CHAPTER XLV.—AN OLD PICTURE.

And now before I go,’ said Sutherland, changing his manner, ‘I have something for you: I think it will be a surprise. Look there!’

So speaking, he took out a pocket-book and drew from it a cheque for fifty pounds, payable to ‘bearer.’

‘I see,’ said Sister Ursula; ‘another contribution to Mount Eden. Ah! you are indefatigable.’

‘I assure you this is quite a windfall; I did not even shake the tree. Look at the signature. Do you know it? 5 ‘“Hubert Lagardère.” No!’ ‘Lagardère, the editor of the “Plain Speaker.”’ Sister Ursula raised her eyebrows and lifted her hands.

‘That man! Why, I thought——’

‘And so did I,’ cried Sutherland, laughing. ‘So thorough a worldling did I think him, that I have been twice on the point of horsewhipping him. Well, I was sitting yesterday morning in my rooms when he was shown in. It turned out afterwards that he had seen my name connected in some way with this institution. He entered mysteriously, carefully closed the door, and before I could address him he handed me that cheque, with the intimation that it was to be paid over to you. “It seems to me rather a good sort of idea,” he said in his drawling way; “so I have brought you a trifle I won from Banbri Pasha last night at nap.”

“Really, Mr. Lagardère,” I said, “I didn’t give you credit for so much sympathy with misfortune.” I added: “I shall have much pleasure in making public acknowledgment of your liberality.” As I spoke the words he trembled violently and clutched me by the arm.’ ‘How singular!’ said Sister Ursula.

‘“For God’s sake,” he cried, “do nothing of the kind.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “it is only just. To be frank, I, in common with many others, have held your style of journalism in the utmost detestation. In one case, at least, I know you have helped to wreck a human life; it is only fair to proclaim that you are perhaps penitent, and——”

He interrupted me with an expletive. “Nothing of the sort,” he exclaimed; “I don’t profess to be a saint, and I won’t have my character taken away. Damme, sir, what would the readers of the ‘Plain Speaker’ think, if they thought I had any commonplace compunctions? They’d all go back to the ‘Whirligig,’ vote me a molly-coddle, and, as a journalist, I should be ruined.” So I took the cheque, on the condition that I should not disturb the public in its happy confidence in the moral perversity of the donor.’

Sister Ursula joined heartily in Sutherland’s laughter.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you have certainly discovered a phenomenon. Most men, even some good men, like to have their charities written large for the world to read; whereas Mr. Lagardère is actually ashamed of a good action.’

‘After all,’ answered Sutherland, as they shook hands, ‘he is what the world has made him. In a society which sets success above goodness, and despises any kind of sentiment, he poses as a Cockney Mephistopheles. For the future I shall never think of him without calling up the lines of Burns:—


Then fare-thee-weel, auld Nickie-Ben,

Ah, wad you tak’ a thoucht, and men’!

You aiblins might—I dinna ken—

Still hae a stake!

I’m wae to think upon yon den,

E’en for your sake!


For “den” substitute “journal,” and the allusion—though not the rhyme—would be perfect. I, for one, am “wae to think” of the diabolic journalism of the period, even for the sake of—Lagardère!’





As Sutherland hurried away through the night, driving to catch a late train at a lonely railway station seven miles from Mount Eden, his thoughts were not of Lagardère and the newest thing in journalism, but of her whom that man and that system had helped to destroy. A wild suspicion, deepening almost to certainty, and based upon the extraordinary resemblance between Madeline Forster and the woman calling herself Jane Peartree, had complete possession of his mind. Strange and impossible as it seemed, he could not shake away the belief that Jane Peartree was, in flesh or spirit, the living image of the woman whose death he had avenged on the body of Gavrolles.

It may be a propos, at this point, to allay the reader’s curiosity as to what took place at Boulogne after Gavrolles fell by Sutherland’s hand. Of course there was an inquiry and a great scandal—duels with fatal terminations being very unusual in these days. Forster lay at the hotel slowly recovering from his wound, under surveillance. Sutherland was under arrest for some hours, and was only released on giving substantial pledges to appear when called upon. For a time it seemed likely that a prosecution of a serious nature would ensue; but money and influence were brought to bear on the authorities, and the two Englishmen were eventually suffered, whilst the police pretended to ‘look another way,’ to cross the Channel.

After the death of Gavrolles, Forster seemed to resign himself more and more to melancholic prostration; and more than once when his wound was slowly healing, he avowed his regret that it was not to have a fatal termination. He would sit for days in a sort of mental stupor, scarcely looking up when spoken to, seldom or never uttering a word. On his return to England, instead of again occupying his house at Kensington, he took chambers near Bond Street for himself and his little son, and had the family mansion closed. His sister Margaret wished to remain with him, but at his strong desire she went away to dwell with some relations in the country. To tell the truth, he had not quite forgiven her the want of sympathy she had shown for the lost idol of his life.

The morning after his return from Mount Eden, Sutherland found Forster, sad, despairing, but convalescent, in his lonely chambers. The two had by this time become great friends, or more than friends; and Sutherland was welcomed with as bright a smile as the weary face could wear.

‘I have been looking over some old photographs,’ said Forster presently. ‘Strange! how they one and all fail to represent her I have lost. Here is one of “Imogen.” The features are there, but the soul is altogether wanting.’

Sutherland glanced over the pictures, which were lying on a small writing-table at Forster’s side; then he said quietly—

‘Do you think it wise to open up old wounds in this way? Can you not try to forget?’

‘Never, never!’ returned Forster, while his eyes filled with tears. ‘My only comfort, now, is to think of my darling—to wait and pray until, with God’s blessing, we meet again.’

‘Can you bear to speak of her, now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you bear to think it possible that, after all, you might yet meet—not up yonder in the heaven of the preacher, but here, on solid earth, in broad day?’

‘What do you mean!’ cried Forster, trembling violently. ‘Alas, she is dead! dead!’

‘The dead have once risen. Might they not rise again?’