I shall miss you after tomorrow!" he said, after a long pause.

"But you will soon follow?"

"Yes, yes, and it will be a blissful homecoming. I did not think once I should ever see Bradenford again. Oh, Hope, my darling, God has been good to us!"

"We have all of us had to pass through the fire," she said, "but perhaps we are the better for it."

It was the time of late harvest when Arthur and Hope landed at Southampton, and without any loss of time the boat train whisked them away to London.

At Waterloo they got into a hansom cab and drove directly to the Euston Hotel. The weather was cold and rainy, with a searching south-east wind which indicated only too clearly that summer was over and autumn was stealing over the land.

Before reaching Waterloo Bridge, Hope's attention was arrested by a grey golf-cloak with a scarlet hood which someone wore as she hurried down a side street.

"Look, Arthur!" Hope said excitedly.

"What is it?" he asked.

"There ‒ there!" she cried, leaning forward, and pointing out of the window.

"Yes, but what is it?" he asked.

"The scarlet hood! Don't you see it?"

"Well?" he asked.

"That is my cloak!" she said. "I should know it anywhere. And if the wearer isn't Mrs. Wilkes, then my eyes deceive me."

"Mrs. Wilkes? You mean the evil nurse who kidnapped you and tried to poison father?"

"Yes, I'm sure it's she."

Arthur leaned out of the cab and called upon the driver to stop. In a moment he was in the street, running back to the corner round which the woman had disappeared, but he was too late. The scarlet hood was no longer visible.

He did not say much to Hope during the rest of the way to Euston, but a sentence that Douglas Grove once let fall in his hearing kept ringing through the chambers of his brain: "The scarlet clue!"

Douglas had told him how he followed that clue from point to point in his search for Hope, until it led him straight to the Chateau Oberon.

"That clue may serve again," he reflected. "Hugh and his mother have had their liberty much too long."

After dinner he jumped into a hansom and drove direct to Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard had taken up the case directly after Nan's disappearance from Rowton Hall, but nothing had come of it. The warrant for her and Hugh's arrest, however, was still in force, though the officer in charge professed not to think much of Arthur's suggested clue.

The following morning he and Hope took train for home. They had been away four months, and were beginning to pine for a sight of their native hills and dales. Arthur also was getting increasingly anxious about Avril. He had hoped in every letter to get some news of her, and with every letter his anxiety had increased.

He was silent as the train bore him northward, and Hope was just as little inclined for conversation as he. She was content to sit still and dream of Douglas, and picture his homecoming, and think of all the happy hours that were in store for them.

They had telegraphed to their father the time of their arrival, and wondered if he would meet them at the station. They were both feeling excited when the train slowed down toward Bradenford.

Arthur kept his hand on the windowsill, ready to open the door directly the train came to a halt.

The platform appeared to be crowded with people. Had all Bradenford come out to give them a welcome home?

Arthur leaned forward and scanned the crowd for his father's face. Suddenly he gave a cry, and leaped to his feet.

"What is it?" Hope asked.

"Avril! Avril!" he shouted. And he was out on the platform before the train stopped.

What mattered it to him that a crowd was there, that a hundred eyes were upon him, that curious people craned their necks in all directions, that heads were thrust out of carriage windows, that girls and women giggled?

He saw nothing, heard nothing, was conscious of nothing, save that Avril was there, looking sweeter and bonnier than ever!

"Avril, Avril!" he said, with burning eyes. And he raised her hands to his lips and kissed them.

She did not speak. She could not. But her eyes welled over with love and gratitude. The crowd gave way for them to pass out of the station, and raised their hats and hands, and smiled and nodded, and broke into a cheer.

But Arthur was conscious of nothing save that Avril leaned upon his arm, and that her presence filled the world with sunshine. The Rowton Hall brougham was waiting outside, and Parkyn sat smiling on the box. Without a word Arthur opened the door and helped Avril in. He felt almost like a man in a dream, and was half afraid that he would wake up some time and find it all illusion.

"Home!" he said to Parkyn. And he stepped into the carriage and pulled the door to with a snick.

"My darling!" he said. And he took Avril's face between his hands and kissed her.

"But your father and Hope?" Avril asked, as the carriage drove away.

"Was father at the station?" he asked, a smile lighting up his face.

"Why, of course he was!" she cried. "Did you not see him?"

"I saw no one but you," he answered. "And I want to see no one else just yet."

"But what will they do?"

"Hire a cab, or Parkyn can return for them," he said, with a laugh. And he bent down and kissed her again.

They were standing at the open door, Avril leaning on his arm, when a cab drove up with Hope and Sir Geoffrey.

Arthur rushed to his father's side at once.

"I really must apologise, father," he said, with beaming face.

"I should think so, indeed," Sir Geoffrey answered, laughing.

"I did not see you, father."

"Oh, I knew it, I knew it! And I don't wonder. I quite forgive you, my boy. This is a glad day, isn't it?"

"Glad? Gl‒‒" But he did not finish the sentence. No words could express what he felt.

Turning slowly, he walked back into the house, which was so soon to be Avril's home as well as his.

Douglas returned six weeks later, but he returned unheralded. No one knew of his coming save Hope and his father. It was the anniversary of his going away, and he felt more than a little strange after two years' absence. It was a dull November day. Mist shrouded the tops of the hills. The lake lay like a dull sheet of lead, the trees were bare and colourless, the gardens destitute of flowers. And yet it might have been summer time, so buoyant did Douglas feel.

He could have shouted for very joy when his native hills first came into view. Autumn was upon the land, but summer was in his soul.

Hope had accepted an invitation to tea at the Vicarage, and was waiting in the vicar's study for a ring at the door that should tell of Douglas's arrival.

It came at last, and the vicar rushed down into the hall; but Hope sat still. Her heart almost stopped when she heard Douglas's voice; then it seemed to leap into a gallop.

She heard Mrs. Grove rush into the hall with a little cry of glad surprise, and a moment later she heard the girls' voices. There was confusion and laughter and chatter, and the sound of kisses and stifled sobs. Then the sounds died away, and she heard the drawing room door shut.

For a while muffled sounds reached her ears. Little peals of laughter came faintly through the walls. The shrill voice of Rosalie, asking some question, rose above the rest.

Hope sat on without moving a muscle. "He will come to me by and by," her heart kept saying. She was so confident of his love that she could afford to be patient. Dear to him as were his father and mother and sisters, she knew his heart was crying out for her. All in good time, the vicar would tell him that someone was waiting to see him in the study.

So she held tightly to the arm of her chair and waited, with every sense alert. The clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece, and the daylight began to fade rapidly.

Then she heard the drawing room door open, there was a quick step on the stairs, the door handle turned with a creak, and then:

"Douglas!"

"My own! My own!"

The next half-hour seemed but a moment ‒ and then the gong sounded for tea.

On New Year's Eve a detective tracked Nan to her home by means of the scarlet hood. She did not seem in the least surprised, and admitted she was the person wanted. "I will be ready in a few moments," she answered, and walked slowly upstairs.

The detective waited minute after minute, with growing impatience; and then, fearing she would give him the slip, went to look for her.

He found her seated in an armchair, with a phial in her hand, half full of a colourless liquid. She did not move or speak when he approached her, and when he attempted to raise her he discovered she was dead.

Her neighbours sorrowed genuinely, and had many a story to tell of her kindness and good nature. She was known as Mrs. Epworth, and appeared to have sufficient means to keep herself in comfort. She was always ready to watch by the bedside of a sick neighbour, and would often deny herself that she might minister to the needs of others.

Sometimes, they said, she would go away for months on the stretch, but she never took anyone into her confidence. She was a silent, mysterious woman; but as a neighbour, she was all that could be desired.

What became of Hugh is not known to this day.

THE END

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White Tree Publishing publishes mainstream evangelical Christian literature for people of all ages. We aim to make our eBooks available free for all eBook devices, but some distributors will only list our books free at their discretion, and may make a small charge for some titles ‒ but they are still great value! All our books are fully typeset. No "photocopies" or bad OCR! Long sentences and paragraphs are broken into shorter lengths, and modern punctuation is used for easier reading. Many books are sensitively abridged.

More Books

More Christian books from White Tree Publishing are on the next pages, some of which are available as both eBooks and paperbacks. More books than those shown here are available in non-fiction and fiction, for adults and younger readers. The full list of published and forthcoming books is on our website www.whitetreepublishing.com. Please visit there regularly for updates.

We rely on our readers to tell their families, friends and churches about our books. Social media is a great way of doing this. Take a look at our range of fiction and non-fiction books and pass the word on. You can even contact your Christian TV or radio station to let them know about these books. Also, please write a positive review if you are able.

Christian non-fiction

Christian Fiction

Younger Readers

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Christian Non-Fiction

All our books are in eBook format only, unless otherwise stated

Four short books of help in the Christian life:

Chris Wright

So, What Is a Christian?

An introduction to a personal faith.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-2-6

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-2-7

Starting Out

Help for new Christians of all ages.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-0-2

Paperback ISBN 978-1-4839-622-0-7

Help!

Explores some problems we can encounter with our faith.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-1-9

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9927642-2-7

Running Through the Bible

A simple understanding of what's in the Bible.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-3-3

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-6-5

Be Still

Bible Words of Peace and Comfort

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-4-0

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9932760-7-1

A Previously Unpublished Book

The Simplicity of the Incarnation

J Stafford Wright

Foreword by J I Packer

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-5-7

Paperback ISBN: 9-780-9525-9563-2

Bible People Real People

An Unforgettable A-Z of Who is Who in the Bible

J Stafford Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-7-1

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-5-6

Christians and the Supernatural

J Stafford Wright

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-4-0

Paperback ISBN 13: 9-780-9525-9564-9

Howell Harris

His Own Story

Foreword by J. Stafford Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-9-5

From the Streets of London

The Streets of Gold

The Life Story of

Brother Clifford Edwards

A True Story of Love

by Brother Clifford Edwards

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-8-8

Seven Steps to

Walking in Victory

Lin Wills

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-3-5

Seven Keys to

Unlock Your Calling

Lin Wills

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-2-3

English Hexapla

The Gospel of John

(Paperback only)

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-1-8

Roddy Goes to Church

Church Life and Church People

Derek Osborne

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-0-3

Paperback ISBN: 978-09927642-0-3

Heaven Our Home

William Branks

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-8-8

I See Men as Trees, Walking

Roger and Janet Niblett

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-1-0

Paperback ISBN: 978-1508674979

Leaves from

My Notebook

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

William Haslam

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-2-7

Blunt's Scriptural Coincidences

Gospels and Acts

J. J. Blunt

White Tree Publishing New Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-5-8

Fullness of Power

in Christian Life and Service

Home and Group Questions for Today Edition

R. A. Torrey

Questions by Chuck Antone, Jr.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-8-9

Faith that Prevails

The Early Pentecostal Movement

Home and Group Questions for Today Edition

Smith Wigglesworth

Study Questions by Chuck Antone, Jr.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-4-1

Ebenezer and Ninety-Eight Friends

Musings on Life, Scripture

and the Hymns

Marty Magee

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-1-1

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9954549-1-0

Twenty-five Days Around the Manger

A Light Family Advent Devotional

Marty Magee

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-1-0

Also in full colour paperback

ISBN: 978-1-4923248-0-5

The Gospels and Acts

In Simple Paraphrase

with Helpful Explanations

together with

Running Through the Bible

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-9-6

Paperback ISBN: 978-0995454958

The Authority and

Interpretation

of the Bible

J Stafford Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-9-6

Psalms,

A Guide Psalm By Psalm

J Stafford Wright

eBook ISBN 978-0-9957594-2-8

The Christian's Secret

of a Happy Life

Hannah Whitall Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-6-6

Every-Day Religion

Hannah Whitall Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-0-9

Haslam's Journey

Chris Wright

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-8-5

Real Religion

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-10-0

My Life and Work

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-4-7

Living in the Sunshine:

The God of All Comfort

Hannah Whitall Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-3-0

Evangelistic Talks

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-7-8

Real Religion

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-10-0

I Can't Help Praising the Lord

The Life of Billy Bray

Chris Wright

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-01-8

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-912529-00-1

As Jesus Passed By

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-05-6

Real Religion

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-10-0

Rifted Clouds

Bella Cooke

All Three Parts

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-08-7

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-912529-09-4

Building From the Top

William Haslam

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-12-4

Deeper Experiences

of famous Christians

James Gilchrist Lawson

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-15-5

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Christian Fiction

Many of these books are classic Christian romances that have been sensitively edited and abridged by White Tree Publishing for today's readers

A Gamble with Life

Silas K. Hocking

Abridged Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-42-1

The Lost Lode

Silas K. Hocking

Abridged Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-45-2

When it Was Dark

Guy Thorne

Abridged Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-0-3

Silverbeach Manor

Margaret S. Haycraft

White Tree Publishing edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-4-1

Gildas Haven

Margaret S. Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-7-2

Amaranth's Garden

Margaret S. Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-6-5

Rose Capel's Sacrifice

Margaret Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-3-4

Una's Marriage

Margaret Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-5-9

Miss Elizabeth's Niece

Margaret Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-7-3

The Clever Miss Jancy

Margaret S. Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-9-7

Freda's Folly

Margaret S Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-02-5

Sybil's Repentance

Margaret S Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-04-9

Sister Royal

Margaret S Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-03-2

At Aunt Verbena's

Margaret S Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-03-2

The Secret of Ashton Manor House

Eliza Kerr

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-11-7

Keena Karmody

Eliza Kerr

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-5-4

Hazel Haldene

Eliza Kerr

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-8-5

Rollica Reed

Eliza Kerr

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-6-1

Faith Harrowby

Eliza Kerr

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-13-1

The Lost Clue

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Romantic Mystery

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-2-6

Doctor Forester

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Romantic Mystery

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-0-2

Was I Right?

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Victorian Romance

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-1-9

In His Steps

Charles M. Sheldon

Abridged Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9927642-9-6

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-19350791-8-7

A Previously Unpublished Book

Locked Door Shuttered Windows

A Novel by J Stafford Wright

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-3-3

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-4-1

A Daughter of the King

Mrs Philip Barnes

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-8-0

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Books for Younger Readers

(and older readers too!)

The Two Jays Adventure

The First Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-8-9

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5203448-8-1

The Dark Tunnel Adventure

The Second Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-0-4

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5206386-3-8

The Cliff Edge Adventure

The Third Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-4-2

Paperback ISBN: 9781-5-211370-3-1

The Midnight Farm Adventure

The Fourth Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-1-6

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5497148-3-2

The Old House Adventure

The Fifth Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-07-0

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-912529-06-3

The Lost Island Adventure

The Sixth Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-17-9

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-912529-18-6

The Black Lake Adventure

The Seventh Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-28-5

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-912529-27-8

The Hidden Room Adventure

The Eighth Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-39-1

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-912529-40-7

The Merlin Adventure

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-2-7

Paperback ISBN: 9785-203447-7-5

The Hijack Adventure

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-6-5

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5203448-0-5

The Seventeen Steps Adventure

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-7-2

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5203448-6-7

Mary Jones and Her Bible

An Adventure Book

Chris Wright

The true story of Mary Jones's and her Bible

with a clear Christian message and optional puzzles

(Some are easy, some tricky, and some amusing)

eBook ISBN: ISBN: 978-0-9933941-5-7

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9525956-2-5

The Holy Land Adventure

An Adventure Book

Chris Wright

A time travel story, similar in format to Mary Jones

Exploring real events in the time of Jesus

eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-912529-36-0

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-912529-34-6

Pilgrim's Progress

An Adventure Book

Chris Wright

A similar format to Mary Jones

Exploring the journey of Pilgrim's Progress

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9933941-6-4

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-6-3

Pilgrim's Progress

Special Edition

The original story retold

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-8-8

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-7-0

Zephan and the Vision

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-6-4

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-9-4

Agathos, The Rocky Island,

And Other Stories

Chris Wright

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9927642-7-2

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-8-7

Please visit our website www.whitetreepublishing.com for full details on all these books, and their availability.

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