MRS. BEZEL.

One cannot always judge by appearances either as regards human beings or houses. Mr. Hilliston was one excellent illustration of this rule; Clarence Cottage was another. It was in a narrow and crooked lane trending downward to the right, at the summit of Fitzjohn's Avenue; an unpretentious two-story building, divided from the public thoroughfare by a well-cultivated garden. Therein grew thyme and lavender, marigolds and pansies; for the owner of the cottage loved those homely flowers, and daily gazed at them from the bow-window wherein her couch was placed.

Mrs. Bezel never walked in her garden, for the all-sufficient reason that she was a helpless paralytic, and had not used her limbs for over ten years. Still a moderately young woman of forty-five, she possessed the remains of great beauty, ravaged by years of anxiety and mental trouble. Those passing along the lane usually saw her pale face at the window, and pitied the sufferings written in every line; sufferings which were apparent even to a casual glance. Noting the homely garden, the mean-looking dwelling, the anxious expression of the invalid, they deemed her to be some poor sickly creature, the scapegoat of nature and the world, who had sought this secluded spot in order to hide her troubles. This view was not entirely correct.

She was in ill-health, it is true; she dwelt in a small house certainly; and the anxious expression was seldom absent from her face. But she was in easy circumstances, untroubled by pecuniary worries, and the interior of the cottage was furnished with a magnificence more suggestive of Park Lane than of Hampstead. The outward aspect of the house, like that of Mr. Hilliston, was a lie.

Her sitting room resembled the boudoir of some Mayfair beauty. The curtains were of silk, the carpet velvet pile, the walls were adorned with costly pictures, and every corner of the small apartment was filled with sumptuous furniture. All that art could contribute, all that affection could suggest, were confined in the tiny space, and had Mrs. Bezel possessed the mines of Golconda she could not have been more luxuriously lodged. The house was a gem of its kind, perfect and splendid.

Mrs. Bezel took little interest in these material comforts. Her life was passed between a couch in the bow-window, a well-cushioned chair by the fire, and a downy bed in the next room. She had little appetite and did not enjoy her food; mental anxiety prevented her interesting herself in the splendors around her; and the only pleasure she took was her dreary journey in a Bath-chair when the weather permitted. Then, as she inhaled the fresh breeze blowing across the Heath, she gazed with longing eyes at London, almost hidden under its foggy veil, far below, and always returned with reluctance to the familiar splendors of her narrow dwelling. Fortune had given her much, but by way of compensation had deprived her of the two things she most desired—of health and of love.

Even on this warm June evening a fire burned in the grate, for Mrs. Bezel was a chilly creature, who shrunk at the least breath of wind. According to custom, she had left the window couch at seven o'clock, and had taken her simple meal while seated in her large chair to the right of the fireplace. After dinner she took up a novel which was placed on a small table at her elbow, and tried to read; but her attention was not fixed on the book, and gradually it fell from her hands, while she gazed idly at the fire.

What she saw therein Heaven only knows. We all have our moments of retrospection, and can picture the past in the burning coals. Some even picture the future, but there was none for this woman. She was old, weary, diseased, worn-out, and therefore saw in the fire only the shadows of past years. Faces looked out of the flaming valleys, scenes arranged themselves in the red confusion; but among them all there was always one face, one scene, which never vanished as did the others. This special face, this particular scene, were fixed, immovable, cruel, and insistent.

The chime of the clock striking half-past nine roused her from her reverie, and she again addressed herself to the novel with a sigh. Tortured by her own thoughts, Mrs. Bezel was not accustomed to retire before midnight, and there were nearly three hours to be got through before that time. Her life was as dreary, and weary, and heart-breaking as that of Mariana in the Moated Grange.

The tread of a firm footfall in the distance roused her attention, and she looked expectantly toward the door, which faced her chair. The newcomer passed up the narrow garden path, entered the house, and, after a pause in the hall, presented himself in the sitting room. Mrs. Bezel knew who it was before the door opened; for standing on the threshold was the man with the face she had lately pictured amid the burning coals. Francis Hilliston and the woman who called herself Mrs. Bezel looked steadily at one another, but no sign of welcome passed between them. He was the first to break the awkward silence.

"How are you this evening, Margaret?" he asked, advancing toward her; "better, I hope. There is more color in your cheeks, more brightness in your eyes."

"I am the same as ever," she replied coldly, while he drew a chair close to the fire, and stretched out his hands to the blaze. "Why have you come here at this hour?"

"To see you."

"No doubt! But with what purpose?"

Hilliston pinched his nether lip between finger and thumb, frowning the while at the fire. Whatever had been, there was now no love between this woman and himself. But on no occasion had he noted so hostile a tone in her voice. He was aware that a duel of words and brains was about to ensue, and, knowing his antagonist, he took the button off his foil. There was no need for fine speaking or veiled hints in this conversation. It was advisable that all should be plain and straightforward, for they knew each other too well to wear their masks when alone. Under these circumstances he spoke the truth.

"I think you can guess my errand," he said suavely. "It concerns the letter you wrote to Claude Larcher."

"I thought as much! And what more have you to say in connection with that affair?"

"I have merely to inform you that the man whom you desire to see is in London, and will no doubt answer your kind invitation in person."

Mrs. Bezel stretched out her hand and selected a letter from the little pile on her table.

"If you will look at that," she said coldly, "you will see that Claude intends to call on me at three o'clock to-morrow."

Taking the letter in silence, Hilliston turned frightfully pale, and the perspiration stood in large beads on his forehead. He expected some such appointment to be made, yet the evidence in his hand startled him all the same. The promptitude of action spoke volumes to one of his acute perceptions. To defend his good name would require all his skill and experience, for he had to do with men of action, who acted as quickly as they thought. The duel would be more equal than he had thought.

"Are you still determined to tell all," he said in a low tone, crushing the paper up in his hand.

"Yes."

The monosyllable was uttered in so icy a manner that Hilliston lost his temper completely. Before this woman there was no need for him to retain his smiling mask, and in a frenzy of rage he hurried into rapid speech, frantic and unconsidered.

"Ah, you would ruin me!" he cried, springing to his feet; "you would drag up those follies of '66, and make London too hot to hold me! Have I not implored, threatened, beseeched, commanded—done everything in my power to make you hold your peace? Miserable woman, would you drag the man you love down to——"

"The man I loved you mean," responded Mrs. Bezel, in nowise moved by this torrent of abuse. "Pray do not be theatrical, Francis. You know me well enough to be aware that when my mind is made up I am not easily moved. A man of your brains," she added scornfully, "should know that loss of temper is but the prelude to defeat."

Recognizing the truth of this remark, Hilliston resumed his seat, and subdued his anger. Only the look of hatred in his eyes betrayed his real feelings; otherwise he was calm, suave, and self-controlled.

"Have you weighed the cost of your action?" he demanded quietly.

"Yes. It means ruin to us both. But the loss is yours, not mine. Helpless and deserted, life has no further charms for me, but you, Mr. Hilliston, doubtless feel differently."

"Margaret," he said entreatingly, "why do you speak like this? What harm have I done you that——"

"What harm!" she interrupted fiercely. "Have you not ruined me, have you not deserted me, have you not robbed me of all that I loved? My life has been one long agony, and you are to blame for it all. Not a word," she continued imperiously. "I shall speak. I insist upon your knowing the truth!"

"Go on," he said sullenly; "I listen."

"I loved you once, Francis. I loved you to my own cost. For your sake I lost everything—position, home, respect, and love. And you—what did you do?"

Hilliston looked round the room, and shrugged his shoulders. Look and gesture were so eloquent that she commented on them at once.

"Do you think I valued this splendor? I know well enough that you gave me all material comforts. But I wanted more than this. I wanted love."

"You had it."

"Aye! I had the passion such as you call love. Did it endure? You know well that it did not. So long as I was healthy and handsome and bright your attentions continued, but when I was reduced to this state, ten years ago, what did you do? Left me to marry another woman."

"It was not my fault," he muttered uneasily; "my affairs were involved, and, as my wife had money, I was forced to marry her."

"And you did marry her, and no doubt neglect her as you do me. Is Mrs. Hilliston any happier in her splendid house at Kensington Gore than I in this miserable cottage? I think not. I waited and waited, hoping your love would return. It did not; so I took my own course—revenge!"

"And so wrote to Claude Larcher!"

"Yes. Listen to me. I wrote the first letter on the impulse of the moment. I had been reading a book called 'A Whim of Fate,' which contained——"

"I know! I know! I read it myself this evening."

"Then you know that someone else is possessed of your secret. Who is John Parver?"

"I don't know. I intend to find out. Meanwhile I am waiting to hear the conclusion of your story."

Mrs. Bezel drew a long breath, and continued:

"The book, which contained an account of the tragedy at Horriston, brought the fact so visibly before me that I wrote on the impulse telling you that I wished to see Claude, and reveal all. You came and implored and threatened. Then my impulse became a fixed determination. I saw how I could punish you for your neglect, and so persisted in my scheme. I wrote to Claude, and he is coming here to-morrow."

"What do you intend to tell him?"

"So much of the death of his father as I know."

"You must not—you dare not," said Hilliston, with dry lips. "It means ruin!"

"To you, not to me."

"Impossible," he said curtly. "Our relations are too close for one to fall without the other."

"So you think," rejoined Mrs. Bezel coolly; "but I know how to protect myself. And of one thing you may be assured, I will say nothing against you. All I intend to do is to tell him of his father's death."

"He knows it already."

"What?"

"Yes! Did you think I was not going to be beforehand with you," sneered Hilliston triumphantly. "I guessed your intention when you wrote me that letter, and when Claude arrived in town I saw him before he could call here. I did not intend to tell him of the matter till your action forced me to do so. He has read all the papers in connection with his father's death, and intends to hunt down the murderer. Now, do you see what you have done?"

Apparently the brutal plainness of this speech strongly affected Mrs. Bezel. It seemed as though she had not comprehended till that moment what might be the result of her actions. Now an abyss opened at her feet, and she felt a qualm of fear.

"Nevertheless, I intend to go on now that I have begun," she said gloomily. "I will answer any questions Claude may ask me."

"You will put him in possession of a clew."

"It is not improbable; but, as I said, life has no charms for me."

"You don't think of my sufferings," said Hilliston bitterly, rising to his feet.

"Did you think of mine during all these lonely years?" she retorted, with a sneer. "I shall punish you, as you punished me. There is such a thing as justice in this world."

"Well, I warn you that I shall protect myself."

"That is your lookout. But I will show you this mercy, as I said before. That nothing will be told by me of your connection with this affair. As to myself, I will act as I think best."

"You will tell him who you are?"

"Yes; I will tell him my real name."

"Then I am lost!"

"Surely not," she rejoined scornfully. "Francis Hilliston is old enough in villainy and experience to protect himself against a mere boy."

"It is not Claude I fear, but his friend, Spenser Tait. He is the dangerous person. But enough of this," added Hilliston, striking the table imperiously. "I forbid you to indulge in these follies. You know I have a means whereby to compel your obedience."

"It is your possession of that means that has turned me against you," she retorted dauntlessly. "If you give me back my——"

"Margaret! Not a word more! Let things remain as they are."

"I have said what I intend to do."

Hilliston ground his teeth. He knew that nothing he could say or do would shake the determination of this woman. He had already experienced her resolute will, and not even the means of which he spoke would shake her immovability. There was nothing more but to retire and protect himself as best he could. At all events, she promised to remain neutral so far as he was concerned. That was something gained. Before leaving the house, however, he made one final effort to force her to his will.

"I will not give you any more money."

"I don't care, Francis. This cottage and its contents are settled on me. A sale of this furniture will produce sufficient money to last my life. I can't live long now."

"I will deny all your statements."

"Do so!"

"I will have you declared insane and shut up in an asylum."

Mrs. Bezel laughed scornfully, and pointed toward the door.

"If that is all you have to say you had better go," she said jeeringly. "You know well enough that you cannot harm me without jeopardizing your own position."

They looked at one another fiercely, each trying to outstare the other. Hilliston's eyes were the first to fall, and he hastily turned toward the door.

"So be it," he said, with his hand on the knob; "you want war. You shall have it. See Claude, tell him all. I can defend myself."

On leaving the house a few minutes later, he paused irresolutely by the gate and looked back.

"If I could only find the paper," he muttered, "she could do nothing. As it is——"

He made a gesture of despair and plunged into the darkness.