THE TWO PATIENTS.

Day followed day in Chester Square, bringing slowly, almost imperceptibly, health and strength back to the exquisite form of Edith Grace. The spirituality lent by illness still more refined the delicate beauty of the girl, and when the colour came back to the lips, and the cheeks lost their pallor she seemed more like a being new-born of heaven to earth than a mortal of our homely race.

At the end of a week she was still restricted to her room, although allowed to sit up. The fear was not so much of physical weakness as of mental excitement. There was now no need to watch her by night. She seemed in perfect health, in that cool seraphic health of man before the Fall.

And what a change had taken place in the young girl's spirit! Her grandmother had told her that Mrs. Hanbury had insisted on making good the loss they had sustained in the failure of the bank, and more beside.

"I am very rich," said Mrs. Hanbury, "for a woman, I have only a life interest in most of the money my late husband left, and on my death it all goes to John. But I have never spent anything like my income, and John has an income of his own since he came of age. It is not that I will listen to no refusal, but I will hear no objection. I put it to you in this way: Do you suppose if my husband were making his will at this moment and knew of the misfortune which had come upon you and the child, he would insert no provision for you in his will? And do you mean to say that I am to have no regard to what I know would be his wish if he were alive? Remember, you represent the English side of his house. The child is the last of the English side, as John is the last of the Polish side. So let me hear no more of the matter. John has a sufficient income. I have large savings with which I do nothing. Am I to give my savings to an hospital or a charity or to the people of my husband, who left the money?"

Then Mrs. Grace told Edith that Mrs. Hanbury had taken a great liking to her.

"She always calls you 'the child' when she speaks of you, and indeed it seems to me she cares for you nearly as much as if you were her own daughter. She told me she never had a sister or a daughter, and that she barely remembers her own mother, and that all her married life she prayed for a girl-baby, but it was not given to her. And now that she has found you, dear, and me, she says she is not going to be lonely for womenfolk ever again, for although we are not of her own blood we are of John's, and we are the nearest people in the world to her except her brother, Sir Edward Preston. She says she has a right to us, that she found us, and means to insist upon her right by keeping us to herself."

And all this helped to make the quiet greater in the girl and helped to heal her.

Then the old woman told Edith that Mrs. Hanbury wondered if she were like that Grace of more than a hundred years back. She said this at dinner one day, and there and then Mr. Hanbury conceived the notion of trying to find out if, in that great portrait-painting age, any portrait had been painted of the beautiful Kate Grace who had fascinated the king. Mrs. Grace always spoke of Poniatowski as though he were a king while he lived in England in the days of George II.

The young man hunted all London to find out a portrait, and behold in one of the great houses within a mile of where she lay, a house at which Mr. Hanbury had often visited, was a portrait of "Mrs. Hanbury and child," believed to be one of the Hanbury-Williams family. Mr. John Hanbury had gone to see the portrait, and came back saying one would fancy it was a portrait of Edy herself, only it was not nearly so beautiful as Edy.

This all helped to cheer and heal the girl greatly. The notion that this Mr. John Hanbury had gone to a great house to see the portrait of her relative, the beautiful Kate Grace, that married the man afterwards a king, opened up fields for speculation and regions of dreams so different from those possible when she was fronting decaying fortune in Miss Graham's, at Streatham, or face to face with poverty in Grimsby Street, that it was enough to pour vital strength into veins less young and naturally healthy.

She now breathed an atmosphere of refinement and wealth. Her mind was no longer tortured by the thought of having to face uncongenial duties among strange people. She had all her life denied herself friendships, because she could not hope for friends in the class of people whom she would care to know.

Now all this was changed, as by a magician's wand. If in the old days she might have had the assurance of Mrs. Hanbury's friendship, she would have allowed her heart to go out to her, for Mrs. Hanbury, although she was rich, did not think of money as those girls Edith met at Streatham. The girls she met were, first of all, the daughters of rich fathers, and then they were people of importance next. Mrs. Hanbury was, first of all, intensely human. She was a woman first of all, and a generous, kind-hearted, large-natured, sympathetic woman. As her son had said of her, the greatest-hearted woman in the world. Princes and peasants were, to her mind, men, before anything else.

This was a revelation to Dora, who had always heard men measured by the establishment they kept up, and the society in which they moved. There had been only one retreat for her from feeling belittled in the presence of these plutocrats. She would set all store by pedigree, and make no friends. A beggar may have a pedigree equal to a Hapsburg, and a peasant who has no friends, and goes into no society, cannot have his poverty impressed upon him from without, however bitterly he may suffer from within.

And this Mrs. Hanbury, who was so kind and gentle, and who had manifested such an interest in her, belonged to a class of society in which no girl she ever met at Miss Graham's moved, in which any girl she had ever met there would give anything she possessed to move. Mrs. Hanbury's father had been a baronet, and her forefathers before him as far as baronets reached back into history, and her father's family had been county people, back to the Conquest, if not beyond it.

And Mr. Hanbury, who was the son of this woman, had a pedigree more illustrious still, a pedigree going back no one knew how far. The family had been ennobled for centuries, and in the eighteenth century one of them had sat on the throne of Poland, a crowned king.

She was now under the roof of these people, not as the humble paid companion of Mrs. Hanbury, which would have been the greatest height of her hope a week ago, not as an acquaintance to whom Mrs. Hanbury had taken a liking, but as a relative, as a distant relative of this house, as one of this family!

Oh, it was such a relief, such a deliverance to be lifted out of that vulgar and squalid life, to be away from that odious necessity for going among strange and dull people as a hired servant! There was no tale in all the Arabian Nights equal to this for wonders, and all this was true, and referred to her!

Youth, and a mind to which are opening new and delightful vistas, are more help to the doctor when dealing with a patient who is only overworn than even quiet, and day by day, to the joy of all who came near her, Edith Grace gained strength. The old stateliness which had made her schoolfellows say she ought to be a queen, had faded, and left scarcely a trace behind. There was no need to wear an air of reserve, when there was nothing to be guarded against. She was Mrs. Hanbury's relative, and to be reserved now would seem to be elated or vain. There was no longer fear of anyone disputing her position. There was no longer any danger of exasperating familiarity. She was acknowledged by Mrs. Hanbury and Mr. Hanbury, who would be a nobleman in Poland, and whose forefather had been a king.

She did not try or desire to look into the future, her own future. The present was too blessed a deliverance to be put aside. Up to this there had been no delightful present in her life, and she was loath to go beyond the immediate peace.

While the young girl was slowly but surely mending in Chester Square, the invalid under the care of Dr. Shaw, of Barnes Street, not very far off, was slowly yielding to the summons he had received. The kind-hearted and energetic doctor saw no reason to alter his original opinion of the case. The end was approaching, and not very far off. On the fifth day after the morning examination, Shaw said, "You arranged everything with the solicitor? There is nothing on your mind, my dear friend?"

"I understand," said Leigh. "How long have I?"

"Oh, I only wanted to know if your mind was at rest. Anxiety is always to be avoided."

"I tell you, Shaw, I understand. How long do you think this will last?"

"My dear fellow, if all your affairs are in order, and your mind is quite free, your chance is improved, you know. That only stands to reason."

"I am sorry I cannot go to Eltham. But that cannot be helped now. She, poor thing, will notice little change, for I have not been with her much of late. Shaw, the last time I was there I promised her a daughter-in-law, and straight-backed grandchildren, and soon she will not have even a cripple son! Poor old woman. Well! well! But, Shaw, send to Chester Square for my friend, Mr. John Hanbury, the man who brought me here, you know. I want to see him alone, privately. He is the only person who knows all my affairs." There was a flicker of the old boasting spirit in the way he gave Hanbury's name and address, and spoke of him as his friend.

Hanbury came at once.

"I sent for you because I have something on my mind; and, as you are the only man who knows all the secret of Mystery Gold, and my deputy winder, I want you to do me a service. Will you?"

"Any thing that an honest and honourable man may do, I will do for you with pleasure, if I can possibly," said Hanbury, shocked and subdued by the change in the clock-maker's appearance.

"That man, Timmons, who was to get me the gold, has a place in Tunbridge Street, London Road, across the river. He believes that a man was burned in that fire. He believes my deputy winder lost his life in the miserable fire that destroyed my clock. Go to Timmons, and tell him that no one was lost in that fire, that the winder of the clock is alive, that I am dying, and that the best thing he can do is to leave the country. He will understand, when I am dead, no secrets will be kept. I do not want to give him up. I have no conscience. But the country may as well be rid of him and me together."

"But, need I go? Can I not send?" asked Hanbury, not liking the idea of such a message from such a man to such a man. It looked like shielding a criminal. Leigh had, according to his own account, coquetted with crime, but kept clear of it.

"No, it would not be nearly so good to me, for you know the secrets, and if he showed any disposition to rebel, you could drop a word that would convince him you were authorized by me, and knew what might be dangerous to him."

"You are asking me too much. I cannot do it."

"Where is your promise of a moment ago?"

"No honest man would assist the escape of this thief."

"Hush! Let me think awhile."

"It is not clear to me, that I ought not to give this villain up to the police, and that you are not bound to give him up. I would do anything I could, in reason, for you; but is it reasonable to ask me to carry a message from you to a man who, you tell me, or hint to me, is a thief, or receiver of stolen goods?"

"I did not regard it in that way. I fancied you would like to rid the country of such a man."

"Yes, by locking him up. I think you are in duty bound to denounce him."

"But, in honour, I am bound not; and honour is more binding on a man than any law."

"But you cannot have any honourable bond with a man like that."

"What about honour among thieves? Even they recognize honour."

"But, are you a thief, that you want to shield yourself under their code?"

"No. I am no thief. I haven't a penny that isn't fairly mine. I told you I have no conscience, at least nothing that people are accustomed to call conscience; but do you think honour does not bind a man to a thief?"

"Surely not about the fruits of his theft."

"I have not looked at it in that way. When a man has no conscience, what binds him?"

"Nothing, except the law of the land, or handcuffs."

"Ah, that is your view. Well, it is not mine. Of course, I have not given you the man's real name or address. I gave you merely a fictitious name and address. Whom did I say? The Prince of Wales, was it, and Marlborough House, or the Prime Minister, and 10, Downing Street? Which was it? I forget."

"Well," said Hanbury, "can I do anything for you?"

"Are you going to Curzon Street on Thursday?"

"No." Hanbury reddened, but he was standing with his back to the light. "The family are leaving Town suddenly."

"Are you going too?"

"No." Hanbury was anything but pleased with all this, but who could be angry with a dying man, and such a dying man too?

"If you were going I should like to send a message. But of course you cannot be going if they are leaving town. I told you I have some money of my own. I have made my will since I saw you. After my mother's death all will go, I mean the yearly interest of all will go in equal shares to any hunchbacks that apply for shares. The conditions will be advertised in the papers."

"I think you could not have done better with it," said Hanbury, cordially.

"Yes. When you see her next, tell her I gave up all thought of making Miracle Gold, because she said she wished me. What a wonderful likeness there is between Miss Grace and Miss Ashton. I had not begun to model those figures of time. That clock was getting too much for me. Often when I was away from it, and when I was in bed, the movement was reversed, and all went backwards until the weights were wound up so tight against the beam, that something must give way if the machinery did not stop. Then, all at once, the machinery would stop, and suddenly begin running in the ordinary manner, and I used often to shout out and cry with relief. You don't know all that clock was to me. And yet it would have killed me. It has killed me."

"The strain must have been very great. I wonder it did not break you down."

"Yes."

"In reality, though, it was the Miracle Gold did the mischief. Only for it I should not have been away from my clock, or left the gas lighting. I know it is not fair of me to keep you here. You want to go. Say good-bye to her before she leaves town. This is Wednesday. You must not stay here any longer. Will you say good-bye to me also? Two good-byes in one day. One to her and one to me."

Hanbury rose and held out his hand, saying "Good-bye."

Leigh did not stir.

"Are we not to shake hands?"

"Yes, in a moment."

Hanbury waited a while. "I am going now. You have nothing more to say?"

He had not.

He had nothing more to say. He would say no more to anyone. He was dead.