"And may they always lead happy lives!" added the old servant, in a weak broken voice.

"Hurrah! Let's hope so," remarked the bridegroom, and the trio tossed off their wine.

"And now we must be going," he added, a few minutes later. "You know my instructions, Jacob. You'll follow to Coombe at the end of the week.

If any one calls, tell them--tell them I shan't be back in town for six months at least."

"Very well, Master Hugh," the feeble old man replied, smiling at his master's humour. "May G.o.d bless you both, sir!"

"Thank you, Jacob, thank you," Hugh replied heartily, as his man withdrew. "He can't make it out, I think," he remarked to Jack, with a laugh. "It'll be a fresh experience for him to have a mistress. But I feel sure she'll be kind to him."

Then they both finally examined themselves in a long mirror in the corner of the room, and, putting on their gloves, left the house.

An hour later the bell of the outer door of the chambers rang, and Jacob, still wearing his white satin rosette, answered.

On throwing open the door he was confronted by an unkempt wretchedly clad young woman, with tousled hair poking from under a battered c.r.a.pe bonnet, and a ragged shawl about her shoulders.

"Is Mr. Trethowen in?" she inquired, in a voice that was refined, and certainly not in keeping with her habiliments.

"No, he's not," the old man replied sharply, for a woman of that cla.s.s was not a desirable visitor.

"Where can I find him?" she asked anxiously. "I must see him, and at once."

"I tell you he's not here."

"Then where is he?"

Jacob, always a discreet and discriminating servant, did not like the look of this ill-attired stranger. He was particularly distrustful of females.

"I want to see him--to tell him something for his own advantage. It's imperative that I should see him immediately," she continued.

"Well," remarked Jacob, hesitating, and reflecting that it might possibly be to his master's advantage. "The fact is, he's gone to be married."

"To be married!" she echoed, staggering as if she had been dealt a blow.

"Yes; he and the French lady were to be married at twelve o'clock at St.

James's. He's gone there to meet her."

"Where's the church? Quick, I must go there," she cried anxiously.

"In Piccadilly. Go to the top of the road here, turn to the right, and you'll come to it."

"Will he return here?"

"No; he goes to Cornwall to-night."

Turning suddenly, she ran hurriedly down the stairs. "Well, well,"

remarked the aged retainer aloud, as he closed the door and re-entered the sitting-room. "Now, I wonder what she wants? It's very strange-- very; but, somehow, I believe I've seen a face something like hers before somewhere, only I can't recollect. Ah, well," he added, sighing, "I'm not so young as I was, and my memory fails me. After all, I suppose it's only fancy."

Then he helped himself to a gla.s.s of his master's old port in celebration of the happy occasion.

Meanwhile the slipshod female had turned from Piccadilly up the paved courtyard leading to St. James's church. She hurried, with wearied eyes and pale, anxious face, almost breathless.

At the door she was met by the pew-opener--a stout elderly female in rusty black--who, seeing her haste asked what she wanted.

"Is Mr. Trethowen to be married here to-day?" she inquired.

"Trethowen! Yes. I think that's the gentleman's name. What do you want to know for?" she asked, regarding her suspiciously.

"I must see him. Is he inside?"

"No, he ain't. The party left a quarter of an hour ago."

"Gone!" she cried in dismay.

"Yes, they're married," remarked the woman. "Did you come to congratulate them?" she asked with a sneer.

"Married!" the other echoed, her face ashen pale. "Then, I'm too late!

He's married her--and I cannot save him."

"You seem in rather a bad way over him," observed the woman, with an amused air.

"Where have they gone? Tell me quickly."

"How should I know? As long as the parties give me my fee, I don't ask no questions."

"Gone?" she repeated.

Reeling, she almost fell, but with an effort she recovered herself and shuffled with uneven steps down to the gateway, and in a few minutes was lost in the crowd in Piccadilly.

The woman who acted so strangely, and upon whom suspicions were cast as, with bowed head, she dragged her weary limbs slowly toward Hyde Park Corner, was Dolly Vivian.

Weak and ill, she was dazed by the bustle and noise surrounding her.

Months of confinement, consequent upon a dangerous wound, had had their effect upon her, leaving her but the shadow of her former self. As she walked through the busy thoroughfare, it seemed to her an age since the night she had been decoyed and entrapped. Her experiences had been horrible, and she shuddered as she thought of them.

When she had recovered consciousness after being left by her allurer, she found an old and repulsive-looking woman bending over her holding a cup to her lips. Her mouth was fevered and parched, and she drank.

Then, for the first time, she discovered that she had an ugly and painful wound in her neck. She had been stabbed, but not fatally, and the wound had been bandaged while she was insensible. Ignorant of where she was or how she had been brought there, she lay for weeks hovering between life and death. The lonely house, she found, was occupied by two persons--the woman who attended upon her and a rough-looking man.

They treated her harshly, almost brutally, refusing to answer any questions, and never failing to lock the door of her room when they left.

The solitary confinement, added to the pain she suffered, both mental and physical, nearly deprived her of reason. Days, weeks, months pa.s.sed; she led an idle, aimless existence, kept a close prisoner, and debarred from exercise that was essential to life. The window had been nailed up, and even if it would open it was too high from the ground to admit of escape. Each day she sat before it, gazing down into the orchard which surrounded the house and the wide stretch of market garden beyond.

One day, however, just as she was about to relinquish hope of a.s.sistance being forthcoming, and was sitting, as usual, at the window, she saw both of her janitors leave the house together, attired as if they meant to be absent several hours.

Her chance to escape had arrived. Rushing to the door, she tried it.

Her heart gave a bound of joy as the handle turned and it opened. The woman had, by a most fortuitous circ.u.mstance, forgotten to lock it.

Nevertheless, there was still another point that required careful consideration. Her clothes had been taken from her, and the only garment she wore was a dirty, ragged flannel dressing-gown. Descending the stairs, for the first time since her abduction, she explored the place in an endeavour to find some clothes. In a bedroom on the ground floor she found an old dress, with a shawl, bonnet, and pair of worn-out boots--all of which had evidently belonged to the woman who had kept her prisoner. Attiring herself in them in almost breathless excitement, lest she should be discovered ere she could effect her escape, she opened the door and stole out.

Pa.s.sing through the orchard, she followed a path down to a by-road, at the end of which she gained a broad highway, and presently came to a small town. On inquiry she found this was Twickenham. A lad told her the way to London, and she plodded onward, notwithstanding that lack of exercise caused her to quickly become exhausted. Through Richmond and Kew she pa.s.sed, then along the straight broad road leading through Chiswick, Hammersmith, Kensington, and Hyde Park, until, in an almost fainting condition, she found herself at the corner of Jermyn Street, and sought out the house wherein Hugh Trethowen lived.