"Well, come out of it," said Monckton, "and let's talk sense. I--I read the news at Derby, just as I was starting for London. I have been as near the mine as I thought safe. They seem to be very busy clearing out both shafts--two steam-engines, constant relays of workmen. Who has got the job in hand?"

"I have," said Bartley.

"Well, that's clever of you to throw dust in their eyes, and put our little game off your own shoulders. You want to save appearances? You know you can not save William Hope."

"I can save him, and I will save him. G.o.d will have mercy on a penitent a.s.sa.s.sin, as he once had upon a penitent thief."

Monckton stared at him and smiled.

"Who has been talking to you--the parson?"

"My own conscience. I abhor myself as much as I do you, you black villain."

"Ah!" said Monckton, with a wicked glance, "that's how a man patters before he splits upon his pals, to save his own skin. Now, look here, old man, before you split on me ask yourself who had the greatest interest in this job. You silenced a dangerous enemy, but what have I gained? you ought to square with me first, as you promised. If you split upon me before that, you will put yourself in the hole and leave me out of it."

"Villain and fool!" said Bartley, "these trifles do not trouble me now.

If Hope and my dear Mary are found dead in that mine, I'll tell how they came by their death, and I'll die by my own hand."

Monckton said nothing, but looked at him keenly, and began at last to feel uneasy.

"A shaft is but a narrow thing," Bartley rejoined; "why should they be buried alive? let's get to them before they are starved to death. We may save them yet."

"Why, you fool, they'll denounce us!"

"What do I care? I would save them both to-night if I was to stand in the dock to-morrow."

"And swing on the gallows next week, or end your days in a prison."

"I'd take my chance," said Bartley, desperately. "I'll undo my crime if I can. No punishment can equal the agony I am in now, thanks to you, you villain."

Then turning on him suddenly, and showing him the white of his eyes like a maniac, or a dangerous mastiff, he hissed out, "You think nothing of the lives of better men; perhaps you don't value your own?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Monckton. "That's a very different thing."

"Oh, you do value your own foul life?"

"At any amount of money," said Monckton.

"Then why do you risk it?"

"Excuse me, governor, that's a thing I make a point of not doing. I risk my instruments, not my head, Ben Burnley to wit."

"You are risking it now," said Bartley, looking still more strangely at him.

"How so, pray?" said Monckton, getting a little uneasy, for this was not the Bartley he had known till then.

Bartley took the poker in his hand and proceeded to poke the fire; but somehow he did not look at the fire. He looked askant at Monckton, and he showed the white of his eyes more and more. Monckton kept his eye upon him and put his hand upon the handle of the door.

"I'll tell you," said Bartley--"by coming here to tempt, provoke, and insult the wretch whose soul you destroyed, by forcing me to a.s.sa.s.sinate the best man and the sweetest girl in England, when there were vipers and villains about whom it's a good action to sweep off G.o.d's earth. Villain!

I'll teach you to come like a fool and madden a madman. I was only a rogue, you have made me a man of blood. All the worse for you. I have murdered _them_, I'll execute _you_," and with these words he bounded on him like a panther.

Monckton tore the doors open, and dashed out, but a furious blow fell before he was quite clear of the doorway. With such force was it delivered that the blunt metal cut into the edge of the door like a sword; the jamb was smashed, and even Monckton, who received but one-fourth of the blow, fell upon his hands and knees into the hall and was stunned for a moment, but fearing worse, staggered out of the hall door, which, luckily for him, was open, and darting into a little grove of shrubs, that was close by, grovelled there in silence, bleeding like a pig, and waiting for his chance to escape entirely; but the quaking reptile ran no further risk.

Bartley never followed him beyond his own room; he had been goaded into a maniacal impulse, and he returned to his gloomy sullenness.

Walter's declaration, made so suddenly before four persons, startled them greatly for a moment--but only for a moment. Julia was the first to speak.

"We might have known it," she said, "Mary Bartley is a young lady incapable of misconduct; she is prudence, virtue, delicacy, and purity in person; the man she was with at that place was sure to be her husband, and who should that be but Walter, whom she loved?"

Then the servants looked anxiously at their master to see how he took this startling revelation. Well, the Colonel stood firm as if he was at the head of a column in the field. He was not the man to retreat from any position, he said, "All we have to do is to save her; then my house and arms are open to my son's wife."

"G.o.d bless you, father!" cried Walter, in a broken voice; "and G.o.d bless you, dear cousin. Yes, it's no time for words." And he was gone in a moment.

"Now Milton," said the Colonel, "he won't sleep here till the work is done, and he won't sleep at all if we don't get a bed for him near the mine. You order the break out, and go to the Dun Cow and do what you can for him."

"That I will, sir; I'll take his own sheets and bedding with me. I won't trust that woman--she talks too much; and, if you please, sir, I'll stay there a day or two myself, for maybe I shall coax him to eat a morsel of my cooking, and to lie down a bit, when he would not listen to a stranger."

"You're a faithful creature," said the Colonel, rather aggressively, not choosing to break down, "so are you, John; and it is at these moments we find out our friends in the house; and, confound you, I forbid you both to snivel," said he, still louder. Then, more gravely, "How do we know?

many a stormy day ends well; this calamity may bring happiness and peace to a divided house."

Colonel Clifford prophesied right. Walter took the lead of a working gang and worked night and day, resting two hours only in the twenty-four, and even that with great reluctance. Outside the scene was one of bustle and animation. Little white tents, for the strange workmen to sleep in, dotted the green, and two snowy refreshment tents were pitched outside the Dun Cow. That establishment had large brick ovens and boilers, and the landlady, and the women she had got to help her, kept the tables always groaning under solid fare that never once flagged, being under the charge of that old campaigner, Colonel Clifford. The landlady tried to look sad at the occasion which called forth her energy and talents; but she was a woman of business, and her complacency oozed through her. Ah, it was not so at the pit mouth; the poor wives whose husbands were entombed below, alive or dead, hovered and fluttered about the two shafts with their ap.r.o.ns to their eyes, and eager with their questions. Deadly were their fears, their hopes fainter and fainter, as day after day went by, and both gangs, working in so narrow a s.p.a.ce, made little progress, compared with their own desires, and the prayers of those who trembled for the result. It was a race and a struggle of two gallant parties, and a short description of it will be given; but as no new incidents happened for six days we shall preserve the chronological order of events, and now relate a daring project which was revived in that interval.

Monckton and Bartley were now enemies. Sin had united, crime and remorse had disunited them. Monckton registered a vow of future vengeance upon his late a.s.sociate, but in the meantime, taking a survey of the present circ.u.mstances, he fell back upon a dark project he had conceived years ago on the very day when he was arrested for theft in Bartley's office.

Perhaps our readers, their memory disturbed by such a number of various matters as we have since presented to them, may have forgotten that project, but what is about to follow will tend to revive their recollection. Monckton then wired to Mrs. Braham's lawyer demanding an immediate interview with that lady; he specified the hour.

The lawyer went to her directly, the matter being delicate. He found her in great distress, and before he could open his communication she told him her trouble. She said that her husband, she feared, was going out of his mind; he groaned all night and never slept, and in the daytime never spoke.

There had been just then some surprising falls and rises in foreign securities, and the shrewd lawyer divined at once that the stock-broker had been doing business on his own account, and got pinched; so he said, "My dear madam, I suspect it is business on the Exchange; he will get over that, but there is something that is immediately pressing," and he then gave her Monckton's message.

Now her nerves were already excited, and this made matters worse. She cried and trembled, and became hysterical, and vowed she would never go near Leonard Monckton again; he had never loved her, had never been a friend to her as Jonathan Braham had. "No," said she; "if he wants money, take and sell my jewels; but I shall stay with my husband in his trouble."

"He is not your husband," said the lawyer, quietly; "and this man is your husband, and things have come to my knowledge lately which it would be imprudent at present to disclose either to him or you; but we are old friends. You can not doubt that I have your interest at heart."

"No, I don't doubt that," said Lucy, hastily, and held out her hand to him.

"Well, then," said he, "be persuaded and meet the man."

"No, I will not do that," said she. "I am not a good woman, I know; but it is not for want of the wish. I will not play double any more." And from that nothing he could say could move her.

The lawyer returned to his place, and when Monckton called next day he told him he was sorry to say Mr. Braham was ill and in trouble, and the lady couldn't meet him. She would make any reasonable sacrifice for his convenience except that.

"And I," said Monckton, "insist upon that, and nothing else."

The lawyer endeavored to soften him, and hinted that he would advance money himself sooner than his client should be tormented.

But Monckton was inflexible. He said, "It is about a matter that she can not communicate to you, nor can I. However, I am obliged to you for your information. She won't leave her stock-broker, eh? Well, then I know where to find her;" and he took up his hat to go.