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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: A Hidden Chain, volume II, an electronic edition
Author: Russell, Dora
Publisher: Digby, Long and Co., Publishers
Place published: London
Date: [189?]
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 The Hidden Chain"A HIDDEN CHAIN A NOVEL By  DORA RUSSELL 
Author of "Footprints in the Snow," "The Broken Seal," "The Track of the  Storm," "A Fatal Past," "The Vicar's Governess," "Hidden  in my Heart," "A Great Temptation," etc., etc. IN THREE VOLUMESVol. II.LONDON:DIGBY, LONG AND CO., PUBLISHERS18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET. E.C.Table of Contents for Russell's  A Hidden ChainTable of Contents for Russell's  A Hidden ChainA Hidden ChainCHAPTER IA PROMISE.RICHARD DIGHTON drank heavily before he finally flung himself down in the early hours of the new day to take a few hours' rest. He drank to drown the gnawing pain in his heart; the intolerable sense of shame and pain by which he was pursued. And he slept a heavy sleep, but awoke in the morning with the pain in his heart still, before he fully realised what caused it.When he did its full bitterness was
not diminished. He recalled Eva as he
had seen her first—the
graceful, beautiful girl, so unlike
all those whom he had ever seen
before. He remembered the languid
light in her lustrous eyes the evening
she came to Holly Hill, and how from
that night her image had never been absent from his heart. All this came back to the unhappy young man as he lay there with throbbing brow; all his hopes, his love, and then his angry jealousy at the attentions of the young lord to Eva at the dance in the Park, where from the first he had distinguished her above all others.Then he thought of the fire, how when they had roused him from his sleep, and told him of Eva's danger, he had rushed into the burning house, ready to give his life, if need be, for hers. Three times he had tried to ascend the naming staircase and fell with it; and then this other man—this lord—and a fierce oath burst from Richard's lips—had come, and with no danger to himself had saved her—for what?He sprang out of bed, unable any
longer to endure his thoughts, and
began hastily to dress himself with
his trembling hands. He had forgotten
to wind up his watch the night before,
and did not know the time until he
went down to his sitting-room, and was
amazed when he got there to find it
was so late. It was past eleven
o'clock, so he hurriedly drank some
tea and then went out, going direct to the neighbouring street to the one in which was the house where he had seen Eva Moore enter with Clair.He stood at the corner of this street, out of sight of the windows of the little house with the balcony, where he had watched the night before. But this morning he had not long to wait. Before twelve o'clock he saw a hansom drive up to Eva's house, and Clair sprang out of it, dressed in river-side costume. He entered the house, but three minutes later Eva, in white, with a large hat trimmed with red poppies, and with a red silk sash round her slender waist, came out of it, closely followed by Clair, who was carrying some wraps.He handed her into the cab, he seated himself by her side, and then a maid-servant brought a luncheon-basket from the house and placed it beside them.They were evidently going on a country excursion—probably down the river; and the fiercest passions flamed forth afresh in Richard Dighton's breast as he realised this fact.He turned away with unutterable
bitter-ness in his soul as the cab containing the young pair disappeared from his sight. He seemed to see them together on the shining river, flowing placidly by its willowy marge; he seemed to see Eva's face, and to hear her low laugh, as she listened to her lover's words.But let us for a while leave the half-distracted man, wild with jealousy and hate, nursing his dark thoughts and planning his dark deeds, and follow the two, on whose faces was the sunshine of love.From the time of Eva's return to town Clair had been a constant visitor to the little house which she had taken furnished, where she lived alone, excepting the two servants she had engaged.Clair asked no questions as to the reason of this retired and solitary life. She did not wish to be troubled by Mr Richard Dighton, she told him, smilingly, and Clair was but too happy to be allowed to see her, to sit by her side, and to hope that some day her love would be warm and tender as his own.But she would not allow him to talk of this."No, no forbidden subjects!" she would cry gaily when Clair was led away by his feelings, and began to speak some impassioned words. "We are friends," she told him: "it was an agreement when I told you where I was going to live.""I never quite promised," answered Clair one day, smiling."Oh! that is mean; abominably mean," said Eva, still gaily." Well, promise now then."Clair shook his head."I only said I should not say what I thought would worry you, and, Eva—does it worry you to hear I care for you so much?"Many such words as these had passed between them during the time Eva had been in town, and though she affected not to like to listen to Clair's declarations of affection, she in truth found pleasure in them, and was happiest when he was by her side.And while Richard Dighton, with knitted, gloomy brow, was thinking of her with rage and despair, Eva was smiling brightly on her lover, bent on enjoying the river excursion which they had fixed to take the night before.It was one of those days, fresh and beautiful, when the first breath of autumn cools the summer heat. They drove to Paddington, and went by rail to Henley, and soon found themselves upon the shining water.Eva was in extraordinary spirits, and insisted on first rowing the boat they had engaged, and they spent two or three hours most enjoyably. Then the luncheon hour came, and they pulled to the shore and landed by the meadows; and here Eva unpacked the basket, spreading out the good things she had brought, and was seemingly in the happiest possible mood.The excitement and the fresh air had heightened her beauty, and, as they sat together beneath some trees, Clair suddenly caught both her hands in his."Eva, how long are you going to keep me waiting?" he said passionately."For what are you waiting, Clair?" she answered."For you to be my wife; for you to be with me always.""Clair, this is folly.""No, it is not; why should we wait?""There are many reasons why, as I have told you before.""But I do not care for any of the reasons.""But then I do.""Oh! Eva, you tantalise me! You allow me to be with you, to love you, and yet you will not go a step further.""Would you rather never see me, then?""How can you ask such a question? How can you say such words? Not see you! I could not live now if I did not see you, but I am not made of stone.""But, Clair, there are many reasons why—we cannot marry just now at least. For one thing, your parents would naturally object, as I am not in your position of life.""I will take any position of life you like, until I give you mine."Eva sighed uneasily, and glanced shyly at Clair."If I were a good woman," she said, after a little pause, "I would not listen to you, Clair!""You over-estimate things, dear Eva: there is really no difference between us except that my father is a peer, and that is a very small difference indeed."Again Eva sighed; but she let her hand rest in his, and looked vaguely at the sparkling river beyond."Clair," she said presently, "do you believe that if we were very good, very self-denying, that we should be happier?""I suppose we ought to be, at least.""I don't think I could. I am not self-denying; I am selfish; I think of present enjoyment, and not of other people. I am afraid I am very bad, Clair.""Your badness is very charming, then.""You think so because you are young, and I am, I suppose, good-looking. But if you could see into my heart?""I see into your heart; your character is written on your sweet face.""Then I must be very ugly," said Eva, with a little laugh." I hope my character is not written on my face; I wish my face to be a mask to hide my soul.""Oh, Eva!""I want you to understand me—and yet I don't. That is what is so strange about me. I want to be quite honest, quite true to you, and yet I have not strength of mind to see you change. For you would change, Clair, if——""If what?" asked Clair uneasily, for at this moment his father's warning words recurred to him."If you knew what a bad temper I have," said Eva quickly, for her sensitive ears had caught the alteration in his tone. "I am so variable, Clair.""I am not afraid," answered Clair, in a relieved voice;" that makes you only more charming, I think—the light and shade.""Let us go back to the light, then, and leave the shade; after all, life is so short, we should try to enjoy it—to knock some pleasure out of it, for there is plenty of care.""What cares have you, Eva?""Let me see—oh, no, I won't think of them. Let us go on the river again, Clair, and make the most of our holiday."After this they spent most of the afternoon on the water, and then had tea at the hotel, and lingered there until it began to grow dusk. Then they returned by train to town, and drove from the station to the little house at South Kensington, where Eva had ordered supper to be prepared for them.And as they travelled together in the gathering dusk, Eva was sweet and gentle, almost tender in her manner, and Clair's heart was full of happiness. He had never felt so sure that she cared for him as during these hours. They sat side by side; they spoke in love's soft whispers, and strange joy filled their souls. Eva seemed to have forgotten her warnings—her gloom. Her dark eyes were fixed on her young lover's face, her hands were clasped in his. There were moments of delicious silence, but they needed no words. The journey seemed far too short; the spell broken only too quickly. They both sighed softly when they reached home. They never saw a dark form crouching near the doorway; never heard the hiss of a suppressed oath as Clair handed Eva from the hansom, and for a moment drew her against his breast.They went into the house with light hearts, and sat merrily down to the meal which Eva had ordered to be ready for them.The wretched watcher outside saw the house all alight, and could even hear the murmur of voices and laughter as he pressed against the iron railing in front. Then after an hour or so he heard the piano and a man and woman's voice singing together. It seemed to him as if this song would never end. The blood rushed to his head, the veins in his neck swelled, and such a fierce whirl of passion rent his soul that his senses seemed to reel. The song stopped at last, and he drew a deep breath, moved on a step or two, and then returned to his watch.In the meanwhile, inside, Eva and Clair were taking leave of each other."I suppose I ought to go," said Clair, looking regretfully at the clock on the mantel-piece which indicated the fast passing hours."Absolutely nearly eleven!" cried Eva, now also looking at the clock. "Indeed you ought to go, Clair."He went up to her and took her hand."Have you enjoyed yourself to-day, Eva?" he asked tenderly."Yes, Clair.""And we must have many other holidays?""Yes, Clair.""What a good little girl you are to-night!''"Quite a pattern of meekness and sweetness, am I not?""Quite a pattern! Well, good-night then, dear—Eva, my dear, dear love, give me one kiss."She smilingly shook her head."Do not impose, sir!" she said.But Clair caught her in his arms and kissed her fair face, in spite of Eva's not very strong opposition."Good-night, my dearest," he said; "I will see you to-morrow."And so he left her, and Eva, after he was gone, stepped out into the balcony to watch him pass below.She had scarcely got there; Clair had scarcely advanced a few steps down the street when a shot was fired, and then another in quick succession.Eva gave a sudden cry of alarm and looked anxiously over the balcony, and saw to her dismay and terror by the lamp-light in the street below that Clair had stopped, that he reeled slightly, and then fell forward.With another cry she sprang back into the room, ran down the stairs, and calling to the servants as she passed the dining-room, who were removing the supper, she opened the front door and hurried into the street, and two moments later was beside Clair, who was trying to stagger to his feet."Clair! What has happened?" she asked breathlessly. "Are you hurt?""A shot has struck me, I think," he answered faintly. "Did you hear it?""Yes. Lean on me, Clair, and come back into the house," said Eva, putting her arm round him; and as Clair tried to do this the two servants also came running up."He has been hurt; help me to lead him," said Eva, and as one of the women took Clair's arm to assist him, a slight cry escaped his lips."It is broken, I think; do not touch it," half whispered Clair, and he staggered forward towards the house, Eva holding him by the other arm; and when they reached it Eva saw by the hall-lamp that her white dress was stained with blood."Run for Dr Sidney," cried Eva excitedly to one of the maids. "Tell him to come at once; that a gentleman has been shot."The maid hurried away to obey her, and with the assistance of the other Eva succeeded in leading Clair into the dining-room, and placing him on a couch."Dear Clair, who has done this? How did it happen?" she asked tremulously.But Clair seemed too faint to make any reply, and Eva hastily called for some brandy. He drank a little of this, and it revived him, but the blood was streaming fast from his side, and Eva's agitation was excessive. She knew not what to do, as each moment appeared to increase the bleeding; and one arm hung helpless by his side."You run for a doctor too, Cooper," she said to the other maid, and as the woman left the room she was alone with Clair, and kneeling down beside him she clasped both his hands."Dear, dear Clair," she murmured.He looked at her with a tender light in his grey eyes and saw she was trembling."Don't be afraid, my dearest," he said, "I shall be all right—and, Eva, even if——""If what, Clair?" she asked, with a choking sensation in her throat.He did not speak; he pressed her hand with the one hand he could move, and Eva bent down and kissed his brow, while tears rushed into her eyes."Oh! if the doctor would only come," her heart was praying, but the minutes seemed hours to her, and all she could do to help him was to hold the brandy to his lips. But at last she heard some one ascending the doorsteps; a man's footfall, and a moment or two later Dr Sidney entered the room."Oh! if the doctor would only come," her heart was praying, but the minutes seemed hours to her, and all she could do to help him was to hold the brandy to his lips. But at last she heard some one ascending the doorsteps; a man's footfall, and a moment or two later Dr Sidney entered the room.He was a tall, good-looking, rather elderly man, who lived in the neighbourhood, and had attended Eva for some slight ailment since she had lived in her present house."There has been an accident I hear, Miss Moore?" he said as he went forward." Yes," faltered Eva; "this gentleman has been shot just outside the door.""Shot?" repeated the doctor in surprise."Yes; I heard the shots; I was standing on the balcony, and—and—they must have struck——"The doctor by this time was bending over Clair, and asking for scissors, he proceeded to cut up the coat-sleeve upon the injured arm."I think perhaps you had better leave us alone, Miss Moore," he said, and greatly agitated, Eva left the room, and went up to the drawing-room, and stood there trembling violently."Can—can he have done this?" she was asking herself, with a heart full of terror. "Clair, dear Clair, have I brought this on you?"She wrung her hands together and walked up and down the room in extreme agitation."No, no, he could not know," she told herself the next moment; "it must be an accident, and yet—and yet——"One of the servants came into the room while she was thus debating some most painful question in her mind, and she looked hastily up."Cooper has brought in another doctor, miss," said the maid."That is right. Have you heard them say anything?" asked Eva."I heard Dr Sidney say to the other doctor, miss, that his arm is broken, and that he is badly wounded in the side——""Oh! how dreadful, how dreadful!" interrupted Eva, clasping her hands."It's an awful business, miss, that it is."Eva made no answer. She began pacing restlessly up and down the room, holding her hand to her side, where she was feeling a severe physical pain brought on by agitation. It seemed hours that she walked there; hours of racking anxiety, but in reality it was not an hour when Dr Sidney rapped at the door and came into the room, looking certainly serious."Well, my dear young lady, we have done all we could for him at present," said the doctor in answer to the mute inquiry in Eva's dark eyes." He is severely, though I trust not fatally wounded, and the great thing in his present condition is that he should be kept perfectly quiet, and not removed from this house!""Of course not—of course not," answered Eva, in a trembling voice."But he will not consent to this until he has had an interview with you," continued the doctor; "a private interview," he added with a smile,"and I advise you to grant him this.I understand lie is not a stranger to you, but an intimate friend?""Yes, I know him well.""Then will you see him at once? and I propose that a bed be taken down to your dining-room, so that there will be no carrying upstairs, and I shall send in a professional nurse to attend him; and between us I hope to pull him through. He is a fine-looking, healthy young man, and that is greatly in his favour. What did you say his name is?""Clair," faltered Eva."Well, then, I hope Mr Clair will recover from the effects of the shot of his cowardly assailant, for he has been shot from behind. But will you come to speak to him now?"Eva followed the doctor downstairs with trembling footsteps, and paused at the dining-room door, while Dr Sidney entered the room and spoke in a low tone to the other doctor, who was standing by the couch on which Clair was lying. This other doctor looked round at Eva as Dr Sidney spoke to him, and then nodded, and a moment later they both advanced to the doorway where Eva stood."Will you go in now, Miss Moore?" said Dr Sidney in a low tone; "and do not on any account excite him. Comply if you can with any wish of his."Eva made no answer. She walked forward into the room with her eyes fixed on Clair's white face, while the doctor gently closed the door behind her, and she was thus alone with him."Clair," she said in an agitated voice, and she knelt down by the side of the couch and laid her hand on one of his, " do you feel better now?""Yes, dear, I am not so faint," he answered in a very low, weak voice."The doctors say, Clair," went on Eva, "Dr Sidney says that you must stay here, and of course you must stay.""I can only do so on one condition, Eva—this is why I asked to see you—if I stay you must promise to be my wife; we must tell these doctors we are engaged to each other—or——""Oh! what matter is it what they think?" prayed Eva. "Only get well, dear Clair, and I care for nothing else.""But I care for something else, my dearest. I care for you far more, and will risk my life certainly sooner than that anyone should be able to speak an untrue word of you.""Oh Clair!" and Eva laid her head upon his breast."Let me tell the doctors you are my betrothed wife, Eva, or I must go!""But they say it will be dangerous, Clair," half whispered Eva, "and Clair, dear, Dr Sidney called you Mr Clair——""So much the better. Eva, if you care for me ever so little, promise to be my wife! I may die, you know, dear; and if they take me to a hospital my father and mother may hear, and they will take me away from you. Will you let me die without you?""No, no!" cried Eva passionately. "What matter is it what happens to me? Try to get well, dear Clair. I will nurse you and be near you—say what you like.""You will promise to be my wife then?" asked Clair eagerly."Yes," answered Eva in a stifled voice, and again she laid her head on his breast."My darling!" said Clair." Kiss me, Eva, Now I will get well. I feel sure I shall get well!"She lifted her face and kissed his lips, and she shivered slightly as she did so."You have made me so happy, darling," whispered Clair." Kiss me again, Eva—my own love—my dearest wife."Again Eva slightly shivered, but she once more pressed her lips to his, and then rose from her knees."I must go now, Clair, and see about things. I will arrange everything with Dr Sidney and then come back to you. Try for my sake to get well."She looked at him with a strange gaze in her shadowy eyes as she spoke; a gaze half of pity and yet of love."It is for his sake," she was telling herself; "if I am doing wrong it is to save his life."CHAPTER IIMR.GOWER, Q.C.NATURALLY, since the time that Lord Kilmore had parted with Clair in anger, there had been great anxiety on his account at the Hall. The day following her husband's return Lady Kilmore had written to her son, entreating him to return to them, and urging him in the tenderest words to give up an attachment which was causing them all the keenest pain."Whatever this young lady may be to
you, my dearest Clair," wrote Lady
Kilmore, "can she be so much to you as
those who have loved you and tended
you from childhood? Your dear father
is far from well, and this affair has
been and is very trying to him. It
grieves him also that you who have
always been so good a son should positively disobey him, and I assure you that your conduct has caused us both great and bitter sorrow."To this letter Clair wrote an affectionate and respectful answer, but in it he showed no signs of yielding to his parent's wishes."There are some subjects, dearest mother, on which a man himself alone can judge. I am very sorry, more than sorry, that I am giving you pain, but I assure you there is no true cause for it. I will not write on this subject any more, and I ask as a great favour that you and my father will also forbear doing so.""He is bent on making a fool of himself," said Lord Kilmore after he had read this letter; "and he is of age, so what can we do? It's a thousand pities, but I am afraid there is no help for it,""He may change; he may get over his infatuation," answered Lady Kilmore, with a sigh."No, my dear; the clever woman who has caught him in her mesh will take good care he does not get over his infatuation. She will not often have such a chance, and we may be sure she will not lose it.""It's terrible to think of it—if I went to him, Kilmore——""It would do no good, Jeanie."Tears rushed into Lady Kilmore's eyes."It is hard—hard," she said; "hard on you, hard on me—and——""You are thinking of Annette Gower?" said Lord Kilmore as his wife paused."Yes," she answered, almost in a whisper; "she does not know what we do, but I think she fancies something is wrong—poor girl!"Annette more than fancied something was wrong with Clair, she felt sure. Her even-tempered aunt was restless and unhappy, and her uncle was gloomy and taciturn. Yet weeks passed on and nothing apparently happened. Clair wrote to his mother, and Lady Kilmore answered his letters, but by her husband's advice she said nothing more about Eva Moore."I am convinced it would be
useless," said Lord Kilmore."We have
said all we could to him; it is wasting time to say anything more.""When is Clair coming back, Aunt Jeanie?" one day asked Annette, unable any longer to keep silent on a subject so near her heart."I do not know, my dear," answered Lady Kilmore gravely."But—has anything happened to him? Has he quarrelled with Lord Kilmore?"Lady Kilmore hesitated a moment or two, then she said yet more gravely:—"Do you remember that girl whom he saved at the fire at Holly Hill, Annette?""Yes," faltered Annette."Well, his father is angry with Clair because he has carried on his acquaintance with this young lady; because he refuses to give it up."Annette's face grew very pale, and then a sudden flush dyed it."I knew he admired her very much," she said, as if forcing herself to speak."Do you mean that—he wished to be engaged to her?""The strangest part of the affair is that he told his father that she had absolutely refused him. I cannot credit it, but he told Kilmore this.""Refused him!" repeated Annette in absolute astonishment."So he told his father.""Then—then she may be engaged to some one else—she must be!" said Annette, with strong conviction.Lady Kilmore was silent for a moment or two, then she said slowly:"That may be so, Annette; I never thought of this, yet it may absolutely be the case. I pray and trust it is.""And where is she now?" asked Annette eagerly."She went to Brighton, so Mr Dighton told your uncle, and Clair is staying in town, as you know. When your father comes next week I wonder if he will be able to give us any news of him?"Annette's father, Mr Gower, a famous Q.C., spent annually a part of his vacation with his sister, Lady Kilmore, at the Hall. He was a shrewd, hard-headed, hard-working man, and it had floated through his mind also that his daughter Annette would make a very suitable wife for his nephew, Lord Clair. Perhaps his sister had unconsciously put this idea into his brain; at all events, it was there, and when he arrived on his usual visit he was not over-pleased to hear that Clair had had a disagreement with his father about some young woman, and was not at the Hall."And who is the young woman?" inquired the Q.C. in his sharp tones, with his keen eyes fixed on his sister's disturbed face."That we cannot tell, Arthur," answered Lady Kilmore; "she came to this part of the country to stay with a farmer's family, one of our tenants, and Clair met her at the tenants' ball when he came of age; then the same night there was a fire at the farmer's house, and with great bravery and danger to his own life Clair saved this young lady's.""Most romantic!""That is the worst of it; I fear the very romance of the affair has led poor Clair into all this trouble. At all events, he followed her to Eastcliff after she left here, and refuses to give up his acquaintance with her. It has made us both very unhappy.""I do not suppose he contemplates matrimony?""But, Arthur, he declared to his father that she had refused him!""Very unlikely that the friend of a farmer's should refuse a young lord. There is something behind all this, Jeanie. Does Annette know anything of it?""Just what we know. She has had no private communication from Clair.""And where is he—and where is the beloved one?""Oh, Arthur, don't jest about it! It is too serious. It has changed Clair entirely; he used to be so good, and never worried us at all, but since he knew this young lady he will not listen to us.""He is asserting his manhood," answered the Q.C. with his somewhat harsh laugh. "It's always the young cockerels that crow the loudest. But you have not answered my question: where is he, where is she?""He is in town and she is at Brighton, I believe.""Most convenient for both! At this season too. Well, Jeanie, I'll look Clair up when I go back to town, and be able to report on the state of his mind. In the meanwhile I should not worry myself if I were you. Most likely the affair will all end in smoke: and as for her refusing Clair, I simply don't believe it, nor do I believe he ever offered to her.""But he told his father he did, Arthur."The famous Q.C. shrugged his shoulders."Most likely from some quixotic notion of defending her reputation he invented that little fable for the benefit of Kilmore. He's at the age of quixotism, you know, in theory, but you will see."Lady Kilmore sighed restlessly. Her brother's words gave her little comfort. To her idea it was cruel of Clair to behave as he was doing to this young lady unless he meant to make her his wife, and cruel to them if he did. Mr Gower spoke as a man of the world; a man who was used to its undercurrents and pitfalls, and who had a professed belief in the selfishness of all the inhabitants of the earth."It's instinct," he would say."We all think of self, and what's best for self, and this feeling guides almost every action of our lives. And it is the same with beast and bird. Does the wild duck stay by the side of his shot mate struggling madly in the water? No, he is away, and his mate dies alone; his self-love is as ours.""There is love stronger than selfishness, Arthur," Lady Kilmore one day replied;"mothers have died for their children; lionesses for their cubs.""I am speaking from a masculine point of view, my dear," answered Mr Gower with a laugh.Nevertheless, though he so persisted in the selfishness of humanity, Mr Gower was not without some tenderness in his nature. He was really fond of his only daughter, Annette, and sincerely anxious for her welfare. He had earnestly desired that she should marry her cousin Clair for her own sake, and perhaps a little for his own. And he quietly determined, as he listened to his sister's account of Clair's infatuation for Miss Eva Moore, to find out as much as possible about that young lady. He spoke to his daughter also on the subject, and his acute eyes soon perceived that Annette cared for Clair only too well."So your cousin has got into trouble about some young woman?" he said.Annette's dark, piquant little face flushed violently."I—believe he admires some one," she answered, hesitatingly."Have you seen her? Is she handsome.""She is very handsome, and Clair saved her life—I think that is how he came to think of her.""Precisely; but it's folly; however, I'll see him when I go back to town, and try to laugh such romantic nonsense out of his head."Annette sighed; she did not believe that her father's words or laughter would have any influence on Clair, but since her aunt had told her that Eva Moore had refused her cousin, a sort of saddened hope had sprung up in her breast."She must love someone else," she had told herself again and again. No one whose heart had been free would have refused Clair, she firmly believed."It must be painful to poor Clair," she thought," but still——"She tried to be sorry for her cousin and his supposed disappointment, but she knew she was not honestly so. And she tried, too, not to think of him except as a cousin, but she knew that she failed in this also.Her own feelings humiliated her, for a woman who loves unsought cannot well be proud of her affection.And Annette was a sensitive girl, who hid as best she could the emotions of her heart. But unconsciously she betrayed them; her aunt knew, and her father guessed her secret."When will he come back, I wonder?" she thought, gazing pensively out of the window of her own room on the Park, shortly after this conversation about Clair with her father. "He will weary of a vain pursuit, and then——" And again Annette sighed, thinking sadly of the cousin who at this moment was lying grievously ill, with his hand fast clasped in Eva Moore's!CHAPTER IIIA SUDDEN BLOW.SCARCELY had Richard Dighton, in his mad jealousy and rage, fired the two cowardly shots which laid Clair low, than remorse and fear seized upon his trembling soul. He saw Clair fall, and then turned hastily away, dreading, however, to walk too quickly lest he should attract suspicion, and to his consternation a few minutes later, though after he had turned out of the street where Eva lived, he encountered a policeman, who stopped him."Beg your pardon, sir, but did you hear two shots fired somewhere in this direction?" said the policeman."I heard something," answered Richard with faltering tongue, and as he spoke the policeman observed him with attention."I could have sworn there were two shots," he continued. "What street have you come out of, sir?"Richard named an adjoining street, but not the one where Eva lived, and then walked on, and the policeman looked after him as he did so."That fellow looks rather queer," he was thinking,"and not up to much good; I think I'd know him again;" and then he also walked on, little dreaming, however, that he had just met the man who had fired the two shots, and under whose ulster at this moment lay concealed the very weapon he had used.As for Richard Dighton, this encounter made him realise more keenly what he had done. On he fled now with swift steps, glancing backward to see if he were pursued; and a sick, cold feeling crept over him—a feeling partly of remorse, partly of fear.It came in place of the hot passion
which had filled his soul not a
quarter of an hour ago. "Had he killed
the young lord?" he asked himself with
pallid lips. He had wounded him, at all events; suspicion might fall on him, and Richard shuddered as he thought.He wandered aimlessly along for some time, not knowing where he went. Then the idea struck him to get rid of his revolver, which he only purchased in the morning. He sought a quiet square for this purpose, intending to push it through the iron railings in the centre, and leave it there unseen. He stopped, thinking to do this, but a couple approached him as he did so, and Richard walked on. In fact, he found it by no means easy to find a place suitable for its concealment.At last he did drop it over the railings and then hurried away. He was bodily weary with his long watch before Eva's house, and he went into the first tavern he came to and drank two glasses of whisky, which seemed to put some life into him. Finally he returned to his lodgings, and there drank more whisky, and then tumbled into bed.He slept until the morning, but when he awoke a grim terror seized him. The cold dew broke out on his brow; his heart beat violently. A ghastly vision rose before him—the scaffold, the hangman, and the rope—and with a groan Richard Dighton turned his white face to the wall.What had he done? He remembered at this moment his father and mother, and the homestead where he had been born. Until Eva Moore had come with her wonderful beauty and changed all his life, Richard had liked and had been proud of the acquaintance of the young lord. Many a day, as boys, they had fished together in the river Ayre, which flowed past the end of the Park, and as young men their acquaintance had continued."She has done it all, curse her!" muttered Richard darkly, and then he thought, What must he do?He must go away, he decided, and he rose, and with shaking hands dressed himself and went down into the sitting-room and rang for breakfast, scarcely having courage to open the morning paper which, as usual, lay on the table awaiting him.With an effort he did this, but there was no mention of the murder or injury to Lord Clair in its columns. Richard scanned it all through, holding it in his trembling hands, and then gave a kind of gasp of relief. Yet he had seen the young lord fall.It seemed to him now as though he had been mad; it was a mad action, he told himself; no woman was worth it, and again Richard swore as he uttered Eva's name.She was not worth it! Yet even as he said this the passion in his heart rekindled. With a groan he flung his head on the table near him, and her beautiful face seemed to take form and colouring before his eyes."I'm glad I killed him!" he muttered savagely; but the next moment that grim vision that he had thought of before he rose struck terror in his heart.But he could not rest. He felt impelled, as it were, to go to the scene of his last night's crime, and try to learn how it had ended; and he actually did this. He went to the very street where he had watched Eva and Clair start on their river-side excursion, and he had not stood there five minutes when he saw a carriage drive up to the door of Eva's house. And from this carriage a gentleman descended; a tall, grave, good-looking man, unmistakably a doctor. The door was opened quickly, and he disappeared; then another carriage drove up to the door, and from this second carriage another doctor emerged.Then Richard understood. He had shot Clair, and he had been actually carried into Eva's house, and he was not dead. Richard Dighton realised this fact with various almost overwhelming feelings surging in his heart. The young lord was with her, he might live, and he was safe now from his (Richard's) vengeance.He turned away from the sight of the house, and his spirit was dark within him, and there was despair on his soul. He had sinned, and the bitterness of his sin had fallen on his own head.He could do nothing more; and, with a brow black as night, he returned to his rooms, paid what he owed, which almost left him penniless, and then took the train to Eastcliff, where his mother and Annie were still staying at Sea View House.Mrs Dighton received him at first with delight; but his gloomy face and manner soon filled her warm maternal heart with great anxiety. It was evident to them all that something had gone very wrong with Richard, and they naturally concluded that his wooing had failed. But Richard made no explanation, and never mentioned Eva Moore's name. Once Mrs Dighton tried to approach the subject, but Richard stopped her so roughly that she never again attempted it.In the meantime, the victim of his ungovernable passion was lying very ill at Eva's house in South Kensington, filling her heart with wearing and constant anxiety. Eva felt that Clair's father and mother should know the condition he was in, but when she said this to Clair he would not hear of it."What good would it do, dear?" he asked."It would only make my mother unhappy to know I was lying here. She would come; they would take me away from you! Eva, if I am going to die, let me die with my hand in yours?""But you are not going to die, Clair.""No, I don't think I shall, when I have got so much to live for," answered Clair, smilingly, and lifting Eva's hand to his lips and kissing it.Clair, in fact, bore the pain of his wounds with extraordinary sweetness and patience. The doctors and nurses said he was the best patient they had ever attended. He had two nurses, a night nurse and a day nurse, and Eva was also constantly in the room.They were to be married, it was understood in the household, as soon as he was able to go through the ceremony. Clair used to talk of his coming marriage to both doctors and nurses, but Eva said nothing on the subject. Still she did not deny it. She had promised Clair, and seemingly she meant to keep her word.She grew very fond of him during those anxious days. To part with him now she knew would be a great and bitter blow to her heart as well as his. And the idea that she had brought all this suffering upon him was most grievous to her."Clair," she said to him one night in the gathering twilight, "who do you really think it was who shot you? Do you suspect anyone?""Yes," answered Clair;"I don't want anyone else to know this, though, Eva, but I suspect Richard Dighton of Holly Hill.""Oh, Clair!""I told you he was very insulting to me about you at Eastcliff; and that night, just as I left the door here, I saw a fellow crouching on the other side of the street whose figure certainly reminded me of Dighton's, then I heard the report, and the shots struck me. Yes, Eva, I believe it was Dighton who fired the shots, and his motive was jealousy about you.""The wretch! Just as if I would ever have looked at him!""I know you never would, dearest; but that did not prevent him from looking at you, you know. But I mean to leave it to his own conscience; and, after all, he has drawn us closer, has he not, Eva?""Yes," she whispered."And after we are married he will come to his senses a bit. Eva, will you send to the Club now, dear, to see if there are any letters from my mother."Eva did send, and the messenger brought back two letters from Lady Kilmore, and a card from Mr Gower.The Q.C. had fulfilled his promise, and "looked Clair up" on his return to town, and was told that Lord Clair had not been to his Club for several days."Ah——do you think he is in town?" enquired Mr Gower.Yes, they believed his lordship was in town, was the reply he received, as some clothes and necessaries had been forwarded to him to an address at South Kensington."Ah," said Mr Gower, but he asked no more questions, and slightly shrugged his shoulders for his own edification as he turned away. Nor did he write to his sister on the subject."The young fool will come to his senses by-and-bye," he told himself; "at present interference would do no good."But Clair was not over-pleased to receive his uncle's card. He guessed the probable motive of this attention, as the busy barrister had little time to spend on idle ceremonies. He had been sent by his people at home to look after him, and at present Clair did not want to be disturbed by family interference."After I am married it will be all right; they will all love Eva. Just now they will only worry us," he thought, and for the same reason, when he answered his mother's letters, he dated his replies from his Club, and made no mention of his severe injuries.It was his left arm that was broken, so he could use his right hand, yet Lady Kilmore noticed the feebleness of his handwriting, little dreaming, however, that he was lying as he was: but she was very unhappy about him. There had leaked out in the neighbourhood, somehow, a report that the young lord and his father had had a serious quarrel, and that this quarrel was about a woman.Lady Kilmore's sensitive ears sometimes caught a curious inflection in the tone in which her friends inquired after Clair. Naturally people were interested in him as the young heir to a large property, and hitherto he had been known to be the pride and darling of his parents. And his continued absence from home no doubt Lady Kilmore knew created remark.And this absence went on week after week, and still no startling news reached the Hall from Clair.Mr Gower kept his ideas to himself, and Lord Kilmore began to hope that his son's infatuation for Miss Moore had not gone to the extent of marriage.Altogether, it was a most trying and unsatisfactory autumn at Kilmore, and the Earl's failing health added to Lady Kilmore's uneasiness.Clair, in the meanwhile, was slowly recovering from his injuries, and was being nursed and tended upon so well at the little house at South Kensington that he would often whisper to Eva he had never been so happy in his life. But there was a heavy cloud sometimes on Eva's fair brow when she was alone that she was very careful he did not see. And when he talked of their speedy marriage she often suppressed an uneasy sigh.And things went on thus until the chill October breezes were filling the squares with russet leaves in town, and at Kilmore sighing through the fading brackens and the ferns. It had been a beautiful autumn, but sad hearts and clouded brows had been beneath the stately roof-tree of the Hall.Then a sudden blow fell there, and the Earl one afternoon, while sitting in his library alone, was stricken with paralysis, and when his wife went to look after him she found him lying insensible on the floor.The greatest alarm at once prevailed: doctors were telegraphed for, and Annette Gower, with trembling lips uttered in her aunt's ears, who was kneeling by her husband, the single word "Clair!"Then Lady Kilmore turned her agonised gaze from the changed face of the husband of her youth and looked at Annette."Send for him," she said hoarsely; "telegraph for him to come at once—tell him——" And again she looked at her husband, and Annette understood.So she sent a telegram to Clair, telling him that his father lay stricken nigh unto death, and bidding him come without delay. She sent this telegram to his Club, with directions to forward it at once to wherever he might be, and the same day Clair received it, as it was sent on by an especial messenger from the Club.By this time Clair had so far recovered that he was able to leave his sick-room, and it chanced that he was seeing Dr Sidney in Eva's drawing-room when the telegram from Annette was placed in his hand.He opened it with a slight apology to the doctor, and as he read it an exclamation of horror and alarm broke from his fast-whitening lips."No ill news, I hope," said the doctor."Terrible news!" cried Clair, forgetting everything in his great anxiety;" my father, my dear father, has been struck with paralysis."For a moment the doctor made no answer; he looked at the agitated young man before him, and remembered that at the time of Clair's wound he had suggested to Miss Moore that it would be as well to inform "Mr Clair's" parents of his injuries, and that she had made no reply and seemed embarrassed, and he had therefore thought it judicious not to say anything more on the subject."This is very sad news," he now said after a slight pause; "we must hope it is not a serious attack.""But I fear it is," continued Clair, in a state of painful excitement;"this telegram is from my cousin, and she says I must go home at once—I must go.""You are not yet fit to travel," said the doctor gravely."But I must; I must go to him," went on Clair in increasing excitement."I must go to-day—and Eva——""Will Miss Moore accompany you?" asked the doctor with pardonable curiosity."No," he said,"she will not go—but it was about leaving her I was thinking—leaving her before our marriage.""May I ask, does your father know of your engagement?" said Dr Sidney."He knows I wish to marry her, but——""Perhaps he does not entirely approve? In that case any agitation might be very injurious to him, and perhaps he does not even know of your injuries?""He does not." And Clair began walking up and down the room hastily in his agitation, and then suddenly stopped."Excuse me, doctor," he said; "I must see Miss Moore at once, I have arrangements to make——""But I am your doctor, and protest against a hasty and perhaps a long journey. Where is your home?"But Clair made no answer: he was thinking of his stricken father, and he was thinking also of the reputation of the fair woman he loved. He therefore left the room without any further apology, and hurried to a small morning-room where he had left Eva when the doctor arrived. She was still sitting there as he re-entered it, and she looked up with a smile from her book as he did so; but her face instantly changed when she saw his expression."What is the matter, Clair?" she asked, rising hastily. "Has anything happened?""Yes, dear Eva," answered Clair, clasping her hand."I have had a telegram from Annette Gower, and my father is dangerously ill.""Oh! Clair——""And I must go to him; but first, Eva, let us be married; let us be married to-day—in an hour?"Eva's face grew very pale."That is impossible, Clair," she said in a low tone."Let us try to manage it. I shall be miserable unless we are.""There is no time," went on Eva gravely, though with some agitation. "You must go to your father, Clair—and promise me one thing before you go!""What must I promise, Eva?""Promise not to speak of—our engagement at Kilmore? Clair, remember this—if you do we shall never be married.""Do not speak thus, Eva; we must be married—we shall be married. You know what you promised when I consented to stay here?""Yes, I know, and I will keep that promise, but one condition is that at present it must be kept a secret. Therefore, Clair, at the Hall you must not speak of it.""I should rather tell the truth, and that is why I wish to be married before I go away.""It cannot be before you go away; but do not be afraid, I will not go back.""But I do not like to leave you; I am afraid——""Of what?" asked Eva, looking at him steadily as Clair paused."Of what people might say——"Eva gave a sort of laugh."If you are afraid of what people say, you had better not marry me.""Oh, Eva!""I don't want you not to think of me, Clair," said Eva, with unconscious tenderness; "I—I want you to love me, and to be with me always. Don't let them turn your heart away from me when you go home; only don't talk of it. I wish to be everything to you—but in secret.""But that could not always be, dearest.""At present it must be; and, Clair, what will you say about your wounds? How will you explain, and does the doctor think you are fit to go?""I left him grumbling about it; but I must go, Eva; I should never forgive myself if I did not see my poor father. Eva," and again he clasped her hand, "you will not deceive me? I shall find you here when I come back?""You will find me here, Clair."He drew her to his breast and kissed her passionately."My dearest, my sweetest," he murmured, with his lips on hers; "I ought to go—but it is hard to part——""Yes," whispered Eva fondly."But you will write every day? Twice every day?""I will write every day.""And I will not be long away. But give me the keys of my desk now, Eva; I must face the doctor before I go, or he'll think I have run away."Eva handed him the keys, and Clair presently returned to the drawing-room, where he had left the doctor in rather a ruffled state of mind; but at the sight of the large fee that Clair placed in his hand, his expression mollified."Pardon me for leaving you so abruptly, doctor," said Clair, "but I wished to persuade Miss Moore to marry me to-day, at once, before I leave, but she says there is not time."The doctor smiled."The young lady is right. There is certainly not time to-day, if you persist in going."I have no choice; the telegram from my cousin is imperative.""Have you a long journey before you, then?" again inquired the doctor."Not very," answered Clair with a certain reserve in his tone, which the doctor thought he understood. "My home is in the Midlands."Dr Sidney made no further inquiries. He perceived there was something that this young man wished to suppress, and he shrewdly guessed that his rank was higher than he had admitted to him. He was wealthy, at all events, for the manner in which he had recompensed his professional services told this, and therefore the doctor confined his remarks to strict injunctions to Clair concerning the care of his health.Then, after he was gone, Clair began hurriedly to make preparations for his departure. Eva went into his room to assist him, and as she was kneeling down packing something in his portmanteau, Clair saw her eyes suddenly fill with tears."Eva, my dearest," he said, laying his hand on her shoulder.Then she rose, and without speaking a word, fell sobbing into his arms, and hid her face on his breast."My darling, my dearest, does my leaving grieve you so much?" whispered Clair, tenderly encircling her waist with the one arm he could use.She did not answer for a few moments, while sobs shook her slender form. But after a while she looked up in his face with her dark eyes all wet with tears."You may believe this, Clair," she said, "that unless I loved you—loved you most dearly—I should not part with you thus."CHAPTER IVANNETTE'S PRAYER.CLAIR felt extremely exhausted long before he reached the railway station nearest Kilmore. The shock of his father's sudden illness, and the emotion and agitation of parting with Eva, all had tended to weary him in his present condition of weakness.The doctor had given him some restorative to take on the journey, and again and again he applied to this, still when he arrived at the station, and found one of the servants from the Hall waiting on the platform for him, as he had telegraphed to Annette Gower what train he expected to arrive by, it was all he could do to ask after his father."His lordship has rallied slightly, my lord," answered the servant, respectfully touching his hat.Clair breathed a little quivering sigh of relief."The carriage is waiting outside the station, my lord," continued the servant, and walking feebly, leaning on a stick, Clair made his way to it.It seemed strange to him to be among all the familiar surroundings after his varied experiences during the last few weeks. The carriage rolled into the Park, and presently stopped at the entrance of the Hall, and the butler, an old family servant, ran down to receive him, and nearly started back when he looked on the changed and pallid face of the young heir.It was well known in the household, we may be sure, that there had been a disagreement between Lord Clair and the Earl, but nothing had been heard of his illness, and therefore the butler's surprise was very great. Clair leaned on his arm as he stepped out of the carriage, and his footsteps faltered even then, and his arm was in a sling."I beg your pardon, my lord," inquired the old family servant anxiously, "but have you had an accident?""Yes, rather a serious one," answered Clair, "and my father——""His lordship is slightly better this evening," said the butler.But at this moment Annette Gower, who had been standing at the door of the morning-room watching Clair enter, came forward with a pale and quivering face."Clair!" she said breathlessly, "what is this? Are—you ill?""I have been, Annette, and the journey has knocked me up a bit. But my father is better.""We hope so—yes, we hope so," repeated Annette, still with her eyes fixed on Clan's face. "Come in here, Clair—lean on me—you look quite faint.""I do feel rather queer," said Clair, sinking down on the chair nearest to him.Upon this the butler ran for brandy, and Annette called for water, and presently Clair revived a little and looked kindly at his cousin."Did I give you a fright, my dear?" he said."You looked very pale," she answered, with quivering lips. "But, Clair, what is the matter with your arm?""I'll tell you by-and-bye," said Clair, glancing at the servants. "But tell me about my mother, Annette. I fear my father's illness has been a great shock to her.""A terrible shock, Clair! It was so sudden, though he has not seemed well for some little time."Clair felt these words were a tacit reproach to him, and Annette grieved the moment after she had spoken them."Aunt Jeanie will be so pleased to see you," continued Annette, "but I had better tell her you have been ill before she sees you. How—how did it happen, Clair?"The servants had by this time discreetly left the room, and the cousins were alone."It was a very strange thing," said Clair; "but I was shot either by accident or design in the street.""Shot!" repeated Annette in horror."Yes, shot, and I was carried into a house in South Kensington, and have been there ever since until I received your telegram this morning!""And you never told us!""It would have done no good; only grieved my mother," said Clair.He had made up his mind on the journey to give this explanation of the change in his appearance, but he had also made up his mind to obey Eva's earnest request, and not to mention her name.But Annette was thinking of her as she gazed with her dark wistful eyes at Clair. She believed, as we know, that Eva Moore's only motive for refusing Clair—if she had done so, as he had told his father—must be that she was bound to someone else."Could this other lover have shot Clair in a fit of jealous anger?" thought the quick-witted girl. All this passed through her brain in a moment, and the thought was a very painful one. But she said nothing.She told Clair how his father's illness had occurred, and the doctors they had sent for, and then she suggested that she should go and tell her aunt of his arrival.She did this, and a few minutes later Lady Kilmore hurried into the room, and after gazing a moment in her son's face clasped him in her arms with a cry of pain."Clair! my dearest—dearest boy!"All his shortcomings were forgotten. He was near her again, her son, her darling; near her after danger and suffering, and she looked into his altered face with unutterable tenderness."Why—why did you keep it a secret?" she asked plaintively. "Why have I not been with you, Clair?""Dear mother, you have had enough trouble," answered Clair, caressing her."But, dear, it was my place to be with you—with my son—and who did such a dreadful thing, Clair? Who dared injure you?""I have no idea, mother; probably some madman. I was shot from the back, but cannot tell you by whom."Lady Kilmore sighed deeply. She too, as Annette Gower had done, was thinking of Eva Moore; was wondering if evil had come to her son through her influence. But she asked no further questions. She looked again anxiously in his face, and saw how worn and weary he seemed, and then at once suggested that after he had taken some refreshment he should retire for the nightBut Clair could not eat. His forehead was throbbing painfully, and he was glad when at last his head rested on his pillow. But he had a bad night. The excitement and the journey had been too much for him, and he tossed and tossed wakefully with snatches of fevered dreams. And in the morning he was worse. He felt, in fact, incapable of rising, and when his mother saw him she insisted upon him at once seeing the doctor, who had remained over-night at the Hall in attendance on the Earl.The doctor declared him to be very feverish, and ordered him to remain in bed, and during the day Clair did not improve, and Lady Kilmore's anxiety and Annette Gower's increased hourly.A letter came for him the next morning; a letter from town, in a woman's handwriting, and Annette, who had opened the letter-bag, gave it into his mother's hands, and for a moment the two women looked at each other, though neither spokeLady Kilmore carried it to Clair, who received it eagerly, read it, and then placed it beneath his pillow.But he said nothing, and seemed very ill, and towards nightfall the fever rose higher, and he became delirious at intervals.Annette Gower was in the room, half hidden by the curtains, when he first began to call for Eva Moore, and addressed her in his wild wanderings in terms of passionate love."Eva, my dearest, my dearest, come to me," Annette heard him mutter, and the words cut into the listener's heart as a sword. "No one shall part us—you have promised—Eva, my own, my Eva!"Then he fancied they were again together by the river, and he rambled on about the shining water, but there was always one refrain:—"Eva!"Annette sat and heard that name repeated a hundred times, and always in terms of the most tender endearment. She turned faint and cold; she leaned back, and a bitter and terrible idea darted into her heart."He had better die," she thought; "I would rather he were dead."She clasped her hands together, and a moan escaped her pale lips. If he lived, he would marry this girl; he would bring her here—she would see their daily life—and again Annette moaned.The thought was terrible to the poor girl, and she rose hastily and left the room, glancing at her unconscious cousin as she passed the bed still babbling fondly of his sweetheart's name!She went up to her own room, locking herself in, and then flung herself passionately on the floor."Oh, God! let him die; he is better dead!' she prayed in her agony, forgetting everything in her cruel grief.But even as she writhed there, with great darkness on her soul, a violent rapping suddenly came to the room door, and she heard her aunt's voice in evident agitation."Annette, come—open the door—Clair is worse!" cried Lady Kilmore.Then Annette rose, trembling, tottering, and went to the door and unlocked it, and outside stood Lady Kilmore, her face all wet with tears."Oh, Annette!" she wept, grasping Annette's cold hand. "Clair does not know me; he is talking in the strangest way—wandering—oh, Annette!"Lady Kilmore was terribly overcome, and as Annette tried to comfort her, her own heart was stabbing her meanwhile in keen reproach."Better dead!"—she had said he were better dead, Clair, so young, so beloved, in whom his mother's heart was bound.The selfishness of her cry—it could scarce be called a prayer—now rose before Annette's mind in all its blackness."He will get better, Aunt Jeanie; let us go to him," she said, and together they returned to Clair's sick-room, who was now talking very wildly."How dare you look at her?" he was saying, addressing some imaginary being near—"You!"He spoke the last word as if in great scorn, and as he did so his mother softly took his hand."Clair, my darling Clair," she said tenderly.But Clair took no heed; he went on speaking loud and menacing words, and it was terrible both to his mother and his cousin to hear him.And presently Annette crept away, and again returned to her own room, and this time knelt down on her knees and prayed earnestly for Clair's life."Oh, spare him, Almighty Father, spare him!" she cried; "and forgive me! I have sinned—let him be happy—even with her—only let him live!"CHAPTER VALWAYS JEANIE.BUT for some days after this there seemed great doubts whether poor Annette's prayer would be answered, for Clair continued very ill.The wound in his side broke out afresh, and the greatest uneasiness and anxiety prevailed at the Hall.As for Annette, she seldom left his side, and many a piteous, silent prayer for his recovery was offered there. She was ashamed now, most bitterly ashamed, of her own selfishness, and tried in every way to atone for what she called her wicked thoughts.However, after days of semi-delirium and great pain and prostration, Clair began to mend. But he was extremely weak, and unable almost to lift his hand. And when, with a pallid face and faltering lips, Annette laid on his bed a packet of letters which had arrived—all in the same handwriting—day by day since his return to the Hall—Clair was almost incapable of opening them, and certainly of answering them.They were from Eva Moore, and each succeeding one showed increased anxiety at his unlooked-for silence. At last in one she urged him to tell her the true reason why he had not written.Clair read letter after letter with great uneasiness, and then looked anxiously at Annette, who was watching his changing face from the other end of the room, as she had left the bedside after placing the letters on it."Annette," said Clair at length, in his weak voice, "will you do me a favour?""Of course, Clair," she answered in a low tone, approaching him as she spoke."These letters are from—someone who is surprised at not hearing from me," continued Clair. "Will you telegraph what I dictate, as I am not strong enough to write?""Yes, Clair.""Telegraph to my Club, then, that I have been very ill, and ask them to forward the telegram to the same address to which they sent your telegram to tell me of my father's illness. Say in the telegram I will write the moment I am able."A choking sensation rose in Annette's throat, but she suppressed all signs of emotion."Very well, Clair," she said; "I will get the telegram form, and you dictate what I am to write."She did this, and knew very well as she did so that the message was really intended for Eva Moore, and that Clair intended to keep her address a secret.But she nerved herself to go through the task her cousin had asked for, and Clair's telegram was sent, and also duly forwarded to the little house in South Kensington, where Eva Moore had, during the last few days, been enduring a perfect fever of anxiety at not hearing from Clair.The first day of his absence had seemed very dreary, for we scarcely realise what a gap a beloved presence makes until it is gone. Eva felt restless; she had the rooms re-arranged; she put any little thing belonging to Clair carefully away, and she kept wondering if it were possible to receive a letter from him by the last post.The last post arrived and brought three circulars, two lists of prices of coal, and no letter from Clair."In the morning." thought Eva hopefully, flinging her letters into the waste-paper basket.But the morning came bringing more circulars, more prices of coal, and some new winter fashions from the shops.Why will people torment householders as they do? Investments, mine shares, business circulars of every description, pour in every day, and no one ever looks at them. They weigh down the postmen; they irritate the servants, who have to answer the postmen's knocks; and they worry the mistress, and fill the house, and yet still they come.The letters we watch for come often slowly enough: the letters we hope for very often never at all; but the letters we don't want arrive in shoals, and the waste of labour and postage stamps is truly deplorable.Eva Moore, during the next three or four days after Clair's departure, went through various phases of female emotion. She was anxious the first day, and afraid the journey had been too much for him; she was angry the second day, and thought he certainly ought to have written; on the third day she began to be exceedingly unhappy."They have influenced him against me," she thought. "His dying father may have influenced him; and yet he seemed to care for me so much."She had no one in whom she could confide her doubts and fears, and this perhaps made them worse to bear. Thus several days went on, Eva writing to Clair each day as she had promised, and then his telegram to the Club was forwarded to her, and Eva knew the cause of his silence.He had been very ill! She stood with clasped hands reading these words, trying to realise what could have happened to him, her heart filled with all sorts of painful apprehensions. Oh! how she longed to go to him; to attend upon him once more. She thought of what Clair had said when he was first wounded, how he had told her that if his parents knew that they would take him away from her; that he might die without his hand in hers.If he were to die, if she were to lose him now! Eva walked up and down the room in a very agony of grief at the thought."Clair, Clair!" she cried, "I love you. Oh! come back to me, my love! I have no right to love you, I know," she added a moment later, "but I do—and you will forgive me, Clair."Then she sat down to write to him, telling him all her anxiety and unhappiness. She asked him to telegraph when he got this letter, and waited uneasily and impatiently until he could do this. His next telegram, which also came through the Club, was more reassuring. He was better, and a day or two later she received a few lines written by his own hand.Clair, however, recovered slowly, and the Earl had rallied and was able to be up days before Clair was well enough to see him. When he was first told that his son was at the Hall, and that he had come there to see him when he heard he was ill, a faint smile passed over Lord Kilmore's pallid features."Poor Clair!" he said, in his altered voice, which was still very inarticulate."He came when he was very ill himself to see you, dearest," said his wife, bending over him, and taking his chill hand."And that——girl?" asked the Earl."He has never mentioned her," replied Lady Kilmore."I—hope it is ended," faltered Lord Kilmore, and then he sighed.But it was days after this before Clair was strong enough to walk to his father's room, and when he was, the two were both so shocked at the change on each other's appearance that they clasped each other's hands in silence."You—have been ill?" at last faltered the Earl."Yes; some madman, I suppose, shot me in the streets," answered Clair, trying to smile. "I sam glad to see you so much better, father."The Earl did not speak; he sighed, think-ing he had much to say to his son, and yet feeling incapable of any mental exertion.The interview, however, made them feel more at ease, and after this Clair went every day to his father's room for a short time. They both continued to improve in health, and all painful subjects were for the time ignored. Lady Kilmore said nothing to her husband of the letters that arrived daily for Clair, feeling that any agitation would be most injurious to him, and Clair was thankful to escape all questions, and it it was not until he suggested to his mother that he thought he might now leave his father with safety for a few days that any allusion was made to the past."Oh, do not go, Clair," said Lady Kilmore imploringly. "Your presence here makes your father so happy, has done him so much good.""I want to go for a few days, mother; only for a few days," urged Clair."But, my dear, we cannot tell what may happen in a few days. Wait at least for another week before you think of leaving him, and I am sure also that you are not fit to travel."And Clair did wait another week, but in the meanwhile he wrote to Eva, imploring her to marry him during the few days he could arrange to be absent from his father's side."His health is most precarious, my dearest," he wrote, "and my mother is miserable at the idea of my being absent from home, and I am miserable at the idea of being away from you. Let us be married then, dearest Eva, and then nothing can part us. I have not mentioned your name here, as I promised not to do so, and it has not been mentioned to me; and if you wish it, our marriage can be kept a secret for the present. But do let us be married when I come; let me feel when I return to my father's side that you are indeed my own—my very own."A great struggle took place in Eva's mind after she read this letter, but it ended in her love for Clair overpowering all other considerations."I will run the risk," at last she decided; "I cannot bear to lose him now."She therefore wrote to him to tell him that when he came to town, if he wished it, she would marry him, if he would faithfully promise that this marriage should be a secret one. This Clair, under the circumstances, was only too happy to do. Indeed, he felt it would be impossible at the present time to do anything that would certainly agitate his father.They agreed then that their marriage was to take place as soon as Clair was able to arrange to leave Kilmore.But he found it very difficult to do this. Whenever he approached the subject his mother's face changed and saddened, and she always entreated him to remain. At last he fixed the time, and Lady Kilmore was forced to tell her husband that Clair thought of leaving them for a few days."For a few days?" repeated the Earl."Yes, dearest; he assures me he will return in a few days," answered Lady Kilmore, soothingly; "he has some business to see after."The Earl's face twitched uneasily."It is not business," he said."But, dearest, we cannot expect that a young man of Clair's age should never leave home. He came to us you know, poor fellow, when he was very unfit, and he has been very good and kind."For a few moments Lord Kilmore did not speak, then he said with evident agitation:"Jeanie, must I speak to him before he goes about——""No, dear Kilmore, it would disturb you, and you know the doctors say agitation is so bad for you. He has promised to return in a few days, and I am sure he will not break his word.""Still, if I thought it would do any good; perhaps now my words would have more influence on him?""Dearest, it would make you ill, and throw you back, and it would distress me so if you had any further quarrel with Clair. Let us leave it to God."The Earl sighed uneasily."It is hard to think that those who come after us——" he said falteringly, and then paused.His wife bent down and kissed his brow, and murmured some endearing words, and for a few moments the Earl did not speak. Then he looked up in his wife's face."I have always you at least, Jeanie," he said, and they both felt the comfort of these words.They indeed loved each other with a tender and enduring affection which had known no change all through the long years of their wedded life. And these years had been singularly peaceful and happy ones, and not until the great trouble about Clair had any serious cloud darkened their existence.But Clair's attachment to Eva Moore had been a great and bitter blow to them both. Lady Kilmore had fondly hoped that her darling son would learn to love her favourite niece Annette, and the Earl naturally had not been without ambition that his heir should marry suitably in life.He was not exactly an ambitious man: he valued worldly greatness
with too true a gauge to be so; but still that Clair should have
allowed himself to become entangled—to use Lord Kilmore's ideas
on the subject—with a girl whose acquaintance he had picked up
while she was the guest of a tenant farmer, irritated him more than he could have believed his equally balanced mind would have permitted.We are all, as we know, apt to be very calm and philosophic about the troublesome things in life until the troubles absolutely tap at our own door.Had any fellow-nobleman's son wished to marry a girl so much socially beneath him in station as Eva Moore was to Clair, Lord Kilmore would probably have said, with a shrug and a smile:"Ah, well, young fools will be young fools!"But it was very different when the young fool happened to be his heir. He had fretted and fumed, and worried himself about Clair's "infatuation," until he had absolutely made himself ill. And now, broken down in health as he was, he was miserable about it still.But he took his wife's advice. Clair went to bid his father good-bye before he left the Hall, it must be admitted, with a sinking heart. He was afraid he might be urged to give up Eva in terms that to him would be intensely painful."For your dying father's sake!"Clair feared to hear these words, but he did not hear them. Lord Kilmore merely said:"Your mother tells me you are going to leave us for a few days, Clair?""Yes, father," answered Clair with a flush, which the Earl noted."Let it be only for a few days then, my boy," continued Lord Kilmore, "for my health, as you know, is precarious, and if anything were to happen I should not like your mother to be alone."These words affected Clair; he put his hand into his father's; he looked on the Earl's altered face with his honest eyes."It shall only be for a few days, father," he said, "but I hope when I come back to find you much stronger.""We must hope so," answered the Earl, with a somewhat sad smile.And so they parted, and Clair went away on an errand, which, had he known it, would have broken his father's heart!CHAPTER VIIN A FEW DAYS.SHE was watching for him—Eva—watching for her lover, in the gathering twilight of the same day, with a flush on her fair cheeks and a glad light in her dark eyes.He had telegraphed that he was on his way, that he would be with her early in the evening, and now she was impatiently awaiting his arrival.She was dressed in white—Clair loved white—with a flower at her breast and in her hair, and she was excited, and full of fitful joy"How long he is!" she thought, as hansom after hansom passed her door. They were beginning to light the street-lamps before one stopped. With a fast-beating heart Eva saw Clair spring out, and the next moment ran into the hall to meet him with out-stretched hands."Clair!" she said in a glad voice.He did not speak; he drew her into the little dining-room, and closed the door, and then caught her passionately in his arms."My darling, my darling!" he murmured, with his lips on hers.Then for a few moments there was silence between them—the silence of a great content—and Eva was the first to break the charm."And are you quite better, Clair?" she said, drawing back and looking at him. "What a terrible fright you gave me when you did not write!""I am nearly well; I was off my head, you know, darling, for days. And so Eva was uneasy?"He tenderly stroked her cheek as he spoke; he kissed her dark eyes, but with a smile Eva drew away from him."Come, I must see after your creature comforts," she said. "You must be both hungry and thirsty.""I have been hungry and thirsty to see you," answered Clair ardently. "Oh! how long the time has seemed, Eva.""And your poor father?""He is better; I left him better.""Then your mind will be more at ease. Come, Clair, dinner will be ready in five minutes, and then you must tell me all your news."They dined together, and after the servant left the room Eva proposed to go upstairs to the drawing-room, which was softly lighted when they entered it."Then everything is settled, Eva, for tomorrow?" asked Clair eagerly, as the door closed after them."Yes, everything," she answered, "except you must see the clergyman to-night, if——""If what, Eva?""If, Clair," and she put her arm through his and looked up in his face, "if you have no fears, no doubts. Do you love me really well enough to—what shall I call it—run certain risks?""Eva, I never can understand you when you talk like that.""Well, there are always risks, you know, about unequal marriages, and ours is an unequal one. And Clair, before I marry you, you must sign a paper—a paper in which you bind yourself to keep our marriage a secret.""For a time?""For as long as I wish it to be so. Clair, you must promise this.""But, Eva, to keep it a secret for any length of time would be unjust to you, unjust to——""Clair," said Eva, pulling her arm from his, and standing before him, "I want you to understand this: I am marrying you, not because you are Lord Clair; not for anything, but for yourself. If I did not love you—well, too much—no, don't be foolish, Clair, for these are very serious words—but if I had not loved you as I do; if I had not felt I should be miserable without you, I would not marry you.""Not even for my sake?" he asked, taking one of her hands and kissing it."Oh! you would be far better without me, my dear; let there be no mistake about that. No, I am not marrying you for your sake, but for my own. I am marrying you because I am a selfish woman, and like you too well to lose you, and could not bear anyone else to have you! There, that is high-minded love for you, isn't it? Not self-sacrificing love, but love for all that—yes, Clair, love!""Then I am content," he answered, and again he clasped her to his breast."But you must promise to keep the secret?""Yes, dearest, anything you like; and now about the parson?""Well, Clair, the parson, as you call him, is I assure you a very charming man. He called upon me two days ago, and I hinted to him then that probably I should soon require his services, and I told him a gentleman would most likely call on him this evening, and he said he would be at home after eight.""Then I had better go now," said Clair, looking at his watch, "it is half-past eight o'clock.""Wait until you have signed the paper, sir!" cried Eva, half in jest, half in earnest. "Here it is," she continued, taking out a note-sheet, on which something was written, from a drawer in her writing-table. "Now, Clair, shall I read it to you?""And so you wouldn't trust my word?" said Clair, half reproachfully."Oh, yes, I would, but there is something more business-like in pen and ink. This is it," she continued, reading from the paper:—"I, Clair, faithfully promise and vow to keep my marriage with Eva Moore a secret until she gives me permission to announce it.""You see it's nothing very serious nor solemn, and you have just to put your name here, Clair, and it will be all right.""Very well," answered Clair, with a little laugh.It seemed more like a jest to him than anything else; and when Eva handed him a pen he signed the paper and gave it back to her."Well, is that right?" he asked, smiling. "Does that satisfy you?""Clair," said Eva, reading the signature. "Yes, that is right, and now I shall lock it away.""And I shall go and arrange with the clergyman. What time shall webe married, Eva?""As early as possible, so that no one may see us. Shall we say ten?""Just as you like; and now tell me the parson's name and address.""He lives close here, in this street, and his name is Onslow. He lives at No. eighteen.""Then I shall go; I won't be long. Goodbye for the present, dear.""But be sure, Clair, you make Mr Onslow understand that this is a secret marriage, and you must bind him by his honour as a gentleman to keep it a secret. You can tell him——""Any more orders?" laughed Clair, going to the door of the room, and then he smiled, nodded, and went away, and Eva Moore was alone.The expression of her face changed in a moment after he was gone, and she sank down on a low seat by the fire."Is it fate?" she murmured in a low tone; "but no one will ever know—no one must ever know—and I could not—no, I could not part with him now!"In the meanwhile Clair was ringing at Mr Onslow's door, who was the Vicar of the parish where Eva lived. Even in London, to a certain extent, we get to know something of our neighbours' appearance, and take a slight interest in their affairs.Eva Moore was so handsome, it was almost impossible for anyone who had seen her once to forget her face; and Dr Sidney had talked to his friend the Vicar of the beautiful young woman who was engaged to a young fellow called Clair, who had been carried wounded into her house, and had had a very narrow escape of his life.The Vicar had become interested in his fair parishioner, and had called upon her, and alluded to the report of the injuries that her betrothed, Mr Clair, had received; and Eva had smilingly hinted, as she had told Clair, that their marriage was likely to take place soon.Thus, when Clair inquired if Mr Onslow were at home, and was told that he was, the servant having asked his name, he replied simply "Clair;" and the servant naturally announced him as "Mr Clair," when he opened the library door, where the Vicar was sitting reading.The Vicar, a fine, benevolent-looking man of some fifty years, rose smilingly to receive his visitor, whose errand he guessed, and held out his hand."Mr Clair," he repeated, "the gentleman to whom I believe my parishioner, Miss Moore, is engaged?""Yes," answered Clair, with his ready, pleasant smile, "and I have come to ask you to marry us to-morrow, Mr Onslow.""To-morrow!" repeated the Vicar in some surprise."Yes; my father is ill," said Clair, "and I am uncertain about my time, as I can only leave him for a few days, and I am most anxious to be married at once."Mr Onslow looked thoughtfully on the young man's ingenuous face as Clair spoke, with his benign grey eyes."And there is another thing," continued Clair, with some slight embarrassment; "for family reasons, Mr Onslow, both Miss Moore and myself wish for the present our marriage to be kept a secret.""A secret?" said the Vicar slowly, still looking at Clair."Yes; my father is very ill, and——""I presume, then, he does not approve of your marriage?"Clair hesitated a moment."To tell the truth, he does not," he then said. "He is prejudiced——"The Vicar looked grave."It is a stupid prejudice," continued Clair quickly; "a mere class prejudice, because Miss Moore does not belong to his order——""Order?""Yes; I wish to tell you, Mr Onslow, I have been called Mr Clair here, I believe, but my father is the Earl of Kinmore, and as his son I bear the title of Lord Clair, and, of course, I must be married in my proper name.""Then you are Lord Kilmore's eldest son, his heir?""Yes, I am his only son.""And you wish to marry against his will? Lord Clair, permit me to say so, but this is a very serious matter.""I think every man has a right to choose his own wife, Mr Onslow. My father has no real reason to object to my marrying Miss Moore; and as I am of age, he has no authority to prevent it.""No, certainly not, and Miss Moore is no doubt a very charming young lady; but still, as you are your father's heir his wishes ought to carry weight, and a secret and hurried marriage is very often an unwise one.""Mine, at all events, must be secret and hurried," answered Clair with some anger in his tone; "but if you do not wish to perform the ceremony, Mr Onslow——"Mr Onslow smiled."You are jumping at conclusions," he said; "I only thought it my duty to point out that in a family of your rank marriage is a very serious affair, and involves serious consequences; but of course, if you are determined——""I am determined; nothing shall prevent my marrying Miss Moore!""Then I shall say no more. And you wish this marriage to be kept a secret?""For the present—yes. I trust to your honour as a gentleman, Mr Onslow, not to mention it.""I see; have no fear, Lord Clair, your secret is safe with me until the proper time comes to reveal it. And now as that is settled, let us go into details."After this they arranged all about the ceremony for the next day. His curate, on whom he could perfectly depend, would give the bride away, and act as a witness, the Vicar said; and Clair returned to Eva with a light heart to tell her everything was settled.He found her looking pale and uneasy, and she put her hand in his with a restless sigh."What is the matter, darling?" he asked tenderly."I don't know. I feel half afraid," answered Eva, "now when it is so near.""You are not afraid I'll turn out badly? smiled Clair."No, no, I've no fear of you, Clair; none, none!" cried Eva, with sudden emotion. "It is not that," and she rose and began walking slowly up and down the room. "If things don't turn out well, it won't be your fault, I know that. But it is too late to talk thus," she added, and she once more went up to him and put her hand in his. "Clair, for good or evil—even if you knew it would be for evil—do you wish me to be your wife?""For good or evil, even if I knew it would "be for evil," repeated Clair, "I wish you, and no other, to be my wife."They were married the next day, and by Eva's wish went for three days to a quiet old-fashioned half-town, half-village by the sea."Let us go somewhere we have never been before," she said; "somewhere where no one has ever seen us before;" and Clair did not in the least care where he went so long as he was with her.So the young pair wandered together among the bays and coves, and watched the waves breaking on the crisp sea-sand. Everything in these days had a charm for both—the crimson sea-sand, the hardy flowers raising their modest heads amid the rough herbage on the banks, the boat of a solitary fisherman, the wild bird on the wing. They watched these, and then looked in each other's face and smiled."If we could only be here months instead of days," said Clair one evening wistfully, as they gazed at the shadows gathering over the desolate sea. The purple light had died out in the west; the night was drawing near, a chill wind swept over the dark restless waters creeping almost to their feet, and Eva shivered and pressed nearer to Clair as he spoke."They have been happy days, Clair," she said in a low tone."It is so hard to have to leave you so soon.""We have one more day at least—one whole long day.""Yes—Eva, I want to ask you something—if a chance should arise, a favourable chance of telling my father and mother that we are really married, you will grant me leave to da so, will you not?"But Eva drew back in sudden alarm at the very suggestion."Clair," she said sharply, "did you not promise me that you would not do this? Did you not sign the paper binding yourself not to do so?""Yes, but, Eva——""Clair, there must be no doubt about this, no uncertainty. Our marriage must be a secret one. I would not have married you unless you had promised that it should be.""But I cannot understand——""Perhaps not, but there it is. You married me on these conditions, and I beg you will not even speak of breaking them."Clair said nothing more; the moaning sea went on with its restless tossings, the wind grew more chill, and a strange feeling of doubt suddenly crept into the young man's heart."It is turning cold," he said in an altered voice; "we had better go in."Eva put her arm through his, and they walked together in silence to their hotel, and when they got there she rang for lights, and began talking to Clair in her usual manner. But there was a cloud upon his brow still which did not pass away as quickly as she expected."You look quite cross," she said, going up to him presently, and putting her hand caressingly on his shoulder.He could not resist the sweet face so near to his; he bent down and kissed her, but still there was an uneasy feeling in his heart."I have no secrets from her," he was thinking, "none, and yet she must be keeping something back from me."But the next day Eva managed to charm away Clair's brief doubts. It was the last day of their "honeymoon," she called it, and her spirits, always changeable, were very bright and gay. It was a boisterous, almost stormy day, and the rough waters of the German Ocean were tumbling and tossing in wild confusion, and Eva clapped her hands in glee as she watched their rough play.The wind blew back her bright hair and brought the colour of a wild rose to her smooth cheeks."She was fair, exceeding fair," and so thought her lover—her husband of three days! They stood hand-in-hand on the brown rocks, and Eva sung little snatches of song to the music of the waves."It is the end of our holiday," she said gaily, "so we must enjoy it. Sing with me, Clair."And the two sang by the sea in their youth and in their love, sang of hope and joy; yet the dark shadows were gathering round them, though the encircling clouds seemed far away.CHAPTER VIIAN AWKWARD MEETING.CLAIR returned to Kilmore the next day, after accompanying Eva to town, and then proceeded direct home. He found his father improved in health, and his mother was delighted with the change in his own appearance."Why, Clair, you look quite brown!" she exclaimed after she had kissed him, looking in his face; "as if you had been by the sea?"Clair blushed a little and laughed."I feel much better," he said; "I hope soon to be quite well."And he looked happier too, his mother also noticed, though he was somewhat restless and excited."And Annette?" he asked, looking round as though he missed his cousin; "where is she after all her kindness?""Annette does not look very well: her father wishes her to go home to him for a time, but I shall miss her dreadfully if she does," answered Lady Kilmore."We shall all miss her," said Clair heartily; and as Annette entered the room at this moment, Clair went up to her and shook her hand warmly."You have just come in time to hear us all singing your praises, Annette," he said, smiling, and Annette's small pretty-dark face flushed deeply as he spoke."I am glad to see you look so much better," she said."Thanks very much; yes, I am better; the little change has done me good."Annette suppressed a sigh; and she too observed during the evening that Clair was very restless. His quiet home seemed in truth very dull to him after the excitement and happiness of the last few days. He was always thinking of Eva, picturing to himself what she would be doing at that moment; in fact, his thoughts never left her.He went the next morning to the bridge across the Ayre, where he used to meet her in the days of their early acquaintance, and stood looking down into the water, thinking that she was now his wife. And as he leaned over the parapet there he suddenly remembered with an uneasy pang her extreme anxiety that their marriage should be kept secret."I can't make it out," thought Clair: "my darling loves me, I am sure, and we would be so much happier if we were together here, and everything were known. Of course, just now, on account of my father, it is best kept quiet, as any excitement might do him harm; but it must be known some day——"Clair's reflections were interrupted by hearing steps on the bridge behind him, and turning round he saw the ruddy face of Mr Dighton, the farmer at Holly Hill, and by his side his son Richard.Richard Dighton started violently as Clair turned quickly round and he recognised him, and a sickly pallor at once spread over his face. But the elder Dighton received the young lord with many expressions of sincere and cordial satisfaction."Why, my lord," he said, pulling off his low-crowned hat, "I'm truly pleased to see you out again and looking so well. We heard your lordship had a bad accident.""Scarcely an accident, Mr Dighton," answered Clair, fixing his eyes steadily on Richard Dighton's changing face. "Some madman, or worse, shot me intentionally in the streets.""Shot ye in the streets!" repeated Mr Dighton, in extreme astonishment."Yes," continued Clair, still looking at Richard Dighton, "and I mean to put the affair into the hands of the police and have the fellow punished, for I have a good notion who it was."Clair said this purposely to see the effect of his words on young Dighton, and they were very marked. Richard turned almost green, and his knees shook under him."The scoundrel! he deserves hanging, nothing short," exclaimed the genial farmer. "Shot your lordship! I never heard tell of such a thing!""Yet it's a fact," answered Clair. "And how are you getting on, Mr Dighton, and how is Mrs Dighton and your daughter?""Both nicely, thank your lordship; our Annie's in a bad way though, because she's heard naught of her friend Miss Moore for a long time, who your lordship may remember? You haven't come across her in any of your travels, have you?"It was now Clair's turn to change colour, and a dusky red stole over his skin."No," he said with slight hesitation.He hated to be forced to tell this lie, believing that the sullen-faced young man opposite to him knew it to be one, but then what could he say?And Richard Dighton heard him deny any knowledge of Eva Moore's movements with a sudden surging rush of passion to his heart and brain. What! when he knew—when he knew! The young man could scarcely contain himself, as his father went on in utter ignorance of the truth—"Why, it's a queer thing altogether of the girl to do, isn't it, my lord, and she and Annie such friends too; and when she well-nigh lost her life here, but for your lordship? But after she left us at Eastcliff she has just written once to Annie, and Annie's letters to her have been returned through the Dead Letter Office.""It is very strange," said Clair, and nothing more; and the farmer, who was a shrewd man, saw by his manner that the conversation about Eva Moore was not acceptable to the young lord, and so changed it to the ever-convenient weather.As for Richard Dighton he spoke no word, nor did Clair take the slightest notice of him in speech. Richard stood biting his under lip, his passion nearly getting the mastership of his feelings of fear and shame for what he had done.It crossed Clair's mind to call him back and tax him with his dastardly crime after the farmer and he had walked on, but consideration for Eva held him back. Therefore, the father and son disappeared, and Clair stood still, feeling not unnaturally very wroth.That such a fellow should have dared to look at Eva, and dared to try to murder him, was monstrous, Clair thought, frowning, and striking with his stick some lichen on the parapet of the bridge to relieve his feeling. But, on the other hand, if he accused him, it would bring endless troubles—troubles to the kindly farmer and his family, to Eva, to himself. Still, for one man to shoot at the other, and cause him great suffering, out of an insane jealousy about a woman who had never looked at him, was sufficiently irritating to the man who had been shot.Clair, in fact, scarcely knew what to do, but finally turned back, left the bridge, and strolled through the Park, and on the terrace—being wheeled by a footman in a Bath chair—he encountered his father, who smiled as his tall, good-looking son approached him."Well, Clair, have you been for a walk?" said Lord Kilmore."Yes, just to the bridge," answered Clair, laying his hand on the back of his father's chair.It struck him, seeing the Earl thus in the full daylight, how ill and feeble he looked; and Lord Kilmore, glancing up, saw his son's eyes fixed with genuine concern and anxiety on his face."You can leave us for a little while, James," said the Earl, addressing the footman. "Lord Clair will call you when I require you."So the servant went away, and the father and son were alone. The Earl's chair was drawn up on part of the terrace, which commanded an extensive and lovely woodland view of the wide-spreading Park and lands around. It was a bright day, more like October than November, into which month the year had now advanced; and as the Earl's eyes wandered over the familiar scenes he sighed, thinking, perhaps, that ere another year was on the wane that he no longer would be there to watch its fall."The Park looks very well this morning, father," said Clair, thinking to cheer him."Yes," answered the Earl slowly, "and this will all soon be yours, Clair.""Please do not talk thus, father.""My boy, I know it will be so. I have had my warning, and time has been given me to make ready for the change; and, Clair, you also should prepare for it, as a large property like this brings many responsibilities.""You have borne them most generously and nobly, father, and I pray and trust you may yet bear them for many years.""I believe you do, Clair," said the Earl, and his eyes softened. "From your childhood you never were self-seeking; it is your very nature that—makes me afraid."Clair was silent. He cast down his eyes, and his heart began to beat more quickly.The very generosity of your nature," continued the Earl, "its truthfulness, lays you open to deception, and it is this I fear. A young man, rich, good-looking, and holding your present and future position, is sure to be assailed by many temptations, by many wiles—for your mother's sake, Clair, will you resist them?""My dear father——" began Clair."I know what you will say," interrupted the Earl, waving his hand, "that a man has a right to manage his own private affairs. That I do not dispute. But he has a right to manage his affairs only with due regard to the dignity of his position, and of his family. Clair, you know to what I allude, and I pray that my words now at least may have some weight with you.""Your words always have weight with me, father," answered Clair in a low tone.Again the Earl slightly waved his thin hands."On that assurance I shall rest content, Clair," he said; "I shall trust to your honour—and now will you call James?"Twice Clair opened his lips to speak; twice to say "Father, I have deceived you," and then his promise to Eva, the state of his father's health, rose before his mind, and he stayed his tongue. He waved to the footman to approach them; he walked quietly by his father's side, with his hand still on the chair, until his mother came out to join them, and smiled softly when she saw her boy beside his father."How pleasant the air is!" she said, "why, Kilmore, you have quite a colour," she added, looking in her husband's face. "After all, I like the late autumn, there is a peculiar charm in a day like this.""Autumnal beauty, and autumnal decay," smiled the Earl."I see no signs of decay," answered Lady Kilmore, also smiling, and putting her hand through Clair's arm, "only a change. I like to see the mist lying on the low lands as it is doing over there, and the dew on the cobwebs in the grass. When I was a child I used to make lovely little fairy tales about the spangled cobwebs!""What a poetical little mother I have!" said Clair, smiling too, and pressing her arm closer to his.But though he jested, his heart was ill at ease. He felt he was deceiving his father, and this thought was very grievous to him.CHAPTER VIIIFLIGHT.ALMOST at the very time when Clair was walking with his father and mother in the Park, Eva was going through what to her were some of the most terrible moments of her life.She had gone out early to make a purchase; a purchase of a new gown, a gift from Clair. She had spent some time in choosing this, and was leaving the shop in Regent Street where she had bought it, when suddenly she encountered face to face a tall spare man, dressed as a clergyman, with a dark, rather harsh countenance, whose eyes had no sooner rested on her than he started slightly and stopped."Eva!" he said.Until he addressed her she had not noticed him. She indeed scarcely ever looked up in the streets when she was alone, conscious perhaps that her appearance attracted too much attention if she did so.But as this man's voice fell on her ears she raised her eyes hastily, and in a moment—almost as though a lightning flash had struck her—she staggered and grew deadly pale."You!" she exclaimed, with horror in her voice and eyes."My appearance seems to startle you," said the man, with a shade of bitterness, a shade of scorn, in his tone; "but why should it, you knew I was alive?""Yes, I knew you were alive," answered Eva, trying to recover herself; "but I did not expect to see you.""No, probably not; but I rather hoped to see you. I have been to your bankers and ascertained you are living in town.""It is nothing to you where I live; our lives are parted for ever," making a great effort to steady her trembling voice."I don't know about that, Eva," answered the man, calmly enough. "I have been round the world since I have seen you, and have had time to consider the whole situation. We both acted foolishly, I believe; I the most so in allowing you to go away.""Foolishly or not, it is done," said Eva, with quivering lips, "and never can be undone.""You think so; well, I don't. I believe now that I have not done my duty in the matter; that it was not right to allow a young girl like you to go alone into the world. Where are you living? And what are you doing?""You have no right to ask such questions.""Yes, I have a right, and you know this very well.""You gave up your right; you gave me my freedom, and you cannot take it again.""I think that you will find that I can. You are looking very well—suppose we take a hansom and drive together to your temporary home; that will be better than arguing such questions as these in the public streets."These words seemed to excite Eva almost beyond control."No, I will not!" she said passionately. "You agreed to leave me alone always, not to meddle with me if I left you alone, and I have done so. I live on my own means; I live—with friends, and I am nothing to you, nor you to me.""Such ties as ours, unfortunately, cannot be so easily shaken off, Eva; and as I have told you, I have come to the conclusion that it is my duty to see after you. I ask you again, where are you living?"Eva hesitated. The man looked greatly in earnest; and it flashed through her mind that the best way to escape from him was to give him a wrong address."I am living at present," she said slowly, after a moment's consideration, "at No. 10 Wyndham Place, Bayswater Square, but I do not wish to see you there."The man quietly drew out a note-book and wrote down the address."I shall call and see you, Eva," he said after he had done this. "When shall I do so?""What good will it do your coming?" answered Eva, with a ring of defiance in her tone."We will see. Are you going home now?""No, I am not.""Well, I shall call to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock; and I shall expect to see you then?"Eva made no answer."Will you see me?" persisted the man."Yes," said Eva sullenly, with her eyes cast down; and suddenly she raised them and looked straight into his face. "I warn you again," she continued, "that any meeting between us can do no good, and may do harm; it is utterly useless."He smiled coldly and bitterly."You were always self-willed," he said, "and I gave way to your will once, but this time I shall not do so. I shall see you to-morrow, then?.""Very well," she answered, trying to speak indifferently. "And now I want a cab—will you call one?"The man at once beckoned for a cab and handed Eva in, who gave an address to a shop in Oxford Street, and was driven there in a state of such terrible, almost over-powering emotion, that it seemed to her as though her mind would give way beneath the strain."This is too much—too much," she murmured with her white, writhing lips; "now. Oh! Clair! Oh! Clair!"Then she leaned back in the cab and covered her face with her trembling hands."It is hideous!" she cried half aloud, the next moment, passionately; "I shall die—if Clair ever knows I shall die that day!"Presently the cab stopped; she had reached the shop she had named, but for a moment she did not dismount. She sat still, trying to think what she must do; trying to recall her thoughts from the terrible position in which she found herself."I must escape," she whispered to herself, her breath coming fast and quick, and her bosom heaving. "I will change my cab here, and yet again, and then—go home—but not to stay. I must leave London to-night—must telegraph to Clair—to—to my Clair!" and she rung her hands as if in absolute misery.But with a great effort she succeeded in partly composing herself. She changed her cab, and went along the crowded streets with a white, quivering face and staring eyes. In all these streets there was not a more tortured heart than hers!The meeting she had just passed through had filled her whole being with horror and dismay."I have been living in a dream," she told herself shudderingly, "and now I am awake—awake to what?"At last she told one of her drivers to take her to the little house in South Kensington, and she entered it almost with a groan. Her maid looked in her face as she crossed the threshold, and asked anxiously if she were ill."I feel ill," answered the unhappy woman faintly, for all her strength seemed suddenly to have left her, and she tottered as she walked. She went into the dining-room first, and the maid brought her some wine, and after resting a little she dragged her failing feet upstairs, and having reached her own room she locked herself in, and sat down by the bed with a moan.She was trying to think—to think where she must go; and how to tell Clair—to explain her sudden departure."I must go abroad," she told herself; "but what will he think? Or shall I go to some quiet, out-of-the-way place—some village—but people talk in villages."Then she thought of the old-world town by the sea, where they had spent their brief days of happiness."It would not seem so strange to Clair to go there," she reflected; "I can tell him I want change, that I went to see again the place where we were so happy. Oh! I was mad to be so happy! But I love him so—my Clair, my Clair—I cannot part from you!"At last she decided; she would telegraph to Clair, and then start at once for Westwold, where she had sung by the sea with Clair. She felt a feverish impatience to be gone; she told her servants she was going to join Mr Clair, who was not very well, and that the news had agitated her.Then she hurried through her preparations for leaving town, and left South Kensington early in the afternoon, travelling direct to the sea-coast. She breathed more freely when she again heard the sough of the waves breaking on the shore. It was almost dark when she reached the quiet spot which she had chosen; dark, and she was alone, but she was away at least from London, and hope rose in her heart that for a time at least here she would be safe.She arrived at the quaint old-fashioned inn where she had spent her short honeymoon, and it naturally created some astonishment at first that she was not accompanied by her young husband.But Eva explained: he would join her in a few days, but at present was with his own people, as his father was ill. This satisfied the old-fashioned landlady, and whatever satisfied the landlady satisfied the landlord.But everything painfully reminded Eva of Clair; she occupied the same rooms they had shared; there was the couch his head had rested on, the well-thumbed book his hand had touched. And it was so dreary—so dreary to be alone! She sat by the cheerful fire and listened to the moaning of the wind and the sea, and her heart was very sad."We can't help things," she was thinking; "we drift on and on. I remember telling Clair so—I did not mean to marry him—I could not help loving him, and how will it end? But he must never know; whatever happens he must never know!"Altogether it was a dismal evening, and Eva could not sleep when she went to bed for the restless thoughts which pursued her. Something whispered in her ear that she had done wrong, but she tried to still that voice. Fate had been too strong for her, she self-argued, but she knew in her inmost heart she had not struggled to resist fate."Was I to have no happiness all my life?" she asked herself. "That was too hard—I risked it—have been happy—happy with Clair, and I shall be happy with him still if only he never knows the hateful truth."The morning broke cold and grey over the stormy sea, and the dawn found Eva still wakeful. Some fitful sleep, fevered, dream-haunted, she had gained in the dark hours, but the light brought back all her troubles in stern reality.And she must act, she must face them, she determined; and scarcely was the bountiful breakfast removed downstairs when she sat down and wrote to her bankers. And in this letter she informed them that probably some inquiries regarding her whereabouts might, during the course of the next few days, be made at the bank by a person whom she did not wish to know her present or future address; and she requested them to answer no such inquiries, as this person had no right to make them, and they were only made for the purpose of annoying her. She directed and sealed this letter, addressing it to one of the heads of the firm with whom she had a slight business personal acquaintance, and then she went out into the rain and wind-swept streets of the little town.A quaint, old-fashioned spot! The red-tiled roofs green with the moss of distant years; the irregular streets; the walks crumbled and eaten by the fierce breath of storms that blow inland from the sea. The place lies as it were amid the great mass of rolling waters which sweep round the little promontory on which it stands, and had swept over in days of old some of the low-lying portions of the land.There are legends of a submerged church and a churchyard over which the waves now roll. But the stout headland on which Westwold stands yet rears its lofty crest, and the winter tempests pass over it, and the summer sunshine finds the old houses standing still.But Eva could scarcely keep her feet on this bleak November morning as she made her way to the Post Office with her letter to the banker in her hand. But she was determined to post it herself without delay; and at length she reached the little shop through which the loves, sorrows, hopes, and fears of the dwellers in Westwold sometimes passed.The Post Office was old-world, like the rest of the place. An old woman peered over the counter with horn spectacles mounted on a very enquiring-looking nose, and sold the stamps Eva asked for. Pounds of ancient-tooking tallow candles hung suspended from the rafters above, intermingled with sides of bacon and hams, while cheeses and lard were displayed on the counter for sale.Everything was primitive, and reeked as it were with the odour of the sea. And the primitive failing of curiosity was not absent in the place.The old Post Office woman remembered the face of the pretty bride, and speculated mentally as she looked at her why she had returned to Westwold so soon. She looked curiously too at Eva's letter when she stamped it. It was nothing to her, but it interested her as a daughter of Eve. Then Eva made some enquiries as to the time the first post came in, and having done this, and dropped her letter in the box, she started once more through the wind and rain.A letter had arrived for her in her absence—a letter from Clair, and with eager, trembling hands Eva tore open the envelope, and read the tender lines it contained."MY DEAREST LOVE," Clair wrote, "I have just received your telegram to tell me you are starting to-day back to Westwold, and this news has filled me with some anxiety. Why have you made this hasty move, my dear one? Surely at this season the North Sea coast must be very bleak for you, and your comfortable little house in town far pleasanter? You telegraph also you are not feeling very well, and I need not tell you how the thought of this distresses me. I would start to-day to join you, my Eva, but it seems almost impossible at this moment for me to leave here. My father was out in the grounds this morning in a Bath chair, and on his return to the house did not seem so well. Every little thing seems to upset him, and he spoke to me very despondingly this morning about the state of his own health. I most earnestly hope he is mistaken, but you can understand how anxious all this keeps my mother and myself. And now the idea of you being ill, and my not being with you, makes me quite miserable. Write at once when you receive this, and tell me really why you have left town, Eva. Is anything worrying you, dearest? Tell me everything, and if you want anything, and believe me, my darling wife, to remain always,"Your affectionate and loving husband,"CLAIR."Eva kissed the concluding words and her eyes grew dim with tears."Poor fellow!" she murmured: "dear—dear Clair."Then she sat down and wrote to him, and explained that she had felt weak and languid, and had suddenly taken a fancy once more to go to Westwold, "where we were so happy, dearest Clair. But come to me when you can," she added; "and till you come I shall spend the time thinking of you, and walking about the coast where I wandered with you."Tender words. Almost as warm and loving as his own, and the heart that dictated them was loving too. Eva kissed the letter she had got from him, and kissed the words she sent."Tell him I love him," she whispered to the written lines; "if I have done wrong, it was for love."And this thought seemed to console her. Her step was lighter when she again faced the wind-swept streets."We love each other," she whispered to her heart, and pressed her hand against her breast where she had placed Clair's letter. This great love between them seemed now to blot out all the rest."He would forgive me, I think," she thought softly, and when she
slipped her letter in the letter-box she sighed softly too.Meanwhile the old woman in the Post Office, when she heard the letter fall, peered over the box and saw the pretty bride again. She liked to look at the letters left in her charge, though this was against the rules; but she had a sort of tacit agreement with the postman who came for them that she might have a peep before he carried them away.For this privilege she paid in kind, presenting the postman occasionally with snuff, and on very cold mornings with a glass of rum."She seems to send a vast of letters," she thought inquisitively as Eva turned away, and she determined the morning was cold enough to give the postman a glass of rum when he called, and later on she carried out this intention.But Eva went back to the inn without ever remembering the Post Office woman; and as the day did not improve she remained indoors during the rest of it, trying to wile away the time as best she could.But she could settle to nothing, and when three o'clock came she kept excitedly thinking of the forced appointment from which she had fled, and wondering what the man would do when he found she had played him false.What really happened was this. Exactly at three o'clock, the tall clerical-looking person whom she had met in Regent Street, arrived at and rang the door-bell of the house in Wyndam Place, which she had given as her address. The door was opened by a neat maid-servant, and the clergyman outside inquired for Eva in the following words:—"Is Mrs"——and then he checked himself, and a dusky colour rose to his dark-complexioned face. "Is Miss Moore at home?" he added a moment later."Miss Moore?" repeated the maidservant."Yes, Miss Eva Moore?" said the inquirer."No, sir, we have no Miss Moore staying here," answered the maid."No Miss Moore? Are you sure?" asked the man sharply, and the dusky flush on his face faded as he spoke."Not staying here. I am quite sure there is no lady of that name among the visitors, though I cannot say.""Can I see the lady of the house? What is her name?""Her name is Miss Sprigge.""Ask Miss Sprigge to see me then; take in my card to her," said the man, producing a card-case from his pocket, and drawing out a card on which was inscribed:—Rev. George Temple,Harlaxton Vicarage,Dorset.The maid took the card, and as she did so Mr Temple continued his inquiries."Is this a private house?" he asked."In a way, sir; mistress takes in ladies and gentlemen to board—very select," added the maid, anxious to keep up the character of the establishment."All right, give her my card, and I will wait until you come back."The maid gave an uneasy glance at the umbrella-stand, and then another at Mr Temple, for she had heard of impostors assuming even a clerical garb. But there was nothing in the hard, cold, severe face before her that gave her the idea of deception of any kind. She therefore hesitated no longer, but left the umbrellas to their fate, and retired to a back parlour to seek her mistress.Miss Sprigge, a thin, spare, middle-aged woman, was engaged over her accounts; dotting down one item after the other; trying the hard task of making both ends meet with an uncertain income and a weary heart!A heavy task life had been to this poor lady—heavy and sad to bear. In one of the upper rooms of the house there was an inmate who did not pay; an inmate who made her pay, and spent her small earnings with a somewhat lavish hand. This was her father, a fraudulent bankrupt, who, after breaking his wife's heart and ruining his family, still lived at ease. He was not seen at the "select table" downstairs; he laughed at the old maids, or old cats, as he called them, who gave his daughter, and through her himself, bread.He was a graceless ne'er-do-well. Yet Miss Sprigge bore it, and when her friends remonstrated with her on her patience, she only answered very gently, with her sad eyes cast down."He is my father," and seemed to consider that this relationship gave him a claim to the protection and care which should have come from him.She looked up from her accounts as the maid entered the room carrying Mr Temple's card in her hand."There's a gentleman, a clergyman, miss, wants to see you," said the maid, handing her the card. "He's been inquiring for a Miss Moore, but I told him we had no lady of that name here.""Miss Moore? No," said Miss Sprigge, rising and reading the name and address on the card as she did so. "The Rev. George Temple, Harlaxton Vicarage. What sort of gentleman does he seem, Jane?""He looks quite the gentleman, miss."Upon this Miss Sprigge proceeded to the dingy mirror over the mantel-piece, and looked somewhat disconsolately at her livid face and shabby gown."I'm not very tidy," she said, for in many middle-aged female hearts the very name of a clergyman brings a tender and expectant flutter. "But I'll see him; ask him to walk in, Jane."Accordingly the Rev. George Temple was ushered into Miss Sprigge's back parlour, who made her best bow as he entered."I called to see a lady—Miss Eva Moore—who gave me her address at your house," said Mr Temple, also bowing."Miss Moore? We have no Miss Moore at present, Mr Temple, but the lady may be coming," replied Miss Sprigge, hoping for a new boarder."True.""Or she may be coming as a guest to one of my ladies to-night to dinner," continued Miss Sprigge; "I have notice for three extras; Miss Moore may be one of them?"Mr Temple stood silent, knitting his dark brows."She has played me false," he was thinking; "but I will trace her through the banker. I have her safe."CHAPTER IXAT MISS SPRIGGE'S.IN the meanwhile Miss Sprigge was gazing with timid admiration at Mr Temple's gloomy face, whose cold grey eyes were cast down."He looks sad," she was thinking in her gentle way. "I fear he has some secret grief.""I am sorry to have troubled you," presently said Mr Temple, looking up."Oh, no trouble at all, Mr Temple, quite the contrary; and I'm sure if you think that the lady you are inquiring after—Miss Moore—is at all likely to be a visitor to any of my ladies this evening, I shall be proud if you will be a guest at my table on the occasion? I have a very pleasant and select circle, and of course a clergyman is always welcome."Mr Temple bowed gravely."It is a very remote chance, I fear," he said, "that Miss Moore should be present as a guest this evening, as she distinctly told me she was living here at present.""Perhaps—excuse me suggesting it—but perhaps you have mistaken the date that the lady said she might be living here," said Miss Sprigge a little eagerly. "Mistakes about dates are easily made, and she might have said she would be living here at a later date?""True.""In that case she may be coming here this evening as a guest, and with a view also of seeing if the society and establishment would be likely to suit her? It is a chance, at all events, and in that case perhaps you will honour my table, Mr Temple?"Again Mr Temple bowed."You are very good," he said.He was considering if it were a chance? Eva might have had some motive for naming this especial house, and in that case some one who knew her might be living here. He knew very few—almost no one—in town, but he was nevertheless determined to trace Eva."Well," he said, after a few moments of hesitation, "if you are so kind as to allow me to take the chance, I shall gladly be your guest this evening."Miss Sprigge's faded skin coloured softly."I shall be most pleased, most proud to see you," she said. "I have a great respect and honour for the Church. In other days—before my poor father was unfortunate—I used to take a great interest in the parish in which we resided. Now, of course——"And she sighed."You have too much to see after, I presume?""Yes, Mr Temple, I have; an establishment like this requires a great deal of looking after—constant superintendence, in fact. Of course in other days——"And again she sighed.That sigh was given to a hazy vision which at this moment passed before her of the one romance of those "other days."She saw herself again a young girl, with a consumptive-looking curate by her side, going to early services, decorating fonts, embroidering slippers.It was a common story; the curate was lying in his grave, the young girl was a middle-aged woman toiling for her daily bread, and the daily bread of the worthless father beneath her roof. But it was a romance still! It perhaps made those faded eyes look sweet and gentle even amid the carking care which harassed her present life.She had loved and been beloved, and the fragrance of the past lingered, as the scent clings to the dead rose.The remembrance of the curate also made everyone in the garb of a clergyman a person of interest to Miss Sprigge. She felt pleased that Mr Temple was to be her guest, and when he had taken his leave, after promising to return to dinner at half-past seven o'clock, she made haste to add some little delicacies to her table which she did not as a rule indulge in. She put on her bonnet, and went out to purchase fruit and flowers, and before the dinner-hour came she arrayed herself in her best silk gown. Mr Temple, however, did not arrive until after the dinner-bell rung, and Miss Sprigge's boarders had mostly taken their places at the table. These boarders consisted of a very varied collection of human beings, being principally composed of spinsters and bachelors. There were, however, a sprinkling of widows, and one widower, a Navy man, tall, white-haired, and mild, but also sly of visage. He was said to be very well off, and in consequence received a great deal of attention from the ladies of Miss Sprigge's establishment. But Mr Waldron was proof against the wiles of maids and widows alike. He was affable to them all, but he entrenched himself by his general affability. One widow lady, large, fair, and handsome, once believed, it was said, that he was about to succumb to her attractions. But no: Mr Waldron suddenly was called away to attend the bedside of a sick friend, and remained away so long that the widow gave him up. Then he reappeared, smiling and wary as usual, and he had remained with Miss Sprigge for several years, and still showed no signs of changing his condition.The appearance of Mr Temple in his black coat, tall and gentlemanly-looking, as he was ushered down the side of the long table by one of the waiters to the seat by the side of Miss Sprigge, created quite a little sensation. Everyone in the house nearly knew each other by sight, and a clergyman was an unusual visitor. They, as a rule, mostly marry, and not a single married couple lived at Miss Sprigge's.Miss Sprigge herself rose, smiling and blushing, to receive her visitor, and the boarders looked up from their soup with interest. They concluded Mr Temple was a new boarder, and was about to become one of themselves. They also noticed the unusual flutter in Miss Sprigge's manner, and her eager wish to pay Mr Temple every attention.Presently Miss Sprigge addressed him with some timidity."Is there anyone at the table," she said, "that reminds you of the lady you were inquiring for this afternoon?"Already Mr Temple's dark stern grey eyes had traversed twice up and down the long table before Miss Sprigge made this inquiry, and now before answering her he looked again. But among the many women present there was none like the fair one for whom he sought. There was not much beauty, if the truth be told, to be seen at Miss Sprigge's. There was one fine-looking girl with bright fair hair and a piquant face, but as a rule a general air of middle-agedness prevailed."No," answered Mr Temple, and again his eyes fell; "there is no one like her here." No one with the charm, the lustrous eyes, the supple, graceful form of Eva Moore. She was a woman of a personality of a distinct type, a woman who could not be overlooked, and Mr Temple felt this as he glanced at the faces round Miss Sprigge's table.Presently Miss Sprigge introduced him to the lady seated next him, who proved to be a pleasant, agreeable, middle-aged woman named Miss Onslow."My brother is a clergyman also," smiled Miss Onslow."Indeed?" replied Mr Temple. "May I ask if he holds a town or a country living?""He is Vicar of a parish in South Kensington," said Miss Onslow; "St John's; and I think he has some very nice people among his parishioners.""He is fortunate then.""Yes; he was telling me of quite a romantic marriage he had at his church lately—a young nobleman and such a lovely girl. But he did not tell me the young gentleman's name; in fact, he was bound to secrecy not to do so.""An unequal marriage then, I presume?""Yes, I suppose so: but by my brother's account the bride was handsome enough to turn any man's head."Mr Temple sighed restlessly."Beauty is sometimes a curse," he said."But a very pleasing curse to a woman, after all," smiled Miss Onslow, who had been and still was good-looking. "Fancy how delightful to look charming on every occasion without any trouble?""But it has brought much evil in ancient and modern times alike.""That is true. Well, we must hope this lovely bride won't bring any evil to her young husband. My brother, who is a bachelor, indeed quite fell in love with her; and she had such a romantic name too—Eva.""Eva?" repeated Mr Temple quickly, and his dark skin slightly paled."Yes; my brother would not tell me her other name—that was part of his secret—but her Christian name was Eva.""This grows interesting. A secret marriage; a romantic name.""Isn't it? Well, we shall know the secret some day, I suppose; probably when the young man comes into his inheritance.""Yes, probably. Eva," Mr Temple again repeated; "it is a name I once knew well."Upon this Miss Onslow began to talk of women's names, and so the conversation drifted on until the dinner was over, and some of the boarders went to the drawing-room and some to their own rooms. Mr Temple went to the drawing-room, where part of the ladies got up a card-table, which, however, he declined to join. He talked to Miss Sprigge a little and to Miss Onslow. These two suited his grave nature better than the laughing widows and the wary men. Neither of them affected anything, and took sober, sensible views of life, and before he left, Miss Sprigge pressed him to come again."You are very good," he replied."And my brother, I am sure, will be very pleased to make your acquaintance," said Miss Onslow. "Let me see—the Rev. George Temple, Harlaxton Vicarage, Dorset, isn't it? May I ask where you are staying?""I am staying at the Grosvenor Hotel for the present," said Mr Temple, drawing out his card-case and presenting a card to Miss Onslow. "I shall be very pleased to know your brother."Then they shook hands and went away, and Miss Onslow and Miss Sprigge said a few words about him after he was gone."He is a very quiet, gentlemanly man," remarked Miss Onslow. "How was it you got to know him, Miss Sprigge?""He came to inquire after a young lady who had given her address as staying here," replied Miss Sprigge; "a Miss Eva Moore.""Miss Eva Moore," said Miss Onslow with interest; "he seemed very much struck with the name of Eva—and this young lady is not here, and yet gave her address as being here? It is quite a little romance; I wonder if she has been playing him false?"She spoke these words lightly, but they were a realisation of the old adage that "many a true word is spoken in jest."CHAPTER XTHE BANKER."SHE has played me false," also thought Mr Temple, as he walked along the street after leaving Miss Sprigge's house. "Whatever she was, she used to be truthful, but yesterday she evidently purposely deceived me—she must have some reason."He thought of what that reason could be, and his brow darkened."She is too handsome—I should not have left her alone—and yet I cannot believe she would degrade herself by any folly," he reflected: "she is too proud—too cold."But she did not wish to see him again; she had told him so; and this was now very evident."She prefers a careless life of freedom, I suppose; but I committed a grave error when I gave way to her folly. I should have borne with her, conquered her—but this shall come.""This shall come," he repeated, and he looked up to the dark sky as he spoke, and his face was very resolute and grave.It was very resolute also the next morning when he went to the Bank where he knew Eva had an account. He asked one of the clerks quietly at first if he could obtain Miss Eva Moore's address there.The clerk replied he did not know."Can I see one of the heads of the firm?" then inquired Mr Temple, presenting his card.The clerk said he would ask, and retired into an inner room, but returned in a few minutes."Mr James Ford," he said, "the junior partner, son of Mr John Ford, the senior partner, will see you, sir, if you will walk this way."Then Mr Temple followed the clerk through various passages, and finally came to a green baize door, at which he rapped.""Come in," said a voice from within, and the clerk thereupon pushed open the swing door and held it back for Mr Temple to enter the room.He did so, and found himself in a luxuriously furnished apartment in a business way. But everything was of the very best, and seated in a divan chair, with the morning papers in his hand, was a tall, handsome, dignified-looking man, who rose and bowed as Mr Temple entered."Mr Temple, I presume?" said the banker, fixing a pair of keen hazel eyes on the clergyman's face."Yes," replied Mr Temple; "and you are——""I am Mr James Ford; may I ask what I can do for you?""I have called to make some inquiries regarding the address of a lady who banks with your firm—Miss Eva Moore. Can you furnish me with it?A smile flitted over Mr Ford's good-looking face; he had received Eva's letter, for he was the partner in the bank with whom she was personally acquainted, and to whom she had written from Westwold, and he had therefore been prepared for some such inquiry, and he was, moreover, a man of the world, and a great admirer of beauty."This is rather a strange request," he said, "and one I do not feel myself justified in complying with."Mr Temple's dark face flushed."I cannot look on my request in that light," he said, "I know the lady, and I wish to see her, and if you will be good enough to let me know where she is I shall feel greatly obliged.""But suppose the lady does not wish to see you?" smiled Mr Ford."I cannot suppose so, and you can have no reason for thinking so, Mr Ford," replied Mr Temple with some anger in his tone."I may have some reason," said the banker, quietly raising a paper-cutter which was lying on a table near his chair."Then do you mean she has instructed you not to tell me where she is?" asked Mr Temple in increasing anger."If she had done so I should feel bound not to tell; if the lady had wished you to know where she is, she would have informed you herself.""You are playing with me, Mr Ford," said Mr Temple, "and I did not come here to be played with. I have a right to know where Miss Eva Moore is.""No man has a right to know where a lady is who does not wish to see him," replied Mr Ford, slightly waving the paper-cutter.The blood rushed hotly into Mr Temple's dark face as he listened to these words, and he looked at the handsome man before him with a sudden suspicion in his heart."Do you know this young lady personally?" he asked."That is also a question," answered the banker, "which I consider you have no right to ask.""I have a right!" cried Mr Temple in quick anger. "A right I can enforce—this lady is my wife!"Mr Ford opened his hazel eyes a little wider, but expressed no astonishment at this announcement."Even if this were so," he said calmly, "I should certainly not give you the information you ask for. It is evident this lady wishes to withhold it, and in that case no gentleman would act contrary to her wish."Mr Temple fixed his cold, stern, grey eyes on the banker's face with an expression which was not very pleasant to behold."You will make me suspect you have some motive for all this secrecy, Mr Ford!" he said."How so?""I have told you what this lady is to me——""Yes, you have said your wife.""I can prove she is my wife.""Yet you speak of her as Miss Eva Moore?""That is the name she bears at present; the name she adopted when——""I presume she parted with you? Pardon me, Mr Temple, but I can give you no information as to her place of residence, and do not mean to do so. I wish you good-morning."After this there was nothing left for Mr Temple to do but to bow haughtily and go away, and Mr James Ford smiled softly to himself as the swing door closed after his visitor."So," thought the banker, "the fair Eva has a past, then; a peculiar past apparently—a parson;" and he once more looked at Mr Temple's card. "Harlaxton Vicarage; he does not look a humbug, but she evidently wants nothing to do with him, and I am glad she has such good taste. As for being his wife, I suppose that's all moonshine—but I'll write and let her know what he said."And he carried out this intention without delay. He admired Miss Eva Moore excessively, as indeed he admired all pretty women, and moreover, she had over twenty-five thousand pounds lodged in the bank.This money had been left her by her uncle Mr Moore, an Indian merchant, who had resided in Calcutta, and with whom, in her childhood and early girlhood, she had lived. This much Mr Ford knew of Miss Eva Moore, and he had on two occasions seen her. He was a married man, but this did not prevent him from being very desirous to see her again, and he considered that now he might have an opportunity of doing so. He therefore penned the following lines, and addressed them to Miss Eva Moore at Westwold."DEAR MISS MOORE,—I received your letter, and a gentleman—whose card I enclose—called here a short while ago, and was most anxious to obtain your address. This, of course, I refused to give him. He was exceedingly persistent, and stated he had a right to the information he required—a legal right. I need not tell you that I obeyed your wishes to the letter, and Mr Temple left without hearing a word about you from me. And I write now to tell you that if I can be of any use or service to you in suppressing this very inquisitive person, you have only to give me your commands. It seems that he called here a short time ago, and inquired if you were in town, and one of the clerks said 'yes;' but luckily this clerk did not know your address in South Kensington."If you will write personally to me now on any business matter I think it will be safer, and I shall have the greatest pleasure in assisting you in any way in my power."And with kind regards,"I remain, yours very sincerely,"JAMES FORD."When this letter reached Eva at Westwold, it threw her into the greatest state of excitement and anger."What!" she cried passionately, "he is going to hunt me down, is he? But he shall not. I hate him—I hate him—I wish he was dead!"She caught up the card as she spoke on which was engraved Mr Temple's name, and which had fallen from Mr Ford's letter, and thrust it into the fire, watching the flames scorch and destroy it with dilated eyes."I was mad—mad," she muttered; "a mad child, and the curse has fallen on my womanhood, when I might be so happy. Oh, Clair, my Clair!" and she burst into a sudden and passionate fit of tears, rocking herself to and fro in her bitter distress."I must leave England," she murmured between her sobs; "Clair will think it strange, but I am safer away—and this banker will help me. I must write to him. Oh, how well I wrote!"She dried her eyes; she tried to comfort herself, and then sat down to reply to Mr Ford's letter."DEAR MR FORD," she wrote,—"I thank you very much indeed for your kind letter, and for treating the person who called to inquire for my address as you did. I earnestly entreat you never to let him know it. He has no right—no legal right—to do so, and the greatest annoyance and pain would come to me if it were possible for him to see me again. I will trust you implicitly, and no one need know my address but you, and I feel sure you will not tell it to anyone. I am thinking of going abroad, but I shall, of course, let you know before I do so. In the meantime, I shall remain at this quiet place, as I am afraid to return to town, so great is my horror of the person who called on you."Once more thanking you for your great kindness,"I remain, with kind regards,"Sincerely yours,"EVA MOORE."She felt a little happier after she had posted this letter, but still she was very restless. She had nothing to do, and did not know how to pass the time, and then she was so utterly lonely. Outside, the sea was moaning—a great waste of grey-green restless water—and the melancholy sound did not tend to make her more cheerful.She kept walking up and down her little room, trying to think of and solve the problems of life, wondering if the tangled skeins will ever become straight."Is anyone happy—really happy?" she asked herself. "They say there's a skeleton in every house. Mine is a grim enough one, at all events. That woman I met yesterday whose husband was drowned didn't look quite miserable as she stood watching the sea; she said he was safe with God—this is what they call faith, I suppose? But I have none; I cannot understand it. I think we can't help ourselves any more than the leaves driven before the storm. We must do things; they are fated, or why did I ever meet my Clair? I have had many lovers, but I cared for none of them until I saw him. I could not help caring for him. I tried not. I never sought him, but I just went drifting on—and now—and now life is utterly desolate without him."Up and down the room she went, still thinking of Clair. What was he doing? Was he thinking of her? A soft blush stole to her cheeks."Yes, he is thinking of me," she whispered; "Clair, my own, my darling, can you feel me near you? Clair——" she stretched out her arms, her bosom heaved, she closed her eyes, and a sensation she had never felt before passed thrilling through her frame."Clair!" she cried again in a sort of rapture.Far away at Kilmore at that moment Clair was indeed thinking of her with intense and passionate love. All day he had been wearying for her presence; all day picturing her fair and lovely as she was to him. And now as he leant by the window of his room, looking out on the misty park, it seemed to him he heard her whisper "Clair".He slightly started. Was he dreaming? No, not dreaming, yet though the room was empty save himself, he did not feel alone."Eva!" he said aloud, but there was no answer. Only the sough of the wind through the trees; only some rain-drops pattering on the panes.But Clair felt strangely disturbed. Was she calling him? he asked himself. Was she in trouble or pain, and had her spirit come nestling near him for help?He began walking restlessly up and down the room; it seemed intolerable to him that he could not go to her. His wife, his love! He must see her again, he told himself; he could not wait.He kept moving about the room, full of impatience, trying to think what reason he could give for leaving Kilmore. And while he was doing this a rap came to the door, and his mother's gentle face appeared."Your father has been asking for you, Clair," she said. "Will you go and read to him a little while?""Yes; but, mother, there is something I want to say to you. I want to leave Kilmore for a few days. I must go," he answered, and there was impatience in his tone.His mother looked at him in pained surprise."Your father is very ill, Clair.""He is no worse," said Clair, still impatiently; "and I cannot stay always here.

I have other——""Your duty here may not last long, Clair," answered Lady Kilmore reproachfully as Clair paused, and her words touched his heart."Don't say that, and don't be vexed with me, mother, but—something has made me very anxious.""You will make your father unhappy if you go: should he not be your first consideration?""Of course I think of him—but——"Lady Kilmore said no more. Again she raised her eyes reproachfully to her son's face, and then turned and left the room, leaving Clair unhappy enough, but still determined to see Eva. She was his wife—she had the first claim upon him: a claim greater than father or mother, and somehow he felt she was longing to see him, as much as he was longing to see her.Presently, however, he went to his father's room, and found the Earl irritable and restless. It was one of his bad days, and he was im-patient under his sufferings. Clair tried to read to him, but Lord Kilmore interrupted him with something between a groan and a sigh."I can't listen to-day, Clair," he said, and when Clair spoke some commiserating words he scarcely answered.Clair left the room when his mother entered it, and went to seek his cousin Annette. He had made up his mind to ask her to break to his mother that he was about to leave Kilmore for a few days without seeing her again.He found Annette sitting by the library fire—a pensive figure, with an open book lying on her knee. But she was not reading. She was thinking of her cousin Clair, and a flush came to her small face when she heard him enter the room."Annette, I have been seeking for you,'' began Clair; "I want you to be a dear little thing, and do something for me.""And what is it, Clair?" smiled Annette, with a soft look in her dark eyes."I must go away to-day for a few days; I can't help myself," went on Clair hurriedly, "and when I said something about it to my mother, she made no end of objections. But I must go, so I mean to catch the first train up to town, and I want you to tell mother after I am gone that I was obliged to go, and that I did not wish to disturb her or my father about it any more. I shall only be away a few days, and if you will do this for me, Annette, it will save a lot of trouble?"Annette's face flushed and then paled as she listened to this request."But, Clair——" she said, and then paused with parted lips."It is absolutely necessary that I should go," continued Clair; "some one—some business—requires my presence, and I do not wish to worry my mother."I fear it will worry her," said Annette in a low tone."I am very sorry, but I cannot help it.""And if your father is worse?""Oh! Annette, don't worry me too! If I could help it, I would not go, but I can't—I am very anxious—in fact, I must go."Annette did not speak for a moment or two, and then she said slowly and painfully:"If you will tell me what to say I will tell Aunt Jeanie.""Just say that I asked you tell her that I was obliged to go, and that I will be back at latest in a day or two.""And—if they require you here?""Just telegraph to the Club; a telegram will find me there. Thank you, Annette; and now good-bye, dear, for I mean to be off to the station in half-an-hour."He shook hands with her, and noticed that her little fingers were very cold and trembling in his own. But his heart was too full of the idea of soon again seeing Eva for anything about Annette to make more than a momentary impression on his mind.He hurried from the room, and in less than half-an-hour he was on his road to the station, and was in town before night-fall. He did not write nor telegraph to Eva."There is no need," he thought fondly; and after a restless night, he went the next morning, by the very first train he could catch, to the little old-world fishing town by the North Sea, where he had spent the happiest days of his young life.Shall we follow his eager footsteps along the storm-swept irregular streets? It was blowing a hurricane when he reached Westwold, and the sea was breaking with a sullen roar along the coast.But Clair neither heeded the rain nor the wind. On he went, with bright eyes and a beating heart. His bride, his darling, was waiting for him, and the world seemed full of hope and joy.They remembered him again when he arrived at the old-fashioned inn; the young husband, they said, had come back, and the primitive landlady received him with smiles."Your lady is well, and nicely, sir," she said; "she has your old rooms."Clair needed no second bidding; he ran bounding upstairs, he reached the sitting-room door, rapped, and then opened it, and the next moment Eva was in his arms."Clair!" my Clair!" she cried.She had been singing softly to herself as he went in; the storm outside excited her, and there was a flush on her lovely face, and she wore a loose white gown. A beautiful woman, and most beautiful in the eyes of the young man who clasped her so passionately to his breast."And you never told me," she murmured, raising her head after a few moments of silent joy; "never said you meant to come?"He pressed his lips to hers before he answered her."I did not mean to come," he said; "but, Eva—I thought I heard you call for me?"She looked up with startled eyes into his face."When, Clair?" she asked quickly."Yesterday afternoon; I could have sworn I heard you, darling.""Oh! Clair, I did. I did call!" she cried. "I cried to you to come; I felt somehow that my spirit had gone to yours—but now—I am half afraid. Can such things be?""I seemed to hear you, Eva.""I—I wanted you so much; I was so lonely, Clair—and you came. Clair, promise me one thing?""What is it, darling?""That if ever you are away again—if ever we are parted—no matter by what—that you will come if you hear me call?""Yes, I promise," and again he kissed her."Remember, it is a promise—a solemn promise," she continued, looking at him with her lustrous eyes. "Our souls must be very near akin, Clair—very near.""I always felt it was so.""And nothing can part us? Say nothing shall part us?""Nothing—I swear it.""Then I shall be happy again. I will be happy, Clair—I have been unhappy, but now I shall throw it all to the winds. And you have come to stay?""Yes, for a few days at least.""They shall be golden days! Oh, Clair, I am so glad—so glad to be with you once more!"CHAPTER XIGOLDEN DAYS.THEY were golden days that the young pair spent together by the wintry sea,—days when love made the sunshine, and filled for them the whole world with warmth and joy. Eva half forgot the grim shadow that stalked behind her path. She would not think of it; she was with Clair, he loved her, and she was happy, and she tried to forget all else.But sometimes in the cold dawn—that hour of memories—she would awake with a start, and shudder when she thought. "It might be so brief, so brief, all this joy," said a chill whisper in her ear. But no, she would not listen. "Life was too brief," she answered defiantly; "let us be happy while we may."And so they were happy, the young hus-band and the young wife. The fisher-folk used to look after them with a kindly smile on. their bronzed faces. But the old ones sometimes shook their heads."It would not last," they were thinking. To them had come the time of change and sorrow, of separation and pain. And so it would come to these two—the earthy heritage which none escape. But not now; not when the bloom of youth was on the bride's fair cheeks, and on the bridegroom's the flush and glory of his young manhood. To all outward seeming, for them the evil days were far away. They were rich also, for they gave with lavish hands, and many blessings followed their footsteps."Some folks have everything, seemingly," one day said a bleared-eyed old woman, as they passed her cottage door."Ay, till their time for sorrow comes," answered her gossip, who was bent, aged, and decrepit. "I mind the time when I and my Jim were jest as fond as they are, and for thirty years now the salt sea has rolled over him.""I wonder why troubles and sorrows are made in the world?" Eva was saying at the same moment to Clair, for they had seen the two old crones cowering over the poor fire as they passed the cottage."That's a question which no man could answer, Eva," said Clair, smiling."But still wouldn't it have been better now if we just had brief, happy lives; all sunshine, instead of worries, and bothers, and troubles, like those two old women? Wouldn't they have been far better dead long ago, instead of living with aches and pains all over them?""They mayn't think so, dearie; and besides, there's another life to live for, you know, Eva.""Oh, I don't believe it," she answered, shaking her head; "we know nothing about it, at any rate. Don't look shocked, Clair, you know I was what is called badly brought up, and I've made, I'm afraid, an apt pupil.""Don't talk such nonsense, Eva.""It's not nonsense, Clair, but a sad fact. My mother died when I was born, and my father, who was an Indian officer, died of sunstroke, when I was about three, I believe, and then an old heathen of an uncle took me to live with him at Calcutta. He lived for one thing—money—he worshipped it, and he had no other creeds nor beliefs. He said it bought everything in this world, and that there was no other. There was a nice rearing for me!""My dear," answered Clair, almost gravely, and he took her hand, "another rearing will. I trust, come to you some day.""Do you mean love? That has come to me; that has made me think sometimes—of other things—but it's best not to think, Clair!""Not sweet thoughts, Eva?""Yes, sweet ones, but not serious ones."Clair did not speak; he looked at her fondly, and thought, perhaps, as the fisher-people did, that her time for serious thoughts had not come. Himself in the heyday of youth, life naturally wore its brightest aspect for him, but still, underlying this, Clair often remembered his mother's words, his mother's prayers. From his earliest childhood, almost babyhood, he had lisped his simple petitions at her knee. She had taught him to believe and trust in God, and Lady Kilmore's own pure and noble life had unconsciously influenced him through the follies and temptations of his young manhood.He did not care therefore to hear from Eva's lips expressions of doubt or unbelief. But he said nothing. "She does not mean it," he thought; "some day my mother will talk to her, and all these wayward fancies will pass away.""You look quite grave," Eva said, smilingly, raising her dark eyes to his face.He pressed her arm, which was through his, closer to his side before he answered."What is the matter?" asked Eva."I was thinking—do you know, Eva, I've been here four days; four such happy days, and I've heard nothing from home. I told Annette Gower to telegraph to the Club how my father was—but—" and here Clair stopped and suddenly bit his lips."What a fool I've been!" he cried the next moment. "I declare I believe I quite forgot to give the Club people my address here. I was thinking so much of seeing you, Eva, everything else went out of my head, and I never remembered until this moment they haven't got it.""I daresay it will be all right," answered Eva calmly."Still, I should have remembered, for my father wasn't at his best when I came away, and my mother is always very anxious about him. Eva, I must run up to town to-day, dear, and see if any telegrams have arrived.""Don't you think if you wrote to the Club it would do?""I don't know; I think I would rather go, for you see writing would lose a day. I'll be back all right this evening."Still——""Little woman, you must not stop me," said Clair fondly; "you alone are to blame for my doing such a stupid thing; I could think of nothing but Eva.""Foolish Clair!"And talking thus—in love's sweet, tender words—they returned together to the hotel, and Clair shortly afterwards started for town. Eva walked with him to the station, and watched the train that bore him away until it disappeared. Then she went back to the hotel, and sat still thinking of him until the early winter afternoon began to darken in. And somehow—she could scarcely tell why—a great sadness came over her heart, in place of the excitement and joy of the last few days.In the meantime Clair had reached town, and having driven direct to his Club, after he got there inquired at once if any letters or telegrams awaited him. He was told two telegrams did, and his heart began to beat a little faster when he heard this. They were given to him, and he tore one open. It was from his cousin Annette Gower, and was dated the day after he left Kilmore. It was as follows:—"Return at once; your father was attacked by another fit last night, and is lying dangerously ill.ANNETTE GOWER."Clair grew pale as he read these brief words, and his hands trembled violently as he opened the second telegram. It was briefer still—"Your father is dead."Dead! Clair could not realise it; could scarcely believe it. Yet there the fatal words lay written before him on the thin pink paper, signed also by his cousin's name. It was a terrible shock; and he had been so happy, so careless, he thought, with a bitter pang, while his poor father's last moments were ebbing away. He looked at the date of this also; it was two days ago; his father had been dead two days, and he had not known. What must they think of him at home—his mother, Annette—not to have been with them in their great sorrow?A kind of groan escaped Clair's lips, and he covered his face with his hands, and just then a man he knew who had been watching him open his telegrams went up to him."Sorry to hear of your father's death," he said.Clair did not speak for a moment; then he said slowly—"I did not know: I have had a great shock.""Yes; sad thing, isn't it? But Kilmore looked very ill when I saw him last; I suppose you will be going down directly?""Yes, of course," answered Clair huskily. "Yes, I will go at once," he repeated, and then he turned away, and with a sort of strange new benumbed feeling at his heart, he lifted up a railway guide, and began looking for the earliest train that would carry him to Kilmore.He had to wait nearly two hours. But he telegraphed at once to his mother and to Eva. To his mother he sent this message—"Just received the sad news of our great loss. "Will be with you to-night."In his telegram to Eva he told her that his father had died, and that the news of his death had been a great shock to him, and that he was starting for Kilmore.He also wrote a few lines to her, telling her of the sudden blow he had received. Even to write to her required a great effort. He thought as he did so of the quarrel with his father for her sake; and that for her sake also he had deceived him. Their last conversation on the subject rose vividly to his mind, and there was great self-reproach in his heart."I should not have left him," he thought, and he remembered his mother's sad warning that his duty to his father might not be for long. This had been only too true, and now Clair blamed himself in vain.At last the time came for him to start for Kilmore, and the journey was a long and inexpressibly dreary one. He telegraphed on the road for a carriage to be waiting for him at the station nearest to his home, and he reached this station on a dark and blusterous night. A carriage was outside, and the station-master took off his hat to the new peer.But Clair pulled his over his brow, and walked on without a word. He could not speak of it, he felt, and he did not until he reached the Hall. There the butler Gregson was waiting at the entrance to receive him."How is my mother?" asked Clair hastily."I am sorry to say my lady is very ill, my lord," answered the butler. "My lord's sudden death was a great shock to her, and she is very prostrate.""Where is my cousin, Miss Gower?" next inquired Clair, who was much agitated."I had orders to inform Miss Gower when your lordship arrived. She is with my lady.""Tell her at once; I will wait for her here," said Clair, going into the breakfast-room. But many minutes elapsed—endless minutes they seemed—before Clair heard Annette's footsteps, and when she did enter the room her face was very grave and reproachful."Annette!" cried Clair, going up to her with outstretched hand; "this is very terrible!"But Annette did not take his hand; she raised her dark eyes and looked in his face, and Clair understood how much she blamed him."I only got your telegrams to-day," he said hastily. "I have been out of town.""And why were they not forwarded?" asked Annette. "The anxiety you have caused her has nearly killed Aunt Jeanie.""I'm so dreadfully sorry—I—forgot to leave my address at the Club, and when I remembered this, I came up to town and got your telegrams. It has been a terrible shock to me. I never thought of such a thing for a moment, or, of course, I should not have gone away.""It has been terrible for, Aunt Jeanie; she thought something must have happened to you also, and she has been nearly out of her mind. You left me a bitter task, Clair, when I had to tell her you had gone against her wish, gone without bidding her good-bye.""I was forced to go—I could not foresee——""Your father took the fit the same night, and he never rallied; it has been most dreadful.""I had better see my mother now," said Clair, in great distress."You cannot see her," answered Annette, and she burst into tears, "She—she thinks the news that you had left Kilmore as you did killed your father—she——""Good heavens! How can you say such a thing?""It is true," sobbed Annette; "she told him, and he got greatly excited, and then the fit seized him, and—he never spoke again."Clair groaned aloud; he was terribly upset, but Annette said no word to comfort him."At all events, I had better see her," he said at length."She does not wish it, Clair, it would only make her worse; she could not bear it."Clair did not speak; that his mother, his fond, devoted mother had turned against him, cut him to the quick, and after a moment or two of silence he left the room and went to his own, which he found ready prepared for him.It was all very terrible—his dead father and his broken-hearted mother, both beneath the roof, and he could do nothing. His own conscience, too, reproached him, and Annette's words had stabbed his heart. Had he really killed his father? Had he, for the sake of his own selfish happiness, for the love he bore Eva, brought death and sorrow to those to whom he owed his birth? Clair asked himself these questions, and a chill presentiment stole over his soul."We were too happy," he thought, still thinking of Eva; and so in this sad and gloomy fashion ended the golden days that Eva had promised him.CHAPTER XIIHIS NEW NAME.THE next morning his new responsibilities were forced upon him; his new name. He had spent a miserable, restless night, and when he went down to breakfast, he had to take it alone. But it was scarcely over when the butler informed him that Mr Jepson, the late lord's land-agent, wished to see him."You can show him in," replied Clair, 'though in his heart he shrank from this interview.A few moments later Mr Jepson entered. He bowed respectfully, but not sympathetically, and Clair felt that his manner also was changed. The respect was due to the man on whom his future income depended; the sympathy was lacking to the son, who had neglected his father in his fatal illness."We meet on a sad occasion, my lord," he said."Terrible, and so utterly unexpected," replied Clair."Lord Kilmore's health had been long failing.""Yes, but I never dreamt, never thought of this sudden end."Mr Jepson did not speak; he knew that the young lord had offended and grieved his father by his infatuation for some girl, and that he was supposed to have left Kilmore on some fool's errand just before the late Earl's fatal seizure, and that he had let days elapse after his father's death before he had returned to the side of his bereaved mother. But it was no business of his, Mr Jepson told himself; his business was with the estates, not the family differences; and besides, the young lord was master now, and his—Mr Jepson's—own bread and butter was to be considered."I am glad you have returned, my lord," he said, after a few moments' painful silence. "Of course there are many sad details to be considered, and I could not venture to act on my own responsibility, and her ladyship has been too ill to speak of such things. We have therefore waited for your lordship's orders regarding the funeral; but I ought perhaps to tell you that the tenants wish to express their deep regret and respect for his late lordship by attending it.""Of course," answered Clair, deeply moved, and turning away his head to hide his emotion; "let everything be done, Mr Jepson, to show the greatest honour to—my dear father."Clair's voice broke and trembled as he uttered the last few words, and the man of business began to think that the young lord had some feeling after all."Young men will be young men," he thought. He said, "Then am I to conclude, my lord, that you wish everything done suitably to the late Earl's rank—that expense has not to be considered?""Certainly not; arrange everything, Mr Jepson—and when——""We thought the day after to-morrow, my lord; any further delay would not be advisable."Again Clair turned away his head, and his lips quivered. He rose quickly from his chair and went to the window, and Mr Jepson was just considering whether he should withdraw, when Clair turned hastily round."Where is he, Mr Jepson?" he said, with a ring of intense pain in his voice. "I have not seen him—I—wish to see him now.""His lordship is reposing in his own bedroom, my lord," replied Mr Jepson, not unmoved. "It was her ladyship's orders that it should be so; her ladyship, I am told, scarcely leaves the room, and carries the key; but of course, if your lordship wishes, I can no doubt procure it.""I do wish it; I wish to look once more on my father's face."''I will see about the key then," replied Mr Jepson, and he accordingly left the room, and after some delay returned."Will you come with me now, my lord?" he said, and so Clair followed him to the familiar room, where he had last seen his father, and where the Earl now lay in his unbroken slumber.The light was dim, and for a moment or two Clair could scarcely see the still, waxen face that rested on the satin pillows. When he did, his own eyes soon were blinded by his tears. The Earl's hands were crossed meekly on his breast; his expression was calm and peaceable; the silent dignity of death hovered round his placid brow."Father, dear father," half whispered Clair, and he bent down and kissed the cold hands. Mr Jepson was also much affected; for over twenty years he had faithfully served the dead man lying before him, and such old ties are not broken without infinite pain. But he had at least nothing to reproach himself with. But Clair's heart, on the contrary, was smiting him with cruel pangs. He was remembering all his father's love and kindness; the boyish days when there had been no quarrel between them. Until Eva Moore's fair face had crossed his path Clair had ever been guided by his father's wishes; and the Earl had been alike just and generous to his son."And I deceived him," thought Clair, remorsefully; "would that I had told him the truth—but I had promised Eva.""Perhaps you would rather be alone, my lord," presently said Mr Jepson considerately, glancing at the young man's agitated face."Yes, thank you," answered Clair, without looking up, and Mr Jepson accordingly quietly withdrew. Then, after he had gone, Clair sank down on his knees by the side of his father's prostrate form."Oh! father, forgive me!" he cried out aloud in bitter grief. "Father, if you can hear and see me, you will know why I acted as I did; I meant no wrong—none, father—God is my judge."At this moment the dressing-room door adjoining the room where the Earl lay was noiselessly opened, and a white-faced, hollow-eyed woman appeared, but Clair never raised his head. It was his mother, and as Clair, without knowledge of her presence, continued to entreat his dead father's forgiveness, Lady Kilmore advanced slowly into the room.Clair," she said, and at the sound of her voice Clair started to his feet.''Mother!" he cried, and he went forward and clasped her hand, and then fell on his knees before her."Oh! you forgive me, too, mother!" he prayed, looking up at her altered face; "I did not mean to grieve you—mother, say you will forgive me now."She opened her quivering lips to speak, but no words came forth, and then she bent down and kissed her son."Mother, my dear mother!" said Clair, rising and clasping her in his arms, and Lady Kilmore's head fell on his breast."Help me to bear it," she murmured, "Clair, Clair, it has broken my heart!""I know it is terrible; let me try to comfort you, mother.""Let us look at him," whispered Lady Kilmore; and so the two went hand-in-hand and stood by the side of their dead, gazing at the placid features."He looks happy," murmured Lady Kilmore. "Oh, Clair, I wish I lay still beside him.""No, no, you must live for my sake," answered Clair; and with many tender words he presently led her away, and Lady Kilmore did not feel so utterly crushed and desolate when her hand lay in her son's.But her husband's loss had been a terrible blow to her. Their married life had been a singularly happy one, and Lord Kilmore's sad and sudden death had, as she told Clair, broken her heart."I have lost all interest in everything," she said a few days later, gazing with her dry, tearless eyes out on the Park: "and yet the world goes on the same."Just the same, though it seems all dead to us! In the first blank hours of loss and grief, we think only of the new-made grave. Lady Kilmore felt this when they bore away from her the husband of her youth, the love of her life. These were, indeed, terrible moments; terrible to the bereaved woman, terrible to Clair.Everything was conducted in the most stately fashion, and a long line of mourners followed the Earl to his grave. Amongst these Clair—the present Earl—stood foremost. He was naturally forced into this position, and had to receive the friends and neighbours of his dead father. Upstairs, Lady Kilmore lay white and speechless, the muffled sounds from below mercifully shut out from her strained ears by the loving hand of Annette Gower. She never left her aunt, and showed the most tender affection and consideration for her in her bitter sorrow.Among the tenants who received invitations to the Earl's funeral were the two Dightons at Holly Hill. Lord Kilmore's death, we may be sure, had been much talked of at the various homesteads, and the young heir's absence from his father's death-bed had also been freely commented on. Richard Dighton heard all this conversation with a gloomy brow and an angry heart. He knew, he thought, at whose side the young lord lingered; for whose sake he had left his father. But he never spoke of these things. He hated Clair, but he also feared him; and when they had accidentally met on the bridge over the Ayre after Clair's return home, and old Dighton had been enquiring after his injuries, there had been a look in Clair's eyes, when he told the farmer that some coward had shot him in the street, that struck absolute terror into Richard's soul.And now he was the Earl—their landlord—thought Richard bitterly, and she—Where was she? Richard, as we know, had put the very worst construction on what he had seen of the intimacy between Clair and Eva. He never dreamed that he would marry her, or think of marrying her. He had disgraced and would probably abandon some day the girl he had met while staying under their roof. Often Richard Dighton had reflected darkly, but by his own mad act his lips were stayed.He did not dare to tell what he knew, and still less now. He scowled when his father said that they had better both follow their late landlord to the grave, and discussed the mounts for the occasion. Richard Dighton felt he could not go, and see the young lord raised so far above him. And, though he did not know it, his parents guessed something of his feelings to the new Earl."I'm sure," said Mrs Dighton, in matrimonial confidence to her husband, "I wish it may be all right between Eva Moore and the young lord. You mind how from the first he ran after her; and what with him saving her at the fire, and then following her to Eastcliffe, and then her disappearing like, I wish it may be all right.""Well, we've naught to do with it, my dear," replied the farmer, putting on his nightcap; "he's our landlord now, and least said is easiest mended.""Our Dick's never been the same lad since she was here," said kindly Mrs Dighton, with a sigh. "I'm sure I wish she had never come.""Perhaps he'll marry her.""The young lord!" answered Mrs Dighton in great disdain; "not he. She was good enough to make a fool of, but not a wife. He'll marry some grand lady, and some day Eva will find herself left out in the cold—she'd better have married Dick.""It's no good talking of it.""I know that, father; but I would like to know what's become of the poor motherless girl, though I never quite took to her like the rest of you did."Mr Dighton moved uneasily. He, too, would have liked to have known what had become of the pretty girl who had always been a great favourite of his, and he also had his suspicions that Eva's disappearance was somehow connected with Lord Clair. But, on the other hand, the term of his lease was running low, and moreover he was meditating asking a renewal of it at a reduced rental."We can make no better of it," he said, and then presently composed himself to sleep, with the fullest intention of attending his late landlord's funeral on the following day.And all the country-folk gathered up to do the same. Mr Jepson had arranged that the mounted tenantry had to follow the carriages in the procession, and that they were to assemble at the Hall by two o'clock. It was a great gathering. Lord Kilmore had been a quiet man, and had led a very retired life, but he had been a good landlord, and personally popular among his people, and they all wished to pay him this last respect.But Richard Dighton would not go. He affected to be ill, and his father therefore set out without him. The farmers were received by Mr Jepson, and a cold collation was spread out in the large dining-room for their refreshment, as many of them came long distances. This was partaken of with much solemnity, while in another room the personal friends and neighbours of the late lord also were entertained.At last, however, the long procession moved away, Clair following in the carriage next the hearse as chief mourner, accompanied by his uncle, Mr Gower, who had come down from town for the ceremony. The shrewd barrister also felt much interest in his nephew, and as they drove together to the church where the family vault of the Kilmores was situated, Mr Gower was wondering what use the young Earl was likely to make of his new wealth and position."It will greatly depend on his marriage," thought the Q.C.; "I hope he has not got into any trouble about that girl they talked of."Clair, or Kilmore, as we must now call him, was very grave and silent. He had not yet recovered the shock of his father's death, and his new responsibilities were by no means to his liking. He had heard from Eva that morning, and she—knowing that Lord Kilmore was dead—had again entreated him to be sure to keep their own marriage a secret."Do not breathe such a thing, my dearest," she had written. "I do not want to be my lady, or to be known as such, and I would rather, far rather, that you had been born in a very different rank. But we cannot help these things; only I do not wish to share your honours—only to have your love. Mind, all your love, Clair, for I shall be content with nothing else."Clair had kissed these lines, and yet they disturbed him. But for the present, he also thought it would be better for their marriage to be kept a secret."It would add to my mother's trouble just now," he told himself, "but of course later on it must be known."Thus, when his uncle was mentally speculating on his future, Clair also was thinking of it, and of the fair young wife whose fate was bound up in his. He thought of her even when they entered the church, and the solemn words of the Burial Service fell on his ears; when he stood by the grave and laid the wreath his mother had entrusted to him on his father's bier. She was in truth ever present in his mind, and as the dead man had truly loved his mother, so his son now truly and faithfully loved the woman he had chosen.At last it was all over. The funeral guests after leaving the church returned to their homes, and talked of the young Earl as they went."He's a nice-looking fellow," said one.''He seemed really cut up about his father's death,"remarked another."He's come into a fine fortune, I suppose?" speculated a third.These and other comments were exchanged, as is ever so when one man comes into another's possessions. The old lord was dead, but the Earl of Kilmore still lived, and the interest naturally followed the title.But while his neighbours and tenants were talking of him, the new Earl returned to the Hall, and at once went to seek his mother. He found Lady Kilmore utterly prostrated with grief, and her expression as she looked at her son as he bent over her, cut him to the heart.It might be fancy, but he thought there was reproach still in her sunken eyes. "Why did you do this?" they seemed to say. "Clair, you killed him, and have broken your mother's heart."CHAPTER XIIITHE BANKER'S VISIT.DURING the sad days at Kilmore that followed the late Earl's funeral, at Westwold Eva had a visitor that much surprised her. This was no other than Mr James Ford, the banker, who had greatly admired Eva's beautiful face when he had seen her, and was also interested in her on account of her fortune. He wanted to know, too, something more of the mysterious visitor at the bank, Mr Temple, and taking advantage of a business transaction regarding the investment of some of her money, he went down to Westwold, and having arrived at the old-fashioned hotel where she was staying, he inquired for Miss Eva Moore.At the hotel, during the first days after their marriage, the young couple had passed, to avoid any remark, as Mr and Mrs Clair. But Eva had given directions that if any letters arrived addressed to Miss Eva Moore, that they were to be delivered to her, as this was her maiden name. She had done this, meaning to keep her marriage to Clair a secret from the banker, and indeed from everyone connected with her. When, therefore, Mr Ford inquired for Miss Eva Moore, the dingy-looking waiter replied there was no lady of that name staying at the house.Mr Ford looked and felt greatly surprised. He had written to Eva here, and she had answered his letter, and told him she would let him know of any change of address.''Are you sure?" he said to the waiter.But before the man could answer, the landlady, who had been listening behind her bar to the question by the stranger (the bar being close to the entrance of the hotel), put her head through the little open glass window, which she could raise and close at will."Ye'll be meaning the young married lady," she said,—"Mrs Clair?"The banker stared, but merely prudently said:"I inquired for Miss Eva Moore.""Yes, sir, she was Miss Eva Moore, and sometimes letters come for her by that name still; but she's wed now; she's Mrs Clair.""Mrs Clair?" repeated Mr Ford in great surprise."Yes, sir; she and her husband are staying here, but he's away just now, he's gone to his father's burial."Mr Ford listened to all this in extreme astonishment. Then, after thinking a moment or two, he drew out his card, and handed it to the waiter."Ask the lady if she will see me," he said."Yes, John, ask the lady," directed the landlady, "and give her the gentleman's card.'John accordingly disappeared for the purpose, and the landlady made a few affable remarks on the weather to Mr Ford. Then John returned."The lady will be glad to see you, sir," he said, addressing Mr Ford, "if you will be pleased to follow me."This Mr Ford accordingly did, and the landlady looked after the tall, handsome banker with mild curiosity."He'll be one of her relations come to look after her;" she was reflecting; "I always thought those two had run away."In the meantime Mr Ford was following the waiter up the broad, old-fashioned, irregular staircase, and at the first landing the waiter stopped, and rapped at a sitting-room door."Come in," cried Eva's clear, sweet voice.The waiter accordingly opened the door, and Mr Ford entered the room, and Eva rose to receive him with a blush and a smile."This is quite a surprise," she said pleasantly."Yes, I thought I should surprise you," answered Mr Ford, smiling also and holding her hand, and thinking how lovely she was; "but the truth is, I thought I should like to see you personally about that investment I wrote to you of, and so I ran down. What a charming view you have here; a magnificent sea-view!""Yes, I am very fond of the sea.""You have plenty of it here, at all events," smiled Mr Ford. Then he looked again at Eva; he was wondering if what he had heard downstairs was true; wondering if Eva was really Mrs Clair."I have just heard some news about you," he said."News!" And Eva's face suddenly paled. "Not about the man who went to the bank?""No; but they told me downstairs that you are married, that you are Mrs Clair?"Eva's creamlike complexion grew scarlet."You must not believe everything you hear, Mr Ford," she faltered."That is true; then I must not believe this?"Eva tried to prevaricate."If you speak to anyone they say absurd things," she said, with downcast eyes."That is true also; well, all I can say is that, if it were true, Mr Clair should be the happiest man on earth."Eva tried to laugh; she turned away her head from the bold, handsome hazel eyes fixed on her face, and she began to speak of the money Mr Ford affected to have come about."And you think it would be a good thing?" she said."Yes," answered Mr Ford. He was a man of the world, and he quite understood he was to ask no more questions about "Mr Clair," and he understood also that Miss Eva Moore was apparently a young lady who not only had a "past," but a present affair, and he smiled.He sat down beside her and talked to her, but he said nothing more either of Mr Temple or Mr Clair. He thought her beautiful, and he wished to let her know that he thought this, but he made Eva only feel nervous and uncomfortable. She was afraid not to be civil to him, as he had so much in his power, and yet there was something in his manner she did not like.It was the afternoon, and presently she asked him if he would have some tea. He accepted this offer, and talked well and agreeably, but still Eva did not like it; she wished him to go away, but Mr Ford seemed to have no idea of going. After it grew dusk, however, he rose with a smile."I must go and speak to the landlady," he said, "and see if she can give me some dinner and put me up. It is too cold a night to travel," and he gave a little shrug.Eva felt exceedingly disconcerted, but what could she say? Mr Ford, however, was perfectly at ease."As we are neighbours for the present in this out-of-the-world spot, may I come in and have a little chat with you after I have dined?" he asked, leaning both his hands on the back of the chair from which he had just risen.Eva visibly hesitated."I am afraid that will be late," she said."Oh no, and I shall stay a very short time; good-bye for the present then," and he bowed and went away, leaving Eva in a very unhappy frame of mind.What should she do? she asked herself. Take this man into her confidence so far as regarded Clair? But the danger of this, she knew would be very great. On the other hand, if Mr Ford made any inquiries downstairs about herself and Clair. What would he think? At last she determined to risk his bad opinion rather than run any chance of her marriage becoming known. And as she sat meditating the difficult question, Mr Ford was actually making the inquiries she dreaded. He did this in his easy and self-assured way while he was arranging with the landlady to remain all night at the hotel.Having ordered his dinner, he said as if casually—"It must be very dull for your visitor upstairs when Mr Clair is away, I should think?"Upon this the landlady at once told him everything he wanted to hear. How devoted the young couple were to each other; how they went about on the shore hand in hand like two children; how he was a handsome young man, and she a beautiful young creature."I think she has a face just like a flower, sir," added the landlady, who had sentimental tendencies, and the banker also agreed in this tribute to Eva's loveliness.And during his lonely dinner which followed he sat revolving in his own mind the strange story he had just heard. If Miss Eva Moore were actually married to this Mr Clair, then she was evidently keeping her marriage a secret, and she must have some motive for this secrecy."And the parson?" reflected Mr Ford. "Could there be any truth in Mr Temple's story that this pretty woman was his wife? In that case she had probably run away with Mr Clair, and was hiding from the husband who was naturally looking after his wealthy wife.""So wags the world," thought the banker with a somewhat grim smile.His own life was by no means a clean record. He also had married a wife in the days of his youth, and had wearied of her, or rather had never cared for her except as a stepping-stone to help on his own fortunes. He was a rich man now, and he could afford to spend as much money as he cared to do on his own pleasures, and he did not take his poor wife much into account. She was older than he was, she was plain, and Mr James Ford's conscience was of a very elastic description.And Eva's beauty, the confidence she had placed in him, and these two men—Mr Temple and Mr Clair—excited some very peculiar feelings, partly of curiosity, in Mr Ford's heart."I wonder if she would like a third lover?" he thought, and again he smiled. Then he rose from the table—still smiling—and went and looked at his own handsome visage in the faded green-tinted mirror over the mantelpiece.A fine-looking man this, stalwart and keen-eyed, and he might perhaps be forgiven the complacency with which he evidently regarded his own features."I think I could cut out the parson, at all events," he reflected, and then he gave a little shrug of his broad shoulders. He did not believe much in women, except in their beauty, and beauty had to him an overpowering attraction."I must find out all about it," he decided, "but not to-night; it never does to be in a hurry when there is anything to unravel."And then, after another glance at himself in the mirror, he quitted the room where he had dined, and went to the one occupied by Eva, and rapped softly at the door.With a sinking heart Eva said, "Come in," and the banker entered, well pleased.They say that admiration is dear to every woman's soul, but there are times when it is certainly very embarrassing. Eva knew she was a pretty woman, and she knew that Mr James Ford admired her, but she certainly wished at this moment that he did not. She was afraid, afraid of the bold, smiling hazel eyes fixed on her face, and of a certain gleam in their expression which was not over-respectful."What must he naturally think of me?" she thought with a little inward shudder. And she thought too of Clair; of Clair whom she loved, and for whose sake she had run a great risk, and who might not care to hear of Mr Ford's visit."Will you forgive me for intruding on you again?" he said."I daresay you find this place very dull?" answered Eva."On the contrary, I am charmed with it, and your landlady gave me an excellent dinner."Eva smiled.Which is one item to produce content," she said."It is, doubtless, but I am not a man devoted to the pleasures of the table. There are other things in life to my mind so far beyond mere eating, that I never think of it unless food is before me.""And then I suppose you do?" laughed Eva."In moderate fashion only," answered Mr Ford; "and to-night I did not think of it at all""No? How was that?""I was thinking—that I hoped to see you again."Eva blushed, and slightly frowned."Forgive me; I am too bold," a moment later said Mr Ford, and then he changed the conversation, and being a clever and agreeable man, when in about half an hour he rose to take his leave, he had made a rather favourable impression on Eva.And the next morning he returned to town, but before he did so he again paid Eva a short visit. He spoke first of business, and then mentioned Mr Temple's name."If the clergyman—Mr Temple—again calls at the bank, I presume you still wish your address to be kept a secret from him?" he said."Certainly," answered Eva, and a scarlet flush mounted to her very brows; "he has nothing to do with me; has no right to ask after me, and I never wish to hear of or see him again."Mr Ford shook hands with her."He shall not hear of you through me," he said; "good-bye; you can quite trust me."CHAPTER XIVTHE PORTRAIT.WHEN Eva wrote to Clair, or rather Kilmore, though he would always be Clair to her, she told him of the banker's visit."He came to see me about investing some money of mine," she wrote. "You know my uncle left me money in India, and there is loss on the exchange," etc.; and so on, and Kilmore kissed the paper on which these words were written, not knowing of the secret anxiety in which they were penned.Eva, indeed, ever since his father's death, had realised more than ever the dangers of her position. Now, as Earl of Kilmore, she knew Clair's actions would be noticed, and her own connection with him more likely to be discovered. She had hidden herself away, but for how long? she asked herself with a restless heart, as she paced her room after the banker had left her, and she felt now that she was committed in his eyes."I wish I had been differently brought up," she thought, with clasped hands; "brought up to be a good woman—fit for Clair's wife. Ah, I am beginning to think there is something in what we hear in church; something in trying to do right, even when we want to do wrong. I loved Clair, but I should not have married him—my dear, dear Clair."In the meanwhile that grim Nemesis which so often dogs the footsteps of our wrongdoings was stealing nearer and nearer on her path. Miss Onslow had told her brother that she had met a clergyman named Temple at Miss Sprigge's, and that he had gone there to inquire after a young lady called Miss Eva Moore."Miss Eva Moore?" repeated Mr Onslow, in a tone of great interest, which instantly struck his sister."Yes, do you know her?" asked Miss Onslow.The Vicar was silent; he had seen the death of the Earl of Kilmore in the papers, and he naturally at once remembered the secret marriage of his heir."It will be acknowledged now, I suppose," he thought, but he of course still felt bound by his promise not to mention the affair. But he naturally felt curious about the clergyman who had inquired after Miss Eva Moore, and wondered if she were the same person who now rightfully was the Countess of Kilmore."He is a tall, dark, rather severe-looking man," explained Miss Onslow, "and he is staying at the Grosvenor; I said perhaps you would call upon him.""Well, perhaps," smiled the kindly Vicar, and so the conversation ended; but a day or two later Miss Onslow and her brother at a picture gallery in New Bond Street actually encountered Mr Temple.Miss Onslow recognised him at once and bowed, and Mr Temple raised his hat. Then Miss Onslow stopped and introduced her brother."This is my brother, Mr Temple," she said, "of whom I spoke to you at Miss Sprigge's; the Vicar of St John's, South Kensington."The two men bowed, raised their hats, and looked at each other steadily. At the same moment both their minds were going back over twenty years."Not Temple, of Trinity?" cried Mr Onslow, extending his hand. "Yes, surely it is!"Yes, I am George Temple," answered Mr Temple; "and you are Alfred Onslow; I remember you perfectly."They had been at College together, and on fairly friendly terms while there. And now they again shook hands; they talked of their old days, their old comrades. It was a pleasant meeting; pleasant to the genial Vicar of St John's, and even to the more reserved George Temple."And are you married?" presently asked Mr Onslow, smiling."Yes," replied Mr Temple, but his tone was so grave, so cold, that the Vicar of St. John's asked no further questions on the subject.It ended by Mr Temple going to dine with the Vicar at his bachelor establishment at South Kensington, and after dinner, when the two men were alone, Miss Onslow having also dined with them, Mr Temple grew a little more communicative regarding his past life.He had been three years absent from his vicarage in Dorset, he told Mr Onslow, having established a curate there before he left England, and during these three years he had been a great traveller."And Mrs Temple?" the Vicar ventured to say.A dusky red rose to the harsh, dark countenance before him."My wife and I quarrelled," he answered, after a moment's pause; "I married a child—a foolish lovely child—unknown to her only surviving relation, who then lived in India. She was totally unsuited to me—wayward, spoilt—perhaps I was harsh, but our married life was one perpetual scene of disagreement and recrimination. At last she proposed, nay, entreated me to allow her to return to her uncle in India, who did not know of our marriage, as Eva was afraid if he did that he would not leave her a fortune, as I was a poor man, and Mr Moore hated poor men. I foolishly consented to her wish; Eva started for India, and I went to Africa, and before we parted we agreed to separate for good. I was away three years—in various lands—and during these years I had time to reflect. I came to the conclusion that I had done wrong; that I had no right to leave my young wife alone in the world; and I heard also on my return to England that her uncle in India was dead; that he had actually been dead three years, and that thus Eva must have been alone during my absence.""What was her name?" asked Mr Onslow, who had listened to this story with deep interest."Eva Moore," answered Mr Temple; "her uncle was Mr Moore, of Calcutta, a merchant there, and a wealthy man, and I conclude that Eva must have inherited his fortune, or a portion of it.""And have you seen her since your return to England?" asked Mr Onslow quickly."Yes, I met her by chance in the street; I knew she was in town, for I heard this at the bank where she used to have an account, before and after her marriage to me. She resumed her maiden name when we separated, as her uncle in India did not know of our marriage for the reason I mentioned to you. I inquired for her, therefore, as Miss Eva Moore, and was told she was, the clerk believed, in town, but he did not know her address. But soon after this I met her.""Yes?""I knew her instantly, for she is little changed; I told her that I had repented of our separation; that it was not right, and that she must return to me. She refused to do so; refused to tell me where she lived, but finally, on my persisting, gave me an address—a false address, as I afterwards found—at Miss Sprigge's, in Wyndham Place, where I met your sister, and I have never seen her since.""Then she means to elude you?""I am determined to find her, and to insist on her living with me again. She is my wife, I have right on my side, and I am determined to enforce my rights."Mr Onslow was silent for a few moments; then he said slowly, almost painfully—"What is she like?""You mean in appearance?"Mr Onslow nodded."She is tall and slender—a beautiful young woman, with regular features, a white cream-like skin, and large dark eyes and dark hair. She is little changed from her young girlhood; handsomer, I think—too handsome to be alone and without a protector in the world."Something between a groan and a sigh escaped Mr Onslow's kindly lips. The description of the Eva Moore he had married to the young lord in secret was too accurate to be mistaken. She had been married first, then, to this man—George Temple—he was her legal husband, and what should he, Mr Onslow, do?"And you have heard nothing more?" he said presently."Not yet, but I am determined, as I told you, to do so. I went to the bank again where her money is placed, and saw one of the partners of the firm, a Mr James Ford, and this man evidently knows where she is, though he affected not to do so. He, in fact, must know, as she must receive her money through the bank, but he declined to give me the information I asked for; but I believe I can compel him to do so. I am taking legal advice on the point, and I think there is no doubt I can force him to speak."Mr Onslow rose from the table, and began walking slowly up and down the room. He was a good man, God-fearing and just in all things, and the position in which he found himself suddenly placed was a most trying one. He was a High Churchman also, and believed in marriage as a sacred institution, not to be broken by the will of man. And this lovely young woman had, he feared, committed bigamy when she married Lord Clair. It was an ugly word; ugly in its consequences against the law, and in the eyes of this Churchman a heavy sin."And you were actually married to her?" he said after taking a few turns across the room in silence."Most certainly I was," answered Mr Temple. "I was married to her at one of the City churches here in London, and I can show you the register. When I met her first she was a school-girl, her uncle had sent her over to England to finish her education. Then she went to board with a lady, and during this time we were married. It was a private marriage on account of her uncle, but the lady with whom she lived knew of it.""And this lady?""Is unfortunately now dead. I went to her house immediately on my return to England, but she died some time ago, and I could hear nothing of her but the bare fact of her death. No, it is through the banker that I must trace Eva, and I mean to do so.""It is a strange story.""You mean about our separation? Yes, I blame myself now. I should never have permitted such a thing, but she was strangely self-willed, and was always regretting the luxuries she had been accustomed to in India. She had been badly brought up, I fancy, as her mother had died during her infancy, and her father also, I believe. But to me now my duty is plain; she must return to her husband, and the law can force her to do this—but I have wearied you with this long story?""No, you have not," answered Mr Onslow, and again he sighed.He saw indeed at this moment again before him the young couple in their beauty, their happiness, and their love, that so short a time ago he had wedded before the altar of God. He remembered the look of devotion in the young lord's eyes, and the soft blushes and sweet smiles on the bride's fair face. Then he looked at Mr Temple, at the harsh, dark, stern countenance of the man advanced into middle age. And this was her husband; he would take her from her young lover; he would turn her life into misery and woe."But it is a sin," the next moment reflected the Churchman; "a deadly sin. She must have deceived Lord Clair, and led him into sin also—a painful duty, I fear, lies before me."Nevertheless he said nothing to Mr Temple of his almost certain conviction. He must be sure, quite sure, before he took any steps in the matter. He asked the name of the clergyman who had married them in the City church, and found he was an acquaintance of his own."We had better look him up and see the register," he suggested.Mr Temple was quite ready to agree to this, and before they parted he had made an arrangement to meet on the following day, and go together to the City church."I will know her signature," thought Mr Onslow. "You have strangely interested me," he said; "have you a portrait of your wife?"Again that dusky blush crossed the dark face opposite to him."Yes," answered Mr Temple, after a moment's hesitation. "It may seem folly to you that the portrait of the woman I could not live with, that I continually quarrelled with, yet accompanied me in all my wanderings. I have it at my hotel now, and if you like I will show it to you; you may by chance have seen her?""It may have been so; yes, I should like to see it."After this they settled that Mr Onslow should call the next morning at Mr Temple's hotel for the purpose of seeing the portrait, and that they should afterwards proceed to the City church at which Mr Temple asserted he was married to Eva Moore. Then Mr Temple went away, leaving the Vicar of St John's strangely disturbed.But if this were so, if this unhappy young woman had deliberately led the man into sin, what could he as a priest, a servant of God, do? he asked himself. There was but one answer—his duty—and this duty was most grievous to his kindly heart.He said nothing to his sister of the communication he had received. He placed her in a cab and bade her good-night, and Miss Onslow could not help wondering why this visit of Mr Temple's had brought such a sudden cloud on her brother's brow. Then Mr Onslow returned home, and spent the rest of the evening in solitary and very painful reflections. But he was up betimes in the morning, and at the appointed hour arrived at the Grosvenor Hotel and inquired for the Rev. George Temple.He was within, and a few minutes later the two met, and shook hands almost in silence. Indeed Mr Onslow affected no particular pleasure at the meeting, and Mr Temple wondered somewhat at the gravity of his manner. Before him, on the table where he had been writing as Mr Onslow entered the room, was an old travelled-stained leather desk. This, after a few words of rather strained conversation, Mr Temple unlocked, and took out from it a worn and discoloured envelope. This also he opened, and then Mr Onslow perceived it contained a photograph, worn and discoloured too, which, after glancing at, Mr Temple handed towards him."This is my wife," he said rather in a husky tone.Mr Onslow took the photograph almost nervously, and fixed his eyes on the lovely face it portrayed. A girl's face, almost a child's, on the threshold of her womanhood. But there was no mistaking the fair lineaments; the broad, low, white brow, the straight nose, the dark marked eye-brows, and the large lustrous eyes. There could be no other face like it, thought the Vicar of St John's, with an uneasy pang darting through his heart. Yes, this was the fair woman he had wedded to the young lord; this was the Eva Moore and no other, who, if George Temple's story were true, had married when she knew her other husband was still alive."But she may not know," the next moment thought the kind Vicar; "she may have believed him to be dead, and in that case the sin does not lie at her door.""She is handsome," said Mr Temple gravely, holding out his hand to receive back the portrait; "you will smile, I suppose, at such an exhibition of human weakness as that I should have carried this about with me so long? But it was so, and perhaps looking at it in my loneliness first changed my feelings towards her, and led me to believe that it was an actual sin to live any longer apart from my wife.""It was a dangerous experiment to leave so beautiful a woman," answered Mr Onslow."Not as regards her falling into any folly, she is too cold, too proud for that. But what I feel now is that not only her temporal, but her spiritual welfare should be my care. Her ideas on religion were most vague, if she had any at all, and the uncle with whom she was brought up was an atheist.""It is a terrible state of things; without an Anchor and a Guide, God knows to what we may not drift," said Mr Onslow solemnly."That is so; we are ever surrounded, I believe, by those who, for their own dark purposes, would tempt us to evil, and is there one of us can say we will not fall?""Not one; without Help no man nor woman is safe."They talked a little longer in this strain. George Temple's ideas, the kindly Vicar of St John's perceived, were narrow and somewhat warped. Women he considered decidedly inferior to men; inferior mentally and physically, and he believed and argued that they should take no place in the world but in their husbands' households. They were to be guided and protected, and their place in his eyes was literally to "love, honour and obey." He forgot or ignored the eminent women of science, literature, and art. He was essentially of the old-fashioned school, and had been reared in a Scottish manse, and some of the rigidity of the early home clung to him still. His mother, whose Bible and cookery-book had formed her library and her literature, was still to him a pattern among women. He was completely behind his time, and with a certain obtuseness of nature failed to see this.The Vicar of St John's, on the other hand, accustomed to the life of great cities, to the society of polished and intellectual men and women, could scarcely forbear a smile at his crude and narrow thoughts. No wonder a young Anglo-Indian girl, fresh from the easy school where she had been brought up, had revolted and rebelled against such a hard taskmaster, thought Mr Onslow. The astonishing thing was how she had ever married him, but this presently Mr Temple partly explained."I used to do a great deal of hard work among the very poor in the East End in those days," he said, "and Eva was very generous and charitable with her money, and sometimes went with me to the houses of the destitute. And I suppose," he added, with a suppressed sigh, "she endowed me with qualities which I did not possess. At all events, from the very first our marriage was an unhappy one, and yet——" And again he sighed.Mr Onslow in his large and generous sympathy understood. And yet this harsh-mannered man, with his narrow, tyrannical views, had loved the beautiful girl his treatment had repelled. He had not understood the warm, impetuous nature that sought homage and not rule. It had been one of those fatal mistakes when, without any consideration of character, men and women rush into indissoluble bonds.Then after a while, and after, Mr Onslow remarked, Mr Temple had again carefully locked away the portrait, the two started for the City church where Mr Temple asserted this unhappy marriage had taken place. Mr Onslow personally knew the incumbent of this church, and no difficulties were placed in their way regarding the examination of the register. Mr Onslow had looked over his own book of registration of marriages in the morning before he started on this expedition, and carefully noted the signature of Eva Moore. He now saw it again; the same handwriting, though unformed, but still the same. There was no doubt now. With a heavy heart Mr Onslow turned away. He, however, still preserved his reticence on the subject to Mr Temple. He must think before he acted, he decided, and he parted with his brother clergyman without coming to any decision.But during the night that followed he did. His duty—to this man a most painful duty—plainly pointed one way. The young lord who had unconsciously wedded the wife of another man must be informed of this grievous fact, and Mr Onslow determined himself to be the bearer of the evil tidings.In the announcement of the death and funeral of the Earl of Kilmore in the newspapers, Lord Clair, his eldest and only son, had been mentioned as being present. The funeral had taken place from Kilmore Hall, and therefore Mr Onslow concluded that in all probability the young Earl would still be there. At all events, he would go there, as he would be almost sure to learn something of the present Lord Kilmore's movements.And he did go. He waited another day—he wished to be quite certain that he was doing right in his own mind—and then he started. He arrived at the station nearest Kilmore in the afternoon, and having engaged a cab drove through the country lanes, where the mist hung on the leafless hedgerows and lay like a white cloud above the river bed. It was a gloomy day, and the good man's heart was also full of gloom. He was going to the house of sorrow, from which the old master had been but lately borne away, and he was carrying with him the news of fresh sorrow—of sorrow most bitter, most tragic in its pain. Once his heart almost failed him."I cannot do it," he told himself; but after a struggle with his conscience he went on."My sin would be great if I kept this back," he decided. "God give me strength to do what I know is right."CHAPTER XVMORE BITTER THAN DEATH.AT length Mr Onslow reached the Hall, and having arrived at the entrance presented his card, and enquired if he could see Lord Kilmore.The footman replied that he believed that his lordship was within, but that he would ask, and accordingly disappeared with the card, but returned in a few minutes."His lordship will be happy to receive Mr Onslow," was the message he brought, and in anything but a happy frame of mind the Vicar followed the footman to the library.The new Lord Kilmore rose to receive the clergyman as he entered the room. The moment he had glanced at the card he remembered Mr Onslow's name. He had married him to Eva, and with a certain amount of anxiety in his manner he now went forward to meet the Vicar."Mr Onslow?" he said, holding out his hand.Mr Onslow took it, but there was something in the expression of his face that still further alarmed Kilmore."You have lost your father since we met?" began Mr Onslow with faltering tongue."Yes, it has been a great blow to us all; a terrible blow, especially to my poor mother.""Yes, indeed. I grieve, Lord Kilmore," and here the Vicar's voice again faltered, "to come to a house of mourning as the bearer of ill news.""Of ill news?" repeated the young Earl quickly, and his face paled. "Not about——""Lord Kilmore, I married you, as you remember, a short time ago; you requested me to keep your marriage a secret, and this, of course, I have done.""Yes. my poor father objected to the marriage, and he was so ill at the time, I feared to worry him in any way. But now this cause of secrecy is gone, and I am only waiting for a little time to elapse after my father's death to announce it.""I expected some such course from you, I hoped for it, but now—it only makes my task more bitter.""What do you mean? I do not understand.""A painful duty has fallen upon me; so painful I can scarcely speak the words. Lord Kilmore, it has come to my knowledge, and I am not speaking without full knowledge, that the lady you married in my church that day was already the wife of another man.""It is a lie! What folly!" cried Kilmore, starting to his feet in overpowering excitement. "Forgive me, Mr Onslow, but you are speaking under some unaccountable delusion.""Would that I were; would that the pain I am giving you had no real cause! But I fear I cannot be mistaken; that there is no doubt.""I do not and will never believe it! What ground, what possible ground, have you for such an absurd assertion?""The lady you married was Miss Eva Moore, was she not, and she was the niece and heiress of a certain merchant in Calcutta, named Moore also?""I married Miss Eva Moore certainly," answered Kilmore, with some haughtiness; "but I never heard of her being an heiress. You are mistaking one person for the other, Mr Onslow.""I fear unfortunately I am not. By one of those strange chances in life, if we can call them such, I met two days ago a man I had not seen nor heard of for over twenty years. He was an old college acquaintance of mine, and his name is George Temple—the Rev. George Temple. He dined with me, and after dinner he told me something of his life.""But what has all this to do with—my wife?" interrupted Kilmore impatiently."If you will listen to my story, you will see it has, unhappily, Lord Kilmore.""I will believe nothing against her, listen to nothing against her," said Kilmore loyally."God forbid that I should speak against her, for I trust and hope that the sin she has committed was done unwittingly. But some four or five years ago, when she was but a child, she married this George Temple, and the man is living now.""But what proof have you of such a thing?" asked Kilmore, in great agitation, for Mr Onslow's manner was very earnest."I will tell you; George Temple dined with me, and told me a strange story; he had married, he said, I think it was some four or five years ago, while a curate in London, a young girl, an Anglo-Indian who had been sent to England to finish her education. It was a secret marriage"—Kilmore visibly winced as he listened to these words—" a secret on account of the young lady's uncle who was a rich merchant in Calcutta, and who would not have approved of his niece marrying a poor curate. The young lady's name was Eva Moore.""There may be many Eva Moores in the world.""True, but the name struck me, and startled me; and then Mr Temple went on with his tale. His marriage proved a particularly unhappy one: they were unsuited to each other in every way, and finally, when Mr Temple was appointed to Harlaxton, in Dorset, his young wife positively refused to accompany him there. She insisted, in fact, on returning to India, and several violent quarrels took place between them. At last they mutually agreed to separate for good; she going back to her uncle in India, bearing her maiden name, and he going out to Africa for an indefinite period, after appointing a curate to take charge of his vicarage. He was abroad three years, and during this time his ideas changed regarding his wife. He blamed himself for leaving her, and he determined to claim her once more. He came back to England, and heard through the bank where his wife had kept an account in her maiden days, and in her maiden name, that Miss Eva Moore was in town.""What was the bank?" asked Kilmore breathlessly, and his face flushed, and then grew pale."Ford&Ford, Lombard Street.""Ford!" echoed Kilmore, aghast, for he had received Eva's letter telling him of the banker's visit."Yes, Ford&Ford; but to go on with my story, one day unexpectedly, quite recently, Mr Temple met his young wife in the streets; he told her he wished her to return to him. which she refused, and he asked her for her present address. After some hesitation she gave him one; gave him a false address, to a lady's boarding-house where my sister lives, and through her I again met George Temple. Lord Kilmore, I regret deeply to grieve you, but I have a duty to fulfil I cannot shirk from; I asked him to describe this young wife, and his description corresponded only too accurately with the beautiful young lady whom I fear you had the misfortune to marry.""I cannot believe it, and yet——" faltered Kilmore, his face blanching, and his mind going back to Eva's earnest and constant desire for secrecy; to the banker's visit—Mr Ford's visit—and a hundred little things which had often puzzled him. He remembered at this moment her warnings; her unwillingness at first to marry him; her telling him that she had been badly brought up—brought up in India—and a sort of groan broke from his quivering lips."I would not have come on such an errand as I came to-day, without a sure conviction," continued Mr Onslow, who was greatly moved by the young lord's deep and unmistakable agitation. "But I asked Mr Temple to let me see the portrait of his wife—I saw it—and I grieve to say there is no mistake. It was the face, and there are few such, of Miss Eva Moore, to whom you were married so brief a time since."Again a groan burst from Kilmore's lips, and he covered his face with his hand."I saw also the register of her first marriage, and it is written in the same handwriting as her second——""You saw this?""Unhappily yes; then I felt bound to act as I have done; to come to you, and tell you the truth.""And," asked Kilmore in a broken tone, "does this man know—know where she is?""No, he does not; he saw one of the heads of this banking firm, Mr James Ford;" Kilmore started; "after his wife had given him the false address, and the banker, he supposes under her orders, refused positively to give him her present address, though he was convinced that he knew it. And I also gave no hint to him of the dreadful certainty that had crept over my mind. I determined to see you first; it is, of course, for you to act.""For me to act!" cried Kilmore passionately, beginning to pace the room in violent agitation. "Do you know what this is to me, Mr Onslow, if it be true? More bitter than death! God is my witness, I would rather have been lying by my poor father than have lived to listen to such a tale.""It is indeed a terrible blow.""No one knows what it is!" continued Kilmore, with intense emotion; "I—I loved her too well—for her sake, my mother thinks, I broke my father's heart; for her sake—but why speak of it?" and he abruptly broke off, and for some minutes continued his restless pacings in silence, with bent head and knitted brows, and Mr Onslow also forbore to speak, feeling that no word of his could at this bitter moment give any consolation to the unhappy young man.Up and down the room Kilmore strode; up and down. He was trying to think; trying to realize the position in which he found himself, and then he stopped suddenly before Mr Onslow."Until her own lips," he said, with a certain sternness and hardness of manner new to him, "have confirmed this shameful story, I will never believe it. You must go with me and face her; not come and blacken her character to me behind her back.""I am quite ready to face her," answered Mr Onslow with some dignity, raising his head; "I only came here from a strong sense of duty, and no one would rejoice more than myself if this unfortunate young lady can clear herself from this dreadful charge. But I have no hope of this; my one hope is that she acted unknowingly; that she believed her first husband to be dead when she married you.""But even that——" began Kilmore, and then once more he paused. "I will believe nothing," he added, "neither judge nor condemn her except from her own words, and I will see her at once. I will go to town by the next train; and will you accompany me, Mr Onslow?""Most certainly, Lord Kilmore.""We cannot see her to-night, there is no late train to Westwold, where she is staying.  But the first train to-morrow we can go down by. There is a train passes the station nearest here at six, we can travel by that; in the meanwhile you will require some refreshment—the butler will see to it; you must excuse me."Mr Onslow bowed gravely, and Kilmore was just hastily leaving the room when he turned round and once more faced the Vicar."Until we know, let this painful subject be spoken of no more," he said, and again the Vicar bowed silently, and Kilmore then quitted the library, going direct to his own bedroom, and when he got there he flung himself into a chair in a perfect paroxysm of wretchedness.If this were true! The thought seemed to shatter at one blow all his future life; to darken every hope of his young manhood. Kilmore loved the woman that he secretly and fondly had called his wife with an extraordinary depth of passion and love. It had blinded him to everything but her. Now, sitting alone in his misery, he recalled certain scenes and words; he remembered Eva's restlessness the night before their marriage: how she had asked him if he were not afraid to run certain risks; if he were willing to marry her for good or evil; and lie remembered, too, in the very first days of their married life, how, when he had asked her if a chance should arise to tell his father and mother of their marriage, that she had become almost angry; that she had reminded him of his promise, and that a strange doubt at this moment had crept into his own mind."She kissed and smiled it away," thought Kilmore bitterly. What could she not kiss and smile away? But if she had good cause for all this secrecy? If she were the wife of another man! Kilmore started to his feet; the thought stung him like a scorpion. His Eva—his beautiful one; the bride he had longed to bring to his stately home in the pride and fondness of his heart. He had thought of her, fair and gracious—the young countess who would grace the position he had given her, and become a loving daughter to his mother; a comfort to her after her great and bitter loss."And now?" Kilmore groaned aloud as the haunting words rose ever before him—"if this were true?"It meant shame, disgrace, and then Kilmore started; it meant crime. If Eva had married him, knowing her first husband to be alive, she had put herself in the power of the law. She might be tried, imprisoned—he knew not what! The thought was maddening, and a half-suppressed cry broke from his pallid and quivering lips.Then he remembered his mother; he must think of her. Lady Kilmore had never recovered her husband's death, and had never left her own rooms since he had been carried away from them. She used to sit in a listless attitude by the windows for hours, gazing out vaguely on the Park. In vain Annette Gower and her son had tried to rouse her. It was very pitiful, the unbroken mourning that her manner and face betrayed. She spoke very little of her loss; she was gentle always, but Annette knew, and Kilmore knew, that her interest in life was gone. It lay buried with the lover of her youth, the husband of her happy and maturer years. And it was to this broken-spirited woman that Kilmore was now forced to go, to say, "Mother, I am about to leave you," and thus perhaps add a fresh pang to her sorrowful heart.He roused himself to do this; he went to her rooms and asked to see, her, and Lady Kilmore, who was sitting by the windows as usual, looked round with a faint shadow of a smile on her pallid features as her son approached her."I find that I am forced to start for town, mother, this afternoon, and have come to say good-bye," he began in that forced, unnatural way in which we speak when we are trying to hide inward emotion, and something in his tone struck his mother, for she raised her languid eyes and looked up in his face."This afternoon? That is sudden, Clair," she said.She still always called him Clair—the name of his happy boyhood and youth—and had not yet been able to bring her lips to call him Kilmore—the familiar Kilmore!"Yes, it is sudden, but I cannot help it; I must be in town to-night; a gentleman has come for me," answered her son, with downcast eyes.Lady Kilmore made no further remonstrance; she sighed merely, and then turned her gaze once more on the misty park. Be-yond the leafless trees a grey spire rose—the church of Kilmore—and in this church, within the family vault, the last lord slept, and her widowed heart seemed nearer to him when she could watch the spire."I am very sorry to leave you, mother."Again that wintry smile passed over her pale lips."It is no matter, Clair," she said gently."Good-bye, then," and he stooped down and kissed her cheek; kissed it, and could not suppress the bitter sigh that seemed to rend his heart in twain.That sigh was echoed. He had not seen his cousin Annette Gower, who was sitting in the shadow, so overpowering had been the emotion with which he had entered his mother's room. But Annette had seen him and heard his words, and now as she looked in his face she saw there the shadow of some great and terrible pain."Good-bye, Annette," he said, and would have shaken her hand, but she rose and followed him from the room."What is the matter? Has something happened?" she asked, when they were out-side the door; but Kilmore made no answer."Do tell me," urged Annette; "I am sure something is wrong with you.""I cannot tell you," said Kilmore hoarsely; "look after my mother;" and he turned away, with the black cloud upon his brow.CHAPTER XVI"BETWEEN MY LOVE AND ME."NOT one word was spoken on the dreary journey to town between Kilmore and Mr Onslow of the absorbing thought of both their hearts. Few words indeed of any kind were exchanged; Kilmore sitting gloomily with his travelling-cap pulled over his brow, and not making any pretence to exchange common courtesies with the good man who from a sense of duty had stabbed him so cruelly. And Mr Onslow respected this silent suffering, and forebore to speak when he knew his words would be of no avail. The wound was too fresh, too bitter, for consolation, and Mr Onslow understood this, and did not attempt to offer any.They parted for the night when they arrived in town, but before they did so Kilmore said with gloomy significance—"You will not fail me to-morrow; you will go with me by the first train to Westwold?""I will not fail you," answered Mr Onslow, and held out his kindly hand, but Kilmore did not take it. In a few brief, abrupt words he named the time and the station where they were to meet, and having settled this he drove to his Club, to spend long restless hours of misery and suspense which seemed literally to have no end.At length the next morning, the grey, cold winter dawn, broke over the great city, and found Kilmore sleepless, wretched. One by one when he awoke from his broken slumbers, a grim array of condemning thoughts and facts had risen up before him, and he found it difficult mentally to repeat the words to which, in spite of all, he had tried to pin his faith."Unless she tells me so with her own lips I will not believe it," he had said more than once to Mr Onslow, and a hundred times to himself."But if she were to swear falsely?" some-thing now seemed to whisper in his ears. He put the thought aside, he would not listen, but it was still there. It haunted him and filled his soul with inexpressible humiliation and pain. Then before it was quite light he rose, for to think was too terrible, and began hastily to dress, and afterwards paced backwards and forwards in his room, until he could possibly make his appearance downstairs.Long before the proper time he was at the station impatiently awaiting the arrival of Mr Onslow; again and again looking at his watch, and at the station clock, and counting the minutes as they slowly passed on in their appointed course.When it only wanted ten minutes to the time that the train started, he could scarcely control himself—then seven minutes was all the grace left, and Kilmore determined to enter the train alone, and wait no longer for Mr Onslow. But just when he had come to this determination his eyes fell on the somewhat stately form of the Vicar, and he hurried forward to meet him."I thought you were never coming," he said, in so impatient a tone that Mr Onslow raised his eyes to his face in grave surprise, and at the same moment drew out his watch.But that glance at the young man's haggard countenance swept away any feeling of anger from the Vicar's heart at his curt mode of address. He saw that Kilmore had gone through almost more than he could bear; that the mental strain had nearly been too great for his endurance.Mr Onslow therefore replied gently and quietly, and soon the two were seated in a railway carriage affecting to read the morning papers. But the Vicar noticed how the hand trembled with which Kilmore held his, and that he was actually holding it to screen his twitching face.It was not a long journey, and before midday the train had reached the little town by the sea where Eva and Clair had lived their brief hours of joy. He remembered at this moment of almost intolerable suspense their first going there; the warm clasp of her little hand. But with a mental and bodily shake as it were he roused himself. He hailed a porter, told him to call a cab, and was in it before Mr Onslow could realise that they had arrived at Westwold."Come, make haste," said Kilmore to his companion, and a few moments later they were driving hastily through the irregular streets, on their way to the hotel where Eva was staying.It was a fine winter's day, cold and fresh, and the sun was shining, and the sea a steely-blue. But neither Kilmore nor the Vicar glanced at sky or wave. Kilmore's heart was too full of overpowering emotion to notice anything around him, and the Vicar's feelings of pity, sympathy, and anxiety were too strong to allow him also to notice his outward surroundings.On they went, up and down the steep streets, and then the cab suddenly stopped. They had arrived at the old-fashioned hotel that Kilmore knew so well, and everything grew dazed before his eyes. He flung a sovereign to the driver, who thought he was mad, and began fumbling in his pocket for change. But Kilmore sprang past him, and, followed by Mr Onslow, entered the hotel, and was at once recognised by the landlady, who was sitting, as usual, behind her glass window at the bar."Oh! Mr Clair! good-morning, sir," she said pleasantly;"you'll find your good lady all right. She's in the sitting-room, sir."Kilmore made no answer; he ran up the broad old-fashioned stairs, he reached the sitting-room; he opened the door, and as he did so Eva, who was sitting reading in an easy-chair by the fire, looked hastily up and then sprang to her feet."Clair! Clair! my own dear Clair!" she cried, and then ran forward and clasped him in her arms." How happy I am to see you, how glad! "she murmured, with her face upon his breast. She never saw in her excitement and joy that someone had followed him; never saw the black-coated man standing on the threshold; saw nothing but her love!She was dressed in a white serge, trimmed with otter; her bare arms gleamed through the long loose sleeves bound with the dark fur. Her shining, auburn hair fell all loose around her. She was beautiful in her joyous abandonment, in her eager, welcoming love; and the Vicar's heart, as he looked at her, smote him with a remorseful pang."Have I come to end all this?" he thought, and he would have turned away, but as he did so Kilmore looked round."Speak to her," he said hoarsely, addressing Mr Onslow; "ask her to say it is a lie—all false!"As he spoke Eva raised her head, and saw Mr Onslow, and her expression changed."What is this?" she asked, and her white arms fell from Kilmore's neck."Eva," continued Kilmore, his voice broken and trembling with excitement;"you know who this is—the clergyman who married us?" "Yes," came slowly from Eva's lips, and her large dark eyes were fixed uneasily on Mr Onslow's face."Tell him now, then," went on Kilmore in increasing excitement, "that the story he came to me yesterday with is totally untrue. He said that he had discovered that you—you were the wife of another man.""What!" And Eva staggered back, and grew ghastly white as she uttered this single word."It is an error of course; say it is an error!" cried Kilmore entreatingly, and he grasped her hand. "He has mistaken you for someone else?""What has he got to say?" said Eva, forcing herself to speak with her pallid lips."This," said Mr Onslow, now advancing into the room,"and I deeply grieve to be forced to speak such words; but it came to my knowledge by a strange chance that you were married some four or five years ago to a man with whom I was at college——""What man?" asked Eva, still in that forced unnatural voice."George Temple, the Rev. George Temple," answered Mr Onslow."How do you know this?" said Eva, with sudden passion, "and what have you to do with it, if you did? I deny it; I know of no such person; and what right have you to try to come and make mischief between my Clair and me?""God knows I did so most unwillingly, but my sacred calling left me no choice."Eva gave a scornful laugh; her eyes were blazing now, and she stood defiant, like a hunted creature at bay."Your sacred calling!" she repeated bitterly; "does that mean a mischief-maker, a meddler?""No," answered Mr Onslow with dignity; "it means that having taken certain vows in the service of the Most High, I am bound humbly to do what my duty points out to me. I met this George Temple, and he told me his story; told me of his young wife, whose maiden name was Eva Moore, and how he had parted with her. The name struck me; I asked to see his wife's portrait, and I saw yours.""Do you believe this, Clair?" said Eva, now turning round, and looking at the man who loved her, and who had been an agonized listener to these words."Only from your own lips; I will believe nothing unless you tell me," answered Kilmore."You hear; he does not believe you—now go away," said Eva, again looking at Mr Onslow, and pointing to the door."Are you willing to meet this George Temple, then?" asked Mr Onslow gravely. "To stand face to face with him; to deny you are his wife in his own presence?"Eva visibly cowered."Send him away, Clair," she said; "will you send him away?""But, Eva—oh! Eva, speak the truth—is that man anything to you? Is this story a lie or not?" cried Kilmore passionately."I have told you," answered Eva, with her eyes cast down."Then why not face him?" went on Kilmore, still more excitedly. "You must face him, Eva; my wife shall have no such slur on her name as this. If this Mr Temple is nothing to you, then let Mr Onslow send for him here, and I shall force him to speak the truth."Eva did not speak; she looked from one man to the other; her bosom was heaving, and there was a desperate gleam in her dark eyes."Mr Onslow, telegraph for this friend of yours," continued Kilmore; "I am determined that this story shall be cleared up.""I will do so," answered Mr Onslow; "this is the best course, Lord Kilmore.""No!" cried Eva, suddenly raising her arm commandingly, as she listened to these words. "No, you shall not send for him, and face him I will not! You want to hear the truth, Clair," she went on, with thrilling passion, "the truth of a child tricked into a marriage—then you shall! I was married to this man when I was too young to know what marriage was; I was married to this George Temple before I was sixteen, and it has been the curse and misery of my life!"Kilmore staggered back as he heard these words, and a cry escaped his whitening lips."You never should have known," continued Eva; "I meant you never to know," and she caught his arm, but he pushed her aside. "But for this meddler we might have been happy still! You shrink back, Clair—that is hard, hard, when for your sake I have risked so much.""Why did you do it?" gasped Kilmore hoarsely. "Why did you bring this shame to me?"'"Why! Because in my folly, my love, I told myself this man was dead to me, and he is dead, for I shall never see him more! We had been parted for years; we agreed to separate for ever, and not—not till I was married to you did I actually know that he still lived.""I thank God for this," said Mr Onslow solemnly;"then unknowingly you committed this sin?""I neither knew whether he lived or was dead; to me he was dead, and, Clair—you turn away your head—but do you not remember, I warned you? Did I not ask you if you loved me well enough to run all risks? Pid I not tell you you were better without me? You know I did, and you know your answer.""But not this," said Kilmore hoarsely; "had I known——""You would not have married me?" asked Eva bitterly. "Well then, you are free again; I have cost you nothing."Kilmore sank down on a couch near with a moan, and covered his face with his hands."You see what you have done!" cried Eva, pointing to him, and looking at Mr Onslow. "In your self-righteousness you have come between my love and me; you have broken our hearts.""I grieve——"began Mr Onslow."What good will your hypocritical grieving do?" interrupted Eva passionately. "But go now; you have done your worst—leave us to our misery." And once more Eva pointed to the door.Mr Onslow hesitated. But there was something so tragic in this beautiful woman's attitude and expression; something so full of grief and scorn, that he felt he could no longer dispute her will. He bowed, therefore, and withdrew, and Eva and Kilmore were alone.She turned as the door closed behind the Vicar, and made a step nearer to the couch where Kilmore sat with his bowed head."Clair," she said in thrilling accent; but Kilmore never raised his head."Clair!" she repeated, but he made no answer.Then she went up to him; she knelt down before him; she laid her head against his knee."Will you forgive me?" she said, looking up pleadingly in his covered and averted face. "Forgive me for my love's sake—I loved you so well, Clair!"Then he did look at her."Is it love," he said hoarsely, "to blight a man's life; to bring disgrace and shame to his name?""I have brought none to you, only to myself," answered Eva. "You are not married to me; as this wretch, George Temple, is living, the ceremony which passed between us is null and void; it binds you to nothing; when you are tired of me, you can send me away.""How can you speak thus; how dare you speak thus?" cried Kilmore, in sudden passion and anger, and he sprang to his feet, and pushed her clinging hands away. "You, the woman I loved and honoured; the woman for whose sake they say I shortened my father's life! Yet you speak like a wanton; as if what you have done was but some passing caprice!""It was no caprice," answered Eva; "I loved you and still love you, and what you know now need not change our love. I am willing for the sake of that love to sacrifice what is called my good name, and I am not afraid of the parson's hard words. And you will lose nothing; a man, as you know well, loses nothing in this just world by such a connection as ours in future must be. It all falls on the woman's head, whether the woman, as in our case, is the chief sinner or no. Your friends will receive you—your cousin will smile on you——""Will you be silent!" cried Kilmore sternly; "this is no time for jibes or folly. Do you know what you have done? You have committed bigamy; you are liable to be arrested—to be punished by the law."Eva, who had still been kneeling where he had left her, now rose and drew herself up to her full height."That is enough," she said; "if I am arrested I can bear it better than your words. But do not be afraid; I won't be arrested, nor will the name and home of which you are so proud be dragged into the dust or the law-courts by me! I will bear my own burdens, and leave you to your honours!" And without another word she swept out of the room with her head thrown proudly back."Eva!" cried Kilmore, as the door closed behind her. But there was no answer; Eva was gone.END OF VOL. II.London: DIGBY, LONG & COMPANY, Publishers,
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