"She is too pure and sweet and true a woman--I don't believe it," he said, grinding his teeth. "Whom I am cursed scoundrel enough to neglect. Who could have written that? Curse him! that John Huish, of course. What a scoundrel he has turned out!"

"Bah! what am I railing at?" he cried. "Whom do I call scoundrel? d.a.m.n you!" he roared, forcing up the little trap in the roof of the hansom.

"Faster, man, faster."

There was another lash of the whip, and the horse galloped furiously.

"Scoundrel, indeed! he is no worse scoundrel than I. He is an open roue, while I stoop to all kinds of beggarly petty subterfuges to conceal the life I lead. I won't believe it, though; it is a malicious trick of John Huish's because he was jealous--and he has fooled me."

"Well," he muttered, after a pause, "a good thing too. I'm sick of the whole thing--cards, lose, pay, feast a woman who does not care a _sou_ for me. Heavens, what a fool I am! John Huish, you have ousted me; take my place and welcome. Renee, little woman, I'll come back, and be a good boy now."

He said this with a mocking laugh, and then changed his position impatiently in the cab, growing, in spite of his words, more excited every moment.

"How could Huish know?" he said, gnawing his nails. "Impossible; and, besides, he is too good and tried a friend. Suppose he did drop in, what then? Why, he is wiser than I: he prefers the society of a sweet good little woman to that of a set of painted animals, who have not a sc.r.a.p of reputation big enough to make a bow for their false hair."

"There, I've been tricked," he exclaimed, as the cab turned down out of Knightsbridge and he neared Chesham Place. "Never mind; I'll forgive him for fooling me, and I'll try to leave all this wretched, stupid life behind. We'll go abroad for a bit; or, no, we'll go yachting--there'll be no temptations there. I'm going to begin afresh. We'll have a new honeymoon, Renee, my little girl. But--but--if that fellow's words were true!"

The gas-lamps seemed to spin round as he stopped the cab, and he leapt out to hastily thrust some money in the drivers hand, and then walked sharply down the Place till he came opposite his own house.

"Curse it--it can't be so!" he groaned, as he saw the dimly-lit drawing-room. "If it were true, I should go mad or go to the bad altogether. I won't believe it. Malpas, old fellow, I beg your pardon," he muttered. "Renee, my child, if heaven will give me strength, I'll confess to you like an honest man that I've been a fool and an idiot, and ask you to forgive me."

"Yes, and she'll forgive me without a word," he said, as he opened the door, quickly threw off hat and coat, and ran up the great stone staircase three steps at a time, then, trying to control the agitation that made his heart beat so heavily against his side, he threw open the door, closed it hastily, and walked across the faintly-lit room into the next, where he could see into the little boudoir with its bright furniture, flowers, and graceful hanging-lamp, which shed a softened light through the place.

The next instant he had entered, and was standing there face to face with his wife, who with flushed face stood trembling before him, supporting herself by-one hand upon the chimney-piece.

"Renee," he cried, turning white with rage, as his worst suspicions seemed confirmed, "what does this mean?"

"Frank, Frank!" stretching out her hands towards him as she tottered a couple of steps and then reeled and would have fallen, but he caught her and swung her round on to the couch, where he laid her, and stood gazing down for a few moments.

Then, looking dazed, and trembling in every limb, he turned round, his eyes rested on the curtains which shut off the little conservatory, and with two strides he reached them, tore them aside, and then started away.

It was exactly what he had wound himself up to expect; but his faith in his injured wife was so strong that, as he drew back, he could scarcely believe his eyes, and with a giddy feeling stealing over him, he stood staring wildly at the apparition that he had unveiled. The blood seemed to swell in a chilling flood to his heart, and for a few moments he could neither speak nor move.

Then with an electric rush it seemed to dart again through every vein in his body, making his nerves tingle, and he flew at the man who had crept like a serpent into his Eden.

"Devil!" he cried hoa.r.s.ely; and he tried to seize his enemy by the throat.

With a deft movement of the arms, though, Malpas struck his hands aside, caught them by the wrist, gave them a dexterous twist, and forced the other, stronger man though he was of the two, upon his knees.

"Fool! idiot!" he said, in a low voice. "Do you wish to publish it all over Belgravia?"

"You crawling, deceitful fiend!" cried Frank Morrison, making a savage effort to free himself, and succeeding so that he closed, and a sharp struggle ensued, which again went against the young husband. For his adversary was an adept in athletic exercises, and taking advantage of a low ottoman being behind, forced him backwards so suddenly that he fell, and in a moment was down with Malpas's hands in his necktie and a knee on his chest.

"Are you mad?" he said, panting and trying to recover his breath; "what do you want?"

"Your life, you crawling, lying villain," gasped Morrison.

"Look here, Morrison, be a man of the world," said Malpas quietly. "So far, I don't suppose they have heard anything downstairs, so why make a scene? If you wish it, I'll meet you in Belgium; that is," he added, smiling, "if you consider that your honour has suffered."

"You scoundrel!" panted Morrison. "You have blasted my home!"

"Bah! don't go into high sentiment. Blasted your home? Hang it, man, talk sense! What did you care for your home? Where have you been to-night?"

"Where I pleased," cried Morrison, with subdued rage in his eyes; but he lowered his voice.

"Exactly, you had your little affair to attend to: why should not madame have her guest by way of solace, in the absence of so true and faithful a husband?"

"You villain!" panted Morrison again, as he caught the wrists that held him down.

"Villain, if you like to use such strong language, _mon cher_; but for heaven's sake be calm--be a man of the world! We don't live in the old, sentimental Darby-and-Joan days, my dear fellow, but in times when it is fashionable to follow one's own sweet will. You are like the dog in the manger: obstinate--selfish--brutal. Go to, my dear friend, and enjoy yourself, but let others live and enjoy themselves too."

For answer Frank Morrison made a desperate struggle to rise, but he was quite helpless under the strong pressure of his opponent's knee.

"For goodness' sake, be calm," said Malpas angrily. "Hang it, man, what did you expect in our matter-of-fact world! You brought me here constantly, and you left us together constantly. Do you forget that we were old lovers before you came between us? There, you are coming to your senses, I hope."

He stepped away quickly towards the door, and Frank Morrison sprang up and made as if once more to seize him, but with a violent thrust Malpas sent him backwards and was gone.

Frank Morrison stood motionless till he heard the front door close; then with a moan of anguish he turned towards where Renee still lay insensible upon the couch.

"My punishment!" he groaned: "and I believed in her so thoroughly; I thought her so pure, so sweet that--out upon me! I left her, dog that I was, for garbage. Curse him!" he cried in a paroxysm of rage, "curse her, with her smooth, white, innocent looks! The whole world is blasted with villainy, and there is not one among us worthy of a moment's faith."

"Frank--husband," moaned a voice, and Renee, pale as death, rose trembling to clasp her hands before him.

He caught them in his, dragged her up savagely, and then swung her down upon her knees.

"And you, too, of all women in the world! Curse you! curse you! may you--"

"Frank, my own, I--"

"Out upon you!" he cried. "I'll never look upon your smooth false face again!"

Choking with her emotion, she tried to speak--to cling to him; but he s.n.a.t.c.hed himself away, and as she fell heavily upon the carpet he rushed from the house.

Volume 2, Chapter IV.

LATE IN THE FIELD.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Matter!" panted d.i.c.k Millet, dancing excitedly into Marcus Glen's room, where the latter was sitting back, cigar in mouth, reading the most interesting parts of a sporting paper. "Why, everything's the matter.

While you are sitting here at your ease, those two old patriarchs have been stealing a march upon us."

"When you get a little less excited," said Glen coolly, "perhaps you will explain."

"Oh, it's easily explained: those two--that Jew fellow, Elbraham, and that old yellow apricot, Lord Henry Moorpark--have been in at the private apartments this hour."

"Visit of ceremony," said Glen, sending up a little cloud of smoke.

"Yes, and then they've been walking up and down in the gardens, talking earnestly together."