"And yet in a trice the vision vanished, melted before your eyes?"

"Indeed I know not, sir, for terror overcame my senses, and I swooned."

"My good Fetis, you are in a very bad state of health. You need to be monstrously careful of yourself. These signs and wonders of yours presage lunacy. Give me the hand-mirror. No, your eyebrows are not so successful as usual. There is a gouty line in the arch of the left, and you have given me a scintilla too much rouge. Pray tone down that rosy-apple appearance to a more delicate peach bloom. I think you are falling off in the composition of your red. There is a purple tinge that is too conspicuously artificial. You are a chemist, and should know more of the amalgamation of colours. You should try to imitate nature, my good Fetis. And you tell me you saw my poor Margharita's ghost, and that 'twas Mr. Durnford who held the candle that lighted the vision?"

"It was just as I have told you."

"To be sure. And pray do you happen to remember a certain young lady, an heiress, who came to the Abbey last winter, and who was the living image of my poor Margharita--whom you must remember I indulged and treated with all possible kindness so long as she was faithful to me--and on whose account you might therefore spare me your reproaches."

"I cannot forget my crime, nor who prompted it."

"Plague take you, Fetis, why use hard words? 'Twas but a sleeping draught made a thought too powerful, so that the sleep became eternal.

'Twas euthanasia. Had that girl lived her fate would have been an evil one. She was on the downward slope when death stopped her. She had ceased to care for me, and was pa.s.sionately in love with Churchill. Do you suppose he would have remained true to her when the vanity of conquest was over and her monotony of sweetness began to pall? Deserted by him, she would have fallen a prey to some coa.r.s.er profligate, and then the side boxes, and the hospital or Bridewell. Faithless to me, there was nothing but death that could save her."

"You might have made her your wife."

"Because I found her false and fickle as a mistress! A pretty reason, quotha."

"To be made an honest woman would have steadied her; you might have given her the company of her child; that is ever a mother's safeguard."

"Pollute my house with the presence of a squalling baby! No, Fetis, endurance has limits. Pshaw! let us not harp upon this folly. Do you remember Mrs. Bosworth?"

"Yes; I saw her only at a distance. The likeness was certainly startling."

"And you did not know that the lady is now Mr. Durnford's wife? He stole her from her father's house t'other day, and Parson Keith married them."

"No; I had not heard that."

"And therefore could not guess that the ghost you saw in the dark room was no less a personage than Durnford's young wife, who by a freak of nature happens to be the living image of my dead mistress?"

"By heaven, it might have been so! I never guessed--I never thought--"

faltered Fetis.

"Of course not. You have lost your head, my friend, since you took to cards and strong waters. Had you been content to drink like a gentleman, these fancies would never have addled your brains. I hope you betrayed yourself no more than by your swooning fit in Lavendale's presence. You held your tongue, I trust, when your senses returned?"

"I know not," answered Fetis, with an embarra.s.sed air. "I left the house like a sleepwalker, scarce conscious of my own actions; nor do I know how I reached my own chamber."

"You are a sad fool, my dear Fetis, and, what is more, you are a dangerous fool," said Topsparkle, in his gentlest voice, and with a faint sigh. "The hand-gla.s.s again, please. Yes, that is better: the eyebrows have more delicacy than your first attempt. I want to appear at my best to-night. A man who has a beautiful wife should not look a scarecrow. You have a remarkable talent for touching up a face; a gift, Fetis, a gift. 'Tis an art that can be no more learnt than oratory or poetry. A man must be born with it. I am very sorry for you, my good Louis, sorry that tongue of yours is no more to be trusted. There, that will do. My valet can help me on with my wig. You are looking ill and tired. Get home as fast as you can."

"Indeed, sir, I am far from well."

"I can see it, my poor friend. Good-day to you. Tell my servant to bring me a dish of tea as you go out."

Fetis bowed and retired, gave his master's message to the footman sitting half asleep in the ante-room, and went out of the house.

He had not left the Square before he was stopped by two shabbily-clad men, one of whom tapped him on the shoulder.

"You are my prisoner, Mr. Fetis."

"Prisoner, fellow! you are joking."

"No, sir; this will show you there is no joke in the matter;" and the man produced a paper which Mr. Fetis read with a troubled brow.

"This can be very easily settled," he said after a pause; "'tis but a bagatelle. I had forgotten that Mr. Bevis had sued me. The account is such a paltry one, and I have put thousands into Bevis's pockets. It is but fifty pounds. If you will accompany me to yonder house on the other side of the Square, Mr. Topsparkle will oblige me with the cash."

"Can't do no such thing, your honour," growled the bailiff, in a voice thickened by hard living and strong drink. "My orders are to take you straight to the sponging-house. You can communicate with your friends when you're there."

"But the house is within a few paces, and I tell you I can get the money!"

"The law's the law, and it mustn't be tampered with," said the man, "and duty's duty, and it's mine to see you safe inside the lock. Call a coach, Jerry; there's a stand in Greek Street," and so, with his arm held in the dirty grasp of a bailiff, Mr. Fetis was marched off to a coach.

In that trouble of mind which had been growing on him of late he had indeed almost forgotten that judgment had been p.r.o.nounced against him at the suit of Messrs. Bevis, wine merchants, of the Strand, whose account, though he made so light of it, was one of long standing. Messrs. Bevis had filled and refilled Mr. Topsparkle's cellars since his re-establishment in London, and Fetis had been the agent and intermediary in all purchases of wine, choosing, tasting, approving, and had been courted and fawned upon by the Messrs. Bevis and their clerks.

And now on account of a trumpery fifty-odd pounds for goods supplied to himself, he was to be locked up in gaol! He was astounded at the ingrat.i.tude of these wretches.

CHAPTER VIII.

"STILL THE PALE DEAD REVIVES, AND LIVES TO ME."

It was on the second day after Fetis had been deprived of his liberty, that the post brought a thick packet to Mr. Durnford in Bloomsbury Square, as he sat with Lavendale over a bottle of claret after the four o'clock dinner. The writing of the address was unfamiliar to him, and the characters had a blurred and irregular look, as if the hand that had traced them had scarce been steady enough to hold a pen.

He broke the seals hurriedly, eager to see the contents, for the post-mark was that of the next post town to Flamestead and Fairmile.

The letter contained an enclosure consisting of three other letters, the ink faded, and the paper yellowed by age. These were written in French, in a niggling mean little hand which Mr. Herrick had never seen before.

On the inside of the cover were these lines in the same illegible and tremulous scrawl as the outer inscription.

"SIR,----the hand of death is on me. Your wife never injured me, and I should like to do her a good turn before I die. The enclosed letters, which Squire Bosworth found on the person of your wife's father, were discovered by me in his bureau some years ago. They may help you to a fortune, and induce you to think more kindly of your humble servant,----BARBARA LAYBURNE."

Herrick hastily unfolded one of the three letters, and looked at the signature.

"By heaven, Lavendale, 'tis a strange world!" he exclaimed. "This letter is signed by the man who was here the other night, and his signature in this conjuncture, before I read a line of this correspondence, a.s.sures me that my suspicion is well founded."

"What suspicion?"

"One which I have hitherto hesitated to confide to you lest you should deem me a lunatic. I have for some time suspected that the likeness between Irene and the portrait you and I unearthed at Ringwood Abbey was something more than an accident--that there was a link between the story of Topsparkle's past life and my dear one's birth--and here in Philip Chumleigh's possession are letters bearing the signature of Topsparkle's tool and accomplice. Before I read them I am convinced they will confirm all my suspicions."

"Read, Herrick, read. Thou knowest I am more interested in thy fortunes than in my own--for thine are the more hopeful. Read, Herrick, I burn with impatience."

Durnford obeyed, and after a careful comparison of dates read the first letter, which was dated Florence, July 20th, 1705.

"MADEMOISELLE,--It is with the utmost regret that I am constrained to remonstrate with you upon the contents of your last letter addressed to your father, under cover to me, and forwarded at your urgent desire by the Rev. Mother, who, when she so far complied with your wish, was aware that she transgressed the rules laid down for her guidance by my honoured master, your guardian and benefactor, who desired that no communication should ever be addressed to him by you.

"Your address to a father who has long ceased to exist, can but be answered by the a.s.surance that the n.o.ble Englishman who is generous enough to pay for your maintenance at the convent recognises no claim upon him of a nature such as you put forward in your vehement letter. He has provided for you from your infancy, and will continue to provide for you so long as you deserve his bounty; but he cannot submit to be persecuted by appeals to his affection, or by your foolish desire to know the secret of your birth, a knowledge which you may be a.s.sured could not add to your satisfaction or peace of mind.