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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 III, an electronic edition
Author: Russell, Dora
Publisher: Digby, Long and Co., Publishers
Place published: London
Date: [189?]
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A Hidden Chain A Hidden Chain BY  DORA RUSSELL  Author of "Footprints in the Snow," "The Broken Seal," "A Fatal Past," "The Vicar's Governess," "Hidden  in my Heart," "A Great Temptation," etc., etc.  IN THREE VOLUMES  Vol. III.LONDONDIGBY, LONG AND CO., PUBLISHERS18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C.Table of Contents for Russell's A Hidden Chain.Table of Contents for Russell's A Hidden Chain.A HIDDEN CHAINCHAPTER I"GOOD-BYE, CLAIR."HE did not attempt to follow her; he felt he must have time to think; to let the terrible shock of the knowledge of her unworthiness calm down in his mind before he could take any action in the matter. His brain was in a sort of chaos, and whirling through it one painful and humiliating thought after the other passed with cruel rapidity. He felt almost as if he could not breathe—suffocated with the overwhelming nature of his discovery.He went to the window and threw it open, and the cold wintry air
blew in on his heated brow. It was a sort of relief; it suggested that outside his mind might be clearer, and acting on this idea, he seized his hat, and, a few minutes later, found himself facing the keen north-east wind on the shore, with the sea thundering and tossing its blue, white-crested waves lying before him.He went on and on, and as he did so a sort of change came over his heart. His first anger, passion and shame cooled down. He remembered Eva's plea, "For my love's sake I did it." He remembered that love—the love that he had just rejected—with its moments of untold, infinite happiness and joy. Between these two lay that mysterious tie—call it what you will—which binds one soul to the other in strange affinity.Then he thought of her youth; not sixteen when this hateful, hidden
chain had been bound! A feeling of compassion came over him, and it
seemed to put self aside, and made him think only how he could best
protect her. Would this man be divorced, and
then he could again marry her? But it was this unhappy marriage of
hers to him that stood in the way. This Temple might sue her for
bigamy; and a man who had already acted as he had done was not likely to be self-sacrificing now.And presently, too, Kilmore thought of his mother, the widowed woman with her heart lying in her husband's grave. All this, he knew, would inflict fresh pangs on her bruised soul. And his dead father's words also seemed to rise before him, when he bade him remember the honour of his name, on which honour Kilmore felt had now fallen so dark a blot.But something must be done. He could not leave the woman who had lain on his bosom to face her terrible position alone. This man—her husband—and Kilmore's lips quivered, might trace her—might insist on her return to him. He was a poor clergyman, Mr Onslow had said, and Eva had a fortune, and for the very sake of that fortune he might try to force her to go back to him.But perhaps his silence might be bought. This thought brought some little consolation to Kilmore, and he determined to see Mr Onslow and try what could be arranged.This idea having struck him, he turned to retrace his steps, and then for the first time noticed where he was. In the agitation and confusion of his mind, he had walked on miles and miles ahead, and neither felt the fatigue nor remarked the distance. Now he remembered he must have been some time absent from the hotel, and, glancing at his watch, saw it was approaching three o'clock.I may have frightened her—my poor, poor Eva," he thought, with returning tenderness. He sighed; it could never be the same, but still—At this moment, however, he saw Mr Onslow approaching him, and he therefore hurried his steps to join him. The vicar looked grave, but spoke very kindly."I have been looking for you everywhere, Lord Kilmore," he said. "I am sure you must be quite exhausted; you have had no refreshment of any kind since the early morning.""I forgot all about it," answered Kilmore, with a half smile; "and, to tell the truth, I had no breakfast either. But I have been so frightfully upset by all this.""That is indeed only natural.""But the thing now is, what is best to be done? I mean for her," continued Kilmore, nervously. "She cannot—I am certain she will not wish to return to this man.""He probably would not wish it when he knows the circumstances; he seemed to me to be an austere man, and to take very hard and rigid views.""He does not know where she is?""No, he does not.""And Mr Onslow—forgive me saying this—but may I ask you, may I beg of you not to tell him?""I promise not to do so, Lord Kilmore; I have thought this over; it may not be quite right, but still I cannot add further to this poor lady's troubles. But the thing is, he may trace her, and in that case—""Well, what?" asked Kilmore, quickly."He is just the man, I fear, who might prosecute her for bigamy. He gave me to understand that it was his hardness of character that had so totally alienated the affections of his young wife.""He might be bought," said Kilmore, with a frown; for he could not bear to hear Eva called this other man's wife.Mr Onslow shook his head."I would give any sum, whatever he chooses to ask, to save her from further annoyance," went on Kilmore. "It's terrible enough as it is; we must try to make it no worse.""And—yourself, Lord Kilmore?" said Mr Onslow, with hesitation.Again Kilmore frowned; he thought the vicar had no right to ask such a question."I shall return to my mother—to Kilmore," he answered, after a moment's hesitation; "and she—Eva, I think, for the present, had better go abroad—but, of course, she must decide herself.""Yes," said the vicar slowly: he was wondering if he had done much good; if he had not better have left this tangled web alone. But he said nothing further. He spoke of the sea coast, and of the submerged churches over which it was said the sea had swept. He was a man of cultivated and refined tastes, and under ordinary circumstances Kilmore would have felt pleasure in listening to his conversation. As it was, he contrived to answer him, and so the time passed on until they again reached the old-fashioned inn at Westwold. When they appeared at the entrance, however, the landlady behind the bar received them with the greatest surprise."Why, Mr Clair!" she cried, with uplifted hands, "whoever expected to see you again to-day? Didn't you meet your good-lady at the station, where she went to join you to catch the two o'clock train?""What?" said Kilmore in a startled tone, and he grew very pale."She ordered a cab and went; so I suppose she has missed you, or you have missed her," went on the voluble landlady. "What a pity!""Did she take any luggage?" asked Kilmore in a faltering voice."Only a hand-bag. She said she was only going for a day; but she paid for her rooms and everything, which I am sure she had no need to do, and her going away, too, for such a short time."Kilmore did not speak; he looked at Mr Onslow, and the vicar also was silent. But just at this moment a young railway porter entered the inn, and went up to the land-lady at the bar."Have you a Mr Clair staying here, missus?" he asked."That's Mr Clair," answered the landlady, pointing to Kilmore."Then I've a letter for you, sir," said the porter, producing a letter from his corduroy jacket. "A lady left it for you who went by the two o'clock train up to London. I would have brought it before, but I haven't been able to get away from the station until now."Kilmore put out a trembling hand and took the letter."Then she is gone?" asked Mr Onslow of the porter."Yes, sir; I put her into a first-class carriage myself," he replied."And the next train to town?" said Kilmore, with a sort of gasp."Not till five o'clock, sir," answered the porter. "We've very few trains on this line, especially in the winter time."Kilmore asked no more questions. He turned and went slowly upstairs with a sort of faintness creeping over him, leaving Mr Onslow to reward the porter, who had been already handsomely remunerated by Eva for his services.When Kilmore reached the sitting-room, he tore open the letter with his trembling fingers, and read with a fast-beating, troubled heart, the following words:—"Good-bye, Clair. I am going, to leave you, as I said I would, for I am not a woman to listen twice to such words as I have heard to-day. I will trouble you no more; and forgive me what I have cost you for the sake of the love I bore you. For it was love, Clair, and it is love, for such love does not pass away. I shall never see you again until my spirit calls you to come, and then if it does, you will know I am in some desperate need.—Your"EVA."In these brief words she bade him farewell, and Kilmore's first feelings as he read them was an overpowering feeling of disappointment. She could have taken no better way to keep her power over him than to leave him thus after his first harsh words. He had but one consolation, that she loved him still. "For it was love, Clair, and it is love, for such love does not pass away." He read and re-read these words; he pressed his lips to them; they were a sort of balm to his heart.But he must find her. He must protect her at least from this man, and find her some safe refuge. And the first thing to do now was to return to town. She might have gone back to her own house in South Kensington. At all events, he might hear of her there. Thus thought Kilmore, with a hot and restless heart. But his reflections were shortly interrupted. A rap came to the room door, and Mr Onslow entered."Pardon me for intruding on you," he said in his courteous fashion; "but I have taken the liberty of ordering some lunch or dinner to be sent up to you, for I am sure you greatly need it.""I am not hungry," answered Kilmore; "I—I have heard from her, Mr Onslow.""So I concluded.""And in this letter she bids me good-bye; she gives no address.""Then you thinks she means—""To leave me? Yes."She is acting rightly, Lord Kilmore.""But I cannot leave her unless I know she is safe from this man; unless I am sure of it.""He does not know where she is, and now we do not; he may never find her.""He will try through the banker.""Who probably will be instructed to keep the secret. When do you propose to return to town, Lord Kilmore?""By the next train; the porter said it starts at five o'clock, did he not?""Yes. Then we will travel back together by your permission. Ah, here comes the lunch, and do let me persuade you to break your fast."CHAPTER IIA DANGEROUS CONFIDANT.THE same day, late in the afternoon, the banker, Mr James Ford, was sitting alone in his handsomely furnished private room over the bank, thinking of Miss Eva Moore."I can't get the little witch out of my head," he was reflecting complacently. "What is it, I wonder, about her that charms me so? She is wonderfully handsome, certainly; but she is something more than that, she is bewitching—yes, that is the word."The thought pleased him; he smiled, and leaned back in his divan chair, picturing to himself Eva's beautiful face. Then the mystery about her kept puzzling his brain."She's a naughty little girl, I'm afraid," he thought, still smiling. "I wonder what that parson fellow really is to her? Ah, well, such pretty women are sure of many lovers; it is their birthright."At this moment someone rapped at the room door, and when Mr Ford called out "come in," a young man entered, bearing a small, tightly-folded, three-cornered note."A lady has brought this, sir," he said, "and asked me to give it to you at once; she is outside in a cab waiting for an answer."Mr Ford turned the gas a little higher and put his glasses on his shapely nose; then he opened the note, and his face slightly flushed with pleasure as he read the contents,—"DEAR MR FORD,—Can I see you, and alone? I am in great trouble, and perhaps you will help me.—Yours sincerely,"EVA MOORE.""Is the lady outside, did you say?" he asked, after he had finished reading these brief words."Yes, sir; she's waiting outside in a cab," replied the young man.Mr Ford looked round for his hat; it crossed his mind at this moment to go down to the cab himself to escort Miss Eva Moore to his room, but on second consideration more prudent thoughts prevailed."Tell the lady," he said, "with my compliments, that I shall be pleased to sec her; that I am disengaged."The clerk bowed and withdrew, and Mr Ford stirred the fire into a more cheerful blaze, and glanced at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece; pushing his thick brown hair, tinged slightly here and there with grey, into a more becoming wave over his handsome forehead. Then he pulled down the blinds, and stood waiting to receive his visitor.A few minutes elapsed, and the clerk once more opened the room door."The lady, sir," he said, and Eva Moore, thickly veiled, entered as he spoke; and as she did so Mr Ford advanced with outstretched hand."Ah, how are you?" he said pleasantly, but not familiarly, as he was conscious the clerk was within earshot, and of course knew he was a married man. "I am charmed to see you," he added in a lower tone, as the door closed behind the clerk; "but I am sorry to hear of trouble. You must let me help you; and you know I shall only be too happy to do so.""Thank you," said Eva, in a low tone also, and she sat wearily down on the chair nearest to her, and put her hand up to her hat, and unfastened the thick, black, gauze veil that she wore; and as it fell on her knee Mr Ford saw her face was very pale."How tired you look!" he exclaimed quickly. "You must have some wine before you talk, and tell me what is the matter."Eva did not refuse this offer; she felt, indeed, physically and mentally exhausted with what she had gone through, and so almost in silence she drank the sparkling draught that Mr Ford speedily presented to her."I shall feel better in a moment or two," she said. "I have come to ask you to help me, Mr Ford.""And I promise to do whatever I possibly can," he answered.Eva sighed, sat still a moment or two, and then rose restlessly from her chair."You must think me a very strange person?" she said."I think you are a very charming person," replied Mr Ford, with a smile."You will not think so when you have heard what I have come to tell—Mr Ford, you remember when my uncle died more than three years ago?""I perfectly remember the time, and the transfer of your fortune from Calcutta to this bank.""But you did not know—no one knew but the lady with whom I lived, that I was then a married woman.""A married woman!" said Mr Ford in surprise. "Why, at that time you were a mere schoolgirl.""Yes," answered Eva, bitterly; "a school-girl who had been tricked into a marriage—for I can call it by no other name, by a man almost old enough to be my father. It was so Mr Ford, and the terrible consequences of this act of folly have now fallen on my head.""You did not marry the clergyman who came here—Mr Temple?""Unhappily I did. I was at a day school when I first made his acquaintance, and he knew Mrs Bouchier, the lady my uncle had sent me to when I came to England. My uncle knew this lady, had known her in India, and he thought I was quite safe under her charge. To make a long story short, Mr Temple used to meet me going to and from school, and gradually he obtained a sort of influence over me. I believed him to be a good man for one thing; he went about among the very poor, and I knew nothing of the world. At last he asked me to be his wife, and I, in my childish ignorance—with some vague longings, too, that I had after better things—for my poor uncle believed in nothing beyond this world, and had brought me up also to believe in nothing. But his ideas never, even in those days, quite satisfied my mind. And I thought, as I told you, that Mr Temple was good; that he might teach me to be good, and so I married him. Then I found out what I had really done; I had married a narrow-minded, tyrannical man, who wanted to rule me in everything; who had no sympathy nor forbearance for my childishness, my waywardness. I, a spoilt, Anglo-Indian girl, accustomed to flattery and admiration, got nothing but sternness and hardness. We quarrelled from the first. I was miserable from the first, and about eighteen months after our marriage he was appointed to a county vicarage. I positively refused to go with him there, and we had a bitter quarrel, which ended in my writing to my uncle to recall me to India. I ought to tell you my uncle never knew of my marriage; we dare not tell him, because he intended me to marry well, in a worldly sense, and not a poor clergyman. Mr Temple quite agreed to the prudence of this course, and had no wish for me to run the risk of losing my uncle's money by acknowledging my marriage with him. Thus I was only known as Eva Moore, and as Eva Moore I returned to India after Mr Temple and I had agreed to part for ever.""He agreed to this?" inquired Mr Ford."He distinctly agreed to it; I think he had got to dislike me by this time almost as much as I disliked him, and was glad to be rid of me. Thus, when my uncle wrote for me to return to India, we parted for good. I went to India, and he, in a fit of disgust, either at me or the world in general, started for Africa. This is more than three years ago, and I never heard of him or from him during this time. He might have been dead for anything I knew; I hoped he was dead—would that he had been!"Eva clasped her hands together, as she said this, and her pale face flushed, and Mr Ford bent forward with a commiserating expression."But, unfortunately, he is not?" he said."Unfortunately he is not. But to go on with my story. When I reached Calcutta, I found my poor uncle had died of fever the day before I arrived there. But he had, as you know, provided for me, and I returned to England with independent means, but bound by this hidden chain, which I did not, in fact, know really existed or not. By this time my friend, Mrs Bouchier, was also dead, and I knew none, and had never known any, of Mr Temple's friends or acquaintances except her. I made no inquiries; I wished to make none; and I hoped never to hear of him, or see him again. He was dead to me, I told myself, if he were not dead in reality, and I tried to forget that he ever existed.""It is a great pity that he ever did," remarked Mr Ford dryly."I went to board at a ladies' school in South Kensington. I thought it would not be so dull as being alone, and that I would find friends and companions among the girls. I did find one, a simple-hearted, pretty girl, the daughter of a farmer, who had been sent up to London to finish her education—but I weary you?""No, you delight me."The reason that I name this girl, Annie Dighton, is, that indirectly through her all this terrible trouble has come upon me. We corresponded after she left school, and I went abroad and led a sort of wandering life; but still I always wrote to Annie Dighton. Finally, being in their neighbourhood, I proposed to pay them a short visit, and I meant to invite Annie back to stay with me. They lived at a place called Holly Hill, and I found a comfortable English farmhouse—for these Dightons are well off—and a kind, homely family to welcome me, and I enjoyed the first few days I was there. Mr Dighton was a tenant farmer, and his landlord was the Earl of Kilmore."Mr Ford nodded."Yes, I know," he said; "he died lately."Eva sighed."He died lately," she repeated; "but when I was at Holly Hill he was not dead. His son, Lord Clair, came of age then, and a banquet and a dance were given in the Park on the occasion to the tenants. I went with the Dightons, and thus I met Lord Clair.""Ah!" exclaimed Mr Ford, with strong interest. At that moment he remembered Mr Clair at Westwold."I met him and danced with him," continued Eva, and a sort of pathos crept into her voice as she spoke; "and that night he saved my life. A fire broke out at Holly Hill, and the part of the house I was sleeping in was cut off from the rest by a burning staircase. Young Dighton tried to save me, and the staircase fell in with him as he was endeavouring to ascend it. There was no ladder long enough to reach the window; I had given myself up for lost when Lord Clair arrived. He managed to fling a rope up to me, and he crept up by this, and then lowered me from the window. In fact, he saved my life at the risk of his own, and this naturally made me regard him with interest."I understand," said Mr Ford; "this is Mr Clair?""Yes," answered Eva, and a flush stole to her face. "We met again and again after this. I—I did not wish to go on with our acquaintance after I left Holly Hill, but—Lord Clair wished it, and it is hard to refuse the request of one who has saved your life. I saw him at the seaside first, and then in town. He—he asked me to marry him, but at first I refused—""To marry him! You surely did not?" interrupted Mr Ford."I was led into it; he was shot one night in the street on leaving my house at South Kensington, and he was brought in. He was dangerously wounded; but, for my sake, for he is ever generous," and her voice faltered, "he would not remain, though the doctor said it would be a great risk to remove him, unless I promised to be his wife. At last I did promise. I—I cared for him very truly, Mr Ford. I tried to forget the past. I did forget it, I think. At all events, we were married—secretly married, for his father was dying, and naturally objected to such a marriage for his son.""But, my dear girl, do you know what this is?" cried Mr Ford, starting to his feet."I know now; this is why I have come to you; I am going to disappear, but I could not do so without money, without letting you know where I am, and so I am going to trust to your honour, Mr Ford."The banker's good-looking face slightly fell; this confidence was not quite so flattering to his vanity as he had hoped."But does Lord Clair, or rather now the Earl of Kilmore, know of this former—marriage?" he asked."I will tell you. After our marriage, which took place at South Kensington, Clair and I went to Westwold; then he returned home to his father, and I went back to South Kensington. And one day—Mr Ford, I can scarcely speak the words—I met George Temple. I met him in the street; met the man I had hoped was dead, that I never thought to have seen again. He told me he had changed his mind about our separation; that I must return to him—I, Clare's wife. It was too horrible; it nearly drove me mad, but I deceived him. I gave him a false address, and then left town. I went back, as you know, to Westwold, and wrote to you from there to ask you to tell no one my address.""I remember," said Mr Ford."He—Temple," continued Eva, with rising agitation and excitement, "went to the house, the address of which I had given him—the false address, and found I was not there, and then he went to you. You refused to tell him where I was, even when he said he had a legal claim to know.""I did not believe him.""You know now. Mr Ford, it would kill me to see this man again, nor do I now wish to see Lord Clare—""Lord Kilmore.""I think of him always by the old name; but my story is not yet told. I gave Mr Temple a false address, as I told you; an address to a boarding-house kept by a lady that I had heard of. He went there, and met there the sister of the clergyman who married me to Lord Clair. It seems as if my sin were fated to find me out, for George Temple and Mr Onslow, the clergyman, had been at college together in their youth, and they renewed their acquaintance, and Temple told Mr Onslow his story; how he had married a young girl named Eva Moore, and that he had parted with her. Mr Onslow naturally remembered marrying an Eva Moore to Lord Clair, and he asked Temple if he had a photograph of his wife. He had kept one, why or wherefore I cannot tell; it was mine, and then Mr Onslow knew—knew I had deceived Clair, and he went to him and told him the whole story.""Very officious, in my opinion.""He said he did it from a sense of duty; but, as I told him, his sense of duty has broken two hearts. They came to me at Westwold—Mr Onslow and Clair—Clair would not believe Mr Onslow's tale until he heard it from my own lips. I tried to deny it—I will keep nothing back—until they said they would bring me face to face with George Temple. Then I confessed the truth; Clair knows now; he upbraided me, and when he was out I left the place, leaving a few lines to bid him farewell. I do not wish to see him again, and I wish to hide myself away from everyone, and so I came to you to ask you to help me.""I need not say I will do everything in my power. This Temple, this parson, has, however, an awkward claim against you.""I know," said Eva; "they told me plainly this morning he could have me arrested for bigamy, if he knew of my marriage with Lord Clair.""Then he does not know?""Not yet, at least; so far to him Mr Onslow has kept the secret.""We must hope he will continue to keep it; but even if this is so, if he could find you, this Temple would probably try to force you to return to him.""That I never shall!" cried Eva, passionately. "I would die before I did so; I should kill myself!""My dear girl, do not talk in such a dreadful manner. Let us consider what it will be best to do; you wish, I understand, to hide yourself away from both these men?""Yes, I do; Clair reproached me; he shall not reproach me twice."Well, I shall not reproach you," said Mr Ford, smiling; "it seems to me you have been more sinned against than sinning. And this Lord Clair, or Kilmore—what is he like?"Eva's lips quivered."Do not ask me," she said; "he is all that is generous and noble. Yes, it was cruel, wicked of me to deceive him. I see it all now, and must bear the punishment.""He will probably soon get over it," answered Mr Ford, calmly; "he is very young, and love or passion at his age is not generally deep-seated. He is, in fact, not married to you; and if you really mean to keep out of his way he will probably soon marry."Eva did not speak; but these words seemed to strike a fresh blow into her heart. And Mr Ford, noticing the expression of her face, rose and began slowly walking up and down the room."Of course," he continued, "we must come to a direct understanding if I act in this matter. Lord Kilmore has no right to interfere with you, but the other man undoubtedly has. But are you quite sure—you wish to give up Lord Kilmore?""I am quite sure," answered Eva."In that case I advise you to change your name for the present; and we must find some quiet home for you.""I wish to go abroad; I thought of Switzerland.""My dear girl, you cannot go to Switzerland in mid-winter, and, besides, you cannot go alone.""I should not be afraid if I were out of England.""You are much safer in England; safest in London. I have been thinking of someone whom I think you could live with—for the present. A lady who lives in a small house in the North-West. She is—a distant connection of mine, and I feel sure if I were to recommend you she would receive you.""But you must tell her nothing of who I am; nothing of my story.""Do not be afraid," and again Mr Ford smiled. "You see this is a somewhat awkward affair to be mixed up in, and both for your sake and my own I shall certainly be silent. This Temple will probably return here to make inquiries about you, and if he absolutely proved himself to be your husband, which I now know he is, he might make himself disagreeable regarding your money. He has no right, I believe, to interfere with it; it was lodged here in your maiden name, and your cheques have always been signed by that name. But still he might make himself disagreeable, and I must positively affect not to believe what I now know to be a fact. Therefore, I wish you for the present to be somewhere where I could see you if necessary, until things settle down a bit—and this lady's house that I mentioned, I think, would be convenient.""Well, if you think she would take me, and that I should be safe, I do not care where it is.""I am almost sure she would take you; she lives in one of the new houses up Hampstead way. It is quiet there—out of the way, in fact—and the air is good.""How shall I arrange it then?""Let me see; you had best not go near your house in South Kensington nor to an hotel to-night, as there are sure to be inquiries made.""The house in South Kensington is shut up.""Well, you have a cab here, have you not? Go down to that now—I shall see you down—and direct the driver to stop at the end of the street. I will join you there in five minutes, as I have some orders to give here before I leave the bank. Then we can drive together to the lady's, and I will see her first and arrange with her. And on the way," he added smilingly, "we can fix on a new and suitable name for you.""Very well," said Eva, and she rose.She was frightened, but what could she do? She was forced to make a confidant of Mr Ford, for she had no one else to whom she could turn, and she could not live without the money that was lodged in the bank.So she did as he directed her. He escorted her down to the cab, and then she waited for him to join her at the spot he named. He did not keep her long, and she speedily found herself driving through the lighted streets with Mr Ford by her side."And what is the pretty new name to be?" he asked presently."I don't know; something commonplace will be best," answered Eva."But nothing commonplace will suit you.""Oh, that is no matter," said Eva wearily.An intense dreariness had indeed come over her heart. In her first excitement and indignation against Kilmore, she had said she would leave him, would hide herself from him, and she had done so; but a reaction had now set in. She was thinking of him as she sat there by Mr Ford, thinking of him with wistful regret, while Mr Ford was flattering himself he was making himself highly agreeable to her.It was a long drive. Presently they left the streets, and drove through quiet roadways and up steep hills."I almost forgot to tell you," said Mr Ford, "that the lady I am now taking you to is called Madame de Cimbri.""Is she French then?" asked Eva.Mr Ford almost imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders."Her husband was, I believe," he answered. "No, the lady herself is English. But about your name? I must introduce you, you know.""Scott is a common name, will that do?" answered Eva."Excellently well—Mrs Scott then—Eva Scott—keep the Eva, as you are accustomed to it. Ah, here we are; this is the garden gate of Madame's house."He called to the driver of the cab to stop, and then got out and rang the bell of a door in a high wall."If you will wait for me in the cab," he said, "I will go in and speak to Madame first," and as he spoke he got out of the cab, and presently the door was opened, and he was admitted.He was quite a quarter of an hour in returning; but at last he did so, and handed Eva out of the cab."Madame Cimbri will receive you as a boarder," he said; "but remember, be careful, Mrs Scott."CHAPTER IIIMADAME.MR FORD led Eva up a long garden in front of the house, and as he did so she saw the hall door was open and the hall lighted within. She saw also that a tall, handsome woman was waiting in the hall, and peering out with a curious, excited expression into the darkness."That is Madame de Cimbri," whispered Mr Ford.By this time they had almost reached the house door, and Madame made a step forward to receive them."This is my young friend, Mrs Scott, Madame," said Mr Ford, pleasantly; "and, as I have been telling her, I am sure you will be pleased to have her as an inmate of your house for a short while."Madame bowed on being thus addressed, and continued to look curiously at Eva, who, however, was too thickly veiled for her really to see her face."I hope it will not inconvenience you to receive me?" said Eva. "Of course, we must arrange terms.""Oh, that will be all right," answered Madame, but not in the soft, sweet tones of Eva. "You have come a journey, Mr Ford tells me," she continued, "and I suppose are tired, so you had better go up to your room at once, and then we can have some dinner; but you mustn't expect much on so short a notice.""Oh, anything will do," smiled Eva. If I could have some tea I should like that best.""Well, to tell you the truth, high tea would suit me better than dinner; but here's Mr Ford to be considered, and he, like all men, is fond of a good dinner," and Madame laughed and showed her large, strong, white teeth."Come, Madame, don't take my character away in that fashion," said the good-looking banker. "See after Mrs Scott, and I will take my chance.""Where is your luggage?" now inquired Madame, looking at Eva, who blushed beneath her veil."I have none," she answered; "only this little band-bag; but I shall order what I shall require to-morrow.""Mrs Scott has had a misfortune; she has lost her luggage in the train," said Mr Ford; but Madame did not look at all satisfied with this explanation."That's a queer business," she remarked. "Well, come along upstairs. I daresay I can lend you what you want."She led the way up a circular, lighted staircase, and as she did so, Eva noticed that the house was handsomely but showily furnished. The mistress was also dressed handsomely and showily. She was a tall woman, with a large bust and a fine figure; and her features were regular and her hair and complexion dark. Altogether she was a handsome woman, about forty, with bold, flashing eyes; but Eva saw in a moment she was not a lady. Something indescribable told this; her attitude, the tone of her voice, the construction of her sentences."This is the room," she said, looking round the bedroom into which she led Eva with evident pride. It was showy like the rest, and exactly in the same style."Now, what do you want?" she continued. "I've plenty of tea-gowns, and that sort of thing, if you want a change.""Thank you, but the gown I have on will do very well," replied Eva; "and I brought what I shall require for the night, and to-morrow I can buy what I want.""Oh! very well, just as you like, of course; you'll want a good wash after your journey, I suppose?""I should like to bathe my face," said Eva, unfastening her veil, and when Madame's eyes fell on her lovely features she looked anything but pleased."Oh! you're quite young, are you?" she said."I am not very old," answered Eva, smiling. Then she went to the mirror and unfastened her long auburn hair, which fell below her waist, and Madame looked at it more disapprovingly still."Have you known Mr Ford long?" she asked."Yes," answered Eva; "he manages my money.""He told me he was your guardian. Well, as soon as you are ready, ring the bell—it is there—and, the servant will come up and show you the way to the dining-room, where you will get something to eat and drink. I have a nice drawing-room too; but you have taken me in such a hurry it is not lit.""I am sure everything is very nice.""Oh! it all cost a mint of money, I can tell you. I got the best of everything; it's the cheapest in the end, and the carpets, you see, are all Brussels, and the stairs and drawing-room pile. But I'll show you when you come down." And she nodded and went away.Eva felt relieved after she had gone. There was no doubt she was handsome, but it was a beauty that did not please Eva. She looked so strong, so coarse, and there was something in the expression of her dark eyes that told of violent feelings of either love or hate."I wonder who she is," thought Eva; and then with a sigh she remembered her own dubious and uncertain position. "I can't choose," she reflected, bitterly; "my life is as I have made it."Then presently she bathed her face and refastened her hair, and rang the bell for the servant as Madame had directed her. A smart, dressy little waiting-maid soon appeared, and informed Eva that "high tea was ready;" and Eva accordingly followed her downstairs, and was ushered into a room where a table was spread with many good things.Madame was standing by Mr Ford on the rug before the fire, and she turned round as Eva entered in the dark serge dress she had travelled from Westwold in."Oh! here you are," she said. "Where will you sit, and what will you have to drink? Have some champagne, and these are cutlets, and we have stewed oysters and a fowl, as you see."Mr Ford advanced to the table and placed a chair for Eva."Sit here by the fire, Mrs Scott," he said; "I fear you are very tired?""I am tired," answered Eva.But in spite of being tired, Madame de Cimbri saw that her unexpected guest was a young and beautiful woman, and that the banker's eyes rested more than once on her fair face. Eva, however, was very quiet and subdued, and asked leave to retire very early in the evening."I will try to see you to-morrow," said Mr Ford, rising and taking her hand; "I may have some news.""Thank you; you are very kind," answered Eva, and then she said good-night and went away; and after she was gone Madame turned to Mr Ford."Who do you say she is, James, and where is her husband?""She is a young woman who has a large fortune," answered Mr Ford, "and has had the misfortune to marry badly. As I told you, she wants to live here on the quiet for a bit, and I don't think she will be much trouble to you.""But I don't think I shall like it. Do you think her pretty?""She is fairly good-looking, I think," answered Mr Ford, with affected carelessness."But I can't understand you bringing her here.""To tell the truth, I did not know where else to take her; she wants to keep out of the way of this husband of hers, and she has such a large sum of money in the bank, I cannot very well afford to lose sight of her.""Oh, it's business, then?""Purely business.""I wonder, in that case, you did not take her to the lady in Eccleston Square.""The lady in Eccleston Square, as you call her," replied Mr Ford, a little grimly, "would not have done at all. If I had taken her to my house, people would have known she was there. Here no one need know, and, as I told you, she wishes to be very quiet.""She has rather good hair.""Has she? I did not notice it;" and then he changed the conversation, and after a while went away.And the next morning, as he sat as usual in his private room at the bank, a card was brought up to him, at which he looked with interest."Show the gentleman up," he said to the young man who had brought in the card, and a few moments later Lord Kilmore was ushered in.Mr Ford rose and bowed, and Kilmore also bowed, and began the conversation in an agitated voice."I have taken the liberty of calling on you, Mr Ford," he said, "for the purpose of making some inquiries about—a lady."Again Mr Ford bowed. He was thinking what a good-looking young fellow this was, and also casting over in his mind what it would be wisest for him to say."You know, I believe, Miss Eva Moore?" went on Kilmore."Yes, I know Miss Moore slightly; she is one of the depositors in the bank.""So I have understood. Mr Ford, you will pardon me asking you, I hope, but do you know her present address?"Mr Ford hesitated."I have been to her house in South Kensington, which I find is shut up," continued Kilmore;, and I am most anxious to know of her welfare, and her present address.""I can assure you of her welfare, then," answered Mr Ford, smiling. I saw the young lady yesterday; she came here on a matter of business. But as to her present address, I am very sorry to be compelled to refuse your request, as I was especially asked not to give it to Lord Kilmore.""Asked not to give it to me?" repeated Kilmore, bluntly."Yes; the young lady seemed to expect some such inquiry would be made, and she asked me to decline to answer it.""But that—might be regarding someone else?" hesitated Kilmore.Again Mr Ford smiled; he had decided how to act, and felt himself the master of the situation."I will repeat Miss Moore's words," he replied, "as nearly as I can remember them. She said, 'If Lord Kilmore calls and inquires where I am, tell him I requested you not to tell him; that I do not wish to see him again.’""She said that!""She certainly said that; she also requested me not to give it to another gentlemam—a clergyman."Kilmore grew pale and bit his lips."And you will not?" he said."Certainly I will not; you may judge by your own case that I mean to respect the young lady's wishes."And is—she well? Is she safe?""She seemed quite well, though somewhat agitated; and she gave me to understand she had gone through some trying interview or other.""And—will you see her again?""I presume I shall see her occasionally on business.""Will you tell her then—that—that if at any time she changes her resolution, if she will see me, I will go to her at once? I wish most earnestly to see her—perhaps you would convey a letter to her?""Most certainly, if you wish it.""I shall esteem it the greatest favour; I shall not know how to express my gratitude if you will.""It is a very trifling service, and I am only sorry to be compelled, as a gentleman, to refuse to give you her address. I may tell you, however, she is going immediately abroad.""Well, I will write; I wish I could see her before she goes—if I enclose the letter to you—""She will receive it, and I will convey her answer back to you.""I thank you more than I can express; and Mr Ford, there is a strong reason—a far stronger reason than in my case—that if this clergyman should come here to ask after her that he should not know where she is. He might bring her immense trouble and pain, and I ask, I implore you, to keep her secret from him?"Mr Ford slightly waved his hand."Lord Kilmore, if I have proved trust-worthy in your case, I am not likely to betray her confidence to the parson. To tell the truth, I do not at all approve of the reverend gentleman, and will have the greatest pleasure in snubbing him.""Thank you very much. Then I will enclose my letter to Miss Eva Moore to you, and you will let me have her answer?""I shall have great pleasure in doing so. Must you go? Good-morning then, Lord Kilmore. I am pleased to have met you.""And I trust our acquaintance will continue," said Kilmore frankly, holding out his hand. "I shall always feel myself indebted to you."And. then he turned and went away, and once more the banker smiled as the door closed behind him."Upon my word, the young lady has good taste," he was thinking. "That's a fine-looking young fellow, and a nice fellow seemingly too. But I pretty cleverly countermined him—everything is fair in love and war."CHAPTER IVTHE UNANSWERED LETTER.THE same day a letter was brought to Mr Ford from Kilmore. It contained one addressed to Miss Eva Moore, which was sealed, and also a few courteous lines to the banker himself.Mr Ford read his own letter, and then the address of the one intended for Eva, and after he had done so, he calmly locked Eva's letter away. He had no intention of delivering it, but he did not read it. Nor shall we. Are there not words that two only should hear, and thoughts too sacred for the common ken? Kilmore had written in the fulness of his heart; written to the woman he loved, and it was like a cry from his soul. He entreated her to see him again, if "it were only to say farewell." He thanked her with passionate tenderness for writing in the letter she had left for him at Westwold, that her "love would not change." "Nor will mine, Eva," he told her; "and do not wait until you are in some 'desperate need' to call me back." It was a letter, in truth, which might have changed their whole lives—a letter to his love, though she might be an erring one, but it was fated not to reach her hands.The banker locked it securely away, and then sat down to think. Afterwards, he went out and purchased two stall tickets for a successful play, and sent them out to Hampstead by an especial messenger to Madame de Cimbri. "They are for you and Mrs Scott," he wrote, "for this evening, and I will send a brougham to Norham Villa in time to take you both to the theatre. I will try to join you there," he added; "but I can't promise, as I may have a home engagement."Madame de Cimbri was delighted to receive the tickets. She ran with them in her hand and Mr Ford's open letter, which was a guarded one, to the dining-room where Eva was sitting."Isn't this jolly?" she cried; "Mr Ford has sent us tickets for the Adelphi to-night, and he's going to send a brougham to take us to the theatre. I am so glad."Eva, who was sitting by the fire, feeling ill and languid, looked up without interest."I cannot go," she said."Not go! And when he's going to send a brougham and everything, and if he can get he's certain to treat us to a good supper after the play. Oh, you must go."Eva shook her head."I don't feel very well," she answered; "and I would rather not go.""Oh, very well, please yourself, of course; but I never refuse a good offer, and as Mr Ford's messenger is waiting for an answer, I'll write a line to him to tell him you are not feeling well enough to go, but I will be there.""Thank you, very much," said Eva, and once more her head fell languidly, and she gazed with listless eyes into the fire."She was feeling ill, body and mind alike. The blow had fallen so suddenly at the end, and Clair had treated her so cruelly—she thought cruelly at least for Clair! She forgot what a frightful shock it had given him; that he had believed in her and loved her so well."Yet I told him I was not a good woman," thought poor Eva mournfully, and then a little shiver ran through her frame.She had taken a chill, probably from sleeping in one of Madame's smart, though unaired, beds. And then her mental condition naturally affected her health."I would be better dead," she thought. "What is the good of my life parted from Clair, and living in constant dread of that wretch finding me out? And I don't like this woman's face; I can't bear, at least, to stay here."In the meantime Madame de Cimbri had written her note to Mr Ford, accepting his invitation to the theatre, and despatched it with his messenger, who conveyed it straight to the bank.It was exactly what he expected, and what he had planned to obtain. He knew Madame adored theatres; that they gave her unending delight, and that she would be most unlikely to refuse stalls for the Adelphi. And he knew also, that Eva would be most unlikely to go. He wished to see Eva alone, and had not the slightest intention of joining Madame at the play. He was thinking of a younger and fairer woman when he made these arrangements; and about nine o'clock, to Eva's great surprise, he arrived at Norham Villa, and was announced while she was lying on a couch in the dining-room there.She rose, and a flush came to her lovely face, which Mr Ford noticed admiringly and mistook its cause. She was dressed in a pretty white tea-gown, which Madame had purchased for her in the morning. Madame liked buying things, and Eva had felt too weary and disheartened to go out, and had therefore commissioned Madame to buy her some necessaries."Mr Ford!" she exclaimed."Yes," he answered, advancing smilingly and holding out his hand, which Eva took."I thought you were at the theatre?" she said."I never had the slightest idea of going," he replied, still holding her hand. "I wanted Madame out of the way, and I knew she could not resist theatre tickets.""Have—you heard anything?" asked Eva in alarm."Not directly; but I have been making certain inquiries, and therefore I wished to see you alone to tell you the result.""Yes.""My dear girl; now I don't wish to alarm you, but I wish to warn you, and entreat you not to be rash. The inquiries which I have made through a legal friend were regarding the punishment of bigamy."Eva started, and her lips quivered."Don't look so frightened; you are quite safe here, but you must be prudent. I can understand that Madame is not attractive to you."Eva did not speak."She is not what you have been accustomed to; she is not a lady, in fact, but she is useful. She is not troubled with overfine scruples of any kind, and as long as she is paid for her services, she knows how to hold her tongue. Do you understand? She is a convenient person for you to be with under your present circumstances, and I advise you just now at least to remain here."Eva sighed restlessly."I should rather go abroad," she said."It would be much less safe; while you are here, on the spot, as it were, I can see you, and can give you timely warning if anything like an arrest is attempted. You must not play with fire, you know, my dear girl! You have, I am sorry to say, placed yourself within the power of the law by that foolish marriage with Lord Kilmore, and the consequences might be very serious.""What could they do?" asked Eva."My legal friend assured me that the punishment for bigamy is sometimes very severe. The law is 'not more than seven years', or less than three years' penal servitude.'""Penal servitude!""Yes; or not more than two years' imprisonment, with or without hard labour.""It is impossible!" cried Eva, starting to her feet."I am sorry to say it is so; and the unfortunate part of it is, that you contracted this second marriage with this young lord so short a period after your first marriage. Had seven years elapsed without you hearing of Mr Temple, it would have considerably mitigated the offence."Eva clasped her hands with a despairing gesture."I must have been mad," she said; "I knew nothing of this; I knew it was not right, but—""You allowed the young gentleman to overpersuade you?""I was thrown with him—he saved my life—I'd better have died!""Nonsense, nonsense, my dear young lady! You are far too pretty a woman to talk of dying. You must live and be bright and happy, and this ugly sword that is hanging over your head must be warded off. You know you can completely depend on me?""You are very good.""I don't set up to be very good," answered the banker, smiling; "but when I like a person—when I admire a woman, I will do anything for her. Don't make a confidant of Madame, however; she is a useful person to a certain extent, but you must draw a line. I told her this much, that you were a young lady with a good fortune, and that you had had the misfortune to marry badly, and wished to keep out of the way of your husband, and live on the quiet for a bit. Here you can; but even here I wouldn't walk too much about the streets. You are too handsome, in fact—but it's a charming fault."Eva made no answer; she was not thinking of Mr Ford and his compliments, but of her own miserable position."And Clair—Lord Kilmore?" she said presently, raising her lustrous eyes. "Have you heard anything of him?""Not one word," answered Mr Ford."I thought, perhaps, he might go to you—to inquire," continued Eva. "He knew that I know you, and that my money is in your bank, and I told him of your visit to Westwold.""Did you? But you do not wish to have any further communication with him now?""No, no; what good would it do? Besides, I said I would not; I wrote to him I would trouble him no more.""It is the wisest—indeed, your only course; besides, if this affair of the bigamous marriage with him leaked out he might be dragged into it.""How? He did not know.""That would be very difficult to prove. No, my dear girl, you must not attempt to renew your unfortunate acquaintance with Lord Kilmore.""Unfortunate, indeed!" said Eva, with a restless sigh."You must try to forget it.""That I never can; but it's no matter.""And there is another thing I wish to arrange with you; I may wish to see you; it may be necessary that I should see you without the knowledge of Madame sometimes. She goes a great deal to the theatre in the evenings, and I can see you when she is away, but it would be better she did not know that I did. For instance, this evening do not tell her I have been here.""But, Mr Ford—""It would be wiser, I assure you; she is rather an odd person, and has a jealous disposition, and might not like to think I saw you in her absence.""But the servants—Mr Ford, I really cannot do this.""My dear girl," and Mr Ford shrugged his shoulders, "such servants as Madame's are not difficult to silence. I can arrange all that; and I've no doubt," and he gave a low laugh, "that Madame has visitors of which I do not hear.""I do not know; I know nothing of such things.""No? And yet—"Mr Ford paused after he had said these three words, and Eva felt an indescribable feeling of annoyance and anger. She knew he meant more than he had expressed, and was slightly amused perhaps.But with easy tact the next moment he changed the conversation. He was a well-read man, and had travelled a great deal, and could make himself exceedingly agreeable when he pleased. It pleased him to do so now; to try to make Eva forget for a time, at least, the absorbing troubles of her life.He stayed about an hour, and then left her; but before he did so he again cautioned her about Madame de Cimbri."Promise not to tell I've been here," he said; "we need not tell Madame everything.""But if she asks me?""Most unlikely; and now, my dear girl, good-night."Then he shook hands with her and went away, and Eva heard a whispered conversation in the hall before the house door closed behind him. He left her still more miserable than she had been before. A vague hope had lingered in her breast that Clair would go to Mr Ford—that through him he might have traced her, that he might have come to her. But he had not even tried, it seemed. And then Mr Ford had terrified her about the legal penalties she had incurred. Penal servitude! The very words were enough to strike terror into her soul; and if Mr Ford had meant to frighten her, he certainly had most successfully done so.She went upstairs before Madame de Cimbri returned, but not to sleep. She heard her arrive, and she heard her also laughing and talking with her maid. Then followed a restless night, haunted by terrible dreams. She felt so ill and feverish in the morning that she did not go downstairs, and presently, after breakfast, Madame came up to see after her."What a pity you did not go last night to the Adelphi," she said. "I did enjoy myself, while you were staying moping at home.""I was not well enough to go," answered Eva wearily."You do look awfully bad this morning, anyhow. Well, Mr Ford didn't cast up? I suppose he couldn't get away from his old woman," and Madame de Cimbri laughed."His old woman?" repeated Eva."Yes, his wife. You knew he was married, didn't you?""Yes, I think I've heard so; I'd forgotten," answered Eva indifferently."Oh, he's married, sure enough, though he's never to be seen with her. He married a rich old woman for her money, and he knows how to spend it. But he's rich, and can afford to be generous."Eva made no reply, and presently, to her great relief, Madame went away. There was something about this woman inexpressibly antipathetic to Eva: Her coarse beauty, her coarse mind, revolted her. So she spent the morning in her own room miserably enough, repining at her fate."But for my childish folly," she was thinking, "I should now have been Clair's happy wife—mine own Clair, whom I love, and who loves me so well. If my mother had lived she would have taken care of me, and everything might have been different. As it was, I was thrown on the world without a guide, and shipwrecked my happiness. I thought I should defy fate when I married Clair, but fate was too strong for me, and this is the end."In this unhappy frame of mind she spent hour after hour, and while she was thinking of her lost lover with inexpressible tenderness and regret, he was receiving a blow, seemingly from her, which cut him to the heart.As early in the morning as he thought it possible to call on a stranger, Kilmore proceeded to Ford's Bank and asked to see Mr James Ford. He sent up his card, and was speedily ushered into the banker's presence."Ah, Lord Kilmore," said Mr Ford, rising; and extending his well-shaped hand in welcome, "I am pleased to see you. I hoped you would call.""I must apologise for coming so early—but I felt anxious.""Precisely. About the fate of your letter, you mean, to Miss Eva Moore?""Yes," answered Kilmore in an agitated voice."Well, I am afraid my news will not be very welcome; I saw the young lady last night, and I carried your letter with me when I went to see her.""And—""Well, at first she did not wish to open it, but asked me to carry it back to you.""Unopened!" exclaimed Kilmore, and his face blanched strangely."Finally she did open it; she read it before me, and sent a verbal answer by me. 'Tell him,' she said, 'that it is no use; I cannot see him, and he must not write.'""Was that all?" asked Kilmore, with quivering lips."There were a few more words to that effect, but that was the grist of them. It was useless, and only painful to renew a—broken tie. That was what she wished me to convey to you—and Lord Kilmore, you will pardon me when I remind you in all confidence of the peculiar position of the young lady.""You mean—""I mean her unfortunate and early marriage, of which, on account of business matters, she was obliged to make me cognisant. One day a gentleman called here at the bank, and asked to see one of the partners. My father rarely comes to town, and I saw him. He was a clergyman, and said he had come to make certain inquiries about the whereabouts of Miss Eva Moore, whom he understood had money deposited in the bank. But before he called I had had a note from Miss Eva Moore, with whom I had a slight personal acquaintance, warning me that inquiries might be made about her, but requesting me to give no information on the subject whatever, and especially not to give her address. I received this letter from Westwold.""From Westwold!" echoed Kilmore, with visible agitation."Yes, from Westwold," repeated Mr Ford, in a somewhat marked manner. "Well, this gentleman, this clergyman, got rather bellicose when I declined to give the information he asked for; he said he had a legal right to know, and finally, that she was his wife. This, to tell the truth, I did not believe, and I firmly refused to give Miss Moore's address. I wrote to her to tell her of my clerical visitor, and she replied that he had no legal right to her address, or anything else concerning her. But in a subsequent interview she admitted that she had married this man at a very early age, and that they had been parted for three or four years. But, of course, the marriage tie remains, and under these circumstances—"Kilmore had listened to this long explanation in extreme agitation. That Mr Ford should know all this was bitter enough, but that Eva should have planned, deliberately planned, to deceive him was more bitter still. He remembered at this moment Mr Ford's visit to Westwold; remembered that he must, in all probability, have heard of himself there as Eva's husband, and he understood Mr Ford's allusion to "a broken tie" only too well."Then," he said, with faltering lips, "I am to understand that—Miss Moore does not wish any further communication with me?""That is what she commissioned me to express. And she is equally anxious to see and hear nothing further of this husband of hers. I shall certainly refuse to give him any information if he comes here; but, at the same time, I fear there may be some trouble about it. You see his claim is certainly a legal one, and he could, no doubt, compel her to return to him.""She will never return to him," said Kilmore, excitedly."Not willingly, I am sure; but the safest plan for her is to keep out of his way, and out of his ken, and to do this she must keep out of England at present. Thus you see her decision is wise, Lord Kilmore, regarding yourself."Kilmore bowed haughtily and bit his lips. His heart was full of inexpressible bitterness and pain, and after a few more words he took leave of the banker, who smiled softly to himself after he was gone."I think I have ended that," he thought, and he prided himself on his cleverness in having done so.But there was no smile on Kilmore's lips as he passed out of the bank and went into the crowded streets. His heart was out of tune with the whole world. Nothing is so terrible as to lose faith in one we love, and yet go on loving still. This was Kilmore's state, and with a gloomy brow and oppressed with miserable thoughts, he left town the same day."What is the good of staying?" he told himself. "She won't see me, she won't write to me, and yet she could confide in this man."He travelled down to Kilmore by the first train he could catch, and arrived there during the afternoon. He was not expected, and he walked from the station and soon found himself on his own land; on the broad acres that had descended to him, and which had been inherited by his father with such pleasure and pride.But Kilmore felt neither pleasure nor pride as he looked on the wide grass lands, on the wooded park, on the gurgling Ayre. A woman's love had spoiled everything for him, and gloomy and dissatisfied he strode on, and in one of the walks in the park he suddenly encountered his cousin, Annette Gower.The girl started violently when she saw him, and her face flushed crimson and then grew pale, and Kilmore could not help noticing her agitation."You did not expect to see me?" he said, as he shook hands with her."No," faltered Annette."How is my mother?" then asked Kilmore."She—is the same, I think," answered Annette, but still in a very agitated voice."Where were you going? Will you turn with me?" said Kilmore. He, too, was disturbed by this meeting, and remembered his last parting with his cousin, when he had gone on his dreary errand to learn the bitter truth at Westwold. It had been as he had told Mr Onslow, "more bitter than death," and now he was returning after drinking this cup of gall.So the cousins, each with their own sad secrets hidden in their hearts, turned and walked on together through the darkening park. Annette asked no questions, and Kilmore made no explanation. She saw by his gloomy brow, by his brief answers and general bearing, that he had returned no happier a man than when he left."Something terrible has happened to him," thought the girl, as she glanced at his clouded face, and, with a troubled heart, she, too, returned to the Hall.CHAPTER VA PAIR OF GLOVES.Two days later, in the evening, Mr Ford once more arrived at Norham Villa. Madame de Cimbri had evidently no idea he had been there on the night that she had gone to the theatre, and welcomed him with effusion."Well, what a stranger you have been! she cried, as she entered the showy drawing-room about half-past nine o'clock. "I was beginning to think Mrs Scott here must have frightened you away."And she laughed and showed her white teeth."You must have known that was impossible," answered Mr Ford, advancing to where Eva sat, and holding out his hand."And you didn't cast up at the theatre that night also," continued Madame de Cimbri. "Well, you know when 'the cat's away the mice will play,' and I picked up a friend."Mr Ford looked annoyed, and Madame, mistaking the expression of his face, added hastily,—"Oh! it was only young Ludlow; he's very harmless.""Perfectly," said Mr Ford, sarcastically."And what will you take?" went on Madame. "You want something after all that long drive.""Let me see," answered Mr Ford, as though considering the matter. "Have you any of that sparkling Burgundy still?""That you sent me? Oh, yes; I only keep that for high days and holidays. I'll go and get you a bottle.""Thanks," said Mr Ford, and as Madame hurried out of the room to get the wine, he quietly put a piece of folded paper into Eva's hand after she was gone."Read that in your own room presently," he said; "and we must see how we can arrange it."Eva took the paper with a sinking heart. She waited until Madame returned with the burgundy, and then left the room, and went to her own, and there read the note Mr Ford had given her."I wish to see you alone, and talk to you," he had written. "The parson has been to the bank and made himself remarkably disagreeable. I wish to tell you what he said and how I answered him; and so we must try to arrange to meet alone. You must help me. F."These words naturally threw Eva into a state of agitation, and it was some time before she could sufficiently compose herself to return to the drawing-room. When she did, Mr Ford was sipping his burgundy, and Madame was standing smiling beside him."Now, Mrs Scott, isn't he good?" she said. "He has brought us more theatre tickets, and you must go this time."Eva shook her head."Now, don't you think it would do her good?" she continued, addressing the banker. "She's got a cold; but I always say it does no good to coddle a cold.""I am very sorry you have a cold," said Mr Ford, looking at Eva. "Well, suppose we fix another day for you to go to the theatre with Madame. These tickets are for tomorrow.""And waste the tickets, James! I call that a sin!" exclaimed Madame. "You've paid for them, so what's the good of throwing the money away? If Mrs Scott's not well enough to go, I am, and perhaps you can go too?""No, I am going to a dinner-party tomorrow," answered the banker, "and I cannot get out of it.""What a bother! Well, never mind, I'll go, and I daresay I'll get someone to call the carriage for me, if you treat me to one, or get me a cab.""Perhaps the accommodating Mr Ludlow?" smiled the banker. "Yes, I shall be most happy to treat you to a carriage, as you call it. What time shall I order the brougham to be here for you?""Oh! I like to be there early. I don't like to miss the first piece; so order it in time for that, and thank you very much.""Then that is arranged," said Mr Ford, quietly; "and it shall be there for you when the play is over;" and as he said this he gave one glance with his bright, hazel eyes at Eva.She understood its meaning; he had arranged to get Madame out of the way, and he meant to come to Norham Villa in her absence, and tell her what "the parson," as he called him, had said.This was exactly what he intended, and exactly what he did. The brougham arrived for Madame at the appointed time, and scarcely an hour after she was gone, a ring came to the house-door bell at Norham Villa, and, a few minutes later, Mr Ford was announced.He advanced into the drawing-room, where Eva was sitting, smiling, and holding out his well-shaped hand."I have come very early," he said, "in the hope of having a long and very charming evening with you."Eva rose, pale and agitated, to receive him."You have come to tell me—" she said nervously."About the parson—forgive me—about the Rev. George Temple, of Harlaxton Vicarage, Dorset. Yes, my dear girl, I have come to tell you about that learned gentleman, and I must say I cordially enter into your feelings regarding him, for a more disagreeable, self-righteous person I never encountered.""And—what did he say?""What did he not say, you mean?" answered Mr Ford, with a low laugh. "He began by demanding to know your place of residence; by declaring he had a legal right to know—the old story, in fact—and I replied by intimating pretty strongly that I did not believe what he was saying, though, at the same time, I knew it was perfectly true. Then my gentleman got in a rage; he threatened me with law proceedings, and I assured him that he had no ground to go on. He said I was holding his wife's money, which he was entitled to share—this is the grist of his anxiety to trace you, I verily believe—away from him, and that I must know and tell him where you were to be found. I smiled, and said I was absolutely ignorant where you were to be found, as you were travelling from place to place on the Continent; but that you had been to Hamburg, Frankfort, Cologne—in fact, a dozen places. He said I must send you money. I said no; I gave her letters of credit before she started, and that I had no idea where you were at the present time. 'I will trace her,' he said fiercely, 'if she is above ground!'"Eva slightly shuddered."Don't look so frightened, my dear girl, for I've led him a pretty dance. He asked where I had last heard from you, and I said Cologne, and he was going to start the same night for that evil-smelling town. So you will see you are quite safe. He will go hunting all over for you, while you are living quietly here, and he will never think of your being here."Eva did not speak for a moment, and then she gave a restless sigh."It's a dreadful life to lead," she said; "a hunted life!""It doesn't matter being hunted if you are not caught," answered Mr Ford, smiling; "and caught you shall not be.""And—" asked Eva, hesitating and looking down, "has anyone else been to you to make inquiries?""You mean Lord Kilmore?" said Mr Ford, quietly. "No; I have seen or heard nothing of him."Again a restless sigh was suppressed on Eva's lips, which Mr Ford heard, but did not appear to notice."So," he said, "now that the Rev. George is disposed of on his foreign quest, there is no need for you to keep so closely immured here. Would you like to go and spend a few days anywhere—say at Brighton?""But are you sure he has gone?""I am sure he meant to go; but I can find out if he has gone. I will set one of those useful private inquiry people on his track, and we will thus always know where he is.""I am very grateful to you.""I told you I would do anything I could for you, and I will. And the only return I ask is—well, that you will give me a little friendship and trust,""I have already trusted you," said Eva, with a wintry smile."You will neither repent nor regret your trust some day, I hope. Eva—may I call you Eva?—do you know that you inspire me with a strange interest?""I suppose my extraordinary story—""No, it is neither your extraordinary story, nor, permit me to say, your extraordinary personal attractions, which has raised this interest in my heart. It is something beyond—I can scarcely express it—a charm, a witchery, which is all your own.""Please do not talk thus, Mr Ford. I do not care to listen to compliments.""I rarely pay them; certainly would not pay them to you. No, my words are sincere, and I earnestly wish you to believe that they are so,""I am sure you mean kindly, but—""I mean, and will act kindly, if you only trust me. But about this cold of yours; do you really think a little change would do you good?""I will see how I am in a few days—and wait till I hear that this man has really left England, and then I do think a little change would do me good.""I shall see about the reverend gentleman's doings at once then. And now let us talk of something else; we still have time for a charming chat," and he glanced at his watch, "before Madame's return."It is certainly true that when we are unhappy we are very bad company for ourselves. Eva felt annoyed that for the next hour Mr Ford sat on talking pleasantly, and yet his conversation took her mind away to a great extent from her own troubles.He was a keen observing man of the world, and believed very little in the higher aspirations of either men or women. His own moral code was of the most elastic description, and always suited his own convenience. Yet you could not tell this by his words.He took very good care not to talk to Eva as he would have done to Madame de Cimbri. He drew a line between these two women, though he had no honour for either."Here is a lovely woman," he was thinking as he sat by Eva, "who is fretting now for the loss of her young lover, but another lover will soon console her."But Eva could not tell his thoughts; could not judge him by them. This human tongue of ours is a strange gift, wrapping our inner-selves sometimes as in a garment. Here was a man playing his part with ease and discretion, and his listener did not look beyond. It never occurred to her that he might be deceiving her. She regarded him as a middle-aged man, who probably said pretty things to every pretty woman he came near.She had no idea of the feelings with which he regarded her; feelings which were growing day by day.Again he looked at his watch, and then unwillingly rose."How tiresome," he said; "absolutely Madame will be on her way home now, and I seem only to have been here a few minutes; time flies in your company.""Time does not fly for me now," answered Eva."It may some day; keep up your heart, and now good-bye; but I shall see you soon again."After this he went away, and Eva sat still thinking over what he had said. If Temple had really gone abroad in search of her, for a time at least she was safe."And why need I stay here?" thought Eva, and then she rose and began walking restlessly to and fro. She was thinking of Kilmore; thinking how strange it was that he had not gone to Mr Ford to make inquiries about her."And yet he cannot forget me," she murmured half aloud. "He cannot forget our love; he may hate me, but he cannot forget."She was still thinking of him when she heard a carriage stop before the door, and the house bell ring. Then she heard Madame's voice, and a few moments later Madame herself made her appearance."Oh, you are still sitting up, Mrs Scott?" she said, as she entered the room in her elaborately-embroidered cloak. "Well, you missed a treat; but I've come home so thirsty. The theatre was very hot, and I think I'll have a brandy-and-soda; I expect there is some brandy here."She went up as she said this to a little inlaid cabinet, which stood at one side of the room, and, just as she was bending down to open the doors, she gave an exclamation."Why! here are a pair of Mr Ford's gloves, I declare," she said; "however did they come here?"Eva did not speak."I could almost swear these gloves were not here," continued Madame, "when I went out," and she lifted up the gloves, which were lying on the cabinet, as she spoke."He's not been here, has he?" she added, looking sharply round."Yes, he has been here," said Eva coldly."Here! when I was out! Here, when he said he was going to a dinner party! "exclaimed Madame de Cimbri, with sudden suspicion in her tone and manner, and her face grew very pale. "I tell you what, Mrs Scott, I think this looks very queer; if I thought—""Mr Ford came to bring me some news about my affairs," answered Eva, yet more coldly; and Madame paused, almost panting with anger, and her dark eyes all aflame with rage."Oh, that is all very fine! Affairs, indeed! What sort of affairs, I wonder? If I thought I was got out of the way so that you might receive him alone, I'd turn you out of my house this very night!""You need not be so insulting, Madame de Cimbri"."Insulting, indeed! And who are you, I should like to know, that he brought here without a single word? A runaway wife, he called you. But I won't have it. If James Ford is anything to you, I'm not going to be made a cat's-paw of; I'm not, indeed!"She had worked herself up into a terrible rage by this time, and advanced towards Eva almost as if she were going to attack her personally."Mr Ford is nothing to me," said Eva, drawing herself up to her fullest height; "and I do not understand your insinuations. But I shall no longer remain in your house. I will leave to-morrow."And with these words she quitted the room, leaving the angry woman to console herself with several brandies and sodas before she retired for the night.CHAPTER VIJEALOUSY.MADAME DE CIMBRI had, however, repented by the morning of her sudden fit of jealousy and anger. It did not, in fact, suit her to quarrel with Mr Ford, and she was afraid that he might resent her treatment of Eva. She thought of making an apology, therefore, when Eva came downstairs; but Eva did not give her an opportunity of doing this.She dressed herself early, and went out to post a few lines which she had written to Mr Ford. They were as follows:—"DEAR MR FORD,—Something has arisen which would make it very unpleasant for me to remain a day longer at Norham Villa. Will you therefore kindly send me a telegram to assure me that it is safe for me to go to Brighton? You know what I mean; that it is an absolute certainty that G. T. has left England.—Impatiently awaiting your reply, I remain, sincerely yours,"EVA MOORE."Eva concluded that Mr Ford would receive this note by the two o'clock delivery, and that she would have an immediate answer. And by half-past two a telegram arrived for her and was brought up by the maid."Madame sends her compliments, please, Mrs Scott," said the maid, "and would you come down and have some luncheon?""No thank you," answered Eva, and then she proceeded hastily to open her telegram. It only contained a few words,—"Do nothing until I see you.—FORD."This brief message was naturally very unsatisfactory to Eva. But she was not kept long in suspense. Before three o'clock she heard a cab stop at the outer gate of Norham Villa, and, going to the window, she perceived the tall and stately figure of Mr Ford walking up the garden walk. Then followed a long silence, broken, however, presently by a woman's hysterical sobs. A scene was evidently going on downstairs, and Eva heard loud and angry voices. Then came another silence, and in a little while a rap at Eva's bedroom door."Come in," she said, and the door opened and Madame de Cimbri entered, with a tear-stained face and a general appearance of unmistakable agitation."Mr Ford is downstairs," she began in a broken voice. "It seems you have written to him to tell him you are going away—" And here a sob choked her utterance."I wish to leave," said Eva coldly."And he has sent me up," then came another sob, "to say—I am sorry—if I said anything rude—last night. I was put out; I—I did not know why he had come—he says it was about your husband—but—but I am sorry."Here she burst into a fit of passionate sob-bing. She was evidently violently and truly affected, and her distress almost made Eva feel sorry for her."It is no matter," she said."And," sobbed out Madame, "he wishes to see you—he sent me up to ask you to go down—he doesn't wish you to leave here.""I will go down and speak to him," answered Eva, and accordingly she went downstairs and found Mr Ford standing looking out of the dining-room window. He turned round as she entered the room, and there was a frown still on his brow."I am very sorry about all this folly," he said, advancing with outstretched hand. "That idiot of a woman has made a nice fool of herself, it seems.""It is disagreeable for me to be here any longer," answered Eva; "therefore I wrote to ask you if it were safe for me to go.""My dear girl, I am sorry to say that fellow Temple is still in town," answered Mr Ford, again taking Eva's hand. "But you shall not stay here to be insulted; only we must be very careful.""And he is still in town?" said Eva, growing a little paler."So the private inquiry man told me this morning. Therefore you see it would never do for you to run any risks. For anything we know, Temple himself may be employing some of these people to trace you out.""But I cannot stay here.""Can you not stay for a day or two? Madame has apologised to you for her folly, has she not?""She said she was sorry.""Well, look over it then; she is jealous of every woman younger and better looking than herself, naturally.""She need not be jealous of me."Mr Ford gave a peculiar smile."We need not discuss it," he said. "But my advice is, until we absolutely know this man is out of the country, it will be wisest for you to remain here.""I am very unwilling to do so.""Surely not on account of Madame? What earthly matter is it what a woman like that says?"And Mr Ford shrugged his broad shoulders."Still, in her house—""My dear girl, do not distress yourself on that point. Come, let us settle it; remain here a few days, just until we know Temple is gone, and then I will take a house for you wherever you like."There was a listener to these last words that neither Eva nor the banker suspected. Madame de Cimbri had stolen downstairs, determined to try to hear something of the interview between Eva and Mr Ford, and when she overheard him say he would take a house for Eva whereever she liked, her very heart seemed to stand still.She clenched her hands; a dangerous light flashed in her eyes, and she looked at this moment a woman capable of anything."I will tell Madame to be perfectly polite to you," continued Mr Ford, Madame still listening the while; "and she dare not disobey me. If she is not everything you wish, just let me know.""Well, for a few days then," said Eva, unwillingly."Then that is settled; I cannot tell you how annoyed I am that you should have had any trouble at all, for you know there is nothing I wish so much as to see you happy—but then a jealous woman—"And Mr Ford laughed.The jealous woman outside heard these words, and heard also the contemptuous laugh which accompanied them.Then she stole away, and upstairs gave way to a terrible paroxysm of rage and passionate despair. She flung herself on her knees by the bed; she swore she would have her revenge."If I swing for it," she said, clenching her white teeth. "He dare to speak of me thus!" she went on; "but he'll rue the day—yes, he'll rue the day!"Then she got up and tried to compose herself, and with her trembling hands smoothed her ruffled hair."I've a part to play," she thought vindictively, "and I'll play it."But she was not a good actress. When she went downstairs again, and Mr Ford glanced at her white, set face, its expression half-frightened him. She tried to smile, but it was a smile which distorted her features."Mrs Scott has promised to stay on a few days longer, Madame," he said, addressing her in a friendly tone; "so I hope you'll take no more foolish fads into your head.""I'll try not to be—a jealous woman," answered Madame in a would-be playful tone, but with rage in her eyes, and the banker felt absolutely uneasy."Was it safe to leave Eva here?" he was thinking; "leave her with this passionate, half-frenzied woman?"He looked at Madame again, and again that hideous smile distorted her full lips. She was so pale too, and her large, dark eyes were gleaming with the passionate anger of her soul. Altogether he felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and, after considering in silence for a few moments what it would be best to do, he determined not to quit Norman Villa while Madame continued in her present state of excitement.""As I am here," he said presently, affecting a jocularity he was far from feeling, "suppose we make a day of it? I'll telegraph for a brougham and take you two ladies a drive, and then we can have a good dinner, and go afterwards to one of the theatres.""Quite a charming arrangement!" cried Madame, with a ring of rage and satire in her tone."Then I'll write my telegram," continued Mr Ford, "and, Madame, you can send one of your maids with it to the telegraph office. In the meanwhile, I think I'll have a smoke in the garden. Don't forget to order a good dinner, Madame."He spoke the last sentence as he was leaving the room, and in the hall he lighted a cigar and walked contemplatively up and down the gravel garden walk in front of Norham Villa. He was getting very tired of Madame de Cimbri. He was a man who detested scenes, and she had made a most unpleasant one to-day, and altogether Mr Ford's reflections were by no means in her favour."What a fury she looked, too," he thought, "when she was raging and crying. I hate crying women; it spoils their eyes and makes their noses red, and they gain nothing by it from me."In the meanwhile, Eva and Madame had been left in the dining-room together, and just as Eva was quitting the room to go to her own, Madame spoke to her, and Eva was struck with the alteration in her voice."I suppose you will go this drive?" she said."I think not," answered Eva quietly."Oh, you had better go," continued Madame.But Eva left the room without saying anything further, and as she disappeared the same evil smile stole over Madame's lips.About three-quarters of an hour elapsed, and Mr Ford had time to smoke several cigars, and then the brougham he had telegraphed for arrived. He went into the house when it came, and called upstairs to know if Eva and Madame were ready. Eva came out of her own room when she heard his voice, and went halfway down the staircase to speak to him."I think you must excuse me, Mr Ford," she said, addressing him."No, indeed I won't," he answered, and he came half up the stairs to meet her. "I want you particularly to go," he added in a lower tone, "and am going entirely on your account.""Well, if you really wish it—" hesitated Eva."I do indeed," said Mr Ford earnestly; and Eva, after thinking a moment, said she would go.She went back into her own room to put on a hat and a thick veil, and when she went downstairs she found Madame in the dining-room with Mr Ford."My drive seems most unpopular," said Mr Ford, addressing her with a smile; "here is Madame now says she does not wish to go.""I have something to do," answered Madame, "and I can't manage it. I suppose you won't be very long away?""No, it gets so soon dark," said Mr Ford. "We can just go a little way on the Heath; I haven't been there since I was a boy, and it will quite give me a juvenile sensation. That is, of course, if you don't object, Mrs Scott?""It is quite the same to me where we go; but you had better go too, Madame," said Eva."No thank you," replied Madame in sullen tone, "I've business I must see after.""Come along then, Mrs Scott," said Mr Ford, "and I'll keep the brougham for us to go to the theatre in after dinner, Madame. Good-bye for the present then," and he nodded to her, and then led Eva down the gravel walk to the carriage waiting outside.He handed her in, and then gave a little sigh of relief."Thank goodness," he said, "that woman did not come with us! What a fury she looked in. I was really half afraid of her.""She did look very angry.""I see it won't do for you to stay on here any longer. Do you know why I proposed this drive, and going to the theatre and all that? Simply because I was afraid to leave you alone with her until her tantrums had quieted down a bit.""It is very disagreeable for me to be here.""Would you like to go to Brighton?""Yes, if you think it would be safe.""I'll see that private inquiry man again to-morrow, and if Temple is gone it will be all right. At all events, he will always let me know what Temple is doing, and Brighton is handy to town, and you'll be out of the way there of this stupid, jealous woman."While Mr Ford was talking thus to Eva, Madame de Cimbri had gone to her own room and called for her maid to come to her."Shut the door," she said, as the smart little maid entered; "though there's no one in the house to hear us but cook, and I suppose she knows. But I want you to tell me something—to speak the truth, and I'll pay you handsomely for it—was Mr Ford here the first time I went alone to the theatre since Mrs Scott came?"The maid hesitated, and cast down her eyes."I know he was the second time I went," continued Madame vindictively. "I found out that for myself, and I suppose he bribed you to hold your tongue about the first time? Now, whatever he gave you, I'll give you double to tell me the truth.""Well, then, he just was," said the maid. "I said it was a shame to cook, and you going away quite innocent like, and then him coming after the other lady. But he called us up into the hall before he went and gave us a pound each to say nothing about it. And because I thought it might make mischief we didn't.""Oh! I daresay!" said Madame bitterly, and she drew out her purse. "There's my bribe for the truth," and she put four pounds into the girl's hand. "Give two of them to the cook, and tell her to have dinner ready at six, as we are going to the theatre afterwards. And now I am going out."And she did go out; but she had returned before Mr Ford and Eva did. She received them quietly; but Mr Ford noticed that she still had the same expression of strong though suppressed anger on her striking features. But she said very little, and moved restlessly about as though unable for a moment to be still."Do I look any younger?" said Mr Ford, trying to make the best of things. "The air on the Heath carried me back to the days of paste-eggs, brambles, and all sorts of juvenile things. Oh, those were jolly times!""You are looking back a long way," said Madame, with a bitter ring in her voice."Alas, so I am! To the days of innocence, Madame.""I never could believe you innocent," retorted Madame.Mr Ford shrugged his broad shoulders."We live and learn," he said. "But here comes Jeanette to announce dinner; I hope you have given us a good one, Madame; one of the privileges of middle-age, you know, to which you so unfeelingly allude."And he laughed, and offered his arm to Eva to escort her into the dining-room as he spoke.Madame made no reply to this; she seated herself at the head of the table and helped the soup, and Jeanette, the waiting-maid, poured out the sherry. Then presently Mr Ford turned to Eva."What wine will you take?" he said. "Champagne or sparkling burgundy?""Thanks," answered Eva, "I would rather have some lemon and soda water, which I usually take.""I thought you would have that, as you always take it," said Madame, "so I got the lemons squeezed for you, and sugar in all ready. Open a bottle of soda water, Jeanette, and hand me that jug off the sideboard.""It was very kind of you," replied Eva, as Jeanette handed Madame the glass jug she indicated."I will pour out the lemon juice for you," said Madame, raising the jug in her hand and pouring some of its contents into Eva's glass.As she said this, something in her voice attracted Mr Ford's attention. Then he saw that she was deadly pale, and that her hand shook violently as she raised the jug. He kept his eyes fixed upon her, and the expression of her face became so terrible at this moment that a sudden suspicion darted into his heart as she greedily and eagerly watched the maid pour the soda water into the glass where she had placed the lemon juice.Eva put out her hand to raise the glass to her lips, but the same moment Mr Ford sprang up from his chair."No," he said, putting his hand over the glass, "you must not drink this.""What do you mean?" asked Madame, who was ghastly pale."I don't like such mixtures," answered Mr Ford, who was now also much excited. "You made it, and you must drink some of it yourself before I allow Eva to touch it.""Eva! How dare you call her Eva before me!" almost screamed Madame de Cimbri, starting to her feet. "What do you think I've done with it?""Well, drink it yourself then; I insist upon you drinking it," said Mr Ford, suddenly recovering his ordinary coolness of manner, and carrying Eva's glass containing the lemon juice and soda water to where Madame was standing. "A little lemon juice will do you no harm, and if there is nothing else in it you need not be afraid."He held the glass towards her, and Madame stood glaring at him with her flashing eyes. Then suddenly she struck it out of his hand, and the glass fell broken in a dozen pieces on the floor, and its contents were spilt on the carpet."I thought so," said Mr Ford scornfully. "So it was poisoned. Eva, this is no place for you."Eva had risen to her feet during this scene, and stood pale and trembling, while, in language that cannot be repeated here, Madame began to pour forth the vilest imprecations."Leave the room; leave her to me," continued Mr Ford, addressing Eva; "and get ready at once to leave this house. Do not be afraid; I brought you here, and I will take you safely away. How soon can you be ready?""In a few minutes," answered Eva in a frightened voice."That is right; I will come for you. And now, Madame, answer to me for what you have done?"Eva ran out of the room, followed by Jeanette, as he spoke, and the two who were left stood facing each other, and there was rage and hate on the woman's part and defiance on the man's.CHAPTER VIIA DIAMOND RING.ABOUT a quarter of an hour elapsed, and Eva stood trembling the while upstairs, and then Mr Ford, accompanied by Jeanette, rapped at her door."Are you ready?" he said, when Eva opened it. "I luckily kept the brougham, and Jeanette will help you to pack your things and carry them downstairs. Jeanette, go in and help Mrs Scott, and I will wait outside."The little maid then entered, and she was also trembling."Oh! Mrs Scott, I'm sure I've got such a fright," she said."We had better not talk of it," answered Eva. "Will you help me with these straps?"Her luggage was soon ready, and then Mr Ford offered her his arm, and then led her downstairs."Do not be afraid," he said in a low tone, for he felt Eva's hand shaking on his arm. "I have locked her safely in there," and he pointed to the dining-room; "and I have the key in my pocket, and will only give it to the servants as we are leaving."As they passed the dining-room door they heard loud and passionate sobs from within."Fool," said Mr Ford, contemptuously; but his face was very pale, and he was agitated in spite of his efforts to seem calm.Then he gave some directions to the servants, for the cook had now also appeared on the scene, and assisted in carrying Eva's luggage to the brougham waiting outside the outer gate.But it was all over in a few minutes, and the outer gate of Norham Villa closed behind Eva for ever."Thank Heaven that you are safe!" ex-claimed Mr Ford, with some emotion, as the brougham started, and he seated himself by Eva's side. "I should never have taken you there.""Was it poison?" asked Eva, in a low voice."She is a madwoman," answered Mr Ford, briefly. "But do not let us talk or think of her. The first thing to be considered is, where you must go to-night; it is too late to think of Brighton.""I can go to a hotel.""It is that man Temple I am thinking of. But still we must risk it. Where would you like best to go?"Finally they went to a well-known West-End hotel, and there Mr Ford engaged a private sitting-room and bedroom for "Mrs Scott," He also ordered dinner, and insisted on Eva taking some."You look fagged to death," he said, "and I must see after you.""Soon after dinner, however, he left her, promising to send her news the first thing in the morning if he had learnt anything regarding Mr Temple.Eva spent a restless night; how could it well be otherwise? But before breakfast next morning she received a telegram from Mr Ford. It was very brief, but to the point:—"Good news! T. started last night on his foreign tour, followed by the man I told you of. Will be with you about twelve o'clock. FORD"Eva breathed a sigh of relief as she read these words, and she also thought gratefully that, but for Mr Ford, George Temple would ere now probably have discovered her, and forced his hateful presence on her against her will. And this feeling made her receive Mr Ford more kindly than usual when he arrived."I thank you very much," she said, holding out her hand as he entered the room. "So he is gone?"And once more she gave a relieved sigh.""Yes, he is gone," answered Mr Ford, smiling; "and my private inquiry man started in the same boat with him, and will let me know his movements from time to time. I had a note from the inquiry man last night; but it was too late to send it on to you, so I telegraphed this morning.""I am very, very grateful to you," said Eva, and her lips trembled as she spoke.Mr Ford bent down and kissed her hand."I am but too happy to have been able to serve you," he said. "And now you can have a little breathing time, for we shall always know where Temple is, and can trim our sails accordingly. You wish to go to Brighton first, you said?""Yes; I think the sea air will do me good, for I do not feel very strong.""No wonder, after what you have gone through. And now, shall I go down to Brighton and take a furnished house for you, which will spare you trouble, or would you rather take one yourself?""Oh, I can't give you any more trouble, Mr Ford. I think I will go down to-day and look out for a house. I can go to an hotel first."Mr Ford looked at her contemplatively and smilingly."What a pity you are so handsome," he said. "Wherever you go people will remark on you."Eva smiled also."I hope not," she said; "and, Mr Ford—I think I had better keep the name of Mrs Scott now?""And make all the men envy the unseen Mr Scott, eh? Yes, I think you are right; Mrs Scott is a good travelling name, and not likely to be remarked on. Well, I hope Mrs Scott will sometimes welcome me to her house at Brighton.""Oh, yes.""Thanks, very much. Then shall I go with you to Brighton to-day to help you in your search for a house?""It is very good of you, but I think I can manage quite well. You see, I am accustomed to go about by myself."They settled after this that Eva was to go alone to Brighton, but she promised to telegraph to Mr Ford should she require any assistance or help."And I will keep you constantly informed as to Temple's movements," said Mr Ford. "What a blessing it would be if be should betake himself off to Africa again; but I fear it is unlikely, for he seemed to me a very determined man."Eva thought of these words many times on her journey to Brighton. "A very determined man," and he was her husband! They made her select the quietest and most out-of-the-way furnished house she could find; they made her shrink as much as possible from public notice, and walk out as thickly veiled as she could be. The lady of whom she engaged the house left two servants in it, and these Eva kept on. She called herself Mrs Scott, and said her husband was abroad, and as she paid a quarter's rent in advance, and gave her banker as her reference, she was regarded as a very desirable tenant.Thus she found herself once more in a settled home; but the loneliness of her life was very great. She knew no one, and went nowhere, and her one visitor was Mr Ford, who somehow took good care to remind her that, at least, she was in a better position than undergoing punishment for bigamy!He used to go down to Brighton on Saturday evenings very often, and stay over the Sundays at a hotel, and spent many hours at Eva's house when he did so. And gradually Eva got to dislike these visits more and more. There was something in his manner which so constantly reminded her of her obligations to him, and that her liberty was actually in his power. Only through him could she hear of George Temple's continued absence from England; only through him keep her residence a secret. She depended on him, as it were, and Mr Ford occasionally made her feel this.One evening they had almost a quarrel about a valuable diamond ring which Mr Ford had brought from town, and which he begged Eva to accept.He had often noticed she always wore a wedding - ring with a diamond keeper, and he had often wondered also if this wedding-ring had been placed on her slender finger by Lord Kilmore, or by her first husband, George Temple.Yet somehow he had never asked her this question. Indeed he was conscious that Eva treated him with a species of reserve which he regarded as supremely ridiculous in her position, but which he, nevertheless, was unable quite to break through.But in the chill days of the New Year—for time was creeping, if slowly, still surely on—he arrived one Saturday evening at Eva's house, armed with so beautiful a diamond ring that he felt inwardly convinced the woman did not live who would absolutely refuse it. Eva did not expect him, and she was lying on a couch by the fire, dressed in a white woollen tea-gown trimmed with otter, when he was announced. The room was softly lit, and as she rose to receive him Mr Ford thought he had never seen her look more lovely."I have come to wish you a happy New Year," he said, as he shook hands with her.Eva slightly shook her head."Oh! yes, you must have a happy one," he continued, in answer to this mute gesture; "and I have brought something for this fair hand."He raised her left hand as he spoke, the hand on which her Clair had placed the wedding - ring, and which had never left it night nor day."I wish it were in my power—you know that, I am sure—to place a ring like this on your hand," and he touched the wedding-ring. "But you know it is not. I wrecked my life to a certain extent in my young days, as you have done, by making a loveless marriage. But it is in my power to offer you a slight token of my—deep regard—and I hope you will accept this ring?"But Eva drew back; the glittering gaud was valueless in her eyes."No, Mr Ford, I cannot take it," she said."Surely as a New Year's gift? Nay, you won't be so cruel as to refuse what I took so much care and pleasure in selecting?""You are very good, and it is very beautiful," answered Eva, with embarrassment; "but I never take gifts.""Never?" smiled the banker, with a marked emphasis on the word."No, never now," said Eva, and a flush stole over her cream-like skin."But—do not be angry—is not this very foolish?""I have no need, no use for jewels.""Yet you wear two rings?"Eva did not speak."Make an exception in my case," pleaded Mr Ford. "Come, I have some claims, have I not, on your friendship?""I am greatly indebted to you; but please do not ask me to accept anything, for really I cannot.""But why?""You—you know the painful circumstances of my life—""Yes; but these circumstances have thrown us into an intimacy, a friendship which certainly entitles me to give you a New Year's gift. Do not be so coy, my dear girl, it is very foolish.""It may be so; but you will pardon me when I repeat I cannot accept it.""Oh, very well; just as you like. I'll put my ring back into my pocket then, and I won't tell you my news from abroad."He suited his action to his word. He put the ring back into its case and then into his coat pocket, and he rose as though about to go. He felt, indeed, exceedingly annoyed, and began to wonder if this woman meant to be persistently cold to him."What is your news?" asked Eva."Oh, yes; you want to make use of me, yet you won't accept a small courtesy from my hands," replied the banker, with a little shrug."It is not that; it is from a feeling of—""Of what, Eva?""Oh! don't you understand, Mr Ford, that I am not like other women," replied Eva in agitation. "A sword is always hanging over my head, and I cannot tell when it may fall.""I have done my best to avert such a catastrophe, have I not?""Yes, indeed you have, and I am grateful, most grateful, but—"Well, for the present I will be content with that, but not always, Eva," and again he sat down by her side. "I am not made of stone, you know, and some day you must not be so cruel to me as you are now."CHAPTER VIIIBABBLING WORDS.FAR away at Kilmore Hall the chill New Year was passing under circumstances of depression, and there were sad hearts under that stately roof.To Lady Kilmore this time naturally recalled more vividly her great and bitter loss. Last year her husband was with her, and her son, in the flush of his young manhood, made the sunshine of their home.Now her husband had passed away from her, and there was a constant cloud on the young lord's brow. From the first, after his return, Lady Kilmore had noticed this, yet she said nothing, even to Annette Gower, of her son's gloomy face; and Annette Gower also did not speak of her cousin's evident depression."Both these women, however, knew, or at least guessed, by whom it was caused. The beautiful girl who had crossed Kilmore's path so strangely had, by some stroke of fate, been separated from him, for no daily letter now came for him in the same handwriting as they did during the time of his illness, when Annette had carried them to his sick-bed with a sinking heart.This unfortunate affair was ended, both his mother and cousin secretly decided; but how it had ended they could not tell. Kilmore remained at home, but was restless and unsettled. At last his mother, remembering the fond love and confidence that had formerly existed between them, did venture to approach the subject of her son's unhappiness.He was sitting by her one evening in the gloaming, silent and absorbed as usual, when Lady Kilmore suddenly put her thin white hand on his."Clair," she said in her gentle voice, for she still found her strength unequal to call him by his father's name, "will you tell your mother something, my dear?"He moved uneasily on being thus addressed, but a moment later said,—"What do you wish to know, mother?""I wish to know why you seem so depressed, Clair? You are not like yourself—and—ever since you came home after the last time you were away, you seem to have no pleasure in your life. What has happened to you, my dear; surely you can trust your mother?"He turned away his head, and Lady Kilmore felt his hand tremble beneath hers."Is there anything I can do?" continued Lady Kilmore. "I will do anything to try to make you happy, Clair.""There is nothing you can do, mother," answered Kilmore in a low, agitated tone."But, my dear, it is so painful to me to see you as you are.""Mother," began Kilmore, and he rose as he spoke and leaned against the mantelpiece so that his face was hidden from her; "a great blow has come to me—a great grief. But it does no good to speak of it—nothing can do any good; and—I must bear it as I can."He said no more at the time, and left the room; but during the evening, when they were once more alone, he went up to his mother and kissed her brow."Forgive me," he said, "if I was abrupt to you this afternoon, but don't speak of what we spoke of any more. I can't bear it, mother, and it does no good."So after this Kilmore was asked no questions. He lived a very quiet life, refusing to go into society; but he rode out a good deal, and by Lady Kilmore's wish Annette Gower sometimes accompanied him.One day they met Mr Dighton, the farmer, and Richard Dighton; and Annette, timidly glancing at her cousin's face, saw a dark red flush mount to his very brow.The farmer took off his broad-brimmed hat to the young couple, and evidently expected that his landlord would stop and speak to him.But Lord Kilmore merely touched his hat and rode on."What a sullen-looking young man that young Dighton is," said Annette, more for something to say than anything else."He is a sullen brute," answered Kilmore, and then he rode on in silence, and Annette guessed the subject of his thoughts.It was a fine winter afternoon, and the red berries in the hedgerows, the bare branches of the trees and the brown of the furrows were all lit up by the setting sun, shining above a great bank of clouds behind which it was about to dip. But Kilmore looked neither on sky nor field. At that moment before him rose the beautiful face of the woman he had so passionately loved, and his inner sense seemed to see her as he had seen her in these very lanes. And that she—she who had seemed so fond—should have left the letter unanswered in which Kilmore had poured forth the very inmost emotions of his heart! He could not understand it, yet it must be true, when she knew that a word from her would recall him to her side.He never for a moment suspected that the banker, Mr Ford, had deceived him. Like all very young men, he regarded a middle-aged man as old, and Eva had said Mr Ford was married, and therefore it never entered Kilmore's mind to suspect him of treachery or deceit. Yet though she had left him, she had written in those last treasured lines of hers that she would not change.Even yet Kilmore clung to this hope. Clung to it, though he knew if they met again only trouble could come; trouble, sorrow and remorse—and yet, and yet—He roused himself from his reverie with a restless sigh, and looked at his cousin, who was riding by his side with her head drooped slightly forward, as if she also were indulging in some painful reflections."It is a fine evening," said Kilmore, with another sigh."Yes," answered Annette, without lifting her head."How do you think my mother is, Annette?" then said Kilmore. "Do you think she is any brighter?""I think she is a little," replied Annette, raising her head, "ever since your return.""And I—" began Kilmore, with a sudden pang of remorse. He was thinking "I have never tried to comfort her; I have been absorbed in my wretchedness, and forgot that I must have been adding to hers."But he did not say all this to Annette Gower. He said very little indeed during the rest of their ride; but, when they reached the Hall, he went straight to his mother's room as he used to do in the happy days of old."Mother, will you give me some tea," he said, and a little flush rose to Lady Kilmore's delicate features, and a sweet maternal light of love stole to her sunken eyes as she heard his simple words."Yes, my dear," she answered, and she rang the bell; and when Annette went into the room, after changing her habit, she found the mother and son seated by a little table, and Lady Kilmore was pouring out tea for her boy.It was the first time she had done so since her husband had left her, and Annette noticed that Kilmore was trying to exert himself to lead his mother to think of other things than her absorbing grief.He presently took up the daily papers and began to read to her, and Lady Kilmore listened and gave some opinion on passing topics. Altogether this evening was more like the old times, and, after dinner, Kilmore sat with his mother and cousin instead of retiring to the smoking-room in gloomy solitude, which it had been his habit to do since his great trouble.But when he did leave them he opened the window and looked out on the dark wintry night, and an intense yearning came over his soul to look once more on Eva's face."Only once, Eva!" he said, half aloud, holding out his arms into the chill air; "but once, my love—but once!"And Eva, to whom he thus passionately appealed, at the same moment also felt an almost uncontrollable longing steal over her again to see her lover.She began walking restlessly up and down the room; she, too, held out her white arms, and in imagination once more saw Clair kneeling at her feet."I will write to him," at last she deter-mined, and she did sit down and write to him, calling him once more to her side."I am so lonely, so miserable, Clair," she wrote, "the whole world is desolate to me—"Thus far she had written, and then a stinging memory smote her heart. She remembered Clair's words of scorn when he asked her, in their last interview, if she knew what she had done? She had brought disgrace and shame to him, he had said; and Eva's face flushed as she recalled his words."No!" she cried, starting to her feet and tearing up the words she had just penned. "I cannot! I cannot! He has never sought me, and how can I call him back after what he said and what I wrote? I said I would trouble him no more unless I was in some desperate need. Perhaps that need will come," she added, with gloomy pathos; "and then I will see Clair before I die!"The upshot of Kilmore's eager desire to look once more on Eva's face was a brief visit to town on the following day, for the purpose of trying again to see Mr Ford, and endeavouring to learn if she had made any inquiries about himself, or expressed any wish to see him.The banker received the young lord in the most urbane manner."Ah! Lord Kilmore," he said, rising to receive him, after Kilmore had previously sent up his card. "We are having chilly weather, but seasonable—eh?""Yes, indeed," answered Kilmore, and then he paused, embarrassed how to ask the questions he had expressly come to put."Have you been long in town?" inquired Mr Ford politely."No, I only came up this morning. The truth is, Mr Ford, I came up to see you to ask if you have any news to tell me of Miss Eva Moore?"The banker put up his well-shaped hands with a little gesture."You have come to the worst person in the world, then, to make inquiries about Miss Moore. She left England immediately after you were last here, intending to travel from place to place, and I have not heard a word from her since. She must, however, have visited Homburg, Cologne, Antwerp, Havre—in fact, no end of places. I know this, of course, from her cashing the letters of credit I gave her on the bank.""And where was she last?" asked Kilmore eagerly."At Paris," answered Mr Ford readily; "but that was at Christmas time, and she probably will not be there now, as when she left England she did not mean to make a long stay anywhere.""And you can give me no more definite information than this?""Indeed I cannot; and I feel I am hardly justified in telling you as much as I have done. Miss Moore's instructions were positive, you know; no one had to know her address.""And do you know anything of—" and Kilmore paused and hesitated."Do you mean Mr Temple, her husband? No, I know nothing of him, Lord Kilmore."And this was all the information Kilmore got from the banker—simply nothing. Only the galling fact repeated that she did not wish him to know her address; that she evidently did not care to see him again.He went back, therefore, to Kilmore in worse spirits than when he had started. But, to do him justice, he tried to hide this from the fond eyes awaiting him there. He was kind and considerate to his mother, and he asked Annette to sing to him during the evening; but, though he applauded it, he did not really listen to her song.Everything, in fact, seemed weary and dreary to him. A shadow had fallen athwart his life, and its gloom clouded his whole existence.And about a week after his return to Kilmore an accident happened which also greatly disturbed him.One frosty afternoon, he and his cousin Annette were riding on one of the roadways near the Hall, when Annette's horse suddenly slipped and fell, and Annette was thrown violently over the horse's head on to the hard and flint-like road.In a moment Kilmore had dismounted and lifted his cousin in his arms. But Annette, who had fallen on her forehead and injured her face, was unconscious from the shock. Kilmore was naturally greatly alarmed. He sent the groom to the Hall at once for assistance, and he unfastened Annette's collar, and unloosed her habit to give her more air.As he was unbuttoning the habit at her throat, his hand became entangled in a ribbon which she wore round it. He pulled the ribbon aside, and, in doing so, a locket which was attached to it was exposed to his view. It was a large locket, and Kilmore raised it so that it might not press on Annette's throat. It had a gold back and a glass in front, and as Kilmore held it for a moment in his hand he saw it contained his own portrait.His face flushed, and an uneasy sensation as of pain shot through his heart. He was fond of Annette, regarding her as the only sister he had ever known.She had lived so much at the Hall that she had always seemed to him to be one of the family. But as he held the locket in his hand another idea not unnaturally passed through his mind.Could Annette care for him more than he had cared for her? In his absorbing love for Eva he had never remembered that this poor girl had been thrown constantly with him; that she had nursed him in his illness, and that his mother had said she was greatly upset when she heard of his accident on the rocks at Eastcliff. All these thoughts, one after the other, rushed through Kilmore's brain whilst he knelt on the roadway holding his cousin's head on his arm.Annette was a pretty girl, though no beauty. She had small, piquant features, and fine, dark, intelligent eyes, and Kilmore felt half guilty as he looked on her face, thinking that unconsciously he might have given her much pain."Poor little girl!" he thought.He was very sorry if it were so; he was not vain, and his very fondness for Annette made him grieve to think that she liked him too well. He felt embarrassed, also, to know what to do with the locket.Annette would not like him to know, he was sure, that she wore his portrait hidden on her breast. He therefore gently replaced it in her habit, and bent anxiously over her, for she was still apparently unconscious."Annette," he said; "Annette;" and the second time he spoke her name she seemed to hear his voice through her dulled senses. She sighed, and then seemed to try to raise her hand to her forehead, which was bruised and injured."Does your head ache, dear?" said Kilmore, taking her hand in his.She opened her eyes as he asked this question, and when she saw him bending over her a faint flush rose to her face."Yes," she answered faintly."You've had a bad fall, but you'll soon be all right, dear," said Kilmore kindly. "Poor Rose has cut her knees too," he added, looking at the horse Annette had been riding, and which the groom had pulled up before he had ridden to the Hall for assistance. "But never mind, Annette, it will be all right when you get home again, and I told Jones to send a carriage at once."Annette did not speak; she closed her eyes again, and lay still with her head on her cousin's arm.Poor Annette! She knew Kilmore did not love her; knew that he loved, or had loved, another woman, and yet to be near him thus awoke a strange, half-painful joy in her heart. He kept her hand in his, and with a half-caressing touch pushed her dark hair from her injured brow. Perhaps the sorrow in his own heart made him feel more tender to her, for his grey eyes were fixed on her pale face with a new softness in their expression, as though a different feeling towards her were stirring in his heart.But presently the sound of wheels made him look round, and, to his great relief, he saw one of the Hall carriages approaching them; and, bending anxiously from the window, to his extreme astonishment, he perceived his widowed mother.It was the first time Lady Kilmore had crossed the threshold since her husband's death; but on hearing that an accident had happened to Annette Gower, to the great surprise of all around her, she at once said she would go in the carriage that Kilmore had sent for. And when she stepped out of it in her deep widow's weeds and hurriedly approached her son and niece, Kilmore held out his hand to her."Don't be alarmed, mother," he said, "Annette's had rather a bad fall; but she'll be all right again presently—and thank you for coming.""Annette, my dear Annette," said Lady Kilmore, who was trembling in every limb, kneeling down on the roadway and taking Annette's hand in hers. "How is this? How did it happen?"Annette opened her eyes again on being thus addressed, and a faint smile flickered over her lips."Aunt Jeanie," she half whispered."The truth is, mother, it is far too slippery for riding, and I warned Annette; but she was an obstinate little girl, and so has got a tumble," said Kilmore, trying to speak lightly, but in reality feeling an odd sensation of emotion at the sight of his widowed mother kneeling on the roadway, with Annette's hands clasped fast in hers."Are you in pain, my darling?" asked Lady Kilmore, bending more closely over Annette."My head aches very badly," she answered.One of Lady Kilmore's women had accompanied her, and had brought brandy and sal-volatile, and Lady Kilmore now wetted Annette's lips, and bathed her injured brow with water, and then Kilmore proposed to carry her to the carriage."She's a light little thing; I can easily lift her," he said, and as he spoke he raised her in his arms and carried her almost as he would have done a child."Lean your head on my shoulder, dear," he said; but a moan of pain broke from Annette's lips with the movement, even though he held her so gently.Kilmore turned round and whispered a few words in his mother's ear."Send for a doctor at once, mother;" and when he glanced again at Annette he saw she had fainted.She had, in fact, received a great shock, and both Lady Kilmore and Kilmore were very uneasy about her. She was a delicate little girl, and though she had broken no bones, the injury to her forehead was very severe. Her accident, however, roused Lady Kilmore from her deep grief more than Kilmore believed it was possible that anything could have done. Lady Kilmore had always been very fond of Annette, and had planned and hoped from her earliest girlhood that she would one day become her daughter in reality as well as in affection.Now she took her place by Annette's bedside, and nursed her with untiring love. But two days after the accident fever set in, and at nights Annette became delirious, and Lady Kilmore sat and listened to her rambling words with a sinking heart.One night she grew very much excited, and began talking of her cousin; calling him by his old name "Clair" in tones of the tenderest affection. Lady Kilmore sent the nurse away on some excuse, and then went to the smoking-room where she knew her son was sitting, who rose hastily as she entered."Annette is not worse, surely, mother?' he asked anxiously."She is very ill, and she is calling for you, Clair," answered his mother. "Come with me; perhaps it will soothe her to see you."So Kilmore went with his mother to Annette's bedside; but the poor fevered girl did not know him, but kept babbling on with her tender, foolish words."He does not love me," she repeated mournfully. "I love him; but he must never know—must never know! Poor Clair! His heart is broken!—like mine!"Kilmore listened to these words, and then turned away his head."Mother, I should not be here," he said, and then left the room; and as he passed into the corridor outside his eyes were dim with unshed tears.CHAPTER IXUNMASKED.ANNETTE was ill for many days after this, but Lady Kilmore did not again ask her son to go to her bedside. This experiment, she saw, had only given him fresh pain. Nor did she make any objections, when Annette had been declared out of all danger, to the proposal that Kilmore made that for a while he should go abroad."I want a change, mother," he said one day abruptly; "do you think you can spare me?"Before Lady Kilmore answered she looked anxiously in her son's face, and what she read there determined her reply."I think you do want a change, my dear," she said. "Yes, I can spare you, now that dear Annette is going on so well.""Then that is settled," answered Kilmore, with a faint smile, and on the following day he left the Hall, and on the day succeeding, England. He went to seek Eva; to try to look once more on the face of the woman he loved.And from city to city the young lord wandered in constant hope. Sometimes he fancied he caught a glimpse of a form like hers; sometimes a face, but it all ended in disappointment. The woman he was searching for was living her quiet life at home; so Kilmore, with his aching dissatisfied heart, looked for her abroad in vain.In the meantime Mr Ford had somehow learned with undisguised pleasure that Lord Kilmore had quitted England. His plans to part him from Eva had run very smoothly hitherto, and the only obstacle now in his path seemed Eva's persistent coldness to himself. The two men who were seeking her—Kilmore and George Temple, her husband—were both away, and did not know each other by sight, even if they should chance to meet.Therefore, Mr Ford felt his path clear, and he knew that Eva was in his power, and he was not a man to hesitate to abuse her enforced trust.So the early spring months passed away, and March, stormy and fitful, dawned, and still Eva lived in the retired house that she had chosen, and still Mr Ford went there, and in half - veiled language tried to make Eva understand that he loved her.He never alluded to Madame de Cimbri now, nor Norham Villa, after the strange scene which had terminated Eva's residence there; and Eva also never spoke of it. It was, in truth, a most unpleasant subject to him; for Mr Ford loved ease and hated worry, and sometimes told himself that Eva was not worth all the trouble he had taken about her.But in spite of this a strong feeling towards her had taken possession of the man's heart. At first he had begun the pursuit almost in jest. The girl was handsome, and Mr Ford was accustomed to easy conquests. He was good - looking and rich, and lavish in his gifts and pleasant words, and many women want no more. He thought Eva was like the rest, and, perhaps, had cause not to think very highly of her. But he completely mistook her character. Her very faults were purer than his easy virtues.At last, one day, he flung off the mask, and stood before her as he really was. It was a mild spring night, and the air was blowing fresh and balmy from the sea. It was Sunday, and they could hear the church bells ringing for evening service as they were together in Eva's little drawing-room, the banker leaning against the mantelpiece looking down admiringly at the fair woman, in her white dress, who was sitting on a couch near him, and who was beginning to find his fixed gaze and the long silence very oppressive."The church bells sound very pretty at a distance," said Eva at length, not knowing very well what to say.Yes," answered Mr Ford absently.Then a moment later he quickly raised his head and changed his position."Eva," he said abruptly, "how long is this to go on?""What do you mean?" asked Eva, in some surprise."Do you think I am made of stone?" asked Mr Ford, with some genuine passion in his voice. "Do you think I can come here time after time and see you—the woman I love—you must listen! You know it is so, and I can bear it no longer!""I am very sorry to hear you speak thus, Mr Ford," said Eva, coldly, rising from her seat."You know very well I love you," went on Mr Ford, approaching her and endeavouring to take her hand. "You must know it! From the time I saw you down at Westwold I have thought of no one else. Give me something in return, Eva—a little love—for all I have given to you?""Mr Ford, this is ungenerous!"To love you? Why is it ungenerous? I have done all I could for you; I have sheltered you from the terrible consequences of that foolish act of yours; I have been your best friend, and now you call me ungenerous because I tell you the true feelings of my heart.""You have been kind to me; but to speak thus is useless—and is painful to us both.""You mean you do not love me—yet?""I mean I never can love you, Mr Ford," said Eva firmly. "To speak of such a thing is an insult to me—to me who—"Who what?""Who am bound by a tie which may be illegal, but which is binding, and always will be binding, to every feeling of my heart! My marriage to Lord Clair was perhaps a sin, but it is not less a marriage in my sight!""Lord Clair—Lord Kilmore rather—does not appear to find it binding at all events," sneered Mr Ford.Eva's head fell, and a half-sigh escaped her lips."I heard somehow, I am sure I do not know who told me," continued the banker, "that the young lord is abroad, and going to be married soon—to his cousin, I believe.""To his cousin?" echoed Eva, with a blanched face and a sinking heart."So I was told. Is there a Miss Gower related to him?""Yes," faltered Eva,"That's the girl then; she lives with his mother, I believe; and he is wise, Eva. His marriage with you was, as you well know, bigamous; and the sooner he forgets all about it the better for you and him."Eva made no reply; she sat down with a sort of moan, and covered her face with her hand."Come, my dear girl," went on Mr Ford, crossing the room, and laying his hand on her shoulder, though Eva shrank back from his touch, "do not be foolish. The little episode of Lord Kilmore is done and gone, and it rests with me how the more serious affair of the parson will end. If you are wise—""Don't, don't!" cried Eva, springing to her feet and raising her face with shining, indignant eyes. "Mr Ford, whatever happens, I can be nothing to you! I am not fallen so low—""Indeed, young lady!""You know what I mean. Lord Clair may forget; I cannot.""Then you actually still retain some sort of feeling for this young lordling who has treated you so shabbily?""And how did I treat him?" retorted Eva, passionately. "He—who trusted me? If he has forsaken me, I deserved it; I was unworthy of his love!""Really!" and Mr Ford shrugged his broad shoulders."I think you do not understand," continued Eva, with a sort of dignity; "but do not let us speak of it. Let this conversation be forgotten.""I cannot forget it," replied Mr Ford impatiently. "You make a convenience of me, that is the truth, and I am about tired of it.""All I ask is for you to leave me alone.""No; you ask me to keep my eye on Temple's movements; you ask me, in fact, to do everything for you, and when I presume to remind you that I am mortal, that I have a heart to be trifled with, you turn upon me, and tell me I have not to talk to you of love.""I cannot listen to such folly.""Eva, it is not folly! I repeat, I love you—""Oh! hush, hush, Mr Ford," said Eva, putting out her hand deprecatingly. "Surely, at your age—""I am not old," interrupted the banker angrily."Too old, at least, to insult a defenceless woman; but I ask you to leave me. Will you go, Mr Ford?"Something very like an oath escaped Mr Ford's lips; but he looked round for his hat, and then stood for a moment scowling at Eva."Very well, Mrs Temple," he said bitterly, "I will go;" and with these words he turned and left the room, and Eva was alone.With a moan she sank down on the couch after he had left her, and rocked herself to and fro in utter misery."Could it be true?" she was asking herself; "true that Clair had forgotten her so soon?" She remembered all about Annette Gower at this moment; the dark-eyed girl who had sat and watched them when they had first danced together in the Park. "He has never sought me," Eva moaned; "all these long months I have been alone—and now, and now—" and once more she moaned and wrung her hands in her great and bitter pain.For a knowledge had come to her—a knowledge terrible, and yet, until this moment, half-sweet—that a child was to be born to her, Clair's child; and somehow she hoped the little baby hands would draw them closer."He will forgive me when he knows," how often she had whispered to herself in the still nights, how often told herself in the dreary days.This tender tie would break down the barriers between them; he would forget his wrongs, and she her pride. A little child—Clair's child—and he would love it for her wake.But if these fond and foolish dreams must end? Eva felt the world was then ended for her, and that she must lay herself down and die. But it might not be true. The hateful man who had just gone had a motive, a vile motive, it seemed, to part her utterly from Clair."Fancy speaking such words to me," muttered Eva half-aloud, raising her bent head with an indignant gesture; "to me, who love my Clair—my young, my handsome Clair!"Then she began walking wearily up and down the room, trying to make up her mind. What should she do? She had a claim on Clair now, she told herself; a strong, natural claim, and should she stand calmly by and allow another to take her place? Annette Gower could be nothing really to his heart, she felt almost sure. He had loved her, and love does not pass away like the dew on the grass. He must remember her, even if he had been persuaded to ask Annette Gower to be his wife. Over and over again she told herself this, and at last she made up her mind to write.She almost forgot, in her excitement, the suspended sword that hung over her head. Only to see Clair again was all she thought of; only to whisper on his breast the secret that now bound their lives.Mr Ford had said he was abroad, and she knew not where to address her letter; but if she sent it to Kilmore Hall it was almost sure to be forwarded, she reflected. At all events, she would risk it; and at last, with trembling hands, she sat down to write to Kilmore—to call him once more to her side."Clair, dear Clair," she wrote, with shaking fingers, "a hundred times I have thought of writing to you, but until now I have not found courage. Now I must, for someone repeated to me to-day a report that you are about to marry your cousin, Miss Gower. Oh, Clair, you must not do this! Our marriage might be illegal, but it was binding at least to my heart and yours; and if I live there will be a new tie ere long between us. Come to me when you get this. Oh, come quickly, Clair, for I am weary with waiting, and I want your tenderness and care to support me now. I have been here all the winter—for many months—and am living in great seclusion, and now I shall count the days until I hope to see you—for you will come, Clair. Oh, yes, I know you will, and you must forgive your own EVA."She wrote this letter, and then went out and posted it with her own hands. She passed the open door of a church as she went back, and something prompted her to go in and kneel down in a pew near the door and cover her face with her hands as the clergyman read the prayers."If my mother had only lived," she was thinking; "if I had known a mother's love—"And then a sudden flush rose to her face, and her dark eyes filled with tears. She seemed to foresee in the dim distance the love that she had missed.CHAPTER XMR FORD'S REVENGE.MR FORD was a vain man; vain of his good looks and of his many conquests, and Eva had wounded him on his tenderest point. She had called him old, reproached him for talking of love at his age, and Mr Ford left her house more angry than he had ever been before in all his life.He was pale with rage as he walked back to his hotel, paid his bill, and started in the first train to return to town."She shall pay for this," he muttered more than once hoarsely beneath his heavy brown moustache, as he sat gloomily in the train. All his thoughts lately, in business and out, had been given to Eva, and she had rebuffed him, scorned him, and a feeling very like hatred towards her was now swelling in his heart."She shall not have her young lord back again, at least," he reflected savagely; "if I'm not good enough for her, I'll teach her a lesson she's not likely to forget."And in this angry mood he returned to his home; returned to the spacious, handsome town residence, where dwelt his wife, the unloved wife whom he had married in his early days for wealth.He opened the door of his house with his latch-key, and crossed the hall without meeting anyone. It was Sunday night, and most of the servants were out, and he was not expected. He had gone down to Brighton full of excitement and love, and he had come back savagely disappointed, and ready for any evil thing; and as he turned the handle of the dining-room, and was about to enter the room, this was the sight that met his angry gaze:—On an easy-chair by the fire, a stout, dark, heavily-built, middle-aged woman lay back asleep. Her head was lying back, her lips were apart, and her unlovely features fully displayed. This was his wife! The handsome banker stood and looked at her, and scowled as he did so. A vision of the woman he had left—the woman who had scorned him—rose in his mind at this moment, and added not a little to his disgust. He stood mentally contemplating the two, and his heart was full of bitterness and rage, and he inwardly cursed the poor woman he was about to disturb from her placid slumbers.His heavy step, as he walked into the room, awoke her, and she started to her feet."Why, James," she said in an astonished tone, as she rubbed her eyes, "I thought you were at Brighton?""So I was," he answered roughly enough; "but I've come back, you see.""Yes, so I see," said Mrs Ford.She was unused to him speaking to her in such a tone, for, to do him justice, as a rule, he was civil to her. But to-night he wanted a scapegoat for his wrath, and so he vented his ill-humour on his wife."It's a nice house to come back to, I must say," he went on. "You asleep, and the whole house dull and stupid as ditch-water!""I did not expect you. You generally stay over the Sundays when you go down to Brighton; so I suppose you find it attractive," retorted Mrs Ford."And what if I do?" he thundered. "More attractive than I find home, at any-rate," and with these words he turned and left the room, leaving his wife justly indignant.He went up to his own bedroom, feeling half ashamed of his outburst, but unable still to control himself. All the time he was thinking of Eva—of Eva, who had called him old, who had told him that she still loved Lord Kilmore, and on whom he had wasted so much time and thought.The man felt half mad with himself—mad at his own folly, and yet the folly was too strong for him.But he had a purpose before him. In the dressing-room of his bedroom stood a large, strong escritoire, where many valuable deeds and papers were stored. He now went up to this, opened it, and drew out a sealed letter. It was addressed to Miss Eva Moore, and was the very letter that Kilmore had entrusted to his charge, and which he had told the young lord that Eva had declined to answer. As we know, he had never delivered it, and had locked it away unopened. Now he broke the seal, and read the impassioned words of another man to the woman he loved.He grew a little pale as he did so, and his hands trembled. In this letter, intended but for Eva's eyes, Kilmore had poured out all the deepest and strongest feelings of his heart. No one could have written it who did not love deeply; no one could have received it unmoved. Again Mr Ford read it, and the evil look grew darker on his face.Eva slept better that night than she had done for weeks. She slept and dreamed of Clair, and of the early days of their young love. Once more she fancied she was standing on the bridge over the river Ayre, and Clair was leaning on the stone parapet by her side. He was looking in her face, and there was no reproach in his grey eyes.It all seemed so plain to her; she heard the gurgle of the water below, and saw the sunshine falling on the green fields that stretched up to the homestead on Holly Hill. She awoke with a smile. This dream seemed a good omen to her—seemed to bring Clair closer to her heart."He will come," she told herself hopefully, as the dawn crept to her window-panes; "he will take me away somewhere out of England, and I will be with him whatever happens—be with him till I die."This thought buoyed her up all day; she scarcely thought of Mr Ford, or his folly, as she called it, of the night before. She kept reckoning how long it would take for Kilmore to receive her letter and come to her. It would reach Kilmore Hall to-day, and would probably be forwarded abroad at once to him, wherever he might be.He might get it the day after to-morrow, or the day after that. Then he would likely telegraph and come home to her. But tomorrow came and the day after, and there was no foreign telegram or letter for Eva.It was five days after she had sent her letter to Kilmore that the anxiously-watched-for post did bring her something—brought her a letter, which she eagerly tore open, and read fond, loving, passionate words, written in the handwriting she new so well. But Kilmore had evidently not received her letter when he wrote his, for in it he entreated her to meet him again—to pardon him for his brief anger and hard words."Only see me again, my one, my only love," Eva read, with a beating heart, "and surely we can arrange something—surely something can be done. But see me. Eva, my beloved, this estrangement is breaking my heart."These tender and impassioned words, and many such, were signed by Kilmore; and as Eva again and again read them, as she pressed them to her lips, laid them against her cheek, as if they were some living thing, she suddenly perceived that in the envelope which had contained them there was another note - sheet. This she, too, opened and hurriedly read, and as she did so the bloom faded from her face, and a cry escaped her fast-whitening lips.This letter was written apparently by a doctor from Kilmore's sick-bed:—"DEAR MADAM,—I am requested by Lord Kilmore to forward the enclosed letter to you, and to inform you of the unfortunate accident which has occurred to his lordship on the hunting-field. He was thrown from his horse yesterday, and, unhappily, his arm was broken; but I trust, with rest and care, no serious consequences will ensue. He is laid up here, as this is the nearest house to the spot where the accident happened, and he is most anxious to see you. He does not wish his mother, the widowed Lady Kilmore, to be informed of the occurrence, from motives which he tells me you will understand. But he asks me to entreat you to come to him at once. And for his health's sake, may I urge this, as his mind ought to be kept perfectly quiet, and he is restless and anxious about you. Could you come to-morrow when you receive this? If you start from King's Cross terminus by the 4.0 express north, and leave the train at Peterborough, a carriage will be waiting for you at the station, as this house is somewhat cross country, and about two miles from Peterborough. Kindly telegraph if you will come, and thus relieve Lord Kilmore's anxiety.—And I remain, Madam, yours faithfully,F. L. PAGE, M.D."Address:—"Dr PAGE,"Hurstwood House,"Nr. Peterborough."Eva never hesitated after she had read these words. She ran upstairs to her bedroom and hastily wrote a telegram to Dr Page to tell him she would start by the train he mentioned, and then hurried out to despatch it. Then, having sent her telegram away, she returned to her house and began at once to make preparations for her departure. She paid her servants, and left them money to live on during her absence, but she did not give them her address, as she did not wish anyone to know where she was going."One of my relations has had an accident," she told them; "I will write when I get to my destination, and I am going to town at once,"She happened not to have very much money in her possession at the time, as she had intended to ask Mr Ford to cash a cheque for her the last time she had seen him; but the unpleasant scene which had occurred had put this out of her mind, and she had not cared to write to him since. But she had enough for her immediate necessities; enough to pay her way to Peterborough, and to leave something behind."And what matter is it?" she told herself; "Clair will give me what I want until we go away, and then I can write to the bank."Her heart felt lighter than it had done for months when she started on her journey to town. Her Clair's tender words were lying on her breast; the thought of his unchanged love filled her with happiness and hope. What matter was anything else? She was going to him, going to look again upon his face, to clasp his hand in hers, and the weariness of the past months seemed suddenly to be turned to joy.She reached London safely, and drove at once to King's Cross. Here she had some tea, and rested quietly in a lady's waiting-room until it was time for her to start on her journey. She wore a thick gauze veil, but she did not need this, as she was alone in the carriage in which she travelled.Every moment was bringing her nearer to him, she kept thinking, and she pictured to herself how he would look. Not as ill as when he lay wounded in South Kensington, she prayed. All that time came back to her—when he had wrung her promise to marry him from her half - unwilling lips; when she had been by his bed-side, and she was going to it now.On sped the train, but not fast enough for her. At last, as the dusk was beginning to spread its grey shadows over the landscape, they steamed into the station at Peterborough, and Eva alighted; and as she was running forward to see that her luggage was removed from the van, a tall man, with blue spectacles, and a heavy, dark moustache and whiskers, lightly touched her arm."Are you the lady for Hurstwood House?" he asked. "I am Dr Page.""Yes," answered Eva, who was trembl-ing with excitement. "How is Lord Kilmore?""Very anxious to see you," replied Dr Page. "What luggage have you, and I will get a porter to see after it; I have a carriage waiting outside the station?"Upon this Eva described her belongings, and the porter soon found them."If you will come with me, I will take you to the carriage," said Dr Page; "unless you will take some refreshment first?""Oh, no," answered Eva; and a few moments later she found herself in a carriage alone, as Dr Page preferred to ride outside."There were two horses in the carriage, and they started off at a fairly quick pace. But if Hurstwood House were only two miles from Peterborough, they took a surprising time to traverse them. It was, in fact, almost quite dark before the carriage stopped before a grey, square, somewhat gloomy-looking house. Then Dr Page dismounted, and opened the carriage-door and handed Eva out."Here we are," he said; "wait one moment until I open the door with my latch-key."He did this, and Eva followed him up a short flight of stone steps to the front-door of the house."There was no light in the hall, although it was very dark, but Dr Page put out his hand and took Eva's."This way," he said; "the servants have forgotten to light the lamp. But if you will come upstairs you will find a light and a fire there.""Where is Lord Kilmore?" asked Eva in an agitated voice, as she began to ascend the staircase, guided by Dr Page."Upstairs; I will take you to him presently; but come in here first, until I settle with the driver."As he spoke he opened a sitting-room door on the first landing of the staircase, and motioned to Eva to enter. She did this, and found a large room with a good fire burning in the grate, but no other light."Just remain here a moment or two, and then I will return," said Dr Page. "I will not be long."Then he left her, and Eva looked nervously round. But she was under the same roof with Clair; in a few moments she would be with him, she whispered to her sinking heart. The few moments passed—a few more—and then she fancied she heard Dr Page's returning footsteps. She was standing in front of the fire when the handle of the door turned softly, and, an instant later, she saw a man standing on the threshold.It was not Dr Page! The heavy dark moustache and whiskers were not there; the blue spectacles were gone. This man's face was clean shaven and harsh; he was dressed as a clergyman.In an instant, by the flickering firelight, Eva's wide open, horror-stricken eyes took in these details. It was George Temple, her husband, and she knew, as she looked on his face, that she had been betrayed."Eva," he said, now speaking in his ordinary voice, and advancing into the room, "I see you recognise me."She made no answer. Her tongue seemed frozen in her mouth, her lips moved, but no sound came forth."All your artifices have been in vain," continued Mr Temple; "the very man you trusted has betrayed your confidence, and at last you are where you always should have been, under your husband's roof."As he spoke he drew nearer to her, and moved his hand as if to lay it on her shoulder; but with a shudder Eva shrank back."Do not touch me!" she said hoarsely."You came to this house expecting to find your lover, I am well aware," went on Temple bitterly; "instead of which you have been brought here to return to your duty, and if you do this in a proper spirit I am willing to look over, if not to forget, the past. I know your whole history, Eva; the shameful and bigamous marriage you contracted with Lord Kilmore; how you induced the banker—Ford—to deceive me and send me abroad to seek you, while you were in hiding at home. All this is known to me; but because, to a certain extent, I blame myself for having originally left you, left you before you were old enough to steer your course amid the temptations of the world, I am, as I said before, willing to take you back once more as my wife."

"Never!" said Eva in a low, emphatic voice."You have no choice," answered Temple calmly. "You have been brought here, and you shall be kept here; and you shall not be permitted to hold communication with anyone except I permit it. You are my wife, and though I could have you severely punished for your bigamous marriage, and Lord Kilmore also, I will not do this if you conduct yourself properly now you have returned to me.""George Temple," said Eva, looking at him steadily with her white and quivering face, "I have not returned to you, and I shall never return to you! I have been lured here by a shameful trick; but it will avail you nothing! Do your worst; have me arrested for bigamy; but the vilest prison I could be placed in would not be so vile to me as willingly to touch your hand!""These heroics are all very fine; but do you know I could have you sent to penal servitude?""Send me; only never let me see your face.""And what about Lord Kilmore?""You can't touch him; he married me believing me to be an unmarried girl. I deceived him—more my shame—but I will go into court and swear this, so you are powerless to injure him.""You defy me, then; here in this lonely house, miles and miles away from any other habitation?""I defy you, so God help me!""You appeal to God, whose laws you have broken.""I have sinned and I have suffered. I married Lord Clair for the love I bore him, and I will be faithful to him now and always. I would rather be in prison with his memory than in a palace with you! Let me go—I will not stay under your roof!""You will, and shall," answered Temple with some passion, for he was stung by her taunts. "Here you are, and here you shall remain, and perhaps, when next I see you, you may be more amenable to reason."As he said these words he turned and left the room, and Eva sprang to the door to follow him, but he hastily closed it, and as she seized the handle to turn it, she heard him lock the door outside.CHAPTER XITHE HIDDEN KNIFE.As the key turned in the lock, a chill pang of almost absolute despair darted through Eva's heart. She was a prisoner then; she had been trapped, and this was Mr Ford's revenge. The whole situation flashed through her quick and vivid mind at once. She realised that the letter lying on her breast—Clair's letter—must have been one entrusted to Mr Ford to deliver, and that he had suppressed it.But one consolation remained to her—Clair still loved her. His long silence was now accounted for; his tender impassioned words remained unanswered. What must he have thought? Eva repeated to herself. Their separation had been part of Mr Ford's scheme, who, for his own vile motive, had not hesitated to break two hearts.Eva stood by the locked door and thought all this; stood with her hand pressed on her breast, over the spot where Clair's letter lay hid. And now? Would he get her letter, go to her house in Brighton, and find her gone? She had left no address with the servants; the address to Hurstwood House was probably a fictitious one; part of Mr Ford's scheme, and Dr Page had, no doubt, been personated by George Temple."And I never suspected it—never dreamed it," moaned Eva. "I scarcely looked at him, and Clair's letter was the lure. I knew he must have written it; no one else could write it, and only in one way could it have fallen into their hands."After a while she went back to the fire, for she was shivering as if with cold, and leaned on the mantelpiece, trying to think what she could do. Was there any chance of escape? She went to the window, and as she did so the memory of the fire at Holly Hill flashed through her brain, when Clair had lowered her from the window, and so saved her life.Was there any chance of this now? She tried the window, she undid the clasp. It was nailed down. That precaution had been taken, and so this faint hope was gone. She returned again to the door and examined it; the bolt inside had been removed, the recent marks of a forcible removal were quite plain. She was locked in, but she could keep no one out, and Eva shuddered, and a deadly fear crept through her heart as she made the discovery."But I can kill myself," she said, with set teeth, and a strange light gleaming in her eyes. "I shall die true to Clair."Suddenly the thought then crossed her brain that there must be someone in the house beside George Temple. Some woman! If so, could she bribe her by a great sum to take one line, one word to Clair? This idea renewed some hope in her heart.It gave her courage when, about half an hour after, she again heard someone outside the door. It opened, and George Temple appeared, followed by an elderly woman bearing a tray. He pointed to the woman to place the tray on the table, and light two candles that stood there."I don't mean to starve you, Eva," he said gravely; "though I fear you will find everything rather rough in this out-of-the-way spot. What will you take with your supper? Wine or brandy—I have both?"In a moment it struck Eva that anything drinkable might be drugged, and she shook her head."I only drink water," she said."I should advise something stronger than water after your long journey and the excitement of once more finding yourself in your husband's company," answered George Temple still gravely; and then he looked at her fixedly as the woman kept laying the table for supper."You don't look as well as when I saw you last," he said slowly. "Have you been ill?""No," answered Eva, and a tinge of colour passed over her pale face."Why don't you sit down?" continued Temple, still with his eyes fixed on her. "Here, sit in this chair," and he handed one to her as he spoke.But Eva remained standing."Is the carriage gone that you brought me here in?" she said."Certainly it is gone," answered Temple harshly. "Eva, put all such folly out of your head as that you are going to leave here or me. I have brought you here, and here I mean you to remain. This is your husband's house, and I have taken it for a time; so you had better forget as quickly as possible all about your past life, and begin your new one with me.""You know that is impossible," replied Eva, raising her dark eyes to his."On the contrary, I know it is possible; if I am willing to overlook the past, you ought only to be too thankful for my leniency. You cannot deny you are my wife?""I do not regard myself as such.""You know you are; so there is an end of it. You will never again see Lord Kilmore, who shall be informed that you have returned to me; so I advise you to make the best of me."Eva did not speak; she stood there facing this stern harsh man, who had made her young girlhood miserable; and his words that Lord Kilmore should be informed that she had returned to him struck like a knife into her heart. This was part of Mr Ford's revenge, then, she was thinking; he had betrayed her to Temple; recalled him to England; given him Clair's letter that he had suppressed; and now he was about to inform Clair that she had returned to her husband! But if Clair received her letter would he,could he believe this!"Of what are you thinking?" asked Temple, with his hard grey eyes fixed on her face."Did Mr Ford give you my address at Brighton?" she asked."Certainly he did. Eva, I will make no subterfuges with you or act deceitfully, as you did to me. I am merely claiming my rights, and I was merely claiming my rights when you agreed to meet me that day in the streets and then hid yourself away. The man you confided in, the banker, Mr Ford, purposely deceived me, and led me to believe you were abroad. I went abroad to seek you, and last week I received a telegram from him recalling me to England. I returned. I went to the bank and saw Mr Ford. He told me that by your request he had deceived me; that you were living at Brighton; and that last year you had formed a bigamous marriage with Lord Kilmore, who, however, was so indignant when he heard of your previous marriage to me, that he had at once left you. He also told me that Lord Kilmore had brought a letter for you to him, after your separation, which he had not delivered, as he thought it better that all communication between you and Lord Kilmore should cease. He said you had wished this, and that he still had the letter, but that lately something had led him to believe that you intended renewing your acquaintance with this young lord, and that he had then thought it his duty to send for me.""His duty!" repeated Eva, with curling lip."I am merely repeating what he said, and not going into his motive at all. He told me you had confessed the truth about your former marriage to me, but that you had stated to him that you wished to keep your residence a secret alike from me and Lord Kilmore. He said he had weakly agreed to this, as you were afraid that I might prosecute you for bigamy; but that now, when you evidently had some idea of again seeing Lord Kilmore, he had sent for me, as your lawful husband, and told me the truth.""The liar—the miserable liar!" cried Eva in indignant passion. "So this was the garbled tale he told you, was it? This! Would you like to hear the truth? It is true, then, that I was forced to go to this man when Lord Kilmore was informed by a friend of yours, Mr Onslow, that I had already been married to you. Mr Onslow married me to Lord Kilmore, who was then Lord Clair. This was before I knew you were alive, before I met you that day, when I never thought to see you more. I believed myself free; you had left me, gone to Africa, and I had not heard of you for years. How could I tell you were living?""You made no inquiries?""I did not; I wished to believe you dead—to me you were dead—but I know I had no right to marry Lord Clair. But I did marry him, and after our marriage, through Mr Onslow, he found out I had deceived him. He was very angry—justly angry—and he reproached me, and so I left him. I went to Mr Ford, and told him the truth; I was obliged to go, because he held all my money, and I could not live without it, and unless I had told him not to tell where I was, either you or Lord Clair could easily, through him, have learned my address. I did not then wish again to see Lord Clair.""And you have never seen him since you separated, nor heard from him?""I have not until to-day; until you enclosed the letter which that base man must have kept for months. And what do you think was his motive? His vile motive! He has deceived you and Lord Clair alike, and his motive was, that on last Sunday evening he made a base proposal of love to me, and because I rejected him with contempt and dislike, his revenge has been that he has sent for you.""Very possibly; but does not the conduct of this very man, Eva, prove to you how impossible it is for a young and pretty woman to live in the world without the protection of a husband? Mr Ford may be a scoundrel—I have no doubt he is—but what naturally could he think of you, even judging you by your own confession to his ears?""I do not defend myself, but he took a very base advantage of my fault—""Your crime," interrupted Mr Temple."My crime then; call it as you will. He frightened me; he told me I might be sent to penal servitude—""So you can.""I have told you to do your worst. Let me go from here to-night, and I will wait to be arrested at the house in Brighton of which you now know the address.""I do not mean to let you go from here, so such a proposition is useless. I repeat you are my wife, and as such I have a right to compel you to remain under my roof.""You have no right to detain me against my will.""You will find I have; but do not let us argue the subject further. Come and have some supper.""How can you ask me to eat?" cried Eva passionately."Because we must all eat if we go on living.""I do not wish to live if I am to be a prisoner here.""Do not be childish;" and as he spoke he went to the table which the old woman had spread.There was a cold fowl and some ham, and bread and other necessaries, and Mr Temple began deliberately carving the fowl."Come to the table," he said a moment later, looking round at Eva.She did not speak for a moment; her lips were parched with thirst, and she felt weak and faint."Can I have some tea?" she said at length."Yes, certainly," answered Mr Temple, and he went to the door and outside rang a loud hand-bell."The woman downstairs is stone deaf," he said, "but she will surely hear that."As he was ringing the bell with his back towards her, Eva suddenly crossed the room and went up to the table, and in an instant, before he could turn his head, she had snatched up a knife that was lying near a plate, and had hidden it in the pocket of her dress. She was so quick that Mr Temple never suspected her action.He looked round, saw her standing by the table, and then went on ringing the bell.Presently the old woman came upstairs, and he shouted an order for some tea in her ear. Then he went back to the table and pressed Eva to eat something; but she could not."I am so thirsty," she said."The tea will be here directly, and then you must try," he answered.When the tea came, Eva drank some eagerly; it relieved her a little, and then she tried to eat something."Your bedroom is ready for you upstairs," said Mr Temple; "and as you look exceedingly tired, I advise you to go to bed early."Eva indeed felt that it would be almost impossible for her to sit up any longer. She was quite worn out with the excitement she had gone through. She therefore expressed her willingness to go to her bedroom, and Mr Temple lit a candle to show her the way."Walk before me," he said, "and I will light you up."So Eva went up another flight of steps, and came to a fairly well furnished bedroom, where there was a fire burning, and Mr Temple indicated to her that this was to be her room.He went into it with her, and looked round as he did so."I hope there is everything you want?" he said.The luggage that she had brought with her was standing in it, but the straps of her two trunks were not unfastened."Shall I unfasten the straps for you?" he asked, when he observed this."No thank you," answered Eva."Then I will say good-night to you. Good-night, and I hope you will sleep well.""Good-night," said Eva, and then Mr Temple nodded and left the room, carefully locking the door outside behind him.The moment he was gone, Eva did as she had done in the room below. She went to the door and examined it. The inside bolt had been recently removed here also, and this room had evidently, too, been prepared for her reception.There are moments in our lives when no words can describe the despair which overwhelms our souls.One of these dark moods now swept over Eva. In this lonely house, at the mercy of this hard, harsh man, what was she to expect? She moaned aloud, but the next moment grasped the handle of the knife she had hidden in her dress.I can die," she murmured to herself. She sat there and tried to think what such a death would be. A sharp pang; then she would faint, would bleed to death, and it would be all over. And Clair would never know!She flung herself on her knees and prayed."I am a sinner!" she cried; "but Thou, who died for sinners, do not leave me now! Protect me; have mercy on me, and show me some way to escape which now I cannot see!"Long she knelt there, and some strength came back to her as she did so. She rose from her knees and dragged the table which stood in the centre of the room and placed it against the door. Then she put two chairs also against it, and on these she placed her two trunks. No one could now open the door without overturning these, and having done this, she made up her mind to lie down and rest.She did not undress; she left the candles burning, and she put the table-knife beneath her pillow.And thus, with Clair's letter on her breast, she fell asleep; fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, from which she only awoke when the pale spring dawn of another day was spreading over the world.CHAPTER XIIA GREAT SHOCK.THE letter which Eva had written to Kilmore after her interview with Mr Ford—the letter in which she recalled him to her side, and told him that if she lived there would ere long be a new tie between them, was duly delivered at Kilmore Hall.It was then forwarded by Lady Kilmore to her son at Vienna, at which city he was then sojourning, not without more than one restless sigh and uneasy glance at the superscription.But it never crossed Lady Kilmore's mind one moment to suppress it. She had hoped, she had prayed that the unhappy entanglement, as she always mentally thought of it, between her son and the girl whom she deemed so unsuitable for his position was ended. That it had cost Kilmore bitter pain she knew, and still she had trusted time would heal the wound. If this letter were from Eva, as she feared, it might renew a dangerous intimacy. But still it was Kilmore's letter, and he had a right to receive it, and he did.He received it with absolute and unbounded joy. In a moment all life seemed to change to him. His darling was longing to see him again; he was to go back to her. Whatever happened, he would look once more on her dear face.Half an hour after he had read Eva's letter he started on his journey to England; started full of hope, and with a heart brimful of tender emotions. He would take her away, he told himself; take her to some land where her life would be unmolested; where the shadow of her unhappy past could never reach her. And as he read and re-read her letter, a first suspicion regarding the banker—Mr Ford—entered his mind.Had he been deceiving him? Had he really delivered the letter to Eva, which, as we know, she had only now received? And yet what motive could the man have? Kilmore asked himself. At all events he would soon know, and journeying day and night he hastened home.He did not stop in town nor telegraph to Eva that he had arrived. He went straight down to Brighton, and, having arrived there, drove with a beating heart to the retired house where she had told him she had spent such weary months.He sprang from his cab and rang the door-bell, which was promptly opened by a respectable-looking waiting-maid. Eva had told him in her letter to ask for Mrs Scott, as that was the name she had borne in Brighton, and accordingly, in a faltering voice, Kilmore inquired if Mrs Scott were at home."No, sir," answered the waiting-maid, "she left yesterday afternoon.""Left yesterday afternoon!" repeated Kilmore, utterly astonished. "Where did she go?""She did not give us the address, sir; but she said she would write as soon as she reached where she was going.""And did she leave no letter, no message for me?""She left no letters nor messages, sir, for anyone."Kilmore grew absolutely pale. He stood there staring at the maid and trying to think what could be Eva's motive. She herself had recalled him; she herself had written that if she lived there would soon be a tie between them that would bind them closer. Yet she had gone without a word; gone when she must have known that he was hastening to her side."Did she give any motive for going away?" at last he asked."Yes, sir; she said one of her relations had met with an accident," replied the maid."An accident?" repeated Kilmore blankly. "And did she say anything about the time of her return?""She said she was not sure when she would be back, but that she would let us know.""And you have no idea where she went?""She went to London from here, sir, but I don't know where after that.""It is most extraordinary; she expected me—she invited me to come.""Well, sir, she was called away quite on a sudden; a letter came for her by the twelve post yesterday, and she began to pack up at once, after going out with a telegram; and she gave cook and me money to live on, and then she started.""And did she seem distressed?""No, sir, she didn't; she seemed lighter hearted than I have seen her for long, and she seemed as if she couldn't get quick enough away."Kilmore naturally could not understand it. There must be some mystery he was thinking. Could she have gone away under some misrepresentation—been lured away? And he naturally thought of George Temple."Did anyone come here?" he asked. "Any gentleman?""Only Mr Ford, sir; all the time I have been with missus she had no visitors but Mr Ford. She lives very quiet, as her husband's away.""And Mr Ford came?""Yes, very often, sir; mostly at the week ends, on Saturdays and Sundays.""Can I go in and write a note to your mistress?" asked Kilmore, after a few moments consideration."Yes, sir, if you are a friend of missus', you can," said the waiting-maid, and she showed Kilmore into Eva's little drawing-room.He stood and looked round as he entered it, and a strange dimness stole over his eyes. What! she had lived here in her loneliness he was thinking, month after month. His darling—and now he had come to find her gone. Her portrait was standing on the mantelpiece, a duplicate of which he had kissed a hundred times. He had carried it about with him in his wanderings; he knew every line of the fair face. And where was she?A great anxiety stole into his mind; something must have happened to her, he felt almost certain, and his hands trembled as he sat down before the little bamboo writing-table in the window, where Eva must have sat when she wrote her last words to him.On the blotting-pad he saw his old name reversed. "Clair, my Clair!" he read. He took up the pen her little hand had held, and silently pressed it to his lips. Somehow he seemed to feel her presence near him. "Clair, my Clair!" she seemed to whisper, and then he remembered what she had written when they parted at Westwold."I shall never see you again until my spirit calls you to come, and then if it does, you will know I am in some desperate need!"Was she now in some desperate need? Kilmore asked himself with a sinking heart. And where could he find her—where go to her help? He must find her! He looked round and saw the maid watching him with rather an alarmed look on her face."I want you to do something for me," he said, and he rose and put two sovereigns in her hand. "I expected to find your mistress here, and I am greatly disappointed that she is not; in fact, I am alarmed, and I will leave a note for her with you, and if you hear from her, will you telegraph to me at once? This is my address," and he placed one of his visiting cards in her hand.The maid curtseyed low when she read his name."Did you ever hear your mistress mention me?" he asked."No, my lord, but she spoke very little," she answered. "Cook and me always thought she was grieving over something she did not talk about.""And did she seem in good health?""Not very, I think, my lord.""Be sure you telegraph to me when you hear from her, and you shall be handsomely rewarded for your trouble. Now, I will write my letter."And again he sat down to the writing-table."MY DEAREST, DEAREST EVA," he wrote; "I received your letter at Vienna, and started at once to come to you when I did so. I arrived here to-day, and, to my bitter disappointment and dismay, learnt that you had left Brighton yesterday. How is this, Eva? I am writing this in your house, as your maid tells me you left no address, and I am in great distress and anxiety about you. I entreat you to let me hear from you at once, and I will come to you wherever you are. If you receive this, telegraph to me immediately at Kilmore; and believe me to remain always devotedly yours,KILMORE."He placed this letter in an envelope and sealed it, and entrusted it to the maid, and again and again impressed upon her that if she heard from her mistress she had at once to telegraph to him. He even wrote his address on a telegraph form, and instructed her how to fill it in. Then, feeling in a most unhappy state of mind, he determined to return to town and see Mr Ford."He may know something," he thought. "It is very odd why he should go so often to see Eva; the whole thing is a mystery I cannot understand."His return journey to town was a very miserable one. He had gone to Brighton so full of hope and happiness, and he went back racked with anxiety and fear. He drove direct to the City when he arrived in town, and just as his cab stopped before the banking establishment of Ford & Ford, Mr James Ford himself was coming out of the entrance. He looked up and saw Kilmore and instantly recognised him, and Kilmore fancied he did not look over-pleased to do so."Can I speak to you, Mr Ford?" said Kilmore."Certainly, Lord Kilmore," answered the banker. "Will you return with me to my private room in the bank? You have been abroad, I hear.""Yes, for some time.""What a pleasant change. I have been at the old grind all the winter; but I think I must take a holiday now."By this time they had reached the banker's private room, and as they entered it, Mr Ford, who did not look as well as usual Kilmore noticed, closed the door and pointed politely to a chair."Won't you sit down, Lord Kilmore?" he said. "And now what can I do for you?""I have come to ask you the old question, Mr Ford," answered Kilmore, with agitation. "Can you tell me anything of Miss Eva Moore?"For a moment the banker hesitated, and a curious change passed over his face."A very odd thing has happened," he said at length."About Miss Moore?" asked Kilmore quickly."About the lady who was Miss Eva Moore, at least; but women are unaccountable creatures.""What has happened?""Miss Eva Moore has gone back to her husband the Rev. George Temple.""I will never believe it! I do not believe it!" cried Kilmore; and he grew deadly pale."It is nevertheless a fact; I have it on the authority of the husband himself.""Nothing will induce me to believe it," answered Kilmore, in extreme agitation. "There is some treachery about this, Mr Ford; some deceit I mean to discover."Mr Ford slightly shrugged his shoulders."I cannot account for it, certainly," he said; "yet it is absolutely so.""But how do you know? How have you heard such an incredible thing?""Simply as I told you—from Mr Temple himself.""Did he write?""No, he telegraphed.""From where, and when?""You must pardon me, Lord Kilmore, but I cannot answer your question.""But why, Mr Ford?" said Kilmore, with darkling brow and quivering lips."Because it would only do harm, not good, for you to interfere between husband and wife.""This is folly!" cried Kilmore passionately, beginning to pace the floor with uneven steps. "I have a right to know—because Eva, in her youth, in her young girlhood, was induced by this man—a man she hates—to commit an act of folly, is her whole life to be thrown away?""The law says so, Lord Kilmore.""I will never believe that she has returned to him—willingly returned to him," continued Kilmore in increasing excitement. "Only three days ago I received a letter recalling me to her side! I went to Brighton to-day, to the address she gave me, and found her gone!""So she wrote to you?" said Mr Ford, and a slight flush rose to his face."Yes, she wrote; and, Mr Ford, I ask you, as a gentleman, to tell me the truth? In this letter she made no mention of the letter I sent her through you; and yet—but I suppose she received it?"Mr Ford's colour deepened, and his eyes shifted, but still he continued to answer quietly enough."Yes, she certainly received it.""She did not allude to it in the letter she wrote; but, Mr Ford, I must find her! I have, I believe, the strongest reason that a man can have. Give me, at least, Mr Temple's address?""Lord Kilmore, I cannot," answered Mr Ford hoarsely; and he turned away his head."What motive have you for keeping it a secret? Do not say anything more about it being right or wrong; whether I act rightly or wrongly is nothing to you.""I will have nothing to do with it," said the banker, still in that hoarse, changed voice."Then I believe that you are concerned in the plot—that this is some plot! If you have betrayed this poor girl to this man, Mr Ford, all I can say is, you shall bitterly repent it!""Do you threaten me, Lord Kilmore?" asked the banker, trying to recover his usual manner."Yes, I do! I believe you are deceiving me. I believe Eva has been deceived by some vile plot that you and this Temple have concocted between you, and that it is a lie that she has gone back to him.""Really, Lord Kilmore, I must request you to leave the room. I am sorry for your disappointment, but I cannot control the vagaries of women.""Did you tell her I was about to be married?" asked Kilmore fiercely. "Her maid told me that no one went to her house but you, and if you were her informant about my marriage, you must have known it was utterly untrue?""I am not aware that I was her informant.""Yet she wrote to me that she had heard it!" cried Kilmore passionately. "She did not believe it—thank God for that!""Then it is not true?""No, certainly not.""I confess I heard such a rumour, and I may have mentioned it to her, and perhaps this accounts for her returning to Mr Temple.""No! this does not account for it; nothing accounts for it. Mr Ford, do you positively refuse to give me Mr Temple's address?""I positively refuse, Lord Kilmore.""Then I shall discover it; I shall set the police to work."As he spoke these words, Kilmore turned and left the banker's room without any salutation, and Mr Ford frowned as he did so."I was a fool to interfere," he was thinking; and as he stood listening to Kilmore's departing footsteps, his reflections were far from pleasant ones.As for Kilmore, he left the bank in a state of mind scarcely to be described. He was convinced now that, for some purpose or other which he did not know, Mr Ford had formerly deceived him. He must have some motive now also for suppressing Temple's address.First he thought of putting the affair in the hands of the police, but afterwards remembered he really had no charge to bring against Temple. He knew nothing of him, in fact.Then he remembered Mr Onslow, the clergyman at South Kensington, who had married him to Eva. He would go to him, and from him might find some clue to Temple's present abode.But of one thing he felt sure, Mr Ford's story was a lie, and not willingly had Eva returned to her husband's house, if she actually were there.CHAPTER XIIIA VAIN APPEAL.IT was the early morning when Eva first roused herself from the heavy sleep brought on by bodily fatigue and weariness; and in a moment, with a swift pang of pain, all that had happened yesterday rushed across her mind.She sat up and put her hand to her brow, and looked at her strange surroundings. Then she glanced at the little jewelled watch on her wrist—Clair's gift—and saw it was not yet five o'clock. After a few minutes she rose and went to the window, and drew up the blind and looked at the outside world.A strange and dreary scene! Hurstwood House stood in a neglected garden, where tall grass and thistles flourished, and where the walks were overgrown and green. No hand had apparently touched them for years, no footprint fallen on the tangled weeds. It was partly surrounded by an untrimmed, tall, yew hedge, which added not a little to its gloomy appearance. Beyond the garden a wild track of moorland appeared to stretch, and no house or hamlet was visible from the window where Eva stood."What a lonely, desolate spot," she thought with a shudder, and then she looked at the fastenings of the window. It was nailed down like the one downstairs; but the room was so far from the ground that, had it not been so, to escape by it would have been impossible.With something between a shiver and a sigh she returned to bed. She lay there, full of gloomy thoughts. Lay until eight o'clock, and then she heard a heavy footstep outside the room door, and a moment later the key in the lock turned.The table she had placed against the door, however, obstructed the intruder's entrance. Then came an angry exclamation, a push, and one of the chairs was overturned, and the trunk on it came tumbling to the floor.Another push, and in the now half-open doorway Mr Temple appeared."What folly is this, Eva?" he said harshly.By this time Eva had sprung out of bed, had hidden the knife, which had lain under her pillow during the night, in the pocket of her dress, and now stood facing the half-open door."How absurd!" continued Mr Temple, pushing the table away with one hand and forcing open the door with the other. "May I ask why you have barricaded yourself in this fashion?"There is no bolt to the door inside," answered Eva."There is no occasion for any bolt. Please end all this folly, Eva."She did not speak."Well, how have you slept?" he went on, looking at her. "You look pale, but better than you did last night.""I slept fairly well," replied Eva coldly."That is all right. Will you come down to breakfast or have it here?""A prisoner has no choice," said Eva, and she turned away and went to the window, and pushed away the blind and looked out on the deserted scene below.Mr Temple did not speak for a moment, and then he crossed the room and laid his hand heavily on her shoulder."Don't touch me!" cried Eva, shrinking back."Listen to me, Eva," said Mr Temple; "it depends on yourself, on your own conduct, whether you are a prisoner or not. If you will return to your duty, and act as a wife should act, you shall be no prisoner, even in spite of the past. But if you continue this perverse conduct, then you shall certainly remain under lock and key, and I will take good care to give you no chance of escape.""How dare you act thus?" said Eva, turning round and facing him."There is no daring about it; I have simply brought you to your husband's house, and I mean to keep you there. Say nothing more," he continued, raising his hand as Eva was about to speak. "I have told you my resolve, and nothing will move me from it, and your wisest course is to make the best of the situation. But now I will go and see about your breakfast.""I do not want any.""Oh, yes, you do. It will be ready presently, and if you prefer it here I will bring it up."Eva made no reply to this, and then Mr Temple left the room, locking the door behind him, and Eva was once more alone. She bathed her face after he had gone, and smoothed her hair, and then sat wearily down."What am I to do? Oh! what am I to do?" she moaned out in her despair. "Is there no rescue for me? If Clair only knew—Oh! Clair, Clair!" she cried out aloud, "come to me, come to me!"She also at this moment remembered the words of her letter to him when they had parted."I am in desperate need now," she murmured; "Clair, do you hear me call?"The key turned again in the door and she started to her feet. It was Mr Temple, carrying a tray on which was Eva's breakfast."You see what an attentive husband I am," he said a little grimly, as he placed the tray on the table.Eva did not speak."If you want any more tea, ring," he said; "here is the bell."Still Eva said nothing."Now I will leave you to get my own breakfast," continued Temple, "and afterwards I will come up to take you to the sitting-room downstairs if you like to go."After this he went away, again taking good care to lock Eva in. She was thirsty and she drank some tea, but she did not ring for more, and in about an hour Mr Temple once more appeared."You had better come downstairs now," he said.Then she made another appeal to him."Oh, let me go!" she said piteously; "please don't torment me any more. What good will it do you? If you want my money you can take it—you can take it all—only let me go.""And allow you to return and live in sin with Lord Kilmore? No, Eva, I will not let you go. I do not want your money, I want you, and I have got you, and here you shall stay."She moaned and fell with her head on the bed, and there was a choking sensation of unshed tears in her throat."You are cruel—cruel!" she murmured."No, I am not cruel," answered Mr Temple. "I was cruel long ago when I left you, a wayward, untried girl, to the tender mercies of the world. You fell, and I have only myself to blame for it. You irritated me in those days to such a degree, that the love and regard for you that I had at one time seemed utterly gone. I told myself we had both made a terrible mistake; that it was no use any longer utterly spoiling two lives. We parted by mutual consent, and, let me tell you, I had enough trust in you even then to believe that you would never dream of marrying anyone else during my lifetime. Then, as I told you, years and loneliness softened my feelings towards you. I remember one night in Africa, when the moon was shedding its light on the wild and lonely plain lying before me, that I first felt compunctions of conscience concerning you. I had not done my duty to you, an inward voice seemed to tell me, and I listened to that voice. I had bound myself before God's altar to protect and cherish you, and how had I done this? I had allowed you to return to your uncle in India, as I then believed, to enter the anything but strict society of that country, bearing your maiden name. This was neither just to you nor myself. I did not act hastily; after due consideration I determined to return to England, and, if I did not find you there, to go to India to claim you.""It was somewhat late in the day," said Eva bitterly, raising her head from the bed."Have I not told you that I blame myself? I sinned in leaving you and allowing you to leave me, and I have been terribly punished for it.""And what do you think it is to me?" cried Eva passionately. "To me, married to the man I love, whom I shall always love. Make no mistake; nothing can change what has been, nothing will change it. You may keep me here till I die; but when I die I shall still love my Clair.""You only make things worse by your folly," said Mr Temple coldly. "Lord Clair, or Kilmore, or whatever is his title, is not your husband, and I am. You shall stay here and live with me as my wife, and, as I told you before, you had better make the best of the situation."Eva impatiently turned away her head."It is useless to speak to you," she said."On this subject it is useless, so please do not renew it. But you had better come downstairs to the sitting-room, and you will find some books there to help to amuse you."Eva made no reply to this proposition. It flashed across her mind at this moment, would she have more chance of escape downstairs?"Are you coming?" asked Mr Temple, after a moment's pause; "or shall I lock you up here?""I will go," said Eva, rising, and she went. He took her hand as if to lead her downstairs, but Eva pulled it away. "I will follow you," she added, and she did, looking curiously around her as she descended the staircase. There was but one flight of stairs she observed from the hall to the sitting-room. She glanced over the banisters, and could see the hall door from where she was.When they got to the landing, Mr Temple stopped, and moved to Eva to enter the sitting-room first. This she did, and he followed, closing the door after him. Then he placed an easy-chair by the fire for Eva."It is a cold, gusty day," he said; "here are some books and a yesterday's paper. The books are not trashy novels which fill the heads of foolish young women with absurd ideas of life and religion. A religious novel I consider absolutely blasphemous, written as they usually are by half-educated women who air their ideas on the Creator and His laws with the coolest audacity. But here is a book on the mammalia of Africa that I think you will find interesting."He handed her the book as he spoke, and Eva let it lie unopened on her knee."Have you not a to-day's newspaper?" she asked.She said this with a purpose; she wanted to know what communication he held with the outside world."No," he answered, "I have none; and I have no one here to send for one."Eva said nothing more; she got up listlessly, went to the window, and stood looking out on the deserted garden below. Both the rooms she had been in were evidently at the back of the house, and the cloudy sky above made the whole scene inexpressibly dreary. She sighed heavily, and then went back to the fire, and found that Mr Temple had seated himself before a writing-desk, and was writing industriously. She heard the faint sound of his pen, which never ceased, and saw him turn over page after page of MS. A sort of drowsiness then began to creep over her, with the heat of the fire and the stillness. Fainter grew the sound of the pen; her head fell to one side, and presently she was asleep.After sitting about an hour with bent head at his work without looking up, Mr Temple did glance in Eva's direction, and her attitude made him rise softly and approach her. Then he saw she was sleeping, and something in her drooped head, in her girlish loveliness, touched some almost forgotten chord in his cold heart. A feeling of pity for her awoke there, and he stood looking at her with softened eyes."Poor child," he was thinking; "poor, misguided child."He really believed that he was acting rightly to Eva; that he was doing his best to save her soul from eternal damnation. He was a man of narrow creeds and dogmas, with small pity for the faults and failings of those weaker than himself. In their early married days he had sternly tried to bow her will to his own, and thus utterly alienated the affection, or rather the delusion, with which she had regarded him before their marriage. She had believed him to be a good man, self-denying, holy, and she had found him a tyrant.She rebelled, refused to be coerced, and after many bitter quarrels, they had agreed to separate, and keep their secret marriage a secret still. He stood thinking of this time as he watched her sleeping. Then, suddenly and with a start, Eva awoke, and, looking up, saw him standing before her."You have been asleep," said Mr Temple, in a more gentle tone than he had yet spoken to her in."Yes, half asleep," said Eva, rubbing her eyes."You had better try to go to sleep again," said Mr Temple, with a half smile.But no; Eva roused herself up and began opening the pages of the book, still lying on a table near her, on the mammalia of Africa; and Mr Temple returned to his writing, and so the weary hours wore on.CHAPTER XIVTRAPPED.THE day grew worse, and at mid-day it amounted almost to a storm. Fierce gusts of wind swept around the house, and the rain kept dashing against the window-panes. The deaf old woman brought up the early dinner at two o'clock, and Mr Temple pressed her to eat and drink, but she had no appetite.She felt bodily ill, and worn out with weakness and depression. After dinner she went upstairs, and Mr Temple followed her up and locked her in."You had better lie down and have a little rest," he said, as he quitted the room.She was so weary that she took his advice; she lay down on the outside of the bed, after first placing the table against the door, and, in spite of the wind and rain outside, she was soon fast asleep.About four o'clock a ring at the outer door of the house awoke her. She started to her feet; she listened intently."Had help come?" she was asking herself, with a fast-beating heart.But no; she heard the door open and shut, but no further sound. It was, in fact, the country postman who had called; and when Mr Temple opened the door, as the old woman in the kitchen had not heard the bell, the postman delivered a letter into his hand addressed to himself.He opened it hastily in the hall, and as he did so an ominous frown contracted his brow. It was from Mr Ford, and was very brief."DEAR MR TEMPLE," he read,—"I think it only right to inform you that the young lord, of whom we spoke, called here to-day, and was most urgent in his inquiries about a certain lady. It seems that she had written to him when he was abroad, and he came to England for the purpose of seeing her, and went to the address in Brighton that you know of, and found her gone. I told him the lady had returned to her husband, which statement he refused to believe, and he was extremely impertinent to me when I declined to give him your address. He left declaring he would put the affair in the hands of the police, and I advise you to be most careful about her guardianship, and to allow her to have no opportunity of correspondence with the young lord. Excuse me for giving you this hint,—And I remain, Rev. Sir, yours faithfully,"J. FORD."A dusky flush rose to Mr Temple's dark skin as he read and re-read this letter, and the softer feelings that he had felt for Eva during the morning died out suddenly in his heart."She had written to call him back then," he thought bitterly; "but she shall never see him more."Still this letter disturbed him greatly, and he did not go near Eva for many hours after it arrived. Then, as it grew dusk, he remembered that she had had no tea, and was shut up in a room without a fire on a cold and stormy day. He therefore ordered up tea and supper together, and, when the deaf old woman had arranged this meal, he went up to seek Eva.He found her sitting by the window in the semi-darkness watching the storm. Unconsciously his voice was harsher when he spoke to her."Tea is ready; you had better come downstairs," he said."Very well," answered Eva, and she rose and followed him downstairs.He poured out some tea for her, which she drank, but he was in a very silent and gloomy mood. He did not speak of Mr Ford's letter to Eva, but it was rankling in his mind during the whole meal.Then it grew quite dark; the old woman came into the room, lit the candles and carried away the tray, and retired to her kitchen downstairs. Mr Temple sat down to his writing silently, and Eva listlessly took up her book.By this time it was absolutely blowing a hurricane, and Eva suddenly looked up from her book and addressed Mr Temple."I believe the glass of that window will be blown in," she said. "Are there no shutters?""I don't know. I will see," answered Mr Temple, and he rose and went to the window. "There are shutters," he added, "and I will fasten them."He was in the act of doing this, the storm outside deadening every noise, when, swift as a flash of lightning, Eva rose and fled to the room door.In a moment she had crossed the threshold, in a moment turned the key in the lock outside, and with it in her hand ran hastily downstairs after locking Mr Temple in!He looked round as he clasped the bar of the shutter, and saw she was gone. An angry exclamation burst from his lips, he sprang across the room, he reached the door, and found it locked. He had fallen into his own trap; he had always left the key outside, and the lock was a new and strong one, put there for the purpose of guarding Eva. Now he shook the door in vain; he swore, he cursed, but there was no one to hear him.The deaf old woman was asleep in her kitchen; the hand-bell was outside, and the bell-wire in the room was broken.Mr Temple felt like a wild beast newly caged. He dashed himself against the door; he tried to break it open with the furniture and the poker, but it resisted all his efforts. There he was a prisoner himself, and the woman he had trapped was no doubt escaping from the power which he had so securely reckoned on. A perfect tempest of rage swept over him. This ordinarily cold, sedate man was shaken by a blast of passion and rage which utterly overwhelmed him. He shouted, he cursed, but the howling tempest outside was the only sound which reached his maddened ears.In the meanwhile Eva had rushed downstairs like a creature flying for life. She reached the hall; in a moment she saw the key was in the lock inside the door, for a small oil lamp was burning on the passage table. She turned the lock easily, opened the door, and the fierce wind and the rain rushed in and beat on her face. It took away her breath, and she glanced round to seek some protection from the storm. On a peg of the umbrella stand in the hall a woollen shawl was hanging; a brown checked shawl, such as are often worn by country women. She caught hold of this, wrapped it round her head, and then ran out into the wild night.She closed the house door after her as she went, and still grasping the key of the room in which she had locked Mr Temple, she stood a moment peering round her in the darkness, wondering which way to go. As far as she could see, the house stood apparently in a lane, and, after a brief hesitation, she fled down this as fast as her trembling feet could carry her.But this roadway was apparently but of short length, and amid the blinding rain and howling wind, Eva soon found herself on a barren tract of moorland.Not a light was to be seen; in darkness above and around she ran on, on, never for a moment pausing to take breath. She was flying for something dearer than life, flying for shelter anywhere from the man she dreaded more than death.Suddenly her feet struck on a block of stone, and she stumbled and fell. She arose quickly, but an acute bodily pang ran through her frame as she did so, and a deadly faintness crept over her. But presently it passed off, and again she commenced her wild flight. She knew not how long she ran, or where she went, but she became conscious that her powers were becoming exhausted. Again that sharp pain passed through her; again the cold dew broke out on her brow."Oh! God, help me, help me!" she prayed in her anguish, looking up to the darkling sky.But the wind and the rain swept on, and a great fear came over her. She felt she could scarcely any longer drag on her weary pain-racked limbs, and that soon she would be forced to lie down on the sodden grass. Again she looked up in wild appeal; again lifted her arms to ask for help; and as she did so—even as her lips opened and her cry went forth to God—a light shone before her; a light from the window of a cottage standing on the edge of the desolate moorland.The welcome gleam seemed to give her new life. On, on, she went, tottering, swaying, but still creeping nearer to the light. At last she reached the house from which it shone. There was a little railed-in garden in front, and the light came from one of the lower windows. She undid the latch of the garden gate and went up the neat gravelled walk. Then she rapped at the knocker on the door, and a few moments later it was opened, and by the passage lamp within Eva saw a grave-faced young man in the dress of a clergyman standing before her."For God's sake, give me shelter!" she gasped forth.The young man looked at her with his serious eyes and bowed his head."I will give you shelter," he said. "Come in; it is a wild night."Then Eva entered, and he closed the door behind her and led her into a small room at one side of the passage, in which a lamp was lit and a fire burning."Will you sit down? You are terribly wet," he said, looking at her pityingly.With a moan Eva sat down on the easy-chair he had placed for her by the fire as he spoke; a moan wrung from her pale lips by bodily anguish, and the young clergyman thought she was about to faint.He therefore hastily unlocked a closet and drew out a bottle containing brandy, and then went to the small sideboard and poured some in a glass with water and handed it to Eva."Drink this," be said, "it will revive you," and he held the glass to her quivering lips.Eva did drink it, and then with a strange sobbing sigh she looked up at the kind young face bending over her."Is there any woman in the house?" she asked in piteous accents."Yes, my sister is in the house," answered the clergyman; "she has just gone up to bed. I will bring her to you."He left the room as he spoke, and a few minutes later a lady some years older than himself returned with him.The lady then went up to Eva and put her hand on the rough, wet shawl, which was still wrapped round her head."How wet you are," she said gently; "let me take off this shawl and your shoes and stockings, and get you some dry clothes?"She removed the shawl from Eva's head as she spoke, and Eva's long, beautiful, light brown hair became unloosed as she did so and fell in rippling beauty on her shoulders. The lady noticed also the rich silk dress which Eva wore, and which she had travelled from Brighton in, and the small once daintily embroidered slippers in which her little feet were clad. She pulled these off and the wet silk stockings, and then began chafing Eva's wet feet with some brandy."You are quite exhausted," she said pitifully. "Have you walked far? You seem in great pain?"Eva raised her large dark eyes to the lady's face, and then bent down and whispered a word in her ear, and as she did so the lady slightly started, and a faint flush rose on her cheeks."Is this your brother?" then said Eva, looking round at the young clergyman."Yes," answered the lady, "this is my brother, the Rev. John Walton, and he is curate of the parish here.""Can I do anything for you?" asked Mr Walton, now stepping forward."Yes," answered Eva, in a faint, low, but still steady tone. "Will you send three telegrams for me?""Most certainly; but I cannot send them to-night, it is too late.""But you can take them down," said Eva; "I may be too ill to-morrow to dictate them. I want three telegrams sent to one person—the Earl of Kilmore—I am not sure of his address, but I want to call him to my side—he must come at once."The brother and sister looked at each other as Eva spoke, and then Miss Walton faintly sighed."Send one to Kilmore Hall," went on Eva still steadily, "and another to Brighton, and the third to his Club in town. He is sure to get one. How soon can you send them in the morning?""I will ride into Peterborough with them early to-morrow," answered the curate. "Will you give me the addresses now, and dictate what you wish telegraphed?"Upon this Eva gave the three addresses quite plainly, though her twitching face told all the while she was suffering great pain, and then she dictated the words of the telegram."Come at once when you get this, Clair; I am lying here in desperate need. The clergyman who is sending this, and who has given me shelter, will telegraph to you where to come to; but do not delay."EVA.""And you wish this sent to Lord Kilmore?" asked Mr Walton, looking up after he had written down Eva's words."I do. I cannot thank you, sir; but give me shelter till he comes," answered Eva, with her eyes fixed on his grave, earnest face."You are most welcome to shelter, and to any service I can render you," said the young clergyman. "And my sister will, I am sure, do all she can for you.""God will bless you both," murmured Eva in a broken voice. "I—I—was married to Lord Kilmore—I must see him before I die."Again the brother and sister exchanged pitying glances, and then Miss Walton spoke in her gentle yet decided way."My brother will see after your telegrams first thing in the morning," she said. "And now let me help you upstairs. I am sure you would be better if you were in bed."She raised Eva up from the chair that she was sitting on as she spoke, and Eva moaned as she did so; and then Miss Walton helped to lead her from the room, and the curate returned once more to the work on theology he had been studying when she first rapped at his door; but his attention constantly wandered from his book.An extraordinary story," he was thinking, his mind dwelling on the stranger beneath his roof. "A sad history, I fear. She said she was married to this lord—well, it may be so."About a quarter of an hour passed thus, and then once more Miss Walton entered the room, looking very grave."Jack," she said, addressing her brother, "you must go for the doctor at once; the poor thing upstairs is very ill. I fear a baby is coming!""Good Heavens!" cried the curate, starting to his feet."Put on your thick cloak," continued Miss Walton, "and tie a comforter round your neck, for it is a dreadful night. But we must have a doctor; give Dr Munro this slip of paper. I have written to tell him what is the matter, and you must bring him back with you. I fear it's a very bad business.""I will go at once," answered the young clergyman. "Poor soul! where can she have come from? She might have died alone on the moor.""She said she saw your light just when she was about to lie down and die. It is the hand of God," replied his sister solemnly."May He help her," said the curate, with equal solemnity; and then he at once made ready to go out and face the storm in search of the village doctor, who lived about a mile distant.But he was young and active, and accustomed to rough weather, and many a sturdy tramp he took across the moorland on his visits of charity and benevolence among the scattered hamlets amongst which he lived.He had a pleasant face, with grave eyes and large well-formed features. He was one of those who have chosen the better part, and ever looked heavenward. Once his sister, who was much older than himself, and, as a rule, used a little gentle authority over his actions, remonstrated with him strongly for attending the death-bed of a man dying of small-pox."It is dangerous," she said, "and no use; the poor man is unconscious.""My dear," answered the curate, "no prayers are useless. Who knows that through his dimmed senses he may yet find some comfort in my words?"And he went, and the man died with his hand in his, and he took no hurt.Such was his daily life, and the weary wanderer who had dragged her feet to his door had entered the house of a good man whose hopes and aims were not bounded here.Soon he was ringing at the village doctor's door, and presently the doctor himself appeared to answer his summons."Why, Mr Walton," he exclaimed in surprise, "whoever expected to see you at this time of night? I hope nothing is wrong with Miss Walton?""No, Bessie is all right; but an extraordinary thing has happened, doctor. A poor lady has strayed to our house, and she is very ill. This is the note my sister sent you.""Come in," said the doctor; and then he put on his glasses in the hall, and read the note."Ha—hum—I'd better go at once. Miss Bessie is not a woman to be alarmed for nothing. I'll just get on my coat and tell my wife I'm going out, and then we can start,""Half an hour later he was standing by Eva's bedside, and when he saw her he at once agreed to remain at the curate's cottage all night."She is very ill," he said briefly, in answer to the young clergyman's inquiries.And she was very ill during the whole night. Everything that could be done for her was done, Miss Walton and the servant of the house both sitting up with her; but in the early dawn Miss Walton roused her brother, who had at length sunk into a restless sleep.Jack, you had better get up," she said, "and ride to Peterborough with those telegrams at once, she's so anxious for them to go. I'm sure I can't help crying," continued the kind woman, her eyes filling with tears. "All night she has had one moan. 'Only let me live till Clair comes; only till he comes.' She has repeated that over and over, until it just breaks one's heart to hear her."The curate needed no second bidding. He rose immediately."Is she very ill?" he asked anxiously."As ill as ill can be," answered his sister. "It's the exposure in the storm has done it, the doctor says. I'm sure, poor soul, I hope she will live until this young lord she calls her husband comes."Then when his sister left him, the curate knelt down and prayed for the suffering woman beneath his roof."Oh, turn not Thine ear away from her cry," he asked. "Let her once more look on her husband's face."After this he left the house, carrying Eva's three telegrams with him, also three urgent ones from himself to Lord Kilmore; at the same time enclosing his address."The lady is extremely ill," he wrote. "Do not delay."Then he mounted his horse, and started on his early ride; and just as he did so the sun rose, and he lifted his eyes with a strange solemn, yearning look to the sky.CHAPTER XVAN ANSWERED PRAYER.KILMORE did go to Mr Onslow's after his interview with the banker, and found the genial vicar at home. But his brow clouded when he heard the young lord's errand."I have seen or heard nothing of Temple for months," he said. "The last time I saw him—" and then Mr Onslow hesitated."Well?" said Kilmore impatiently."I fear it will be a painful subject, Lord Kilmore; but he was then starting on a tour abroad, as he had reason to believe that—the unfortunate young lady whom, as you know, he married in her early youth, had quitted England.""And you told him nothing?""Nothing; how far I was justified in such a course I cannot tell, but I never even mentioned her name.""I expected no less from you, Mr Onslow.""And you—have you seen her since she left Westwold?""I have not," answered Kilmore truthfully; and then after a few more words he went away.It was evident Mr Onslow knew nothing, and there was no reason why he should tell him of Eva's letter to himself, or of her mysterious disappearance. He therefore parted with the vicar, and spent a restless, uneasy night at his Club.But the next morning, when he was taking breakfast, one of Eva's telegrams, and one from the curate, Mr Walton, was placed in his hands.With a half cry he sprang to his feet after he had read them. Eva ill! Eva in terrible need! What could it all mean? he asked himself in desperate haste. But there was not a moment to be lost. He sent a telegram at once to Mr Walton, telling him he would start by the first train for the north, and at ten o'clock he left King's Cross, in such a state of miserable anxiety that he felt the suspense was almost more than he could bear.The train was a fast one, yet to him it seemed to lag on the way. Would they never reach Peterborough? he kept repeating to himself with his pale writhing lips. What could have happened? How could Eva be at this clergyman's?Again and again he referred to the telegrams. Moorland Cottage, where she was, Mr Walton's telegram told him was five miles from Peterborough. How had she got there?One after the other these questions kept thronging through his distracted brain. He was, in truth, half mad with misery and anxiety, and when at length he did reach Peterborough, his nervousness and agitation were so terrible that people turned their heads to look again at his white, quivering face.He hastily engaged a cab, and bade the man drive at his utmost speed, offering him a heavy reward to do so. But the drive was long to the outlying hamlet he was bound for, and Kilmore's anxiety increased each moment.At last, however, the cabman drew up and pointed with his whip to a pretty cottage with trellis-work in front, and a neat and well-cared-for little garden."Do you think that can be the house, sir?" he asked."Try," answered Kilmore hoarsely.The cabman then drove to the little garden gate, and Kilmore sprang from the cab, and as he did so the door of the cottage opened, and a young clergyman came down the garden walk and met Kilmore midway."Are you Lord Kilmore?" he asked gravely."Yes," gasped Kilmore. "How is—""She is very ill, but a little relieved at present. Come in, my sister will speak to you," answered Mr Walton feelingly.With faltering footsteps Kilmore then followed the curate into the house, and as they crossed the threshold the feeble wail of a new-born babe fell on their ears."I will bring my sister to you," said Mr Walton, pointing to the sitting-room. "Will you go in there; she will be with you directly."Kilmore spoke no word; he felt he could not. He stood in the sitting-room, cold, pale, and trembling, and a few moments later a middle-aged, pleasant-faced lady entered the room and bowed gravely."You are Lord Kilmore, my brother tells me," she said, "and have come to see the poor lady upstairs? A little babe was born before its time some hours ago, and the young mother is, we hope, now somewhat better.""Thank God! Thank God!" murmured Kilmore, with his white lips."But it is my duty to tell you she is and has been terribly ill," continued Miss Walton sadly. "She arrived here last night on foot in a storm, in a completely exhausted condition. She has given no explanation where she came from; she has only asked to be spared to see you."And Miss Walton's eyes grew dim, and her lips quivered."I cannot understand it," faltered Kilmore hoarsely. "I was abroad, and she wrote to me to ask me to go to her at Brighton, and I travelled as quickly as possible to her house there, and found she had left the afternoon before, and given no address. How she came here is an absolute mystery to me.""Perhaps she will explain it to you. But I must warn you that the slightest agitation may be fatal to her. She knows you are here, and wishes to see you at once, but you must be very careful.""Yes; may I see her now?" asked Kilmore in a voice broken with emotion."Yes; if you will follow me I will take you to her," said Miss Walton, and she led the way up the narrow staircase, and then entered a bedroom on the landing, after first putting her finger to her lip to indicate that Kilmore should be silent."Stay here till I call you in," she whispered as she entered the room, leaving Kilmore outside. But a moment or two later she reappeared and beckoned to Kilmore to go in, who did so as noiselessly as possible.The doctor moved from the side of the bed as Kilmore entered the room, and also held up a warning finger.And on the bed Kilmore saw Eva—saw a white, wan face, and wide-open, dark eyes, which gladdened as she recognised him."Clair," she whispered.He did not speak; he went up to the lied and kneeled down, and took one of her hands and laid it against his face, and his eyes were dim with tears."You must not grieve," said Eva faintly."Hush, hush! my darling," he murmured; "I am with you now! We shall never part again!"A faint smile passed over her wan lips, but here the doctor interfered."Now, my dear young lady," he said, approaching the bed where Kilmore still knelt, "you have seen the gentleman, and I can allow no longer interview at present. You must try to sleep; sleep is absolutely necessary, and I have no doubt the gentleman will remain in the house, and you can see him again a little later."Kilmore rose, bent over the bed, and kissed her face."Try to sleep, darling," he whispered; "try to get well for my sake.""You will stay?" asked Eva wistfully."I will never leave you again," answered Kilmore; and, as if content with this promise, Eva smiled and let him go.He went downstairs and found the curate awaiting him in the sitting-room. Kilmore was greatly moved, and held out a trembling hand to Mr Walton, who took it sympathetically."I do not know how to thank you for your kindness—to my wife," he said, with quivering lips."Then you are married?" asked the curate."We were married more than six months ago," answered Kilmore, and he turned away his head and sat down and covered his face with his hand, remembering at this moment their brief happiness and its bitter close.The curate spoke to him gently and kindly, and the little clock on the mantel-piece went ticking cheerfully on, but Kilmore never raised his head.Life or death! He dared scarcely realise what trembled in the balance. Nearly two hours passed thus, and the doctor came downstairs and addressed Kilmore.My lord," he said, "the poor lady upstairs seems most anxious to see you, and is very restless; she has something she wishes you to know, she says, and perhaps it would be well to have this off her mind?""Is she—any better?" asked Kilmore, with faltering lips."She has not turned the corner yet," answered the doctor, "but we must hope for the best. The child, however, seems likely to live."The child! Kilmore had never thought of it in his overwhelming anxiety about Eva."Is it a boy?" He asked quickly."No; a little girl, very small and fragile; but still I think it will live," replied the doctor.Kilmore sighed deeply, and then followed the doctor to Eva's room, who looked up and smiled as she saw him enter."Clair," she said, feebly holding out her hand, "I have something to tell you, and I want to tell you now.""Yes, darling," he answered, and again he took her hand and laid it against his lips; "but do not excite yourself, you can tell me some other time. I will stay with you now, but try to sleep.""I would rather tell it now," answered Eva, with a little plaintive smile passing over her wan features. "It is about how I came to be here, Clair—after I wrote to you.""My dearest one!""Did you get my letter, Clair? The letter in which I asked you to return to me?""Yes, at Vienna, and I travelled day and night to come to you, Eva. It made me very happy, but when I reached Brighton I found you gone.""Yes, I know. Clair, look on the toilet-table. I asked Miss Walton to put it there, and you will find an envelope. Yes, that is it," she added as Clair rose and took up an envelope from the table. "Read the two letters in that, Clair, and then you will understand."The doctor, who had been looking out of the window during this conversation, so as not to interfere with it, now turned round and approached the bed."Let me give you your medicine," he said, addressing Eva, "and then I will go downstairs and leave you in charge of Lord Kilmore for a little while.""Thank you," said Eva gently, and she took the medicine, with her eyes all the while fixed on Kilmore, who had opened the envelope, and was looking at one of the letters. Then, as the doctor left the room, he went back to Eva."This is my letter to you, Eva—written long ago?" he said."Yes, and I only received it two days ago. Mr Ford kept it back—he wanted me never to see you more for—his own vile ends. Do you understand, Clair? I never saw that letter until it was sent as a lure to me. Now read the one that came in the same envelope, and at the same time."Then Kilmore read the letter purporting to be written by a Dr Page, but in reality written by George Temple, and as he did so, a fierce exclamation, which, however, he instantly suppressed, burst from his lips."The scoundrel!" he muttered."It was Mr Ford's revenge," continued Eva, "because—because I rejected his dishonourable advances, and told him I loved you still. Clair, when I got that letter, when I thought of you lying injured, I started at once to go to you. I arrived at Peterborough, and found this Dr Page, as I supposed, waiting for me at the station with a carriage to convey me to you. I never doubted nor suspected—I went with him to the lonely house where he said you were. Who do you think I found? George Temple!"What!""George Temple. I had been falsely lured there by your letter, for I knew it was your letter, as none other could have written it but my Clair! Do not look so white. I escaped from that lonely house—escaped in the night—and ran here—I should have died rather than stay there. I—I escaped safely, and crept here—to die with you!""Oh! no, no, my Eva!" cried Clair, falling on his knees by the bedside and clasping her hand fast in his. "Live for for me, my darling—no one shall part us now—and both these men shall rue the day they so basely deceived you.""It was cruel, was it not? I ran all the night—I nearly died on the moor—but God guided me here, and then the babe was born. Clair, if the little one lives, be kind to her—take her to your mother—if I had only had a mother—""Hush, hush, Eva! you break my heart!" cried Kilmore, utterly overcome. "You have told me, dearest—try to sleep now—the doctor said you must be quiet and try to sleep.""Yes," said Eva faintly. "But stay with me, Clair.""I will stay; do not be afraid. I will sit here and watch you, dearest.""Kiss me then, and I will try to sleep," answered Eva. "I am tired—I will try to sleep."He bent over her and kissed her lips, and then with a smile Eva closed her eyes, and presently Kilmore knew by her breathing she was asleep. By-and-by the doctor came in noiselessly and looked at her, and then went out again, and still Eva slept on.The room was quite still; outside the spring day was dying over the moorland, inside Kilmore sat with the hand of the woman he loved in his, with his heart racked with a great anguish, but still Eva slept on.It was not until the moon rose over the curate's little cottage that she awoke, and raised her dark eyes to her pale, anxious watcher."I am quite happy, Clair," she murmured faintly. "Quite happy!"By this time the doctor and Miss Walton were in the room, and they bent over her and tried to make her take some restorative; but Eva gently shook her head."Try, for my sake, Eva," prayed Kilmore, and then she tried, and took it from his hand, and presently once more sank into a placid sleep.They watched her thus hour after hour."It is useless to disturb her," the doctor had whispered in Miss Walton's ear, and so they let her slumber on.Downstairs the curate was on his knees praying for the departing soul; upstairs Kilmore still sat clasping her hand in his, still looking on her fair face, though all hope had died from his.But just about midnight again Eva awoke, and there was a strange, new light in her eyes."Look after the child," she said; "let me see the child."Miss Walton went out and brought in the tiny sleeping babe, and placed it on the bed by her side.Take care of it—for my sake, Clair," whispered Eva, looking up in his face; "and—and forgive—me all.""There is nothing to forgive, my darling—my darling!" he answered, his voice broken by sobs.Eva did not speak again for a few minutes, and then through the gathering dimness of death she muttered her last words."I am quite happy, Clair, quite happy to die with you!"CHAPTER XVIGOING BACK.THE scene after Eva had drawn her last fluttering breath was inexpressibly painful. For a moment or two Kilmore did not realise it; but the doctor laid his hand on her wrist, and then said feelingly,—"It is all over, my lord; the poor lady is dead.""No! no!" cried Kilmore frantically, and he caught Eva in his arms and raised her to his breast, and pillowed her head there, covering her face with kisses. "Eva, my darling, my darling, look at me again, speak to me—only once, Eva—only once!"But the still lips made no reply, and the bright head nestled no closer."It is no use, my lord," said the doctor, shaking his head, while Miss Walton sobbed aloud."Come away now, Lord Kilmore," she wept, laying her hand on his arm in her kindly fashion; "you can do the poor darling no good now, and she had her prayer answered. She prayed always in her anguish to look again on your face, and she died with her hand in yours.""Leave us alone," said Kilmore hoarsely, without lifting his head, after a few moments' silence; "leave me with my darling alone."And Miss Walton, after a sympathetic glance at the doctor, raised the child in her arms, and the two went out and left Kilmore alone with his dead.And let us also leave them. There are moments too terrible almost to be borne, and to Kilmore this was one of them. Moments when it is best no human eye should see the dark anguish and passion of our souls. When reason is overwhelmed, and we cry out in our wild grief words which none should hear. Thus Kilmore wailed and wept by the woman he loved, and it seemed ever afterwards to him that her spirit still lingered near.Long he mourned there, but as the night wore on, just before the dawn, the curate entered, and he too knelt down by the bed and prayed, and spoke holy words of comfort and peace."My brother, she is asleep," he said, laying his hand on Kilmore's. "Hush, do not disturb her with your grief."And this idea seemed to have some effect on Kilmore. He rose and tottered to a chair, and sat there in silence. But he would not leave her, and when the new day rose he was still watching by his dead.And during the sad days that followed he scarcely left her. He sat by her when she lay covered with white flowers; when all her old loveliness seemed to come back to her, and she was beautiful as the fair girl he had first wooed by the gurgling Ayre.The day after her death another came too, and asked to look on her face. This was George Temple, who arrived in the morning, a rumour having reached him the night before that a lady had taken refuge there during the storm, and was lying desperately ill.On the night when Eva had fled from his house, he had in vain endeavoured to break open the door which she had locked, and of which she had taken away the key. It was not until the deaf old woman in the kitchen roused herself, and began thinking of her bed, that he could make anyone hear him for the violence of the storm.But as the old woman went upstairs, she became conscious that some unusual noise was going on behind the sitting-room door. She stopped to listen.She had been told when Mr Temple engaged her, that his wife had been out of her mind, and that she had to be constantly watched, and kept under lock and key. Temple inside heard her foot-fall on the stairs, and renewed his shouts and endeavours to break open the door."Turn the key!" he screamed at the top of his voice. "I am locked in.""The key's gone," answered the old woman.Again Temple cursed and shouted, and shook the door in his rage, while the tempest roared and howled outside, but his efforts were all in vain.Then he bade the old woman go for a locksmith to pick the lock, and she screamed back there was none lived near for miles, and she could not go out on such a night.He told her to look if his wife were in the house, and the old crone did, and brought back the news he expected to hear.She was gone, and Temple then knew that Eva must be struggling outside with the storm.The old woman then went downstairs and brought up a wood-chopper from the kitchen, and began hammering with it at the locked door; but she was feeble, and it was hours before she could make any impression. At last she did, and between them the door was broken in about three o'clock in the morning, and Temple at once rushed out into the wild weather outside to seek for Eva.He came back about dawn perfectly exhausted, having seen nor heard nothing concerning her. All the next day he sought also in vain; but late at night he heard a rumour that a lady had taken refuge at the curate's cottage across the moor, and early the next morning he started forth to make inquiries.He asked to see Mr Walton, and the grave-faced young curate went to the door to speak to him."Did a lady come here," he asked in an agitated voice, "the night before last?""Yes," answered the curate slowly; he was wondering who this harsh-faced man, dressed in the garb of his cloth, could be.""Was she young and fair—is she ill?" asked Temple in an agitated voice."She is at rest," said the curate solemnly; "she died last night about midnight.""Died!" echoed Temple, and he staggered back against the door-post as though he had received a sudden blow."Yes; a child was born in the morning, and she never rallied. She had been exposed in the storm, and had evidently come from some distance, and thus killed her. We telegraphed, by her wish, for her husband, Lord Kilmore, and he arrived in time. She died in his arms."Every word of this speech smote like a sharp sword through the listener's ears. He grew ghastly pale; his harsh features were convulsed. All the past rose in grim array before him as he leant against the curate's door-post. The schoolgirl he had urged into a secret marriage; their unhappy wedded days; their parting, and his long absence.And the last two days!The curate's words rang in his ears."It killed her? I killed her!" thought the stern conscience of the man, stern even to himself.For some minutes he did not speak. Then he said hoarsely,—"Can I see her?""I think not," answered the curate gravely. "Lord Kilmore is with her, for we can scarcely persuade him to leave her side. It is a terribly sad case; all through her illness she only prayed to live until he came; and I thank God," added the curate reverently, "that her prayer was answered."Again for a brief space Temple was silent; then, still in that hoarse, strained voice, he spoke."Tell him—Lord Kilmore," he said, "that I—George Temple—have been here."And then, without another word, he turned away, and went staggering across the moorland, haunted by the footsteps of the woman he had killed.An hour later the curate told Kilmore of this strange visitor. And Kilmore started and grew ghastly pale as he listened."Did he say any more?" he asked, with quivering lips."Nothing; only that I was to tell you that George Temple had been here. He seemed deeply agitated."And Kilmore also said nothing more. He gave a heavy sighs, and then with bent head went back to the room where Eva lay in her strange beauty. He stooped down and kissed her cold hand; through his mind passed a new thought, which he acted on the same afternoon, addressing the following letter to his mother:—"DEAR MOTHER,—The day after to-morrow I propose to bring, to be laid in the family vault at Kilmore, all that is left to me of the woman I loved—of the woman whom I married more than six months ago, so that when my time comes my dust may lie near hers."A little babe was born to us before its time—a frail, feeble child—but one of her last wishes was that you should be a mother to it, and I pray you, for my sake, do not refuse this; and spare me also at this moment of extreme grief any questions on the tragedy of her life and mine.—Your son, KILMORE."He despatched this letter, and when during the evening, with extreme delicacy, the curate approached the subject of Eva's last resting-place, Kilmore answered,—"She shall sleep where I shall sleep. I mean to take her to Kilmore. Will you go with me, Mr Walton?""Most certainly," answered the curate; "anything that I can do to spare you pain, I will do with all my heart."The sad details were settled after this, and the following day brought a letter from Lady Kilmore:—"MY DEAREST, DEAREST SON,—Bring home the beloved one you have lost, and the little babe she has left to you. I will be a mother to the child, and I pray that God will comfort and help you in this bitter hour of bereavement and sorrow.—Ever your deeply - attached and loving mother, J. KILMORE.""This is my mother's letter," said Kilmore, after he had read these words with dim eyes, handing the letter to the curate, who then also read it."I thank God you have such a mother," answered Mr Walton."She is the best, the dearest," said Kilmore, with faltering tongue; "her own heart was broken by my father's death—she will understand."Her son's letter had indeed been received by Lady Kilmore with the deepest sympathy and agitation. She had not heard from him since his return to England, and had forwarded poor Eva's telegram and Mr Walton's to his address at Vienna. Therefore the whole thing came on her as a sudden blow.She called Annette Grower; she held Kilmore's letter in her trembling hand when Annette entered, and her face was very pale and her eyes full of tears."Annette, read this," she said; "it is so sad, so dreadful!"Then Annette read Kilmore's miserable words, and her face, too, grew white, but her trembling lips made no sound."It must have been that poor girl," continued Lady Kilmore pitifully. "Oh! poor, poor Clair!"Still Annette did not speak."And the little babe—the child. Oh! I am so glad it is coming to me.""Yes," answered Annette huskily.Then Lady Kilmore looked at her niece, and saw by her face how deeply she was moved."It is terribly sad, my dear," she said gently; "but he is young. He will get over this early blow, and it will bring him home to us."Again Annette strove to answer "Yes," with her pallid lips, and then left the room, going to her own, and after locking herself in, broke down into a sudden passion of tears."Oh! Clair, poor Clair!" she sobbed, and sat there weeping, thinking of her cousin and of the bitter grief which had come to his young life.In the meanwhile, Lady Kilmore was writing to her son, her heart fluttering at the prospect of once more clasping a little child to her breast."Poor little babe," she kept repeating to herself; "poor motherless little babe, but motherless no more."The thought seemed to give her a new interest in life. She wrote again the same evening to her son, impressing on him how the greatest care must be taken of the child, and asking at what time it would arrive at the Hall, and inquiring about the nurse, and various other questions.To this letter Kilmore replied that Miss Walton had kindly consented to bring the babe and its nurse to the Hall."I will take my lost one straight to her last home," he added, "and Miss Walton's brother, a young clergyman, will accompany me, and has made every necessary arrangement."Lady Kilmore understood from this letter that Kilmore wished everything to be conducted as quietly and plainly as possible. And this was so. The bitterness of his grief was too great for outward show.So when the time came they bore her away from the little cottage by the moor, where she had taken refuge in her bitter need, and carried her back to Kilmore, where her young lover had first looked on her fair face.George Temple, if he knew, made no sign nor claim, and indeed left Hurstwood House, a saddened, conscience-stricken man.The funeral was quite a private one, only two mourners—Kilmore and Mr Walton—following the woman Kilmore had loved to her quiet resting-place.He knelt down and kissed the coffin before it was lowered to the grave, whispering some words as he did so that no one living heard. Then he rose with bowed head and turned away, feeling that all that had made life dear to him was now hidden from his sight.Miss Walton, in the meanwhile, had taken the little babe to the Hall, where Lady Kilmore received it with the tenderest affection. It was asleep in her arms when Kilmore, changed and sorrow-stricken, returned from its young mother's grave."My dear, my dear!" cried Lady Kilmore when she saw him, starting to her feet, still with the child in her arms, and going up to him she kissed him fondly, and then showed him the face of the little babe. "It is a dear little thing, Clair," she said, and tears came into her eyes as she spoke; "thank you for bringing her to me.""It was her wish," answered Kilmore, with faltering tongue; and then he bent down and kissed the little hand of his child."I accept the sacred charge," said Lady Kilmore, with deep emotion; and not another word was spoken between the mother and son on a subject which Lady Kilmore saw his heart was too sore to endure.A year passed away; a year with its changes and chances; a quiet year at Kilmore Hall, where the young lord lived with clouded brow all through the revolving months. But when the primroses began again to flower in the dells, and the blue bells decked the woods, and the day that Eva died in last year's springtime was past and gone, Kilmore went up to town on an errand that he had unceasingly cherished in his heart, though he had spoken of it to none.Not even to his friend Mr Walton, to whom he had by this time presented the living at Kilmore, as the old incumbent had died during the hard winter days. Not to his mother, who loved him so well, nor to his cousin, to whom he was yet dearer still.He kissed the little child before he went away, and Lady Kilmore noticed, when he raised his head after he had done so, that his face was paler than its wont. He was going to avenge Eva's wrongs, and there was a stern and settled purpose in his heart.The banker, Mr Ford, sat in his private sitting-room that spring day, and there was a frown upon his brow. A letter lay on the escritoire before him, written in a handwriting he hated to see. A letter from Madame de Cimbri, demanding money—money that he hated to give."She is a harpy," he thought disdainfully. And then somehow, by one of those subtle links that bind our thoughts, his mind wandered to another woman—to a woman lying in her grave, and he sighed uneasily, for Mr Ford loved not painful memories.He had heard of Eva's death from Mr Temple, who had gone to him with hard and bitter words; and lately a correspondence had passed between them regarding the transfer of Eva's fortune, of which Temple claimed as much as the law allowed him, and which he meant to devote to a distant mission in Africa.Altogether the subject was an unpleasant one to the self-indulgent man, and he tried to put it from his mind. He rose, went to the window, and stood there looking out; but still the thought of the beautiful woman he had so greatly admired pursued him.A rap came to the room door, and he turned round."There is a gentleman wishes to see you, sir," said one of the clerks, who now appeared."Show him in," answered Mr Ford.He was glad to have a visitor; he thought it would divert his mind.A minute later, pale, stern, and dressed in deep mourning, Kilmore entered the room.The banker visibly started when he saw him. Then he tried to recover himself."Lord Kilmore!" he said half nervously."Yes," answered Kilmore, whose grey eyes were fixed with a strange, concentrated look on his face. "You understand, I suppose, why I am here?""Indeed I do not.""I have come to call you to account for a shameful wrong done to a woman lying in her grave—to which you sent her.""Nay, Lord Kilmore—""Do not deny it," went on Kilmore sternly and with gathering passion. "You acted like a cur! You suppressed my letter, and then gave it as a lure to the man she hated! But you shall not escape. I give you your choice. Will you cross over to France with me to-night, and let us fight to the death, or take from me now what you so well deserve?""I protest against such conduct, Lord Kilmore! I will go on no fool's errand—""Then take that! and that! and that!" cried Kilmore, producing as he spoke a heavy dog-whip, and springing forward and showering as he spoke, with his strong, young hands, stinging cuts on the banker's face and shoulders, who was so completely taken by surprise that he scarcely made any efforts to defend himself. "You cur!" went on Kilmore fiercely, "how dare you do what you did—how dare you?"Mr Ford screamed for assistance; he tried to get to the bell; he took up a chair; but all was of no avail. Kilmore did not spare him, but ruthlessly plied his whip, and he finally left Mr Ford smarting, bleeding, swearing, and vowing all sorts of vengeance on his head.But Mr Ford never took any proceedings against him. The affair was hushed up. Perhaps the banker's conscience told him his punishment was well deserved.THE END.London: DIGBY, LONG & COMPANY, Publishers,
18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. Advertisement included in back of Russell's "The Hidden Chain"
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