only now beginning to understand that he has been dangerously ill;
that according to his doctor nothing but a "splendid constitution" and
unprecedented medical skill have brought him back from the threshold
of that grim portal known as death's door. This he does not quite
believe, but is aware, nevertheless, that he is much enfeebled, and
that his system has sustained what he himself calls "a deuced awkward
shake." Even now he retains no very clear idea of what happened to
him. He remembers vaguely, as in a dream, certain bare walls of a dim
and gloomy chamber, tapestried with cobwebs, smelling of damp and
mould like a vault, certain broken furniture, shabby and scarce, on
a bare brick floor, with a grate in which no fire could have been
kindled without falling into the middle of the room. He recalls that
racking head-ache, that scorching thirst, and those pains in all the
bones of a wan, wasted figure lying under a patchwork quilt on a
squalid bed. A figure, independent of, and dissevered from himself,
yet in some degree identified with his thoughts, his sufferings,
and his memories. Somebody nursed the figure, too--he is sure of
that--bringing it water, medicines, food, and leeches for its aching
temples; smoothing its pillow and arranging its bed-clothes, in those
endless nights, so much longer, yet scarce more dismal than the
days,--somebody, whose voice he never heard, whose face he never saw,
yet in whose slow, cautious tread there seemed a familiar sound. Once,
in delirium, he insisted it was Miss Bruce, but even _through_ that
delirium he knew he must be raving, and it was impossible. Could that
be a part of his dream, too, in which he dragged himself out of bed,
to dress in his own clothes, laid out on the chair that had hitherto
carried a basin of gruel or a jug of cooling drink? No, it must have
been reality surely, for even to-day he has so vivid a remembrance of
the fresh air, the blinding sunshine, and the homely life-like look of
that four-wheeled cab waiting in the narrow street, which he entered
mechanically, which _as_ mechanically brought him home to his uncle's
house, the man asking no questions, nor stopping to receive his fare.
To be sure, he fainted from utter weakness at the door. Of that he
is satisfied, for he remembers nothing between the jolting of those
slippery cushions and another bed in which he found himself, with a
grave doctor watching over him, and which he recognised, doubtfully,
as his own.

Gradually, with returning strength, Tom began to suspect the truth
that he had been hocussed and robbed. His pockets, when he resumed
his clothes, were empty. Their only contents, his cigar-case and Miss
Bruce's letter, were gone. The motive for so desperate an attack he
felt unable to fathom. His intellect was still affected by bodily
weakness, and he inclined at first to think he had been mistaken for
somebody else. The real truth only dawned on him by degrees. Its first
ray originated with no less brilliant a luminary than old Bargrave.

To do him justice, the uncle had shown far more natural affection than
his household had hitherto believed him capable of feeling. During
his nephew's absence, he had been like one distracted, and the large
reward offered for discovery of the missing gentleman sufficiently
testified his anxiety and alarm. When Tom did return, more dead than
alive, Bargrave hurried off in person to procure the best medical
advice, and postponing inquiry into his wrongs to the more immediate
necessity of nursing the sufferer, spent six or seven hours out of the
twenty-four at the sick man's bedside.

The first day Tom could sit up his uncle thought well to enliven him
with a little news, social, general, and professional. Having told
him that he had outbid Mortlake for the last batch of poor Mr.
Chalkstone's port, and stated, at some length, his reasons for
doubting the stability of Government, he entered gleefully upon
congenial topics, and proceeded to give the invalid a general sketch
of business affairs during his retirement.

"I've worked the coach, Tom," said he, walking up and down the
room, waving his coat-tails, "as well as it _could_ be worked,
single-handed. I don't think you'll find a screw loose anywhere. Ah,
Tom! an old head, you know, is worth a many pair of hands. When you're
well enough, in a week or so, my lad, I shall like to show you how
I've kept everything going, though I was so anxious, terribly anxious,
all the time. The only matter that's been left what you call _in statu
quo_ is that business of Miss Bruce's, which I had nothing to do with.
It will last you a good while yet, Tom, though it's of less importance
to her now, poor thing!--don't you move, Tom--I'll hand you the
barley-water--because she's Miss Bruce no longer."

Tom gasped, and hid his pale, thin face in the jug of barley-water.
He had some pluck about him, after all; for weak and ill as he was he
managed to get out an indifferent question.

"Not Miss Bruce, isn't she? Ah! I hadn't heard. Who is she then,
uncle? I suppose you mean she's--she's married." He was so husky, no
wonder he took another pull at the barley-water.

"Yes, she's married," answered his uncle, in the indifferent tone with
which threescore years and odd can discuss that fatality. "Made a good
marriage, too--an excellent marriage. What do you think of a peerage,
my boy? She's Viscountess Bearwarden now. Twenty thousand a year, if
it's a penny. I am sure of it, for I was concerned in a lawsuit of the
late lord's twenty years ago. I don't suppose you're acquainted with
her husband, Tom. Not in our circle, you know; but a most respectable
young man, I understand, and likely to be lord-lieutenant of his
county before long. I'm sure I trust she'll be happy. And now, Tom, as
you seem easy and comfortable, perhaps you'd like to go to sleep for a
little. If you want anything you can reach the bell, and I'll come and
see you again before I dress for dinner."

Easy and comfortable! When the door shut behind his uncle, Tom bowed
his head upon the table and gave way completely. He was unmanned by
illness, and the shock had been too much for him. It was succeeded,
however, and that pretty quickly, by feelings of bitter wrath and
resentment, which did more to restore his strength than all the tonics
in the world. An explanation, too, seemed now afforded to much that
had so mystified him of late. What if, rendered desperate by his
threats, Miss Bruce had been in some indirect manner the origin of his
captivity and illness--Miss Bruce, the woman who of all others owed
him the largest debt of gratitude (like most people, Tom argued
from his own side of the question); for whom he had laboured so
unremittingly, and was willing to sacrifice so much? Could it be so?
And if it was, should he not be justified in going to any extremity
for revenge? Revenge--yes, that was all he had to live for now; and
the very thought seemed to put new vigour into his system, infuse
fresh blood in his veins. So is it with all baser spirits; and perhaps
in the indulgence of this cowardly craving they obtain a more speedy
relief than nobler natures from the first agony of suffering; but
their cure is not and never can be permanent; and to them must remain
unknown that strange wild strain of some unearthly music which thrills
through those sore hearts that can repay good for evil, kindly
interest for cold indifference; that, true to themselves and their own
honour, can continue to love a memory, though it be but the memory
of a dream. Tom felt as if he could make an exceedingly high bid,
involving probity, character, good faith, and the whole of his
moral code, for an auxiliary who should help him in his vengeance.
Assistance was at hand even now, in an unexpected moment and an
unlooked-for shape.

"A person wishes to see you, sir, if you're well enough," said a
little housemaid who had volunteered to provide for the wants of the
invalid, and took very good care of him indeed.

"What sort of a person?" asked Tom languidly, feeling, nevertheless,
that any distraction would be a relief.

"Well, sir," replied the maid, "it seems a respectable person, I
should say. Like a sick-nurse or what not."

There is no surmise so wild but that a rejected lover will grasp at
and connect it with the origin of his disappointment. "I'll see her,"
said Tom stoutly, not yet despairing but that it might be a messenger
from Maud.

He certainly was surprised when Dorothea, whom he recognised at once,
even in her Sunday clothes, entered the room, with a wandering eye and
a vacillating step.

"You'll never forgive me, Master Tom," was her startling salutation.
"It's me as nursed you through it; but you'll never forgive me--never!
And I don't deserve as you should."

Dorothea was nervous, hysterical, but she steadied herself bravely,
though her fingers worked and trembled under her faded shawl.

Tom stared, and his visitor went on--

"You'd 'a died for sure if I hadn't. Don't ye cast it up to me, Master
Tom. I've been punished enough. Punished! If I was to bare my arm now
I could show you weals that's more colours and brighter than your
neckankercher there. I've been served worse nor that, though, since. I
ain't a-goin' to put up with it no longer. Master Tom, do you know as
you've Been put upon, and by who?"

His senses were keenly on the alert. "Tell me the truth, my good
girl," said he, "and I'll forgive you all your share. More, I'll stick
by you through thick and thin."

She whimpered a little, affected by the kindness of his tone, but
tugging harder at her shawl, proceeded to further confessions.

"You was hocussed, Master Tom; and I can point out to you the man as
did it. You'd 'a been murdered amongst 'em if it hadn't been for me.
Who was it, d'ye think, as nussed of you, and cared for you, all
through, and laid out your clothes ready brushed and folded, and went
and got you a cab the day as you come back here? Master Tom, I've been
put upon too. Put upon and deceived, as never yet was born woman used
so bad; and it's my turn now! Look ye here, Master Tom. It's that
villain, Jim--Gentleman Jim, as we calls him--what's been at the
bottom of this here. And yet there's worse than Jim in it too. There's
others that set Jim on. O! to believe as a fine handsome chap like him
could turn out to be so black-hearted, and such a soft too. She'll
never think no more of him, for all his comely face, than the dirt
beneath her feet."

"_She_!" repeated Tom, intensely interested, and therefore
preternaturally calm. "What d'ye mean by _she_? Don't fret, that's a
good girl, and don't excite yourself. Tell your story your own way,
you know, but keep as quiet as you can. You're safe enough here."

"We'd been asked in church," replied Dorothea, somewhat
inconsequently. "Ah! more than once, we had. And I'd ha' been as true
to him, and was, as ever a needle to a stitch. Well, sir, when he
slights of me, and leaves of me, why it's natural as I should run up
and down the streets a-lookin' for him like wild. So one day, after
I'd done my work, and put things straight, for I never was one of your
sluttish ones, Master Tom--and your uncle, he's always been a kind
gentleman to me, and a haffable, like yourself, Master Tom--according,
I comes upon my Jim at the Sunflower, and I follows him unbeknown for
miles and miles right away to the West-End. So he never looks behind
him, nor he never stops, o' course, till he comes to Belgrave Square;
and he turns down a street as I couldn't read its name, but should
know it again as well as I know my own hand. And then, Master Tom, if
you'll believe me, I thought as I must have dropped."

"Well?" said Tom, not prepared to be satisfied with this climax,
though his companion stopped, as if she had got to the end of her
disclosures.

"Well indeed!" resumed Dorothea, after a considerable interval, "when
he come that far, I know'd as he must be up to some of his games, and
I watched. They lets him into a three-storied house, and I sees him in
the best parlour with a lady, speaking up to her, but not half so bold
as usual. He a not often dashed, Jim isn't. I will say that for him."

"What sort of a lady?" asked Tom, quivering with excitement. "You took
a good look at her, I'll be bound!"

"Well, a real lady in a muslin dress," answered Dorothea. "A tall
young lady--not much to boast of for looks, but with hair as black as
your hat and a face as white as cream. Very 'aughty too an' arbitrary,
and seemed to have my Jim like quite at her command. So from where I
stood I couldn't help hearing everything that passed. My Jim, he gives
her the very letter as laid in your pocket that night, as you--as you
was taken so poorly, you know. And from what she said and what he
said, and putting this and that together, I'm sure as they got you out
of the way between them, Master Tom, and gammoned me into the job too,
when I'd rather have cut both my hands off, if I'd only known the
truth."

Tom sat back on his sofa, shutting his eyes that he might concentrate
his powers of reflection. Yes, it was all clear enough at last. The
nature and origin of the outrage to which he had been subjected were
obvious, nor could he entertain any further doubt of Maud's motives,
though marvelling exceedingly, as well he might, at her courage, her
recklessness, and the social standing of her accomplice. It seemed
to him as if he could forgive every one concerned but her. This poor
woman who had fairly thrown herself on his mercy: the ruffian whose
grip had been at his throat, but who might hereafter prove as
efficient an ally as he had been a formidable enemy. Only let him have
Maud in his power, that was all he asked, praying him to spare her,
kneeling at his feet, and then without a shade of compunction to ruin,
and crush, and humble her to the dust!

He saw his way presently, but he must work warily, he told himself,
and use all the tools that came to his hand.

"If you can clear the matter up, Dorothea," said he, kindly, "I will
not visit your share in it on your head, as I have already told you.
Indeed I believe I owe you my life. But this man you mention, this
Gentleman Jim as you call him, can you find him? Do you know where he
is? My poor girl! I think I understand. Surely you deserved better
treatment at his hands."

The kind words produced this time no softening effect, and Tom knew
enough of human nature to feel sure that she was bent on revenge as
earnestly as himself, while he also knew that he must take advantage
of her present humour at once, for it might change in an hour.

"If I could lay my hand on him," answered Dorothea fiercely, "it's
likely I'd leave my mark! I've looked for him now, high and low, every
evening and many arternoons, better nor a week. I ain't come on him
yet, the false-hearted thief! but I seen _her_ only the day before
yesterday, seen her walk into a house in Berners Street as bold as you
please. I watched and waited better nor two hours, for, thinks I,
he won't be long follerin'; and I seen her come out agin with a
gentleman, a comely young gentleman; I'd know him anywheres, but he
warn't like my Jim."

"Are you sure it was the same lady?" asked Tom eagerly, but ashamed
of putting so unnecessary a question when he saw the expression of
Dorothea's face.

"Am I _sure_?" said she, with a short gasping laugh. "Do you suppose
as a woman can be mistook as has been put upon like me? Lawyers is
clever men, askin' your pardon, Mr. Ryfe, but there's not much sense
in such a question as yours: I seen the lady, sir, and I seen the
house; that's enough for _me_!"

"And you observed the gentleman narrowly?" continued Tom, stifling
down a little pang of jealousy that was surely unreasonable now.

"Well, I didn't take much notice of the gentleman," answered Dorothea
wearily, for the reaction was coming on apace. "It warn't my Jim, I
know. You and me has both been used bad, Master Tom, and it's a shame,
it is. But the weather's uncommon close, and it's a long walk here,
and I'm a'most fit to drop, askin' your pardon, sir. I wrote down the
number of the house, Master Tom, to make sure--there it is. If you
please, I'll go down-stairs, and ask the servants for a cup o' tea,
and I wish you a good arternoon, sir, and am glad to see you lookin' a
trifle better at last."

So Dorothea departed to enjoy the luxury of strong tea and unlimited
gossip with Mr. Bargrave's household, drawing largely on her invention
in explanation of her recent interview, but affording them no clue to
the real object of her visit.

Tom Ryfe was still puzzled. That Maud (he could not endure to think of
her as Lady Bearwarden)--that Maud should, so soon after her marriage,
be seen going about London by herself under such questionable
circumstances was strange, to say the least of it, even making
allowances for her recklessness and wilful disposition, of which no
one could be better aware than himself. What could be her object?
though he loved her so fiercely in his own way, he had no great
opinion of her discretion; and now, in the bitterness of his anger,
was prepared to put the very worst construction upon everything she
did. He recalled, painfully enough, a previous occasion on which he
had met her, as he believed, walking with a stranger in the Park, and
did not forget her displeasure while cutting short his inquiries on
the subject. After all, it occurred to him almost immediately, that
the person with whom she had been lately seen was probably her own
husband. He would not himself have described Lord Bearwarden exactly
as a "comely young gentleman," but on the subject of manly beauty
Dorothea's taste was probably more reliable than his own. If so,
however, what could they be doing in Berners Street? Pshaw! How this
illness had weakened his intellect! Having her picture painted, of
course! what else could bring a doting couple, married only a few
weeks, to that part of the town? He cursed Dorothea bitterly for her
ridiculous surmises and speculations--cursed the fond pair--cursed his
own wild unconquerable folly--cursed the day he first set eyes on that
fatal beauty, so maddening to his senses, so destructive to his heart;
and thus cursing staggered across the room to take his strengthening
draught, looked at his pale, worn face in the glass, and sat down
again to think.

The doctor had visited him at noon, and stated with proper caution
that in a day or two, if amendment still progressed satisfactorily,
"carriage exercise," as he called it, might be taken with undoubted
benefit to the invalid. We all know, none better than medical men
themselves, that if your doctor says you may get up to-morrow, you
jump out of bed the moment his back is turned. Tom Ryfe, worried,
agitated, unable to rest where he was, resolved that he would take his
carriage exercise without delay, and to the housemaid's astonishment,
indeed much against her protest, ordered a hansom cab to the door at
once.

Though so weak he could not dress without assistance, he no sooner
found himself on the move, and out of doors, than he began to feel
stronger and better; he had no object in driving beyond change of
scene, air, and exercise; but it will not surprise those who have
suffered from the cruel thirst and longing which accompanies such
mental maladies as his, that he should have directed the cabman to
proceed to Berners Street.

It sometimes happens that when we thus "draw a bow at a venture" our
random shaft hits the mark we might have aimed at for an hour in
vain. Tom Ryfe esteemed it an unlooked-for piece of good fortune that
turning out of Oxford Street he should meet another hansom going at
speed in an opposite direction, and containing--yes, he could have
sworn to them before any jury in England--the faces, very near each
other, of Lady Bearwarden and Dick Stanmore.

It was enough. Dorothea's statement seemed sufficiently corroborated,
and after proceeding to the number she indicated, as if to satisfy
himself that the house had not walked bodily away, Mr. Ryfe returned
home very much benefited in his own opinion by the drive, though the
doctor, visiting his patient next day, was disappointed to find him
still low and feverish, altogether not so much better as he expected.




CHAPTER XXII


"NOT FOR JOSEPH"


But Dick Stanmore was _not_ in a hansom with Lady Bearwarden. Shall
I confess, to the utter destruction of his character for undying
constancy, that he did not wish to be?

Dick had been cured at last--cured of the painful disease he once
believed mortal--cured by a course of sanitary treatment, delightful
in its process, unerring in its results; and he walked about now with
the buoyant step, the cheerful air of one who has been lightened of a
load lying next his heart.

Medical discoveries have of late years brought into vogue a science of
which I have borrowed the motto for these volumes. _Similia similibus
curantur_ is the maxim of homoeopathy; and whatever success this
healing principle may obtain with bodily ailments, I have little doubt
of its efficacy in affections of the heart. I do not mean to say
its precepts will render us invulnerable or immortal. There are
constitutions that, once shaken, can never be restored; there are
characters that, once outraged, become saddened for evermore. The
fairest flowers and the sweetest, are those which, if trampled down,
never hold up their heads again. But I do mean, that should man or
woman be capable of cure under sufferings originating in misplaced
confidence, such cure is most readily effected by a modified attack of
the same nature, at the risk of misplacing it again.

After Dick Stanmore's first visit to the painting-room in Berners
Street, it was astonishing how enthusiastic a taste he contracted for
art. He was never tired of contemplating his friend's great picture,
and Simon used laughingly to declare the amateur knew every line and
shade of colour in his Fairy Queen as accurately as the painter.
He remained in London at a season which could have afforded few
attractions for a young man of his previous habits, and came every day
to the painting-room as regularly as the model herself. Thus it fell
out that Dick, religiously superintending the progress of this Fairy
Queen, found his eyes wandering perpetually from the representation on
canvas to its original on Miss Algernon's shoulders, and gratified his
sense of sight with less scruple, that from the very nature of her
occupation she was compelled to keep her head always turned one way.

It must have been agreeable for Nina, no doubt, if not improving, to
listen to Dick's light and rather trivial conversation which relieved
the monotony of her task, and formed a cheerful addition to the short,
jerking, preoccupied sentences of the artist, enunciated obviously
at random, and very often with a brush in his mouth. Nor was it
displeasing, I imagine, to be aware of Mr. Stanmore's admiration,
forsaking day by day its loudly-declared allegiance to the Fairy
Queen in favour of her living prototype, deepening gradually to long
intervals of silence, sweeter, more embarrassing, while far more
eloquent than words.

And all the time, Simon, the chivalrous, painted on. I cannot believe
but that, with the jealous instinct of true affection, he must have
perceived the ground slipping away, hour by hour, from beneath his
feet--must have seen the ship that carried all his cargo sailing
farther and farther into a golden distance to leave him desolate on
the darkening shore. How his brain may have reeled, and his heart
ached, it is not for me to speculate. There is a decency of courage,
as there is an extravagance of bravado, and that is the true spirit of
chivalry which bleeds to death unmoved, beneath its armour, keeping
the pale knightly face turned calm and constant towards the foe.

It was a strange trio, that, in the painting-room. The garden of
Eden seems to have been originally intended for two. The third was
doubtless an intruder, and from that day to this how many a paradise
has been lost by admittance of the visitor who completes this uneven
number, unaccountably supposed to be so productive of good fortune.

Curious cross purposes were at work in the three heads grouped so near
each other opposite the painter's glowing canvas. Dick perhaps was the
least perceptive and therefore the happiest of the party. His sense of
well-being, indeed, seemed enhanced by his previous troubles: like a
man who comes out of the cold into the glow of a comforting fire, he
abandoned himself without much reflection to the positive enjoyment of
pleasure and the negative solace of relief from pain.

Simon, always painting, fought hard to keep down that little leavening
of self which constitutes our very identity. Under the cold impassive
vigour he was so determined to preserve, he registered many a noble
vow of fortitude and abnegation on behalf of the friend he valued, of
the woman he loved. Sometimes a pang would shoot through him painfully
enough while he marked a change of Nina's colour, a little flutter of
manner, a little trembling of her hands, and felt that she was already
more affected by the presence of this comparative stranger than she
had ever shown herself by his, who had cared for her so tenderly,
worshipped her so long. Then he bent all his faculties on the picture,
and like a child running to seize its mother's gown, took refuge with
his art.

That mistress did not fail him. She never does fail the true
worshipper, who kneels consistently at her shrine. It is not for her
to scorn the homage offered to-day because it has been offered in
faith and loyalty during many a long-past year. It is not for her to
shed on the new votary her sweetest smiles only because he _is_ new.
Woo her frankly, love her dearly, and serve her faithfully, she will
insure you from being cozened out of your reward. Had she not taken
care of Simon at this period, I scarcely know what would have become
of him.

Nina, too, lived in a golden dream, from which it was her only fear
that she must soon awake. Ere long, she sometimes thought, she must
ask herself who was this stranger that brought with him a flood
of sunshine into the homely painting-room? that steeped for her,
unconsciously and without effort, every day in happiness, every
morning in hope? She put off asking the question, having perhaps a
wholesome recollection of him who, going to count his treasure of
fairy gold, found it only withered leaves, and let herself float with
the stream, in that enjoyment of the present which is enhanced rather
than modified by misgivings for the future. Nina was very happy, that
is the honest truth, and even her beauty seemed to brighten like the
bloom on a flower, opening to the smile of spring.

Simon marked the change. How could he help it? And still he
painted--painted on.

"There!" exclaimed the artist, with a sigh of relief, as he stepped
back from his picture, stretching both weary arms above his head. "At
last--at last! If I only like it to-morrow as well as I do now, not
another touch shall go into it anywhere above the chin. It's the
expression I've been trying to catch for months. There it is! Doubt,
sorrow, remorse, and, through it all, the real undying love of
the--Well, that's all can't! I mean--Can't you see that she likes him
awfully even now? Nina, you've been the making of me, you're the best
sitter in the world, and while I look at my picture I begin to think
you're the handsomest. I mustn't touch it again. Stanmore, what do you
think?"

Absorbed in contemplation of his work, he paid little attention to the
answer, which was so far fortunate, that Dick, in his preoccupation,
faltered out a string of contradictory criticisms, flattering neither
to the original nor the copy. Nina indeed suggested, with some truth,
that he had made the eyebrows too dark, but this remark appeared to
originate only in a necessity for something to say. These two young
people seemed unusually shy and ill at ease. Perhaps in each of the
three hearts beating there before the picture lurked some vague
suspicion that its wistful expression, so lately caught, may have been
owing to corresponding feelings lately awakened in the model; and, if
so, why should not two of them have thrilled with happiness, though
the third might ache in loneliness and despair?

"Not another stroke of work will I do to-day," said the artist,
affecting a cheerfulness which perhaps he did not feel. "Nina, you've
got to be back early. I'll have a half-holiday for once and take you
home. Put your bonnet on: I shall be ready in five minutes when I've
washed my hands."

Dick's face fell. He had counted on a couple more hours at least.
Women, when they are really disappointed, rarely show it, and perhaps
he felt a little hurt to observe how readily, and with what apparent
goodwill, Miss Algernon resumed her out-of-doors attire. He felt
hardly sure of his ground yet, or he might have begun to sulk in
earnest. No bad plan either, for such little misunderstandings
bring on explanations, reconciliations, declarations, all sorts of
vexations, every day!

Ladies are stanch believers in luck, and leave much to chance with a
devout faith that it will serve them at their need. I imagine Nina
thought it quite in the natural course of events that a dirty boy
should enter the room at this juncture and deliver a note to Simon,
which called forth all his energies and sympathies in a moment. The
note, folded in a hurry, written with a pencil, was from a brother
artist, and ran thus--

Dear Simon, "Come and see me if you _can_. On my back! Two doctors.
Not going to be rubbed out, but beastly seedy all the same."

"When was he taken ill? Who's attending him? Anybody taking care of
him? What o'clock is it now? Tell him I'll be there in five minutes."
Simon delivered himself of these sentences in a breath, and then
glanced from Nina to Dick Stanmore.

"I dare say you wouldn't mind," said he. "I _must_ go to this poor
fellow, and if I find him very ill I may be detained till evening. If
you've time, Stanmore, could you see Miss Algernon as far as the boat?
She'll do very well then, but we don't like her to be wandering about
London by herself."

It is possible this idea may have suggested itself to the persons most
concerned, for all that they seemed so supremely unconscious, and as
if the arrangement, though a sensible one and convenient, no doubt,
were a matter of perfect indifference to themselves.

Dick "would be delighted," of course; though he tried not to look so;
and Nina "couldn't think of giving Mr. Stanmore so much trouble."
Nevertheless, within ten minutes the two were turning into Oxford
Street in a hansom cab; and although they said very little, being
indeed in a vehicle which jolted, swung, and rattled inordinately, I
have not the least doubt they enjoyed their drive.

They enjoyed the river steamer too, which seems equally strange,
with its narrow deck, its tangible smoke, its jerks and snorts, and
throbbing vibrations, as it worked its way against the tide. They
had never before been alone together, and the situation, though
delightful, was at first somewhat embarrassing, because they were in
earnest. The restraint, however, soon wore off, and with tongues
once loosened there was no lack of matter for their employment. How
beautiful, how interesting, how picturesque everything seemed to have
grown all at once: the Houses of Parliament--the bridges--the dull,
broad surface of the river, grey, with a muddy tinge--the low,
level banks--the blunt-nosed barges--their fellow-passengers--the
engineer--the boy with the mop--and the dingy funnel of the steamer
itself.

How mysterious the charm that lurks in association of ideas! What
magic it imparts to the commonest actions, the most vulgar objects of
life! What a heart-ache on occasions has it not caused you or me! One
of us cannot see a woman fitting on her gloves without a pang. To
another there is a memory and a sorrow in the flirt of a fan, the
rustle of a dress, the grinding of a barrel-organ, or the slang of a
street song. The stinging-nettle crops up in every bed of flowers we
raise; the bitter tonic flavours all we eat and drink. I dare say
Werther could not munch his bread-and-butter for years in common
comfort because of Charlotte. Would it not be wiser for us to ignore
the Charlottes of life altogether, and stick to the bread-and-butter?

Too soon that dingy steamer reached its place of disembarkation--too
soon, at least, for certain of its passengers; and yet in their short
voyage up the river each of these two had passed the portal of
a paradise, through which, amongst all its gaudy and luxuriant
vegetation, you may search for the tree of knowledge in vain. Not a
word was spoken by either that could bear the direct interpretation of
love-making, yet each felt that the Rubicon had been passed which must
never be recrossed dryshod again.

Dick paid his respects, as seemed but right and proper, to the Misses
Perkins, who voted him an exceedingly agreeable young man; and this
was the more tolerant on their part that he found very little to say,
and had the good taste to be a very short time in saying it. They
asked him, indeed, to remain for dinner, and, notwithstanding their
hospitable inclinations, were no doubt relieved when he declined. He
had gained some experience, you see, from his previous worship of Miss
Bruce, which now stood him in good stead, for in affairs of love,
as of honour, a man conducts his second with more skill and _savoir
faire_ than his first.

The world seemed to have changed by magic while he went back to
London. It felt like the breaking up of a frost, when all is warmth
and softness and vitality once more. He could have talked to himself,
and laughed aloud for very joy.

But Nina went to her room, and cried as she had not cried since she
was a little child, shedding tears of mingled sweetness and sorrow,
rapture and remorse. Her eyes were opened now in her new-found
happiness, and she foresaw the crushing blow that happiness must
inflict on the oldest, kindest, dearest of friends.

For the first time in her life she took herself to task and examined
her own heart. What a joyous heart it was! And yet how could she be
so inhuman as to admit a pleasure which must be cruelly productive of
another's pain? Here was a person whom she had known, as it were, but
yesterday, and his lightest word or glance had already become dearer
to her than the wealth of care and affection which tended her from
childhood, which would be about her to her grave. It was infamous! she
told herself, and yet it was surpassingly sweet! Yes, she loved this
man--this brown-haired, broad-shouldered Mr. Stanmore, of whose
existence a fortnight ago she had been perfectly unconscious, and
in that love she learned to appreciate and understand the affection
loyal, true-hearted Simon lavished on herself. Was he to be sacrificed
to this mere stranger? Never! Rather she would sacrifice herself. But
the tears flowed faster to think that it would indeed be a sacrifice,
an offering up of youth, beauty, hope, happiness for life. Then she
dried her eyes, and went down on her knees to pray at her bedside; and
so rose up, making certain stern resolutions, which it is only fair to
state she afterwards kept--like a woman!

With the view, doubtless, of putting these in practice, she induced
Simon to walk with her on the lawn after tea, while the stars were
twinkling dimly through a soft, misty sky, and the lazy river lapped
and gurgled against the garden banks. He accompanied her, nothing
loth, for he too had spent the last hour in hard painful conflict,
making, also, stern resolutions, which he kept--like a man! "You found
him better," she said, alluding to the cause of his delay in returning
home. "I'm so glad. If he hadn't been, you'd have stayed with him all
night, I know. Simon, I think you're the best and the kindest person
in the world."

Here was an opening. Was she disappointed, or not, that he took so
little advantage of it? "We must all help each other, Nina," said he;
"that's the way to make life easy and to stifle sorrows, if we have
them, of our own."

"_You_ ought never to have a sorrow," she broke in. "_You_, who always
think of others before yourself--you deserve to be so happy. And,
Simon, sometimes I think you're not, and it makes me wretched; and I'd
do anything in the world to please you; anything, if--if it wasn't
_too_ hard a task, you know."

She had been so eager to make her sacrifice and get it over that she
hurried inconsiderately to the brink,--then, like a timid bather,
stopped short, hesitating--the water looked so cold and dark and deep.

The lightest touch from his hand would have plunged her in, overhead.
He would have held it in the fire rather, like the Roman hero, till it
shrivelled into ashes.

"My happiness can never be apart from yours," he said, tenderly and
sadly. "Yet I think I know now that yours is not entirely bound up in
mine. Am I right, Nina?"

"I would do anything in the world for you--anything," she murmured,
taking refuge, as we all do at such times, in vain repetition.

They had reached the drawing-room window, and she turned aside, as if
she meant to go in. He took her hand lightly in his own, and led her
back towards the river. It was very dark, and neither could read the
expression of the other's face.

"I have but one earnest desire in the world," said he, speaking
distinctly, but very low. "It is to see you happily settled in life.
I never had a sister nor a daughter, Nina. You have stood me in the
stead of both; and--and I shall never have a wife."

She knew what he meant. The quiet, sad, yet uncomplaining tone cut
her to the heart. "It's a shame! it's a shame!" she murmured. "Simon,
Simon. Tell me; don't you think me the worst, the most ungrateful, the
most horrible girl in the world?"

He spoke cheerfully now, and even laughed. "Very ungrateful," he
repeated, pressing her hand kindly; "and very detestable, unless
you tell me the truth. Nina, dear Nina, confide in me as if I was
your--well--your grandmother! Will that do? I think there's a somebody
we saw to-day who likes you very much. He's a good fellow, and to be
trusted, I can swear. Don't you think, dear, though you haven't
known him long, that _you_ like _him_ a little--more than a little,
already?"

"O, Simon, what a brute I am, and what a fool!" answered the girl,
bursting into tears. And then the painter knew that his ship had gone
down, and the waters had closed over it for evermore. That evening his
aunts thought Simon in better spirits than usual. Nina, though
she went to bed before the rest, had never found him kinder, more
cheerful, more considerate. He spoke playfully, good-humouredly, on
various subjects, and kissed the girl's forehead gravely, almost
reverently, when she wished him good-night. It was such a caress as a
man lays on the dead face that shall never look in his own again. The
painter slept but little--perhaps not at all. And who shall tell how
hard he wrestled with his great sorrow during those long hours of
darkness, "even to the breaking of the day"? No angel sat by his bed
to comfort him, nor spirit-voices whispered solace in his ear, nor
spirit-sympathy poured balm into the cold, aching, empty heart; but
I have my own opinion on such matters, and I would fain believe that
struggles and sufferings like these are neither wasted nor forgotten,
but are treasured and recorded by kindred beings of a higher nature,
as the training that alone fits poor humanity, then noblest, when most
sorrowful, to enter the everlasting gates and join the radiant legions
of heaven.