Twelve happy months passed by. We were still in Swanage, but had removed farther inland. It was by Ellen's desire that we remained; she wished to be near her mother's grave.

We lived in a small cottage, the walls of which were covered with roses and flowering vines. The few acres of land which belonged to us were rich in fruit-trees and bushes, which, with our flower and kitchen gardens, kept us busy pretty well all the day. What acquaintances we had—they were not many—were drawn from the ranks of the poor, by whom Ellen was loved as few women are. A quiet, happy life—if but the past could have been blotted out! I had not concealed my story from Ellen's knowledge, but before it was told I knew that I had won her love, and she knew that to live without her would be worse than death to me. For me she sacrificed herself, and I, in the selfishness of my heart, accepted the sacrifice only too gladly and willingly. Questioning my conscience I did not reproach myself, though sometimes I trembled for Ellen; and she, I am sure, never for one moment reproached me, and did not tremble for herself. If a cloud was on my brow she chased it away with tender words. Man's law prevented me from giving her my name; God's law joined us and made us one. The beauty of her character awoke all that was good within me; she was to me like the sun and dew to the opening flower.

I was guilty of one act of duplicity, and I bitterly repented it. I did not disclose to her my true name, but retained that by which I had introduced myself to her. She knew me only as John Fletcher.

Twelve happy months, and I had almost taught myself to forget. One morning Ellen whispered to me a secret which filled me with joy and fear. Into her heart fear did not enter; it was pulsing with the joy of motherhood; in a few months we should have a child.

I walked alone to the seashore deep in thought.

My sense of security was disturbed; I had now again to reckon with the world. A father owes a duty to his child which the world will not allow him to forget. And the mother!—yes, it was of Ellen I chiefly thought, and it was to her, presently, that my thoughts were chiefly directed. For, looking up, I saw within a dozen yards of me a man whose mocking eyes were following my movements. Though there was a change in his appearance I knew him immediately, and I caught my breath in sudden alarm. The man was Maxwell.

The change I had observed was in his circumstances. His shabby clothes and hat, his boots down at heel, his unshaven face, denoted that he had not prospered lately. But there was a light in his face as our eyes met resembling that of one upon whom had unexpectedly fallen a stroke of good fortune.

"How are you, John?" he said, advancing with outstretched hand. "But why ask? You look like a cherub—rosy, fat and sleek. I rejoice—and you, too, eh? What is there so delightful as the renewal of old affectionate ties, broken through a misconception? Do you see my hand held out in friendship? Better take it, John. No? You are wrong, brother-in-law, very wrong. You were always rash, always acting upon impulse, always fond of romance, always being led away by false notions of right and wrong. I frequently offered you advice which you would not take. In effect I was constantly saying to you, 'Be worldly, my boy; take the world as you find it, and make the best of it, not the worst.' That is my way, though it has treated me scurvily since we met. What do I do? Repine? Not a bit of it. 'Luck will turn,' said I to myself, and here's the proof. Luck has turned."

During this speech, which was very heartily spoken, he walked close to my side with a hateful affectation of cordiality. As I did not answer him, he continued:

"Why so silent, my dear John? Are you overcome by your feelings? Ah, yes, that must be it. Sudden joy confounds a man—makes it difficult for him to express himself. Now, I am never at a loss for words, but then I am older than you, more accustomed to ups and downs. I don't mind confessing to you—with a proper knowledge of your sympathetic nature—that I have had during the last twelve months any number of 'downs' and no 'ups' worth mentioning. All my little ventures and speculations have come to grief. Half-a-dozen times I have been on the point of making my fortune and have been baulked by want of cash. You don't play cards, I believe. I do. You don't care for racing. I do. You don't tempt fortune by crying double or quits. I do. It's in my blood. I give you my word I should have been as right as a trivet if it hadn't been that just at the critical moment I found myself cursed with an empty purse. Devilish hard, wasn't it, when a fellow has a rich brother-in-law who would have said, 'Here's my purse, old boy; go in and win.' The mischief of it was that this dear friend had run off to lotus-land, to revel in the lap of beauty and virtue, the world forgetting, but not by the world forgot. No, John, not by the world forgot. We bore the absent one in mind; we talked of his excellencies; we deplored his absence; we longed for his return to the fold."

He now went to the length of linking his arm with mine; I wrenched myself free.

"What is it you want of me?" I demanded.

"The oracle speaks," he cried, gaily. "What do I want? What does every one want?"

"Money?" I asked.

"Intelligence returns," he answered, "and we are getting into smooth water. Yes, John; money."

"Did you track me here?"

"John, John," he said, reproachfully. "Do I look like a spy? Did you ever know me to be guilty of a mean action?"

"Answer my question."

"Being in the witness box I use the customary formula. From information received I was led to suppose that the lost one would be found on this beautiful shore. I flew hither on the wings of love, anxious to serve him, to show my interest in his welfare, to promote his happiness."

"If I refuse to give you money?"

"It will be unwise, John, distinctly unwise, and will carry with it certain consequences exceedingly disagreeable to—let us say to a lady of spotless reputation. How pained I should be to set these consequences in motion! Is it not man's privilege to protect the weak? But, alas, John! alas! alas! necessity is a slave-driver, and compels tender hearts to lay on the lash!"

With his old mocking smile upon his face, he went through the pretense of drying his eyes.

"Speak plainly," I said. "If I disappoint your expectations, what will you do?"

"I will deal honestly by you, brother-in-law, and speak, as you desire, quite plainly. What will I do? Let me see. There is no place on earth, be it ever so remote and secluded, in which character is not at a premium. There are husbands who have wives, parents who have daughters. A woman comes to live among them who poses as Madame Virtue. She is good to the poor—it costs so little, John, to be good to the poor; the clergyman's wife visits her; she goes to church; she gives a basin of soup to an old woman. Cheap tricks, brother-in-law. Madame Virtue leads a happy life; she is respected; people greet her smilingly and affectionately, and say, 'There's an example for you!' Suddenly a rumor is set afloat that Madame Virtue is no better than she should be. Sad, very sad. The rumor is authenticated. A gentleman comes from the city and verifies the rumor. Madame Virtue has, of course, a reputed husband, who shares her popularity. The gentleman says he knows the saintly couple very well indeed, and that they are simply a pair of impostors. He offers to supply proof, and he does so upon the invitation of the clergyman and the local gentry. He regrets the necessity, but what can he do? He owes a duty to society. If there is one thing, John, I pride myself upon more than another, it is that I never shrink from the performance of a duty. What is the result in this instance? The clergyman's wife turns her back upon Madame Virtue, the local gentry likewise; the poor lose their respect for her, and talk of her behind her back. In a word, the saint is turned into a sinner. Judge the effect upon Madame Virtue, you, dear brother-in-law, who know her so much better than I. Have I put the matter plainly? There is even more to say which it might not be agreeable to you to hear. Take a turn or two on these beautiful sands, and think it over. I can wait."

I did not disguise from myself that for a time at least, I was in this man's power, and that his malice would carry him even farther than he had threatened. The effect upon Ellen would be serious. She valued the respect in which she was held, and drew happiness from the affection by which she was surrounded. Moreover, she was in a delicate state of health, and I dreaded the consequences which would follow Maxwell's malignity. At all risks, at all hazards, I must purchase his silence.

"You are in want of money," I said, "and you come to extort it from me."

"I am in want of everything," he retorted, "but I am still a gentleman. If you are not more particular in your language, I will set my heel upon you and Madame Virtue."

"Name your price," I said.

"Ah, now we are getting sensible. My price? I must consider. For to-day, fifty pounds—as an installment, John. This day week we will have another chat, and come to terms."

I knew it was useless to argue or protest; he held me bound and would show no mercy. I had not so much money about me, and I proposed to bring it in a couple of days to any address he named.

"No, no," he said. "You can come with me to the private boarding-house where I have engaged a bed, and can write me a cheque there. A man of means always carries his cheque-book with him. Unless you prefer to invite me to dinner at your lovers' nest."

"I will come with you," I said.

On our way he reproached me for not asking after Barbara, and I replied that I received all the news I wished to hear through my solicitor. He entertained me, however, with a long account of her, which I knew to be false, and to which I listened in silence. She was much better, he said, and was looking forward to the end of our differences. She had become a convert to the Catholic Church, and was held in the highest esteem by the priests and nuns; the children in the schools doated on her; she deprived herself to provide them with clothes and food; she prayed for me day and night, etcetera, etcetera. And all the time he regaled me with this tissue of falsehoods he was laughing at me in his sleeve. The truth about her was that her excesses had become even more frightful than in my experiences of her; she had not a sober hour, and was continually turned out of her lodgings. Maxwell was curious to ascertain how much of the truth I knew, but I did not satisfy him. At the boarding-house I wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, and made an appointment to meet him that day week, when we were to "come to terms."

I said nothing to Ellen of this meeting or of the misery into which I was plunged. To have made her a sharer in my unhappiness would serve me no good purpose. On the appointed day Maxwell and I met again, and then he named a sum so large that I hesitated. It amounted, indeed, to a third of what remained of my fortune.

"You refuse?" he said.

"I must," I replied. "I will not submit to be beggared by you."

"Sheer nonsense, John. I have made a calculation, and I know, within a hundred or two, how much you are worth. Cast your eyes over these figures."

To my surprise I discovered that his calculation was as nearly as possible correct, and that by some means he was fairly well acquainted with my pecuniary position.

"It is for you to decide," he said. "I have something to sell which you are anxious to purchase. You can make either a friend or an enemy of me, and you know whether it will be worth your while to buy. I don't deny that I am hard up, and that in a certain sense you represent my last chance. I am not fool enough to throw it away. Understand clearly—I intend to make the best of it. You see, John, I hold the reins, and I can tool you comfortably down a safe and pleasant road, or I can send you headlong to the devil—and in your company Madame Virtue. I have learned something since last week. You are living here under an assumed name, and I have a suspicion that Madame Virtue is not aware of it. Another trump card in my hand. It rests with me whether I bring about an introduction between Barbara and Madame Virtue, and whether I bring your excellent stepmother and Louis down upon you. There's no escape for you, brother-in-law. Best make a friend of me, my boy, and keep the game to ourselves."

In the end I consented, with some modification, to his terms, upon his promise that he would never molest me again; and so we parted.

Months passed and I heard nothing more of him. Gradually I recovered my peace of mind. We were living modestly within our means; peace had been cheaply purchased.

Our child was born, a boy. The delight he brought in our home cannot be described. He was a heavenly link in our love, and bound Ellen and me closely together. I will not dwell upon that joyful time. This confession is longer than I conceived it would be, and events of a more exciting nature claim attention.

One evening upon my return home, after transacting some business in Bournemouth in connection with my affairs, Ellen, speaking of what had occurred during my absence, mentioned a gentlemanly beggar who had solicited alms from her. He had told her a plausible tale of unmerited misfortune, and of having been brought down in the world by trusting a friend who had deceived and robbed him. She described the man, and my heart was like lead; I recognized the villain.

"He was so nice to baby," said Ellen, "and spoke so beautifully of our home. Poverty is much harder to gentlefolk who have been used to comfort than it is to poor people. I pitied him from my heart."

"Beggars do not always say what is true," I observed.

She looked at me in surprise. "He could hardly be called a beggar, John. Did I not do right in relieving him?"

"Quite right, dear," I said, with an inward prayer that I was mistaken in the man.

"I am quite sure he spoke the truth," she said, and there, as between us, the matter ended.

Before many hours had passed my fears were confirmed. I kept watch from the cottage, and saw Maxwell in the distance, coming in our direction. I went to meet him.

"This is friendly of you, John," he said. "Where shall we talk? In the society of the charming Madame Virtue and her sweet babe, or alone?"

"Alone," I replied. "I forbid you to present yourself in my house again."

"A tall word, John, forbid. It depends, my boy, upon you. Keep a civil tongue in your head, and be amenable to reason, and you shall continue to tread the path of righteousness and peace. Defy me, and up the three of you go. A pretty piece of goods, Madame Virtue, mild-tempered and long suffering, a different kind of character from my adorable sister. I can imagine a scene between them—Madame Virtue soft, pleading, reproachful; Barbara hot, flaming, revengeful. But perhaps I mistake. When a woman discovers that she has been betrayed and deceived she occasionally turns into a fury. I know something of the sex."

"You promised not to molest me again."

"Am I molesting you? I come in brotherly love to lay my sorrows at your feet. John, I am broke."

"That is not my business."

"Pardon me, it is. We are partners in goodness, mutually bound to spare a charming lady and her sweet babe from a sorrow worse than death. It is a mission I love; it appeals to my tenderest feelings. I feel good all over."

"You are a devil!"

"In humility I bow my head. Revile me, John, pour burning coals upon me; I shall enjoy it all the more. Here I stand prepared for the martyr's stake."

My blood boiled; I gave him a dangerous look. "You are trying my patience too far. Drive me to desperation, and I will not answer for the consequences."

"Drive me to desperation," he said, pausing to light a cigarette, "and I will hunt her into the gutter. I will make her life a living misery, and when the end comes she shall curse you with her dying breath. Nothing like frankness, dear John. Behold me, an epitome of it."

If I had not turned from him I should have committed some act of violence. It was thought of Ellen alone that restrained me, that enabled me to regain my self-command. He struck at her, not at me, and well did he know his power. When I was living with Barbara, I believed that suffering had reached its limit; I was to learn that I was mistaken. Hitherto I had suffered for myself, a selfish feeling affecting only my life and future, but now that another being had wound herself into my heart, a sweet and loving woman whose happiness was in my hands, my former misery seemed light indeed. And her babe—my own dear child! To allow passion to master me would have been unpardonable.

"Are you cooler, John?" asked Maxwell.

"In God's name," I cried, "tell me why you continue to persecute me."

"In God's name, I will. I regret to say, I am suffering from the old complaint, John. Misfortune pursues me, and if I don't have a couple of hundred pounds——"

I would hear no more. I went with him to a public-house, and wrote a cheque for the amount.

"You are a trump," he said, pocketing the cheque. "Upon my soul, if you had a better knowledge of me you would find I am not such a bad fellow, after all; but when needs must, John, the devil drives."

That night I told Ellen that we must remove from Swanage.

"I shall be very sorry, John, dear," she said. "Is it really necessary?"

"It is imperative, Ellen."

She sighed. "We have been so happy here."

"We can be happy elsewhere, dearest."

"Why, truly," she said, brightening up, "so long as we are together what does it matter where we live?"

My idea was to escape from my enemy; to hide ourselves in some corner in England, where we should be safe from his cruel persecution. After much study and cogitation I fixed upon Cornwall, and thither we went, and established ourselves in a cottage on the outskirts of Penzance. I was in a fever of alarm during the removal, and kept unceasingly on the watch, but observed nothing to cause me apprehension. When we were settled I breathed more freely; here, surely, in this remote place, we should be secure. Ellen was cheerful and bright, and she made me so. Her time was fully occupied; she had not an idle moment; she did not allow herself one. Our child, the garden, the home, kept her busy. Her consideration for me, the loving attention she paid to my slightest wish, even anticipated it, touched me deeply. Tenderness was expressed in every word she spoke, in every movement she made. It would be impossible for me to describe how dear she was to me. It is such as she who have raised woman to the position she holds in the scale of humanity.

What troubled me greatly was the state of my finances. The inroads made upon my purse by Maxwell's exactions were so serious that I foresaw the time when, if my wife's allowance was to be continued, I should find myself penniless. We were living at a moderate rate, our expenses being under three pounds a week. The money I had left, apart from the allowance to Barbara, capitalized, would bring in a little over fifty pounds a year, and I felt that I was daily jeopardizing Ellen's future and the future of our child, as well as my own. I was not a business man, and had no trade to which I could turn my hand; in England my only weapon was my pen—a poor weapon to most who have to live by it. The difficulty was solved presently by events of which I was not the originator. Meanwhile I wrote a short story which I read to Ellen, and was pleased with myself. Needless to say, she was delighted with it, and elevated me immediately upon the pinnacle of fame. Under a nom de plume, I sent it to a magazine; it was declined. I sent it to another magazine, with the same result. This second refusal came when we had been four weeks in Cornwall, and I went from my house to post it to a third editor when, almost at the door, I saw Maxwell.

"Again, John," he cried with brazen effrontery, "like a bad penny returned. I can't afford to lose sight of you. What a sly dog you are! but I am a slyer. It is an amusing game. Set a thief to catch a thief, you know."

"It is you who are the thief," I said, all my fears returning, "but you have had your journey for nothing this time. You can get nothing more out of me for the best of reasons; you have robbed me of almost my last penny."

"We shall see. So you thought to give me the slip. You may thank your stars you did not succeed. I have come to see you not on my account, but on Barbara's."

"You might have spared yourself the trouble," I said, coldly. "I have nothing to say to her; she can have nothing to say to me."

"That is where you are mistaken. Passion blinds you, John. Mind, I don't mean to say you have nothing to complain of. I see now that you were not suited to one another, and I dare say I was to blame in not opening your eyes before you married her. There were reasons. In the first place—I admit it frankly—I wanted to get rid of her. I am no saint, but she tired me out; honestly, I was sick of her. In the second place, she bound me down. 'It is my last chance,' she said. Why, she was engaged three times before you met her, and was found out in time by her lovers, who were not slow in beating a retreat. You were the unlucky one to fall into the trap, and though I've been hard on you I am sorry for you. In running away from her and taking up with another woman you did what I should have done if I had been in your place. However, it is all at an end now."

"At an end!" I echoed, regarding him with amazement

"At an end," he repeated, gravely. "You will soon be free, and then I suppose you will wash your hands of me. Well! Perhaps I shall have a bit of luck in another quarter. I don't mind telling you that I had a man watching you all the time you were in Swanage. I knew when you left and where you ran to. I could have been here three weeks ago if I wished, and I have only come to bring you the news. Barbara is dying."

God forgive me, the exclamation that escaped me was not one of horror, but of relief; and the next moment I was shocked at myself.

"She has behaved abominably," he continued, "but after all, she is your wife, and you can hardly refuse to see her, and whisper a word of forgiveness—supposing we are in time. I left her this morning; the doctor was with her, and said he doubted whether she would live over to-morrow."

"It is so sudden," I said, and still my thoughts continued to dwell upon Ellen and our child. "Has she been long ill?"

"She has not been ill at all in that sense," he replied. "It was an accident. Yesterday morning, when she was in her usual state—you understand, John—she slipped from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and broke her spine. The moment the doctor saw her he said there was no hope. Will you come?"

It was my duty; I should have been less than man had I hesitated. "Yes," I said, "I will come. When is the train?"

"It starts in an hour if you can get ready by that time."

"I will meet you at the station," I said, and went at once to Ellen to inform her of what had occurred. She approved of my going, and hastened my departure. For Barbara she had only words of pity, and her eyes overflowed in commiseration for the wasted life so near its end. In this crisis it would have been contrary to nature had we not thought of ourselves, and of what Barbara's death meant to us, but it was a subject we avoided. I breathed a blessing over our sleeping child, and promising to write to Ellen directly I got to London, I bade her good-bye.

Maxwell was at the station.

"Plenty of time, John," he said, "the train doesn't start for half an hour. You'll stand me a brandy and soda and a sandwich, I suppose. I haven't had a bite or a drink since the morning. I'm shipwrecked again. Serve me right, you'll say. So say I. I shall have to turn over a new leaf. Would you believe I had to travel third-class, and didn't have money enough to pay for a return ticket? Hard lines for a gentleman; but such is life."

"You'll have to travel back third-class," I said. "I have no money to waste."

He grumbled at this, but I paid no heed to him. After disposing of his brandy and soda he asked for another, which I refused. He laughed, and complimented me upon displaying a strength of character which he had not given me credit for. If I had not hurried him we would have missed the train.

Few people were traveling by it, and we had a compartment to ourselves. Such conversation as we had on the journey was of his seeking; meeting with no encouragement from me he leant back moodily and closed his eyes. Quite two hours passed without a word being exchanged, when suddenly he said:

"John, after Barbara's death you will marry Madame Virtue, of course. How soon after? I shall expect an invitation, old fellow."

I did not answer him, and he made no further attempts at conversation. At the end of our journey I asked him where Barbara lived.

"Islington way," he said, sulkily, and calling a cab, gave the driver the address.

The cab pulled up at the door of a wretched house in a narrow street between "The Angel" and the Agricultural Hall. I paid the man and followed Maxwell to the second floor, where, opening a door, he fell back, motioning me to enter first.

The room was in semi-darkness, the window-curtains being drawn down.

"Is that you, John?" a voice asked, and at the same moment the curtains were drawn aside.

It was the voice of my stepmother. From an inner room came the sound of driveling laughter.

As I turned and saw Maxwell standing with his back against the door, and an insolent smile on his face, suspicion entered my mind. It was to some extent confirmed when I observed the insolent smile reflected on the face of my stepmother.

"Barbara is still alive, dear brother-in-law," said Maxwell, laughing quietly to himself. "You are in time, you see. Oh, yes, you are in time."

I threw open the door of the adjoining room. A strange woman was there, standing by a chair in which Barbara was lolling. Except that she had grown more unwieldy, that her eyes were bleared and dim, and that her driveling mouth and hanging jaws gave her the appearance of a besotted hag, she bore no traces of a mortal illness such as Maxwell had described. The truth rushed upon me with convincing force. I had been tricked.

"Neat, wasn't it?" exclaimed Maxwell, as I closed the door upon the disgusting sight. "Would you believe," addressing my stepmother, "that our dear John was actually calculating the time when he would be free to marry the low woman for whom he deserted his lawful wife?"

"I would believe anything of him," said my stepmother.

"I warn you," I said. "Another such allusion, and I will thrash you within an inch of your life."

"Oh! I'm not to be frightened by threats," he blustered, "and I'm not going to quarrel with you."

"You will gain nothing by the trick you have played me," I said. "I am already making your sister an allowance which my means do not warrant, and which no court of law would compel me to pay."

"A pretense of poverty for which we are prepared. And we are prepared also to make your affairs public property unless you listen to reason."

"You are in the plot against me," I said to my stepmother.

"That is a lie," she replied, composedly. "I am not in any plot against you, but I am ready to give evidence when called upon."

"We are here, John, in the presence of a witness," said Maxwell, "for the purpose of coming to an understanding. You have had sufficient experience of me to be aware by this time that you are no match for me. If you wish to be left in peace, to lead any life you choose, you will have to pay for it. Shall I name the price?"

"It will be quite useless. You will never obtain another shilling from me."

"You shall have the opportunity to consider it, John. For one thousand pounds—a sum you can well afford to pay—you shall be left forever at peace, to go your own way to the devil. I will bind myself never to molest you again by any legal document you may lay before me. Consider it well, brother-in-law. What I offer is worth the price."

"It needs no consideration. You have my answer."

"I give you a week to think it over," he continued. "If then you persist in your refusal, I will dog you like your shadow—and not only you but the lady; observe how polite I am—in whom you take an interest. I will hunt you down and make your life and hers a daily misery. You may be able to stand it for a time. If I am any judge of appearances she will not. You have a gift of imagination. Imagine the worst I can do, and you will fall short of the reality. If not for your own sake, John, for hers, think it over."

"You have my answer," I repeated; and brushing him aside, I left the house.