On hearing his father's exclamation Claude turned round with a look of supreme astonishment. He could not understand the meaning of that sudden exclamation.

"Father, you do not understand. This is your wife – my mother."

"Is it, indeed?" sneered Captain Larcher, who had recovered from his momentary emotion. "Nothing of the sort, sir. This woman is Mona Bantry, who was my wife's maid."

"Are you sure?" cried Tait, who was beginning to be bewildered by these successive revelations.

"Sure, sir! as sure as I am of my own innocence. As sure as I am George Larcher, this is the sister of Denis Bantry, who – "

"Denis!"

The interruption came from Mrs. Bezel. She had sat dumfounded at the unexpected appearance of the man whom she had thought dead, and she had said nothing while assertion and denial were going on, but the mention of her brother's name stirred her dormant faculties, and she sat up looking wildly around.

"Denis!" she cried, in a terrified tone. "Is Denis here?"

"Denis is down at Thorston," said Captain Larcher gruffly, "as you no doubt knew well enough."

"I swear I did not. Francis told me Denis was in America."

"Francis?" exclaimed Claude, forgetting to whom the name belonged.

"Francis Hilliston."

"Ah!" said Captain Larcher, with a disdainful look round. "I might have guessed as much. Off with the dead love, on with the living. You have amended the proverb."

"I did not know Mark was dead, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bezel passionately. "Francis said that he had gone to America with Denis. I thought he had done so to escape the consequences of his crime, but – "

"Of his crime!" cried Claude. "He was the victim, poor soul, not the murderer. It was Jeringham who was killed, not my father."

"Your father?" said Mrs. Bezel, looking steadily at Captain Larcher. "Yes; it is my old master. So you are alive and he is dead. Why did you kill him, sir?"

"I did not kill him," replied the captain quietly, "and as a counter question, may I ask why you passed yourself off to Claude as my wife?"

Mrs. Bezel burst into a wild laugh, and clapped her hands together. Then she covered her face and commenced to weep, but in a few moments the fit of hysteria passed away, and she became cool and composed. Thrown off her balance for the time being, she had now gathered her wits together, and was ready to fight. Her folly and impulse had brought about this catastrophe, and it was her duty to set it right again – if she could. But the upshot of the matter was extremely doubtful.

On his part, Captain Larcher was relieved to find that Mrs. Bezel proved to be Mona Bantry instead of his wife. Ever since the communication made by Claude, he had suffered agonies at the thought that his wife had been living all these years under the protection of his false friend. Now that fear was set at rest once and forever. Julia Larcher had really died, as Hilliston had asserted, and the woman in Clarence Cottage, who had taken her name, was the maid in place of the mistress. Out of all the trouble Larcher extracted this morsel of comfort, his honor was unstained.

Meanwhile the three visitors sat waiting to hear what Mrs. Bezel had to say. She saw that they expected a confession, and resolved to disappoint them. Leaning backward among her cushions, she closed her eyes, and played a waiting game. It proved successful, for in two minutes or thereabouts Captain Larcher broke out. His temper was none of the best, and recent events had not tended to improve it."

"Well, madam," he said sharply, rapping his stick on the ground, "I am waiting to hear what you have to say."

"I have nothing to say," said Mrs. Bezel quietly.

"Oh, yes, you have," began Tait. "As you set the ball – "

But at this moment he was interrupted by Larcher.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Tait, but I will question this woman myself. Pray do not speak, nor you, Claude, till I have done."

Both young men bowed their heads and acquiesced in silence. After all, the captain was the proper person to examine Mona Bantry. He knew more of the case than anyone else, and conversant as he was with the events of that fatal night, he would know whether she spoke truly or falsely. Mrs. Bezel looked uneasy on hearing his resolution, but only compressed her lips tighter as though resolved to let nothing escape her. But he was a match for her in obstinacy.

"Now then," said Larcher, turning to her, "relate your history from the moment you left me alone with my wife twenty-five years ago at The Laurels."

"It would not help you if I did."

"I'm not so sure of that. But I understand. You are afraid of incriminating yourself."

"I!" exclaimed Mrs. Bezel indignantly. "What have I to do with the matter. I know nothing of it. I left the house then and there, and only heard of the tragedy while I was concealed at Horriston, more than a week afterward."

"Why did you state to my son that Mrs. Larcher threatened me with the dagger."

"So she did," said Mrs. Bezel coolly. "I saw her hand raised, I saw the dagger in it."

"You saw the sheath of the dagger, you mean," retorted Larcher; "it fell on the floor and was found there next day. But the weapon with which the crime was committed was lost by my wife at the ball."

"It may have been," said the woman indifferently. "I don't know anything about it."

"Did not Jeringham show it to you when you joined him in the garden?"

"I tell you I did not see him on that night. When you found out my secret, I was afraid that you and the mistress would betray it to my brother Denis, so I left the room and fled. I thought Jeringham would join me at Horriston next day, but then I heard of your supposed death, and that he had fled. Until this hour I did not know that it was the other way round."

"Did not Hilliston tell you? He knew."

"No, Captain Larcher, he did not," said Mrs. Bezel emphatically. "He said that Jeringham had gone to America with my brother."

"Where did you go after leaving Horriston?"

"I came to London, and remained there till my baby was born."

"And then?"

"I found that my money had come to an end, and called at Mr. Hilliston's office to ask him to help me."

"What right had you to expect help from him."

"I had no right, but that I knew he would assist me because of his love."

"His love!" exclaimed Larcher sharply. "Did Hilliston love you?"

"Yes; I refused to have anything to do with him on account of Jeringham. But he did love me. Oh, yes, I know you thought he was in love with your wife, but such was not the case. He loved me, and me only."

Larcher drew a long breath, and looked puzzled. He was relieved to find that he had not been mistaken in Hilliston, after all, yet the assertion of Mrs. Bezel only seemed to further complicate the case. If Hilliston did not love Mrs. Larcher, what possible motive could he have to kill Jeringham? The looks of Claude and Tait reflected his perplexity; but dismissing this special point for the moment, he pursued his examination.

"How did Hilliston receive you?"

Mrs. Bezel looked around with a bitter smile. Her meaning was clear from the contemptuous expression on her face.

"Can you not guess from what you see here?" she said quietly. "Francis Hilliston bought me. He loved me well enough, but not sufficiently to marry me. He did not ruin me, for I was already ruined. I accepted his offer to come here and be his mistress. What else could I do? I was alone in London. I was friendless. I believed that my lover and my brother had fled to America. I could not return to Horriston lest I might be involved in the tragedy at The Laurels. I did what any other woman would have done, and made the best of a bad business. I accepted the love and protection of Francis Hilliston. The protection still continues, as you see – the love, that is dead and done with."

"I see you are thinking of Louisa Sinclair," interposed Tait quietly.

"What do you know of Louisa Sinclair?" asked Mrs. Bezel, with a violent start.

"Everything, thanks to you," answered Tait. "Your letter put the clew into my head. I went to Horriston; I saw a portrait of Miss Sinclair. I know that she went to America after the tragedy, and returned as Mrs. Derrick, rich and beautiful, to marry Hilliston."

"Ah, you know that much. Yes! Louisa Sinclair is my rival! Ten years ago she came back to England and wanted Francis to marry her. I fell ill – I became paralyzed. He forgot me, he forgot my love, and she became his wife. Oh, how I hate her! I hate him. It was on that account that I wrote to you, Claude, to reveal all."

"You then acted out of revenge!"

"Yes, I did!" said Mrs. Bezel sullenly. "Look at me, a wreck; look at her, his wife, rich and handsome and healthy."

"Not healthy, poor soul," said Claude. "She is ill with the smallpox."

"With the smallpox," echoed Mrs. Bezel joyfully. "I'm glad of it! I'm glad of it! Her beauty will depart, as mine has done. Then Francis may come back to me."

"You love him still?" asked Captain Larcher, in wonderment.

"Too well to ruin him. You want me to accuse him of the crime, but I tell you he is innocent; he knows nothing."

"He was in the garden alone on that night. None other but he – "

"He was not alone," cried Mrs. Bezel sharply. "Louisa Sinclair was with him. Yes, she followed him from the ball because she was jealous of me. In my flight I passed her at the gate. She had a cloak over her dress, but I saw that it was the costume of Mary, Queen of Scots."

"And you knew her by that?"

"Partly. My mistress told me that Miss Sinclair had a similar costume to her own, for she was very angry about it. But I saw her face as I fled. She may know who killed Jeringham. I do not. Hilliston does not. Now, I have told you all. Go away and leave me. I speak no more."

"First tell us why you declared yourself to be my mother?" said Claude sharply.

"For safety. I regretted that I had told you; that I had forced Hilliston into defending himself. I was afraid lest you should learn too much and denounce me as the criminal. So long as you thought I was your mother you would not dare to do so, and therefore I told you I was Mrs. Larcher."

"One last word," said Captain Larcher, rising to his feet. "Your child. What became of it?"

"Hilliston took it away," said Mrs. Bezel, in a melancholy tone. "I was ill at the time and he overcame my scruples. I don't know where my child is. Often and often have I wanted to see her again, but Francis has always refused. Oh, where can she be?"

"I can tell you."

"You?" cried Mrs. Bezel, starting up in amazement.

"Yes. Your daughter Jenny was brought by Hilliston to me. I adopted her as my child, and she is now at Thorston with her Uncle Denis – your brother."

Mrs. Bezel tried to speak, but could not. With a wild glance around she heaved a long sigh and fainted. The joy of hearing that her child was alive proved too much for her enfeebled frame.

CHAPTER XLII
THE TRAGEDY OF A WOMAN'S VANITY

Meantime Hilliston, unaware of that fatal meeting with Mona Bantry, which threatened to demoralize his plans, was devoting himself to his unfortunate wife. She was very ill, and not expected to recover, so feeling that he would soon lose her, the lawyer stayed constantly by her side, and strove, though unsuccessfully, to ameliorate her cruel sufferings. It was all the more credit to him that he did so, as he had married her mainly for her money, and was still in love with Mrs. Bezel. No doubt, remorse had something to do with his present attitude.

The landlord of the Connaught Hotel had insisted upon Mrs. Hilliston being removed when the first symptoms of disease showed themselves. He declared that were it known that he had a smallpox patient in his house, he would be ruined for the season, so Hilliston, recognizing the truth of this assertion, took steps to isolate his wife, as was necessary from the nature of her illness. Assisted by the doctor, who attended to all details relative to the municipal authorities, he hired a small house on the outskirts of Eastbourne, and thither the wreck of what had once been a beautiful woman was removed one evening. Nurses were hired from London, Hilliston sent word to his partner that he would not return to business for some weeks; and then began the slow martyrdom of the sickroom.

It was a fortnight since Mrs. Hilliston had been seized with the disease, and now it had taken so favorable a turn that the doctor held out great hopes that she would recover. But the beauty of which she had been so proud was gone, and with it went the hopes that she could still retain her husband by her side. Mrs. Hilliston knew well enough that it was only her persistence which had made Hilliston marry her, and now that she had lost her good looks – the one hold she had on his lukewarm affection – she foresaw only too clearly that he would neglect her in the future. Moreover, the woman's vanity was so powerful that she could not accept calmly the possibility of surviving, a scarred and maimed object, to face looks of pity and of horror. She felt that she would rather die, and in fact resolved to do so. Meanwhile she tossed and turned, and moaned and wept on her sick bed; crying out against the stern Fate which had dealt her such hard measure. Yet in her secret soul she admitted that the punishment was just.

Hilliston was scarcely less unhappy than his wife. While her illness was serious, he had thought of nothing but how to save her, but now that a chance of recovery offered a respite from his arduous attendance by the sick bed, he had time to turn his thoughts toward the Horriston tragedy. He wondered that he had not heard from Paynton relative to the interview with Claude, and, fearful lest some untoward event had occurred to upset his plans, he wrote to Rose Cottage asking for information. To-day he had received a reply, and on reading it saw his worst fears realized.

"I know you now [wrote Captain Larcher briefly]. I have seen Claude; I have seen Mona. Henceforth I look upon you as an enemy, and I intend to take immediate steps to clear my name at your expense."

There was no signature, but Hilliston was too well acquainted with his friend's writing to have any doubt as to the genuineness of the letter. The blow had fallen; Mona had betrayed him, and he sat there helpless, with the letter in his hand, a spectacle of baffled scheming, of unmasked villany.

"To clear his name at my expense," muttered Hilliston to himself. "What does he mean by that? He cannot have discovered – but no, that is impossible. When they find out who picked up that dagger at the ball, they may learn the truth, but not till then. I defy them all. Larcher will remain Paynton till the end of his life. Mona! Ah, I shall punish her when I return to town for her cruel treachery."

While he was thus thinking, a nurse entered the room to intimate that Mrs. Hilliston would like to see him. The lawyer obeyed the summons at once, placed Larcher's letter in his pocket, smoothed his brow, and entered the sickroom. Signing to the nurse to go away, Mrs. Hilliston waited till she was alone with her husband.

"Francis," she said in a low voice, stretching out her hand, "I wish to speak to you – on that subject."

"I think it would be wise if you refrained from doing so," replied Hilliston, knowing to what she alluded. "We understand one another on that point; you can do no good by bringing it up again. Why should you?"

"For Claude's sake," said Mrs. Hilliston feverishly. "You owe him some reparation."

"I owe him none, Louisa. I have acted like a father to him, and he has turned on me. I helped Larcher to hide himself when it was dangerous for him to become known, and he tells me that I am his enemy."

"Have you heard from him?"

"I received a curt note of three lines intimating that he was about to assert his innocence, and clear his name at my expense."

"Francis," cried Mrs. Hilliston, in a tone of terror, "you are lost! If all is known – "

"All will not be known," replied Hilliston, patting her hand; "only two people know the truth – you and I. We can keep our own counsel."

"But that little man, Tait, is at Horriston."

"What of that?"

"He will see Belinda Pike there. You know how she hated me because I loved you. She wanted to marry you herself. If he meets Miss Pike she will speak against me."

"What of that?" said Hilliston soothingly. "You forget, my dear, that your life is different now. No one can find Louisa Sinclair in Louisa Hilliston. When you went to America you vanished and returned as Mrs. Derrick, the rich widow. Belinda Pike can never learn that. My dear, you distress yourself suddenly. We are perfectly safe."

"But the garnet scarfpin," questioned Mrs. Hilliston feverishly.

"I am secure on that point. Larcher knew that I was in the garden on that night, and may have thought I dropped it. He will not dare to accuse me of the crime. If he did," continued Hilliston, his brow growing black, "I could turn the tables on him in a manner he little expects. There is more evidence against him than against me."

"But if they learn that I was with you on that night?"

"They will never learn. No one saw you there. If they did, what does it matter? Louisa Sinclair is dead. You need have no fear of being recognized. I'll answer for that."

"It does not matter to me if I am known or not," said Mrs. Hilliston gloomily; "I have done with life."

"My dear, the doctor says you will recover."

"I shall not recover," said the sick woman, with emphasis. "Oh, do not deceive yourself, Francis! I shall never rise from this sick bed to be an object of horror and pity to you."

"My dear – "

"You never loved me. You only married me out of pity. At Horriston you refused to make me your wife, and it was only when I returned from America a rich woman that you did so. Pity," she said, with a scornful laugh, "no, not pity, but necessity. You would have been ruined but for my money."

"I admit it, Louisa, and I am deeply grateful to you for the way in which you have helped me. I can never repay you for saving my name and credit."

"You can, Francis. Get me my dressing case."

"Louisa, you cannot – "

"I insist upon being obeyed," she said imperiously. "Get me my dressing case."

With great reluctance he brought it from a distant table and placed it on a chair by the bedside. In obedience to her directions he opened it, and took therefrom a sealed envelope.

"In there," she said, as he held it in his hand, "is an account of all I saw on that fatal night. You must send that letter to Captain Larcher when I am dead."

"Louisa, do you wish to ruin me?"

"I wish to save you, Francis. Do not deceive yourself into a belief that the investigation is at an end. Claude may cease to meddle with the matter, for he is in love with Jenny, and will probably marry her, for by this time, according to you, he knows who she is. But I am afraid of Spenser Tait. He will hunt you down; he will urge Larcher to find out the truth. If it comes to that, send them my account of the matter."

"It will ruin me," he said again.

"It will save you," she repeated. "Do not be foolish, Francis. You can read it before sending it away."

"But you?"

"I shall be dead. I feel sure I shall not live. Promise me that if the worst comes you will send that letter."

"I promise," he said, sorely against his will, "but it will not be sent: you will live."

"I don't think so, Francis. I know better than the doctor. Now kiss me, my husband, and leave me to myself."

He did so in silence, and took up the dressing-case, whereupon she stopped him. "Let it be," she said quietly: "some of your letters are in it, and I wish to read them. Kiss me again."

Again he kissed her, and reluctantly left the room. So quiet and self contained was she that he had no inkling of her intention. Had he guessed her fatal resolve, little as was the love he bore her, he would surely have striven to turn her from her purpose. But he guessed nothing, and left her alone, with the devil tempting her.

Good-by, my husband!" she murmured, as the door closed, and then burst into tears. He had gone, she would never see him again, and she moaned over her lost beauty which failed to retain him by her side. He was coldly polite; he was affectionate out of pity, but he had no love for her, and she hungered for the want of it. Her life passed before her, episode after episode, till it stopped short at the spectacle of a closed door, and herself lying alone and deserted in that sickroom.

She wept and prayed, and then, with a firm hand, took out of her dressing case a small vial filled with a dark brown liquid. Twice she put it to her lips, and twice she hesitated; the third time she accomplished her purpose. The thought of her lost beauty, of her husband's neglect, of her childless home and wretched future, all these nerved her, and she drank off the contents, then quickly replaced the bottle in the dressing case.

When the nurse came in to see her patient, Mrs. Hilliston was lying back with a quiet smile on her pale lips. She had found peace at last.