MRS. LOCKHART met Sir Francis at the door; he greeted her in a voice louder than ordinary, but harsh, as if the conventional instinct in him had overstrained itself in the effort to hold its own. An analogous conflict between the shuddering emotion within and the social artifices to disguise it, was manifest in his face, which rigidly, and, as it were, violently performed the usual motions of smiling and elegantly composing itself when all the while these polite antics were betrayed and falsified by the grim reality of ghastly pallor and suspense. And there was no necessity for the baronet to maintain the customary elaboration of his fine manners. No one would have expected it of him under the present circumstances: on the contrary, it would have had a repugnant effect, even had he been actor enough to make the pretense seem genuine. But men like Sir Francis, who have trained their minor natural impulses to wear stays and turn out their toes (so to say), are liable to be thus embarrassed by the fearful summons of some real passion of the heart: they pitifully strive to clothe the giant in the pigmy’s bag-wig and small-clothes, and are too much bewildered to perceive the measureless incongruity.

“Good morning, madam; charmed to see you looking so well,” were the baronet’s first words to poor Mrs. Lockhart, who immediately burst into tears, partly because she thought Sir Francis had gone mad, and partly because the contrast between her feelings and his observation was so grotesque. “Is—er—are all well, I hope?” he proceeded, while the questioning agony in his bloodless lips and staring eyes seemed to belong to another being than he who uttered the meaningless phrases.

“I only hope you may not have come too late, dear Sir Francis,” she said, instinctively replying to his look instead of to his words. “Poor Mr. Grant—he was murdered outright, but your son ...” she faltered, and resumed her tears....

The baronet stood at the foot of the stairs, with his hat under his arm and one knee bent—a most unexceptionable attitude. He was dressed at least as fastidiously as usual, only that, in shaving, he had accidentally cut his cheek, and the blood had trickled down and stained his else immaculate white stock. This little mishap might fancifully be regarded as symbolical of his moral state at the moment. He awaited something further from Mrs. Lockhart; but at length, as she did not speak, he said carefully, “Grant murdered! I cannot believe it! He parted from me, not twelve hours ago, in such capital health and spirits.” Then, after another pause, he bent forward and added in a grating whisper, as if confidentially, “The message that summoned me here mentioned the name of my son—Thomas. Pardon a father’s anxiety—alluding to him at such a moment. But ... nothing wrong ... eh?”

“Oh, Sir Francis! the surgeon says he cannot live; but he was very brave: it was while he was trying to protect Mr. Grant that he was struck. Oh, how can any one be so wicked!”

A peculiar sound escaped from the baronet’s throat, and his upper lip drew slowly back so as to reveal the teeth. It seemed to Mrs. Lockhart as if he were laughing; but only a madman could laugh at such a juncture, and she trembled with horror. It was immediately evident, however, that Sir Francis was simply in the grip of a horror vastly greater than hers, and that it had momentarily mastered him. Presently his eyes rolled, his head swayed forward, and, had he not grasped the balusters, he would have fallen. But calling up all his energies, he commanded himself a little, and, without attempting to speak, began the ascent of the stairs. Just then a door opened above, and Perdita’s voice said in a hushed tone:

“Sir Francis, are you there?”

He stopped, and looked upward; then, still in silence, he mounted the remaining stairs with a labored movement, and arrived, tremulous and panting on the landing. Perdita was standing at the door of Philip’s room. Her brows were drawn down, and her eyes, quick, dark and bright, scrutinized the baronet with a troubled expression.

“Is he there?” the latter inquired.

“Who?” said Perdita, reluctantly.

Sir Francis stared; then half lifted his hands and said: “I know about Grant; dead; can hardly believe it; left me last night in such health and spirits: but Tom ... as Tom’s my son ... is he...?”

“You are too late,” said Perdita, glancing away from him as she spoke. “Poor Tom; he deserved something better.”

“Let me go to him,” said Sir Francis, moving forward with a groping gesture, like one walking in the dark. He pushed past Perdita and entered the room. She remained for a moment on the threshold, following him with her eyes, and seeming inclined to retire and leave him; but she ended by stepping within and closing the door after her.

Sir Francis, however, was now unconscious of everything except that which lay on the bed before him. Tom’s hands rested beside him on the coverlet; his father lifted one of them, and let it fall again. He then sat down on the side of the bed, raised the upper part of the body and supported it on his arm, bending his face close to that of the dead boy, and giving vent at intervals, below his breath, to a kind of groaning sound, the most piteous that had ever fallen on Perdita’s ears. She remained leaning against the door, with an air of painful contemplation.

After what seemed a long time, and was undoubtedly long if measured by its spiritual effects, the baronet’s moanings gradually subsided into silence; the veins in his forehead, which had become swollen and dark with the accumulation of blood to the brain, returned to their normal state, and the man sat erect, gazing into vacancy, with a demeanor of pallid and stony immobility. Thought seemed to be at a standstill within him, and even the susceptibility to suffering had become torpid. He sat thus so long that at length Perdita’s restless temperament could endure the pause no more, and she spoke.

“Leave him now, Sir Francis. I wish to tell you something.”

He betrayed no sign of having heard her. By-and-by she advanced to the bed, and stood directly in front of him.

“What do you wish me to do with this?” she demanded, holding up the sealed enclosure which had accompanied Grant’s letter.

“These are not business hours,” said Sir Francis, sluggishly. “Tom and I are taking a holiday. Our work is done.”

“His work is done, but not yours: you cannot have the privileges of death until you die,” Perdita answered.

“I know more about death than you imagine,” responded the baronet, in the same halting tone. “You needn’t grudge me the privileges: I have the rest.”

“I am sorry for you—sorrier than I should have thought I could be,” said Perdita; “but there are some things which must be said between us: for my father is dead as well as your son; and since I can no longer learn from him, you must hear and answer me. Come, Sir Francis; I have always had my way with you in the end.”

“No one has any weapons against me now; they’re all here!” said the baronet, laying his finger on Tom’s shoulder with the word.

“I mean to know the truth, however,” returned Perdita, with a resolution that sat strangely on her subtle and changeful beauty. “It was Tom himself who told me the man who called himself Grant was my father: the rest is contained in this enclosure; shall I read it, or will you speak?”

“How came you by that?” inquired the baronet, for the first time fixing his eyes upon the packet in her hand.

“It was found, addressed to me, in the pocket of Charles Grantley’s coat. But first, listen to this letter, which accompanied it.”

“Not here!” said the other, lifting his hand. “Would you dishonor me in my boy’s presence?”

“He knew enough to make him suspect you before he died.”

Sir Francis shrank as if he had been stung. “Don’t tell me that!” he exclaimed. “You may call me a robber and a murderer, if you like, and tell the world of it; I may have failed in everything else, but I kept my boy’s confidence—he never doubted me a moment ... did he?” At the last words his voice fell from passionate assertion to quavering entreaty.

“You are not much of a man,” said Perdita coldly. “You should not be a villain if you fear to face the consequences and to stand alone. Tom was more manly than you; he despised you because you were afraid of Grantley, instead of crushing him, or, at least, defying him. And has no one suffered besides you?” she continued, with rising fire. “See what you have made of me! If my father had been with me, to love me, and for me to love and honor, I should not have been what I am. You parted us—as I now believe by a cowardly and slanderous falsehood. You brought me up to think the thoughts of a woman of the world and a libertine while I was still a child. You gave me nothing to care for but my own success—for money and power; and at last you married me to a worn-out formalist, whose very virtues made sin seem delightful. I have never had help or sympathy from a human soul, and that dead boy is the only creature who ever honestly loved me—and he would not have done it if he had known me! But, thanks to you, I can’t even be sorry for my failings now; I know more than I feel! I know when I’ve been injured, though I can’t feel the injury, and I mean to have what is due me. I have believed all my life that my father was an embezzler and a scoundrel, a man whose name and connection were a disgrace: a millstone round my neck; some one whom I was to remember only to forget and deny—and now, when it is too late to be of any good to me, because I am too old to change, and when he is dead, I am to find out that you and not he have been the villain! I have heard you whimpering over your boy, and I pitied you; but why should I pity you? Whom did you ever pity? If you had a glimmer of nobility left in you, you would be glad that he died before you were exposed and shamed. And you shall be exposed and shamed: I will do it! Here are your good name and prosperity, in this packet. Are you ready to see it published?” She held the packet at arm’s length before his face; there was something almost appalling in the sparkle of her eyes and the bitter movement of her lips.

Sir Francis had listened to this harangue at first with a tremor of the nerves, as one who awaits the fall of a thunderbolt; then even the strength to fear seemed to lapse away, and he sat gazing at Perdita with a dull, unresponsive countenance, while she kindled more and more with the story of her wrongs and resolve to retaliate. When she ended with her fierce question he said heavily, “Do what you like, my dear. You don’t know all. The letters are interesting—I’d have risked hanging to get ’em last night; but I don’t care to raise my hand for ’em now. You don’t know all. I’ve struck myself a deadlier blow than you can strike me, with all the world at your back. Do what you like, and then ... leave me alone with my boy. He and I may laugh over this some day—who knows!”

Perdita looked at him curiously. “Sir Francis,” she said, “do you admit all these accusations? Remember, I haven’t read these letters; they are sealed still; I have no sure grounds yet for my suspicions. For all I could prove, you may be innocent—unless these letters are the proof. Are they or not?”

“I suppose they are,” was his reply, in the same tone as before. “I don’t know what else they can be. Do what you like, my dear.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Perdita, after a pause. She turned and walked to the door and opened it. The door of Mr. Grant’s room, on the other side of the landing, was ajar, and Marion was visible within. Perdita beckoned to her. Marion probably supposed that the Marquise was going to inform her of Tom’s death, for she came forward at once with a face full of tender compassion and sympathy. The influences of the past night and morning had wrought an effect in Marion’s nature and aspect like the blossoming-out of a flower, whose delicate freshness had heretofore been veiled within a rough calyx. Such changes are scarcely to be described in set terms, belonging, as they do, rather to the spirit than to the body; the outward signs seemed limited to a certain ennobling of the forms and movements of the face, a soft shining of the eyes, and an eloquent modulation of the voice. The imperious flush and angry preoccupation of Perdita’s countenance, while they emphasized her beauty, put her on a level of attractiveness inferior to Marion’s at this moment, despite the latter’s comparative plainness.

“Can anything be done to help?” Marion asked as she came in. But as soon as she caught sight of Sir Francis she paused and murmured, “Ah, poor soul! I wish I could comfort him.”

“He seems resigned,” said Perdita, ungently. “Death alters us all, Marion, whether we die or survive. I am resigned, too; though my lover is dead in this room, and my father in that!”

“Mr. Grant....”

“Yes, Mr. Grant—Charles Grantley, my father; who was accused of high crimes and misdemeanors, and driven into exile, and who came back to England to see his daughter and be murdered by a footpad. You were fond of him, were you not?”

“Whoever he was, he committed no crime,” said Marion loftily.

“Why, so I think. But up to this time it has been made to appear otherwise. If he was not guilty, he has been greatly wronged, has he not?”

Marion seemed about to answer impetuously; but her eyes fell upon Sir Francis, and she compressed her lips and was silent.

“He has been a by-word of contempt and dishonor for twenty years,” Perdita continued, “and now he has died with the stain still upon him. If he was innocent, that seems a pity, doesn’t it? I am his daughter, and my honor is involved in his. You had a father: what would you have done in my place?”

“I would have found the proof of his innocence, if it was in the world.”

“Well, and what then?”

“I should be content ... I hope.”

“I am not content!” exclaimed Perdita. “What use is the proof, unless to give him back his honorable name, and to punish the man who betrayed him? I have some letters sealed up here that will do all that, I think; and Sir Francis Bendibow must be content to hear them read, and....”

“Do not do it, Perdita,” interposed Marion, in a low but urgent voice. “His heart is broken already.”

“What is that to me?” the other returned. “His broken heart will not mend my father’s good name.”

“Your father is dead,” said Marion, “and you would kill him again if you do not let his spirit live in you. Why should you reveal the secret that he kept all his life? If he chose to suffer unjustly, it was because he was too noble to vindicate himself. He bequeathes his nobility to you; and you should spare his enemies, since he spared them.”

“This is a practical world,” Perdita remarked, with an odd smile; “I’m afraid it would misinterpret such refined generosity. However, your idea is interesting and original; I’ve a mind to adopt it. It would be amusing, for once, to mount a moral pedestal above one’s friends. But I can’t make an angel of myself in a moment: I shall give this packet to you to keep for me: if I were to read the contents I should never be able to hold my tongue. Here—take it quickly, before my pedestal crumbles! Well, Sir Francis, I wish you joy; you are an honest man again!”

“If I had not been sure your father was innocent, I should know it now,” said Marion. “Wicked men do not have such daughters.”

“Thank you, my dear; you must let me kiss you for that; though my virtue is not my own, but yours. Now take me into the other room; I wish to see my father before I go.”

Marion accompanied her to the chamber where Charles Grantley lay, and would have left her at the threshold, but Perdita kept fast hold of her hand, and drew her in. They stood beside the bed and looked down at the quiet face.

“What are hardships?” said Perdita after awhile. “Are they what happen to us, or what we create in ourselves? He seems at peace. Hardships are hard hearts. Good-by, father. After all ... you might have kept your daughter with you!”

After giving some directions about the body, she departed. But Sir Francis still remained in Lancaster’s chamber, with his son in his arms. Their holiday was not over.