Jack sighed.
“You deserve to be, old fellow!” he said.
“No, I don’t!” exclaimed Leonard, remorsefully, “for flaunting my happiness in your face, Jack. And now, here’s the supper,” he added, as a waiter from a neighboring chop-house brought in a tray.
Jack sat down, and Leonard waited upon him, hanging over him, and watching him as if every mouthful he ate did him, Leonard, good; meanwhile chatting cheerfully.
“London pretty full, Jack; lots of people up this year.”
“Yes,” said Jack, then he looked up. “I suppose I shan’t be able to show up, because of Moss, Len?”
“Oh, he won’t know you are here! And we’ll cut it. We’ll go down to the country somewhere, Jack, before anyone sees you. You haven’t met anyone, have you?”
“Met them, no. But I have seen Stephen.”
“Stephen Davenant?”
“Yes, I saw him, but I don’t think he saw me. He is looking well.”
Leonard nodded.
“He did not see you – but it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“No,” said Jack, with a sigh. “Len, this is the first ‘square meal,’ as they say over the sea, that I’ve enjoyed since I left. I’m very tired.”
“I can see that,” said Leonard. “Go off to bed, old man. We’ll have no more questions tonight.”
Jack rose and took his candle.
“Yes, one more,” he said, as he held Leonard’s hand, tightly. “Is – is she well, Len?”
Leonard nodded.
“Yes, I think so – ”
“That’s all,” said Jack, resolutely. “Good-night, Len, good-night,” and he turned away quickly.
Leonard stole into Jack’s room several times that night and looked down upon the tired, weary face, still handsome for all its lines and haggardness, handsomer some might have thought, for suffering sets a seal of dignity upon a man’s face if there be sterling stuff in him. Leonard looked down at it pityingly.
“Poor old man; he has had a hard time of it if any man has.”
Jack turned up at breakfast time looking much refreshed.
“First good night’s rest I’ve had since – oh, too long to remember, Len. Dreamed that all that has happened was only a dream, and that I was waking up and going to see – ” he broke off suddenly and sighed.
Leonard was delighted to see him so much better.
“We’ll leave town directly, Jack,” he said. “I’ve just done my usual batch of work, and am free. We’ll spend our Christmas at some old inn – ”
Jack looked at him gratefully.
“You’re a staunch old man, Len,” he said, quietly. “You’d sacrifice your sweetheart to your friend.”
Len colored.
“I’m sure she’d be the first to urge us to go,” he said. “Laura is so unselfish.”
“She shan’t be sacrificed for me,” said Jack. “No, Len, I’ll go off by myself, before anyone knows I’m back – hallo! what’s that?”
It was a footstep on the stairs, Len motioned for Jack to retreat into the bedroom, and only just in time, for, barely stopping to knock, Mr. Levy Moss opened the door.
CHAPTER XXXVI
“Good-morning, Mr. Dagle,” said Moss, his eyes roaming about the room. “Here I am again, you see, Mr. Dagle; and where is Mr. Newcombe? He’s here, I know.”
“If you know so much you’ve no need to ask,” said Leonard. “Who told you he was here?”
Levy Moss winked one bleared eye cunningly.
“I’m smart, Mr. Dagle; I keep my eyes open and my feet a-moving.”
“Just so,” said Leonard, “and if you’ll be good enough to move them out of my room I shall be obliged. Please observe that these are my rooms, Mr. Moss, and not Mr. Newcombe’s, and that I am not desirous of further visits from you.”
“You’re sharp, too, Mr. Dagle,” said Moss; “but Mr. Newcombe’s here; you don’t want two cups and saucers, and two plates, you know, for your breakfast, eh?”
“Get out!” said Len, who, when he was roused was, like most quiet men, rather hot-headed. “Get out! and, by the way, if you meet Mr. Newcombe, I’d advise you to keep clear of him; he’s back from America and carries two revolvers and a bowie knife, and I needn’t tell you, who know him so well, that he’d as soon put a bullet through your head or stick the knife in between your ribs as look at you – far rather, perhaps.”
Moss turned pale.
“I hope Mr. Jack won’t do anything rash.”
“I won’t answer for him. They don’t think much of killing your sort of people on the other side, Moss. Get out,” and Mr. Moss shuffled out; Leonard bolting the door after him.
Jack came in and sat down quietly and gravely.
“I’ve frightened him,” said Leonard, smiling. “He’ll keep clear of you for a day or two. But how did he know you were back? He couldn’t have been keeping watch for all these months.”
“I don’t know; someone must have seen me, and told him; I don’t know who, Len. I’m going out.”
“Now, Jack?” said Leonard, fearfully.
Jack smiled.
“No, Len; I won’t cut it again without telling you and saying ‘good-by.’ I’m only going for a walk; and I’ll be back to dinner.”
Leonard looked after him, still rather anxiously; there was a look of determination on the pale, thoughtful face which alarmed him.
Jack walked to Regent street – please mark that he didn’t call a hansom; though Len had pressed some money upon him – and then into Piccadilly, and still with the thoughtful look of determination on his face, into Park Lane, and ascended the steps of Lady Bell’s villa.
A footman, who knew not Jack, opened the door, and Jack, who had not any cards, gave his name, which the footman gave to Lady Bell’s maid as “Mr. Bluecut.”
Jack walked into the drawing-room, every article of which was familiar to him; and sat down in the chair which he had so often drawn close to Lady Bell’s, only a few months back; and yet how long, long ago it seemed.
Presently the door opened, and Lady Bell came in.
He saw her in the glass before she saw him.
Tastefully and simply dressed, she looked, if anything, more beautiful than ever, but not so bright and restless; Jack noticed that. There was an undefinable change about her, just as if she had gone through some trouble, or had done battle with some grief.
Suddenly she looked round and saw him, and stopped; one hand holding a chair, her face going from white to crimson.
Jack rose.
“I’ve startled you; I’m very sorry.”
Lady Bell recovered herself, and went to him with outstretched hand and a look in her dark eyes that she tried to keep out of them.
“Jack,” she said, almost involuntarily.
“Yes, it’s I; like the bad penny, back again, Lady Bell.”
And he sat down and laughed.
She sank into a chair beside him, and looked at his careworn face.
“Where have you been?” she asked, softly.
“To America,” said Jack.
“You have been ill?” she said, still more softly.
Jack nodded.
“Yes. I’m all right now. And you? You don’t look quite the thing?”
“Do I not?” she said, with a smile. “I am quite well. And is that all you are going to tell me of your wanderings?”
“No. I’ll tell you everything some other time,” said Jack, quietly.
“You are not going away again, then?” she asked, looking at him, and then away from him.
Jack flushed.
“That depends,” he said, quietly.
“Depends on what?” she asked.
“On you,” he said.
Lady Bell started, and the crimson flush flooded her face and neck. Her lips trembled, and she looked away.
“On me?” she murmured, faintly.
“On you,” said Jack, earnestly. “Lady Bell, I have come back to ask you to be my wife.”
She was silent; her face turned from him, so that he could not see the tears that welled up in her eyes.
Jack took her hand.
“Lady Bell, I know that I am not worthy of you – know it quite well. There isn’t a man in the world who is; I, least of all. I know, too, what the world would say if you should answer ‘Yes.’ It will impute all sorts of base motives to me. But, as Heaven is my witness, it is not for your wealth that I ask you to be my wife. I am poor, and in all sorts of trouble; but if you were poorer than I am I would still ask you.”
“You would?” she murmured.
“Yes,” he said, quietly. “Yes, I can say that, though I tell you in the same breath that I am, at this moment, being hunted for money. And I think you will believe me.”
She made a gesture of assent with her hand.
“Dear Lady Bell,” he continued, “during the last few months I have been looking back to those happy days we spent together; and when a man’s down with the fever he looks back with keen and wise insight into the turn of things, and knows when he was happy in the past, and with whom; and I swore that, if ever I pulled through and got back, I would ask you if you did not think we might be as happy in the future as in the past. Dear Bell, I would try and make you happy. Will you be my wife?”
Trembling in every limb, she sat silent, and with averted face. Then, suddenly and yet slowly, she turned her eyes upon him – eyes full of ineffable love and sadness.
Slowly, softly, she put her other hand in his, and smiled at him.
“You ask me to be your wife, Jack?”
“I do,” he said. “Your answer, dear Bell?”
“Is – No,” she said.
Jack started, and his eyes fell before the deep love and tenderness in hers. He would have drawn his hand away, but she still held it gently.
“Do you ask me why, Jack? I will tell you. It is because you do not love me.”
He looked up with a start, and turned pale.
Lady Bell shook her head gently.
“Do not speak – it is useless. Besides, you would not tell me a lie, Jack. Listen; I, too, have been looking back; I, too, have learned a lesson – a truth – while you have been away. And that truth is, that others may love as truly and deeply as myself; and that others may find it as impossible to forget – ”
Jack, pale and agitated, stopped her.
“The past is buried,” he said, hoarsely – “let it rest.”
“It is not buried – it cannot be. See! it revives – springs up, even without the mention of her name. Jack, you do not love me – you cannot; for all your love has been given, is still given, to Una.”
“For Heaven’s sake!” he implored, rising and pacing the room.
Lady Bell looked at him.
“Ah, how you love her still, Jack! See how right I was; and yet you would come to me.”
And the tears fall slowly.
“Forgive me,” said Jack, bending over her humbly, imploringly – “forgive me! You – you are right. But I swear I thought it was over for me. You knew me better than I knew myself.”
“Yes, for a good reason, Jack,” she murmured; “for I love you.”
Jack winced.
“I have been a brute!” he murmured.
“No, Jack,” she said – and she put her hand on his arm and looked up at him with a smile – “you meant well and honestly. You did not know how it stood with you. I could not have loved you so well if you had been false – if you had forgotten her. I have been thinking it out, Jack; and I know now that to love once – as you and I love – is to love forever.”
“But it is past,” he said, “utterly, irrevocably past. You do not know the barrier that stands immovably between her and me.”
“Do I not?” she murmured, inaudibly. “Be it what it will, your love and hers stand firm on either side of it. But no more of that, Jack. I am glad you have come to me – very, very glad. And though I cannot be your wife, Jack” – with what tenderness and sadness those two words were breathed – “I can be your friend. I want you to promise me something.”
Jack pressed her hand. He could not trust himself to speak.
“I want you to promise that you will not go away again, that you will not leave London whatever happens – mind, whatever happens – without letting me know! I may ask that much, Jack?”
“You may ask anything,” he said, huskily; “I will do anything you ask of me – simply anything.”
“I think you would,” she said. “Then I have your promise? And, Jack, this must make no difference between us; you will come and see me?”
“I do not deserve to come within a mile of you.”
She smiled.
“And so punish me for not saying ‘yes,’” she said, with a little attempt at archness. “That would be hard for me, Jack. I should lose lover and friend as well.”
“You are the truest-hearted woman in the world,” said Jack, deeply moved.
“Except one,” said Lady Bell. “There, go now, Jack, and come to dinner tonight, and bring Leonard Dagle with you – another true heart.”
“I will,” said Jack, simply. And he held out his hand.
She held out both of hers, and looked at him with a strange, wistful yearning in her eyes.
“Jack,” she breathed, softly, “will you kiss me for the first and last time?”
Jack drew her toward him and kissed her. Then, with a little sigh, she left him. How Jack got out he knew not, for his eyes were strangely dim and useless.
CHAPTER XXXVII
A dim light was burning in the drawing-room of the Hurst. Outside, the storm was raging wild and pitiless, making the warm room seem like a harbor of refuge. Beside the fire sat Mrs. Davenant, half dozing over a piece of finest needlework for the village working club. She was alone in the room, and every now and then glanced anxiously toward the door. Presently it opened, and the tall figure of Stephen entered and crossed over to her.
“Mother,” he said, and there was a tremulous ring in his voice and a quiver in his lips that were in marked contrast to his usual smooth calm.
Mrs. Davenant looked up with a glance of alarm. “Una!” she exclaimed.
“Hush!” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. “Una,” and his voice dwelt on the name. “Una is asleep. She has gone to her own room for a little while. Mother,” he said, slowly, “she has consented.”
Mrs. Davenant looked up and trembled: “Oh, Stephen!”
He nodded, and stood before the fire, looking up with a smile of undisguised triumph and joy. “Yes, she has consented. It was – well, hard work; but my love overmastered her. I told her that you agreed with me that the sooner the marriage took place the better. You do, do you not?”
“Yes,” murmured Mrs. Davenant.
“She wants change; nothing but entire change of life and thought will do her good. Mother, if she remained here, if something were not done, she would” – he paused, and went on hoarsely, “she would die!”
Mrs. Davenant shuddered and her eyes filled. “My poor, poor Una!” she murmured.
Stephen moved impatiently. “She will not need your pity, mother. A few weeks hence and you will have no reason to pity her. I’ll stake my life that I bring her back here with the roses in her cheeks, with the smile in her eyes, as of old. Mother, you do not know what such love as mine can do!” and his voice trembled with suppressed passion.
Mrs. Davenant looked up at him, tearfully.
“You – you are much changed, Stephen,” she murmured.
“I am,” he said, with a curt laugh. “I am changed, am I not? I scarcely know myself. And she has done it. She! My beautiful queen, my lily! Yes, she shall be happy, if man can make her.” He was silent a moment, dwelling on his love and future, and looked, as he spoke, much changed. Then he awoke at a question from his mother.
“When is it to be, Stephen?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, quietly.
“Tomorrow!” gasped. Mrs. Davenant. “Impossible!”
“Not at all,” he said, curtly. “Remember, I told you not to be surprised, that it would come suddenly.”
“But – ”
He made a movement of impatience.
“Do you think I have not made preparations? See,” and he took a paper from his pocket, “I have had the license for a week past. It is no ordinary marriage. We want no bridesmaid and wedding favors. She would not have them – or me, if you insisted upon it. It is principally on the condition that the ceremony shall be quite private – secret almost – that she has consented.”
Mrs. Davenant stared at the fire.
Stephen smiled.
“You do not understand me, even yet, mother,” he said. “Did you ever know anything fail me?”
Mrs. Davenant shuddered, or was it the play of the fire-light?
“Never,” she said, in a low voice.
Stephen smiled again.
“I have seen this coming, have seen my way to it for months past; I have swept every barrier away – ” He stopped suddenly and bit his lip – “and now for our plans, mother. Try and collect yourself; this has surprised and upset you,” he said, sharply.
Mrs. Davenant sat up and looked at him attentively.
“Tomorrow we start, without fuss or bother, for Clumley. I have ordered them to take a pair of horses to the half-way house, so that we can change without loss of time. I have also sent a letter to the clergyman telling him to be prepared for us, and keep his own counsel. We shall reach Clumley, traveling easily, by half-past ten. There will be no wedding breakfast – thank Heaven! no fuss or ceremony. We shall go straight from the church to London, and thence to Paris. Excepting ourselves and clergyman no one can know anything of the matter until the marriage is over, then – ” and he drew a long breath and smiled.
Mrs. Davenant, pale and trembling, stared up at him.
“And – and Una? Does she agree to all this?”
“Una agrees to everything,” he said, impatiently. “She herself stipulated that it should be done quietly, and” – with a smile – “if this is not quietly, I do not know what is. And now, my dear mother, go and make what preparations are absolutely necessary, and make them yourself, and unaided. Remember there must be no approach to any wedding party. We are only going to take an outing for a day or two. You understand?”
“I understand,” she faltered; “and when will you be back, Stephen?” she asked, pitiably. “I – I – you won’t be away long, Stephen? I shall miss her so.”
Stephen patted her on the shoulder.
“Don’t be afraid, mother. We shall not be away too long. I am too proud of my beautiful bride to hide her away. I want to see her here, mistress of the Hurst. My wife! my wife! Hush! here she comes. Do not upset her.”
And, with a quick, noiseless step, he went out as Una entered.
Framed in the doorway, she stood for a moment like a picture. Paler and slighter than in the old days, she had lost none of her beauty. Stephen had cause to be proud of his bride. There would be no lovelier woman in Wealdshire than the future mistress of the Hurst. And yet, if Jack could have seen her that moment, what agony her face would have cost him; for his eyes, quickened by his passionate love, would have read and understood that subtle change that had fallen on the beautiful face; would have read the settled melancholy which sat enthroned on the dark eyes, and gave them the dreamy, far-away look which never left them for a moment.
“Communing with the past, she walked;
Alive, yet dead to all the world.”
Slowly she crossed the room, and stood just where Stephen had stood, and looked into the fire; but not as he had looked – triumphantly, joyfully; but with an absent, dreamy air.
Mrs. Davenant put out her hand, and touched her arm.
“Una!”
She turned her head, and looked at her questioningly, with a weary, uninterested gaze.
“Una, he – Stephen has told me. Oh, my darling, I hope you will be happy!”
Una smiled – a cold, mechanical smile.
“Happy? Yes, he says I shall be happy. Do you think,” and she looked calmly at the anxious, nervous face, “do you think I shall be happy?”
Mrs. Davenant drew her toward her.
“My dear, you frighten me. You – you are so – so strange and cold. Cold! Your hands are like ice. Oh, Una, do you know what it means – this that you are going to do? It is not too late. Think, Una. You know how I love you, dear. That I would give all the world to call you – what you are, my heart of hearts – my own daughter. But, oh, Una! if you think, if you are not quite sure that you will be happy – ”
Una looked straight at the fire.
“He says so,” she said, in the same hard, cold voice; “he is clever and wise. He is your son; why do you doubt him?”
Mrs. Davenant shivered.
“I – I don’t doubt him, dear. Yes, he is my son; he has been a good son to me. But you are to be his wife; think.”
“I have thought,” said Una, quietly. “It will make him happy – he says so; and the rest does not matter to me. Yes, I have thought; I am tired with thinking”; and she put her hand to her brow with a sharp gesture, half wild, half weary. “I will make him happy, and I shall always be with you, whom I love. What does the rest matter?”
Mrs. Davenant uttered a little moan.
“And – and have you quite forgotten?”
Una looked at her calmly, but with a faint shadow in her eyes and a touch of pain on her lips.
“Forgotten! No, I shall not forget until I am dead; perhaps not then; who knows?” and the dreamy look came back. “But that cannot matter. He, Stephen, is content; I have told him all, and he is content. He is easily satisfied.” And for the first time a smile of bitterness crossed her lips. “Why should he love me so?” she said, curtly. “Why should he be so anxious to make me his wife? I cannot understand it. Is it because he thinks that I am beautiful? I looked in the glass just now, and it seemed a dead face.”
“Una!”
She turned and smiled.
“It is true. But I have made you cry. Don’t do that, dear. At least, we shall be together, shall we not?”
In answer, the poor woman took her in her arms, and cried over her; but Una shed not a single tear.
No, Stephen was not likely to fail. There were not likely to be any hitches in anything he undertook.
Even the weather seemed to conform to his plans and wishes, for the morning broke clear and bright, so that he might say:
“Happy is the bride whom the sun shines on.”
Without fuss or bustle, the traveling chariot, with its pair of handsome bays, drew up to the door; a couple of portmanteaus, no larger than was necessary for a day or two’s outing, were put in the box; and Slummers, in his tall hat and black overcoat, looking very much like the old-fashioned banker’s clerk, stood with the carriage door in his hand.
Presently Stephen came down the steps, dressed in a traveling suit, and looking as calm as usual, but for the touch of color in his face. He had grown younger in appearance, less prim and formal, and altogether better-looking. If he could have lost the trick of looking from under his lowered eyelids, he would have been worth calling handsome. He exchanged a word with Slummers.
“All right, sir. The horses are at Netherton; everything is arranged exactly according to your wishes.”
“And no one suspects anything?”
“Not a soul,” said Slummers, with a smile.
This morning’s work was the sort of thing Slummers liked. He was enjoying himself, and as happy as his master.
Stephen went into the house again, and presently Mrs. Davenant and Una appeared. Notwithstanding Stephen’s warning, Mrs. Davenant’s eyes were red; but Una showed no traces of emotion; pale, almost white, she looked calmly around her.
In the night she had started out of her sleep, calling wildly, piteously, on Jack to come and save her. But there was no Jack here – only Stephen, smiling and watchful as he came to meet her and help her into the carriage. For a moment her hand touched his bare wrist, and he felt it cold as ice even through her glove; but he smiled still as if he had no fear.
“Once mine,” he thought, “and all will be well!”
Quietly, with no fuss or bustle, Slummers closed the door, mounted the box, and the horses started off.
Stephen looked at his watch, and smiled.
“Punctual almost to the minute,” he said. “Are you warm enough, my darling?”
And he bent forward, and arranged the costly furs round the slight form.
“Quite,” she said; but she shrank into her corner with a little shiver.
Stephen left her to herself, but would not remain silent, chatting with, or rather to, Mrs. Davenant, in a strain of easy cheerfulness, his eyes wandering to the pale face just showing above the pile of furs.
Their hoofs ringing on the road, which a few hours of early frost had made hard, the horses, the finest pair in the county, for Stephen was critical in such matters and liked the best, spun the distance, and again, almost punctual to the minute, the village of Netherton, to which Stephen had sent the change of horses, was reached.
Slummers stepped down from the box, and was seen to enter the inn yard.
“The horses ought to be out and waiting,” said Stephen, with a little impatience.
A moment or two passed, and then Slummers came to the carriage door.
Stephen jumped out.
“What is it? Why do you not put the horses to?” – for the others had been taken out and were standing in the stable.
Slummers, for the first time in his life, changed color and hesitated.
“There has been some mistake, sir.”
“Mistake!”
“The horses are not here.”
Stephen glared at him.
“I can’t understand it, sir. I gave your orders most minutely, but George has taken the horses on to Clumley.”
Stephen bit his lip and glanced at the carriage.
“Put the others back,” he said, “and tell Masters to drive for his life.”
Slummers hesitated and went to the coachman, coming back in a moment with an uneasy countenance.
“I’m – I’m afraid they won’t reach Clumley in time, sir,” he said. “Masters says that it is impossible. Calculating on fresh horses, he has forced them a bit on the road, and they are used up. If you will look at them, sir – ”
Stephen uttered an oath, and his face twitched.
The coachman came up, troubled but respectful. It was no fault of his.
“I thought I should get the change here, sir. I couldn’t do it, unless the horses had a quarter of an hour and a wipe down, and then – ”
He paused and shook his head.
Stephen controlled himself, though his face was white.
“A quarter of an hour,” he said. “We will wait so long, and not a moment longer. Then drive as if your life depended on it. Do not spare the horses.”
Then he went to the carriage and forced a smile.
“A little delay,” he said, cheerfully. “Would you like to get out for a quarter of an hour, darling?”
Una shook her head.
“I do not care”; but Mrs. Davenant looked at her and spoke out.
“Yes, Stephen,” she said. “My dear, you are half frozen.”
Stephen went to the window of the inn and looked into the room, then went back.
“Come,” he said. “There is a pleasant fire. A rest and the warmth will do you good. Come,” and, wrapping a huge fur round her, he took her on his arm and entered the inn.
Mrs. Davenant followed into the room. A fire was burning in the old-fashioned grate. Stephen drew a chair near to the welcome blaze and led Una to it. White and indifferent she sat and looked at the flames.
“It is only for a few minutes, darling, then we shall be off. Come, drink some of this,” and he held a glass of hot spirit and water to her hand.
Una shook her head.
“Thanks, I could not,” she said, simply.
Stephen motioned to his mother.
“See that she takes some,” he said, in a low voice. “I will go and look after the horses,” and he turned. As he did so the door opened, and a lady entered.
For a moment, in the dim light of the low room, Stephen did not recognize her, then a chill fell on him as if a cold hand had laid on his heart. He staggered back, and then she raised her veil and looked at him.
Not a word passed. Face to face, eye to eye, they stood. A moment passed. Una had not looked round, only Mrs. Davenant stood speechless and trembling. Then, as if with an effort, Stephen regained possession of his quaking soul, and stole nearer to her.
“Laura,” he whispered, glancing behind him. “You here? You want me? Well, let us come outside.”
A smile, calm and scornful, flashed from her dark face.
“You cannot pass,” she said.
A wild devil leaped, full grown, into his bosom, and he raised his hand to strike her, but the next instant he was grasped by the shoulder and flung aside, and Gideon Rolfe stood over him.
The room whirled round; scarcely conscious that other figures had entered and surrounded him, he staggered to his feet. Then a cry, two words, “Father! Jack!” smote upon his ear, and with an effort he turned and saw Jack’s tall form towering in the low room, with Una clasped tightly, lying prone in his arms.
It was all over. Just as the criminal in the dock, when he sees the judge placing the black cap on his head, knows that his doom is sealed, Stephen knew that all was lost. But the will was not all subdued yet.
There was Davenant blood in his veins. White to the very lips, he stood and glared at them, one hand grasping the table, the other thrust in his breast. Then an evil smile curled the cunning mouth.
“Cleverly planned,” he said, speaking as if every word cost him a pang. “You have beaten me, thus far. Gideon Rolfe, I congratulate you upon the success of your maneuvers; in another hour your daughter would have been the mistress of Hurst; she will, now, I presume, be the wife of a beggar.”
Gideon Rolfe looked at him with stern, immovable eyes.
Stephen smiled and took up his hat.
“You have robbed me of my bride,” he said; “permit me to return to the home which still remains to me.”
There was an intense silence. Then a slight stir as Jack, carrying Una in his arms, left the room, followed by Mrs. Davenant. With haggard eyes Stephen watched them, then, with a convulsive movement, he took up his hat.
“You will find me at the Hurst,” he said; “I will go there. If there is any law in the land which can punish you, I will have it, though it cost me a fortune. Yes, I will go home.”
Still they were silent. Whether from pity, or awe at the sight of his misery, they were silent. He looked round and, as if he had called, Slummers glided to his side. They had already reached the door, when a voice said:
“Tell him.”
It was Jack who had returned to the room.
At the sound of the voice, grave and pitying, Stephen swung round as if he had been stung.
“You are here still,” he said, and a glance of malignant hatred distorted his face. “I thought you were in jail by this time. You were waiting to take your wife with you. It would have been wiser to allow her to go to the Hurst.”
“Tell him,” said Jack.
With a slow, almost reluctant movement, Laura Treherne drew a paper from under her jacket and held it up.
Stephen looked at it for a moment as if his sight had failed him, then he smiled.
“The plot thickens,” he said. “You have robbed me of my wife; you have, no doubt, some ready-forged document to rob me of my estate. Am I to give the credit to you for this?” Then he broke out wildly, with a mad laugh. “It is a forgery! a forgery! I will swear it. There is no such will. The marriage never took place. You’ve to prove both yet! You are not so clever as I thought. You should have stopped short where you were. You have got her, be satisfied; the rest is mine! Mine, and you cannot take it from me,” and he held his clinched fist toward Jack as he held all Hurst in his grasp.