It was settled that Mrs. Davenant, Una and Stephen should go to the Hurst in a week’s time. Jack had definitely declined to go to the Hurst. He felt that he would rather bear the absence of Una for a week or two than go to the old house, haunted as it was, for him, with so many memories; but lo and behold, a few days after the dinner party, had come a note from Lady Bell’s father, asking him to visit Earl’s Court.

Of course, Jack accepted gladly enough, without a thought of Lady Bell, and only remembering that a good nag would take him from Earl’s Court to Hurst in an hour and a half, or less.

The week passed rapidly, and with something like restlessness Lady Bell organized all kinds of outings and expeditions, in all of which Jack’s services were found to be indispensable.

He could not exactly tell how it happened; but he seemed to spend almost as much time with Lady Bell as with Una. Now it was to go and try a horse which Lady Bell wanted to buy; then to select some dogs to take down to Earl’s Court; and, again, to buy and send down pony-carriages and dog-carts.

There was always something to take him to Park Lane, and though Jack felt inclined to kick at these demands upon his time, which would otherwise have been spent near Una, he could not see his way to refuse. Then he was fond of buying horses, and dogs, and carriages, and used to hold a levee at Spider Court of disreputable-looking men in fustian corduroys, much to Leonard Dagle’s disgust.

“It seems to me, Jack,” he said, “that you have become Lady Bell’s grand vizier. Do you choose her dress for her?”

“Chaff away, old man,” said Jack. “It was only the other day that you were badgering me with being cool to her.”

“Yes, with a purpose,” said Leonard; “but that purpose has disappeared. Have you been to the Square yet this morning?”

“No; I’m going now. No, I can’t, confound it! I promised to see to the harness for the pair of ponies Lady Bell bought.”

Leonard smiled rather grimly.

“How Miss Una must love Lady Bell,” he said, ironically.

“So she does,” said Jack, sharply. “Now don’t pretend to be cynical, Len. You know as well as I do that I would spend every hour of my life by Una’s side if I could; but what can I do?”

“All right!” said Len, and he fell to work again.

Strangely enough now, that Jack was so much occupied with Lady Bell’s affairs, Stephen happened to find more leisure to visit his mother, and very often he accompanied her and Una to some concert or picture-gallery to which Jack was prevented from going. Stephen seemed, in addition, quite changed, and had become quite the man of pleasure in contrast to his former habits.

He rarely appeared at the Square without a nosegay or a new novel; he took the greatest interest in any subject which interested Una, and was as attentive to her as if he had been the most devoted of lovers. Now that Jack was so much absent, it was he who sat opposite her in the little brougham, who leaned over her chair at the theater, or rode beside her in the Row.

At first Una felt rather constrained by his constant attendance; she had been so used to have Jack at her side that she felt embarrassed with Stephen; but Stephen, whose tact was second only to his cunning, soon put her at her ease. She found that it was not necessary to talk to him, that she might sit by his side or ride with him for an hour without uttering a word, and was quite free to think of Jack while Stephen chatted on in his smooth, insinuating voice.

And so the very effect Stephen desired to produce came about; she got accustomed to have him near her, and got to feel at her ease in his presence. But how long the mornings seemed! and how she longed for Jack and wondered what he was doing! If anyone had openly told her she was jealous of Lady Bell, she would have repudiated the idea with scorn too deep for anything but a smile; and yet—and yet—that bright, happy look which Lady Bell had so much admired, grew fainter and fainter, and nearly disappeared, reviving only when Jack hurried in to spend a few hours with her, and then hurried off to keep some engagement with Lady Bell or on Lady Bell’s affairs.

But never by word or look did Una show that his absence pained her; instead, she was always the first to remind him of his engagements and to bid him depart.

At last the day arrived for her departure to Hurst. Lady Bell did not go down to Earl’s Court till three days later, and Jack, of course, had to remain in town for a day or two after that.

“It is the first time we have been parted for twenty-four hours since that happy day I learned you loved me, my darling!” he whispered as he held Una in his arms: “I almost wish that I had accepted Stephen’s invitation. But—but I could not sleep under the old roof—by Heaven, I could not! You cannot understand——”

“But I do,” murmured Una; “and I am glad you are not coming. If——”

And she paused.

“Well, darling?” asked Jack, kissing her.

“If you had said half a word, I would not have gone.”

“Why not?” said Jack, with a sigh. “Yes, I am glad you are going. You will see the old house in which I was so happy as a boy—which I once thought would have been mine.”

“Dear Jack!” she murmured; and her hand smoothed the hair from his forehead caressingly and comfortingly.

“Well, never mind,” said Jack; “it is better as it is. Perhaps I should have had the Hurst, and have lost you; and I would rather lose the whole earth than you, my darling! Besides, Stephen has turned out a better fellow than I thought him, and deserves all he has got, and will make a better use of it than I should. No, I am content—I have got the greatest treasure on earth!”

And he pressed her closer to him, and kissed her again and again until, from very shame, she slid from his grasp.

Stephen had engaged a first-class carriage, had even taken the precaution to order foot-warmers, though the weather was not yet winterish, and if he had been the personal attendant on a sovereign, and that sovereign had been Una, he could not have been more anxious for her comfort. He was so thoughtful and considerate that there was nothing left for Jack to do but go down to the station and see them off.

“Four days only, my darling,” he whispered, as the train was starting; “they will seem years to me.”

And he clung to her hand to the last moment, much to the disgust of the guard and porters, who expected to see him dragged under the train. Then he went back to Spider Court, feeling cold, chilly and miserable, as if the sun had been put out.

“Len, I wish I had gone!” he exclaimed, as he opened the door.

But there was no Len to hear him—the room was empty.

“Great Heaven! has everyone disappeared?” he exclaimed, irritably, and flung himself out of the house and into a hansom.

“Where to?” said the cabman, and Jack, half absently, answered:

“Park Lane.”

The man had often driven him before, and he drove straight to Lady Bell’s.

Jack walked into the drawing-room quite naturally—the room was familiar to him—and sat down before the fire; and Lady Bell came in with outstretched hand.

It was a comfort to have someone left, and Jack greeted her warmly, more warmly than he knew or intended. Lady Bell’s face flushed as he held her hand longer than was absolutely necessary.

“Thank Heaven! there is someone left,” he said, devoutly. “They have all gone, and Len is out, and——”

“I am left,” said Lady Bell. “Well, you are just in time for luncheon. I half expected you, and I have told them to make a curry.”

Curry was one of Jack’s weaknesses.

“That is very kind of you,” he said, gratefully. He felt, very unreasonably, neglected somehow. “You always seem to know what a fellow likes.”

“That’s because I have a good memory,” said Lady Bell, smiling down at him. “I shall take care to have plenty of curries at Earl’s Court. And, by the way, will you choose a paper for the smoking-room down there? I have told them that they must do it at once.”

Jack rose without a word; he had been choosing papers and decorations for a week past, and it did not seem strange. Luncheon was announced while they were discussing the paper, and Jack gave her his arm. Mrs. Fellowes was the only other person present, and she sat reading a novel, deaf and blind to all else. Not but what she might have heard every word, for the young people talked of the most commonplace subjects, and Jack was very absent-minded, thinking of Una, and quite unconscious of the light which beamed in Lady Bell’s eyes when they rested on him.

Then they rode in the Row; he could do no less than offer to accompany her, and Mrs. Fellowes wanted to see a piece at one of the theaters, and Jack went to book seats, and took one for himself, and sat staring at the stage and thinking of Una; but he sat behind Lady Bell’s chair, and spoke to her occasionally, and Lady Bell was content.

Hetley and Arkroyd were in the stalls, and saw him.

“Jack’s making the running,” said Lord Dalrymple, eying the box through his opera glass. “He’s the winning horse, and we, the field, are nowhere.”

And not only those two, but many others, remarked on Jack’s close attendance on the great heiress, and not a few who would have gone to the box if he had not been there, kept away.

Meanwhile, Jack, simple, unsuspecting Jack, was bestowing scarcely a thought on the beautiful woman by his side, and thinking of Una miles away.

The theater over, and Lady Bell put into the carriage, he looked in at the club, sauntered into the card-room, smoked a cigar in the smoking-room, and then went home to Spider Court.

Much to his surprise he found Leonard up, not only up, but pacing the room, his face flushed and agitated.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Jack, “what’s the matter? And where on earth have you been?”

“Jack, I have found her!”

“That’s just what I said some months ago!”

“Yes, I know. I have been thinking how strangely alike our love affairs have been. It is my turn now. I have found her!”

“What, this young lady, Laura Treherne?”

“Yes,” said Leonard, with a long breath.

“Tell me all about it,” said Jack. “Hold hard a minute, till I get something to drink. Now, fire away.”

“Well,” said Leonard, still pacing up and down, and seeming scarcely conscious of Jack’s presence, “I was walking in the park. You know the place, that quiet walk under the beeches. I was thinking of you and your love affairs, when I saw, sitting under a tree, a figure that I knew at once. For a moment I could not move, and scarcely think; then I wondered how I should get to speak to her; but presently, when I had pulled myself together, I saw that she had dropped her handkerchief, and I went and picked it up and took it to her.”

“A fine opening,” muttered Jack.

Leonard Dagle evidently did not hear him.

“Well, she started when I approached her, and merely thanked me with a bow, but I was determined not to let her go this time, and I said, ‘Pardon me, but we have met before.’ ‘Where?’ said she. ‘In a railway carriage,’ I said, and she looked at me, and trembled. ‘I remember,’ she said, and I swear I saw her shudder. ‘Since then,’ I said, ‘I have sought you far and near.’ ‘Why should you do that?’ she asked.”

“A very natural question,” interjected Jack.

“Then I told her. I told her that from that hour I had been unable to rid my mind of her face, that it had haunted me; that I had followed her and learned her address; and that though I had lost her I had sought her all over London.”

“Was she angry?” asked Jack.

“At first she was,” said Leonard, “very angry, but something in my voice or my face—Heaven knows I was earnest enough! convinced her that I meant no harm, and she listened.”

“Well,” said Jack, interested and excited.

“Well,” said Leonard, “we sat talking for an hour, perhaps more, and she has promised to meet me again; at least she admitted that she walked in the park every afternoon. I tried to get her address, but she told me plainly that she would not give it to me.”

“And is that all you learned?” asked Jack, with something like good-natured contempt.

“No!” replied Leonard. “I learned that she had been injured—oh, not in the way you think—and that she had some purpose to effect—some wrong to right.”

“And of course you offered to help her?” said Jack.

“I offered to help her; I laid my services, my whole time and strength, at her disposal; I went so far as to beseech her to tell me what this purpose, this wrong was; but she would not tell me, and so we parted. But we are to meet again. She is much changed; paler and thinner than when I saw her in the railway carriage, but still more beautiful in my eyes than any other woman in the world.”

“It is a strange affair,” mused Jack. “Quite a romance in its way. Isn’t it funny, Len, that both our love affairs should be romantic, and so much alike!”

“Yes,” said Leonard, “very. But mine has scarcely begun, while yours has ended happily, or will do so, if you do not play the fool!”

“What do you mean?” asked Jack, sharply.

“Where have you been to-night?” asked Leonard.

“To the theater with Lady Bell.”

“I expected as much,” said Leonard, and he fell to at his writing, and would say no more, though Jack stormed and raved.

Meanwhile the Davenant party had, thanks to Stephen, made a comfortable journey. They found a carriage and pair waiting for them at the station; not the ramshackle vehicle of the old squire’s time, but a new carriage from the best man in Long Acre, and they were rolled along the country lanes in a style Ralph Davenant would have marveled at.

Presently they came in sight of the Hurst, and Mrs. Davenant uttered an exclamation.

“Why, Stephen, it is altered!” she said.

Stephen smiled proudly.

Short as the time had been he had effected a radical change in the old house; a hundred workmen had been busy, and the ramshackle old mansion had been transformed. Wings had been added, the grounds had been newly laid out; the road, even, had been altered, and they drove through an avenue of thriving young limes.

Una, silent and interested, kept her eyes fixed on the house. She had often heard Jack describe it, but this palatial residence did not answer to his description. Stephen’s money and energy had entirely transformed the place.

The carriage pulled up at the entrance, and half a dozen grooms flew to the horses’ heads: footmen in handsome liveries stood in attendance, and the servants formed a lane for their master to pass through. Una had often read of such a reception, but here was a reality.

Stephen helped her to alight, and took her and his mother on his arm, his head erect, a warm flush on his cheek.

Suddenly the flush disappeared and a frown took its place as he saw amongst the crowd gathered together at the entrance the parchment-like visage of old Skettle.

But the frown disappeared as he entered the house, and stood silent, listening to the approving comments of Mrs. Davenant.

“My dear Stephen,” she said, “you have certainly altered the place—I should not have known it. And is this what was the gloomy old Hall?”

“Yes,” said Stephen, proudly, and he glanced round at the alterations with an air of satisfaction, and looked at Una’s face for some sign of approval.

But Una was looking around anxiously. If it was so much altered, then it was not the old home that Jack knew and remembered.

“You will find everything altered and improved, I hope,” said Stephen.

Altered, indeed! They have even shifted the old staircase, so that it would have been difficult to have found the room in which the old squire died, exclaiming:

“You thief! you thief! what have you done with the will?”

Yes, indeed, there was great alteration. The old squire, if he had come to life again, would not have known Hurst as Stephen had made it. Masons, carpenters, and decorators had been at work to some purpose. Everything was changed, and unmistakably for the better.

Stephen looked around with an air of pride.

“They have been very quick,” he said. “I placed it in good hands. You will find everything you require up-stairs. You must know,” he said, turning to Una, “that I found the place little better than a barn, and have done my best to make it fit to receive you! You are looking at the portraits,” he added, seeing Una’s gaze wandering along the double line of dead and gone Davenants. Most of them you would not have seen two months ago, they had been terribly neglected, but I have had them cleaned and renewed. That is the old squire, my poor uncle,” and he sighed comfortably.

Una paused before this, the last portrait of the series, and looked at it long and curiously, and the other two stood and watched her, Stephen with a keen glance of scrutiny and with a nervous tremor about his heart. If she could but know that she was looking at the portrait of her own father! Una turned away at last with a faint sigh. She was thinking that this was the old man who had once loved Jack and left him to poverty.

Mrs. Davenant shuddered slightly.

“He was a terrible old man, my dear,” she murmured, “and always frightened me. I trembled when he looked at me.”

“He does not look so terrible,” said Una, sadly.

Stephen fidgeted slightly.

“Come,” he said, “you must not catch cold. Your maids are here by this time. Will you go up to your room? The housekeeper will show them to you, and I hope you will find everything comfortable.”

Very slowly, looking to right and left of her, Una followed Mrs. Davenant up the broad staircase.

The place seemed to have a strange fascination for her; she could almost have persuaded herself that she had been in it before, and it seemed familiar, though so much changed from all likeness to Jack’s description of it.

They found the rooms upstairs beautifully decorated, and furnished in the most approved and luxurious style. Lady Bell’s house in Park Lane even was eclipsed.

“Stephen has made it a palace,” said Mrs. Davenant. “How I used to hate it in the old time! it was so dark and grim and gloomy, always felt dull and damp. Stephen tells me that he has had it thoroughly drained after the new fashion, and that it is quite dry. Such a palace as this wants a mistress; I wish he would marry.”

“Why do you not tell him so?” said Una, with a smile.

Mrs. Davenant shook her head nervously.

“That would do no good, my dear,” she said. “I sometimes think he will never marry.”

And she glanced at Una with some embarrassment. A dim suspicion had of late crossed her mind that if Una had been free, Stephen might have stood in Jack’s place. She could not help noticing Stephen’s close attendance on Una—a mother’s eyes are sharp to note such things.

If the old squire could have seen the dining-room and the elaborate menu that evening, he would have stared and sworn. Stephen had engaged a French cook; the appointments were as perfect as they could be; the servants admirably trained, and as to the wines the Hurst cellar stood second to none in the country.

It almost seemed as if he were sparing no pains to impress on Una all that the wife of Stephen Davenant would possess. And Una, more than half the dinner-time, was thinking of Jack, and fondly picturing the little house they had so often talked of setting up when the commissionership came home. Just at the same time, Jack was leaning over Lady Bell’s chair in the theater.

Stephen was in his best mood, and exerted himself to the uttermost. He described the neighborhood, planned excursions and expeditions; told innumerable anecdotes of the village folk, and played the host to perfection.

In a thousand ways he showed his anxiety for Una’s comfort; and after dinner he had the place lit up, and went over it, asking her opinion on this point and the other, and humbly begging her to suggest alterations. So much so that Una began to grow shy and reserved, and shrank closer to Mrs. Davenant; and Stephen, quick to see when he was going too fast, left them and went to the library to write letters.

Now, strange to say, of all the rooms in the house, this one room remained unaltered. He had not allowed it to be touched—indeed it was kept closely locked, and the key never left him night and day. Just as it had been on the night of the squire’s death, when Stephen stood with the stolen will in his hand, so it was now.

He never entered it without a shudder, and all the time he was in it his eyes unconsciously wandered over the floor and furniture as if mechanically searching for something.

It exerted a strange, weird influence over him, and seemed to draw him into it. Tonight he paced up and down, looking at the familiar objects, and making no attempt to write his letters.

His brain was busy, not with schemes of ambition and avarice, but of love. The blood ran riot in his veins as he thought that Una was under the same roof as himself, and one mighty resolve took possession of him.

“She shall never leave it but to come back as my wife,” was his resolve.

Even the lost will did not trouble him tonight. He had Una in his grasp, Una upon whom everything turned.

It was far into the morning before he went to bed, and at the head of the stairs he turned and looked round with a proud smile.

“All—all mine!” he muttered, “and I will have her, too,” and he went to sleep and dreamed, not of Una, but of Laura Treherne.

All through the watches of the night the pale, dark face haunted him. At times he saw it peering at him through the library window, at others it was pursuing him along an endless road; but always it wore a threatening aspect and filled him with a vague terror.

Some men’s conscience only awake at night.