The Queen of Hearts

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER VI.

  I RETURNED at the top of my speed to the village where I had left themules, had the animals saddled immediately, and succeeded in gettingback to Fondi a little before sunset.

  While ascending the stairs of our hotel, I suffered under the mostpainful uncertainty as to how I should best communicate the news of mydiscovery to Alfred. If I could not succeed in preparing him properlyfor my tidings, the results, with such an organization as his, mightbe fatal. On opening the door of his room, I felt by no means sure ofmyself; and when I confronted him, his manner of receiving me took meso much by surprise that, for a moment or two, I lost my self-possessionaltogether.

  Every trace of the lethargy in which he was sunk when I had last seenhim had disappeared. His eyes were bright, his cheeks deeply flushed. AsI entered, he started up, and refused my offered hand.

  "You have not treated me like a friend," he said, passionately; "you hadno right to continue the search unless I searched with you--you hadno right to leave me here alone. I was wrong to trust you; you are nobetter than all the rest of them."

  I had by this time recovered a little from my first astonishment,and was able to reply before he could say anything more. It was quiteuseless, in his present state, to reason with him or to defend myself. Idetermined to risk everything, and break my news to him at once.

  "You will treat me more justly, Monkton, when you know that I have beendoing you good service during my absence," I said. "Unless I am greatlymistaken, the object for which we have left Naples may be nearerattainment by both of us than--"

  The flush left his cheeks almost in an instant. Some expression inmy face, or some tone in my voice, of which I was not conscious, hadrevealed to his nervously-quickened perception more than I had intendedthat he should know at first. His eyes fixed themselves intently onmine; his hand grasped my arm; and he said to me in an eager whisper:

  "Tell me the truth at once. Have you found him?"

  It was too late to hesitate. I answered in the affirmative.

  "Buried or unburied?"

  His voice rose abruptly as he put the question, and his unoccupied handfastened on my other arm.

  "Unburied."

  I had hardly uttered the word before the blood flew back into hischeeks; his eyes flashed again as they looked into mine, and he burstinto a fit of triumphant laughter, which shocked and startled meinexpressibly.

  "What did I tell you? What do you say to the old prophecy now?" hecried, dropping his hold on my arms, and pacing backward and forward inthe room. "Own you were wrong. Own it, as all Naples shall own it, whenonce I have got him safe in his coffin!"

  His laughter grew more and mere violent. I tried to quiet him in vain.His servant and the landlord of the inn entered the room, but they onlyadded fuel to the fire, and I made them go out again. As I shut the dooron them, I observed lying on a table near at hand the packet of lettersfrom Miss Elmslie, which my unhappy friend preserved with such care, andread and re-read with such unfailing devotion. Looking toward me justwhen I passed by the table, the letters caught his eye. The new hopefor the future, in connection with the writer of them, which my news wasalready awakening in his heart, seemed to overwhelm him in an instantat sight of the treasured memorials that reminded him of his betrothedwife. His laughter ceased, his face changed, he ran to the table, caughtthe letters up in his hand, looked from them to me for one moment withan altered expression which went to my heart, then sank down on hisknees at the table, laid his face on the letters, and burst into tears.I let the new emotion have its way uninterruptedly, and quitted theroom without saying a word. When I returned after a lapse of some littletime, I found him sitting quietly in his chair, reading one of theletters from the packet which rested on his knee.

  His look was kindness itself; his gesture almost womanly in itsgentleness as he rose to meet me, and anxiously held out his hand.

  He was quite calm enough now to hear in detail all that I had to tellhim. I suppressed nothing but the particulars of the state in which Ihad found the corpse. I assumed no right of direction as to the share hewas to take in our future proceedings, with the exception of insistingbeforehand that he should leave the absolute superintendence of theremoval of the body to me, and that he should be satisfied with a sightof M. Foulon's paper, after receiving my assurance that the remainsplaced in the coffin were really and truly the remains of which we hadbeen in search.

  "Your nerves are not so strong as mine," I said, by way of apology formy apparent dictation, "and for that reason I must beg leave to assumethe leadership in all that we have now to do, until I see the leadencoffin soldered down and safe in your possession. After that I shallresign all my functions to you."

  "I want words to thank you for your kindness," he answered. "Nobrother could have borne with me more affectionately, or helped me morepatiently than you."

  He stopped and grew thoughtful, then occupied himself in tying up slowlyand carefully the packet of Miss Elmslie's letters, and then lookedsuddenly toward the vacant wall behind me with that strange expressionthe meaning of which I knew so well. Since we had left Naples I hadpurposely avoided exciting him by talking on the useless and shockingsubject of the apparition by which he believed himself to be perpetuallyfollowed. Just now, however, he seemed so calm and collected--so littlelikely to be violently agitated by any allusion to the dangerous topic,that I ventured to speak out boldly.

  "Does the phantom still appear to you," I asked, "as it appeared atNaples?"

  He looked at me and smiled.

  "Did I not tell you that it followed me everywhere?" His eyes wanderedback again to the vacant space, and he went on speaking in thatdirection as if he had been continuing the conversation with some thirdperson in the room. "We shall part," he said, slowly and softly, "whenthe empty place is filled in Wincot vault. Then I shall stand with Adabefore the altar in the Abbey chapel, and when my eyes meet hers theywill see the tortured face no more."

  Saying this, he leaned his head on his hand, sighed, and began repeatingsoftly to himself the lines of the old prophecy:

  When in Wincot vault a place Waits for one of Monkton's race-- When that one forlorn shall lie Graveless under open sky, Beggared of six feet of earth, Though lord of acres from his birth-- That shall be a certain sign Of the end of Monktons line. Dwindling ever faster, faster, Dwindling to the last-left master; From mortal ken, from light of day, Monkton's race shall pass away."

  Fancying that he pronounced the last lines a little incoherently, Itried to make him change the subject. He took no notice of what I said,and went on talking to himself.

  "Monkton's race shall pass away," he repeated, "but not with _me_. Thefatality hangs over _my_ head no longer. I shall bury the unburied dead;I shall fill the vacant place in Wincot vault; and then--then the newlife, the life with Ada!" That name seemed to recall him to himself. Hedrew his traveling desk toward him, placed the packet of letters in it,and then took out a sheet of paper. "I am going to write to Ada," hesaid, turning to me, "and tell her the good news. Her happiness, whenshe knows it, will be even greater than mine."

  Worn out by the events of the day, I left him writing and went to bed.I was, however, either too anxious or too tired to sleep. In this wakingcondition, my mind naturally occupied itself with the discovery atthe convent and with the events to which that discovery would in allprobability lead. As I thought on the future, a depression for whichI could not account weighed on my spirits. There was not the slightestreason for the vaguely melancholy forebodings that oppressed me. Theremains, to the finding of which my unhappy friend attached so muchimportance, had been traced; they would certainly be placed at hisdisposal in a few days; he might take them to England by the firstmerchant vessel that sailed from Naples; and, the gratification of hisstrange caprice thus accomplished, there was at least some reason tohope that his mind might recover its tone, and that the new life hewould lead at Wincot might result in making him a happy man. Suchconsider
ations as these were, in themselves, certainly not calculated toexert any melancholy influence over me; and yet, all through the night,the same inconceivable, unaccountable depression weighed heavily on myspirits--heavily through the hours of darkness--heavily, even when Iwalked out to breathe the first freshness of the early morning air.

  With the day came the all-engrossing business of opening negotiationswith the authorities.

  Only those who have had to deal with Italian officials can imagine howour patience was tried by every one with whom we came in contact. Wewere bandied about from one authority to the other, were stared at,cross-questioned, mystified--not in the least because the case presentedany special difficulties or intricacies, but because it was absolutelynecessary that every civil dignitary to whom we applied should asserthis own importance by leading us to our object in the most roundaboutmanner possible. After our first day's experience of official life inItaly, I left the absurd formalities, which we had no choice but toperform, to be accomplished by Alfred alone, and applied myself to thereally serious question of how the remains in the convent outhouse wereto be safely removed.

  The best plan that suggested itself to me was to write to a friend inRome, where I knew that it was a custom to embalm the bodies of highdignitaries of the Church, and where, I consequently inferred, suchchemical assistance as was needed in our emergency might be obtained. Isimply stated in my letter that the removal of the body was imperative,then described the condition in which I had found it, and engaged thatno expense on our part should be spared if the right person or personscould be found to help us. Here, again, more difficulties interposedthemselves, and more useless formalities were to be gone through, butin the end patience, perseverance, and money triumphed, and two men cameexpressly from Rome to undertake the duties we required of them.

  It is unnecessary that I should shock the reader by entering into anydetail in this part of my narrative. When I have said that the progressof decay was so far suspended by chemical means as to allow ofthe remains being placed in the coffin, and to insure their beingtransported to England with perfect safety and convenience, I havesaid enough. After ten days had been wasted in useless delays anddifficulties, I had the satisfaction of seeing the convent outhouseempty at last; passed through a final ceremony of snuff-taking,or rather, of snuff-giving, with the old Capuchin, and ordered thetraveling carriages to be ready at the inn door. Hardly a month hadelapsed since our departure ere we entered Naples successful in theachievement of a design which had been ridiculed as wildly impracticableby every friend of ours who had heard of it.

  The first object to be accomplished on our return was to obtain themeans of carrying the coffin to England--by sea, as a matter of course.All inquiries after a merchant vessel on the point of sailing for anyBritish port led to the most unsatisfactory results. There was only oneway of insuring the immediate transportation of the remains to England,and that was to hire a vessel. Impatient to return, and resolved notto lose sight of the coffin till he had seen it placed in Wincot vault,Monkton decided immediately on hiring the first ship that could beobtained. The vessel in port which we were informed could soonest be gotready for sea was a Sicilian brig, and this vessel my friend accordinglyengaged. The best dock-yard artisans that could be got were set towork, and the smartest captain and crew to be picked up on an emergencyin Naples were chosen to navigate the brig.

  Monkton, after again expressing in the warmest terms his gratitude forthe services I had rendered him, disclaimed any intention of asking meto accompany him on the voyage to England. Greatly to his surprise anddelight, however, I offered of my own accord to take passage in thebrig. The strange coincidences I had witnessed, the extraordinarydiscovery I had hit on since our first meeting in Naples, had made hisone great interest in life my one great interest for the time being aswell. I shared none of his delusions, poor fellow; but it is hardly anexaggeration to say that my eagerness to follow our remarkable adventureto its end was as great as his anxiety to see the coffin laid in Wincotvault. Curiosity influenced me, I am afraid, almost as strongly asfriendship, when I offered myself as the companion of his voyage home.

  We set sail for England on a calm and lovely afternoon.

  For the first time since I had known him, Monkton seemed to be in highspirits. He talked and jested on all sorts of subjects, and laughedat me for allowing my cheerfulness to be affected by the dread ofseasickness. I had really no such fear; it was my excuse to my friendfor a return of that unaccountable depression under which I had sufferedat Fondi. Everything was in our favor; everybody on board the brig wasin good spirits. The captain was delighted with the vessel; the crew,Italians and Maltese, were in high glee at the prospect of making ashort voyage on high wages in a well-provisioned ship. I alone feltheavy at heart. There was no valid reason that I could assign to myselffor the melancholy that oppressed me, and yet I struggled against it invain.

  Late on our first night at sea, I made a discovery which was by no meanscalculated to restore my spirits to their usual equilibrium. Monktonwas in the cabin, on the floor of which had been placed the packing-casecontaining the coffin, and I was on deck. The wind had fallen almost toa calm, and I was lazily watching the sails of the brig as they flappedfrom time to time against the masts, when the captain approached, and,drawing me out of hearing of the man at the helm, whispered in my ear:

  "There's something wrong among the men forward. Did you observe howsuddenly they all became silent just before sunset?"

  I had observed it, and told him so.

  "There's a Maltese boy on board," pursued the captain, "who is a smartenough lad, but a bad one to deal with. I have found out that he hasbeen telling the men there is a dead body inside that packing-case ofyour friend's in the cabin."

  My heart sank as he spoke. Knowing the superstitious irrationality ofsailors--of foreign sailors especially--I had taken care to spreada report on board the brig, before the coffin was shipped, that thepacking-case contained a valuable marble statue which Mr. Monkton prizedhighly, and was unwilling to trust out of his own sight. How couldthis Maltese boy have discovered that the pretended statue was a humancorpse? As I pondered over the question, my suspicions fixed themselveson Monkton's servant, who spoke Italian fluently, and whom I knew tobe an incorrigible gossip. The man denied it when I charged him withbetraying us, but I have never believed his denial to this day.

  "The little imp won't say where he picked up this notion of his aboutthe dead body," continued the captain. "It's not my place to pry intosecrets; but I advise you to call the crew aft, and contradict the boy,whether he speaks the truth or not. The men are a parcel of fools whobelieve in ghosts, and all the rest of it. Some of them say they wouldnever have signed our articles if they had known they were going to sailwith a dead man; others only grumble; but I'm afraid we shall havesome trouble with them all, in case of rough weather, unless the boy iscontradicted by you or the other gentleman. The men say that if eitheryou or your friend tell them on your words of honor that the Maltese isa liar, they will hand him up to be rope's-ended accordingly; but thatif you won't, they have made up their minds to believe the boy."

  Here the captain paused and awaited my answer. I could give him none. Ifelt hopeless under our desperate emergency. To get the boy punishedby giving my word of honor to support a direct falsehood was not to bethought of even for a moment. What other means of extrication from thismiserable dilemma remained? None that I could think of. I thanked thecaptain for his attention to our interests, told him I would take timeto consider what course I should pursue, and begged that he would saynothing to my friend about the discovery he had made. He promised to besilent, sulkily enough, and walked away from me.

  We had expected the breeze to spring up with the morning, but no breezecame. As it wore on toward noon the atmosphere became insufferablysultry, and the sea looked as smooth as glass. I saw the captain's eyeturn often and anxiously to windward. Far away in that direction, andalone in the blue heaven, I observed a little black cloud,
and asked ifit would bring us any wind.

  "More than we want," the captain replied, shortly; and then, to myastonishment, ordered the crew aloft to take in sail. The execution ofthis maneuver showed but too plainly the temper of the men; they didtheir work sulkily and slowly, grumbling and murmuring among themselves.The captain's manner, as he urged them on with oaths and threats,convinced me we were in danger. I looked again to windward. The onelittle cloud had enlarged to a great bank of murky vapor, and the sea atthe horizon had changed in color.

  "The squall will be on us before we know where we are," said thecaptain. "Go below; you will be only in the way here."

  I descended to the cabin, and prepared Monkton for what was coming.He was still questioning me about what I had observed on deck when thestorm burst on us. We felt the little brig strain for an instant as ifshe would part in two, then she seemed to be swinging round with us,then to be quite still for a moment, trembling in every timber. Lastcame a shock which hurled us from our seats, a deafening crash, and aflood of water pouring into the cabin. We clambered, half drowned, tothe deck. The brig had, in the nautical phrase, "broached to," and shenow lay on her beam-ends.

  Before I could make out anything distinctly in the horrible confusionexcept the one tremendous certainty that we were entirely at the mercyof the sea, I heard a voice from the fore part of the ship which stilledthe clamoring and shouting of the rest of the crew in an instant. Thewords were in Italian, but I understood their fatal meaning only tooeasily. We had sprung a leak, and the sea was pouring into the ship'shold like the race of a mill-stream. The captain did not lose hispresence of mind in this fresh emergency. He called for his ax to cutaway the foremast, and, ordering some of the crew to help him, directedthe others to rig out the pumps.

  The words had hardly passed his lips before the men broke into openmutiny. With a savage look at me, their ringleader declared that thepassengers might do as they pleased, but that he and his messmates weredetermined to take to the boat, and leave the accursed ship, and _thedead man in her,_ to go to the bottom together. As he spoke there was ashout among the sailors, and I observed some of them pointing derisivelybehind me. Looking round, I saw Monkton, who had hitherto kept close atmy side, making his way back to the cabin. I followed him directly,but the water and confusion on deck, and the impossibility, from theposition of the brig, of moving the feet without the slow assistanceof the hands, so impeded my progress that it was impossible for me toovertake him. When I had got below he was crouched upon the coffin, withthe water on the cabin floor whirling and splashing about him as theship heaved and plunged. I saw a warning brightness in his eyes, awarning flush on his cheek, as I approached and said to him:

  "There is nothing left for it, Alfred, but to bow to our misfortune, anddo the best we can to save our lives."

  "Save yours," he cried, waving his hand to me, "for _you_ have a futurebefore you. Mine is gone when this coffin goes to the bottom. If theship sinks, I shall know that the fatality is accomplished, and shallsink with her."

  I saw that he was in no state to be reasoned with or persuaded, andraised myself again to the deck. The men were cutting away all obstaclesso as to launch the longboat placed amidships over the depressed bulwarkof the brig as she lay on her side, and the captain, after having madea last vain exertion to restore his authority, was looking on at themin silence. The violence of the squall seemed already to be spendingitself, and I asked whether there was really no chance for us if weremained by the ship. The captain answered that there might have beenthe best chance if the men had obeyed his orders, but that now there wasnone. Knowing that I could place no dependence on the presence of mindof Monkton's servant, I confided to the captain, in the fewest andplainest words, the condition of my unhappy friend, and asked if I mightdepend on his help. He nodded his head, and we descended together tothe cabin. Even at this day it costs me pain to write of the terriblenecessity to which the strength and obstinacy of Monkton's delusionreduced us in the last resort. We were compelled to secure his hands,and drag him by main force to the deck. The men were on the point oflaunching the boat, and refused at first to receive us into it.

  "You cowards!" cried the captain, "have we got the dead man with usthis time? Isn't he going to the bottom along with the brig? Who are youafraid of when we get into the boat?"

  This sort of appeal produced the desired effect; the men became ashamedof themselves, and retracted their refusal.

  Just as we pushed off from the sinking ship Alfred made an effort tobreak from me, but I held him firm, and he never repeated the attempt.He sat by me with drooping head, still and silent, while the sailorsrowed away from the vessel; still and silent when, with one accord, theypaused at a little distance off, and we all waited and watched to seethe brig sink; still and silent, even when that sinking happened, whenthe laboring hull plunged slowly into a hollow of the sea--hesitated,as it seemed, for one moment, rose a little again, then sank to rise nomore.

  Sank with her dead freight--sank, and snatched forever from ourpower the corpse which we had discovered almost by a miracle--thosejealously-preserved remains, on the safe-keeping of which rested sostrangely the hopes and the love-destinies of two living beings! As thelast signs of the ship in the depths of the waters.

  I felt Monkton trembling all over as he sat close at my side, and heardhim repeating to himself, sadly, and many times over, the name of "Ada."

  I tried to turn his thoughts to another subject, but it was useless. Hepointed over the sea to where the brig had once been, and where nothingwas left to look at but the rolling waves.

  "The empty place will now remain empty forever in Wincot vault."

  As he said these words, he fixed his eyes for a moment sadly andearnestly on my face, then looked away, leaned his cheek on his hand,and spoke no more.

  We were sighted long before nightfall by a trading vessel, were taken onboard, and landed at Cartagena in Spain. Alfred never held up his head,and never once spoke to me of his own accord the whole time we were atsea in the merchantman. I observed, however, with alarm, that he talkedoften and incoherently to himself--constantly muttering the lines of theold prophecy--constantly referring to the fatal place that was empty inWincot vault--constantly repeating in broken accents, which it affectedme inexpressibly to hear, the name of the poor girl who was awaiting hisreturn to England. Nor were these the only causes for the apprehensionthat I now felt on his account. Toward the end of our voyage he beganto suffer from alternations of fever-fits and shivering-fits, which Iignorantly imagined to be attacks of ague. I was soon undeceived. We hadhardly been a day on shore before he became so much worse that I securedthe best medical assistance Cartagena could afford. For a day or two thedoctors differed, as usual, about the nature of his complaint, but erelong alarming symptoms displayed themselves. The medical men declaredthat his life was in danger, and told me that his disease was brainfever.

  Shocked and grieved as I was, I hardly knew how to act at first underthe fresh responsibility now laid upon me. Ultimately I decided onwriting to the old priest who had been Alfred's tutor, and who, as Iknew, still resided at Wincot Abbey. I told this gentleman all that hadhappened, begged him to break my melancholy news as gently as possibleto Miss Elmslie, and assured him of my resolution to remain with Monktonto the last.

  After I had dispatched my letter, and had sent to Gibraltar to securethe best English medical advice that could be obtained, I felt that Ihad done my best, and that nothing remained but to wait and hope.

  Many a sad and anxious hour did I pass by my poor friend's bedside. Manya time did I doubt whether I had done right in giving any encouragementto his delusion. The reasons for doing so which had suggested themselvesto me after my first interview with him seemed, however, on reflection,to be valid reasons still. The only way of hastening his return toEngland and to Miss Elmslie, who was pining for that return, was theway I had taken. It was not my fault that a disaster which no man couldforesee had overthrown all his projects and all mine. But, no
w that thecalamity had happened and was irretrievable, how, in the event of hisphysical recovery, was his moral malady to be combated?

  When I reflected on the hereditary taint in his mental organization, onthat first childish fright of Stephen Monkton from which he had neverrecovered, on the perilously-secluded life that he had led at the Abbey,and on his firm persuasion of the reality of the apparition by whichhe believed himself to be constantly followed, I confess I despaired ofshaking his superstitious faith in every word and line of the old familyprophecy. If the series of striking coincidences which appeared toattest its truth had made a strong and lasting impression on _me_ (andthis was assuredly the case), how could I wonder that they had producedthe effect of absolute conviction on _his_ mind, constituted as it was?If I argued with him, and he answered me, how could I rejoin? If hesaid, "The prophecy points at the last of the family: _I_ am the last ofthe family. The prophecy mentions an empty place in Wincot vault;there is such an empty place there at this moment. On the faith of theprophecy I told you that Stephen Monkton's body was unburied, and youfound that it was unburied"--if he said this, what use would it be forme to reply, "These are only strange coincidences after all?"

  The more I thought of the task that lay before me, if he recovered, themore I felt inclined to despond. The oftener the English physician whoattended on him said to me, "He may get the better of the fever, buthe has a fixed idea, which never leaves him night or day, which hasunsettled his reason, and which will end in killing him, unless you orsome of his friends can remove it"--the oftener I heard this, the moreacutely I felt my own powerlessness, the more I shrank from every ideathat was connected with the hopeless future.

  I had only expected to receive my answer from Wincot in the shape of aletter. It was consequently a great surprise, as well as a great relief,to be informed one day that two gentlemen wished to speak with me, andto find that of these two gentlemen the first was the old priest, andthe second a male relative of Mrs. Elmslie.

  Just before their arrival the fever symptoms had disappeared, and Alfredhad been pronounced out of danger. Both the priest and his companionwere eager to know when the sufferer would be strong enough to travel.They had come to Cartagena expressly to take him home with them, andfelt far more hopeful than I did of the restorative effects of hisnative air. After all the questions connected with the first importantpoint of the journey to England had been asked and answered, I venturedto make some inquiries after Miss Elmslie. Her relative informed me thatshe was suffering both in body and in mind from excess of anxietyon Alfred's account. They had been obliged to deceive her as to thedangerous nature of his illness in order to deter her from accompanyingthe priest and her relation on their mission to Spain.

  Slowly and imperfectly, as the weeks wore on, Alfred regained somethingof his former physical strength, but no alteration appeared in hisillness as it affected his mind.

  From the very first day of his advance toward recovery, it had beendiscovered that the brain fever had exercised the strangest influenceover his faculties of memory. All recollection of recent events was gonefrom him. Everything connected with Naples, with me, with his journeyto Italy, had dropped in some mysterious manner entirely out of hisremembrance. So completely had all late circumstances passed from hismemory that, though he recognized the old priest and his own servanteasily on the first days of his convalescence, he never recognized me,but regarded me with such a wistful, doubting expression, that I feltinexpressibly pained when I approached his bedside. All his questionswere about Miss Elmslie and Wincot Abbey, and all his talk referred tothe period when his father was yet alive.

  The doctors augured good rather than ill from this loss of memory ofrecent incidents, saying that it would turn out to be temporary, andthat it answered the first great healing purpose of keeping his mind atease. I tried to believe them--tried to feel as sanguine, when the daycame for his departure, as the old friends felt who were taking himhome. But the effort was too much for me. A foreboding that I shouldnever see him again oppressed my heart, and the tears came into my eyesas I saw the worn figure of my poor friend half helped, half lifted intothe traveling-carriage, and borne away gently on the road toward home.

  He had never recognized me, and the doctors had begged that I would givehim, for some time to come, as few opportunities as possible of doingso. But for this request I should have accompanied him to England. As itwas, nothing better remained for me to do than to change the scene, andrecruit as I best could my energies of body and mind, depressed of lateby much watching and anxiety. The famous cities of Spain were not new tome, but I visited them again and revived old impressions of the Alhambraand Madrid. Once or twice I thought of making a pilgrimage to the East,but late events had sobered and altered me. That yearning, unsatisfiedfeeling which we call "homesickness" began to prey upon my heart, and Iresolved to return to England.

  I went back by way of Paris, having settled with the priest that heshould write to me at my banker's there as soon as he could after Alfredhad returned to Wincot. If I had gone to the East, the letter would havebeen forwarded to me. I wrote to prevent this; and, on my arrival atParis, stopped at the banker's before I went to my hotel.

  The moment the letter was put into my hands, the black border on theenvelope told me the worst. He was dead.

  There was but one consolation--he had died calmly, almost happily,without once referring to those fatal chances which had wrought thefulfillment of the ancient prophecy. "My beloved pupil," the old priestwrote, "seemed to rally a little the first few days after his return,but he gained no real strength, and soon suffered a slight relapseof fever. After this he sank gradually and gently day by day, and sodeparted from us on the last dread journey. Miss Elmslie (who knows thatI am writing this) desires me to express her deep and lasting gratitudefor all your kindness to Alfred. She told me when we brought him backthat she had waited for him as his promised wife, and that she wouldnurse him now as a wife should; and she never left him. His face wasturned toward her, his hand was clasped in hers when he died. It willconsole you to know that he never mentioned events at Naples, or theshipwreck that followed them, from the day of his return to the day ofhis death."

  Three days after reading the letter I was at Wincot, and heard all thedetails of Alfred's last moments from the priest. I felt a shock whichit would not be very easy for me to analyze or explain when I heard thathe had been buried, at his own desire, in the fatal Abbey vault.

  The priest took me down to see the place--a grim, cold, subterraneanbuilding, with a low roof, supported on heavy Saxon arches. Narrowniches, with the ends only of coffins visible within them, ran down eachside of the vault. The nails and silver ornaments flashed here and thereas my companion moved past them with a lamp in his hand. At the lowerend of the place he stopped, pointed to a niche, and said, "He liesthere, between his father and mother." I looked a little further on,and saw what appeared at first like a long dark tunnel. "That is only anempty niche," said the priest, following me. "If the body of Mr. StephenMonkton had been brought to Wincot, his coffin would have been placedthere."

  A chill came over me, and a sense of dread which I am ashamed of havingfelt now, but which I could not combat then. The blessed light of daywas pouring down gayly at the other end of the vault through the opendoor. I turned my back on the empty niche, and hurried into the sunlightand the fresh air.

  As I walked across the grass glade leading down to the vault, I heardthe rustle of a woman's dress behind me, and turning round, saw a younglady advancing, clad in deep mourning. Her sweet, sad face, her manneras she held out her hand, told me who it was in an instant.

  "I heard that you were here," she said, "and I wished--" Her voicefaltered a little. My heart ached as I saw how her lip trembled, butbefore I could say anything she recovered herself and went on: "I wishedto take your hand, and thank you for your brotherly kindness to Alfred;and I wanted to tell you that I am sure in all you did you actedtenderly and considerately for the best. Perhaps you may be soon
goingaway from home again, and we may not meet any more. I shall never, neverforget that you were kind to him when he wanted a friend, and that youhave the greatest claim of any one on earth to be gratefully rememberedin my thoughts as long as I live."

  The inexpressible tenderness of her voice, trembling a little all thewhile she spoke, the pale beauty of her face, the artless candor in hersad, quiet eyes, so affected me that I could not trust myself to answerher at first except by gesture. Before I recovered my voice she hadgiven me her hand once more and had left me.

  I never saw her again. The chances and changes of life kept us apart.When I last heard of her, years and years ago, she was faithful to thememory of the dead, and was Ada Elmslie still for Alfred Monkton's sake.

  THE FIFTH DAY.

  STILL cloudy, but no rain to keep our young lady indoors. The paper, asusual, without interest to _me_.

  To-day Owen actually vanquished his difficulties and finished his story.I numbered it Eight, and threw the corresponding number (as I had donethe day before in Morgan's case) into the china bowl.

  Although I could discover no direct evidence against her, I stronglysuspected The Queen of Hearts of tampering with the lots on the fifthevening, to irritate Morgan by making it his turn to read again, afterthe shortest possible interval of repose. However that might be,the number drawn was certainly Seven, and the story to be read wasconsequently the story which my brother had finished only two daysbefore.

  If I had not known that it was part of Morgan's character always to doexactly the reverse of what might be expected from him, I should havebeen surprised at the extraordinary docility he exhibited the moment hismanuscript was placed in his hands.

  "My turn again?" he said. "How very satisfactory! I was anxious toescape from this absurd position of mine as soon as possible, and hereis the opportunity most considerately put into my hands. Look out, allof you! I won't waste another moment. I mean to begin instantly."

  "Do tell me," interposed Jessie, mischievously, "shall I be very muchinterested to-night'?'

  "Not you!" retorted Morgan. "You will be very much frightened instead.You hair is uncommonly smooth at the present moment, but it will be allstanding on end before I've done. Don't blame me, miss, if you are anobject when you go to bed to-night!"

  With this curious introductory speech he began to read. I was obligedto interrupt him to say the few words of explanation which the storyneeded.

  "Before my brother begins," I said, "it may be as well to mention thathe is himself the doctor who is supposed to relate this narrative. Theevents happened at a time of his life when he had left London, and hadestablished himself in medical practice in one of our large northerntowns."

  With that brief explanation, I apologized for interrupting the reader,and Morgan began once more.