Lady Barfleur was not well enough to appear; but Emmeline and Mildred, who had been impatiently expecting his visit, received him in the drawing-room.

They were attired in deep mourning; and, though there was no personal resemblance between them, they looked like sisters.

After some inquiries respecting Lady Barfleur, and messages of condolence to her, Sir Bridgnorth looked at Mildred, who interpreted his glance correctly, and said:

“You may speak freely of Chetwynd before Miss Barfleur, Sir Bridgnorth. She takes great interest in him.”

“A very great interest,” added Emmeline. “I hope you bring us some news of him?”

“Very little,” replied Sir Bridgnorth. “And what I do bring is not satisfactory. You desire me to speak plainly about your brother, Miss Calverley?”

“Most certainly!” she replied.

“Well, then, you may remember, when I accidentally met him at Ouselcroft, I gave him a pocket-book, containing a certain sum of money?”

“I am not likely to forget your kindness,” replied Mildred.

“It appears there was rather more in the pocket-book than I thought,” pursued Sir Bridgnorth – “bank notes to the amount of three hundred pounds. I mention this, because your brother has most scrupulously repaid me the exact sum, of which he kept a memorandum.”

“He behaved like a man of honour!” cried Emmeline.

“Undoubtedly. But I did not want the money back. I want to assist him. I want him to come to me – to talk to me.”

“Will he not do so?” said Mildred.

“I fear not. I suspect he is still in difficulties.”

“If so, he must be got out of them, and you must manage it, Sir Bridgnorth,” said Mildred.

“But I can’t manage it, my dear young lady. I don’t know where to find him.”

“But he must be found!” cried Emmeline.

“Easily said; but not so easily accomplished,” rejoined Sir Bridgnorth, smiling at her vivacity. “I have used every endeavour, but can obtain no clue to him.”

“Is he in London?” asked Mildred.

“I believe so,” he replied.

“Surely then he can be discovered?” she remarked.

“I have not succeeded in discovering him, that is all I can say,” rejoined Sir Bridgnorth. “And I have really taken a great deal of trouble in the business. He has been remarkably successful in hiding himself.”

“Do not keep anything back from me, I pray you, dear Sir Bridgnorth!” said Mildred. “Is he without resources?”

“I cannot imagine so,” he replied. “He must have had some funds to enable him to repay me, unless – ” and he paused.

“Unless what?” said Mildred.

“You enjoin me to speak the truth,” replied Sir Bridgnorth; “and I will do so at the hazard of giving you and Miss Barfleur pain. My idea is that he has lost money at play. Mind, I have no proof of what I assert. It is simply conjecture.”

“I fear you are right, Sir Bridgnorth,” said Mildred, heaving a deep sigh.

“In your opinion, Sir Bridgnorth,” said Emmeline, who had listened anxiously to the discourse – “in your opinion, I say, has Chetwynd lost a considerable sum of money at play?”

“I fear so.”

“Has he paid it?”

“I fear not.”

There was a pause, during which the two young ladies regarded each other wistfully.

At length, Mildred spoke.

“Sir Bridgnorth,” she said, “Chetwynd’s debts of ‘honour’” – and she emphasised the word – “must be paid, and shall be paid, at any sacrifice, by me! You will do me the greatest kindness by finding out exactly how he is circumstanced, what he owes, and, especially, what are his debts of honour.”

Emmeline looked earnestly at Sir Bridgnorth, as if she felt equally interested in the inquiry.

Sir Bridgnorth was evidently troubled, and for some moments made no answer.

“Excuse me, my dear Miss Calverley,” he said; “if your brother is in a scrape, I think he should be allowed to get out of it – as he best can.”

“No!” exclaimed Mildred, decidedly. “It is not like me, Sir Bridgnorth, to give such advice.”

“No!” added Emmeline, equally decidedly. “He must be freed!”

“Upon my word,” said Sir Bridgnorth, surprised, “whatever may have happened to him, this young man cannot be called unfortunate.”

“Then act as a true friend to him, dear Sir Bridgnorth!” said Mildred. “Make immediate arrangements to get him out of all difficulties. You will incur no personal responsibility.”

“None whatever,” said Emmeline.

Sir Bridgnorth was much touched.

“I think you had better leave him to himself,” he said. “But, since you won’t, I must needs help you I’ll do all I can. But I cannot proceed as expeditiously as I could desire. I have reason to believe Chetwynd is living in London under a feigned name. Since all private inquiries have proved unsuccessful, I will cause some carefully-worded advertisements to be inserted in the newspapers, that may catch his eye and bring him forward. Could he be made aware that a beautiful young lady takes an interest in him, I am sure he would speedily reappear. But fear no indiscretion on my part. Nothing shall be disclosed till the proper moment arrives.” Then, addressing Mildred, he added: “As soon as I can ascertain the amount of his debts, I will let you know.”

“Pay them, dear Sir Bridgnorth – pay them!” she rejoined.

“But they may be very large?”

“Never mind; pay them!” cried Emmeline. “Mr. Carteret shall repay you.”

“No man ever had such a chance,” exclaimed Sir Bridgnorth. “If he does not reform now, he is incorrigible.”

“I have no misgivings as to the future,” said Mildred.

“Well, I sincerely trust all will come right,” observed Sir Bridgnorth. “There seems every probability of it, I must own.”

Just then Mrs. Calverley was announced.

“I must take my leave,” said Sir Bridgnorth, rising hastily. “You shall hear from me soon, or see me.”

“Let us see you, please!” said both young ladies.

Before he could depart, Mrs. Calverley entered, and stopped him.

“Ah, Sir Bridgnorth!” she exclaimed; “I’m delighted to meet you! I want to have a word with you.”

Sir Bridgnorth evidently wished to get away. But she begged him to remain for a few minutes; and he could not very well refuse.

Mrs. Calverley then went on to the young ladies. After the usual greetings had passed, she said to Mildred, “I have a letter for you; or, rather, a packet. It arrived this morning.”

Having given her the letter, she moved to a little distance.

Glancing at the superscription, Mildred turned pale.

“What is it that disturbs you?” inquired Emmeline.

“A letter from Chetwynd,” replied Mildred, in a low voice. “Come to my room, that we may read it together.”

Emmeline signified her assent by a look.

Mrs. Calverley took no notice of what was passing, though she must have perceived it.

Before leaving the room, Mildred went up to Sir Bridgnorth, and, addressing him in a low voice, said:

“You must not go, Sir Bridgnorth. I may have something important to tell you about Chetwynd.”

“In that case, I will stay as long as you please,” he rejoined.

Meanwhile Emmeline prepared to follow her friend.

“Will you mind my leaving you for a few minutes, dear Mrs. Calverley?” she said.

“Don’t stand on the slightest ceremony with me, my love,” replied the other. “Besides, I want to have a little talk with Sir Bridgnorth.”

The two young ladies then went out.

“I am now quite at your service, madam,” said Sir Bridgnorth, as soon as he and Mrs. Calverley were alone.

“Then sit down, that we may have a confidential chat,” replied the lady.

III. CHETWYND’S LETTER

In such haste were the two girls to open the packet that they almost ran up the spiral-staircase to Mildred’s bedroom, in which was a deep bay window.

In this recess they sat down.

Mildred’s hand trembled as she tore open the packet.

It contained a long, closely-written letter, inside which was a folded sheet of paper that looked like a document of some kind.

This document dropped on the table, and was not examined at the moment.

The letter was dated on the previous day, but bore no address.

Ere she had read many lines, a mist seemed to gather over Mildred’s vision. Unable to proceed, she laid the letter down.

“You terrify me,” cried Emmeline. “What has happened?”

“He meditates self-destruction,” replied Mildred. “But read the letter, dearest – I cannot.”

Mustering up all her courage, Emmeline read aloud as follows:

“This is the last letter you will ever receive from me, dearest sister, and, in bidding you an eternal farewell, I implore you to think kindly of me.

“With one exception you are the only person in the world whom I love, and my latest thoughts will be of her and you.

“You know her, and will easily guess her name, but I shall not confide it to this sheet of paper. In all respects she is superior to the artful and treacherous woman by whom I allowed myself to be deceived – superior in beauty and accomplishments, and amiable as beautiful. Had I been fortunate enough to wed her, I should have been a different man. Now it is too late, I see my folly, and comprehend my loss.”

“You see that he dearly loved you, Emmeline, for it is to you that he refers,” observed Mildred. “But proceed, I entreat you!”

“I have met with the basest ingratitude. Men who have received from me favours innumerable – hangers-on who have sponged upon me, and professed the greatest regard for me, have shrunk from me, and avoided me in my misfortunes – men who have fleeced me, who have ruined me, and driven me to desperation! My funds are almost exhausted, but they will last me out. I owe nothing, for I have paid that kind-hearted Sir Bridgnorth Charlton the exact sum he lent me. Had I not obtained it from him, I should have been called a defaulter. Fortune favoured me for the moment, for I won sufficient to discharge my debt to him. He would lend me more, I doubt not, but I will never borrow again. As to the woman who has robbed me of my inheritance, I have sworn I will accept nothing from her, and I will keep my oath. She will be responsible for her conduct before Heaven.”

Again there was a pause, but neither made a remark and Emmeline went on:

“Fear nothing, dearest sister. I have changed my name, and have taken such precautions that my retreat cannot be discovered. Nothing will be found upon me that can establish my identity. A body will be found; that will be all!”

“Gracious Heaven!” ejaculated Mildred. “Grant that this dreadful catastrophe may be averted!”

Emmeline’s voice had been suffocated by emotion, but after a pause she proceeded:

“Mildred, I have been reckless and extravagant, and have led a most foolish and most useless life. I have been a gambler and have squandered large sums upon persons who profited by my follies; but I have done nothing dishonourable – nothing to tarnish my name as a gentleman. I think I could have retrieved my position, but it is not worth the trouble. I am weary of life; sick of the hollowness, the ingratitude, the perfidy of the world! Timon of Athens did not hate mankind more bitterly than I do. I would consent to live if I felt certain of revenge on some of those who have wronged me; but on no other condition. This is not likely to happen; so it is best I should go!”

“Alas, poor Chetwynd!” exclaimed Mildred. “His fancied wrongs have driven him to the verge of madness!”

“He seems extraordinarily sensitive, and to feel most acutely the slights shown him by his ungrateful associates,” said Emmeline.

“Is the letter finished?” asked Mildred.

“No,” replied Emmeline. “There is a farewell to you. But I cannot read it. My voice fails me!”

Mildred then took the letter, and went on with it:

“You know exactly how I am circumstanced, Mildred. I have nothing, that I am aware of, to leave; but I have made my will, and in your favour, and shall enclose it in this letter. I may have some rights of which I am ignorant; and if it should prove so, I desire that you may benefit by them.”

“Here is the will,” she remarked, taking up the little document and examining it. “I see he has observed all necessary formalities. Strange he should be able to do this at such a time!”

Though deeply affected, she resumed the perusal of the letter:

“And now farewell, dearest sister! Again I implore you to think of me kindly! My faults are inexcusable; yet do not judge me harshly. The world has done that, and with sufficient severity. Do not suppose these lines are written to move your compassion. Long before they meet your eye, I shall be indifferent to scorn, neglect, and treachery!

“Should an opportunity ever occur of breathing my name to her I have loved, say that my chief regret was that I threw away the happiness that might have been mine!”

Emmeline uttered an exclamation of despair, but it did not interrupt Mildred:

“Trouble yourself no more about me. Search will be in vain. Nothing can arrest my purpose. Ere tomorrow morn I shall have ceased to breathe, and have quitted a world I hate. Neglect not my last request! Farewell, my sister! May you be happier than your unfortunate brother!”

“Heaven have mercy on his soul!” exclaimed Mildred, dropping on her knees, and praying fervently.

Emmeline, likewise, knelt down and prayed.

After awhile, they arose.

“Sit down for a moment, dearest Emmeline,” said Mildred; “I have something to tell you. I believe the fatal act was committed at one o’clock this morning.”

“Why at that precise hour?” inquired Emmeline.

“You shall hear. I was sleeping on yonder couch, and was awakened by the striking of the clock. The moon was shining brightly through the window, and I thought I saw a figure standing just where you are seated. I should have felt much more frightened than I did, if I had not been convinced it was Chetwynd; though how he came here at that time I could not imagine. I called out, but no answer was made, and I then became seriously alarmed. Suddenly, the figure, which had hitherto been looking down, raised its head, and fixed its mournful gaze upon me. I then saw that the features were those of Chetwynd, but pale as death! The phantom did not move from its position, but seemed to wave a farewell to me, and then melted away in the moonbeams.”

“And this phantom you beheld?” said Emmeline, who had listened with intense interest in the narrative.

“I saw it as plainly as I now see you,” replied the other. “Why it appeared to me, I now understand.”

The silence that ensued was broken by Mildred.

After carefully replacing the letter and the will in the envelope, she said: “Let us go down-stairs and communicate the sad news to Sir Bridgnorth. It is right he should know it.”

“True,” replied Emmeline. “But oh! dearest Mildred, I can never like Mrs. Calverley again. I look upon her as the cause of this dreadful event.”

“You do her an injustice, dear Emmeline,” said

Mildred, who, however, began to regard her stepmother with altered feelings.

“We shall see how she bears the intelligence,” said Emmeline; “and from that, some judgment may be formed.”

IV. HOW THE DIREFUL NEWS WAS RECEIVED BY MRS. CALVERLEY; AND HOW SIR BRIDGNORTH VOLUNTEERED TO MAKE INQUIRIES AS TO ITS TRUTH

As the two girls entered the drawing-room, their changed appearance and mournful looks struck both Sir Bridgnorth and Mrs. Calverley, who were still seated on the sofa, conversing together earnestly.

Sir Bridgnorth immediately arose, and, advancing to meet them, said to Mildred:

“I am afraid you have not received very good news of Chetwynd?”

“Alas! no, Sir Bridgnorth,” she replied, in a sorrowful voice. “You need give yourself no further concern about my unfortunate brother!”

“Why not?” he interrupted, anxiously.

“He is gone!” she replied, sadly.

“You shock me greatly!” he ejaculated. “Mrs. Calverley and myself have been considering what could be done for him, and have just devised a scheme that we hoped might be successful.”

“All schemes for his benefit are now useless,” said Emmeline. “He no longer needs our aid.”

“Did I hear aright?” said Mrs. Calverley, starting up, and coming towards them. “It cannot be that Chetwynd is dead?”

“It is so,” said Emmeline.

“But how did he die?” asked Mrs. Calverley.

“By his own hand!” replied Emmeline, regarding her fixedly.

Mrs. Calverley looked aghast, and as if ready to drop.

“I did not understand he had destroyed himself,” said Sir Bridgnorth. “When did this sad event occur? Can you give me any particulars?”

“I can only state that he contemplated suicide,” replied Mildred. “This letter is a last farewell to me.”

“Ah! then we need not despair of beholding him again,” said Sir Bridgnorth, with a sensation of relief. “Many a man, now alive, has threatened to put an end to his existence. I hope it may turn out to be so in Chetwynd’s case.”

“I sincerely hope so!” said Mrs. Calverley.

“I have no such belief,” observed Mildred, sadly.

“If you had read his most affecting letter, you would entertain no doubt as to his determination,” added Emmeline, with difficulty refraining from tears.

“We shall soon be able to ascertain the truth,” said Sir Bridgnorth.

“Not so,” replied Mildred. “He has taken such precautions that his fate will remain a mystery.”

Sir Bridgnorth shook his head.

“I can’t believe that possible,” he said. “It will be important, on several accounts, to have proof of his death. He may have made a will.”

“He has made a will, and has sent it me in this letter,” replied Mildred.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Calverley, surprised. “But he had nothing to leave.”

“He seems to have thought otherwise,” said Mildred. “He fancied he had certain rights and claims, and those he has left to me.”

The slight shade that passed over Mrs. Calverley’s countenance was not unnoticed by Emmeline.

“This shows it will be absolutely necessary to establish the fact of his death,” observed Sir Bridgnorth. “What is the date of the letter you have received?”

“It was written yesterday,” replied Mildred. “But he is not alive now,” she added, solemnly.

“You believe he destroyed himself last night?” asked Mrs. Calverley.

“I firmly believe so,” she rejoined.

Mrs. Calverley then turned to Sir Bridgnorth, and with a coldness that appeared revolting to Mildred and Emmeline, said:

“Is any case of suicide reported in the papers this morning?”

“I have seen none,” he replied. “But it might have escaped me. I seldom read such cases.”

Emmeline rang the bell, and desired the butler to bring the newspapers.

The order was promptly obeyed, and search made, but no “mysterious death” or “supposed suicide” could be discovered.

“It is needless to ask if any address is given with your letter,” remarked Sir Bridgnorth to Mildred.

“It is not likely there would be.”

“And nothing mentioned that could serve as a guide?”

“Nothing.”

Sir Bridgnorth then bade them all a formal adieu, and made a final attempt to give them comfort.

“I hope Chetwynd may have changed his mind at the last moment,” he said. “I believe it will turn out so. To-morrow I shall set out on my melancholy errand, and institute inquiries. You shall hear from me as soon as I have anything to communicate; and I promise you one thing – I will not remain idle. It shall not be my fault if the facts of this painful affair are not discovered.”

END OF THE SECOND BOOK

BOOK THE THIRD – WALTER LIDDEL

I. ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE

Nearly at the same date as the incident related in the foregoing chapters, and about two hours past midnight, a strongly-built, middle-aged man, whose garb proclaimed him a mechanic, took his way across Westminster Bridge.

He was not walking very fast, but when the hour was tolled forth from the lofty tower, he began to mend his pace, glancing occasionally at the sullen river that swept on beneath him.

The bridge was completely deserted. The last policeman he had seen was standing near New Palace Yard, and the belated mechanic was thinking how strange and solitary the usually crowded footway appeared, when he descried a figure leaning over the low parapet.

He had heard many tales of suicide, and something in the attitude of the figure caused him to hurry on.

As he advanced, he perceived, by the light of the lamp, that it was a young man, bare-headed, for a felt hat was lying on the pavement.

The person was muttering to himself, and his demeanour was altogether so wild, that the mechanic was convinced that his suspicions were correct, and he, therefore, called out.

He instantly turned at the cry, and exhibited a haggard visage; but instead of replying, made an attempt to spring upon the parapet.

But the workman was too quick for him, and seized him before he could execute his desperate purpose.

The intended suicide quite shook in the grasp of his powerful preserver.

He was a young man, and his brown hair and beard made the ghastly hue of his countenance yet more striking by the contrast. Moreover, he had the look of a gentleman, but it was difficult to judge of his condition from his grey tweed habiliments.

He offered very little resistance to his friendly captor, his strength apparently being gone.

“Let me go!” he said in a hoarse voice. “I don’t wish to live!”

“Madman!” cried the mechanic. “What’s the matter, that you would throw away life thus?”

“What’s the matter?” echoed the other, with a laugh that had nothing human in it. “I am ruined – utterly ruined! Had you let me alone, my troubles would have been ended by this time!”

And he made another ineffectual attempt to free himself.

“Don’t think to get away!” said the mechanic. “I’m sorry for you, but it’s my duty to prevent you from committing this wicked act. I shall hold you till a policeman comes up!”

“No; don’t do that!” cried the wretched man. “Though I don’t know where to turn for a night’s lodging, I don’t want to be locked up! Leave go your hold; I promise not to make the attempt again!”

“Well, I’ll trust you,” replied the mechanic, releasing him.

They looked at each other for a few moments, and both seemed satisfied with the scrutiny.

The intended suicide was apparently about three or four and twenty; tall, handsome, well-proportioned. As already intimated, he had brown locks and a brown beard, and was dressed in such manner that no precise idea could be formed of his rank.

In regard to his preserver, there could be no mistake. His working attire and cap proclaimed his station. He had an honest, manly countenance. In age he might be about forty-five.

“Here’s your hat, sir,” he said picking it up. “I should like to have a word with you before we part. Perhaps I may be warranted in asking you a question or two, especially as my motive is a good one. I’m not influenced by mere curiosity. I’ll begin by telling you my name. It’s Joe Hartley. I’m a stonemason by trade, and live in Lambeth Palace Road – at least, close beside it. The reason I’m out so late is that I’ve been doing a job at Paddington. But I don’t regret it, since I’ve been the humble instrument of saving a fellow-creature. Now you know all you may care to learn about me, and, in return, I should like to hear something about you.”

“I can’t tell you who I am, Mr. Hartley,” he replied, “nor can I acquaint you with my strange history. You may guess that I must have been brought to a desperate pass.”

His voice changed as he went on.

“What’s a poor fellow to do when he’s utterly ruined? I’ve spent all my money, pawned my watch, my ring, and another little trinket. I’ve nothing left – not a sou.”

“But have you no relatives – no friends?” inquired Hartley, kindly.

“Yes; I’ve relatives, but I’ve quarrelled with them, and would die rather than go near them!” he cried, in a bitter, desperate tone, that left no doubt of his fixed determination. “Friends I have none!”

“Well, well, I won’t argue with you about that,” said Hartley. “But there is no occasion for one so young as you are to starve. There are hundreds of ways in which you may earn a living. Amongst others, you might ‘list for a soldier. I’m much mistaken if you don’t stand six feet two. They’d take you at the Horse Guards in a minute.

“I did think of that; and, perhaps, might have done it, but I was goaded to this desperate act by a circumstance on which I won’t dwell. I think I must have been mad. Very likely I shall enlist tomorrow.

“But you want rest, and have nowhere to go. Come home with me,” said the stonemason.

“You are very good, Mr. Hartley,” he replied, much affected. “This is real kindness, and I feel it – feel it deeply!”

“Come along, then,” cried Hartley. “There’s a policeman moving towards us, and he’ll wonder what we are about. You won’t tell me your name, I suppose?”

“Call me Liddel – Walter Liddel,” replied the other. “It’s not my real name, though I have a right to use it. At any rate, I mean to be known by it henceforward, and it will serve me with the recruiting sergeant.”

“It will serve you with me as well,” said Hartley. “So come along, Mr. Walter Liddel.”

Presently they encountered the policeman, who eyed them rather suspiciously, but was satisfied with a few words from Hartley.

On quitting the bridge, the stonemason turned off on the right, into Lambeth Palace Road.

They walked on in silence, for Liddel did not seem inclined to talk.

Gradually the street became wider, and Hartley, noticing that his companion began to walk very feebly, told him he had not much further to go.

Their course seemed to be stopped by the high wall of the palace grounds; but Hartley turned into a narrow street on the left, called Spencer’s Rents, and halting before the door of a neat little habitation, said:

“Here we are!”

Walter Liddel replied, in a faint voice, that he was glad of it.

Hartley then knocked softly at the door, which was presently opened by his wife.