"Eh! Why?"
"Because your mother is dead."
Drayton shook off the stupor of liquor, and betrayed a keen if momentary interest.
"The book of the asylum in which she was confined, after the attempted suicide, contains the record—"
"But she escaped," interrupted Drayton.
"Contains the record of her escape and subsequent recovery—dead. The body was picked out of the river, recognized by the authorities as that of the unknown woman, and buried in the name she gave."
"What name?" said Drayton.
Hugh Ritson's face underwent a momentary change.
"That is indifferent," he said; "I forget."
"Sure you forget?" said Drayton. "Couldn't be Ritson, eh?"
Hugh struck the table.
"Assuredly not—the name was not Ritson."
The tone irritated Mr. Drayton. He glanced down with a look that seemed to say that Hugh Ritson had his Maker to thank for giving him the benefit of an infirm foot.
Hugh Ritson mollified him by explaining that if he had any curiosity as to the name, he could discover it for himself. "Besides," said Hugh, "what matter about the name if your mother is dead?"
"That's true," said Drayton, who, being now appeased, began to see that his anger had been puerile.
"Depend upon it, your father, wherever he is, is a cipher," said Hugh Ritson.
Drayton got on to his feet and trudged the floor uneasily. An idea had occurred to him. "The person picked out of the river may have been another woman. I've heard of such."
"Possibly; but the chance of error is worth little to you." Hugh looked uncomfortable as he said this, but Drayton saw nothing.
"Bah! What matter?" said Drayton, and, determined to cudgel his brains no longer, he reached for the brandy and drank another half glass. There was then an interchange of deep amity.
"Tell me," said Hugh, "what passed at the Ghyll on Monday night?"
"The Ghyll? Monday? That was the night of the snow. What passed? Nothing."
"Why did you go?"
"Wanted to see your mother. Saw your brother one night late at the door of the parson's house. Saw you at the fire. At the fire?—certainly. Stood a matter of a dozen yards away when that young buck of a stableman drove up with the trap. What excuse for going? Blest if I remember—summat or other; knocked, and no one came. I don't know how long and all I stood cooling my heels at the door. Then I saw a light coming from a room on the first floor, and up I went and knocked. 'Come in,' says somebody. I went in. Withered old party got up. Black crape and beads, you know. But, afore I could speak, she reeled like a top and fell all of a heap. Blest if the old girl didn't take me for a ghost!" Mr. Drayton elevated his eyebrows, and added with emphasis, "I got out."
"And on the way back you frightened a young lady in the lane, who, like my mother, mistook you for the ghost of my brother Paul. Well, that young lady was married to my brother this morning. They are now on their way to London. They intend to leave England on Wednesday next, and they mean to pass to-night in your house."
Mr. Drayton's eyebrows went up again.
"It is certainly hard to understand—but look," and Hugh Ritson handed to Drayton the telegram he had received from Bonnithorne. That worthy examined it minutely, back and front, with bleared and bewildered eyes, and then looked to his visitor for explanation.
"The lady must not leave England," said Hugh.
Drayton steadied himself, and tried hard to look appalled.
"Upon my soul, you make my flesh creep!" he said. "What do you want for your twenty pounds? Speak out plain. I'm not flowery, I'm not. I'm a licensed victualer and a gentleman—"
"What do I want? Only that you should send the lady home again by the first train."
Drayton began to laugh.
"You see, there was no cause for alarm," said Hugh, with an innocent smile.
Drayton's laughter became boisterous.
"I am to decoy the young thing away by making her believe as I'm her husband, eh?"
"Mr. Drayton, you are a shrewd fellow."
"And what about the husband—ain't he another shrewd fellow?"
"Leave him to me. When the time comes, make no delay. Don't expose yourself unnecessarily. Wear that ulster you have on at present. Say as little as possible—nothing if practicable. Get the lady into the fly that shall be waiting at the door; drive to the station; book her to Keswick; put her into the carriage at the last moment; then clear away with all expedition. The midnight train never stops this side of Bedford."
Drayton was shuffling across the room, chuckling audibly. "He, he, he! haw! haw!—so I'm to leave her at the station, eh? Poor young thing; I hain't got the heart—I hain't got it in me to be so cruel. No, no, I couldn't be such a vagabond of a husband—he, he! haw, haw!—and on the poor thing's wedding day, too."
Hugh Ritson rose to his feet.
"If you go an inch further than the station, you'll repent it to your dying day!" he said, once more bringing down his fist heavily on the table.
At this Drayton chuckled and crowed yet louder, and declared that it would be necessary to have another half glass in order to take the taste of the observation out of his mouth.
Then his laughter ceased.
"Look here: you want me to do a job as can only be done by one man alive. And what do you offer me—twenty pounds? Keep it," he said; "it won't pass, sir!"
The fire had burned very low, the cheerless room was dense with smoke and noisome with the smell of dead tobacco. Drayton buttoned up to the throat the long coat he wore.
"I've summat on," he said; "good-night."
The sound of children's voices came from the bar. The little ones were going home.
"Good-night, missy, and thank you." It was a woman's voice.
"Good-night, Mercy," cried the children.
Drayton was opening the door.
"Think again," said Hugh Ritson. "You run no risk. Eleven forty-five prompt will do."
CHAPTER IV.
When Drayton went out, Hugh Ritson walked into the bar. The gossips had gone. Only the landlady was there. The door to the room opposite now stood open.
"Mrs. Drayton," said Hugh, "have you ever seen this face before?"
He took a medallion from his pocket and held it out to her.
"Lor's a mercy me!" cried the landlady; "why, it's her herself as plain as plain—except for the nun's bonnet."
"Is that the lady who lodged with you at Pimlico—the mother of Paul?"
"As sure as sure! Lor's, yes; and to think the poor young dear is dead and gone! It's thirty years since, but it do make me cry, and my husband—he's gone, too—my husband he said to me, 'Martha,' he said, 'Martha—'"
The landlady's garrulity was interrupted by a light scream: "Hugh, Hugh!"
Mercy Fisher stood in the door-way, with wonder-stricken eyes and heaving breast.
In an instant the poor little soul had rushed into Hugh Ritson's arms with the flutter of a frightened bird.
"Oh, I knew you would come—I was sure you would come!" she said, and dried her eyes, and then cried again, and then dried them afresh, and lifted her pouting lips to be kissed.
Hugh Ritson made no display. A shade of impatience crossed his face at first, but it was soon gone. He tried to look pleased, and bent his head and touched the pale lips slightly.
"You look wan, you poor little thing," he said, quietly. "What ails you?"
"Nothing—nothing, now that you have come. Only you were so long in coming, so very long."
He called up a brave word to answer her.
"But you see I keep my word, little woman," he said, and smiled down at her and nodded his head cheerfully.
"And you have come to see me at last! All this way to see poor little me!"
The mute weariness that had marked her face fled at that moment before a radiant smile.
"One must do something for those who risk so much for one," he said, and laughed a little.
"Ah!"
The first surprise over, the joy of that moment was beyond the gift of speech. Her arms encircled his neck, and she looked up at his face in silence and with brightening eyes.
"And so you found the time long and tedious?" he said.
"I had no one to talk to," she said, with a blank expression.
"Why, you ungrateful little thing! you had good Mrs. Drayton here, and her son, and all the smart young fellows of Hendon who came to drink at the bar and say pretty things to the little bar-maid, and—"
"It's not that—I had no one who knew you," she said, and dropped her voice to a whisper.
"But you go out sometimes—into the village—to London?" he said.
"No, I never go out—never now."
"Then your eyes are really worse?"
"It's not my eyes. But, never mind. Oh, I knew you would not forget me. Only sometimes of an evening, when the dusk fell in, and I sat by the fire all alone, something would say, 'He doesn't want me,' 'He won't come for me.' But that was not true, was it?"
"Why, no; of course not."
"And then when the children came—the neighbor's children,—and I put the little darlings to bed, and they said their prayers to me, and I tried to pray, too—sometimes I was afraid to pray—and then, and then," (she glanced round watchfully and dropped her voice) "something would say, 'Why didn't he leave me alone? I was so happy!'"
"You morbid little woman! You shall be happy again—you are happy now, are you not?" he said.
Her eyes, bleared and red, but bright with the shafts of love, looked up at him in the dumb joy that is perfect happiness.
"Ah!" she said, and dropped her comely head on his breast.
"But you should have taken walks—long, healthy, happy walks," he said.
"I did—while the roses bloomed and the dahlias and things, and I saved so many of them against you would come, moss roses and wild white roses; but you were so long coming and they withered. And then I couldn't throw them away, because, you know, they were yours; so I pressed them in the book you gave me. See, let me show you."
She stepped aside eagerly to pick up a little gilt-edged book from the table in the inner room. He followed her mechanically, hardly heeding her happy prattle.
"And was there no young fellow in all Hendon to make those lonely walks of yours more cheerful?"
She was opening her book with nervous fingers, and stopped to look up with blank eyes.
"Eh? No handsome young fellow who whispered that you were a pretty little thing, and had no right to go moping about by yourself? None? Eh?"
Her old look of weariness was creeping back.
"Come, Mercy, tell the truth, you sly little thing—eh?"
She was fumbling his withered roses with nervous fingers. Her throat felt parched.
He looked down at her saddening face, and then muttered, as if speaking to himself: "I told that Bonnithorne this hole and corner was no place for the girl. He should have taken her to London."
The girl's heart grew sick. The book was closed and dropped back on to the table.
"And now, Mercy," said Hugh Ritson, "I want you to be a good little woman, and do as I bid you, and not speak a word. Will you?"
The child-face brightened, and Mercy nodded her head, a little tear rolling out of one gleaming eye. At the same moment she put her hand in the pocket of her muslin apron, and took out a pair of knitted mittens, and tried to draw them on to Hugh's wrists.
He looked at the gift, and smiled, and said: "I won't need these—not to-day, I mean. See, I wear long gloves, with fur wristbands—there, I'll store your mittens away in my pocket. What a sad little soul—crying again?"
Mercy's pretty dreams were dying one by one. She lifted now a timid hand until it rested lightly on his breast.
"Listen. I'm going out, but I'll soon be back. I must talk with Mrs. Drayton, and I've something to pay her, you know."
The timid hand fell to the girl's side.
"When I return there may be some friends with me—a lady and a gentleman—but I want to see them alone, quite alone, and I don't want them to see you—do you understand?"
A great dumb sadness was closing in on Mercy's heart.
"But they will soon be gone, and then to-morrow you and I must talk again, and try to arrange matters so that you won't be quite so lonely, but will stir about, and see the doctor for your eyes, and get well again, and try to forget—"
"Forget!" said the girl, faintly. Her parched throat took away her voice.
"I mean—that is to say—I was hoping—of course, I mean forget all the trouble in Cumberland. And now get away to bed like a good little girl. I must be off. Ah, how late!—see, a quarter to eleven, and my watch is slow."
He walked into the bar, buttoning up his coat to his ears. The girl followed him listlessly. Mrs. Drayton was washing glasses behind the counter.
"Mind you send this little friend of mine to bed very soon," said Hugh to the landlady. "Look how red her eyes are! And keep a good fire in this cozy parlor on the left—you are to have visitors—you need not trouble about a bedroom—they won't stay long. Let me see, what do they say is the time of your last up-train?"
"To London? The last one starts away at half past twelve," said the landlady.
"Very good. I'll see you again, Mrs. Drayton. Good-night, Mercy, and do keep a brighter face. There—kiss me. Now, good-night—what a silly, affectionate little goose—and mind you are in bed and asleep before I return, or I shall be that angry—yes, I shall. You never saw me angry. Well, never mind. Good-night."
The door opened and closed. Mercy went back into the room. It was cheerless and empty, and the children's happy voices lived in it no more. The girl's heart ached with a dull pain that had never a pang at all, but was dumb and dead and cold; and Mercy was all alone.
"Perhaps he was only in fun when he said that about walking out with somebody and trying to forget, and not being seen," she thought. "Yes; he must have been only in fun," she thought, "because he knew how I waited and waited."
Then she took up again the book that he had hardly glanced at. It fell open at a yellow, dried-up rose that had left the stain of its heart's juice on the white leaf.
"Yes, he was only in fun," she said, and then laughed a little; and then a big drop fell on to the open page and on to the dead flower.
Then she tried to be very brave.
"I must not cry; it makes my eyes, oh! so sore. I must get them well and strong—oh, yes! I must be well and strong against—against—then."
She lifted her head slowly where she stood alone, and a smile, like a summer breeze on still water, rippled over her mouth.
"He kissed me," she thought, "and he came to see me—all this long, long way."
A lovely dream shone in her face now.
"And if he does not come again until—until then—he will be glad—oh, he will be very glad!"
The thought of a future hour when the poor little soul should be rich with something of her own that would be dearest of all because not all her own, shone like a sleeping child's vision in her face. She went out into the bar and lighted a candle.
"So that's your sweetheart—not the lawyer man, eh?" said Mrs. Drayton, bustling about.
"I've no call to hide my face now—not now that he has come—have I?" said Mercy.
"Well, he is free of his money, and I'se just been hoping you get some of it, for, as I says, you want things bad, and them as has the looking to it should find 'em, as is only reasonable."
Mercy did as she had been bidden: she went off to her bedroom. But her head was too full of thoughts for sleep. She examined her face in the glass, and smiled and blushed at it because he called it pretty. It was prettier than ever to her own eyes now. After half an hour she remembered that she had left the book on the table in the parlor, and crept down-stairs to recover it. When she was on the landing at the bottom, she heard a hurried knock at the outer door.
Thereafter all her dreams died in an instant.
CHAPTER V.
When Hugh Ritson stepped out into the road, the night was dark. Fresh from the yellow light of the inn, his eyes could barely descry the footpath or see the dim black line of the hedge. The atmosphere was damp. The moisture in the air gathered in great beads on his eyebrows and beard, stiffening them with frost. It was bitterly cold. The mist that rose from the river spread itself over the cold, open wastes of marshy ground that lay to the right and to the left. The gloomy road was thick with half-frozen mud.
Hugh Ritson buttoned his coat yet closer and started at a brisk pace.
"No time to lose," he thought, "if I've to be at the station when the north train goes through. Would have dearly liked to keep an eye on my gentleman. Should have done it, but for the girl. 'Summat on,' eh? What is it, I wonder? It might be useful to know."
With a cutting wind at his back he walked faster as his eyes grew familiar with the darkness. He was thinking that Bonnithorne's telegram might be an error. Perhaps it had even been tampered with. It was barely conceivable that Paul and Greta had ever so much as heard of the Hawk and Heron. And what possible inducement could they have to sleep in Hendon when they would be so near to London?
His mind went back to Mercy Fisher. At that moment she was dreaming beautiful dreams of how happy she was very soon to make him. He was thinking, with vexation, that the girl was a connecting link with the people in Cumberland. Yes—and the only link, too. Could it be that Mercy—No; the idea of Mercy's disloyalty to him was really too ridiculous. If he could get to the station before the train from the north was due to stop there, he would see for himself whether Paul and Greta alighted. If they did not, as they must be in that train, he would get into it also, and go on with them to London. Bonnithorne might have blundered.
The journey was long, and the roads were heavy for walking. It seemed a far greater distance than he had thought. At the angle of a gate and a thick brier hedge he struck a match and read the time by his watch. Eleven o'clock. Too late, if the watch were not more than a minute slow.
At that moment he heard the whistle of a train, and between the whirs of the wind he heard the tinkle of the signal bell. Too late, indeed. He was still a quarter of a mile from the station.
Still he held on his way, without hope for his purpose, yet quickening his pace to a sharp run.
He had come within three hundred yards of the station when he heard an unearthly scream, followed in an instant by a great clamor and tumult of human voices. Shrieks, shouts, groans, sobs, wails—all were mingled together in one agonized cry that rent the thick night air asunder.
Hugh Ritson ran faster.
Then he saw haggard men and women appearing and disappearing before him in the light of a fire that panted on the ground like an overthrown horse.
The north train had been wrecked.
Within a dozen yards from the station the engine and three of the front carriages had broken from their couplings and plunged on to the bank. The last four carriages, free of the fatal chain, had kept the rails and were standing unharmed above.
Women who had been dragged through the tops of the overturned carriages fled away with white faces into the darkness of the fields. Men, too, with panic-stricken eyes, sat down on the grass, helpless and useless. Some resolute souls, roused to activity, were pulling at the carriages to set them right. Men from the station came with lanterns, and rescued the injured, and put them to lie out of harm's way.
The scene was harrowing, and only two of its incidents are material to this history. Over all the rest, the clamor, the tumult, the agony, the abject fear, and the noble courage, let a veil be drawn.
Fate had brought together, in that hour of disaster, three men whose lives, hitherto apart, were henceforth to be bound up as one life for good or ill.
Hugh Ritson rushed here and there like a man distraught. He peered into every face. He caught up a lantern that some one had set down, and ran to and fro in the darkness, stooping to let the light fall on those on the ground, holding up the red glare to the windows of the uninjured carriages.
At that moment all his frozen soul seemed to melt. Face to face with the pitiless work of destiny, his own heartless schemes disappeared. At last he saw the face he looked for. Then he dropped the lantern to his side, and turned the glass of it from him.
"Stay here, Greta," said a voice he knew. "I shall be back with you presently. Let me lend them a hand over yonder." The man went by him in the darkness.
Hark!
Hugh Ritson heard a cry from the field beyond the bank. It was there that they had placed the injured.
"Help! help! I am robbed—- help!" came out of the darkness.
"Where are you?" asked another voice.
"Here! Help! help!"
Hugh Ritson ran toward the place whence the first voice came, and saw the figure of a man stooping over something that lay on the ground. At the same moment another man rushed up and laid strong hold of the stooping figure. There was a short, sharp struggle. The two men were of one stature, one strength. There was a sound as of cloth ripped asunder.
At the next moment one of the men went by like the wind and was lost in the blackness of the fields. But Hugh Ritson had held up the lantern as the man passed, and caught one swift glimpse of his face. He knew him.
A group had gathered about the injured person on the ground and about the other man who had struggled to defend him.
"Could you not hold the scoundrel?" said one.
"I held him till his coat came to pieces in my hand. See here," said the other.
Hugh Ritson knew the voice.
"A piece of Irish frieze, I should say" (feeling it).
"You must have gripped him by the lappel of his ulster. Let me keep this. I am a police sergeant. What is your name, sir?"
"Paul Ritson."
"And your address?"
"I was on my way to Morley's Hotel, Trafalgar Square. What place is this?"
"Hendon."
"Could one get accommodation here for the night? A lady is with me."
"Best go up by the twelve-thirty, sir."
"The lady is too much worn and excited. Any hotel, inn, lodging-house?"
A porter came up.
"The Hawk and Heron's handiest. A mile, sir. Drayton—it's him as keeps it—he's here somewhere. Drayton!" (calling).
"Can you get me a fly, my good fellow?"
"Yes, sir."
The police sergeant moved off.
"Then I may look for you at the Hawk and Heron?" he said.
Hugh Ritson heard all. He kept the lantern down. In the darkness not a face of that group was seen of any man.
A quarter of an hour later, Hugh Ritson, panting for breath, was knocking at the door of the inn. The landlady within fumbled with the iron bar behind it.
"Come, quick!" said Hugh.
The door opened, and he stepped in sharply, bathed in perspiration.
"Is your son back?" he said, catching his breath.
"Back, sir? No, sir; it's a mercy if he gets home afore morning, sir; he's noways—"
"Stop your clatter. The girl is in her room. Go and turn the key on her!"
It was at that moment that Mercy, having stood an instant at the bottom of the stairs, had ventured nervously into the bar. Turning about, Hugh Ritson came face to face with her. At the sight of her his crimsoning cheeks became white with wrath.
"Didn't I tell you to be in bed?" he muttered, in a low, hoarse whisper.
"I've only come for ... I came down for ... Hugh, don't be angry with me."
"Come, get back, then; don't stand there. Quick—and mind you lock your door."
"Yes, I'm going. You wouldn't be angry with me, would you?"
"Well, no, perhaps not; only get off—and quick! Do you hear? Why don't you go?"
"I only came down for ... I only came...."
"God! what foolery is this? The girl's fainting. Never mind. Here, landlady, bring a light! Lead the way. She's not too heavy to carry. Upstairs with you. What a snail you are, old woman! Which room?"
Another knock at the outer door. Another and another in rapid succession.
"I'm a-coming, I'm a-coming!" cried the landlady from the floor above.
She bustled down the stairs as fast as her stiff joints would let her, but the knock came again.
"Mercy me, mercy me! and whoever is it?"
"Damme, move your bones, and let me in!"
The door flew open with pressure from without. Ghastly white, yet dripping with perspiration, his breath coming in short, thick gusts, his neck bare, his shirt-collar torn aside, the lappel of the frieze ulster gone, and the rent of the red flannel lining exposed, Paul Drayton entered. He was sober now.
"Where is he?" with an oath.
"I'm here," said Hugh Ritson, walking through the bar and into the bar-room to the right, and candle in hand.
Drayton followed him, trying to laugh.
"Am I in time?"
"Of course you are," with a hard smile.
"Fearing I might be late."
"Of course you were."
"Ran all the way."
"Of course you did."
"What are you sniggering and mocking at?" with another oath.
Hugh Ritson dropped his banter, and pointed without a word to the torn ulster and the disordered shirt-collar. Drayton glanced down at his dress in the light of the candle.
"Crossed the fields for shortness, and caught in a bramble-bush," he said, muttering.
"Drop it," said Hugh. "There's no time for it. Look here, Drayton, I'm a downright man. Don't try it on with me. As you say, it won't pass. Shall I tell you where the collar of that coat is now? It's at the police-station."
Drayton made an uneasy movement and glanced up furtively. There was no mistaking what he saw in Hugh Ritson's face.
"I've my own suspicions as to what caused that accident," said Hugh.
Drayton shuddered and shrunk back.
"No, damme! That shows what you are, though. Show me the man as allus suspects others of lying, and I'll show you a liar. Show me the man as allus suspects others of stealing, and I'll show you a thief. You suspect me of that, d'ye? I know you now!"
"No matter," said Hugh, impatiently; "your sense of the distinction between crimes is a shade too nice. One crime I do not suspect you of—I saw you commit it. Is that enough?"
Drayton was silent.
"You'll go to the station with the lady. The gentleman will go to London with me. They are to come here, after all, though my first advice was a blunder."
"I'll take the twenty," Drayton mumbled.
"Will you now? We'll discuss that matter afterward."
Drayton seemed stupefied for a moment. Then he lifted his haggard face and grinned. Hugh Ritson understood him in an instant.
"No tricks, I tell you. If you don't put the lady in the train—the right train—and be back here at half past one to-morrow, you shall improve your acquaintance with the Old Bailey."
Drayton carried his eyes slowly up to Hugh Ritson's face, then dropped them suddenly.
"If I'm lagged, it will be a lifer!" he muttered. He fumbled his torn ulster. "I must change my coat," he said.
"No."
"She'll see the rent."
"So much the better."
"But the people at the junction will see it."
"What matter?—you will be there as Paul Ritson, not Paul Drayton."
Drayton began to laugh, to chuckle, to crow.
"Hush!"
The sound of carriage-wheels came from the road.
"They're here," said Hugh Ritson. "Keep you out of sight, as you value your liberty. Do you hear? Take care that he doesn't see you, and that she doesn't see you until he is gone."
Drayton was tramping about the floor in the intensity of his energy.
"Here's the bar-slide. I'll just lift it an inch."
"Not half an inch," said Hugh, and he blew out the candle.
Then he took the key out of the inside of the lock, and put it on the outside.
"What! am I to be a prisoner in my own house?" said Drayton.
"I'll put the key on the bar-slide," whispered Hugh. "When you hear the door close after us, let yourself out—not a moment sooner."
The carriage-wheels stopped outside. There was a sound as of the driver jumping from the box. Then there came a knock.
Hugh Ritson stepped back to Drayton and whispered:
"This is the very man who tried to hold you—keep you close."
CHAPTER VI.
"This way, sir; this way, my lady; we knew you was a-coming, so we kep' a nice warm fire in the parlor. This way, my lady, and mind the step up. Yes, it air dark, but it's clean, sir; yes, it is, sir; but there's a light in here, sir."
Paul and Greta followed the landlady through the dark bar.
"We'll find our way, my good woman. Ah, and how cozy you are here! As warm as toast on a cold night. Thank you, thank you—and—why, surely we've—we've surprised you. Did you say you were expecting somebody? Ah, I see!"
Mrs. Drayton was backing out of the room with a pallid face, and twitching at the string of her apron. When she got to the bar she was trembling from head to foot.
"I don't believe in ghosts," she muttered to herself, "but if so be as I did believe in ghosts, and afeart of 'em, I don't know as ... Lor's a mercy me! Who was a-saying as our Paul was like some one? And now here's some one as is like our Paul. And as much a match as two pewters, on'y one more smarter, mayhap, and studdier."
"Whatever ails the old lady?" said Greta, faintly.
Paul stood a moment and laughed.
"Strange, but we can't trouble now. What a mercy we're safe and unharmed."
"A fearful sight—I'll never, never forget it," said Greta, and she covered her face.
Paul stepped to the door. The flyman was bringing in the luggage.
"Leave the boxes in the bar, driver—there, that will do. Many of them, eh? Rather. Here's for yourself. Why, bless my soul, who's this? What, Hugh!"
Hugh Ritson walked into the room calm and smiling, and held out his hand to Greta and then to his brother.
"I came up to meet your train," he said, in answer to the look of inquiry.
"Well, that was good of you. Of course, you know of the accident. How did you find us here?"
"I heard at the station that a lady and gentleman had gone to the Hawk and Heron."
"And you followed? Well, Hugh, I must say that was brotherly of you, after all. Wasn't it, Greta?"
"Yes, dear," said Greta, faintly, her voice trembling.
Paul observed her agitation.
"My poor girl, you are upset. I don't wonder at it. You must get off for the night. Hugh, you must excuse her. It was a terrible scene, you know. Our new life begins with a great shock to you, Greta. Never mind; that only means that the bright days are before us."
Paul stepped to the door again, and called to Mrs. Drayton.
"Here, my good landlady, take my wife to her room."
The landlady hobbled up.
"Room, sir, room? The gentleman didn't say nothing—"
"Take the lady to your best room upstairs," said Hugh, with a significant look.
Greta was going. Her step was slow and uncertain.
"Won't you say good-night, Greta?" said Hugh.
"Good-night," she said, so faintly as hardly to be heard.
The brothers looked after her.
"God bless her!" said Paul, fervently. "The days before her shall be brighter, if I can make them so."
Hugh Ritson closed the door.
"Paul," he said, "you and your wife must never meet again."
Paul Ritson turned red, and then ashy pale. A scarcely perceptible tremble of the eyelids, then a jaunty laugh, and then an appalling solemnity.
"What d'ye mean, man?" he said, with a vacant stare.
"Sit down and listen," said Hugh, seating himself, and lifting the poker to draw the fire together.
"Quick, tell me what it, is!" said Paul again.
"Paul, don't chafe. We are hot-tempered men, both, at bottom," said Hugh, and his eye perused his brother with searching power.
"Don't look at me like that," said Paul. "Don't try to frighten me. Speak out, and quickly."
"Be calm," said Hugh.
"Bah! you take me blindfold to the edge of a precipice, and tell be to 'be calm.'"
"You are wrong. I find you there, and remove the bandage," said Hugh.
"Quick! what is it? In another moment I shall cry out!"
Hugh Ritson rose stiffly to his feet.
"Paul, did you tell Greta she was marrying a bastard?"
With one look of anguish Paul fell back mute and trembling.
"Did you tell her?" said Hugh, with awful emphasis.
Paul's eyes were on the ground, his head bent forward. He was silent.
"I thought you did not mean to tell her," said Hugh, coldly. His eyes looked steadfastly at Paul's drooping head. "I think so still."
Paul said nothing, but drew his breath hard. Hugh watched him closely.
"To marry a woman under a false pretense—is it the act of an honorable man? Is it a cheat? Give it what name you will."
Paul drew himself up; his lips were compressed, and he smiled.
"Is this all?" he asked.
"Why did you not tell her?" said Hugh.
"Because I had sworn to tell no one. You will read that secret, as you have read the other."
Hugh smiled.
"Say, rather, because you dare not do so; because, had you told her, she had never become your wife."
Paul laughed vacantly.
"We shall see. My own lips are sealed, but yours are free. You shall tarnish the memory of our father and blacken the honor of our mother. You shall humble me, and rob me of my wife's love—if you will and can."
Saying this, Paul stepped hastily to the door, flung it open, and cried: "Greta! Greta!"
Hugh followed him and caught him arm.
"What are you doing?" he said, in a hoarse whisper; "be quiet, I tell you—be quiet."
Paul turned about.
"You say I am afraid to tell her. You charge me with trapping her into marrying me. You shall tell her yourself, now, here, and before my very face!"
"Come in and shut the door," said Hugh.
"It would do no good, and perhaps some harm. No matter, you shall tell her. I challenge you to tell her."
"Come in, and listen to me," said Hugh, sullenly; and putting himself between Paul and the door, he closed it. "There is more to think of than what Greta may feel," he added. "Have you nothing to say to me?"
Paul's impetuous passion cooled suddenly.
"I have made you atonement," he said, faintly, and dropped into a seat.
"Atonement!"
Hugh Ritson smiled bitterly.
"When you return you will see," said Paid, his eyes once more on the ground.
"You are thinking of the deed of attorney—I have heard of it already," said Hugh. A cold smile played on his compressed lips.
"It was all that was left to do," said Paul, his voice hardly stronger than a whisper. His proud spirit was humbled, and his challenge dead.
"Paul, you have robbed me of my inheritance, consciously, deliberately. You have stood in my place. You stand there still. And you leave me your pitiful deed by way of amends!"
A black frown crossed Hugh Ritson's face.
"Atonement! Are you not ashamed of such mockery? What atonement is there for a wrong like that?"
"I did it for the best; God knows I did!" said Paul, his head fell on the table.
Hugh Ritson stood over him, pale with suppressed wrath.
"Was it best to hold my place until my place was no longer worth holding, and then to leave it with an empty show of generosity? Power of attorney! What right have you to expect that I will take that from you? Take my own from the man who robbed me of it, and to receive it back on my knees! To accept it as a gift, whereof the generosity of giving is yours, and the humility of receiving is mine!"
A strong shudder passed over Paul's shoulders.
"I was helpless—I was helpless!" he said.
"Understand your true position—your legal position. You were your mother's illegitimate son—"
"I did it to protect her honor!"
"You mean—to hide her shame!"
"As you will. I was helpless, and I did it for the best."
Hugh Ritson's face grew dark.
"Was it best to be a perjured liar?" he said.
Paul gasped, but did not reply.
"Was it best to be a thief?"
Paul leaped to his feet.
"God, give me patience!" he muttered.
"Was it best to be an impostor?"
"Stop, for God's sake, stop!"
"Was it best to be a living lie—and all for the sake of honor? Honor, forsooth! Is it in perjury and robbery that honor lies?"
Paul strode about the room in silence, ashy pale, his face convulsed and ugly. Then his countenance softened, and his voice was broken as he said:
"Hugh, I have done you too much wrong already. Don't drive me into more; don't, don't, I beseech you!"
Hugh laughed lightly—a little trill that echoed in the silent room.
At that heartless sound all the soul in Paul Ritson seemed to freeze. No longer abashed, he lifted his head and put his foot down firmly.
"So be it," he said, and the cloud of anguish fell from his face. "I say it was to save our mother's good name that I consented to do what I did."
"Consented?" said Hugh, elevating his eyelids.
"You don't believe me? Very well; let it pass. You say my atonement is a mockery. Very well, let us say it is so. You say I have kept your place until it is no longer worth keeping. You mean that I have impoverished your estate. That is not true. And you know it is not true. If the land is mortgaged, you yourself have had the money!"
"And who had a better right to it?" said Hugh, and he laughed again.
Paul waved his hand, and gulped down the wrath that was rising.
"You have led me the life of the damned. You know well what bitter cup you have made me drink. If I have stood to the world as my father's heir, you have eaten up the inheritance If my father's house was mine, I was no more than a cipher in it. I have had the shadow, and you the substance. You have undermined me inch by inch!"
"And, meantime, I have been as secret as the grave," said Hugh, and once more he laughed lightly.
"God knows your purpose—you do nothing without one," said Paul. "But it is not I alone that have suffered. Do you think that all this has been going on under our mother's eyes without her seeing it?"
Hugh Ritson dropped the bantering tone.
Paul's face grew to an awful solemnity.
"When our father died, it was to be her honor or mine to die with him. That was the legacy of his sin, Heaven forgive him. I did not hesitate. But since that hour she has wasted away."
"Is this my fault?" Hugh asked.
"Heaven knows, and Heaven will judge between you," said Paul. "She could bear it no longer." Paul's voice trembled as he added, "She's gone!"
There was a moment's silence. It was as if an angel went by weeping.
"I know it," said Hugh, coldly. "She has taken the veil. I have since seen her."
Paul glanced up.
"She is in the Catholic Convent at Westminster," said Hugh.
Paul's face quivered.
"Miserable man! but for you, how happy she might have been!"
"You are wrong," said Hugh. "It came of her own misdeed—and yours."
Paul strode toward his brother with uplifted hand.
"Not another word of that," he said, and his voice was low and deep.
"How could she examine her conscience and be happy? She had put an impostor in the place of my father's heir," said Hugh.
"She had put there your father's first-born son," said Paul.
"It is false! She had put there her bastard by another man!"
Silent and awful, Paul stood a moment, with an expression of agony so horrible that for an instant even Hugh Ritson quailed before it.
"Go on," he said, huskily, and crouched down into his seat.
"Your mother was married before," said Hugh, "and her marriage was annulled. It was invalid. A child was born of that union."
Paul lifted his head.
"I won't believe it!"
"It is true, and you shall believe it!"
Paul's heart sickened with dread.
"Your father married again, and had a daughter. Your mother married again, and had a son. Your father's daughter is now living. Shall I tell you who she is? She is your wife—the woman you have married to-day!"
Paul sprung to his feet.
"It is a lie!" he cried.
"See for yourself," said Hugh Ritson; and taking three papers from his pocket, he threw them on to the table. They were the copies of certificates which Bonnithorne had given him.
Paul glanced at them with vacant and wandering eyes, fell back in his chair, dropped his head on to the table, and groaned.
"Oh, God! can this thing be?"
"When your mother told you that you were an illegitimate son, she omitted to say by what father. That was natural in her, but cruel to you. I knew the truth from the first."
"Then you are a scoundrel confessed!" cried Paul.
Hugh rolled his head slightly, and made a poor pretense to smile.
"I knew how she had passed from one man to another; I knew what her honor counted for. And yet I was silent—silent, though by silence I lost my birthright. Say, now, if you will, which of us—you or I—has been the true guardian of our mother's name?"
Paul got up again, abject, crushed, trembling in every limb.
"Man, man, don't gnaw my heart away! Unsay your words! Have pity on me, and confess that it is a lie—a black, foul lie! Think of the horror of it—only think of it, and have pity!"
"It is true!"
Then Paul fell on his knees and caught his brother by the arm.
"Hugh, Hugh! my brother, confess it is false! Don't let my flesh consume away with horror! Don't let me envy the very dead who lie at peace in their graves! Pity her, if you have no pity left for me!"
"I would save you from a terrible sin."
Paul rose to his feet.
"Now I know it is a lie!" he said, and all the abject submission of his bearing fell away in one instant.
Hugh Ritson's face flushed.
"There is that here," said Paul, throwing up his head and striking his breast, "that tells me it is false!"
Hugh smiled coldly, and regained his self-possession.
"My mother knew all. If Greta had been my half-sister, would she have stood by and witnessed our love?"
Hugh waved his hand deprecatingly.
"Your mother was as ignorant of the propinquity as you were. Robert Lowther was dead before she settled at Newlands. The survivors knew nothing of each other. The secret of that early and ill-fated marriage was buried with him."
"Destiny itself would have prevented it, for destiny shapes its own ends, and shapes them for the best," said Paul.
"Yes, destiny is shaping them now," said Hugh, "here, and in me. This is the point to which the pathways of your lives have tended. They meet here—and part."
Paul's ashy face smiled.
"Then nature would have prevented it," he said. "If this thing had been true, do you think we should not have known it—she and I—in the natural recoil of our own hearts? When true hearts meet, there is that within which sanctions their love, and says it is good. That is Heaven's own license. No sanction of the world or the world's law, no earthly marriage is like to that, for it is the marriage first made by nature itself. Our hearts have met, hers and mine, and the same nature has sanctioned our love and sanctified it. And against that last, that first, that highest arbiter, do you ask me to take the evidence of these poor, pitiful papers? Away with them!" Paul's eyes were bright, his face had lost its shadows.
"That is very beautiful, no doubt," said Hugh, and he smiled deeply. "But I warn you to beware."
"I have no fear," said Paul.
"See to it, I tell you. These lofty emotions leave a void that only a few homely facts can fill. Verify them."
"I will, please God!"
"Accept my statements and these papers, or—disprove both."
"I will disprove them."
"Meantime, take care. Leave your wife in this house until morning, but do you go elsewhere."
"What!"
Paul's anger was boiling up.
"If you have wronged Greta—"
"I have done her no wrong," said Paul, growing fiercer.
"I say, if you have wronged her, and would have it in your power to repair the injury, you must pass this night apart."
"Hugh!" cried Paul, in white rage, rising afresh to his feet, "you have tortured me and broken the heart of my mother; you have driven me from my home and from the world; you have thrust yourself between me and the woman who loves me, and now, when I am stripped of all else but that woman's love, and am going out to a strange land, a stranger and with empty hands, you would take her from me also and leave me naked!"
"I would save you from a terrible sin," said Hugh Ritson, once again.
"Out of my way!" cried Paul, in a thick voice, and he lifted his clinched fist.
"Take care, I tell you," said Hugh.
Paul looked dangerous; his forehead contracted into painful lines; his quick breathing beat on Hugh's face.
"For the love of Heaven, get out of my way!"
But with awful strength and fury his fist fell at that moment, and Hugh Ritson was dashed to the ground.
In an instant Paul had lifted his foot to trample him, but he staggered back in horror at the impulse, his face ghastly white, his eyes red like the sun above snow. Then there was silence, and then Paul gasped in a flood of emotion:
"Get up! get up! Hugh, Hugh! get up!"
He darted to the door and threw it open.
"Come in, come in! will nobody come?" he cried.
The landlady was in the room at a stride. She had been standing, listening and quivering, behind the door.
In another moment Greta hurried down-stairs, and hastened to Paul's side.
Paul was leaning against the wall, his face buried in his hands.
"Take him away," he groaned, "before I rue the day that I saw him!"
Hugh Ritson rose to his feet.
"Paul, what has happened?" cried Greta.
"Take him away."
And still Paul covered his eyes from the sight of what he had done and had been tempted to do.
"Hugh, what is it?"
Hugh Ritson stepped to the door.
"Ask your husband," he said, with emphasis, and an appalling calmness. "And remember this night. You shall never forget it!"
Then he halted out of the room.
CHAPTER VII.
Hugh Ritson walked to the bare room opposite. The handle of the door did not turn in his hand. Drayton held it at the other side, and with head bent low he crouched there and listened.
"Who is it?" he whispered, when Hugh Ritson unlocked the door and pushed at it.
"Let me in," said Hugh, sullenly.
"Does he suspect?" whispered Drayton, when the door closed again. "Did he follow me? What are you going to do for a fellow? Damme, but I'll be enough for him!"
And Drayton groped in the dark room among the dead cinders on the hearth, and picked up the poker.
"You fool!" said Hugh, in a low voice. "Put that thing down."
"Isn't he after me? D'ye think I'm going to be taken? Let him come here and see!"
Drayton tramped the room, and the floor creaked beneath his heavy tread.
"Speak lower, you poltroon!" Hugh whispered, huskily. "He knows nothing about you. He has never heard of you. Be quiet. Do you hear?"
There was a light, nervous knock at the door.
"Who's there?" said Hugh.
"It's only me, sir," said Mrs. Drayton, from without, breathing audibly, and speaking faintly amid gusts of breath.
Hugh Ritson opened the door, and the landlady entered.
"Lor's a mercy me! whatever ails the gentleman? Oh, is it yourself in the dark, Paul? I'm that fearsome, I declare I shiver and quake at nothing. And the gentleman so like you, too! I never did see nothing like it, I'm sure!"
"Hush! Stop your clatter. What does he say?" said Hugh.
"The gentleman? He says and says and says as nothing and nothing and nothing will make him leave the lady this night."
"He'll think better of that."
"And wherever can I put them? And me on'y one room, forby Paul's. And no cleaning and airing, and nothing. That's what worrits me."
"Hold your tongue! Put the lady in your son's room. Your son won't need it to-night."
"That's where I did put her."
"Very well; leave her there."
"And the gentleman, too, belike?"
"The gentleman will go back with me. Come, get away!"
"Quite right; on'y there's no airing and cleaning; and I declare I'm that fearsome—"
Hugh Ritson had taken the landlady by the shoulders and was pushing her out of the room.
"One moment," he whispered, and drew her back. "Anything doing upstairs?"
"Upstairs?—the bed—airing—"
"The girl? Has she made any noise yet? Is she conscious?"
"Not as I know of. I went up and listened, and never a sound. Deary me, deary me! I'm that fearsome—"
"Go up again, and put your ear to the door."
"I'm afeart she'll never come round, and her in that way, and weak, too, and—"
At that instant there came from the dark road the sound of carriage-wheels approaching. Hugh Ritson thrust the landlady out of the room, slammed the door to, and locked it.
"What's that?" said Drayton, in a husky whisper. "Who do they want? You've not rounded on a fellow, eh?"
"It's the carriage that is to take you and the lady to Kentish Town," said Hugh. "Hush! Listen!"
The driver rapped at the door with the end of his whip, and shouted from his seat: "Heigho, heigho—ready for Kentish Town? Eleven o'clock struck this half hour!" Then he could be heard beating his crossed arms under his armpits to warm his hands.
"The fool!" muttered Hugh, "can't he keep his tongue in his mouth?"
"Quite right," shouted Mrs. Drayton, in a shrill voice, putting her face to the window-pane. "Belike it's for the gentleman," she explained to herself, and then, with candle in hand, she began to mount the stairs.
The door of the room to the left opened, and Paul Ritson came out. His great strength seemed to be gone—he reeled like a drunken man.
"Landlady," he said, "when does your last train go up to London?"
"At half past twelve," said Mrs. Drayton, from two steps up the stairs.
"Can I get a fly, my good woman, at this hour of the night?"
"The fly's at the door, sir—just come, sir."
Paul went back into the room where he had left his wife.
The two men in the dark room opposite listened intently.
"Be quiet," whispered Hugh Ritson. "I knew he must think better of it. He is going. Keep still. Five minutes more, and you start away with the lady for Kentish Town. He shall walk to the station with me. The instant we leave the house, you go to the lady and say, 'I have changed my mind, Greta. We must go together. Come.' Not a word more; hurry her into the fly, and away."
"Easier said nor done, say I."
CHAPTER VIII.
Alone with Greta, Paul kissed her fervently, and his head fell on her shoulder. The strong man was as feeble as a child now. He was prostrate. "The black lie is like poison in my veins!" he said.
"What is it?" said Greta, and she tried to soothe him.
"A lie more foul than man ever uttered before—more cruel, more monstrous."
"What is it, dearest?" said Greta again, with her piteous, imploring face close to his.
"I know it's a lie. My heart tells me it is a lie. The very stones cry out that it is a lie!"
"Tell me what it is," said Greta, and she embraced him tenderly.
But even while he was struggling with the poison of one horrible word, it was mastering him. He put his wife from him with a strong shudder, as if her proximity stung him.
Her bosom heaved. She looked appealingly into his face.
"If it is false," she said, "whatever it is, why need it trouble you?"
"That is true, my darling," he said, gulping down his fear and taking Greta in his arms, and trying to laugh lightly. "Why, indeed? Why need it trouble me?"
"Can you not tell me?" she said, with an upward look of entreaty. She was thinking of what Hugh Ritson had said of an impediment to their marriage.
"Why should I tell you what is false?"
"Then let us dismiss the thought of it," she said, soothingly.
"Why, yes, of course, let us dismiss the thought of it, darling," and he laughed a loud, hollow laugh. His forehead was damp. She wiped away the cold sweat. His temples burned. She put her cool hand on them. He was the very wreck of his former self—the ruin of a man. "Would that I could!" he muttered to himself.
"Then tell me," she said. "It is my right to know it. I am your wife now—"
He drew himself away. She clung yet closer. "Paul, there can be no secrets between you and me—nothing can be kept back."
"Heavenly Father!" he cried, uplifting a face distorted with agony.
"If you can not dismiss it, let it not stand between us," said Greta. Could it be true that there had been an impediment?
"My darling, it would do no good to tell you. When I took you to be my wife, I vowed to protect and cherish you. Shall I keep my vow if I burden you with a black lie that will drive the sunshine out of your life? Look at me—look at me!"
Greta's breast heaved heavily, but she smiled with a piteous sweetness as she laid her head on his breast, and said, "No, while I have you, no lie can do that!"
Paul made no answer. An awful burden of speech was on his tongue. In the silence they heard the sound of weeping. It was as if some poor woman were sobbing her heart out in the room above.
"Dearest, when two hearts are made one in marriage they are made one indeed," said Greta, in a soft voice. "Henceforth the thought of the one is the thought of both; the happiness of one is the happiness of both, the sorrow of one is the sorrow of both. Nothing comes between. Joy is twofold when both share it, and only grief is less for being borne by two. Death itself, cruel, relentless death itself, even death knits that union closer. And in sunshine and storm, in this world and in the next, the bond is ever the same. The tie of the purest friendship is weak compared with this tie, and even the bond of blood is less strong!"
"Oh, God of heaven, this is too much!" said Paul.
"Paul, if this union of thought and deed, of joy and grief, begins with marriage and does not end even with death, shall we now, here, at the threshold of our marriage, do it wrong?"
A great sob choked Paul's utterance. "I can not tell you," he cried; "I have sworn an oath."
"An oath! Then, surely, this present trouble was not that which Hugh Ritson has threatened?"
"Greta, if our union means anything, it means trust. Trust me, my darling. I am helpless. My tongue is sealed. I dare not speak. No, not even to you. Scarcely to God Himself!"
There was silence for a moment.
"That is enough," she said, very tenderly, and now the tears coursed down her own cheeks. "I will not ask again. I do not wish to know. You shall forget that I asked you. Come, dearest, kiss me. Think no more of this. Come, now." And she drew his head down to hers.
Paul threw himself into a chair. His prostration was abject.
"Come, dearest," said Greta, soothingly, "be a man."
"There is worse to come," he said.
"What matter," said Greta, and smiled. "I shall not fear if I have you beside me."
"I can bear it no more," said Paul. "The thing is past cure."
"No, dearest, it is not. Only death is that."
"Greta, you said death would bind us closer together, but this thing draws us apart."
"No, dearest, it does not. That it can not do."
"Could nothing part us?" said Paul, lifting his face.
"Nothing. Though the world divided us, yet we should be together."
Again the loud sobs came from overhead.
Paul rose to his feet, a shattered man no more. His abject mien fell from him like a garment. "Did I not say it was a lie?" he muttered, fiercely. "Greta, I am ashamed," he said; "your courage disgraces me. See what a pitiful coward you have taken for your husband. You have witnessed a strange weakness. But it has been for the last time. Thank God, I am now the man of yesterday!"
Her tears were rolling down her cheeks, but her eyes were very bright. "What do you wish me to do?" she whispered. "Is it not something for me to do?"
"It is, darling. You said rightly that the thought of one is the thought of both."
"What is it?"
"A terrible thing!"
"No matter. I am here to do it. What?"
"It is to part from me to-night—only for to-night—only until to-morrow."
Greta's face broke into a perfect sunshine of beauty. "Is that all?" she asked.
"My darling!" said Paul, and embraced her fervently and kissed the quivering lips, "I am leading you through dark vaults, where you can see no single step before you."
"But I am holding your hand, my husband," Greta whispered.
Speech was too weak for that great moment. Again the heart-breaking sobs fell on the silence. Then Paul drew a cloak over Greta's shoulders and buttoned up his ulster. "It is a little after midnight," he said with composure. "There is a fly at the door. We may catch the last train up to London. I have a nest for you there, my darling."
Then he went out into the bar. "Landlady," he said, "I will come back to-morrow for our luggage. Meantime, let it lie here, if it won't be in your way. We've kept you up late, old lady. Here, take this—and thank you."
"Thankee! and the boxes are quite safe, sir—thankee!"
He threw open the door to the road, and hailed the driver of the fly, cheerily. "Cold, sleety night, my good fellow. You'll have a sharp drive."
"Yes, sir; it air cold waiting, very, specially inside, sir, just for want of summat short."
"Well, come in quick and get it, my lad."
"Right, sir."
When Paul returned to the room to call Greta, he found her examining papers. She had picked them up off the table. They were the copies of certificates which Hugh Ritson had left there. Paul had forgotten them during the painful interview. He tried to recover them unread, but he was too late.
"This," she said, holding out one of them, "is not the certificate of your birth. This person, Paul Lowther, is no doubt my father's lost son."
"No doubt," said Paul, dropping his head.
"But he is thirty years of age—see! You are no more than twenty-eight."
"If I could but prove that, it would be enough," he said.
"I can prove it, and I will!" she said.
"You! How?"
"Wait until to-morrow, and see," she said.
He had put one arm about her waist, and was taking her to the door.
She stopped. "I can guess what the black lie has been," she whispered.
"Now, driver, up and away."
"Right, sir. Kentish Town Junction?"
"The station, to catch the 12:30."
The carriage door was opened and closed. Then the bitter weeping from the upper room came out to them in the night.
"Poor girl! whatever ails her? I seem to remember her voice," said Greta.
"We can't wait," Paul answered.