CHAP. XLVII.

IS SHORT, BUT MAKES ONE PERSON HAPPY.

Restlessly I wandered up and down the staircase. Sarah, the dairymaid, had posted herself at an upper window, to listen, not to see, for the night was dark. Sooner than I could expect the police, she called to me that something was coming from Marsham.

"It sounds very like the gig," she presently announced, and ran down to open the hall door. Mr. Ainslie had met Dick Wilcox on the way and been made acquainted with the evil news. He listened to the details of what I had done and those attending the circumstances of Helen's disappearance, and presently questioned: "How could he have taken her by force out of the house without the servants hearing anything?"

Mr. Ainslie requested me to take one of them into Miss Dalziel's room to demonstrate that she had made no preparation for flight. Her watch and chain were in a little basket on the table, with a ring which had been her mother's and one or two other trinkets. All her out-door apparel was there. Her writing case lay open on a chest of drawers, with a note commenced to Miss Ainslie giving account of her grandfather's illness.

Inspector Kean followed with two more men. They had been searching the ruined huts. Two of the farm labourers came also, having been roused by the inquiries of the police. The news had spread through Dingleton, and Mr. Grey arrived with the chief constable of the village.

"I am glad your impression is so positive that she did not go willingly," Mr. Ainslie said. "Oh, how could you think it possible!" I cried impatiently; "and with Mr. Wainwright in a dying state! She was full of distress for him; in the most unlikely mood even if she had been free from all engagement."

"I am quite convinced she could not have premeditated such an act; but there is such a thing as giving way to a gentle compulsion. If in her heart she regretted her ties and gave preference to her cousin, the very fact of Mr. Wainwright's impending death, implying that Mr. Mainwaring would immediately claim her, might tend to the result."

"No, no, Mr. Ainslie," I said; "because you had much hand in bringing about Helen's marriage, you are more nervous than you need be concerning it. Two strong objections stand in the way of such a probability. Helen hates disloyalty, and she loves Mr. Mainwaring."

Lance arrived; two of the police arrived.

about his face and said he had been thrown by the black mare while in pursuit of some ruffians. The gentleman had spoken to him from an upper window, and had rather a confused impression of what he had heard. Mr. Grant Wainwright, he said, was evidently in haste to be gone, and said something about having a clue which he must follow up.

It was impossible where each one in the house was under painful excitement, and so many were coming and going, to keep the quiet that seemed desirable on account of old Mr. Wainwright's critical condition.

Nanny Cargill sat in his room and closed the door, but she could not resist the temptation to open it and listen. I went up to give her this report concerning Grant, and she said "I think now he'll bring her back."

There was a fresh arrival, some fresh intelligence. I ran down in haste and Nanny followed, leaving Peggy in charge.

Some policemen searching with lanterns near the marsh embankment had come upon a part recently trampled. They said men must have landed from a boat before the tide had been at the full, for there were traces of sea-sand on the

Y

grass. There was some dispute about the description of marks seen, and in the midst a carriage came up to the gate.

It was very dark outside, but several people carried lanterns, and one being raised to the carriage window, a voice in the hall proclaimed, "There's a lady inside!" "Is it her?" cried another, and the cry was repeated. Some even said "She's come back!"

I was near the hall door as they approached, and soon recognized Alice and Mr. Brown.

"It is my daughter," Mr. Ainslie said aloud. I took her in my arms; and, the parlour being full of gentlemen, was about to lead her upstairs, when, to my utter astonishment, I beheld facing us on the lower landing the old Squire !

Pale, half dressed, wildly excited; but more apparently with delight than any other feeling, he extended his hands towards us, crying, "Come at last. I knew you would come. Carrie, my dear, I've wanted you so long."

Alice ran up and kissed him, she only understood that he looked to her for comfort.

Nanny Cargill was standing petrified with surprise. Mr. Ainslie and Merton Brown ran up and supported the old man, who evidently had scarce power to stand. A chair was handed to the landing and they placed him on it. Alice knelt, stroking his hand and looking pityingly in his face.

I stood at the foot of the staircase, like Nanny, utterly amazed, when one of the elder men cried: "Good Lord! He thinks it's his daughter! And she's like her too!"

"Like Miss Helen ? Oh, not a bit!" said another.

"Like Miss Helen's mother, Miss Caroline that was. She went off with Captain Dalziel twenty years ago, and there was just this hunt for her." "I remember it well," said Mr. West; "she went to a party at Mrs. Prendergast's. Mr. Wainwright sat up all night expecting her home, and when he found how it was, he took an oath he would never ask her to come back. A rash oath, but he kept to it; and it is plain it cost him dear."

Grant's course, as Witham was known not to have sailed and was probably now in the hands of the police.

When they had gone I went up to the drawing-room, and persuading Alice to take off her pretty dress and go to bed, I lay down on the sofa till five in the morning, when I took Nanny Cargill's charge over her sleeping master.

CHAP. XLVIII.

THE HEART ON THE LIPS.

I had not been quite well since the excitement occasioned by Harry Markland's letter. Hurrying about London in the warm season, and the anxiety attending recent occurrences, had kept up the feverishness of my nerves, and I was alternately sensible of great restlessness or languor. All through this dreadfnl night I had had to fight against a tendency to stupor which continually asserted itself. Whether it may have tended to blunt the poignancy of my feelings I cannot say; they were keen enough.

When I arrived at my own house I felt almost incapable of speaking to Barbara. I heard and saw, but it seemed that I scarce could reflect. Her presence worried me. She spoke of making me some coffee, and it reminded me to tell her there were many people coming, so she must make plenty. I told her also to have my dining-table placed in the hall and as many chairs as possible. So I was rid of her.

Mr. Mainwaring would be the first to arrive; I felt almost sure of that. What would he look like? Oh, to think of the glow of happiness over his handsome face when I parted from him.

Wheels already! yes, Mr. Mainwaring alighting. In a moment he was in my parlour.

A stillness fell over the assemblage downstairs after this startling appearance of the old Squire. Voices spoke under breath, and it was agreed there should be a meeting at Fairclough in the morning. Mr. Ainslie said he would provide a carriage to meet Mr. Mainwaring at Marsham station, and bring him on to me there. It seemed best, and as he might be expected to arrive at half past eight, I engaged to be at home before that time.

Merton Brown left with the rest, he said he should for the present make it his task to trace

see-no hope!"

"Nothing-nothing yet," I answered. He had come away from some entertainment, his dress told that.

Sinking into a chair he gazed at me, as silent I stood before him. When he commenced talking he spoke rapidly, almost wildly.

Surely he had had enough of such misery before, he said, and this had come upon him more overwhelmingly than anything yet.

I was powerless to speak word of comfort, so truly was I overcome by the sense of his grief; but tongue-tied as I felt, I knew that to have me to speak to was probably a relief after the long journey he had had, with such intense anxiety at heart and only strangers around him. He seemed indeed scarcely to expect reply, scarcely to address me; but from the fulness of

"Child, to be so weak that I must love somewhere! Shall I have this weakness all my life? Most men have some safe channel for affection, I think. My mother? Oh, loving her has cost me too dear. It cost me very nearly honour; it has cost me this. No, she would ruin me again.

"That girl seemed to cling about my very heart; to claim the support it was happiness to give. That was it, I suppose, the happiness tempted me! What shall I do with myself? Perhaps if I were ten years older I might do better; might work, as I have seen men work, without thought beyond the achievement of success. Shall I hope to do this?

"I wish I had been brought up as my father was; such discipline might have hardened my character. But he was loving in his home. He ruled my mother in kindness and felt pain in having to stand firm; I know he did. And he loved me tenderly. Oh, if he were now living!

"It seems so long a way stretching before me to walk alone. And then to be weighted with these memories; to be haunted with them as with a bad conscience. Which is worst, I wonder? I suppose I may prove it if I go the way most men at my age would. Change one for the other; easy enough I daresay; and then rid me of both perchance.

"My conscience has been light enough hitherto; yet some I know will say this only serves me right. Tell me truly what you think, Mrs. Gainsborough; have I been to blame towards her in any way? Could I have done otherwise ?"

"Who should blame you ?"

"It is true she was hurried into the marriage, but could I help it? She made not a shadow of opposition. Mr. Wainwright may have persuaded her, but he said he had not. I used no words of inducement; I only said it was necessary she should love me if she accepted my hand; and I believed-oh, I could have sworn that she loved me! It was weak, lamentably weak, to throw off one yoke and bend my neck to the next that offered. I could have fulfilled my pledge without that. Ab, you were very anxious I should love her, very solicitous I should believe in her. And I did love her, from my very heart I loved her. She seemed so confiding, so truthful; her love had such an appearance of reality. It seemed not to spring from vanity or self-gratulation in my subjection; I could not think it mere fanciful inclination. It seemed a sort of minor religion; so earnest, and holy, and real. And I meant to deserve it; I did deserve it if sincere affection and earnest endeavour could.

"You stand there looking at me, Gainsborough; tell me what I must do, stoic or epicurean ?"

too, and you may find hope."

"Pray? Do you know what it is to have the thought of prayer turned bitter to you? Had I not prayed that I might love Helen, prayed for her daily as I have done, I had not loved her so well. I seem to be punished for right doing as if it were a sin. Had I followed the instinct of my nature and taken her away with me on Tuesday night I might have shielded her; she might have become attached to me; all might have been well. But I was scrupulous; I did not think it right towards Mr. Wainwright; and see my reward!"

"Oh hush, hush! you should not talk so. It is better to suffer for well-doing than for evil-doing." You think me very

"Go on; speak to me. wicked. I daresay I am. I know I am very nearly mad."

"I could almost think you believed-but you cannot. You rave so. Men are selfish and will think of their own interests first. Have you been talking the pain away?"

"Poor Mrs. Gainsborough, I ought not to pain you. Forgive me. If you knew what a journey I have had. It is no fault of yours; I know you have done your best."

"You seemed to me as if-almost as if you were hard upon poor Helen."

"No, I may not be that. I know that women have noble and beautiful impulses, though they may be weak and easily swayed by a strong will and a strong passion in the lover nearest them. Yet-oh, Mrs. Gainsborough, I had not thought it possible, so short a time ago that she looked love into my eyes, that she could give way. She doubtless loved him best all the time, but some fancy or impulse swayed her towards me."

"Mr. Mainwaring, are you thinking all the time that Helen, my Helen, your Helen, could forsake us willingly? Forsake her dying grandfather, her duty, her love? For shame, for shame!"

"I hear it on all sides that she has fled with Grant Wainwright."

"Do they say she fled with him?"
"Yes, with her cousin."

sure she did not

"Oh, Mr. Mainwaring, Grant Wainwright has stolen her; joined in with a gang of villains and carried her by force away." "Are you sure? Are you go willingly?" "Sure-as that I am true band."

to my own hus"You are speak

He took my hands in his. ing the truth," he said; "you must know. She is true; she is true to me."

"Oh, I do pity you if you could think that she was not."

He looked in my face for a moment longer, turned, and pacing the room threw himself on the sofa and buried his face in his arms. I went up to him presently and rested my hand on his shoulder,

"You must not let this overwhelm you now,"

I said. "There is hope, and we want your

CHAP. XLIX.

He was pale now, but there was a softened look on his countenance. "Tell me what you know," he said.

I told him briefly. I had no further suspicion to argue away. He said he had not known that Mr. Wainwright's illness preceded the event. He had heard by telegraph simply that Helen had disappeared and that he was wanted. At Liverpool he had overheard conversation on the platform which first possessed him of the idea that she had fled with Grant Wainwright. Some way further on two gentlemen entering the carriage had conversed freely of the matter; and, alighting at Marsham, it was on every tongue. Concerning the manner of the occurrence there seemed diversity of opinion; but all, with one exception, a porter at the station, who said it was the Black Band's doing, agreed that Miss Dalziel had gone off with her cousin, and that old Mr. Wainwright had fallen into one of his passions in consequence, and was dying or dead.

I advised Mr. Mainwaring to go upstairs and bathe his forehead; he had complained of a racking headache. When he returned to the parlour he looked more collected. Barbara had brought in some coffee and he took it eagerly.

"I wanted some at Marsham," he said; "but none was to be had. They bronght me wine, wretched stuff. I was obliged to take it for I thought I must have fainted. I took all they gave me, how much I hardly know. It mounted to my head, and, I hope you can make excuses for me, Mrs. Gainsborough. I know I have been talking like a fool. This coffee is good, it revives me. I hope to be a reasonable being again presently. Another cup if you please." He drank it in silence; then said, Mrs. Gainsborough, I dare not talk to you about Helen. I must keep feeling under or I shall be hindered in giving the entire attention I ought to the facts of the event. But I want to say to you that, you shall not find me selfish

now.'

39

"Hush, hush!" he interrupted; "not now." I was sorry indeed I had said it. I felt I had not sufficiently appreciated the necessity he had spoken of and I was so vexed with myself, so subdued by witnessing the struggle he had to maintain composure, that I could not keep the tears from falling. He had walked to the window but returned, took my hand and kissed it. "How much you have suffered," he said. "Be hopeful. Heaven will watch over her. It would be wicked to despair."

I heard the hall door opened; and, requesting Mr. Mainwaring to remain in the parlour until I had ascertained who were the comers, I went to meet them,

HUSBAND.

The two magistrates and Merton Brown arrived together. I admitted the latter into the parlour. Immediately afterwards a carriage drew up, bringing Mr. Boradaile and Mr. Devonshire. Then a party of gentlemen from Marsham came, including Mr. West, and Mr. Field the chemist. Mr. Hawkins followed, and Alfred Merrivale.

The gentlemen were talking in groups, in a desultory manner, when Mr. Harding proposed they should sit down and endeavour to gather the facts of the case in some sort of order.

"The first question," he said, "which it appears necessary to set at rest is, whether we are to regard this as an elopement or an abduction. Remembering that Miss Dalziel recently leapt her horse acrose the Cleft, under the fear of capture, I incline to the latter view."

Mr. Boradaile submitted that no mere mercenary aim could be served by stealing Miss Dalziel, since Mr. Wainwright, in such a case, would doubtless alter the disposition of his property.

"It is believed he is dying," said Mr. Grey. "It is too certain now, and might have been a question before the affair at the Cleft, that no new will of his making would be likely to hold good in law."

"Still I do not see why suspicion should fall on Mr. Witham," continued Mr. Boradaile, "when Mr. Grant Wainwright appears so much more likely to have won the lady's favour."

"As Miss Dalziel's intimate friend," I interrupted, "I can give you my fullest assurance that her inclinations are all in favour of the gentleman to whom, with Mr. Wainwright's sanction, she was engaged. Mr. Arden Mainwaring, her affianced husband, was telegraphed for last night, and is now here."

It was a great surprise to most of those present.

I opened the parlour door. Mr. Mainwaring and Mr. Merton Brown came into the hall, and, being duly introduced, took places at the table. The sensation among the gentlemen caused by this announcement and appearance was succeeded by a silence, till Mr. Mainwaring (stating he had just been informed that Mr. Grant Wainwright, watched by a detective, was journeying in Scotland) asked for information concerning his previous movements.

Mr. West then repeated what had occurred at his house. Being questioned by Mr. Harding, he said he certainly did not understand that Miss Dalziel was missing. He thought Darliston Hall had been broken into again, and asked, "Is it the Black Band?" To which Mr. Wainwright replied, "Very likely."

Mr. Field said that when Mr. Grant Wainwright had brought the prescription he was in great haste to have it made up. He looked very