I passed the next few hours in a common lodging-house, and laid down on a bed without undressing. I dozed, but did not sleep, my mind being occupied in formulating a plan with regard to the Camerons. I rose at nine o'clock, washed, and had breakfast, and then went in search of apartments in a respectable house. I had little difficulty in finding what I required—three furnished rooms in a street inhabited by a decent class of people. The landlady murmured something about a reference, but I satisfied her with a month's payment in advance. The rent was moderate, and I arranged for breakfast, and the occasional cooking of a dinner if I desired. I gave, of course, the same name, Fletcher, retaining my Christian name. So I began my new life as John Fletcher.

At twelve o'clock I presented myself to the worthy doctor, and unfolded my plan. It was nothing less than the removal of Mrs. and Miss Cameron to Swanage, the climate of which place the doctor said would suit the invalid. I proposed that I should go down to Swanage to arrange where they were to stay, and that they should get out of London before the end of the week.

"All this will cost a great deal of money," said the doctor.

"Not so very much. They can live—perhaps in a farmhouse—for two or three pounds a week. I can afford it."

"Do you know what it means to them? They will look upon it as a fairy tale, and will be afraid of waking up and finding it a dream."

"As you see, it is no dream, and it is nonsense to talk of fairy tales. It is plain common sense. They will need warm clothing. Give them this—it will come better from you. I daresay there will be sufficient left to pay their fares down."

"Do you intend to accompany them."

"No, I shall remain in London; but there must necessarily be some correspondence between us."

"And still—pray don't be angry—I am puzzled and curious as to your motive."

"Let me put it to you in this way, doctor. You see now and then in the papers an acknowledgment from the Chancellor of the Exchequer of a parcel of bank notes from X. Y. Z., for unpaid income tax. It is called conscience money. The difference is that I have wronged neither man nor woman, yet what I am doing is an affair of the conscience. Will not this content you."

"It must." Then after a pause, "You have seen trouble?"

"Few men have had harder trials, bitterer disappointments."

"I regret to hear it. And now, who is to acquaint the Camerons with your scheme?"

"You."

"I decline. I will give them the money you have entrusted with me, and I will make Miss Cameron understand that it is imperatively necessary that her mother be removed without delay. The rest is in your hands."

"Very well—though I should prefer it otherwise."

"I am going now to see my patient, and I will prepare them for this change in their fortunes. You will probably see Miss Cameron in the course of the afternoon."

"Kindly tell her I will call at two o'clock. I shall leave for Swanage by the five o'clock train."

I make but brief reference to my interview with Miss Cameron. She was profoundly grateful for the services I was rendering them, but seemed, indeed, as the doctor had said, to fear that it was a dream from which she would presently awake, though the small sum of money I had sent her by the doctor's hands should have convinced her. I did not see her mother, our interview taking place in a lower room in the house, which the landlady placed at her disposal. It was difficult for her to understand why a stranger should step forward to befriend her, and my lame attempts at an explanation did not assist her to a better understanding of the matter.

Seeing her now in the daylight the impression I had formed of her was confirmed. Her features, without being handsome, were full of sensibility, and there was a pleasing refinement in her language and manners. What most attracted me in her were her eyes. Truth and resignation, and the strength which springs from a reliance upon the goodness of God, dwelt in their clear depths, and now, illumined by hope, they instilled in me a faith in her which from that hour has not been shaken. The faith she had in me touched me deeply. In contrast with the women it had been my ill-fortune to mix with she was an angel from heaven.

"You will hear from me in a day or two," I said. "Will your mother be strong enough to travel then?"

"The doctor says she will," she answered.

"Have you money enough to provide what is necessary for your journey?"

"More than enough," she said, bursting into tears.

I had to tear myself away.

The journey down to Swanage was one of the happiest I had ever taken; I had an object in life, and there was seldom absent from my thoughts the light of hope that shone in Miss Cameron's eyes. Suitable accommodation for her and her mother was easily obtained in a farmhouse near to the sea. The terms were exceedingly moderate, and in a letter to Miss Cameron, I bade her get ready, and requested her to meet me at the doctor's house on the following day. Then, for the first time, I signed myself, "John Fletcher."

At the appointed hour I met Miss Cameron, and giving her written particulars of the place I had taken for her, and instructions as to trains, I bade her good-bye and God-speed. I had debated whether I should accompany them to the railway station, and had decided not to do so. They were accustomed to look after themselves, and my presence would embarrass them, and add to their sense of obligation.

"Write to me as soon as you are settled," I said, "and let me know whether you are comfortable. If you are not, we will soon find another place for you. And mind, you are going down for your mother's health, and you are not to worry. Leave everything to me."

I pressed an envelope into her hand, and to cut short her thanks, hastily took my departure.

I had now plenty to occupy me. My first visit was to a solicitor, to entrust him with the execution of the plan I had laid down with respect to my wife—before doing which I had devoted some time to a careful survey of my pecuniary position. There had been much waste and extravagance on Barbara's part, and my little fortune had dwindled. I decided to allow her £300 a year, quite sufficient for her to live upon in comfort. That I should have to encroach upon my capital for the payment of this sum and for my own expenses did not cause me anxiety. I did not go beyond the next few years in my calculations; meanwhile I might be able to earn money. Whatever was my income, Barbara should have an equal share of it; she could not reasonably ask for more, having only herself to support. If a court of law were called upon to decide the matter she would probably have less. Upon £300 a year the house in Kensington could not be kept up, and I determined that it should be sold. All household debts contracted to date were to be discharged, and so much of the furniture as Barbara would not need in her new quarters was to be disposed of by auction. The solicitor undertook the management of this troublesome business, and I bound him down to absolute secrecy. Upon no consideration whatever was the slightest clue to my movements, and to the name I had assumed to be given to inquirers. I left him to prepare the necessary documents, and proceeded to my house, armed with written discharges of the servants in my employ. A cab I had engaged stood at the door, and a porter accompanied me into the house.

All the evil crew were there—Maxwell, my stepmother, Louis and Barbara. Her bloated face filled me with loathing. She gave me a sullen look.

"The prodigal son has returned," said Maxwell. "Where's the veal?"

I rang the bell, and the parlor-maid entered the room.

"Send all the servants up," I said to the girl, "and tell that woman, Annette, I wish to see her."

"What do you want the servants for?" demanded Barbara.

"You will see."

I heard them in the passage, and I opened the door for them, Annette coming in last.

"You sent for me madame?" she said in her smooth voice, gliding with catlike motion to Barbara's chair.

"I sent for you," I said.

"At your service, monsieur."

"It is like a scene in a drama," said Maxwell, with an attempt at jocularity. "Get to the action, John."

I handed the women their written notices of discharge, and gave them to understand that after the expiration of their month I would be no longer responsible for their wages.

"Take no notice of him," said Barbara, flushing up. "He is out of his senses."

With a nod she dismissed them, and they trooped out.

I turned to Annette and held out the discharge. She refused to take it, and it fluttered to the ground.

"I am in madame's service, monsieur."

"That is her affair and yours. You are not in mine. I discharge you. Your next month's wages will be paid, after which you will not receive another shilling from me."

"Upon what grounds am I discharged, monsieur?"

"You are not discharged, Annette," exclaimed Barbara.

"I know, madame. I take it only from you. I asked monsieur a question."

"Upon the grounds of treachery and unfaithfulness," I said, calmly.

"You hear," she said, appealing to the others. "It is slander. You are witnesses. It is not the first time—no, it is not the first time."

"Our law courts are open to you," I said. "Try them, and see what an English judge will say to you."

"Madame is perhaps right," she remarked, with a sly glance at the decanter of brandy on the table. "Monsieur is not in his senses." Her voice was as smooth as if she were paying me compliments, and her manner was entirely unruffled.

At this point Barbara started up in a fit of passion. "You monster!" she screamed, and would have thrown herself upon me had not Maxwell held her back.

"Hold hard, Barbara," he said. "Let us see the end of it. Don't spoil the drama. It is really a very good drama, John."

I went up to my bedroom, and rapidly packing my bag, called to the porter to take it to the cab. Then I re-entered the parlor.

"One last word," I said to Barbara. "In the presence of your friends I take my leave of you. This house will be sold soon, and you will have to reside elsewhere. My solicitor will write to you presently, and will make you acquainted with the arrangements I have decided upon. It is my fervent hope that we shall never meet again."

"By God, he is in earnest!" cried Maxwell.

As I left the room I saw Barbara staring at me with parted lips, and Maxwell, my stepmother, and Louis looking blankly at each other. Annette was smiling quietly, and playing with her cap strings.