The years are before him still—the years of his life full of promise, full of hope—that past of bankruptcy, recent though it may be, is, nevertheless, an old story, and the name of Mortomley is a power once more.

There is nothing the man is capable of he need despair of achieving, nothing this world can give him he need fail to grasp, and yet—and yet—I think, I know, that rather than go forth and gather the pleasant fruits ripening for him in distant vineyards, rather than pay the price success exacted ultimately for her wares, the man would have laid him down upon the bed a man in possession held in trust for his employer, and died a pauper, entitled only to a pauper's grave.

But no man can foresee. Happily, or else how many would live miserable.

Dolly could not foresee; she could not foretell the events of even four-and-twenty hours.

But she was nice to others in that her time of trial, and the fact served her in good stead in the evil hours to come.

"I think," she had said to Esther, "that Lang and Hankins would like to see Mr. Mortomley before we go. Lang had better give my husband his arm downstairs, and Hankins can help him into the carriage."

It was nice of Dolly, it was never forgotten about her for ever. It never will be till the children's children are greyheaded. By the carriage door stood the pair, hats in hand, tears running down their cheeks, speaking across Mrs. Werner to their master; their master whom they had loved and robbed, cheated and served honestly, believed in and grumbled concerning through years too long to count. And away in the background were a group of men, the faces of whom appalled Mr. Meadows, men who would have pumped on him had Mrs. Mortomley given the signal, who loved their master, though it might be they had not acted always honestly or straightforwardly by him, and who would at that moment have done any wickedness in his service, had he only pleased to show them the way.

With a mighty effort Dolly choked back her tears.

She heard the men say,

"And we wish you back, sir, better."

To which Mortomley replied,

"I hope I shall be better, but you will see me here no more."

"No more." Lang opened the door of the carriage for Dolly, who shook hands with him and his colleague ere the vehicle drove off.

"No more." Mortomley had said in those two words farewell to Homewood.

No more for ever did a Mortomley pace the familiar walks, or cross the remembered rooms. No more—no more—with the wail of that dirge in their ears the men went back to their labour exceedingly sad in spirit.

Mr. Meadows, however, was not sad. He sought out Esther crying in a convenient corner.

"Well, I am glad they are gone," he exclaimed, "and shall I tell you why?"

"You can if you like," Esther agreed, wiping her eyes with her muslin apron, which she had donned in honour of Mrs. Werner, "though for my part I do not care whether you are glad or sorry."

"Well, when I came here I was told to watch your mistress, and it has not been a pleasant occupation. I told Swanland it was all gammon thinking she was not on the square. Of course we know all about that, but he said his information from some one—Forde, I suppose, was clear, and that money was put away, and I must find out where. As if," added Mr. Meadows, with a gesture of ineffable contempt, "people like your people did not fight to the last shot, did not eat the last biscuit before surrendering. Of course I understand the whole thing, and I have but to repeat, so far as I am concerned, I am——glad they are gone."

"Let me pass, please," said Esther with a shudder. "I do not want to hear anything more about you or your master, or Mr. Forde—or—anybody," and her tone was so decided, he stepped aside and allowed her to pass without uttering another word.

CHAPTER XIII.

Everything in this world is comparative. To lords temporal and spiritual, and to honourable gentlemen of the House of Commons, and to millionaires east of Temple Bar, that clinging of the Irish peasant to his mud cabin and couple of acres of bog, would seem a most ridiculous piece of foolery were it not for the bullets with which Patrick contrives to make such a tragedy out of his comical surroundings. Nevertheless, eviction means as much misery to the shiftless Hibernian as his cup is well capable of holding.

This is a fact, I think, we are all rather too apt to lose sight of when considering the extent of our neighbour's misfortunes.

Because the house is not grand, or the furniture nice, or the wife beautiful, or the children winning to our imaginations, we are apt to think the man's loss has been light to him.

Whereas his modest home set about with gods of his own making and creating, may have been more desirable in his eyes than Chatsworth itself, and he may mourn over his dead with a grief less palpable, it is true, because the work-a-day world is intolerant of grief among the poor and lowly, but as real as that our Sovereign Lady feels for her husband, or as that wherein the sweet singer of Israel indulged when the messenger came swiftly and told him though not in words, "Absalom is slain."

To a business man especially the world is in this respect hard and unsympathetic.

Because we do not understand his trade, and should not care for it if we did, we fancy he has regarded his mills, his works, his factory as we look upon such erections. And yet the place where he has made his money, or lost it, has been most part of his world to him; as much his world as camps to the soldier, courts to the diplomatist, ball-rooms to the beauty, Africa to Livingstone.

A man cannot continue year after year to exercise any calling, if it be even the culture of watercresses, and not centre a large portion of his interest in it, and to a man like Mortomley it was a simple impossibility for his laboratory, his home, his works, his men, his colours to become matters of indifference to him.

There had been a time when it would have well-nigh broken his heart to leave Homewood and all its associations behind, but there were bitter memories now superadded to the sweet recollections of the olden time, memories which, throughout all the future, he should never be able to recall save with a galling sense of pain.

The old Homewood was dead to him, and in its place there was a new Homewood, the thought of which could never cross his mind save with a sense of shame and degradation.

It had been bad enough for the sheriffs' officers to hold the place in temporary possession, but when Mr. Swanland sent in his man Mortomley felt all hope had departed out of his life. If he was ever to do any good for himself and those belonging to him again, he must first go to some quiet place where he should have a chance of getting strong once more, and then having given up Homewood and everything belonging to him, compulsorily it might be, but still most thoroughly, commence life anew, commence at the very foot of the business ladder, and strive to work his way upward to success.

To both husband and wife the sensation of driving for their own mere ease and comfort through the suburbs of London was strange as though they had been labouring upon the pecuniary treadmill all the years of their life. Money anxieties had so long been present with them at bed and at board, that they found it difficult to realise the fact that they were free from these fetters.

By comparison beggary seemed heaven to the misery of their late existence; and Mortomley, weak as he was, seemed benefited by the change, whilst Dolly, all the time she had a strange feeling upon her of having started on a pilgrimage without the faintest idea of what her ultimate destination might prove, still experienced a sense of relief as mile after mile lengthened itself out between her and Homewood.

Had Mrs. Mortomley and her husband been royal guests, Mrs. Werner could not have paid them more devoted attention than was the case.

In a great airy bedchamber a fire blazed cheerfully, and on a sofa drawn close up to the hearth she insisted on Mortomley taking his ease, where no one could intrude to disturb him.

In the same room she and Dolly had their afternoon cup of tea, and then Dolly and her hostess repaired to Mrs. Werner's dressing-room, and sat chatting there until it was time for one of them to dress for dinner, to which a select party had been invited.

Mrs. Mortomley declined to join that party, but sat idly in a great arm-chair, watching the progress of her friend's toilette, and thinking that Leonora grew handsomer as she grew older.

When she was fully arrayed in all the grand apparel in which it rejoiced Mr. Werner's heart to see her decked, Dolly put her arms round her neck and kissed and bade her good-night.

"For I shall not see you again till the morning, dear," she said. "If I want anything I will ask your maid to get it for me. No; I shall not be hungry, or thirsty, or anything, except thankful to remember we have made a wise move at last and left Homewood."

"Very well, Dolly," answered Mrs. Werner, humouring her fancy. "You shall be called in good time to-morrow, so as not to be hurried; and if you want to write any letters you will find everything you want in my little room," saying which she pushed aside a curtain and passed into an apartment scarcely larger than a closet, but fitted up with dainty furniture, pretty inlaid cabinets, and a few water-colour drawings.

"No one ever comes in here except myself," said Mrs. Werner, "and you will be quite uninterrupted. See here is note-paper and there are envelopes. And—"

"Thank you," interrupted Dolly, "but I shall not want to write any letters again for ever," and with one more good-night and one more lingering look at the stately figure, which in the pier-glass she had mentally balanced against her own, Dolly opened the door which gave egress on to the landing, and stepped swiftly and lightly along the passage leading to the apartment where she had left her husband.

On the thick carpet the sound of her tread fell noiseless, and failed to disturb the sound sleep into which Mortomley had sunk. When before had she seen him slumber so quietly? Dolly sat down before the fire, and still full of thankfulness for the deliverance from Homewood and its thousand and one petty annoyances, tried to look out over the future and shape her plans.

After she had been thus occupied for about half an hour, she suddenly recollected she had not left with Esther an address which should find her at Brighton, and vexed at an omission which might cause even a night's anxiety to a girl who had been so faithful to her, she stole quietly out of the room, intending not merely to send a note to Esther, but also a few lines to Rupert and a letter to Miss Gerace, whose epistles probably had been intercepted by Mr. Swanland.

In the apartment of which Mrs. Werner had made her free, the gas was lighted. Dolly turned it up a little, and after searching for a pen to suit her, began her correspondence.

For some time she wrote on without interruption. She finished her short note to Esther; she scribbled a few hasty words to "My dear little girl," and was half way through her rambling epistle to Miss Gerace, when her attention was distracted by the sound of a door shut violently, and by hearing Mr. Werner pronounce her husband's name in a tone of the keenest annoyance.

"Mortomley!" he exclaimed. "Damn Mortomley!" which, though perhaps not an unusual form of expression, fell cruelly on Dolly's ear.

With the pen still in her fingers, she rose from her chair while he went on.

"I would rather have lost five hundred pounds than that you should have brought either of them here. A man in business cannot afford to be Quixotic, and I cannot afford to be mixed up with Mortomley or his affairs. They must not stay here, that is flat, and they must not go to Brighton. Make what excuse you like, only get them out of the house."

"I presume you do not mean to-night," said Mrs. Werner, in a voice Dolly could have scarcely recognized as belonging to her friend.

"Hang it, Leonora," he retorted, "you need not look at me like that. I suppose I am master in my own house, and have a right to say who shall and who shall not visit here."

"A perfect right," she replied. "I merely asked a question, and I wait for your answer. Am I to turn my friend and her husband out of your house to-night?"

"I suppose not. I suppose they must stay," he said; "but, good Heavens, Leonora, what could you have been thinking of to bring a bankrupt and his penniless wife here! And I involved as I am with that infernal Chemical Company, and Forde full of the notion that as Mrs. Mortomley's money is condemned, at any rate, he can get her to sign some antedated paper, securing the bulk of her husband's so called debt to him. Upon my soul it is enough to drive a fellow mad. I tell you I will not be mixed up with the affairs of people too foolish or stupid to take care of themselves.

"Forde will get them into some mess they will not readily extricate themselves from; Mortomley either wants sufficient moral pluck or physical energy to face the difficulty, and yet you bring them here!"

"They shall not trouble you after to-night," she answered.

"They had better not," exclaimed Mr. Werner, infuriated by her tone.

"And still you used to speak of Mr. Mortomley as your friend," remarked his wife.

"How often am I to tell you a business man can have no friends except those capable of advancing his interests, and bankruptcy cuts all ties of that sort. If Mortomley had been possessed of sufficient common sense to secure his flighty wife's fortune, there might have been some faint hope for him; but as matters stand there is none. If her friends do not come forward, they will have to apply to the parish within six months, and serve them right too."

Dolly gathered up her letters and laid down her pen, and stole from the room.

She had heard enough—she had heard how they stood—where lay their danger—what they had to guard against; and she stood for a moment in the passage leading to the apartments Mrs. Werner had selected for them, with her hand pressed tightly over her heart, trying to realize that she had listened to Mr. Werner's words in her waking moments instead of in a dream.

And then next moment came the question, "When were they to go."

They could not remain another hour in Mr. Werner's house, that was certain. She could not take her husband back to Homewood, that seemed more impossible still. She doubted, though her experience was small, whether any hotel-keeper would beam with smiles at sight of a sick man accompanied by his wife and destitute of luggage.

Dolly sat down on the mat outside the bedroom door to think it all over.

They must go somewhere, and at once, where should it be?

She sat there plucking the wool out of the mat in her restless imaginings, while her head grew hot and her eyes heavy with weary self-communing; she heard Mr. and Mrs. Werner go down stairs; she heard the stir and bustle of arriving guests; she listened to the buzz of talking and the light rippling of laughter, as one drifting out to sea in a rudderless boat might listen to the voices and the merriment of those safe on a shore fading away in the distance; she heard the rustle of the ladies' dresses as they passed in to dinner, and then it came to her like an inspiration—where she should go.

"I will do it. I will," she said almost audibly, and she turned the handle of the door gently, and crossing the room caught up her hat and shawl, and then closing the door behind her, went carefully down stairs, surveying the country she had to pass through over the bannisters.

Strange waiters were about and she passed through them unobserved, and sped off to the nearest cab-stand.

There she hired a vehicle, which she left waiting her return some half-dozen yards from Mr. Werner's house.

The door was fortunately open to admit of some guests invited to "come in the evening," and she entered with them and, unnoticed save by Mr. Werner's butler, crossed the hall and ran up stairs.

Arrived at her husband's side she touched him gently.

"Are you rested dear, at all? It is time for us to be going."

"Going!" he repeated, between sleeping and waking, "are we not at home?"

"No love, at Mr. Werner's."

He raised himself a little and looked at her.

"I think I have been asleep," he said. "Oh! now I remember, but I thought we were to stay here all night. It was arranged that we were, was it not?"

"Yes, dear, but I find it is not convenient for us to do so. Visitors have come, and we ought not to intrude under the circumstances. There is a cab at the door. Can you walk with my arm or shall I ring for assistance?"

He rose, still looking dazed and bewildered, and she put her arm round his body and he placed his arm round her neck; it was thus he had with weak and uncertain steps often paced his room at Homewood.

Trembling over the descent of each stair, she got him at length to the bottom of the last flight, and then beckoning one of the waiters, she asked him to help her husband to the door, while she herself searched for his top-coat and hat.

Whilst she was so engaged the butler appeared,

"Why, ma'am," he said, "you are surely never going back to Homewood to-night?"

"I find we must go," she answered; "I had forgotten something. I have left a note for Mrs. Werner upstairs, but do not tell her we have left until all the company have left. She—she—might be uneasy. I have borrowed a rug, tell her I will return it in a few days; and help Mr. Mortomley to the cab. Thank you, good night, Williams," and she put half-a-crown in his hand.

Poor Dolly! and half-crowns were not plentiful, and likely to be less so.

The driver touched his horse, and the hansom was out of sight in a minute.

"I wonder what that means," thought Mr. Williams. "For certain the governor was in a rare taking when he heard they were here."

But all the "takings" in which Mr. Werner had ever been were as nothing compared with that which overwhelmed Mrs. Werner when she heard of Dolly's departure.

She heard of that sooner than Dolly intended; for Messrs. Forde and Kleinwort, having driven down in the evening to see what pressure could be put upon Mrs. Mortomley to induce her to do what ought in Mr. Forde's formula "to have been done long before, make the St. Vedast Wharf people secure," came straight onto Mr. Werner's house in quest of the missing lady.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mortomley have gone, sir," explained the butler, who knew the manager as an occasional guest at his master's table.

"Gone, nonsense!" repeated Mr. Forde, pushing his way into the hall, and looking askance at the signs of feasting pervading the Werner establishment with an expression which said plainly,

'Just like all the rest of them. He can give parties while I am standing on the edge of a precipice. He has no thought for me.'

"I assure you, sir," answered the man, "Mr. and Mrs. Mortomley left here more than an hour ago. I assisted Mr. Mortomley into the cab myself."

"Then I must see Mr. Werner," said Mr. Forde determinedly.

"I am afraid—that he is engaged. We have company to-night, sir."

Mr. Forde turned as if he would have annihilated the speaker.

"He will see me," he shouted; "tell him I am here." And he strode into the so-called library, the door of which stood open, followed by Kleinwort, who, perhaps because he felt ashamed, perhaps because he was cold, looked curiously small and down-hearted.

After all, as he confided subsequently to Mr. Werner, it was none so pleasant being dragged across country and through town like a dog on the chain by even a companion charming as Forde.

"Shall I take your hat," inquired Williams, whose ideas of propriety were outraged by the sight of Mr. Forde seated in Mr. Werner's own chair in that sacred and solemn chamber, his hat on, his fingers beating the devil's own tattoo on the table.

"No," he growled, and the man retreated, catching sight as he went of a significant shrug of Mr. Kleinwort's shoulders.

Almost instantly Mr. Werner appeared. The butler opened the door for him to enter and forgot to shut it again.

"I want to see Mortomley," began Mr. Forde, without preface of any kind; "if he is well enough to travel, he is well enough to face his creditors."

"I will send and tell him you are here," answered Mr. Werner.

"No, I will go to him without any first message being delivered," said the other with an angry sneer.

"Pardon me," interposed Mr. Werner, "but you will do no such thing. It is not with any good-will of mine that Mr. Mortomley is my guest, but since he is my guest he shall not be treated by you or anybody else like a criminal. If he choose to see you he can do so, if he do not choose you shall not see him."

"Do you dare say that to me?" asked Mr. Forde.

"Yes," was the reply, "and if you speak in that tone to me, I shall say a good deal more which you may not like to hear."

"Now—now—now—Werner," interposed Kleinwort, "you are always so much in too great haste. He meant it not. He would not order about in your house for ten thousand worlds."

"He had better not," Mr. Werner said, cutting short the thread of Mr. Kleinwort's eloquence, for he was indignant at being taken from his guests, and furious at the fact of Mortomley having taken shelter under his roof, and being instantly hunted there by Mr. Forde. "Williams," he continued going to the door, and addressing his butler, who was bustling about the hall,

"Let Mr. Mortomley know Mr. Forde is here, and desires a few minutes' conversation with him. Now, gentlemen, I must bid you good-night. Williams will bring you wine or brandy if you only tell him which you prefer."

"Beg pardon, sir," interposed Williams at this juncture, "but—"

"Did you not hear me tell you to let Mr. Mortomley know Mr. Forde wishes to see him?" said Mr. Werner, emphasising each word with painful distinctness.

"Yes, sir, but Mr. Mortomley is gone."

"Gone!" repeated Mr. Werner, while Mr. Forde remarked audibly, "I do not believe a word of it."

And Kleinwort, pulling his companion's sleeve, entreated him piteously, "To be impulsive not so much."

"Yes, sir, went away with Mrs. Mortomley in a cab an hour and a half ago."

"Where did he go to?" asked Mr. Werner.

"Don't know, sir. No orders were given to the cabman in my presence or hearing."

Mr. Werner stood silent for an instant, then he said, turning to Williams,

"Ask your mistress to come down here. Say I will not detain her a moment." And while the man went to do his bidding, he walked up and down the room evidently as ill at ease as his visitors.

Into the room Mrs. Werner walked stately and beautiful, her rich dress rustling over the carpet, jewels sparkling on her snowy neck, amid her dark hair, and on her white arms.

She started at sight of the two visitors, but quickly recovering herself, gave her hand frigidly to each in succession.

"Ah! but, madam, we have no need to ask if your health be admirable," Kleinwort was beginning, when Mr. Werner interrupted his ecstacy with ruthless abruptness.

"Leonora," he said, "these gentlemen want to know where Mr. and Mrs. Mortomley have gone. If it is no secret, pray inform them."

"They are here," she instantly replied.

"No, they are not; they left in a cab an hour ago or more. Can you imagine where they have gone?"

"I cannot imagine that they have left," she answered. "You must be mistaken."

"If you please, ma'am," here interrupted Williams, who had remained standing at the door after Mrs. Werner's entrance, with an apologetic grasp upon the handle, "Mrs. Mortomley left a note for you. She told me not to mention this till all the company had left, but I suppose, under present circumstances, it is correct for me to do so."

"I will go for it," Mrs. Werner said, with a little gasp, but Mr. Werner prevented her intention. "Let your maid do so."

There ensued an awkward pause, during which Mr. Kleinwort, with much empressement, handed Mrs. Werner a chair.

"No, thank you," she remarked, and the pause continued, and the depth and gloom of the silence increased minute by minute.

At length the maid, having found the note, brought it into the room.

"Give it to me," exclaimed Mr. Forde, trying to snatch it off the salver, but Mrs. Werner's face warned him of the impropriety he had committed.

"The note is intended for me, Mr. Forde, I think," she said quietly, and opened the envelope after a courteous "Pray excuse me."

As she read her face darkened.

"Where are they, where have they gone?" demanded Mr. Forde eagerly.

Mrs. Werner lifted her eyes and looked at him slowly and absently, as if she had forgotten his existence.

"I do not know," she answered. "Mrs. Mortomley does not say, and I have not an idea unless they have returned to Homewood. Mrs. Mortomley unfortunately understood Mr. Werner objected to my having invited her and her husband here, and she hastened to leave a house where their presence was unwelcome."

Having unburdened herself of which statement, Mrs. Werner gathered up her ample skirt, and with a distant bow to both gentlemen left the room.

Mr. Werner went after her.

"Leonora," he said as she ascended the staircase, but she never answered him. "Leonora," he repeated, but still she made no more sign than if she had been deaf.

Then following rapidly, he stood beside her on the landing.

"Leonora," he entreated, laying his hand on her arm with a pleading gentleness difficult to associate with Henry Werner.

She stood quite still and looked at him with an expression he had never seen on her face before through all their married life, which God pity any man who ever sees it in the face of his wife, in the face of the mother of his children.

"Do not speak to me about them to-night," she said. "Hereafter perhaps, but not now," and her voice was changed and hard as Dolly had heard it.

"Will you give me her note?" he asked.

"Yes, it is your right," and she gave him the paper she held crushed in her hand, a paper on which Dolly had traced mad words in wonderful hieroglyphics.

After his guests had all departed, when the house was silent and quiet and lonely, and he was quite by himself, Henry Werner smoothed out that crumpled manuscript and read the sentences Dolly had written in her haste.

There was much she had better have left unwritten, as there is in all such effusions, much that was feminine and foolish, and passionate and exaggerated. But it ended with two sentences which burned themselves on Mr. Werner's brain.

"If it were not for your sake, darling, I would wish that the man you have had the misfortune to marry might be beggared and ruined to-morrow—beggared, more completely ruined, more utterly even than we have been.

"As it is, I shall never forgive him—never for ever—never.

"Dolly."

With a shiver Mr. Werner folded up Dolly's epistle and placed it in his pocket-book. Then he did a most unwonted thing for him; indeed, I might say unprecedented,—he poured out nearly a glass of brandy and drank it off.

"After all," he thought, "there is more in having a wife who is fond of her husband than most fellows think. That little woman is as brave over her sick husband as a hen about a brood of young chickens. I wonder if she has taken him back to Homewood; or rather I do not wonder, for I know she would sooner do anything than that."

And in this idea he was perfectly correct; Dolly had found a shelter for her sick husband, but not at Homewood.

CHAPTER XIV.

All told, these desirable residences contained only seven rooms; but the windows of those rooms overlooked, both back and front, pleasant gardens, and the road in which they stood ended in a brick wall covered with ivy, so that the inmates were crazed with no noise of passing vehicles. Altogether a quiet out-of-the-world little Grove, for by that name it was called, which a person might have wandered about Stamford Hill and Clapton for ever without discovering, had he not chanced upon it by accident, or happened to know some one resident in it.

But Dolly Mortomley was familiar with that out-of-the-way nook.

A widow with whom she had been well acquainted in the old Dassell days, coming to London for the sake of being near her only son, had asked Mrs. Mortomley to look her out a house, small, genteel, cheap, in a respectable neighbourhood, readily accessible to the City—all these requirements being italicised; and after weary searching, Dolly wrote down triumphantly that she had found and taken the very residence described, and that if her friend would send up her furniture, and come and stay for a week at Homewood while the place was put in order, everything should be made comfortable for her, so that she might walk, without any fuss or trouble, into her new home.

Mrs. Baker was the name of the new tenant who took possession of number eight, in which she lived for nearly two years,—to the great contentment of tradespeople, tax-collectors, and landlord, for she lived regularly and paid regularly, as only persons possessed of a fixed income punctually received, can do.

At the end of that time, however, her son fell ill, and the doctors advised that she should take him abroad for the winter.

Then ensued a difficulty. She had taken the house on a three years' agreement, and she did not wish to sell her furniture.

Clearly then, as all her friends said, the best thing for her to do was to let the house furnished until the end of her term, by which time she would be able to arrange her future plans.

This was in July. October had now come, and the house was still on view. Keys to be had at Mr. Stilton's, Blank Street, Clapton, while once a week the rooms were swept, the furniture rubbed and dusted, and fires lighted, by a former servant, who having married only a few months previously, resided in the neighbourhood.

The house would not let furnished. The class of people who require furnished houses are not those desirous of renting one at about a pound or five-and-twenty shillings a week, and Dolly had already written to inquire whether the chairs and tables and other effects had not better be stored, and the residence let unfurnished.

As she sat plucking the wool out of Mr. Werner's mat, the memory of this house had recurred to her. They would be quiet there. She could pay Mrs. Baker's rent without saying who were her tenants. Mr. Stilton knew her well, and would let her have the keys at once if she said the house was taken. She would have Susan over, and she would tell no one, except Esther and Mr. Leigh, and perhaps Rupert Halling, where she and her husband had taken refuge, and she would nurse him back to health in that quiet house where not a sound would disturb his rest, for she remembered Mrs. Baker telling her the people next door had neither chick nor child—nor piano.

It all came back to her like a vision of safety and peace. There Messrs. Forde and Kleinwort could not intrude; there they might shut their door and bar out the world, and not even Mr. Swanland could compel them to shelter a man in possession; there she could go into her kitchen undeterred by the thought of strangers loafing around the fire; there they might have their dry morsel in quietness; there she would be free from the scrutiny of Mr. Meadows, and the eternal bickering of workmen; there Mr. Bayley would have no right to come at early morn and dewy eve, and neither would Mr. Swanland's head and confidential clerk, who appeared perpetually at Homewood to hear Mr. Meadows' report, and to make sure the Mortomleys were not interfering with the business, or making away with goods, or inciting the men to rebellion, or, in a word, misconducting themselves in any way which should authorise Mr. Swanland in taking active steps to teach them their true position.

As for Mr. Werner and all their former acquaintances, she tried to forget she had ever called a human being friend.

"What I have to do now I must do for myself," she decided, as she drove through the night, her husband's head pillowed on her shoulder. "If we must pass through the valley of humiliation, it shall henceforth be alone. We have trod it long enough in sight of the public."

Perhaps she underrated the extent of the responsibility she thus assumed; perhaps in her anger against Mr. Werner, and her remembrance of all the misery she had endured at Homewood, she omitted to look on the other side of the canvas, and see the picture of solitude, anxiety, poverty, and lingering illness ultimately painted there; but spite of this, though she took her bold step in haste, she never repented it had been forced upon her—never, not even when she was weary and downhearted, not even when the burden seemed greater than she could bear, did Dolly regret she decided not to take her husband back to Homewood.

And yet, as she stood at the gate struggling with an unknown lock, her heart did sink within her for a moment.

It was only for a moment, however, for when after another fight with the key of the hall-door, she entered the house and lighted the gas with some matches she had been wise enough to purchase on her way, together with some other articles, a great sense of security and contentment came over her, and she felt, so far as she was concerned, if there had not been a bed or table in the house, if she had been compelled to sleep on the bare boards, she would cheerfully have done so rather than pass another night under the same roof with Mr. Meadows or any person of his profession.

Full of this feeling she returned to the cab, and asked the driver to assist her husband to alight. Fortunately, he was a strong, capable fellow, or they must have sent for further assistance.

To her utter dismay, Dolly found it impossible to rouse the sick man to a sense of what was required from him, the moderate exertion of struggling to a standing position, and almost in despair she strove with all her strength to lift him from his seat.

"Let me try, ma'am," said Cabby, and he took Mortomley in his arms, and the moment after was supporting him on the side-path; then the strange man and she managed between them to lead him up the short walk and the little flight of steps leading to the hall door.

"Can we get him upstairs?" Dolly asked in despair, for one look at his face under the gaslight showed her his illness had returned, that he was as bad as he could well be.

"We can try, ma'am," was the answer.

"You must stay with him while I run up and light the gas," she remarked.

The man looked at the unpromising staircase, and at Mrs. Mortomley, panting and out of breath, and shook his head.

"I wouldn't try it if I was you," he said.

They placed him in an arm-chair, and then with mattresses brought from upstairs, made a comfortable enough couch in the back drawing-room.

When these preparations were completed, Dolly motioned the cabman to follow her into the hall.

"Haven't you got anybody here with you, ma'am?" he asked, with a rough sympathy in his voice and manner.

"I am all alone for the present," she answered. "Will you do something for me?"

"Aye, that I will, if so be I can," was the ready answer.

"First, how much do I owe you?" and when that pecuniary matter was settled to his entire satisfaction, Mrs. Mortomley said,

"I want you to fetch a doctor. Find one and bring him here as soon as you can. We won't quarrel about your fare."

"I am not afraid of that," he replied, muttering to himself as he climbed up to his box, "but I am afraid it is an undertaker rather than a doctor you will be wanting soon."

He was not absent more than half an hour, but in that time Dolly had arranged matters somewhat to her mind.

She discovered coals in the cellar, and a few pieces of wood in the kitchen-grate, and so managed to light a fire in the sick-room. She carried the chairs, upholstered in damask, and other items of drawing-room furniture into the front room, and substituted in their place articles from the upper rooms, which proved that Dolly had no intention of moving her husband to the first floor for some time to come.

From the contents of a travelling-bag, which having been taken straight out to Mrs. Werner's carriage, had escaped Mr. Meadows' scrutiny, she set out the dressing-table with a few toilet necessaries, and thus it came to pass that when the doctor arrived he found the house inhabited not merely by human beings, but by that subtle essence of womanhood which may be felt but never described.

Already the house was a home, and this man who entered so many houses which were not homes did involuntarily homage to her achievement.

With a quiet tread he walked to the side of his patient, and stooping down over him felt his pulse, pulled up his eyelids, drew down the coverings, and laid his hand on his heart, then placed his own cool palm on the sick man's forehead. Then leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, he proceeded to question Dolly.

"How long has he been ill?"

"Several weeks. I cannot now remember how many," she answered, making a movement as if to leave the room.

"He won't hear us," said the doctor. "You need not trouble yourself about that. Some one has been attending him, I suppose?"

"Yes," she answered, "but not in this neighbourhood; we have only just come here."

"So the cabman told me," he replied. "Has he," indicating Mortomley with a turn of his head, "been living low?"

"He has had everything the doctor told me to give him."

"Beef-tea, wine, and so forth?"

"Yes, all sorts of wine, and everything we could think of or imagine."

"Just as I supposed," remarked the doctor. "And medicine, of course, draughts and drops, and those sort of things?"

"Yes; all that was ordered."

"And how does it happen a man in his state of health was out at such a time of night—out, in fact, at all?" asked the doctor suddenly.

"Because where we lived was killing him," Dolly answered; "because a dear friend wanted to take us to Brighton with her. And—and—well if I must tell you, other members of her family did not make us welcome when we got to her house in London, and I was obliged to bring him here."

"That is right," he said, nodding approvingly. "Always tell the truth to your doctor. In return I will be frank with you. What your husband wants is not so much wine, or meat, or change, or anything of that sort usually recommended, but sleep. If he can rest, and I think he can, that may save him; but I tell you candidly his recovery will be tedious, and nothing except rest can save him. Good night. I will not send you any medicine at present, but I will look round early in the morning, and see what sort of a night he has passed."

And he held out his hand and departed, and Dolly was left alone.

When she paid the cabman for his second journey she gave him a letter, and put him upon honour to post it at some pillar-box where the collections were made at three in the morning.

That letter, written hurriedly and directed in pencil, ran as follows:—

"Thursday night.

"Dear Esther,—I have decided not to go with Mrs. Werner to Brighton. Directly you receive this, please send Susan to Mrs. Baker's. You know the address. I will try to get over to Homewood to-morrow, but cannot do so till Susan comes here. Mr. Mortomley is very ill. Do not mention where we are to any one till I have seen you.

"Yours,
"D. Mortomley."

The cabman was faithful. Though he might never see Mrs. Mortomley again, he honestly did her bidding, and accordingly about half-past ten o'clock the next morning Susan arrived, bringing the following note with her from Esther:—

"Friday morning.

"Dear Madam,—I have not kept Susan to take any of her clothes, as I wanted to get her away before Meadows was up. I think you will be quieter at Mrs. Baker's than any place else.

"Susan will tell you about Mr. Forde and Mr. Kleinwort; but perhaps you have seen them.

"They were greatly put out at finding you gone. I would not have told them where, but Meadows he did. No more at present from

"Your humble servant,
"E. Hummerson.

"Dear Madam,—I am sorry to hear Mr. Mortomley is so ill again. Please do not send Susan here, as Meadows might get talking to her."

After reading and re-reading this epistle, Mrs. Mortomley decided not to visit Homewood for some time to come.

CHAPTER XV.

And there was nothing prepared for breakfast which he liked. Turner and the other man having been first in the field, had finished such delicacies as Esther had seen fit to set before them, and when at length Mr. Meadows appeared he found to his disgust nothing to tempt his appetite. A pot of tea, with sugar and milk accompaniments, a boiled egg, a loaf, and a small quantity of butter, alone graced the board.

"I can't eat this, you know," said Mr. Meadows, pushing away the egg with an expression of loathing.

"Well, you can leave it then?" retorted Esther.

"Bring me some ham," he commanded.

"There is not any," she answered.

"Then send for some."

"Send for some yourself, and send the money with it," replied Esther, who was not destitute of that spice of the virago which gives flavour and variety to a woman's character.

Mr. Meadows looked at her darkly, then put his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, and produced some silver.

"Where is Susan?" he inquired.

"She is out," was the curt reply.

"When will she be in?"

"I do not know," Esther answered. "Never perhaps. She has gone after a fresh place, and that is what I intend to do before long."

"And that is just what you won't do, my fine young woman," he declared, "for you cannot leave without a month's notice."

"Well, we will see," she replied. "I have not to give notice to you anyhow. I am not your servant."

"You are Mr. Swanland's, which is about the same thing," was the answer. "You chose to stay on after he took possession here for your own pleasure, and you will stay on now for mine, or else we will go before the nearest magistrate and know what he says on the subject."

But he spoke to space, for Esther, too indignant to listen further, had already left the kitchen, and he was compelled himself to go out into the works and send a lad for the viands his soul desired.

He had not finished his repast before a cab drove up, containing Messrs. Forde and Kleinwort.

Turner, sauntering idly about the lawn, was accosted by them.

"I want to see Mrs. Mortomley," Mr. Forde exclaimed.

"She has not returned. She left yesterday, as Mr. Meadows told you, sir, with Mrs. Werner."

"Yes; but she has come back here."

"That she certainly has not," was the quiet reply.

The two men looked at each other; then Mr. Kleinwort said,

"We should like to speak just one word with that bright little maid, Esther I think you call her. Will you tell her so?"

"I will find her myself," said Mr. Forde, and he strode into the house, followed by Kleinwort. As they entered the kitchen, Meadows, looking little better for his breakfast, rose to meet them.

"Where is Mrs. Mortomley?" repeated Mr. Forde, evidently believing that iteration would bring him knowledge.

"At Mr. Werner's sir," Mr. Forde muttered an impatient oath.

"Where is that girl?—Esther, I mean."

Mr. Meadows went in search of her, and when she appeared, Mr. Forde remarked once again, that he wanted to see Mrs. Mortomley.

"She is not here, sir, she went away with Mrs. Werner yesterday."

"Yes, but she left Mrs. Werner's last night, and you know where she is now."

The arrow was shot at a venture, but it told. Esther coloured and looked confused.

"Come now, tell us where she is," said Mr. Forde in his mildest accents.

It was not of the slightest use trying to fence with the difficulty, so Esther grappled it.

"I do not know, sir," she answered; thinking she might as well tell a sufficient falsehood when she was about it.

"That is not the truth," remarked Mr. Forde.

"And if I did know where she was, sir," continued Esther, "I should not give her address to you or any one else without her permission."

"You are all a pack of thieves and swindlers together," observed Mr. Forde; including, with a comprehensive glance, Meadows and the two men and Esther, in the statement levelled against the Mortomley establishment; "and I don't know that I ought not to give you all in charge for conspiracy. I will send for a policeman, and see if he cannot induce some of you to find your tongues."

"I wish you would hold yours for a while," interposed Kleinwort. "Fact is, my good peoples, we want to see that dear, distressed Mrs. Mortomley, and do much good to her and that poor invalid husband, and after a day or two it will be too late by far. You come with me," he added, addressing Turner; "you, I see, have brains and can understand; let me talk with you."

And so he and Turner walked into the conservatory.

"I will give you one—two—dree—foar—five gold pounds, if you get me the place where to find our little lady," he remarked.

But Turner shook his head.

"I can't get it for you," he said.

"But that maid so nice knows where she is. You worm it out of her. You extract that knowledge."

"No, sir," answered Turner. "I will not. I am not aware she has the slightest idea where her mistress is; but if she has, I am not going to pump her to please you. Put up your money, sir. God knows I have always thought badly enough of our calling, but I think it respectable in comparison to the callings I have seen followed by rich people since I came here; and badly as I want five pounds, if I could take it to play the spy on a lady like Mrs. Mortomley, I ought to be shot—that is what ought to be done with me; and I have no more to say."

"What can these beastly English brutes see in that Mrs. Mortomley to make them loyal so senselessly," considered Mr. Kleinwort. "She has not golden hair like mine dear wife, nor eyes so blue; nor presence so imposing; nor that red and white so lovely; neither is she house-mistress so clever; nor big brains as have some women. All she seems to be owned of is a sharp tongue and a big temper. But these Bulls are so stupid, they like to be goaded; they need not repose at home, as do we whose heads know no rest abroad."

For above an hour the pair remained at Homewood, thinking what could be done, but every one about the place they found either senselessly honest or stupid beyond belief; and at last, wearied and angry, Mr. Forde returned to the kitchen, and addressing Esther, remarked, "I suppose if I leave a note here, Mrs. Mortomley will have it?"

Then answered Esther demurely, "I'm sure I don't know, sir; you had better ask Mr. Meadows."

"What the —— has Mr. Meadows to do with the matter," inquired Mr. Forde.

"Only, sir, that he sends all my mistress' letters to Mr. Swanland," explained Esther, delighted at a chance of at last airing that grievance.

"What does she mean?" inquired Mr. Forde, turning to Meadows.

"Nothing, sir, only that Mr. Swanland, as trustee, of course opens all letters."

Whereupon Mr. Forde made some remarks about Mr. Swanland, which, though a true chronicler, I must refrain from setting forth in print.

"I should think, sir," suggested Esther, when the storm had blown over a little, "that, if you sent a note either to Mr. Leigh or to Mrs. Werner, my mistress would have it. She is quite certain to send her address to them."

"Look here, my girl," said Mr. Forde, "I will give the note to you, and trust to chance. If Mrs. Mortomley has not given her address to you, which I believe she has, she will within twenty-four hours. Give me pen, ink, and paper."

And though letter-writing was against all Mr. Forde's principles, he thereupon sat down and wrote a note to Mrs. Mortomley, stating with what regret he had heard of her consulting a solicitor, and asking for an interview which he had no doubt would prove of ultimate advantage to all concerned, "including Mr. Mortomley himself."

When he had finished, he laid the envelope and a florin on the table and summoned Esther.

"That is the letter," he remarked.

She took the letter and pushed aside the florin.

"My mistress left me enough money, thank you, sir," she said; "and I would rather not take any more from any one."

Mr. Kleinwort shrugged his shoulders as she retreated, and his friend pocketed the florin.

"Asherill had reason," remarked the German.

"What reason, and for what?" asked Mr. Forde.

"He would do nothing with those people," was the reply; "and, my faith, before you have finished, I think it may come to pass you shall wish you had let them choose their own lawyer, their own trustee, and liquidated their own estate for their own selves."

"But you yourself advised—" began Mr. Forde.

"Advised on your story which you swore was true. You said Mortomley was shamming sick; that the nephew was a rogue and fool combined; that the little woman had her own fortune secure; that besides, they had made one great coup, and put away money beyond count. Ah! bah! you great, stupid head—these two, man and wife, have been as senselessly honest as foolish, as even I, looking around, using my eyes, using my ears, can see, and you had better have treated them as such. Now I have said my say, now do as you like for the future."

"You are a clever fellow, Kleinwort, but you do not understand England or English people."

"That may be well," agreed Mr. Kleinwort, with a face like a judge, all the time he was laughing to himself at the innocence of his companion. As for Mr. Forde, what he liked to do in the future was this.

When Mrs. Mortomley received his letter she sent it to Mr. Leigh, requesting him to attend to it; and although the lawyer considered it a somewhat curious and involved epistle, he repaired forthwith to St. Vedast Wharf.

Mr. Forde was within and visible.

"I have called," said Mr. Leigh, after the first ordinary courtesies had been exchanged, "to speak about a letter you sent to Mrs. Mortomley a few days ago."

Mr. Forde rose and put his hands in his pockets. "You will not speak to me about it, my good sir; depend upon that," he observed.

"I think you must have misunderstood me," ventured Mr. Leigh in amazement.

"No, sir, I have not," was the reply. "I wrote a friendly letter to Mrs. Mortomley, and instead of coming to me herself she sends a lawyer. I will have nothing to do with you, sir. There is the door; be kind enough, as you came through it, to go out through it."

"Certainly," agreed Mr. Leigh, "but—"

"Leave the room, sir," roared Mr. Forde. "Will you go out of the premises peaceably, or must I put you out?"

"Mr. Forde," remarked the lawyer, "you must be mad or drunk. In either case I can have no wish to remain in your company. Good morning."

"Leave the room, sir," repeated Mr. Forde. He was one of those men who think some charm lies in shouting out a certain form of words so long as any one can be found to listen to it.

"Good morning," said Mr. Leigh again in reply, and he left St. Vedast Wharf boiling over with rage.

As he proceeded up the lane he met a man with whom he had some acquaintance—a man recently elected one of the directors of the General Chemical Company, Limited.

"Why, Leigh," said this gentleman, "where are you coming from?"

"I am coming from being ordered off your premises by your manager," replied Mr. Leigh, still white with passion.

"My dear fellow, impossible—"

"Not merely possible, but true," was the answer. "I have a client of the name of Mortomley, who, some years ago, became acquainted with your firm, and who has never done a day's good since. He is now in liquidation, and Mr. Forde wrote a note to Mrs. Mortomley, which I can show you if you are at all interested in so small an affair, wanting to see her. She did not want to see him, and so sent his communication on to me; but when I went to speak to him he flamed out on me as if I had been a pickpocket, ordered me off the premises, and behaved, as I told him, as if he were either mad or drunk."

"Humph!" said the new director. Mr. Forde had within the previous half-hour dealt himself a worse card than had ever before lain in his hand. "If you want an apology, Leigh, the idiot shall send you one—but—"

"Apology!" repeated the lawyer, "do you suppose I would accept one if the maniac sent it; but look to yourself, Agnew. There is something awfully rotten about your company, or I am much mistaken."

"I quite agree with you," was the reply; and the pair parted company; but instead of entering St. Vedast Wharf, Mr. Agnew turned along a cross lane, and thought Mr. Forde over quietly and at his leisure.

When he had thought him over he retraced his steps, and entered the offices, where Mr. Forde greeted him as though he had never spoken an insolent or unkind word to any one.

"Fine morning, sir," he declared. It was a curious fact that the moment the Mortomleys left Homewood the rain ceased.

"Yes, very fine," Mr. Agnew agreed, walking to the window. He was the most silent person Mr. Forde had ever encountered. He wore his hair parted down the middle, he used scent, his hands were very small and white, his clothes came from a West-end tailor, and he had married the daughter of some country magnate. Altogether, every one liked him at the board, because he did not interfere, because he was a gentleman, and because, as one of his fellow-directors said,

"He is a Hass. If you want my opinion of him, that's what he is—a Hass."

And so nobody feared and no one cultivated him, and he moaned about the premises at various hours, asking unconnected questions, looking at the books in a desultory sort of way, tolerated at the wharf as a simpleton might have been, and seeing much more than any one gave him credit for.

One of the questions he asked Mr. Forde quietly and in a corner on that especial day related to the estate Mr. Swanland was liquidating.

"About Mortomley now," he said confidentially.

"I am sorry to tell you, sir, I have been entirely deceived in that blackguard," answered Mr. Forde. "I trusted him as I would my own brother, and he has run away with I should be sorry to say what amount of money; but we shall catch him yet I hope," added Mr. Forde; "and Swanland says there will be a capital dividend. But one does not know who is honest, one does not, indeed. I shall never advise giving another man time."

"I really do not think I should were I you," said Mr. Agnew. "It makes matters unpleasant if things go wrong."

"Aye, that it does," said Mr. Forde, "though that would not matter much if all my directors were such Zanies as you," he added mentally.

For it was a curious fact that Mr. Forde conscientiously believed if he could only be rid of the interference of his directors for a month, or obtain an entirely new set whom he could direct as he pleased, fashioned perhaps upon the model of Mr. Agnew, he should be able to make such play with the resources of the Chemical Company, that he might raise it to the pinnacle of commercial success.

Beyond keeping his situation he had really very little good for himself, notwithstanding his manœuvring, notwithstanding the risks he had run, the almost maddening anxieties in which he had managed to entangle himself.

Heaven knows the game had not been worth the candle, but then, when a man begins a game, he cannot tell the end; and when the game is ended, it is too late to fret about the cost.

If ever an essentially round person had the misfortune to be placed in a square hole, that person was Mr. Forde; and not all his loud talk and vehement self-exertion could fill the vacant corners or give him any real sense of security in his position.

Nevertheless, to that position he held on as a man might cling to the last to a sinking vessel.

So long as he could keep his head above water at St. Vedast Wharf, there was hope that some friendly ship might rescue and bear him off to safety.

"You wait," said Kleinwort to him, when they were discussing the pig-headedness of the directors and the general and disgusting ingratitude of small customers, who would keep failing, and thus drew attention to those accounts which were of regal magnitude. "You wait; do not inquiet yourself more than you can avoid. I have one idea that we should be able to do much good together. Once I make a great coup that is in mine head, then we shall see much. Amongst more if Bertrand Kleinwort cannot put a fortune in the way of his friend."

"Thank you, Kleinwort," replied Mr. Forde gratefully. "I know I can trust you."

Which showed an amount of faith difficult to conceive of any one possessing in the sceptical nineteenth century.

But Mr. Forde had an enormous capacity for believing in things he desired should come to pass.

And this was really a great pity.

END OF VOL. II.

PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND CO.,
LITTLE QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS.