Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the
Internet Archive (University of California Libraries)

Transcriber's Notes:
   1. Page scan source: Internet Archive
      https://archive.org/details/silentshoreroman00blourich
      (University of California Libraries)

THE SILENT SHORE

A Romance

BY
JNO. BLOUNDELLE-BURTON

"To die is landing on a silent shore,
Where billows never beat, nor tempests roar."

LONDON
JOHN AND ROBERT MAXWELL
MILTON HOUSE, ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS
AND
SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
[_All rights reserved_]

THE SILENT SHORE

Prologue

THE STORY OF THIRTY YEARS AGO

"And you are certain of the year he was married in?"

"Perfectly--there is no possibility of my being mistaken. He was
married on New Year's Day, '58; I was born in May, '59."

"It is strange, certainly. But there is one solution of it--is it not
possible that, even if this is he, the lady registered as his wife
might not have been so? In fact she could not have been, otherwise he
could never have married your mother."

"I will not believe it! He was too cold and austere--too puritanical I
had almost said--to form any such connection."

"Do you think, then, that he would commit bigamy?"

"I don't know what to think!" the other answered gloomily.

Two men, both about the same age, twenty-five, were seated in a
private room at an inn, known as the Hôtel Bellevue, at Le Vocq, a
dreary fishing town with a good though small harbour, a dozen miles
west of Havre. On a fine day the bay that runs in from Barfleur to
Fécamp is gay and bright, but it presented a melancholy appearance
on this occasion, as the two young men gazed out at it across the
rain-soaked plots of grass that formed the lawn of the "Bellevue."
Down below the cliff on which the inn stood, the port was visible, and
in the port was to be seen an English cutter, the _Electra_, in which
the friends had run for Le Vocq when the storm, that had now been
raging for twenty-four hours, broke upon them. They had left Cowes a
fortnight ago, and had been yachting pleasantly in the Channel since,
putting into Cherbourg on one occasion, into Ste. Mère Eglise on
another, and Havre on a third; and now, as ill-luck would have it, it
seemed as if they were doomed to be weather-bound in, of the many
dreary places on the coast, the dreariest of all, Le Vocq.

The first night in the inn, to which they had come up after seeing the
yacht made snug and comfortable in the harbour below, and the sailors
left in charge of her also provided for, passed easily enough. There
was the hope of the storm abating--which was cheering--and they had
cards, and some Paris newspapers to read, and above all, they were
fatigued and could sleep well. But, on the next day, the storm had not
abated, and they were tired of cards, the old Paris papers had been
read and re-read, and later ones had not arrived, and they were
refreshed with their night's rest and wanted to be off. But there was
no getting off, and what was to be done?

They had stood all the morning looking out of the window
disconsolately, had smoked pipes and cigarettes innumerable, and had
yawned a good deal, and sworn a little.

"What the deuce are we to do to prevent ourselves from dying of
_ennui_, Philip?" the one asked the other.

"Jerry," the other answered solemnly, "I know no more than you do.
There is nothing left to read, and soon--very soon, alas!--there will
be nothing left to smoke but the _caporal_ obtainable in the village.
That, however, might poison us and end our miseries."

Then the one called Philip began looking about the salon that was at
their disposal, and whistling plaintively, and peering into the
cupboards, of which there were two:

"Hullo!" he suddenly exclaimed, "here is another great mental treat
for us--a lot of old books; and precious big ones, too! I wonder what
they are?"

"Pull them out and let us see. Probably only _Le Monde Illustré_, or
_Le Journal Amusant_, bound up for the landlord's winter nights'
delectation, after they have been thumbed by every sailor in the
village."

"Oh, confound the books!" Philip exclaimed when he had looked into
them, "they are only the old registers, the _Livres des Étrangers_ of
bygone years."

"Nevertheless, let us see them," the other answered; "at any rate we
shall learn what kind of company the house has kept."

So, obeying his behest, Philip brought them out, and they sat down "to
begin at the beginning," as they said laughingly; and each took a
volume and commenced to peruse it.

Every now and then they told one another of some name they had
come across, the owner of which was known to them by hearsay,
and they agreed that the "Hôtel Bellevue" had, in its day, had
some very good people for its guests. They had found several
titles--English--inscribed in the pages of the register, and also many
prominent names belonging to the same nationality.

"Probably half these people have occupied this very sitting-room at
some time or the other," Philip said to Gervase. "I only wish to
heaven some of them were here now, and that----"

He stopped at a sudden exclamation of his friend, who was gazing
fixedly at the page before him.

"What kind of a find is it now, Jerry?" he asked. "Any one very
wonderful?"

"It must be a mistake," the other said in a low voice. "And yet how
could such a mistake happen? Look at this!" and he pointed with his
finger to a line in the book.

"By Jove!" the other exclaimed, as he read, "_Août_ 17, 1854, _L'Hon.
Gervase Occleve et sa femme_." Then he said, "Your father of course,
before he inherited his title?"

"Of course! There never was any other Gervase Occleve in existence,
except myself, while he was alive. But what can it mean?"

"It means that your father knew this place many years ago, and came
here: that is all, I should say. It is a coincidence, but after all it
is no more strange that he should know Le Vocq, than that you should."

"But you don't see the curious part of it, Philip! It is the words _et
sa femme_. My father had no wife in 1854! He never had a wife until he
married my mother, and then he was Lord Penlyn and no longer known as
Gervase Occleve."

And then followed the conversation with which this story opens.

"It _is_ a strange thing," Philip said, "but it must be a mistake."

In his own heart, being somewhat of a worldling, he did not think it
was any mistake at all. He thought it highly probable that the late
Lord Penlyn had, when here, a lady travelling with him who was
registered as his wife, but who, in actual fact, was not his wife at
all.

After a few moments spent in thought, Gervase turned to his friend and
said, "The landlord, the man who stared so hard at me yesterday when
we came in, was an elderly person. He may have had this hotel in '54,
might even remember this mysterious namesake of mine. I think I will
ask him to come up."

"I shouldn't," Philip said. "He isn't at all likely to remember
anything about it." In his mind he thought it very probable that the
man might, even at that distance of time, remember something of
Gervase's father, especially if he had made a long stay at the house,
and would perhaps be able to give some reminiscences of his whilom
guest that might by no means make his son feel comfortable.

But his remonstrance was unheeded, and the other rang the bell. It was
answered by a tidy waitress wearing the cap peculiar to the district,
to whom Gervase--who was an excellent linguist--said in very good
French:

"If the landlord is in, will you be good enough to say that Lord
Penlyn would be glad to speak to him?"

The girl withdrew, and in a few minutes the landlord tapped at the
door. When he had received an invitation to enter, he came into the
room and bowed respectfully, but, as he did so, Lord Penlyn again
noticed that his eyes were fixed upon him with a wondering stare; a
stare exactly the same as he had received on the previous day when
they entered the hotel. There was nothing rude nor offensive in the
look; it partook more of the nature of an incredulous gaze than
anything else.

"Milor has expressed a wish to see me," he said as he entered. "He
has, I trust, found everything to his wish in my poor house!"

"Perfectly," Gervase answered; "but I want to ask you a question. Will
you be seated?" And then when the landlord had taken a chair--still
looking intently at him--he went on:

"We found these _Livres des Étrangers_ in your cupboard, and, for want
of anything else to read, we took them down and have been amusing
ourselves with them. I hope we did not take a liberty."

"_Mais, Milor!_" the landlord said with a shrug of his shoulders and a
twitch of his eyebrows, that were meant to express his satisfaction at
his guests being able to find anything to distract them.

"Thank you," Gervase said. "Well! in going through this book--the one
of 1854--I have come upon a name so familiar to me, the name of
Gervase Occleve, that----"

But before he could finish his sentence the landlord had jumped up
from his chair, and was speaking rapidly while he gesticulated in a
thorough French fashion.

"_C'est ça, mon Dieu, mais oui!_" he began. "Occleve--of course! That
is the face. Sir, Milor! I salute you! When you entered my house
yesterday, I said to myself, 'But where, mon Dieu, but where have I
seen him? Or is it but the spirit of some dead one looking at me out
of his eyes?' And now that you mention to me the name of Occleve, then
in a moment he comes back to me and I see him once again. _Ah! ma foi,
Milor!_ but when I regard you, then in verity he returns to me, and I
recall him as he used to sit in this very room--_parbleu!_ in that
very chair in which you now sit."

The young men had both stared at him with some amazement as he spoke
hurriedly and excitedly, repeating himself in his earnestness, and now
as he ceased, Gervase said:

"Do I understand you to say, then, that I bear such a likeness to this
man, whose name is inscribed here, as to recall him vividly to you?"
"_Mais, sans doute!_ you are his son! It must be so. There is only one
thing that I do not comprehend. You bear a different name."

"He became Lord Penlyn later in life, and at his death that title came
to me."

"_Bien compris!_ And so he is dead! He can scarcely have lived the
full space of man's years. And Madame your mother? She is well?"

For a moment the young man hesitated. Then he said: "She is dead too."

"_Pauvre dame_," the landlord said, and as he spoke it seemed as
though he was talking to himself. "She was bright and happy in those
days so far off, bright and happy once; and she, too, is gone. And I,
who was older than either of them, am left! But, Lord Penlyn," he
said, readdressing himself to his guest, "you look younger than your
years. It is thirty years since you used to run about those sands
outside and play; I have carried you to them often----"

"You carried me to those sands thirty years ago! Why, I was not----"

"Stop!" Philip Smerdon said to him in English, and speaking in a low
tone. "Do you not see it all? Say no more."

"Yes," Gervase answered. "Yes, I see it all."

Later on, when the landlord had left the room after insisting upon
shaking the hand of "the child he had known thirty years ago," Gervase
said:

"So he who was so stern and self-contained, who seemed to be above the
ordinary weaknesses of other men, was, after all, worse than the
majority of them. I suppose he flung this poor woman off when he
married my mother, I suppose he left the boy, for whom this man takes
me--to starve or to become a thief preying on his fellow men. It is
not pleasant to think that I have an elder brother who may be an
outcast, perhaps a felon!"

"I should not take quite such a pessimist view of things as that,"
Philip said. "For aught you know, the lady he had with him here may
have died between 1854 and 1858, and, for the matter of that, so may
the boy; or he may have made a good allowance to both when he parted
with them. For anything you know to the contrary he might have seen
the boy frequently until his death, and have taken care to place him
comfortably in the world."

"In such a case I must have known it. I must have met him somewhere."

"Nothing more unlikely! The world is large enough--in spite of the
numerous jokes about its smallness--for two peculiarly situated
individuals not to meet. If I were you, Jerry, I should think no more
about the matter."

"It is not a thing one can easily forget!" the other answered.

The landlord had given them a description of what he remembered of the
Gervase Occleve whom he had known thirty years ago, but what he had
told them had not thrown much light upon the subject. He described how
Gervase Occleve had first come there in the summer of '54 accompanied
by his wife (he evidently had never doubted that they were married)
and by his son, "the Monsieur now before him," as he said innocently.
They had lived very quietly, occupying the very rooms in which they
were now sitting, he told the young men; roaming about the sands in
the day, or driving over to the adjacent towns and villages, or
sailing in a boat that Mr. Occleve hired by the month. They seemed
contented and happy enough, he said, and stayed on and on until the
autumn's damp and rain, peculiar to that part of the coast, drove them
away. It was strange, he thought, that Milor did not remember anything
about that period; but it was true, he was but a little child!

Then, he continued, in the following summer they returned again, and
again spent some months there--and then, he never saw nor heard of
them more. But, so well did he remember Mr. Occleve's face, even after
all these years, that, ever since Lord Penlyn had been in the house,
he had been puzzling his brains to think where he had seen him before.
He certainly should not, he said, have remembered the child he had
played with so often, but that his likeness to his father was more
than striking. To Madame, his mother, he saw no resemblance at all.

"But I did not tell him," he said to himself afterwards, as he sat in
his parlour below and sipped a little red wine meditatively, "I did
not tell him that on the second summer a gloom had fallen over them,
and that I often saw her in tears, and heard him speak harshly to her.
Why should I? _À quoi bon_ to disturb the poor young man's meditations
on his dead father and mother!"

And the good landlord went out and served a chopine of _petit bleu_ to
one customer, and a _tasse_ of _absinthe gommée_ to another, and
entertained them with an account of how there was, upstairs, an
English Milor who had been there thirty years ago with his father; the
Milor who was the owner of the yacht now in port.

On the next day the storm was over, there was almost a due south wind,
and the _Electra_ was skimming over the waves and leaving the dreary
French coast far behind it.

"It hasn't been a pleasant visit," Lord Penlyn said to Philip, as they
leant over the bows smoking their pipes and watching Le Vocq fade
gradually into a speck. "I would give something never to have heard
that story!"

"It is the story of thirty years ago," his friend answered. "And it is
not you who did the wrong. Why let it worry you?"

"I cannot help it! And--I daresay you will think me a fool!--but I
cannot also help wondering on which of my father's children--upon that
other nameless and unknown one, or upon me--his sins will be visited!"

The Story

CHAPTER I.

Ida Raughton sat, on a bright June day of that year, in her pretty
boudoir looking out on the well-kept gardens of a West End square, and
thinking of an important event in her life that was now not very far
off--her marriage. Within the last month she had become engaged, not
without some earlier doubts on her part as to whether she was
altogether certain of her feelings--though, afterwards, she told
herself over and over again that the man to whom she was now promised
was the only one she could ever love: and the wedding-day was fixed
for the 1st of September. Her future husband was Gervase Occleve,
Viscount Penlyn.

She was the only daughter of Sir Paul Raughton, a wealthy Surrey
baronet, and had been to him, since her mother's death, as the apple
of his eye--the only thing that to him seemed to make life worth
living. It was true that he had distractions that are not uncommon to
elderly gentlemen of means, and possessed of worldly tastes; perfectly
true that Paris and Nice, and Ascot and Newmarket, as well as his
clubs and his friends--not always male ones--had charms for him that
were still very seductive; but, after all, they were nothing in
comparison to his daughter's love and his love for her. Never during
his long widowerhood, a widowerhood dating from her infancy, had he
failed to make her life and happiness the central object of his
existence; never had he allowed his pleasures to stand in the way of
the study of her comfort. The best schools and masters when she was a
child, the best friends and chaperons for her when womanhood was
approaching, and when it had arrived, the greatest liberality as
regards cheques for dressmakers, milliners, upholsterers, horses,
etc., had been but a small part of his way of showing his devotion to
her. And she had returned his affection, had been to him a daughter
giving back love for love, and endeavouring in every way in her power
to make him an ample return for all the thought and care he had
showered on her. Of course he had foreseen that the inevitable day
must come when--love him however much she might--she would still be
willing to leave him, when she would be willing to resign being
mistress of her father's house to be mistress of her husband's. His
worldly knowledge, which was extensive enough for half-a-dozen
ordinary men, told him clearly enough that the parent nest very soon
palled on the bird that saw its way to building one for itself. Yet,
when the blow fell, as he had known it must fall, he did not find that
his philosophy enabled him to endure it very lightly. On the other
hand, there was his love for her, and that bade him let her go, since
it was for her happiness that she should do so.

"I promised her mother when she lay dying," he said to himself, "that
my life should be devoted to her, and I have kept my vow to the best
of my power. I am not going to break it now. Besides, it is part of a
father's duty to see his daughter well married; and I suppose Penlyn
is a good match. At any rate, there are plenty of other fathers and
mothers who would like to have caught him for their girls."

That she should have made a sensation during her first season was not
a thing to astonish Sir Paul, nor, indeed, any one else. Ida Raughton
was as thoroughly beautiful a girl, when first she made her appearance
in London society, as any who had ever taken their place in its ranks.
Tall and graceful, and possessed of an exquisitely shaped head, round
which her auburn hair curled in thick locks; with bright hazel eyes,
whose expression varied in accordance with their owner's thoughts and
feelings, sometimes sparkling with laughter and mirth, and sometimes
saddened with tears as she listened to any tale of sorrow; with a nose
the line of which was perfect, and a mouth, the smallness of which
disguised, though it could not hide, the even, white teeth within, no
one could look at Ida without acknowledging how lovely she was. Even
other and rival _débutantes_ granted her loveliness, and the woman who
can obtain such a concession as this from her sisters has fairly
established her right to homage.

As she sat at her boudoir window on this June day, thinking of her now
definitely settled marriage, she was wondering if the life before her
would be as bright and happy as the one she was leaving behind for
ever. That--with the exception of the death of her mother, a sorrow
that time had mercifully tempered to her--had been without alloy.
Would the future be so? There was no reason to think otherwise, she
reflected, no reason to doubt it. Lord Penlyn was young, handsome, and
manly, the owner of an honoured name, and well endowed with the
world's goods. Yet that would not have weighed with her had she not
loved him.

She had asked herself if she did love him several times before she
consented to give him the answer he desired, and then she acknowledged
that he alone had won her heart. She recalled other men's attentions
to her, their soft words, their desire to please; how they had haunted
her footsteps at balls and at the Opera, and how no other man's homage
had ever been so sweet to her as the homage of Gervase Occleve. At
first--wishing still to be sure of herself--she would not agree to be
his wife, telling him that she did not know her heart; but when he
asked her a second time, after she had had ample opportunity for
reflection, she told him he should have his wish.

"And you do love me, Ida?" he asked rapturously, perhaps boyishly, as
they drove back from a large dinner-party to which they had gone at
Richmond. "You are sure you do?"

"Yes," she said, "I am sure I do. I was not sure when first you asked
me, but I am now."

"Then kiss me, darling, and tell me so. Otherwise I shall scarcely be
able to believe it;" and he bent over her and kissed her, and she
returned the kiss.

"I love you, Gervase," she said, blushing as she did so.

"You have made me supremely happy," he said to her after their lips
had met; "happy beyond all thought. And, dearest, you shall never have
cause to repent of it. I will be to you the best, the truest husband
woman ever had. There shall be no shadow ever come over your life that
I can keep away."

For answer she put her hand in his, and so they drove along the lanes
that were getting thick with hawthorn and chestnut blossom, while
ahead of them sounded the merry voices of others of the party who were
on a four-in-hand. They had come down, a joyous company, from town in
the afternoon, had dined at the "Star and Garter," and were now on
their way home under the soft moonlight of an early summer evening.
Sir Paul had been with them in the landau on the journey out, but on
this return one he was seated on the top of the coach, talking to a
lady whom he addressed more than once as "his dear old friend," and
was smoking innumerable cigarettes. Probably he did not imagine for
one moment that Lord Penlyn was going to take this opportunity of
proposing to his daughter; but he had noticed that they seemed to
enjoy each other's society very much, especially when they could
enjoy it alone. And so, all things being suitable and harmonious, and
the baronet having a heart beneath his exceedingly well-fitting
waistcoat--and that a very big heart where Ida was concerned--had let
them have the gratification of the drive home together.

"And you never loved any other man, Ida?" Gervase asked. "Forgive the
question, but every lover likes to know, or think, that no one has
ever been before him in the affection of the woman he loves."

"No," she answered, "never. You are the first man I have ever loved."

This had happened nearly a month ago, but as Ida sat in her boudoir
her thoughts returned to the drive on that May night. Yes, she
acknowledged, she loved him, and she loved him more and more every
time she saw him. But as she recalled this conversation she also
recalled the question he had asked her, the question as to whether she
had ever loved any other man; and she wondered what had made him ask
it. Could it be that it was supposed by some of their circle--though
erroneously supposed, she told herself--that another man loved her?
Perfectly erroneously, because that other man had never breathed one
word of love to her; and because, though he would sometimes be in her
society continually for perhaps a week, and then be absent for a
month, he never, during all the time they were thus constantly
meeting, paid her more marked attention than other men were in the
habit of doing. Yet, notwithstanding this, it had come to her
knowledge that it had been whispered about that Walter Cundall loved
her.

This man, Walter Cundall, this reported admirer of hers, was well
known in society, was in a way famous, though his fame was in the
principal part due to the simplest purchaser of that commodity--to
wealth. He was known to be stupendously rich, to be able to spend any
large sum of money he chose in order to gratify his inclinations, to
be able to look upon thousands as ordinary men looked upon hundreds,
and upon hundreds as other men looked upon tens. This was the
principal part of his fame; but there was a lesser, though a better
part! It was true that he did spend hundreds and thousands, but, as a
rule, he spent them quite as much upon others as upon himself. His
fours-in-hand, his yachts and steam-yachts, his villa at Cookham, and
his house in Grosvenor Place, as well as his villa at Cannes--to which
a joyous party went every winter--were as much for his friends as for
him. He gave dinners that men and women delighted in getting
invitations to; but it was noticed that, though his _chéf_ was a
marvel, he rarely ate of anything but the soup and joint himself, and
that, while others were drinking the best wine that Burgundy, or Aÿ,
or Rheims could produce, he scarcely ever quenched his thirst with
anything but a tumbler of claret. But he would sit at the head of his
table with a smile of satisfaction upon his handsome face, contented
with the knowledge that his guests were happy and enjoying themselves.

This man of whom Ida was now thinking and whose story may be told
here, had commenced life at Westminster School, to which he had been
put by his uncle, a rich owner of mines and woods in Honduras, from
which place he paid flying visits to England once a year, or once in
two years. The boy was an orphan, left by his mother to her brother's
care, and that brother had not failed in his trust. The lad went to
Westminster with the full understanding that Honduras must be his home
when school days were over; but he knew that it would be a home of
luxury and tropical splendour. There, after his school days, he passed
some years of his life, attending to the mines, seeing to the
consignments of shiploads of mahogany and cedar, going for days in the
hills with no companions but the Mestizos and the Indians, and helping
his uncle to garner up more and more wealth that was eventually
destined to be his. Once or twice in the space of ten years he came to
Europe, generally with the object of increasing their connection with
London or Continental cities, and of looking up and keeping touch with
his old schoolfellows and friends.

And then, at last, two or three years before this story opens, and
when his uncle was dead, it came to be said about London that Walter
Cundall, the richest man from the Pacific to the Gulf of Honduras, had
taken a house in Grosvenor Place, and meant to make London more or
less permanently his residence. The other places that have
been mentioned were purchased one by one, and he used all his
possessions--sharing them with his friends--by turn; but London was,
as people said, his home. Occasionally he would go off to Honduras on
business, or would rush by the Orient express to St. Petersburg or
Vienna; but he loved England better than any other spot in the globe,
and never left it unless he was obliged to do so.

This was the man whom gossip had said was the future husband of Ida
Raughton--this tall, dark, handsome man, who was, when in England, a
great deal by her side. But gossip had been rather staggered when it
heard that, during Mr. Cundall's last absence of six months in the
tropics, she had become the affianced wife of Lord Penlyn! It wondered
what he would say when he came back, as it heard he was about to do
very shortly, and it wondered why on earth she had taken Penlyn when
she might have had Cundall. It talked it over in the drawing-rooms and
the ball-rooms, at Epsom and on the lawn at Sandown, but it did not
seem to arrive at any conclusion satisfactory to itself.

"I suppose the fact of it is that Cundall never asked her," one said
to another, "and she got tired of waiting."

"I should have waited a bit longer on the off chance," the other said
"Cundall's a fifty times richer fellow than Penlyn, and there's no
comparison between the two. The one is a man of the world and a
splendid fellow, and the other is only a boy."

"He isn't a bad sort of a boy though," said a third, "good-looking,
and all that. And," he continued sententiously, "he has the pull in
age. That's what tells! He is about twenty-five, and Cundall's well
over thirty, isn't he?"

"Thirty is no such great age," said the first one, who, being over
forty himself, looked upon Cundall also as almost a boy, "and, for my
part, I think she has made a mistake!"

And that was what the world said: "She had made a mistake!" Did she
think so herself, as she sat there that bright afternoon? No, that
could not be possible! Ida Raughton was a girl with too pure and
honourable a heart to take one man when she loved another. And we know
what the gossips did not know, that no word of love had ever passed
between her and Walter Cundall. The world was indulging in profitless
speculations when it debated in its mind why Ida had not taken as a
husband a man who had never spoken one word of love to her!

CHAPTER II.

A few days after Ida Raughton had been indulging in those summer
noontide meditations, Walter Cundall arrived at his house in Grosvenor
Place. Things were so well ordered in the establishment of which he
was master, that a telegram from Liverpool, despatched a few hours
earlier, had been sufficient to cause everything to be in readiness
for him; and his servants were so used to his coming and going that
his arrival created no unusual excitement.

He walked into his handsome library followed by a staid, grave
man-servant, and, sitting down in one of his favourite chairs, said:

"Well, West, what's the news in London?"

"Not much, sir; at least nothing that would interest you. There are a
good many balls and parties going on, of course, sir; and next week's
Ascot, you know, sir."

"Ascot, is it? Yes, to be sure! We might take a house there, West, and
have some friends. The four-in-hand could go over from Cookham----"

"Beg pardon, sir, but I don't think you'll be able to entertain any of
your friends this year--not at Ascot, any how. Sir Paul Raughton's man
and me were a-talking together, sir, last night at our little place of
meeting, and he told me as how Sir Paul was going to have quite a
large party down at his place, you know, sir, to celebrate--to
celebrate--I mean for Ascot, sir."

"Well?"

"Well, of course, sir, you'll be wanted there too, sir. Indeed, Sir
Paul's man said as how his master had been making inquiries about the
time you was a-coming back, sir, and said he should like to have you
there. And of course they want to cele--I mean to keep it up, sir.
Now, I'll go and fetch you the letters that have come since I sent you
the last mail."

While the servant was gone, Walter Cundall lay back in his chair and
meditated. He was a handsome man, with a dark, shapely head, and fine,
well-marked features. He was very brown and sunburnt, as it was
natural he should be; but, unlike many whose principal existence has
been passed in the Tropics, there was no sign of waste or languor
about him. His health during all the years he had spent under a
burning Caribbean sun had never suffered; fever and disease had passed
him by. Perhaps it was his abstemiousness that had enabled him to
escape the deadly effects of a climate that kills four at least out of
every ten men. As he sat in his chair he wondered why Providence had
been so unfailingly good to him through his life; why it had showered
upon him--while he was still young enough to enjoy it--the comforts
that other men spent their lives in toiling to obtain, and then often
failed at last to get.

"And now," he said to himself, "let Fortune give me but one more gift,
and I am content. Let me have as partner of all I possess the fairest
woman in the world; let my sweet, gentle Ida tell me that she loves
me--as I know she does--and what more can I ask? Ah, Ida!" he went on,
apostrophising the woman he loved, "I wonder if you have guessed how,
night after night during these long six months, I have sat on my
verandah gazing up at the stars that look like moons there, wondering
if your dear eyes were looking at them in their feeble glory here? I
wonder if you have ever thought during my long absence that not an
hour went by, at night or day, when I was not thinking of you? Yes,
you must have done so; you must have done so! There was everything in
your look, in your voice to tell me that you loved me, that you were
only waiting for me to speak. And, now, I will speak. I will deprive
myself no longer of the love that will sweeten my life."

The man servant came back with an enormous bundle of letters that made
Cundall laugh when he saw them.

"Why, West!" he exclaimed, "you don't imagine that I am going to wade
through these now, do you?"

"I think they're mostly invitations, sir," the servant answered, "from
people who did not know when you would be back."

"Well, give them to me. I will open a few of those the handwriting of
which I recognise, and Mr. Stuart can go through the rest to-morrow."

Mr. Stuart was one of Cundall's secretaries, who, when his employer
was in town, had sometimes to work night and day to keep pace with his
enormous correspondence, but who was now disporting himself at
Brighton. When Cundall was away it was understood that this gentleman
should attend four days a week, two at Grosvenor Place, and two at his
agent's in the City, but that on others he should be free. As, with
his usual generosity, Cundall gave him five hundred a year for doing
this, his post was a good one.

The valet came down at this moment to take his master's orders, and to
say that his bath was ready.

"I shall dine quietly at the club to-night," Mr. Cundall said, "and
then, to-morrow, I will make a few calls, and let my friends know I
have returned. Is there anything else, West?"

"No, sir. Oh, I beg pardon, sir! I had almost forgot. Lady Chesterton
called the day before yesterday to ask when you would be back. When I
told her ladyship you were expected, she left a note for you. It's in
that bundle you have selected, I think, sir."

Cundall looked through the letters until he found the one in question,
and, on opening it, discovered that it contained an invitation for a
ball on that evening. As Lady Chesterton was a hostess whom he liked
particularly, he made up his mind that he would look in, if only for
an hour. It was as good a way as any of letting people know that he
was back in town, and his appearance at her house and at the club
would be quite enough to do so.

It was eight o'clock when he entered the latter institution, and his
arrival was hailed with a chorus of greeting. A man of colossal wealth
is, of course, always welcome amongst his intimates and acquaintances,
but, if he is of a reflecting nature, it may be that the idea
sometimes occurs to him that he is only appreciated for his
possessions, and that, behind his back, there is no such enthusiasm on
his behalf as is testified to his face. He does not know, perhaps, of
all the sneers and jeers that go on about Cr[oe]sus and Sir Gorgius
Midas, but it is to be supposed that he has a very good idea of the
manner in which his fellow men regard him. With Walter Cundall it was
not thus; men neither scoffed at his wealth nor at him, nor did it
ever occur to him to think that he was only liked because of that
wealth. There was a charm in his nature, a something in his pleasant
words and welcoming smile that would have made him, in any
circumstances, acceptable to those with whom he mixed, even though it
had not been in his power to confer the greatest benefits upon them.
There are many such men as he was, as well as many whom we detest for
their moneyed arrogance; men whose lawns and parks and horses and
yachts we may enjoy, but with whom, if they could not place them at
our disposal, we should still be very happy to take a country walk or
spend an hour in a humble parlour.

He was surrounded at once by all kinds of acquaintances, asking
questions as to when he had arrived, how he had enjoyed the voyage,
what May had been like in the Tropics, what he was going to do in the
Ascot week, and a dozen others, some stupid and some intelligent.

"I hardly know about Ascot," he said laughingly, after having answered
all the others. "When my old servant, West, reminded me that it was
next week, which I had entirely forgotten--by-the-bye, what won the
Derby?--I thought of taking a house and having a pleasant lot down,
but now I hear that I am wanted at Sir Paul Raughton's."

"Of course you are!" one very young member said, "Rather! Why, you
know that----"

"They are going to have a jolly party there," an elder one put in; "no
one knows how to manage that sort of thing better than Sir Paul."

Then he turned to the younger man and said, as he drew him aside, "You
confounded young idiot! don't you know that he was sweet on Miss
Raughton himself, and won't like it when he hears she is engaged to
Lord Penlyn? What do you want to make him feel uncomfortable for?
He'll hear it quite soon enough."

"I thought he knew it," the other one muttered.

"I imagine not; and I fancy no one but you would want to be the first
to tell him."

There was undoubtedly this feeling amongst the group, by whom Cundall
was surrounded. Not one of these men, except the boyish member, but
was aware that, before he went abroad six months ago, London society
was daily expecting to hear that he and the beautiful Ida Raughton
were engaged. Now they understood, with that accuracy of perception
which men of the world possess in an extraordinary degree, that her
recent engagement to Lord Penlyn was unknown to him, and they
unanimously determined--though without any agreement between
them--that they would not be the first to open his eyes. He was so
good a fellow that none of them wanted to cause him any pain; and that
the knowledge that Miss Raughton was now engaged would be painful to
him, they were convinced.

Two or three of them made up a table and sat down to dinner, and
Cundall told them that he was going to Lady Chesterton's later on. But
neither here, nor over their coffee afterwards, did any of his friends
tell him that he would meet there the girl he was thought to admire,
attended in all probability by her future husband, Lord Penlyn.

As, at eleven o'clock, he made his way up the staircase to greet his
hostess, he again met many people whom he knew, and, by the time he at
last reached Lady Chesterton, it was rapidly being told about the
ball-room that Walter Cundall was back in town again.

"I declare you look better than ever," her ladyship said as she
welcomed him. "Your bronzed and sunburnt face makes all the other men
seem terribly pale and ghastly. How you must enjoy roaming about the
world as you do!"

He answered her with a smile and a remark, that, after all, there was
no place like London and that he was getting very tired of rambling,
when he turned round and saw Ida Raughton coming towards him on the
arm of Lord Penlyn.

"How do you do, Miss Raughton?" he said, taking her hand and giving
one swift look into her eyes. How beautiful she was, he thought; and
as he looked he wondered how he could ever have gone away and left her
without speaking of his love. Well, no matter, the parting was over
now!

"How are you, Penlyn?" he said, shaking him cordially by the hand.

"When did you return?" Ida asked. Until this moment she had no idea
that he was back in England.

"I landed at Liverpool late last night," he answered, "and came up to
town to-day. Lady Chesterton, hearing of my probable arrival, was kind
enough to leave an invitation for me for to-night."

Before any more could be said the band began to play, and Lord Penlyn
turned round to Cundall and said:

"I am engaged for this dance, though it is only a square one. Will you
look after Miss Raughton until I return?"

"With pleasure, or until some favoured partner comes to claim her.
But," turning to her, "I presume you are also engaged for this dance,
'though it is only a square one.'"

"No," she said, "you know I never dance them."

"Shall we go round the rooms, then?" he asked, offering her his arm.
"It is insufferably hot here!"

Lady Chesterton had moved away to welcome some other guests, and so
they walked to another part of the room. As Ida looked up at him, she
thought how well and strong he seemed, and recalled the many dances
they had had together. And she wondered if he was glad to be back in
London again?

"How cool and pleasant the conservatory looks!" he said, as they
passed the entrance to it. "Shall we go in and sit down until you are
claimed for the next dance?"

She assented, and they went in and took possession of two chairs that
were standing beneath some great palms and cacti.

"I should think that after the heat you have been accustomed to you
would feel nothing in England," she said.

"In Honduras we are suitably clad," he answered, laughing, "and
evening dress suits are not in much request. But I am very glad to be
wearing one again, and once more talking to you."

"Are you?" she said, raising her eyes and looking at him. She recalled
how often they had talked together, and how she had taken pleasure in
having him tell her of the different parts of the world he had seen;
parts that seemed so strange to her who had never been farther away
from home than the Tyrol or Rome.

"Indeed I am! Do you think I should go to the Tropics for pleasure?"

"I suppose you need not go unless you choose," she said; "surely you
can do as you please!"

"I can do as I please now," he answered, "I could not hitherto. I will
tell you what I mean. Until a month ago the property I owned in
Honduras required my constant attention, and necessitated my visiting
the place once at least in every two years. But, of late, this has
become irksome to me--I will explain why in a moment--and my last
visit was made with a view to disposing of that property. This I have
made arrangements for doing, and I shall go no more to that part of
the world. Now," and his voice became very low, but clear, as he
spoke, "shall I tell you why I have broken for ever with Honduras?"

"Yes," she said. "You have told me so often of your affairs that you
know I am always interested in them. Tell me."

As she spoke, the band was playing the introduction to the last
popular waltz, and the few couples who were in the conservatory left
for it. A young man to whom Ida was engaged for this dance came in to
look for her, but, seeing that she was talking to Walter Cundall,
withdrew. It happened that he did not know she was betrothed to Lord
Penlyn, but was aware that, last season, every one thought she would
soon be engaged to the man she was now with. So he thought he would
not disturb them and went unselfishly away, being seen by neither.

Then, as the strains of the waltz were heard from the ball-room, he
said:

"It is because I want to settle down in England and make it my home.
Because I want a wife to make that home welcome to me, because I have
long loved one woman and have only waited until my return to tell her
so. Ida, you are that woman! I love you better than anything in this
world! Tell me that you will be my wife!"

For answer she drew herself away from him, pale, and trembling
visibly, and trying to speak. But no word came from her lips.

"Why do you not answer me, Ida?" he asked. "Have I spoken too soon?
But no! that is not possible--you must have seen how dearly I loved
you! how I always sought your presence--you must----"

Then she made a motion to him with her fan, and found her voice.

"You cannot have heard," she said, "no one can have told you that----"

"That what! What is there to tell? For God's sake speak, Ida!"

"That I am engaged."

"Engaged!" he said, rising to his feet. "Engaged! while I have been
away. Oh! it cannot be, it is impossible! You must have seen, you must
have known of my love for you. It cannot be true!"

"It is true, Mr. Cundall."

"True!" Then he paused a moment and endeavoured to recover himself.
When he had done so he said very quietly, but in a deep, hoarse voice:
"I congratulate you, Miss Raughton. May I ask who is the fortunate
gentleman?"

"I am engaged to Lord Penlyn."

He took a step backward and ejaculated, "Lord Penlyn! Lord----"

Then once more he recovered himself, and said: "Shall I take you back
to the ball-room? Doubtless he is looking for you now."

"I am very sorry for your disappointment," she said, looking up at him
with a pale face; his emotion had startled her, "very sorry. I would
not wound you for the world. And there are so many other women who
will make you happy."

"I wanted no other woman but you," he said.

CHAPTER III.

Lord Penlyn and his friend and companion, Philip Smerdon, had returned
from their yachting tour, which had embraced amongst other places Le
Vocq, about a fortnight before Walter Cundall arrived in London from
Honduras. The trip had only been meant to be a short one to try the
powers of his new purchase, the _Electra_, but it had been postponed
by the storm to some days over the time originally intended. Since he
had become engaged to Ida Raughton, he naturally hated to be away from
her, and, up till the night before he returned to England, had fretted
a great deal at his enforced absence from her.

But the discovery he had made in the _Livre des Étrangers_ at Le Vocq,
had had such an effect upon his thoughts and mind that, when he
returned to England, he almost dreaded a meeting with her. He was an
honourable, straightforward man, and, with the exception of being
possessed of a somewhat violent and obstinate temper when thwarted in
anything he had set his heart upon, had no perceptible failings. Above
all he hated secrecy, or secrecy's next-door neighbour, untruth; and
it seemed to him that, if not Ida, at least Ida's father, should be
told about the discovery he had made.

"With the result," said Philip Smerdon, who was possessed of a cynical
nature, "that Miss Raughton would be shocked at hearing of your
father's behaviour, and that Sir Paul would laugh at you."

"I really don't see what there is to laugh at in my father being a
scoundrel, as he most undoubtedly was."

"A scoundrel!" Philip echoed.

"Was he not? We have what is almost undoubted proof that he was living
for two summers at that place with some lady who could not have been
his wife, and whom he must have cast off previous to marrying my
mother. And there was the child for whom the landlord took me! He must
have deserted that as well as the woman. And, if a man is not a
scoundrel who treats his offspring as he must have treated that boy, I
don't know the meaning of the word."

"As I have said before, it is highly probable that both of them were
dead before he married your mother."

"Nonsense! That is a very good way for a novelist to make a man get
rid of his encumbrances before settling down to comfortable matrimony,
but not very likely to happen in real life. I tell you I am convinced
that, somewhere or other, the child, if not the mother, is alive, and
it is horrible to me to think that, while I have inherited everything
that the Occleves possessed, this elder brother of mine may be earning
his living in some poor, if not disgraceful, manner."

"The natural children of noblemen are almost invariably well provided
for," Smerdon said quietly; "why should you suppose that your father
behaved worse than most of his brethren?"

"Because, if the estate had been charged with anything I should have
known it. But it was not--not for a farthing."

"He might have handed over to this lady a large sum down for her and
for her son, when they parted."

"Which is also impossible! He was only Gervase Occleve then, and had
nothing but a moderately comfortable allowance from his predecessor,
his uncle. He married my mother almost directly after he became Lord
Penlyn."

This was but one of half-a-dozen conversations that the young men had
held together since their return from France, and Gervase had found
comfort in talking the affair over and over again with his friend.
Philip Smerdon stood in the position to him of old schoolfellow and
playmate, of a 'Varsity friend, and, later on, of companion and
secretary. Had they been brothers they could scarcely have been--would
probably not have been--as close friends as they were.

When they were at Harrow, and afterwards at Christ Church, Oxford,
they had been inseparable, and, in point of means, entirely on an
equality, Philip's father being a reported, and, apparently,
enormously wealthy contractor in the North. But one day, without the
least warning, without a word from his father or the slightest
stopping of his allowance, he learnt, by a telegram in a paper, that
his parent had failed for a stupendous sum, and was undoubtedly ruined
for ever. The news turned out to be true, and Philip knew that,
henceforth, he would have to earn his own living instead of having a
large income to spend.

"Thank God!" he said, in those days, "that I am not quite a fool, and
have not altogether wasted my time. There must be plenty of ways in
which a Harrow and Oxford man can earn a living, and I mean to try. I
have got my degrees, and I suppose I could do something down at the
old shop (meaning the old University, and with no disrespect
intended), or get pupils, or drift into literature--though they say
that means starvation of the body and mortification of the spirit."

"First of all," said Penlyn, who in that time was the counsellor, and
not, as he afterwards became, the counselled, "see a bit of the world,
and come along with me to the East. When you come back, you will be
still better fitted than you are now for doing something or other--and
you are young enough to spare a year."

"Still, it seems like wasting time--and, what's worse!--it's sponging
on you."

"Sponging! Rubbish! You don't think I am going alone, do you? And if
you don't come, somebody else will! And you know, old chap, I'd sooner
have you than any one else in the world."

"All right, Jerry," his friend said, "I'll come and look after you."

But when they found themselves in the East, it turned out that the
"looking after" had to be done by Penlyn, instead of by Philip. The
one was always well, the other always ill. From the time they got to
Cairo, it seemed as if every malady that can afflict a man in those
districts fell upon Smerdon. At Thebes he had a horrible low fever,
from which he temporarily recovered, but at Constantine he was again
so ill, that his friend thought he would never bring him away alive.
Nor, but for his own exertions, would he ever have done so, and the
mountain city would have been his grave. But Gervase watched by his
side day and night, was his nurse and doctor too (for the grave Arab
physician did nothing but prescribe cooling drinks for him and herbal
medicines), bathed him, fanned him, and at last brought him, though
weak as a child, back to life.

"How am I ever to repay this?" the sick man said, as he sat up one
evening, gazing out on the Algerian mountains and watching the sun
sink behind them. "What can I ever do in acknowledgment of your having
saved my life?"

"Get thoroughly well, and then we'll go home as fast as we can. And
don't talk bosh about repayment."

"Bosh! Do you call it that? Well, I don't suppose I ever shall be able
to do anything in return, but I should like to have the chance. As a
rule, I don't talk bosh, I believe, though no one is a judge of
themselves. Do give me another drink of that lemon-water, Jerry, the
thirst is coming on again."

"Which comes of talking nonsense, so shut up!" his friend answered, as
he handed him the drink.

"It does seem hard, though, that instead of my being your companion as
I came out to be, you should have to always----"

"Now look here, Phil, my friend," Gervase said, "if you _don't_ leave
off talking, I'll call the doctor." This threat was effectual, for the
native physician had such unpleasant personal peculiarities that
Philip nearly went mad whenever he entered the room.

Four years have passed since that excursion to the East and the time
when Gervase Occleve is the affianced husband of Ida Raughton, but the
friendship of these two has only grown more firm. On their return to
England, Lord Penlyn offered his friend the post of his secretary
combined with steward, which at that moment was vacant by the death of
the previous holder. "But companion as well," he said laughingly, "I
am not going to have you buried alive at Occleve Chase when I want
your society in London, nor _vice versâ_, so you had better find a
subordinate."

Smerdon took the post, and no one could say with any truth that his
friendship for Lord Penlyn stood in the way of his doing his duty to
him as his secretary. He made himself thoroughly master of everything
concerning his friend's property--of his tenants and his servants; he
knew to a head the cattle belonging to him, and what timber might be
marked annually, and regulated not only his country estate but also
his town house. And, that his friend should not lose the companionship
which he evidently prized so dearly, he thought nothing of travelling
half the night from Occleve Chase to London, and of appearing fresh
and bright at the breakfast table. For, so deeply had Penlyn's
goodness to him in all things sunk into his heart, that he never
thought he had done enough to show his gratitude.

Of course in society it was known that, wherever Lord Penlyn went his
friend went also, and no doors were shut to the one that were open to
the other, or would have been shut had Philip chosen. But he cared
little for fashionable doings, and refused to accompany his friend to
many of the balls and dinners to which he went.

"Leave me alone in peace to read and smoke," he would say, "and go out
and enjoy yourself. I shall be just as happy as you are." And when he
learned that Ida Raughton had consented to be Lord Penlyn's wife he
told him that he was sincerely glad to hear it. "A man in your
position wants a wife," he said, "and you have found a good one in
her, I am sure. You will be as happy as I could wish you, and that is
saying a good deal."

They had been busy this morning--the morning after Lady Chesterton's
ball--in going over their accounts, and in making arrangements for
their visit, in the forthcoming Ascot week, to Sir Paul's villa, near
the Royal course. Then, while they had paused for a few moments to
indulge in a cigarette, the conversation had again turned upon that
discovery at Le Vocq.

"I tell you what I do mean to do," Penlyn said, "I mean to go and see
Bell. Although he could have known nothing of what was going on thirty
years ago, he may have heard his father say something on the subject.
They have been our solicitors for years."

"It is only letting another person into the story, as he probably
knows nothing about it," Philip said. "I wouldn't go, if I were you."

"I will, though," Penlyn answered; and he did.

Mr. Bell was a solicitor of the modern type that is so vastly
different from the old one. Thirty years ago, when our fathers went to
consult the family lawyer, they saw either an elderly gentleman with a
shaved upper lip and decorous mutton-chop whiskers, or a young man,
also with his lip shaved, and clad in a solemn suit of black. But all
that is passed, and Mr. Bell was an excellent specimen of the
solicitor of to-day. He wore a neatly waxed moustache, had a
magnificent gardenia in his well-cut morning coat, and received Lord
Penlyn in a handsomely furnished room that might almost have passed
for the library of a gentleman of taste. And, had his client been a
few years older, they would probably have known each other well at
Oxford, for Mr. Bell himself had been a John's man, and had been well
known at the debating rooms.

He listened to his client's story, smiling faintly once or twice, at
what seemed to his worldly mind, too much remorse for his father's sin
on the part of Lord Penlyn, then he said:

"I never even knew your father, but I should think the whole affair a
simple one, and an ordinary version of the old story."

"What old story?"

"The story of a person of position---- Forgive me, Lord Penlyn, we are
men of the world" (he said "we," though he considered his client as
the very reverse of "a man of the world"), "and can speak plainly; the
story of a person of position taking up with some woman who was his
inferior and flattered by his attentions, amusing himself with her
till he grew tired, and then--dropping her."

"To starve with her--with his offspring!"

"I should imagine not!" Mr. Bell said with an airy cynicism that made
him appear hateful to his young client. "No, I should imagine not! The
ladies who attach themselves to men of your father's position
generally know how to take very good care of themselves. You may
depend that this one was either provided for before she agreed to
throw in her lot with him, or afterwards."

The lawyer's opinion was the same as Philip's, and they both seemed to
look upon the affair as a much less serious one than it appeared to
him! Were they right, and was he making too much out of this
peccadillo of his father's?

"And you can tell me nothing further?" he asked the solicitor.

"What can I tell you?" the lawyer said. "I never saw the late Lord
Penlyn, and scarcely ever heard my father mention him. If you like I
will have all the papers relative to him gone through; but it is
thirty years ago! If the lady is alive and had wanted anything, she
would surely have turned up by now. And I may say the same of the
son."

"He may not even know the claim he has."

"Claim! my lord, what claim? He has no claim on you."

"Has he not? Has he not the claim of brotherhood, the claim that my
father deserted his mother? I tell you, Mr. Bell, that if I could find
that man I would make him the greatest restitution in my power."

The lawyer looked upon Lord Penlyn, when he heard these words, as a
Quixotic young idiot, but of course he did not say so. It occurred to
him that, in all probability, his father had had more than one affair
of this kind, and he wondered grimly what his romantic young client
would say if he heard, by chance, of any more of them. But he did
promise to go through all the papers in his possession relating to the
late lord, and to see about this particular case. "Though I warn you,"
he said, "that I am not likely to find anything that can throw any
light upon an affair of so long ago. And, as a lawyer, I must say that
it is not well that such a dead and gone business should ever be dug
up again."

"I would dig it up," Lord Penlyn answered, "for the sake of justice."

Then he went away, leaving the lawyer's mind wavering between contempt
and admiration for him.

"He must be a good young fellow at heart, though," Mr. Bell said to
himself; "but the world will spoil him."

Two nights afterwards Penlyn received a letter from him, saying that
there was not the slightest trace in any of the Occleve papers in his
possession of the persons about whom they had spoken. Moreover, Mr.
Bell said he had gone through a great many of the accounts of the late
Lord Penlyn, and of his uncle and predecessor, but in no case could he
find any evidence of the Hon. Gervase having ever exceeded his income,
or, when he succeeded to the property, of having drawn any large sum
of money for an unknown purpose. "And," he concluded, "I should advise
your lordship to banish the whole affair for ever from your mind. If
your father really had the intimacy imagined by you with that lady,
time has removed all signs of it; and, even though you might be
willing to do so, it would be impossible for you now to obtain any
information about it."

CHAPTER IV.

Two people went away from Lady Chesterton's ball with anything but
happiness at their hearts--Ida Raughton and Walter Cundall. The
feelings with which the former had heard the latter's declaration of
love had been of a very mixed nature; pity and sympathy for him being
combined with an idea that she had not altogether been loyal to the
man to whom she was now pledged. She was able to tell herself, as she
sat in her dressing-room after her maid had left her, that she had,
after all, become engaged to the man whom she really loved; but she
had also to acknowledge that, for that other one, her compassion was
very great. She had never loved him, nor did she until this night
believe the rumours of society that reached her ears, to the effect
that he loved her; but she had liked him very much, and his society
had always been agreeable to her. His conversation, his stories of a
varied life in other lands, had had a charm for her that the
invertebrate gossip of an ordinary London salon could never possess;
but there her liking for him had stopped. And, for she was always
frank even to herself, she acknowledged that he was a man whom she
regarded with some kind of awe; a man whose knowledge of the world was
as much above hers as his wealth was above her father's wealth. She
remembered, that when any question had ever perplexed her, any
question of politics, science, or art, to which she could find no
answer, he would instantly solve the knotty subject for her, and throw
a light upon it that had never come to her mind. Yes, she reflected,
he was so much above her that she did not think, in any circumstances,
love could have come into her heart for him.

But, if there was no love there was intense sympathy. She could not
forget, at least not so soon after the occurrence, his earnest appeal
to her to speak, his certainty that she knew of his love, and then the
deep misery apparent in his voice when he forced himself into
restraint, and could even go so far as to congratulate her. Her
knowledge of the world was small, but she thought that from his tone
this must have been almost the first, as she was sure it was the
greatest, disappointment he had ever had. "He wanted to have a wife to
make his home welcome to him," he had said, "and she was the woman
whom he wanted for that wife." Surely, she reflected, he was entitled
to her pity, though she could not give him her love. And then she
wondered what she ought to do with regard to telling her father and
her future husband. She did not quite know, but she thought she would
tell her father first, and then, if he considered it right that
Gervase should know, he should also be told. Perhaps he, too, would
feel inclined to pity Mr. Cundall.

As for him, he hardly knew what to do on that night. He walked back to
his house in Grosvenor Place (he was too uneasy to sit in his
carriage), and, letting himself in went to his library, where he
passed some hours pacing up and down it. Once he muttered a quotation
from the Old Testament, and once he flung himself into a chair and
buried his head in his hands, and wept as strong men only weep in
their darkest hour. Afterwards, when he was calmer, he went to a large
_écritoire_, and, unlocking it, took out a bundle of papers and read
them. They were a collection of several old letters, a tress of hair
in an envelope, which he kissed softly, and two slips of paper which
he seemed to read particularly carefully. Then he put them away and
said to himself: "It must be done, there is no help for it. My
happiness is gone for ever, and, God knows, I would not wreck the
happiness of others! but, in this case, my sin would be beyond recall
if I hesitated." And, again, after a pause, he said to himself: "It
must be done."

He rose in the morning at his usual time, though it was nearly six
before he flung himself wearily on his bed to snatch some troubled
rest, and when he went downstairs to his breakfast he found his
secretary, Mr. Stuart, waiting for him. The young fellow had been
telegraphed for on his employer's return, and had torn himself away
from the charms of Brighton to come back to his duties. After they had
exchanged greetings, the secretary said:

"West told me that I should find you looking better than ever, Mr.
Cundall, but I cannot honestly say that I do. You look pale and worn."

"I am perfectly well, nevertheless. But I went to a bail last night,
and, what with that and travelling all day, I am rather knocked up.
But it is nothing. Now, let us get to work on the correspondence, and
then we must go into the City."

They began on the different piles of letters, Mr. Cundall throwing
over to Stuart all those the handwriting of which he did not
recognise, and opening those which he did know himself.

Presently he came to one with a crest on the envelope that he was well
acquainted with--the Raughton crest, and he could scarcely resist a
start as he saw it. But he controlled himself and tore the letter
open. It was from Sir Paul, and simply contained an invitation from
him to Cundall to make one of his Ascot party at Belmont, the name of
his place near there. The writer said he had heard it rumoured about
that he was on his way home from Honduras, and hence the invitation,
as if he got back in time, he hoped he would come. This letter had
been written some day or two ago, and had been passed over by Cundall
on the previous one. Had he not so passed it over, he would have known
his fate before he went to Lady Chesterton's ball, for the Baronet
went on to say: "You may have learned from some of your numerous
correspondents that Ida and Lord Penlyn are engaged. The marriage is
fixed for the 1st September, and will, I hope and believe, be a
suitable one in every way. At least, I myself can see nothing to
prevent its being so; and I shall hope to receive your congratulations,
amongst others, when we meet."

He read the letter and put it in his pocket, and then he said to
Stuart:

"I have had a letter from Sir Paul Raughton, in which he tells me his
daughter is engaged to Lord Penlyn. You go out a good deal, when did
you first hear of it?"

The secretary looked up, and seemed rather confused for the moment.
He, too, like every one else, even to West the butler, knew that it
was supposed that Cundall was in love with Ida, and had wondered what
he would say when he heard it. And now he was sitting opposite to him,
asking him in the most calm tone when he first knew of her engagement,
and the calmness staggered him. Had the world, after all, been
mistaken?

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Not so very long ago. About a month, I
should say."

"About a month since it was announced?"

"Yes, about that."

"I wonder you did not think of telling me in your last letter, since
you knew how intimate I was with the Raughtons."

"I forgot it. It--it slipped my memory. And there were so many
business matters to write about."

"Well! it is of no importance."

"Of no importance!" Stuart thought to himself. "Of no importance!" Then
they must all have been indeed mistaken! Why, it was only two or three
days before Mr. Cundall's return that he had, when up in town for the
day, consulted West, and told him that he had better not say anything
on that subject to his master, but let him find it out for himself.
And now he sat there calmly reading his letters, and saying that "it
was of no importance!" Well, he was glad to hear it! Cundall was a
good, upright man, and, when he heard of Ida Raughton's engagement,
his first thought had been that it would be a blow to his employer. He
was very glad that his fears were ungrounded.

They went to the City together later on, and then they separated; but
before they did so, Cundall asked Stuart if he knew what club Lord
Penlyn belonged to.

"'Black's,' I fancy, and the 'Voyagers,' but we can see in the
Directory." And he turned to the Court department of that useful work,
and found that he was right.

In the evening of two days later Cundall called at "Black's," and
learned that Lord Penlyn was in that institution.

"Will you tell him, if you please," he said, "that Mr. Cundall wishes
to see him?"

All through those two days he had been nerving himself for the
interview that was now about to take place, and had at last strung
himself up for it. He had prayed that there might be no cruelty in
what he was about to do; but he was afraid! The lad--for he was little
better--whom he was now summoning, was about to be dealt a blow at his
hand that would prostrate him to the earth; he hoped that he would be
man enough to bear it well.

"How are you, Cundall?" Lord Penlyn said, coming down the stairs
behind the porter, and greeting him with cordiality. "I have never had
the pleasure of seeing you here before."

Then he looked at his visitor and saw that he was ghastly pale, and he
noticed that his hand was cold and damp.

"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, "aren't you well? Come upstairs and have
something."

"I am well, but I have something very serious to say to you, and----"

"Ida is not ill?" the other asked apprehensively, his first thoughts
flying to the woman he loved. And the familiar name upon his lips
struck to the other's heart.

"She is well, as far as I know. But it is of her that I have come to
speak. This club seems full of members, will you come for a stroll in
the Park? It is close at hand."

"Yes, yes!" Penlyn said, calling to the porter for his hat and stick.
"But what can you have to say to me about her?"

Then, as they went down St. James' Street and past Marlborough House
into the Park, there did come back suddenly to his memory some words
he had once overheard about Cundall being in love with the woman who
was now his affianced wife. Good God! he thought, suppose he had come
to tell him that he held a prior promise from her, that she belonged
to him! But no; that was absurd! He had seen her that very day, and,
though he remembered that she had been particularly quiet and
meditative, she had again acknowledged her love. There could be
nothing this man might have to say about her that should be
disagreeable for him to hear. Yet, still, the remembrance of that
whisper about his love for her disquieted him.

"Now tell me, Mr. Cundall," he said, "what you have to say to me about
my future wife."

They had passed through the railings into St. James' Park, and were in
one of the walks. The summer sun was setting, and the loiterers and
nursemaids were strolling about; but, nevertheless, in this walk it
was comparatively quiet.

"I have come to tell you first," Cundall answered, "that, three nights
ago, I asked Ida Raughton to be my wife."

"What!" the other exclaimed, "you asked my future----"

"One moment," Cundall said quietly. "I did not know then that she was
your future wife. If you will remember, I had only returned to London
on that day."

"And you did not know of our engagement?"

"I knew nothing. Let me proceed. In proposing to her and in gaining
her love--for she told me that she had consented to be your wife--you
have deprived me of the only thing in this world I prize, the only
thing I wanted. I came back to England with one fixed idea, the idea
that she loved me, and that, when I asked her, she would accept me for
her husband."

He paused a moment, and Lord Penlyn said:

"While I cannot regret the cause of your disappointment, seeing what
happiness it brings to me, I am still very sorry to see you suffering
so."

Cundall took no notice of this remark, though his soft, dark eyes were
fixed upon the younger man as he uttered it. Then he continued:

"In ordinary cases when two men love the same woman--for I love her
still, Heaven help me and shall always love her; it is my love for her
that impels me to say what I am now about to--when two men love the
same woman, and one of them gets the acknowledgment of her love, the
other stands aside and silently submits to his fate."

Lord Penlyn had been watching him fixedly as the words fell from his
lips, and had noticed the calmness, which seemed like the calmness of
despair, that accompanied those words. But there was not, however, the
calm that accompanies resignation in them, for they implied that, in
this case, he did not intend to follow the usual rule.

"You are right in your idea, Mr. Cundall," he answered. "Surely it is
not your intention to struggle against what is always accepted as the
case?"

"It is not, for since she loves you I must never look upon her face
again. But--there is something else?" He paused again for a moment and
drew a deep breath, and then he proceeded:

"Are you a strong man?" he asked. "Do you think you can bear a sudden
shock?"

"I do not know what you mean, nor what you are driving at!" Lord
Penlyn said, beginning to lose his temper at these strange hints and
questions. "I am sorry for your disappointment, in one way, but it is
not in your power, nor in that of any one else, to come between the
love Miss Raughton and I bear to each other."

"Unfortunately it is in my power and I must do it--temporarily, at
least. At present, you cannot marry Miss Raughton."

"_What!_ Why not, sir? For what reason, pray?"

"Do not excite yourself! Because she and her father imagine that she
is engaged to Lord Penlyn, and----"

"What the devil do you mean, sir?" the other interrupted furiously.

"_And_," Cundall went on, without noticing the interruption, "_you are
not Lord Penlyn!_"

"It is a lie!" the other said, springing at him in the dusk that had
now set in, "and I will kill you for it." But Cundall caught him in a
grasp of iron and pushed him back, as he said hoarsely: "It is the
truth, I swear it before Heaven! Your father had another wife who died
before he married your mother, and he left a son by her. That man is
Lord Penlyn."

Gervase Occleve took a step back and reeled on to a seat in the walk.
In a moment there came back to his mind the inn at Le Vocq, the _Livre
des Étrangers_ there in which he had seen that strange entry, and the
landlord's tale. So that woman was his wife and that son a lawful one,
instead of the outcast and nameless creature he had pictured him in
his mind! But--was this story true?

He rose again and stood before Cundall, and said:

"I do not know how you, who seem to have lived in such out-of-the-way
parts of the world, are capable of substantiating this extraordinary
statement; but you will have to do so, and that before witnesses. You
have brought a charge of the gravest nature against the position I
hold. I suppose you are prepared to produce some proof of what you
say?"

"I am fully prepared," Cundall said.

"Then I would suggest, Mr. Cundall, that you should call at my house
to-morrow, and tell this remarkable tale in full. There will be at
least one witness, my friend, Mr. Smerdon. When we have heard what you
have to say, we shall know what credence to place in your story."

"I will be there at midday, if you will receive me. And believe me, if
it had not been that I could not see Miss Raughton married illegally,
and assuming a title to which she had no right, I would have held my
peace."

Lord Penlyn had turned away before the last words were spoken, but on
hearing them, he turned back again and said:

"Is this secret in your hands only, then, and does it depend upon you
alone for the telling? Pray, may I ask who this mysterious Lord Penlyn
is whom you have so suddenly sprung upon me?"

"_I am he!_" the other answered.

"You!" with an incredulous stare. "You!"

"Yes, I."

CHAPTER V.

"I have heard it said that he is worth from two to three millions,"
Philip Smerdon said to his friend the next morning, when Penlyn had,
for the sixth or seventh time, repeated the whole of the conversation
between him and Cundall. "A man of that wealth would scarcely try to
steal another man's title. Yet he must either be mistaken or mad."

"He may be mistaken--I must hope he is--but he is certainly not mad.
His calmness last night was something extraordinary, and I am
convinced that, provided this story is true, he has told it against
his will."

"You mean that he only told it to prevent Miss Raughton from being
illegally married, or rather, for the marriage would be perfectly
legal since no deception was meant, to prevent her from assuming a
title to which she had no claim?"

"Yes."

"You do not think that he hopes by divulging this secret--always
assuming it to be true--to cause your marriage to be broken off, so
that he might have a chance of obtaining Miss Raughton himself? If his
story is true, he can still make her Lady Penlyn."

His friend hesitated. "I do not know," he said. "He bears the
character of being one of the most honourable men in London. Supposing
his story true, I imagine he was right to tell it."

The young man expressed his opinion and spoke as he thought, but he
also spoke in a voice broken with sorrow. If what Cundall had told him
was the actual case, not only was he not Lord Penlyn, but he was a
beggar. And then Ida Raughton could never be his wife. Even though she
might be willing to take him, stripped as he would be of his title and
his possessions, it was certain that Sir Paul would not allow her to
do so. He began to feel a bitter hatred rising up in his heart against
this man, who had only let him enjoy his false position till he
happened to cross his path, and had then swooped down upon him, and,
in one moment, torn from him everything he possessed in the world. His
heart had been full of pity for that unknown and unnamed brother, whom
he had imagined to be in existence somewhere in the world; for this
man, who was now to come forward armed with all lawful rights to
deprive him of what he had so long been allowed blindly to enjoy, he
experienced nothing but the blackest hate. For he never doubted for
one moment but that the story was true!

At twelve o'clock he and Smerdon were ready to receive the new
claimant to all he had imagined his, and at twelve o'clock he arrived.
He bowed to Smerdon and held out, with almost a beseeching glance, his
hand to Gervase Occleve, but the latter refused to take it.

"Whether your story is true or not," he said, "I have nothing but
contempt to give you. If it is false, you are an impostor who shall
be punished, socially if not legally; if it is true, you are a
bad-hearted man to have left me so long in my ignorance."

"I should have left you so for ever," Cundall answered in a voice that
sounded sadly broken, "had it not been for Miss Raughton's sake; I
could not see her deceived."

"Had he not come between you and her," Philip. Smerdon asked, "but had
wished to marry some other lady, would your scruples still have been
the same?"

"No! for she would not have been everything in the world to me, as
this one is. And I should never have undeceived him as to the position
he stood in. He might have had the title and what it brings with it, I
could have given Ida something as good."

"Your ethics are extraordinary!" Philip said, with a sneer.

"You, sir, at least, are not my judge."

"Suppose, sir," Gervase Occleve said, "that you give us the full
particulars of your remarkable statement of last night."

"It is hard to do so," Cundall answered. "But it must be done!"

He was seated in a deep chair facing them, they being on a roomy
lounge, side by side, and, consequently able to fix their eyes fully
upon him. The task he had to go through might have unnerved any man,
but he had set himself to do it.

"Before I make any statement," he said, "look at these," and he
produced two letters worn with time and with the ink faded. The other
took them, and noted that they were addressed to, 'My own dear wife,'
and signed, 'Your loving husband, Gervase Occleve.' And one of them
was headed 'Le Vocq, Auberge Belle-Vue.'

"Are they in your father's handwriting?" he asked, and Gervase
answered "Yes."

"It was in 1852," Cundall said, "that he met my mother. She was
staying in Paris with a distant relative of hers, and they were in the
habit of constantly meeting. I bear his memory in no respect--he was a
cold-hearted, selfish man--and I may say that, although he loved her,
he never originally intended to marry her. She told me this herself,
in a letter she left behind to be opened by me alone, when I came of
age. He won her love, and, as I say, he never intended to marry her.
Only, when at last he proposed to her that she should go away with him
and be his wife in everything but actual fact, she shrank from him
with such horror that he knew he had made a mistake. Then he assumed
another method, and told her that he would never have proposed such a
thing, but that his uncle, whose heir he was, wished him to make a
brilliant match. However, he said he was willing to forego this, and,
in the eyes of the world at least, to remain single. For her sake he
was willing to forego it, if she also was willing to make some
sacrifice. She asked what sacrifice he meant, and, he said the
sacrifice of a private marriage, of living entirely out of the world,
of never being presented to any of his friends. Poor creature! She
loved him well at that time--is it necessary for me to say what her
answer was?"

He paused a moment, and he saw that the eyes of Gervase were fixed
upon him, but he saw no sympathy for his dead mother in them. Perhaps
he did not expect to see any!

"How she explained matters to the relation she lived with, I do not
know," he went on; "but they were married in that year in London."

"At what church?" Gervase asked.

"At 'St. Jude's, Marylebone.' Here is the certificate." Gervase took
it, glanced at it, and returned it to him.

"Go on," he said, and his voice too had changed.

"They lived a wandering kind of life, but, in those days, a not
altogether unhappy one. But at last he wearied of it--wearied of
living in continental towns to which no one of their own country ever
came, or in gay ones where they passed under an assumed name, that
which had been her maiden name--Cundall. At my birth he became more
genial for a year or so, and then again he relapsed into his moody and
morose state--a state that had become almost natural to him. He began
to see that the secret could not be kept for ever, now that he had a
son; that some day, if I lived, I must become Lord Penlyn. And he did
not disguise his forebodings from her, nor attempt to throw off his
gloom. She bore with him patiently for a long while--bore his
repinings and taunts; but at last she told him that, after all, there
was no such great necessity for secrecy, that she was a lady by birth,
a wife of whom he need not be ashamed. Then--then he cursed her; and
on the next occasion of their dispute he told her that they had better
live apart.

"She took him at his word, and when he woke the next morning she was
gone, taking me with her. He never saw her nor me again, and when he
heard that she was dead he believed that I was dead also."

"Then he was the deceived and not the deceiver!" Gervase exclaimed.
"He thought that I was really his son and heir."

"Yes, he thought so. My mother's only other relative in the world was
her brother, a merchant in Honduras, who was fast amassing a
stupendous fortune--the one I now possess. She wrote to him telling
him that she had married, that her husband had treated her badly, and
that she had left him and resumed her maiden name. _His_ name she
never would reveal. My uncle wrote to say that in such circumstances,
and being an unmarried man, he would adopt me as his own child, and
that I should eventually be his heir. Then he sent money over for my
schooling and bringing up."

He paused again, and again he went on; and it seemed as if he was
mustering himself for a final effort.

"When I was little over four years old she died. On her death-bed her
heart relented, and she thought that she would do for him what
appeared to be the greatest service in her power. She wrote to tell
him she was dying, and that he would, in a few days, receive
confirmation of her death from a sure hand. _And she told him that I
had died two months before_. Poor thing! she meant well, but she was a
simple, unworldly woman, and she had no idea of what she was doing.
Perhaps it never occurred to her that he would marry again; perhaps
she even thought that her leaving him would free him and his from all
obligations to me. At any rate, she died in ignorance of the harm she
had done, and I am glad she never realised her error."

He paused; and Gervase said:

"Is that all?"

"With the exception of this. When I was twenty-one this letter of my
mother's, which no other eyes but mine have ever seen before, was put
into my hand. I was then in Honduras, and it had been left in my
uncle's care. At first the news staggered me, and I could not believe
it. I had always thought my uncle was on my father's side, and not on
my mother's, and I now questioned him on the subject. I found that he,
himself, was only partly in her secret, and that he knew nothing of my
father's real position. Then, as to the names of Occleve and Penlyn, I
was ignorant of them; although I had at that age seen something of
European society. I came to England shortly afterwards, and there was
in my mind some idea of putting in a claim to my birthright. But, on
my arrival, I found that another--you--had taken possession of it. You
were pointed out to me one night at a ball; and, as I saw you young
and happy, and heard you well-spoken of, I put away from me, for ever,
all thoughts of ever taking away from you what you--through no fault
of your own--had wrongfully become possessed of."

"Yet now you will do so, because I have gained Ida's love."

"No, no, no!" he answered. Then he said, with a sadness that should
have gone to their hearts: "I have been Esau to your Jacob all my
life. It is natural you should supplant me now in a woman's love."

"What then do you mean to do, _Lord Penlyn?_" Gervase asked bitterly.
The other started, and said:

"Never call me by that name again. I have given it to you."

"Perhaps," Smerdon said, with a bitter sneer, "because you are not
quite sure yet of your own right to it. You would have to prove that
there was a male child of this marriage, and then that you were he.
That would not be so easy, I imagine."

"There is nothing would be more easy. I have every proof of my birth
and my identity."

"And you intend to use them to break off my marriage with Ida
Raughton," Gervase Occleve said.

"For God's sake do not misunderstand me!" Cundall answered. "I simply
want you to tell her and her father all this, and be married as
Gervase Occleve. I cannot be her husband--I have told you I shall
never see her face again--all I wish is that she shall be under no
delusion. As for the title, that would have no charms for me, and you
cannot suppose that I, who have been given so much, should want to
take your property away from you."

"You would have me live a beggar on your charity!--and that a charity
which you may see fit to withdraw at any moment, as you have seen fit
to suddenly disclose yourself at the most important crisis of my
life." He spoke bitterly, almost brutally to the other, but he could
rouse him to no anger. The elder brother simply said:

"God forgive you for your thoughts of me!"

"And now," Gervase said, "perhaps you will tell me what you wish done.
I shall of course inform Sir Paul Raughton that, in my altered
circumstances, my marriage with his daughter must be abandoned."

"No, no!"

"Yes! I say. It will not take twenty-four hours to prove whether you
are right in your claim, for if I see the certificate of your birth it
will be enough----"

"It is here," Cundall said, producing it. "You can keep it, or take a
copy of it."

"Very well. That, and the marriage proved, I will formally resign
everything to you, even the hand of Miss Raughton. That is what you
mean to obtain by this declaration, in spite of your philanthropical
utterances."

"It is false!" Cundall said, roused at last to defend himself, "and
you know it. She loves you. You do not imagine I should want to marry
her since I have learnt that."

"I do imagine it, for had you been possessed of the sentiments you
express, you would have held your tongue. Had you kept silence, no
harm could have been done!"

"The worst possible harm would have been done."

"No one on earth but you knew this story until yesterday, and it was
in your power to have let it remain in oblivion. But, though you have
chosen to bring it forward, there is one consolation still left to me.
In spite of your stepping into my shoes, in spite of your wealth--got
Heaven knows how!--you will never have Ida Raughton's love. No trick
can ever deprive me of that, though she may never be my wife."

"Your utterances of this morning at least prove you to be unworthy of
it," Cundall answered, stung at last to anger. "You have insulted me
grossly, not only in your sneers about my wealth and the manner it has
been obtained, but also by your behaviour. And I have lost all
compassion for you! I had intended to let you tell this story in your
own way to Sir Paul Raughton and his daughter, but I have now changed
my mind. When they return to town, after Ascot next week, I shall call
upon Sir Paul and tell him everything. Even though you, yourself,
shall have spoken first."

"So be it! I want nothing from you, not even your compassion. To-night
I shall leave this house, so that I shall not even be indebted to you
for a roof."

"I am sorry you have taken it in this light," Cundall said, again
calming himself as he went to the door. "I would have given you the
love of a brother had you willed it."

"If you give me the feeling that I have for you, it is one of utter
hatred and contempt! Even though you be my brother, I will never
recognise you in this world, either by word or action, as anything but
my bitterest foe!"

Cundall looked fixedly at him for one moment, then he opened the door
and went out.

Philip Smerdon had watched his friend carefully through the interview,
and, although there was cause for his excitement, he was surprised at
the transformation that had taken place in him. He had always been
gentle and kind to every one with whom he was brought into contact;
now he seemed to have become a fury. Even the loss of name, and lands,
and love seemed hardly sufficient to have brought about this violence
of rage.

"It would almost have been better to have remained on friendly terms
with him, I think," he said. "Perhaps he thought he was only doing his
duty in disclosing himself."

"Perhaps so!" the other said. "But, as for being friendly with him,
damn him! I wish he were dead!"

CHAPTER VI.

Sir Paul Raughton's Ascot party had been excellently arranged, every
guest being specially chosen with a view to making an harmonious
whole. Belmont was a charming villa, lying almost on the borders of
the two lovely counties of Berkshire and Surrey, and neither the
beauties of Nature nor Art were wanting. Surrounded by woods in which
other villas nestled, it was shut off from the world, whilst its own
spacious lawns and gardens enclosed it entirely from the notice of
passers-by. It was by no means used only during Ascot week, as both
Ida and her father were in the habit of frequently paying visits to it
in the spring, summer, and autumn; and only in the winter, when the
trees were bare, and the wind swept over the heath and downs, was it
deserted.

On this Ascot week, or to be particular, this Monday of Ascot week,
when the guests were beginning to arrive for the campaign, it was as
bright and pretty a spot as any in England. The lawn was dotted with
two or three little umbrella tents, under which those arrivals, who
were not basking under the shadow of trees, were seated; some of them
talking of what they had done since last they met; some engaged in
speculating over the chances of the various horses entered for the
"Cup," the "Stakes," and the "Vase;" some engaged in idly sipping
their afternoon tea (or their afternoon sherry and bitters, as
the sex might be), and some engaged in the most luxurious of all
pursuits--doing nothing. Yet, although Sir Paul's selection of guests
had been admirable, disappointment had come to him and Ida, for two
who would have been the most welcome, Mr. Cundall and Lord Penlyn, had
written to say they could not come. The former's letter had been very
short, and the explanation given for his refusal was that he was again
preparing to leave England, perhaps for a very long period. And Lord
Penlyn's had been to the effect that some business affairs connected
with his property would prevent him from leaving town during the week.
Moreover, it was dated from a fashionable hotel in the West End, and
not from Occleve House.

"What the deuce can the boy be doing?" the Baronet asked himself, as
he read the letter over once or twice before showing it to his
daughter. They were seated at breakfast when it came, and none of the
guests having arrived, they were entirely by themselves. "What the
deuce can he be doing?" he repeated. "Ascot week of most weeks in the
year, is the one in which a man likes to get out of town, yet instead
of coming here he goes and stews himself up in a beastly hotel! And
Cundall, too! Why can't the man stop at home like a Christian, instead
of going and grilling in the Tropics? He can't want to make any more
money, surely!" After which reflections he handed both the letters
over to Ida. When she read them she was sorely troubled, for she could
not help imagining that there was something more than strange in the
fact that the man who was engaged to her, and the man who had proposed
to her only a few nights ago, should both have abstained from coming
to spend the week with them. At first, she wondered if they could have
met and quarrelled--but then she reflected that that was not possible!
Surely Mr. Cundall would not have told Gervase that he had proposed to
her and been refused. Men, she thought, did not talk about their love
affairs to one another; certainly the rejected one would not confide
in the accepted. Still, she was very troubled! Troubled because the
man she loved, and whom she had not seen for three days--and it seemed
an eternity!--would not be there to pass that happy week with her; and
troubled also because the man whom she did not love, but whom she
liked and pitied so, was evidently sore at heart. "He was going away
again, perhaps for a very long period," he had said, yet, on the night
of Lady Chesterton's ball, he had told her that he would go no more
away. It must be, she knew, that her rejection of him was once more
driving him to be a wanderer on the earth, and, womanlike, she could
not but feel sorry for him. She knew as well as Rosalind that men,
though they died, did not die for love; but still they must suffer for
their unrequited love. That he would suffer, the look in his face and
the tone of his voice on that night showed very plainly; his letter to
her father and his forthcoming departure told her that the suffering
had begun.

Fortunately for her the arrivals of the guests, and her duties as
hostess, prevented her from having much time for reflection. The
visitors had come to be amused, and she could not be _distraite_ or
forgetful of their comfort. The gentlemen might look after themselves
and amuse each other, as they could do very well with their sporting
newspapers and Ruff's Guides, their betting-books and their cigars;
but the ladies could not be neglected. So, all through that long
summer day, Ida, whose mind was filled with the picture of two men,
had to put her own thoughts out of sight, and devote herself to the
thoughts of others. She had to listen to the rhapsodies of a young
lady over her presentation at Court, to how our gracious Queen had
smiled kindly on her, and to how the world seemed full of happiness
and joy; she had to listen to the bemoanings of an elderly lady as to
the manner in which her servants behaved, and to sympathise with
another upon the way in which her son was ruining himself with
baccarat and racing. And she had to enter into full particulars as to
all things concerning her forthcoming marriage, to give exact accounts
of the way in which M. Delaruche was preparing her _trousseau_, and of
what alterations were to be made in Occleve House in London, and at
Occleve Chase in the country, for her reception; to hear the married
ladies congratulate her on the match she was making, and the younger
ones gush over the manly perfections of her future husband. But she
had also to tell them all that he would not be there this week, and to
listen to the chorus of astonishment that this statement produced..

"Not here, my dear Ida," the elderly lady, whose servants caused her
so much trouble, said. "Not here. Why, what a strange future husband!
To leave you alone for a whole week, and such a week, too, as the
Ascot one." And the elderly lady--whose husband at that moment was
offering to take four to one in hundreds from Sir Paul that Flip Flap
won his race--shook her head disapprovingly.

"Nothing will induce my son to stay away from Ascot," the mother of
the gambling young man said to herself. "He will be here to-night,
though he is not engaged to Ida." And the poor lady sighed deeply.

"I did so want to see him," the young lady who had just been
presented, remarked. "You know I have never met Lord Penlyn yet, and I
am dying to know him. They say he is _so_ good-looking."

Ida answered them all as well as she could, but she found it hard to
do so. And before she had had more than time to make a few confused
remarks on his being obliged to stop away, on account of business
connected with his property, another unpleasantness occurred.

"I have just heard very bad news, Miss Raughton," a tall gentleman
remarked, who had joined the group of ladies. "Sir Paul tells me that
Cundall isn't coming for the week. I'm particularly upset, for I
wanted him to give me some introductions in Vienna, to which I am just
off, you know."

Again the chorus rose, and again poor Ida had to explain that Mr.
Cundall was preparing to go abroad once more for a long period. And,
as she made the explanation, she could not keep down a tell-tale
blush. Seated in that group was more than one who had once thought
that, if she loved any man, that man was Walter Cundall.

"He doesn't care for horse-racing, I imagine," the ill-used mother
said.

"No more should I," the tall gentleman remarked, "if I had his money.
What fun could a race be to him, when a turf gamble would be like a
drop in the ocean to a man of his tremendous means?"

"And I have never seen _him_ either," the _débutante_ remarked, with a
look that was comically piteous. "Oh, dear! this is something
dreadful! Just think of both Lord Penlyn and Mr. Cundall being
absent."

"Don't you think some of us others can supply their places?" the
gentleman asked. "We will try very hard, you know!"

"Oh, yes! of course," she replied; "but then we know you, and we
don't--at least, I don't--know them. And then you care about racing,
and will be thinking of nothing but the horrid horses."

"I will promise to think about nothing but you," he said, lowering his
voice, "if you will let me."

At dinner, things were more comfortable for Ida. All the visitors knew
now that Penlyn and Cundall were certain absentees, and, having once
discussed this, they found plenty of other things to talk about. Sir
Paul had got all his guests well assorted, even to the melancholy
mother, who took comfort from the words of wisdom that dropped from
the mouth of the gentleman who wanted to back Flip Flap: "Let the boy
have his fling, madam, let him have his fling! There is nothing
sickens a man so much of gambling as an unlimited opportunity of
indulging in it. Give him this, and then, if he loses, pull him up
sharp on his allowance, and he'll be all right. When he finds he has
no more money to squander, he will either play so carefully that he
will begin to win, or he'll throw it up altogether. That is what they
generally do." It seemed, however, from his conversation, that he had
never done that himself.

Miss Norris, the young lady in her first season, was gradually getting
over, or, indeed, had got over, her disappointment, and now seemed
very comfortable with Mr. Fulke, the tall gentleman. He was a man of
the world as well as of society, and knew everybody, and she began to
think that, after all, she could support the absence of Lord Penlyn
and Mr. Cundall.

So the first night passed away very pleasantly, and Sir Paul
congratulated himself on the prospect of a pleasant week. Of course,
as was natural, a gentleman would occasionally interrupt a
conversation with his neighbour; a conversation on balls and dinners,
and the opera, and the last theatrical production; by leaning across
the table and saying to another gentleman, "I'll take you five to four
in tenners, or ponies, about that;" or, "you can have three hundred to
one hundred it doesn't win, if you like;" and, of course, also, there
would be the production of little silver-bound books afterwards, and
some hasty writing. But on the whole, though, the introduction of the
state of Lady Matilda's legs into the conversation, until it turned
out that she was a mare who was first favourite for the Cup, did
rather dismay some of the fairer portion of the guests, everything was
very nice and comfortable.

It was a hot night, an overpoweringly hot night, and every one was
glad to escape from the dining-room on to the lawn, where the footmen
had brought out lamp-lit tables for the coffee. It seemed to the
guests that there must be a thunderstorm brewing; indeed, towards
London, where there were heavy banks of lurid clouds massed together,
flashes of lightning were occasionally seen, and the thunder heard
rolling. But the gentlemen even derived consolation from this, and
said that a good storm would make the course--which was as hard as a
brick floor--better going, and would lay the dust on the country
roads.

At eleven o'clock the last guest, Mr. Montagu, the sportive son of the
sad lady, arrived, and, as he brought the latest racing information
from town, was eagerly welcomed.

"Yes," he said, after he had kissed his mother and had told her she
needn't bother herself about him, he was all right enough. "Yes! the
favourites are steady. I dropped into the 'Victoria' before coming
over to Waterloo, and took a look at the betting. There you are! And
here's the 'Special.'"

These were eagerly seized on and perused. Lady Matilda's legs, which
had been the cause of anxiety in the racing world for the past week,
seemed to be well enough to give her followers confidence; Mon Roi,
another great horse, was advancing in the betting; Flip Flap was all
right, and Sir Paul felt thankful he had not laid that bet of four
hundred to one hundred in the afternoon; and The Landlord was being
driven back. It took another hour for the gentlemen to get all their
opinions expressed, and then they went to their rooms, the ladies
having long since retired.

"Don't oversleep yourselves, any of you!" Sir Paul Raughton called out
cheerily. "We ought to get the four-in-hands under weigh by half-past
eleven at latest. Breakfast will be ready as soon as the earliest of
you."

Ida went to her room tired with the day's exertions; but her night's
rest was very broken. In the early part, the flashing of the lightning
and the roar of the thunder (the storm having now broken over the
neighbourhood) kept her awake, and when she slept she did so uneasily,
waking often. Once she started up and listened tremblingly, as though
hearing some unaccustomed sound, and even rose and opened her door,
and looked into the passage. "Of what was she afraid?" she asked
herself. The house was full of visitors; it was, of all times, the
least one likely for harm to come. Then she went back to bed and
eventually slept again, though only to dream. Her brain must have
retained what she had read in Walter Cundall's letter that morning,
for she dreamt that he was taking his farewell of her; only it seemed
that they were back again in the conservatory attached to Lady
Chesterton's ball-room. She was seated in the same place as she had
been when he told her of his love; she could hear the dreamy strains
of the very same waltz--nothing was changed, except that it seemed
darker, much darker; and she could do little more than recognise his
form and see his dark, sad eyes fixed on her. Then he bent over her
and kissed her gently on the forehead--more, as it seemed in her
dream, with a brother's than a lover's kiss--and said: "Farewell, for
ever! In this world we two shall never meet again." Then, as he turned
to go, she saw behind him another form with its face shrouded, but
with a figure that seemed wonderfully familiar to her, and, as he
faced it, it sprang upon him. And with a shriek she awoke--awoke to
see the bright sun shining in through her windows, to hear the birds
singing outside, and to notice that the hands of the clock pointed to
nearly eight.

And her first action was to kneel by the side of her bed and to thank
God that it was only a dream.

CHAPTER VII.

There were no late risers at Belmont on that morning, for even the
elder ladies, who were not going to Ascot but meant to remain at home
and pass the day pleasantly in their own society, made it a point of
being early. The younger ones, with Miss Norris the very first down,
were a sight that was charming to the gentlemen, with their pretty new
gowns prepared especially for the occasion; but of them all, none
looked fairer than Ida. Her disturbed rest had made her, perhaps, a
little paler than usual, but had thus only added a more delicate tinge
to her loveliness. As she stood talking to young Montagu on the
verandah, this youth began to wish that he was Lord Penlyn, and to
think that there were other things in the world better than going
_Banco_ or backing winners--or losers! Indefatigable in everything
connected with sport, the young man, in company with two other
visitors, officers who had been in India and had become accustomed to
early rising, had already ridden over to Ascot to learn what was going
on there, and to see if any information could be picked up.

"And now, Miss Raughton," he said, "to breakfast with what appetite we
can? And I can assure you that, if old Wolsey had only half as good a
one as mine is now, King Hal wouldn't have frightened him into saying,
'good-bye' to all the good things in life."

Ida laughed at his nonsense, and then, every one being down, the first
important part of the day's proceedings began.

The story of an Ascot party has been told so often and so well, that
no other pen is needed to describe it. There are few of us who, either
in long vanished or in very recent days, have not formed part in one
of these pleasant outings; who have not sat upon a coach, with some
young lady beside us, who seemed, at least for the time being, to be
the prettiest and nicest girl in the world; who have not eaten our
fill of lobster salad and pigeon pie, and drunk our fill of champagne
and claret cup!

Sir Paul's party went through it all; the gentlemen (with Mr. Montagu
very busy at this) dashing across the course between each race, and
into the Grand Stand to "see about the odds." Flip Flap disgraced
himself terribly in the Gold Vase, and came in last of all, much to
Sir Paul's disgust, who regretted now that he had not laid his old
friend four to one in hundreds, but to the intense delight of young
Montagu, who had persuaded Fulke to take the same odds in tens from
him.

"Hoorah!" he cried, as the beaten favourite came in with the crowd,
"now, if 'Tilda will only pull off the Stakes, I am bound to score
heavily to-day."

And he dashed off across the course again, to see what the betting was
about the magnificent mare whose name he so familiarly shortened.

Ida sat very peacefully on the coach listening to all the laughter and
conversation that was going on around her, but taking very little part
in it, except when directly spoken to. But in the intervals, when it
was not necessary for her to join in it, her mind reverted to things
and persons far away from the bright, sunny racecourse. In her heart,
she did feel hurt that, whatever important business transactions he
might have, her lover could not find time to run down for even one
day. It was evidently supposed by some one that he was with her, for
only that morning a letter had come to Belmont for him, a letter which
she had instantly reposted to the hotel he was staying at accompanied
by a loving one from herself which she had found time to write
hastily. It had seemed to her that she knew the handwriting, and she
supposed it must be from some common friend of theirs; but, whoever
the writer was, he evidently thought Gervase was with them. She
supposed he really was very much occupied, but still she wished he
would come for one day; and she made up her mind to write to him again
that night, and ask him to run down for the Cup. He could leave town
at midday and be back at seven; surely he could spare that much time
to her! Nor had she forgotten her dream, her horrid dream, and she
wondered over and over again why she should have had such a dreadful
one, and why last night? Perhaps it was the storm that had affected
her!

Once more young Montagu's star was in the ascendant, for Lady Matilda
beat all her adversaries, and, to use a sporting phrase, "romped in"
for the Stakes. There was great rejoicing over this on the Belmont
coaches, of which there were two, one driven by Sir Paul and one by
Mr. Fulke; for most of them had backed her with the bookmakers, and
so, while they all won, there was no loser in the party. Miss Norris,
too, had won a dozen of gloves from Fulke, who took the field against
the horse he fancied to oblige the girl he admired, and Sir Paul had
promised Ida anything she liked to ask for if Lady Matilda only got
home first.

Of course, after the last race, there was an adjournment of the whole
party to the lawn; who goes to Ascot without also going to sit for a
while in one of the prettiest scenes attached to a racecourse in
England? There, seated on comfortable chairs on that soft velvet lawn,
with the hot June sun sinking conveniently behind the Grand Stand, the
party remained peacefully and chatted until the horses should be put
to.

It was at this time that, to the different groups scattered about,
there came a rumour that a horrible murder had been committed in
London last night, or early that morning. A few persons, who had come
down by the last special train, had heard something about it, but they
did not know anything of the details; and two or three copies of the
first editions of the evening papers had arrived, but they told very
little, except that undoubtedly a murder had taken place, and that the
victim was, to all appearances, a gentleman. Had it been a common
murder in the Seven Dials, or the East End, it would hardly have
aroused attention at aristocratic Ascot.

Young Montagu first heard it from a bookmaker with whom he was having
a satisfactory settlement, but that worthy knew nothing except that
"some one said it was a swell, and that he had been stabbed to the
'eart in the Park."

"Get a paper, Montagu," the baronet said, "and let us, see what it is.
Every one seems to be discussing it."

"Easier said than done, Sir Paul!" the other answered. "But I'll try."

He came back in a few moments, having succeeded in borrowing a second
edition from a friend, and he read out to them the particulars, which
were by no means full. It appeared that, after the storm in London was
over, which was about three o'clock in the morning, a policeman going
on his walk down the Mall of St. James' Park, had come across a
gentleman lying by the railings that divide that part of it from the
gardens, a gentleman whom he at first took to be overcome by drink. On
shaking him, however, he discovered him to be dead, and he then
thought that he must have been struck by lightning. A further glance
showed that this was not the case, as he perceived that the
dead man was stabbed in the region of the heart, that his watch
and chain had been wrenched away (there being a broken piece of the
chain left in the button-hole), and, if he had any, his papers and
pocket-book taken. His umbrella, which was without any name or
engraving, was by his side his linen, which was extremely fine, was
unmarked, and his clothes, although drenched with mud and rain, were
of the best possible quality. That, up to now, was all the information
the paper possessed.

"How dreadful to think of a man being murdered in such a public place
as that!" Ida said. "Surely the murderer cannot long escape!"

"I don't know about that," Mr. Fulke said. "The Mall at three o'clock
in the morning, especially on such a morning--what a storm it was!--is
not very much frequented. A man walking down it might easily be
attacked and robbed!"

"It is a nice state of affairs, when a gentleman cannot walk about
London without being murdered," Sir Paul said. "But horrible things
seem to happen every day now."

The public were leaving the lawn by this time, and one of the grooms
came over to say that the coaches were ready. There was no longer
anything to stay for, and so they all went back and took their places,
and started for Belmont.

It was a glorious evening after a glorious day; and as they went
along, some laughing and talking, some flirting, and some discussing
the day's racing and speculating on that of the morrow, they had
forgotten all about the tragedy they had heard of half-an-hour
earlier. Not one of them supposed that the murdered man was likely to
be known to them, nor that that crime had broken up their Ascot week.
But when they had returned to Belmont, and gone to their rooms to
dress for dinner, they learnt that the dead man was known to most of
them. A telegram had come to Sir Paul from his butler in London,
saying: "The gentleman murdered in St. James' Park last night was Mr.
Cundall. He has been identified by his butler and servants."

CHAPTER VIII.

About the same time that Sir Paul Raughton received the telegram from
London, and was taking counsel with one or two of his elder guests as
to whether he should at once tell Ida the dreadful news or leave it
till the morning, Lord Penlyn entered his hotel in town. A change had
come over the young man--a change of such a nature that any one, who
had seen him twenty-four hours before, would scarcely have believed
him to be the same person. His face, which usually bore a good colour,
was ghastly pale, his eyes had great hollows and deep rings round
them, and even his lips looked as if the blood had left them. He had
come from his club--where, since it had been discovered who the victim
of last night's tragedy was, nothing else but the murder had been
talked about, as was also the case in every club and public place in
London--and he now mounted the steps of the hotel with the manner of a
man who was either very weak or very weary.

"Do you know where my servant is?" he asked of the hall porter, who
held the door open for him; and even this man noticed that his voice
sounded strange and broken, and that he looked ill.

"He is at his tea, my lord; shall I send for him?"

"No, but send him to me when he has finished. We shall return to my
house to-night."

The porter bowed, and said, "I have sent a letter to your room, my
lord," and Penlyn went on. His apartment, consisting of a sitting-room
and bed-room, was on the ground floor of the hotel, and was usually
given to guests of distinction (who were likely, in the landlord's
opinion, to pay handsomely for the accommodation), as it saved them
the trouble of going up any stairs. The hotel was a private one; a
house that did not welcome persons of whom it knew nothing, but made
those whom it did know, entirely at their ease. It was very quiet,
shutting its doors at midnight unless any of its visitors were at a
ball or party, in which case, if some of those visitors were ladies,
the porter's deputy sat up for them; but, when they were gentlemen,
furnishing them with latch-keys. As sometimes there were not more than
three or four gentlemen in this extremely select hotel at one time,
this was an obviously better system than having a night-porter.

Lord Penlyn took up the letter that was lying on his table, and
proceeded to open it, throwing himself at the same time wearily into
an arm-chair. He recognised Ida's handwriting, and as he did so he
wondered if, by any possibility, the letter could be about the subject
of which all London was talking to-day---the murder of Walter Cundall.
When he saw that there was another one inclosed in it, the handwriting
of which he did not know, his curiosity was so aroused (for he
wondered how a stranger to him should know, or suppose, that he was at
Belmont), that he opened this one first and read it. Read it carefully
from beginning to end, and then dropped it on the floor as he put his
hands up to his head, and wailed, "Murdered! Oh my God! Murdered! When
he had written this letter only an hour before." And then he wept long
and bitterly.

The letter ran:

MY BROTHER,

"Since I saw you last Saturday I have been thinking deeply upon what
passed between us, and I have come to the conclusion that, after all,
it will be best for nothing to be said to any one on the subject of
our father's first marriage; not even to Miss Raughton or her father.
By keeping back the fact that you have an elder brother, no harm is
done to any one. I shall never marry now, and consequently, you are
only taking possession of what will be yours, or your children's,
eventually. No one but you, your friend Mr. Smerdon, and I, know of
this secret; let no one ever know it. We love the same woman, and,
when she is your wife, I shall have the right to love her with a
brother's love. Let us unite together to make her life as perfectly
happy as possible. To do this we must not begin by undeceiving her as
to the position she is to hold.

"I suggest this, nay, I command you to do this, because of my love for
her, a love which desires that her life may be without pain or sorrow.
I shall not witness her happiness with you, not yet at least, for I do
not think I could bear that; but, in some future years, it may be that
time will have so tempered my sorrow to me, that I shall be able to
see you all in all to each other, perhaps to even witness your
children playing at her knee, and to feel content. I pray God that it
may be so.

"Remember, therefore, what I, by my right as your elder brother--which
I exert for the first and last time!--charge you to do. Retain your
position, still be to the world what you have been, and devote your
life to her.

"I have one other word to say. The Occleve property is a comfortable,
though not a remarkably fine, one. You have heard of my means, and
they are scarcely exaggerated. If, at any time, there is any sum of
money you or she may want, come to me and you shall have it.

"Let us forget the bitter words we each spoke in our interview. Our
lives are bound up in one cause, and that, and our relationship,
should prevent their ever being remembered.

"Your brother,

"WALTER."

When he was calmer, he picked the letter up again and read it through
once more, having carefully locked his door before he did so, for he
did not wish his valet to see his emotion. But the re-reading of it
brought him no peace, indeed seemed only to increase his anguish. When
the man-servant knocked at his door he bade him go away for a time, as
he was engaged and could not be disturbed; and then he passed an hour
pacing up and down the room, muttering to himself, starting at the
slightest sound, and nearly mad with his thoughts. These thoughts he
could not collect; he did not know what steps to take next. What was
he to tell Ida or Sir Paul--or was he to tell them anything? The dead
man, the murdered brother, had enjoined on him, in what he could not
have known was to be a dying request, that he was to keep the secret.
Why then should he say anything? There was no need to do so! He was
Lord Penlyn now, there was nothing to tell! No one but Philip, who was
trustworthy, knew that he had ever been anything else. No one would
ever know it. And he shuddered as he thought that, if the world did
ever know that Walter Cundall had been his brother, then the world
would believe him to be his murderer! No! it must never be known that
he and that other were of the same blood.

He could not sit still, he must move about, he must leave the house!
He rang for his man and told him to pack up and pay the bill, and take
his things round to Occleve House, and that he should arrive there
late; and the man seemed surprised at his orders.

"Will you not dress, my lord?" he asked. "You were to dine out
to-night."

"To-night? Yes! true! I had forgotten it; but I shall not go. Mr.
Cundall who was killed last night was a friend of mine; I am going to
his club to hear if any more particulars have been made known." And
then he went out.

The valet was a quiet, discreet man, but as he packed his master's
portmanteaus he reflected a good deal on the occurrences of the past
few days. First of all, he remembered the visit of Mr. Cundall on
Saturday to Occleve House, and that the footman had told him that he
had heard some excited conversation going on as he had passed the
room, though he had not been able to catch the words and he also
called to mind that, an hour afterwards, Lord Penlyn had told him to
take some things round to this hotel (which they were now leaving as
suddenly as they had come), and also that they would not pay their
visit to Sir Paul Raughton's for the Ascot week. Was there any
connecting link between Mr. Cundall's visit to his master, and his
master leaving the house and giving up Ascot? And was there any
connection between all this and the murder of Mr. Cundall, and the
visible agitation of Lord Penlyn? He could not believe it, but still
it did seem strange that this visit of Mr. Cundall's should have been
followed by such an alteration of his master's plans, and by his own
horrible death.

"What time did my governor come in last night?" he said to the porter,
as he and that worthy stood in the hall waiting for a cab that had
been sent for.

"I don't know," the porter answered. "There was only his lordship and
another gent staying in the house, except the Dean's family upstairs,
and some foreign swells, and none of them keep late hours, so we gave
him and the other gent a key and left a jet of gas burning in the
'all. But both on 'em must have come in precious late, for Jim, who
sleeps on the first floor, said he never heard either of them. I say,
this is a hawful thing about this Mr. Cundall."

"It is so! Well, there's the cab. Jim, put the portmanteaus on the
top. Here you are, porter!" and he slipped the usual tip into the
porter's hand, and wishing him "good evening," went off.

"Well," he said to himself as he drove to Occleve House, "I should
like to know what we went to that hotel for three days for! It wasn't
because of the Dean's daughters nor yet for the foreign ladies,
because he never spoke to any of them. Well, I'll buy a 'Special' and
read about the murder."

Lord Penlyn walked on to Pall Mall, going very slowly and in an almost
dazed state, and surprised several whom he met by his behaviour to
them. Men whom he knew intimately he just nodded to instead of
stopping to speak with for a moment, and some he did not seem to see
at all. He was wondering what further particulars he would hear when
he got to Cundall's club, and also when Smerdon would be back. That
gentleman had started for Occleve Chase on Monday morning, but must by
now have received a telegram Penlyn had sent him, telling him to
return at once. In it he had cautiously, and without mentioning any
names, given him to understand that their visitor of last Saturday had
died suddenly, and he expected that he would return by the next train.

He had started off for Cundall's club, thinking to find out what was
known, but, when he got there, he reflected that he could scarcely
walk into a club, of which he was not a member, simply to make
inquiries about even so important a subject as this. He could give no
grounds for his eagerness to learn anything fresh, could not even say
that he was particularly intimate with the dead man. Would it not look
strange for him to be forcing his way in and making inquiries? Yes!
and not only that, but it would draw attention on him, and it would be
better to gather particulars elsewhere. He would go to his own club
and find out what was known there.

So, looking very wan and miserable, he walked on to "Black's," and
there he found the murder as much a subject of discussion as it was
everywhere else. All the evening papers were full of it; the men who
always profess to know something more than their fellows, whether it
be with regard to a dark horse for a race, an understanding with
Germany, or the full particulars of the next great divorce case--these
men had heard all sorts of curious stories--that Cundall had a wife
who had tracked him from the Tropics to slay him; that he had
committed suicide because he was ruined; that he had been murdered by
an outraged husband! There was nothing too far-fetched for these
gentlemen!

Sifted down as the case was thoroughly by the papers, the facts that
had come out, since first his body was discovered, amounted to this:
He had been at his club late in the evening, and his brougham was
waiting outside for him when the storm began. Then he had sent word
down to his coachman to say that, as he had a letter to write, the
carriage had better go home and he would take a cab later on. Other
testimony, gathered by the papers, went on to show that he had sat on
at his club, reading a little, and then going to a writing-table where
he had sat some time; that when he had written his letter he went to a
large arm-chair and read it over more than once, and then put a stamp
on it, and, putting it in his pocket, still sat on and on, evidently
thinking deeply. Two or three members said they had spoken to him, and
one that he had told Cundall he did not seem very gay, but that he had
replied in his usual pleasant manner, that he was very well, but had a
good deal to occupy his mind. It was some time past two o'clock (the
club, having a large number of Members of Parliament on its roll,
was a late one) before the storm was over, and he rose to go. The
hall-porter was apparently the last person who spoke to him alive,
asking him if he should call a cab, but receiving for answer that, as
the air was now so cool and fresh, he would walk home through the
Park, it being so near to Grosvenor Place. The porter standing at the
door of the club, himself to inhale the air, saw Mr. Cundall drop a
letter in the pillar-box close by, and then go on. The only other
person he noticed about, at that time, was a man who looked like a
labourer, who was going the same way as Mr. Cundall. The sentries who
had been on duty at, and around, St. James's Palace were also
interrogated, and the one who had been outside Clarence House, stated
that he distinctly remembered a gentleman answering to Mr. Cundall's
description passing by him into the Park, at about a quarter to three.
It was still raining slightly, and he had his umbrella up. He, too,
saw the labourer, or mechanic, walking some fifteen yards behind him,
and supposed he was going to his early work. From the time Mr. Cundall
passed this man until the policeman found him dead, no one seemed to
have seen him.

With the exception of the medical evidence, which stated that he had
been stabbed to, and through, the heart by one swift, powerful blow,
that must have caused instantaneous death, there was little more to be
told. Judging from the state of the ground, there had been no