CHAPTER XIX.

LUCILLE’S CONFESSION.

One of Lucius Davoren’s first thoughts, after that interview with the house-agent, was of his sister Janet and of Geoffrey Hossack. The discovery, which lifted a load from his conscience, changed the aspect of Geoffrey’s fortunes. The man who had married Janet still lived, and whether the marriage were legal or not—a fact difficult of ascertainment in a life so full of double-dealing—Janet would doubtless count herself bound to him. She had told Lucius, when they met at Stillmington, that she did so consider herself; and he knew that calm proud nature too well not to know that she would be firm, whatever sorrow to herself were involved in such constancy.

Lucius lost no time in writing to Geoffrey, at the Cosmopolitan, the only safe address for that nomadic gentleman. He knew that the people at the Cosmopolitan were generally acquainted with Mr. Hossack’s whereabouts, and had instructions to forward his letters.

Lucius wrote briefly thus:

‘Dear Geoffrey,—The last week has been full of discoveries. I have seen Absalom Schanck, and learned from him that I am guiltless of that scoundrel’s blood—a surprise which has infinitely relieved my mind, but which has also given me new cause for uneasiness. To you, poor old Geoff, I fear it will be a disappointment to learn that Janet’s husband is still in the land of the living; but I hope that this knowledge may have a beneficial effect, and help to cure you of a foolish passion, which I told you from the first was hopeless. Would to heaven, for your sake and Janet’s, that it were otherwise! But Fate is stronger than man. And, after all, there are plenty of charming women in the world who would be proud to call Geoffrey Hossack husband.

‘I try to write lightly, but I am full of anxiety. This man’s existence means peril for those I love, and I know not what shape the danger may assume. Let me hear of you soon.—Ever yours,

‘LUCIUS DAVOREN.’

Ferdinand Sivewright’s existence meant peril for his old father and for the innocent girl who believed herself to be his daughter. Of that fact Lucius had no doubt, and the one question was how to meet the danger. That the old house was now securely defended, he felt tolerably sure—as sure as one could be about a rambling old place which was all doors and windows, and for aught he knew might still be approachable by some hidden way that had escaped his ken. The great point now would be to prove to Lucille that this man had no claim upon her; that no tie bound her to him, not even the duty of common gratitude for any kindness shown to her in her childhood, since he had made her existence an excuse for extorting money from her father. He, Lucius, must show her that the fancy which her girlish heart had cherished—the fond belief in this father’s love—was more baseless than the dreams of fever, wilder than the fancies of madness. How would he prove this to her? He might show her those letters. But would the evidence of the letters be strong enough to dispel so deep-rooted a belief, so long-cherished a fancy?

No, Lucius told himself. The letters, which told their story plainly enough for him, might fail to convince Lucille.

‘I must have some stronger proof than the letters,’ he thought.

How to obtain that proof, how to begin the search that was to end in the discovery of Lucille’s parentage, was the question which now absorbed all his thoughts. He had made up his mind to seek no assistance in this difficult task. Whatever blunders he might make, however awkwardly he might transact a business so foreign to the bent of his life, he would do this work for himself, and succeed or fail unaided.

‘If there is a stain upon her birth, no one but I shall discover it,’ he said to himself.

Homer Sivewright had read those letters as relating to a secret marriage, yet their wording might be taken to indicate a less honourable relation between the gentleman who signed himself H. G. and the lady who called herself Madame Dumarques.

Throughout the letters there was but one positive clue to the identification of the writers. That lay in the address given by the lady, at Rouen. She was staying in that city with friends—relations perhaps. It was just possible that Lucius might be so fortunate as to find some of these people still resident in the same city. The date of the letters was only fourteen years ago, and in some slow tranquil lives fourteen years make but little difference. The hair grows a shade grayer; the favourite old dog or the familiar household cat dies, and is replaced by a younger and less cherished animal; the ancient asthmatic canary is found dead in his cage; the old Sunday silk gown, which has been worn with honour for a decade, is converted into a petticoat; the old husband takes to stronger spectacles, and shortens his constitutional walk by the length of a couple of streets; the old wife dies perhaps, and is buried and feebly mourned for a little while; and with such faint ripples of change the slow dull river glides on to the eternal ocean.

Lucius was hopeful that, in a quiet by-street in the city of Rouen, he might find things very much as they had been fourteen years ago. He made up his mind to start for that city on the following night. A train leaving London-bridge at dusk would take him to Newhaven; he would reach Dieppe by six o’clock next morning, and Rouen by breakfast time. Once there he knew not how long his researches might detain him; but he could so arrange his affairs, with the help of a good-natured brother-medico in the Shadrack district, as to absent himself for a few days without inconvenience to his numerous patients.

That one dear patient whose safety was so near to his heart was now out of danger. The fever was past, and the only symptom which now gave him cause for anxiety was a deep melancholy, as of a mind overburdened with care, or weighed down by some painful secret.

‘Could I but dare to speak openly I might dispel some of those apprehensions which now disturb her,’ thought Lucius; ‘but I cannot venture to do that until she is better able to bear the shock of a great surprise, and until I am able to confirm my statements.’

Lucille was now well enough to come down to the old wainscoted parlour, where her lover had first seen her on that dark winter’s night which, when looked back upon, seemed like the beginning of a new life. Mr. Sivewright still kept his room, but had improved considerably, and had relented towards Mrs. Milderson, whom he graciously allowed to minister to his wants, and would even permit to discourse to him occasionally of the domestic annals of those lady patients into whose family circles she was from time to time admitted. He would make no farther protest than an impatient sniff when the worthy nurse stood for a quarter of an hour, cup-and-saucer in hand, relating, with aggravating precision of date and amplitude of detail, the little differences between Mr. Binks the chandler and his good lady on the subject of washing-days, or the ‘stand-further’ between Mrs. Binks and ‘the girl.’

Under the gentle sway of Mrs. Milderson, who was really an honest and sober specimen of her race, demanding only a moderate supply of those creature-comforts which the Gamp tribe are apt to require, life had gone very smoothly at Cedar House. Mrs. Magsby took charge of the lower part of the premises and her own baby (which seemed to absorb the greater part of her attention), and was altogether a mild and harmless person. Mr. Magsby, as guardian of the house, did nothing particular but walk about with a somewhat drowsy air, and smoke his pipe in open doorways, looking up at the sky, and enunciating speculative prophecies about the weather, which, as he never went out of doors, could have been of very little consequence to him.

Thus administered, what citadel could seem more secure than Cedar House? Lucius, after thinking of the subject from every possible point of view, decided that he could run no hazard in absenting himself for a few days. He went at the usual hour that afternoon, when his day’s work was done. Lucille seemed a little brighter and happier than she had been of late, and the change cheered him.

‘My darling,’ he said fondly, as he looked down at the pale face, which had lost something of its care-worn expression, ‘you have almost your old tranquil look—that calm sweet face which came upon me like a surprise one dark November night, nearly a year ago, when yonder door opened, and you came in, carrying a little tray.’

‘How well you remember things, Lucius! Yes, I have been happier to-day. I have been sitting with grandpapa, and he really seems much better. You do think him improved, don’t you, Lucius?’

‘I think him on the high-road to recovery. We may have him hale and vigorous yet, Lucille—sitting by the hearth in our new home.’

‘Our new home—yes,’ said the girl, looking round her with a perceptible shudder, ‘I shall be glad to leave this dull old house some day. It is full of horrible thoughts. But now that I am well again, I can take care of grandpapa.’

‘Not quite well yet, Lucille; you want care yourself.’

‘I should think she do, indeed,’ said Mrs. Milderson, who came in with the tea-tray, having discreetly allowed the lovers time for greeting; ‘and care she shall have, and her beef-tea reglar, and no liberties took, which invalidses’ mistake is always to think they’re well ever so long before they are. There was Mrs. Binks, only the other day, down in the shop serving the Saturday-night customers, which is no better nor Injun American savages in the impatience of their ways, before that blessed baby was three weeks old.’

‘I think I can rely upon you to take care of both my patients, nurse, while I am away for a few days.’

‘You are going away, Lucius?’ said Lucille anxiously.

‘Yes, dear; but for two or three days only. I think I may venture to leave you in Mrs. Milderson’s care for that time.’

‘I should hope you could, sir,’ exclaimed that matron, ‘after having had two years’ experience of me in all capacities—and even the old gentleman up-stairs, which was inclined to be grumpy and standoffish at first, having took to me as he has.’

‘I shall be quite safe, Lucius,’ said Lucille, ‘but I shall miss you very much.’

‘It shall be only for a few days, dearest. Nothing but important business would tempt me away from you even for that time.’

‘Important business, Lucius! What can that be? Is it another visit to that tiresome friend of yours, Mr. Hossack?’

‘No, dear, it is something which concerns our own future—something which I hope may bring you a new happiness. If I succeed in what I am going to attempt, you shall know all about it, and quickly. If I fail—’

‘What then, Lucius?’ she asked, as he hesitated.

‘Better that you should never know anything, darling, for then you can feel no disappointment.’

‘O!’ said Lucille, with a little sigh of resignation. ‘I suppose it is something connected with your professional career, some ambitious project which is to make me very proud of you if you succeed in it. Are you going very far?’

‘To Rouen.’

‘Rouen!’ cried Lucille; ‘Rouen in France?’ with as much astonishment as if he had said the centre of Africa.

‘To Rouen, in the department of the lower Seine,’ he answered gaily; with assumed gaiety, for it pained him even to leave her for so brief a span.

‘What can take you to France?’

‘Simply that ambitious project you spoke of just now. My dearest girl, you look as distressed as if I were going to Australia, when my journey is only a question of three or four days. I shall leave London to-morrow evening, and be in Rouen before noon next day. A day, or at most two days, will, I trust, accomplish my business there. I shall travel at night both ways, so as to save time; and on the fourth day I hope to be back in this dear old parlour drinking tea with you and nurse.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Mrs. Milderson, as if she had known all about it from the very beginning. ‘Do you suppose Dr. Davoren would go wasting of his precious time in France or anywheres else, with all his patients fretting and worriting about him—and left to the mercy of a strange doctor, which don’t know the ins and outs of their cases, and the little peculiarities of their constitushuns, no more than a baby?’

After tea Mrs. Milderson retired with the tray, and was absent for some time in attendance on Mr. Sivewright, who took his light repast of dry toast and tea also at this hour. Thus Lucius and Lucille were alone together for a little while. They stood side by side at the open window, which commanded no wider prospect than the bare courtyard or garden, where a few weakly chrysanthemums languished in a neglected bed, and two or three feeble sycamores invited the dust, while one ancient poplar, whose branches had grown thin and ragged with age, straggled up towards the calm evening sky. A high wall bounded this barren domain and shut out the world beyond it.

‘We must go up to grandpapa presently,’ said Lucille; ‘he likes us to sit with him for an hour or two in the evening now that he is so much better.’

‘Yes, dear, we will go; but before we go I want to ask you about something that has often set me wondering, yet which in all our talk we have spoken of very little.’

‘What is that, Lucius?’

‘About your earliest memories of childhood, Lucille. The time before you lived in Bond-street with your grandfather.’

To his surprise and distress she turned from him suddenly, and burst into tears.

‘My darling, I did not mean to grieve you!’ he exclaimed.

‘Then never speak to me again of my childhood, Lucius,’ she said with sorrowful earnestness. ‘It is a subject I can never speak of, never think of, without grief. Never again, if you wish me to be happy, mention the name of father.’

‘What?’ said Lucius; ’then that dream is over?’

‘It is,’ answered Lucille, in a heartbroken voice, ‘and the awakening has been most bitter.’

‘Thank Heaven that awakening has come, Lucille—even at the cost of pain to your true and tender heart,’ replied her lover earnestly. ‘My dearest, I am not going to torture you with questions. The mystery of these last few weeks has been slowly growing clear to me. There has been a great peril hanging over us; but I believe and hope that it is past. Of your innocent share in bringing that danger beneath this roof, I will say not a word.’

‘What, you know, Lucius?’ she said, with a perplexed look.

‘I know, or can guess, all, Lucille. How your too faithful affection has been traded upon by a villain.’

‘O, do not speak of him!’ she cried. ‘Remember, how ever dark his guilt may be, I once loved him—once, and O, so long, believed in him; hoped that he was only unfortunate, and not wicked; clung to the thought that he was the victim of circumstances. Lucius, have some pity upon me. Since that night when you first spoke of your dreadful fear—first suggested that some one was trying to poison my poor old grandfather—I have lived in a horrible dream. Nothing has seemed clear to me. Life has been all terror and confusion. Tell me once for all, is it true that some one tried to poison him—is it true?’

Words failed her. She stopped, stifled by sobs.

‘Lucille, do not speak of these things,’ said Lucius, drawing the too fragile form to his breast, smoothing the loose hair on the pale forehead. ‘Is it not enough to know that the danger is past? That fatal blindness—the fatal delusion which made you cling to the memory of a bad man—has been dispelled. You will never admit Ferdinand Sivewright to this house again.’

He looked at the pale face resting on his shoulder as he made this straight assertion. There was no indignant denial, not even surprise in the look of those plaintive eyes which were slowly lifted to meet his own—a beseeching look, as of one who asked forgiveness for a great wrong.

‘I have been more than foolish,’ she said, with a shudder, as if at some terrible memory. ‘I have been very wicked. If my grandfather had died, I should have been an unconscious accomplice in his murder. But he _is_ my father; and when he came to me, after so many years of separation, shelterless, hopeless, only pleading for a refuge, and the opportunity to win his father’s pardon—O Lucius, I can never tell you how he pleaded, by the memory of his old love for me—’

‘His love for you! I trust you may soon know, dearest, what that love was worth.’

‘Heaven grant I may never see his face or hear his name again, Lucius. The memory of him is all horror.’

‘You shall not be troubled by him any more if I can help it,’ answered her lover tenderly. ‘But you will never again keep a secret from me, will you, dearest?’

‘Never, Lucius. I have suffered too much from this one sin against your love. But if you knew how he pleaded, you would forgive me. You would not even wonder that I was so weak. Think, Lucius; a repentant son pleading for admission to his father’s house, without a roof to cover him, and longing for a reconciliation with the father he had offended.’

‘My poor confiding child, you were made the dupe of a villain. Tell me no more than you like to tell; but if it is any relief to you to speak—’

‘It is, Lucius. Yes, it is a relief to trust you. I thought I never could have told you. The burden of this dreadful secret has weighed down my heart. I dared not tell you. I thought you would bitterly reproach me for having kept such a secret from you, and then it is such pain to speak of him—now—now that I know he was never worthy of my love. But you are so kind, and it will relieve my mind to tell you all.’

‘Speak freely then, darling, and fear no reproaches from me.’

‘It was while you were away at Stillmington, Lucius, that this secret first began. I was in the garden alone, at dusk one evening.’

Lucius remembered what Mrs. Wincher had told him about Lucille coming in from the garden with a pale horror-stricken face, and saying that she had seen a ghost.

‘I was low-spirited because of your absence, and a little nervous. The place seemed so dull and lonely. All the common sounds of the day were over, and there was something oppressive in the silence, and the hot smoky atmosphere, and the dim gray sky. I was standing in the old summer-house, looking at the creek, and thinking of you, and trying to have happy thoughts about brighter days to come—only the happy thoughts would not stay with me—when I saw a man come from the wharf on the other side of the water, and step lightly from barge to barge. I was frightened, for the man had a strange look somehow, and was oddly dressed, buttoned to the neck in a shabby greatcoat, and with his face overshadowed by a felt hat that was slouched over his forehead. He came so quickly that I had hardly time to think before he had got upon the low garden wall, and dropped down close to the summer-house. I think I gave a little scream just then, for he came in, and put his hand across my lips. Not roughly, but so as to prevent my calling out. “Lucille,” he said, “don’t you know me? Am I so changed that my dear little daughter, who loved me so well once, doesn’t know me?” The voice was like the memory of a dream. I had not an instant’s doubt. All fear vanished in that great joy. The sad sweet thought of the past came back to me. The firelit parlour where I had sat at his feet—that strange wild music—his voice—his face—he had taken off his hat now, and was looking down at me with those dark bright eyes. I remembered him as well as if we had been only parted a few days.’

‘And was there nothing in his presence—in the tone of his voice, the expression of his face—from which your better instinct recoiled? Had nature no warning for you? Did you not feel that there was something of the serpent’s charm in the influence which this man had exercised over you?’

Lucille was silent for a few moments, looking thoughtfully downwards, as if questioning her own memory.

‘I can scarcely tell you what I felt in that moment,’ she said. ‘Joy was uppermost in my mind. How could I feel otherwise than happy in the return of the father I had mourned as dead? Then came pity for him. His worn haggard face—his threadbare clothes—spoke of struggle and hardship. He told me very briefly the story of a life that had been one long failure, and how he found himself at this hour newly returned from America, and cast penniless and shelterless upon the stones of the London streets. “If you can’t give me a hole to lie in somewhere in that big house, I must go out and try to get lodged in the workhouse, or steal a loaf and get rather better fare in a gaol.” That was what he said, Lucius. He told me what difficulties he had encountered in his search after me. “My heart yearned for you, Lucille,” he said; “it was the thought of you and of the poor old father that brought me back from America.”’

‘And no instinct warned you that this man was lying?’

‘O no, no; I had no such thought as that,’ answered Lucille quickly. ‘Yet I confess,’ she went on more deliberately, ‘there was a vague feeling of disappointment in my mind. This long-lost father, so unexpectedly restored to me, did not seem quite all that I had dreamed him; there was something wanting to make my joy perfect—there was a doubt or a fear in my mind which took no definite shape. I only felt that my father’s return did not make me so happy as it ought to have done.’

‘Did he see this, do you think?’

‘I don’t know. But when I hesitated about admitting him to the house—unknown to my grandfather—he reproached me for my want of natural affection. “The world is alike all over,” he said; “and even a daughter has no welcome for a pauper; though he comes three thousand miles to look at the girl who used to sit on his knee and put her soft little arms round his neck, and vow she loved him better than any one else in the world.” I told him how cruel this accusation was, and how I had remembered him and loved him all through these long years, and how the dearest wish of my heart had been for such a meeting as this. But I said that I did not like to keep his return a secret from his father, and I begged him to let me take him straight to my grandfather, and to trust to a father’s natural affection for forgiveness of all that had severed them in the past. My father greeted this suggestion with scornful laughter. “Natural affection!” he exclaimed. “Did he show much natural affection when he turned me out of doors? Did he show natural affection to my mother when his cruelty drove her out of his house? Has he ever spoken of me with natural affection during the last ten years? Answer me that, Lucille!” What answer could I give him, Lucius? You know how my grandfather has always spoken of his only son.’

‘Yes, dear; and I know what your grandfather’s affection concealed from you—the shameful cause of that severance between father and son.’

‘I could give him no hopeful answer. “I see,” he said, “there has been no relenting. Homer Sivewright is made of iron. Come, child, all I want is a shelter. Am I to have it here or in the workhouse, or, in fault of that, a gaol? If I sleep in the street another night I shall be in for a rheumatic fever. I’ve had all manner of aches and pains in my bones for some days past.” “You shall not sleep in the streets,” I said, “while I have power to give you shelter.” I thought of all those empty rooms on the top floor. I had the key of the staircase always in my own charge, and thought it would be easy enough to keep any one up there for weeks, and months even, without my grandfather or the Winchers ever knowing anything about it. Or if the worst came to the worst, I thought I might venture to trust the Winchers with the secret. “Have you made up your mind?” asked my father impatiently. “Yes, papa,” I said—and the old name came back so naturally—“I have made up my mind.” I told him he must wait a little, till Mr. and Mrs. Wincher were safely out of the way, and then I would take him into the house; unless he would make up his mind to trust the Winchers with his secret. “I will trust not a living creature but yourself,” he said; “and if you tell any one a word about me, I shall have done with you for ever. I come back to my father’s house as an outcast and a reprobate. Fathers don’t kill their fatted calves nowadays for prodigal sons. I want no one’s help, I want no one’s pity but yours, Lucille, for I believe you are the only creature in this world who loves me.” This touched me to the heart. What could I refuse him after that? I told him to wait in the summer-house till all was safe, and that I would come for him as soon as I could venture to do so. I went in and went straight up-stairs to the attic floor, where I dragged that old bedstead into the most comfortable room, and carried up blankets from down-stairs. I lighted a fire, for the room felt damp, and made all as decent as I could. By the time I had done this, the Winchers had gone to bed; and I unbolted the door of the brewery as quietly as I could—but it is a long way from the room where they used to sleep, as you know, so there was very little fear of their hearing me—and went to the summer-house to fetch my father. We crept slowly past the Winchers’ room and up the stairs, for I was afraid of grandpapa’s quick ear, even at that hour. When I showed my father the room I had chosen for him, he objected to it, and asked to see the other rooms on this floor, which I had told him were entirely unoccupied. He selected the room at the north end of the house.’

‘Of course,’ thought Lucius; ‘he had been informed about the secret staircase!’

‘I told him that this room was exactly over my grandfather’s, and that he couldn’t make a worse choice if he didn’t want to be heard. “I’ll take care,” he said; “I can walk as softly as a cat when I like. The other rooms are all damp.” He carried the bedstead and an old table and chair into this room, lit a fire, taking great care to make no noise, and made himself tolerably comfortable, while I went down-stairs to get what provisions I could out of our scantily-furnished larder. After this he came and went as he liked; sometimes he would sleep away whole days, sometimes he would be absent three or four days at a time. I had to let him out at night or let him in, just as he pleased; sometimes I sat up all night waiting for him. When he was away I had to keep a candle burning in one of the back windows on the top floor, to show that all was safe if he wanted to return. I cannot tell you the anxiety I suffered all through this time. The power of sleep seemed to leave me altogether. Even when I did not expect my father’s return, I was always listening for his signal—a handful of gravel thrown up against the window of my room. I knew that I was doing wrong, and yet could not feel sorry that I had granted his request. It seemed such a small thing to give my father an empty garret in this great desolate house. So things went on till the day when you and I were in the loft together; and when you saw the door of my father’s room opened and shut. You can guess what I suffered then, Lucius.’

‘Poor child, poor child!’ he murmured tenderly.

‘And then came the day when you—No, I can’t speak of it any more, Lucius. All that followed that time is too dreadful. I woke up to the knowledge that my father had tried to—murder—’ The words came slowly, stifled with sobs, and once more Lucille broke down altogether.

‘Not another word, darling,’ cried her lover. ‘You have no reason to reproach yourself. When you admitted Ferdinand Sivewright to this house, you only obeyed the natural impulse of a woman’s tender heart. Had the most fatal result followed that man’s baneful presence no blame could have attached to you; and now, dearest, listen to me. Brief as my absence will be, I don’t mean to leave you here while I am away. You have had enough of this house for the present. This faithful heart has been too much tried—this active brain too severely tasked. As your medical adviser, I order change of air and scene. As your future husband, I insist upon being obeyed.’

‘Leave poor grandpapa! Impossible, Lucius.’

‘Poor grandpapa shall be reconciled to your departure. He is going on very well, and is in excellent hands. Nurse Milderson is as true as steel. Besides, you are not going to be absent long, Lucille. I shall take you away to-morrow morning, and bring you back again, God willing, a week hence.’

‘Take me away! Where, Lucius?’

‘To my sister Janet.’

He had spoken of this sister to his betrothed of late; rarely, but with a quiet affection which Lucille knew to be deep.

The pale face flushed with a bright happy look at this suggestion.

‘I am to go to see your sister, Lucius!’ she cried. ‘I should like that of all things.’

‘I thought so, darling. Janet is staying in a little rustic village in my part of the country. I had a letter from her a week ago, telling me of her change of residence. She is with an old woman who was our nurse when we were little ones; so if you want to hear what an ill-conditioned refractory imp Master Lucius Davoren was in an early stage of his existence, you may receive the information from the fountain-head.’

Lucille smiled through the tears that were hardly dry yet. Everything relating to lovers is interesting—to themselves.

‘I daresay you were a very good boy, Lucius,’ she said, ‘and that your old nurse will do nothing but praise you. I shall be so pleased to see your sister, and the place where you were born—if grandpapa will only let me go.’

‘I’ll get his permission, dearest. Be assured of that.’

‘And do you think your sister will like me—a little? I know I shall love her.’

‘The love will be mutual, depend upon it, darling. And now I think I’d better go up-stairs to Mr. Sivewright and talk to him about your holiday.’

‘My holiday!’ cried Lucille. ‘How strange that sounds! I have not spent a day away from this house since I came home from school three years ago.’

‘No wonder such imprisonment has paled my fair young blossom,’ said her lover tenderly. ‘Hampshire breezes will bring back the roses to my darling’s cheeks.’

He left her to propose this somewhat daring scheme to Mr. Sivewright, over whom he felt he had acquired some slight influence. In all his talk with Lucille to-night—which had taken a turn he had in no manner anticipated—he had not asked those questions he wished to ask about her life before the Bond-street period. It did not very much matter, he thought. Those questions could stand over till to-morrow. But before he started for Rouen he wanted to fortify his case with all the information Lucille’s memory could afford him.

‘And the recollections of earliest childhood are sometimes very clear,’ he said to himself, as he went up the dark staircase to his interview with Homer Sivewright.

The old man granted his request more readily than Lucius had expected. Lucille’s illness had served as a rousing shock for the selfishness of age. Mr. Sivewright had awakened to the reflection that this gentle girl, who had ministered to him with such patience and tenderness, and had received such small requital for her love, was very necessary to his comfort, and that even his dim gray life would be darkened, were relentless Death to snatch her away, leaving him to end his journey alone. He had hitherto thought of her as young and strong, and in a manner warranted to live and thrive even under the least favourable circumstances. His eyes were opened now. The change which illness had wrought in her had impressed him painfully. For once in his life he felt the sharp sting of self-reproach.

‘Yes, let her go by all means,’ he said, when Lucius had told him his plan. ‘I daresay your sister’s a very nice person, and of course Lucille ought to make the acquaintance of your relations. She has need of friends, poor child, for it would be difficult to find any one more alone in the world than she is. Yes, let her go. But you’ll not keep her away long, eh, Davoren? I shall miss her sorely. I never knew that her absence could make much difference in my life, seeing how little sympathy there is between us, until the other day when she was ill.’

‘She shall not be away from you more than a week,’ answered Lucius. ‘She was strongly opposed to the idea of leaving you at all, and only yielded to my insistence.’

He then proceeded to inform Mr. Sivewright of his intended journey to Rouen. The old man seemed more than doubtful of success; but did not endeavour to throw cold water on the scheme.

‘It’s a tangled skein,’ he said; ‘if you can straighten it you’ll do a clever thing. I should certainly like to know the history of that child’s birth; yet it will cost me a pang if I find there is no blood of mine in her veins.’

Thus they parted, Homer Sivewright perfectly reconciled to the idea of being left to the care of Mrs. Milderson and the Magsbys. Lucius felt that justice demanded Mr. and Mrs. Wincher should be speedily reinstated, and all stain removed from their escutcheon. Yet, ere he could do this, he must tell Mr. Sivewright the true story of the robbery, and of his son’s return; a story which would be difficult for Lucius to tell, and which might occasion more agitation than the old man, in his present condition, could well bear.

‘Let time and care complete his cure,’ thought Lucius, ‘and then I will tell him all.’

He arranged the hour of starting with Lucille, after due consultation of the South-Western timetable, which Mrs. Magsby fetched for him from the nearest stationer’s. There was a train from Waterloo at a quarter-past nine.

‘I shall come for you in a cab at a quarter-past eight,’ said Lucius decisively.

‘Bless your dear hearts!’ exclaimed Mrs. Milderson, in a burst of enthusiasm. ‘It seems for all the world as if you was a-planning of your honeymoon; and I do think as how a fortnight in a quiet place in the country, where you can get your new potatoes and summer cabbages fresh out of the garden, and a new-laid egg and a drop of rich cream for your breakfasts, is better than all your rubbiging ‘To Paris and back for five pounds,’ which Mrs. Binks went when she and Binks was married, and was that ill with the cookery at the cheap restorers—everythink fried in ile, and pea-soup that stodgy you could cut it with a knife, and cold sparrowgrass with ile and vinegar—and the smells of them drains, as if everybody in the place had been emptying cabbage-water, as her life was a burding to her.’

‘We’re not quite ready for our honeymoon yet, nurse,’ answered Lucius; ‘but depend upon it, when that happy time does come, we won’t patronise Paris and the cheap restaurants. We’ll find some tranquil corner in this busy world, almost as remote from the haunts of man as the mountains of the moon.’

Mrs. Milderson charged herself with the responsibility of packing Lucille’s portmanteau that night, though the girl declared herself quite equal to the task.

‘I won’t have you worritin’ and stoopin’ over boxes and pulling out drawers,’ said the nurse; ‘everythink shall be ready to the moment; and if I forget so much as a hairpin, you may say the unkindest things you can to me when you come back.’

Having settled everything entirely to his own satisfaction, Lucius departed, after a tender farewell which was to last only till to-morrow. He looked forward to this first journey with his betrothed with an almost childish delight. Only two or three hours’ swift transit through green fields, and past narrow patches of woodland, chalky hills, rustic villages, nameless streams winding between willow-shaded banks, white high-roads leading heaven knows where: but, with Lucille, such a journey would be two or three hours in paradise. And then what a joy to bring those two together—those two women whom alone, of all earth’s womankind, he fondly loved!

The clocks were striking ten as he left Cedar House, after impressing upon Lucille the necessity for a long night’s rest. His homeward way would take him very near that humble alley in which Mr. and Mrs. Wincher had found a shelter for their troubles. He remembered this, and resolved to pay them a visit to-night, late as it was, in order to tell Mr. Wincher that he stood acquitted of any wrong against his master.

‘I was quick enough to suspect and to accuse them,’ thought Lucius; ‘let me be as quick to acknowledge my error.’

Crown-and-Anchor-court was still astir when Lucius entered its modest shades. It was the hour of supper beer, and small girls in pinafores, who, from a sanitary point of view, ought to have been in bed hours before, were trotting to and fro with large crockeryware jugs, various in colour and design, but bearing a family likeness in dilapidation, not one being intact as to spout and handle. There were farther indications of the evening meal in an appetising odour of fried onions, a floating aroma of bloaters, faint breathings of stewed tripe, and even whispers of pork-chops. The day may have gone ill with the Crown-and-Anchorites, and dinners may have run short, but the heads of the household made it up at night with some toothsome dish when the children—except always the useful errand-going eldest daughter—were snug in bed, and there were fewer mouths to be filled with the choice morsel.

A light twinkled in Mr. Wincher’s parlour, but he and his good lady had sought no consolation from creature-comforts. A fragment of hardest Dutch cheese and the heel of a stale half-quartern alone adorned their melancholy board. Mrs. Wincher sat with her elbows on the table, in a contemplative mood; Mr. Wincher came to the door chumping his dry fare industriously.

‘My good people,’ said Lucius, coming straight to the point, ‘I have come to beg your forgiveness for a great wrong. I have only this night discovered the actual truth.’

‘You have found the property, sir?’ cried Mr. Wincher, trembling a little from very joy, and making a sudden bolt of his unsavoury mouthful.

Mrs. Wincher gave a shrill scream, followed by a shriller laugh, indicative of that most troublesome of feminine ailments, hysteria. Lucius knew the symptoms but too well. His lady-patients in the Shadrack-road were, as a rule, hysterical. They ‘went off,’ as they called it, on the smallest provocation. Their joys and sorrows expressed themselves in hysteria; their quarrels ended in hysteria; they were hysterical at weddings, christenings, and funerals; and they prided themselves on the weakness.

After having tried all remedies suggested by the highest authorities upon this particular form of disease, Lucius had found that the most efficacious treatment was one ignored by the faculty. This simple mode of cure was to take no notice of the patient. He took no notice of Mrs. Wincher’s premonitory symptoms; and instead of ‘going off,’ that lady ‘came to.’

‘No, Mr. Wincher,’ he said, in answer to the old man’s eager question, ‘the property has not been recovered—never will be, I should think; but I am tolerably satisfied as to the thief, and I know you are not the man.’

‘Thank God, sir—thank God!’ cried Mr. Wincher devoutly. ‘I am very thankful. I couldn’t have died easy while you and my old master thought me a thief and a liar.’

The tears rolled down Mr. Wincher’s wrinkled cheek. He dropped feebly into his chair, and wiped those joyful tears with a corner of the threadbare tablecloth.

‘I wouldn’t be so wanting to my own self in proper pride, Wincher,’ said his wife, who was not disposed to forgive Lucius at a moment’s warning. Had she not liked and praised him and smiled benignantly on his wooing, and had he not turned upon her like the scorpion? ‘We had the conscientiousness of our own innocence to support us, and with that I could have gone to Newgate without blinching. It’s all very well to come here, Dr. Davory, and demean yourself by astin’ our pardings; but you can’t make up to us for the suffering we’ve gone through along of your unjust suspicions,’ added Mrs. Wincher, somewhat inconsistently.

Lucius expressed his regret with supreme humility.

‘If ever I am a rich man,’ he said, ‘I will try to atone for my mistake in some more substantial manner. In the mean time you must accept this trifle as a proof of my sincerity.’

He pressed a five-pound note upon Mr. Wincher—a poor solatium for the wrong done, but a large sum for the parish doctor to give away, on the eve of an undertaking which was likely to be expensive.

‘No, sir—not a farthing,’ said Mr. Wincher resolutely. ‘You offered me money before, and it was kindly done, for you thought me a scoundrel, and you didn’t want even a scoundrel to starve. I appreciate the kindness of your offer to-night, but I won’t take a farthing. We shall rub on somehow, I make no doubt, though the world does seem a little overcrowded. You’ve acknowledged the wrong you did me, Mr. Davoren, and that’s more than enough.’

Lucius pressed the money upon him, but in vain.

‘Do you find life so prosperous, and work so plentiful, that you refuse a friendly offer?’ he asked at last.

‘Well, not exactly, sir,’ replied Mr. Wincher with a sigh. ‘I do get an odd job now and then, it’s true, but the now and then are very far apart.’

‘And you find it hard to pay the rent of this room and live without trenching on your little fund?’

‘Sir, our savings are melting day by day; but we are old; and, after all, better people than we are have had to end their days in a workhouse. There’s no reproach in such an end if one has worked one’s hardest all the days of one’s life.’

‘You shall not be reduced to the workhouse if I can help it, Mr. Wincher,’ said Lucius heartily. ‘If you are too proud to take money from me—’

‘No, sir, not too proud; it isn’t pride, but principle.’

‘If you won’t take my money, Mr. Wincher, I must try to find you a home. Come and live with me. My housekeeper has given me a good deal of trouble lately; in fact, I’m afraid she’s not so temperate in her habits as she ought to be, and I sha’n’t be sorry to get rid of her. I am not in a position to offer you very liberal wages—’

‘Bless your heart, sir, we’ve not been accustomed to wages of late years. “Stay with me if you like,” said Mr. Sivewright, “but I’m too poor to pay wages. I’ll give you a roof to cover you, and a trifle for your board.” And we contrived to live upon the trifle, sir, by cutting it rather fine.’

‘I’ll give you what I give my present housekeeper,’ answered Lucius, ‘and you must manage to rub on upon it till my prospects improve. I think you’ll be able to make my house comfortable—eh, Mrs. Wincher?—and to get on with its new mistress, when I am happy enough to bring my wife home.’

‘Lor, sir, I can do for you better than I did for Mr. Sivewright, who’s a deal more troublesomer than ever you could be, even if you tried to give trouble; and as to Miss Lucille, why, she knows I’d wear the flesh off my bones to serve her, willing.’

It was all settled satisfactorily. Lucius was to give his housekeeper a week’s notice, as per agreement. She had burnt his chop and smoked his tea continually of late, despite his remonstrances. And Mr. and Mrs. Wincher were to take up their abode with him as soon as he returned from his foreign expedition. They parted on excellent terms with each other.