CHAPTER XIX.

FOUND!

It was three days after Lord Carthew’s wedding. Hilary Pritchard was lodging in an hotel off the Strand, and was sitting in the coffee-room at breakfast on a misty May morning.

He was in extremely low spirits and very bad temper, and while waiting for his tea and eggs, he drew from his pocket a notice, cut from a newspaper two days old, which set forth that on a given date, Stella, only daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun, J. P., of the Chase, Surrey, and Cranstoun Hall, Aberdeenshire, was married to Viscount Carthew, eldest son of the Earl of Northborough, by the Rev. Canon Wrextone, assisted by the Rev. John Turner.

Hilary had read the words until long ago he had known them by heart. He had even, sorely against his will, written down to Northborough Castle to congratulate his friend in as few words as possible on his marriage, and to inform him that he purposed starting for Canada at least two months earlier than he had originally intended. In this letter he had mentioned the name of the hotel at which he was staying. Until now he had been anxious to keep his address a secret from his friend, from a feeling that he had not acted fairly by Lord Carthew in the matter of Stella Cranstoun; but now, since she had elected to marry her wealthy and titled suitor, Hilary’s conscience was clear. There was no longer any need for mystery, and he therefore told Lord Carthew, in his extremely brief congratulatory letter, that he was staying in this place for a few days, settling his affairs, before going north to take leave of his parents, on setting out for his new home across the sea.

He was conscious of a feeling of disloyalty in that he could not banish from his mind those two short love-scenes which had passed between himself and Stella. He told himself again and again that she was now his friend’s wife, and that she was most certainly a coquette, who had been amusing herself at his expense. “She would presently, if I were still in England, ask her husband to invite me to stay at one of their country seats,” he told himself, bitterly. “That’s how flirts always behave toward their old sweethearts when they’ve married another fellow. Ask them to stay, that he may see and envy the other fellow’s happiness. See them make love to their husbands _at_ him, and call him by his Christian name when they are alone. ‘_Dear_ Jack,’ or ‘_dear_ Hilary, it wasn’t _my_ fault I didn’t marry _you_, you know. I am very happy now, of course, but I was forced into it, and--you don’t bear me any grudge, do you?’ Then if they can, and if the husband is fool enough to stand it, they make a tame cat of the old sweetheart, and do their best to prevent him from marrying any one else, sacrificing his life’s happiness on the altar of their own petty, miserable vanity.”

With which cynical, if partially true, reasoning he strove to allay the gnawing bitterness at his heart, and to forget the passionate love which Stella had so suddenly aroused there.

He was very “hard hit,” for certain. Stella’s shining dark-blue eyes seemed to be gazing at him from every corner, and with her voice they haunted his dreams, from which he awoke with outstretched arms to meet the empty air. He had never meant to fall in love with her or with anybody, and it angered him to think that even incessant occupation and bodily activity could not stifle the constant pain at his heart. To a man of his essentially manly and practical nature, it seemed little short of contemptible to be thus dominated by a hopeless feeling of love for a woman, particularly now that she had become the wife of his friend; and he longed, with all his soul, for the moment when he should set sail for Canada, and, among new work and new surroundings, forget this foolish infatuation.

So he sat, brooding, over the breakfast-table, in a moody frame of mind with which, until the past few days, he had been totally unacquainted, until the voice of the elderly, greasy-looking English waiter recalled him to his immediate surroundings.

“A gentleman, sir, to see you on very pressing business. ’Ere is ’is card, sir.”

A touch of unwonted reverence in the man’s voice and manner attracted Hilary’s attention. He took up the card and read thereon, with great surprise, the name of Lord Carthew.

But two days married, and already in London visiting his bachelor friends! Hilary had read in an evening paper that the bridal pair intended spending a few days at the Earl of Northborough’s seat in the Isle of Wight before undertaking a lengthened cruise in the Mediterranean. A presentiment of something wrong filled his mind as he told the waiter to show the gentleman in.

It was half-past eight o’clock, and as yet Hilary was the sole occupant of the coffee-room. There were no strangers present to note the pale and worried appearance of the man who only two days before had made a love-match with a beautiful and accomplished lady.

“Carthew!” Hilary exclaimed, springing from his seat and grasping his friend by the hand. “What is wrong?”

“Don’t you know? Thank Heaven! it hasn’t got about much yet, then! But, of course, it can’t be kept a secret much longer.”

“Man alive, what do you mean? What is it that should be kept a secret? Has anything happened to _her_--to Lady Carthew?”

His friend sat down by the table and wearily rested his head on his hand.

“I haven’t slept for three nights,” he said. “Anxiety about her has banished rest by night and day. She is mad, Hilary, I am certain of it. No other explanation could explain, could justify her conduct. She sprang from the train on our wedding journey, and I have not seen her since.”

“And you can sit quietly there and tell me such a thing!” almost shouted Hilary, stirred to violent indignation by what he supposed to be his friend’s callous apathy. “Good heavens! Carthew, what are you made of?”

Lord Carthew looked at him and frowned.

“There is no need for this excitement on your part,” he said, coldly. “Lady Carthew was not injured by her escapade. Indeed, within three hours of her leap, she telegraphed to me from Clapham Junction, informing me that she was on her way to London. I was forced to go on first to Northborough, where all manner of rejoicings had been prepared, to quiet them with some story of Lady Carthew’s health which had necessitated a change of plans. But I wired to a detective agency to find out her address, and communicate with me at my club. Imagine, Hilary, the awful disgrace of the thing. Having to call in professional spies to find out one’s own wife! Worst of all, this girl, who seemed the perfection of modesty and refinement, has, through her mental affliction, become so strangely different that you would hardly know her. All her reserve, all her delicacy and grace have left her. In the short time we spent together, she contrived to make me the laughing-stock of a vulgar crowd by her open flirtation with her father’s gamekeeper, that gypsy fellow who shot you in the arm.”

Hilary’s face betokened amazement, largely tinctured by incredulity; but the latter quality he refrained from expressing, as he asked, quietly:

“Have the detectives furnished you with any clue?”

“So far, with two incorrect ones. I have in my hands now a third address to a lodging-house in Duchess Street, Oxford Street, whither they have tracked a woman who exactly answers to the description I have furnished. I was on my way thither from the detective office when, passing this street, I resolved to speak with you. Hilary, I hardly know whether I hope or dread to find her. I have suffered so much during the past three days that I have come to wish that she or I were dead.”

“But your love for her----”

“She herself killed that. My great dread is lest the affair should reach the ears of my people. If I can only find her first, and put her away somewhere quietly until she recovers her reason! That is my one hope now.”

Hilary, on his part, was so profoundly shocked by his friend’s story that he knew not what to suggest by way of alleviating his grief and anxiety. The pair very shortly afterward parted, Lord Carthew having promised to return and report the success or failure of his mission.

Hilary had long ago forgotten his breakfast. Swallowing a cup of tepid tea, he sought the open air, there to reflect on the strange story he had just heard. He had struck into the Strand, and was about to cross Trafalgar Square, when his attention was attracted by the figure of a girl, tall, slender, and attired in shabby black, who stood, hesitating and frightened, between the rows of hurrying cabs, carriages, and omnibuses which were incessantly passing.

Something in the outline of her figure, for her face was concealed by a thick black crape veil, attracted Hilary’s attention so strongly that he resolved at once to see her over the crossing, that he might set at rest a strange suspicion which shot across his heart.

In a few seconds he was at her side, addressing her as a stranger, and offering to escort her over the road through the crowded traffic. But she, regardless of the publicity of the spot, gave a little cry of surprise and delight at sight of him, and throwing back her veil, displayed the lovely, flushed face and brilliant eyes of Stella.

“Hilary!” she murmured, joyfully. “Oh, I _am_ so glad! Yes, see me across the road--I am not used to crowds, and take me somewhere where we can have a beautiful long talk. It is my first walk alone in London, and I haven’t the least idea where we are.”

He listened to her in ever-increasing wonder, and after piloting her safely through the vehicles, he led her down to the comparative seclusion of St. James’ Park.

There he turned and faced her.

“I have just parted from your husband,” he said, sternly.

She stared at him, and then burst out laughing.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Is it a jest?”

“Is _this_ a jest?” he asked, impressively, taking from his pocket-book the announcement of the marriage, cut from the _Morning Post_, and thrusting it into her hand.

She read it with knitted brows and evident amazement, and then looked up at him, pale to the lips.

“What can it mean, Hilary?” she faltered. “Surely I can’t have been married without knowing it! And yet of what happened between my leaving the Chase and finding myself here in London I can remember nothing at all!”