Uncanny Tales

  "---- WILL NOT TAKE PLACE."

  "'Lingard,' 'Trevannion,'" murmured Captain Murray, as he ran his eyedown the column of the morning paper specially devoted to so-calledfashionable intelligence, "Lingard, Arthur Lingard; yes, I've met him;a very good fellow. And Trevannion; don't you know a Miss Trevannion,Bessie?"

  Mrs. Murray glanced up from her teacups.

  "What do you say, Walter? Trevannion; yes, I have met a girl of the nameat my aunt's. A pretty girl, and I think I heard she was going to bemarried. Is that what you are talking about?"

  "No," her husband replied. "It's the other way--broken off, I wonderwhy."

  "What an old gossip you are," said Mrs. Murray. "No good reason at all,I daresay. People are so capricious now-a-days."

  "Still, they don't often announce a marriage till it's pretty certainto come off. This sort of thing," tapping the paper as he spoke, "isn'texactly pleasant."

  "Very much the reverse," agreed Mrs. Murray, and then they thought nomore about it.

  "I wonder why," said a good many people that morning, when they caughtsight of the announcement. For the two principals it concerned--ArthurLingard, especially--had a large circle of friends and acquaintances, andtheir engagement had been the subject of much and hearty congratulation.It seemed so natural and fitting that these two should marry. Bothyoung, amiable, good-looking, and sufficiently well off. Even the mostcynical could discern no cloud in the bright sky of their future, nocrook in the lot before them.

  And now--

  No marvel that Captain Murray's soliloquy was repeated by many.

  But who would have guessed that in one heart it was ever ringing withmaddening anguish?

  "I wonder why, oh, I wonder why he has done it. Oh, if he would but tellme, it could not surely seem quite so unendurable."

  And Daisy Trevannion pressed her aching head, and her poor swollen eyeson to her mother's loving bosom in a sort of wild despair.

  "Mamma, mamma," she cried, "help me. I cannot be angry with him. I wishI could. He was so gentle, so sweet--and he is so heartbroken, I can seeby his letter. Oh, mamma, what can it be?"

  But to this, even the devoted mother, who would gladly have given herown life to save her child this misery, could find no answer.

  This was what had happened.

  They had been engaged about three months, the wedding day wasapproximately fixed, when one morning the blow fell.

  A letter to Daisy's father, enclosing one to herself--a letter whichmade Mr. Trevannion draw his brows together in instinctive indignation,and then as the first impulse cooled a little, caused him to turn to hisdaughter with a movement of irritation, underneath which, hope had,nevertheless, found time to reassert itself.

  "Daisy," he exclaimed sharply, "what is the meaning of all thisnonsense? Have you been quarrelling with Lingard? You're a bit of aspoilt child I know, my dear, but I don't like playing with edgedtools--a man like Arthur won't stand being trifled with. Do you hear,Daisy--eh, what?"

  For the girl had scarcely caught the sense of his words, so absorbed wasshe in those of the short, all too short, but terrible letter she hadjust read--the letter addressed to herself, which began "Daisy, myDaisy, for the last time," and ended abruptly with the simple signature,"Arthur Lingard".

  She gazed up at her father--her white face all drawn, and as it were,withered with that minute's agony--her eyes dulled and yet wild. Neverwas there such a metamorphosis from the happy, laughing girl who hadhurried in with some pretty excuse for her unpunctuality.

  "Daisy, my child! Daisy," her father repeated, repenting already of hishasty remarks, "don't take it so seriously." "Margaret," to his wife,"speak to her."

  And Mrs. Trevannion, as pale almost as her daughter, drew the sheet ofnote-paper from the girl's unresisting hands, while her husband held outto her his own letter.

  "Some complete mistake," she said, "some misplaced quixotry. Daisy, myown darling, do not take it so seriously. Your father will see him--youwill, will you not, Hugh?" detecting the proud hesitation in herhusband's face. "It is not as if we did not know him well, and all abouthim. Your father will find out, Daisy, and make it all right."

  Mr. Trevannion did not contradict her, but murmured some consolatorywords, and then the mother led Daisy away, and to a certain extent thegirl allowed herself to be reassured.

  "I will consult Keir if necessary," said the father when out of hearingof his daughter. "He is the natural person, both as our own connectionand because he introduced Lingard, and thinks so highly of him. Butfirst I will see Arthur alone. The fewer mixed up in such a case thebetter."

  Mrs. Trevannion agreed. She was constitutionally sanguine, but a painfulidea struck her as her husband spoke.

  "Hugh," she said hesitatingly, "you don't think--it surely is notpossible that his--that Arthur's brain is affected?"

  "His brain--tut, nonsense! What a woman's idea!" replied Mr. Trevannionirritably. "Why, he is receiving compliments on every side, from thevery highest quarters, too, on that article of his on the CapricornIslands. Brain affected, indeed!"

  And to a whisper of, "I was thinking of over-work," which followed himapologetically, he vouchsafed no reply.

  Some intensely trying days passed. Mr. Trevannion's interview with hisrecalcitrant son-in-law-to-be, proved a complete failure. Nothing,absolutely nothing was to be "got out of the fellow," he told his wifein mingled anger and wretchedness, for the poor man was a devotedfather. Arthur was gentleness itself, respectful, deferential even,to the man whose peculiarly disagreeable position he felt forinexpressibly. But he was as firm, as hard in his decision that allshould be, must be, over between Miss Trevannion and himself, as if hisown heart had suddenly turned to iron, as if he possessed no feelings atall. He grew white to the lips, with a terrible death-like whiteness,when he named her; he said with a quiet, deliberate emphasis, moreimpressive by far than any passionate declaration, that never, neverwhile he lived, would he forgive himself for the trouble he had broughtinto her young life, but that he was powerless to do otherwise, he wasabsolutely without a choice. As to the reason for the breaking off ofthe engagement to be given to the world, he left it entirely in theTrevannions' own hands; he would contradict nothing they thought it bestto say; but, if possible, he grew still whiter when his visitor fromunder his shaggy eyebrows glanced at him with a look of contempt whilehe replied cuttingly that he had no love of falsehood. For his part hewould tell the truth, and in the end he believed it would be best forDaisy that all the world should know the way in which she had beentreated.

  "Best for her and worst for you," he repeated.

  And Arthur only said:--

  "I hope so. It must be as you think well."

  Then Trevannion softened again a little.

  "I shall say nothing to any one at present," he went on. "I must seeKeir; possibly he may understand you better than I can."

  But, "No, it will be no use," the young man repeated coldly, though hisvery heart was wrung for the father, crushing down his own pride whilehe thought he saw still the ghost of a hope. "It will be no use. No onecan do anything."

  "And you adhere to your determination not to see my--not to see Daisyagain?"

  Lingard bowed his head.

  And Mr. Trevannion left him.

  Philip Keir was no blood relation of the Trevannions, but a cousin bymarriage and a very intimate friend. He was some years older than Mr.Lingard, and it was through him that the acquaintance resulting inDaisy's engagement had begun. He was a reserved man, with a frank andcordial manner. Daisy thought she knew him well, but as to this she wasin some directions entirely mistaken.

  He was away from home when Mr. Trevannion called on him, drivingstraight to his chambers from the fruitless interview with Lingard.Philip did not return for a couple of days, and had left no address.Hence ensued the painful interval of suspense alluded to.

  But on the third evening a hansom dashed up to the Trevannions' door,and Mr. Keir jumped out. It was late, but there was no hesitation
as toadmitting him.

  "I found your note," he said, as he grasped his host's hand, "and camestraight on. I have only just got back. What is the matter? Tell me atonce."

  He was a self-controlled man, but his agitation was evident. "Daisy?" headded hastily.

  "Yes," replied the father. The two were alone in his study. "PoorDaisy!" And then he told the story.

  Keir listened, though not altogether in silence, for brokenexclamations, which he seemed unable to repress, broke out from him morethan once.

  "Impossible----inconceivable!" he muttered, "Lingard, of all men, tobehave like a----" he stopped short, at a loss for a comparison.

  "Then you can throw no light upon it--none whatever?" said Mr.Trevannion. "We had hoped--foolishly, perhaps--I had somehow hoped thatyou might have helped us. You know him well, you see, you have been somuch together, your acquaintance is of old date, and you must understandany peculiarities of his character."

  His tone still sounded as if he could not bring himself finally toaccept the position. Keir was inexpressibly sorry for him.

  "I know of none," he said. "Frankly, I know of nothing about him that isnot estimable. And, as you say, we have been much and most intimatelyassociated. We have travelled together half over the world, we have beendependent on each other for months at a time, and the more I have seenof him the more I have admired and--yes--loved him. If I had to pick afault in him I would say it is a curious spice of obstinacy--I have seenit very strongly now and then. Once," and his face grew grave, "once, wenearly quarrelled because he would not give in on a certain point. Itwas in Siberia, not long ago," and here Philip gave a sort of shiver,"it was very horrible--no need to go into details. He, Arthur, got itinto his head that a particular course of action was called for, andthere was no moving him. However it ended all right. I had almostforgotten it. But he was determined."

  Mr. Trevannion listened, but vaguely. Keir's remarks scarcely seemed tothe point.

  "Obstinate!" he repeated. "Yes, but that doesn't explain things. Therewas no question of giving in. They had had no quarrel. Daisy wasperfectly happy. The only thing she can say on looking back over thelast week or two closely, is that Arthur had seemed depressed now andthen, and when she taxed him with it he evaded a reply. You don't think,Philip, that there is anything of that kind--melancholia, you know--inhis family?"

  "Bless you, no, my dear sir. He comes of the healthiest stock possible.People one knows all about for generations. No, no, it's nothing of thatkind," Keir replied. "And--what man ever had such happy prospects?"

  "Then what in heaven's name is it?" said Mr. Trevannion, bringing hishand down violently on the table beside which they were sitting. "Canyou get it out of him, if you can do nothing else for us, Philip? It isour right to know; it is--it is due to my child, it is----" he stopped,his face working with emotion. "He won't see her, you know," he addeddisconnectedly.

  "I will try," said Philip. "It is indeed the least I can do. If--if Icould get him to see her--Daisy; surely that would be the best chance."

  Mr. Trevannion looked at him sharply, scrutinisingly.

  "You--you are satisfied then--entirely satisfied that there is nothingwe need dread her being mixed up in, so to say? Nothing wrong--nothingto shock a girl like her? You see," half apologetically, "his refusingto see her makes one afraid----"

  "I am as sure of him as of myself--surer," said Philip earnestly. "Thereis nothing in his past to explain it--nothing."

  "An early secret marriage; a wife he thought dead turning up again,"suggested the father. "It sounds absurd, sensational--but afterall--there must be some reason."

  "Not that," said Keir, getting up as he spoke. "Well then, I will seehim first thing in the morning, and communicate with you as soon aspossible after I have done so. You will tell Mrs. Trevannion and--andDaisy that I will do my best?"

  "My wife is still in the drawing-room. Will you not see her to-night?"

  Philip shook his head.

  "It is late," he said, "and I am dusty and unpresentable. Besides, thereis really nothing to say. To-morrow it shall be as you all think best. Iwill see Mrs. Trevannion--and Daisy," here he flushed a little, but hishost did not observe it, "if you like and if she wishes it. Heaven sendI may have better news than I expect."

  And with a warm pressure of his old friend's hand, Mr. Keir left him.

  The two younger men met the next morning. There was no difficulty aboutit, for Lingard, knowing by instinct that the interview must take place,had determined to face it. So of the two he was the more prepared, themore forearmed.

  The conversation was long--an hour, two hours passed before poor Philipcould make up his mind to accept the ultimatum contained in the few hardwords with which Arthur Lingard first greeted him.

  "I know what you have come about. I knew you must come. You could nothelp yourself. But, Philip, it will save you pain--I don't mind formyself; nothing can matter now--if you will at once take my word for itthat nothing you can say will do the least shadow of good. No, don'tshake hands with me. I would rather you didn't."

  And he put his right arm behind his back and stood there, leaningagainst the mantelpiece, facing his friend.

  Philip looked up at him grimly.

  "No," he said, "I've given my word to--to these poor dear people, andI'll stick to it. You've got to make up your mind to a cross-examination,Lingard."

  But through or below the grimness was a terrible pity. Philip's heartwas very tender for the man whose inexplicable conduct was yet fillinghim with indignation past words. Arthur was so changed--the last week ortwo had done the work of years--all the youthfulness, the almost boyishbrightness, which had been one of his charms, was gone, dead. He waspale with a strange indescribable pallor, that told of days, and worsestill, of nights of agony; the lines of his face were hardened; the lipsspoke of unalterable determination. Only once had Philip seen him lookthus, and then it was but in expression--the likeness and the contraststruck him curiously. The other time it had been resolution temporarilyhardening a youthful face; now--what did it remind him of? A monk whohad gone through a life-time of spiritual struggle alone, unaided byhuman sympathy? A martyr--no, there was no enthusiasm. It was all dull,dead anguish of unalterable resolve.

  There was silence for a moment. Keir was choking down an uncomfortablesomething in his throat, and bracing himself to the inquisitorialtorture before him to perform.

  "Well," said Arthur, at last.

  And Philip looked up at him again.

  How queer his eyes were--they used to be so deeply blue. Daisy had oftenlaughed at his changeable eyes, as she called them--blue in the daytime,almost black at night, but always lustrous and liquid. Now, they wereglassy, almost filmy. What was it? A sudden thought struck Philip.

  "Arthur!" he exclaimed, "Arthur, old fellow, are you going blind? Isthat the mystery? If it is that, good Lord, how little you know her, ifyou think that----"

  Arthur's pale lips grew visibly paler. He had been unprepared for attackin this direction, and for the moment he quailed before it.

  "No," he whispered hoarsely, "it is not that. Would to God it were!"

  But almost instantly he had mastered himself, and from that momentthroughout the interview not even the mention of Daisy's name had powerto stir him.

  And Philip, annoyed with his own impulsiveness, stiffened again.

  "You are determined not to reveal your secret," he began, "but I want tocome to an understanding with you on one point. If I guess it, if I putmy finger on it, will you give me the satisfaction of owning that I havedone so."

  Lingard hesitated.

  "Yes," he said, "I will do so on one condition--your word of honour,your oath, never to tell it to any human being."

  "Not to--her--Daisy?"

  "Least of all."

  Philip groaned. This did not look very promising for the meeting withDaisy, which at the bottom of his heart he believed in as his last--histrump card.

  Still, he had gained something.

&n
bsp; "Then, my first question seems, in the face of that, almost a mockery. Iwas going to ask you," and he half gasped--"it is nothing--nothing abouther that is at the root of all this misery? No fancy," again the gasp,"that--that she doesn't care for you, or love you enough? No nonsenseabout your not being suited to each other, or that you couldn't make agirl of her sensitive, high-strung nature happy?"

  "No," said Arthur, and the word seemed to ring through the room. "No, Iknow she loves me as I love her. Oh, no, not quite like that, I trust,"and his voice was firm through all the tragedy of the last sentence."And I believe I could have made her very happy. Leave her name out ofit now, Phil, once for all. It has nothing to do personally with thewoman who is, and always will be, to me my perfect ideal of sweetnessand excellence and truth and beauty."

  "Then it has to do with yourself," murmured Keir. "Come, the radius isnarrowing. I flew out at poor Trevannion when he suggested it, but allthe same, it's nothing in your past you're ashamed of that's come tolight, is it? The best fellows in the world make fools of themselvessometimes, you know. Don't mind my asking."

  "I don't mind," said Arthur wearily, "but it's no use. No, it's nothinglike that. I have done nothing I am ashamed of. I am not secretlymarried, nor have I committed forgery," with a very ghastly attempt at asmile.

  "Then," said Philip, "is it something about your family. Have you foundout that there's a strain of insanity in the Lingards perhaps? Peopleexaggerate that kind of thing now-a-days. There's a touch of it in usall, I take it."

  "No," said Arthur, again "my family's all right. I've no very nearrelations except my sister, but you know her, and you know all about us.We're not adventurers in any sense of the word."

  "Far from it," agreed Philip warmly. Then for a moment or two herelapsed into silence. "Does your sister--does Lady West knowabout--about this mysterious affair?" he asked abruptly, after somepondering.

  "Nothing whatever. I, of course, was bound by every consideration not totell her--to tell no one anything till it was understood by--theTrevannions. And I had no reason for consulting her or--any friend,"Arthur replied.

  He spoke jerkily and with effort, as if he were putting force on himselfto endure what yet he was convinced was absolutely useless torture.

  But his words gave Keir a new opening, which he was quick to seize.

  "That's just it," he exclaimed eagerly. "That's just where it strikesme you've gone wrong. You should have consulted some one--not myself,not your sister even; I don't say whom, but some one sensible andtrustworthy. I believe your mind has got warped. You've been thinkingover this trouble, whatever it is, till you can't see it rightly. You'veexaggerated it out of all proportion, and you shouldn't trust your ownmorbid judgment."

  Lingard did not answer. He stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon theground. For an instant a wild hope dashed through Philip that at lasthe had made some impression. But as Arthur slowly raised his dim, worneyes, and looked him in the face, it faded again, even before the youngman spoke.

  "To satisfy you, I will tell you this much. I have consulted oneperson--a man whom you would allow was trustworthy and wise and good.From him I have hidden nothing whatever, and he agrees with me that Ihave no choice--that duty points unmistakably to the course I ampursuing."

  Again a flash of suggestion struck his hearer.

  "One person--a man," he repeated. "Arthur, is it some priest? Have theybeen converting or perverting you, my boy? Are you going over to Rome,fancying yourself called to be a Trappist, or a--those fellows at theGrande Chartreuse, you remember?"

  For the second time during the interview, Arthur smiled, and his smilewas a trifle less ghastly this time.

  "No, again," he said. "You're quite on a wrong tack. I have not theslightest inclination that way. I--I wish I had. No, my adviser is nopriest. But he's one of the best of men, all the same, and one of thewisest."

  "You won't tell me who he is?"

  "I cannot."

  "And"--Philip was reluctant to try his last hope, and felt consciousthat he would do it clumsily--"Arthur," he burst out, "you will seeher--Daisy--once more? She has a right to it. You are putting enoughupon her without refusing this one request of hers."

  He stood up as he spoke. He himself had grown strangely pale, and seeingthis, as he glanced at him, Lingard's own face became ashen.

  He shook his head.

  "Good God!" he said, "I think this might have been spared me. No, I willnot see her again. The only thing I can do for her is to refuse thislast request. Tell her so, Philip--tell her what I say. And now leaveme. Don't shake hands with me. I don't wish it, and I daresay you don't.If--if we never meet again, you and I--and who knows?--if this is ourgoodbye, thank you, old fellow, thank you for all you have tried to do.Perhaps I know the cost of it to you better than you imagine. Good-bye,Phil!"

  Keir turned towards the door. But he looked back ere he reached it.Arthur was standing as he had been--motionless.

  "You're not thinking of killing yourself, are you?" he said quietly.

  Arthur looked at him. His eyes had a different expression now--or wasit that something was gleaming softly in them that had not been therebefore?

  "No, no--I am not going to be false to my colours. I--I don't care totalk much about it, but--I am a Christian, Phil."

  "At least I can put that horrid idea out of the poor child's head,then," thought Keir to himself. Though to Arthur he did not reply, saveby a bend of his head.

  * * * * *

  Time passed. And in his wings there was healing.

  At twenty-four, Daisy Trevannion, though her face bore traces ofsuffering of no common order, was yet a sweet and serene woman. To someextent she had outlived the strange tragedy of her earlier girlhood.

  It had never been explained. The one person who might naturally havebeen looked to, to throw some light on the mystery, Lingard's sister,Lady West, was, as her brother had stated, completely in the dark. Atfirst she had been disposed to blame Daisy, or her family; and thoughafterwards convinced that in so doing she was entirely mistaken, shenever became in any sense confidential with them on the matter. Andafter a few months they met no more. For her husband was sent abroad,and detained there on an important diplomatic mission.

  Now and then, in the earlier days of her broken engagement, Daisy wouldask Philip to "try to find out if Mary West knows where he is". And toplease her he did so. But all he learnt was--what indeed was all thesister had to tell--that Arthur was off again on his old travels--tothe Capricorn Islands or to the moon, it was not clear which.

  "He has promised that I shall hear from him once a year--as near mybirthday as he can manage. That is all I can tell you," she said, tryingto make light of it.

  And whether this promise was kept or no, one thing was certain--ArthurLingard had entirely disappeared from London society.

  At twenty-five, Daisy married Philip. He had always loved her, though hehad never allowed her to suspect it; and knowing herself and her historyas he did, he was satisfied with the true affection she could givehim--satisfied, that is to say, in the hope and belief that his owndevotion would kindle ever-increasing response on her side. And hishopes were not disappointed. They were very happy.

  Now for the sequel to the story--such sequel, that is to say, as thereis to give--a suggestion of explanation rather than any positive_denoument_ of the mystery.

  They--Philip and Daisy--had been married for two or three years when oneevening it chanced to them to dine at the house of a rather well-knownliterary man with whom they were but slightly acquainted. They had beeninvited for a special reason; their hosts were pleasant and genialpeople who liked to get those about them with interests in common.And Keir, though his wings were now so happily clipt, still held hisposition as a traveller who had seen and noted much in his formerwanderings.

  "We think your husband may enjoy a talk with Sir Abel Maynard, who iswith us for a few days," Mrs. Thorncroft had said in her note.

  And Sir Abel, not
being of the surly order of lions who refuse to roarwhen they know that their audience is eager to hear them, made himselfmost agreeable. He appreciated Mr. Keir's intelligence and sympathy, andwas by no means indifferent to Mrs. Keir's beauty, though "evidently,"he thought to himself, "she is not over fond of reminiscences of herhusband's travels. Perhaps she is afraid of his taking flight again."

  During dinner the conversation turned, not unnaturally, on a subjectjust at that moment much to the fore. For it was about the time of theheroic Damien's death.

  "No," said Sir Abel, in answer to some inquiry, "I never visited hisplace. But I have seen lepers--to perfection. By-the-by," he went onsuddenly, "I came across a queer, a very queer, story a while ago. Iwonder, Keir, if you can throw any light upon it?"

  But at that moment Mrs. Thorncroft gave the magic signal and the womenleft the room.

  By degrees the men came straggling upstairs after them, then a littlemusic followed, but it was not till much later in the evening than wasusual with him that Philip made his appearance in the drawing-room,preceded by Sir Abel Maynard. Philip looked tired and rather "distrait,"thought Daisy, whose eyes were keen with the quick discernment ofperfect affection, and she was not sorry when, before very long, hewhispered to her that it was getting late, might they not leave soon?Nor was she sorry that during the interval before her husband made thissuggestion, Sir Abel, who had been devoting himself to her, had avoidedall mention of his travels, and had been amusing her with his criticismof a popular novel instead. She could never succeed altogether inbanishing the painful association of Arthur Lingard from allusion toher husband's old wanderings.

  Poor Arthur! Where was he now?

  "Philip, dear," she said, slipping her hand into his when they foundthemselves alone, and with a longish drive before them, in their ownlittle brougham, "there is something the matter. You have heardsomething? Tell me what it is."

  Keir hesitated.

  "Yes," he said, "I suppose it is best to tell you. It is the strangestory Sir Abel alluded to before you left the room."

  "About--about Arthur? Is it about Arthur?" whispered she, shivering alittle.

  Philip put his arm round her.

  "I can't say. We shall perhaps never know certainly," he replied. "Butit looks very like it. Listen, dear. Some little time ago--two orthree years ago--Maynard spent some days at one of those awful lepersettlements--never mind where. I would just as soon you did not know.There, to his amazement, among the most devoted of the attendants uponthe poor creatures he found an Englishman, young still, at least by hisown account, though to judge by his appearance it would have beenimpossible to say. For he was himself far gone, very far gone in someways, in the disease. But he was, or had been, a man of strongconstitution and enormous determination. Ill as he was, he yet managedto tend others with indescribable devotion. They looked upon him as asaint. Maynard did not like to inquire what had brought him to such apass--he, the poor fellow, was a perfect gentleman. But the day Sir Abelwas leaving, the Englishman took him to some extent into his confidence,and asked him to do him a service. This was his story. Some yearsbefore, in quite a different part of the world, the young man had nurseda leper--a dying leper--for some hours. He believed for long that he hadescaped all danger, in fact he never thought of it; but it was not so.There must have been an unhealed wound of some kind--a slight scratchwould do it--on his hand. No need to go into the details of his firstmisgivings, of the horror of the awful certainty at last. It came uponhim in the midst of the greatest happiness; he was going to be marriedto a girl he adored."

  "Oh, Philip, Philip, why did he not tell?" Daisy wailed.

  "He consulted the best and greatest physician, who--as a friend, hesaid--approved of the course he had mapped out for himself. He decidedto tell no one, to break off his engagement, and die out of her--thegirl's--life; not once, after he was sure, did he see her again. Hewould not even risk touching her hand. And he believed that tellingwould only have brought worse agony upon her in the end than the agonyhe was forced to inflict. For he was a doomed man, though they gave hima few years to live. And he did the only thing he could do with thoseyears. He set off to the settlement in question. Maynard was to callthere some months later on his way home, and the young man knew he wouldbe dead then, and so he was. But he showed Maynard a letter explainingall, that he had got ready--all but the address--_that_, he would notadd till he was in the act of dying. There must be no risk of herknowing till he was dead. And this letter Maynard was to fetch on hisreturn. He did so, but--there had been no time to add the address--deathhad come suddenly. All sorts of precautions had been ordered by the poorfellow as to disinfecting the letter and so on. But it did not seem toMaynard that these had been taken. So he contented himself by spreadingout the paper on the sea-shore and learning it by heart, and thenleaving it. The sum total of it was what I have told you, but not onename was named."

  Daisy was sobbing quietly.

  "Was it he?" she said.

  "Yes, I feel sure of it," Philip replied. "For I can supply the missinglink. The one time I really quarrelled with Arthur was when we were inSiberia. He _would_ spend a night in a dying leper's hut. I would havedone it myself, I believe and hope, had it been necessary. But by ridingon a few miles we could have got help for the poor creature--whichindeed I did--and more efficient help than ours. But Lingard wasdetermined, and no ill seemed to come of it. I had almost forgotten thecircumstance. I never associated it with the mystery that caused yousuch anguish, my poor darling."

  "It was he," whispered Daisy. "Philip, he was a hero after all."

  "Not even you can feel that, as I do," Keir replied.

  Then they were silent.

  * * * * *

  A few weeks afterwards came a letter from Lady West, in her far-offSouth American home. Daisy had not heard from her for years.

  "By circuitous ways, I need not explain the details," she wrote, "I havelearnt that my darling brother is dead. I thought I had better tell you.I am sure his most earnest wish was that you should live to be happy,dear Daisy, as I trust you are. And I know you have long forgiven himthe sorrow he caused you--it was worse still for him."

  "I wonder," said Daisy, "if she knows more?"

  But the letter seemed to add certainty to their own conviction.