It was Jack’s last day in town. Tomorrow he would be at Earl’s Court, and in the evening would be riding as fast as a horse could carry him to Una.

The hours seemed to drift with leaden wings.

It was no use going to Park Lane, for the blinds were down, and Lady Bell was at Earl’s Court. It was no use going to the club, for the whitewashers had taken possession of it; never had Jack been so utterly bored and wearied. At last he strolled into the park, and sat on one of the seats and stared at the Row, giving himself up to thoughts of Una, and picturing their meeting on the morrow.

He lingered in the park till dusk: then he went home to dress.

“Still writing, old man?” he said, as he entered, and laid his hand on Leonard’s shoulder.

“Halloa! is that you, Jack?” said Leonard, throwing down his pen. “I have been expecting you.”

“Why for?” asked Jack, yawning. Then he looked up curiously. “I wish I’d known it; I’d have come home. Look here, Len, we’ll go and dine somewhere; if there is anything left to eat in this howling desert of a London. If ever any man was bored to death and sick of it, I am this day. Twenty-four hours more of it, and I should chuck myself into the Serpentine! I never spent such a day——”

He stopped suddenly, for he became conscious that Leonard was standing, looking down at him with a grave and earnest regard.

“What’s the matter, old man?” he asked.

Leonard hesitated.

“Jack,” he said, at last, “Moss has been here.”

“Oh, has he?” said Jack, carelessly.

“Yes, and there is trouble about. He is pressing for his money.”

“What!” exclaimed Jack.

Leonard nodded.

“Yes, he means mischief; he made quite a fuss here. Said he had a heavy claim to meet——”

“Oh, I know that old yarn.”

“And that he must and would have money to meet those bills of yours.”

Jack looked grave.

“Did he mean it?”

“Yes,” said Leonard. “Thanks to you, I know Mr. Levy Moss by this time, and I am sure he was in earnest.”

“Confound him!” muttered Jack.

“Confounding him won’t pay him,” said Leonard, sensibly.

Jack rose and paced the room.

“What am I to do, Len?”

“I don’t know,” said Leonard. “If I could help you—but all I have wouldn’t meet one bill.”

“And I wouldn’t take it if it would,” said Jack. “But I can’t understand it! Only last week he was bothering me to take a hundred or two.”

Leonard shook his head.

“All I can tell you is, that he was simply furious. He said that he must and would have some money, that if you did not pay him he would——”

“Well?” said Jack, grimly.

“That he would put you through the Court,” said Leonard.

Jack turned pale.

“What am I to do?” he said. “I have been relying on the commissionership that Stephen promised, and Moss seemed quite willing to wait. I can’t find any money.”

Leonard shook his head.

“The man was furious. Worse than I have ever seen him. You will have to find some money somewhere. How much do you owe him?”

Jack tilted his hat on one side and scratched his head.

“Hanged if I know. He has let me have a great deal lately. Five hundred, perhaps.”

“Jack, you have been a fool,” said Leonard. “I told you that it was no use counting upon the place your cousin Stephen promised you.”

“I don’t so much care for myself, but Una, Una,” said Jack, with a groan. Then he jumped up. “Let us go and get some dinner, and think it over.”

They went to a well-known house in Strand, and Jack, careless Jack, ordered a dinner fit for a prince, and enjoyed it as he would have enjoyed it if he had been going to be hanged on the morrow.

“I don’t understand Moss,” he said. “He was everything that was agreeable and pleasant a few days ago.”

“And today he was like a wolf hunting for a bone,” said Leonard. “Hello, who’s this?” for a gentleman had entered the dining-room and approached their table.

“Why, it’s Stephen!” exclaimed Jack, forgetting Moss in a moment. “Just in time, Stephen, we’ll have another bottle of claret up. What on earth brings you to town? And how is—how are they all?”

Stephen sat down with a grave smile, and just sipped the claret, the best the house had on its list. And he sat and talked till the wine was finished, the greater part of which Jack drank, then he said:

“Jack, I want you to come to my chambers; I have something to tell you.”

“All right,” said Jack. “Leonard can find his way home very well.”

Stephen called a hansom, and they were rattled away to the Albany.

As they ascended the stairs, Stephen laid his hand on Jack’s arm.

“Jack, I am sorry to say I have bad news for you. You will be calm.”

“Bad news!” said Jack, and his heart stood still. “What is it? Una——”

“Yes,” said Stephen; “it is about Una. You will be calm, my dear Jack?”

Jack leaned against the balustrade and drew a long breath.

“Is she ill—dead?” he gasped.

“Neither,” said Stephen. “Come, be a man.”

“I am ready,” said Jack. “If she is neither ill nor dead I can bear anything else.”

Stephen opened the door, and Jack, entering, saw Gideon Rolfe standing on the hearthrug.

“Mr. Rolfe!” he exclaimed. “How do you do? I am very glad to see you!” and he held out his hand.

Gideon Rolfe nodded and turned aside.

“What is it? What is the matter?” asked Jack, turning to Stephen, who had carefully closed the door and stood with knitted brow and sad countenance.

At Jack’s question he glanced at Rolfe, and then, with a sigh, said:

“Yes, Jack, I will tell you. It will come better from me than Mr. Rolfe. Jack, you were right in suspecting that the business referred to Una. She is quite well—and happy. But—but I am afraid your engagement must cease.”

At this, Jack’s calmness came back to him, and with something like a smile, he said, scornfully:

“Indeed!”

“Yes,” said Gideon Rolfe, but Stephen held up his hand and silenced him.

“Perhaps you will tell me for what reason?” said Jack, quietly.

“For a sad, very sad reason,” said Stephen, in a subdued and mournful tone. “Jack, my heart bleeds for you——”

“Never mind your heart,” said Jack, curtly. “Come to the point, Stephen.”

“I sympathize with you deeply,” continued Stephen, not at all affronted. “The fact is, Mr. Rolfe has tonight made a communication respecting our dear young friend, which has completely overwhelmed me——”

“Let me see if it will overwhelm me,” said Jack. “What is it?”

“My dear Jack, it is a story involving shame——”

“Shame!” echoed Jack, and his brow darkened. “To whom?”

“To those who can feel shame no longer,” said Stephen; “but alas! its shadow falls on a young life as innocent and pure as the angels.”

“On Una?” demanded Jack, fiercely.

Stephen bowed his head.

“Yes, Jack. Una is a nameless child—she is illegitimate.”

Jack reeled and fell into a chair, and there he sat for a moment.

“It is a lie!” he said at last.

“It is true!” said the deep voice of Gideon Rolfe; and Jack, fixing his startled eyes on the rough, ragged face, knew that it was the truth.

With a groan he covered his face with his hands; then he started up and struck the table a blow that made Stephen wince.

“Well,” he exclaimed, with a short laugh—“well, what business is it of anyone’s but mine and Una’s? What do I care whether she is illegitimate or not? Let her be the daughter of whom she may, married or unmarried, it matters not to me. She is Una, and that is enough!”

His voice rang out loud and clear as a bell’s tone, and he looked from one to the other defiantly.

“And now that is settled,” he said, sternly. “Let us come to particulars, to proof. Mr. Rolfe, though I know you are averse to our marriage, I believe you. I do not think you are capable of inventing a lie—a base, fiendish lie—to serve your ends. But all the same I ask, and not without reason, some proofs. First, who are Una’s parents?”

Gideon Rolfe was about to reply, but a glance from Stephen stopped him.

“That is the question I have implored Mr. Rolfe to answer,” he said. “I have entreated him to give us some information, but he declines. It is a secret which he says shall go down to the grave with him, unless——”

“Unless what?” demanded Jack, hoarsely.

“Unless you are still determined to hold Una to her engagement. Then——”

He paused, and Jack looked from one to the other.

“Well?”

“Then he declares he will go to Una and inform her of the shame that clings to her name.”

Jack uttered a low cry and sank back in his chair. He saw by what heavy chains he was bound. To get possession of Una he must inflict the agony of shame upon her.

If ever a man loved truly and nobly Jack loved Una. He would have died the death to spare her a moment’s pain; and here was this man threatening to darken and curse her whole life if he, Jack, did not relinquish her.

“Are you human?” he said, turning his eyes upon Gideon Rolfe with a wild, hunted gaze.

Gideon Rolfe smiled bitterly.

“I am human enough to prevent this marriage.”

Jack rose and confronted him.

“I will not give her up,” he said hoarsely. “I defy you!”

“Good!” said Gideon Rolfe. “Then I go to the girl and acquaint her with the true story of her birth. If I know her—and I do—she has sufficient pride to prevent her staining so honorable a family as the Davenants by marrying into it,” and he sneered bitterly.

Jack’s face flushed.

“You professed to love her,” he said. “Are you totally indifferent to her happiness?”

“No happiness could follow her union to one of your race,” said Gideon Rolfe.

Stephen trembled. He was playing a dangerous and desperate game. A word from Rolfe might put Jack in possession of Una’s real parentage, and Stephen would be ruined.

“My dear Jack,” he said, sorrowfully, “I have besought Mr. Rolfe, almost on my knees, to hold his hand, but he is like stone—immovable.”

There was a pause.

Jack stood, his brain in a whirl, his heart beating wildly. His frenzied brain saw the whole thing clearly. On one side stood his passionate love and his life-long happiness, on the other Una’s shame and agony.

“I love her so!” he moaned.

“You say that you love her,” said Gideon Rolfe, sternly. “Prove it by saving her from the knowledge of the shame which clings to her name. If your love is worth anything it will make that sacrifice. Remember, it is on your side only. She is young—a mere girl, a few weeks, months at most, and she will have learned to forget you.”

“That’s a lie, at least,” groaned Jack. “I know her better than you.”

“No matter,” said Gideon Rolfe, coldly. “Time will heal a disappointed love; no time can heal an undying shame.”

Jack rose and paced the room.

“Leave me alone for a few minutes,” he said hoarsely. “I must think this out; nothing you can say can influence me.”

At a signal from Stephen, Gideon Rolfe remained silent.

Five minutes passed and then Jack came to the light.

The handsome face was haggard and white and so changed that ten years might have passed over his head in those few minutes.

“Mr. Rolfe,” he said, and his voice was broken and hollow, “why you bear me such deadly enmity I cannot imagine, and you will not tell me?”

Gideon Rolfe made a gesture of assent.

“It is a mystery to me; I only know its results. Once more I ask you to relent, and spare the unhappiness of both of us.”

“I am resolved,” said Gideon. “Either relinquish her or I tell her all. The decision is in your hands. I do not doubt you will seize your happiness, even at the cost of her shame.”

“Then you wrong me,” said Jack. “Rather than she should know the shadow which hangs on her life I relinquish her.”

A light gleamed in Stephen’s eyes, and his lips twitched.

“This I do,” continued Jack, in a voice so low and broken that it scarcely reached them, “placing implicit trust in your assertion that she is—as you state.”

He drew a long breath.

“I dare not risk it; but if in the future I should find that you have played me false—if, I say, this should prove a lie, then I tell you beware, for, as there is a Heaven above us, I will take my vengeance.”

“So be it,” said Gideon Rolfe, grimly. “Now write,” and he pointed to a bureau on which stood pen and paper, as if prepared for use.

Jack started.

“You will not take my word?” he said, bitterly.

Gideon Rolfe hesitated; but, at a glance from Stephen, said:

“Let the knowledge that the engagement is at an end come from you; it will be better so.”

Jack went to the bureau and sank into a chair.

Yes, if the blow must be dealt it better be by his hands, as tenderly as possible.

He sat for some moments with his head in his hands, as utterly oblivious of the presence of the others as if they were absent.

Before him rose the lovely face with its trustful eyes; in his ears rang the musical voice which he should never hear again.

What should he write? Why should he write?

Stephen stole behind him.

“You will be careful to conceal the truth, my dear Jack,” he murmured.

Jack started, and turned upon him with a look that caused Stephen to shrink back behind the table.

“For what am I giving up what is most precious in life?” he said hoarsely.

Then in sheer despair he seized the pen, and wrote in a trembling hand:

“My Dearest:—Since you left me, circumstances have occurred which have changed the current of both our lives. I dare not tell you more, but I pray, I beseech, you not to misjudge me. If you knew the position in which I am placed, you would understand why I am acting thus, and instead of condemning, pity me. Una, from this moment our lives are separate. Heaven send you happiness, and—as I know your true, loving heart—forgetfulness. I cannot tell you more—would to Heaven that I could. From the first I have been unworthy of you; I am more unworthy now than ever. I dare not ask of you to remember me; forget me, Una, forget that such a person as I ever crossed your path. Would to Heaven that we had never met! Don’t think hardly of me, my darling, whatever you may hear. What I am doing is as much for your good as for mine. Good-bye. I shall never cease to remember and love you, whatever happens. Good-bye!

Blotted and smeared, he enclosed it in an envelope, and dropped it before Gideon Rolfe; then he looked round for his hat.

“A glass of wine, Jack?” murmured Stephen.

But Jack took no more notice than if he had been deaf, and seizing his hat staggered from the room.

Stephen drew a long breath.

“Well, Mr. Rolfe,” he said, “we have conquered. As for this note, I will see that it is delivered at a proper opportunity.”

“Good,” said Gideon Rolfe; then he paused, and frowned sternly. “I am sorry for the young man.”

Stephen smiled, and waved his hand.

“A mere fancy,” he said, lightly. “My dear Jack is apt to take these matters as very serious, but he generally manages to get over them. And now what will you take to drink, Mr. Rolfe?”

Gideon Rolfe waved his hand and put on his hat.

“I leave the letter with you,” he said. “Good-night.”

Stephen filled a wine glass with brandy, and drank it off, his hand shaking. Then he eyed Jack’s letter curiously, and at last held the envelope over the steam of the hot water, and drew it apart.

“A very sensible letter,” he muttered, as he read. “Ambiguous, but all the better for that. Really, anyone reading this, would conclude that Jack had made up his mind to marry Lady Bell, and was ashamed to say so.”

Then he reclosed the envelope, and went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just.

Meanwhile Jack strode around the streets of London, his brain in a whirl, half mad with “the desperation of despair,” as a poet has it.

At last he reached home, and found the rooms dark and lonesome, and Leonard in bed.

He sat down and wrote a short note to Lady Bell, telling her that things had turned up which prevented him coming to Earl’s Court—giving no reason, but just simply the fact. Then he turned out, and he walked about till daylight.

When he came in Leonard was at breakfast, and stared aghast at Jack’s haggard face and changed appearance.

“My dear old man,” he commenced, but Jack cut him short.

“Len, I’m the most miserable wretch in existence. Don’t ask me the why and the wherefore; but all is over between me and Una.”

“Impossible!” said Leonard.

“Impossible, but true,” retorted Jack. “All is over between us, and if you value our friendship you will not mention her name again.”

“But——” said Leonard.

“Enough,” said Jack. “I tell you that it is so.”

“Moss has been here again,” Leonard said.

“I don’t care.”

“But, my dear fellow——”

“I don’t care,” said Jack, stolidly. “A hundred Mosses wouldn’t matter to me now. Let him do his worst.”

“You don’t know what his worst is,” said Leonard. “He has got you in his power.”

“All right,” said Jack, coolly. “Let him exercise it to his uttermost.”

Leonard had never seen Jack like this.

“Listen to me,” he said. “If Moss does all he can do, he can expel you from any club in London, can make you an utter out-cast. Come, Jack, be reasonable.”

“I can’t be reasonable!” retorted Jack. “I am utterly ruined and undone. With Una everything that is worth living for has gone. I care nothing for Moss or anything he can do.”