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THE    CANON'S    WARD 


VOL.  III. 


NEW    NOVELS    AT    EVERY    LIBRARY. 

MAID  OF  ATHENS.     By  Justin  McCarthy,  M.P. 

3  vols. 

ALL  IN  A  GARDEN  FAIR.    By  Walter  Besant. 

3  vols. 

THE  LAND-LEAGUERS.    By  Anthony  Trollope. 

3  vols. 

ANNAN  WATER.    By  Robert  Buchanan.    3  vols. 
THE  FOREIGNERS.     By  E.  C.  Price.     3  vols. 
lONE.     By  E.  Lynn  Linton.     3  vols. 
BEATRIX  RANDOLPH.     By  Julian  Hawthorne. 

2  vols. 

THE  CANON'S  WARD.     By  James  Payn.     3  vols. 
FRESCOES  :  Dramatic  Sketches.     By  Ouida      i  vol. 

CHATTO  &  WINDUS,  Piccadilly,  W. 


THE    CANON'S    WARD 


BY 


JAMES     PAYN 


AUTHOR   OF    '  BY   PROXY  '  '  HIGH   SPIRITS  '    '  KIT  :    A    MEMORY  '   ETC. 


IN     THREE     VOLUMES 
VOL.  III. 


CHATTO   &   WINDUS,    PICCADILLY 


[Ali    rights    reserved^ 


LONDON   :      PRINTED     BY 

SPOTTISWOODE     AND     CO.,      NEW-STREET     SQUARE 

AND     PARLIAMENT     STREET 


?^3 
V,  3 


CONTENTS 


OF 


THE     THIRD    VOLUME. 


CHAPTER. 

XXXV.  UNMASKED 

XXXVI.  THE   THUNDERBOLT       . 

XXXVII.  RESIGNATION  . 

XXXVIII.  IN    CONSULTATION 

XXXIX.  THE    REVELATION 

XL.  THE   WITNESS 

XLI.  JEANNETTE    CONFESSES 

XLII.  ROBERT 

XLIII.  ON    THE    TRAIL 

XLIV.  HOME    AGAIN 

XLV.  ILL    IN    COLLEGE 

xLvi.  sophy's  letter 

XLVII.  THE    LAST    INTERVIEW 

XLVIII.  ABANDONED 

XLIX.  THE    FLIGHT     . 

L.  THE    CONFEDERATES       . 

LI.  Willie's  will 

LII.  IN  PORT   . 


PAGE 

1 

22 

42 
58 
74 
89 
112 
1-28 
149 
IGl 
180 
196 
213 
22S 
242 
264 
283 
302 


THE    CANON'S    WARD. 
CHAPTER  XXXV. 

UNMASKED. 

On  their  return  to  Albany  Street,  the  Canon 
and  Sophy  sat  talking  over  old  times  so  late, 
expecting  every  moment  Adair's  arrival,  that 
when  he  did  come,  his  visitor  had  perforce 
retired  to  his  own  room  to  prepare  for  dinner. 
It  was  the  habit  of  the  master  of  the  house 
to  come  in  at  the  last  moment,  though  that 
circumstance  did  not  mitigate  his  indignation 
in  case  the  meat  was  overdone.  Adair 
looked  worn  and  irritated,  which,  however; 
was  by  no  means  unusual  with  him. 

'  What  is  it  now  ?  '  he  exclaimed,  fretfully^ 
when   Sophy   came  into   his    room.     It   was 

-     VOL.  III.  B 


2  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

plain,  by  the  surprise  in  his  tone,  that  she  did 
not  often  intrude  upon  his  privacy. 

'  The  Canon  arrived  this  morning,'  she 
answered,  sententiously.  '  He  dines,  and  is 
going  to  sleep  here  to-night.' 

'  The  devil  he  is ! '  was  the  hospitable 
rejoinder.  '  What  on  earth  brings  Mm  ujd  to 
town  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.  Some  little  matter  of 
business,  he  said.' 

'  Tut!  What  does  he  know  of  business? 
He  had  much  better  stop  in  college,  with  his 
musty  old  Milton.' 

This  was  a  little  ungrateful,  considering 
what  Milton  had  done  for  the  speaker,  and 
also  sardonic  ;  for  if  Milton,  considered  from 
the  point  of  age,  was  musty,  the  other  objects 
of  study  affected  by  the  Canon  should  have 
been  in  an  advanced  state  of  decomposition. 

'  I  couldn't  tell  him  that,'  answered 
Sophy,  '  though  I  was  well  aware  you  didn't 
want  to  see  him.' 


UNMASKED.  3 

'  And  I  don't  want/  replied  her  husband 
(his  English  grammar  was  not  on  a  par  with 
his  mathematical  acquirements).  '  Why  does 
he  come  poking  and  prying  about  our  house? 
Perhaps  he'll  do  it  one  day  once  too  often.' 

'  What  do  you  mean,  John?  Surely  you 
would  never  let  him  see,  of  all  men,  that  he 
was  not  welcome.' 

'  Oh,  he's  welcome  enough;  as  long  as  he 
behaves  himself  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with 
him,'  was  the  dogged  reply.  '  But  I  '11  have 
no  interference  in  my  affairs,  if  that's   what 

he's     after. Shut    tlie     door,    will    you, 

because  there's  a  draught.' 

Sophy  closed  the  door,  as  requested,  but 
left  herself  on  the  other  side  of  it.  Eemon- 
strance  with  lier  husband  at  any  time  she  knew 
to  be  futile  ;  when  he  was  put  out,  as  was 
just  now  obviously  the  case,  it  was  dangerous. 
She  had  long  known  that  he  had  lost  all 
regard  for  the  Canon  ;  but  up  to  this  moment 
he  had  never  spoken  of  him  with   absolute 

B  2 


4  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

antipathy.  What  could  he  mean  by  that 
phrase,  *  Perhaps  he  will  come  here  one  day 
once  too  often  ?  '  Was  it  his  mtention  to 
break  with  her  guardian  altogether?  She 
would  then  be  friendless  and  isolated  indeed. 
As  regarded  Adair  himself,  his  words  had  no 
power  to  harm  her.  He  was  her  husband 
only  in  name.  She  knew  him  thoroughly  for 
what  he  was.  Her  illusions  about  him  had 
not  been  destroyed,  because  she  had  never 
had  any  ;  but  all  hope  of  even  that  moderate 
degree  of  happiness  to  which  she  had  ventured 
to  look  forward  in  their  married  life  was  over. 
She  was  weak,  as  we  are  well  aware  ;  but 
she  was  not  a  fool.  Whatever  happened  of 
evil  to  her  at  his  hands  was  borne  without 
murmuring.  '  It  is  my  punishment,'  she 
would  wearily  say  to  herself,  '  and  I  have 
deserved  it.'  AYhat  chances  she  had  had,  and 
how  she  had  missed  them  all!  How  the 
pleasure  of  her  youth  had  turned  to  dust  and 
ashes !     Her  charms,  her  wealth,   the  love  of 


UNMASKED.  5 

kind  and  lionest  hearts,  how  they  had  all 
been  flung  away  by  her  own  reckless  hands ! 
That  there  was  some  new  trouble  in  store 
for  her  was  certain,  though  she  could  not 
guess  its  nature. 

Adair  received  his  guest  with  that  mixture 
of  warmth  and  deep  respect  which  he  always 
threw  into  his  tone  when  the  Canon  came 
to  Albany  Street  ;  but,  to  Sophy's  eye,  there 
was  more  effort  in  it  than  usual.  She  noticed, 
too,  that  her  guardian's  manner  was  unusual 
— stiff  and  guarded.  It  was  always  difficult 
to  the  Canon  to  conceal  his  feelings  ;  but  the 
remembrance  that  the  other  was  his  host  en- 
abled him  to  do  so  to  some  extent. 

The  dinner  passed  off  without  a  hitch  ; 
the  topic  of  conversation  was  chiefly  Cam- 
bridge, in  which  there  were  few  discords. 
The  influence  of  good  wine,  as  was  its  wont, 
operated  upon  the  Canon  favourably.  When 
i^ophy  left  them,  and  the  cigars  were  produced, 
he   was    certainly   disposed  to    take   a  more 


6  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

sano'uine  view  of  thinofs.  Thoucrli  he  beofart 
at  once  upon  the  matter  that  had  brought 
him  up  to  town — it  had,  indeed,  been  fizzing 
and  seething  in  his  brain  for  so  many  hours 
that  it  was  impossible  longer  to  suppress  it — 
it  was  without  heat  ;  his  tone  was  quiet  and 
conciliatory. 

'  I  am  come  here,  Adair,  upon  rather  an 
unpleasant  errand — a  matter  concerning  your- 
self, but  which  I  earnestly  hope  you  mil  be 
able  to  explain  to  my  satisfaction.' 

'  I  hope  so,  indeed,'  replied  the  other. 
His  lips  smiled,  but  his  brow  had  darkened  ;. 
his  face  had  a  resolute  yet  apprehensive  look, 
such  as  a  man  might  wear  about  to  be  attacked 
by  more  than  one  assailant,  but  who  has  his 
back  to  the  wall. 

'  It  is   only  an  advertisement  in  a  news- 
paper, but   it  has  given  me  great  distress  of 
mind.     I  do  not  wish  to  recall  a  certain  event 
which  happened  two  years  ago,  or  more  ;  you 
cannot  have  forgotten  it.' 

'  Indeed   I  have  not,  sir,'  put  in  Adair ^ 


UNMASKED.  7 

quietly.  '  I  well  recollect  your  generous 
conduct  on  that  occasion  to  me  and  mine.' 

^  At  all  events,  I  showed  very  great  trust 
and  confidence  in  you,  which  you  assured  me 
would  not  be  misplaced.  You  gave  me  your 
word,  also,  that  under  no  circumstances 
would  you  ever  embark  in  any  undertaking 
which  even  the  most  prudent  person  could 
call  speculating.  In  this  advertisement ' — he 
had  taken  the  paper  from  his  pocket,  and 
pointed  at  the  place — ^  I  see  your  name  pub- 
lished as  the  director  of  the  Susco  Railway 
Company,  in  South  America.' 

'  True  :  but  in  British  Gruiana,  you  will 
allow  me  to  add,'  said  Adair,  suavely. 

*  Good  heavens !  what  has  that  to  do  with 
it?' 

'Well,  if  you  were  a  man  of  business. 
Canon,'  said  Adair,  smiling,  '  I  could  show 
you  that  it  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it. 
r^et  me  say,  however,  generally,  that  an  in- 
vestment in  that  country  would  be  as  safe  as 


«  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

in  the  debenture  stocks  of  any  English  rail- 
way ;  indeed,  it  is  English.  But,  as  it  happens, 
I  have  not  even  invested  in  it.  For  certain 
reasons  which,  perhaps,  you  could  not  easily 
understand,  but  which  are  very  valid  and 
reflect  no  little  credit  upon  my  position  in  the 
City,  it  has  been  worth  the  company's  while 
to  put  me  on  its  direction,  and  also  to  pay  me 
handsomely  for  the  use  of  my  name.' 

'  That  explanation  is  not  satisfactory  to 
ipie,  Adair,'  said  the  Canon,  firmly.  '  It  is 
true  I  am  not  a  man  of  business  ;  but  I  know 
enough  of  such  matters  to  be  convinced  that 
it  wouldn't  be  worth  the  while  of  any  safe  and 
stable  company  to  do  anything  of  the  kind.' 

Adair  shruo^sred  his  shoulders,  and  smiled 
a  pitying  smile. 

^  Really,  Canon,  I  scarcely  know  what  to 
say.  I  could  give  chapter  and  verse  for 
everything  I  have  stated  about  this  Susco 
project ;  but  it  is  a  long  business,  and  if  you 
will  not  take  my  word ' 


UNMASKED.  9 

'  I  have  taken  your  word  already,  Adair  ; 
your  solemn  promise,  in  return,  I  must  need 
say,  for  a  very  great  favour,  that  you  would 
never  have  anything  to  do  with  Speculation — 
that  is.  Risk.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  there 
is  no  risk  in  your  being  a  director  of  the 
Susco  Railway  Company?  ' 

*  Not  one  atom,  not  a  scintilla,  I  pledge 
you  my  word  of  honour.' 

The  Canon  was  staggered  by  the  other's 
earnestness  and  emphasis. 

'  Well,  of  course,  I  cannot  imagine  for  one 
moment  that  you  are  deceiving  me.  I  must 
needs  believe  you.  But  still  I  do  not  like  it. 
I  must  ask  you  to  withdraw  your  name  at 
once  from  the  official  list,  and  to  give  up  all 
connection  with  the  undertaking.' 

'  Very  good,  sir,'  returned  Adair,  frankly. 
*  Since  nothmg  else  will  satisfy  you,  I  will  do 
so.  I  shall  lose  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  by 
it  ;  but  I  need  not  say  I  would  make  a  much 
greater  personal  sacrifice  to  meet  your  wishes.' 


lo  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'It  is  not,  you  know,  on  my  own  ac- 
count,' said  tlie  Canon^  greatly  mollified,  '  that 
I  demand  this  of  you.  It  is  nothing  to  me 
whether  you  risk  your  money  or  not.' 

A  sneer  passed  over  the  face  of  his  com- 
panion as  these  words  were  uttered.  He 
played  with  his  wine-glass,  and  muttered  a 
noiseless  something  in  a  menacing  tone. 

'  If  you  yourself  were  alone  concerned  in 
the  matter  I  should  say  nothing,'  continued 
the  Canon.  '  A  bachelor  may  do  what  he 
likes  with  his  money  ;  if  he  makes  a  slip  he 
can  pick  himself  up  again.  But  there  is 
Sophy  to  be  looked  after,  and  little  Willie.  I 
will  have  no  risks.' 

'  I  have  never  had  to  do  with  anything  but 
the  safest  speculations,  sir,'  said  Adair. 

'  Pardon  me,  but  that  is  a  contradiction  in 
terms,  my  friend.  A  speculation  cannot  be 
safe.  However,  as  you  have  passed  your 
word  to  withdraw  from  this  one,  and — if  I 
understand    you    aright — to    enter  upon   no 


UNMASKED.  ii 

others  (Adair  inclined  his  head),  '  let  us  say  no 
more  about  it. — This  port  is  very  good,  Adair, 
and  reminds  me  of  our  Trinity  cellar.' 

The  matter  for  the  present  seemed  settled; 
things  were  tided  over,  and  the  boat  of  friend- 
ship, which  had  been  in  grave  danger,  was 
got  afloat  again. 

But  it  had  been  done,  as  it  were,  with  a 
dead  lift ;  there  was  no  margin.  Moreover, 
the  reconciliation  was  not  really  genuine  on 
either  side.  Though  Adair  had  given  way  to 
the  other's  wishes,  or  had  appeared  to  do  so, 
he  secretly  resented  his  interference  exceed- 
ingly. Malefactors  of  all  degrees  have  been 
found  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  their  crimes 
save  in  one  instance.  No  one,  it  is  said,  has 
ever  owned  himself  to  be  ungrateful.  Mr. 
John  Adair  was  no  exception  to  this  general 
rule  ;  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  knew  that 
he  was  an  ingrate,  and  hated  the  Canon  as 
such  men  do  hate  the  benefactors  whom  they 
have  wrono^ed. 


12  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Canon  was  not 
quite  honest  when  he  had  said,  '  Let  us  say 
no  more  about  it,'  for  the  words  implied  that 
silence  was  to  be  preserved  on  all  hands,  and 
not  only  between  those  two,  whereas  he  was 
firmly  resolved  to  make  a  confidant  of 
Frederic  Irton  on  the  morrow.  He  would  be 
able  to  tell  him  whether  the  Susco  Railway 
Company  was  what  Adair  had  represented  it 
to  be,  a  respectable  undertaking,  or  (as  he 
still  strongly  suspected  it  to  be)  a  bubble 
concern. 

In  the  meantime  he  behaved  to  his  host 
with  such  friendliness  as  was  possible,  address- 
ing himself,  however,  for  the  most  part  to 
Sophy,  and  listening  to  her  stories  of  the 
wondrous  intelligence  of  little  Willie  with 
relief  as  well  as  interest.  Making  allowance 
for  maternal  exao-o-eration,  the  child  seemed  to 
be  a  very  Malkin  for  premature  sagacity.  It 
seemed  amazing  that  in  such  a  father  (for  no 
one  could  deny  to  him  the  possession  of  great 


UNMASKED.  ij 

intellectual  gifts)  such  a  daughter  seemed  to 
excite  so  little  sympathy. 

The  Canon  was  so  indiscreet  as  to  rally 
him,  though  very  good-naturedly,  upon  this 
circumstance  ;  upon  which  Adair  remarked, 
in  a  very  different  tone,  that  '  he  had  some- 
thing else  to  think  of  than  infant  prodigies  ' 
— an  observation  that  did  him  more  harm, 
and  evoked  more  suspicion  in  the  Canon's 
mind,  perhaps,  than  all  that  had  gone  before. 

It  was  with  eyes  more  than  half  opened  to 
the  true  character  of  his  former  protege.,  and 
with  an  impression  of  the  domestic  relations 
between  his  ward  and  her  husband  which 
gave  him  infinite  pain,  that  he  took  his  leave 
next  morning  as  if  for  the  railway  station.  As 
soon  as  he  reached  Oxford  Street,  however, 
he  put  his  head  out  of  the  cab  window  and 
bade  the  driver  take  him  to  Bedford  Row. 

The  young  solicitor  gave  him  a  hearty 
welcome. 

'  I  only  wish  it  was  my  house,'  he   said, 


14  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

^  instead  of  my  office,  that  this  pleasure  might 
be  shared  by  Henny.  Now,  Canon  '  (here  he 
assumed  the  legal  manner),  '  what  can.  I  do  for 
you?  ' 

'  Well,  it  isn't  settlements  ;  I  am  not 
going  to  be  married  again,'  said  the  Canon, 
characteristically  hiding  his  anxiety  with  a 
joke.  '  I  am  not  even  come  for  legal  advice, 
but  merely  for  your  opinion  as  a  man  of 
business.  A  certain  friend  of  mine  is  con- 
nected with  the  Susco  Railway  Company,  in 
British  Guiana.  What  do  you  think  of  it  as 
an  investment?  ' 

'  For  yourself  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  say  that.  Put  it  as  generally  as 
you  please.' 

'  Well ;  such  things  are  not  much  in  our 
way,'  was  the  quiet  reply.  '  Our  clients' 
investments '  (he  looked  up  at  the  yellow  tin 
boxes  that  ornamented  the  office  walls)  '  are 
not,  as  a  rule,  in  British  Guiana  securities  ; 
but  I  do  happen  to  know   something  about 


UNMASKED.  15 

the  Susco.  If  I  had  not  a  shilling  in  the 
world  I  would  perhaps  accept  fifty  shares  of 
such  a  company,  as  a  gift,  provided  tliey  were 
fully  paid  up  ;  but  not  a  hundred,  because 
that  would  put  me  on  the  direction.' 

'  And  why  not?  ' 

'  Because  my  name  would  be  then  made 
use  of,  and  might  induce  ignorant  persons  to 
invest  in  the  undertaking,  which  is,  in  my 
opinion,  thoroughly  unsound.' 

'  Do  you  mean  to  say  it's  a  bubble  com- 
pany? ' 

'  That  is  a  strong  expression,  and  sugges- 
tive of  fraud.  Let  us  call  it  a  balloon  com- 
pany— it  is  all  in  the  air.' 

'  My  dear  Irton,  you  alarm  me  more  than 
I  can  say.  John  Adair,  Sophy's  husband,  is 
a  director  of  it.' 

Irton  shrugged  his  shoulders.  '  That 
that  should  be  a  matter  cf  regret  to  you, 
Canon,  I  can  easily  believe  ;  but  surely  it  is 
not  one  of  surprise.' 


i6  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

'  It  has  shocked  and  surprised  me  beyond 
measure.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  it 
is  Adair's  practice  to  mix  himself  up  with 
such  undertakmgs?  ' 

'  My  dear  Canon,'  returned  Irton,  gravely, 
4t  is  quite  contrary  to  my  custom  to  interfere, 
unless  I  am  professionally  consulted,  in  other 
people's  affairs.  Moreover,  Mr.  Adair  and  I 
are  not  on  very  good  terms.  I  would  there- 
fore much  prefer  you  to  go  elsewhere  for  in- 
formation about  him.' 

'  But  I  am  here  to  consult  you  profession- 
ally. I  wish,  for  Sophy's  sake,  to  know  the 
whole  truth.  Tell  me  all  ;  it  will  be  the 
truest  kindness.' 

'  I  can  only  speak  from  hearsay,'  returned 
Irton,  after  a  moment's  pause  ;  '  but  it  is  a 
matter  of  common  report — and  has  been  for 
these  many  months — that  Adair  is  a  great 
speculator.  That  he  has  a  finger  in  almost 
every  new-made  pie,  and  some  of  them,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  dirt  pies.     He  is  a  man  of  great 


UNMASKED.  17 

ability  but  of  overweening  conceit  :  one,  in 
my  opinion,  wlio  would  never  be  content 
with  tlie  moderate  profits  of  a  legitimate 
business.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  has 
peculiar  advantages  in  the  fact  of  his  money 
being  settled  on  his  wife  ;  that  fe  always  a 
great  temptation  to  such  men  to  gamble. 
Ruin  can  never  touch  him,  he  has  always  his 
wife's  principal  to  fall  back  on,  no  creditor  can 
■claim  it,  and  that  will  assure  him  a  certain 
income.  These  companies  are  unaware  of 
that.  He  is  known  to  be  a  partner  in  a  re- 
spectable firm  and  to  live  in  good  style,  and  it 
is  worth  their  while  to  purchase  his  name. 
That  is  the  long  and  short  of  it.' 

The  Canon  grew  not  only  grave  but  grey; 
he  looked  ten  years  older  than  he  had  done 
^^^  minutes  before. 

'  Adair  assured  me  with  his  own  lips  last 
night  that  he  was  connected  with  no  under- 
taking except  the  Susco  Railway,  which, 
moreover,  lie  stated  to  be  a  perfectly  safe  con- 

VOL.    III.  c 


i8  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

cern  ;  "  as  safe  as  any  English  railway  deben- 
ture stock,"  were  his  very  words.  Did  he 
deceive  me  wilfully,  or  is  it  possible  he  was 
deceiving  himself  ?  ' 

'  If  you  compel  me  to  give  you  a  categori- 
cal reply,'  feturned  Irton,  with  evident  reluc- 
tance, '  the  latter  supposition  is  impossible.' 

'  He  lied  to  me  ?  ' 

'  Undoubtedly  he  did.' 

'  That  is  enough,'  sighed  the  Canon,  rising 
slowly  from  his  seat.  All  vigour  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  of  him.  He  looked  a  broken 
man. 

'  I  do  hope,  my  dear  Canon,'  said  Irton, 
gently,  'that  you  will  not  take  this  matter 
too  much  to  heart.  Mrs.  Adair  is,  of  course, 
quite  ignorant,  and  therefore  innocent,  of  her 
husband's  proceedings  ;  and,  thank  Heaven, 
into  whatsoever  hole  he  falls  he  cannot  drag 
her  and  the  child  after  him.  The  law,  so  far 
as  material  matters  are  concerned,  has  made 
them  safe.' 


UNMASKED. 


19 


The  Canon  answered  nothing ;  his  sad 
and  lustreless  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  into 
some  Inferno  of  the  future.  '  Deceived,  de- 
ceived !  '  he  murmured. 

'  Now,  my  very  dear  sir,  I  do  entreat  you 
not  to  let  that  annoy  you,'  urged  the  solicitor, 
earnestly.  '  You  have  lived  out  of  the  world,, 
but  if  you  had  lived  in  it  you  would  know 
that  to  be  deceived  is  man's  normal  state.  His 
only  remedy  is  to  consult  a  respectable 
solicitor,  and  he  is  not  to  be  found  in  every 
street.  Whatever  the  law  can  do  for  you  in 
this  matter  (if  you  will  trust  me)  shall  be 
done,  and  with  a  will,  I  assure  you.  But  it 
can  do  nothing  (except  in  breach  of  promise 
of  marriage  cases)  to  assuage  the  feelings. 
What  amazes  me  is  that  you  should  allow 
yourself  to  be  wounded  by  the  duplicity  of 
this  man.  What  else  could  be  expected  of 
him?  Did  I  not  assure  you  on  the  very  first 
day  I  met  him  that  he  told  me  a  most  distinct 
and  wilful   lie  about  his  being  in  a  certain 

c  2 


20  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

place  in  the  City  (I've  got  a  note  of  it)  on  a 
particular  Tuesday  morning  ?  That,  of  course, 
was  not  his  first  lie,  nor  was  it  likely  to  be 
his  last.' 

If  Mr.  Frederic  Irton  flattered  himself  that 
it  was  an  abstract  love  of  truth,  or  hatred  of 
falsehood,  that  caused  him  to  be  so  vehemently 
antagonistic  to  Mr.  John  Adair,  he  was  mis- 
taken :  what  Hemiy  had  told  her  husband  of 
Adair's  conduct  at  home — his  rouo;hness  to 
Sophy,  and  indifference  to  his  child — was 
really  what  fed  the  flame  of  his  indignation. 
In  business  matters  no  private  considerations 
have  any  place,  but  they  affect  them  just  as 
strongly  as  if  they  had  ;  it  is  onl}^  that  tlie 
lever  is  not  in  sight. 

To  the  young  lawyer's  philosophic  view  of 
matters  the  Canon  had  replied  nothing  ;  to 
judge  by  his  sad  preoccupied  face,  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  he  even  heard  it. 

'  I  don't  think  I  can  come  up  here  again 
just  yet,  Irton,'  lie  murmured,  as  they  shook 


Ui\' MASKED.  2i 

hands  ;  ^  I  may  want  you  to  come  down  to 
me  at  Cambridge  ;  you  will  oblige  me  so  far^ 
I  know,  if  necessary.' 

^  And  much  further,  my  dear  Canon,'  re- 
turned Irton,  warmly.  '  At  any  hour  of  the 
day  or  night,  you  may  depend  on  my  attend- 
ing to  your  summons.' 

He  saw  his  visitor  into  his  cab,  and  again 
the  Canon  shook  hands  with  him  ;  not  be- 
cause he  had  forgotten  he  had  already  done 
so,  but  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  here  was  a 
man  apt  in  affairs,  yet  of  a  kindly  nature,  on 
whom  he  could  rely. 

As  the  vehicle  rolled  away,  Irton  looked 
after  it  with  troubled  looks.  '  What  can  be  the 
matter  with  the  dear  old  fellow  ?  '  he  thouo:ht 
to  himself.  '  It  is  something  much  more 
than  ^s^hat  he  has  told  me,  I'm  convinced^ 
He  surely  never  could — no,  no,  that  is  impos- 
sible. Human  folly  is  as  deep  as  plummet 
can  sound,  but  it  has  its  limits.' 

He  was  wrong  ;  it  is  unfathomable. 


22  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 


CHAPTER   XXXYI. 


THE    THUNDEKBOLT. 


Sad  as  had  been  the  thoughts  of  Canon 
Aldrecl  on  his  way  up  to  town,  they  were 
almost  pleasant  ones  in  comparison  with  those 
which  consumed  him  on  his  return  journey. 
In  the  former  case  he  was  not  so  preoccupied 
as  to]^have  been  oblivious  to  the  inconveniences 
of  travel.  He  had  felt  the  cold,  he  had  been 
conscious  of  the  annoyance  and  trouble  to 
whi  ;h  he  had  been  put.  But  none  of  these 
things  moved  him  now.  A  fellow-passenger, 
shivering  in  the  other  corner  of  the  carriage, 
inquired  of  him  whether  he  had  any  reason 
for  keeping  the  window  down.  He  had  not 
even  known  that  it  was  down,  or  that  he  was 


THE    THUNDERBOLT.  23 

travelling  thirty  miles  an  hour  m  the  teeth  of 
an  east  wind. 

And,  as  he  felt  no  personal  discomfort,  so 
was  he  unconscious  of  any  misfortune  that  his 
conduct  might  brmg  upon  himself.  His 
misery  was  caused  by  remorse  for  what  his 
weakness  —  his  culpable  weakness  —  had 
brought  on  others.  He  would  have  been 
wretched  enough  had  they  been  strangers, 
but  they  were  very  dear  to  him  ;  persons 
who  had  been  committed  to  his  safe  keeping 
by  the  dead,  whose  trust  he  had  abused ;  and 
his  agony  was  none  the  less  because  he  had 
never  dreamt  of  harming  them.  He  was 
suffering,  in  fact,  as  Sophy  suffered,  from  the 
effects  of  his  own  wilfulness  (for  he  had  acted 
upon  his  own  impulse  without  asking  the 
advice  of  any  man)  and  weakness  and  folly. 
He  had  done,  indeed,  the  very  thing  which 
Frederic  Irton,  with  all  his  knowledge  of  the 
world,  had  said  to  himself  that  no  man  would 
be  fool  enough  to  do.     Xo  fatal  consequences 


24  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

need  of  necessity,  indeed,  ]3roceed  from  it  r 
the  one  thing  that  comforted  him  was  the 
hope  that  they  would  not  do  so  :  but  they 
might  do  it.  It  was  not  necessary  to  say  any- 
thing about  it  yet  ;  it  might  even  never  be 
necessary  ;  but  he  felt  that  it  would  never  be 
absent  from  his  thoughts — never,  never.  How 
should  he  meet  his  sister  with  such  a  weight 
upon  his  mind  and  not  let  her  perceive  it? 
He  had  a  letter  in  his  pocket  from  her,  re- 
ceived in  answer  to  his  telegram,  full  of  dis- 
appointment at  his  stay  in  town,  tender  ap- 
prehensions for  his  health,  anxious  love  and 
messages  for  Sophy  and  the  child.  Such 
letters  as  kind  folk  write,  full  of  groundless 
though  not  fictitious  grief,  when  there  is  really 
nothing  the  matter.  It  was  only  too  probable 
that  A  ant  Maria  would  soon  have  cause  to 
grieve,  indeed. 

He  resolved  to  tell  her  something  of  the 
unpleasant  impression  he  had  got  of  the 
position  of    the  little    household    in    Albany- 


THE    THUNDERBOLT.  25; 

IStreet;  that  would  account  for  his  bad  spirits, 
and  at  the  same  time  be  a  humiliation  to  him- 
self.  His  punishment,  as  he  remorsefully 
thought,  could  not  begin  too  soon,  though, 
alas !  he  had  not  the  remotest  notion  of  the 
possible  extent  of  it.  Then,  so  soon  as  he 
had  once  made  his  arrangements  for  warding 
olf  the  immediate  trouble,  he  grew  a  little 
calmer,  as  often  happens  when  we  get  our 
heads  above  the  sea  of  calamity  even  for  a 
moment  :  there  now  seemed  a  ray  of  hope. 
After  all,  matters  might  not  be  so  bad  as  Irton 
had  suggested  ;  and,  since  his  own  out-spoken 
words  had  not  apparently  been  without  their 
effect  upon  Adair,  who  can  tell  what  a  letter 
of  urgent  remonstrance  and  appeal  might  not 
effect  ?  He  would  write  such  a  letter  to  him 
that  very  niglit.  No  one  could  say  he  had 
not  the  right  to  do  it.  And  he  would  not 
mince  matters  ;  upon  that  he  was  deter- 
mined. "Wliile  carefully  avoiding  anything 
like    offensive    language,    this    young    man 


26  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

should  be  told  what  he  thought  of  him — no, 
not  that,  for  that  would  make  a  breach 
indeed — but  what  he  thought  of  his  conduct. 

'  My  dear  William,  what  has  happened?  ' 
were  Aunt  Maria's  first  words.  '  I  am  sure  it 
must  be  something  very  serious  ;  how  pale 
and  fagged  you  look ! ' 

'  Nothing  has  happened,  my  dear  Maria  ; 
but  I  am  certainly  tired,  and,  to  say  truth,  I 
have  been  worried  as  well.' 

'  About  business !  Now  what  a  pity  it  is 
you  should  ever  meddle  with  business !  Why 
don't  you  get  some  sensible — that  is,  I  mean, 
not  a  sensitive  scholarly  person  like  yourself 
— to  do  all  that  sort  of  thing  for  you  ;  Mr. 
Irton,  for  example  ;  it  would  save  you  a  world 
of  trouble,  and  money  too,  I  believe,  in  the 
long  run.' 

The  observation  was  full  of  truth,  though 
the  speaker  did  not  know  how  true  it  was. 
The  poet's  remark,  '  we  are  wiser  than  we 
.know,'  would  have  fitted  her  to  perfection. 


THE    THUNDERBOLT.  27 

The  Canon  winced  as  the  random  shaft  struck 
hhn. 

'  It  is  not  exactly  business  which  has 
annoyed  me :  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  found 
domestic  matters  in  Albany  Street  not  at  all 
satisfactory.' 

^  Is  little  Willie  worse?'  put  in  Miss 
Aldred,  anxiously. 

'  It  is  not  little  Willie,  though  the  poor 
child  is  no  better.  Sophy  isn't  happy  in  her 
married  life,  Maria,  and  that's  the  long  and 
short  of  it.  I  am  very,  very  much  dis- 
appointed in  Adair.' 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  while  ;  the 
Canon  expected  at  least  some  expression  of 
surprise,  or  perhaps  (which  would  have  been 
worse)  not  of  surprise  ;  some  feminine  ejacu- 
lation of  '  who  can  wonder  ?  '  or  \just  what  I 
expected.' 

But  all  Aunt  Maria  said  was,  and  that 
very  gently,  '  I  am  very  sorry,  William  ;  I 
am  sure  you  acted  for  the  best.' 


28  THE  CANOA'S    WARD. 

Nothinfi:  was  further  from  lier  tliouo^hts 
than  to  reproach  him.  She  mtended  to  con- 
sole hmi.  Yet  this  speech  wounded  him 
even  more  cruelly  than  the  other  had  done. 
It  took  the  part  he  had  taken  in  Sophy's 
marriage  so  entirely  for  granted.  The  re- 
mark was  only  natural,  nor  could  the  fact  be 
gainsaid  ;  but  it  is  one  thing  to  accuse  one  • 
self  and  another  to  have  one's  offences  pre- 
supposed by  another. 

'  It  has  turned  out  far  from  well,'  he 
answered,  gloomily ;  'he  is  an  indifferent 
husband  and  a  careless  father,  and  she  is  not 
a  happy  wife.' 

'  Poor  Sophy,  poor  Sophy ! '  murmured 
Aunt  ]\Iaria,  tenderly.  '  Well,  well,  it's  no 
use  crying  over  spilt  milk.  We  must  pre- 
tend, for  her  sake,  not  to  see  it,  and  we  must 
not  quarrel  with  her  husband.  It  would  add 
bitterness  to  her  cup,  indeed,  should  she 
thereby  be  estranged  from  us.' 

The    Canon   looked    at    his    sister    with 


THE    THUNDERBOLT. 


29 


aifectionate  admiration.  He  liad  not  given 
her  credit  for  such  sagacity.  If  he  had  told 
her  Sophy  had  been  already  cut  off  from 
Henny's  society  through  Adair's  dislike  of 
Irton,  he  would  not  have  been  astonished  ; 
but  this  prescience  staggered  him.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  no  superhuman  wisdom,  but 
Aunt  Maria's  ill  opinion  of  Adair,  had  sug- 
gested this  sage  advice.  '  The  man  is  brute 
enough  for  anything,'  was  the  thought  that 
was  passing  through  her  mind. 

'  True  ;  we  must  take  care  of  that,'  he 
said. 

'  Thank  goodness,'  observed  Aunt  Maria, 
^  it  is  only  necessary  to  be  barely  civil  to  him. 
Self-interest  is  his  god,  and  since  you  have 
some  command  of  her  money,  that  will  always 
keep  him  on  good  terms  with  us.  How 
dreadfully  pale  you  do  look,  William !  How 
stupid  I  am  to  be  asking  you  all  these  ques- 
tions, when  it  is  clear  you  are  ready  to  faint 
for  want  of  food !  ' 


30  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

And  she  bustled  out  to  get  him  a  glass  of 
wine,  and  to  hasten  the  preparations  for  his 
luncheon. 

Of  the  wine  he  indeed  stood  in  need,  but 
the  food  he  found  it  difficult  to  partake  of ; 
and  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  over  he  went  to 
his  college  rooms.  He  craved  to  be  alone, 
for  when  we  are  in  trouble  the  tenderest 
companionship,  where  confidence  cannot  be 
reposed,  is  irksome  ;  and  there  was  also  the 
letter  to  be  written  to  Adair  before  the  post 
went  out.  He  had  proposed  to  himself  to 
write  to  his  son  upon  that  day,  but  with  this 
weie'ht  on  his  mind  that  was  not  to  be 
thought  of  It  almost  seemed  to  him — the 
idea  was  a  flash  of  despair,  however,  rather 
than  an  actual  apprehension — that  he  never 
could  write  to  Robert  now  as  he  had  intended 
to  do  ;  that  he  never  could  have  the  spirit  for 
it  ;  he  had  had  enough  of  bringing  young 
folks  together  into  the  bonds  of  matrimony. 

The  Canon  had  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer, 


THE    THUNDERBOLT.  31 

but  it  was  over  two  hours  before  he  had 
composed  his  communication  to  his  satisfac- 
tion. It  was  embarrassino'  even  to  beoin  : 
that  '  My  dear  Adair '  stuck  in  his  throat  ; 
the  man  was  no  longer  '  dear  '  to  him  ;  and 
embarrassing  to  end.  How  could  he  sign 
himself  '  Yours  sincerely  '  even,  without  tell- 
ing a  lie?  But  his  chief  difficulty  lay,  of 
course,  in  the  contents.  He  had  helped 
many  a  fellow- creature  along  the  rough  path 
of  life,  but  this  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  reminded  one  of  what  he  had  done  for 
him  ;  ever  appealed  to  his  sense  of  gratitude.. 
In  this  case  he  felt  compelled  to  do  so,  and, 
indeed,  he  had  done  for  Adair  more  than 
most  men  do  even  for  their  dearest  friend  ;  '  I 
have  rot  only  helped  you  to  the  utmost  of 
my  ability,'  ran  one  pregnant  sentence,  '  but 
even  as  we  say  here,  ultra  .vires^  beyond  what 
the  law  in  its  strictness  would  perhaps  have 
justified  me  in  doing.  It  is  surely  not  much 
to  ask  of  you  some  prudence  in  retui^.'     He 


32  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

stated,  tliouo'li  without  i^ivino'  the  name  of 
his  informant,  what  he  had  heard  of  his 
speculative  undertakings  ;  but  he  abstained 
from  reminding  him  that  in  every  such  in- 
stance he  had  broken  his  pledged  word.  He 
^poke  plainly,  in  short,  but  carefully  avoided 
giving  any  personal  offence.  His  fingers 
itched  to  write  something  of  Adair's  be- 
haviour at  home,  but  he  withstood  the  tempt- 
ation. . 

In  conclusion,  he  reminded  him,  with  a 
pathetic  ignorance  which  should  have  touched 
the  correspondent's  heart  (only  he  had  none) 
more  than  all  the  rest,  that  he  could  have  no 
personal  interest  in  the  matter  on  hand  what- 
ever, but  was  merely  actuated  by  his  love 
for  Sophy  and  her  child.  '  If  I  have  un- 
wittingly said  anything  that  pains  you,  for- 
give it,  Adair,  for  their  sake.' 

It  is  one  of  the  most  hateful  necessities  of 
human  life,  tliat  good  and  honourable  men 
often  feel  themselves  obliged,  for  the  sake  of 


THE    THUNDERBOLT.  33 

others,  to  use  the  language  of  conciliation  to 
scoundrels  ;  it  is  never  of  the  faintest  use. 
They  might  just  as  well  speak  the  truth — 
'  Sirrah,  you  are  a  vile  hound '  (and,  oh,  the 
rapture  of  telling  them  so!) — at  once;  but 
for  the  moment  it  seems  to  be  of  use. 

When  he  had  finished  that  letter,  the 
poor  Canon  got  up  and  rubbed  his  knees ;  he 
had  a  sensation  of  having  been  walking  on 
all-fours ;  his  brow  was  damp  with  the  dew 
of  humiliation. 

^  There,  I've  done  it,'  he  sighed ;  ^  I've 
held  out  the  olive-branch  to  the  brute  ;  even 
the  hippopotamus  is  graminivorous,  so  let  us. 
hope  he'll  take  it.' 

All  things  invite 
To  peaceful  counsels,  and  the  settled  state 
Of  order,  how  in  safety  best  we  may 
Compose  our  present  evils,  with  regard 
Of  what  we  are  and  where,  dismissing  quite 
All  thoughts  of  war. 

The  words  occurred  to  him  quite  naturally,, 
and  not  till  he  had  uttered  them  did  it  occur 
to  him  from  whom  he  was  quoting.     It  was- 

VOL.    III.  D 


THE   CANON'S    WARD. 


part  of  the  speech   of  Mammon  to  the  fallen 
angels. 

'  Gad,  if  I  had  thought  a  little  more  (jf 
Mammon  in  this  business,'  mused  the  Canon, 
ruefully,  '  it  would  have  been  better  for 
Sophy.'  He  posted  his  letter  to  Adair  with 
his  own  hand,  so  that  no  mishap  should 
occur  to  that,  and  then,  not  wishing  to  return 
home  early,  yet  finding  no  restfulness,  as  of 
old,  amongst  his  books  and  pictures,  and 
feeling,  for  obvious  reasons,  disinclined  to 
seek  the  society  of  his  friend  Mavors,  he  took 
a  solitary  walk  in  the  Eoundabout.  This 
was  the  very  spot,  as  we  know,  in  which 
Sophy  had  been  so  imprudent  as  to  give  a 
meeting  to  her  first  husband  ;  a  circumstance 
from  which  she  could,  not  indirectly,  trace  all 
her  misfortunes.  It  is  not  only  our  pleasant 
vices  which  scourge  us ;  but  sometimes  even 
our  indiscretions.  Little  guessed  the  Canon 
of  how  the  train  for  her  marriage  with  Adair 
(for  which  he  blamed  himself  as  the  sole 
cause)  had  been  laid  there. 


THE    THUNDERBOLT.  35 

It  was  winter  now,  but  the  place  was  full 
of  evero'reens  and  well  sheltered  :  it  was  not 
old,  yet  it  had  seen  many  generations  of 
scholars  and  students.  They  had  been  wont 
to  walk  there  sometimes  in  company,  but  for 
the  most  part  alone  ;  the  youDg  ones  (just 
come  into  their  fellowships  as  into  a  kingdom, 
and  proud  of  their  privilege  of  being  there) 
full  of  hope,  revolving  each  their  scheme  of 
classical  and  mathematical  aoibition  ;  the  old 
ones  (who  had  seen  its  folly)  taking  a  consti 
tutional  and  getting  up  an  appetite  for  '  Hall.' 
The  Canon  had  belonged  in  his  time  to  both 
parties,  without  quite  sharing  the  feelings  of 
either.  His  thoughts  strayed  down  the  vista 
of  departed  years  without  much  regret  for 
them.  '  I  have  almost  got  to  the  end  of 
my  tether,'  was  his  reflection  ;  '  and,  but  for 
Maria  (who  would  miss  me,  I  fear),  I  don't 
care  how  soon  I  reach  it.'  The  trouble  which 
he  had,  as  he  felt,  brought  upon  poor  Sophy 
depressed   him    and    made    him    very    unlike 


36  THE   CANON'S    WARD, 

himself.  He  felt,  as  indeed  he  looked,  much 
older  than  he  had  done  forty-eight  hours  ago. 
He  flattered  himself  that  he  was  nearing  his 
rest,  whereas  (if  he  had  but  known  it)  he 
was  about  to  begin  life  again  under  changed 
conditions.  All  that  he  now  beheld  he  would 
see  again,  but  they  would  never  awake  in 
him  the  same  emotions.  He  would  have 
other  things  to  think  about. 

At  present  the  idea  had  not  so  much  as 
crossed  him  that  it  might  be  so.  As  far  as 
his  own  affairs  were  concerned,  he  did  not 
even  see  the  cloud  in  the  sky  of  the  size  of  a 
man's  hand  ;  there  was  no  warning.  Indeed, 
what  happened  did  not  take  place  on  the 
morrow,  nor  on  the  day  after.  It  is  generally 
so,  when  Fate  overwhelms  a  man  :  she  is 
sure  of  him,  and  is  in  no  hurry. 

There  was  no  answer  from  Albany  Street 
for  three  days.  This  silence  irritated  the 
Canon  exceedingly,  as  well  it  might.  That 
Adair  should  take  no  notice  of  such  a  letter 


THE    THUNDERBOLT.  37 

as  he  had  written  to  hmi  was  nothing  less 
than  an  insult.  He  had  been  requested  to 
address  his  reply  to  college,  not  to  '  The 
liaurels,'  so  that  his  correspondent  might  not 
be  taken  by  surprise,  and  led  into  showing 
more  feeling  before  Aunt  Maria  than  was 
judicious.  On  the  fourth  morning,  as  the 
Canon  eagerly  ran  his  eye  over  the  letters 
lying  at  his  room  (literary  correspondence 
chiefly,  with  ingenious  suggestions  as  to 
Milton's  meaning,  which,  if  correct,  would 
have  gone  much  further  than  was  intended, 
and  put  him  side  by  side  in  the  category 
with  the  mad  poets),  it  lit  upon  a  legal  docu- 
ment. It  was  enclosed,  of  course,  but  the 
handwriting  on  the  long  blue  envelope  pro- 
claimed it  as  a  communication  from  Themis. 
^  There  were  her  very  c's,  her  m's,  and  her 
t's  ;  and  so  makes  she  her  great  C's.' 

'  What  the  deuce  is  this?  '  he  murmured, 
partly  because  he  hated  law,  partly  because 
he  was  annoyed  at  not  getting  the  letter  he 


SS  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

expected,  and  tore  it  open.  The  contents  of 
it  were  as  follow : — 

'  Sir, — We  are  instructed,  on  behalf  of 
Wilhelmina  Adair,  the  infant  daughter  of 
Mr.  John  Adair,  of  Albany  Street,  London, 
to  apply  to  you  as  one  of  the  trustees  of 
Mrs.  John  Adair's  marriage  settlements,  dated 
June  14,  18 — ,  for  a  statement  of  the  property 
subject  to  the  trusts  of  such  settlement  at  the 
date  thereof,  and  of  what  such  trust  property 
now  consists. 

'  We  are  informed  that  the  sum  of  fifteen 
thousand  pounds  has  been  paid  out  of  the 
trust  property  by  you  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
Adair. 

'  According  to  our  view  of  the  trusts  of 
the  settlement,  such  payment  ought  not  to 
have  been  made  ;  and  our  instructions  are 
to  see  that  the  trust  property  is  protected  for 
the  benefit  of  our  client,  the  said  Wilhelmina 
Adair.  We  must  ask  you  to  let  us  have  the 
information    required   in   the    course    of  this 


TH1-:    THUNDERBOLT.  39. 

week  ;  and  will  be  obliged  if  you  will  put 
us  into  communication  with  your  solicitors, 
as,  if  we  are  compelled  to  take  proceedings  to 
protect  the  trust  property,  we  do  not  wish  to> 
trouble  you  personally  in  the  matter. 
'  We  are,  sir,  your  obedient  servants, 

'  Sine  &  Seele.' 

The  Canon  stared  at  these  words,  boldly 
written  and  very  legible  though  they  were,  as 
though  they  were  some  Belshazzar  warning- 
He  felt  in  his  heart  that  they  boded  rum  ;, 
but  he  required  an  interpreter  to  get  at  their 
meaning.  As  his  heated  eyes  reperused  the 
document,  its  own  words,  '  we  shall  be  obliged 
if  you  will  put  us  into  communication  with 
your  solicitor,'  suggested  to  him  the  very- 
person  of  whom  he  stood  in  need.  Hardly 
knowing  what  he  was  doing,  yet  afraid  to 
trust  another  with  such  an  errand,  he  put  on 
his  hat  and  gown  and  hurried  to  the  telegraph 
office,  where  he  ^^  rote  this  message  : — 


40  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

'  From  Canon  Aldred,  Trinity  College,  to 
Frederic  Irton. 

'  Can  you  come  to  me  by  next  train  ? 
Most  urgent ;  reply  jDaid.' 

Then  he  tottered  back  to  his  rooms,  and 
sported  the  door. 

Half  an  hour — an  hour — he  spent  the 
time  he  knew  not  how ;  but  not  in  thinking : 
on  the  contrary,  in  trying  not  to  think.  All 
that  he  dared  suffer  his  mind  to  dwell  upon, 
lest  it  should  leave  hiui  altogether,  was, 
'  When  shall  I  hear  from  Irton  ?  ' 

At  last  relief  came  to  him  ;  there  were 
steps  on  the  stairs,  and  a  careless  whistle. 
(Little  do  those  telegraph  boys  know  what 
messengers  of  Doom  they  are  ;  the  postman, 
by  comparison,  is  a  mere  valentine  purveyor.) 
The  yellow  envelope  was  dropped  through 
the  letter- slip,  and  the  Canon  seized  it  as 
some  starving  prisoner  clutches  his  daily 
dole. 


THE    THUNDERBOLT.  41 

'  From  F.  Irton,  London,  to  Canon 
Aldred,  Trinity  College. 

'  I  shall  be  at  your  college  rooms  at  five 
o'clock.' 


42  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 


CHAPTER   XXXYII. 

EESIGNATION. 

With  the  roajority  of  men,  when  a  great 
misfortune  happens  to  them  through  the  base- 
ness of  a  fellow-creature,  it  is  the  private 
wound — the  personal  catastrophe — which  they 
feel  the  most ;  but  with  nobler  and  simpler 
natures  it  is  the  baseness  itself  which  most 
affects  them.  It  is  a  revelation  to  them  of  a 
depth  of  infamy  in  human  nature  of  which 
they  have  never  guessed,  and  they  start  back 
from  it  aghast.  It  seems  as  though  all  their 
lives  they  had  been  walking  on  the  brink  of 
a  chasm  overgrown  with  brushwood,  or  even 
flowers,  so  that  the  existence  of  it  had  never 
been  suspected.  When  it  is  suddenly  revealed, 
the     hideous     suspicion    strikes    them    that 


RESIGNATION.  43 

the  whole  world  may  be  full  of  such 
hidden  fissures,  that  no  path  is  safe,  no 
friendship  to  be  trusted.  This  unphilosophic 
state  of  mind  arises  in  reality  from  a  certain 
sort  of  philosophy  (much  accepted  in  these 
late  years)  which  takes  it  for  granted  that, 
though  there  may  be  such  things  as  '  good  ' 
and  '  bad,'  they  shade  oif  and  mingle  with 
one  another  by  almost  inperceptible  grada- 
tions ;  and  especially  that  there  is  '  a  great 
deal  of  good  in  everybody,'  notwithstanding 
what  seems  pretty  strong  evidence  to  the  con- 
trary. Even  if  folk  don't  go  to  that  length 
in  their  fatuous  charity,  they  will  assert  with 
confidence,  '  You  may  depend  upon  it  that  no 
man  is  quite  a  brute.'  That  is,  of  course, 
true ;  but  there  are  men  much  more  unfeeling, 
much  more  selfish,  and  much  more  worthless 
than  any  four-legged  creature.  More  cruel 
than  the  tiger,  more  brutal  than  the  bull,  and 
(ten  times)  falser  than  the  fox.  Xo  one  can 
doubt   this    who    has    had    any   really   large 


44  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

experience  of  life.  The  experience  of  most 
people  is  very  limited,  and  they  take  their 
views  at  secondhand  ;  and,  again,  an  expe- 
rience may  be  great,  and  even  varied,  with- 
out dipping  deep.  It  is  astonishing  how  little 
those  who  have  been  in  smooth  waters  all 
their  lives  (and  have  had  no  natural  inclina- 
tion to  dive)  know  of  the  real  nature  of  their 
fellow- creatures. 

The  Canon  prided  himself,  and  not  with- 
out reason,  on  being  a  judge  of  character  :  he 
could  detect  a  weakness  with  great  facility  ; 
he  could  hit  off  the  various  traits  in  liis  ac- 
quamtances  with  much  accuracy  and  humour  ; 
he  could  even,  wdth  opportunity,  recognise  a 
Scamp  ;  but  he  was  totally  ignorant  of  the 
genus  Scoundrel.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  he  had  suddenly  been  brought  face  to  face 
with  a  villain,  and  it  shocked  and  horrified 
him,  as  though  a  traveller  in  a  forest  accus- 
tomed only  to  meet  with  marmosets  and 
monkeys  should  suddenly  be  confronted  with 


RESIGNATION.  45 

a  gorilla.  He  had  been  a  great  student,  but 
never,  even  in  his  readmg,  had  he  come  across 
such  an  example  of  utter  depravity  as  was 
now  presented  to  him  in  the  flesh.  Ingrati- 
tude of  the  deepest  dye,  falsehood  unimagin- 
able, fraud  of  the  vilest  sort,  were  only  a  few 
of  the  components  of  it ;  it  was  a  mixture 
from  which  the  Devil  himself  might  have 
turned  away,  as  being  a  little  too  strong  for 
his  stomach. 

It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  the  Canon 
shrank  from  it.  Alone,  and  with  the  haunt- 
ing recollections  of  the  past  to  intensify  his 
disgust,  he  could  not  trust  himself — urgent- 
though  it  was — to  think  over  the  matter  on 
hand.  He  shut  it  from  his  mind  as  much  as 
possible,  and  busied  himself  in  making  such 
preparations  for  his  expected  visitor  as  would 
facilitate  his  understanding  of  the  subject 
concerning  which  he  had  been  summoned. 

He  took  from  his  desk  two  little  packets 
of  letters,  the  larger  in  the  handwriting  of 


46  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

Adair,  tlie  smaller  in  that  of  his  wife,  and 
arranged  them  on  the  table  in  the  order  of 
their  dates.  As  the  former  fell  from  his 
fingers  an  expression  of  disgust  passed  over 
his  featm^es  as  though  he  were  handling  per- 
force some  reptile  or  loathsome  insect :  over 
Sophy's  letters  he  lingered  with  a  look  of 
ineffable  pity. 

'  She  never  meant  to  harm  me,'  was  his 
reflection.  '  How  terribly  all  this  will  pain 
her,  poor  girl !  poor  girl ! ' 

Once  he  took  up  one  of  these  letters  and 
made  as  if  he  would  open  it ;  but,  after  an 
inward  struggle,  he  put  it  down  again,  sigh- 
ing, '  It  will  be  time  enough  when  Irton 
comes.' 

He  took  the  book  of  accounts — those  very 
accounts  in  which  Adair  had  made  himself  so 
useful  years  ago — out  of  its  drawer  ;  and  a 
copy  (made  for  him  within  the  last  two 
months  for  a  special  j^^^^pose)  of  the  settle- 
ment of  which  he  was  trustee. 


RESIGNA  TION.  47 

Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  reached  down  his 
favourite  volume  from  its  shelf,  and  for  a 
time,  wrapped  in  the  wondrous  Tale  of  Hell 
and  Heaven,  shut  out  importunate  Care  and 
gaping  Ruin. 

The  lawyer  found  him,  book  in  hand,  to 
all  appearance  composed  enough. 

'  This  is  so  kind  of  you,  my  dear  Irton,' 
was  his  cordial  greeting,  'yet  nothing  less 
than  I  expected.' 

'  "  A  friend  should  show  himself  friendly,"  ' 
returned  the  other  earnestly ;  then  added, 
with  a  smile,  '  it  is  a  bad  sign  when  a  lawyer 
quotes  Scripture,  but  you  must  needs  under- 
stand that  I  come  as  a  friend.' 

This  delicate  disclaimer  of  his  visit  beinof 
a  professional  one  was  lost  upon  his  com- 
panion, or  we  may  be  sure  he  would  have 
combated  it. 

'  I  believe  I  never  stood  in  greater  need 
of  one,'  was  his  earnest  reply.  '  This  is  the 
communication  received  this  moi-nino-  which 

C3 


48  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

has  caused  me  to  put  you  to  so  much  incon- 
venience ; '  and  he  placed  in  his  hands  the 
lawyers'  letter. 

'  Sine  and  Seele ! '  exclaimed  Irton,  glanc- 
ins:  at  the  sio^nature  ;  '  what  on  earth  have 
these  gentlemen  to  do  with  you  ? ' 

'  You  know  the  firm,  then?  ' 

Irton  nodded.  So  far  as  a  gesture  could 
convey  at  once  assent  and  dissatisfaction,  the 
nod  conveyed  it.  He  read  the  letter  through 
without  comment  ;  then  observed,  with  ex- 
treme gravity,  '  Can  this  be  true,  Canon  ?  ' 

^  Can  what  be  true  ?  ' 

'  That  you  have  paid  fifteen  thousand  away 
of  Mrs.  Adair's  trust-money?' 

'  To  herself,  yes  ;  at  her  earnest  and  re- 
peated entreaty,  in  order  to  make  her  husband 
a  partner  in  his  own  firm.' 

'  Great  heavens  !  '  cried  Irton,  starting 
from  his  chair,  '  you  must  have  been  stark 
staring  mad !  ' 

A  red  spot  came  into  each  of  the  Canon's 


RESIGXA  TION.  49 

cheeks.  '  I  see  now  that  it  was  a  very  foolish 
act,'  he  answered,  gently. 

'  Ten  thousand  pardons,  Canon,'  returned 
the  other,  with  sincere  contrition  ;  '  any  weak- 
ness that  involves  great  risk  appears  to  a 
lawyer  madness — that  is,  to  a  young  lawyer. 
As  experience  widens,  the  thing  is  too  com- 
mon, no  doubt,  to  evoke  surprise.  It  is  pos- 
sible, too,  I  should  have  remembered,  that 
matters  may  have  been  left  more  than  is  usual 
to  your  discretion.  Have  you  a  copy  of 
Mrs.  Adair's  settlement?  ' 

The  Canon  pointed  to  where  it  lay. 

'  I  am  afraid  that  will  not  help  us  much,' 
he  said,  disconsolately.  '  I  was  aware  when 
I  advanced  this  money  that  I  was  exceeding 
my  powers.' 

Irton  shook  his  head  ;  the  gesture  was 
this  time  on€  of  pity.  'How  could  you  do 
so?'  it  seemed  to  say,  and  not  '  How  could 
you  have  been  such  a  fool?  ' 

'  There  is  not  a  word  in  this.  I  am  sorry 

VOL.    ITT.  E 


50  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

to  say/  said  tlie  lawyer  presently,  tapping  the 
document  with  his  fingers,  '  that  authorises 
any  such  use  of  the  trust-money  as  you  have 
put  it  to.  I  suppose  what  you  did  was  done 
under  great  pressure.' 

^  There  are  poor  Sophy's  letters  and  the 
man's,'  said  the  Canon,  wearily.  '  Judge  for 
yourself 

The  lawyer  read  the  former  first  ;  when 
he  had  done  with  each  he  folded  it  up  and 
replaced  it  in  its  envelope  with  mechanical 
precision  ;  not  a  word  of  what  was  written 
escaped  him,  nor  the  signification  of  a  word  ; 
but  it  produced  no  more  external  effect  upon 
him  than  if  he  had  been  perusing  the  County 
Directory. 

And  yet  Sophy's  were  very  touching 
letters.  In  many  of  them  there  was  ample 
acknowledgment  of  the  affection  with  which 
the  Canon  had  treated  her.  Allusions  to  the 
past,  full  of  tender  feeling,  with  now  and 
then,   as  it    seemed,    an  involuntary  pang  of 


RESIGNATION.  51 

regret.  From  none  of  them  was  absent  some 
reference  to  his  constant  solicitude  for  her 
welfare,  and  in  connection  with  it  the  earnest 
hope  that  he  would  crown  his  benefits  by 
advancing  to  her  husband  out  of  her  own 
money  a  sufficient  sum  to  enable  him  to  be- 
come a  partner  in  the  house  with  which  he 
was  already  connected,  but  by  a  less  binding 
tie. 

^  This  will  put  John  in  his  proper  place/ 
said  one  of  these  letters,  '  and  enable  him  to 
use  more  freely  the  talents  with  which  I  know 
you  credit  him,  and  which  are  at  j)resent 
hampered  by  his  subordinate  position.' 

It  was  clear  that  the  Canon  had  made  a 
fight  for  it,  for  besides  entreaties  there  were 
arguments  pointing  out  not  only  the  perfect 
safety  of  the  arrangements  suggested,  but  the 
advantage  that  must  needs  flow  from  it,  which 
it  appeared  were  so  prodigious  that  '  John 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  repaying  in  a 
few  years  the  whole  amount  thus  so  kindly 

e2 

SSnToMUiHOl 


52  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

advanced  to  him,  though  when  even  that  is 
done,  it  would  be  impossible  indeed  for  him 
ever  to  escape  being  your  debtor.' 

'  What  do  you  think  of  those  letters  ?  '  in- 
quired the  Canon,  hoarsely,  as  Irton  pushed 
Sophy's  last  letter  under  the  elastic  band  that 
kept  them  all  together. 

'  They  remind  me  of  the  old  Scripture, 
with  a  difference,'  answered  the  lawyer, 
gravely.  '  The  hand  is  the  hand  of  Jacob, 
but  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Esau.' 

'  You  think  that  Adair  dictated  them? ' 

*  No  doubt  of  it.  In  some  of  them, 
where  he  saw  that  her  affectionate  pleading 
would  have  more  force  with  you  than  his 
specious  arguments,  he  let  her  write  as  she 
pleased,  though  always  with  a  tag  of  his  own  ; 
in  others  he  suggested — nay,  insisted  upon 
— every  word.' 

'  Do  you  mean  that,  in  your  opinion,  there 
was  actual  compulsion,  Irton?'  inquired  the 
Canon,  frowning. 


RE  SIGN  A  TION.  SJ 

'  No  doubt  there  was.  I  don't  mean  to 
say  that  he  stood  over  her  with  a  stick  ;  but 
she  was  no  more  a  free  agent  than  if  he  had 
done  so.  She  was  not  to  blame — I  am  very 
sure  you  do  not  think  she  was  to  blame  ;  but 
"  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  it  all."  ' 

'  Read  his  own  letters,  Irton.' 

'  I  will  ;  though  I  can  guess  what  they 
contain.  Protestations  of  respect,  the  grati- 
tude that  is  the  sense  of  favours  to  come  ;  the 
most  solemn  assurance  that  the  money  will  be 
as  safe  as  in  the  Bank  of  England,  and  that 
anything  in  the  way  of  speculation  is  foreign 
to  his  character  and  offensive  to  his  principles.' 

The  young  lawyer  read  them  through,  as 
he  had  read  the  others,  but  with  a  contemp- 
tuous lip. 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  '  they  are  just  what  I 
expected,  only  stronger.  He  calls  Heaven  to 
witness  to  his  prudent  intentions.  I  wonder 
that  didn't  excite  your  suspicions.' 

'  But  if  it  comes  to  a  trial,  Irton,  and  these 


54  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

letters  are  read  in  Court  ?  They  will  surely 
•damn  him.' 

'  Damn  him  ?  yes/  said  the  lawyer,  with 
some  unction.  '  But  what  will  he  care  for 
that  ?  When  a  man  takes  a  step  of  this  kind, 
do  you  suppose  that  he  has  not  long  ago 
j)arted  with  the  last  rag  of  self-respect?  ^ 

'  At  the  least,  he  must  acknowledge  the 
debt,  however.' 

'  You  may  sue  him,  of  course,  for  the 
money  you  have  lent  him  ;  but  you  may  be 
very  sure  he  has  not  one  penny  he  can  call  his 
own.  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  he 
is  in  debt  up  to  his  eyes,  and  that  there  is  a 
bill  of  sale  out  upon  his  furniture.  This  is  the 
last  throw  of  the  ruined  gambler  ;  and  I  am 
afraid,  sir,'  added  the  lawyer,  with  great 
gravity,  '  he  must  need  win  his  stakes.' 

The  Canon's  face  grew  very  pale. 

'  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  shall  have  to 
refund   the   money  which   this   man   has    so 


RESIGNATION.  55 

urgently  pressed  me  to  advance  to  him — the 
wliole  fifteen  thousand  pounds  ?  ' 

'  I  very  much  regret  to  say.  sh*,  that,  in 
my  opinion,  you  will  find  yourself  liable  for 
the  whole  amount.' 

*  Then  I  am  a  ruined  man,'  said  the  Canon, 
bitterly. 

Irton  walked  to  the  window.  The  leafless 
trees  and  the  cold  river  formed  a  scene  which 
in  its  desolation  was  in  too  much  harmony  with 
his  reflections.  It  was  terrible  to  think  that 
a  man  like  the  Canon  should  thus  be  stripped 
of  means  in  his  old  age  by  this  ungrateful 
hand.  He  strove  to  shut  out  what  his  com- 
panion was  unconsciously  ejaculating  in  a  tone 
that  would  have  wrung  a  harder  heart  than 
his.  '  My  poor  dear  Robert,  your  father's 
folly  has  ruined  your  life.  My  dear  Maria, 
your  brother  has  brought  your  old  age  to 
poverty.  And  Sophy— poor  little  Sophy, 
whom  we  used  to  love  so — how  it  will  wring 


56  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

your  heart  when  you  learn    what   you  have 
done.' 

Such  expressions — that  is  to  say,  the  giv- 
ing way  to  the  emotions  for  which  they  stood 
— may  be  thought  to  have  been  signs  of  weak- 
ness in  the  poor  Canon.  They  were,  at  all 
events,  not  signs  of  selfishness  ;  nor  were 
they  of  long  duration.  He  had  a  simplicity 
of  character  which  has  got  to  be  very  rare 
among  us.  Use  was  not  second  nature  with 
him,  because  he  required  no  substitute  for  the 
first ;  his  wont  had  always  been  to  be  natural- 
Many  persons  in  his  position,  albeit  both  hi& 
inferiors  in  morals  and  intellect,  would,  with- 
out doubt,  have  repressed  these  evidences  of 
sorrow  ;  or,  if  they  had  given  way  to  them  it 
would  have  been  at  the  cost  of  dignity.  With 
the  Canon  this  was  not  the  case.  Frederic 
Irton,  who  lived  to  have  a  considerable  ex- 
])erience  of  these  scenes,  which  only  fall  to 
the  lot  of  the  family  lawyer  to  behold,  used  to 
say    that    he    had    never    seen    a   picture   so 


RESIGAA  TION.  57 

pathetic.  And  in  two  minutes  it  was  all 
over  ;  through  all  that  followed  no  human 
eye  ever  saw  any  weakness  in  the  Canon. 
Indeed,  Irton  remarked  even  then  an  expres- 
sion come  into  his  companion's  face  that  spoke 
not  only  of  resignation  but  of  a  certain  sub- 
lime content.  His  lips  still  moved,  but  the 
words  did  not  reach  the  lawyer's  ear.  This 
was,  perhaps,  fortunate  ;  otherwise  it  might 
have  struck  him  that  among  the  engines  of 
the  law  about  to  be  set  in  motion  against  his 
unfortunate  client  there  might  appropriately 
enough  be  one  termed  de  lunatico  inquirendo. 
These  were  the  Imes  he  murmured  : — 

Undoubtedly  he  will  relent  and  turn 
From  his  displeasure,  in  whose  look  serene 
When  angry  most  he  seems  and  most  severe, 
What  else  but  favour,  grace,  and  mercy  shine  ? 

Then  rising  from  his  chair,  the  Canon,  ob- 
served, with  calm  serenity,  '  Well,  Irton,  at 
all  events  we  now  know  the  worst.  I  am  in 
your  hands.  Let  me  know  what  is  best  to  be 
done.' 


58  THE  CANON'S    WARD, 


CHAPTER   XXXYIII. 

IN   CONSULTATION. 

A  WEEK  has  passed,  uneventfully,  so  far  as 
action  is  concerned  ;  but  bringing  great 
changes  with  it.  Figuratively,  the  Canon  has 
bowed  his  head  to  the  inevitable  ;  but,  to  all 
outward  seeming,  he  holds  it  gallantly.  There 
are  more  grey  hairs  on  it  than  there  were  ;  to 
those  who  behold  them  and  know  the  reason 
of  their  presence  it  is  only  more  revered  on 
that  account.  He  has  told  Aunt  Maria  all, 
but  has  looked  in  vain  for  the  indignant  re- 
probation that  was  his  due. 

'  I  have  been  your  ruin,'  he  added  ;  '  my 
bhnd  confidence  and  folly  have  brought  me 
from  competence  to  poverty,  and  have  dragged 


IN  CONSULTATION.  59 

you  down  with  me.  AYe  must  exchange  our 
pleasant  home  for  one  of  a  very  different  kind. 
You  will  have  to  pmch  and  spare,  to  cut  and 
contrive,  to  eke  out  our  narrowed  means.  At 
a  time  of  life  when  you  are  least  fitted  for 
such  a  change  you  will  have  to  occupy  your- 
self with  sordid  cares  ;  and  for  all  this  you 
will  have  to  thank  your  natural  protector — as 
you  imagined  me  to  be — myself.' 

He  had  said  this  leaning  with  his  hand 
upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  looking  down  into 
her  face  as  she  sat  in  her  chair,  making  a  pre- 
tence to  work  at  some  small  garment  for 
Sophy's  child.  Her  fingers  had  trembled  a 
little  as  she  had  listened  to  him;  she  answered 
nothing  till  he  had  quite  done.  Then  she  rose 
and  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks. 

'  My  dear  brother,'  she  said,  softly,  '  what 
you  have  said  is  very  true,  except  the  last 
few  words.  I  have  to  thank  you,  it  is  true, 
for  very  much  ;  for  a  life  of  ease,  of  too  much 
ease,    perhaps — the    very   breath    of  heaven 


6o  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

has  not  been  suffered  to  visit  my  cheek  too 
roughly  ;  for  a  brother's  unselfish  devotion, 
for  affectionate  forbearance  and  solicitude — 
but  not  for  this.  Your  goodness  and  gene- 
rosity have  been  imposed  upon,  it  is  true  ; 
but  that  is  not  your  fault,  but  another's 
villany.  For  what  has  happened  I  thank 
Mr.  John  Adair  alone — not  you,  dear.  One 
can  scarcely  say '  (here  she  smiled  a  smile  as 
sweet  as  that  of  the  maiden  who  murmurs 
^  Yes'  to  her  first  love)  '  that  we  have  climbed 
the  hill  together,  because  the  ascent  has  been 
accomplished  (with  your  money,  for  I  never 
had  any)  in  a  chariot  with  C- springs  ;  but 
we  have  always  sat  side  by  side,  and  now  we 
shall  descend  it  hand  in  hand.  What  does  it 
matter,  dear,  since  we  shall  soon  come  to  our 
journey's  end,  whether  we  travel  on  foot  or 
not?' 

As  there  is  a  nobility  of  nature's  own,  far 
beyond  what  can  be  purchased  of  minister,  or 
mherited  from  another,  so  there  is  a  beauty 


IN  CONSULTATION.  6i 

l)eyond  that  of  form  and  feature,  or  even 
which  youth  itself  can  bestow — the  beauty  of 
the  soul  ;  and  something  of  that  divine  come- 
liness now  shone  on  Aunt  Maria's  kindly 
face,  with  its  halo  of  silver  grey.  For  the 
moment  it  seemed  to  the  Canon  that  the 
revelation  of  such  undreamt-of  love  and 
faith  was  full  repayment  for  all  his  woes 
and  worries.  He  had  always  esteemed  his 
sister  ;  but,  as  he  now  confessed  to  himself, 
for  these  many  years  he  had  been  entertain- 
ing an  angel  unawares. 

'  If  you  have  taken  me  for  something  even 
weaker  than  I  am,'  she  went  on,  noting  the 
Canon's  '  hushed  amaze,'  ^  have  a  better 
opinion  of  me  for  the  future,  my  dear  ;  and 
now  let  us  talk  no  more  about  our  own  mis- 
fortune, but  do  our  best,  since  we  cannot 
mend  it,  to  bear  it.' 

The  couraofeous  behaviour  of  Aunt 
Maria  had  all  the  effect  which  she  hoped 
for  upon  her  brother.     Mr.  Irton,  who  had 


62  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

paid  more  than  one  flying  visit  to  Cam- 
bridge, and  was  there  at  that  very  time, 
was  full  of  admiration  at  the  Canon's 
phick ;  for,  indeed,  there  was  nothing  in 
his  present  circumstances  to  afford  either 
comfort  or  encouragement.  A  reply  had  been 
written  to  Messrs.  Sine  &  Seele  to  express 
his  astonishment  and  righteous  indignation 
at  their  letter,  and  setting  forth  in  detail 
how  the  money  had  been  borrowed  by  Mrs. 
Adair  herself  for  her  husband's  use.  But  the 
answer,  as  Irton  had  predicted,  was  cold  and 
formal  enough.  They  had  nothing  to  do 
with  '  the  parties '  of  whom  he  spoke,  they 
said,  but  were  acting,  on  instructions,  on 
behalf  of  Wilhelmina  Adair,  an  infant,  whose 
moneys,  as  they  had  reason  to  believe,  had 
been  misapplied  ;  and  they  concluded  by 
announcing  that  the  Court  of  Chancery  would 
be  at  once  applied  to  for  the  enforcement  of 
their  claim. 

Over  this  letter  the  Canon  and  Irton  were 
now  sitting  in  consultation  in  the   Canon's 


LX  CONSULTATION.  63 

rooms.  All  hope  of  defiance  or  even  defence 
was  over,  however,  and  the  conversation  had 
chiefly  turned  upon  the  means  to  be  adopted 
for  realising  the  fifteen  thousand  pounds  which 
would  have  to  be  paid  into  court.  When  it 
was  done  the  Canon  would  find  himself  with 
a  bare  subsistence,  that  was  all. 

*  You  think  you  were  quite  right  in  not 
havino;  written  to  Adair  himself?  '  said  Irton, 
tentatively. 

^  Right  or  not,'  said  the  Canon,  emphatic- 
ally, '  nothing  should  have  induced  me  to 
address  him  ;  there  are  depths  of  humiliation 
to  which  a  man  cannot  stoop  and  hold  up  his 
head  again.' 

'  Yes  ;  I  felt  that  I  could  not  advise  you 
to  that  step,'  answered  the  lawyer  ;  '  more- 
over, it  would  have  been  humiliation  in 
vain.' 

'  I  wonder  whether  he  knows  what  a 
villain  he  is  ?  '  mused  the  Canon. 

'  Certainly  ;  better  even  than  we  know  it  ; 
because  this  is  only  one  of  his  knaveries.     I 


64  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

am  much  roistaken  if  the  man  is  not  steeped 
to  his  lips  in  them.  This  is  his  last  lawful 
throw.  Henceforward,  unless  he  has  such 
luck  as  will  render  it  unnecessary,  he  will 
use  cogged  dice  ;  he  will  take  to  fraud.' 

'  You  don't  call  this  using  cogged  dice  ?  ' 
observed  the  Canon,  bitterly. 

'  No,  because  he  has  still  the  law  upon  his 
side,  and  many  examples  of  the  like  nature — 
precedents,  as  he  would  call  them — to  excuse 
him  ;  I  remember  a  precisely  similar  case 
where  the  counsel  for  the  unfortunate  trustee, 
finding  all  was  hopeless,  observed  to  the 
Judge — "  At  all  events,  my  Lud,  you  will 
admit  that  my  client  had  no  ends  of  his  own 
to  gain,  and  was  actuated  by  only  the  most 
generous  motives  in  «idvancing  the  money." 
"  Certainly,"  answered  the  Judge  ;  "  and  if  it 
is  any  satisfaction  to  the  gentleman,  you  may 
tell  him  that  there  are  scores  of  others  who 
have  suffered  from  misplaced  confidence  in 
their  fellow -creatures  in  the  same  way."  ' 


IN  CONSULTATION.  65; 

'I  consider  that  a  very  heartless  speech 
from  any  one,'  exclaimed  the  Canon,  indig- 
nantly, '  and  a  most  improper  one  from  a  man 
in  the  position  of  the  speaker.' 

'  He  was  a  good  Judge,  however,'  said 
Irton,  smiling. 

'  Pardon  me  ;  he  may  have  been  a  good 
lawman,  as  distinguished  from  a  layman,  but 
he  could  not  have  been  a  good  Judge.  A 
man  sitting  on  the  bench  of  justice  ought  to 
have  been  ashamed  of  himself  for  speaking  so 
cynically  of  what  was,  in  fact,  a  gross  mis- 
carriage of  it.' 

'  Well,  it  was  not  a  pleasant  speech,  I 
must  allow ;  but  he  spoke  the  truth,  though 
in  a  somewhat  brutal  fashion.  Few  persons 
outside  our  own  profession  are  aware  how 
many  people  are  going  about  this  world,  and 
even  sitting  at  their  ease  in  it,  who  deserve  to 
be  in  Newgate.  Some  people  do  so  to  the 
end,  and  die  very  rich,  and,  consequently, 
"  respected  ;  "   but  the  majority  come  to  grief,. 

VOL.    III.  •     F 


■66  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

and  meet  with  their  just  reward,  sooner  or 
later.  This  Adair,  unless  I  am  much  mis- 
taken, will  be  of  the  latter  class  ;  he  is  very 
reckless  as  well  as  audacious,  and  when  the 
pinch  comes  will  stick  at  nothing.  Then  we 
shall  have  him.' 

'  I  wish  for  no  revenge,'  said  the  Canon, 
calmly. 

'  Of  course  not  ;  when  I  said  we  I  meant 
the  law.  Mark  my  words,  that  man  will 
-come  into  its  clutches  one  day  ;  he  will  be  a 
convict.' 

^  My  poor  Sophy ! '  sighed  the  Canon. 

'  By-the-by,  that  is  another  matter,  about 
which,  though  we  have  discussed  it,  I  have 
still  some  doubt.  Though  you  could  not 
write  to  her  husband,  ought  you  not  to  have 
written  to  her  ?  ' 

The  Canon  shook  his  head. 

'  Xo,  Irton  ;  1  feel  my  sister's  instinct 
was  the  true  one,  when  she  spoke  to  me  on 
that  point  :  *'  Whatever  you  do,  William,  do 
not  let  Sophy  know."  ' 


IN  CONSULTATION.  67 

'  It  is  unwise  to  import  sentiment  into 
these  matters,'  returned  Irton  ;  '  she  should 
surely  know  how  she  has  been  made  a  cat's 
paw  of  to  injure  her  best  and  dearest  friend.' 

'  To  what  end,  my  dear  Irton  ?  '  replied 
the  Canon,  calmly.  '  If  she  knows,  any  word 
from  me  would  only  make  her  regret  more 
poignant ;  if  she  does  not  know,  she  will  be 
the  happier  in  her  ignorance.  No  appeal 
from  her  to  her  husband  would,  we  are  very 
sure,  be  of  the  slightest  use,  while  it  would 
undoubtedly  widen  the  breach  between  them.' 

'  Still,  she  must  know  of  all  this  almost 
immediately  ;  as  soon  as  we  take  proceedings 
against  him.' 

'  What  proceedings  ?  ' 

'  Well,  of  course,  when  tliis  money  is  paid 
into  court,  or  even  before — indeed,  I  have 
already  put  matters  in  train  for  it — we  shall 
sue  him  for  the  fifteen  thousand  pounds  you 
have  lent  him.' 

'  Good  heavens  !  I  never  thouglit  of  that,' 

F   '2 


68  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

said  the  Canon,  rising  from  his  chair  with 
great  energy.  '  Why,  on  earth,  did  you  not 
tell  me  that  we  had  that  remedy  ?  ' 

'  I  really  could  not  conceive  any  one — wh}^, 
my  dear  sir,  it's  not  a  question  of  law,  but  of 
common  sense  ;  you  have  lent  the  money — • 
though,  it  is  true,  you  had  no  legal  right  to 
do  so — and  this  man  has  borrowed  it.  Of 
course,  therefore,  he  owes  it  you.' 

'  Then  why  have  we  made  all  this  fuss 
about  the  matter  ?  It  seems  as  plain  as 
ABC.  A  has  lent  money — B's  money — ta 
C,  and  can  compel  C  to  return  it.' 

'  Not  if  he  has  not  got  it,'  returned  Irton, 
grimly.  ^  Can  you  suppose  that  Adair  would 
have  taken  such  a  step  as  this  if  he  was  not 
already  a  ruined  man  ?  I  am  firmly  persuaded 
that  he  has  not  a  shilling  he  can  call  his  own, 
I  have  made  inquiries,  and  found,  just  as  I 
suspected,  that  he  has  even  given  a  bill  of  sale 
for  the  very  furniture  in  his  house.' 

^  Then  what  can  be  the  use  of  suing  him  ? ' 


IN  CONSULTATION.  69 

'  Well,  there  is  no  use  ;  on  the  other  hand, 
to  sit  down  under  such  an  infamous  wronsf 
as  this,  with  a  mere  protest  addressed  to  the 
man's  solicitors,  would  argue  some  justification 
in  the  offender.  Besides,  it  is  your  obvious 
duty — as,  I  confess,  it  will  be  my  pleasure — 
to  make  things  as  unpleasant  for  the  rogue  as 
possible.' 

'  But  that  must  needs  involve  unpleasant- 
ness for  Sophy  and  the  poor  child,'  answered 
the  Canon,  quickly.  '  No,  Irton  ;  if  anything 
of  which  I  have  been  robbed  could  be  recovered 
by  such  a  process  from  the  man  himself,  of 
course  I  should  not  hesitate  ;  but  no  material 
advantage  can,  by  your  own  showing,  result 
from  it ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  it  will 
inflict  injury  on  the  innocent.  I  must,  there- 
fore, ask  you  to  abstain  from  any  such  step.' 

'  I  confess  this  seems  to  me  Quixotic,'  said 
the  lawyer,  drily. 

'  It's  the  ruling  passion,'  pleaded  the 
Canon,  smiling.     *  I  have  been  a  fool  from 


70  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

the  first,  you  see.  How  worthy  of  Cervantes,, 
by-the-b}^,  this  whole  afFau^  would  have  been  ! 
How  full  of  humour  !  The  idea  of  poor 
innocent  Willie  being  my  prosecutor  and 
persecutor  ! ' 

'  Yes  ;  the  Settiky  trust.' 

'  The  tvhat  ?  ' 

'  Well,'  returned  the  other,  with  some 
embarrassment,  for  he  was  loyal  to  his  pro- 
fession, and  never  gave  occasion  for  the 
'  enemy  to  blaspheme '  if  he  could  help  it, 
'  the  fact  is  we  have  got  no  name  in  law  for 
the  antithesis  of  a  trustee  ;  there  is  the  re- 
versioner, indeed,  and  the  tenant  for  life  ;  but 
they  are  particular  cases  ;  we  have  no  general 
term  except  the  "  ce^^tm  que  trust,"  a  relic  of 
the  Norman- French,  which  we  pronounce 
"  settiky."  ' 

'  Do  you,  indeed  ? '  said  the  Canon,, 
grimly  ;  'it's  quite  as  like  the  original,  how- 
ever, as  law  is  to  justice.' 

Though    Mr.    Frederic    Irton    was    thus 


IN  CONSULTATION.  yi 

compelled  to  stay  the  proceedings  lie  had 
initiated,  he  made  it  his  business  to  inform 
himself  very  particularly  of  Mr.  John  Adair's 
affairs.  His  inquiries  convinced  him  that 
these  were  in  a  desperate  state  ;  that  the  man 
was  over  head  and  ears  in  debt ;  and  that  his 
estate,  bankrupt  though  it  was,  had  become 
liable  through  his  various  speculations  for 
enormous  sums. 

The  difference  between  speculation  and 
peculation  is  but  a  letter  ;  the  partitions  that 
divide  peculation  from  fraud,  and  fraud  from 
crime  of  all  kinds  are  as  low  and  as  easily 
overstepped  ;  and  when  necessity  sharply 
urges,  they  are  taken  at  a  bound.  The 
lawyer's  knowledge  of  this  fact,  joined,  it 
must  be  owned,  to  his  own  vehement  pre- 
judice against  Adair,  caused  him  to  entertain 
the  keenest  apprehensions  concerning  that 
gentleman's  future,  which  disturbed  him 
greatly  upon  Sophy's  account  ;  but,  for  the 
present,  he  kept  this  to  himself.     To  tell  the 


72  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

Canon  would  have  been  to  till  his  cuj)  of 
sorrows  to  the  brim  ;  and  he  was  draining 
that  bitter  draught  so  bravely. 

His  Trinity  chambers  he,  of  course,  re- 
tained ;  a  college  knows  nothing  of  men's 
circumstances,  but  keeps  its  gate  wide  open 
to  all  who  have  the  right  of  entry,  and  gives 
the  same  welcome  to  prince  and  pauper  ;  but 
'  The  Laurels '  was  disposed  of  by  private 
contract,  and  its  late  imnates  moved  into  a 
little  cottage  upon  Parker's  Piece,  an  open 
space  where  Aunt  Maria  professed  to  find 
better  air  and  more  sunshine.  She  never  lost 
her  pleasant  smile,  which  she  saw  reflected 
much  more  often  than  she  could  have  hoped 
for  in  her  brother's  face.  When  it  was 
clouded  she  knew  that  he  was  thinking  of 
his  boy,  and  of  that  sad  letter  he  had  had  to 
write  to  him,  which,  if  it  had  not  '  made 
Cyprus  '  of  his  Alma's  '  orange-flower,'  must 
needs  delay  their  happiness  indefinitely. 
Sometimes,  too,    the  Canon  would  fall   into 


AV  CONSULTATION.  73 

fits  of  abstraction,  which  lasted  so  long  as  to 
compel  his  sister  from  sheer  anxiety  to  break 
into  them  with  a  pretence  of  cheerfulness. 
^  My  dear  William/  she  would  say,  '  what  are 
you  thinking  about  ?  ' 

On  one  occasion  he  returned  (involun- 
tarily, we  may  be  sure)  a  most  enigmatic 
reply  :— 

'  I  was  thinking  of  poor  little  Settiky.' 

^  And  who  is  Settiky  ?  ' 

^  Ah  !  to  be  sure.  I  forgot  I  had  not  told 
you,'  he  said.  'It's  a  pet  name  that  little 
Willie  goes  by.' 


74  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE    EEVELATION. 

Some  people  find  it  difficult  to  keep  silence 
tinder  any  circumstances  ;  but  total  silence — 
just  as  tipplers  say  of  moderation  versus 
excess — is  much  more  easy  to  preserve  than 
reticence,  especially  upon  a  particular  subject, 
when  speech  in  other  respects  is  free  ;  and 
the  same  is  true,  though  in  a  less  degree,  of 
correspondence.  To  write  a  letter  to  one 
near  and  dear  to  us  and  not  to  hint  at 
the  particular  topic  which  is  most  in  our 
minds,  is  a  feat  in  composition.  Bluebeard's 
castle  was  not  '  a  bijou  residence,'  yet,  huge 
as  it  was,  he  could  not  trust  to  Fatima's  over- 
looking the  chamber  in  which  he  kept  those 


THE   REVELATION.  75; 

'  trivial,  fond  records '  of  his  matrimonial 
experience  ;  and  Aunt  Maria,  in  ending  her 
usual  affectionate  letters  to  Sophy,  was  always 
saying  to  herself,  '  I  have  been  most  careful, 
I  am  sure,  yet,  sooner  or  later,  I  know  I  shall 
let  it  out.' 

Weeks,  however,  passed  by  without  any 
such  catastrophe,  the  very  escape  from  which 
was  a  fact  in  itself  deplorable,  since  it  showed 
how  absolutely  poor  Sophy  was  cut  oiF  from 
her  husband's  confidence.  That  he  had  not 
thought  it  worth  while  to  inform  her  that  he 
had  used  her  as  an  instrument  to  effect  the 
ruin  of  her  friend  and  guardian  was  signifi- 
cant indeed.  It  was  clear  that  she  must 
know  it  one  day,  however  long  deferred  might 
be  the  date,  and  yet  (leaving  excuse  and 
justification  out  of  the  question)  he  had  not 
troubled  himself  even  to  break  the  shock  to  her. 

One  morning  Sophy  called  on  her  friend 
Henny,  with  looks,  not  only  sad  as  usual,  but 
perturbed. 


76  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  The  child  is  no  worse,  I  trust  ? '  was  the 
hitter's  first  anxious  inquiry. 

WilHe  had  been  worse  of  late  ;  so  much 
so  that  Henny  had  been  a  frequent  visitor  in 
Albany  Street,  notwithstanding  that  it  was 
very  disagreeable  to  her  to  intrude  into  a  house 
to  the  master  of  which  she  was  not  welcome  ; 
no  considerations  of  a  personal  nature  would 
have  weighed  with  her  where  Love  and  Duty 
were  in  the  other  scale,  but  the  reflection 
that  Mr.  Adair  was  her  husband's  enemy  did 
weigh  with  her.  Nevertheless  she  went,  to 
comfort  Sophy  and  to  tend  the  child.  A 
man  would  have  thought  of  his  dignity,  and 
kept  away  out  of  '  self-respect  ; '  but  Henny 
did  not  think  of  such  things. 

'  Willie  is  no  worse,'  returned  Sophy, 
^  though,  I  fear,  no  better.  It  is  not  on  her 
account,  poor  darling,  that  I  have  come  to- 
day, but  upon  another  matter  that  troubles 
me  only  second  to  it.  Oh,  Henny,  what  has 
happened  to  the  dear  Canon  and  Aunt  Maria?  ' 


THE  REVELATION.  77 

'  Happened  to  tliem,  my  dear  ? '  said 
Henny,  trying  to  look  surprised,  and  feeling 
excessively  frightened  but  not  surprised  at 
all ;  for  she  had  expected  some  such  terrible 
question  any  day  during  the  last  two  months. 
'  They  are  quite  well  ;  indeed,  I  heard  from 
Miss  Aldred  only  yesterday.' 

'  But  they  have  left  their  house  ;  so  Dr. 
Newton  tells  me.  I  took  your  advice  and 
wrote  to  him  the  other  day  about  my  darling, 
and  he  says  in  his  letter — after  promising  in 
the  kindest  way  to  come  up  and  see  her  this 
very  day — that  the  Canon  has  taken  a  house 
upon  Parker's  Piece  :  one  of  a  row  of  quite 
little  cottages.  AYhat  can  be  the  meaning 
of  it,  and  why  have  1  heard  not  one  word 
about  it  ? ' 

*  \Yell,  they  didn't  wish  to  increase  your 
troubles,  dearest  Sophy,  by  telling  you  bad 
news.  The  truth  is,  the  Canon  has  lost  a 
great  deal  of  money.' 

'How?' 


78  THE  CANON'S   WARD. 

A  little  word,  but  not  so  easy  to  reply  to. 
Henny  had  almost  all  the  virtues  of  her  sex, 
but  she  was  deficient  in  strategy.  Cynics 
have  said  of  women  that  though  some  of 
them  tell  tarradiddles  with  less  grace  than 
others,  there  is  no  such  thmg  as  a  woman 
who  cannot  tell  them  at  all.  Perhaps  the 
exception  proved  the  rule  in  Henny' s  case,  for 
she  could  not  speak  an  untruth.  When  it  was 
required  of  her,  as  in  the  present  case,  she 
could  only  turn  very  pale,  and  remain  mute. 

'  You  are  hiding  something  from  me,' 
exclaimed  Sophy,  vehemently.  '  Have  I, 
then,  lost  the  confidence  of  every  human 
being  but  my  dying  child  ?  Am  I  quite 
•alone  in  the  world  ?  I  have  deserved  it, 
Heaven  knows,'  she  added,  drop23ing  her 
voice  ;  '  I  have  deserved  everything  ;  but  my 
punishment  is  almost  greater  than  I  can 
l3ear.' 

Henny' s  heart  melted  within  her,  as  well 
it  might.  Her  loving  arms  were  thrown 
.•about  her  friend  in  an  mstant,  and  she  burst 


THE  REVELATIO.Y.  79 

into  tears.     But   Sophy,  though,  she  returned 
her  embrace,  did  so  with  dry  eyes. 

'  I  am  tired  of  weeping,'  she  answered, 
bitterly.  '  I  have  shed  tears  enough  for  a 
lifetime,  and  there  are  no  more  to  come.  I 
want  to  know  the  worst — the  worst  that  is 
which  has  happened  as  yet.  The  worst  I 
shall  never  know  till  I  am  in  my  grave,  and 
receive  the  just  doom  of  the  wicked !  ' 

The  despair  in  her  voice  froze  the  other^s 
.very  blood. 

'  Dear  Sophy,  don't  talk  like  that ;  there 
are  happy  days  in  store  for  you  yet  Heaven 
will  take  pity  on  you.' 

'  You  don't  know,  Henny,'  was  the  quiet 
reply.  '  You  have  never  angered  Heaven  as 
I  have.  Let  us  not  speak  of  that.  Tell  me 
about  my  dear  guardian ;  the  truth,  the  truth ! ' 

'  I  cannot,  and  I  dare  not,'  said  Henny, 
desj)erately. 

'  You  dare  not.  Then  it  is  something 
that  concerns  my  husband.     It  is  he  who  has 


8o  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

injured  the  Canon.     I  have  suspected  it  all 
along  ;    this  is  the  last  and  worst ' 

Poor  Sophy  never  finished  that  sentence  ; 
perhajDS  she  had  been  about  to  say,  '  the  last 
and  worst  proof  of  his  vileness/  or  perhaps 
only,  '  the  last  and  worst  of  my  misfor- 
tunes ; '  but  her  emotions,  only  too  well  dis- 
ciplined as  they  were,  had  proved  too  much 
for  her.     She  had  fainted. 

To  a  situation  of  that  kind  Henny  was 
fully  equal ;  and,  without  sendmg  for  assist- 
ance, soon  restored  her  friend — though,  as  she 
sorrowfully  reflected,  it  was  doing  her  small 
kindness  —  to  consciousness.  Sophy's  first 
words  when  she  opened  her  eyes  were,  '  ^ow 
tell  me  all.'     And  Henny  had  to  tell  her. 

It  was  done  with  the  tenderest  considera- 
tion. She  prefaced  her  task  with  the  Canon's 
absolute  acquittal  of  Sophy  herself,  his  certain 
conviction  of  her  innocence  of  any  responsi- 
bility in  the  matter  in  question  ;  his  know- 
ledge that    she  would  rather  cut   her   right 


THE  REVELATION.  8i 

hand  off  than  have  persuaded  him  to  do  any- 
thing that  might  entail  harm  upon  himself. 
He  even  stretched  a  point,  and  denied  that 
Sophy  had  persuaded  him.  His  wish  to 
benefit  her  and  hers  had,  of  course,  been  at 
the  root  of  the  transaction  ;  but  he  had  acted 
as  he  had  done  because  he  himself  had  be- 
lieved it  to  be  the  best  course  to  adopt.  It 
was  a  mere  error  in  judgment.  She  concluded 
lier  tale  by  saying  that  though  the  blow  to  the 
Canon  had  been  doubtless  a  very  heavy  one, 
it  had  been  bravely  borne,  so  that  its  worst 
effects  were  already  over  ;  and  that  the  reflec- 
tion that  Sophy  was  distressing  herself  with 
vain  regrets,  and  perhaps  remorse,  would  only 
add  to  her  guardian's  troubles.  Sophy  heard 
her  to  the  end  without  interposing  one  word  ; 
but  her  face,  which  now  and  then  she  hid  as 
if  for  very  shame,  was  a  picture  of  agony  and 
humiliation. 

'  Great  Heaven ! '  she  cried,  at  last,  clasp - 

VOL.    HI.  G 


82  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

ing  her  hands,  '  how  they  must  despise  and' 
loathe  me  ! ' 

^  On  the  contrary,  they  pity  and  love  you^ 
Sophy/ 

'  Give  me  pen  and  ink,  Henny,  and  let 
me  write  to  them  ;  let  me  write  to  them  from 
here,  your  house — not  from  that  man's  house.- 
Let  me  tell  them  that  I  know  all,  and  still 
live  to  know  it.  Then  they  will  understand 
that  the  fool  who  has  done  them  this  inexpi- 
able wrong  has  not  escaped  her  punishment/ 

'  Sophy,  Sophy,  remember  what  I  told 
you,'  pleaded  Henny  ;  '  all  that  will  only  add 
to  their  troubles  ;  for  my  own  sake  I  entreat 
you  to  be  patient.  It  was  especially  enjoined 
upon  me  never  to  speak  to  you  of  this.' 

^  Speak  to  me !  How  can  you  speak  to- 
me at  all  ? '  cried  Sophy,  bitterty.  '  How 
could  you  enter  my  house  as  you  have  done,, 
knowincr  it  to  be  a  den  of  thieves?  Your 
Stevie  is  there  now ;  I  left  him  sitting  by  m}^ 
child's  pillow.     There  is  contagion  there  for 


THE  REVELATION.  83 

him.     She    is    a    thief's    daughter ;   I    am    a 
thief  s  wife.' 

It  was  terrible  to  see  such  fire  and  feeling, 
such  humiliation,  such  remorse  and  agony, 
proceed  from  so  frail  and  small  a  creature. 
What  shocked  Henny  most  was  that  last 
sentence,  'I  am  a  thief's  wife.'  It  was  true 
of  course,  but  that  a  wife  should  confess  it — 
nay,  assert  it  voluntarily — seemed  to  her,  to 
whom  the  tie  that  bound  her  to  her  husband 
was  only  less  sacred  than  that  which  linked 
her  to  her  God,  something  monstrous  and 
unnatural. 

'Hush!  hush!  dear  Sophy,'  she  entreated, 
'  Why  should  I  hush?  Why  should  I  not 
proclaim  him  for  what  he  is  ? '  continued  the 
other,  vehemently.  '  Why  did  you  not  men- 
tion the  thief  when  you  spoke  of  his  crime? 
Because  you  would  not  pollute  your  lips  with 
his  name — the  name  he  has  given  me — my 
name.'  Then,  perceiving  her  companion's 
pained  and  frightened  looks,  she  added,  with 

G  2 


S4  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

passionate  tenderness,  '  Xo,  no,  no  ;  forgive 
me,  Henny,  I  know  it  was  to  spare  me.' 

'  Of  course  it  was  to  spare  you,  my  dar- 
ling,' returned  the  other,  earnestly.  '  That 
is  what  we  all  want  to  do.  You  have  been 
deceived,  cajoled,  but  you  have  done  nothing 
wrong.' 

Sophy  shook  her  head  in  vehement  denial. 

'  Then  if  you  have,  the  best  reparation 
you  can  make  to  those  who  have  suffered,  the 
amends  that  will  be  the  most  welcome  to 
them,  is  to  forget  it  all.  To  behave  as  though 
it  had  never  happened.  To  feel  that  your 
relations  with  those  you  loved,  and  never 
meant  to  harm,  are  just  as  they  were  before 
this  misfortune  happened.  I  have  been  to 
blame  to  tell  you  of  it.  Do  not  let  me 
suffer  for  my  weakness — for  the  love  that 
compelled  me  to  give  way  to  your  importu- 
nity.' 

'  I  will  do  whatever  those  I  have  ruined 
wish  me  to  do,'  said  Sophy,  humbly. 


THE  REVELATION.  85 

'  You  dear,  good  girl,  that  news  will  in- 
deed please  them.  There  is  another  thing 
which  I  know  they  most  earnestly  desire  ; 
do  not  speak  with  Mr.  Adair  about  this 
matter.  It  can  do  no  good,  dear  Sophy, 
and  will  only  be  the  cause  of  a  quarrel  or 
estrangement.' 

^  Estrangement ! '  echoed  the  other,  bit- 
terly. '  How  little  you,  who  have  a  husband 
who  respects  and  loves  you,  know  the  life  I 
lead  !  Respect  and  love  are  not  for  me.. 
AVhat  were  those  lines  we  used  to  read  to- 
gether in  the  old  times,  those  dead  and  gone 
old  times,  at  Cambridge  ?  — 

Others  there  are  whom  these  surround, 
Smiling  they  live  and  call  life  pleasure, 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  quite  another  measure. 

Estrangement !  Do  you  suppose,  then,  except 
for  the  one  frail  link  of  my  little  Willie,  that 
anything  binds  me  to  that  man.  No  ;  not  a 
pack-thread.  If  that  link  were  to  snap,  and 
life  were  still   left  in  me,  not  another  hour, 


86  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

when  I  had  once  seen  my  darling  laid  in  her 
restful  o^rave,  would  I  remain  beneath  his 
hateful  roof.  I  would  starve  ;  nay,  I  would 
sin  first.' 

Henny  sat  aghast  at  her,  shocked  at  these 
terrible  sentiments,  wretched  in  the  reflection 
that  the  woman  who  entertained  them  was 
about  to  return  to  such  a  home,  and  to  the 
man  she  must  needs  call  husband.  She  ran- 
sacked her  kind  heart  in  vain  for  a  word  of 
comfort.  There  was  nothing  there  but  pity 
and  sorrow. 

'  I  must  go  back  now,'  said  Sophy, 
wearily.  '  Dr.  Newton  may  come  at  any 
moment.  Nothing  but  my  anxiety  upon  my 
dear  guardian's  account  could  have  induced 
me  to  leave  home.  I  have  been  used  to  think 
that  anxiety  was  the  hardest  to  bear  of  all 
troubles  ;  but  I  was  mistaken.  Kiss  me, 
Henny.' 

Henny  threw  her  arms  about  her  friend 
.and  strained  her  to  her  heart. 


THE   REVELATION.  Sj 

'  ( )h,  if  1  could  but  help  you,  my  darling 
— if  I  could  but  help  you ! ' 

Sophy  shook  her  little  head  despairingly, 
and  closed  the  mouth  that  once  seemed  to 
have  been  made  for  smiles  and  kisses. 

'  I  feel  so  wicked,'  sobbed  Henny,  to  be  so 
kindly  treated,  and  so  loved  and  spoilt,  when 
you  are  suffering  such  terrible  things  so 
undeservedly.' 

'  No,  not  that,  Henny,'  answered  Sophy, 
gravely.  '  Do  you  remember  Hogarth's  pic- 
tures, which  I  persuaded  you  to  look  at, 
though  Aunt  Maria  had  forbidden  me  to  do 
so,  of  the  good  and  bad  apprentices?  As  it 
was  with  them  so  it  is  with  us.  We  have 
both  got  our  deserts.  If  I  could  but  feel 
that  my  fate  would  be  a  warning  to  all  reck- 
less, deceitful  girls  like  me,  then,  I  think,  I 
could  bear  it;  for  I  have  deserved  it  all.' 

'  I  don't  believe  it,'  cried  Henny,  vehe- 
mently. '  All  will  come  right  again,  some 
•day,  if  there  is  justice  in  Heaven.' 


88  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

Henny  lifted  her  sweet  eyes  as  if  to 
invoke  the  power  of  which  she  spoke  ;  and 
when  she  turned  them  again  on  the  place 
where  her  friend  had  stood.  Sophy  had  gone. 


89 


CHAPTER   XL. 


THE    WITNESS. 


Man  is  a  selfish  animal,  but,  in  comparison 
with  his  father  (as  Wordsworth  calls  him), 
the  boy,  he  is  the  embodiment  of  self-sacrifice 
and  self-denial.  '  Xo  boy  knows  how  his 
mother  loves  him,'  says  a  modern  writer^ 
who  has  evidently  studied  his  subject.  '  Xo 
mother  knows  how  a  boy  loves  himself ; '  and 
nobody  else  knows.  His  devotion  to  that 
idol  is  without  limit. 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  there 
are  exceptions.  Many  boys  who  have  not 
been  to  school  and  learnt  the  law  of  the 
stronger,  are  kind  and  gentle  to  their  sisters 
and   to  girls   generally,    are  not  ashamed  of 


90  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

a  partiality  for  that  most  charming  of  do- 
mestic pets,  the  cat  ;  and  are  even  fond  of 
children.  '  The  boy  that  loves  a  baby '  (justly 
extolled  by  the  author  of  '  Lilliput  Levee') 
is,  however,  a  very  rare  specimen.  In  this 
respect — namely,  for  the  love  of  his  small, 
helpless  fellow-creatures — Stevie  Helford  was, 
as  a  schoolboy,  almost  unique.  He  had  lost 
that  precocity  of  intelligence,  too  often  the 
companion  of  disease  and  the  precursor  of 
death,  that  had  so  charmed  Aunt  Henny,  but 
his  mind  was  still  strangely  mature  and  old- 
fashioned.  At  school,  no  doubt,  in  '  form ' 
if  not  in  '  gloss,'  he  lost  his  picturesqueness, 
and  was  commonplace  enough ;  but  in  the 
holidays  he  became  in  many  ways  himself 
again,  to  the  alarm  of  his  grandmother  (who, 
having  suiFered  from  a  mad  spendthrift,  im- 
agined there  was  safety  in  the  commonplace), 
and  to  the  great  content  of  Aunt  Henny  and 
the  delight  of  Uncle  Fred,  to  whom  the  boy's 
naive  but  pronounced  opinions  upon  the  most 


THE    WITNESS.  91 

abstruse   topics   were   an  unfailing  source   of 
amusement. 

It  was  as  natural  to  Stevie  to  pass  an  hour 
in  little  Willie's  nursery  as  it  would  have 
been  with  most  boys  to  blow  themselves  up 
with  fireworks,  or  out  with  greengages.  He 
did  not  do  it  because  it  was  right,  or  because 
his  aunt  wished  it  (he  was  not  a  goody-goody 
boy  at  all),  or  for  '  tips  '  or  '  sock,'  but  for  the 
reason  that  is,  on  the  whole,  more  powerful 
than  any  which  actuates  the  human  breast — 
because  he  liked  it.  Fido  (Fred's  dog)  and 
he  were  constant  companions,  but  he  never 
showed  himself  so  devoted  as  when  Fido  fell 
ill  of  an  obscure  mange  and  needed  tendance. 
Again,  when  Henny's  canary  was  moulting, 
it  was  difficult  to  persuade  him  it  was  not  a 
malady  which  care  could  cure,  and  that  he 
could  do  no  good  by  sitting  up  with  the 
bird  all  night.  For  which  reason,  and  also 
because  his  Latin  was  very  indifferent 
(' Ulpian  at   the  best')    Fred  insisted  upon 


92  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

it  that  the  boy  was  cut  out  for  the  medical 
profession. 

Wilhe  had  been  a'great  favourite  of  Stevie's 
from  the  first,  but  after  the  accident  which 
crippled  her  there  were  no  bounds  to  his  de- 
votion. He  would  sit  by  the  side  of  her 
little  cot,  reading  to  her  or  talking  to  her  for 
hours — nay,  what  is  still  more  unusual  with 
those  who  visit  their  sick  friends,  listening  to 
her.  He  was  not  so  fond  of  talking  as  he 
had  been,  or  perhaps  he  had  become  more 
prudent  in  the  use  of  his  tongue.  Uncle 
Fred  was  wont  to  ruffle  his  dignity  not  a 
little  by  quotations  from  his  early  speeches, 
which  he  now  regretted,  as  a  Minister  of  State 
regrets  his  utterances  on  platforms  before  he 
had  responsibilities  and  took  office.  One  of 
them,  when  cast  up  against  him,  had  all  the 
effect  of  a  red  rag  on  a  bull.  The  subject  of 
conversation  being  the  popularity  of  authors, 
he  had  remarked,  with  childish  gravity,  '  I 
have  observed  that  the  Bible  is  a  great  deal 


THE    WITNESS.  93 

•read  ;  I  think,  Fred,    it  would   be  a    capital 
plan  if  you  were  to  write  another  Bible.' 

Poor  little  Wilhelmina  had  no  such  plans 
for  the  enrichment  of  her  friends.  She  lis- 
tened to  all  that  was  said  with  intense  atten- 
tion and  sagacity  ;  but  her  conversation  was 
mainly  confined,  like  that  of  Socrates,  to 
questions  (Fred  called  her  technically  the 
Interrogatory),  and  some  of  them  were  such 
questions ! 

'  Stevie,'  she  would  ask  in  a  hushed 
whisper,  as  the  boy  sat  with  his  hand  in  hers 
by  her  curtained  pillow,  '  is  it  right  to  pray 
Heaven  to  bless  wicked  people  ?  ' 

'  One  might  pray  to  make  them  better,' 
answered  Stevie,  cautiously. 

'  I  have  done  that,  and  it's  no  use,'  was 
the  grave  rejoinder. 

'  Then  I'd  leave  the  blessing  alone,  Willie,' 
answered  her  spiritual  adviser  ;  '  that's  not 
your  business.' 

Here    there    was    a    long  pause,    during 


94  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

which  some  pictures  were  investigated  :  you 
would  have  imagined  the  subject  to  be 
dropped  ;  but  that  was  not  Wilhelmina's 
way  ;  she  might  let  go  of  it,  but  only  as  an 
Irishman  may  allow  a  bottle  of  whisky  to 
escape  temporarily  from  his  hands  ;  her  mind 
once  fixed  upon  the  matter,  she  was  never 
satisfied  till  she  got  to  the  bottom  of  it. 

^  It  is  right  to  pray  Heaven  to  bless  your 
parents,  is  it  not,  Stevie?  ' 

'  Of  course  it  is,  my  dear — that  is,  when 
you  have  any,'  added  Stevie,  with  a  sudden 
recollection  that  he  was  unprovided  for  in 
that  respect. 

'  Then  if  you  are  to  leave  the  blessing 
alone  when  people  are  wicked,  and  a  parent 
is  wicked,  you  are  not  to  ask  Heaven  to  bless 
him? ' 

The  logic  was  pitiless.  Poor  Stevie,  who 
thoroughly  understood  what  she  meant,  re- 
plied, much  embarrassed,  '  You  should  ask 
Heaven  to  make  him  better.' 


THE    WITNESS.  95 

Then,  with  the  air  of  saying  '  You  are 
arguing  in  a  circle,  and  are  confused  besides/ 
'  You  have  said  that  before,'  said  Willie. 

The  idea  of  making  supplication  for  Mr. 
John  Adair  had  certainly  never  entered  into 
Stevie's  mind,  which  was  not  as  yet  disciplmed 
into  praying  for  his  enemies.  He  disliked  him 
as  much  as  he  liked  Sophy,  and  took  care  to 
time  his  visits  to  Albany  Street  so  as  to 
avoid  meeting  with  the  master  of  the  house. 
If  Adair  had  known  he  came  so  often  he 
might  have  forbidden  his  visits  ;  but,  as  it 
was,  he  permitted  them,  because  they  amused 
the  child  as  much  as  a  new  toy  and  cost  him 
nothing.  One  day,  however,  when*  Stevie 
came  as  usual,  Adair,  as  it  happened,  was  at 
home.  A  letter  had  come  that  morniner  for 
Sophy  from  Cambridge,  but  in  an  unfamiliar 
hand  ;  and  this  had  excited  his  suspicions. 
There  was  nothing  now  of  novelty  that  did 
not  excite  his  suspicions.  A  mind  ill  at  ease 
with  itself  and  conscious  of  wronof-doing-,  is 


•96  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

always  more  or  less  in  this  condition.  Even 
to  the  good  man  chance  is  a  thing  to  be  appre- 
hended, '  how  much  more  then  to  the  wicked 
and  the  sinner?  '  When  Adair  heard  from  his 
wife  that  Dr.  ]N^ewton  had  announced  his 
intention  of  coming  up  to  town  that  day,  to 
see  little  Willie,  his  brow  grew  very  dark. 

'  You  must  have  sent  for  the  man,'  he 
exclaimed,  passionately. 

^  I  told  him  that  Willie  was  ailing,'  was 
the  quiet  reply,  '  and  that  I  should  be  glad  of 
his  opinion  upon  the  case,  as  an  old  friend, 
and  one  in  whose  judgment  I  had  the  greatest 
confidence.' 

'  If*he  is  coming  as  a  friend  that  is  an- 
other matter,'  returned  her  husband,  con- 
temptuously (she  had  anticipated  an  outburst, 
and  wondered  what  restrained  it ;  she  only 
knew  for  certain  that  it  was  no  consideration 
for  her  feelings)  ;  '  but  as  for  his  opinion  I 
wouldn't  give  a  shilling  for  it.  What  can  a 
mere  country  apothecary  have  to   say  against 


THE    WITNESS.  97 

the  treatment  approved  of  by  sucli  a  man  as 
Dr.  Baow?  ' 

'  It  is  said  that  two  heads  are  better  than 
one,'  faltered  Sophy  ;  '  at  all  events,  when 
my  child's  health  and  perhaps  her  life ' 

'  What  threatens  her  life  ? '  broke  in  the 
other,  with  angry  vehemence  ;  '  there's 
nothing  more  amiss  with  her  than  has  been 
any  time  these  three  years.  And  as  for  two 
heads,  madam,  let  me  tell  you  that  in  this 
house,  at  least,  there  is  only  one  head.  Never 
let  me  hear  of  a  doctor  being  sent  for  again 
without  my  permission.' 

To  this  Sophy  answered  nothing ;  she 
never  did  answer  her  husband  unless  com- 
pelled to  do  so.  Upon  the  whole,  she  was 
thankful  that  for  this  once,  at  least,  Dr. 
Newton  was  permitted  to  come.  Had  she 
asked  leave  to  send  for  him,  she  well  knew 
that  it  would  have  been  refused  ;  she  knew, 
too,  that  her  sending  for  him  would  anger  her 
husband,  and  his  wrath  was  terrible  to  her, 
VOL.   III.  H 


98  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

not  only  because  she  feared  it,  but  because 
it  reminded  her  of  the  mad  folly  which  had 
placed  her  in  his  power. 

She  noticed,  to  her  great  disappointment, 
that  hie  sent  off  a  telegram  or  two,  doubtless 
to  explain  his  absence  elsewhere,  and  re- 
mained at  home  that  morning.  She  foresaw 
that  there  would  be  difficulty  in  getting 
speech  with  Dr.  Newton  alone.  What  could 
it  matter  to  her  husband,  as  she  bitterly  re- 
flected, what  report  should  be  given  of  her 
child,  or  by  whom,  since  he  was  absolutely 
indifferent  to  it? 

When  Dr.  Newton  arrived,  Adair  himself 
received  him,  and  with  some  pretence  of 
cordiality.  He  did  not  meet  his  gaze  di- 
rectly— it  had  never  been  his  custom  to  look 
folk  in  the  face,  but  of  late  he  gave  his  profile 
to  every  one,  as  though  he  was  sitting 
for  his  silhouette — but  furtively  scanned  him 
with  minuteness.  He  wished  to  gather  from 
his  expression   whether  he  knew  how  he  had 


THE    WITNESS, 


99 


wronged  the  Canon  or  not  ;  and  the  deduc- 
tion he  drew  was  that  he  did  know.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  doctor  did  not  know.  The 
Canon  had  kept  his  secret  from  all  outsiders, 
partly,  perhaps,  for  his  own  sake  (for  he  was 
not  one  to  write  himself  down  an  ass,  even 
though  he  might  have  behaved  like  one),  but 
chiefly  for  Sophy's  sake.  The  doctor,  how- 
ever, had  no  liking  for  Mr.  John  Adair  (and 
showed  it  in  his  honest  face)  for  another 
reason. 

He  had  been  informed  by  Miss  Aldred 
of  the  accident  that  had  happened  to  little 
Willie,  partly  in  consequence  of  her  father's 
ill-judged  economy  ;  he  was  aware  that  Sophy 
had  had  money,  and  that  Adair  had  had  none, 
and  he  looked  upon  him  as  a  mean  hound. 

'  Some  business  called  me  up  to  town  to- 
day, Mr.  Adair,'  he  said,  stiffly,  '  and  at  your 
wife's  request  I  have  looked  in  to  see  your 
little  girl.' 

'  You  are  very  kind,  Dr.  Newton  ;  I  am 

n2 


loo  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

^  afraid,  however,  you  will  say  little  can  be  done 
for  her  beyond  what  we  are  already  doing.' 

*At  all  events,  there  will  be  no  harm 
done.     I  come  here  only  as  an  old  friend.' 

'  Just  so,'  said  the  other,  quietly.  If  the 
doctor  had  meant  to  give  him  a  dig,  it  showed 
no  signs  of  having  penetrated  anywhere. 
^  You  shall  see  the  child  at  once.' 

Sophy  and  Jeannette  were  both  in  the 
nursery,  and  Stevie  also.  When  the  boy 
heard  Mr.  Adair's  voice  upon  the  stair,  he 
drew  back  behind  the  heavy  curtain  that 
shielded  his  little  friend  from  the  draught 
from  the  window,  and  remained  during  the 
interview  unseen.  Curiosity,  however,  com- 
pelled him  to  form  a  peep-hole,  through 
which  he  could  see  what  was  going  on. 

Dr.  Newton  entered,  shook  hands  warmly 
with  Mrs.  Adair,  and  sat  down  quickly  beside 
the  patient.     He  asked   a   great   number   of 
questions,    as  to  symptoms,    treatment,    &c., 
and  presently  for  the  prescrij3tions. 


THE    WITNESS.  loi 

'  This  is  all  very  right/  he  said,  looking 
at  one  of  them  ;  '  but  I  hope  you  are 
careful  about  the  proportion  of  water  ;  it  is  a 
dangerous  medicine  by  itself.' 

'  Dr.  Bagge  warned  us  of  that/  said 
Sophy.  '  We  keep  the  medicine  in  the  cup- 
board, and  instead  of  mixing  it  every  time, 
we  keep  a  portion  in  the  bottle  here  ready 
mixed.  When  it  is  finished,  we  mix  it  again, 
so  that  no  mistake  can  possibly  occur  through 
inadvertence.' 

'  Umph,  that's  curious,'  said  the  doctor. 
^  There  are  certain  symptoms  here — the  very 
ones  that  have  given  you  anxiety,  and  not 
without  cause — which  I  should  have  attri- 
buted to  an  overdose.  Who  administers  the 
medicine  ? ' 

'  Either  Jeannette  or  myself,'  said  Sophy  ; 
*  and  I  mix  it,  when  it  is  necessary  to  do  so, 
with  my  own  hands.' 

'  Well,  you  can't  be  too  cautious.  The 
limb   is    better — better    than   I   could   have 


I02  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

hoped  for,  considering  the  nature  of  the 
accident.  It  is  the  general  health  that  is 
suffering.' 

'  Am  I  going  to  die,  doctor  ?  '  inquired 
little  Willie.  '  I  should  like  to  know,  because 
I  have  got  things  to  do  first.' 

'  Bless  my  soul !  what  a  strange  child,' 
exclaimed  the  doctor,  whose  practice  lay- 
chiefly  among  infants  of  a  larger  growth — 
undergraduates.  '  Why,  she  reminds  me  of 
what  little  Stevie  Helford  used  to  be.  No, 
my  dear,  you  are  not  gomg  to  die  ;  I  hope 
you  are  going  to  get  well  and  strong.' 

'  Do  you  think  I  shall  live  to  be  twenty- 
one  ? '  inquired  the  patient,  with  great 
gravity. 

^  Ah,  you  want  to  come  of  age  and  see  the 
ox  roasted  whole  in  Albany  Street,  do  you  ? ' 
returned  the  doctor,  cheerily.  '  Of  course 
you'll  live  to  be  twenty-one — live  to  be  a 
hundred  and  one  very  likely.  What  a  very 
funny   child!     Well,  there  is   nothing  to  be 


THE    WITNESS.  103 

alarmed  about ;  but  the  case  wants  watcliiug. 
How  often  does  your  medical  man  come, 
Mrs.  Adaii'?' 

'  Not  very  often,'  said  Sopliy,  firmly,  but 
avoiding  her  husband's  eye  ;  '  once  in  three 
weeks,  not  more.' 

'  That  is  not  enough,  in  my  opinion.  The 
symptoms  I  have  noticed  should  be  attended 
to  and  checked  at  once.  Have  you  had  any 
other  opinion — .has  any  other  doctor  seen  her 
beside  Doctor  Bagge  ?  ' 

Here  Stevie  noticed  that  Mr.  Adair  threw 
a  glance  at  Jeannette,  unperceived  by  the 
other  two  ;  to  the  boy's  quick  intelligence  it 
seemed  to  say,  '  Don't  speak.' 

'  No,'  said  Sophy.  '  No  one  but  our  own 
medical  man  has  seen  her.' 

Then  the  doctor  rose  and  left  the  room 
with  Sophy,  her  husband  following  close 
ujDon  their  heels. 

'  What  am  I  to  do  ? '  cried  Jeannette,  de- 
spairingly. 


I04  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

^  What  is  the  matter  ?  '  whispered  Ste- 
vie,  looking  out  from  his  place  of  conceal- 
ment. 

'  Lor,  Master  Stevie,  I  cpiite  forgot  you 
were  there,'  said  Jeannette,  growing  very 
white  ;  '  you  gave  me  quite  a  turn.' 

'  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  ' 

The  waiting-maid  v/as  too  well  acquainted 
with  the  importunity  of  youth  to  attempt  to 
evade  the  question.  '  Why,  my  poor  mistress 
wanted  to  have  a  few  words  with  Dr.  Xewton 
alone  ;  and  I  am  afraid  that  she  w^ill  never 
get  them.     Hush !  be  quiet,  listen.' 

The  others  had  gone  into  the  drawing- 
room  and  closed  the  door.  Nothing  w^as 
heard  save  the  ticking  of  the  clock  upon  the 
mantelpiece,  and  the  occasional  dropping  of  a 
coal  from  the  grate.  Fatigued  with  the  doc- 
tor's investigation,  and  lulled  to  rest  by  the 
silence,  Willie  sank  into  a  deep  slumber. 

Presently  there  was  a  gentle  knock  at  the 
door.      '  My  mistress  wants  you  downstairs, 


THE    WITNESS.  105 

Jeannette/  said  one  of  the  maids.     '  Shall  1 
stay  with  the  child  ? ' 

'  No,  it  is  unnecessary  ;  she  is  asleep.' 
Then,  in  a  hushed  whisper,   '  Keep  where 
you   are,  Master  Stevie,  unless  Willie   cries,' 
said  Jeannette,  and  noiselessly  left  the  room. 

One  minute,  two  minutes,  and  then  there 
was  a  cautious  click  of  the  door-handle. 
Stevie  lay  close,  with  a  presentiment  of  some- 
thing about  to  happen  ;  to  his  horror,  Adair 
stole  quietly  in.  The  boy's  heart  beat  fast ; 
but  fascinated,  rather  than  curious,  he  kept 
his  eye  at  the  loophole.  What  could  have 
brought  the  master  of  the  house  back  to  that 
room  alone  ?  No  affection  for  the  child, 
that  was  certain.  He  stepped  lightly  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  and  gazed  earnestly  at  the 
little  occupant ;  then,  having,  as  it  seemed, 
convinced  himself  that  she  was  asleep,  he 
took  up  the  phial  that  stood  upon  the  table, 
marked  well  how  far  it  was  filled,  and 
emptied  its  contents  into  some  vessel  he  had 


io6  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

brought  with  him.  Next,  going  on  tiptoe  to 
the  cupboard,  he  took  out  a  bottle,  and  filled 
the  phial  from  it  to  the  same  height  as  before. 
Then  replacing  bottle  and  phial  where  he  had 
found  them,  he  glided  noiselessly  from  the 
room.  The  whole  transaction  scarcely  took 
up  a  minute  :  it  would  have  been  plain  to  any 
person  of  mature  judgment  that  such  dex- 
terity could  only  have  been  acquired  by  prac- 
tice. If  but  few  opportunities  had  been 
aiforded  him  for  such  proceedings,  it  was 
certain  he  had  lost  none. 

Stevie  stood  petrified  as  he  watched  all 
this,  and  when  it  was  over  began  to  tremble. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  on  the 
verge  of  crying  out  something  horrible — 
perhaps  '  Murder ! ' — without  knowing  exactly 
why.  He  did  not  comprehend  what  had 
occurred,  but  he  felt  that  if  the  man  had 
attempted  to  give  Willie  what  was  now  in  the 
phial  he  would  have  rushed  out  and  stopped 
him  at  all  hazards.     But  now  his  nerve  had 


THE    WITNESS.  107 

left  him  and  almost  consciousness  itself.  The 
contemplation  of  a  crime  by  an  innocent 
person  is  almost  as  shocking  as  the  first  com- 
mission of  one. 

Even  when  Jeannette  returned,  the  boy 
still  remained  where  he  was,  and  without  the 
power  of  speech. 

^  You  may  come  out  now,  Master  Stevie,' 
she  said,  cheerfully.  '  Mr.  Adair  has  gone 
away  with  the  doctor,  but  not  before  my 
mistress  had  a  private  word  with  him  ;  why 
master  left  us  alone  together,  though  it  was 
only  for  five  minutes,  I  can't  imagine.' 

'7  can,'  sad  Stevie,  putting  back  the 
curtain,  and  disclosing  a  white  face  and  star- 
ing eyes.     '  He  left  you  to  come  up  here.' 

'  Here !  Good  heavens  !  He  didn't  do 
anything  to  the  child  ? ' 

'  No  ;  he  left  you  to  do  it.' 

Then  he  told  her  what  had  happened  from 
beginning  to  end. 

Jeannette  listened,  with  horrified  face.   She 


io8  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

took  up  the  pliial.  The  medicine  was  as 
colourless  as  the  water  with  which  it  should 
have  been  mixed  ;  but  she  took  out  the  cork, 
and  smelt  it. 

'  That  would  have  gone  nigh  to  kill 
her/  she  said,  solemnly.  She  poured  back 
the  contents  of  the  phial  into  the  bottle,  and, 
mixing  more  medicine  with  water  in  the 
proper  proportions,  replaced  the  phial  as 
before. 

^Now,  as  you  love  little  Willie,  Master 
Stevie,'  she  said,  earnestly,  '  not  a  word  of 
this  to  my  mistress  or  to  any  one  else.  I  will 
answer  for  it  that  it  shall  never  occur  again  ; 
but  nothing  must  be  done  in  a  hurry.  If  he 
thought  we  knew  of  this,  my  master  would 
kill  us  both,  and  the  child,  and  my  mistress 
too.' 

It  is  probable  that  Jeannette  did  not  in 
reality  apprehend  this  wholesale  slaughter  ; 
her  object  was  to  make  sure  of  the  boy's 
silence. 


THE    WITNESS.  109- 

'  But  we  must  do  sometliing,'  urged  Stevie. 
He  had  as  great  confidence  in  Jeannette's 
sagacity  as  in  her  honest  intentions  ;  and 
quite  believed  that  any  person  who  could 
injure  Willie  was  capable  of  quadruple  as- 
sassination. But  he  could  not  see  how  a 
'  masterly  inactivity '  could  meet  so  extreme 
a  case. 

'You  must  do  this,  Master  Stevie  :  go 
home  and  ask  your  aunt  to  invent  some 
excuse  for  getting  me  to  her  house  this  after- 
noon. Tell  her  that  I  have  something  very 
particular  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Irton.  If 
you  can't  trust  me  to  do  what  is  best,'  she 
added,  noting  the  boy's  hesitating  look,  '  you 
can  surely  trust  your  uncle.' 

'  Yes,  I  can  trust  Uncle  Fred  to  do  what 
is  right,'  said  Stevie,  naively,  '  because  I 
know  he  dislikes  Mr.  Adair,  to  begin  with.' 

'  And  do  you  suppose  that  I  like  Mr. 
Adair  ? '  inquired  Jeannette,  with  a  strange 
smile. 


no  THE   CANON'S  WARD, 

For  an  instant  there  flashed  upon  Stevie's 
mmd  the  remembrance  of  that  significant  look 
which  she  had  exchanged  with  her  master 
when  Sophy  had  been  engaged  with  the 
child  ;  but  he  put  the  suspicion  from  him 
loyally. 

^  No  ;  you  can  never  like  the  man  that 
would  have  harmed  little  Willie,'  he  said. 

These  words  came  hissing  through  her 
clenched  teeth — 

'  I  hate  him ! ' 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  Sophy  entered. 
Her  mind  was  too  full  of  the  events  of  the 
morning  to  take  notice  of  how  the  boy  had 
disposed  of  himself  during  the  late  interview. 
He  had  little  difficulty  in  effecting  his  de- 
parture, since  his  hostess  wanted  to  confer 
with  Jeannette  about  the  child  ;  but  not  till 
he  had  got  clear  of  the  house  (which  hence- 
forth became  terrible  to  him)  did  he  begin  to 
breathe  freely. 


THE    WITNESS.  in 

'  Cram '  and  competitive  examinations 
burden  young  gentlemen's  wits  in  these  days 
pretty  considerably  ;  but  never  had  boy  so 
much  upon  his  mind  as  Stevie  had  as  he  ran 
home  that  day. 


112  THE  CANON'S   WARD. 


CHAPTER   XLL 


JEANNETTE    CONFESSES. 


Jeannette's  attendance  upon  little  Willie  since 
lier  illness  had  been  almost  incessant.  She 
was  not  one  of  those  domestics  who  grudge 
their  extra  service  in  time  of  trouble  ;  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  Sophy  was  not  one  of 
those  mistresses  who  treat  their  servants  as 
though  they  were  machines.  Though  hardly 
ever  leaving  her  own  threshold,  she  insisted 
that  Jeannette  should  take  a  certain  amount 
of  open-air  exercise  every  day,  and  that  this 
should  take  as  much  as  possible  the  form  of 
relaxation.  When  a  note  came  from  Henny, 
shortly  after  Stevie's  visit,  inviting  Jeannette 
to  take    tea  with   her   maid   that   afternoon. 


JEANNETTE  CONFESSES.  113 

Sophy  was  very  glad  of  the  opportunity  of 
mvinfi:  her  the  treat.  She  would  be  left  alone 
with  little  Willie  for  an  hour  or  so,  which  was 
a  greater  satisfaction  to  her  than  ever. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  she  had,  in  a  fashion, 
communicated  to  the  child  the  terrible  news 
she  had  received  from  Henny.  To  make  her 
really  understand  what  had  happened  with 
respect  to  the  Canon  was,  of  course,  impossible, 
but  she  had  impressed  her  with  the  fact  that  a 
grievous  wrong  had  been  committed  against 
this  best  of  friends  and  benefactors,  and  that 
if  it  should  ever  lie  in  her  power  to  make 
amends  for  it,  her  first  duty,  in  the  eyes  of 
God  and  man,  would  be  to  do  so.  It  was  a 
foolish  thing  enough  to  tell  a  child,  but  then 
poor  Sophy  was  not  wise.  Moreover,  she  had 
no  one  else  to  whom  she  could  pour  out  her 
passionate  sorrow  and  remorse  for  what  had 
happened  save  this  little  confidante,  who  saw 
her  mother's  tears  not  as  another  child  might 
have  done,  with  mere  wonder  and  awe,  but 

VOL.    III.  I 


114  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

with  the  keenest  desire  to  staunch  them,  and 
with  intense  interest  in  their  cause.  Thoue^h 
she  had  spoken  of  her  father  to  Stevie,  she  had 
never  spoken  of  him  to  her  mother  ;  it  was  a 
topic  that  neither  of  them  discussed,  but  upon 
which  they  were  tacitly  agreed.  Sophy  did 
not  even  tell  the  child  who  was  the  actual 
wrongdoer  in  the  Canon's  case  ;  and  from 
what  seemed  happy  instinct,  but  which  in 
reality  was  reticence  born  of  premature  sa- 
gacity, little  Willie  forebore  for  once  to  ques- 
tion her  upon  the  point. 

"While  this  loving  couple  were  exchanging 
their  confidences  that  afternoon,  they  little 
guessed  how  deeply  they  were  occupying  the 
thoughts  of  a  certain  friend  of  theirs,  who,  if 
he  had  made  no  sign  of  late  of  the  interest  he 
had  in  them,  had  by  no  means  forgotten  them. 
He  had  his  own  affairs  and  the  affairs  of  many 
clients  to  think  about,  for  he  was  a  very 
rising  young  solicitor ;  but  ever  and  anon 
when  tidino's  reached  him  of  Mr.  John  Adair's 


JE ANNETTE  CONEESSEC.  ,115 

'  goings  on  '  (which  they  indirectly  did)  in  the 
City  and  elsewhere,  he  was  wont  to  swear 
softly  to  himself,  and  make  remarks  of  the 
following  description  :  '  You  have  stolen  my 
client's  money,  you  scoundrel,  in  spite  of  my 
teeth — and  lost  it.  You  are  stealing  other 
people's  money  (but  that's  their  look  out), 
and  losmg  that.  As  you  get  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  mire,  you  take  it  out  of  that  un- 
fortunate little  wife  of  yours  for  every  failure 
of  your  thievish  plans  ;  the  more  desperate 
are  your  circumstances,  the  more  miserable 
you  are  resolved,  it  seems,  that  she  shall  be. 
Even  the  innocent  child  whom  you  have  made 
a  thief  by  proxy  has  suffered  from  your  mean- 
ness, and — well,  some  day  or  another  you 
shall  pay  for  all  this,  as  sure  as  my  name  is 
Frederic  Irton.' 

Irton's  character  was  not  Quixotic  (or  he 
could  never  have  been  '  rising  '  in  his  profes- 
sion), but  he  was  swayed,  as  most  men  are, 
despite  much  twaddle  talked  to  the  contrary, 

I  2 


ii6  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

by  other  motives  besides  self-interest.  Though 
he  had  loyally  defended  the  action  of  '  the 
Court '  against  the  Canon,  he  had  felt  that  his 
client's  case  was  a  hard  one,  and  his  very 
respect  for  his  own  calling  made  him  exceed- 
ingly resent  its  powers  having  been  made  use 
of  to  enforce  a  wrong.  His  wife,  who  had 
great  influence  over  him,  had  communicated 
to  him  her  own  impressions  of  the  tyranny 
that  prevailed  in  Albany  Street.  Despite  his 
calling,  he  had  not  so  much  patience  with 
cruelty  and  meanness  as  lawyers  gene- 
rally exhibit  (not  because  they  are  de- 
ficient in  feeling,  but  because  they  think  it 
shows  a  logical  mind).  If  he  had  ever  been 
called  to  the  Bench,  he  would  have  taken 
what  is  called,    I    am  given  to    understand, 

in  legal  circles,  '  the  d d  shame  '  view  of 

matters  brought  before  him,  and  been  a  terror 
less  to  law-breakers  than  to  villains.  Nor  was 
a  personal  motive  wanting  for  his  hostility 
to   Mr.   John  Adair  ;  he  had  secretly  never 


JE ANNETTE   CONFESSES.  117 

forgiven  liini  the  lie  which  (as  he  was  still 
convinced)  he  had  told  him  on  the  very  first 
day  he  had  the  honour  of  making  his  acquaint- 
ance. 

Henny  had  not  hesitated  to  summon  her 
husband  home  by  telegraph  that  afternoon  ; 
he  had  come,  as  it  was  understood,  to  '  five 
o'clock  tea '  m  the  most  ordinary  and  natural 
fashion,  nor  was  there  anything  to  excite 
comment  in  Jeannette's  being  sent  for  up  to 
the  drawing-room  to  give  an  account  of  how 
the  little  invalid  was  progressing  in  Albany 
Street. 

First,  however,  Stevie  had  told  his  story, 
which  Uncle  Fred  transferred  to  his  notebook 
word  byword  as  being  matter  of  grave  import- 
ance indeed,  which  might  be  wanted  after- 
wards :  but  this  witness,  upon  Jeannette's  ap- 
pearance, was  directed  to  withdraw,  while 
Henny  remained  in  court  to  watch  proceed- 
ings. The  waiting-maid  at  first  was  very  far 
from  communicative  ;  she  had  had  some  hours 


ii8  THE   CANON'S    WARD, 

for  reflection  since  the  events  of  the  morning, 
and  her  views  were  not  what  they  had  been 
when  Stevie  had  left  her.  That  Adair  had 
altered  the  child's  medicine,  and  with,  of 
course,  some  evil  intent,  she  was  well  con- 
vinced ;  but  she  felt  sure,  being  forewarned, 
that  this  could  never  occur  again  ;  while  to 
make  a  further  scandal  of  the  matter  would 
be  to  entail  she  knew  not  what  upon  her 
unfortunate  mistress.  Moreover,  should  her 
master  ever  discover  that  she  was  hostile  to 
him,  he  would  turn  her  out  of  doors  upon  the 
instant,  when  her  mistress  and  the  child  would 
be  left  without  that  protection  which  she  alone 
knew  to  be  so  necessary  to  them.  Like  most 
persons  with  a  turn  for  intrigue,  she  had  too 
great  confidence  in  her  own  resources. 

Irton  saw  at  once  that  she  had  repented  of 
her  offer  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  him, 
and  shaped  his  course  accordingly. 

'  What  Stevie  has  stated  to  me  is  a  matter 
so  very  serious,  Jeannette,'  he  said,  gravely, 


JEANNETTE  CONFESSES,  119 

'  that  it  must  be  gone  into,  whether  we  will  or 
no.  An  attempt  to  murder  cannot  be  hushed 
up,  out  of  regard  to  the  feelings  of  anybody, 
remember.' 

'  But  why  should  it  be  murder,  sir?  '  she 
argued.  '  For  all  we  know,  the  doctor  may 
have  altered  his  opinion,  and  Mr.  Adair  have 
done  what  he  did  by  his  advice.  Besides, 
what  good  could  master  get  by  killing  the 
poor  little  darling  ? — his  own  flesh  and  blood, 
too.' 

'When  murder  is  done,  Jeanne tte,'  returned 
the  lawyer,  coldly,  '  it  is  not  only  the  mur- 
derer who  puts  his  neck  in  the  loop,  but  the 
accessory  who  is  in  collusion  with  him.  No 
one  who  knows  you  could  suspect  you  of 
doing  little  Willie  any  harm  ;  but  you  will 
not  be  known  to  the  Judge  and  jury  who  will 
try  this  case.  I  warn  you,  that  if  you  are 
concealing  anything  that  may  throw  light  on 
this  matter,  you  are  playing  a  very  dangerous 
as  well  as  foolish  game.' 


I20  .  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  I  am  concealing  nothing,  sir/  said 
Jeannette,  obstinately  ;  and  then,  with  that 
superfluity  of  assertion  so  characteristic  of  her 
class,  added,  '  I  never  did.' 

'  What,  not  when  you  concealed  from  your 
mistress  that  another  physician  had  seen  little 
Willie  besides  Dr.  Bagge?  ' 

'  If  you  know  so  much  about  it,  there  was 
two  on  'em,'  muttered  Jeannette,  grudgingly, 
but  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.  It  was  not  so 
much  alarm  upon  her  own  account  that  had 
thus  caused  her  to  break  down  in  her  resolu- 
tion to  keep  silence,  but  perplexity  and  dis- 
tress of  mind. 

'  Then  why  did  you,  in  collusion  with 
your  master,  keep  this  visit  secret  from  your 
mistress  and  Dr.  Newton?  ' 

'  Because  I  durstn't  speak  of  it,'  cried  the 
wretched  Jeannette.  ^  Master  told  me  if  I 
ever  breathed  one  word  of  it,  out  of  the  house 
I  should  go.  How  do  you  think  my  poor 
mistress  and  Willie  would  get  on  without  me? 


JEANNETTE  CONFESSES.  121 

What  sort  of  husband  and  father  do  you  take 
Mr.  Adair  to  be  that  I  should  let  him  work 
his  wicked  will  upon  them?  You  may  call  it 
collusion  ;  you  may  just  as  well  accuse  dear 
little  Willie  herself  of  such  a  thing,  whom  I 
begged  to  be  silent  about  this  very  matter  for 
her  mother's  sake  ;  and  she  did  so,  because, 
child  as  she  is,  she  has  a  deal  more  sense  in 
her  than  some  people  as  are  grown  up.  And, 
after  all,  what  did  it  matter  about  more  doc- 
tors coming?  They  were  kind,  honest  gentle- 
men, and,  as  I  should  judge  by  their  manner, 
none  too  fond  of  master.' 

'  Just  so,'  said  Irton ;  '  you  were  quite 
right  in  suj)posing  there  was  no  harm  in  them. 
Still,  I  must  know  who  they  were.' 

'  I  know  nothing  about  them,  except  that 
one  called  the  other  Woodruffe :  and  if  ever 
master  comes  to  hear  that  I  told  you  even  so 
much  as  that,  whatever  happens  afterwards 
will  be  at  your  door,  not  mine,  sir.' 

'  He  shall  never  know,  Jeannette,  be  as- 


122  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

sured  of  that.  If  you  will  only  confide  in  me 
we  shall  be  able  to  spoil  all  his  schemes,  and 
make  him  harmless.  But  we  cannot  fight 
against  him  in  the  dark.' 

'  I  know  no  more,  sir,  than  what  I  have 
told  you  ;  only  remember  that  in  dealing  with 
him  you  have  to  do  with  the  wickedest  and 
most  heartless  man  that  ever  drew  breath, 
and  one  that  is  as  cunning  as  the  Devil.' 

'  You  have  described  the  gentleman  to  a 
hau','  said  Irton,  drily.  '  What  on  earth,'  he 
added,  turning  to  his  wife,  '  could  have  ever 
induced  Sophy  to  marry  him  ?  ' 

Henny  held  up  her  hands,  and  shook  lier 
head.  Though  she  was  so  fond  of  Sophy,  the 
girl  had  always  been  an  enigma  to  her,  and 
the  object  of  her  afi^ection  a  matter  of  amaze- 
ment. Badly  as  Adair  had  turned  out,  he 
had  not,  in  his  bachelor  state,  been  more 
objectionable  to  Henny  than  Mr.  Perry  had 
been. 

'  She  married    him  because  she  couldn't 


JEANNETTE   CONFESSES.  123 

help  it,  Mr.  Irton,'  said  Jeannette,  warmly. 
'  Heaven  forgive  me  for  the  hand  I  had  in  it, 
but  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  stopped  it  anyhow. 
She  did  it  to  prevent  an  exposure.' 

Mr.  Frederic  Irton  emitted  a  low  whistle  ; 
a  whistle  full  of  feeling  as  well  as  significance, 
but  still  a  whistle. 

'  You  are  wrong,  Fred,'  said  Henny,  firmly. 
'  I  am  quite  sure  Sophy  never  misconducted 
herself  as  you  suppose.  She  may  have  been 
weak  but  never  wicked.' 

'  That's  just  it,  ma'am,'  said  Jeannette,  a})- 
provingly.  '  My  mistress  was  very  foolish, 
and  bitterly,  indeed,  she  has  paid  for  her  folly, 
but  she  never  went  wrong.  She  had  a  secret, 
which  Mr.  Adair  possessed  himself  of;  and, 
rather  than  it  should  be  known  to  her  friends, 
she  married  him.' 

^  And  what  was  the  secret  ? '  inquired 
man  and  wife  together. 

^  She  had  been  married  before  to  Mr.  Her- 
bert Perry.' 


124  THE  CANON'S   WARD. 

'  What !  Sopliy  a  widow ! '  exclaimed 
Henny,  in  shocked  amazement. 

Irton  expressed  no  astonishment — it  was 
beneath  the  dignity  of  his  profession  :  but  he 
murmured,  '  What  a  deuced  clever  girl ! '  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

'  But  are  you  quite  certain  of  this,'  Jean- 
nette  ? '  inquired  Henny. 

^  I  saw  them  married  myself  in  St.  Anne's 
Church,  in  the  City  ;  it  was  against  my  will 
from  first  to  last.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it  except  holding  my  tongue.  I  wish,'  she 
added  with  a  sigh,  '  I  could  say  as  much  of 
her  second  venture.' 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Henny  was 
recalling  the  words  Sophy  had  uttered  during 
her  last  visit,  the  reproaches  she  had  heaped 
upon  herself,  the  acknowledgment  she  had  so 
passionately  made  that  her  sorrows  were  de- 
served, and  only  her  righteous  punishment. 
^It  was  no  wonder,'  she  felt,  and  yet  she 
pitied  her,    from   her    soul   she    pitied   her. 


JEANNETTE  CONFESSES.  125 

Irton's  thoughts  flowed  in  quite  another 
channel.  Was  it  possible  that  little  Willie 
was  not  Adair's^  child  after  all  ? — a  circum- 
stance which,  though  it  could  excuse  nothing, 
might  explain  much. 

*  When  did  the  second  marriage  take  place 
— how  soon  after  she  was  a  widow  ?  ^  he  in- 
quired. 

'  About  six  months,  sir.  It  was  not  my 
poor  mistress's  fault  that  it  was  so  soon  :  the 
Canon  hurried  it  I  think,  poor  man,  little 
knowing  what  he  was  about ;  and  of  course,' 
she  added,  her  hatred  of  her  master  stinof. 
ing  her  into  unaccustomed  satire,  '  Mr.  Adair 
was  very  anxious  to  make  sure  of  her 
money.' 

Here  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck 
six. 

'  I  must  be  going,'  said  Jeannette,  rising  ; 
*  if  my  master  comes  back  and  finds  me  away 
from  home — and  especially  here — he  will 
suspect  something.' 


126  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  Quite  right/  said  Irtoiij  approvingly ; 
'  we  must  contrive  to  see  you  again,  wlien 
necessary  ;  but  in  the  meantime  we  cannot  be 
too  cautious.  One  moment ;  how  do  you 
know  that  Mr.  Adair  knew  your  mistress  was 
a  widow?  Did  he  ever  say  so  in  your  hear- 
ing? 

'  No,  but  it  was  very  well  understood  be- 
tween them.' 

'  Still  you  have  no  evidence  that  he  knew 
it?' 

'  He  knew  it,'  said  Jeannette,  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  '  because  he  read  a  letter  of 
Mr.  Perry's  which  spoke  of  his  marriage,  and 
he  enclosed  it  with  a  letter  of  his  own  to  my 
mistress.' 

^  Is  Ihat  letter — Adair's  letter — in  ex- 
istence ? ' 

'  I  think  it  is.' 

'  I  will  give  fifty  pounds  for  a  sight  of 
it.' 

'  I    don't    want     your    m^oney,    sir,'    said 


JEANNETTE  CONFESSES.  127 

Jeannette,  doggedly  ;  '  I  have  had  enough  of 
doing  underhand  things  for  money.' 

'  But  iihis  is  work  for  a  good  end,  work 
that  may  possibly  be  the  means  of  rescuing 
your  mistress  from  her  slavery,  as  well  as 
causing  your  master  to  get  his  deserts.' 

^  That  would  be  a  sight  for  sore  eyes  in- 
deed,' answered  Jeannette,  earnestly,  mopping 
her  own  with  her  handkerchief,  as  she  arose 
from  her  chair.  ^  You  shall  have  that  letter, 
sir,  if  I  have  to  break  open  missus's  desk  to 
get  at  it.' 


128  THE  CANON''S    WARD. 


CHAPTER  XLIL 


ROBERT. 


The  p.  and  0.  boat  has  just  arrived  at 
Southampton.  Her  deck  is  crowded  by  a 
motley  crowd,  but  the  expression  of  their 
faces  is,  for  the  most  part,  wonderfully  similar. 
There  are  some  invalids,  so  ill  that  even  the 
thought  of  '  coming  home '  cannot  bring  back 
'  the  vermeil  hue  of  health  '  to  their  bronzed 
but  shrunken  cheeks  ;  there  is  a  glitter  in 
their  eyes,  but  it  has  moisture  in  it,  like  the 
light  of  the  sun -dew.  And  there  are  others 
in  mourning,  who  have  been  beckoned  across 
the  ocean  by  the  hand  of  death.  The  rest  are 
bright  and  radiant :  some  eager  to  revisit 
their  own  homes,  others  chiefly  to  enjoy  them- 
selves after  long  and  enforced  abstinence  from 


ROBERT.  129 

pleasure,  in  '  the  village/  as  we  term,  with 
mock  sentiment,  the  metropolis. 

There  is  one  exception,  however  ;  a  young 
man,  neither  an  invalid  nor  in  mourning,  but 
who  wears  a  grave  and  preoccupied  expres- 
sion. He  does  not  scan  the  faces  of  those 
ashore  who  have  come  to  meet  the  boat  ;  he 
has  friends,  dear  ones  at  home  ;  but  he  knows 
that  no  one  will  be  here  to  welcome  him,  for 
they  do  not  know  of  his  arrival.  His  fellow- 
passengers  crowd  around  him  to  shake  hands 
of  farewell,  for  he  has  made  himself  popular 
on  the  voyage  ;  he  accepts  their  civilities  and 
reciprocates  them,  but  with  a  somewhat  distrait 
air  ;  his  mind  is  far  from  them.  He  is  glad 
when  they  have  streamed  away,  and  he  can 
follow  after  them  and  mix  unobserved  with 
the  crowd  at  the  railway  station.  It  is  early 
spring,  and  the  darkness  of  evening  is  already 
falling. 

^  First  class,  sir? '  inquires  the  porter,, 
who  is  looking  after  his  luggage. 

VOL.    III.  K 


I30  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  No  ;  third  class.' 

The  porter  stares,  for  the  young  man  is 
well  dressed  and  has  an  aristocratic  air,  and 
notwithstanding  this  discovery  he  shows  him 
to  his  carriage. 

'  I  thought  so,'  murmurs  the  official,  as  he 
leaves  the  door  with  a  shilling  in  his  hand  ; 
^  once  a  gentleman  always  a  gentleman.  Now, 
some  fools  would  have  said,  "  There's  your 
carriage,"  and  taken  no  further  notice  of  him. 
He's  out  o'  luck,  that's  all,  and  I  hope  it 
will  return  to  him.' 

The  subject  of  this  aspiration  pulled  his 
railway  rug  around  him,  pushed  up  his  coat- 
collar,  drew  down  his  travelling- cap  over  his 
brows,  and  prepared  himself  for  silence,  if  not 
for  slumber.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  talk, 
nor,  in  any  case,  would  the  appearance  of  his 
fellow-passengers  have  invited  conversation. 
There  were  but  two  of  them  ;  one  a  rough- 
looking  fellow,  but  without  the  wholesome- 
ness  that  often  accompanies  roughness  ;  the 


ROBERT.  131 

other  with  the  appearance  of  having  seen 
better  clays,  the  remembrance  of  which  he 
had  made  efforts  to  drown  in  the  usual  man- 
ner ;  they  spoke  to  one  another  in  hoarse 
whispers,  and  seemed  to  be  on  intimate  terms 
— what  the  world  at  large  calls  friends,  and  the 
sporting  world  '  confederates.'  Presently  one 
of  them  produced  a  huge  spirit  flask,  which 
drew  the  ties  of  their  amity  still  closer  and 
still  more  loosed  their  tongues.  They  had 
seemed  at  first  to  be  suspicious  of  their  silent 
companion,  but,  as  he  gave  no  sign  of  wake- 
fulness, they  soon  disregarded  him.  As  ap- 
peared from  their  talk,  they  had  recently  re- 
turned from  some  distant  land,  where,  though 
they  had  accomplished  their  errand,  they  had 
encountered  some  hardships,  spent  all  their 
money,  and  received  some  slight  which  had 
wounded  their  amour  propre. 

'  What  I  hate,  most  of  all,  in  the  governor,' 
said  Xo.  1,  in  discontented  tones,  '  is  his  want 
of  confidence  in  a  fellow.     AVlierever  one  goes 

k2 


132  THE   CANON'S   WARD. 

there  is  always  some  one  else  going,  unbe- 
knownst, to  look  after  one.' 

^  That's  his  kind  consideration  for  our 
welfare,'  returned  No.  2,  whose  language 
showed  a  much  higher  type  of  education  than 
that  of  his  companion.  '  He's  so  fond  of  you 
he  can  never  trust  you  out  of  his  sight.' 

'  He  don't  trust  you   a  bit  more  than  he 
does  me ;    don't   think    it,'   sneered   No.   1. 
Why,  you  was  searched  twice  between  the 
mine  and  the  'otel.' 

'  But  nothing  was  found  upon  me,  my 
friend  ;  I  left  the  court  without  a  stain  upon 

my  character,  whereas  you dear  me,  I  felt 

quite  ashamed  that  a  pal  of  mine  should  have 
so  bemeaned  himself  for  a  few  ounces  of 
silver.' 

'  I  am  not  a  hostrich,  like  some  people,  as 
can  s waller  silver,'  returned  the  other,  angrily. 
^  For  my  part,  I  wonder  you  don't  jingle  as 
yon  move.'* 

'  And  a  very  pleasant  music  it  would  make/ 


ROBERT,  133 

returned  the  other.  '  Autoinaton  pianos 
would  be  nothing  to  it  ;  there  is  only  one 
pleasanter  chink  to  my  ear — that  of  gold.' 

'It's  high  time  we  heard  it,'  grumbled 
No.  1.  '  The  idea  of  our  havin'  to  come  home 
in  the  steerage,  and  now  in  this  'ere  third  class, 
with  the  tagrag  and  bobtail  ; '  and  he  nodded 
his  head  in  the  direction  of  their  sleeping  com- 
panion to  illustrate  his  remark  by  application. 
'  Fellows  as  have  done  what  we  have  done  to 
our  employers'  satisfaction.' 

'  It  was  the  euchre,  however,  to  give  the 
devil  his  due,  which  took  away  our  ready 
money,'  observed  No.  2.  '  The  governor  has 
behaved  square  enough.' 

'  And  so  he  ought  to  do,'  answered  the 
other,  angrily.  '  For  every  ten  pounds  he  has 
put  into  our  pockets  he  expects  to  land  a 
^  thou  '  at  the  very  least.' 

'  That  depends  upon  how  the  company 
stands.  Without  the  help  of  that  swell  in  the 
€ity  the  wheels  could  never  have  been  moved 


134  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

at  all  ;  and  it's  my  opinion  he  has  not  much 
money  to  grease  'em  with.' 

'  But  he  knows  where  to  get  it,'  observed 
No.  1,  '  and  he  won't  be  so  particular  how  it's 
got.' 

'  Got  ?  who  is?  '  returned  the  other,  con- 
temptuously ;  '  but  let  me  tell  you  it's  not  so 
easy  as  Dawson  thmks  for  a  swell  in  the  City, 
if  he  has  been  once  blown  upon,  to  raise 
12,000Z.  anyhow.  And  Master  John  Adair's 
reputation  is  not  virgin  ;  no,  nor  anything 
like  il — 'um ! ' 

This  inarticulate  sound  was  a  note  of 
warning.  The  3'oung  gentleman  in  the 
corner  had  suddenly  given  a  start,  which  was 
perceptible  through  his  wraps.  Nor  though 
he  feigned  to  strike  out  a  limb  mechanically  as 
though  it  were  ^2iYt  and  parcel  of  the  other 
performance,  and  to  breathe  heavily,  like  one 
fast  bound  in  slumber,  did  he  succeed  m  lull- 
ing the  once  aroused  suspicion  of  his  com- 
panions.    He  overheard,  indeed,  Xo.  1  anathe- 


ROBERT.  135 

matising  No.  2  in  a  muttered  tone  for  being 
such  a  blank  fool  as  to  name  names  in  a  public 
conveyance,  and  No.  2  defending  himself  with 
the  vehement  irascibility  of  a  man  who 
knows  he  is  in  the  wrong  ;  but  their  confi- 
dential communications  were  over.  Only  one 
other  observation  passed  between  them  from 
which  any  information  could  be  gathered.  As 
they  neared  the  end  of  their  journey  No.  2 
bought  a  newspaper,  and  produced  from  his 
pocket  a  small  lantern,  by  means  of  which  he 
contrived  to  spell  out  a  word  or  two,  though 
the  chief  effect  of  the  light  was  to  illumine 
his  own  countenance  in  a  Rembrandtish  and 
unattractive  fashion. 

'  Well ;  what's  the  noose?  '  inquired  his 
more  illiterate  companion. 

'  None.  There  are  no  quotations  yet,  of 
course.' 

'  Why,  I  thought  they  was  a  laying  five 
or  six  to  one  against  the  Briar-root  filly.' 

'  Tut !  your  mind  is    always    feeding   on 


136  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

horseflesh,'  returned  the  other,  contemptuously. 
*  I  meant  there  are  no  quotations  of  the  S.S., 
stupid.' 

Not  till  the  train  stopped  at  the  ticket 
platform  did  the  young  gentleman  in  the 
corner  begin  to  awaken,  which  he  did  with 
much  yawning  and  stretching ;  one  would 
have  said  that  he  had  either  been  undergoing 
great  bodily  fatigue  of  late,  or  must  have  been 
a  very  lazy  man  indeed.  Xo  sooner  had  he 
parted  from  his  companions,  however,  and 
found  himself  in  a  cab,  than  all  trace  of  sleepi- 
ness vanished.  There  was  an  angry  light  in 
his  eye,  and  an  angTy  ring  in  his  voice,  as  he 
exclaimed  to  himself — 

'  That  man  again !  How  strange  that  his 
cursed  name  is  the  first  to  meet  my  ear  in 
England !  What  scoundrels  those  two  fellows 
looked  !  His  accomplices,  no  doubt,  in  some 
scheme  of  villany.  It  is  too  late  to  get  on  to- 
night, and  I  can't  stop  all  these  hours  alone, 
eating  my  heart  out  with  bitter  thoughts.  No 


ROBERT.  137 

donbt  Henny  will  give  me  a  bit  of  supper, 
and — what  I  crave  for  infinitely  more — some 
news  of  Cambridge.  Her  husband  is  a  clever 
fellow,  by  all  accounts,  and  his  advice  may  be 
worth  having.' 

He  put  his  head  out  of  window,  and  sub- 
stituted for  the  address  he  had  first  given  to 
the  cabman  that  of  the  Irtons'  house  in  Maida 
Vale. 

It  was  past  eight  when  the  cab  drew  up 
at  the  door  ;  he  rang  the  bell,  and  gave  his 
card  to  the  servant  for  Mrs.  Irton.  Henny 
was  still  in  the  dining-room,  where  her  hus- 
band was  smoking  his  after-dinner  pipe  (she 
was  much  too  good  a  wife  and  wise  a  woman 
to  object  to  the  smell  of  tobacco).  She  read 
the  card,  jumped  up  with  a  cry  of  pleasure, 
and  ran  into  the  passage,  where  Mr.  Frederic 
Irton  heard  her  exclaim,  tumultuously,  '  You 
dear,  good  fellow ! '  These  words,  so  distress- 
ing to  a  husband's  ear,  were  followed  by  an 
unmistakable  kiss. 


138  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

The  next  moment  she  reappeared,  leading 
by  the  hand  a  very  handsome  young  man, 
looking  not  so  much  ashamed  of  himself  as- 
embarrassed. 

'  I  owe  yon  an  apology,  Mr.  Irton,'  he 
began,  smiling. 

^  It's  quite  out  of  the  question,'  said  the 
lawyer,  gravely.  *  The  matter  must  go  to  a 
jury,  who  will  assess  damages.' 

^Why,  it's  Eobert,'  cried  Henny  ;  ^Ro- 
bert Aldred,  from  India  :  I  knew  he  'd  come  ;' 
and  then  this  extraordinary  young  person, 
who  had  quite  a  reputation  for  self-control, 
burst  into  tears.    • 

'  I  am  very  glad  to  see  Robert,'  said  Irton, 
shaking  hands  with  the  new  comer  warmly. 
'  This  is  indeed  friendly  of  you.  You  are 
come  to  stay  with  us,  of  course.' 

'  Nay,  I  was  going  to  Cambridge  this  very 
night,  but  found  I  was  too  late  ;  so  I  just 
looked  in.' 

Henny  was  in  the  passage  again   in  an 


ROBERT.  139 

instant,  giving  orders  about  his  luggage  being 
taken  down,  and  carried  to  the  spare  room. 

'  You  will  have  to  stay,  Aldred,'  said 
Irton,  smiling.  '  If  I  were  master  here  I 
would  add  "and  welcome  "  ;  but  Henny  pre- 
sides over  the  establishment.  This  sad  new& 
of  the  Canon  has  brought  you  over,  I  con- 
clude?' 

'  Yes  ;  I  am  come  on  short  leave  instead 
of  long  ;  but  I  could  not  leave  him  to  bear  his 
misfortune  alone.' 

'  I  have  always  heard  you  were  a  good 
fellow,  and  now  I'm  sure  of  it,'  exclaimed  the 
lawyer,  approvingly  ;  '  sit  down,  and  you 
shall  have  some  dinner  at  once.' 

In  Henny' s  house  matters  were  never  run 
so  finely  that  there  was  difficulty  in  suitably 
providing  for  an  unexpected  guest ;  and  if 
viands  were  not  wanting  on  the  occasion,  we 
may  be  sure  there  was  still  less  lack  of  con- 
versation. 

The  three  sat  far  into  the  night,  conferring 


I40  THE  CANON'S   WARD. 

and  discoursing  on  many  things  ;  and,  as 
generally  happens  when  a  traveller  has  come 
from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  the  first  topic  of 
Robert's  talk  was  upon  his  latest  compara- 
tively unimportant  experience  in  the  railway 
carriage. 

'  How  odd  it  was  that  I  should  hear  of 
this  Adair  so  soon;  was  it  not?'  he  said. 

'Well,  a  good  many  people  are  talking 
about  him,  and  none  to  his  credit,'  replied 
Irton.  '  I  have  no  doubt,  as  you  suggest, 
that  the  men  are  engaged  in  some  scheme — 
probably  a  nefarious  one — in  which  he  is  in- 
terested. I  dare  say  it's  no  worse  than  many 
another  in  which  he  is  mixed  up.  But  I'll 
just  make  a  note  of  the  expected  quotation  of 
those  S.S.  shares.' 

'  And  don't  you  think  his  having  to  find 
12,000^.,  apparently  at  some  early  date,  was 
rather  significant?  ' 

'  Why,  yes.  I  've  got  that  down  already,' 
returned  the  lawyer,  drily.     '  It's  evident  that 


ROBERT.  141 

he's  approaching  a  crisis — probably  a  very 
dangerous  one.' 

'  He  can't  do  my  poor  father  any  more 
harm  ;  that's  one  comfort,'  observed  Robert, 
grimly. 

'  No  ;  he  can't  do  him  any  more  harm,' 
said  the  lawyer,  slowly.  Perhaps  he  was 
thinking  of  the  Canon's  wrongs,  as  Robert 
was  doing  ;  for  both  remained  silent  for  a 
little  while,  with  compressed  lips  ;  or  perhaps 
he  was  thinking,  '  Though  he  can't  hurt 
your  father  more,  he  may  hurt  others.' 

^  It  is  quite  marvellous  how  well  the  dear 
Canon  and  Miss  Aldred  have  borne  it  all,' 
observed  Henny.  *  Of  course  your  coming 
will  be  an  immense  delight  and  comfort  to 
them  ;  but  it  was  not  really  necessary.' 

'  Alma  thought  it  was,'  said  Robert, 
simply.  *  So  far  from  combating  my  resolu- 
tion to  come  home,  she  said  it  was  my  obvious 
duty.' 

'  You  have  got  her  portrait,  of  course  ?  '' 


142  THE   CANON'S    WARD, 

said  Henny,  gently.     '  You  must  let  me  see  it 
before  you  leave  us.' 

'  I  have  got  it  here,'  answered  Kobert, 
with  a  blush  ;  and  he  produced  it  from  his 
breast-pocket. 

At  this,  Henny's  look  grew  so  very 
tender  that  Irton  interposed  with,  '  You 
really  mustn't  kiss  him  again  ; '  which  made 
them  both  laugh  very  heartily.  In  reality, 
Irton  had  not  the  least  objection  to  their 
kissing  ;  but  he  was  averse  to  sentiment,  or, 
rather,  to  the  display  of  it. 

The  photograph  presented  a  charming 
face,  a  little  darker  than  common,  thanks  to 
the  Indian  sun,  but  exquisitely  feminine ; 
though  full  of  gentleness  and  feeling,  it  had, 
however,  a  very  noticeable  expression  of  reso- 
lution, which  Henny  remarked  upon  at  once. 

'  Oh,  yes  ;  Alma  is  not  easily  subjugated,' 
said  Robert,  smiling.  '  When  I  got  the  bad 
news  from  home,  the  General  was  for  breakinof 
off  the  engagement.     '  "  I  gave  you  m^T-  per- 


ROBERT.  143 

mission,"  he  said,  ''to  pay  your  attentions  to 
my  daughter  under  certain  circumstances, 
which  no  longer  exist."  But  Alma  said  that 
she  had  given  her  promise  without  conditions. 
She  had  a  very  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  with 
the  old  General ;  but  she  got  her  way.' 

'  They  generally  do,'  observed  Irton,  drily, 
^  and  they  go  on  getting  it,  let  me  tell  you, 
after  marriage.' 

'  Xot  in  all  cases,'  said  Henny,  sorrowfully. 

'  If  you  think  that  sigh  is  on  her  own 
account,  Aldred,'  interposed  Irton,  '  you  are 
very  much  mistaken.' 

'  I  w^as  thinking  of  poor  Sophy,  Fred.' 

'  To  be  sure,'  said  Irton,  growing  grave  at 
once.  '  That  is  a  matter  which,  I  think, 
Aldred,  you  should  be  informed  about.  I  am 
acting,  or  trying  to  act,  as  the  friend  of  the 
family  with  respect  to  certain  circumstances, 
without  any  proper  authorisation.  They  are 
such  as  I  cannot  communicate  to  the  Canon 
without  causino;  him  the  o-reatest  distress  of 


144  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

miiid,  which  you  will  agree  with  me  he  ought 
to  be  spared.  I  should  not  have  shrunk  from 
the  responsibility  if  you  had  remained  in 
India ;  but,  as  you  are  here.  I  must  ask  you 
to  be  our  confidant  and  adviser.' 

'  I  shall,  I  fear,  be  of  very  little  use  in 
the  latter  character,'  said  Robert,  modestly; 
^  but  if,  by  sharing  the  burden  of  what  you 
have  so  kindly  taken  on  your  own  shoulders, 
I  can  lighten  it  in  any  way,  pray  make  use  of 
me.     I  am  come  home  to  be  of  use.' 

Then  Irton  narrated  all  that  he  had  learnt 
respecting  Sophy's  two  marriages. 

Robert  did  not  interrupt  him,  but  now 
and  again  he  could  not  repress  an  expression, 
of  amazement  — '  Sophy  secretly  married ! ' 
'  Our  little  Sophy ! '     '  It  is  impossible !  ' 

He  was,  perhaps,  thuiking  less  of  Sophy 
than  of  the  lengths  to  which  an  innocent  and 
perfect  creature  like  his  Alma  could  possibly 
go  in  the  way  of  deception,  and  hence  his 
incredulity.  _^ 


ROBERT.  145 

'  As  to  the  fact  of  Sophy's  first  marriage,' 
returned  Irton,  '  there  is  no  room  for  doubt 
about  it,  though  Jeannette  has  not  as  yet 
been  able  to  put  me  in  possession  of  Herbert 
Perry's  letter,  or  of  the  letter  which  accom- 
panied it  from  Adair.' 

'  Why  should  you  want  that  ? '  interrupted 
Aldred.  '  I  can  understand  the  value  of 
Perry's  letter  ;  but,  surely,  anything  that 
Adair  asserts,  whether  by  word  or  in  writing, 
must  be  valueless.' 

'  Not  necessarily ;  they  may  be  admissions, 
or  they  may  be  corroborated  by  other  evi- 
dence. However,  I  have  made  myself  inde- 
pendent of  all  that.  I  have  been  to  St. 
Anne's  Church,  and  found  the  entry  of 
Sophy's  first  marriage  in  the  register.'  Here 
it  seemed  that  the  young  lawyer  had  intended 
to  stop.  Indeed,  he  knew  so  little  of  Robert, 
and  his  capacity  for  keeping  secrets,  that  for 
prudent  reasons  he  had  left  out  many  things 
in  hm  narration — what  Stevie  had  witnessed 

VOL.  IJI.  L 


146  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

in  the  child's  sick-room  in  Albany  Street,  for 
example  ;  but  suddenly,  as  if  from  an  un- 
controllable impulse,  he  added,  '  It  was  the 
drollest  thing,  that  visit  to  the  registry  office.' 

'  Droll !     How  was  that  ?  ' 

'  Well ;  when  I  had  found  what  I  wanted^ 
I  produced  a  photograph  of  our  friend  Adair. 
The  man  is  very  peculiar-looking,  I  must  tell 
you,  keen  and  hatchet -faced,  and  blacker  than 
you  are — as  black  as  the  Devil — and  asked 
the  clerk  whether  he  had  ever  seen  the 
original  of  it.  Yes,  he  said,  he  had  ;  and 
taken  particular  notice  of  him,  because  he  had 
given  him  half  a  sovereign  instead  of  his  usual 
fee.  The  fellow  is  a  mean  hound  enough  by 
nature  ;  but  I  suppose  his  joy  at  findmg  that 
his  information  as  to  Sophy's  secret  marriage 
was  correct,  and  that  consequently  she  was 
in  his  power,  was  too  much  for  him,  and  he 
had  fallen  into  a  lit  of  generosity.  At  all 
events,  not  only  did  the  clerk  recollect  him, 
but  he  had  made    a  note   of  the  date  of  his 


ROBERT.  147 

visit.  Now,  I  saw  Adair  for  the  first  time 
that  very  afternoon  in  London  at  some 
luncheon  rooms,  and  when  I  met  him  at 
your  father's  table,  three  days  afterwards,  and 
recognised  him,  he  denied  that  we  had  ever 
met  before.  He  swore  that  he  was  in  the 
country  on  the  day  in  question  ;  and  every- 
body but  myself — here  Irton  cast  a  trium- 
phant look  at  his  wife — believed  him.' 

'  And  my  dear  Robert,'  put  in  Henny,, 
quietly,  '  I  do  believe  that  that  corroboration 
of  his  own  astuteness  has  given  Fred  almost 
as  great  satisfaction  as  if  he  had  got  your 
father's  money  back.' 

'  But,  perhaps,  the  fact  w^as  of  import- 
ance,' observed  Aldred ;  '  I  am  sure  your 
husband  would  not  have  been  so  gratified 
from  mere  self-complacency.' 

'  How  you  men  do  hang  together,'  smiled 
Henny. 

'  You  are  an  uncommonly  sensible  young 
fellow,  Robert,'  exclaimed  Frederic.     '  Excuse 

l2 


148  THE  CANON'S   WARD. 

my  calling  you  by  your  Christian  name,  but 
you  seem  like  an  old  friend,  and  I  am  sure 
one  who  can  be  trusted.  And,  since  you 
have  proved  yourself  so  intelligent,  I'll  tell 
you  something  which  otherwise  I  should  not 
have  confided  to  you  just  at  present.' 


149 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 


ON    THE    TRAIL. 


^  The  law  of  England,  Aldred/  observed 
Irton,  puffing  slowly  at  liis  pipe,  '  admirable 
as  it  is  in  all  respects  (as  yoii  are  doubtless 
aware,  though  living  at  so  great  a  distance), 
has  its  peculiarities.  It  permits  a  marriage  to 
be  valid  if  one  of  the  parties  concerned  is 
married  under  a  feigned  name,  and  the  other 
is  not  aware  of  it ;  but,  for  certain  good  and 
wise  reasons,  it  does  not  permit  it  if  both  are 
conscious  of  that  inaccuracy.  You  open 
your  eyes,  my  friend  (I  do  not  resent  it  in  the 
least,  one  of  the  great  objects  of  the  law  is  to 
open  people's  eyes),  but  you  now  understand, 
perhaps,  that,  next  to   our  being  assured  of 


I50  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

Sophy's  first  marriage,  it  was  most  important 
to  know  that  Adair  was  aware  of  the  fact 
before  he  became  her  husband.' 

'  I  see  the  importance/  answered  Robert, 
thoughtfully,  '  but  do  not  see  the  ground  for 
satisfaction  ;  since  if  you  could  have  proved 
he  had  not  been  aware  of  it,  the  marriage 
would  be  invalid,  and  Sophy  could  at  once  be 
extricated  from  his  clutches.' 

'  True  ;  but  at  what  a  sacrifice.  She 
would  be  a  mother,  and  no  wife.' 

'  But  if  the  man  is  such  a  husband  as  you 
describe,'  urged  the  young  fellow,  '  and  such  a 
villain  as  I  know  him  to  be,  would  not  any 
position  be  preferable ' 

'  Xot  in  Sophy's  view,'  interrupted  Irton  ; 
^  not  in  any  woman's  view.  Ask  my  wife 
here.' 

'  It  is  the  child,'  said  Henny,  gently. 
'  She  might  bear  it  for  herself,  but  there  is  the 
€hnd.' 

'  She  means  that  in  the  case  you  are  sup- 


ON   THE    TRAIL.  151 

posing,'  explained  Irton — '  that  is,  if  the 
marriage  were  annulled — the  child  would  be 
rendered  illegitimate.' 

'  I  see,'  said  Robert,  thoughtfully  ;  '  but 
what  I  again  fail  to  see  is  what  we  have  to 
congratulate  ourselves  upon.' 

'  Why,  because  the  fool  was  married  by 
banns.  It  is  curious  what  stupid  mistakes 
even  the  cleverest  knaves  are  always  making. 
Why  didn't  he  marry  her  at  a  registry 
office  ?  ' 

'  How  could  he,  Fred  ? '  put  in  Henny, 
remonstratingly.  '  Do  you  suppose  the 
Canon  would  have  permitted  such  a  thing  ?  ' 

'  Well,  he  ought  to  have  made  a  fight 
for  it.  If  he  had  been  aware  of  his  danger  he 
would  have  done  it  ;  but  his  error  was — and 
it  is  the  most  fatal  of  all  errors,  my  dear 
Aldred — he  did  not  consult  a  lawyer.' 

'  But  what  difference  could  it  have  made 
whether  Adair  was  married  by  banns  or  not  ?  ' 

^  Well,  the  making  a  false  entry  before  a 


152  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

registrar  is  an  offence  that  can  be  got  over^ 
but  to  make  one  after  the  publication  by- 
banns  is  a  more  serious  affair.  The  law  in 
that  respect  is  a  little  peculiar/ 

'  Peculiar  !  Idiotic,  I  call  it/  exclaimed 
the  young  fellow.  '  Dear  me,  what  a  queer 
profession  !  ' 

'  How  like  Ids  father ! '  murmured  the 
lawyer.  '  He  could  never  get  over  that 
Settiky  trust.' 

'  But  if  this  scoundrel  has  committed  a 
felony,'  exclaimed  Robert,  vehemently,  '  why 
not  try  him,  and  trounce  him  ?  ' 

'  Well,  in  the  first  place,  it  is  not  a  felony ;. 
and  also  there  is  just  this  difficulty.  He  has, 
without  doubt,  performed  a  criminal  act,  so 
far  as  connivance  goes  ;  but,  unfortunately, 
the  chief  offender,  m  the  eye  of  the  law,  would 
be  the  ''party"  Avho  signed  herself  "Sophy 
Gilbert,  spinster."  ' 

'  Good  heavens  !  she  must  have  been 
stark,  staring  mad! '  ejaculated  Robert. 


ON   THE    TRAIL.  153, 

^  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Having  entered  upon  a 
certain  most  unjustifiable,  but  by  no  means 
unnatural,  course  of  conduct,  she  felt  herself 
compelled  to  go  through  with  it.  One  lie 
more  or  less,  poor  soul,  seemed  of  no  great 
consequence,  and  of  no  greater  importance 
than  another.  That  is  one  of  the  great  dis- 
advantages of  habitual  deception — one  loses 
one's  sense  of  proportion.  However,  though 
matters  really  are  as  I  have  described,  Adair 
knows  nothing  of  it  ;  and,  though  we  cannot 
actually  bring  him  to  book,  it  may  be  possible 
to  frighten  him.  There  is  a  story  told  (no 
doubt  by  an  enemy  of  the  Church)  called  the 
*'  Six  Curates  of  Cornerton."  These  divines 
were  shady  as  to  character,  and  by  no  means 
spotless  as  to  conduct,  but  the  Bishop  had  a 
difficulty  in  getting  rid  of  them.  At  last  he 
hit  upon  a  device — he  sent  each  of  them  an 
anonymous  letter,  with  these  words  of  warn- 
ing :  "  All  is  discovered  ;  flee."  And  the 
next  day  the  diocese  was  clear  of  the  whole 


154  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

half-dozen.  Now  we  have  something  more 
tangible  to  go  upon  than  His  Lordship  had. 
We  know  of  one  offence  that  this  gentleman 
has  committed  ;  and  I  suspect  that  he  has 
done  infinitely  worse  things.  A  similar  warn- 
ing, should  the  necessity  arise  for  it,  may 
have  the  like  effect.  Omne  ignotum  pro 
magnifico  ;  he  may  take  our  hint  at  this 
ecclesiastical  peccadillo  as  referring  to  some 
much  more  serious  matter,  and  show  us  a 
clean  pair  of  heels  at  once.  It  is  not  a  strictly 
professional  way  of  going  to  work,  I  admit/ 
added  the  lawyer,  with  a  slight  blush, 
'  but ' 

'  Oh !  who  cares  twopence  about  that  ? ' 
interrupted  the  young  man,  contemptuously. 

'  I  thought  you  wouldn't,'  said  Irton, 
drily. 

'  I  can't  imagine  any  human  being  having 
scruples  in  dealing  with  such  a  wretch  as  John 
Adair,'  said  Henny. 

'  I  kneiv  you  wouldn't,'  said  Fred,  com- 


ON  THE    TRAIL.  155 

posedly.  '  Still,  permit  me  to  feel  a  pang  of 
compunction.  Nothing  but  the  reflection 
that  the  Law  is  intended  for  the  widow  and 
the  orphan — though  in  this  case  it  is  the  wife 
and  child — could  reconcile  me  to  such  a 
course  of  action  ;  but  it  may  be  the  only  one 
open  to  us,  and  in  that  case,  my  dear  Aldred, 
you  may  be  very  useful.' 

'  So  that  is  the  reason  why  you  have  made 
me  your  confidant,  is  it  ? '  said  Robert, 
smiling. 

'  Well,  it's  best  to  be  frank,  my  dear 
fellow,'  returned  the  other,  a  little  discon- 
certed, but  this  time  without  a  blush.  He 
was  naturally  chary  of  those  proofs  of  em- 
barrassment, having  but  a  very  few  in  his 
possession  altogether  ;  and  the  plate,  as  it 
were,  havmg  been  destroyed. 

When  the  young  man  had  departed,  taking 
with  him  the  high  esteem  of  both  host  and 
hostess,  Henny  could  not  help  remarking  to 
her  husband  that  he  had  not  been  so  very 


156  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

frank,  after  all  ;  inasmuch  as  he  had  never 
mentioned  to  Robert  one  word  of  those 
terrible  suspicions  of  Adair  as  regarded  his 
child. 

•  I  dared  not  do  it,'  returned  Irton.  ^  Not 
that  I  have  the  least  doubt,  of  course,  of 
Robert's  honour,  or  his  good  intentions,  but 
because  I  know  nothing  about  his  tempera- 
ment. I  can  remember  a  time,  when  I  was  of 
this  young  man's  age,  had  I  heard  such  news, 
nothing  would  have  prevented  me  from  going 
straight  to  this  scoundrel's  house  and  telling 
him  what  I  thought  of  him.  I  would  have 
told  him,'  exclaimed  the  lawyer,  rising  from 
his  seat  and  pacing  the  room,  'if  anything 
happens  to  that  sick  and  helpless  child,  you 
shall  never  come  to  your  natural  end — the 
gallows.  I'll  take  you  by  the  throat  and 
squeeze  the  life  out  of  you,  you  villain,  with 
my  own  hands  !  A  very  injudicious  obser- 
vation, I  admit,'  he  continued,  in  apologetic 
tones  ;    '  but  of  the    fruit    of    wisdom    and 


ON  THE   TRAIL.  157 

prudence  Man  is  not  an   early  bearer.     If  I 
liave  taken  stock  of  our  young  friend  aright, 
he  is  naturally  impulsive  ;  though   lie   spoke 
so    quietly  of  his  father's  wrongs,  he  put,  I 
noticed,  a  great  restraint  upon  himself.   More- 
over, they  are  his  own  wrongs,  which  a  noble 
nature  (such  as  he  inherits  from  the  Canon) 
regards    more    patiently.      But   if  he    knew 
about  little  Willie,  if  ever  there  was  an  excuse 
(which  of  course  there  never  is,  my  dear)  for 
taking  the  law  into  one's  own  hands,  he  would 
find  it  there  ;  I  think  he   might  break  out, 
and   T    couldn't   blame  him  ;  no,   I    couldn't 
blame  him.' 

From  under  her  drooping  eyes  Henny 
regarded  her  husband  with  intense  admiration. 
She  esteemed  him  higher  for  the  passionate 
indignation  that  obviously  consumed  him,  than 
for  the  prudence  which  subdued  it  and  pre- 
vented him  from  giving  it  play. 

'  After  what  you  have  heard  from  Dr. 
Woodruffe,'  she  sighed,  after  a  pause,  'there 


158  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

can  be  no  moral  doubt  of  this  man's  real  in- 
tentions, I  suppose  ?  ' 

'  Not  a  shadow.  He  is  at  heart  a  mur- 
derer, and  nothing  less.  But  there  would  be 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  proving  it.  Stevie's 
testimony — the  evidence  of  a  nervous  boy, 
under  circumstances,  too,  so  exceptional — 
though  conclusive  to  us,  is  not  to  be  depended 
upon  in  the  witness-box.  Woodruflfe  was 
very  reticent,  as  I  told  you  ;  and  I  don't 
blame  him  for  it,  since  I  dared  not  speak  out 
to  Mm,  Hitherto  matters  have  not  been 
ripe.' 

'  But,  in  the  meantime,  are  you  sure,  Fred^ 
that  there  is  no  danger ' 

^  There  is  great  ^danger,'  he  interrupted^ 
quickly.  '  The  fear  of  it  is  never  absent  from 
my  mind  ;  my  responsibility  is,  I  am  well 
aware,  tremendous.  Still,  until  to-night  I 
have  not  dared  to  stir.' 

'  But  what  have  you  heard  fresh  to-night, 
Fred  ? ' 


ox   THE   TRAIL. 


159 


^  The  corroboration,  as  I  believe,  of  our 
worst  suspicions.  That  conversation  over- 
heard by  Robert  in  the  railway  carriage  is,  in 
my  opinion,  of  the  last  importance.  If  it  is 
necessary  for  Adair  to  raise  such  a  sum  of 
money  as  those  men  spoke  of,  and  at  once,  the 
end — his  end  I  hope — should  be  very  near. 
He  must  be  upon  the  verge  of  some  desperate 
step.  I  must  find  out  if  possible  about  this 
Dawson  and  the  S.S.  scheme  ;  but  when  I 
have  once  got  my  threads  together,  look  to 
yourself,  Mr.  John  Adair,  for  as  sure  as  there 
is  law  in  England'  (which  he  uttered  as  though 
he  were  saying  'Justice  in  Heaven')  'you 
will  find  yourself  in  Queer  street.' 

'  My  dear  Fred,  you  quite  frighten  me,' 
exclaimed  Henny.  '  All  this  is  so  terrible, 
and  yet  you  almost  seem  to  enjoy  it.' 

'  I  do  enjoy  it,'  was  the  frank  rejoinder. 
'  I  have  read  that  the  pursuit  of  wild  animals 
is  a  passion  engrafted  in  human  nature ;  for 
my  part — who  have  never  bagged  so  much  as 


i6o  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

a  rabbit — I  bave  bitberto  disbelieved  it ;  but 
now  I  feel  its  trutb.  I  understand  tbe  ex- 
citement of  tbat  patient  nigbt-watcb  for  tbe 
tyrant  of  tbe  jungle,  tbe  rapture  of  tbe 
moment  wben,  rifle  in  band,  one  marks  bim 
croucbing  for  bis  spring  upon  tbe  tetbered 
and  belpless  beifer,  and  tbe  vengeful  triumpb 
tbat  fills  tbe  bunter's  soul  wben  bis  bullet 
crasbes  to  tbe  tiger's  brain.' 

'  But  tbe  beifer  ? '  suggested  Henny, 
anxiously. 

^  Yes  ;  tbere  is  a  difference  tbere,'  an- 
swered ber  busband,  sobered  in  an  instant, 
^  Tbis  buman  ti2:er  must  fall  witbout  bis 
victim.' 


i6i 


CHAPTER    XLIY. 


HOME    AGAIN. 


It  was  a  subject  of  wonder  to  many  of  the 
Canon's  acquaintance  that  on  that  sudden  loss 
of  fortune  caused  by  '  injudicious  speculation ' 
he  had  not  hidden  his  head  in  some  out-of-the- 
way  locality,  instead  of  remaining  in  a  place 
where  he  had  been  wont  to  be  thought  so 
highly  of.  The  idea  had,  indeed,  occurred 
to  himself ;  though  more  upon  his  sister's 
account  than  his  own.  He  thought  it  might 
be  an  addition  to  the  stmg  of  poverty  for  her 
to  have  to  bear  it  among  those  who  knew  her 
in  her  prosperous  days.  A  woman,  he  re- 
flected, however  sensible,  is  more  dependent 
upon  circumstances   than  one  of  the  sterner 

VOL.    III.  M 


i62  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

sex,  has  her  little  pride  of  place,  and  feels,  to 
some  extent,  the  loss  of  means  as  a  loss  of 
dignity.  He  laid  the  greater  stress  on  this 
because  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  personal 
leaning  the  other  way.  Cambridge  was  in- 
expressibly dear  to  him,  and  the  thought  that 
he  must  quit  it  had  greatly  aggravated  his 
misfortune. 

Oh,  unexpected  stroke  (was  his  reflection),  worse  than 

of  Death, 
Must  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradise  ?     Thus  leave 
Thee,  native  soil  ?     These  happy  haunts  and  shades, 
Fit  haunt  of  gods  !  where  I  had  hoped  to  spend, 
Quiet  if  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 
That  must  be  mortal. 

The  possession  of  his  college  rooms  was, 
of  course,  a  great  attraction  to  him,  but  under 
the  circumstances,  as  he  could  not  but  feel,  a 
somewhat  selfish  pleasure.  It  is  probable 
that  Aunt  Maria  was  not  ignorant  of  her 
brother's  feelings,  for  she  combated  his  pro- 
posals for  change  with  arguments  that  at 
once  pleased  and  pacified  him.     Cambridge, 


HOME  AGAIN.  163 

she  averred,  was  dear  to  her  also.  Elsewhere, 
in  their  changed  circumstances,  she  would  be 
nobody ;  but  here,  at  all  events  with  old 
friends,  she  would  still  occupy  her  former 
position.  A  sentiment  which,  as  involving  a 
certain  vulgar  view  of  life  quite  foreign  to  her 
nature,  might  have  awakened  suspicions  in  a 
less  simple  and  more  unbiased  mind  than  that 
of  the  Canon.  As  it  was,  he  had  accepted 
Aunt  Maria's  choice  with  thankfulness  and 
without  misgiving. 

He  had  taken  a  house  in  Providence 
Terrace — which,  he  said,  with  his  old  smile, 
ought  to  show  that,  notwithstanding  the  evils 
Fate  had  dealt  him,  he  had  '  no  bad  feeling ' 
— a  little  row  of  buildings  on  Parker's  Piece, 
an  airy  space  enough  to  look  upon,  but 
dangerous  as  a  pleasure-ground  by  reason  of 
the  missiles  (ranging  from  a  football  to  the 
small  shot  used  at  rounders)  always  flying 
about.  It  was  a  very  tiny  dwelling ;  \h^ 
door  opened  upon  a  passage  so  narrow  that 

]£  2 


i64  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

the  terDi  seemed  a  misnomer,  since  no  adults 
could  pass  one  another  in  it ;  when  a  visitor 
called,  the  maid  had  to  back  to  admit  him, 
unless  (which,  of  course,  was  not  to  be 
thought  of)  she  lay  down  and  let  him  walk 
over  her,  like  the  stag  on  the  precipice  in  Mr. 
Browning's  poem.  Though  little  furniture 
had  been  reserved  from  the  sale  at  '  The 
Laurels,'  it  was  more  than  sufficient  for  the 
new  tenement,  and  was,  of  necessity,  much 
too  large  for  it.  As  compared  with  their 
present  surroundings,  the  old  bookcases  and 
tables  were  too  tall ;  the  Canon  used  cheer- 
fully to  call  attention  to  them  as  indicating 
their  flood-tide  of  prosperity,  the  old  high- 
water  mark  ;  and,  indeed,  a  place  where  the 
tide  is  out  is  no  bad  metaphor  for  a  household 
that  has  seen  better  days,  except,  alas  !  that 
in  the  latter  case  it  seldom  comes  in  again. 
That  the  dining-room  should  be  so  diminutive 
was  of  small  consequence,  since  the  hospitality 
that  had  been  exercised  at  '  The  Laurels  '  was- 


HOME  AGAIN.  165 

no  longer  possible  ;  but  that  the  room  behind, 
which  was  the  Canon's  study  and  smoking- 
room,  should  be  siich  a  nutshell,  was  de- 
plorable. 

The  accommodation  for  literature  providec! 
for  the  ordinary  mhabitant  of  Providence 
Terrace  was  one  shelf  below  stairs,  supple- 
mented by  a  bookslide  in  the  drawing-room  ; 
•so  that  the  Canon's  numerous  tomes  had  to  be 
piled  against  the  wall,  while  one  especially 
lordly  volume  played  the  humiliating  part  of 
a  footstool.  Moreover,  the  Canon  passed 
much  more  of  his  time  at  home  than  had 
been  his  wont  ;  chiefly  from  a  disinclination 
to  leave  Aunt  Maria,  but  partly,  perhaps,  from 
his  greater  distance  from  Trinity.  He  had 
been  always  averse  to  exercise,  but  now  all 
exertion  had  become  distasteful  to  him  ;  the 
springs  of  existence  had  grown  weak.  A 
new  trouble  too  had  of  late  assailed  him  in  the 
illness  of  his  friend  Mavors.  While  spending 
a  few   days  in  Paris,  the  tutor  had  contracted 


i66  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

a  fever  from  which,  though  he  had  rallied  at 
the  time,  he  seemed  unable  to  recover.  His 
spirits,  once  so  equable,  had  fled,  and  given 
place  to  a  melancholy  which  Dr.  Newton 
(who  knew  his  patient  well)  held  to  be  one 
of  his  gravest  symptoms.  Since  his  friend 
had  been  ailing,  the  Canon  had  never  failed  to 
visit  him  once  a  day,  and  always  returned 
depressed.  Fate  had  given  too  obvious 
proofs  of  her  malice  of  late  to  permit  of  his 
being  sanguine.  Moneyless,  childless,  he 
already  saw  himself  friendless.  For,  though 
many  held  him  dear  whose  affection  he  re- 
ciprocated, there  is  no  friend  like  an  old 
friend.  When  such  a  one  is  about  to  depart 
upon  the  Unknown  Road,  we  are  wont  to  feel 
that  it  is  time  for  us,  too,  to  be  going — that 
we  have  been  overstaying  our  welcome.  Even 
Milton  failed  to  be  the  solace  that  he  had 
been  to  the  Canon.  He  could  not  always 
dissociate  those  sublime  poems  from  the  man, 
who,   through  their  means,  had  become  con- 


HOME  AGAIN.  167 

nected  with  himself.  The  trail  of  the  serpent 
was  over  them  all. 

One  morning  the  Canon  was  sitting,  as 
usual,  in  his  little  study,  a  book  on  the  swing 
desk  before  him,  but  not  at  the  reading  angle. 
He  kept  one  always  open,  lest  Aunt  Maria 
should  look  in  and  suspect  him  of  the  very 
vice  he  was  at  that  moment  indulging  in — 
Reverie.  A  great  student  of  human  nature 
has  taught  us  how  blessed  a  thing  is  Memory, 
even  to  the  unfortunate  ;  but  it  is  no  less 
true  that  '  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrows  is 
remembering  happier  things.'  An  old  man 
deep  in  thought  is  always  a  pathetic  spectacle, 
and,  but  too  often,  a  discouraging  one. 

While  the  Canon  thinks — and  sighs — there 
is  presently  a  sharp  ring  at  the  bell.  Visitors 
are  few  in  these  days,  and  he  neither  expects 
nor  desu-es  any.  The  little  maid,  who  is  a 
survival  of  the  old  household  at  '  The 
Laurels,'  is  aware  of  that  fact,  and  deals 
diplomatically  with  all  comers. 


i68  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

''  Miss  Aldred  is  at  home,'  she  answers  ; 
which  imphes  that  the  master  of  the  house  is 
not^  without  going  so  far  as  to  affirm  it.  On 
the  present  occasion,  however,  this  subterfuge 
is  denied  her,  as  Miss  Aldred  happens  to  be  with- 
out doors.  So  to  the  strange  young  man  who 
so  confidently  demands  speech  with  her  master 
she  replies  that  he  is  'particularly  engaged.' 

'  Still,  I  think,  if  he  knew  who  I  was  he 
would  see  me,'  said  the  visitor,  gravely.  '  I 
am  his  son.' 

'  You're  never  that,  sir !  '  cries  the  maid. 

^  I  really  am,'  returned  the  young  man, 
smiling  at  her  undisguised  amazement. 

*  Why,  sir,  he  don't  expect  you  no  more 
than  the  Queen.  He  was  a  talking  of  you  at 
dinner  only  last  night — not  that  I  listens  to 
the  gentlefolks'  talk  ;  but,  with  potatoes  in 
one  hand  and  the  sauceboat  in  the  other,  to 
stop  one's  ears  is  difficult.  He's  always 
talking  about  you,  but  not  a  word  'as  he 
dropped  about  your  coming  home.' 


HOME  AGAIN.  169 

'  Where  is  he  ?  '  inquired  the  young  man, 
in  a  hushed  voice. 

'  In  his  study  ;  the  second  door  on  the 
right,  sir.' 

'  Is  he  pretty  well  ?  To  see  me  so  unex- 
pectedly will  not  hurt  him  ?  ' 

'  Lor  bless  you,  no  sir,  not  it !  It  will  do 
him  a  world  of  good.' 

The  little  maid  knows  nothing  of  '  shocks 
to  the  system,'  and  cannot  understand  that 
the  sight  of  so  handsome  a  young  gentleman 
can  be  deleterious  to  anybody. 

'  Don't  announce  me,'  he  says,  softly.  '  I 
will  announce  myself  And  he  knocks  gently 
at  the  study  door. 

The  Canon  settles  the  swing  desk  before 
him,  and  begins  to  be  absorbed  in  the  open 
book.  He  has  his  back  to  the  door,  and  takes 
it  for  granted  that  the  new-comer  is  his 
sister. 

'  You  are  come  back  very  soon,  my  dear, 
are  you  not  ?  ' 


I70  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

'  I  can  scarcely  say  that,'  answers  a  voice 
which,  though  its  tones  are  hushed  and  gentle, 
electrifies  him.  '  I  have  been  away  for  more 
than  five  years.' 

'  Robert  ?  My  boy  —  my  dear,  dear 
boy!' 

For  some  moments  the  poor  Canon  (for 
all  his  '  culture ' )  can  only  reiterate  those  few 
words  with  their  one  variation,  '  My  boy,' 
and  '  My  dear  boy.'  He  hugs  him,  he  kisses 
him,  the  tears  roll  down  his  withered  cheeks 
without  check.  Then,  suddenly  perceiving 
that  his  son  is  about  to  betray  a  similar  weak- 
ness, he  cries  out,  '  Don't  mind  me,  Robert. 
I  was  getting  an  old  man  ;  but  you  will  make 
me  young  again.  There  is  something  to  live 
for  now.'  Then,  in  an  altered  voice,  he 
added,  '  Why  is  it  yoLi  have  come  back  ? 
But  I  need  not  ask,  alas!  You  have  lost 
your  Alma,  thanks  to  me — and  there  was 
nothing  to  keep  you  in  India.  Can  you  ever 
forgive  your  father  ?  ' 


HOME  AGAIN.  171 

'  My  dear  Dad,'  exclaimed  Robert,  using, 
in  an  outburst  of  Nature's  self,  the  old  childish 
term,  '  What  is  there  to  forgive  ?  I  come 
here  to  comfort  you.  Alma  sent  me  over 
herself;  if  I  hadn't  come  she  would  have 
thrown  me  over,  which,  I  do  assure  you,  she 
has  not  done.  "  Your  father  is  in  trouble," 
she  said,  *'  therefore  your  place  is  by  his  side." 
Was  she  not  right  ?  Are  you  not  glad  to 
have  me  ?  ' 

'  Glad  ?  Was  I  ever  so  happy  before  ? 
I,  who  thought  it  was  impossible — Heaven 
forgive  me  for  doubting  of  its  goodness — that 
I  should  ever  be  happy  again.' 

For  the  moment  all  his  misfortunes  were 
forgotten.  The  '  days  in  which  he  had  seen 
evil '  had  melted  away.  While  looking  at  his 
stalwart  son  he  seemed  to  derive  from  him 
some  of  his  health  and  strength,  and  looked 
ten  3^ears  younger. 

'  And  Aunt  Maria  ?  '  inquired  the  young 
man. 


172  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  Wonderful,'  returned  his  father.  '  You 
know  what  a  good  soul  she  always  was,  but 
she  has  developed  into  an  angel.  Not  a  word 
of  reproach — nay,  of  regret — has  ever  dropped 
:&'om  her  lips.  One  cannot  gauge  the  good- 
ness of  a  good  woman,  Robert,  it  is  beyond 
man's  plummet.' 

The  young  man  nodded  adhesion. 

^  Alma  is  just  like  that,'  he  said,  simply. 

'  Did  you  see  any  one  as  you  came  through 
London  ?  '  inquired  the  Canon  presently,  with 
averted  face. 

*  Do  you  mean  Sophy  ?  No.  I  saw 
Henny  and  her  husband,  however,  and  of 
course  heard  about  her.  Irton  thought  it 
better  that  I  should  not  see  her  for  the 
present.' 

'  Poor  girl,  poor  girl,'  sighed  the  Canon. 
^  You  must  not  think  hardly  of  her,  Robert  ; 
it  is  I,  not  she,  who  am  to  blame.' 

'  For  my  part,  father,  I  blame  neither  of 
you.       How   could   you   have   imagined    the 


HOME  AGAIN.  173 

possibility  of  such  villany?  How  could 
honest  people  be  expected  to  construct  such 
an  ineffable  scoundrel  as  this  Adair  out  of 
their  own  consciousness  ?  It  is  a  very  hard 
case  for  both  of  you,  but  I  pity  Sophy  most.' 
'  That  is  what  Mavors  says.  As  for  our- 
selves, the  man  has  done  his  worst ;  but  she 
is  still  in  his  power.  Poor  girl,  poor  girl! 
Now  tell  me,  my  dear  boy,  about  your  Alma, 
and  those  prospects  which  your  unhappy 
father  has  darkened,  if  not  destroyed. 

Then  Robert  told  him  what  he  had  already 
told  the  Irtons,  but  at  greater  length.  He 
lingered  over  all  that  concerned  his  betrothed, 
as  though  to  speak  of  her  brought  her  nearer 
to  him  ;  and  the  Canon,  usually  so  impatient 
of  detail,  took  as  tender  an  interest  in  it  all 
as  though  he  had  been  mother  instead  of 
father. 

Yet  one  things  Robert  did  not  tell  him, 
but  reserved  for  the  ear  of  Aunt  Maria. 
From    his    father's    letter,    written,    perhaps ^ 


174  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

with  some  incolierence,  ere  he  had  recovered 
from  the  first  effects  of  the  blow  fate  had 
dealt  him,  he  had  not  been  able  exactly  to 
gather  to  what  extent  his  fortunes  had  been 
reduced  ;  whether,  indeed,  he  might  not  find 
himself  absolutely  penniless  ;  and  on  receipt 
of  it  he  had  started  for  home,  taking  with  him 
all  his  savings — amounting  to  ^y^  hundred 
pounds.  Considering  that  the  disbursement 
of  this  sum  must  needs  mean  a  proportionate 
postponement  of  his  happiness,  already  in- 
definitely delayed,  it  was  a  sacrifice  such  as  is 
seldom  offered  on  the  paternal  altar. 

'  He  will  be  as  pleased,'  said  Aunt  Maria, 
laying  her  hand  upon  the  young  man's  head 
(a  gesture  that  had  something  of  benediction 
in  it,  as  well  as  approval),  '  as  though  it  had 
been  five  millions — and  indeed  more  pleased. 
But  he  would  never  take  one  farthing  of  it. 
He  already  reproaches  himself  with  having 
robbed  you  of  your  birthright  ;  and  do  you 
suppose ' 


HOME  AGAIN.  175 

'  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  anything, 
dear  Aunt  Maria,'  interrupted  the  young  man. 
^  I  don't  want  him  to  know.  Things  are  not,  I 
am  thankful  to  say,  so  bad  as  I  feared  they 
might  be  ;  but  it  is  plain  to  me  that  there  are 
many  comforts  wanting  here  to  which  both 
you  and  my  father  have  been  accustomed 
These,  at  least,  can  be  supplied,  and  you  can 
take  the  credit — and  you  know  you  always 
prided  yourself  upon  your  domestic  economy 
— of  having  saved  the  money  for  them  out  of 
the  housekeeping.' 

^  That  is  all  very  well,'  said  Aunt  Maria, 
smiling  ;  '  but  only  consider  how  my  credit 
would  suffer  when  I  did  not  provide  luxuries, 
not  to  mention  the  suspicions  of  what  I  must 
have  done  with  the  surplus  up  to  the  time 
when  I  began  to  provide  them.  Moreover, 
Robert,  I  could  not  be  a  party  to  such  a  pro- 
ceeding— feeling  as  I  do  in  the  matter  exactly 
as  my  brother  feels — upon  any  account.  If 
there  had  been  really  any  such  need  for  help 


176  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

as  you  had  in  your  mind,  it  would  have  been 
forthcoming  from  at  least  one  quarter  ;  I 
cannot  be  doing  wrong  in  telling  you  that 
much,  though  it  was  proffered  in  the  strictest 
confidence.  Directly  Mr.  Mavors  heard  that 
your  father  had  suffered  some  pecuniary  loss 
he  behaved  in  the  noblest  manner.' 

'  I  always  thought  old  Mavors  was  a 
trump,'  observed  Robert,  approvingly.  '  I 
can  imagine  him  coming  to  the  governor,  and 
saying,  "  We  have  shared  many  things  in  our 
time,  from  apples  upwards  (for  they  were  at 
school  together,  you  know),  and  now  you 
must  share  my  fortune  ;  "  and  I  can  see  the 
governor  shaking  his  dear  old  head,  because 
he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.' 

'  Just  so,  Robert  ;  and  because  Mr. 
Mavors  knew  he  would  shake  his  head,  he 
never  broached  the  matter  to  him  at  all,  but 
came  straight  to  me.  It  was  the  last  day  he 
was  seen  out  of  doors,  poor  man,  for  he  has 
been  ill,  very  ill,  ever  since  ;  and  never  did  a 
man  come  on  a  nobler  errand.' 


HOME  AGAIN.  177 

^  "  Miss  Aldred,"  he  said,  "you  and  I  are 
old  friends,  but  your  brother  and  I  have  been 
so  all  our  lives  ;  I  know  all  about  him,  and 
(though  that  is  reason  good  why  I  should 
love  him)  it  follows  that  I  know  his  weak- 
nesses. He  is  a  very  proud  man,  not  of  his 
many  excellences,  but  in  that  sort  of  foolish 
way  in  which  sensitive  people  are  proud.  A 
way  that  robs  friendship  of  its  advantage, 
and  friends  of  what  should  be  their  hio^hest 
pleasure.  He  has  lost  his  money,  it  seems, 
without  perhaps  quite  knowing  how,  and  I 
am  very  certain  without  knowing  how  much. 
Now,  my  dear  madam,  he  has  heaps  of  friends 
who  will  offer  help,  no  doubt  ;  but,  having 
become  poor,  he  will  be  ten  times  prouder 
than  ever,  and  will  take  nothing.  You  smile 
as  though  you  would  say,  '  And  I  agree  with 
him  ;  '  perhaps  you  may  be  right  in  their  case, 
l3ut  I  am  a  man  who  has  only  one  tie  in  the 
world,  that  of  friendship  ;  and  I  may  almost 
add  that  I  am  bound  by  that  tie  to  almost  a 

VOL.    III.  N 


178  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

single  object.  Now,  you  must  so  contrive  it 
— and  T  am  sure  it  can  be  done — that  your 
brother  shall  think  himself  much  better  oiF 
than  he  really  is,  and  I  will  be  his  banker 
without  his  knowing  it." 

'  Of  course,  it  couldn't  be  thought  of,'  con- 
tinued Aunt  Maria  ;  '  but  it  was  curious  that 
Mr.  Mayors'  proposition  was,  in  fact,  precisely 
similar  to  that  which  you  have  just  suggested 
to  me  yourself,  Robert,  and  (here  she  smiled") 
exhibited  the  same  duplicity  of  character.' 

'  What  is  also  curious,'  answered  the 
young  man,  slily,  '  is  that  each  of  these 
ruffians  and  rascals  should  have  selected  you 
as  the  confidant  of  their  nefarious  schemes. 
Seriously,  however,  old  Mavors  must  be  a  right 
good  fellow.  It  is  so  much  more  to  his  credit, 
too,  to  show  such  sympathy,  since  he  has 
never  moved  out  of  his  college  shell  ;  never 
knew,  I  suppose,  a  serious  trouble,  never  been 
in  love,  nor  even  in  debt.' 

'  Perhaps,'    sighed    Aunt    Maria,    softly ; 


HOME  AGAIN.  179 

^  still,  should  he  die,  the  world,  to  which  he 
seems  so  little  to  belong,  will  be  the  loser.' 
'  Is  Mr.  Mavors,  then,  very  ill?  ' 
'  I  fear  so.  Dr.  Newton  thinks,  I  am 
convinced,  worse  of  him  than  he  tells  the 
Canon.  I  wish  Mr.  Mavors  would  let  us  do 
something  for  him  ;  but  he  is  so  peculiar  that 
it  is  difficult. 

'  Do  you  think  he  would  see  me  ? ' 
'  Most  certainly.  I  am  sure  he  would 
like  to  do  so.  Why  not  go  down  to  college 
this  afternoon,  instead  of  your  father,  since  he 
will  not  be  able  to  see  both,  and  brinsr  us 
word  of  him  ?  ' 

To  this  Robert  willingly  agreed  :  it  was  a 
small  thing  enough — this  visit  to  inquire  after 
his  father's  friend — but  in  the  end,  like  many 
another  small  thing,  it  had  important  results. 


N  2 


i8o  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

ILL    IN    COLLEGE. 

When  Aunt  Maria  said  that  Mr.  Mavors  was 
^  peculiar '  she  was  speaking  from  a  good 
woman's  standpoint.  To  her  it  seemed  quite 
contrary  to  nature  that  any  human  creature 
being  ill  should  be  attended  by  hirelings, 
when  loving  service  was  within  his  reach.  It 
was  as  natural  to  her  to  tend  the  bed  of  sick- 
ness as  for  the  average  man  to  flee  from  it ;  if 
a  servant  fell  ill  in  her  house  she  exchano^ed 
positions  with  her  at  once,  and  became  her 
servant.     The  man  who  wrote 

When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow 
A  ministering  angel  thou, 

used  no  hyperbole.     When  disease  has  smitten 


ILL  IN  COLLEGE.  i8i 

their  dear  one,  and  death  is  hovering  over 
him,  there  is  something  more  than  angelic 
about  women,  something  that  is  Divine. 
That  '  sentiment '  which  men  attribute  to 
them  so  scornfully,  at  such  times  disappears  ; 
the  tenderness  that  lies  at  the  root  of  it 
remains  without  a  trace  of  weakness.  They 
are  actuated  by  love  unspeakable,  which  is 
nevertheless  in  complete  subjection  to  duty. 
I  once  saw  a  mother  mixing  some  sort  of 
nourishment  for  her  dying  child.  There  was 
not  the  shadow  of  hope  for  his  life,  he  had 
been  '  given  over,'  it  was  '  a  question  of 
hours,'  and  she  knew  it.  But  if  her  soul's 
salvation  had  depended  on  it  (which  it  did 
not,  for  it  was  already  assured)  she  could  not 
have  given  more  attention  to  the  concoction 
of  that  useless  meal.  She  worked  at  it  dry 
eyed  ;  she  had  never  indeed  shed  a  tear,  since 
it  was  bad  for  the  darling  to  see  his  mother 
*  giving  way  ; '  but  those  eyes,  '  homes  of 
silent   prayer '    indeed,    and    of    unanswered 


1 82  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

prayer,  I  sliall  never  forget  them  as  they 
looked  in  the  performance  of  that  last  loving 
duty. 

Miss  Aldred  had  all  the  instincts  of  her 
sex  for  smoothing  the  couch  of  sickness,  and 
her  services  would  have  been  freely  offered  to 
Mr.  Mavors,  had  there  been  the  slightest  hope 
of  their  acceptance.  But,  as  Dr.  ]N^ewton 
said,  the  very  idea  of  such  a  thing  would  have 
frightened  the  Tutor  mto  a  fit.  The  doctor, 
his  gyp,  and  Mrs.  Murdoch  (who  had  been 
transferred  to  him  as  having  a  better  gift  of 
nursing  than  his  own  bedmaker)  were  surely 
sufficient,  he  would  have  argued,  to  look  after 
any  one  man,  and  the  suggestion  that  he 
should  accept  the  ministrations  of  the  Canon's 
sister,  if  it  had  not  thrown  him  into  a  fever, 
would  certainly  have  produced  febrile  symp- 
toms or  rose-rash. 

An  old  bachelor  and  scholar,  but  who  had 
not  even  been  familiar  with  female  authors 
(for  the  women  of  Greece  and  Rome  did  not 
rush   into    MS.    as   ours    do  into   print),  he 


ILL   IN   COLLEGE.  183 

shrank  from  the  notion  of  being  attended  by 
any  one  of  the  softer  sex.  To  Mrs.  Murdoch, 
indeed,  he  had  no  objection,  perhaps  because 
he  did  not  consider  her  to  come  under  that 
category,  in  which  lie  was  quite  mistaken. 
It  was  she  who  received  Robert  Aldred  at  the 
Tutor's  door,  and  no  sooner  heard  the  young 
man's  name  than  she  began  to  wipe  her 
mouth  on  her  apron. 

'  Why,  Master  Robert !  I've  known  you 
ever  since  you  were  so  high.  Don't  you 
remember  your  father's  poor  old  bedmaker?' 

To  have  ignored  such  a  relationship  would 
have  been  a  brutality.  He  compromised 
matters,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

'  Dear,  how  pleased  the  Canon  and  your 
aunt  must  have  been  to  see  you,'  she  ex- 
claimed, '  all  the  way  from  the  Ingies !  ' 

She  regarded  him  admiringly,  and  also 
thankfully,  as  if  he  had  been  something  rich 
and  rare  imported  for  her  special  benefit  and 
delectation. 

'  And  Mr.  Mavors  ?    How  is  he  to-day  ?  ' 


1 84  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

The  good  lady's  smile  disappeared  at  once.. 

'  Poorly,  sir,  very  poorly ;  leastways 
that's  my  opinion.  When  one  has  been 
ordered  "  a  generous  diet " — for  those  were 
the  doctor's  own  words — and  sticks  by  choice 
to  tea  and  slops,  it's  contrary  to  nature,  and 
a  bad  sign.' 

'  But  he's  no  worse  than  he  was,  I  hope.' 

^  Perhaps  not,  sir ;  but  he's  no  better. 
The  clock's  a-going,  but  there's  nothing  to 
keep  it  so  ;  the  key  as  ought  to  wind  it  up  is 
mislaid  somewhere.  I  saw  it  with  my  own 
old  Jacob,  and  I  see  it  with  Mr.  Mavors  ; 
only  he  don't  like  being  talked  to,  as  Jacob 
did.  He  holds  up  his  finger,  and  thinks,  and 
thinks  ;  and  he  don't  speak  hisself  much, 
except  in  dreams.  He's  asleep  now,  but  it's 
near  his  usual  time  for  waking,  if  you'd  like 
to  stop." 

'  I  will  certainly  stop,  if  it  will  do  no 
harm.' 

'  Harm  ?     Lord    love   you,  no,    sir ;    any 


ILL  IN  COLLEGE.  i8s 

one  as  belongs  to  the  Canon  will  be  as 
welcome  to  him  as  flowers  in  May.  Them 
flowers  yonder,  by-the-by,  was  sent  by  your 
Aunt  Maria  yesterday.  The  sight  on  'em 
brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes,  which  shows 
how  very,  very  weak  he  must  be,  poor 
man ! ' 

The  sitting-room  was  a  large  and  hand- 
some one,  looking  upon  Neville's  Court.  The 
door,  which  communicated  with  the  much 
smaller  bedroom,  stood  wide  open.  Robert 
took  a  chair  in  front  of  it,  and  a  book  to 
while  away  the  time.  Mrs.  Murdoch  sat  over 
the  fire  at  some  distance  ofl*,  and,  instead  of 
fatiguing  her  mind  with  literature,  refreshed 
it  with  a  little  nap.  All  was  quiet,  save  for 
the  coo  of  a  pigeon  on  the  stone  balustrade 
outside  the  window,  and  the  footfall  of  some 
solitary  undergraduate  in  the  cloisters  beneath. 
The  book  Robert  had  taken  up  was  Plutarch's 
'  Lives,'  a  work  of  the  highest  reputation  ;  but, 
notwithstanding  its  attractions,  he  had  fallen 


1 86  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

into  a  reverie,  from  which  he  was  suddenly 
aroused  by  the  words  '  Sophy,  Sophy ! '  At 
first  he  thought  he  must  be  mistaken,  and 
that  the  sound  was  a  part  of  his  own  day- 
dream, with  which,  in  fact,  the  name  had  been 
connected  ;  but,  on  looking  up,  his  eyes  fell 
upon  the  sick  man,  now  broad  awake  and 
staring  at  him  from  the  bed  with  stern 
suspicion. 

'Is  your  name  Adair?'  whispered  the 
Tutor,  hoarsely. 

'  No,  sir,'  said  Robert,'  rising  softly  and 
approaching  the  bed.  '  My  name  is  Aldred. 
I  am  the  son  of  your  old  friend  the 
Canon.' 

'  Why  are  you  so  black,  then,  like  the 
other?' 

'  It  is  the  Indian  sun,'  said  Robert,  smiling. 
*  I  was  white  enough  when  I  wished  you 
good- by,  five  years  ago.' 

'  True  ;  I  remember  now,'  said  the  Tutor. 
'  Pray  forgive  a  sick  man's  fancies.  Your 
father  did  not  say  he  was  expecting  you.' 


ILL  IN  COLLEGE.  187 

'  No  ;  I  came  home  without  giving  him 
notice.' 

'  Because  he  was  in  trouble  ?  ' 

'  Why,  yes.  It  struck  me  that  I  might 
be,  if  not  of  service,  at  least  of  some  comfort 
to  him.' 

'  Just  so  ;  a  good  son,'  murmured  the 
Tutor,  looking  at  the  young  man  wistfully. 
^Sons  and  daughters — "Blessed  is  the  man 
that  has  his  quiver  full  of  them."  That  is 
not  a  disputed  passage.' 

This  was  said  in  monologue,  and  by  no 
means  in  the  Tutor's  usual  voice — which, 
indeed,  in  health  was  distinct  and  somewhat 
strident.  Robert  thought  to  himself  that, 
had  he  met  his  father's  friend  under  chance 
circumstances,  he  would  no  more  have  recog- 
nised him  than  Mr.  Mavors  had  recognised 
himself  (Robert).  It  was  not  only  that  the 
Tutor  had  grown  grey,  nor  even  that  his  face 
showed  the  ravages  of  sickness  ;  he  looked  a 
broken  man. 

*  Alma  mater.  Alma  mater !  '  he  continued, 


1 88  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

softly.  '  Yes,  3'es !  I  owe  her  everything, 
and  she  shall  be  repaid  ;  yet,  oh !  yet ' — here 
his  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper.  '  Where's  the 
nurse,  Kobert?' 

^  The  poor  old  soul  has  fallen  asleep,  sir. 
She  knew  I  was  here.' 

'  Quite  right  ;  think  of  the  poor  and  the 
old,  and  shield  them.  That  will  comfort  you 
some  day,  when  you  come  to  lie  as  I  am.  No, 
not  as  I  am.  There  will  be  children  about 
your  bed,  a  wife  to  smooth  your  pillow  ; 
loving  faces,  tender  hands  ;  better  so — better 
so.' 

The  sick  man's  voice  was  firm,  thouofh 
very  low  ;  but  while  he  spoke  there  came  into 
his  face  something  that  caused  the  young  man 
to  avert  his  own  :  tears,  large  tears,  were 
rolling  silently  down  the  Tutor's  cheeks. 
There  were  furrows  there,  but  they  had  never 
been  so  used  before.  With  some  of  us  they 
are  river-beds  ;  in  the  present  case  it  was 
only  that  water  had  found  a  road  that  way. 


ILL  IN  COLLEGE.  189 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  the 
same  name  was  softly  breathed  that  had 
already  fallen  on  the  other's  ear. 

^  Sophy,  Sophy  ;  have  you  seen  her? ' 

'  No,  sir  ;  I  passed  too  rapidly  through 
town  ;  but  I  saw  the  Irtons,  who  told  me  a 
great  deal  about  her.  Not  good  news,  I  am 
sorry  to  say.' 

'  Unhappy  ? ' 

'  Yery  ;  at  least  I  fear  so.' 

'  Poor  girl,  poor  girl ! ' 

'  It  is  not  only — as  you  are  doubtless 
aware,  sir — that  she  has  a  bad  husband  ;  but, 
unfortunately,  she  has  some  little  knowledge 
of  the  full  extent  of  his  baseness,  which  until 
lately  has  been  kept  from  her.' 

^  How  was  that?' 

Then  Robert,  who  thought  the  question 
referred  to  the  means  whereby  Sophy  had 
learnt  what  her  husband  had  done  to  the 
Canon,  described  them  to  his  companion  as 
Henny  had  narrated  them  to  himself. 


I90  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

The  Tutor  listened  with  closed  eyes  ;  but 
it  was  plain,  by  the  movement  of  his  brow 
and  lips,  how  the  narration  affected  him. 

^  Then  the  poor  girl  knows  at  last,'  he 
murmured,  when  it  was  finished.  '  What 
anguish,  what  remorse  she  must  be  enduring ! ' 

*  Indeed,  sir,  I  fear  so.  It  has  just  struck 
me,  however,  that  I  have  been  very  indiscreet 
in  speaking  of  all  this  to  you.  I  have  been 
distressing  you — smce  Sophy  is  an  old  friend 
of  yours — by  telling  you  the  very  thing  which 
I  have  been  enjoined  to  keep  fi:"om  my  father, 
namely,  that  Sophy  is  aware  of  having  been 
made  the  instrument  of  his  ruin.  His  object 
throughout  has  been  to  spare  her  that  know- 
ledge.' 

'  That  is  so  like  him ! '  exclaimed  the 
Tutor,  with  a  flush  on  his  worn  cheek  : 

A  man  who  bears  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman  ; 
Defiled  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soiled  with  an  ignoble  use. 

'  Young  man,  you  are  a  gentleman's  son.' 


ILL   IN  COLLEGE.  191 

'  I  know  it,  sir,'  answered  Robert,  simply. 
'  If  I  cannot  imitate  him,  I  hope  I  shall  never 
disgrace  him.' 

'  No,  no,  you  will  not  do  that.  He  will 
live  again  in  his  boy.' 

Presently,  after  another  pause  :  '  You 
spoke  of  ruin,  Robert.  The  exact  sum  which 
the  Canon  had  to  pay  twice  over — one  forgets 
these  things  in  sickness.' 

'  It  was  fifteen  thousand  pounds.' 

'  Just  so.  And  never  to  have  told  her. 
A  true  gentleman.  Bene  natus,  bene  vestitus — - 
no,  that's  not  it ' 

'  I  don't  think  you  must  talk  to  Mr. 
Mavors  any  more,  sir,  just  now,'  interposed 
Mrs.  Murdoch,  awakened  from  her  nap,  and 
perceiving  a  necessity  for  silence. 

A  smile  crept  over  the  sick  man's  face,  as 
the  mellow  twilight  falls  upon  a  ruin. 

'  Quite  right,  quite  right.  Nurse  ;  '  then 
putting  out  his  wasted  hand  to  Robert.  '  Give 
m}^  love  to  my  old  friend.' 


192  THE  CANON'S    WARD, 

'  And  you  will  be  sure  not  to  tell  him 
what  I  have  told  you,  sir/  whispered  the 
young  man,  as  he  leant  over  him. 

'  You  may  trust  me,  my  lad.  I  am  going 
where  secrets  are  well  kept.' 

It  was  not  those  mournful  words  only 
which  impressed  Robert  Aldred  with  a  sense 
of  the  gravity  of  the  Tutor's  illness.  His 
whole  interview  had  tended  in  that  direction  ; 
and  he  told  Aunt  Maria  as  much  without 
circumlocution. 

*  If  it  is  really  so,  Robert,  it  will  be  a  sad 
blow  to  your  father,'  she  answered,  gravely  ; 
'  but  I  can  hardly  think  it  is  so.  Mr.  Mavors 
seems  to  take  such  interest  in  matters — that 
is,  in  college  matters.' 

•  And  not  only  in  those,'  put  in  Robert  ; 
'  I  had  no  idea  he  was  such  a  friend  of 
Sophy's.' 

'  He  spoke  of  her,  did  he  ? '  said  Aunt 
Maria,  with  interest. 

'  Yes,    indeed ;     he    seemed   wonderfully 


ILL   IN  COLLEGE.  193 

wrapped  up  in  lier.  He  thought  it  such 
an  excellent  plan — and  so  like  my  father  to 
think  of  it — that  the  knowledge  of  her 
husband's  baseness  should  have  been  kept 
from  her.' 

'  But  you  did  not  tell  him  of  what  her 
husband  had  done  ?  ' 

'  Tell  him?  No.  I  spoke  of  it  as  a  matter 
of  course.  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  he 
was  not  aware  of  it  ?  ' 

^  Indeed  he  wasn't.  No  one  is  aware  of  it 
except  the  Irtons.  I  am  afraid  you  have 
done  mischief.' 

'  But  how  was  I  to  know?     I  thought  in 

the  case  of  an  old  friend  like  Mr.  Mavors ' 

^  Just  so.  It  was  not  your  fault,  dear 
boy.  But  the  thing  was  kept  from  everybody, 
and  especially,  for  a  certain  reason,  from  Mr. 
Mavors.  Did  he  not  seemed  surprised  and 
distressed?' 

*  He  was  distressed,  undoubtedly,  but  that 
seemed  only  natural.     His  surprise,  as  I  now 

VOL.    III.  o 


J  94  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

understand,  he  purposely  concealed  from  me. 
I  am  afraid  I  told  him  everything.' 

'  Poor  man,  poor  man !  and  he  loved  her 
so.' 

'  Loved  whom  ?     Not  Sophy  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  he  proposed  to  her,  and  she  refused 
him.  What  fools  girls  are !  '  exclaimed  Aunt 
Maria.  The  idea  of  her  rejecting  Mr.  Mavors 
for  John  Adair  ;  Hyperion  for  a  Satyr ! ' 

'  Don't  abuse  his  personal  appearance,  my 
dear  Aunt,  because  I  have  just  been  taken 
for  him.  Mr.  Mavors  said  I  was  ''  black,  like 
him."  ' 

'  Yes,  Robert  ;  but  your  blackness  is  but 
skin  deep.  That  man  is  black  to  his  heart's 
core.  Poor  Sophy  was  always — well — sus- 
ceptible. There  Avas  another  young  man,  but 
that  is  no  matter  now.  He  had,  at  all  events, 
2:ood  looks  to  recommend  him.  Bat  this 
fellow ' 

'  The  one  that  is  like  me,'  murmured 
Robert,  plaintively. 


ILL   IN  COLLEGE.  195 

*  I  cannot  conceive,'  continued  Aunt  Maria, 


taking  no  notice  of  this  interpolation,  ^  what 
she  could  have  seen  in  him.  Why  on  earth 
did  she  marry  John  Adair?  ' 

Robert  shook  his  head.  He  could  have 
enlightened  Aunt  Maria  upon  that  point,  but 
he  very  wisely  held  his  tongue.  A  burnt 
child  dreads  the  fire,  and  he  had  had  enough 
of  telling  family  secrets. 


o2 


[96  THE  CAjSiON'S    WARD. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


SOPHY  S  LETTER. 


The  effect  of  his  son's  presence  on  the  Canon 
was  something  marvellous.  His  brightness 
and  his  tenderness  worked  upon  him  for  good, 
as  the  sunshine  and  the  rains  revive  the  droop- 
inf  flower.     A  sort  of  Indian  summer  seemed 

o 

to  have  set  in  with  him  ;  and  but  for  his  old 
friend's  illness  I  think  he  would  have  been  as 
happy  as  he  had  ever  been,  though  not  quite 
in  the  old  fashion. 

'  You  may  tell  your  Alma,  Robert,'  said 
Aunt  Maria,  '  that  her  dutiful  advice  to  you 
has  saved  your  father's  life.'  She  knew  that 
way  of  putting  it  would  please  him  better 
than  if  she  had  praised  his  own  unselfishness 


SOPHY'S  LETTER.  197 

in  coming  to  England.  '  If  you  were  not 
liere  lie  conld  hardly  stand  these  distressing 
visits  to  dear  Mr.  Mavors.' 

And,  indeed,  the  spectacle  of  his  old  friend 
and  contemporary  gradnally  losing  his  hold 
npon  life  gave  him  nnspeakable  pain.  There 
was  nothing,  of  conrse,  terrible  in  such  a 
man's  decease;  no  haunting  fears  or  distrust 
of  the  All-wise  and  All-merciful.  Indeed,  it 
would  have  been  curious  to  those  imac- 
quainted  with  the  turn  of  thought  prevailing 
among  men  of  their  stamp  at  Cambridge,  that 
between  these  two  men — being  both  clergy- 
men— the  subjects  so  commonly  dwelt  upon 
under  such  circumstances  were  rarely  alluded 
to.  They  spoke  of  old  times  with  which 
they  were  conversant,  rather  than  of  the 
Unknowable  ;  of  their  lifelong  (though  un- 
demonstrative) friendship,  rather  than  of  their 
reunion  hereafter  ;  of  their  common  friends, 
alive  or  dead.  Once,  however,  a  something  of 
bitterness  in  some  remark  made  by  the  dying 


198  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

man  suggested  the  inquiry  from  his  com- 
panion, '  You  are  at  peace,  I  trust,  Mavors, 
mth  all  men?  ' 

'  With  all  that  are  worthy  of  the  name  of 
man/  was  the  stern  and  unexpected  reply. 
Then,  as  if  regretting  his  harshness,  the 
Tutor  added,  with  a  smile,  '  There  is  not 
much  malice  and  hatred  in  my  heart,  Aldred, 
I  do  assure  you — nothing,  I  trust,  to  be  re- 
pented of  in  that  way  ;  a  little  envy  of 
yourself,  my  friend,  that's  all.' 

'  How  so  ?  ' 

'  Because  you  have  great  possessions — a 
son,  a  wife.' 

'  Nay,  my  poor  wife  is  dead,'  said  the 
Canon,  soothingly,  as  one  speaks  to  a  sick 
man  whose  mind  has  gone  astray  a  little. 

^  Yes  ;  but  you  have  the  memory  of  her. 
Believe  me,  my  friend,  it  is  well  to  have  such 
memories  to  dwell  upon.' 

That  was  the  only  hint  the  Tutor  gave  of 
having    suffered   loss  or  disappointment;  to 


SOFHV'S  LETTER.  199 

the  Canon  he  never  spoke  of  Sophy.  It  was 
strange  that  he  should  have  shown  less  of 
reticence  to  Robert ;  but  perhaps  liis  youth 
and  the  circumstance  of  his  beino;  eno-aored 
to  Alma  (of  which  he  was  cognisant)  had 
encouraged  the  confidence.  It  is  true  that 
custom  is  strong  even  in  death,  but,  also, 
thoughts  that  have  been  stored  up,  as  in  a 
locked  casket,  by  men  m  health,  will  often  in 
their  last  hours  find  utterance,  and  that  to 
ears  which  least  expect  them. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  Tutor's  manner 
to  suggest  to  his  old  friend  any  immediate 
danger  ;  on  the  contrary,  there  was  a  certain 
contentment  in  his  speech  and  manner  that 
bespoke  even  more  than  usual  the  absence  of 
any  pressing  anxiety  or  apprehension  ;  nor 
was  there  any  procrastination  in  his  parting, 
such  as  there  is  wont  to  be  when  we  feel  that 
it  may  be  for  the  last  time.  Hovr  terrible  is 
the  sense  of  it  to  the  about-to-be-survivor! 
How   he    regrets    the    hours,    the    days,    the 


200  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

3^earSj  wherein  he  has  voluntarily  separated 
himself  from  that  dying  dear  one,  and  which 
in  the  aggregate,  perhaps,  would  have  repre- 
sented another  existence  passed  in  his  com- 
pany— a  twin  life. 

The  Canon  had  no  forebodins:  that  he  had 
beheld  his  friend  for  the  last  time  when  he 
walked  home  one  afternoon  with  thoughtfid 
steps  that  grew  nnconscionsly  more  free  and 
buoyant  as  he  neared  the  little  home  which 
held  his  new-found  treasure. 

On  his  study  table,  however,  was  a  letter, 
the  contents  of  which,  for  a  momeiit,  put  even 
Robert  out  of  his  mind.  It  was  in  his  ward's 
hand  writ  in  o;  which  in  itself  argued  nothinc^ 
strange  (for  she  had  never  ceased  to  corre- 
spond with  him  in  a  suppressed  mechanical 
fashion);  it  had  not,  as  usual,  been  sent  on  to 
him  from  '  The  Laurels,'  but  was  directed  to 
his  present  address.  It  must  have  come  to 
Sophy's  knowledge,  therefore,  that  he  had 
removed  to  Providence  Terrace.    Though  tliis 


SOn/V'S  LETTER.  201 

was  a  piece  of  iLifurmation  that  might  have 
oozed  out  any  day,  he  opened  tlie  envelope 
with  no  little  apprehension  that  she  might 
have  gleaned  still  further  knowledge,  and  the 
first  sentence  convinced  him  that  it  was  so. 

'  Kindest  and  best  of  friends,  whom  I  have 
robbed  and  grieved — dear  Guardian,  whose 
care  and  love  I  liave  repaid  by  falsehood  and 
ingratitude — pity  if  you  cannot  pardon  me. 
If  I  came  to  you  in  person  (wliich  1  dare  not 
do.  for  the  si^ht  of  vour  dear  face  would  kill 
me  ;  and  my  life,  otherwise  worthless,  is 
necessary  to  my  child)  —  I  say,  if  I  came  into 
your  presence  and  grovelled  at  your  feet  with 
tears  and  prayers,  I  could  not,  believe  me, 
feel  a  greater  abasement  than  1  do  as  I  sit 
here  and  write  these  shameful  words. 

'  Until  recently,  though  fully  conscious  of 
my  base  behaviour  to  yon  in  other  respects,  I 
was  not  aware  of  the  ruin  I  had  brought  upon 
you.  I  thought  that  I  had  only  lies  and 
deceit  to  rej)roach  myself  with — transgressions 


202  THE  CANON-'S    WARD. 

that  have  brought  their  own  punishment  upon 
me,  and  concerning  which  I  thought,  there- 
fore, that  I  had  some  sort  of  right — as  if  such 
a  wretch  as  I  had  rights  at  all !  — to  be  silent. 
But  now  I  know  what  an  irremediable  injury 
I  have  done  to  you  and  yours,  it  seems  to  me 
that  no  suffering  in  this  world  can  be  in- 
flicted on  me  commensurate  with  my  offences. 
That  I  was  but  an  unconscious  instrument  in 
the  hands  of  another  is  no  excuse  for  me,  for, 
but  for  my  own  misdoings,  I  should  never 
have  fallen  into  his  hand.  The  history  of 
them  you  will  find  enclosed  (there  was  a  paper 
in  the  envelope  containing  a  short  narrative  of 
her  first  marriage,  and  the  causes  which  had, 
as  she  thought,  compelled  her  to  make  the 
second),  and  when  you  have  read  it,  after  the 
first  sharp  pang  of  anger  and  regret  is  over, 
one  source  of  sorrow  will  be  dry  for  ever. 
This  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  have  written 
to  you,  notwithstanding  that  it  has  been 
enjoined  upon  me  not  to  do  so.     As  you,  in 


SOPHV'S  LETTER, 


503 


your  great  kindness  and  consideration  for  my 
feelings,  would  have  hidden  from  me  the  real 
cause  of  your  ruin,  so  it  was  judged  by  those 
who  knew  of  my  ill  behaviour  under  your 
roof,  that  it  was  best  to  spare  you  that  know- 
ledge ;  but  my  hope  is  that,  though  you  ma}^ 
still  pity  me  (as  we  pity  the  worst  of  crimi- 
nals), it  will  be  henceforth  impossible  for  you 
to  feel  pain  upon  my  account. 

'  I  cannot  ask  you  to  forget  me,  because  every 
hour  must  bring  to  you  some  bitter  reminder 
of  the  wrong  I  have  done  3^ou,  but  think  of  me 
as  dead,  as  having  died  years  ago,  when  ^^our 
Robert  was  my  playfellow.  Alas  !  what  evil 
may  I  not  have  done  to  him  also — sundered 
him,  perhaps,  from  his  promised  bride,  de- 
stroyed his  prospects  !  It  is  terrible  to  think 
that  not  only  here  at  home  am  I  justly  con- 
demned and  despised,  but  that  across  the 
ocean,  thousands  of  miles  away,  ni}^  name 
must  needs  be  held  in  abhorrence.  Oh,  if  I 
could  be  once  again  as  I  was  when  Robert  left 


204  THE  CANON'' S    WARD. 

you  !  There  is  nothing,  ahis  !  llie  same  with 
me  now  ;  even  my  love  for  yon,  th.onoli  it  will 
cease  but  with  my  latest  breath,  is  something 
different :  I  feel  unworthy  to  entertain  it.  It 
seems  blasphemy  to  take  your  name  within 
my  lips  even  in  my  prayers. 

•  You  will  w^onder,  perhaps,  w4ien  you 
have  read  the  record  of  my  life,  that  such  a 
one  as  I  should  dare  to  pray.  But  then,  dear 
Guardian,  there  is  little  Willie  ;  when  I  sit  by 
her  bedside  wdth  her  thin  small  hand  in  mine, 
I  still  seem  to  have  some  link  with  Heaven. 
It  is  scarcely  credible,  considering  her  tender 
years,  but  there  is  nothing  her  mother  can 
teach  her  w^hich  my  little  darling  cannot 
understand.  I  say  it  is  scarcely  credible,  but 
she  has  been  made  aware  that  she  has  been 
made  the  pretext  for  her  godfather's  ruin. 
She  clings  to  her  fragile  life,  and  believes  that 
she  will  live  to  put  things  right.  She  has 
questioned  me  a  hundred  times,  and  "  w^hen  I 
come  of  age,"  she  says  (which  she  w^ill  never 


SOPHY'S  LETTER.  205 

live  to  do,  and  if  she  did,  it  would  be  too  late), 
"  I  will  pay  all  their  money  back  to  godpapa 
and  Annt  Maria."      When  Dr.  Newton  came 
to  see   her,    her  chief  anxiety  was    to   learn 
whether  she  Avoiild  live  to  be  twenty- one.     I 
suppose  the  good    Doctor  thought   the   dear 
child's    mind  was    wandering,  but  it  was  as 
bright  and  clear  as  it  is  pure.     We  have  no 
secrets   from  one   another,   Willie  and  I.      I 
have   told    you   one    of  the    reasons  for  my 
writing  to  you,   but  the  chief  is  after  all  a 
selfish    one — to    bespeak,    should     anything 
happen  to  me,  your  sympathies  for  my  inno- 
cent child.     I  know  you  will  never  visit  upon 
her,  even  in  your  thoughts,  the  sins   of  her 
rmrent,  but  I  beseech  you  to  try  to  love  her 
for  her  o^vn  sake  ;  she  is   as  worthy  of  your 
love  as  her  mother  has  proved  herself    un- 
worthy.    What    higher  eulogium,  alas !    can 
1  pass  upon  her  ?  Henny  will  take  care  of  her, 
I  know,  if  permitted  to  do  so.     But  the  law 
— there  is  no  one,  alas !  who  *has  better  cause 


2o6  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

to  know  it  than  yourself — is  hard  and  cruel. 
Dear  Guardian,  I  would  rather  see  Willie  dead 
at  my  feet  than  trust  her  to  the  hands  in 
which  the  law  would  place  her.  I  will  say  no 
more  upon  this  matter,  for  ''that  way  madness 
lies,"  only  if  anything  should  happen  which 
should  sink  me  still  lower  in  your  disesteem, 
do  not  judge  me  too  hastily  ;  I  am  in  such 
straits  as  you  cannot  guess. 

'  You  will  show  to  Aunt  Maria  what  I 
have  written  ;  I  do  not  ask  you  to  plead  with 
her  for  me,  I  trust  to  that  tender  heart  of 
hers,  whose  trust  I  have  so  shamefully  abused, 
for  charity  and  pardon. 

'  Your  Loving  and  Penitent  Ward.' 

At  first  even  the  contents  of  this  letter, 
significant  as  they  were  of  much,  had  less 
effect  upon  its  recipient  than  the  enclosure 
(with  its  confession  of  Sophy's  previous  mar- 
riage) which  accompanied  it,  and  from  which 
he  received  a  shock  that  for  the  moment 
utterly  overwhelmed  him.     The  operation  of 


SOPHY'S  LETTER.  207 

moral  coucliing — the  opening  one's  eyes  to 
what  human  nature  is  really  capable  of — is, 
after  the  age  of  fifty,  a  very  trying  one.  To 
find  oneself  so  mature,  and  yet  so  ignorant, 
is  painful  to  one's  amour  propre.  But  after  all 
we  may  have  travelled  much,  and  yet  not  be 
well  acquainted  with  our  own  country,  and 
the  Canon,  who  knew  "  men  and  cities," 
might  well  have  been  excused  for  not  under- 
standing the  character  of  a  young  girl,  or 
the  ways  of  her  lovers.  Those  who  plume 
themselves  most  on  their  knowledge  of  the 
world  often  know  least  of  those  about  them, 
and  while  they  have  the  keenest  appreciation 
of  the  farce  next  door,  are  unaware  of  the 
more  serious  drama  that  is  being  performed 
under  their  own  roof. 

In  the  Canon's  case,  the  having  been  '  made 
a  fool  of  was  a  small  thing,  however,  as  com- 
p[ired  with  other  matters  ;  nor  did  it  even 
enter  his  thoughts  that  Aunt  Maria  must  have 
played  the  part  of  watch-dog  very  carelessly. 


2o8  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

He  set  down  her  emotion  at  this  strange  sad 
news  whoUy  to  sorrow,  whereas  she  was 
bowed  to  the  earth  by  self-reproach.  But 
for  her  laxity  of  discipline,  as  she  bitterly  re- 
flected, Sophy  could  hardly  have  had  the 
opportunities  of  going  so  far  astray.  Many 
an  incident,  to  which  she  had  at  the  time  paid 
little  attention,  now  occurred  to  her,  which 
she  felt  would  have  excited  her  suspicions  had 
she  been  less  careless,  or  less  credulous. 

It  was  a  fortunate  thing — since  in  such 
cases  of  catastrophe  each  recipient  of  the  in- 
telligence adds  fuel  to  flame — that  this  revela- 
tion told  nothing  new  to  Robert.  He  was 
able  to  put  the  story  of  the  past  aside,  and 
give  his  mind  to  the  present.  Sophy's  letter 
iilled  him  with  vague  but  serious  apprehen- 
sions, not  so  much  from  what  it  revealed,  but 
from  its  reticence.  It  seemed  to  him,  having, 
perhaps,  his  Alma  in  his  mind,  and  the  sup- 
position of  what  she  would  have  done  under 
similar  circumstances,  that  the  writer's  total 


SOPHY'S  LETTER.  209 

silence  respecting  her  husband  was  something 
portentous.  She  had  only  once  alluded  to 
him,  and  that  in  the  most  distant  way,  where 
she  had  spoken  of  her  having  been  '  an  un- 
conscious instrument  in  the  hands  of  another  ;' 
and  thus  ignoring,  as  it  were,  of  his  very  ex- 
istence had  something  eerie  about  it,  which 
augured  worse  than  even  the  speaking  of 
him  as  he  deserved  would  have  done.  That 
concluding  sentence,  '  if  anything  should 
happen  to  sink  me  lower  (if  possible)  in 
your  disesteem,  do  not  judge  me  too  harshly: 
I  am  in  such  straits  as  you  cannot  guess," 
was  also  terribly  significant,  and  seemed  to 
hitn  to  hint  at  some  desperate  contingency. 

All  three  were  aware  that  Sophy's  rela- 
tions with  her  husband  were  unsatisfactory, 
and  even  more  ;  but  Robert  only  guessed  as 
much  from  the  tone  in  which  Irton  had 
spoken  of  them  (for  it  will  be  remembered 
that  the  lawyer  did  not  fully  confide  in  him), 
while  both  the  Canon  and  Aunt   Maria  were 

VOL.  II r.  p 


2IO  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

disposed  to  minimise  what  might  be  amiss 
between  the  young  couple.  Not,  of  course, 
that  by  this  time  they  were  in  any  doubt  as 
to  the  real  character  of  Mr.  John  Adair,  or 
that  they  underrated  the  hardship  of  Sophy's 
lot  ;  but  they  regarded  marriage  not  only  as 
a  bond,  but  as  an  indissoluble  bond.  In  their 
eyes,  marriage  was  not  made  for  man  so  much 
as  man — and  especially  woman — was  made 
for  marriage.  Whatever  inconveniences — nay, 
whatever  wrongs  and  wretchednesses — might 
result  from  that  solemn  engagement,  they 
were  to  be  endured  and  made  the  best  of. 
Under  these  circumstances,  it  was  quite  suffi- 
cient for  them,  in  the  way  of  apprehension,  to 
imagine  that  Sophy's  vague  reference  to  some 
change  in  her  present  circumstances  might 
relate  to  an  intention  on  her  part  to  separate 
from  her  husband.  Her  allusion  to  the  cruelty 
of  the  law,  which  would  in  such  a  case  give 
him  over  the  custody  of  the  child,  seemed  to 
them  to  corroborate  this  idea.  But  to  Robert's 


SOPHY'S  LETTER.  211 

ears  Sophy's  words  liad  another  and  much 
more  serious  meaning.  He  gathered  from  her 
despairing  tone,  and  especially  from  her  appeal 
to  the  Canon  on  behalf  of  her  child,  as  of 
something  extraneous  to  herself,  that  she  was 
contemplating  suicide. 

There  was  no  need  for  him  to  dismiss 
from  his  heart  any  thought  of  disappointment, 
or  delay  of  happiness,  of  which  she  had  been 
the  unwilling  cause  ;  he  had  long  ago  for- 
given and  forgotten  all  that ;  but  no  sooner 
did  this  awful  apprehension  dawn  upon  him 
than  the  recollection  of  earlier  days,  when 
Sophy  and  he  had  been  half  lovers,  half 
playfellows,  also  awoke  within  him.  A  pro- 
found pity  for  her  unhappy  lot,  a  vehement 
abhorrence  of  the  man  who  had  turned  the 
sweetness  of  that  young  life  to  gall,  took 
possession  of  his  soul.  Nothing,  however, 
was  further  from  his  nature  ihan  any  indul- 
gence in  heroics  ;  his  reflections  found  a  very 
practical  vent.   He  sauntered  out  that  evening 


2  12  THE   CANON'- S    WARD. 

and  bouoflit  a  '  Bradshaw,'  and,  havino;  selected 
the  same  train  by  which  his  father  liad  tra- 
velled some  few  months  ago  on  a  scarcel}^ 
less  painful  errand,  started  for  London  before 
the  household  were  astir  the  next  morning, 
leaving  a  few  commonplace  lines  behind  him, 
to  say  that,  '  without  wishing  to  make  a  fuss 
about  it,  it  had  struck  him  to  see  with  his  own 
eyes  how  things  were  going  on  in  Alban}^ 
Street.' 


2Ij 


CHAPTER   XLA'II. 

THE      LAST      INTERVIEW. 

In  tlie  records  of  old  prison  life  there  is  a 
ghastly  story  of  two  lifelong-  enemies,  who, 
having  been  sentenced  for  their  crimes  to  the 
same  punishment,  find  themselves  chained 
together  and  fated  to  pass  the  remainder  of 
their  existence  in  each  other's  company.  It 
ends  comparatively  liapi)ily,  or,  at  all  events, 
])etter  than  might  have  been  expected,  for  the 
stronger  in  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  passion 
nuu'ders  the  weaker,  and  is  promptly  hanged 
for  it.  In  married  life,  the  fetters  which  unite 
the  miserable  pair  who  abhor  one  another  are 
not  so  easily  loosed.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
bond  is  not  quite  so  close.     If  they  are  poor, 


214  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

indeed,  it  is  terribly  near  :   to  have  to  share 
the  same  bed  and  board  with  one  we  fear  or 
despise  must  be  a  torture  beyond  the  imagina- 
tion of  an  inquisitor  ;   this  is  the  chief  reason, 
no  doubt,  why  murders  occur  in  domestic  life 
among:  the  lower  orders  so  much  oftener  than 
among  the  well-to-do.     In  the  latter  case  there 
is  room  for  man  and  wdfe  to  live,  and  breathe, 
and  have  their  being,  apart  from  one  another  ; 
they   are    married    only    in    name,    and    co- 
existence is  made  endurable.     I  am   speaking 
of  course  of  sensitive  persons.     The  majority 
of  mankind,    fortunately,    are   not    '  dowered 
with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorns,'  or 
indeed  with   any  very  delicate  feelings  ;  to  a 
great   many   men    one    wife   is    as    good    as 
another  (though  perhaps  not  so  good  as  two), 
and   to  a  great  many  women  one  husband  is 
as  good  as  another,  just  as  one  acquaintance 
is  as  good,  to  most  people,  as  another.     '  We 
are  not  perfect  ourselves,  and  must  not  expect 
perfection  in  others,'  was  a  remark  once  made 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW.  21^ 

to  uie  by  a  good  womaD,  with  reference  to 
one  Avho  for  his  treatment  of  her  deserved  the 
gallows. 

Sophy  Adair  was  not  a  wife  of  that  kind. 
Little  as  she  saw  of  her  husband,  she  would 
have  gone  mad  had  it  not  been  for  the  pre- 
occupation of  her  mind  with  her  sick  child. 
That  was  the  tie  that  bound  her  to  exist- 
ence ;  everything  else  prompted  her  to  escape 
from  it. 

For  weeks,  of  late,  Adair  had  been  scarcely 
ever  at  home.  He  breakfasted  early  by 
himself,  and  left  the  house  only  to  return  to 
it  after  its  inmates  had  retired  to  rest.  Some- 
times he  sent  a  telegram  from  his  office, 
'  Shall  bring:  a  friend  this  evenino;  who  will 
dine  alone  with  me.'  Upon  the  first  occasion 
Sophy  had  understood  this  to  mean  that, 
though  her  husband  did  not  wish  to  see  her 
at  table,  he  meant  her  to  welcome  their  guest 
in  the  drawing-room.  An  unpleasant  task 
enough,  yet  one  which,  however,  she  did  not 


2i6  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

shrink  from  ;  not  from  any  notion  of  pleasing 
her  husband  (for  such  an  illusion  had  long 
vanished),  nor  from  any  sense  of  duty,  nor 
even  from  fear  of  him,  but  from  a  mere 
mechanical  impulse  on  Avhicli  she  now  always 
acted,  except  in  matters  which  concerned  her 
child. 

The  guest  arrived,  a  tall,  stout,  florid 
personage,  covered  with  jewellery,  and  smok- 
ing an  immense  cigar.  lie  was  a  few  paces 
in  advance  of  his  host.  '  Hullo!  petticoats!  ' 
he  exclaimed,  not,  '  in  hushed  amaze,'  by  any 
means,  but  with  naive  and  very  undisguised 
astonishment. 

Adair's  thin  face,  behind  him,  grew  pale 
with  fury. 

'  That  is  my  Avife,  Mr.  Dawson.  I  sup- 
pose my  telegram  miscarried,'  addressing 
himself  with  cold  precision  to  Sophy. 

'  Glad  it  did.  Wanted  to  keep  you  dark, 
I  reckon,  from  yours  truly,'  observed  the  new 
comer.     '  Your  husband  is  one  of  them  as  is 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW.  217 

all  for  business,  ma'am.     For  my  part,  I  like 
it  mixed.' 

The  manner  of  the  man  was  odious,  yet 
not  so  had  as  his  expression.  The  one 
suggested  coarse  vulgarity,  the  other  villainy. 

To  do  Adair  justice,  he  had  -not  intended 
to  introduce  this  man  to  his  wife's  society  ; 
bat  that  he  should  have  invited  such  a  person 
to  his  own  house  was  significant  indeed  of  the 
social  depths  to  which  he  had  sunk.  It  could 
not  have  been  boon  com[)anionship  that  had 
caused  him  to  do  so,  for  he  had  no  taste  for 
it  ;  it  must  have  been  downright  necessity. 
The  very  parlour-maid  was  cognisant  that 
there  was  '  something  queer  '  in  her  having  to 
wait  on  such  a  guest. 

Mr.  Dawson's  conversational  powers  (often 
in  inverse  ratio  to  the  personal  attractions  of 
their  possessor)  seemed  to  recommend  him  to 
his  host,  for  he  came  again  and  again.  On 
the  other  hand,  things  did  not  always  go 
smoothly   with   them.     Mr.    Dawson's    voice 


2i8  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

was  sometimes  pitched  in  a  higher  key  than 
is  used  for  anecdote,  and  lie  was  more  than 
once  heard  to  thump  the  table  with  an  em- 
phasis too  great  for  mere  appreciation.  There 
were  certainly  disagreements,  possibly  quar- 
rels. On  one  occasion  a  very  strange 
circumstance  came  under  the  notice  of  the 
parlour-maid.  Her  master  had  brought  a 
new  friend  home,  Avith  whom  he  dined  alone, 
as  usual — a  much  older  and  less  talkative 
gentleman,  but  in  w^hose  voice  and  manner 
there  was  something,  nevertheless,  familiar  to 
her.  His  behaviour,  too,  was  familiar,  for  he 
chucked  her  under  the  chin  at  parting,  exactly 
as  it  had  been  Mr.  Dawson's  wont  to  do ;  and 
in  the  performance  of  this  ceremony — which, 
according  to  her  own  account,  she  strenuously 
resisted — his  long  white  beard  came  off  and 
revealed  Mr.  Dawson  himself  A  wig  is  a 
common  ornament  enough,  but  a  false  beard 
hung  on  by  the  ears  is  an  unusual  addition  to 
the  human  countenance,  and  excites  comment. 


THE   LAST  INTERVIEW.  219 

It  was  concluded,  even  by  those  of  his 
own  household,  that  Mr.  John  Adair  was 
getting  into  bad  company. 

One  morning,  instead  of  leaving  home,  as 
usual,  directly  he  had  swallowed  his  early 
meal,  Adair  sent  for  Sophy  to  the  breakfast - 
room.  She  had  not  seen  him  for  some  days, 
and  even  to  her  eyes  (in  which  there  was  no 
wifely  interest)  the  change  in  him  was  very 
remarkable.  His  face  was  thinner  and  more 
haggard  than  she  had  ever  seen  it  ;  it  looked 
pale  and  anxious,  but  with  a  certain  deter- 
mined ferocity  about  it,  like  that  of  some 
hunted  wolf  that  listens  for  the  cry  of  the 
hounds.  He  had  a  telegram  in  his  hand 
which  he  had  just  received,  and  which  he  was 
turning  and  twisting  nervously.  He  glanced 
up  at  her  white  steadfast  face  as  she  entered 
the  room,  and  then  walked  to  the  Avindow, 
keeping  his  back  to  her. 

'  How  is  the  child  ?  '  he  said,  in  hoarse, 
quick  tones. 


220  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  Better  ;  I  trust  certainly  better,  though 
she  gains  strength  very  slowly.' 

'  That's  well,'  he  said,  with  an  unmistak- 
able sigh  of  relief ;  '  we  must  leave  home 
to-day.' 

'  Leave  home !  You  have  surely  not  the 
doctor's  sanction  for  that.' 

'  I  have,'  he  answered  positively  ;  '  and  if 
I  had  not,  still  we  must  leave  home.  Please 
to  give  me  your  best  attention,  madam,  instead 
of  asking  questions  or  making  objections. 
Something  has  gone  wrong  in  the  City  ;  it  is 
useless  to  attempt  to  explain  it — women  know 
nothing  of  such  things — but  it  has  become 
necessary  for  me  to  go  abroad  until  the  thing 
has  blown  over.  You  need  not  fear  for  the 
child,  for  she  will  travel  with  the  utmost  com- 
fort. Here  is  some  money.'  He  thrust  his 
hand  into  his  breast  pocket,  and  pulling  out  a 
great  sheaf  of  bank-notes  threw  one  of  them 
towards  her  without  looking  at  it.  ^  You 
may  take  an  invalid  carriage  for  her,  if  you 
please,  but  you  will  go  by  the  two  o'clock 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW.  221 

train  to  Gravesend,  and  wait  at  tlie  (Treen 
Drao;on  Hotel  for  my  arrival.  Jeannette  will,  of 
course,  accompany  you.   Do  you  understand?' 

She  did  not  reply,  and  lie  wheeled  round 
and  confronted  her  impatiently.  His  brow 
was  knit,  his  features  were  working  convul- 
sively ;  he  looked  anxious,  yet  furious,  like  a 
gambler  who  is  watching  his  last  stake. 

John  Adair  had  never  been  good-looking  ; 
but  it  was  curious  how  every  trace  of  youtli 
and  culture  had  by  this  time  gone  out  of  him, 
leaving  only  the  desperado. 

Nor  was  Sophy,  in  her  turn,  less  changed. 
She  was  still  very  comely,  but  her  comeliness 
was  the  last  thino;  about  her  that  would  have 
struck  any  observer  above  the  level  of  the 
clown.  Her  characteristic  had  been  wont  to 
be  her  vivacity  ;  her  sprightliness  of  air  and 
manner  had  been  so  marked  as  to  be  a  some- 
thing peculiar  to  herself ;  all  this  was  gone. 
The  delicate  colour  on  her  cheek,  the  laughter 
in  her  eyes,  even  the  agile  movement  of  her 
fairy  limbs,  had  vanished.  Although  the  mere 


222  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

ghost  of  her  former  self  in  these  respects, 
there  was,  however,  a  determination  in  Sophy's 
face  as  it  met  that  of  her  husband  which  it 
had  never  possessed  in  youth,  and  which  the 
other  shrank  from.  Ever  since  she  had  known 
that  Adair  had  made  use  of  her  to  rob  the 
Canon,  her  loathing  of  him  had  cast  out  her 
fear  of  him.  He  had  perceived  the  change, 
but  mistaken  the  cause  of  it.  He  thought  that 
she  must  long  ago  have  become  acquainted 
with  his  behaviour  to  her  guardian.  He  had 
wiped  that  crime  from  his  own  mind  with  the 
ease  with  which  the  commercial  philosopher 
wipes  out  a  bad  debt ;  he  had  committed  so 
many  offences  since — offences,  too,  that  had  so 
much  more  dano:er  in  them — that  the  remem- 
brance  of  it  had  ceased  to  trouble  him.  He 
attributed  Sophy's  new-found  courage  to  quite 
another  cause.  His  conscience  led  him  to 
suppose  that,  somehow  or  other,  she  had  be- 
come acquainted  with  his  designs  against  little 
Willie,  or,  at  all  events,  that  she  had  some 
suspicion  of  them.     Face  to  face  with  her,  he 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW.  223 

was  almost  afraid  of  her — afraid  that  she 
should  suddenly  cry  aloud,  ^  Villain !  you 
have  been  plotting  murder  against  your  own 
child,  and  I  have  found  you  out/  Nothing, 
indeed,  but  an  extreme  and  urgent  need 
could  have  induced  him  to  talk  to  her  upon 
the  subject  of  little  Willie  at  all.  But,  as  it 
was  essential  that  they  should  leave  the  house, 
and  the  state  of  the  child's  health,  as  he  had 
foreseen,  was  her  chief  objection  to  that  step, 
it  was  necessary  to  speak  upon  the  topic.  His 
furious  manner — though  he  was  angry  enough 
— was  half- simulated  ;  he  put  it  on  to  intimi- 
date her,  or,  perhaps,  to  hide  the  trepidation 
with  which  he  was  himself  agitated.  He  was 
no  coward,  but  he  had  tried  and  failed  to  kill 
something  else  besides  little  Willie  —  his 
conscience. 

'Do  you  understand  me,  madam?'  he 
repeated. 

*  Yes,'  she  answered,  firmly  ;  '  I  understand 
you  very  well.' 

There  was  no  satire  in  her  tone  ;  but  the 


224  THE  CANOM'S    WARD. 

simple  triitli  she  spoke  was  a  far  worse  sting 
than  any  satire. 

'  Tlien  you  know  that  I  will  be  obeyed. 
You  and  Jeannette  can  pack  up  all  that  is 
necessary  in  a  couple  of  hours,  I  suppose.  In 
order  that  there  sliall  be  no  excuse,  however, 
you  sliall  have  four.' 

'  It  shall  be  as  you  please.' 

This  submission  was  too  prompt,  too  easy, 
and  it  excited  his  suspicions  ;  his  mind  was 
like  a  sentinel  who  has  outstayed  his  watch 
and  lost  his  nerve.  Every  sound  suggested 
an  alarm,  and  even  the  absence  of  sound.  He 
thought  that  she  was  only  promising  to  obey 
him  to  gain  time. 

'  Mind  you,'  he  said,  in  a  menacing  voice, 
*  I  shall  be  here  myself  to  see  that  all  is  ready. 
In  the  meantime  I  will  order  the  invalid  car- 
riage for  the  two  o'clock  train.  Though  I 
shall  not  accompany  you,  I  shall  be  sure  to  be 
at  the  Green  Dragon.  You  may  not  see  me, 
perhaps,  to-night,  for  I  shall  arrive  late — by 
water.       You   need    say    nothing  of  that  to 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW.  225 

anybody  ;  but  I  wish  to  repose  confidence  in 
you.' 

Across  Sophy's  face  flitted  the  distorted 
shadow  of  a  smile.  He  noticed  it,  and  frowned 
heavily. 

'  We  are  man  and  wife,'  he  said,  '  and  must 
sink  or  swim  together.  Things  have  gone 
badly  here,  but  they  will  go  better  elsewhere. 
"\Ye  must  roost  elsewhere,  but  our  nest  will  be 
feathered  for  us,'  and  he  tapped  his  breast 
pocket  exultingiy.  '  Where  we  are  going  the 
child  will  recover  more  quickly.  It  is  the 
very  climate  which  the  doctor  recommends.' 

If  he  expected  her  to  ask  where  this  salu- 
brious spot  was  situated,  he  was  mistaken. 

Her  manner  was  anything  but  indifferent. 
It  was  plain  that  she  was  paymg  attention  to 
every  word  he  said  ;  but  her  face  was  cold 
and  stifi"  as  a  stone. 

'  Have  you  any  further  commands  ? '  she 
inquired.  Patient  Griselda  could  have  said  no 
more,  but  her  tone  jarred  on  his  ear. 

VOL.    III.  Q 


226  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  You  speak  like  an  automaton,'  he 
answered,  angrily.  '  No,  I  liave  nothing 
more  to  say  ;  it  will  be  the  easier  to  remem- 
ber. At  one  o'clock  I  will  be  here  with  a 
large  carriage,  so  that  the  child  can  lie  at 
length.  You  will  be  sure  to  be  ready  by  that 
time.' 

'I  shall  be  ready.' 

He  went  out  without  another  word. 

If  he  could  have  looked  into  the  future — if 
he  could  have  known  what  that  very  day  was 
to  bring  forth — would  he  have  parted  from  her 
thus  ?  It  is  difficult  to  say.  But  if  Sophy 
could  liave  foreseen  what  was  to  hapj)en,  I  do 
not  think  her  behaviour  would  have  been 
different.  Things  had  gone  too  far  with  her 
in  the  way  of  misery,  of  which  this  man  was 
the  chief  cause,  for  any  retrograde  step  towards 
tenderness  or  even  pity  for  him.  The  tre- 
mendous issues  of  futurity  itself  were  dwarfed 
beside  the  contemplation  of  her  wrongs  and 
wretchedness.     What  he  had  done  now  was 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW.  227 

merely  anotlier  drop  added  to  that  cup  of 
bitterness  wliich  he  was  always  holding  to  her 
lips.  As  it  happened,  he  had  unconsciously 
caused  it  to  run  over  ;  that  was  all.  As  she 
turned  to  leave  the  room,  she  saw  the  bank- 
note lying  on  the  table.  She  picked  it  up 
with  a  gesture  of  abhorrence,  as  though  it 
were  some  infectious  rag.  It  was  a  note  for  a 
hundred  pounds.  She  felt  that  he  had  had  no 
intention  of  entrusting  her  with  any  such  sum ; 
that  he  had  thrown  it  at  her  without  thought, 
out  of  his  unaccustomed  superfluity,  as  one 
might  inadvertently,  out  of  a  full  plate,  throw 
to  a  dog  meat  instead  of  bone.  For  an  instant 
she  held  it  in  both  hands,  with  the  evident 
intention  of  tearing  it  in  pieces,  when  suddenly 
a  reflection  occurred  to  her.  '  It  is  not  his,' 
she  murmured  ;  '  it  is  the  Canon's.'  And 
folding  it  neatly  up,  she  placed  it  in  her  purse, 
and  went  upstairs. 


Qi^ 


228  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 


CHAPTER  XLYIIL 


ABANDONED. 


Though  Robert  Aldred  had  announced  his 
intention  of  seeing  '  with  his  own  eyes  how 
things  were  going  on  in  Albany  Street/  he  did 
not  on  his  arrival  in  London  drive  thither 
directly.  He  had  as  modest  a  confidence  in 
his  own  powers  as  concerned  business  matters 
as  the  Canon  himself,  and  it  was  clear  to  him 
that  his  influence  with  Sophy  would  be  much 
less  than  that  of  his  father.  He  wisely 
resolved  to  take  no  action  without  the 
approval  of  Frederic  Irton,  of  whose  judg- 
ment he  had  the  very  highest  opinion,  and 
therefore  drove  straight  to  that  gentleman's 
office  in  Bedford  Row.     Irton  received   him 


ABANDONED.  229 

with  great  cordiality,  but  with  a  serious  air. 
To  his  apologies  for  troubling  him  about  what 
might  after  all  turn  out  to  be  of  no  great 
consequence — referring  to  Sophy's  letter  to 
the  Canon — he  answered  unhesitatingly,  '  You 
have  done  quite  right.' 

'  Do  you  really  think  then  that  she  is  on 
the  brink  of  some  desperate  step  ?  ' 

'  On  some  decisive  step  she  may  be,'  he 
replied,  thoughtfully  ;  '  the  desperation  will 
be  the  other  way — I  mean  upon  her  husband's 
side.' 

'  But  will  not  that  involve  her  in  peril?' 

'  Undoubtedly,  if  certain  precautions  had 
not  been  taken.  He  is  like  some  wild  beast 
over  whom  a  net  has  been  thrown.  It  is 
scarcely  visible  to  him,  and  seems  slight 
enough,  but  if  he  attempts  to  escape,  to 
struggle ' 


'  But  if  he  finds  he  cannot  escape,'  inter- 
rupted Robert,  apprehensively,  '  is  there  no 
fear  of  his  doing  mischief  to  innocent  people  ; 


230  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

those  who  are  within  his  power,  and  whom 
he  may  confuse,  perhaps,  with  his  enemies  ? 
I  am  prejudiced,  of  course,  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  this  Adair  is  a  sort  of  man  who  will  stick 
at  nothinof.' 

'  That  is  so,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  he 
has  become  so.  One  does  not  become  a 
villam,  even  though  one  may  commit  a 
villainy,  upon  a  sudden.  I  have  had  this 
reptile  under  the  microscope  for  months,  and 
it  is  amazing  how  he  has  developed  in  tooth 
and  claw.  He  was  always  that  way  inclined  ; 
his  face  from  the  first  was  set  as  thouo-h  he 
was  going  to  the  gallows.  Still,  if  things  had 
turned  out  well  with  him — if  luck,  that  is, 
had  favoured  his  speculations,  which  were 
specious  and  likely-looking  enough — it  is  my 
opinion  he  would  never  have  gone  wrong, 
except  morally  (for  the  man  has  no  principle 
whatever).  He  would  have  died  worth  a 
plum,  the  chairman  of  innumerable  companies, 
and  much  respected  by  the  majority   of  his 


ABANDONED.  231 

fellow-creatures — that  is,  by  all  those  who 
didn't  know  him.  But  he  met  with  disasters 
from  the  first,  and  repaired  them  with  the 
nearest  means  that  came  to  hand,  and  they 
were  foul  means.  Once  on  that  road,  the 
descent  is  easy.' 

'  Do  you  think  he  has  done  anything 
absolutely  criminal? ' 

^  Certainly.  He  has  been  on  the  verge  of 
such  crimes — or  at  all  events  of  one  crime — 
as  convince  me  he  must  have  committed 
intermediate  ones,  without  the  faintest  scruple. 
He  has  become  the  immediate  associate  of  the 
vilest  wretches — this  man  Dawson,  for  one, 
whom  your  fellow-travellers  in  the  railway 
carriage  so  injudiciously  mentioned.  What 
you  overheard  on  that  occasion  has  been  of 
great  service  in  our  investigations.  We  have 
found  out  all  about  the  S.S.  mine.  It  is  the 
notorious  San  Sobrano  silver-mine,  concerning 
which  such  revelations  have  been  recently 
made.      Your  two  friends  had  just   returned 


232  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

from  Soutti  America,  on  a  confidential  mission. 
They  had  been  "salting"  the  mine.  There 
is  a  warrant  out  for  Dawson's  apprehension 
npon  a  much  more  serious  charge — but,  as 
regards  the  mine,  there  is  no  doubt  that  Adair 
is  implicated.  He  was  unable  to  raise  the 
money  to  float  it,  on  which  the  promoters 
depended.' 

Here  a  cab  drove  rapidly  up  to  the  door, 
and  the  office  bell  rang  with  violence. 

'  I  should  not  wonder  if  that  was  some 
news  about  our  friend,'  continued  Irton,  with 
his  finger  raised  for  silence.  '  Clients,  unless, 
indeed,  they  are  ladies  who  have  suffered 
wrong,  do  not  try  our  bell  wires  so  se- 
verely.' 

'  Are  you  expecting  news  about  him?  ' 

^  Not  this  morning  in  particular — but  it 
must  needs  come  soon.' 

A  clerk  entered  with  a  card  in  his  hand. 
He  gave  it  to  his  employer,  who  passed  it  on, 
with  a  significant  look,  to  Aldred. 


ABANDONED.  233 

'  Good  heavens  I  Irton  ;  it  is  the  man 
himself.' 

'  Yes  ;  I  think  I  can  guess  what  he  has 
come  about,'  returned  the  lawyer,  grimly ; 
'  sit  down  at  yonder  desk  with  a  pen  in  your 
hand,  and  you  will  hear  what  the  gentleman 
has  to  say  for  himself — show  him  in.  Mason.' 

The  next  moment  Adair  was  ushered  into 
the  room.  He  looked  pale,  as  he  always  did, 
but  with  a  difference  ;  his  colour  was  leaden, 
even  to  his  lips.  He  might  have  been  a 
corpse  but  for  his  eyes,  which,  after  an  angry 
glance  round  the  room,  fixed  themselves  like 
two  burning  coals  upon  the  lawyer. 

'  You  are  not  alone,'  he  said  ;  '  what  1 
have  to  say  to  you  must  be  said  in  private.' 

'  The  gentleman  yonder  is  in  my  confi- 
dence,' returned  Irton,  coldly.  '  If  you  object 
to  his  presence  you  can  say  what  you  have  to 
say  in  writing.     I  will  not  see  you  alone.' 

'  You  are  afraid,  are  you?  '  sneered 
Adair. 


234  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  Not  the  least,  since  I  am  neither  your 
wife  nor  your  child/ 

'  Ah !  your  words  convince  me  that  I  am 
on  the  right  track.  Since  you  will  have  a 
witness,  so  much  the  worse  for  you.  I  am 
here  to  say  that  you  have  committed  an 
infamy.' 

'  Indeed !  I  do  not  confess  it,  but  I  admit 
that  you  should  be  a  good  judge  of  what  is 
infamous.' 

'  Where  are  my  wife  and  child?  '  exclaimed 
Adair,  passionately.  '  They  have  been  lured 
away  from  home  by  your  machinations. 
Where  are  they? ' 

'  I  cannot  tell  you ! ' 

'  That  is  a  lie.  With  your  witness  there, 
it  is,  perhaps,  actionable  to  say  so.  No 
matter,  I  repeat  it  again.' 

'  You  can  do  so  without  fear,  sir,' 
answered  the  lawyer,  indifferently  ;  'one  does 
not  bring  civil  actions  against  criminals.' 

'  Criminals !     That  is  of  a  piece  with  your 


ABANDONED.  235 

whole  behaviour  to  me  ;  you  have  gone  about 
defaming  my  character.  Wherever  I  turn  I 
find  you  have  been  beforehand  with  your  ''  Do 
not  trust  him."  ' 

'  As  for  instance?  Can  you  give  me  an 
example,  Mr.  Adair?' 

'  There  is  Dr.  Woodruffe,  for  one.' 

'  What !  do  you  dare  allude  to  that  trans- 
action? Then  I  admit  it.  I  told  him  some- 
thing which  caused  him  to  put  the  insurance 
company  on  their  guard.  And  now,  in  your 
turn,  answer  me  this  ;  where  did  you  propose 
to  yourself  to  get  the  twelve  thousand  pounds 
requisite  for  floating  the  San  Sobrano  scheme  ?' 

Adair  answered  nothing  ;  his  white  lips 
moved  a  little,  and  he  moistened  them  with 
his  tongue. 

'  Did  you  not,  at  a  monstrous  premium, 
insure  your  sick  child's  life  for  that  sum  ?  ' 

'  What  of  that  ?  '  murmured  Adair,  hoarsely. 
'  The  law  had  nothing  to  say  against  it, 
and  therefore  no  one  had  a  right  to  complain.' 


236  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  That  does  not  always  follow,  Mr.  Adair. 
This  gentleman  here,  whom  you  have  taken 
for  one  of  my  clerks,  may  claim  to  be  an 
exception  to  that  rule.' 

Robert  rose,  and  confronted  Adair.  '  My 
name,'  he  said,  '  is  Robert  Aldred,  the  son  of 
your  benefactor  whom  you  have  robbed  and 
ruined.  You  have  marred  my  future  like- 
wise ;  yet  let  me  tell  you  that  I  do  not  loathe 
you  for  the  wrong  you  have  done  to  him  and 
me  so  much  as  I  despise  and  detest  you  for 
your  cowardice  and  cruelty  to  your  unhappy 
wife.' 

'  Ah,  I  remember,'  said  Adair,  contemptu- 
ously, '  you  were  one  of  her  old  flames.  A 
pretty  sort  of  connection  for  her  husband  to 
be  schooled  by.  Of  course  it  would  have 
been  a  nice  thing  to  have  kept  her  money  in 
the  family,  only  she  preferred  somebody  else.' 

*  That  was  not  you,  you  cur,'  said  Aldred  ; 
*  she  married  you  out  of  fear.' 

'  You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal  about  my 


ABANDONED.  237 

dorocstic  affairs/   answered  the  other,  scorn- 
fully. 

^  We  do,  interposed  Irton,  in  solemn  tones, 
^  more,  much  more,  than  you  have  any  idea  of. 
We  know,  or,  at  least,  /  know,  not  only  how 
you  have  treated  your  wife,  but  how  you  have 
attempted  to  treat  your  child?  Do  you 
remember  what  happened  on  the  day  that  Dr. 
Newton  called  to  see  her?' 

^  I  remember  he  did  see  her.' 

*  Yes,  but  something  else.  The  thing  I 
speak  of  had  happened  before,  no  doubt  ;  but 
not  often.  There  were  not  many  opportunities 
for  it  to  happen,  though  you  never  let  one 
slip.  One  offered  itself  that  day  ;  you  made 
an  excuse  to  leave  your  wife  and  the  doctor 
below,  and  returned  to  the  nursery  alone.' 

Here  Adair,  who  had  been  standing  up 
throughout  the  interview,  began  to  tremble. 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  like  one  who 
gropes  in  the  dark,  and  placed  it  on  the  back 
of  a  chair. 


238  777^   CANON'S    WARD. 

'  I  have  no  recollection  of  the  circumstance 
you  mention,'  he  murmured,  huskily. 

^  I  know  some  one  who  can  refresh  your 
memory.  When  ^^ou  entered  that  room  you 
made  a  slight  mistake.' 

'  It  is  possible,'  ansAvered  the  other, 
eagerly  ;  '  the  room  was  darkened  ;  there 
were  several  bottles  on  the  table.' 

'  Who  said  anything  about  bottles  ?  That 
is  a  most  damaging  admission  on  your  part. 
It  was  no  mistake  you  made  with  them^ 
however  ;  you  had  done  the  same  thing  too 
often  for  that.  The  mistake  you  made  was 
in  concluding  that  there  loas  nobody  in  the 
room.'' 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  Adair's  forehead  ; 
he  swuno'  from  side  to  side  like  a  drunken 
man,  and  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor  but 
for  the  chair-back,  which  he  clasped  con- 
vulsively. 

*  Jeannette  was  below  with  the  rest,'  he 
murmured,  after  a  long  pause. 


ABANDONED.  239 

'  She  was,  but  there  was  another  person  m 
the  nursery  behmd  the  curtain.  It  is  lucky 
for  you  that  you  are  not  in  the  dock  at  this 
moment,  for  your  face  would  hang  you.  For 
my  part,  there  is  nothing  that  would  give  me 
greater  pleasure  than  to  see  you  there  ;  but 
we  are  not  all  like  you,  we  sometimes  deny 
ourselves  a  personal  gratification  for  the  sake 
of  others.  It  is  for  another's  sake,  in  order 
that  your  innocent  child  may  not  have  to  say 
to  herself,  "  My  father  was  a  convicted  felon," 
that  I  give  you  this  warning.  You  are  in 
danger  of  the  law.  To-morrow  may  be  too 
late  for  escape  ;  you  must  leave  England 
to-day.' 

Again  the  dry  lips  moved,  but  without 
speech  ;  he  bowed  his  head,  however,  in  token 
of  acquiescence. 

'  Have  you  money — money,  I  mean, 
sufficient  to  take  you  across  the  Channel?' 

Adair  lifted  a  trembling  hand  and  touched 
his  breast-pocket. 


240  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  To  be  sure,'  continued  Irton,  drily ;  '  I 
ought  to  have  known  that  you  would  have 
feathered  your  own  nest  in  any  case — now  go. 
If  you  take  my  advice,  you  will  not  return  to 
Albany  Street — there  may  be  people  there  on 
the  look-out  for  you.' 

Without  a  word,  without  a  look — for  he 
did  not  raise  his  eyes  from  the  ground — and 
with  a  fumbling  for  the  handle  of  the  door  as 
if  it  were  dark  and  it  were  hard  to  find,  the 
man  shambled  out. 

^  What  a  despicable  hound  !  '  exclaimed 
Robert.  '  It  makes  me  feel  humiliated  and 
unclean  even  to  have  been  in  his  company. 
How  could  my  dear  father  have  been  attracted 
to  such  a  person  ?  ' 

'  Five  years  of  greed  and  fraud  change  a 
man  pretty  completely,  Robert.  His  ways 
were  always  shifty  ;  he  told  me  a  lie  the  very 
first  day  I  ever  set  eyes  on  him,  but  he  was 
not  then  like  yonder  creature.  Where  is  now 
cunning  there  was  then  intelligence  ;  a  fellow 
who  might  have  been  tutor  of  Trinity,  one 


ABANDONED.  241 

day,  like  dear  old  Mavors.  All  the  wits  in 
the  world  will  not  keep  a  man  straight  who  is 
born  crooked.  No,  he  was  not  like  that,  at 
one  time.  I  remember  Henny  herself  took 
his  part  against  me,  at  first.' 

'  But  what  has  he  done  ?  How  comes  it 
that  you  have  such  a  hold  upon  him  ? ' 

'  He  thinks  I  can  prove  something,  which, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  only  know  and  cannot 
prove.' 

'  How  abject  he  looked,  Irton  !  I  never 
saw  conscious  guilt  put  on  so  debased  a 
form.' 

'  You  are  mistaken  there,  Kobert ;  it  is 
not  the  consciousness  of  guilt,  but  the  fear  of 
its  consequences,  which  has  so  paralysed 
him.  He  has  got  plenty  of  ill-gotten  gains  in 
that  breast-pocket  of  his,  and  when  he  once 
ofets  abroad  and  finds  himself  out  of  the  reach 
of  punishment,  he  will  lift  up  his  drooping 
head  again  and  start  afresh  on  his  road  to 
the  Devil.' 

VOL.    III.  R 


242  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 


THE    FLIGHT. 


When  Jolin  Adair  left  his  home  and  hiid  that 
injunction  upon  his  wife  to  pack  up  all  that 
was  necessary  for  departure  within  a  few 
hours,  he  was  not  disobeyed.  She  had  been 
in  readiness  for  some  such  emergency  for 
many  days.  Even  that  idea  of  his  of  an 
invalid  carriage  for  little  Willie  had  been  in 
some  sort  anticipated.  In  less  than  two  hours 
after  he  had  left  the  house  everything  was  pre- 
pared for  flight,  including  arrangements  for 
the  transport  of  the  sick  child.  There  was 
haste,  but  no  precipitation,  and,  above  all,  no 
fear.  When  Irton  said  to  Adair,  '  If  you  take 
my   advice   you   will  not  return  to  Albany 


THE  FLIGHT.  243 

Street,  there  may  be  people  on  tlie  look-out 
for  you/  he  had  not  spoken  less  than  the  truth  ; 
he  referred  to  people  in  Sophy's  interest.  There 
had  been  help  within  call  next  door  for  weeks. 
Adair  had  held  his  liberty  on  sufferance,  and 
would  have  been  arrested  on  the  instant  had 
despair  or  fury  driven  him  to  menace  Sophy 
or  the  child.  '  A  masterful  inactivity '  had, 
however,  been  the  policy  which  had  seemed  to 
Irton  better  than  any  other.  Sooner  or  later, 
as  he  had  foreseen,  it  would  become  necessary 
for  Adair  to  leave  the  country  ;  and  though  a 
warrant  had  been  taken  out  against  him,  at 
the  lawyer's  instigation,  it  was  held  in  sus- 
pense, since  to  execute  it  would  have  been  to 
precipitate  exposure,  and  to  cover  the  innocent 
with  life-long  shame.  If  Sophy  had  known 
of  what  Stevie  had  witnessed  in  her  nursery, 
it  would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  be 
patient ;  she  would  not  have  permitted  little 
Willie  to  remain  one  hour  beneath  her 
husband's  roof. 

r2 


244  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  persuade 
her  that  the  cancellmg  of  the  insurances  which 
had  been  effected  upon  the  child's  life  had  put 
all  further  attempt  upon  it  out  of  the  question ; 
nay,  it  had  rendered  little  Willie's  existence 
of  the  highest  consequence  to  Adair  as  being 
the  only  asset — though  it  had  hitherto  proved 
impossible  to  realise  it — except  Sophy,  which 
he  possessed. 

It  is  not  every  absconding  bankrupt  who 
is  so  solicitous  to  hamper  himself  in  his  flight 
with  wife  and  child,  but  to  Adair  they  were 
really  very  precious.  If  anything  should 
happen  to  either  of  them  the  survivor  would 
be  simply  invaluable,  since,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  that  store  he  had  in  his  breast- 
pocket— which  if  everybody  had  had  their 
rights  (a  Utopian  and  optimist  phrase,  quite 
unsuited  to  practical  life)  would  certainly  not 
have  been  there — he  would  have  no  other 
source  of  income. 

It  is  difficult,   therefore,  to  underrate  the 


THE  FLIGHT.  245 

sense  of  loss  which  Mr.  John  Adah'  ex- 
perienced when,  on  coming  home  at  one 
o'clock  (he  had  one  virtue — he  was  punctual), 
he  found  both  wife  and  child  had  flown.  He 
had  a  notion  at  first  that  they  might  have 
preceded  him  to  the  railway  station — that 
they  were  ^  not  lost,  but  gone  before,'  but  the 
parlour- maid  assured  him  to  the  contrary. 
'  Missus  and  Miss  Willie,  with  Jeannette,  had 
gone  two  hours  ago,'  as  she  supposed,  to  join 
him  ;  she  was  loud  in  her  admiration  of  the 
vehicle  which  had  conveyed  the  child  away  in 
an  easy  and  recumbent  posture,  and  apparently 
in  high  spirits.  As  to  their  destination, 
Jeannette  had  given  out  that  they  were 
'  going  to  the  sea  ;  '  a  rather  vague  address, 
even  supposing  it  was  a  correct  one,  and  one 
which  certainly  did  not  satisfy  the  inquirer. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Sophy  had  no  more 
knowledge  of  where  they  were  going  than  had 
the  parlour-maid.  Jeannette,  who  had  long 
been  head  of  the  intelligence  department  as 


246  THE  CANON'S    WARD, 

regards  all  outside  matters,  was,  now  com- 
mander-in-chief. From  the  moment  when  her 
mistress  informed  her  of  the  injunctions  her 
husband  had  laid  upon  her  she  took  the  con- 
duct of  everything  into  her  own  hands. 

^  Do  not  take  on  about  it,'  she  exclaimed, 
'  my  dear  Miss  Sophy '  (in  moments  of  ex- 
citement she  always  thus  addressed  her 
mistress,  notwithstanding  that  she  had  been 
twice  married),  '  for  this  is  only  what  we 
have  been  expecting,  or  something  like  it,  for 
ever  so  long.  We  will  take  the  dear  child 
away,  safe  and  sound,  a  couple  of  hours  be- 
fore master  returns  ;  and,  if  he  ever  sets  his 
eyes  on  either  you  or  her  again,  I'll  forgive 
him.' 

To  anyone  who  knew  Jeannette  and  the 
feelings  which  animated  her  with  respect  to 
her  employer,  this  alternative  seemed  im- 
probable enough. 

'  But  where  are  we  to  go,  Jeannette, 
whither   my   husband     cannot    follow ;    and 


THE  FLIGHT.  247 

what  friends  have  I — though  it  is  true  I  have 
good  friends — who  can  protect  me  against  the 
strong  arm  of  the  law  ?  ' 

^  As  to  that  matter,'  returned  the  waiting- 
maid,  confidently,  '  I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  master  has  something  to  settle  with  the 
law  upon  his  own  account  ;  so  that,  for  once 
and  away,  it  will  be  found  on  the  side  of  the 
weak.  While  as  to  friends,  you  have  got  one, 
Miss  Sophy,  that  loves  you  as  well  as  I  do — 
loves  you  more  than  you  have  any  idea  of, 
only,  for  the  present,  she  doesn't  wish  her 
name  known — so  let's  call  her  Johnson.' 

'  I  have  only  one  woman  friend,  Jeannette 
— save  dear  Aunt  Maria,  whom  I  myself  have 
rendered  powerless  to  help  me — and  that  is 
Mrs.  Irton.  I  have  done  harm  enough  to 
those  who  love  me  already,  and  nothing  will 
induce  me  to  accept  any  help  which  may 
bring  Henny  into  trouble.  Why,  the  first 
place  your  master '  (it  was  very  significant 
that  she    should   have   avoided   saying    *  my 


248  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

husband'  when  speaking  of  Adah^)  'will  turn 
to  look  for  us  will  be  her  house.' 

'  To  any  question  where  you  and  little 
Willie  are  gone,  Mr.  Irton  can,  I  assure  you, 
lay  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  honestly  say 
— though,  being  a  lawyer,  he  would  say  it, 
of  course,  in  any  case — that  he  knows  nothing 
about  it.  Don' t  trouble  your  head,  my  dear 
Miss  Sophy,  about  anything  but  packing 
your  things.' 

Their  preparations  for  departure  were  pro- 
ceeding, indeed,  throughout  the  conversation, 
during  which  Jeannette  maintained  an  air  of 
confidence  that  was  not  without  its  effect 
upon  her  mistress.  Poor  Sophy's  one  idea 
was  to  get  away  wdth  her  child  from  a  miser- 
able home  and  a  hateful  husband,  and  she  was 
willing  enough,  without  much  questioning,  to 
entrust  her  future  to  such  faithful  hands.  The 
vigour  and  animation  which  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  waiting-maid — though,  to  do  her 
justice,  she  had  always  '  kept  up '  for  Sophy's 


THE  FLIGHT.  249 

sake  under  all  their  troubles — were  remark- 
able. She  was  like  a  good  soldier,  who,  tired 
of  inaction,  at  last  receives  the  route.  Nay, 
there  was  something  even  bellicose  about  her, 
as  though  war  had  been  declared  ;  and,  in- 
deed, the  idea  of  battle  was  by  no  means  un- 
welcome to  her.  Next  to  the  preservation  of 
her  mistress  and  little  Willie,  the  thought 
nearest  to  her  heart  was  that  it  was  about  to 
be  permitted  to  her  to  pay  off  old  scores  with 
Mr.  John  Adair. 

She  had  been  in  slavery  to  him  for  six 
long  years,  and  the  hour  of  emancipation  and 
revenge  had  come  at  last.  Intrigue  was  her 
delight,  she  had  a  natural  bent  for  it  (though 
straightforward  enough  in  every  other  direc- 
tion, she  was  a  little  crooked  in  that)  ;  but, 
up  to  this  time,  her  diplomacy,  so  far  from 
being  successful,  had  filled  her  with  remorse 
and  regret.  Moreover,  she  had  had  no  co- 
adjutor, her  mistress  had  had  enough  of 
deception,  and  only  in  one  thing  had  played 


250  THE  CANON'S    WARD, 

into  Jeannette's  hands.  They  had  agreed 
together  to  conceal  the  fact  that  little  Willie 
had  recently  taken  a  decided  turn  for  the 
better.  As  this  circumstance,  however,  for 
certain  excellent  reasons,  had  been  hidden 
from  Adair,  his  proposition  that  the  sick  child 
should  be  carried  from  her  bed  to  take  a 
railway  journey  had,  in  Sophy's  eyes,  lost 
none  of  its  brutality.  It  acted  as  a  spur  to 
the  alacrity  with  which  she  prepared  to  leave 
her  husband's  roof.  Such  a  sense  of  en- 
franchisement and  relief  took  possession  of 
her  as  she  drove  away — her  hand  fast  locked 
in  little  Willie's,  who  lay  stretched  at  ease  by 
her  side — that  for  some  minutes  she  forebore 
even  to  speak,  like  one  who  is  recovering 
from  some  long  and  acute  disorder,  and  who 
finds  happiness  enough  in  being  quit  of  pain. 
She  was  content  to  enjoy  her  freedom  in 
silence. 

Presently,  however,  she  inquired  of  Jean- 
nette  whither  she  was  taking  her.       '  To  a 


THE  FLIGHT,  251 

cousin  of  mine  out  Hammersmith  way,'  ex- 
plained the  waiting-maid.  '  Of  course  it  would 
not  do  to  stop  there,  though  you  would  be  as 
welcome  as  flowers  in  May  ;  master  would 
soon  find  out  where  the  invalid  carriage 
dropped  us,  but  after  that  I  flatter  myself  the 
scent  will  be  cold  enough.' 

'  And  then  are  we  going  on  to  this  good 
Mrs.  Johnson's !  as  you  call  her? ' 

'  Yes ;  it's  her  cottage  as  has  been  got 
ready  for  you.' 

'  What  care^  and  trouble  you  must  have 
taken,  Jeannette,'  murmured  Sophy,  grate- 
fully. 

'  So  I  had  need,  ma'am,'  was  the  waiting- 
woman's  reply.  The  tone,  as  well  as  the 
words,  were  significant  enough,  but  Sophy 
was  too  wrapped  in  her  own  thoughts  to  pay 
attention  to  either.  The  hour  in  which  the 
captive  breaks  his  chain  is  even  more  critical 
than  the  one  in  which  it  first  was  riveted 
on  him  ;  the  beginning  of  a  new  life,  liowever 


252  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

preferable  it  may  seem  to  that  which  we  have 
done  with,  is  momentous. 

After  a  long  drive,  they  drew  up  at  a 
house  in  a  very  modest  terrace  where  Jean- 
nette's  cousin — a  homely,  matronly  woman — 
gave  them  a  hearty  welcome.  Some  tea  and 
refreshments  were  put  before  them,  of  which 
Sophy  could  hardly  be  persuaded  to  partake, 
so  afraid  was  she  of  j)ursuit  and  capture.  In 
twenty  minutes  they  were  again  on  their  way, 
this  time  in  one  of  those  flys  peculiar  to  the 
suburbs  and  country  towns.  Their  way  lay 
now  clear  of  the  streets,  among  villas  and 
market  gardens.  At  last  they  stopped  at 
a  pretty  cottage,  with  bay  windows  looking 
over  a  well-kept  lawn  bordered  by  flower-beds 
already  redolent  of  the  spring.  Little  Willie 
was  enchanted  with  their  colour  and  perfume. 

^  Dear  mamma,  I  should  like  to  live  here 
all  my  life,'  she  whispered,  softly. 

^  You  shall  live  here  as  long  as  you  like, 
you  dear,'  said  Jeannette. 


THE  FLIGHT.  253 

To  Sophy,  as  to  the  child,  though  for  a 
different  reason,  the  prospect  seemed  too 
alkiring  to  be  reahsed.  ^  It  looks  most  sweet 
and  quiet,'  she  whispered.  '  But  shall  we  be 
safe,  Jeannette?  ' 

'  Do  you  see  that  building  yonder,  Miss 
Sophy,  with  the  ivy  round  it  ;  it  is  only  a 
stone's  throw,  and  we  shall  be  secure  under 
its  shadow.' 

The  suburb  was  one  of  those  highly  deco- 
rated ones  which  are  certainly  exempt  from 
the  charge  of  monotony  of  architecture  ;  each 
house  was  not  only  different  from  the  other, 
but  often  distinguished  by  some  startling  pecu- 
liarity of  its  own.  Even  the  churches  were 
less  ecclesiastical-looking  than  artistic.  '  Is  it 
the  church?'  inquired  Sophy,  not  without 
some  doubt  in  her  mind  of  even  the  security 
of  the  proximity  of  the  sacred  edifice,  against 
the  machinations  of  her  husband. 

'  The  church !  Lor  bless  you,  no.  Miss. 
It's  better  nor  that ;  it's  the  police  station.' 


254  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

It  was  plain  that  Jeannette  put  greater 
confidence  in  the  power  of  the  secular  arm 
than  in  ecclesiastical  authority. 

A  neat,  cheerful  woman  having  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  housekeeper  received  them,  and 
showed  them  over  the  cottage,  which  was 
very  prettily  furnished  ;  the  nursery  arrange- 
ments were  exceptionally  pleasant  and  appro- 
priate. When  tired  little  Willie  had  been  put 
to  bed,  and  was  lying  asleep  watched  by  the  two 
fond  women,  Jeannette  expressed  a  hope  that 
her  mistress  had  found  thin2:s  to  her  likinof. 

'  I  dare  not  say  what  I  think,'  said  Sophy. 
'  I  feel  as  though  I  were  looking  upon  some- 
thing far  too  restful  and  beautiful  to  last — ■ 
like  sunset  in  the  skies.  To  whom  am  I  in- 
debted for  this  charming  haven?  in  which, 
however,  it  is  out  of  the  question,  Jeannette, 
that  we  can  remain.  You  don't  understand 
that  in  leaving  Mr.  Adair  I  have  deprived 
myself  of  the  means  of  livelihood.' 

'  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  Miss  Sophy ;  at 


THE  FLIGHT.  255 

least,  those  who  know  a  great  deal  more 
about  such  matters  than  me  are  not  so  sure. 
But,  however  that  may  be,  don't  you  fret 
yourself  about  the  cost  of  things.  Money 
will  be  provided — at  all  events  for  some  time 
to  come — by  one  whose  greatest  pleasure  will 
be  to  spend  it  upon  you.' 

'  It  must  be  Henny,'  murmured  Sophy  ; 
^  dear,  generous  Henny ! ' 

'  Mrs.  Irton  is  as  good  as  gold,'  returned 
Jeannette,  earnestly,  '  and  her  purse  will  be 
the  same  as  yours,  I  warrant ;  but  just  at  this 
moment  Mrs.  Irton  don't  even  know  you're 
here.' 

^  Then  who  is  it,  Jeannette  ?  ' 

Sophy's  face  flushed  to  her  forehead.  It 
had  suddenly  struck  her  that  Mr.  Mavors  was 
her  unknown  benefactor,  and  then  the  shame 
of  having  entertained  such  an  unjustifiable 
suspicion  overwhelmed  her.  It  was  probable, 
indeed,  that  the  Tutor  had  forgotten  all  about 
her,  or,  if  he  had  thought  of  inquiring,  had 


256  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

heard  perhaps,  not  altogether  without  coai- 
placency,  that  the  man  she  had  preferred  to 
him  had  turned  out  to  be  not  altogether  the 
best  of  husbands. 

'  If  I  tell  you  who  it  is,  Miss  Sophy,  T  shall 
be  doing  the  very  thing  the  person  in  question 
— Mrs.  Johnson,  as  I  have  called  her — wishes 
me  not  to  do.' 

'  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  my  unknown 
friend,  whoever  she  is,  Jeannette,'  returned 
Sophy,  resolutely  ;  ^  but  I  cannot  consent  to 
be  under  obligations  to  a  stranger,  or,  what  is 
worse,  to  some  one  who  may  be  returning  to 
me  good  for  evil.' 

Her  mind  had  reverted  to  Aunt  Maria.  It 
was  highly  improbable,  of  course,  that  that 
lady  should  possess  the  means  for  any  such 
act  of  generosity  ;  but,  at  all  events,  as  Sophy 
was  well  convinced,  the  will  would  not  be 
wanting  to  her  :  when  we  cannot  find  what 
we  search  for  elsewhere,  we  look  for  it  in  un- 
likely places. 


THE  FLIGHT.  257 

'  Well,  Miss  Sophy,  I  will  do  your  bidding 
if  you  will,  on  your  part,  listen  with  patience 
to  something  I  have  got  to  say  about  myself, 
and  when  you  have  heard  it  try  your  best  to 
forgive  me.' 

'  I  have  nothing,  alas !  to  forgive  any  one, 
my  poor  Jeannette;  throughout  my  life  things 
have  been  quite  the  other  way.' 

^  You  have  done  some  foolish  thiiigs,  no 
doubt,  Miss  Sophy,'  returned  Jeannette, 
naively ;  '  and  grievously  have  you  suffered 
for  them.  Your  marriage  with  Mr.  Perry 
was,  of  course,  the  beginning  of  it  all  ;  but 
still  your  misfortunes  might  have  been  ended 
there  but  for  my  meddling.  But  for  me  you 
mio;ht  have  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  the 
Canon,  and  at  least  prevented  matters  from 
going  from  bad  to  worse.' 

'  No,  Jeannette  ;  no,'  put  in  her  mistress, 
mournfully  ;  'I  had  not  the  courage  for  it  ; 
anything  seemed  easier  to  me  than  to  tell  the 
truth.' 

VOL.    III.  s 


258  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  You  were  hesitating  about  it,  Miss  Sophy, 
at  all  events,  and  I  threw  all  the  weight  I  had 
with  you  into  the  wrong  scale.  I  did  not  know 
it  was  the  wrong  one,  but  I  ought  to  have 
done,  had  not  my  eyes  been  blinded  by  the 
glitter  of  gold.  Miss  Sophy,  I  was  bribed 
by  Mr.  Adair  to  help  him.' 

'  Bribed  !     Oh,  Jeannette ! ' 

*  Yes,  Miss  Sophy,  well  you  may  look  at 
me  like  that ;  only  don't  suppose  that  I  was 
betraying  you.  I  have  thought  the  matter 
over  a  hundred  times  since  then,  and  though 
I  take  blame  and  shame  to  myself,  it  was  not 
so  bad  as  that.  I  never  put  wrong  into  your 
head,  but  I  was  enticed  by  Mr.  Adair's  money 
to  encourage  you  in  what  was  not  right.  You 
were  always  a  liberal  mistress  to  me  ;  Heaven 
knows  I  had  not  the  excuse  of  want  ;  but 
Mr.  Adair  was  very  free-handed,  and  thinking 
it  was  generosity  and  not  self-interest  (as,  of 
course,  it  was),  I  endeavoured  to  persuade 
myself  that  such  a  man  could  never  make  a 
bad  husband  ;  what  I  was  more  certain  of, 


THE  FLIGHT.  259 

liowever,  was  that  lie  would  make  a  lavish 
master.  Xor  in  the  last  (though  generosity 
had  even  less  to  do  with  it  than  before)  was  I 
mistaken.  And  here,  dear,  dear  Miss  Sophy, 
lies  the  bitterest  shame  of  all.  I  took  his 
money  for  years  for  seeming  to  be  on  his  side 
against  your  dear  self  and  little  Willie.  There 
was  some  excuse  even  for  that,  for  in  deceiving 
him  I  was  enabled  to  remain  your  friend.  But 
when  the  sums  he  gave  me — at  the  very  time 
he  was  telling  you  he  had  no  money — became 
larger  and  larger,  my  heart  sank  within  me 
to  think  what  villainy  I  might  in  his  eyes  be 
abetting.' 

'  I  don't  understand,  Jeannette,'  said 
Sophy,  pitifully.  '  Perhaps  it  is  only  just 
that  I,  who  have  deceived  others  so  dear  and 
near  to  me,  should  have  been  myself  deceived. 
"What  could  he  do,  as  you  say,  against  us 
more  than  what  I  know  he  did  ? ' 

'  Don't  ask,  Miss  Sophy  ;  I  beseech  you, 
don't  ask.     It  was  not  what  he  did,  but  what 

s  2 


26o  THE   CANON'S    WARD, 

lie  tried  to  do  ;  and  as  I  knew,  in  my  heart  of 
hearts,  he  gave  me  the  money  to  hold  my 
tongfue  about  it.  It  was  bad  enouo^h  to  take 
what  dear  Miss  Aldred  gave  me  when  you 
married,  "as  a  remembrance  of  my  faithful 
service  under  her  roof" — mine,  who  had 
thrown  dust  in  her  eyes  from  the  very  first, 
and  at  last  sold  her  darling  to  a  scoundrel  ; 
but  to  take  blood  money ! ' 

'  Blood  money !  '  echoed  Sophy,  aghast 
with  horror. 

'  Well,  it  was  almost  as  bad,  though  I 
didn't  know  how  bad  ;  and  when  I  took  it  I 
had  no  other  idea  in  my  mind.  Heaven  knows, 
than  to  thwart  and  hinder  him.  And  I  did 
stand  between  him  and  the  little  darling,  dear 
Miss  Sophy,  and  would  have  laid  down  my 
life  sooner  than  have  let  him  injure  a  hair  of 
her  sweet  head.  Thank  Heaven!  you  never 
knew  of  it,  and  I  do  beg  of  you  not  to  seek  to 
know,  at  least  from  my  lips.  Mrs.  Irton,  who 
knows  all,  will  tell  you,  perhaps,  some  day ; 


THE  FLIGHT.  261 

slie  does  not  think  that  I  was  so  mucli  to 
blame.  And  you  have  been  yourself  in  straits, 
Miss  Sophy,  when  it  was  difficult  to  know 
what  was  right.' 

'  Indeed,  indeed,  I  have,  Jeannette,'  j)ut  in 
her  mistress.  '  I  have  no  right  to  cast  a  stone 
at  any  human  being  for  acting  crookedly.  I 
am  sure  you  meant  well  (w^hich  I  did  not)  ; 
and  if  you  stood  between  my  child  and  harm, 
I  am  yonr  debtor  for  ever.' 

'  Oh,  no !  no !  Nothing  that  I  can  do. 
Miss  Sophy,  can  ever  make  things  that  way,' 
said  Jeannette,  vehemently.  '  But  if— out  of 
the  thought  of  happier  times,  and  the  knowledge 
that  I  have  loved  you  and  yours  from  first  to 
last,  and  because  you  see  a  miserable  creature 
on  her  knees  before  you — you  can  forgive 
me ' 

'  Hush !  hush !  you  must  not  kneel  to  me,' 
interrupted  Sophy,  greatly  agitated.  '  If  I 
have  anything  to  forgive  you,  of  course  it  is 
forgiven.' 


262  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

^  I  thank  you  for  that  blessed  word,  Miss 
Sophy,'  cried  the  sobbing  girL  '  I  draw  my 
breath  for  the  first  time  freely  for  the  last  live 
years.  While  life  is  in  me,  I  will  do  my  best 
to  repair  the  misery  I  have  brought  upon  you; 
I  will  work  for  you  and  little  Willie  as  no 
woman  ever  worked  before.' 

'  You  dear,  faithful  creature ! '  said  Sophy, 
tenderly.  '  At  present  our  fortune  is  in  the 
clouds,  through  which,  however,  let  us  hope 
some  streak  of  sunshine  may  presently  find 
its  way.  But  you  have  not  yet  told  me  what 
you  promised  :  how  is  it  we  are  lodged  in  this 
pretty  place?  Who  has  made  these  arrange- 
ments for  our  comfort?  How  did  we  get  here 
with  sueh  ease  and  safety?  AVho  but  Henny 
could  have  done  it  ?  ' 

'  Mrs.  Irton  could  have  done  it,  Miss 
Sophy,  no  doubt,'  returned  Jeannette,  gently; 
'  but  it  was  so  all -important  you  see,  that 
neither  she  nor  her  husband  should  know 
anythmg  about  your  whereabouts  when  Mr. 


THE  FLIGHT.  263 

Adair  makes  his  inquiries  of  them,  as  he  is 
sure  to  do.' 

Sophy  cast  an  involuntary  glance  at  her 
sleeping  child,  and  shuddered. 

'  I  see,  of  course,  the  absolute  necessity  of 
that,'  she  said  ;  '  but  things  do  not  happen 
in  this  world  according  to  our  necessities.  If 
Henny  has  not  been  our  guardian  angel  in 
this  matter,  who  can  it  have  been  ?  Who  is 
good  Mrs.  Johnson  ?  ' 

'  There  is  no  guardian- angelship  and  no 
sort  of  goodness  about  her,'  returned  the 
waiting- maid,  vehemently.  '  All  that  you 
see  here  are  the  mere  proceeds  of  her  wages 
of  iniquity.  But  such  as  she  is,  she  is  Jenny 
Perkins.' 


264  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 


CHAPTER  L. 

THE  CONFEDERATES. 

Whex  he  once  found  himself  abroad  and  out 
of  the  reach  of  immediate  danger,  Irton  had 
said  of  John  Adair  that  he  would  hold  up 
his  head  and  be  himself  aoain.  Nor  did  it 
require  the  air  of  the  Continent  to  revive  him. 
Miserable  as  was  his  aspect  as  he  slunk  away 
from  Bedford  Row,  he  seemed,  like  Antaeus, 
to  gather  strength  and  confidence  with  every 
footfall.  He  had  been  in  a  good  many  ugly 
holes,  it  was  true  ;  and,  what  was  worse, 
Irton  was  aware,  it  seemed,  that  he  had  been 
on  the  brink  of  one  which,  as  compared  with 
the  rest,  was  as  the  Bottomless  Pit  itself. 
He  had  suffered  a  terrible  penalty  for  having 


THE   CONFEDERATES.  265 

been  so  near  it,  the  thought  of  which  had 
utterly  quenched  his  spirit  ;  but,  on  recon- 
sideration, he  now  felt  assured  that  there  was 
no  intention  on  the  lawyer's  part  to  pursue 
that  matter  to  the  bitter  end.  This  might 
arise,  as  Irton  had  said,  from  an  unwilling- 
ness to  disgrace  those  belonging  to  him,  or 
from  the  difficulty  of  establishing  the  charge  ; 
and,  if  the  latter,  the  sooner  he  left  England, 
and  the  longer  he  kept  away,  the  less  likely 
it  was  to  be  brought  home  to  him.  Who 
the  witness  of  his  attempted  crime  could  be, 
Adair  could  make  no  guess.  Perhaps  there 
had  been  no  witness  ;  though  the  suspicion 
against  him  must  have  been  strong  indeed  to 
have  induced  the  invention  of  such  testimony. 
But  it  was  evidently  resolved  by  his  enemies 
(as  he  termed  those  whom  he  had  wronged 
and  ruined)  that  he  should  either  fly  the 
country  or  make  acquaintance  with  the  dock 
of  a  criminal  court  ;  and  there  was  no  hesita- 
tion on  his   part  which  to  choose.     He  had 


266  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

already  been  contemplating  flight  on  other 
grounds  ;  and  should  he  be  arrested,  no 
matter  on  what  charge,  his  seizure  would  be 
the  signal  for  half  a  dozen  other  prosecutions. 
He  had  long  been  prescient  of  this  evil  day, 
which  nothing  but  the  success  of  the  San 
Sobrano  scheme  (which  had  come  to  the 
ground  with  a  crash  that  could  not  be  stifled) 
could  have  staved  off,  and  had  made  his 
arrangements  accordingly. 

As  even  a  small  income  can  be  made  to 
go  a  good  way  if  we  are  deaf  to  the  claims 
of  others,  and  spend  every  penny  of  it  upon 
ourselves,  so  even  among  the  ruins  of  failure 
there  is  money  to  be  picked  up  by  the  unscru- 
pulous ;  and  Adair,  as  the  lawyer  had  fore- 
seen, had  feathered  his  nest  pretty  completely, 
or,  in  other  words  had  laid  his  hands  upon 
everything  that  could  be  realised  and  turned 
it  into  portable  property.  Whenever  he 
touched  that  breast-pocket  of  his,  he  ex- 
perienced   a    pleasurable    glow    which    with 


THE   CONFEDERATES.  267 

some  people  is  the  substitute  for  all  generous 
emotions — the  consciousness  of  the  posses- 
sion of  capital.  For  all  that  had  come  and 
gone,  he  still  had  a  complacent  confidence 
in  his  own  natural  abilities.  Backed  by  the 
experience  of  the  last  five  years — which, 
though  acquired  at  great  cost,  had  neverthe- 
less been  paid  for  by  other  people's  money — 
he  felt  himself  capable  of  great  commercial 
enterprises.  These,  however,  would  be  of  a 
diiferent  kind  from  those  with  which  he  had 
hitherto  been  connected,  and  which  had  failed 
(as  he  persuaded  himself)  by  the  pusillan- 
imity and  want  of  enterprise  of  others.  His 
own  hand  and  brain  should  for  the  future 
direct  them  ;  and,  in  particular,  he  would 
take  care  to  separate  himself  completely  from 
these  coadjutors,  or  rather  confederates,  with 
whom  perforce  he  had  of  late  consorted.  He 
would  put  them  to  one  more  use,  and  then 
have  done  with  them. 

It  was  in  company  with  one  of  these — 


268  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

the  man  Dawson — that  he  was  about  to  leave 
England  that  very  evening ;  and  by  hhn  all 
arrangements  had  been  made  for  that  pm^- 
pose.  Dawson  was  not  only  aware  that 
Sophy  and  the  child  were  going  with  Adair, 
but  had  suggested  their  doing  so.  He  knew 
all  their  circumstances,  and  had  pointed  out 
how  important  it  Avas  to  his  future  prospects 
(in  which  Mr.  Dawson  flattered  himself  he 
would  have  some  share)  that  he  should  keep 
his  wife  and  his  daughter  (whom  he  playfully 
termed  the  goose  and  the  gosling  with  the 
golden  eggs)  under  his  own  eye. 

'  If  you  once  leave  your  wife,'  he  naively 
said,  '  her  own  people  will  get  round  her,  and 
you  will  find  it  difficult  to  reopen  relations 
with  her  ;  '  and  as  her  income  was  paid  into 
her  own  hands,  this  would  be  obviously  in- 
convenient. 

There  were  certain  circumstances  which 
rendered  it  injudicious  for  Adair  to  be  seen 
travellmg  in  a  railway  carriage  in  the  direc- 


THE   CONFEDERATES.  269 

tion  of  the  sea-coast  ;  while  for  Mr.  Dawson 
such  a  step  would  have  been  still  more  haz- 
ardous. It  had  therefore  been  settled  that 
Mrs.  Adair  and  the  child  should  journey  to 
Gravesend  alone,  while  her  husband  and  his 
confederate  were  to  drop  down  the  river  at 
night  and  join  them  in  the  morning.  A  boat, 
manned  by  a  crew  Avhom  they  could  trust 
(i.e.  who  were  well  paid  for  the  job),  was  to 
await  them  at  midnight  by  the  stairs  at  the 
bottom  of  Miller  Street,  where  Dawson  had 
some  place  of  business.  The  two  men,  though 
united  by  the  band  of  common  interest,  were 
far  from  being  on  good  terms  :  their  natares 
were  antipathetic.  Dawson  was  a  coarse  and 
brutal  ruffian,  whose  society  could  not  but 
revolt  a  man  of  education,  however  morally 
degraded;  he  enjoyed  himself  after  his  fashion, 
which  Adair  never  did  ;  but  he  was  not  a 
whit  less  suspicious  and  cunning.  It  had 
been  agreed  that  they  were  to  meet  together 
at  a  water-side  tavern  in  the  East  of  London 


270  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

that  afternoon,  to  make  their  final  arrange- 
ments, and  thither  Adah'  now  bent  his 
steps. 

The  rendezvous  itself  was  characteristic 
enough  of  one  of  the  two  men  ;  a  rickety 
erection  with  beetle  brows  (like  a  villainous 
low  forehead),  its  wooden  walls  bulging  on 
the  river  and  overhanging,  at  low  tide,  mud 
and  slime  ;  the  haunt  of  profligate  and  noisy 
sailors.  Adair,  who  though  unscrupulous, 
was  fastidious  in  his  way,  surveyed  the  place, 
which  he  had  never  entered  before,  with  a 
shudder  of  disgust.  As  he  walked  down  the 
narrow  lane  of  which  it  formed  the  termina- 
tion, his  heart  was  full  of  bitterness.  The 
old  houses  almost  meeting  over  his  head  as 
they  leant  forward  in  age  and  weakness,  made 
a  shadow  above  him,  which,  though  there 
was  no  other  point  of  likeness.  Heaven  knows, 
suddenly  reminded  him  of  the  lime  walk  at 
Trmit}'.  Six  years  ago  he  had  trodden  it  in 
cap  and  gown  ;  a  man  of  mark  and  promise, 


THE   CONFEDERATES.  271 

with  a  future  before  him,  and  now  he  had 
become  the  companion  of  thieves.  Without 
one  pang  of  remorse,  he  felt  an  excessive 
repugnance  to  the  thing  he  had  become  ;  a 
pent-up  fury  raged  within  him  against  cir- 
cumstance, fate,  whatever  it  was  that  had 
brought  him  to  such  a  pass.  It  was  not  his 
own  fault,  of  course  ;  the  knave  out  of  luck 
is  seldom  aware  that  he  has  chosen  the  very 
worst  profession  in  the  world  \  he  only  knows 
that  he  is  '  cursed  unfortunate.'  What  most 
excited  his  wrath  was  the  fact  that  his  own 
flesh  and  blood  had  deserted  him,  though 
they  had  in  fact  only  escaped  him.  Next  to 
them,  he  loathed  the  man  to  whom  it  had 
become  necessary  to  disclose  that  humiliating 
circumstance. 

He  found  Dawson  awaiting  him  in  a 
bow-windowed  room  looking  on  the  river, 
smoking  a  pipe,  and  drinking  hot  brandy- 
and-water. 

^  Punctual,    as  usual,    Master   Jack,'  was 


272  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

his  familiar  address.  '  That's  well  ;  sit  down 
and  have  a  glass.' 

^  No  ;  I  have  neither  time  nor  taste  for 
drmking.  Matters  are  getting  hot  for  us, 
Dawson.  For  my  part,  I  wish  we  were 
well  off.' 

'  It  is  always  safer — which  means  quicker 
— to  wait  for  night,  when  it  comes  to  run- 
ning. Besides,  the  men  have  their  orders,  and 
could  not  be  got  together  all  in  a  moment. 
What  has  happened  to  frighten  you  ?  ' 

'  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  there  are 
people  looking  for  me  at  home.' 

'  Indeed ! '  said  the  other,  laying  down  his 
pipe  and  dropping  his  careless  manner.  '  I 
hope  you  have  got  your  women  folk  well 
away.' 

'  They  are  not  coming,'  said  Adair,  sul- 
lenly ;  '  they  have  fled  the  house,  and  I  don't 
know  where  they  have  gone.' 

'  Come,  come,  Mr.  Adair !  '  exclaimed  his 
companion,  menacingly  ;    '  this    will  not   do. 


THE  CONFEDERATES.  273 

Miles  Dawson  is  not  the  man  to  be  made  a 
cat  spa  w  of.' 

'  I  tell  you  I  know  no  more  than  you  do 
where  my  wife  has  gone.  I  wish  I  did  know. 
It's  more  my  loss  than  yours,  I  suppose.' 

'  If  it  is  your  loss  ;  but  how  am  I  to  be 
certain  of  that  ?  You  are  not  so  very 
straightforward  that  I  should  take  your  bare 
word  for  it.  We  sink  or  swim  together,  my 
young  friend,  mind  that.  It  is  very  well  for 
you  to  have  a  certain  income  safely  invested 
in  this  country  to  be  drawn  upon  at  your 
convenience  j  but  what's  to  become  of  me  in 
the  meantime,  while  our  schemes  are  ripen- 
ing. While  the  grass  grows  the  steed  starves  ; 
and  I  am  not  the  sort  of  animal  that  takes  to 
starving  kindly.' 

'  I  have  money  enough  for  both  of  us  for 
a  month  or  two,'  said  Adair,  with  a  flush  on 
his  face. 

'  Oh,  you  have,  have  you  ?  '  sneered  the 
other  ;  '  in   spite  of  its  being  so  deuced  diffi- 

VOL.    III.  T 


274  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

cult  to  raise  a  few  pounds  ?  Well,  if  I  don't 
see  my  way  to  a  thousand  pound  dow^n,  I 
don't  start  to-night,  Mr.  Adair.' 

'  A  thousand  pounds !  I  wouldn't  give 
you  a  thousand  pence  to  save  your  neck  from 
the  hangman.' 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  observation  for  one 
gentleman  to  m.ake  to  another  supposed  to  be 
in  his  confidence  ;  moreover,  it  was  accom- 
panied by  a  tone  and  manner  so  obviously 
genuine  that  to  explain  it  away  in  any  ^  par- 
liamentary sense '  was  out  of  the  question. 

For  an  instant  a  very  ugly  look  indeed 
crossed  Mr.  Dawson's  face,  which,  when  the 
coarse  honhom.ie  was  out  of  it,  was  always 
far  from  prepossessing,  but  the  next  moment 
he  burst  out  laughing. 

'  Upon  my  life,  Adair,'  he  said,  '  for  a 
keen,  clever  fellow,  I  never  saw  one  so  slow 
to  take  a  joke  as  you  are.  Yoa  need  hardly 
have  flown  out  so,  even  if  an  old  pal  like  me 
had  asked  for  the  money  in  earnest,  whereas 
I  asked  you  for  nothing  of  the  kind.     I  said 


THE   CONFEDERATES,  275 

I  should  like  to  see  it ;  since  without  the 
sinews  of  war  it  would  be  useless  to  be2:in 
our  campaign  at  all,  and  we  might  just  as 
well  stop  where  we  are  and  take  our  chance.' 

For  an  instant  Adair  seemed  to  hesitate, 
then  he  threw  open  his  coat  and  pulled  out 
his  bundle  of  bank-notes. 

'  There  is  a  thousand  pounds  there,  and 
more,'  he  exclaimed,  sullenly.  '  Xow,  look 
here,  I'm  safe  till-to-morrow  ;  but  don't  let's 
have  any  more  cursed  nonsense  about  not 
going  to-night.' 

'  Certainly  not,'  returned  the  other,  quietly. 
'  Only  there  is  nothing  like  being  frank  and 
above-board  with  friends.' 

If  this  moral  axiom  was  meant  as  an 
encouragement  to  his  companion  to  go  into 
figures,  it  failed  of  its  intent,  for  Adair  rolled 
up  the  notes  again,  and  placed  them  in  his 
breast  pocket. 

'  At  midnight,  then,  at  Miller  Street  stairs, 
the  boat  will  be  waiting  ? ' 


276  THE  CANON'S    WARD, 

'As  sure  as  death,  or  at  least  clockwork/ 
was  tlie  dry  rejoinder.  '  As  you  can't  go 
home,  it  seems,  why  shouldn't  we  pass  the 
time  together?' 

'  No,  I  have  something  to  do,'  said  Adair, 
taking  up  his  hat. 

'  Well,  don't  be  late ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  won't  do  to  be  much  too  early.  To 
be  hanging  about  the  stairs  before  the  boat 
arrives  will  excite  suspicion.'  With  that  curt, 
sidelong  nod  which  is  the  sign  of  adieu  be- 
tween familiars  who  are  not  friends,  the  two 
parted.  Hardly  had  the  door  closed  behind 
Adair,  when  Dawson  stamped  twice  upon  the 
floor,  a  signal  which  was  promptly  answered 
by  the  younger  of  the  two  men  who  had  been 
passengers  in  the  tram  with  Robert  Aldred. 

'  Quick,  follow  that  fellow,  and  tell  me 
where  he  goes  to.' 

Within  five  minutes  the  emissary  returned, 
with  a  long  face. 

'  Fool !  has  he  given  you  the  slip?' 


THE  CONFEDERATES.  277 

'  It  is  not  that  ;  there's  some  one  after 
him  already.' 

*  Ten  thousand  devils  !  not  one  of  our 
people,  surely  ? ' 

'  No  such  luck,  it's  a  detective.  I've  seen 
his  face  in  Scotland-yard,  and,  what's  more  to 
the  purpose,  he's  seen  mine.' 

'  You  white-livered  hound  !  No  matter, 
that  will  do.' 

Left  to  himself,  Dawson  fell  a  musing. 
'He's  safe  for  to-night,  is  he?  That  means 
that  they  are  conniving  at  his  flight ;  for 
Madam's  sake  they  will  not  arrest  him.  A 
virtuous  woman  is  a  crown  to  her  husband. 
A  thousand  pounds?  He  had  five  thousand 
pounds  about  him  if  he  had  a  penny.  I 
caught  the  figure  on  the  inside  note  ;  they 
were  hundred-pounders.' 

It  was  not  easy  to  find  a  cab  in  those  water- 
side regions  ;  but,  when  he  had  done  so,  Adair 
drove  to  an  hotel  in  Covent  Garden — the  same 
he  had  put  up  at  when  he  had  come  up  from 


278  THE   CANON'S   WARD. 

Cambridge  to  make  that  little  investigation  at 
St.  Anne's — and  secured  a  private  sitting- 
room.  A  bedroom  he  did  not  need,  and  to 
sit  in  the  coffee -room  among  strangers  would 
have  been  intolerable.  He  had  in  reality 
nothing  to  do,  for  his  arrangements  for  de- 
parture were  complete  ;  but  a  sense  of  danger 
— marvellously  increased  by  the  little  fortune 
he  carried  with  him — warned  him  to  lie  close, 
as  it  had  disinclined  him  for  his  late  com- 
panion's society.  The  time  lagged  on  his 
hands  like  lead  ;  there  were  two  books  upon 
the  table,  and,  though  he  had  never  taken  any 
pleasure  in  reading,  he  carelessly  took  up  one 
of  them.  It  chanced  to  be  a  Cambridge 
Calendar,  left,  no  doubt,  by  some  under- 
graduate who  used  the  house.  He  turned  to 
his  own  name,  second  on  the  list  of  Wrang- 
lers. The  sight  of  it  was  wormwood  to  him. 
What  chances  he  had  flung  away  ;  from  how 
high  a  promise  he  had  fallen,  and  to  what  a 
depth  !    He  threw  the  book  away  with  a  curse, 


THE  CONFEDERATES.  279 

and  took  up  the  other.  It  was  a  Post  Office 
Directory.  He  turned  to  his  own  address  in 
Albany  Street,  and  in  the  City.  In  the  next 
edition,  he  bitterly  reflected,  they  would  not 
be  there — nor  anywhere.  It  was  doubtful 
whether  he  would  ever  dare  to  set  foot  in  Eng- 
land again  ;  yet  if  Sophy  and  her  child  would 
not  obey  his  orders,  and  come  out  to  him,  he 
would  dare  ;  and  then  so  much  the  worse  for 
them.  As  he  idly  turned  over  the  leaves  he 
read  a  page  of  '  trades  ;  •  then,  half  closing  the 
book,  repeated  the  names  in  their  order,  with 
only  two  mistakes.  He  read  it  again,  and  this 
time  accomplished  the  feat  without  an  error. 
What  an  amazing  memory  he  possessed,  what 
grasp  of  mind,  and  talent  for  detail  !  It  was 
impossible,  with  the  funds  he  had  to  start 
with,  that  he  should  fail  a  second  time  in 
utilising  such  gifts. 

He  dmed,  or  rather  supped,  at  a  late  hour, 
and  at  a  little  before  eleven  started  for  the 
rendezvous.       Bearing  in  mind  the  warning 


28o  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

Dawson  had  given  him  against  being  too 
early,  he  went  on  foot,  notwithstanding  that 
it  was  raining  heavily.  There  was  also  a 
strong  wind  blowing.  This  reminded  him  of 
the  night  when  he  dogged  the  footsteps  of 
Herbert  Parry  when  they  came  away  from 
the  ball. 

There  was  another  point  of  resemblance  of 
which  he  was  unaware  ;  his  own  footste^^s 
were  being  dogged,  and  with  much  greater 
cunning  ;  he  had  been  but  an  amateur  detec- 
tive, and  this  was  a  professional.  Along  the 
Strand  and  Fleet  Street,  and  then  into  the 
narrow  thoroughfares  by  the  river- side,  this 
man  pursued  him — save  that  he  always  kept 
upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  way — like  his 
own  shadow.  At  the  corner  of  Miller  Street 
Adair  stopped  and  took  out  his  watch.  It 
wanted  but  five  minutes  to  midnight.  Then 
he  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  and  made 
rapidly  for  the  ri\er.  His  pursuer,  seeing 
him   pause,  had   slunk  into  a  gateway,  and. 


THE  CONFEDERATES.  281 

taken  unawares  by  his  rapid  movement,  was 
thrown   more  behind  him  than  he  had  been 
heretofore.      When  he  also   turned   into   the 
street,  which  was  of  no  great  length,  Adair 
had  almost  reached  the  bottom  of  it,  when  he 
suddenly  lost   sight  of  him.      The   detective 
hastened  his  steps,  and  quickly   reached  the 
very  spot,  as  he  imagined,  where    Adair  had 
disappeared.     It  was  a  large  warehouse,  with 
a  huge  crane  depending  from  it,  and  its  huge 
doors  were  closed.     It  was  impossible,  he  felt, 
that  they  could  have  been  opened  and  shut 
within  so  short  a  time.       Yet  the  man  was 
gone.     The  detective  placed  a  whistle  to  his 
lips  and  gave  a  shrill  signal,  twice  repeated. 
Withm  three  minutes  there  were  two  police- 
men, with  their  bull's-eyes,  assisting  him  in 
his  search.     He  told  them  hurriedly  what  had 
happened,  and  one  of  them  ran  on  to  the  river 
brink.  As  he  reached  it,  a  light  boat,  with  six 
men  in  her,  four  of  them  rowing,  and  two  in 
the  stern,  shot  out  from  under  the  stairs. 


282  772^^   CANON'S    WARD. 

'He  has  got  away,  sir/  said  the  policeman, 
running  back  to  make  his  report,  '  in  a  ship's 
gig  down  the  river.' 

'  I  don't  believe  it,'  said  the  detective. 
'  He  never  moved  a  yard  beyond  this  spot,' 
and  he  struck  his  foot  upon  the  ground.  The 
sound  it  gave  was  dull  and  hollow.  They 
were  standing  on  a  cellar  trap. 


^83 


CHAPTER  LI. 


WILLIE  S  WILL. 


Weeks  elapsed  before  the  secluded  home 
which  Jeannette  had  found  for  her  mistress 
received  any  visitor.  Security  from  the  pur- 
suit of  her  husband  was  the  one  aspiration  of 
her  soul,  and  while  that  remained  in  doubt 
she  was  unable  to  enjoy  the  full  fruition  of 
her  freedom.  The  quiet  of  the  place  and  its 
environments,  the  scents  and  sounds  of  spring, 
the  marked  improvement  which  the  change 
had  already  effected  in  little  Willie,  filled  her 
with  joy  and  thankfulness ;  but  from  this  new- 
found happiness,  the  sense  of  its  transient 
character — the  possibility  of  some  misfortune 
befalHng  her  worse  than  all  that  she  had  hereto- 


284  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

fore  endured — was    never  absent.     Jeannette 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  speak  further  of  the 
peril  which  had  hung  over  little  Willie  ;  but 
although   her    ignorance  of   business    affairs 
prevented    her  from    understanding  how  her 
darling's    death    could    have    benefited    any 
human  creature,   Sophy  knew  that  her  child 
had  been  in  danger,  and  from  the  hands  that 
nature  itself  should  have  taught  to  defend  her. 
Under  these  circumstances,  and  looking  to 
the  fact  that  while  Irton  and  his  wife  could 
conscientiously  aver  that  they  were  unaware 
of  her   place  of  concealment,    her    husband, 
even  with  the  law  to  back  him,  could  scarcely 
discover  her,  she  enjoined  upon  Jeannette  an 
absolute  silence.      The  two  women  and  the 
child  were  as  absolutely  cut  off  from   those 
who  had  an  interest  in  them — kindly  or  other- 
wise— as  though  they  were  in  '  some  summer 
isle  of  Eden,  where  never   comes  the  trader 
nor  floats  the  European  flag.'     Eor  utter  iso- 
lation    there  is   nothing,    indeed,    like    your 


WILLIE'S    WILL.  285 

London  suburb  ;  wliere  gentility  reigns 
supreme,  and  into  which  not  even  the  criers 
of  the  'latest  intelligence'  think  it  worth  their 
while  to  penetrate.  These  voluntary  exiles 
knew  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  in  the 
world,  and  their  dearest  hope  was  that  that 
ignorance  should  be  reciprocal. 

Everything,  however — including  murder 
— comes  out  at  last,  and  Mrs.  Johnson,  under 
which  name  Jeannette  continued  to  conceal 
her  identity,  received  one  morning  a  startling 
piece  of  intelligence  through  the  butterman. 
He  did  not  tell  it  her  with  his  lips — the  news 
was  too  stale  for  that — but  brought  it  by 
accident,  in  print,  wrapped  round  a  parcel  of 
the  '  best  Dorset.'  It  is  a  method  by  which 
imaginative  literature,  alas  !  is  often  con- 
veyed ;  but  this  was  a  matter  of  fact.  There 
had  been  a  time  when  Jeannette  would  have 
gone  straight  to  her  mistress  and  discoursed 
of  the  sensational  incident  with  infinite  gusto  : 
but  the  poor  waiting-maid  had  lost  her  nerve ; 


286  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

she  had  no  longer  any  confidence  in  her  own 
judgment ;  and  so  far  from  rejoicing,  as  of 
yore,  in  handling  the  ribbons  of  an  intrigue, 
could  hardly  drive  a  gig  as  a  free  agent.  She 
did,  however,  take  certain  steps,  the  result  of 
which  was  that  two  ladies — the  elder  in  deep 
mourning,  the  younger  in  that  attire  which 
the  milliners  describe  as  one  of  ^  mitigated 
grief,'  presented  themselves  the  next  morning 
at  the  cottage.  At  the  sight  of  the  former, 
Sophy  uttered  a  piteous  cry,  and  ran  into  her 
stretched- out  arms. 

'  My  darling  !  '  murmured  Aunt  Maria 
(for  she  it  was);  'welcome,  welcome  to  the 
old  haven  !  ' 

'  ISTo,  no  !  not  that,'  sobbed  Sophy  ;  '  I 
have  no  right  to  it.' 

And,  indeed,  though  the  well-springs  of 
love  and  gratitude  were  at  the  full  with  her, 
she  had  sought  the  refuge  in  question  only  to 
hide  her  face  in  shame  and  sorrow. 

'  That  is  not  your  Aunt  Maria's  view,'  said 


WILLIE'S    WILL.  287 

Henny,  coming  to  tlie  assistance  of  them 
both — for,  in  truth,  it  was  needed — Hhough 
she  and  I  have  certainly  a  bone  to  pick  with 
you,  dear,  for  having  hidden  away  fi'om  us  for 
so  long.  We  knew,  of  course,  since  Jeannette 
was  in  charge  of  you,  that  you  must  needs  be 
safe.' 

'  No,  no,  no ! '  interrupted  Sophy,  in 
affrighted  tones  ;  '  not  safe ;  that  is  what 
embitters  every  moment  to  me.  As  for  me, 
I  do  not  deserve  to  be  safe  from  him,  but  I 
tremble  for  my  innocent  child.' 

The  two  visitors  exchanged  significant 
glances. 

^  Dismiss  that  fear  from  your  mind,  dear 
girl,'  said  Aunt  Maria,  assuringly  ;  '  there  are 
none  but  friends  about  you  now,  nor  will 
there  ever  be.' 

Sophy  shook  her  head. 

'  How  did  you  find  me  out?  '  she  answered, 
vehemently.  '  He  can  do  as  you  did  ;  he  is 
cunning  and  very  patient  in  evil-doing.    Once, 


288  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

when  I  was  quite  a  cliild,  I  lived  in  tlie 
country  ;  I  saw  a  poor  tired  hare  running 
through  a  wood,  and  many  minutes  afterwards 
a  slim,  cruel  stoat  following  on  its  track. 
That  is  how  it  will  be  with  us.  Sooner  or 
later,  poor  little  Willie  and  I  will  be  overtaken 
and  devoured.' 

'  But  I  tell  you,  dear  Sophy,  it  will  not  be 
so,'  urged  Henny,  confidently.  '  Do  you 
think  that  I  would  deceive  you  in  a  thing  like 
that,  or  speak  so  positively  if  I  was  not  quite 
sure  ?  ' 

'  No,  Henny,  I  don't  think  that ;  you 
believe  in  what  your  husband  has  told  you. 
He  has  found  out,  perhaps,  that  the  law  is 
upon  our  side  ;  and  so  it  may  be.  But  he 
doesn't  know  the  man  he  has  to  deal  with  : 
what  is  law  to  Mm  ?  He  does  not  even  fear 
God  Himself.  A  man  without  natural  affec- 
tion, and  without  mercy.' 

'  Hush,  hush ! '  said  Henny,  imploringly. 
Again  the  two  women  looked  at  one  another  ; 


WILLIE'S    WILL.  289 

they  had  agreed  together,  it  seemed,  upon 
some  course  of  action,  but  were  now  doubtful 
as  to  its  advisability. 

'  Had  we  not  better  tell  her?  '  whispered 
Henny,  over  the  still  bowed  head.  But  ere 
Aunt  Maria  could  nod  assent  Sophy  had 
started  from  her  embrace  with  an  affriofhted 
cry. 

'  Hark  !  hark ! '  she  cried.  '  A  man's  voice 
in  Willie's  room  ;  he  has  found  us  out,  and 
has  come  to  murder  her.' 

Before  either  of  her  companions  could  put 
out  a  hand  to  restrain  her  she  had  rushed 
from  the  room  to  the  upper  floor.  The  others 
followed  as  quickly  as  they  could.  Sophy's 
ears  had  not  deceived  her  ;  there  iva^  a  man 
in  the  room  above,  where  the  child  lay,  sitting 
by  the  side  of  the  child  with  a  huge  picture- 
book  in  his  hand,  which  she  was  regarding 
attentively.  An  old  man  in  deep  mourning, 
but  with  a  face  of  quiet  content  and  exquisite 
tenderness.       Little     Willie     and     he    were 

VOL.    III.  u 


290  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

obviously  on  the  best  of  terms,  and  she  was 
prattHng  away  in  the  most  confidential  and 
heartless  manner.  For  once  the  mother's  face 
did  not  turn  first  to  her  darling  ;  she  flung 
herself  at  the  new  comer's  knees  and  burst 
into  tears. 

The  Canon  caressed  her  in  silence  for  some 
moments.  He  had  no  great  confidence  just 
then  in  his  own  j^owers  of  speech,  and  when 
he  used  them  was  careful  to  avoid  too  pro- 
nounced a  tone  of  tenderness. 

'  You  mustn't  give  way  like  that,  my  dear 
Sophy,'  he  said,  reprovingly.  '  We  shall  have 
the  Court  of  Chancery  down  upon  us  for 
frightening  the  Settiky  Trust.' 

And  indeed  that  important  little  personage 
looked  amazed  enough  at  her  mother's 
emotion.  '  I  was  told  to  wait  below  till  Aunt 
Maria  had  prepared  you  for  my  visit,'  he  went 
on  ;  '  though  why  I  should  have  become  such 
a  formidable  person  to  you  I'm  sure  I 
can't  tell,  but  I  thought  in  the  meantime  I 


WILLIE'S    WILL.  291 

would    renew    my     acquaintance     with    my 
godchild.' 

Still  Sophy  did  not  speak.  She  had  got 
hold  of  one  of  the  Canon's  hands,  and,  in  spite 
of  his  efforts  to  withdraw  it,  was  kissing  it,  to 
his  intense  embarrassment. 

*  My  dear  Sophy,'  he  went  on,  '  I  am  not 
the  Queen,  nor  yet  the  Pope.  But  if  you  do 
really  attribute  to  me  any  superiority  or 
authority  I  entreat  of  you  to  rise,  and — dear 
me,  I  am  not  used  to  have  ladies  kneeling  to 
me,  but '  (here  was  a  spasmodic  attempt  at  his 
old  smile)  '  quite  the  contrary.  We  have  had 
a  bad  time  all  round  ;  there's  no  doubt  of 
that,  and  of  late  weeks,'  he  added,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  *  the  worst  of  all.' 

'  Good  heavens  !  what  has  happened 
afresh  ? '  cried  Sophy,  starting  to  her  feet. 
'  You  are  in  mourning,  and  Aunt  Maria  is  in 
mourning  too.     It  is  surely  not  dear  Robert  ?  ^ 

*  No,  no  ;  thank  God,  it  is  not  he,'  said 
the  Canon,  earnestly  ;  '  but  we  have  lost  an 


'292     .  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

old  friend — a  friend  who  was  dear  to  all  of  us, 
and  to  whom  you,  Sophy,  were  especially 
dear.' 

Sophy  put  back  her  hair  from  her  eyes,  a 
familiar  gesture,  which  brought  her  back  to 
the  Canon's  mind  more  than  anything  had  yet 
done,  for  she  was  greatly  changed.  The 
expression  of  her  face  was  that  of  bewilder- 
ment. For  the  moment — so  little  of  re- 
ciprocity there  is  sometimes  even  in  devoted 
love — she  was  unable  to  recognise  the  loss  of 
which  he  spoke.  Then  in  a  trembling  voice, 
and  with  a  faint  flush,  she  murmured,  '  It  is 
not,  I  trust,  good  Mr.  Mavors.' 

'  Yes,  he  has  gone  from  this  world  to  a 
better  ;  but  this  world  would  have  been  a  better 
world  to  hiui  if  things  had  turned  out 
differently  as  regards  yourself,  Sophy.  I  was 
blind  to  it,  but  Aunt  Maria  was  not ;  he  sent 
to  her  when  he  was  dying,  and  told  her  all 
about  it.  His  last  words  were  a  blessing 
upon  you  ;    the  dream  of  his  heart  was  that 


WILLIE'S    WILL.  293: 

you  should  escape  your  unhappy  fate  ;    and 
his  prayer  has  been  answered.' 

*Is  my  husband  dead?'  inquired  Sophy, 
in  trembling  tones. 

'  Yes,  don't  ask  about  it  just  yet ;  you 
shall  know  all  in  time.  You  are  no  longer  a 
bond- slave  ;  yes  '  (her  eyes  had  turned  to  little 
Willie  with  yearning  and  thankfulness),  '  and 
your  child  is  safe ;  henceforth  she  will  be 
yours  without  fear.' 

Once  more  Sophy  fell  on  her  knees,  but 
this  time  not  to  the  Canon.  There  are  times 
when  even  to  the  tenderest  hearts  the  loss  of 
our  dear  ones  is  a  source  of  happy  release,  and 
a  cause  for  thankfulness.  A  melancholy 
gratitude,  indeed ;  but  this  was  a  case 
infinitely  more  deplorable — that  of  a  woman 
who  recognised  Heaven's  mercy  in  the  blow 
that  cut  off  her  husband  in  the  midst  of  his 
sins. 

'  And    the    past,'   said    Sophy,   solemnly, 
taking  the  child's  hand  in  hers  ;  '  some  repara- 


294  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

tion  for  even  tlie  past  can  now  be  made.  We 
have  thought  a  good  deal  about  godpapa  and 
how  he  has  been  treated,  have  we  not, 
Willie? ' 

The  Settiky  Trust,  sitting  very  high  up  in 
her  little  bed,  well  propped  by  pillows,  nodded 
adhesion.  '  I  have  left  godpapa  all  my 
money,'  she  said. 

'  Good  heavens !  what  does  the  dear  child 
mean?  '  inquired  the  Canon,  with  a  distressed 
look. 

^  It  is  quite  trae,'  said  Sophy,  gravely  ; 
*my  darling  and  I  are  both  of  one  mind  in 
the  matter.  Her  chief  anxiety,  when  Dr. 
Newton  came  to  see  her,  was  to  know  whether 
she  would  live  to  be  twenty-one,  because  I 
told  her  that  she  would  then  be  able  to  repay 
you  all  that  you  had  been  robbed  of.' 

'  And  if  I  was  to  die  in  the  meantime,'  said 
little  Willie,  '  I  should  like  to  leave  it  to  liim.' 

^  I  don't  suppose  your  good  husband, 
Henny,'   said  Sophy,   smiling,   '  would  think 


WILLIE'S    WILL.  295 

very  imicli  of  the  validity  of  the  will  of  a  child 
of  six  ;  but,  at  all  events,  it  shows  the 
"  intention  of  the  testator."  ' 

With  that  she  produced  from  her  desk  the 
document  in  (juestion,  written  in  a  large  round 
hand. 

^  There  was  no  undue  influence,'  said 
Sophy,  '  though  I  admit  that  I  sometimes 
steadied  her  wrist,  not  that  we  can't  write,' 
she  added,  with  maternal  pride,  '  but  because 
w^e  were  so  very  Aveak  at  the  time.  Indeed,  it 
was  when  we  thought  that  we  should  never 
2:et  well  and  strono;  as^ain  that  we  did  it.' 

The  Canon  sat  with  this  juvenile  testa- 
ment spread  out  before  liim,  as  reverently  as 
though  it  had  been  an  original  MS.  of  Milton. 
The  tw^o  women  stood  looking  over  his 
shoulder  making  pretence  to  read  it,  but  their 
eyes  were  too  full  of  tears. 

'  This  is  the  last  will  and  testament  of  me, 
Wilhelmina  Adair,  spinster,'  it  ran,  in  due 
legal  form,   and  bequeathed   '  all  my  worldly 


296  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

goods,  of  whatever  kind,  to  William  Aldred,, 
my  godpapa.' 

'  And  where  on  earth  did  AVillie  get  all 
this  legal  knowledge  ? '  inquired  the  legatee. 

'  Jeannette  had  a  sixpenny  book  of  general 
utility,'  explained  Sophy,  'among  the  contents 
of  which  was  the  form  of  a  will.  She  and  I 
were  the  witnesses,  but  you  will  please  to 
observe  that  the  signature  is  Willie's  own.' 

'  I  did  that  all  by  myself,'  remarked  the 
testator,  with  complacency  ;  '  mamma  did  not 
guide  my  fingers.' 

'  We  thought  that  might  invalidate  the 
bequest,'  said  Sophy,  smiling. 

'  It  is  worth  a  good  deal  more  than  if  it 
was  valid,'  cried  the  Canon,  enthusiastically. 
'  It  ought  to  be  in  the  College  library  with  the 
"  Paradise  Lost."  ' 

'Unhappily,  however,'  sighed  Sophy,  'it 
is  only  a  proof  of  good  intentions.  When  I 
said  that  some  reparation  even  for  the  past 
was  now  rendered  possible,  I  was  alluding,  my 


WILLIE'S    WILL.  297 

dear  guardian,  to  the  interest  of  the  money 
that  has  been  stolen  from  you  ;  only  a  small 
portion  of  it  will  now  be  necessary  for  our 
needs,  and  the  rest  will,  of  course,  be  paid  you 
as  we  receive  it  ;  but,  as  to  the  principal,  I 
don't  see  how  it  is  ever  to  be  refunded.' 

'  You  may  make  yourself  quite  easy  upon 
that  score,  my  dear  Sophy,'  said  the  Canon, 
with  tender  gravity  ;  '  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,^ 
it  has  been  refunded.' 

'  What  —  what  —  did  the  person  who- 
wronged  you  of  it  repay ' 

Astonishment  and  incredulity  checked 
her  utterance. 

'  Why,  no,  my  dear,'  put  in  the  CanoUy 
drily ;  '  it  was  not  quite  that  way.  The 
money  came  indirectly  from  your  hands.  Our 
friend  Mavors  had,  in  fact,  left  you  a  large 
sum.  His  lawyer  tells  me  it  had  been 
originally  intended  for  the  College,  but  that 
some  time  ago — hearing  that  matters  were 
not  going  prosperously  with  you — he  made  a 


298  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

new  will.  Then  quite  lately  he  saw  Robert, 
and  for  the  first  time  was  made  acquainted 
with  the  matters  in  connection  with  my 
trusteeship — how  the  money  had  to  be  paid 
twice  over,  and  so  forth.' 

'  Good  heavens  !  How  vile  and  base  he 
must  have  thought  me  ! '  groaned  Sophy. 

'  Quite  otherwise,  my  dear  ;  he  esteemed 
you  so  highly  that  he  at  once  understood  the 
sorrow  and  remorse  you  were  suffering,  from 
having  been  made  the  instrument  of  my  ruin. 
He  felt  that  if  he  left  you  this  money  the  first 
use  you  would  put  it  to  would  be  to  repay 
me  ;  but  that  under  the  circumstances  you 
would  not  have  the  power  to  do  so,  that  your 
husband,  in  short,  would  have  prevented  it. 
That  it  would  have  been  like  pouring  water 
into  a  sieve.  He  therefore  bequeathed  the 
15,000/.  that  I  had  advanced  to  you  to  myself, 
taking  care,  however,  to  explain  to  Aunt 
Maria  why  it  was  done.  He  felt  as  sure  as  if 
he  had  consulted  your  own  wishes  that  such 


WILLIE-' S    WILL.  299 

a  disposition  of  his  property  would  be  satis- 
factory to  you.' 

'  Heaven  bless  him ! '  murmured  Sophy, 
gratefully.  '  He  has  lifted  a  burden  from  me 
which  I  should  otherwise  have  carried  to  my 
grave.' 

'  That  was  the  very  feeling  for  which  he 
gave  you  credit,'  put  in  Aunt  Maria,  softly. 
'  He  read  your  heart,  my  dear,  though  he 
could  not  win  it.' 

'  It  was  never  worth  his  winning,  Aunt 
Maria,'  she  answered,  bitterly.  '  I  was  not 
fit  to  be  the  wife  of  an  honest  man.' 

'  Nay,  nay ! '  said  the  Canon  ;  '  if  it  comes 
to  honesty  I  shall  have  little  to  say  for 
myself.  Not  only  has  the  sum  been  be- 
queathed to  me  which  was  evidently  intended 
for  you,  but  Mavors  has  left  money  to  my 
boy  Robert.  Myself  and  family  have  become 
receivers,  as  it  were,  of  stolen  goods,  well 
knowing  them,  as  Fred  would  put  it,  to  have 
been  stolen.' 


300  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

'  Tlien  Robert  will  be  able  to  marry  the 
girl  of  Ills  choice ! '  exclaimed  Sophy,  delight- 
edly. '  He  will  no  longer  have  reason  to 
accuse  me  of  having  wrecked  his  happiness.' 

'  If  it  has  been  wrecked,  it  must  have 
been  amply  insured,'  smiled  the  Canon,  'to 
judge  by  his  face  when  I  last  saw  him.  He 
has  telegraphed  for  his  Alma,  who  will  be  at 
"  The  Laurels  "  in  a  week's  time.' 

'  But  I  thought  you  had  left  "  The  Laurels  " 
— been  driven — elsewhere — all  through  me.' 

'  Tut,  tut !  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Money 
that  makes  the  mare  to  go  has  the  same  effect 
(if  judiciously  administered)  upon  a  tenant. 
We  have  gone  back  to  the  old  house,  Sophy, 
and  to  the  old  ways  ;  only  one  thing  is 
wanting,  we  must  have  our  Sophy  back  in 
her  old  home.' 

*  No,  no,  that  can  never  be,'  she  answered, 
bitterly.  '  She  can  never  be  your  Sophy 
again,  the  Sophy  that  you  once  believed  her 
to  be.' 


WILLIE'S    WILL.  301 

*  Well,  of  course,  tliere  will  be  some  dif- 
ference, said  the  Canon,  smiling.  ^  There's 
the  Settiky  Trust  to  be  taken  into  account. 
What  does  little  Willie  say  to  coming  down 
with  mamma  to  live  with  godpapa  and  Aunt 
Maria  ?  ' 

'  AVillie  will  come,  only  Jeannette  must 
come  too,'  said  the  child,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  confers  a  favour,  upon  conditions. 

^  Come,  there's  judgment  without  appeal,' 
cried  the  Canon,  exultingly.  '  Neither  you 
nor  I,  my  dear,  require  Fred  Irton  to  tell  us 
that  the  Settiky  Trust  always  has  everything 
her  own  way.' 

'  Perhaps — in  time,  dear  guardian,'  said 
Sophy,  hesitatingly. 

Which  was  a  promise. 


302  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 


CHAPTER  LIL 

m  PORT. 

When  Sophy  went  down  to  Cambridge,  slie 
was  in  deep  mourning  ;  but  the  heaviness  of 
heart  within  her  was  caused  by  the  sense  of 
her  own  un worthiness,  and  not  by  her  recent 
loss.  The  notion  that  the  death  even  of  the 
worst  of  husbands  is  a  matter  of  regret  is  a 
very  general  one,  and  is  recorded  on  many 
enduring  substances — tombstones.  But  the 
truth  is  that  there  is  no  relation  in  life 
which  can  hold  its  ground  against  persistent 
wrong- doing.  That  of  the  dead  we  should 
say  nothing  but  good  is  an  excellent  maxim  ; 
but,  unfortunately,  it  takes  too  much  for 
granted — namely,  that  there  is  some  good  to 


IN  PORT.  305 

say  about  them.  Of  John  Adair  it  might, 
indeed,  have  been  stated  that  he  had  an  ex- 
cellent head  '  for  figures  ;  '  but  even  that 
eulogium,  since  it  included  the  art  of  falsify- 
ing accounts,  was  of  a  doubtful  value.  For 
my  own  part,  I  never  feel  the  slightest  regret 
when  offensive  persons  of  my  acquaintance 
are  removed  to  another  sphere  (of  course  T 
may  be  mistaken  in  my  estimate  of  them  ; 
but,  in  that  case,  it  is  a  consolation  to  feel 
that  they  are  gone  where  their  merits,  which 
escaped  my  limited  observation,  will  be  ap- 
preciated) ;  and  therefore  I  cannot  blame  poor 
Sophy  that  she  felt  so  little  sorrow  for  her 
bereavement. 

Some  distress  and  pain,  however,  she  did 
feel  by  reason  of  the  manner  of  his  departure. 
John  Adair,  it  was  generally  understood,  was 
murdered.  He  Avas  found  dead  under  that 
cellar  flap  in  Miller  Street ;  and  'the  theory  ' 
of  what  would  have  been  '  the  prosecution,' 
had  there  been  anybody  to  prosecute,  was  as 


304  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

follows.    Mr.  Dawson,  as  lias  been  mentioned, 
had   an   establishment  in  this    street,    which 
-consisted,    however,    only    of  certain    under- 
ground premises  used  for  storage — probably 
of  stolen  goods.     When  Adair  so  indiscreetly 
exhibited   to  him  that  parcel  of  bank-notes, 
it  came  into  his  mind  that  he  would  rather  go 
:abroad   with  ill-gotten  gains   than  with   the 
possessor   of  them,  from   whose   custody   he 
might  (and  doubtless  would)  have  had  some 
difficulty  in  extracting  them.     With  the  aid 
of  a  confederate,  he  therefore  planned  a  simple 
scheme  for  acquiring   them  ;  the  only  thing 
necessary  to  the  success  of  which  was   that 
Adair    should    take    the    right   hand  of  the 
street.     There  was  no  reason,  indeed,  why  he 
should  take    the   left    hand  ;  but  if  he   had 
chanced  to  cross  the  road,  the  scheme  would 
have   been   a   failure.      In   that   case,    Adair 
would  have  simply   walked    down  the    river 
stairs  where  the  boat  was  awaiting  him  ;  as 
it  was,  instead  of  embarking  on  the  Thames, 
he  crossed  the  Styx. 


IN  PORT.  305 

Dawson's  confederate  on  the  other  side  of 
the  way  was  thought  to  have  given  some 
signal  for  the  bolt  of  the  cellar  trap  to  be 
withdrawn  just  as  Adair  stepped  upon  it, 
when,  as  we  know,  he  suddenly  disappeared 
from  the  sight  of  the  detective.  At  all  events, 
he  was  found  there  dead,  and  with  only  a 
few  shillings  in  his  pocket  ;  and  within  five 
minutes  the  boat  was  hurrymg  down  the 
stream  with  six  men  in  her  instead  of  seven. 
I  have  not  a  word,  of  course,  of  excuse  to 
offer  for  Mr.  Dawson.  His  conduct  was  un- 
doubtedly reprehensible  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  have  not  the  faintest  sympathy  for 
his  victim,  wdio  himself,  as  we  know,  would 
have  sacrificed  an  innocent  life  without  much 
scruple.  I  must  confess,  indeed,  to  expe- 
riencing a  certain  satisfaction  when  thorough- 
paced rogues  fall  out  and  rid  the  world  of 
one  another.  I  fail  to  be  touched  with  the 
burning  indignation  with  which  informers 
are  just    now  regarded.     They    seem   to    me 

VOL.    HI.  X 


3o6  THE   CANON'S    WARD. 

most  useful  people.  And  as  for  this  Mr. 
Dawson — wlio  Avill,  no  doubt,  come  to  be 
hanged  in  time,  with  all  due  propriety — 
in  his  rough  and  ready  and,  so  to  speak,  extra 
judicial  fashion,  he  certainly  made  life  worth 
livinof  for  some  honest  folks,  to  whom  it  had 
become  well-nigh  intolerable. 

Sophy  was  received  at  '  The  Laurels  '  with 
open  arms,  but  not  at  all  like  a  returned 
Prodigal.  Matters  were  made  to  go  on  as 
much  as  possible  exactly  the  same  as  they 
had  been  used  to  do  ;  those  half  a  dozen 
years  of  absence  and  misery  were  treated  as 
though  she  had  been  away  on  a  week's  visit, 
and  was  now  come  home  again.  So  many 
stitches  cannot,  however,  be  dropped  in  the 
web  of  life  without  leaving  a  very  ugly  hole. 
The  contrast  between  what  was  and  what  had 
been  was  sharp  and  clear  to  her,  for  all  their 
care,  as  a  jagged  rock  against  a  summer  sky. 
Bitterest  of  all  were  her  reflections  upon  the 
what    might   have  been.     Even   for  Sophy's 


m  PORT.  307 

sake  Robert  could  not  conceal  his  love  when 
Alma  came — a  girl  dutiful  as  beautiful,  tender 
as  pure,  born  for  the  admiration  of  all,  for 
the  devotion  of  one.  Xot  one  spark  of 
jealousy  of  her  glowed  in  Sophy's  bosom  ; 
but  in  her  supreme  happiness  she  recognised 
all  that  she  herself  had  so  recklessly  thrown 
away.  She  did  not  envy  her  as  the  chosen 
bride  of  an  honourable  and  worthy  young 
fellow — '  all  these  things  had  ceased  to  be ' 
with  her  as  though  she  was  on  her  dying 
bed,  but  for  the  gifts  which  made  her  so 
precious  in  his  eyes  ;  some  of  these,  at  least, 
she  had  had  in  her  own  power  to  bestow,  and 
she  had  flung  them  into  the  gutter.  Young 
as  she  still  was  in  years,  the  joys  of  youth 
were  already  over  with  her  ;  it  was  as  though 
she  belonged  to  two  generations  back,  and  for 
the  future  could  only  hope  to  find  her  happi- 
ness in  the  happiness  of  others. 

And  she  did  find  it  in  them.     In  whatever 
relation  of  life  she  had  gone  astray,  no  fault 

X  2 


3o8  THE   CANON'-S    WARD. 

^\^as  ever  found  in  her  as  a  mother — except 
indeed  that  Mrs.  Helford  pronounced  her  to 
be  too  indulgent,  a  weakness  she  called  Heaven 
to  Avitness  she  had  never  given  way  to  in  the 
case  of  her  own  sainted  boy.  Even  if  this 
charge  was  true,  however,  no  harm  came  of  it ; 
for  little  Willie  not  only  became  in  time 
strong  and  well,  but  a  blessing  to  all  about 
her.  With  Henny  Irton — who,  although  she 
never  bore  a  child,  was  a  mother  to  many — 
Willie  was  the  chief  of  all  her  favourites. 
Her  affection  for  the  little  lassie  prompted  her, 
indeed,  to  such  lengths — such  as  kidnapping 
and  deportation  to  Maida  Yale — that  Sophy 
had  sometimes  to  remind  her  that,  after  all, 
the  child  was  hers,  and  to  threaten  to  invoke 
the  protection  of  the  law,  through  Mr. 
Frederic  Irton,  solicitor ;  the  fact  of  Master 
Stevie  Helford' s  services,  however,  being 
retained  upon  Henny's  side  made  the  re- 
capture of  the  Infant  always  difficult.  Willie's 
admiration  of  him,   which  was   quite  recipro- 


IN  PORT.  309 

cated,  though  m  a  very  different  fashion,  was 
something  unique  in  a  young  lady  of  such 
very  tender  years.  Mrs.  Helford,  however, 
who,  to  do  her  justice,  was  very  fond  of 
AYilHe,  did  not  think  it  inexplicable.  '  My 
dear  Henny,'  she  would  say,  '  that  little  dot 
of  Sophy's  is  a  born  flirt,  like  her  mother 
before  her.' 

In  no  other  respect,  however,  did  Willie 
show  the  least  sign  of  heredity  ;  unless,  indeed, 
it  is  maintained  by  the  believers  in  that 
convenient  theory  that  peculiarities  of  dis- 
position can  be  handed  down  from  a  godpapa. 
In  her  dislike  to  figures  and  her  predilection 
for  poetry  she  resembled  the  Canon,  who 
entertained  an  extravagant  regard  for  her. 

Sophy's  past  was  never  alluded  to  in  her 
presence,  not  even  by  Jeannette  ;  but  the 
latter's  devotion  to  her  mistress  and  child  (far 
beyond  what  is  usually  exhibited  even  by  the 
most  faithful  of  'retainers')  bespoke  the  re- 
morse she  felt  for  such  hand  as  she  had  had 


3IO  777^   CANON'S    WARD. 

in  it.  She  too  has  received  a  lesson  which 
renders  intrigue  and  duplicity  impossible  to 
her  for  the  rest  of  her  days. 

The  Canon  and  Aunt  Maria  are  as  reticent 
behind  Sophy's  back  as  when  her  still  pretty, 
but  sad  and  sobered,  face  reminds  them  of  the 
light  that  has  fled  from  it.  Certain  painful 
memories  can  never  be  dismissed  from  their 
minds,  but  their  gentle  natures  shrink  from 
the  discussion  of  them.  It  is  not  so,  of 
course,  with  the  world  at  large  ;  and  many 
hard  things  are  said  of  Sophy  by  those  to 
whom  the  sight  of  the  bruised  reed  always 
suggests  the  desire  to  break  it.  Her  own  sex 
(with  certain  exceptions  I  need  not  name) 
are  especially  hard  upon  her. 

'  You  may  say  what  you  like,  ma'am,' 
said  old  Dr.  Newton,  in  reply  to  one  of  these 
censors  ;  '  but  I  maintain  that  with  even  an 
average  husband  that  girl  would  have  turned 
out  the  best  of  wives,  as  she  is  the  best  of 
mothers.' 


IN  PORT.  311 

The  character  of  Mr.  John  Adair,  we  may- 
be sure,  was  handled  with  still  greater  freedom  ; 
but  even  he  had  his  apologist. 

'If  he  hadn't  got  into  bad  hands,'  Mrs. 
Helford  was  wont  to  say  (a  shibboleth  which 
the  good  lady  used  with  reference  to  most 
scoundrels,  in  unconscious  extenuation,  per- 
haps, of  her  own  sainted  offspring) ,  '  he 
would  have  been  an  honour  to  his  profession, 
whatever  it  was.  I  am  sure,  when  I  first 
knew  him,  he  behaved  himself  with  the 
greatest  propriety.' 

To  which  her  son-in-law  would  reply,  with 
an  injured  air,  '  I  can  only  say  that  the  very 
first  time  I  met  him  he  told  me  one  of  the 
most ' 

At  which  point  Henny  would  place  her 
damty  little  palm  on  her  husband's  lips,  and 
cut  short  the  well-worn  accusation. 

Irton  always  asserts  that  his  wife  is  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  who  has  ever  sym- 
pathised  with    Burns'    aspiration,    that   even 


312  THE  CANON'S    WARD. 

'  auld  Hornie '  may  somehow  or  other  get  out 
of  his  difficulties,  and  find  all  forgotten  and 
forgiven  ;  and,  in  truth,  she  is  one  of  the 
tenderest  souls  that  ever  '  wore  earth  about 
her.' 

After  Robert's  marriage  he  returned  to 
India,  from  whence,  at  intervals,  two  baby 
boys  were  forwarded  to  the  care  of  Grandpapa 
and  Aunt  Maria  ;  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
they  were  received  with  rapture,  but  they 
never  put  little  Willie's  nose  out  of  joint  in 
the  affections  of  the  Canon. 

'  Boys  may  come,'  he  was  wont  to  say,  as 
bending  over  some  picture-book  together,  he 
mingled  his  silver  with  her  golden  hair,  '  and 
even  girls  may  come  ;  but  they  will  never 
come  between  me  and  the  Settiky  Trust.' 

And  they  never  did. 

THE  END. 


Spottiswoode  &  Co.,  Printei's,  New-street  Square,  London, 


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