towardsthe cemetery gate, plunged deep in thought.
Suddenly, as I turned a corner sharply, I came face to face with anill-dressed man, who had apparently been lurking behind a great marblemonument. In the gloom I could not distinguish his features, and as heturned and walked in the opposite direction I concluded that he was agrave-digger or gardener, so dismissed the incident from my mind. Yethalf an hour later, while waiting on the platform of Woking Station, aman who passed me beneath a lamp gave me a swift inquisitive look. Hisstrange expression attracted my attention, and as I turned and watchedhis retreating figure it seemed familiar. Then I remembered. It wasthe same individual who had apparently been watching my movements besideSybil's grave. Was he "shadowing" me?
Again I passed him, but he was wary, and bent feigning to eagerly scan atime-table, thereby hiding his features. Nevertheless, before the trainarrived I managed by means of a ruse to obtain an uninterrupted view ofhis pale, sad-looking countenance.
At first I was prompted to approach him boldly and demand the reason hewatched my actions, but on reflection I became convinced that mysuspicions were groundless, and that after all he was merely a lonelymourner like myself. Perhaps he, too, had come from London to visit thelast resting-place of some dearly-loved friend; perhaps, even while Iviewed him with unjust suspicion, he had actually been sympathising withme. No, I felt certain that my apprehensions were absurd, and that theman had no sinister motive.
Alone in my room some hours later I placed the card carefully in thefender to dry, and sat smoking and thinking over the strangely ominouswords upon it.
I could not rid myself of the conviction that my well-beloved had beenthe victim of foul play. The words "Seek, and you may find" rang forever in my ears, yet in face of the declaration of the doctor I had noproof that murder had actually been committed. I could discover noreport of an inquest having been held, and as the police had declined toassist me I knew that I must work single-handed and unaided.
Noticing that the card was now dry, I knocked the ashes from my pipe,then slowly stooping, picked it up. I turned it over to re-read themysterious words of entreaty, but a cry of dismay escaped me when nextinstant I found the back of the card a perfect blank. On that side nota trace of writing remained.
The puzzling mystic sentence had faded. The words had been whollyobliterated as by some unseen hand.
The card fell from my nerveless fingers.
Presently it occurred to me that by again damping it the mysteriousentreaty might be rendered visible, and, taking the ewer that Saundershad placed beside the tantalus stand, I dipped the precious document inwater. For half an hour I alternately wetted it and carefully dried itwith my handkerchief, but all effort to restore the writing provedunavailing. The surface became rubbed by continued immersions, but thewords had utterly vanished, as if by magic.
Some hours afterwards I found myself doubting if I had ever actuallyseen those strange words, and wondering whether after all they were nota mere chimera of my disordered imagination. So strangely ominous werethey that I could not help feeling a trifle uncertain that they hadactually existed, and I remember that as I sat brooding over my sorrow Ifeared lest I had been the victim of one of those strange hallucinationswhich I had heard were precursory of insanity.
Twice I visited the grave of my dead love, but inquiries of thecemetery-keeper elicited no clue. Times without number I felt promptedto explain the strange circumstances to Jack Bethune, but alwayshesitated, deeming silence the best course. Whether this secrecyregarding my heart-sorrow was beneficial to my interests, I cannotsay, but the occurrence of at least one incident caused meself-congratulation that my friends were unaware of the strange dramathat wrecked my happiness and overshadowed my life. It is, alas! true,as Francois Coppee has said, "_Pour le melancolique, le soleil se couchedeja le matin_."
CHAPTER FIVE.
DORA'S ENGAGEMENT.
One night Jack dashed into my chambers and carried me off to a receptionat the house of John Thackwell, the well-known Lancashire millionaire,at Hyde Park Gate. He would hear no excuses, for Dora was to be there,and he pointed out that I had not yet congratulated her upon herengagement. This fact alone induced me to accompany him, but, truth totell, I had only once before accepted Thackwell's hospitality, and onthat occasion had been terribly bored.
Thackwell had risen from a carding-hand to be sole proprietor ofextensive mills at Oldham, and a dozen other great spinning mills in theneighbourhood of Manchester. This Lancashire cotton-king was bluff,honest, and unassuming, and still retained all the peculiarities of thedialect of his youth. He had tried to enter the gate of Society by theParliamentary pathway, but the electors of Bamborough had returned ayoung sprig of the aristocracy by a narrow majority, notwithstanding thefact that the cotton-king had built a fresh wing to one of thehospitals, and presented the town with a brand new redbrick freelibrary. In chagrin he had come to London, bought one of the finestmansions overlooking Hyde Park, and was now endeavouring to enter thecharmed circle by entertaining all and sundry on a scale lavish even formillionaires.
Although the bluff old bachelor was fond of placing his "J.P." after hisname, dropping his "h's," and referring on inopportune occasions to thefact that when a lad he had assisted to build his great mill at Oldhamby carrying hods of mortar up a ladder, he was nevertheless popularamong a certain set. Many scheming and impecunious mothers with titlesand marriageable daughters coveted his wealth, and it was no secret thatseveral of the men registered in "Debrett," who "looked in" at hismonthly functions, were indebted to him for substantial financialassistance.
On arrival, we found the great magnificently-furnished rooms crowdedalmost to suffocation by a brilliant but decidedly mixed throng. Someof the men who nodded to us were high-priests of Mammon, officers wholounged in clubs without any visible means of subsistence, and idlersabout town; but there was also a fair sprinkling of those leisurelywell-dressed people who constitute what is known as London, and Inoticed at once that on the whole the guests were of a much better setthan when I had before partaken of the millionaire's hospitality.Society resembles a bal masque, where the women never unmask themselves.
At the moment we were announced, Thackwell, a burly, florid-faced,grey-bearded man in ill-fitting clothes, and with an enormous diamondsolitaire in the centre of his crumpled shirt-front, was talking loudlywith old Lady Stretton, who was congratulating him upon the completionof the beautiful frescoes by the Italian artists he had employed. As Iapproached, I heard the millionaire reply:
"It's shaping gradely weel, but after all I get no more pleasure out oflife than when I wor a journeyman. Yet a chap with any spirit likes toget on, and when he has put his heart into a job, feels as if he wouldrayther dee than be bet. It's cost me a sight o' money, but it doesn'tpay to scamp."
Then, noticing me, he gripped my hand heartily, and to Bethune cried:
"Well, Jack, lad, how goes it?"
"Jack, lad," smiled as he made polite reply, but did not seem to greatlyadmire this style of greeting, albeit the soldier-novelist knew thecotton-king intimately. Truly, old Thackwell was an incongruity inSociety.
Lady Stretton smiled pleasantly, and bowed to us as we pushed our wayforward among the crowd, and we were not long in discovering theHonourable Dora, Jack's adored, comfortably ensconced in a cosy-corner,chatting with three men we knew.
"Halloa, Ridgeway!" cried one, a club acquaintance. Then dropping hisvoice he added: "Unusual to find you in the cotton-palace, isn't it?"
"I've been here once before," I replied briefly, as, turning to Dora, Isank into a low chair near her and began to chat. Soon the others left,and Jack and I were alone with her. When I offered her mycongratulations, she clutched my arm quickly, whispering:
"Don't let anyone overhear you. Remember, no announcement has yet beenmade, and Ma is quite inexorable."
"I'm looking for it in the Morning Post each day," I laughed, while aspunishment she playfully tapped me with her ostrich-f
eather fan.
Though three years had elapsed since she had kissed the hand of herSovereign, Society had not spoiled her. She was just as fresh,light-hearted, and ingenuous as I remembered her in her hoyden days atBlatherwycke, and as she sat talking with her lover and myself I saw howthoroughly charming and brilliant she was.
Her fund of vivacity was, I knew, inexhaustible. When she wished to dohonour to a melancholy occasion, her vivacity turned any slight sorrowshe had into hysterical weeping; when the occasion was joyful, it becamea torrent of frivolity that is delightful when poured forth by a happygirl of twenty-two. This evening the occasion was distinctly joyful.Men had complimented her upon her dress, and she had a large sense ofsuccess.
When she spoke to Jack there was a love-look in her dark brilliant eyesthat was unmistakable, and she was altogether handsome and
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