LITMIR.BIZ

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blame of which, needless to say, she fixed upon the departed Philip.

      "Lor, Mrs. Roberts” (as Hilda was called), she said, "don’t take on like that; they’re all brutes, that’s what they are; if only you could have seen my Samuel, who’s dead and gone these ten years and buried in a private grave at Kensal Cemetery—though he didn’t leave anything to pay for it except three dozen and five of brandy—he was a beauty, poor dear, he was; your husband ain’t nothing to him.”

      "My husband, let me tell you, Mrs. Jacobs, is not a brute at all,” sobbed Hilda, with dignity.

      "Ah, Mrs. Roberts, that is just what I used to say of Samuel, but he was the biggest brute in the three kingdoms, for all that; but if you ask me, meaning no offence, I call a man a brute as only comes to see his lawful wife about twice a month, let alone making an angel cry.”

      "Mr. Roberts has his reasons, Mrs. Jacobs; you must not talk of him like that.”

      "Ah, so my Samuel used to say when he stopped away from home for three nights at a time, till I followed him and found out his ‘Reason,’ and a mighty pretty ‘Reason’ she was too, all paint and feathers, the hussy, and eyes as big as a teacup. They all have their reasons, but they never tell ‘em. But come and put on your things and go out a bit, there’s a dear; it is a beautiful warm evening. You feel tired—oh, never mind that; it is necessary for people as is in an interested way to take exercise. I well remembers—”

      Here Hilda, however, cut the subject short, and deprived herself of Mrs. Jacobs’ reminiscences by going to put on her things.

      It was a bright warm evening, and she found the air so pleasant that, after strolling round Lincoln’s Inn Fields, she thought she would extend her walk a little, and struck past Lincoln’s Inn Hall into New Square, and then made her way to the archway opposite to where the New Law Courts now stand. Under this archway a legal bookseller has built his nest, and behind windows of broad plate-glass were ranged specimens of his seductive wares, baits on which to catch students avaricious of legal knowledge as they pass on their way to chambers or Hall. Now, at this window a young man was standing at the moment that Hilda entered the archway, his eyes fixed upon a pamphlet on the laws of succession. That young man was George Caresfoot, who was considering whether it would be worth his while to buy the pamphlet in order to see if he would be entitled to anything if his uncle should happen to die intestate, as he sometimes feared might be the case. He had come up to town on business connected with his firm, and was now waiting till it was time to begin an evening of what he understood as pleasure; for George was a very gay young man.

      He was, however, also a very sharp one, so sharp that he even noticed shadows, especially when, as in this case, the shadow was clearly defined and flung, life-sized, on the dark background of the books before him. He watched it for a moment, and as its owner, with an absent air, slowly passed from the bright sunlight into the shade of the arch, it struck the astute George that there was something familiar about this particular and by no means unpleasing shadow. Waiting till it had vanished and the footsteps gone past him, he turned round and at a glance recognized Hilda von Holtzhausen, Miss Lee’s beautiful companion, who was supposed to have departed into the more distant parts of Germany. George’s eyes twinkled, and a whole host of ideas rushed into his really able mind.

      "Caught at last, for a sovereign,” he muttered.

      Meanwhile Hilda walked slowly on into Chancery Lane, then turned to the left till she came into Holborn, and thence made her way round by another route back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Needless to say, George followed at a respectful distance. His first impulse had been to go up and speak to her, but he resisted the inclination.

      On the doorstep of the house where Hilda lodged, stood her landlady giving a piece of her mind to a butcher-boy both as regarded his master’s meat and his personal qualities. She paused for breath just as Hilda passed up the steps, and, turning, said something that made the latter laugh. The butcher-boy took the opportunity of beating a rapid retreat, leaving Mrs. Jacobs crowing after him from her own doorstep. As soon as Hilda had gone into the house, George saw his opportunity. Advancing politely towards Mrs. Jacobs, he asked her if she was the landlady of the house, and, when she had answered in the affirmative, he made inquiries about apartments.

      "Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Jacobs, "but I do not let rooms to single gentlemen.”

      "You take too much for granted, ma’am. I am married.”

      She looked at him doubtfully. "I suppose, sir, you would have no objection to giving a reference.”

      "A dozen, if you like, ma’am; but shall we look at the rooms?”

      Mrs. Jacobs assented, and they made their way upstairs, George keeping in front. On the first-floor he saw a pair of lady’s shoes on a mat outside the door, and guessed to whom they belonged.

      "Are these the rooms?” he said, laying his hand upon the door-handle.

      "No, sir, no, they are Mrs. Roberts’; next floor, please, sir.”

      "Mrs. Roberts?—I suppose the very handsome young lady I saw come into the house. No offence, ma’am; but a man’s bound to be careful where he brings his wife. I suppose she’s all right.”

      "Lord, yes, poor dear!” answered Mrs. Jacobs, in indignation; "why, they came here straight from St. Jude’s, Battersea, the day they were married; a runaway match, I fancy.”

      "That’s all right; she looked charming. I hope her husband is worthy of her,” remarked George, as he gazed round Mrs. Jacobs’ rooms.

      "Well, as to that, he’s handsome enough, for them as likes those black men; but I don’t like people as only comes to visit their lawful wives about twice a month. But,” suddenly checking herself, "it isn’t any affair of mine.”

      "No, indeed, very reprehensible: I am, as a married man, entirely of your mind. These are charming rooms, ma’am, charming. I shall certainly take them if my wife approves; I will let you know by to-morrow’s post—Jacobs, yes, I have it down. Good evening, ma’am,” and he was gone.

      Instead of going out that evening as he had intended, George sat in the smoking-room of his hotel and thought. He also wrote a letter which he addressed to Mrs. Bellamy.

      Next morning, taking a cab, he drove to St. Jude’s, Battersea, and inspected the register.

      Presently he asked for a certified copy of the following entry: "August 1, 1856. Philip Caresfoot, bachelor, gentleman, to Hilda von Holtzhausen, spinster (by license). Signed J. Few, curate; as witness, Fred. Natt, Eliza Chambers.”

      That evening Hilda received an anonymous letter, written in a round clerk’s hand, that had been posted in the City. It was addressed to Mrs. Roberts, and its contents ran thus:

      "A sincere friend warns Mrs. Philip Caresfoot that her husband is deceiving her, and has become entangled with a young lady of her acquaintance. Burn this; wait and watch!”

      The letter fell from her hands as though it had stung her.

      "Mrs. Jacobs was right,” she said aloud, with a bitter laugh, "men always have a ‘reason.’ Oh, let him beware!” And she threw back her beautiful head and the great blue eyes sparkled like those of a snake about to strike. The sword of jealousy, that she had hitherto repelled with the shield of a woman’s trust in the man she loves, had entered into her soul, and, could Philip have seen her under these new circumstances, he would have realized that he had indeed good reason to "beware.” "No wonder,” she went on, "no wonder that he finds her name irritating upon my lips; no doubt to him it is a desecration. Oh, oh!” And she flung herself on her face, and wept tears of jealous rage.

      "Well,” said George to Mrs. Bellamy, as they drove home together after the great dinner party (do not be shocked, my reader, Bellamy was on the bow), "well, how shall we strike? Shall I go to the old man to-morrow, and show him my certified copy? There is no time to lose. He might die any day.”

      "No; we must act through Mrs. Philip.”

      "Why?”

      "It is more scientific, and it will be more amusing.”

      "Poor thing! it will

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