Chapter the 1st

To the modern city dweller, eyes and ears accustomed to the everyday clangour of gas-lights and railway-stations, advertising-hoardings and omnibuses, there are few sights more pleasant than the English country house. The house with which we are concerned, a modest, airy, modern gentleman's residence set amongst rustic scenery and soft hills, was just such a one. Its honey-coloured stone, blushing gently in the slanting rays of the sinking sun, which glances its ruddy light from the casemented windows, conveys the very image of peace and prosperity.

The house is surrounded by a pretty sort of garden-ground, which though not extensive, is laid out with a pretty rusticity. The abundance of all the sweetest and simplest cottage flowers which lend charm to an English country garden, the taste with which they are arranged, seems to proclaim that the garden's planning was the work of at least one of the two young ladies we now see strolling on the wide gravel walk beside the house, their arms entwined around one another's waists.

Some seventeen years previously, the widower William Trent, a prosperous merchant, now retired from business, had loved and married a penniless widow, Mrs Evelyn Wade, This lady's two-year old daughter Adeline had become sister and companion to Mr Trent's 6-year-old olive branch, Lydia.

Adeline and Lydia were now fine-grown young women, but there still remained between them the same sisterly feeling - the elder to comfort and advise, the younger to lean and confide - as there had been when little Lydia had shared her sweets and playthings, and kissed bruised knees when her Adele's toddling steps went astray, and when little Adeline had picked flowers and nestled up to 'my Widdy, for a 'tory, and a tiss'. Let us meet them now, as they round the corner of the house.

If we notice Miss Adeline first, we shall be no different to ninety-nine of a hundred other persons. Though none of her features was, in and of itself, worthy of exceptional comment, there was something in their symmetry and arrangement which seemed to tap into some primal aesthetic sense, the same which finds beauty in a landscape or a flower. It was of a flower that Lydia most reminded one, with a clear, almost transparent complexion, of the same creamy white and blush pink as the old-fashioned roses she loved. Her eyes were large, fringed with thick black lashes which drooped captivatingly upon her blush-rose cheek, the eyes themselves being of a peculiar hazel hue, which seemed to change colour with her mood, from dazzling green to cat-like yellow, to limpid and fascinating brown. Her hair was as changeable as her eyes and her cheeks, the chestnut locks which curled softly from low on her brow, and seemed always on the verge of escaping those feminine confinements, in the form of pin and comb, with which she daily tried to tame her tresses, glinted with golden lights by day, rich auburn by candlelight.

Now, at nineteen years of age, Adeline's figure was fully developed to a blooming womanliness, but was yet slender and girlishly graceful as she clung to her sister-in-law like a climbing rose.

Lydia, at twenty-three the elder of the two, was less arresting, though far from utterly unlovely. Her brownish complexion and mass of dead-gold hair (of a shade called sandy by the uncharitable) were relieved by a pair of sparkling grey eyes, expressive of much intelligence and good humour (except when she was angry, which was not often, when they hardened to chips of slate), and a wide, mobile mouth which, while unremarkable in repose, was as expressive as her eyes, and just now was rendered lovely by the tenderest of smiles as she bent her head lovingly over her sister's.

Lydia's stature was greater than Adeline's, her figure less formed and less graceful, but there was nevertheless an elasticity in her step, a spring in her movements, and a firmness in the set of her shoulders which suggested energy, spirit and resolution.

Forgive me if I have lingered too long on the image of these two girls, the younger leaning on the elder, the fading sun dyeing their simple white summer gowns the shades of a peace-rose. I saw them so once, and it is a sweet and tender picture that will remain forever in my memory.

On this particular soft June evening, the girls were taking a stroll before retiring to dress for dinner, to examine the progress of sundry tender seedlings that Adeline had recently had planted out, and to talk over the day's small events (oh, whenever are they large events, that young ladies - cabin'd, cribbed, confined – can ever find to talk about?).

“How kind it was of Alfred to bring me the new song from London,” murmured Adeline, then in a tone of more enthusiasm, “I shall learn it directly – he was obliging enough to express a wish to hear me play it.”

“Yes, Mr Denham is obliging indeed.” dryly observed Lydia, with a hint of amusement.

“Oh Lyddy, you are always so cold, with your 'Mr Denham this' and 'Mr Denham that'. Anyone would think you held dear Alfred in aversion!”

“I should be monstrous indeed to dislike one who is so pleasant to all, and so very kind to my dearest Adele – but still you are a grown woman now and there are proprieties to be thought of.”

“But to call him Mr Denham now, when he has been Alfred since I was 6 years old, and you went to school, and he took pity on me and made me a whistle and took me birds-nesting, after he found me crying for very loneliness in the lane one day, and he has been my friend ever since – why, how heartless he would think me, he would wonder what on Earth he had done to offend me!” exclaimed Adeline, spirited in the defence of her childish champion.

“When you left school last year was the time that the change in your relations should have taken place – however I accept it is probably now too late to change the habit now. I only beg that you try to curb yourself of speaking of him as 'Dear Alfred', which you know you are sadly wont to do. I do not wish to be stuffy, but it does sound very particular, almost as if he was your accepted lover.”

Though this matronly speech was made in a good-humoured tone, Adeline started imperceptibly, and was silent, as if a new and surprising thought had just arisen in her head, and she remained thoughtful until the girls went inside to dress for dinner.

Chapter the 2nd

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, and the girls retired to dream of... who knows. Whatever wild fancies whispered themselves in the fair sleepers' ears that night did not, however, disturb their rest, and they met at breakfast the next morning composed and refreshed.

After this meal, Adeline decamped to the instrument, to make what headway she could against the vagaries of the fashionable song, while Lydia busied herself writing letters for her father, before taking up a piece of knitting to sit with her stepmother.

Mr Trent was a fine and hearty gentleman of two and fifty summers. The one great sorrow of his life was the loss of his first wife shortly after Lydia was born, and the great consolation of his life was his two daughters – for Adeline also filled a daughter's place in his heart. He was a kind and indulgent father, who genuinely enjoyed the company of his girls. He was never too weary or too bowed down with care to talk to them, listen to their little concerns, share their joys and sorrows, advise, inform and guide them. And truth be told, amongst the treasures hid deep in the recesses of his desk, sharing a lavender-and-rose-leaf fragranced drawer with the precious packet of letters and lock of hair from his beloved Sylvia, lay a somewhat larger packet of letters, all more or less blotted and misspelled, in the large round hand of a couple of unruly schoolgirls. These letters had been his solace and refuge when weighed down with business cares - for prosperity had come and gone and come again for old William Trent, and he had supped at their contents as other men sup brandy-and-water – and he could no more bear to part with them now than he could bear to part with the writers. If he had been disappointed in his second wife, if she was not the all-in-all to him he had found in Lydia's mother, then he at least had the tact and gentlemanly feeling not to show the world, or his daughters, his disillusionment. Though loving words and tender gestures had long since been laid aside, he showed the second Mrs Trent every consideration. Though he could not love or respect her, he could still treat her with the gentle courtesy he felt was due to his wife. No harsh word was spoken, no request refused, no expressed wish unfulfilled if it was in his power.

What of Evelyn Trent? Perhaps the greatest cause of the fading of her husband's love was not a lack of affection for himself after their marriage – that he had hoped for but never expected in a second attachment. It was rather the lack of tenderness she displayed toward his beloved Lydia. To give the lady her due, she did not play favourites, nor attempt to advance her own daughter's claims at the expense of her stepdaughter's – she showed the same want of motherly regard to both girls. Although in their early years William had devoted what time he could spare to their education, Evelyn had argued strongly for their being sent to school, and though to be parted from his two bright comforters gave him many a pang, to Hastings House, a smart gynaeceum on the outskirts of London, some fifty miles distant, they went. Mr Trent would visit them often when he was in town, wining a reputation as a 'perfect love of a papa' amongst the Hastings House girls by the judicious distribution of ices and drives in the park. During vacation times, Mrs Trent on the other hand had been all in favour of them accepting this or that invitation, or else visiting friends herself. Now they had both returned, she seemed to regard them in the same light, somewhat, as one would regard a paid companion. It was necessary to have them around, to dress and feed and guard them. It was not necessary to love them.

Mrs Trent and Lydia sat together now in the morning-room, Lydia ensconced in the window-seat, knitting industriously at a scarlet worsted comforter destined for the throat of one of the poor children of the village, Mrs Trent picking at an endless piece of fancy embroidery, and complaining of the poor light – though she habitually seated herself in the shadiest corner, conscious of the signs of age advancing across her visage despite cold veal and patent wrinkle removers. That is not to say that Evelyn Trent was not a handsome woman – at six-and-forty she still had a fine, imposing figure and a mass of dark auburn hair. Her complexion, though showing a trace of the crow's-foot about the eyes, was still relatively smooth and unblemished. Her eyes were of a steely blue which could either freeze or melt the object of her gaze, depending on which effect she wished to accomplish. She affected a simple style of dress, choosing to display her wealth and taste in the choice of luxurious fabrics and modish cut rather than abundance of trimming and gaudy baubles. By candle-light, she could have passed easily for eight-and-thirty.

The complexity of her embroidery was in truth more an excuse to retire into her own private thoughts than a way to occupy herself. By affecting to be deep in the mysteries of counting stitches or matching colours, she could avoid being obliged to make conversation. On this occasion, however, she felt disposed to talk, or at least to vent the ill-humour she seemed afflicted with this morning. At breakfast time, amongst the various letters and invitations the servant had laid on her plate, was one in a hand that was familiar to her, but which she had not seen in many a long year. She had turned a little pale as she noticed the direction, but had put it casually in her pocket with the rest to read in private after breakfast. The letter's contents had troubled her greatly, and now she sought to dispel some of her anxiety.

“Dear me, Lydia, what a ridiculous choice of colour for poor-box work. Scarlet, indeed! Why, before long you'll be tricking the pauper brats out in muslin and spangles. And I do wish you would find a more genteel occupation than knitting – poking away like an old farmer's wife. I'm sure it isn't quite ladylike.”

“Why, it was my particular friend at Hastings House, Lady Sarah Clarendon, who taught me how, Mama.” returned Lydia mildly, for she had had long practice in the soft answer that turneth away wrath. “And scarlet does have the advantage of being such a warming colour.”

Before Evelyn could think of a suitable reply to this, a smart double rap was heard at the door.

“I expect that will be that infernal puppy of a Denham boy yet again. Really, it is quite provoking the way he hangs about this house. I beg that if you do plan to receive him you will take him into the garden or the parlour – I have a sad headache this morning and cannot bear company, least of all his.”

Lydia merely bowed her head in acknowledgement, and a moment later the maid appeared, close followed by Mr Alfred Denham himself, bringing a breath of the fine summer morning with him.

“Good morning ladies, begging your pardon for the intrusion, Mrs Trent, your devoted servant, Miss Trent. I came to see if anyone would care to join me in a drive up to the Abbey – it's such a glorious day for a drive.”

“I must beg to be excused, young man,” was Evelyn's acerbic reply, “but I'm sure both the girls would be most happy to join you.”

“Thank you Mama” returned Lydia. “Yes, Mr Denham, a drive on this fine morning sounds lovely. I'll just fetch my bonnet – and Adeline of course. Is there nothing I can fetch you for your headache, Mama?”

“Nothing at all – rest and quiet is all I need” - with an emphasis on the second of those requirements and a pointed glare at Alfred.

At that, Lydia politely took her leave of her stepmother and went in search of Adeline. Alfred was to wait for them in the carriage, where, as it was an open carriage, he took the liberty of lighting a cigar, reasoning that young ladies who say they are just going to fetch their bonnets have a tendency to take an unreasonably long time in this simple operation, so he may as well be comfortable while he waited. He was surprised, then, by the reappearance of Lydia, close followed by Adeline, in something less than five minutes. Lydia had in fact found her sister just emerging from her bedroom, already dressed for walking.

“I heard the door, and surmised it would be Alfred asking us out on such a lovely day” she explained, with an uncharacteristic air of shyness.

Indeed, Adeline's whole bearing was subtly different that day, as Alfred soon discovered. She talked with less vivacity and more restraint than usual, yet often he would turn to find her looking at him with an unfathomable expression in her eyes. When surprised in these scrutinies, she would blush charmingly and turn away with a stilted remark on some feature of the landscape. Not being a vain man, however, Alfred put this change down to a bad dinner or a sleepless night on Adeline's part.

Chapter the 3rd

The Abbey - more properly Tenwood Abbey – was a picturesque ruin some six or seven miles from Allenham. Little remained of the ancient fabric of the monastery, it having been heavily looted for stone in the years succeeding the Dissolution, but a couple of walls still stood, their niches and window-ledges now home to birds rather than saints, and some fragments of the crumbling foundations could yet be traced. Moreover, the peaceful solitude of the Abbey's situation, and the charm of the road leading to it, winding through a pleasant green valley as yet unspoiled by rushing railway or noisome factory, made it a natural destination for the young people's summer drives.

The conversation in the carriage was carried on chiefly between Lydia and Alfred, although when the talk touched on books, poetry, or music, subjects that were close to the sensitive, beauty-loving girl's heart, Adeline was moved to make an occasional, and unusually shy, contribution.

Seeing Adeline's discomfiture, Lydia became concerned, and took advantage of a pause in the conversation, whilst Alfred was distracted by the undertaking of the manoeuvres necessary to pass a bulky farm-cart, to make low-voiced enquiries about Adeline's health. Was anything amiss? Was she in any way indisposed? Ought they to turn back?

“Oh! No – how could I possibly feel indisposed on such a heavenly day? Pray put your mind at rest, Lyddy dear, I am quite well.” Then she continued in a different, musing tone of voice, “Only – your remarks yesterday afternoon did set me thinking so.”

It was, in truth, a lovely day. Though it was late in June, the sun was warm without being oppressive, and a fresh breeze brought the soft scents of grass and flowers. Bees drowsed among the hedgerows, and cattle cropped lazily in verdant fields which resembled green skies spangled with innumerable white and yellow stars. High above, a skylark dropped in and out of sight, though it's song betrayed it's presence even when the height of it's ascent had made it invisible against the clear blue expanse.

“You ought not take my prosing so much to heart.” smiled Lydia, surmising that today's change in manner was a result of yesterday's warning against undue familiarity with the young man – and that Adeline was trying to prove a point by coldness to him who had been numbered amongst her dearest friends for so long.

The refractory farm-cart was passed, the Abbey reached, and Alfred jumped out of the carriage with the intention of handing out the girls, but independent Lydia sprang down without waiting for his assistance. Adeline hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his and descending with a maidenly blush and murmured thanks. Few men could be proof against such a manner, and Alfred unconsciously held on to that fair hand for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, causing yet a deeper blush and a moment's confusion on the part of the damsel.

Lydia came to the unwitting rescue by suggesting they walk to the furthest part of the walls. On previous sorties to the Abbey, the little party had amused themselves by attempting to trace out the ancient foundations as far as they could, and settling amongst themselves how the abbots, long since crumbled to dust, had lived there. She now proposed they continue their researches, but Alfred instead advanced the notion they refresh themselves with a light luncheon.

“Why, to tell the truth, driving in this delightful weather does make one a little hungry,” exclaimed Lydia, “but how on Earth do you propose to obtain supplies out here in the wilderness? I spy a farm over yonder, but it is a stiffish walk across the fields, unless you propose to go round two miles by road.”

“My dear Miss Trent,” returned Alfred with an air of mock pomposity, “how typically feminine of you to assume that a gentleman, a mere male of the species, could not possibly have thought of and prepared for just such a contingency beforehand. Miss Trent, Miss Wade, behold!” and sweeping a low, flourishing bow he produced a neat basket from the carriage. Within a very few moments he had, by the means of carriage rugs, prepared pleasant seats for the party on the remains of a low, broad stone wall, shaded by an immense oak which must have been a seedling long before the Abbey's first stones were laid, and set out a delicate luncheon of cold chicken, cake and fruit.

“How kind you are, Alf... Mr Denham.” said Adeline with one of her most captivating shy smiles.

“It is my pleasure,” Alfred replied, “but I do not believe any man living was ever christened by such an oddity of a name as Alfmister.”

At this, Adeline lapsed once more into that unwonted confusion, which Lydia swiftly covered by pressing her to try a peach, and asking Alfred to kindly fetch her fan, which she believed had left behind in the carriage.

The three ate with the relish of the young, and then Lydia renewed her scheme of investigating the foundations of the old building. Adeline gently demurred – she would much rather sit here quietly and enjoy the sunshine, she had provided herself with a book for this very purpose, she did not believe they would ever settle the question to their mutual satisfaction, and of all things a mystery, particularly an insoluble mystery, was something to which she was indifferent. At this, Alfred spoke warmly in defence of mysteries -

“for where would mankind be if, say, had not Sir Isaac solved the mysteries of motion, Harvey the mysteries of the circulation of the blood, or Stevenson and Trevithick the mysteries of steam locomotion?”

“And even should a mystery prove insoluble,” added Lydia, “then one may still be the gainer by the exercise of one's faculties of reasoning and deduction.”

Being unable to advance any argument that could sway these two true believers, she begged that they would feel free to dig and delve away, as she was perfectly happy here with her book.

Alfred and Lydia spent a happy two hours poking amongst the ruins, enjoying a lively debate about the significance of the square building whose foundations they believed they had traced. Lydia was convinced of it's having once been the chapter house, whilst Alfred stood out equally strongly for it's having been one of the offices – in all likelihood, he declared, the brewery. The dispute was backed up by authorities from the pair's miscellaneous reading, but even as they became conscious of the lateness of the afternoon they still could not agree on the long-fallen building's original use, whether sacred or profane. At the end of all they shook hands and agreed to differ,

“For, it may just as well have been a stable.” remarked Lydia good-humouredly.

Adeline, in the meantime, had been ostensibly occupied with her novel, but in truth the open volume on her lap had today failed to engage her attention. What did it matter to her if Lucilla Finch regained her sight, while Adeline Wade was gaining a deeper insight into her own heart? And so she drowsed the afternoon away, lost in her own thoughts, and her eyes frequently wandering from the page to the two figures over yonder. It must have been coincidence, surely, that the upright, manly figure of Alfred should so often fall within her line of sight.

Alfred was, if no Adonis, well worth looking at. At twenty-five, he still retained some of the air of a schoolboy. He was a little over the average height, and somewhat slightly built – in the days when Adeline had first made his acquaintance he might even have been accused of lankiness. However, he had outgrown the hobbledehoy phase, and his enthusiasm for the more athletic side of University life had filled out his form, which was now manly and well-proportioned. An open, pleasant countenance, intelligent eyes, a schoolboy smile and a good deal of light brown hair completed the picture. In character he was a similar mixture of manly virtues and old-fashioned courtesy, and boyish mischief. He was intelligent, though somewhat inclined to self-gratulation – he had not spent all his time at Oxford rowing and boxing, and had in fact graduated creditably, though not at the head of his class. He had inherited a modest fortune from his mother, which rendered him, though not positively wealthy, to afford all the necessities, and some few of the elegancies, of life. He had some thought of studying the law, or of taking to the pen, but for now his income was ample to the wants of a single gentleman, and so the day when he would 'make something of himself' was - always and always – tomorrow.

Though Lydia and Alfred could not be brought into agreement on the subject of the ruins, they were unanimous in their surprise at the lateness of the hour, and the necessity of departing at once if they were to be home in time for tea.

“For you know how much Mama dislikes waiting.” observed Lydia.

Accordingly, they packed their lunch-things and themselves into the carriage and set off post-haste.

The drive home was even less eventful than the drive out – Adeline remained somewhat silent and absorbed, Lydia and Alfred discussed the Abbey in particular, and ruins in general, and then ancient architecture in all its forms. No slower vehicle impeded their progress now, and before they knew it Alfred was springing from the carriage to open the gate of the house at Allenham.

Just at that moment, Adeline's attention was drawn by a strange man of about 50, rough in appearance and manner, deeply tanned and dressed in workman's clothes.

“Excuse me Miss,” inquired the stranger, in gruff tones, “but would I be speaking to Miss Wade and Mrs Parrish?”

“Why, I am Miss Wade!” involuntarily exclaimed Adeline, “But I know nobody of the name of Parrish.”

Lydia cried out and Alfred turned to see the uncouth man seize Adeline's wrist and half-drag her from the carriage. He sprang forward as the man clasped the resisting girl in a feverish embrace, whispering hoarsely

“Adeline, my little Addy, I'm so sorry. See, I found you at last!”

With a cry of horror, Alfred tore the man's hands from Adeline's now drooping form.

“Get away from her, you brute!” he cried, “What have you to do with Miss Wade? Go, or it shall be the worse for you!” and he raised his carriage whip threateningly. The man sprang away with unexpected agility, and Alfred made to follow him, but was arrested by a gasp from Lydia.

“Oh, Mr Denham, Adeline! Let us get her inside quickly.”

He turned to see Lydia struggling to support Adeline's inert body, as the younger girl swooned in the roadway.

Chapter the 4th

The bustle and confusion that followed Alfred's carrying the swooning girl into the house may be imagined. Every servant in the house was Adeline's staunch ally, her sweetness of manner, her kindness and consideration for all, winning love from all right down to the little scullery maid, whose burned fingers had been dressed many a time by the gentle young mistress. All pressed forward, eager with this or that remedy, all concern and distress. Lydia and the housekeeper agreed, that Adeline ought to be put to bed immediately, for she had sustained a severe shock.

Once Adeline had been comfortably settled, Lydia felt it her duty to tell Mrs Trent all that had occurred.

“Yes,” said Adeline, who was now conscious but weak, “you had better tell Mama And... is Alfred still here? Please give him my grateful thanks. I will never forget how bravely he rushed to my aid.”

Lydia engaged to pass on this message, and descended to the entrance-hall, where Alfred was pacing back and forth.

“She has regained consciousness, and, though somewhat shaken, I am sure she will be better after a little rest. She begged me to thank you for your help – as do I thank you.”

“What else could I do? I swear if that brute has harmed a hair of her head he shall be hunted down!”

“Pray calm yourself, Alfred.” - in her depth of feeling, unconsciously using the christian name that she had forbidden to her sister - “Adeline will be quite well, rest and quiet for a day or two will effect a full cure, I am sure of it. And now I must go and tell Mama what has happened, so I will bid you goodbye.”

And shaking Alfred's hand with a warm, grateful pressure, she passed on.

Mrs Trent took the news of her only daughter's sudden indisposition with admirable calmness, at least until Lydia narrated the distressing encounter with the stranger at the gate. At this she turned quite white, causing Lydia to give her credit for far more motherly feeling than she actually possessed, and became full of questions.

“A strange man? Who? What kind of man? Describe him to me.” Evelyn demanded.

“Well, it happened so quickly I cannot be absolutely sure of details, but I know he had dark brown hair with streaks of grey, he wore a beard and was very tanned, as if he had been at sea or used to outdoor life in some hot climate. His dress was not that of a sailor though – more like a working man, and very worn and dirty. Let me see – he was maybe a little shorter than Mr Denham, but heavier set. I would not like to hazard a guess as to his age – he looked to be fifty or more, but if he had indeed been used to much exposure to the sun he may be younger. He seemed absolutely wild – there was something of the hungry animal in the way he spoke, and, of course, in his actions. Oh, and he spoke with an accent that was not quite English.”

“An accent? What kind of accent? Could it have been an Australian accent?”

“Why, yes, that may have been it – but what makes you think of such a thing?”

“I don't exactly know – something in your description brought to mind the image of a returned convict. This is very worrying. I shall pass on your excellent description to the constable. And of course, I trust that neither you nor Adeline shall set foot outside the grounds without an escort until we are quite certain this ruffian has been apprehended or has quite left the neighbourhood. Now, if you will excuse me, this worry has brought on the return of my headache. And, of course, I must write a note to the constable.”

Lydia bowed and returned to watch by the couch of her sister, who was now sleeping, having been coaxed to drink some chamomile tea.

What of Alfred, while Lydia was undergoing this explanation? His blood was up and his mind racing as he walked back to the modest residence he shared with his father, for in the stir he had quite forgotten about his carriage, and by the time he bethought himself, the horse, tired with his twelve-mile jaunt, had very sensibly taken himself off in the direction of his own comfortable stable. He cast his eyes about him as he walked, eager to catch a glimpse of the ruffianly blackguard who had dared lay a hand on his Adeline, though to what end, for explanation or revenge, he knew not. And yes, he now thought of her as his Adeline – as if that one moment of horror and distress, superadded to her manner toward him in the earlier part of the day, had awakened all his chivalrous instincts, and bound him to his liege-lady for ever. How could he ever forget the surge of anger in his breast at the sight of that tender creature roughly used, or the pity and indignation he had felt when he looked down on that pathetic white face as he bore her in his arms? It seems natural that the distressed one should feel grateful affection toward her deliverer, but is it not full as natural – if not more so – that the rescuer should be inspired thereafter with a feeling of tender responsibility toward the creature he has saved? Affection he had always felt for the girl, but until today he had felt only the warm interest of an elder brother. The events of today were in a fair way to fan the glowing coals of that affection into the bright flames of a lover's passion.

The next morning, Alfred betook himself early to the Trent's house, appearing on the doorstep at an hour when the household would have usually barely finished breakfast. Today, however, he found all in alarm and confusion.

“Lydia, for God's sake tell me, what is the matter? Is it Adeline? Is she worse? Has the doctor been sent for?” were the first words out of Alfred's mouth when Lydia was able to step downstairs to receive him, after a very uncomfortable interval, which in reality was no more than ten minutes, but in Alfred's worried state seemed like an hour. Lydia's face was troubled and pale, and, in the first accession of his passion, his first and only thought was for his beloved.

“No, thank goodness, Adeline is quite well, though we have been forced to keep the news from her. It is - “ and here Lydia's voice shook a little with suppressed emotion - “It is my father. Though he has hidden it from us for fear of causing undue concern, of late it seems he has been subject to spells of dizziness and languor, and this morning he has found himself too weak to rise from his bed. Oh dear, he is very ill, and all my courage seems to desert me.” And with this the brave bright woman, usually so calm and level-headed, burst into a storm of passionate sobs. The shower was a brief one, however, and before Alfred could make the slightest move to comfort her she had regained her composure.

“Forgive me,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a clean handkerchief, “the doctor is expected very soon and I must see him. It will not do for me to break down in front of Papa or Adeline – she must not be worried just now, and Papa would be so grieved to see me upset. Would you do me the great kindness of keeping Lydia occupied while the doctor is expected? I do not wish her to know he has been here. It would be a very great service if you could contrive to distract her somehow.”

And so Alfred was thus requested to do the one thing he most desired, and this was to be his very great service!

“I do hope the doctor is able to give you encouraging news.” he said, with genuine compassion in his tones.

“Thank-you, and again thank-you for your kindness to us. Now, I must go and bathe my face before anyone sees me. Lydia is in the drawing room, practising.”

Alfred bid her a kind farewell and went in search of his old friend and new lady-love.

Chapter the 5th

Sadly, the doctor from Allenham was unable to give any encouraging news, and nor was the London physician later called in to be his coadjutor. Though neither could find any distinct traces of organic disease, it was obvious that William Trent was fading daily. At first he could sit up in bed, to read and talk as brightly as ever, though he was easily tired. In the early days of his illness there were days when he would feel better entirely, and defy his doctors by insisting on getting dressed, when he would return to his usual pursuits – for a few hours, at least, until a fresh dizzy spell sent him back to bed. As the weary weeks wore on, however, he slowly lost more and more ground. First the intervals in which he could sit up grew shorter, and he required more rest. Then he could no longer read – his eyes grew blurred if he tried to focus on print, then he could no longer sit up in bed. His once-hale form began to become weak and wasted, his appetite dwindled, his mind began to wander at times. A hired nurse was brought in to aid Lydia – for Adeline could not and Evelyn would not perform the work – Evelyn pleaded ill-health herself, and Adeline was too delicate for much watching and anxiety. She had begged to be allowed to help care for her dear Papa, but Lydia felt that such a task would destroy her health entirely. Therefore, Adeline was only allowed to come in once a day to read to the old gentleman, talk to him and comfort him. She only saw him in his best light, and he was visibly cheered by her presence, and so for a considerable time she remained in ignorance of the true state of the case, but there came a sad day when nothing could hide the stamp of death in his face from her loving eyes. Her grief was too deep for tears. she only clung silently to her sister as Lydia softly admitted the truth.

Remedy after remedy was tried without success, test after test was applied to try and ascertain the cause of his sickness, but without avail. William Trent was dying.

During this time Alfred came every day to beguile Adeline's lonely hours, for, excepting that one sad sweet daily pilgrimage to the sickroom, she was either solitary, or left to the uncongenial society of her mother. Bitter-sweet were these hours to Adeline – bitter because of the great sadness that hung over her, sweet because they were spent in the company of the old friend she had long admired and was now swiftly coming to love. At first Alfred tried to soothe and interest her with books and music, but she could play nothing now except the sweet old songs her father loved, and could read nothing now except what she read to him. Instead, she talked of happier days with her dear Papa, the only father she had ever known. Alfred took her out walking or driving every day, and attempted in vain to convince Lydia to join these excursions, lest she sacrifice her own health by constant attendance on the sick man. Adeline did derive some solace in these outings, in the shape of every cottager or villager they passed, who, with concerned face and anxious voice, paused to enquire after the health of the invalid. The desolate girl was in some wise comforted by the daily reminders of how much her step-father was respected and loved in the neighbourhood.

Indeed, everyone was very kind, sending not only polite inquiries, but all manner of miscellaneous items to relieve the poor sufferer – from old Mrs Hopwood's gift of a lavender-pillow, 'in 'opes as it would 'elp the gentilman to sleep more natural, like', to fruit and other delicacies, more or less refined, depending on the donor, to try and tempt the failing appetite, and the Rector's bottles of very fine old port, the reverend gentleman having heard that the doctor recommended a glass of that superior wine daily, and his having picked up a few bottles, the remnants of a bankrupt Earl's cellar, at a considerable bargain the previous summer. This last, however, Evelyn declined to accept. They had a goodly supply of a particularly fine vintage, which was reserved entirely for Mr Trent's own use. The key of the bin, which was allowed to pass into no other hand, and from whence she poured her husband's daily dose with her own hand, was held by Evelyn herself, much to the discomfiture of the butler, who held that women had no business in a wine cellar. This was perhaps the only service the selfish and worldly woman performed for her ailing husband.

And so the weary days and weeks rolled on, until weeks turned to months, and the summer, which seemed to have ended in June for the younger members of the household at Allenham, slipped inexorably into autumn. Mr Trent's tenure on Earth was slowly becoming fainter and fainter. There was a worrying time in September when he became quite wild and frenzied, and though he was too weak to rise, he would exhaust himself by his restless and desperate movements – on some occasions it had taken all the strength of both Lydia and the hired nurse to prevent him hurling himself out of bed entirely. During these frenzies he would shriek and moan incoherently, showing no recognition of Lydia, the dear daughter he loved so well. Lydia began to think they may have to have him committed, and at this she thought her heart would well-nigh break.

But now the fits and frenzies had abated, and the poor old gentleman slept for a great deal of the time, if sleep it was, and not just another species of fit. Lydia had by this time established a routine, whereby she would watch in the sickroom until the clock struck three, to allow the nurse, who had the hard physical parts of nursing to do, to get some rest. At three of the clock, she would retire to snatch a few hours sleep, then rise at eight to prepare the invalid's breakfast – though more often than not it would remain uneaten. Then she would relieve the nurse for an hour or two, after which time they watched together until dinner time, and the patient's evening dose – after this the nurse would retire for some well-earned rest, though always within call, and the whole dreary round began again.

One night, during this quiet period, Lydia was sitting by the fire in the sickroom, knitting to keep herself awake. It was almost two of the clock, and there was barely a sound except the soft breathing of the patient, and the rather more stentorian exhalations of the nurse, who lay within call on a couch in the next room. There was little to do until her father's next dose, at three, and Lydia began to find herself drifting into a reverie.

Her thoughts were carried forward into the dreary future, and she began to bethink herself of what might become of her. Without her father, all that made home a bright and happy place would perish. To be sure, there was still her sister, but she had begun to see how the land lay between Alfred and Adeline, and she was sure that before very long Adeline would depart to a home of her own. What then? The thought of living in solitude with her stepmother was not to be borne, and though she might be assured of a home with her sister and brother-in-law, playing the gooseberry may soon pall. The idea that she may marry herself had never crossed her mind – simple duties, simple pleasures, were all she had looked to as her happiness in life, she had never yet been disturbed by longings for romantic passion. Good books, good work, and lively and intelligent conversation with a congenial mind, such as she had enjoyed with her father, were her ideal of a happy life. Not for the first time, she wished she had been born a man, or at least a poor woman – for though not an heiress she would yet inherit a couple of thousands which would ensure her a comfortable, if not extravagant, income. She longed to have some work to go to, where she might be of the world and in the world – to be a lawyer, a doctor, a writer, even to go out as a governess or a nurse, to bring her able mind into contact with other intelligent souls. To spend her life mewed up here with her knitting, and her stepmother's bitter complaints and monotonous converse, was a doom the most awful to her, though she would face it cheerfully enough, and none should ever know how she longed to break out.

Lydia was awoken from this dismal train of thought by a slight sound, as of a door closing. Had she not known that it was her stepmother's nightly habit to lock and bar every door and window in the house, before retiring, she would have sworn to it having been the 'snick' of the latch of the garden door.

She had just made sure of the sound that disturbed her having been a loose coal in the fireplace, and taken up her knitting, which had fallen unregarded in her lap, with renewed energy, when she became conscious of a stealthy tread on the stair outside the room, and a faint rustle, like the whispering of a silk dress, in the passageway beyond the closed door.

On a bold impulse, she sprang to the door, candle in hand, and opened it to confront her stepmother, cloaked and carrying a pair of walking shoes which were damp with dew, passing to her bedroom a few doors beyond that of the sick man.

“Why, Mama!” said Lydia in surprise, gently pulling the sickroom door to behind her, lest she disturb the sleepers within, “Whatever is the matter? What keeps you abroad so late?”

“I cannot see,” said Evelyn, with some asperity, “what concern my movements can possibly have for you.”

“None at all, Mama, only you surprised me so. I had been sure you had retired to bed hours ago.”

“If an explanation will give you any satisfaction, then perhaps I should beg to inform you that I found myself stuffy and unable to sleep, so I took a couple of turns on the terrace (for so she designated the broad gravel walk behind the house) in the hopes that a breath of fresh air would refresh and tire me. Finding that it has had the desired effect, I wish you would allow me to retire. And I might remark, young lady, that in my younger days, it was not thought proper for a young person to question the comings and goings of her elders.”

“Of course Mama, I did not mean to be impertinent. I bid you goodnight.”

Evelyn passed into her bedroom, and Lydia went to wake the nurse, it being close upon three o clock, and time for Mr Trent's medicine.

Chapter the 6th

In the distress of Mr Trent's illness, Adeline's alarm had been all but forgotten. The subject was renewed, however, by a report from one of the stable boys that his brother, who was ostler at the Crown, the village's principal – indeed, only – inn, had reported seeing “a foreign-talking gent – not so rough-looking as 'im who was so rough to our dear young leddy”, but, excepting his apparel, answering fairly to Lydia's description, using the coffee-room at the inn, though by all accounts he was not and had not been staying there. It was thought best not to apprise Adeline of this worrying rumour – other concerns had wiped all trace of that one moment of horror from her daily thoughts, but Lydia did bethink herself to warn one of the housemaids, Bessie, who had been absent from the house at the time due to illness in her family.

“Stop a moment, Bessie, I want to talk to you.” said Lydia, the next time she saw the girl about her work.

“Yes, Miss?”

“I merely wished to ask you to keep your eyes open for any stranger hanging about the gates, as Miss Adeline was troubled by a strange man while you were absent. Pray take care when you are out and about, as we have reason to believe he is still in the neighbourhood.”

“A stranger you say, Miss? Well, to be sure, I do believe as I've seen more than one of that sort about here lately, and what's more I seed the Mistress a-talking to 'em.”

“Why Bessie, whatever can you mean? How could you have seen Mrs Trent talking to strangers?”

“Well Miss, it's like this. The fust time was mebbe a month or so back – you recall I have my evening out once a month, and last month I went into the village to 'ave tea with my sister what is lately married. Anyway tea led to dancing, and dancing led to supper, and supper led to talking and telling stories, til before I knew it twas arter one in the morning and there was me expected back afore eleven. Well as soon as I seed what time it was, I bid my friends goodnight and set off walking as fast as my legs could carry me. When I got to the quietish bit of road just beyond the oak at the turning of the lane, I swear I seed the Mistress standing talking to some ill-looking fellow just before the gate, only off to one side a bit. I didn't have time to hang about, so I cut in through the side gate where I was fortunate as Maisy the scullery maid was still awake to let me in – you know she's been waiting up o nights since the Master was took bad, in case he should want anything, though she's half-asleep on her feet most of the time in consequence.”

“I did not know that Maisy waited up – I must make sure the poor girl gets some rest, for her work is hard enough without her keeping awake half the night. But tell me, are you sure you recognised Mrs Trent? And what of the man?”

“Well I didn't see her face, like, as she was cloaked and hooded, but I'd swear to it being the mistress's dark blue cloak, and her very way of standing and walking. As to the man, it were moonlight so I got a fair enough look at him. He were dark-skinned, with a beard, and sort of desperate-looking, if you call to mind what I mean. What the mistress could possibly have to say to the likes of him I don't pretend to understand. They was talking too low for me to hear, but they both seemed agitated, like.”

“If you say you did not see her face, then it is possible you may have been mistaken – however bright the moonlight, it was still night, and things do look very different by night. But stop, you say you have seen my stepmother out more than once?”

“Yes – the other time was a week or two since. I'd been on an errand or two in the village, to fetch a trifle of ribbon or some such for Estelle (Mrs Trent's French ladies-maid) and a few bits and bobs for Cook, and I took a short cut through that bit of copse. To be sure I wouldn't go such a lonely way of a night, but it was broad daylight so I thought it no harm. Anyway, this time I seed her a-walking and talking to a different man. This one was sort of cockney-looking, with a purple neckerchief and a swagger, like those folks at the races or the fair who tries to ape the gentry. He had black hair and a scar on his face – a broken nose too, if I'm any judge, for I have a brother as used to be a boxer, and has just such a nose. Anyway, this time I heard them too. 'Something must be done,' she said, 'You will not fail me?'

“Then he says, 'not if the money's all square – whisht, there's someone coming' – that were me, like, and the pair of them whisks off behind the trees.”

“Are you sure it was my stepmother? Could you not be mistaken?”

“Well again I didn't see her face, her being cloaked as before, and having her back to me all the while, but I seed a corner of her hair as she was walking – there's none other hereabouts as have that dark reddish-like hair, and I'd swear to her voice at the assizes, if I were hung for it, so I would.”

“I do not disbelieve what you thought you saw, Bessie, but I find it hard to reconcile what I know of my stepmother's tastes and habits with the idea of her creeping around talking to strangers. On neither occasion did you see her face, so it is possible you were mistaken. In any event, I am sure you see the importance of not mentioning this to anyone else – whether true or not such a rumour could do much harm to my stepmother's reputation. Remember she is Miss Adeline's mother.”

Bessie was fiercely indignant at the imputation that she might be, in kitchen parlance, a 'tattle tale'.

“Of course Miss – I would not dream of saying a word that could harm the poor young lady, angel as she is. Whatever my feelings for my mistress, I wish I could call down all the blessings of heaven on my poor master and you two young ladies.”

“Thank-you Bessie. Your loyalty is greatly appreciated by us all. You may go about your work now.”

Though Lydia was somewhat troubled and very much mystified by this account, she settled the matter by setting it all down as a case of mistaken identities.

“After all,” she said to herself, “Whatever would take Mama out into the woods, or creeping around in the dead of night, let alone having secret interviews with ruffians? The idea is laughable.”

She briefly bethought herself of the occasion when she had indeed found her stepmother 'creeping around in the dead of night', but quickly dismissed the recollection with a shrug, and went in search of her faithful scullery-maid.

This youthful person, Millicent Stubbs by name, known to all as 'Maisy', was a girl of fourteen years of age, though she looked about twelve, and made one of a family of numerous children, for the provision of whose wants their mother took in washing and sewing, and went charing and nursing at all hours, and a father who, being unable to work due to an unfortunate accident several years ago, could barely provide. As soon as her brothers and sisters were old enough to contribute to the family's inadequate income, off they went to work. Maisy spent not a penny of her small wages on herself, her quarterly stipend going instead to bring comfort to the babes still at home. Lydia found the dutiful girl wearily engaged in scrubbing a floor.

“Leave that for the time being, Maisy dear.” she said gently. “Come and sit down for a moment while I speak to you.” and she pulled forward a chair invitingly.

Maisy gratefully took the chair, and looked expectantly at her young mistress. Lydia was grieved to see the great dark circles around those still-childish eyes, and the weary droop of those small limbs.

“Maisy, I have been greatly troubled to find you have been endangering your health and well-being by sitting up half the night, in hope of being of some service to your master. Dear girl, it is not in the least necessary, for Nurse and I are in constant attendance, and can provide anything needful.

“At your age, a time when you are still growing and laying up health for the future, such habitual exhaustion could do great damage.”

Lydia found the young woman most obstinate upon this point.

“For you see, what if you needed something from the kitchen? you might not be able to lay your hang upon the precise thing, while I know where everything is kept and you wouldn't need to disturb Cook. Or if you needed someone to run for the doctor? If you woke one of the men, it would take him some minutes to get dressed and ready to go, while I can run fast – I won races in the village when I were younger, and I'm already dressed and at hand, as it were, to set off without loss of time. I heard that sometimes a delay of a minute can mean the difference between life and...” here she broke off, with an unwillingness to shape even the very word of what all in that house feared and expected daily, as if to name the thing were to bring it sooner.

Finding herself unable to shake the girl's resolution, she merely kissed her and decreed that in that case she must have two hours in each afternoon, in which to rest and recruit her strength, and excused her from morning service on Sundays, that she might sleep a little longer,

“for you can still go to afternoon service, and health of body is paramount if you are to do God's work here on Earth.”

She also ordered that the kitchen fire was left to burn instead of being banked by Cook when that formidable person retired – Maisy would do that herself, and Lydia or Nurse would check that it had been done correctly when they collected the master's beef tea (this last in answer to Cook's stolid declaration that they'd all be burnt in their beds).

And so the number of watchers was increased to four. Lydia and Nurse, counting the dreary hours in the sickroom by doses of medicine and draughts of port-wine and beef tea, though these days it was as much as the combined efforts of the two could do to coax the sick man to swallow more than a spoonful of either strengthening beverage. Adeline, ostensibly asleep in her bed, in reality softly pacing her room in the darkness, unable to sleep, her face wan and miserable in the moonlight. And Maisy, nodding over some piece of plain sewing by the kitchen fire, but jerking into life and attention at the faintest sound.

If patient watching could have availed anything, if devoted nursing and daily visits from the doctors would have done aught, then William Trent would be a living man. But doctors' remedy after doctors' remedy had failed, and all the baffled physicians could hope for now was to keep the poor sufferer comfortable in his last Earthly days. He slept almost constantly now, but late one night Lydia was disturbed by her father calling her.

“Lydia, Lydia dear! Where are you?” and he groped before him blindly.

“Here I am, Papa.” She sprang to the bed-side and grasped his questing hand.

“Lydia dear, take care of your sister, won't you. And your stepmother too – she has not been the kindest of mothers, I know, but...”

“Yes Papa, I will do everything in my power, if she will let me.”

“You are a good girl, Lydia. God bless you.” Here he lapsed into silence.

He was silent for some minutes, and Lydia began to think he had fallen back to sleep, when he spoke again. He seemed to take her for her mother.

“Sylvia! Sylvia, my darling!” Lydia had begun to withdraw her hand, but he clasped it with fierce energy.

“No, dearest, don't let go, don't let go. I need you to guide me, I can't see you, but I'm coming my love. Don't let go.”

Lydia suffered her hand to remain, but he did not speak again. He never spoke again on Earth. All that long night Lydia sat clasping his hand, as he slipped deeper into sleep, and then from sleep to unconsciousness, and from thence to that bourn from which no traveller returns.

As the sun rose on that winter morning, it's first rays fell on a pathetic scene. On that pillow lay two heads. One was that of an exhausted young woman in dark brown cashmere, her sandy hair fallen from its pins and tumbled about her, her face turned toward the occupant of the bed, fast asleep. The other was the thin and wasted face of a man still in the prime of life, and six short months ago so hearty and full of vitality. Now he too slept, the sleep from which none shall awake until the Last Trump sounds. And on the air floated the sound of gaily pealing church bells – it was Christmas.

Chapter the 7th

How sorrowfully dawned that New Year for Lydia and Adeline. They sat together on the morning of New Years Day, reading the funeral service from the prayer book. Their new black dresses were stiff and uncomfortable, but the greater pain within their hearts caused them to forget mere bodily discomfort. Both were pale and wan from the long months of care, their white faces looked the paler against the ground of black caps and black gowns. Outside the window, the bright, pale January sun glittered off a hard frost, and the doleful tolling of the church bell sounded clearly through the cold, still air.

“Do you think they will be long now?” asked Adeline, speaking of the funeral party, expected back from the church shortly.

“No, perhaps a half-hour more. I do hope we have enough cold meat to give them – I have asked James to tap a barrel of beer for the villagers, and there is sherry for the gentlemen, though I know not if there will be glasses enough. I did not quite realise how much respected Papa was in the village, nor quite how well attended his funeral would be.”

“And so when we should be left in peace with our sorrow, we are expected to work and entertain those who did not love him half so well.” This was a bitter speech indeed from the gentle Adeline.

“Nay, dearest, I am glad of it. I need work and bustle, and to think of others. I do believe that if I were left alone with my thoughts for more than an hour together I should go melancholy mad, dwelling on how bleak the future seems just now. Ah, will we ever see bright days again?”

At this, Adeline coloured slightly, for her own bright days that were to come seemed a little closer than Lydia's.

On that joyless Christmas morn, Alfred had found her, walking alone in the garden. Lydia was busy attending to all the dreadful arrangements necessary at such a time, so Alfred had sought out Adeline in the hope he could comfort her a little.

“Oh Alfred, he is gone. Papa... my Papa...” and in a paroxysm of grief she flung herself on his breast, her slender body wracked by great, dry, convulsive sobs. There was no help for it, and Alfred's strong arms stole around her back, until she was nestled in his protecting embrace. Gradually, Adeline's sobs grew less, until she was still, but she did not move to put him away.

“Adeline,” whispered Alfred tenderly, and she looked up at him. Her changeful eyes looked navy blue and bottomless as the sea at that moment, and in those wide, troubled, wild eyes, Alfred suddenly read the whole secret of her heart. How could he help but kiss that sweet pale face, that leaned on his shoulder, clinging to him as protector and friend? Nothing was said – Adeline withdrew, but gently, with no sign of anger or distress at this liberty. No words were necessary – an unspoken understanding now lay between them, a tie as binding as a royal betrothal-contract.

Adeline was awakened from this bitter-sweet recollection by a bustle in the entrance-hall, and by the rustle of silk as Evelyn swept into the morning-room. This lady had kept her chambers the past few days, it being her pleasure to maintain the fiction that she was prostrated by grief, but now thought it best to bestir herself, and so she appeared in magnificent mourning. She veritably glittered with lustrous black silk and jet beads, voluminous flounces of black lace, and fringed shawl. Her auburn hair, which yet showed no hint of grey, was surmounted by a complicated widow's cap, trimmed with yet more black lace, velvet ribbon and jet beadwork.

Contrast this picture of elegant grief with the simple round gowns of black merino her daughters wore, with no ornament save a simple jet cross tied round each slender throat by a narrow black velvet ribbon – these last being Alfred's first gift to his lady, and her sister, as an accepted lover. They were exactly suited to the tastes of both girls, and had been received with affectionate tears.

The magnificent widow had just time enough to arrange herself in an attitude of patient suffering upon a straight-backed chair, and open the tiny morocco-bound prayer-book she carried in her black silk mittened hand, before the entrance of the first of the funeral party.

The first to enter was Mr John Trent, the London stockbroker, brother of William and his junior by three years. He was taller and somewhat stouter than his brother had been, even in his prime. His hair was darker and his face somewhat more angular, with a heavy brow and a decided chin, but he had the same honest eye as his brother, and the same air of intelligence and good humour. This gentleman made his obeisance to the widow, with a polite murmur, then approached his niece and step-niece with an air of kindly solicitude.

“Well now, my dears, and how are you bearing up? As well as can be expected, I hope. You have had a hard time of it, poor girls - poor girls.”

“Thank-you, Uncle, we are as well as we can be. Your part in the arrangements has certainly made this hard time easier.” said Lydia – Adeline was too touched by his sympathy, which was expressed in his tone and manner more, even, than by his kindly words, to make any reply beyond a graceful bow and a brief, wan smile.

“Alas, I never looked to lose my poor brother – only three years my senior, and still in his prime. It is sobering indeed, a very sad business. And Mrs Trent? How does she bear it?”

“She is as well as can be expected,” said Lydia tactfully, painfully aware that in truth her stepmother was little affected by her loss. “You know this sad event has been expected for some weeks now, and no doubt she has grieved much in private.”

“Aye, no doubt – no doubt.”

Alfred now came forward, having followed John Trent into the room, and spent a few moments exchanging commonplace condolences with Mrs Trent, who sighed dolefully and often raised a lace handkerchief to her dry eyes. He pressed each girl's hand with a warm, sympathetic grasp, and then offered Adeline his arm. John Trent likewise escorted Lydia, and the small party, after receiving the condolences of the gentlemen there assembled – friends, neighbours, the rector, both the unhappy physicians who had fought in vain for William Trent's life – moved out into the hallway, where mourners of a humbler class had gathered. The family had never been reluctant to share their wealth with those in need, and, worth more than money, had spread kindness and good cheer wherever they went. William Trent, though elevated by wealth into a fine gentleman, had not forgotten that he had once been in trade, and was not above sharing a pipe, a tankard of ale, and a comfortable chat with some farmer or yeoman. There were some intelligent, well-read men in that village, though they had never set foot near a University, and it was with these that Mr Trent loved to talk, arguing out some thorny problem of politics or trade, lending books, advising, guiding and learning as much from their converse as they did from his.

Lydia and Adeline were now to find just how greatly respected and loved their father had been, and how much good he had done in that little neighbourhood. Each man had some fond recollection to share with the girls, of kindness and good fellowship, of some problem or trouble relieved by the good gentleman's capacious purse or more capacious mind. Each woman – for these humbler orders did not share in the popular prejudice which forbad women a place at the funerary rites – had some kind word to say of the true gentleman whose old-fashioned courtesy had treated even the lowest of these 'like as if I was a duchess at St James', Miss.' The girls were consoled in some measure by the discovery that their Papa, though his life had been cut cruelly short, had not lived in vain, that he had died a richer man, in the true treasures of life, than one whose balance at the bankers stood at ten - nay, a hundred - times as many thousands. They might well cry with Venus – 'Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost'.

The servants, in mourning, now advanced amongst the crowd with trays of ale and cold meats, and the girls left the throng there assembled to toast the virtues of the dear deceased and drink the health of the survivors. They retired to the parlour, where the more genteel mourners were being regaled with sherry, port, and ham.

Being disengaged for a moment, Mrs Trent pulled the butler to one side.

“What wine is this?” she sharply enquired, indicating that functionary's tray of glasses.

“Why, Ma'am,” stammered the butler in some confusion, “There were almost a full bottle left in the decanter, and such a fine old port, that it seemed a shame to waste it, being as you ladies don't drink it...” and he trailed off under the force of the lady's glare. She opened her mouth briefly as if to say something, then, as if deciding against it, she pressed her lips tightly together.

“Very well.” she snapped, adding to herself, 'They cannot drink more than a glass or two apiece – it can't do much harm.'

After these polite ceremonials, those mourners who lived locally made their departure, leaving the principal persons concerned – Mrs Trent, Adeline, Lydia, John Trent, and Mr Elwood, Mr Trent's solicitor, to assemble in the pleasant book-lined room that had been Mr Trent's study.

The will was a simple one, Mr Elwood explained, and had been drawn up at the time of Mr Trent's second marriage. No later will was believed to have been made.

There were some sundry small bequests to the servants, and to old friends for the purchase of mourning rings, amounting to some few hundreds altogether. Lydia had inherited from her mother the sum of two-and-a-half thousand pounds, and William had settled a like amount on Adeline, 'for I do not wish any difference to be made between my two daughters'. Adeline could barely repress a sob as this sentiment was read out in the lawyer's calm, quiet voice. These fortunes were left in the trust of his brother, John Trent, who was also appointed guardian to the two girls, should they not be of age.

The remainder of William Trent's fortune, amounting to some twenty-thousand pounds, as well as the lease on the house - a long lease, for it still had some seventy years left to run - was left absolutely to his wife, to use as she saw fit. This was a matter of some surprise to Mr John Trent, who was quietly perturbed, not having the same faith in that lady, as his brother evidently did, that she would consider his children in the slightest. He kept his thoughts to himself on this occasion, however, only noting with disgust the look of evident satisfaction that lady barely troubled herself to conceal.

Mr Elwood went back to London by that evening's train, but Mr John Trent remained some few days longer, in hopes he could be of service to the young ladies. In truth, the old bachelor felt an unexpected happiness in the company of his two nieces, finding that their father's best bequest to them was an uncommon amount of sense and goodness, which he was not used to find in the generality of young ladies, those representatives of the species which he had encountered in fashionable life being set down by him as invariably silly, shallow and selfish. Not so his nieces.

Lydia, in particular, was capable forming sound opinions and conversing sensibly and intelligently on any number of topics. Under her good father's guidance she had read deeply as well as widely, and formed enquiring habits of thought that made her as interesting a companion as the best-educated young gentleman. She could not be accused of being a bluestocking, however. She had not neglected the softer arts in the pursuit of dry knowledge, nor lost her femininity through contact with the harder truths of life.

Adeline, though less lively and less thoughtful, was the sweetest and gentlest of girls. Though mourning deeply herself, she did not forget that those around her had also suffered loss, and her sympathetic smile as she drew up a chair for him, supplied him with tea and the choicest dainties from the tea-table, and sat down to play her softest and sweetest old songs, was like some little taste of heaven in this weary world.

So it was with heavy heart that the venerable stockbroker betook him self to his elegant but lonely town house at the heart of the great metropolis, wishing he had such daughters to cheer the solitude of that bachelor hearth.

The days that followed their uncle's departure were uneventful. Winter snows had set in, making outdoor exercise impossible, and of course they accepted no invitations, though Evelyn sometimes went out to the quieter sort of tea party, always providing, of course, that there were no such frivolities as dancing or cards involved. The widow kept to her own chambers, except for at mealtimes, and so the girls were left to cheer each other as best they might, occupying the short dark days with reading and needlework, answering the letters of condolence which came from far afield, and teaching young Maisy to read and write, as the income of the poor girl's extensive family had not stretched sufficiently to send any of the numerous brood to school. They looked forward each morning to the near-daily visits of Alfred, who always brought some offering of books or fruit or village gossip, and formed the one bright spot in their day.

There was one small, odd occurrence toward the end of that dreary month, which puzzled Lydia exceedingly. It was the custom of the house for the butler to collect the post-bag, and distribute the family's letters at breakfast. This morning there were several for Evelyn, who, running her eye quickly over the directions, and believing them to be all letters of condolence from her husband's many friends, commenced opening them and carelessly glancing over the contents.

One of them caused her to start, however, and then her hard mouth curved in a grim and triumphant smile. The letter was an unusual one, comprising in it's entirety but a single short sentence of three words, without date, direction, or signature. It merely read:

'It is done.'

Unnoticed by Mrs Trent at first, a small slip of newspaper had fluttered out of the envelope, and landed before Lydia's plate. Now the widow espied this fragment of paper, and held her hand out toward her stepdaughter peremptorily.

“I believe that is mine. Give it to me, if you please.”

Lydia readily complied, but the item was so short that it had taken her but a moment's glance to master the contents. It treated briefly of an unfortunate accident in a London street, where a nameless gentleman, 'of address and origin unknown', had apparently fallen from the window of an hotel, of which establishment it was averred he was not a guest, and had been taken up lifeless.

Why this should be of any interest to her stepmother she could form no conjecture, and she satisfied herself that there must have been an advertisement or story on the other side of the paper, which was the true object of interest.

Chapter the 8th

Though Alfred and Adeline had understood one another a full month, as yet no positive word of love had passed between them. They had been thus far content to speak in looks rather than words, and to read the sweet story in one another's eyes, not in billets-doux. Adeline felt that hers was too great a love to be spoken in words, and Alfred was all too conscious of how recently his beloved had been bereaved. There could not decently be any talk of love and marriage just yet.

The subject of the girl's future however, was painfully obtruded on them one morning, when Evelyn enquired blandly of Lydia what that young lady's intentions were.

“Mama, I do not quite understand you.”

“My dear Miss Trent, I do feel that, as that sad event at Christmas has in some way dissolved all relationship between us, you may now dispense with the useless form of calling me 'Mama'. It was only done to please your father, you know. 'Mrs Trent' will be sufficient, I think.”

Lydia was too shocked by this to reply.

“As to my remark, I merely wished to ascertain your intention in regards to remaining in this house. My daughter will, of course, remain with me, certainly until she is of age.”

“But Mama!” interjected Adeline, “of course Lydia will remain here, this is her home, her father's house!”

“Which is now my house.” said Evelyn flatly. “Of course it does not suit me to have Adeline thrown entirely on my hands, at this time, so if you wish to remain as her companion, you will be most useful to me. Of course I can not offer you any salary, but as you have your own fortune that would be unnecessary in any case.”

Lydia made no reply. Her surprise and dismay were too great to allow the formation of any coherent answer. To be offered a place as hired companion, to be given a place on sufferance, in the home that was hers by all natural right and custom! Adeline, too, looked on with eyes round with dismay. Silence prevailed for some minutes, during which time Mrs Trent, unperturbed, finished her cup of coffee, and the last genteel fragments of thin, crust-less, buttered toast.

“I beg you will think on it, and let me know at your earliest convenience.” she said smoothly, and passed out of the room.

Great was the consternation that remained in her wake, and the girls were still talking the matter over, without reaching any useful conclusion, when Alfred entered, shaking the last few flakes of February snow from his hat, which he placed on the mantelpiece to dry.

“Here, ladies, look what treasure I have found you!” he cried, proferring two small nosegays of snowdrops.

“Oh Alfred, how perfectly lovely,” dimpled Adeline, “But what do you think?” and in indignant tones she poured the whole into her lover's ear, while Lydia blushed redder every minute with offended embarrassment. Alfred was surprised as they.

“I did not think a lady could be so insolent to one so nearly connected with her.” (And here Alfred betrayed how limited his acquaintance with ladies really was.) “What will you do, Lydia?”

“I am so surprised, I do not know myself. Of course it would be hard, very hard, to be parted from my sister, yet my heart rebels at submitting to such an insult.”

“I shall not remain in any house in which my sister is not full as welcome as I.” proclaimed Adeline stoutly. “But where we are to go, and what we are to do, I know not.”

At this Alfred was moved to speak the thought that had been in his mind these three months or more.

“Adeline, my dearest, you have a home with me that will receive you at a word. And of course your home will be your sister's home, for her own sake as well as yours, for she is the kindest and the best of women, save one, and I love her second best in all the world. Do say you will come, darling, and be my wife.”

Adeline's eyes filled with bitter-sweet tears.

“Oh Alfred, I don't know what to say”

“Say yes, my sweetest girl, and make me the happiest man on Earth. I know - “ thinking of that dear departed gentleman, “I know we cannot be married very soon, but in a few months, surely we can become man and wife without upsetting any proprieties, and then you both can come home.” and so saying he put out his hands and drew both girls to him. Lydia merely placed a hand on his shoulder, saying

“I could not wish for a kinder brother.”

Adeline somehow ended up with her face hidden on his breast, unable to give him any answer but to caress and kiss his hand, which she now held captive between both of hers.

“I had better speak to your mother. I shall be back soon, dear, and then we can settle how it is all to be.”

The settling had to wait some time longer, however, as Mrs Trent merely referred Alfred to her brother-in-law.

“Adeline is my daughter, but I am not her legal guardian, it seems. Of course you seem a good kind of young man, and I have no objection to her marrying you, in due course, if her guardian does not object. Of course she has no expectations beyond the two-and-a-half thousand pounds settled on her by her stepfather.”

“That surprises, but does not deter me, Madam. I have an income – not great, but sufficient to maintain a wife.”

“I do not see why you should be surprised. My husband wished no difference made between the girls, and I do wish the world to say I favoured one above the other. Of course, should I predecease her, she may inherit a very pretty fortune, but that is not to be counted on. For instance, I am not yet fifty, older women than I have married again, and in that case my money would belong to my husband.”

Alfred was filled with disgust at the way this woman, so recently widowed, spoke of marrying again, coupled with the coldly casual way she spoke of her daughter.

“I do not believe the woman has an ounce of natural feeling in her.” he said to himself. However, he merely begged the use of paper and pen, and to be furnished with the direction of Mr John Trent.

That good uncle did not leave the young people long in suspense.

'My dearest Niece,' he wrote

'I have received this day a letter from Mr Alfred Denham, who begs your hand in marriage.

Far be it from me to stand in the way of your happiness, my dear, and I give my full and hearty consent to your marrying whomsoever makes you happiest, on the day you come of age. Yes my dear, I counsel you to wait until you are twenty-one. I understand that the acquaintance between yourself and Mr Denham has been of long standing, and that although not positively wealthy he has sufficient income to maintain a wife in comfort. I give him credit for disinterestedness, for he tells me he is full aware that you would bring nothing to the marriage but that small fortune settled on you by my brother, which he intends to secure entirely to you, and that you have no expectations in the future (an arrant lie, by the way my love, for how two girls with a wealthy bachelor uncle, who is affectionately aware of their merits, and has no other soul on Earth to leave his money to, can be said to have no expectations, I do not know)

In any case, fortune or the lack thereof on either side is no objection. Your ages, however, give me some concern. Mr Denham seems to me to have powers of intellect that require some vent for him to be truly settled and happy. I advise waiting, not only so that you can be quite sure this is the right step to ensure your future happiness - for matrimony is a great step, Adeline, and nineteen very young to fully comprehend your own feelings – but also to enable the young man to take steps to establish himself in some profession that will contribute greatly to the happiness, as well as the comfort, of both.

Fourteen months is not so great a time to wait for a lifetime's joy, my dear – in any event you would have to wait 6 months or so until you are out of full mourning, so I am only asking you to add another eight months to that time.

I am sorry if this verdict gives you disappointment, my dear, but hope you will take it in the spirit it was intended, and give credit to the kindly feelings of your affectionate uncle,

John Trent.'

The letter was their uncle all over - so very like their Papa, his brother - all frank kindness and good, solid sense. His arguments were disappointing to the young people, but his judgement was so sensible, and so frankly and kindly expressed, that they could not find a single objection which would hasten the day when Adeline Wade would become Mrs Alfred Denham.

And so it was determined that the young couple should put off that happy day until the first day following Adeline's twenty-first birthday, and that until then Lydia would swallow her pride, and submit to being regarded as a hired dependent in her father's house.

Chapter the 9th

Lydia was not the only member of the household to be offended by Mrs Trent. One afternoon Lydia was surprised to see Bessie the housemaid lugging a battered portmanteau down the stairs, her face much streaked with tears, her eyes red and puffy.

“Why Bessie, whatever is the matter?” cried Lydia, “No trouble at home, I hope.”

“Trouble there is, but not at home. I've been give warning, Miss.” moaned the distressed housemaid.

“Warning? But why? It would be very unlike you to be remiss in your duties.”

“Well it seems Mistress lost some trinket or other, and it's not the first time things has gone a-walking, by her account, and she demanded the key to my box, just like that, Miss Lydia, and me a respectable woman as has always been used to be spoken to kindly in this house.

“Anyway I fired up at that, like, for to have the finger pointed at me is more than I could bear, as has always been honest. And I told her I weren't no thief and if she wanted to find her things maybe she should look in that Frenchy Estelle's box first. For the sneaky sly thing is always creeping round, and seems to have more money than any of us can account for, she's always dressed up that smart, and sneaks around telling tales of folks, for it was her that told Mistress of Maisy being late back from her evening out last week, when the poor girl had to stay and watch her babby brother as had the croup, til her mother got back from the doctors, and Maisy got such a scolding as reduced her to tears, and her next months evening out cancelled.

“Well Mistress just drew herself up and said summat about how she 'didn't choose to keep dishonest and insolent servants', and I might take my months warning, and I said I wouldn't stay another day in a house where I was supspected and insulted, let alone another month, so here I am, and off I go, bag and baggage, this very afternoon. And this the house where I've lived since I was but sixteen, and was my very first place, and I've watched you young ladies grow up from babbies, and served you faithful, and always been treated respectful...” and here the loquacious woman's narrative broke off in a fresh flood of tears. She was genuinely distressed, and not just at being 'out of place'. The good creature had served the family faithfully for twenty years, and this her reward! Lydia was incensed. She bade the housemaid to go and have a cup of tea in the kitchen, and calm herself, while she attempted to intercede with the lady of the house.

She found her stepmother idling over that same long piece of embroidery, though the chair-back in berlin-wool and beads seemed to have made very little progress since the first time we saw it.

“Mama... Mrs Trent, I am distressed to learn you have dismissed poor Bessie.” said Lydia, in as gentle a tone as she could manage. “She is this moment preparing to leave the house!”

“Really, how tiresome.” drawled the widow, “These rustic servants are so unreasonable, they take one up so. I only asked her for her key, having missed a bracelet from my dressing-table, only a trumpery thing, but I have missed things before. However, the bracelet is found, so it is of no moment.”

“Then may I tell Bessie she is no longer suspected, and that she may stay?”

“Oh, tell her anything you like. I suppose it would be tiresome to find a new housemaid – only you had better tell her to curb her tongue in my presence. I am mistress in this house, and I will not tolerate insolence.”

Lydia softened this message down for Bessie's consumption, and begged her to remain. The housemaid at first stuck fast to her determination of leaving the house at once, but when Lydia dwelt on how sad Adeline and herself would be to part with her, she tearfully consented to have the manservant take her box upstairs, and resume her duties, with many blessings on the two young ladies, and direful imprecations against those who 'were a mite too quick to judge'.

Lydia found herself quite exhausted by this drama, and shortly rang for tea. To her surprise, the tray was brought by Maisy.

“Mistress is having tea in her room this evening, Miss, and there was something I wanted to show you.”

The girl proffered a grubby, creased piece of paper, somewhat singed at the edges.

“I know I didn't ought to have took it, but I found it in the grate in the parlour a few weeks back, and I thought I made out Miss Adeline's name, so I picked it up, curious like. I didn't think anyone would mind, it being rubbish, as someone meant to burn. Only I didn't read it, for I can't read handwriting very well just yet, and it preyed on my mind, like, that if it was something concerning Miss Adeline, I ought to give it to her. And so I'm giving it to you.”

“Thank-you Maisy, it is probably just a note from one of the neighbours or something. But you did the right thing, I'm sure, though if it was meant to be thrown away, perhaps you should have poked it in the kitchen fire. But nevertheless, I'll see what it is before we decide!” and she good-humouredly held out her hand for the paper.

She waited until Maisy had set down the tea things and curtsied herself out of the room, before looking over the paper in her hand, fully expecting it to be an invitation or a laundry-list.

It proved to be a letter, in a strange hand, and Lydia was completely unprepared for the astonishment it's contents gave her.

It was dated simply 'London, May 17th, 18--' and had neither signature nor direction, save for initials.

'E,' it read,

'Well I expect you never thought I'd turn up again like a bad penny, but here I am, just returned from Australia. Don't be alarmed, I went there of my own free will, not her Majesty's, having heard great things of that continent with regard to seeking one's fortune.

It's a hard life out there, and a lonesome one, and by and by I got to thinking of a few things I did as I oughtn't to have, and a few things I ought to have done different, and a few things I ought to have done that I didn't. In short, my dear, I fell to thinking of you and the girls.

I know things have gone too far wrong between us for us to be reconciled, that was obvious when you left me all them years ago. I don't say you ought to have stayed, I was never what you might call a good husband. But I would like to see my girls, and perhaps make some amends for my neglect all these years. I hear Adeline is still with you, and I wonder if you know anything of Catherine. I can't seem to trace her or her husband – I hope he made a better one than I. It is Catherine I most want to see, feeling it is to her I have most amends to make, poor girl. I have been down to the place where they lived when I left ten years ago, but nobody seems to have seen hide nor hair of them for many a year. If you know anything of her, I beg you will tell me where I might find her. Perhaps I might come down and see you, if the appearance of an rough customer like me won't lose you your place.

I don't know if you ever speak to little Addy of her father, perhaps you can find it in you to give her a kind word regarding her repentant

M.'

As Lydia was perusing this letter, with widening eyes and racing heart, Adeline came in, accompanied as ever by Alfred, her cheeks dyed pink by the brisk winds of early March.

“Why Lyddy, you look as pale as a ghost. Whatever is the matter!”

“Adele, perhaps you had better read it yourself, I can't understand it. There is some mystery or misunderstanding here. It is a letter. It is dated last May, and I think it is from – your father.”

Chapter the 10th

Who can describe the consternation, the clamour of tongues, in that little parlour that evening.

“My father? But that is impossible. My father died before I was a year old, Mama says.”

“But yet here we have a letter from a man called only 'M', who has been abroad the last ten years, who addresses the recipient 'E' as her husband, and who speaks of his daughter Adeline. Evelyn begins with an E, you see. And it was found in this house.”

“But wait, he speaks of losing this 'E' her place. Perhaps it is one of the servants he writes to. Estelle begins with an E, as does Bessie, for that matter – Elizabeth, you see. I would not blame either of them for leaving a husband and concealing it, if he were cruel to her, as this man seems to admit he was.”

“But that still leaves the coincidence of 'Adeline' – your name is not a common one, you know.”

“Yes Lyddy, but though uncommon it may not be unique. Oh, if only we had the envelope, then we might be sure who it was addressed to.”

“We need not multiply possibilities, Adele, the name and initial do fit you and your mother. And the writer may have assumed she was living here as a servant – perhaps a housekeeper or governess, rather than as the lady of the house.”

“But stop a moment, Lyddy, and think what a terrible light this would put Mama in. It would mean she knowingly married Papa while she had a husband still living. She would have been living with him seventeen years as his mistress. I know Mama is not the kindest of women, but I cannot imagine she would stoop so low. Or perhaps she thought my father really had died, after she fled from him. Perhaps some cruel rumour reached her that led her to believe she was free. Oh, what anguish she must have suffered when she learned the truth!” and here the compassionate girl shed a tear. It was evident from her talk that she was becoming more convinced that the letter was addressed to her mother, and the Adeline there named was herself, though the honest girl could not believe anyone, let alone her nearest relative, base enough to live as one man's wife, while knowing she was married, in the sight of God and the Law, to another.

“You have overlooked something,” pointed out Alfred. “The letter speaks of two girls. Who is Catherine?”

“Why, she must be Adeline's sister” gasped Lydia, “and an elder one, if she was old enough to be married ten years ago.”

“A sister!” cried Adeline, “I have another sister? Oh Alfred, we must solve this mystery. I have been so fortunate in my one sister, is it possible I could have another? O, where is she, where is she?”

Lydia and Alfred both attempted to soothe Adeline's agitation.

“You had better ask 'Who is she?' - After all, we cannot be sure it is not just a coincidence. This latter may refer to a completely different Adeline. We must try and ascertain to whom the letter was addressed before we jump to conclusions.”

“Yes, yes, but how?”

The little group was silent for few moments, deep in thought, until suddenly Lydia spoke.

“If this letter was delivered through the post in the usual way, then it will have been removed from the postbag and sorted by the butler. Let us put a few discreet questions to Mr Scott, and ascertain whether he remembers any unusual letter around that time.”

“A capital idea.” put in Alfred. “Ring the bell and lets have him in directly.”

Silence once again reigned in the parlour, each mind racing with his or her own thoughts, until Mr Scott entered.

“Yes, Miss Lydia?” he enquired, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oh, Mr Scott,” began Lydia, not altogether sure how to begin the topic, but then deciding to jump in feet first. “Mr Scott, we have found a letter, which due to it's sensitive nature really ought to be returned to the person to whom it is addressed. The trouble is, there is no envelope, and it is directed simply to 'E', and the contents leave us no wiser as to whom it was intended for. We were wondering if you recalled any unusual letter to Estelle, or Bessie, or Mrs Trent, about the end of May last.”

“Hmm, I couldn't rightly say, so many letters pass through my hands in this house, and that was a good ten months ago. If I could get a look at the hand, perhaps, for that seems to stick more in my mind, as they say, more than the directions themselves.”

After a moment's hesitation, Lydia showed him the top of the sheet, with the date and the great sprawling 'E'.

“Stop a moment, I do recall to have seen that style of an 'E' before. I recollect now, it did seem a little odd at the time, but I assumed it might be from some old school friend or such-like, that might not know the lady's married name, like, though they put Mrs so they must have known she had married, at any rate. There was a letter come in this handwriting, addressed to 'Mrs Evelyn Wade'.”

Chapter the 11th

“It is true!” gasped Adeline, falling back in her chair. “Oh, poor Mama!”

“Hush dear,” said Lydia. “Thank-you Mr Scott, you have been most helpful. We need not trespass on your time any longer.”

“Thank-you Miss, glad to be of service” said that worthy functionary, withdrawing, much mystified by the excitement this revelation seemed to have caused.

“Oh, Alfred, Lydia, we must find my father, we must find my sister!” cried Adeline.

Alfred, who had been silent for some time, now spoke.

“I think I may know the very person who can help you, my dear, and I will bring him to you as soon as possible.”

This person turned out to be a disreputable looking gentleman in late middle age, in a greasy waistcoat and dilapidated boots, which respectable personage Alfred introduced to the ladies as one Mr Richard Dodd.

“Detective Dick to you, my dears, and I hope you good ladies will pardon my appearance, being obliged to pass as a cockney type just now. At your service, ladies, at your service. Now, tell me all about it.”

“Mr Dodd is a private detective,” explained Alfred, “and a good one at that. He has very kindly agreed to help us get to the bottom of this matter. Let us answer any question he cares to put to us, I can vouch for his confidence.”

“Silent as the grave, my dears, where need be.” asserted Mr Dodd. “Now then, just start at the beginning in your own words.”

“I think this letter can tell you better than we can.” said Lydia, proferring the singed and crumpled paper.

Having mastered the contents of the letter, and made a copy of it in a greasy memorandum-book, he at once began to put questions to the young ladies.

“Adeline I assume is one of you young ladies – oh, you, is it miss – but who is 'E', I mean what is her proper name, and how was the letter addressed, if you know. I don't suppose you have the envelope, that would be very helpful, very helpful indeed.”

“The lady addressed as 'E' is, we believe, Adeline's mother and my stepmother, known now as Mrs Evelyn Trent. We do not have the envelope, but are informed the letter was addressed to Mrs Evelyn Wade.”

“Your informant didn't happen to have a good look at the postmark, did he? No, shame, shame, it may have been useful to find out what part of London it was posted in. Still, it seems to me that if the unknown gentleman is addressing her as 'Mrs Wade, then that is like to be her proper name – and his too. So, the letter brings us one step closer, we now know we are looking for a Mr M Wade.

“Stay, he writes of coming down to see her – does anyone know if he ever did? It might be worth me asking round to see what strangers were about the village last June or July.”

At this, Adeline turned white.

“Lyddy, the stranger at the gate! The man who alarmed me so! Could it be...”

“What's this?” said Mr Dodd, “This sounds promising indeed! Tell me all about him.”

And so Adeline and Lydia, between them, recounted all they could recollect of that alarming encounter.

“Hmm, you got a pretty good description of him, Miss, very useful. And you say he called you 'my Adeline', and said he was sorry – that seems a strong hint he's the man we want. And an Australian accent, you say. Hmm, clearer and clearer. How did you know it was an Australian accent?”

“Oh, I didn't. It was...” and Lydia hesitated as the realisation of what she was saying dawned on her, “It was my stepmother that suggested it might be Australian, when I told her of the incident, and that he spoke in an accent not quite English.”

“Well now, well now, you just leave it with me a short while, and we'll see what we can't find out.”

And thus saying, the queer gentleman took his leave.

“Oh Lyddy, to think, I have seen my father, that I thought died when I was a baby, and I didn't know him.” and she lapsed into quiet tears.

Lydia sat quietly thinking of the father she had known, and had loved her for most of her short life. She felt bitterly that this business was turning Adeline a traitor to his memory, and taking her dear sister further and further away from her. And yet, and yet... Something about the affair excited her. She had always longed for some work in which to test and challenge her mental powers. Even if it should cost her her dearest love, she felt she could not rest until she had got to the bottom of this mystery.

Chapter the 12th

It was fortunate, perhaps, that Evelyn now seemed to want as little to do with the rest of the household as possible, for Adeline knew not how she could meet her mother with equanimity, let alone sit opposite her for a long hour at breakfast or dinner. However, this necessity did not arise, as Evelyn now kept almost entirely to her own rooms, occupied with her own concerns, whatever those might be, and so Adeline was spared the sad task of keeping her countenance before a mother who she now knew to be a sinner – if not for 17 years, at least for the last ten months. How could she consent to live in a man's house, eat his bread, accept his legacy as her right, knowing herself to have no legal or moral right to these benefits, that her union was unrecognised by God or the Law?

In such a case, Adeline determined, with all the idealism of nineteen, that she would run away and beg her bread in the street before she would be guilty of such an enormity.

Adeline was troubled enough, even believing her mother had committed her sin in ignorance, in the mistaken belief that she had been free to marry seventeen years ago, only to be disabused of her error by the arrival of that fatal letter. Lydia had harder doubts, for the treacherous thought had crept into her mind that perhaps her father had known, had been complicit in this grievous error. Of Evelyn's guilt she had no doubt, for even if a mistaken report, through malice or accident, of her husband's death had reached her before her marriage to Mr Trent, how that gentleman could have lived in the same country for a further seven or eight years, and she have heard no further tidings of him to correct the error, passed her understanding. And, knowing, to keep such a secret for seventeen years, to constantly keep a watch on one's tongue and one's actions, to live in daily fear of the discovery – impossible! Perhaps this was the source and secret of the coldness that had long since arisen between her father and her stepmother. It was like him, his kindness and consideration, to forbear from exposing the woman he had chosen as his wife, to spare her the pain of public shame – but still, to compound the sin by continuing to live with her as her husband! The idea that her father, the man, of all others, whom she idolised, could have been guilty of sinfulness and deception pierced her heart. The thought crept like a dark, chill shadow between her and the sacred memory of him she loved so well, and seemed to poison all her recollections.

Happily, perhaps, the hours in which Lydia was free to dwell on these direful thoughts were limited. Having asserted her claim to the house and household, Evelyn seemed content to leave the daily fatigues of management to Lydia. It was the younger lady to whom the servants brought their troubles and questions, to her they came for orders. Evelyn troubled herself very little about the house, exerting herself only so far as to order her own meals, to look over the household accounts in a desultory manner once in a while, and to assert her power by countermanding the occasional order – usually at such a time and in such a manner as to cause Lydia the most vexation and inconvenience.

This round of household cares, with leisure hours darkened by grim imaginings, would soon have destroyed both health and character, were it not for the society of Adeline and Alfred, and a new interest, which raised itself in the person of one Captain James Woods.

This gentleman was a half-pay naval officer who, having been woefully injured in action on the Indian Ocean, and then spent much of the passage home in a raging fever, had been invalided out of the service, and was now trying the restorative effects of English country air and rustic retirement.

Alfred, happening to fall in with the gentleman on one of the long lonely rambles which constituted his daily dose of physic, soon made his acquaintance, being a friendly and gregarious young man. He had a stern battle of it at first, having much to conquer in the convalescent captain's goodly fund of natural reserve, but he persevered, and few could stand out long against Alfred's genuine and frank good-nature.

The friendship, having once been established, flourished, and it seemed but natural that Alfred introduce the Captain to his other friends, having a strong suspicion that the kind attentions of two gentle young ladies could do more to restore Captain Woods to health and spirits than could be achieved by his own unaided exertions. Accordingly, then, Captain Woods was invited to accompany Alfred on one of his visits to the young ladies at the first opportunity.

The young ladies were surprised and a little perturbed at first to see Alfred bringing a stranger to the house, but when Alfred had introduced him and told part of his story in a few simple words, and after they had looked on the still-young face so clearly marked by long suffering, they opened their hearts to him.

The Captain was a slim, pale young man of around five-and-twenty, quite small in stature – indeed, he stood only an inch or two higher than Lydia, who was not markedly tall. His cheeks were clean-shaven, and somewhat hollow, attesting to his long illness. His voice was soft and pleasant. His hair was brown, touched with gold, and curling slightly from a low forehead – he affected neither beard nor moustache. His hazel eyes, though shaded with great dark circles, were mild and intelligent. He had something of the look of a sick child, seeming very little more than a boy, for all that he was older than the two girls, and had seen action and hardship, and those two gentle hearts compassionated him at once, and were highly likely to make a pet of him.

They insisted on him taking the seat nearest the fire, for the early spring days were still cold, and plied him with good things from the tea-table, and valiantly set to work to draw him out. They made polite enquiries about his health, his opinions of the village, about his life in the Navy and his ship, and made but little headway. However, it was evident that this reserve was the result of diffidence, not of ill-nature, and eventually Adeline struck upon the happy chance of playing for the gentlemen. Adeline was that rarity among young ladies – she played for the love of music, not for the love of display, and though many young women were superior musicians, there was something about the girl's sweet, untrained voice and light touch upon the keys which went straight to the heart of the listeners. She tried one or two of those fashionable exercises in the mathematics of harmony, which were politely applauded, and then lit by chance on some sweet old song of her father's time. To the surprise of all, at the second verse the Captain moved to the piano and began to sing the second part, in a fine, clear, alto voice. The voice cracked by the end of the song, but the ice was broken, and now they could all talk of music, and the Captain spoke of fine concerts he had heard in foreign ports, and was led on by degrees to forget he was amongst strangers.

How surprised they all were to hear the hall clock strike, and realise that two hours had slipped by! The captain was now issued with the same open invitation as Alfred enjoyed, and retired to his lodgings feeling in better spirits than he had for many a weary month. The girls, too, felt their troubles a little lightened from being forgot for a while, and were anxious to renew the acquaintance

Chapter the 13th

Whilst the young ladies have been making a new friend, the patient and perspicacious 'Detective Dick' Dodd has not been idle.

On leaving his interview with the two girls, he repaired to the public bar of the Crown, having learned, by long experience in his trade, that the presence of beer and rum have a tendency to make men wax loquacious. The worthy detective had a useful talent in this line, of being able to unobtrusively nurse his own single glass of brandy-and-water an entire evening, thus keeping a clear head and a steady tongue whilst all around him heads grew fuddled and tongues grew looser.

In the bar, he found it advantageous to assume the character of a man who has just made a very good bargain, and thus inclined to be sociable and hospitable. In this guise, he struck up and acquaintance with a group of venerable elderly villagers, who were not averse to being bought a bowl of punch. These gentlemen, by name George Handy, Abel Metcalf, and Stephen Carter, I shall not go to the trouble of describing, as their like can be seen in any public bar. Look for the three aged gents, usually sitting in the snuggest corner by the fire, nursing their pints of ale or glasses of rum-and-hot-water, eyes scanning the assembled company, on the alert for any passing acquaintance who might be persuaded to stand them a drink, ears on the alert for any scrap of gossip, which meat they strip from the bone and chew over far more exhaustively than their elderly wives do at their genteel little tea-drinkings.

It was this last propensity which made Mr Dodds heartily inclined to buy these gentlemen, in whatever public house, in whatever corner of the British Isles, a drink. For the modest outlay of half a bottle of rum, hot water, lemons and sugar in proportion, he was sure to receive a great deal of information. Much of it would be dross, to be sure, but he was prepared to listen to a goodly amount of spoil in order to get at the one golden nugget of useful information.

The other consideration of course, was that striking up and acquaintance was the simplest thing in the world – a bowl of punch and an expansive manner were as good to these old fellows as a letter of introduction from a duke. These ceremonies of introduction having duly been completed, Dick Dodds made himself comfortable, and after a suitable lapse, in which the strong punch began to make its effects known, began skilfully to lead the conversation toward the subject closest to his heart.

“Tell me, I saw a pleasantish kind of box out on the East road into the village. Just the sort of place I've a mind to buy myself one of these days. Who owns it? Do you think they'd be of a mind to sell?”

“You must m-mean the Grove. Grey stone house, fronts onto the r-road, biggish garden at the b-back?” (the unfortunate Abel having developed something of a stammer)

“Nay, Abel, the Grove is out North of here, not East. He's talking of the Trent place, I'll be bound.”

“It was built of a yellowish stone, I believe, and had a few fine old trees round it.”

“Aye, that's the Trent place sure enough. As to selling, well, they've had a heap of trouble there of late, the old gent died at Christmas after a long illness. The widder might be inclined, if you approach her canny, but I'd wager she'd get the best of the bargain.” and old Stephen chuckled, displaying a couple of brown and lonely teeth and a good deal of red gum.

“Aye, she's a sharp one, though she certainly has no friends hereabout.”

“Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Well I don't like to talk ill of folks,” (this was as arrant a lie as ever crossed the lips of man, by the by – the disreputable old soul loved nothing better) “but there's been dark muttering abroad as to how exackly the old gent met his end, so to say. The doctors all said there weren't nothing really wrong with him, as they could find, and yet he faded away and faded away and finally died.”

“Aye, and young Sam, the carriers boy, swears as he w-was coming home one night last autumn, for he lives out Abbey Farm way, he seed her – the widder, that is – a w-walking and a-talking with some low feller in the woods. And what business a dacent woman has w-walking with that manner of man, let alone by moonlight and not a creature by, I don't know.”

“How very odd. Was he a local man?”

“Nay, that's the mystery of it. It seems nobody ever seen him before or seen him again.”

“Now then, that ain't strictly true,” chipped in George, who had hitherto held his tongue. “Some say as how it must have been that feller as made all the ruckus with Miss Adeline, as used this very inn once or twice.”

“A ruckus with a lady? that sounds very particular. And was the man actually staying here? I am shocked!”

“Miss Adeline is the widder's daughter – there's two girls up at the Trent place, and a sad life they've had of it this last year. Some ruffian tried to drag her from out of a carriage – last June or so, if I recall. And about that time there was a stranger seen about the place once or twice, but he weren't staying hereabouts – at least not in the village. He just used the coffee room to write a letter or two, the barman sez, and nobody could say for sartin if it were him, so he were let alone. He never come back after about November, to my knowledge at least.”

Dick Dodds expressed an appropriate amount of concern and surprise at this, and the conversation passed on to less interesting (to him) subjects. After another half hour or so of unedifying gossip, the detective passed out into the moonlight, to clear his head of the fug of brandy-fumes and tobacco-smoke, and arrange his thoughts.

So, this M Wade had been seen several times in the village, which seemed to suggest that for at least some time between June and November last he had been staying somewhere close enough to Allenham to make regular visits. Richard Dodd decided that his next move would to be to ask around the surrounding farms and villages, in the hopes that Mr Wade had taken lodging in that locality. With this determination, he returned to the inn, this time using the saloon bar entrance to avoid his three aged informants, and so to bed.

He arose early on the following morning, and made an indifferent breakfast of overcooked ham and undercooked eggs. He also made enquiry of his landlady as to the names and locations of the farms that surrounded the village, as he had an interest in agriculture and wished to explore the local habits and customs in that earthy science. His landlady was happy to furnish him with a long list, adding a running commentary concerning the habits, peccadilloes, feuds and relationships of the inhabitants. Looking alarmed at the sheer number of agricultural enterprises in the locale of Allenham, he begged to enquire where he could hire a horse, and was given the choice of the inn's stables.

A meagre choice it was, and the detective rode forth a half hour later on a skinny, jaded mare, who seemed inclined to make up for the deficiencies of the stable diet by stooping and cropping dandelions at every opportunity. And this was the best mount the inn had to offer!

It was late that evening when the detective returned to the inn, thoroughly disgusted with his recalcitrant steed, and ordered his chop and pint of porter. He had obtained little useful information at the farms immediately surrounding the village, having wound around and about the muddy lanes at the mare's sweet will. He was fairly confident, however, that he had visited all the farms within an hours ride of Allenham, and he determined to spread his net wider tomorrow.

After his solitary dinner, who should happen to drop in on him in the hope of news, but Alfred. The elder man was happier than he showed at the prospect of a little intelligent society, and though his countenance and manner were schooled to calm indifference, he moved with some alacrity to mix two hospitable glasses of brandy-and-water, hot, opened his cigar-case invitingly, and pulled the two easiest chairs in the room up to the fire.

“So, sir, how have your researches fared thus far?” opened Alfred, once the two men had made themselves comfortable.

“Well, I have pretty much established in my own mind that the gentleman we are in search of was staying hereabouts between June and November last. As to where he was lodging, or what became of him, I am as yet no wiser. Such a lot of bucolic ignorance and stupidity I have never encountered. The farms hereabouts either do not keep lodgers; or they don't know if they do or they don't; or they do but take no heed of their names, appearances or habits; or else they do but don't have the records to hand, or I need to speak to some dairymaid who is 'gone to market, sir, and not due back til early tomorrow morning'.

“The upshot being, therefore, that I have had a day's uncomfortable ride for nothing. But I am not yet at a loss, Mr Denham, and plan to repeat the process in the neighbouring villages tomorrow.”

“Well, that is a disappointment,” said Alfred, “but no doubt some clue to the man must surface sooner or later. I have every confidence in you.”

A pause succeeded this, during which Alfred smoked a cigar, and Mr Dodds sipped his brandy-and-water, with his feet propped on the fender, for he had walked through more than one muddy puddle today, and the day was cold, for all that it was April.

“By the by,” said Mr Dodds, as Alfred rose to take his leave, “I am almost ashamed to ask it, but is it at all possible you could mount me? I do believe another day on one of the beasts this place can provide would be the death of me – most likely of apoplexy.”

Alfred was ready to oblige, and it was arranged that he would have his hack saddled and sent round to the inn door by nine the next day.

The horse was returned by the inn servant a few days later, and very little was heard of the detective for two or three weeks.

His silence was broken by a scrawled note, asking leave to call upon Alfred and the young ladies to discuss the case. Accordingly, they arranged to meet, as if by accident, in the woods near the house – Lydia having become more and more suspicious of her mother-in-law and deeming such discussion in the house to be unsafe.

It was a fine morning in late April, and the weather was very pleasant for walking. The trees were bright with new leaves and fragrant with blossom, and nesting birds filled the little copse with song. It was a pity and a waste, really, that the young ladies, Adeline in particular, had neither eyes nor ears fro nature's beauty that day. To Adeline, the most welcome sight of all the sweet prospects to be seen in that little patch of woodland just then springing into life, was a dilapidated gentleman in a greasy waistcoat.

“Oh, Mr Dodds, you have found him?” cried Adeline breathlessly, for to wish is to hope, and to hope is to expect, in such ardent natures.

“No, Miss.” the detective said, bluntly but kindly.

“But you have some clue to him, have you not?” queried Lydia.

“No, not that either. I'll tell you how it is. I spent some time asking about the farms and villages, last I was here, trusting that he had lodged somewhere nearby, last year, and weary work enough it was, by the by. Anyhow, I had been at it four days, with as much of a trace of him as if he had been a ghost, then on my way home on the fourth day, I found I had missed my way, it being dark, and somewhat cloudy. However, I spied the light of a cottage, and stopped there in hopes that I could get a clue to the right road. I don't know why I had not thought to ask at cottages before, but it occurred to me, once inside – for the hospitable old body that inhabited the place would not hear of my setting out again without a little something inside to warm me, though I don't much care for tea and such slop as that – where was I? Oh yes, I began to make a few polite enquiries on the account of our missing friend.

'This is a very pretty place, it almost makes me loath to leave this fireside' says I. 'Do you ever let lodging at all?'

'Oh no, sir, not since my William died,' says she, 'being a woman alone and all.'

I commiserated her on her unhappy loss, and enquired when that dismal event had taken place, to which she informed me it had been but 4 months ago – to wit, January – when her earthly friend and helpmeet had departed this mortal coil.

'Ah, well, I expect you are quite right. I suppose you meet some queer types.' was my next remark.

'Well, no sir, I can't say as we have had any trouble of that sort. My last lodger, for instance – if I had been alone I would not have let him in the door, for he was terrible rough-looking, for all he was so free with his money. But Mr Wade – Malcolm, as he bid us call him – was as friendly a gent as you could hope to meet, though oft-times he would brood and brood, then spring up and go out to walk off his ill humour.'

Here was my clue, dropped into my lap by a mis-step!

'Malcolm Wade?' I enquired incredulously, 'Why, I wonder if it could be the same Malcolm Wade as I went to school with – last that I heard of him he had emigrated – Australia or California or one of those places. Well, if he has come back he must have failed, poor chap.'

'Oh yes, Mr Wade had just returned from Australia. He used to talk to us sometimes of the queer things he had seen there – creatures like giant jumping rats, with pockets in their fronts, and beetles as big as your hand, and all manner of things, though half the time I suspect he was jesting, for the good Lord never did give a creature pockets, I'm sure on it. But to be sure he hadn't failed – he did not boast or anything, but he never quibbled about a halfpenny and always seemed to have enough to spare and more.'

'Really? Well, I'll be blessed. Did he leave you his address at all, or give any hint as to where he was going? I would dearly love to see the old chap again and talk over old times.'

'No, sir. He got a letter that sent him off to London in a fever, last November it was, but he didn't leave a direction, and he said he would send for his things, though he never did, and I have his box still, in hopes as he'd come back for it.'

My mind was racing at the thought he might have left some clue to his whereabouts in that box, but how to get at it I knew not.

At any rate, I now knew the gentleman's full name, and that he was last seen on his way to London. To London, then, I must go, and I pretty much ascertained, by asking at all the inns on the road, that he reached that metropolis. After that, I drew a blank. I did, however, dispatch a telegram in that gentleman's name, to the good biddy at the cottage, asking for my – ahem, his – box to be sent to my private chambers in London. However, there too I drew a blank. The box contained no correspondence, no papers, no cards, no books, nothing whatever that could give the slightest clue to the man – nothing but a few items of clothing, unmarked. I searched for secret compartments, but could find none, and so must assume that any private papers he had, any letters from your Mama, he either destroyed, or took with him.

My dear ladies, we need the other half of that correspondence. Mrs Trent has received letters from him, she may well have them still. I have yet another tack to try to solve this mystery, which will take me out of this part of the country, so I charge you with this task. Find the letters!”

Chapter the 14th

Adeline and Lydia pledged themselves to get at those letters if they should still be in existence, but the question was, how?

It was Lydia who made the first attempt. The plan required acting a part, which innocent Adeline was incapable of.

“I should blush and tremble so, for fear of discovery, and would not be able to hide my true feelings in the slightest.” she confessed, and Lydia was fain to agree.

And so that very afternoon, Lydia bearded the lion in her den, and tapped politely on the door of her stepmother's sitting-room.

“Mrs Trent, I wonder if I might come and sit with you for a while. I know that we have not been close of late, but I...” Lydia blushed prettily and looked down, “I should greatly value your advice upon a... a personal matter.”

A look of annoyance flashed across Evelyn's face, but she hid it in a moment.

“Of course, if my advice can be of any value to you, you are welcome to it. Come in.”

The two ladies sat in silence for a moment. Lydia poking uncertainly at her knitting, and Evelyn (oh fate!) engaged in writing a letter. On the table at which Evelyn sat lay an elegant writing-desk, open, with several tantalising bundles of paper visible within it's recesses. Lydia was busy trying to get a good look at these while appearing to be entirely absorbed by her knitting, when Evelyn laid down her pen and said;

“Well?”

Poor Lydia had only the haziest idea exactly what advice she might be supposed to require. She had decided the most plausible story would be a matter of the heart, and she uttered the first name that sprang into her head.

“I don not know exactly where to begin, but it is about – about the Captain. You may be aware, Mama – I mean Mrs Trent – of our growing acquaintance with the young gentleman. We have spent a good deal of time together, and, without wishing to appear vain, I think - that is - I begin to suspect that, perhaps, he may be wishing for a yet closer friendship.”

“Well? And what are your wishes?”

“To own the truth, I am not exactly sure. That is what I wanted you to advise me.”

“What is the young man's fortune? What are his prospects?”

“I believe he has several thousand pounds in prize-money. He is yet young, and may well rise in his profession.”

“Hmph, well, you are not a beauty, and with only two-and-a-half thousand of your own you could do a lot worse. I do not see any harm in encouraging him a little.”

“But when my feelings are so undecided, would it not be unfair to attempt to excite in him an affection I may find myself unable to return?”

“Dear me, Lydia, what does that have to do with anything? If you wish to marry well, you must learn to be a little less squeamish.”

Lydia was becoming more and more uncomfortable by the moment. Not only was she laying claim to the heart of a man she was certain had never looked upon her with any warmer feeling than friendship, but every word that fell from her stepmother's lips was deepening her disgust of the woman, and of her cold, worldly selfishness.

It was a relief when Estelle, Mrs Trent's maid, put her head round the door to consult with her mistress about something. Evelyn sighed.

“I find I must leave you for a few moments,” she said with her habitual acid sweetness. “Do excuse me.”

Lydia's heart leapt within her as she thought of the desk – but to her dismay her stepmother stepped across to the table, shut up the desk, and turned the key in the lock, before leaving the room.

Lydia examined the desk and tried the lid, but it was firmly locked with a patent Bramah lock, and the lid could neither be moved or picked (even had Lydia known how to pick a lock, which useful science she was in ignorance).

When Mrs Trent returned, a few moments later, Lydia thanked her for her advice, and excused herself.

“Well,” she philosophised to herself, “at least we are one step closer in knowing she keeps some letters and papers in her writing-desk. But how to get at them?”

This was a conundrum indeed, but it was not many days before the girls made a second attempt.

"Please, Ma'am, Miss Adeline feels awfully ill, and is asking for you?" said Bessie nervously, half-edging into Mrs Trent's sitting room.

Evelyn sighed, and put down her work.

"Oh, how tiresome. Well, I suppose I had better go, though ten to one it is nothing more than a headache or some other trifling indisposition." and she swept out of the room, followed by Bessie.

Adeline was of course shamming illness, but her nervousness made her pale and flushed by turns, her throat constricted and her lips were dry, making her voice weak and uncertain, and her eyes flashed in a way that was almost genuinely feverish, with the consequence that she actually appeared to be truly ill. Her goal of course was to detain her mother for as long as possible, in order to give Lydia adequate time to attempt to gain access to the desk. Fortunately, her natural reluctance to lie forced her to give evasive answers to the questions her mother put to her, which actually prolonged the conversation to almost half-an-hour. At the end of this time, Evelyn declared that she believed there was nothing much the matter with the girl.

"Aye, there was nothing much the matter with the master, either." grumbled Bessie darkly.

Evelyn responded to this sally with no reply save a look of withering scorn, and passed on.

"Oh, Miss, whatever can the matter be?" wailed Bessie, for the young ladies had determined that, for safety's sake, nobody should be in the secret but themselves. To deceive the good woman went sorely against the grain with Adeline, who felt as if her heart would burst.

"I expect my mother is right, there is nothing much wrong with me - I feel so much better now. Really, I am ashamed to have made such a fuss. It was probably nothing but a brief attack of biliousness - no doubt I ate too many of those delicious little cakes at tea-time."

With a look that said clearly she believed Adeline was making light of a real illness, Bessie fussed round making the 'invalid' comfortable - poking the fire, placing a stool for her feet and a cushion behind her head, and instructing her, as if talking to a child, to ring if she felt the slightest bit worse, or wanted anything. This kindness felt like heaping coals of fire on poor Adeline's head, and she was still blushing as red as a poppy ten minutes later, when Lydia glided quietly into the room.

"Oh, Lydia! How did you fare? was the desk unlocked? Did you find anything?"

"Nothing at all." said Lydia in a despondent tone. "The desk was not in her sitting room - she must have taken it into her bedroom, or her dressing-room."

"Then I suppose we must make an attempt on her bedroom next." sighed Lydia, mortified that she had acted so deceitful a part - and all for nothing!

They did indeed make several attempts on Evelyn's private apartments, while the widow was out paying calls or drinking tea, but were constantly baffled by Estelle, who had the unpleasant habit of gliding up as silently as a cat at the moment when she was least wanted.

The girls were sadly disappointed by the failure of these first attempts, but they did not yet despair.

Chapter the 15th

Much as the girl's hearts burned to solve the mystery which now hung over their heads, they of course could not devote every waking hour to it's solution. Lydia of course had the demands of the household to contend with, which seemed to take up an unaccountable amount of time, and there were of course the near-daily visits of Alfred and the Captain. It may seem odd that Adeline, who was most closely concerned with the mystery, was the one who could be most forgetful of it, but, of course, she was in Alfred's society, and Alfred was sun and moon to her, eclipsing everything else. To spend a few delicious hours with him, talking over their future, furnishing and refurnishing the pleasant little cottage they would occupy, determining Alfred's future profession and Adeline's daily occupations as his wife - these were subjects which the young lovers never tired of discussing. Alfred would become a lawyer, and defend all the helpless innocents of the county, setting right every injustice - or else a writer, when he would burst forth upon the literary sphere with a novel which would be talked of by everyone, and run into fifteen editions. Adeline would stay at home and mend his shirts, and cook lemon cheese-cakes for his dinner, and every evening they would walk out (for of course every evening would be fine, in that happy fantasy-land), and talk for hours, and never tire of one another's company.

Lydia was thus thrown much into the company of the Captain. Although in some corner of her mind she seemed always revolving the conundrum of the locked desk, she too could yet be happy, and gay, and talk of everything and nothing. The Captain's health and spirits were prospering finely - he had put on flesh, filling out his hollow cheeks if not his form - while his eyes were more wont to sparkle and his boyish mouth curved upwards into a smile more often than heretofore. The friendship, too, prospered. Lydia loved to hear him speak of the strange lands he had visited in his years at sea, and she could happily spend hours questioning him about the habits and customs of Fiji Islanders and Maori tribesmen, the geography of China and the politics of Ecuador, and myriad other nations and peoples. The discourse was of benefit to both - Lydia increased her store of information, while the Captain learned to be less reserved, and to organise his ideas - for Lydia asked a good many intelligent questions which often required reflection before answering.

Despite all this, the two showed not the slightest symptoms of losing their hearts - the affection that had sprung up naturally between them was that of brother and sister, and nothing more.

If Lydia had had the slightest inclination in that direction, then an uncomfortable conversation between the two would have nipped it in the bud.

It was late May, and the little party had decided to mark Adeline's twentieth birthday with a picnic, for the weather was more than usually fine. The Captain had not, as yet, seen the Abbey, and it had been almost a year since the other two had set foot within it's once-sacred precincts, so it was that venerable ruin that they made their destination.

It was after tea, and Lydia and the Captain were strolling about together in the shade of the Abbey's remaining walls, whilst Adeline and Alfred remained under the trees where they had spread their feast, refurnishing their cottage once more. They had spent the afternoon rambling about, explaining to the Captain their researches amongst the old stones, each presenting their pet theory and arguing in its favour, until Adeline reminded them that they were hungry, and a basket full of good things awaited them in the shade of a venerable oak. They had crowned the birth-day queen with mayflowers, and drunk her health in light sparkling wine, feasted her with cakes, fruit, and merry laughter. They had brought tribute, in the form of birthday gifts. Lydia had worked her sister a delicate set of lace collar and cuffs, over which she had taken many pains, and many a late night, that Adeline would not see them. Alfred had shyly presented a small half-hoop ring of diamonds, with the tender hope that she would wear it for his sake – Adeline scolded him for his extravagance, but nevertheless slipped it onto her hand immediately, and was immensely proud of her diamond ring. Even the Captain gave something – a curious little jade charm for her watch-guard, in the form of an Oriental lion-dog.

“They are symbols of great good-fortune in the Far East, these creatures, and are found at the entrance of many a temple, being thought to be their deity's watchdogs. I hope it will watch over you, Miss Wade, and bring you good luck.”

Now the sinking sun seemed to put all four in a quieter, more reflective mood, and at first Lydia and the Captain were entirely silent, though without awkwardness. After they had taken two or three turns of the length of the walls, the Captain spoke in a low tone.

"Miss Trent, I - I do not quite know how to begin the subject with you..."

Lydia's heart sank for a moment - she hoped he was not going to make a declaration! There would be an end of all the ease and comfort of their discourse, the brotherly and sisterly footing on which they had so quickly found themselves.

"It has reached my ears that - well, that one or two people are - well, to put it in the words of the village, they are coupling our names together. Of course I should pay no regard to village gossip, but it occurred to me that - though I do not think I have seen any symptom of it - oh, how vain I must sound! It occurred to me that you may have begun to entertain certain expectations - I am sure that is not the case, but, I felt it my duty to explain some portion of my history, which may make sure matters lie clearer between us, and ensure no village gossip can disturb us."

Poor Captain! He was now as shy as the day he first arrived in the village. He blushed, and stammered, and looked more like an embarrassed schoolboy than ever. Lydia tried not to show her relief that no declaration seemed to be forthcoming.

"Of course I shall listen with pleasure to anything you wish to tell me, but I assure you it is not at all necessary. I look upon with you with considerable regard, that is certain, but it is the regard of a sister toward a favourite brother."

"Then let me tell you, as a brother to a trusted sister, some little of my early life." said the Captain, who seemed, having worked himself up to unburdening himself of some secret, determined to go through with his confession at all costs. Lydia was silent, and he took her silence for assent.

"Would it surprise you, Miss Trent, to learn that I was married at an early age? Yes, I was - at just fifteen. I did not intend it so, but the thing was done and so I of course made the best of it I could. You may well wonder how a child of fifteen can find himself wed, but if I tell you I was living in Scotland at the time, that should tell you all. Many an unwary young lad or lass has found themselves married without intending to be, according to the strange customs of that land. I must assure you, however, that my wedding came about through no sin or dark design of my own, but that I was in some measure tricked into it by my father and my spouse.

"At any rate, I was married, whether I liked it or not, and though somewhat dismayed at first, made up my mind to be as dutiful and loving a spouse as lay in my power.

“This ambition, however, was never to reach fruition. I soon found that I could neither love or respect my chosen helpmeet. A habitual drunkard, and the companion of drunkards, with all the brutality and low morals that attend that class of being. Nevertheless, I persevered, and in the first three years suffered agony after agony – as I endeavoured to lift the companion of my life from the gutter, with all that gentle patience could do. But what can the weakness and inexperience of seventeen do against the habit of a lifetime (for my spouse was older than me by some ten years, and had been a drunkard for four years more than that)? Time and again, after the commission of some base and bestial act, or some unexplained absence from home, the begging forgiveness, grovelling at my knees - the promises of reform, and those promises acted on for a month, a week, a day – and then the sinking back into the mire of brutality. In what should have been the brightest and best days of my youth, sin and corruption were my constant companions.

“Then came a new hope. I was blessed with a son, and for a few short hours I had the prospect of having some creature on this Earth I could love. But the dream was short lived – the child died a few hours after his birth, and my... wife was directly responsible. After this cruel disappointment, we could live together no longer, and so we parted.

“I have not heard aught of my unfortunate helpmeet for many years, but I have not heard of her death, either, and so I conclude myself to be still married – married to one I cannot still think about without a shudder.” And the Captain did indeed shudder here, and lapsed into silence, as if recounting this painful tale had exhausted both body and mind. Lydia quietly reached out and touched his hand.

“I had not expected to hear such a story, but I thank you for trusting me with it. You may count on my confidence. You have borne much – I could not add betrayal to the injuries that have been heaped upon you. And if there is aught a sister can do to erase – not the memory, but the bitterness of the past, then I pledge myself to do it.”

The tears stood in the Captain's eyes at that gentle speech. He restrained himself manfully, however, and in a few minutes was composed enough to thank her, though both remained subdued throughout the remainder of the evening.

Chapter the 16th

Two or three weeks had passed, and still Adeline and Lydia had got no closer to their goal, to secure and examine Mrs Trent's papers for some clue to Malcolm Wade's whereabouts. Lydia passed many a sleepless night, as she revolved in her mind, and rejected, plan after plan, stratagem after stratagem.

Then one dull June day, as she was walking in the garden, in an attempt to clear her head after a particularly fatiguing session with Cook and the household account-books, she chanced to look up at the house, and all at once conceived a bold idea.

Mrs Trent's apartments were inaccessible from inside the house – either Mrs Trent was occupying them, or else the door was locked, or Estelle was on the prowl. The sly Frenchwoman occupied a room directly opposite that of her mistress, and seemed to have almost preternatural hearing – or else a sixth sense which revealed to her the presence of anyone approaching the door to her mistress's chambers. She was all but guaranteed to appear, silent-footed as a cat, at her own chamber door, should anyone draw near those sacred precincts, disturbing any would-be watcher or listener with a bland enquiry as to whether she could assist them, 'Madame not wishing to be disturbed at this time'. Day or night, the patient spy Estelle could be counted on as an impassable barrier to the girls' quest.

So, how to pass the dragon which guarded the door? Why, not to go through the door at all!

Lydia drew nearer the house, and began to make a pretty thorough investigation of the walls of the house. What she saw apparently satisfied her, for anyone very close to her at that moment would have heard her say to herself, with a queer little half-smile – part determination, part excitement, part fear, and part surprise at her own audacity - “It shall be tried tonight”.

Alas, that evening it set in to rain, and continued raining heavily into the early hours. The audacious plan was by necessity postponed.

“It is too dangerous in the wet,” said Lydia, grimly. “Nevertheless, I shall not wait long before trying.”

Fortunately, Lydia had not told Adeline of what she intended, rightly surmising that the sensitive girl would be alarmed, and would try her utmost to prevent the execution of the daring deed. This meant that Lydia had only her own disappointment and impatience to contend with.

How long and dreary the next day seemed to Lydia, who watched the weather with nervous anticipation. To her grim satisfaction, it remained dry that day, and in the afternoon, the sun broke through the clouds, drying the remains of the previous night's rain. After tea, Lydia made the excuse of having some letters to write, but on retiring to her chamber she did not open her desk, but instead lay down upon the bed. She had hoped she may be able to snatch a little sleep, but her thoughts were racing as she anxiously anticipated the dangers and alarms of the night ahead. Nevertheless, she remained lying down for an hour, at the end of which time the arose and washed her face, feeling a little refreshed.

The gentlemen were to dine with the young ladies that evening, and so after dinner coffee was served. It was the normal habit of the girls to take tea after dinner, but this evening Adeline was surprised to see her take a cup of coffee. She forbore to comment, however, until the gentlemen had left, and the girls were retiring for the night.

“Lydia dearest, I am concerned that you may be feeling unwell. You have seemed quiet and preoccupied all evening, and you did not brighten up even when the Captain was telling us all about the Imperial Court of China, and you took coffee instead of tea - do you feel ill? Is there anything I can do for you?”

Lydia was forced to dissemble.

“Oh, I have a slight headache, that is all – this muggy weather always makes me feel a little low, does it not you?”

“A little, perhaps. But if you are really ill I beg you will not hide it from me – take care of yourself, for I could not do without you my dear. Goodnight.” and with a kiss and a tender little caress, Adeline passed into her own room, there to go to bed and dream of her cottage and her Alfred.

Lydia too retired to her bedroom, but though she removed her dress, she did not get into bed. Instead she took up some sewing, with which she remained indifferently occupied for some two hours. I fear the stitches she set in that anxious time were not so neat as they usually were, and at one point she had to unpick a seam, having set in the sleeve of the child's shirt she was making inside out.

At midnight, she blew out her candle, but still she did not go to bed. Instead she sat a long while watching a patch of light on the lawn. This light was shed from the candles in her stepmothers room, and it was almost one of the clock before that light was finally extinguished. Still Lydia did not move. She sat until she heard the distant church clock striking two, and then she arose from her hard chair by the table. Her petticoat was bulky, and this she removed, before slipping on the dark grey cashmere gown she had been wearing earlier. Then, with no light but the half-moon, she quietly slipped out of the window.

There was a narrow ledge, about 6 inches deep, running cross the breadth of the wall on that side of the house. It was about three feet below the windows of the upper story, and partly obscured by the ivy that grew thickly over the honey-coloured stone. Turning slightly so she faced into the room, Lydia carefully lowered her feet onto that ledge. Then, slowly, taking care not to make a sound, she began to inch her way along the ledge.

The thickly-clustering vines of the ivy were both a help and a hindrance. The hard grey-green stems, which looked black in the dim moonlight, afforded plentiful handholds, enabling Lydia to keep her balance. Where they overgrew the ledge, however, they often impeded her feet, and rendered her progress along the wall painfully slow. She had to pass her stepmother's bedroom window, which stood open a little way – fortunately the heavy curtains were closed – and here she paused and listened intently. A slow, measured breathing told her that Mrs Trent was soundly asleep. Lydia breathed a silent sigh of relief at this – she had been about twenty minutes on this slow, silent, creeping journey, and though she was a young woman of active habits, she was still beginning to feel a little fatigued.

The next obstacle to be passed was the corner of the house – and here she found the ledge narrowed to about four inches, giving her barely a toehold upon the wall, and rendering her ever more reliant on the fragile handholds of the ivy. She had a few very tense moments as, in traversing the corner of the house, her foot dislodged something – a stone, an old birds nest – she could not tell what – which fell to the gravel below with a crunch which in the dead calm of the night seemed to echo from the very hills.

For what seemed like an hour, though in reality but a few minutes, she clung there, ears straining for the slightest sound of movement within the house, but all was mercifully silent.

At last, her goal was within reach. The casement of her stepmother's sitting-room window stood open, but this presented a dangerous obstacle. Lydia could not manage to reach round the pane to the iron bar which propped the window open, so she was forced to take her courage in both hands, and swing herself out around the open window. For a moment she felt faint and giddy, her head swam, her hands started to slip, and all would have been lost had her instincts of survival not been strong at that moment. Hardly knowing how she did it, she swung out over the perilous drop, still inching her feet along the ledge, and sank gratefully onto the windowsill. She was in her stockinged feet, and so she was able to slip stealthily into the room.

Lydia was dismayed to find that she could not see the desk, and even her audacity dared not penetrate into the bedroom, but she carefully examined some books and papers lying on the table. By the few words she could make out by the light of the moon, most of these seemed to be milliners bills, invitations and laundry lists, with the occasional magazine of the lighter kind. Her search was rewarded, however, as she lifted a pile of miscellaneous papers, to reveal a small morocco-bound memorandum book. On closer examination, the writing in the book, which was about three-quarters filled, appeared to be in Mrs Trent's hand – though she could not make out a word. Quickly, she slipped the book into her pocket, and restored the papers, as close as she could remember, to their original order – or rather disorder.

She looked round once more for any trace of the desk, and then returned to the window.

There was a drainpipe running down the wall a couple of feet beyond the window, and Lydia determined to descend into the garden rather than risk the journey back the way she had come, for the sun would be rising soon, and her arms screamed with fatigue. With the ivy for handholds, she made a relatively easy descent, though she was forced to jump down the last few feet, as the ivy was very thin at this point.

When Maisy came down shortly after sunrise to light the kitchen fire and take out last night's ashes, she was very surprised to find her young mistress already out in the garden. However, the girl forbore to comment, or even to speculate, and so Lydia quickly slipped upstairs and into Adeline's room.

“Wake up, Adele, wake up!” she stage-whispered, shaking her sister gently.

“Mmm? Lyddy? What is it?”

“I HAVE GOT HER DIARY!”

Chapter the 17th

Adeline's astonishment at the news by which she was so suddenly awakened can well be imagined, but it was nothing to the shock and amazement she felt when she heard Lydia's account of how she had obtained the little volume. Although Lydia attempted to make light of the perilous feat, passing it off as a mere light scramble, barely more taxing than crossing a footbridge, Adeline turned white and fell back among the pillows, her hands clasped over her bounding heart, trembling with alarm.

“Oh, Lyddy, I wish you had not. If you had been discovered – why, I cannot imagine how you could possibly have explained yourself. And, oh, if you had slipped and fallen! It turns me quite faint just to think of it. I could not have done such a thing for the world.”

Lydia gently refuted this, though in truth her heart had all but burst with fright, more than once, and the recollection of that moment of giddy, sickening, dizzy terror to which she had almost succumbed as she swung out past the casement made her tremble even now, when the danger was passed.

Of the first consideration was the question of how to conceal their prize until such time as they had sufficient leisure to examine it. Lydia had, however, already carefully considered this as she strolled in the garden, awaiting the first of the household to awaken.

“It shall not leave my person.” she declared, exhibiting the capacious pocket she had tied around her waist, under her petticoats, for this purpose.

“But, oh dear, Lyddy, whatever will Mama do when she discovers the diary is gone?”

They did not have long to wait for an answer to this question. The girls had barely finished their toilets, when they were brought out into the corridor by the sounds of a violent argument in Mrs Trent's room. The door swung open and Estelle was expelled forcibly into the passage, expostulating in a voluble torrent of French. Not the prim, ladylike French the girls had had drilled into them at school by Madame Huillard - indeed that dry and genteel lady would in all likelihood have fainted had she heard the words that now poured shrilly forth from Estelle's lips. This was the French of the Paris gutters. Madame mistress, on the other hand, did not receive these execrations unmet.

“Traitress! Thief! Spy! Get out. Oh, have I nurtured a snake in my bosom? Get OUT!” and similar remarks, delivered in an ear-splitting screech, punctuated by shoes and books, which were shied at the furious lady's maid as swiftly as the lady could grab them. In a pause between volleys, Estelle drew herself up loftily.

“C'est bien, Madame. I am gone. I will stay here no more to be insulted and accused. No servant could have been more devoted than I. As to your little book, perhaps you burned it in one of your mauvaise moments. I never touched it, certainement. See, I leave this place. Have someone pack my things and I shall send for them.” and with this dignified speech, she glided off, as silent-footed as ever.

Mrs Trent, wild-eyed with fury, sprang across the passage into Estelle's chamber, flung open the window, and began to hurl her belongings, by heaping armfuls, out onto the gravel path below.

“Mama!” cried Adeline. “Stop, you excite yourself, you will be ill!”

Evelyn rounded on the girl, eyes flashing.

“And what care you for that? What cares anyone for me? Oh, I thought I could trust the woman but she is as bad as the rest of them. A thief and a traitress, spying and watching. Well, no more. I shall have no more strangers to watch and spy on me. You shall wait on me.” pointing at Adeline with imperious finger.

“I shall be glad to do anything I can for you, Mama, but...”

“Enough. Is it not a dutiful daughter's place to serve her mother? Honour thy father and thy mother, it is written. Come.”

Adeline followed helplessly in her wake as she swept back into her own rooms.

“Adeline, it may be our chance.” hissed Lydia as Adeline passed her. “Watch, dearest, and keep up your heart.”

Adeline had need of this last injunction, for she soon found that to 'wait on Mama' was no light task. Not only was she to assist her to dress, answer her letters, bring her meals and shawls and anything else she wanted, rise before her in the morning and go to bed after her at night, putting all her things in order before she could herself retire, she was also expected to sit with her when she wanted company, yet not stray beyond call when Evelyn wanted to be alone. Fortunately this was often, so Adeline at least had some leisure hours, though she could not leave the house. Much as she had disliked Estelle, Adeline now accorded her something of respect. Of course, as a hired servant Estelle had had the inviolable privilege of her 'evening out' – something which Adeline did not enjoy.

The girl was really pining for fresh air and exercise. Alfred would bring her flowers every day, but these cut blooms did not replace the wild flowers growing in the valleys. She saw less of her lover, too, for he and Lydia were examining the diary together, which could not be done near the house. Nevertheless, Adeline submitted to her duty, sustained by the hope that Evelyn would let slip something about the past, or that she might get a peep into the elusive writing-desk.

When Alfred heard of the morning's events, he was filled with concern for Adeline's situation, and admiration for Lydia's bravery.

“Poor girl, she will find it hard going I believe – Mrs Trent has never been regarded as an easy mistress, and of course a daughter can be worked harder than a hired maid. It was an unfortunate result – but considering how hard you have been trying to get into your Mamma's room, and here is Adeline invited – nay, commanded – in.

“And you are a brave and noble girl, I am proud to know you. If you were a man I should shake you by the hand.”

“I am not a man, but I do not see how that precludes you from taking my hand.” said Lydia, drily.

“Why, so it doesn't!” exclaimed he, with the air of one making a great discovery, and so saying, shook her hand heartily in both of his. At that, Lydia began to laugh, and shortly Alfred was compelled to laugh too.

“What an ass I must have sounded. I hope you will forgive me. And now shall we take a drive? I am dying to take a peek at this diary, to see if it is worth the fire and water you have gone through to secure it.”

They drove for a while, until they found a comfortable, secluded spot, and there they seated themselves and finally took their first look at the book, but Alfred soon flung it down in disgust.

“Why, it is nothing but garbled nonsense. I cannot make head nor tail of it. There are no dates, and random letters are stuck in every sentence, and there are all sorts of queer words which make no sense to me at all.”

“I do not believe it is nonsense – she uses a private code, that is all. See here; 'I mislike Ws looks? he knows – called on DG, out, found remedy in lancet.' Why, this must have been when father first became ill – William, you see? Now, DG, DG... wait, I have it. 'William looks ill, I wonder if he knows it (she may have meant does he know he is ill, or does he know I can see he is ill). Called on Doctor Gillespie, who was out, but found a remedy in a volume of The Lancet.'”

“Why, I do believe you are a genius!” exclaimed Alfred. “For now you come to translate it, I can see the meaning clear, but until you did, it made no more sense to me than if it were Hebrew. But looking for details of your father's illness will not help us now. Let us look farther on.”

Lydia did so, though with some reluctance. Of course her father's fatal illness was of immense interest to her, though she was reassured to find that apparently Evelyn had not been as uncaring as she had appeared to be at the time.

“At least she seems to use people's real initials. Let us look for any references to 'M' or 'MW'. Wait, here we are. 'have I worked so hard for nothing? letter from M, wants to see A and C. I am undone.'

That seems fairly transparent. It must treat of the letter we have – A and C are Adeline and Catherine. Hmm, let us see.” and her eyes continued skimming the pages.

“'have seen M, put off.' and then a few lines later – 'met M by apt, told knew C was in London. tgph, sent him to Lambscourt Hotel. N has promised.' Ah, so Catherine may be in London, and Mr Wade was sent to meet her there. 'tgph' must mean 'telegraph'. We must tell Mr Dodd, he may be able to trace him at the hotel!”

“But who is N, and what did he promise?”

“I do not know – I cannot see another reference to N – oh, wait, a few pages back. 'N came down, put plan to him. He is willing.'. Oh, that is frustrating, no word as to what the plan is. And further on – 'letter from N, all well.' - that could mean anything. Does it mean the plan, whatever it was, went off? Or is she talking about something quite different?”

“I tell you what, Lydia – Miss Trent I mean -”

“Oh,” interrupted Lydia with a smile, “In less than a year you will be my brother – I think I may safely grant you permission to use my Christian name.”

“I tell you what, Lydia,” continued Alfred, smiling as he uttered her name, “All this skipping backwards and forwards will do us no good. We must go about this systematically, start at the beginning, translating and making notes as we go, lest we miss something. If we write our notes on small squares of paper or pasteboard, we can easily shuffle them round until we see the connections. In the meantime, I'll telegraph to Mr Dodd to let him know the name of that hotel, as it may be of use to him.”

“You are quite right, Alfred – see how I return the honour – that does indeed strike me as an excellent plan.”

Chapter the 18th

It took the pair more than a month to 'translate' the whole diary, working together, making notes and suggestions each when the other foundered in a bog of initials.

They did in fact find very little other mention of either Malcolm Wade or the mysterious 'N' – it seemed that Mrs Trent had met with Mr Wade – we ought to say, with her husband - some three or four times, but except on the final occasion, when she had sent him to London in search of Catherine, the diary contained no details of these meetings. 'N' was not mentioned again.

The diary did contain other things, however, which troubled Lydia greatly. There were a great many references in the early part of the little volume, for example, to the 'remedy' which she had discovered in a medical journal whilst waiting at the village doctor's consulting rooms.

“See here,” said Lydia to Alfred, one early-August afternoon, as they sat together in their now-familiar sheltered spot. “This whole thing puzzles me greatly. All these entries here – see, there is a great block of them together on this page – nothing much else of moment must have happened in that period – 'W 3 doses today. W dined out – 1 dose at breakfast, one in tea. W 3 d – see, now she has shortened 'dose' to just 'd' – W from home all today, could not give d'. It seems she was slipping this mysterious 'remedy' to him without his knowledge.”

“Perhaps he was unwilling to take physic which the doctor had not prescribed.” commented Alfred.

“Perhaps. But it gets odder still. 'my remedy is effective. W worse today, confined to bed. 3xd in port daily' – that would explain why she was so protective of his 'particular' wine. And then further on – 'W is at crisis. Should I continue? yes – for the best.'

“How can she say in one entry that the physic is effective, and that Papa is worse? The two things contradict one another.”

“Perhaps they are not one entry – perhaps they are two entries on the same line. On one day Mr Trent appeared to be better, and she believed the medicine was working, the next day he collapsed. But why continue to give it if it seems to do no good? Why say 'it is for the best' when it appears to be completely useless? You are right, it is indeed a puzzle.” and there was a pause while both pondered this puzzle.

“Alfred!” said Lydia suddenly and slowly, as if the words were being wrung from her against her will. She had blanched to the roots of her hair, and she trembled slightly as she spoke.

“Alfred, we have been looking at this the wrong way round. The remedy was not for Papa, it was for her. She did not mislike his looks because he was looking ill, and she thought he knew he was ill. She misliked the way he looked at her - she suspected he knew her secret, the still-living husband. She could with all honesty say the remedy was effective as he died before our eyes, because it was not meant to cure him, but to kill him! My father was murdered, by slow poison.

“Oh, say I am wrong!” she cried out, her voice wild and despairing, hiding her face in her hands. “though every sign points that way, surely she cannot be so evil as that. She has not been the tenderest of mothers or most loving of wives, but surely even she would not stoop so low at man-slaughter!”

Alfred was stunned. Not only at the crime Lydia had accused her stepmother of – for the more he now turned over the evidence in his mind, the blacker it looked for Mrs Trent – he was more shocked at Lydia's sudden loss of self control. In all the time he had known her, he had never once seen her show her true emotions as completely as at this moment.

And as she raised her head and her eyes, wild and despairing, met his, it was as if the veil which concealed all the innermost feelings of her heart was, for a moment, lifted. And in that heart he read another secret, more jealously guarded and concealed than any other. And that secret met in his an answering one, hidden, until now, full as deep.

Their eyes met for just a moment, but in that moment heart spoke to heart, and Alfred suddenly awoke to the horror of his position. She loved him with all her soul – and he loved her, measure for measure, and yet he was honour bound to her sister! He hardly knew how it had happened – the gentle, lovely Adeline had bewitched him, he believed. Encouraged by her complete adoration of him, he had fancied himself in love, but in truth it was but an infatuation. Adeline was all that is charming and good and lovely, but now the scales had fallen from his eyes, he could not remember a time when he had not truly loved Lydia – clever, resourceful, loyal, brave, noble Lydia.

The moment passed, the veil fell, but all was changed from that moment on. No, it can not be. Let me bury this love, if it should kill us in the attempt, thought Alfred. He got up, and strode away, on the pretext of bringing Lydia a little water from the stream nearby.

When he came back to her, she was as composed as ever. She accepted the water gratefully, and then spoke again.

“My words were ill-considered – can I truly believe that my stepmother is a murderess? But I do fear she is ill – look at the later entries. She seems convinced she is being watched – she writes of spies set to watch her in the woods when she goes out, Look here. 'went to tea with ST today, the old women followed me all the way home. I felt their eyes on me, I could hear them whispering about me'. and here. 'they are poking about again, I saw them peeking in the window downstairs. I have shut the curtains but they are still there.' and 'slept ill – one of them stood beneath my window all night, whispering. said she would tell, would put me in all the newspapers.'

“She seems to suspect all the servants of plotting against her. She has confined herself to her rooms because of it. When she argued with Estelle, she accused her of being a spy and a traitress.

“Thank goodness she has never yet accused Adeline or I of any conspiracy against her, for at this moment Adeline is completely in her power.”

At this thought, the pair shared another look, but this time one of horror.

Chapter the 19th

Adeline was, for the moment, safe enough, though she confessed, when questioned by Lydia and Alfred, that she was a little frightened of her mother, who at times acted strangely.

“She has locks to everything,” Adeline explained, “and when she requires something, she grudgingly doles out a key, and watches one like a hawk until it is returned.

“At timed she seems afraid of something or someone – I know not what. Often she will send me to the window, sometimes as frequently as every five or ten minutes, and when I report that I see nothing out of the ordinary, she will sigh out – 'Oh, they are too quick for you!'”

This behaviour, though odd, did not seem threatening, for the present, and Lydia's mind was in some measure put at rest. She did not share her dreadful suspicions of Evelyn with Adeline, and for a few days life continued in it's usual tenor.

There was little more to be gleaned from the diary, and so Lydia and Alfred were able to remain at home, to Adeline's great joy. This gentleman was as attentive and tender as ever, but Adeline sensed a sudden change with him.

“I cannot say what is very different, only that he seems somehow more reserved than formerly, as if he is keeping something back from me. No doubt the situation at hand taxes him sorely. I hope he is not ill.” mused Adeline.

Lydia's heart leapt involuntarily within her at this speech, but at the next moment it smote her with guilt and remorse. What was it to her if Alfred's affection for her sister be lessened in the slightest degree? So long as Adeline was not made unhappy – that was all that mattered.

Her reverie was interrupted by a commotion at the door – it was Richard Dodd, come to ask them to walk. How glad they all were to see that gentleman! And how Adeline's heart did flutter when she thought of how he may have some news of her father and sister – may have seen them, have spoken with them!

In less than five minutes the girls had on their bonnets and things, and in less than twenty judged themselves to be far enough from the house to speak without reserve. Little had been said in those twenty minutes – all hearts were too full for mere commonplace chatter.

At last they came to a shady lane, where they could see if anyone was coming from any direction. As they strolled back and forth along the lane, they began to speak.

“Oh, Mr Dodd,” gasped Adeline, “What news? Have you found them?” - and they all began to speak at once.

“Hush, hush!” cried the detective. “You shall hear all, if you'll let me tell it in my own way, and make no interruptions – you can quiz and question me all you like afterward.”

they could make no demur to that proposal, and so Detective Dodd began to pour his tale into the three pairs of attentive ears.

“You may remember that, having traced Mr Wade to London, the trail there went cold. Well, there is more than one way to skin a cat, and it seemed to me that one way to find the father would be to go after the daughter – Catherine, you know.

“The letter from Mr Wade had spoken of the girl as having married, so first I needed to find out what name she goes by now. Well the Captain helped out here, unknowing. One day – we had both chanced to visit here and were walking home together – he chanced to ask me if Mrs Trent had ever lived in the village of Houghton, in one of the Northern counties of England, as she bore a great resemblance to someone he once knew there. This, coupled with my own private suspicions, determined me on my course. I would go to that village, and search the parish registers of all the local churches, on the chance Miss Wade the elder had been married there – it seemed likely she would have been married from her home.

“To Houghton, then, I repaired, and near wore out my eyesight and choked myself with dust, poking and peering over mouldy old registers in musty old vestries. Not a trace of the Wades did I find – but in the smallest and mustiest of the churches I found a curious thing – one page, within the dates with which I was concerned, was missing, torn clean out of the book. This looked suspicious, and on further investigation I found several more missing pages. This now looked black indeed.

“Applying to the rector of that church (and that was no easy task, for he had the cure of three other parishes besides, and whichever one I was in he was bound to be in another) for information about those missing pages, he seemed somewhat discomfited, but told me that the old churchwarden, one Matthew Thwaite, had kept copies. However, he did not know where the old man was.

“Asking round the village I finally found someone who believed that, finding himself of increasing infirmity, old Matt had gone, some years ago, to live with his son, in another village twenty miles distant. Arriving at that village, what should I find but Matt Thwaite in the churchyard, and his son emigrated.

“I believe I talked with every fool in that village before I finally found one who had an inkling of what the younger Mr Thwaite's address may be, and then of course I had a long, uncertain wait while a letter found him.

“Find him it did, and in reply to my query as to what had happened to the old man's papers, particularly the copies of the parish registers – for I had represented myself as the curate of Thwaite's old parish, and acknowledged that the original registers had been damaged – he politely begged to inform me that they had been sold to a paper-merchant in Leeds. The young gentleman, requiring money for his passage, had sold everything of his father's that had the least monetary value.

“To Leeds, then, I turned my steps, and let me tell you, a manufacturing town in late August and early September is no joke! Having located the paper-merchant, I immediately took lodgings nearby, and set about trying to find out if the registers were in his possession. I had a suspicion, as Yorkshire folk are said to drive a hard bargain, that if I had revealed my purpose and motive, I may have found the leaves of those dirty old books to be worth more than the paper issued by the old lady in Threadneedle Street. I therefore set myself to watch the man, and find out his habits.

“I soon found out that he was a gentleman of a sporting persuasion – in other words, he could never resist a wager. Within a week I had struck up a friendship with him in the local public-house, and by studying the sporting papers by day, was able to improve the acquaintance rapidly, by discussing such improving topics as horse-races and boxing-matches.

“It was not long before he invited me to enjoy a sociable evening, involving the consumption of an indifferently boiled leg of mutton and a great quantity of brandy-and-water, at his home – or should I say his warehouse, for he seemed to live amongst his stock, the great drifts of paper having encroached so as to almost swamp the humble lodging attached to his shop. Having finally exhausted the subject of the probable winner of the 3.15 at Doncaster the next day, we finally fell to amusing ourselves by making friendly wagers between ourselves.

“This gentleman took great pride in his memory, at least so far as his stock was concerned, and I declared I would put it to the test. I began to make wagers that he could not lay his hand upon certain types of paper article within a given time. Having lost five pounds by his being able to produce, within five minutes, a love-letter, and a newspaper dated three years ago, I proposed double-or-quits upon him being able to show me a parish register.

“'Then tha 'ad better get thy ten pounds out, ready, for I can show you fifteen o' them articles, and much sooner than five minutes – try five seconds!' and so saying, he pulled out the very books I had been in search of – from underneath the chair on which I was sitting! I had been so close to my goal and had not known it.

“'Here is your ten pounds, friend' says I, 'I had better not make any more wagers of that kind. Perhaps you might give me one of the articles as a reminder not to challenge you to such a contest again – a sort of souvenir of a most entertaining and agreeable evening.'

“'Take aught tha wish,' says he, rather the worse for the brandy by now, and in the hail-fellow-well-met phase. 'Though what tha 'ould want wi such as that I know not.'

“'Then I shall take one of these volumes, if I may – it will look well on my bookshelf, and serve me a daily reminder never to tangle with an expert.' and with the air of a man choosing at random, I secured the volume covering the dates in which I was interested.

“How feverishly I did examine that mouldering old book the instant I got back to my lodging! And how certain names did jump out at me when I read the pages that had been missing from the original! Here are those names, and the events in their lives which were recorded in that parish church.”

And the detective laid a slip of paper before them, on which he had copied the relevant entries.

The first, dated some thirty years previously, recorded the marriage of Malcolm Wade, bachelor, to Adeline Cottrell, spinster of this parish. It was some time, it seemed, before this union was blessed with fruit, for the announcement of the baptism of Catherine Anne Wade came four years later. It was full another six years before her younger sister, Adeline Elizabeth Wade, was baptised, but then just a few short days before the burial of the unfortunate mother, Adeline Wade nee Cottrell.

The widower proved not inconsolable, however, and within a year of his first wife's death came the register of his marriage to Evelyn Mary Spence.

To Adeline, this was joyful confirmation that she had an older sister, but it was Lydia who, in a moment, grasped the full significance of what was there written.

“Don't you see?” she gasped, “Evelyn is not Adeline's mother!”

Chapter the 20th

The walk back to the house was silent, all being busy with their thoughts. The detective's discovery had stunned them all. Adeline, indeed, could not even think, let alone speak. Lydia's first thoughts were for her sister, while Alfred was guiltily conscious that though he was tenderly concerned for Adeline, uppermost in his mind was anxiety for Lydia. He struggled to repress this thought, and to place concern for his fiancée above thoughts of how the news would affect the woman he loved.

Having been gone about two hours, they arrived home to find the house in an uproar. Maisy met them at the door.

"Oh, Miss Lydia, Miss Adeline!" wailed the distracted girl, "Thank goodness you are here! The mistress has taken on so - such screaming and hollering and ranting as turns my blood cold! She has been screaming as how everyone is against her, and was scheming and plotting to get rid of her, and now..." Maisy's face was a picture of frantic misery, "now she's locked Bessie up with her, and says as she's the chief plotter, and must be watched."

Though the girls could not entirely understand this garbled account, they grasped the main point, and ran upstairs to Mrs Trent's rooms.

"Who is there?" screeched a wild voice. "More spies and traitors, I'll be bound. Be off, I want none of you." and the door was shaken as some object was flung against it.

"Mama! It is I, it is Adeline!" called the younger girl, though her blood ran cold at that moment. "Is Bessie there? I need to speak to her about something."

"Oh miss, miss!" came a second voice. "She has got me tied up to a chair, and is so wild-like! I'm frighten...mmmf" and the voice was suddenly muffled.

"Alfred, quick, run for the doctor." called Lydia, "And bring James or Mr Scott, if you can find them (both manservant and butler being absent that morning, having business in the village) - or if not, some other man you can trust. Go, quickly, for a life may depend on it!"

Alfred did not waste an instant. Without even stopping to snatch up his hat, he was off as fast as his legs would carry him.

"Mama," said Adeline softly, "Won't you let me in? It is almost dinner time, you know. Shall I come and help you dress? Or perhaps you are not well - shall I fetch you some tea, and a little buttered toast?"

There was another crash as some glass object splintered against the back of the door.

"Get away!" came a great wild screech. "Viper! Traitress! None shall enter this room! None shall leave this room!"

There was a muffled scream from the terrified housemaid, and Adeline was beyond measure alarmed.

"Oh Lyddy!" she sobbed, "What shall we do? Poor Mama, poor Bessie! How can we get in? How can we stop some terrible act of violence being committed?!"

Lydia made no reply - she was walking into her own room!

"Lyddy! Where are you going?" wailed Adeline, not divining her purpose. "Oh, do not desert us!"

Lydia reappeared, carrying with some effort a heavy old-fashioned wash-stand from her room. This she dashed with all her strength against the locked door - once, twice, three times. At the third blow, the washstand came to pieces in her hands, but her object was achieved - the lock of the door was splintering. With almost superhuman strength, Lydia flung herself at the door, which suddenly gave way with a crash and pitched Lydia over a pile of broken glass and splintered furniture onto the floor of her stepmother's sitting room.

With a scream of rage, Evelyn snatched up a paper-knife from the table, and advanced on Lydia, who, somewhat stunned from her fall, was picking herself up from the floor.

"Lydia! Look out!" cried Adeline from the doorway.

With a sudden spring, Evelyn pounced on her stepdaughter, but the girl had moved quick as a flash, and Evelyn stumbled as her knife met no resistance. Lydia saw her advantage, and stepped forward, pinning Evelyn's arms to her sides.

The crazed woman fought with all her strength, and as they grappled it became apparent that Lydia was doomed to lose the contest. She struggled valiantly, the minutes seeming like hours, and at one point it seemed she had the advantage, but with a sudden, spasmodic jerk Evelyn slipped from her grasp, flinging the heroic girl to the floor and raising the knife. Lydia rolled, managing to slide partly out of the way as the knife descended once, then was raised again. Helpless, she shut her eyes and waited for death, knowing all was over, but the second blow never came, and Lydia opened her eyes to see Alfred and the Captain, pinning the struggling madwoman between them. Quickly, she tore off her stockings, and as the men pulled Evelyn's hands behind her, she bound them tightly.

"Curse you all, meddlers! Spies!" screamed the frantic Evelyn. "Enemies wherever I look!" and she sank to her knees with a cry of despair.

The cry was echoed by Adeline, who suddenly saw the sleeve of Lydia's gown, stained and dabbled with crimson.

"Oh, my poor Lydia, she is hurt, she is bleeding!" moaned Adeline, and, turning white, promptly fainted.

Alfred rushed to Lydia's aid, the Captain to Adeline's, while Maisy, her mouth a round o of surprise and horror all this time, had crept in and liberated the unfortunate Bessie, who was found to be unhurt, though very much frightened. A minute later the doctor arrived, and within a very short time had sedated the raving Evelyn, who now lay in a heavy stupor upon her bed, and bandaged Lydia's arm. Fortunately, the cut, though a deep one, was only a flesh-wound. Adeline he promptly sent to bed, with Maisy to look after her, while poor Bessie he prescribed copious sweet tea and a seat by the kitchen fire.

The Captain, having seen all the ladies safe, departed, feeling that at such a time the family would wish to be left to themselves. Alfred, having been upstairs and exchanged a few words with Adeline,now descended to the morning-room, where Lydia sat, staring into the fire. She had not yet rung for candles, though the evening was growing dark. She did not look up as Alfred entered.

“How is your arm, Lydia?” the gentleman enquired in a brisk tone, then, giving her no time to respond to that question, his voice softened and changed, and the words fell in a rush as if they were being forced from him.

“Oh, Lydia, how I honour you for your bravery this evening! How I admire you – how I...” and his voice faltered, but still he must speak, “How I love you. You must know it. I have struggled in vain, I thought I had conquered this passion, I had almost resigned myself to living comfortably, if not happily, with the woman to which my honour is pledged, but today, coming so close to losing you altogether...

“I know you will upbraid me as false, and so my own heart rebukes me, but I can no longer deny, to myself or to you, that I love you with all my heart and soul. Though my hand is bound to Adeline, my heart is bound to you, for all eternity. What can I do? What should I do? Oh Lydia, my love, my love, what have I done?”

Lydia had heard all this speech with her face turned from him, she sat so a moment longer, and he darted forward as if to take her hand. At this, she started, and raised to him a face passive and expressionless, though the firelight was reflected from wet cheeks.

“Mr Denham,” she uttered, in a flat, low tone, “I would rather cut out my own heart than destroy the happiness of my sister. What, has she not lost enough? It was but nine months ago she lost the man she called father. This very day she has lost a mother. Would you thus rob her of sister and lover in one stroke? No matter what my feelings now, how could I respect or love a man who has killed my sister, for kill her it would. You would no longer be the man I have grown to...” here she faltered, swallowing the word that was on her lips, but in a moment she continued.

“If you find you truly cannot marry Adeline, that to make her happiness would be your misery, then go far from here, forget you ever met either of us. It will be a hard blow, I do not know if she could ever recover, but whatever you do, if you value my regard, do not ask me to betray her.”

The dignity of Lydia's manner as she thus pronounced his sentence shamed Alfred. He hung his head and was silent, but presently spoke.

“It will be hard for me to call you sister, when every fibre of my being longs to call you by a sweeter name, but do not fear that Adeline will ever know that my heart is cut asunder from her. I will be as good and loving a husband to her as honour can require – for your sake.”

“NO!” Lydia blazed up, “Not for my sake, but for hers – and your own. Let us forget this unhappy conversation ever took place – brother.”

“You may as well ask me to extinguish the sun – nevertheless, I will try.” and Alfred took an unhappy leave.

Lydia could not yet give way to the depths of her misery just yet, however, for the doctor, who had been upstairs with Mrs Trent, now tapped at the door and asked to speak with her. Would her trials ever end? Alas, not yet.

“My dear Miss Trent, I am sorry for today's events, very sorry. I have been with your stepmother, and it is my recommendation that she be removed from here to some place where she can do no harm to herself or others. I can come back tomorrow with a colleague – for two opinions are required on such a matter, but I will also need some member of the family to sign the necessary orders.”

Lydia was confused for but a moment, but soon collected he was talking of removing Evelyn to an asylum.

“No, doctor, I cannot sign the order – I am only her step-daughter, you know. And Adeline is... under age. (for it occurred to her that Adeline was no more Evelyn's relation than she herself was)

“Besides, I have heard of the atrocities committed in asylums, in the name of medicine, and my conscience could not bear the responsibility of condemning another human creature to such a place.”

“Very well,” said the doctor, reluctantly, “I can recommend two good nurses, skilled in these cases, and with your permission will send for them to come here. I must say, however, that it would be dangerous for you or your sister to remain in this house. Have you any place to go?”

Lydia perfectly understood nurses to mean keepers, but was nonplussed as to where Adeline and herself might take refuge. Then she brightened.

“I shall write to our guardian – I should say Adeline's guardian - my uncle, Mr John Trent. Perhaps he will give us a home until things are more settled.”

“That sounds an excellent plan, my dear, and I would urge you to write or telegraph at once. I shall telegraph the nurses I spoke of, and if they are disengaged they will be here upon the morrow. In the meantime, a close watch should be kept on the patient – I have left some sedative drops, and if she shows signs of agitation they should be given at once, before she comes round fully.”

Lydia vouched for this course being faithfully undertaken, and, promising to call first thing in the morning, the doctor saw himself out.

How Lydia found strength to watch that night, after the many and varied agitations of the day, I do not know, but watch she did, assisted by faithful little Maisy. If the patient stirred, Lydia would at once put to her lips a glass of water containing a few drops of the sedative the doctor had prescribed, and thus the long night passed in relative peace. Though Lydia's eyes drooped, she could not sleep, for her cut arm really pained her, though mercifully she was too exhausted to think.

When the sun arose the next morning, Lydia's eyes fell upon the table by the window. Mrs Trent had broken and destroyed many of her things in her passionate rage, and Maisy and cook between them had tidied up the best she could. Evelyn's writing desk had been one of the casualties, and the splintered wood had been swept up and put out as rubbish, but now the sun's early pink rays rested on the desk's contents, neatly piled on the table. An assortment of crumpled writing-paper and envelopes, a mess of wafers and a torn blotter – and, tied in a ribbon, a bundle of letters.

Chapter the 21st

Lydia slipped the letters into her pocket, but decided against reading them then and there – for one thing, she had an irrational feeling that the inert form upon the bed would rise up in fury against such an invasion in her very presence, and for another, the matter concerned Adeline more it did herself, and so she would not read them without her.

Before she could get her sister alone, and sufficient leisure to read and talk of the little bundle which was burning a hole in her pocket, there were three interruptions. The first of these was the doctor, accompanied by a cheerful, brawny, capable-looking young woman who turned out to be one of the nurses he had spoken of.

“Rest easy, my dear,” said the doctor, at Adeline's dismayed expression. “I can vouch for Mrs Haig's gentleness – and strength, if need be. Her colleague will arrive in the course of the day, and then they will well be able to make your mother comfortable between them.”

“Bless me, Miss,” cried the nurse, “If I hadn't handled many such a case. I have my wits about me, at any rate, and as for the poor lady, well constant kindness and constant watching answer best, in my experience. She shall be safe enough with me, and with Sarah George, as I have worked alongside of many a time.”

Lydia read honesty in the woman's eye, kindness in the lines of her mouth, and strength in the arms and compact figure, and so her mind was set at rest.

Leaving Evelyn in the capable hands of the nurse, Lydia retired to her room to wash her face and smooth her hair, and change her gown, for until now she had not had leisure to remove the gore-bedabbled one from yesterday. Then she descended to the breakfast parlour, to recruit herself with a cup of strong coffee.

The next interruption, before she had finished this scanty breakfast, was a telegraphic message, in answer to the one she had sent late last night following her interview with the doctor.

'Dear girls, come at once. Uncle John' was the reply, and though short, the message carried kindness and comfort in just six words. Lydia immediately set Bessie and Maisy to packing up those necessities which the girls would require in the immediate future, and apprised Adeline of their departure for London on that very day.

“Oh dear, London?” cried Adeline, “and so soon? But what about Alfred?”

“Fear not, I do not doubt he will follow us there with no loss of time.” Lydia replied with forced cheerfulness. “Think how good it will be for him! By being in the bustle of town, he may at last start those preparations for a professional career he has so long talked of and so little acted upon.”

This was a clever stroke, for at the thought that her removal to London would be to her lover's benefit, Adeline was all of a gasp to start at once.

“Wait, dearest, I have something to share with you.” said Lydia, laying the bundle of letters in her sister's lap.

They had just got the ribbon off and spread the contents of the bundle out upon the table, when the third interruption occurred, in the shape of the Captain, come to enquire after their health and well-being. Seeing them apparently engaged, he was about to withdraw, but on a sudden impulse Lydia called him back.

“Captain, you once did me the honour to share with me a confidence, and I would be glad if I could return the honour by including you in one of ours. We should value your advice. Besides, Adeline and I leave for London this afternoon, to stay with our uncle and guardian, and so I do not know when we may meet again.”

The Captain at once expressed dismay at their leaving so soon, and declared himself at their service. At this, Lydia shared, in as brief a manner as possible, the history of their discoveries regarding Evelyn.

“These papers you see before us,” she finished, “are some of that lady's private correspondence, which we hope will shed some light on the mystery of Adeline's true family.”

Many of the letters proved uninteresting, being bills from milliners, mantua-makers and the like. Six, Lydia selected as being pertinent, and these she passed to Adeline to read. One, dated almost two years ago, she read to herself only. It appeared from the printed notepaper to come from a London physician, who Evelyn had evidently consulted by letter. Though Lydia did not share this letter, it pertaining only to her private suspicions, I will take the liberty of reproducing it here.

'Dear Mrs Trent,' it read,

In acknowledgement of yours of the 23rd inst. I beg to inform you that the drug of which you inquire may indeed be efficacious against the malady you describe, though I would strongly advise that I make a full examination of the patient before prescribing.

Extreme caution is advised, for if the dose should exceed three grains per diem, then symptoms of dizziness, muscular weakness, and mild paralysis may ensue. The drug must be stopped at the first sign of these symptoms, for continuance is in most cases fatal. I urge that such a course must be undertaken only under the close supervision of a qualified physician, such as myself.

I am at your service – a telegraphic message will find me at any hour, and I remain, madam, your humble servant,

Dr R K---'

This was damning indeed, in Lydia's eyes. Had she been inquiring how best to poison her unfortunate husband?

Adeline now began to read out the letters which Lydia had placed in her lap. The first appeared to be from Adeline's father. It was dated form a neighbouring village, August last.

'Dear E,

I must thank you for agreeing to meet. I have established myself in lodgings close by your home, though not so close as to raise comment among your neighbours.

I am sorry I raised such a stir last month, in truth I was so overjoyed to see my poor girl that I quite forgot she would have no idea who I am, having last seen me when she was but a baby. I look forward to seeing you on the 27th, being very anxious for news of my other daughter.

Yours,

M'

The next letter, dated early September, from London, at last revealed the identity of the mysterious 'N'.

'Dearest Evie,

I was mightily surprised to receive your last, thinking you had quite forgot you had a brother, and would have happily continued to forget, had you not needed something.

Nevertheless, blood is thicker than water, so they say, and being at a loose end just now, being out of place through no fault of my own, I am quite at your service. I will be down at Allenham on the date you mention, strolling about the lanes, and would be most happy should you chance to meet me there.

Til then, I am as always, your brother

Nathan'

So Evelyn had a brother, did she? And one of who some service was required. What that service might be, the rest of the letters may reveal, but we must return first to Malcolm Wade, who wrote, in early September, quite out of spirits.

'Dear E,

I was very disappointed that you would give me no news of C the other day. I know I was not a good father to her ten years back, but believe me that I am desperate now to make amends.

I know her husband died about three-and-a-half years after their marriage, can not you at least tell me what name she goes by now? Did she marry? Did she resume her maiden name? Or is she Catherine Parrish still?

Given my past conduct I am not surprised that you might wish to punish me – but surely you can find a more noble way to punish me than in keeping from me information about my eldest daughter?

Malcolm'

“So my sister is called Catherine Parrish, perhaps.” said Adeline. “I wonder where she might be?”

The fourth letter was again from Evelyn's hitherto unheard-of brother. Dated in October, it read

'Evie,

Well I am all ready, I have installed myself at the hotel you specified, under a false name – if you should need to write to me then a note to Mr Williams should find me.

If I understood you correctly, I am to wait until a gentleman arrives enquiring after a Mrs Parrish, at which point I am to – hum - take such steps as I find necessary.

I do say as I find this business weighs somewhat on my conscience, however blood is thicker than water, and gold thicker than all, so I remain your most obedient brother,

Nathan'

This looked black indeed for poor Malcolm Wade, as the plot against him began to take shape in Lydia's mind. That unfortunate gentleman wrote to Evelyn, in better spirits, late in October.

'Dear E,

Thank you and bless you for agreeing to meet once more, and for your promise to share what you know of poor C at that time. I look anxiously forward to the 5th of next month, and until then remain your

M'

Finally, establishing once and for all the chain of events, was that letter and announcement that Lydia had seen once before, at the breakfast table last November. 'It is done'. How fateful those words seemed now as Lydia read again the story of the poor man who fell – who was pushed, perhaps, by the unscrupulous brother of a murderous woman – from a hotel window, and was taken up lifeless in the street below.

Adeline, too, could no longer be blind to the truth.

“So, she has murdered my father.” she said, quietly, and began to cry. Moving to console her, Lydia opened her mouth to speak to the captain, who – was not there! At some point that gentleman, for reasons unknown, had slipped quietly from the room.

“And he did not bid us goodbye!” cried Adeline in astonishment.

With the shadow of a murderess haunting that house, Lydia and Adeline could not hasten their departure enough. A note to Alfred had brought the assurance that he would of course escort them as far as their uncle's house, and he arrived in the fly which was to take the sad party to the station. Lydia and Adeline bid a tearful goodbye to Bessie – for she was to stay and keep watch on Mrs Trent and the nurses, at the girls' especial request, whilst Maisy had been promoted all at once from scullery-maid to ladies-maid, and accompanied them.

Lydia's hand was upon the door of the carriage, when she was surprised by an unknown lady running up the drive, calling “Stop! Wait, I must speak with you!” Lydia turned, and Adeline leaned out of the carriage, as the lady came up with them.

“I am the woman you seek, I am Catherine Parrish!” and so saying, the lady pushed back her bonnet to reveal the face of – the Captain!

Chapter the 22nd

The girls were too surprised to do anything but bundle the lady into the fly, that they might ask their questions on the journey.

They had but fairly begun moving along when all started to speak at once. The Captain – I should say, Mrs Parrish – held up a slim hand to still Adeline's eager questions, and Lydia's more pertinent ones.

“Please, please, be assured that I have not taken leave of my senses – I am just as much a woman as either of you, upon my word, and if you will listen, I shall tell you my story, which may go some way toward explaining why I have hitherto concealed that fact.”

The young ladies were more than willing to hear the story, indeed, they were all agog, and accordingly stilled their tongues.

“Some portion of my history, albeit disguised, I have already given you, Miss Trent.” began Catherine, with a slight bow toward Lydia.

“I hope now to give a fuller account of my early life and my unhappy marriage. Yes, dear sister,” - for Adeline looked amazed - “I was once a married woman. But let me begin at the beginning.

“I spent my early life in the village of Houghton, in Yorkshire. Yorkshire. Of the first few years of my life, I have none but happy memories, for my mother – I should say, Adeline, our mother – was alive. Sadly, due to a disastrously managed confinement, she lived only long enough to say goodbye to the infant daughter she had brought into the world but an hour before. That daughter was you.

“It was as if a light had been extinguished, and we did not know how dark the world could be without that brightness. I, only five years old myself, was left to care for my infant sister, whilst our father turned to drink and low company for his consolation. All too well I remember sitting by the fire, which was burning very low as the coal scuttle was empty, with baby on my knee, waiting up anxiously for father to come home. Sometimes he would come home in high spirits, having won money at cards, and would dance me round the room and kiss me and call me his good little Kitty. Sometimes he would come home maudlin, and cry on my knee – imagine that, a grown man weeping on the knee of a five-year-old girl! Other times he would be in a thunderous temper, and hurl the fire-irons at me for daring to let baby cry or letting the fire go out, or any other real or imagined reason. Or he would be so fuddled by drink that I had to undress him and put him to bed just like baby, or he would not come home at all, and I would sit up all night and cry for my mama.

“Less than a year after our mother's death, father married again. If I had entertained the slightest hope that his second choice would stand in the place of a mother to us, I was sadly mistaken, and sore disappointed. I do not remember ever hearing one single word of kindness from her. Indeed, I struggled to understand just why she had married our father, as she betrayed not the slightest sign of interest or affection toward either her husband or her stepdaughters, or the most slender inclination to make our house in any way a home.

“It was no great surprise, therefore, when after but a year of marriage, she disappeared from our house – but it was a shock indeed when it was discovered that she had taken you, Adeline, with her. Though a surprise, it did not seem to be a great blow to father, and I do not think he ever made much search after either wife or daughter.”

At this point in the narrative, there was a slight interruption, as the party reached the station where they were to board the London train. There was a brief discussion, when all at once Alfred decided the matter by walking up to the ticket office and taking four tickets.

“For having been seen in the streets as a woman, you cannot go back to being the Captain again at Allenham,” said Alfred simply, “and so you may as well come with us. I dare say the girls' uncle will receive you, you being Adeline's sister – or else you can resume your male disguise and stay at an inn. I'll stand the blunt, if you brought none away with you.”

Lydia and Adeline were eager in approbation of this plan, and thus it was that the London train carried away four, not three, passengers toward the great metropolis.

“Now we are quite comfortable,” said Lydia, “pray do go on with your story.”

“Oh, yes, do!” cried Adeline, “”You had just got to the part when Mama – I mean our stepmother – ran away.”

“Ah, yes. Well, there is nothing much interesting to tell of the next eight or nine years, life went on in the same way as it had during my father's widowerhood, except as time went by he drank more, gambled more, and grew deeper in debt. From time to time he would win some money, and some, though never all, of the bills would be paid, but he always deluded himself into thinking that each win was the start of a run of good luck, would live extravagantly for a while, and dig himself deeper into debt.

“By the time I was in my teens, we were living in a debtors prison. Though life was just as hard there as in the outside world, it had at least this advantage – although when my father was in funds he could get hold of drink, he at least could not gamble to any great extent.

“It was about this time that father, desperate to find a way to get out of prison, began to apply to our more distant relatives for aid. One of these, a cousin, Martin Parrish, came to visit us. It seems he took a fancy to me, for his visits became more and more frequent, until at last he hatched the plan that was to be my undoing.

“Mr Parrish proposed that he would pay my father's debts, and bestow upon him sufficient funds to start a new life in a different country, if I would marry him. Knowing that, at barely fifteen years of age, I would not begin to entertain the thought of being married to a man twenty years my senior, not even for the sake of filial duty, my father instead devised a fiendish plot.

“Mr Parrish paid off the worst of the creditors, freeing my father from prison. On his release, we set off to make a tour of Scotland, father's excuse being that he had been so long imprisoned that he pined for light and air. Mr Parrish was to join us in the highlands.

“One day, though the sky was threatening rain, we were to cross the moorland to the next town on our route. It was a wild and lonely journey of about thirty miles, with only one inn en route, and barely a human habitation beyond a shepherd's hut to be seen. Father contrived some business in the town which would delay him a couple of hours, but he urged us to start upon our journey at once, saying he would catch us up. Of course, when we were halfway there, it began to rain heavily, and we were obliged to take shelter at the tiny inn, after two miles very wet ride.

“We dried our outer clothes over the coffee-room fire, but the rain showed no sign of ceasing that evening, and it began to grow dark. Mr Parrish decreed that we must remain there for the night, for it was by then too wet and too dark to see our road, and it would be all too easy to lose our way. Alas, the inn boasted but one set of rooms, consisting of a bedroom and a sitting-room. 'We will have to tell them we are man and wife.' said Mr Parrish, “I will take the sitting-room, leaving you the bedroom, and your father will be along shortly to make all right.'

“Fool that I was! I complied, thinking that as there were two rooms, though in a single suite, that this would be a simple and practical way out of our difficulties, and only found out the next morning, when my father arrived, what a trap I had fallen into. For under Scottish law at the time, a couple could be married, tightly and legally, simply by stating that they were married in front of witnesses. It is a law which has saved the honour and reputation of many a young maiden, but now, unwitting, that same law was the undoing of this maiden.

“And so I found myself an unwitting and unwilling bride at fifteen. I was miserable, but not cast utterly into despair, for a little voice whispered that at least I was away from my father, who treated me only with contempt and neglect. This man must surely love me, to have gone to such lengths and expense (though I only found out about the money later, when it was cast in my teeth how I had been bought and sold), which was more than my father did, and so I resolved to be as good a wife as I possibly could at so young an age.

“Alas, it was not love, but a passing fancy. While I was out of reach, Martin Parrish wanted me. Once I was his, he lost all value for the toy he had so craved, and before I had been married three months I found I had superadded jealousy and cruelty to contempt and neglect. He drank more constantly even than my father, though gambling was not a besetting sin with him. No, his addiction was violent control over another human being.

“I will not attempt to describe all I suffered in the three years I remained with him. One or two examples will suffice to show the character of the man. One evening he was on his way out with some of his friends. I had neglected to put out a clean neckcloth – he flew into a fury and half-choked me with the dirty one. A minute after he had thrown me on the ground with a vile curse, leaving me struggling to breathe and unable to rise for full half-an-hour, I heard him laughing heartily and easily at a joke of one of his drinking-mates, though but a minute earlier he had been purple with rage. On another occasion he dragged me about the house by my hair because he was displeased with the way I had dressed it that morning. Everything I did was wrong, and an excuse for some act of violence or base cruelty toward me. He would vanish for days at a time, yet beat me if I was out of his sight for a ten minutes interval which I could not account for. At other times he would be tender and loving, though he reeked so of drink that I found these times more of a trial to my spirit than the violence.

“We had been married for more than two miserable years, when I became filled with a new hope, that very soon I should at least have one human creature on Earth whom I could love, and who would love me – who would depend on me and yet not despise me. Alas, that was not to be. One night, just a few weeks before I was due to be confined, my husband came home having heard that I had been seen (Oh sin of sins!), talking to the milk-man. In a jealous rage, he beat me and threw me down the stairs. Later that night I was brought to bed of a stillborn son.

“As soon as I could walk, I waited until the dead of night, when my lord and master was sound asleep – or rather dead drunk, and crept away. But where could I go? How could I hide so that he might never find me?

“I hit on the idea of disguising myself as a boy – my recent confinement made this difficult at first, but by binding my body tightly and cropping my hair short, I believed I could pass for a boy, if I made myself a little dirty – one of those ragged urchins nobody looks twice at, there being so many of them.

“I tramped for many days in this guise – I had no money but managed now and then to beg a bit of bread or earn a penny holding a horse. Somehow I ended up at Whitby, where I encountered a press-gang, and joined the Navy. I believe my secret was safe all these years – though among my fellow seamen I was called 'the parson' because I was modest in my habits, and spent my shore-leaves reading and exploring, rather than in low taverns. I had had almost no education, and I burned to make up for the deficiency, so how I devoured every sight and sound of those foreign lands! I covered both my 'oddities' by affecting to be much more strongly religious than I actually am, and so after a while I was let alone, especially as I had also earned a reputation for bravery. Why should I not be brave? My heart was in the grave of my poor little one, I valued everyone's life above my own. And so, what with my reputation, my thirst for knowledge, and the careful hoarding of my prize-money, I was able to rise, in seven years, to the rank of Captain. I hope I was a just and wise captain – I believe the men thought me so, for though when I was injured they of course discovered my secret, not one man among them betrayed me, and they contrived to get me back to England without a soul suspecting my identity.

“And it seems all this was for nothing – the man from whom I was hiding was dead all the time, I am to discover but this morning. How I longed to reveal myself to my sister, but believed it was not safe!”

Catherine's narrative ended. Alfred was sitting with his face turned stolidly away, so as not to betray the tears sliding stealthily down his cheek. Lydia hid her face in a handkerchief, while one hand blindly sought Catherine's, and, finding it, clutched it as if she would never let go. Adeline had buried her face in her new-found sister's shoulder, and sobbed quietly. As Catherine ceased speaking, the tender-hearted girl flung her arms around her, crying out “Oh, we will love you! I will love you – Dear Catherine, dear sister, I love you already!”

Chapter the 23rd

Catherine's story, though harrowing, did have this to say to it – that in listening to and sympathising with Catherine's woes and wrongs, their thoughts had been directed from their own sorrows as they left the house which had been their home since they could remember.

Nevertheless, they were in tolerably poor spirits when the cab drew to a stop outside a pleasant town house in the district of Bayswater. It was a deep, narrow white building, separated from the street by an 'area' and a broad half-flight of stone steps, bounded by neatly burnished iron railings. It was situated in a respectable, rather than a 'smart' square – in the middle of the square, surrounded by railings and, guarded by a gate to which each resident had a key, was a bit of garden, with a smooth lawn, some bright flower beds, and a couple of spindly, malnourished trees.

Alfred sprang lightly down from the cab to hand out the ladies – or rather, to hand out Adeline, for Catherine was more accustomed to Alfred's role, to being he who assists rather than she who is assisted, and Lydia was not only of an independent nature, but also far too conscious of the danger to her own heart, should she take that hand, lean on that arm, while her emotions were in such a fragile state. Alfred therefore turned back from helping Adeline to find that both ladies had got themselves out under their own steam, as the saying goes.

The door opened whilst they were still engaged with paying the cab-driver, shaking out their dresses, and settling their bonnets, and there stood the gentleman of the house himself, for, having glanced out the window when he heard the cab draw up, and perceived the young ladies getting out, he had run down to open his own front door and be the first to welcome his nieces.

How pleasant a sight was his solid figure in the lamplight, and the genuine smile of welcome on his honest face, and the avuncular hand which he stretched out to each of his nieces.

John Trent was a rarity in his profession – the stockbroker had spent his commercial life speculating, in daily contact with large sums of money, yet neither staggering profit or crushing loss, terrible risk or dead certainty, had ever yet had the power to rob him of either his honestly or his good humour. He had had a good mother, who had brought up both her sons to be everything that is truly expressed by the word 'gentleman'. On her account, he was a great respecter of the feminine sex in general, but had remained a bachelor, having never yet met the one woman which he felt his happiness could depend – or who he might make truly happy. He sometimes joked that his brother had got the one good thing in that line, in the shape of his first wife, but this was generally understood to be a delicate compliment to his sister-in-law, not an expression of concealed wishes.

After showing them to a room where they could take off their things, the good gentleman ushered his four guests upstairs to a pleasant sitting-room, red-draperied and turkey-carpeted, rang for tea and a man to take the girls bags upstairs, pulled cozy, cushioned chairs to the fire with his own hand, and bid the tired travellers to make themselves comfortable.

“Now then, my dearest girls, tell me what brings you to me in such haste? For Lydia's telegraphic message did not, I am afraid, leave me much the wiser.”

In a very few words, Lydia attempted to sketch the history of the last few days.

“And, Uncle,” cried Adeline, kissing him fondly, “We have but today discovered my elder sister, Catherine. Please be kind to her – she is in sore need of it.”

“Well then,” said Mr Trent, “You are perfectly welcome to make your home with me for as long as you wish. I dare say my company will be quite as dull as you can bear, but I am very glad to have you, nonetheless. Today has been a fortunate day for me, I think, as it has not only brought me some very pleasant houseguests,” patting Adeline's arm, for she still hung about him, “but has also brought me a third niece. Welcome, my dear, and I hope you will consider this as much your home as do Lydia and Adeline.”

“Oh, Sir!” stammered Catherine, turning almost crimson, “I – I cannot, I must not – there is no blood relationship between us...”

“For shame, for shame!” cried the gentleman, looking genuinely hurt at this rebuff, “No more is there between Adeline and I, yet I regard her as my niece all the same – and if you are her sister, so must you be.”

His forthright manner, the pleading expression on that kindly countenance, and the genuineness of his wish to be of service to the young lady were impossible to resist, and Catherine was fain to submit.

And so the matter was settled, and the three sisters took up their residence in Bayswater. Alfred stayed at a nearby inn that night, and contrived the next day to secure moderately comfortable lodgings, which though they were somewhat mean and dingy, and a trifle expensive, were within half-a-mile of John Trent's town house

The next morning after their arrival, Lydia found herself sick, weak, and barely able to rise from her bed. Indeed she did attempt it, but was soon glad to sink back among the pillows. The various alarms of the past two days, the fatigue of the journey, her strained and sleepless night watching over a madwoman, added to the wound in her arm, which pained her more than she cared to admit, made her low and feverish.

“Do not worry yourselves about me,” she said, when Adeline expressed concern, “I shall be right as ninepence by tomorrow.”

But the morrow found her worse, and for many days Lydia was actually very ill. By about the fourth day, she was very feverish, and wandered in her mind. Catherine and Adeline nursed her together, and their shared concern for their step-sister bound the two sisters closer together. When the fever broke, at the end of a dreadful, anxious week, and the doctors pronounced Lydia out of danger, the reserved Catherine actually hugged Adeline for joy, and the two shed happy tears over one another and their patient.

Lydia's recovery was slow, and for several weeks after her illness she was almost confined to the house, with only an occasional airing in a closed carriage, well wrapped up, to vary the scene.

Alfred had come every day throughout her illness and her convalescence, and although she was very glad to see him, bringing with him a little taste of the outside world as he did, she was troubled.

Eventually she found her moment to speak. Adeline and Catherine were at the piano – Catherine, though a lover of music, had never had opportunity to learn, and Adeline was attempting to teach her. The youth and inexperience of the teacher was in some part atoned for by the enthusiasm and aptitude of the pupil, for Catherine had a fine natural taste and a good ear.

Under cover of the noise of their lesson, Lydia took her opportunity, and spoke to Alfred in a low tone.

“Alfred, I wish you would tell me what you have been doing all this time.”

“Doing? Why, whatever do you mean?”

“We have been in London nearly two months now – have you decided what your profession will be? What steps have you taken toward establishing yourself?”

“Why, Lydia! What is the rush? There is plenty of time for that.”

“Is there? You are six-and-twenty now, and I fear beginning to fall into bad habits. I know you have been visiting here a great deal – what else have you been doing? How have you spent your evenings?”

“Well, a man doesn't like to snub his friends, and after all I don't think I have been doing anything very harmful – a few evenings at the theatre, a few quiet dinners, a few hands of cards at the club – when one is invited, what can one say?”

“If it is an invitation to drink and gamble, one can say 'no'. Tell me, you used to pride yourself on saving out of your income – do you still? I ask as a sister, you understand, not to be impertinent.”

“It is strange you should ask – somehow the money just seems to run away like water in this town, I have actually had to dip into my savings just to present a creditable appearance.”

“And a creditable appearance, I suppose, means a new pair of gloves every week, and hansoms everywhere, and a bottle a night, and playing cards for a guinea a point or more with the like of Montague Vane.” said Lydia, and Alfred was surprised by the sudden bitterness in her voice. “Yes, Uncle has told me what company you keep. Beware, Alfred, those men are no friends to you. They will lead you into bad ways, they will fleece you as much as they can, and then they will abandon you.”

“Oho, so I am spied on by your uncle, am I?” fired up the young gentleman, “And what does he have to do with my choice of friends?”

“Oh, Alfred,” sighed Lydia, “Don't make me ashamed of you. In your heart you know the course you are steering on is a bad one. You owe it to yourself, and to us, to stop it while you can.”

There was a long pause, while Alfred considered this, and Lydia held her breath, half expecting an explosion of indignance at her interference. But he answered her in quite a different tone.

“Yes, I do believe you are right – but what can I do?”

“You have professed to want to write – speak to Uncle, he knows some magazine editors and other literary men, who may be able to help and advise you. Instead of spending your evenings at the club, read, go to see good plays and hear good concerts – do anything that will inspire you and bring out the stronger parts of your intellect. Or take chambers and study the law – that will fill your time usefully. In either case, I believe my Uncle will be able to help and advise you. Shall I ask him for you?”

“No, no,” replied Alfred, stung a little, “I can at least do that much for myself.”

“I am glad.” smiled Lydia, “I am sure you will make us proud of you.”

Alfred went home that evening in a thoughtful frame of mind. Examining his conscience – and his bills – he found he had indeed been led into extravagance and, little by little, almost into imprudence, on the score of card-playing and little drinking-parties. Little damage had been done as yet, he was neither a habitual toper nor an inveterate gambler, but he was on the slippery slope, and he thanked heaven he had been given warning in time to scramble to safety.

The very next day, while his resolve was still strong, he went out and paid all his bills and debts of honour, then called on Mr Trent at his office. That gentleman was happy to assist the young man in any way he could, and promised to introduce him to the literary men of his acquaintance – advising him in the meantime to polish his pen so as to have something to show the editors. Accordingly, Alfred went to work with a will, spoiling many sheets of paper and several pens, and being absent from the house in Bayswater for several days.

When he did call, he was happy to be able to place before Lydia several sheets of manuscript, being a couple of lively little travel sketches, and a review or two of a book or concert.

“Oh, Alfred,” beamed Lydia, “I am so glad! When you did not come, I thought perhaps I had mortally offended you, but now I am so proud of you.” and she actually kissed the scribbled sheets, saying “God speed these little paper boats – may they sail on to great things.”

Adeline was also very pleased, and projected a grand literary career for her future husband. She was busy settling how he would take the world of letters by storm, when she was interrupted by the entrance of Catherine, looking somewhat flustered.

“Why, Catherine,” broke in Lydia, “Whatever is the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“I almost believe I have.” returned Catherine, in strained accents. “I would swear on the bible that I just saw – my father.”

Chapter the 24th

Lydia suppressed her natural urge to call this nonsense, and questioned Catherine – where and when had she seen him? How did she know it was him?

“I saw him in the street just now, not very far from here – I had been to buy some ribbon for Adeline, and as I came out of the haberdashers, a passing carriage obliged me to pause a moment at the side of the road. At that moment, an old man shuffled past me – there was something about his walk and his face which arrested my attention. I looked more closely, and the more I looked the more I became convinced, it was him. He was a little different – older, of course, very tanned, and his hair and beard were turned white, as if by some great shock, but in every other particular he answered my father's description. Yes, of course I knew him – I lived every day with him for the first 15 years of my life.

“I followed him a few streets, and he went into a lodging house. I dared not follow further, and so I came home.”

“But how could it have been our father?” asked Adeline, “When we know that Mrs Trent had him put out of the way?”

“We do not know for certain – we only suspect.” said Lydia. “It is possible that Mrs Trent's brother lied, or that we have misread the evidence entirely. (not much chance of that – she thought privately)

“Perhaps Catherine is mistaken, but such a matter calls for thorough investigation before we dismiss her story out of hand. And so your impression was that it really was him?”

“Yes, for all that it has been ten years since I saw him last, I swear I should know him anywhere. I looked him over closely, and am quite satisfied it was my father.”

“Well, there is one way to find out, and that is to go and see him.” said Lydia firmly. “Can you show us the way to the lodging-house?”

Not very long afterwards, three young ladies were ringing on the doorbell of a large, square, ugly house, in a dull, ugly street. A large, square, ugly woman answered the door – like the house, she had also been scrubbed to within an inch of her life.

“Excuse me, is Mr Wade at home?” inquired Lydia.

“Mr who?” said the lodging-house keeper, who, having been called from a pleasant little ceremony involving prawns, soft white rolls, and a steaming tea-pot from which issued a fragrant invitation to the delights of the tea-table, was not in the best of tempers.

“Mr Malcolm Wade. I believe he is residing here.”

“Never heard of him.” snapped the lodging-house woman, conscious that as she stood here 'jawing' her tea was going cold.

“Oh, Perhaps he was visiting someone here, then.”

“Not at all. Don't allow visitors. Good day.” and without further ado, the woman shut the door in their faces.

“Well, that is an end of that.” said Adeline, sadly. But Catherine was not beside her. She had run a few steps, and now accosted a man coming out of a small tobacconist shop over the way.

“Papa, papa, don't you know me?” she cried, “It's Catherine!”

“Catherine? Why I have a daughter called that – but you can't be her, she's a much younger girl. Hardly more than a babe in arms. Excuse me miss.”

So saying, the man walked off.

“Oh, Lydia, Adeline, it is him, I am sure of it! Why doesn't he know me?” and Catherine burst into tears.

The three hurried back to Uncle John's house, Lydia and Adeline trying and failing to comfort the despondent Catherine. She had not wept for long, but was very subdued.

“Of course he would not wish to know me.” she said bitterly. “Did he not get rid of me ten years ago?”

Lydia reminded her of the anxiety he had shown in his letters to Evelyn for news of her, and his expressed wish to make amends.

“I know, dear, pay no attention. I am but sad and disappointed, and so I vent my disappointment in bitter speeches. Pay them no heed, and I shall be as unruffled as ever quite shortly.”

“Kitty, dearest, let us lay the whole matter before Uncle John. I am sure he will know what to do.” said Adeline, for since Alfred had told of the help the old gentleman had been in his first literary endeavours, the girl looked upon him as a sort of oracle of all things wise and good.

Catherine demurred at first, but was at last induced to consent, and so when their uncle came home, they told him the history of their afternoon.

“Well, dears,” began Mr Trent, after some thought, “You obtained some very useful information from that detective friend of Mr Denham's. My advice would be – call him in again. Perhaps he can sift to the bottom of this mystery.”

“Of course, what an excellent idea!” cried Adeline, and kissed her uncle. A note to Alfred was dispatched, and the young man was able to bring Mr Dodd to them on the following afternoon.

That gentleman looked thoughtful as they explained the story, stroked his chin over the letters, which he had not hitherto seen, and eventually went off, puffing his pipe hard as he walked – always a sure sign of deep cogitation with him.

His first call was to the nearest Post Office, where he borrowed a copy of the London Directory, and within a very short time was in a hansom, bowling along the narrow side-streets of London.

He alighted from the vehicle in a somewhat shabby district of the city, in front of a tall, narrow, dingy building. Affixed to the railings was a peeling sign, which proclaimed, in cracked and faded letters, that this venerable edifice was the grandly-named 'Lambscourt Hotel'.

He entered this less-than imposing hostelry, and soon found himself in conversation with a dilapidated waiter- cum- porter- cum- general factotum, in a rusty black livery and tarnished gold buttons, who emanated a general atmosphere of dust, tobacco-smoke, unwashed linen and stale beer. Following the exchange of a modest amount of silver, which disappeared quickly and furtively into the aged waiter's sagging pocket, this unprepossessing informant turned out to be a mine of information about the previous year's tragic 'haccident'.

“For the genn'lman who occupied the room was not to be found, he giv his name as Mr Collins, but I don't thinks as that was the name he went by. Didn't leave no luggage either, which was queer – blowed if he had any to leave. Anyway, big chap he was, nose had been broke at one time, told me if anyone came asking after a Mrs Parrish they was to refer to him. Before too long, the genn'lman who fell, he comes in and asks for the lady, as I'd bin told, so I sends him on up. Ten minutes later there's a stir outside, and there he lays with his head broke. Of course the constables were called, but by that time Mister Collins as he called himself was vanished like a ghost in the night. So it was coming pretty clear as how the feller came to drop out of the window. Anyway, the constables fetched the hand-ambulance, and whisks the one as dropped – never did know his name – off to the free ward at St Thomas's. And that's the last I heerd of it. Of course the police poked about a rare bit, but nothing ever came of it.”

Mr Dodds thanked the elderly gent, and hopped in another hansom, which he directed to take him to Saint Thomas' hospital.

There he made some discreet enquiries, and after talking to several people - nurses, and porters, all more or less busy, but perfectly amenable to chat for a moment when they saw the glimmer of silver in the detective's friendly paw – he was able to ascertain that the gentleman had not died, but was now somewhat simple, had given his name as Mr Tom Alcott, and after a long convalescence, had retired to lodgings near Bayswater, where he kept body and soul together by means of whittling little trinkets out of wood.

The Bayswater connection decided the matter – Mr Dodds repaired to the lodging house where Lydia, Adeline and Catherine had met with such a rude repulse, and enquired after Mr Alcott.

“You shan't find 'im 'ere at this time of day.” snapped the Amazon who guarded the gates. “I arsks my gents to leave between ten am and seven pm, which is quite usual in my line of business.”

“Can you tell me, my good woman, where I might find him at this present moment?”

The lodging-house virago pursed her lips, in a manner that suggested she was mortally affronted by being called anyone's good woman. However, she did speak.

“Probably in the public, else sitting in the gardens chipping away with his pocket knife at some infernal bit of wood.” she grudgingly admitted, with a moue of disgust at both these habits in equal measure. Then, without any further ado, she shut the door. However, the gentleman he sought was not to be seen at either of the resorts the woman had named, so Mr Dodds decided to return after seven.

He had dined comfortably upon a mutton chop at an inn in a slightly less shabby neighbourhood, and at seven fifteen sharp was ringing the doorbell of the lodging-house once again.

This time, he found the woman in a towering rage.

“Oh, you've come back, have you?” she snapped. “Well, I'll tell you where you can find Mt Alcott – in bed. He comes a crawling back at five this afternoon, a-complaining of feeling ill, and begging to be let in. Rules are rules, says I, and until the clock strikes seven, not one foot shall cross that threshold. Allow it once, and you'll find yourself obliged to allow it again. And so I shut the door on him. Blest if at seven o clock one of my other gents weren't causing a ruckus at the door because Alcott was a-laying on the step! Well we couldn't get him to stand, so Mr Terwhillie just carried him up to his bed, says there ought to be a doctor. And who's to pay for that, I ask, not to mention the inconvenience. I don't have time for nursing and coddling, and he's a week behind on the rent as it is. I only let him off with it a few days as he's always punctual with it, and now look.” and the termagant folded her arms in mortal offence at the gentleman having had the effrontery to fall ill at her expense.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance, Madam.” said Mr Dodd smoothly, and in a very few moments he had paid the grumbling woman her few shillings rent, caused a doctor to be summoned, and taken possession of Mr Alcott and this unfortunate gentleman's room. Here the detective found an important piece of evidence concerning the true identity of 'Mr Alcott', after he had taken the sick gentleman's shirt up from the floor, where it had been thrown by Mr Terwhillie (now invisible) in a hasty preparation for bed - involving the simple expedient of removing his boots and outer garments, and pitching him pell-mell under the covers - and found it to be marked - 'MW'.

Chapter the 24th

It was an epoch in the history of Mrs Gant's lodging house (for such was the name of the formidable lady who ran that inhospitable abode with such implacable efficiency), when not one, but three young ladies crossed the threshold. O, black day indeed, when these bachelor halls were sullied by the footfalls of the fair! Mrs Gant was near apoplectic at the unwarranted intrusion, but her anger availed naught – come in they would.

These three were Adeline, Lydia, and Catherine, who had been summoned thither by a hasty note from Mr Dodd. This gentleman now met them in the hallway.

“Thank you for coming, ladies,” he said. “I called you here because I am now more or less convinced of the truth of your assertion, Mrs Parrish, that this man is indeed Malcolm Wade, your father. Whether he is using a false name for some private reason, or whether his memory was as deranged as his intellect by the severe blow to the head he received, I am not entirely certain. At any rate, Malcolm Wade was lost sight of, and so he preserved himself from further attempts on his life.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Adeline.

“You say he is ill – how is he?” queried Catherine, more to the point.

“The doctor is with him now. I am afraid he was utterly prostrate when I saw him – stay, here is the doctor coming out now.”

The doctor, after being assured that these young ladies were connections of Mr Alcott, being his two daughters and their stepsister, spoke freely.

“Well, Sir, my dears, it looks a most unpromising case, most unpromising. I am sorry to alarm you, but the gentleman appears to have a bilious fever, which under normal circumstances would not in itself be dangerous, but the feverish symptoms, coupled as they are with his past head injury, are very worrying. Our first priority must be to break the fever. I have prescribed some draughts, which must be given hourly until the fever breaks. I shall also have to bleed him – we shall see if this is effective. In addition, he must be kept cool by the constant application of wet cloths.”

Catherine indicated her willingness to apply these remedies, and of course Lydia and Adeline spoke up offering to help her. Adeline, of course, had the most natural right to be there, but not only did she have less experience of nursing than Lydia, she had not been in strong health herself of late.

“Adeline, my dearest, you have been in delicate health – you cannot be allowed to destroy your health by the rigours of nursing. You had much better nurse yourself – Lydia and I will inform you of any change, however slight.”

Adeline made some demur at this.

“What will it avail, if we should bring your father back into health, if he should then find his daughter well-nigh broken by the effort?” persuaded Lydia. “You are not strong, and I would have the reunion between you two unmarred by the shadow of illness. Go, and be assured I shall do the very best I can for your father. Besides, we shall want someone who is free to come and go, to fetch things, and take messages, and be in every way useful. See, there is the doctor's prescription to be made up – you could go for it, and we shall need various supplies, for I do not believe Mrs Gant will be inclined to let us make free with her things.”

Adeline immediately agreed to take the prescription to be made up, and fetch anything needful. Thus the matter was settled, and the two elder girls took up their station in the sickroom.

They soon discovered that their wants were many, for the room was almost bare, and Mrs Gant disinclined to provide anything beyond the scant and indifferent breakfast and dinner which were included in the terms of her lodging. When Adeline returned with the medicine, she found herself furnished with a great list of things to be either borrowed from their uncle's house, or purchased at nearby shops, ranging from beef tea and calf's foot jelly, to a supply of rags to bathe the poor gentleman's forehead, to a spirit burner for boiling water, and bedding that the girls might supply the deficiency in the lodging house bed, as well as make up a couch for their own use.

How quickly the sickroom routine establishes itself – that strange twilit half-life, its time measured not by days and nights, but by the intervals of physic and fomentations, the odd hours of rising and sleeping, interrupted by the doctor's visits, and punctuated by the lancet. The patient was bled twice a day for the first few days, and the girls became quite accustomed to seeing the slow drip-drip-drip, staining the water in the basin below his arm pinker at ever splash. Despite this, and the constant wetting and bathing of the patient's forehead, which required a fresh cool cloth to be laid on his brow every ten minutes, despite the hourly draughts and the lowering diet (though the man scarce took anything, being unconscious for a great deal of the time, and wandering when he was awake) – despite all that medicine and two constant and devoted nurses could do, the fever raged unabated into the second week.

At this point Mr Dodd asked permission to call in a second physician, a gentleman of his odd and varied acquaintance. This practitioner duly arrived, and proceeded to scare the girls half out of their wits by railing against almost every treatment thus far employed.

“Cool cloths I approve of, but look here – the man needs all his strength and what does my esteemed colleague do, but prescribe the very things that will most weaken him. He is low and weak, his illness has been exacerbated by poor diet – so what shall we do? Why, give him only modest amounts of barely nutritious food, and so starve him still further. His stomach lining is irritated – therefore let us prescribe strong raking medicines.” stormed the Doctor Spratt. This was as nothing to his ire, however, when he found out the gentleman had been bled – and bled freely, twice a day.

“It's murder, that's what it is!” he blazed. “Without that, I could have saved him, but he needs strength, and what does the man do but rob him twice daily of the precious fluid which is the basis of his strength. He has dripped out his very life into that basin. I will do my best to repair the damage, but in the face of this, I am forced to say that I believe the case is hopeless, quite hopeless.”

The girls were utterly dismayed at this pronouncement, but hoped that things were not quite so black as the good doctor painted them. They speedily obeyed the doctor's injunctions as to medicine, which was to be of a strengthening rather than lowering tendency, and diet, which consisted of such items as brandy and strong beef tea, also intended to have a strengthening effect.

Their efforts were rewarded by a lessening of the fever overnight, and the girls became quite hopeful, but the doctor did not share their optimism.

“See, he has not yet regained consciousness. It is all the fault of that cursed bleeding.”

He persevered with his treatment, however, though the ladies were much troubled by the intervals of delirium becoming longer and the intervals of sleep – or rather stupor – becoming less. At the end of the second week, however, their patient showed a change. His breathing eased, and there appeared a light perspiration upon his brow. Both Adeline and Doctor Spratt were called.

“Ah, he is sleeping naturally. I do not hold out hopes of a full recovery, but he is somewhat better. Keep the room quiet, and let him sleep. When he wakes, give him the draught I will now prescribe, and whatever nourishment he can take. I will return in a few hours.”

The girls hugged each other, but sensibly kept their joy in abatement. The gentleman slept for almost two hours, at the end of which time he opened his eyes, and, starting slightly at the slim figure of the girl seated by the bed, spoke in a thin, weak voice.

“What, am I still wandering? This is witchery, I am sure, for you look very like someone dear to me.”

“Yes, father, it is I, Catherine.”

“But how come you to be here? Did you come to the hotel after all? The man said he did not know where you were. Where is he? How came he to lie to me? Am I still at the Lambscourt? I came here seeking for you, Catherine.”

“No, father, you are not at the Lambscourt Hotel – you have not been there in a year.” and in a few short sentences she described how he had been living, under a name not his own, since his fall. Mr Wade was amazed at this, but Lydia hushed his questions.

“Do not excite yourself, sir, you are still very ill. When you are a little better, you may speak with your daughters, but for now, you must drink this, and eat a little if you can, and husband your strength.”

Mr Wade was too weak to object, and after he had taken his medicine and drunk a little beef broth, he lapsed back into sleep. When next he awoke, Adeline was there.

“Father,” said Catherine, “This is Adeline.”

“Why, yes,” he replied, weakly, “I should have known her at once – for she is the very image of her mother when first I married her. Now then, I am glad you are both here, for I have something to say to you.”

“Sir, cannot it wait?” interrupted Lydia, “You are very weak, and I am sure you will overtax your strength.”

“Nay, it would overset me more to leave this unsaid, for I am as conscious of my weakness as you are, and fear if I do not speak now then my tale will never be heard.” Lydia was silent at this, and so he continued.

“When I lost my Adeline – I speak of my wife, not you my dear – I believed I had stopped caring for any living thing. I could hardly bear to look on the baby which my love had died bringing into the world, and my elder daughter, in trying to comfort me, only served to irritate me. You distracted me from my grief, girls, when all I wanted was to treasure it up and hide from the world, hugging my pain to my myself.

“It was a hard pain to bear, however, and I sought relief in drink. In my selfish grief, I forgot that two little girls had lost their mama – I felt as if I alone had the right to mourn that angel.

“When I married your stepmother, there was no love in the case. It was a matter of convenience only – she particularly needed a home, and I hoped that she would take the care of you off my hands. I believed she had, and so I was free to sink further into my selfish courses, and when she took Adeline off my hands entirely, I was, at the time, more glad than sorry, and so I did not bother to seek my recreant wife or missing daughter.

“That left you, Catherine, on my hands. But every day that passed increased my self-devotion, and my dependence on drink and the excitements of the card table and the race track. For I felt that my heart had died within me, and the only time I felt alive was the moment before the turn of a card or the start of a race, when a fortune may be won or lost in the next breath.

“I had sunk so low as prison, and Martin Parrish's offer, to secure my release from both prison and the encumbrance of a daughter I had forgotten how to love, I greeted with open arms. And so I played that shabby trick upon you, Catherine, and took myself off to the antipodes basely hugging myself for what I thought was my good fortune.

“I started out on a sheep station, and then when gold was found I took myself off to the diggings to try my luck. I did not prosper at first, as I soon found out that a gold mine is not a good place for a habitual drunk. A besotted man cannot get the best claim, and he is cheated and robbed at every turn.

“And so I gave up drinking, and threw myself into my work. It was slow at starting, but I had a few pieces of good fortune, and so I persevered. But it was a lonely life. The man I ended up going into a company with – for it is very hard to mine and defend a claim alone – had a family, a wife and two young daughters. I found myself watching those two little girls as they played around the diggings, and fell to wondering what had become of my own girls. My companion was injured, and I saw how tenderly he was nursed by his wife, and how lovingly his girls came and made sunshine for papa, and it finally came to me just what I had lost.

“There was also a parson at the diggings, who had come out and started a sort of church in a tent. I had never had much truck with the church before, but this good father found me when I was low, and through kind words, which rebuked me, but showed me love and compassion, led me into a penitent spirit.

“And so I came home, and tried to find you. I had some inkling of my second wife's whereabouts, and found her easily enough, but she would not at first tell me anything of either of you. I had seen Adeline, but had frightened her, and Evelyn warned me not to approach you again if I wished to know where Catherine was. At last she told me news of you could be found at the Lambscourt Hotel in London, and there I went as fast as I could. I was met by a gentleman who was welcoming at first, and poured me a drink, and professed to know all about you, but when I tried to move, I found myself faint and drowsy – I believe the drink must have been drugged. And then... then I woke up here with you, and was informed a year had passed without my knowing it.

“Girls, my daughters, I cannot hope for your forgiveness – I have done you both too great a wrong for that. I cannot hope to stand in a father's place to you, for I have been worse than no father at all. The money I made at the diggings in Australia, I came to place entirely at your disposal – not that money is any recompense, but the only fatherly action I can now perform is to provide for my daughters.”

“Oh, father, on my part there is nothing to forgive!” wept Adeline, kissing the sick man's hand.

Catherine hesitated a moment, but then laid her hand on Adeline's shoulder as she leaned over the pale, wasted form of her father.

“You did me a great and cruel wrong when you tricked me into marrying Martin Parrish, father,” she said slowly, her eyes burning with repressed emotion, “But yes, I give you my forgiveness likewise.”

“Then I have nothing left on this Earth to wish for.” said their father, and, sinking back on his pillows, closed his eyes, with a calmer expression than he had worn for days.

“All through this weary fever, I have seen my Adeline calling to me – 'where are my girls, Malcolm?' - now I can answer her.” and he was silent, and before long lapsed back into sleep.

He roused again when the doctor came, and was able to give that gentleman the details of his true identity, as well as the direction of his banker in London, who held his will and other important documents as well as the money he had raised at the Australian gold fields. The doctor took down these particulars, and then examined him. Alas, there were some disturbing hectic symptoms becoming apparent – Mr Wade was flushed, his eye bright and feverish. The doctor ordered another draught, and advised the patient to sleep as much as he could, while the girls, his nurses, were to pursue the same cooling treatment as before.

It was to no avail – Mr Wade suffered a relapse. He lingered several days more, and the doctor and the girls laboured manfully to bring him through, but it was no use. The sick man was sinking hourly, and in the early hours of the fourth day, he breathed his last. The doctor railed against the murderous practice of bleeding, and the girls quietly knelt and prayed that their father would find forgiveness in heaven as easily as he had on Earth.

Malcolm Wade was buried in a quiet churchyard close to his lodgings, and when his will and papers were examined, it was found he had left Catherine and Adeline the possessors of over thirty thousand pounds, to be shared equally between them.

Chapter the 25th

What of the house at Bayswater, while this drama had been taking place? Uncle John was concerned by his nieces taking so much upon themselves, but he acknowledged both Catherine's right to nurse her father, and Lydia's being the more suitable to assist her.

In the meantime he sent every comfort he could think of, both for the patient and his nurses, along with loving messages and injunctions not to overtax themselves – a professional nurse could easily be hired if they felt the work was affecting their health. He also coddled and amused Adeline, who was fast fretting herself into ill health. That young lady was sadly disturbed in spirits, even going as far as being – for the first time - cross and pettish to her beloved Alfred, when that gentleman had the temerity to claim her attention from her father and sisters, to his latest piece, which was to be published, and for which he was to receive the princely sum of five pounds, and of which he was immensely proud.

The return of Catherine and Lydia to the house was therefore felt to be a great blessing by all. John Trent, though he had had the pleasure of their company for only a few months, had fast come to rely on the society of the sensible, intelligent, gentle young ladies. He enjoyed their conversation, and their softening, homely presence at his fireside. In their turn, Lydia loved him for her father's sake, while Catherine respected him for his own.

Alas, their return did not seem to have much positive effect on either Adeline's health or her spirits. Without any positive malady, both continued low and a little weak. Mr Trent spoke of spending some time by the seaside, however, once the weather was more settled, and all hoped this would improve matters.

The three young ladies resumed their quiet life, with some relief, for both Lydia and Catherine were very tired from the past few hard weeks. Alfred visited three or four times a week, bringing news of his little successes, which brought a proud flush to the cheeks of both Adeline and Lydia. Though she still idolised Alfred as much as ever, there seemed to have crept into their relationship a note of dissension – but this could easily be attributed to Adeline's poor health.

In the midst of this tranquil respite, peace was disturbed by the receipt of a thick letter from Allenham. It had come addressed to Mr Trent in an unknown feminine hand, and when he opened it, he found a second envelope, along with a note from one of Evelyn's nurses.

'Dear Mr Trent,' it began,

I am sorry to trouble you with this letter, but I have promised my patient, and so I must send it on. Mrs Trent has been quite calm and lucid, of late, and has spent many hours in her room writing this letter to her stepdaughters. I beg you will read it, and decide whether it ought to be given to the young ladies.

And oblige,

Mrs Mary Haig'

This little epistle Mr Trent dropped into Lydia's lap, with the longer envelope, still sealed.

“I have not read it, you see. I thought that by rights you ought to be the first to see what your stepmother has to say for herself. I trust your good sense – share what ought to be shared with Adeline.”

“Thank you, uncle John.” said Lydia, but she did not at once open the letter. Instead she put it into her pocket, with the intent of reading it before she retired to bed.

The day was uneventful, and Lydia retired quite early, the better to read her stepmother's letter. She broke the seal, and removed several sheets of paper, which, along with the envelope, were closely covered in Evelyn's elegant Italian hand. Lydia snuffed the candle and began to read.

'Miss Trent, Miss Ward,' was the bald and unpromising salutation.

'I shall not explain my motives in writing this letter – suffice it to say I wish to tell you my history. If you wish to believe me penitent, then pray do so, though I may say I have no desire to be thought so, and no feeling of regret for any action in my past life, save one, from which all the others sprung.

I was born Evelyn Spence, and I think you will agree I have risen in the world when I tell you I was born in a prison, where my father was confined for debt.

I spent the first ten years of my life in gaol, until my mother managed to prevail upon an aunt of hers, who kept a girls school, to give me a home. This lady consented, on the condition that from the day I passed under her roof, I was to forget my parents entirely. My elder brother, Nathan, had been similarly provided for, having been apprenticed to a distant connection of my mother's who was in trade. Of course, the injunction against our parents was not hard to keep – it was hard enough that I was never allowed to forget I was a charity pupil, without thinking of a family in gaol. So, from that day hence, I considered myself an orphan. My mother wrote to me on several occasions, but I returned her letters unopened.

By the time I was eighteen, I had learned all that my great-aunt could teach me, and was earning my keep by teaching the younger children. How tedious I found those lessons, how tiresome those stupid little girls! I longed to be free, and so I answered an advertisement for a situation as governess in an aristocratic private family.

I got the place, and was speedily installed in my new duties. I will not go into detail about my time with the Hawkeshursts – suffice it to say that the three years I spent there did nothing to lessen my dislike of children. The tiresome, spoiled brats I had in my charge were accounted by many to be fine, affectionate, clever children – I never found them so.

I was a handsome woman even at nineteen, and, with my comely figure and complaisant manners, I soon caught the eye of Montague Hawkeshurst, the eldest son of the family, who was then three-and-twenty, and enjoying the life of a gentleman of leisure. How I loved to hear his stories of parties and balls, curricle-races and cock-fights. It was a breath of fresh air. Of course I found him an ignorant little puppy, but I was flattered by is attentions, and the presents he made me were a valuable addition to my miserable salary, and so I did little to discourage him.

Like the inexperienced little fool I was, I made sure he meant to marry me, and so was led into a closer intimacy than was prudent. Alas, he cruelly wronged me. As a result, he was sent off on a tour of the continent – I thought – while I lost my situation, and was brought to bed some three months later of a stillborn child. Boy or girl, I do not know, I never saw it, nor troubled to enquire.

I had enough savings from my salary, along with the money I realised from the sale of various trinkets Montague had given me, to live in frugal comfort for some time. After a while, however, I began to be uneasy about my precarious situation, and to look about me for some means of support.

At about that time I met Mr Wade – we had barely been acquainted six weeks when he asked me to marry him, telling me even then that he had no heart to offer, but could give me a home and freedom from want, at least. I had not seen or heard of Montague for more than a year, and so I acquiesced.

We had been married a year, when I heard that Montague had returned to his old home. His father had died, and he was now possessor of the family estate, along with a very pretty income. Seeing my chance, I took Adeline, who but a month or two older than my child would have been, and presented myself to Montague's notice. I told him that Adeline was our child, and called on him to make restitution to myself and his daughter. Alas, I was too late – Montague had married a Spanish lady on his tour abroad, and was even now preparing for the homecoming of the new Mrs Hawkeshurst. With what sinking feelings of anger and dismay did I hear these tidings! All that ought to have been mine – a handsome house, money, a place in the highest society – were given to another. Some foreign cocotte was now the possessor of all these advantages, while I had nothing but a stained name.

What could I do? I could not return to my husband, and the man who ought to have been my husband was out of reach. Mr Hawkeshurst gave me some money, and this I used to establish myself cheaply as a young widow at a bathing place in the South of England, as far away from my home and from the Hawkeshursts as I could manage. There I met Mr Trent, who had brought his little girl to enjoy a short holiday by the sea.

In the pathetic character of widow with an orphaned baby, I was soon able to bewitch him, and, before much time had passed, we were married, and I was established as your stepmother. Fortunately Mr Trent was able to afford to employ a nurse, and later to send you to school, so I was not overburdened with the care of you children. It would have been unreasonable indeed to expect me to care for two children not my own.

I cannot pinpoint when exactly I began to feel that Mr Trent knew my secret – only in time his looks betrayed him, and so I had to silence him – I spent ten years in a prison – I could not go back there on a charge of bigamy. Likewise Mr Wade, who inconveniently reappeared at the precise moment when it looked as if I was free at last. Fortunately I could call upon my brother Nathan to take care of him. As to William, I did not know what I should do until I happened to call at the doctor's house on a minor matter. He was out, but as I waited I happened by chance to take up a volume of the Lancet. By complete good fortune, it opened at an interesting article on the problems in detecting certain vegetable poisons. A thrill of joy ran through me as at last I saw my way clear of my difficulties. But, oh, what agonies of suspense I suffered as I waited on the chance of success! I do not believe I slept a whole night those long months, and my nerves and appetite were almost destroyed.

I had thought that getting these two men out of the way would silence my fears – but it made them worse. Oh, what I have suffered in suspense all this time! I feel everyone can see my guilty secret. Everyone is against me, as they have been all my life. Those who ought to have been my most devoted friends have turned out to be my deadly enemies.

You have set two spies on me, but they shall be evaded by

Evelyn Wade'

Lydia was shocked at this letter – not just by the contents, but at the almost delusional arrogance and self-interest betrayed in every line. The letter displayed not an ounce of affection or sympathetic feeling for any person other than herself. How could she peak so of her own agonies, while she was slowly poisoning the man who had married her in compassion and good faith? What motive she could have had for writing it, Lydia could not imagine.

She could not let Adeline read Evelyn's callous and self-pitying letter – it would shock her too much. Instead, she distilled the main points, and told Adeline that Evelyn had confessed to murdering their papa.

Lydia did, however, share the letter with her Uncle, who was as shocked as she was. They discussed the propriety of handing the confession over to the police, along with the other evidence they had uncovered.

“But it is difficult to think of sending one's stepmother, even one who has wronged one so cruelly by her crime, to the gallows,” said Lydia at the end of that conversation. “Though my heart cries out at my father's murder, the spirit of revenge is not strong within me. Is she not as confined now as she would be in prison? And will not a greater power than Earthly justice judge her in time?”

The time for Evelyn to meet her judgement occurred sooner than anyone had expected. Within but a few days of receiving the letter, they had news that the house at Allenham had burned to the ground. The fire was thought to have started in Mrs Trent's dressing room, where one of the nurses slept every night, so as to be within call. Fortunately, Mrs Gage awoke in time to save herself, but found she was unable to coax Evelyn from her room. That lady had locked herself in, and resisted any attempt to make her stir. One would-be rescuer, Mr Scott the butler, who had scaled a ladder to her window, found himself dangling over a frightening drop by one hand, when Mrs Trent, screaming in in almost incoherent tirade against schemers and traitors, pushed him forcefully from the frame.

The door was broken down, and Mrs Trent was forcibly removed from the building, but too late. She had succumbed to the smoke, and never regained consciousness. She died later that day.

She was buried under the name of Evelyn Wade, that being the only name she had the shadow of a legal claim to, and thus ended her colourful career.

Chapter the 26th

And so our little tale draws to a close. The mystery has been elucidated, the villain disposed of, and so nothing is left for me to do but to marry off the principal characters. Unfortunately, unless I press the good Detective into service, I find myself at least one gentleman short. As useful as Mr Richard Dodds has made himself, I feel we can let him off this particular service, unless he should take it into his head to make up to Bessie, who, being out of her place following the razing of the Allenham house, is living with her sister in Maida Vale. However, that would not solve our particular problem, and so I find I must do the best I can with what I have.

One late-autumn evening, some months after Evelyn Wade's funeral, Lydia was sitting in her room, her feet propped on the hearth, alternately knitting and staring into the fire, which gave a cosy, cheerful light to the room, keeping far at bay the foggy chill outside. After the alarms and excitements of the past couple of years, life had seemed singularly uneventful in the last few months. Adeline had come of age and taken possession of her fortune, but this had presented little change in the now peaceful household. Adeline gave away more in charity, and indulged her taste for music freely, but the event of her twenty-first birthday had not hurried on her marriage – indeed, the subject had not been mentioned, though the engagement still stood.

Lydia was musing on Adeline's possible future, when there was a shy scratch at the door, and that young lady herself crept in. The strains of the past two years had not been kind to her – she had been in poor health for some time, and the doctor said she 'lacked tone', recommending change of air as soon as the winter was over. She was still as bewitchingly lovely as ever, but her eyes were less changeful, and there was a touch of hollowness about her cheek. She looked rosy enough in the firelight, the only source of light in the room, but at midday she looked pale and wan. Her figure, once so slender and blooming, was somewhat gaunt, and had lost much of its energy, though none of its grace.

Just now, she seemed a little troubled and uncertain. She hovered between the hard chair at the table, and the other easy chair by the window. After a few moment's hesitation, she seated herself on the hearthrug, and rested her head against Lydia's knees.

“Lyddy, may I speak to you?” she murmured, but though Lydia readily assented, Adeline remained silent for some time, gazing into the fire as Lydia knitted. Eventually she broke her silence, though the words came as if they cost her a great effort.

“Lyddy, dearest, I wish you would advise me, I don't know what to do.”

“Why, Adele, I will give you any advice in my power – but perhaps Uncle John can advise you better, he is so wise.”

“No, dear, I cannot speak to Uncle, it is not a matter for... In short, it is about Alfred.”

Lydia's heart sank within her breast. In general, she could believe she had bested her unhappy love, and banished it to a forgotten corner of her heart, but to be asked to give impartial and sisterly advice! She managed to maintain her composure, however, and indicated to Adeline that she might continue.

“I am so confused, Lyddy, I begin to wonder if perhaps Alfred or I were mistaken in our feelings.” she struggled for composure a moment, and then carried on, in a more restrained tone, “It has struck me more and more lately that Alfred and I have less of the ready sympathy with one another's hearts and feelings than we did formerly. I am more apt to be cross and pettish to him, he seems more distant every day. I begin to feel that perhaps marriage would not be for our mutual happiness...” and her voice faltered, and she buried her face in her sister's lap and wept.

Lydia allowed her to have her cry, gently stroking the soft chestnut head that lay in her lap, until all at once Lydia spoke again.

“I think he would be better a brother to me than a husband.”

Lydia lifted Adeline's tear stained face and looked steadily and tenderly in her eyes for some moments. The truth burst in on her, and she could not restrain her own tears as she gasped -

“Oh, Adeline, you have guessed all, and you are trying to sacrifice yourself for me!”

“When you were ill you – well, you did not say anything really, only his name once or twice – but, oh, in such a tone! And have you not almost sacrificed your life – twice or more, in my service? The truth is, I am not good for Alfred, you are. I am a clinging vine, you are a growing tree. My tendrils would suffocate him, you would lift him high in your boughs.

“I idolise him – I see nothing but perfection. You see, and forgive, his faults, and so help him to overcome them. Look at when we first came to London – I daydreamed aloud with him about what we should do when he started his literary career, I longed for him to begin, but I was so happy to be with him that I did not tease him about it, trusting to his own sense of duty to make a beginning, and not discouraging his visits. You, however, gave him one rousing speech about not making you ashamed of him, and off he goes, to start at once.”

You are right that I see Alfred's faults,” replied Lydia, “But I see that they are not serious ones, and would not endanger a wife's happiness.”

“Not if he had a strong, intelligent, active wife, a woman like you, that is true, but what can such a fragile clinging thing, as I am, do for him?”

“Adeline, this is serious indeed, and I feel I am the last person in the world who can - who should - advise you in this matter. Alfred is a man of honour, and, as his wife, would make you as happy as he could. All I can advise is that you look deep inside yourself, with no reference to me, or to anyone else but yourself and him, and if on sober reflection you truly do feel that such a marriage would not be for your happiness, then you should ask Alfred to release you from your promise. But I beg you will ask anyone's advice but mine.”

Adeline's only reply was to hug her sister's knees, and the girls sat in silence together until bedtime.

The painful subject was not raised again for several weeks, until one morning when they were all sitting together. Mr Trent, who happened to be free from business that day, looked kindly at the two acknowledged lovers, who were standing together by the window, looking out, and exchanging desultory remarks in a low voice.

“So,” he said, in a hearty tone, “what are you too plotting over there? Naming the day for your wedding, hey?”

At this, Alfred and Adeline, who had merely been discussing the chances of rain later in the day, looked embarrassed and confused – as, for a moment, though thankfully unobserved, did Lydia.

“To be quite honest, sir,” said Alfred, after a few moment's uncomfortable silence, “I have not so far pressed Miss Wade to hurry on the day which would make her Mrs Denham, and me the happiest of men. When first I asked her to honour me by allying her fortunes with mine, she had no fortune, or prospects of such, whatsoever. Now, however, she is the possessor of eighteen thousand pounds. This, with her personal recommendations of grace, goodness and beauty, would enable her to look far higher than me for a husband, and so if she should wish to be released from her promise, I am not the man to stand in her way. I consider myself bound, but feel it would be wrong to bind her to a promise made under very different circumstances.”

“Why, Alfred!” exclaimed the young heiress, in surprise, “As if that makes the slightest difference! All that matters is that you love me.”

“Why, of course I love you.” Alfred assured her, after but a slight hesitation. “I should indeed be less than human if I did not!”

Adeline was thoughtful for a moment. Her face was as gentle and placid as ever, but there was a new edge to her voice as she replied in a low, steady tone.

“As a husband should love a wife, Alfred, or as a brother should love a sister?”

Alfred was staggered. He coloured, he stammered, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but his honest heart stopped the lie which rose to his lips. He had been guilty of dissimulation, it is true, but tell a direct lie – and so serious a lie – he could not.

Adeline drew herself up with the dignity of an empress.

“Your silence tells me all, Alfred. A moment ago you offered to release me from my bond, should I so wish. Now I release you.” and she drew off the little diamond ring that he had given her on her twentieth birthday, and which she had worn ever since for his sake, kissing it when she laid it aside at night, and held it out toward him.

At this, all began to speak at once, but Adeline raised a thin, white hand for silence.

“No, it must not be. Such a marriage would end in unhappiness and bitter recriminations. You have always been an elder brother to me, Alfred, ever since I was a little girl. I hope you shall continue to be so. I hope we will still see you as often as when...”

Adeline's voice had begun to falter during this brave speech, and now it broke altogether, and, repressing a sob, she fled from the room. Lydia and Catherine instantly flew after her, to comfort their unhappy sister. In her flight, she had dropped the ring, and this Alfred now silently picked up, and placed slowly on Adeline's work-table, before turning to Mr Trent, who was looking on with a grave expression.

“Aye, perhaps it is better so, young man. Many people have made such a mistake in their feelings, it is fortunate perhaps that you found it out before the knot was irrevocably tied.”

Alfred merely bowed, not trusting himself to speak lest he betray the tears that stood in his eyes, and made his departure in silence.

And so the months passed, more or less uneventful, until almost a year had elapsed since Malcolm Wade's death. Adeline's health steadily declined still further during this time – she endeavoured to present as bright and carefree a face as possible to the world, even to her uncle and sisters, but long nights spent in bitter recollection and hopeless tears soon took their toll.

The doctor having recommended change of air, the girls spent a month at the seaside, being joined from Friday evening til early Monday morning by their uncle, who genuinely missed them. Alfred ran down a couple of times, to take a walk with the girls, but he never stayed long, or was alone with any of them. Adeline's health, with the help of sea-bathing, long breezy walks, and comfortable, quiet evenings in her sisters' society, had improved a little by the time they returned home, and the experiment was deemed a success.

It was with this in mind that Catherine one day, shortly after their return, approached Mr Trent.

“Sir, I wish you might give me some advice.”

Mr Trent indicated that he was all ears, and would give any advice in his power, and so Catherine continued.

“Now that my sister is on the road to health, I have been giving some serious thought to my future. I am well provided for, and no blood relation to you, so I feel I should no longer trespass on your generous hospitality.

“I wish you might assist me in finding a small, genteel house where I might, with propriety, live alone.”

“But my dear, I had been looking forward to you making your home here for ever so long.”

“Sir, you are very kind, but it seems improper that, not being your relation, I should live in your home.”

“Then -” began Mr Trent, hesitantly at first, then with sudden, impulsive resolution, “become my relation. Become my nearest relation. Catherine, I had not realised until you mentioned leaving, how much I admire and love you. Be my wife, and make your home here with me.”

Catherine was too much astonished to make any reply.

“I know that I am fifty two and you are but seven and twenty. I know that your previous marriage cannot have given you much relish for the matrimonial state, but believe me, Catherine, I love you as I have never loved before. I had thought myself an eternal bachelor, that I would never see a woman who could make me completely happy, until I came to know you. Might I at least try to win your love? Or at the least, your affection? Will you give me that right?”

“Mr Trent, my affection you already have – but before you say too much, I have to tell you the missing portion of my history.” and she proceeded to outline her eight year's experience in the Navy, as Captain Woods.

“Now, sir, let us both reflect. Perhaps now you have heard all, sober reflection will show you that I am not fit to be a gentleman's wife.”

“I still believe you more than fit to be anyone's wife, even an emperor. However, take all the time you wish. That you are even willing to consider my proposal gives me hope.”

It was true, John Trent, confirmed bachelor, had fallen as violently in love as any young hobbledehoy. How 'the pleasing plague had stolen upon him' he knew not, only that as time passed he liked more and more to look on her face, to hear her voice, to think of her and for her. Watching her, as they sat by the fire, had brought a new and unfamiliar longing to his bachelor heart, a thought that to see that face by his fireside in perpetuity would be a very fine thing.

He did not press the young lady, however, being a thorough gentleman – indeed he never returned to the subject until several weeks later.

They had all been to a party – the first since Adeline and Catherine had come out of mourning for their father. During the course of the evening, a middle aged lady, with whom Mr Trent was slightly acquainted, stopped Catherine to ask if she was any relation to Captain Woods, as she bore a striking resemblance to that gentleman. Catherine blushed, and mumbled that she had a passing acquaintance with him, before excusing herself in confusion. Mr Trent, however, remained talking – or rather, listening – to the lady for quite some time.

When they arrived home, he asked Catherine if he might speak to her a moment. She acquiesced, and so they remained together in the drawing room after Lydia and Adeline had retired. Mr Tent's eyes were sparkling with emotion, and the door had barely closed behind Lydia before he began to speak.

“My dear Catherine, when I spoke to you last, alone, you told me you did not think yourself fit to be my wife. After this evening, I agree – you are far far too good for me.

“Do you know what I have been hearing this evening from Mrs Dalrymple? I heard all about the Captain of the ship on which her son, a lad of sixteen, served. The lady spoke of a brave man, who was the first into action and the last out of danger. She spoke of a just and noble man, who listened to all opinions before making decisions, who was fair and impartial, and clever as well as brave in battle and in navigation.

“She spoke of a kind man, who not only defended her lad from a party of boarders who were close to killing him, but afterward tenderly nursed the boy with his own hands. Who comforted those who were afraid or sad, and did not punish unjustly.

“And so this was your guilty secret, that was to make you unfit to marry? Eight years of resourcefulness, intelligence, courage and kindness. I say again, you are too good for me.”

“Sir, I am not too good for you – I have lived a rough kind of life. It is you who are too good for me, but...” all in a rush, “but if you choose to think me a fitting wife, then I cannot gainsay you. Yes, Mr Trent, I will marry you.”

Mr Trent made no reply, except, with tears of joy in his eyes, to take Catherine in his arms. She resisted half a moment, but it seemed as if his touch revealed the gentleness and truth of his heart, and with a soft little sigh, like a lost and troubled bird coming at last to it's nesting place, she buried her head in his shoulder.

Epilogue

Five years have now passed since our story ended, and we take a last sight of our characters, in a quiet churchyard, on a soft summer evening.

The little group stands by a grave – the headstone bears the name 'Adeline Wade', and is dated a year since. Poor girl, she never did recover from those stressful two years - she simply faded away, until claimed a year ago by a low fever. One of her last earthly acts was to unite the hands of her one-time lover and her stepsister, extracting a promise from them that they would marry for her sake.

Now Lydia and Alfred stand arm-in-arm by the grave, having fulfilled their promise but a few weeks ago, in a quiet, sober ceremony, for they both are still in mourning for their dear sister. Their love, though suppressed, has endured their long separation, and though it will always be somewhat tinged with melancholy, looks well to endure the rest of their lives. Though Lydia inherited all of Adeline's fortune, Alfred has refused to touch a penny, instead settling it all on Lydia and her future children, and, having been touched by both joy and tragedy, his writing prospers finely.

John and Catherine Trent stand together on the opposite side of the grave. They have grown in love, trust and happiness every day, and the loss of Adeline seems to have been the only black cloud in their sky. Mr Trent holds the hand of a fine young lad of three years of age, named – at Catherine's insistence – for his father, and who has brought a sheaf of wild flowers for 'poor Aunty Adele', while Mrs Trent peeps down now and again at her own baby Adeline, who sleeps peacefully in her arms.

The four speak quietly, sharing loving remembrances of the young girl, once so bright and lovely, who now slumbers beneath the sod. Let us not disturb their bitter-sweet recollections, but steal softly away into the gathering dusk.