It was the last day of August. The London plane trees were beginning to shed their leaves, that were choked with the season's dust; the air was still and hot, the West End nearly deserted.

The hatchment, that had been put up on Mr. Russelthorpe's death, still hung in Bryanston Square, but fresh straw was laid down in the street. This time, at least, all that the living could do to keep out death was being done.

Mr. Deane had had a relapse after the journey to London. Two nurses were in attendance, and the doctors came night and day.

"Really, sis, I should be ashamed to get well again after this," he had said playfully; "and what is the use of having regiments of physicians? I am sure my case is delightfully simple! I know perfectly well what's the matter. They vary a little as to 'how long' they will give me, according to whether they are of the hopeful or the gloomy school; and some of them have very small respect for my intellect, and pretend I may live years; and so, perhaps, I might, if I weren't dying; and some of them have inconvenient consciences, and feel bound to tell the truth; but it makes no difference. 'Not all the king's horses and all the king's men will ever set this Humpty Dumpty up again.'"

"You give way too easily!" Mrs. Russelthorpe cried, with an impatience born of sharp anxiety. She would not think that that hurried flight had nearly killed him.

"You'll get over this fresh chill you caught at that horrible damp rectory. It was high time you left. I shall write to Dr. Renshawe at once. These old-fashioned practitioners are of no use; they don't open their eyes to the new lights!"

"Poor sis! you must be feeling very hopeless, when you go in for the new lights. Let it alone, and let's enjoy our last weeks together in peace. No? Well, as you like. If it comforts you to have all the quacks in England fighting over me, why shouldn't you?" He smiled while he spoke. Perhaps he had always given way too easily; though not in the manner she meant. "But one can't start a new system on one's death-bed," he said to himself; and his thoughts wandered dreamily off to other subjects. A huge china bowl, full of late roses, stood on the sofa by his side. He lay drinking in their beauty. Probably he would not see many more roses; and, while there was no bitterness in the reflection,—Mr. Deane's was too sweet a nature to be bitter,—it yet added to his always keen appreciation of colour. His naturally intense enjoyment of the finer pleasures of the senses had been apt to be dashed by an almost morbid recollection of the many "better men than he," who had no chance of satisfying themselves. Like Meg, he could not enjoy his cream for the thought of those who needed bread. But now that life was ebbing fast, he delighted in any small gratification that came in his way, in a manner that surprised and almost annoyed his sister.

"My work is done," he told her. "Rather badly, no doubt; but—anyhow—done. I need only 'play' now. Other people may ride atilt against all the problems one bruises head and heart over. Good luck go with them, and more power to their elbows! But I shall bother about nothing now. Don't put that shade of pink against those crimson roses, sis; you set my teeth on edge."

So he lay; outwardly serene at any rate. If at the bottom of his heart were any regrets for the life cut short, not much past its prime, this was his own secret. He knew how to die like a gentleman. On that same principle of "enjoying the last days together," he spoke no more of Meg, though he thought of her often and tenderly; but there may yet be changes on the cards when Death is looking over a man's shoulder. He speaks rashly who predicts "peace" while he is yet in the land of the living!

Mrs. Russelthorpe stood on the drawing-room landing, and George Sauls faced her. He had already twice refused to take "No" for an answer to his demand—it could scarcely be called request—to see Mr. Deane.

The bare idea of giving way before his impertinent assurance was preposterous. Mrs. Russelthorpe assured him at last that she had neither leisure nor inclination to receive visitors.

"Naturally!" said Mr. Sauls. "I should not dream of intruding on you, if it were not that I must see Mr. Deane. There is something I mean to tell him." He leaned one arm on the banisters; and there was no trace of nervousness in his expression, though she was doing her best to freeze him. Something in George Sauls' look made Mrs. Russelthorpe feel that this was no sham fight. She had no idea of defeat—she had seldom been defeated.

"You can write your communication," she said. "Mr. Deane is equal to reading his letters."

"Thanks!" He twisted his eyeglass violently, and put his foot on the stair. "Thanks! but trusting to paper is only a degree less foolish than trusting a secret to any but number one. I will wait so long as you like, but I am afraid I must see Mr. Deane."

It was the third repetition! Mrs. Russelthorpe drew herself up. Who was this man that he should say "must" to her "shall not"?

"I imagined that I had made clear to you that you cannot possibly do that," she answered coldly.

"Is that what you said to his daughter?" asked George. It was a declaration of war, a throwing down of the gauntlet. Mr. Sauls did not take his eyes from her face; as he brought out the words, he knew that they were insolent, but he was prepared not to stick at a trifle—for Meg's sake.

He had thought to take his adversary unawares by that bold stroke; but Mrs. Russelthorpe moved not a muscle, and George, much as he disliked her, felt a momentary admiration for her pluck.

"If you are speaking of Mrs. Thorpe," she said, "she has chosen her own lot, and must abide by it."

"Oh, certainly!" said George. For the first time in this curious interview there was a shade of warmth in his tone. Meg's very name slightly changed his attitude.

"If a woman is fool enough to marry beneath her, she chooses a lot that might satisfy her bitterest enemy," he remarked. "I don't pretend to go in for Christian charity and wholesale forgiveness; but Mrs. Thorpe injured herself more than any one else. Can't you hold out a hand to her now?"

"We will not discuss that subject. May I remind you that my time is precious—as I have no doubt yours is?"

"You mean that it is of no use waiting for your permission? You do not intend to give it?"

"I certainly will not."

"I am sorry," said Mr. Sauls. "My time is precious, as you remark. If there is no use in waiting, I will wait no longer." And, looking straight before him, though with perhaps a tinge more colour than usual in his sallow cheek, George went, not down, but up the stairs.

For a moment Mrs. Russelthorpe stood aghast; then she put her hand on his arm, when he would have passed her, and detained him with a grip which had plenty of strength in it.

"Mr. Sauls," she said, "you are doing a most unprecedented thing! I don't know what your private business with my brother may be; but, whatever it is, you are not justified in behaving so to any woman in her own house."

"I will tell you my private business," said George. "Mrs. Thorpe came to Lupcombe rectory, begging to see her father, and you sent her away, broken-hearted! Did he ever hear of that? If he did, I will ask your pardon humbly; but, in any case, he shall know before he dies."

He felt the grip on his arm tighten at his words; it assured him, had he needed assurance, that he was right, that Mr. Deane had not known, and, what was more, that Mrs. Russelthorpe, who feared few things, dreaded such a revelation.

"I have an impression that you have some grudge against me; and though, in ordinary circumstances, that fact could hardly have any weight with me," she remarked, with a fine touch of contempt in the voice she would not allow to tremble, "I acknowledge that, just now, you have an opportunity of annoying me seriously. Even you, however, may remember that, in gratifying your petty spite, you will probably quicken the end of the man who has befriended you, and whose friend, I believe, you call yourself. You must think worse of Mrs. Thorpe than I do, if you imagine that she will thank you for that."

"Oh, I shan't ask for thanks," he said, with a short laugh. "Why should I, if I am gratifying my own petty spite? No; Mrs. Thorpe wouldn't approve this. I don't imagine that she would; she never did quite approve me! Please take your hand off my arm; I assure you that I don't want to hurt you, but I am going upstairs."

He could not free himself from her grasp, however, without using actual force; and Mrs. Russelthorpe made one last desperate effort.

"If there were a man within call besides old Pankhurst," she said, "and my brother, who is ill, you wouldn't dare do this! You are taking a cowardly advantage, Mr. Sauls, a cowardly and ungenerous advantage of power. You have no right to do what I forbid in my house; but—you are the stronger. If you have a spark of manliness in you, you will be ashamed!"

George looked down on her; his near-sighted eyes brightened, the expression of his imperturbable face changed a little. She had felt that that must move him; she spoke with genuinely righteous indignation; and he was moved, though not as she had expected.

"Might is right, Mrs. Russelthorpe," said he. "Oh, it's not an exalted theory, I know. Mr. Deane would never allow it for a moment, nor would his daughter; but you and I—we don't go in for their exalted theories, do we? Cowardly and ungenerous? When you sent Mrs. Thorpe away, did you stop to consider the right of the weakest? Did you ever consider that, where she was concerned? Yes! I am the stronger; and I pay you the compliment of following your example rather than your precepts, you see." And he put his hand on her wrist, freed himself with a wrench, and went on upstairs.

For a second, Mrs. Russelthorpe still stood where he had left her, feeling as if heaven and earth were coming to an end. Then she pulled herself together, and followed him. She would have forfeited some years of her life, though she loved life dearly, to have prevented this disclosure. Since prevention was impossible, she would hear the worst.

She wished she had not made an enemy of Mr. Sauls; but, at least, he should not be able to say that he had seen her afraid.

He looked round doubtfully when he reached the second landing.

It was awkward not to know which was Mr. Deane's room, though he would have tried each door in succession before he would have been baffled.

It may be said for George that "petty spite" alone would not have carried him to these lengths.

He was very much aware that his conduct was rather indefensible, although he was certainly a good hater.

"It is the second door on the right," said Mrs. Russelthorpe behind him.

She held her head a little higher than usual, and spoke in her ordinary cold incisive tones. She had protested in vain. She had appealed to any gentlemanly instinct he might possess; but he had none. There should be no more undignified scrimmages; whatever was to be, should be quickly.

Mr. Sauls opened the door, and held it open for her to pass in first. He would have preferred seeing Mr. Deane alone, but he had some pride too; she should not suppose that he shrank from saying before her face what he had to say.

Meg's champion was not over scrupulous; but he was no coward; and, if most men would have shrunk from behaving to a woman as he had, on the score of chivalry, it must also be owned that many would hardly have had the courage to meet their host's astonished glance and to explain their presence before a hostile listener.

Mr. Deane did, indeed, look utterly surprised for a moment; then he held out his hand with his usual genial courtesy.

"Sauls! This is uncommonly kind of you. I wasn't expecting a visitor, but my sister was quite right to bring you up."

His voice was very weak, and he flushed with the effort of talking. Mr. Sauls could almost see the light through the hand extended in welcome, and a momentary compunction seized him. Then he thought of Meg. "He will die anyhow," reflected George. "But he shall see her first, if I can compass it."

"I am afraid I must own that Mrs. Russelthorpe did not bring me up—in fact, she did not give me her permission to come," he said.

"Dear me! That sounds as if you had been fighting your way," said Mr. Deane, with some amusement. He had not the faintest idea of the truth of the suggestion, till he caught a glimpse of the face of his sister, who stood behind Mr. Sauls. Then he raised himself on his elbow, and looked from one to the other.

"Is anything really the matter?" he asked.

"No; but there is something I wish to say to you, at the risk of your possibly considering me an impertinent interferer in your affairs."

"I am sure," said Mr. Deane, with a touch of hauteur in his voice, "that you would never impertinently interfere in my affairs;" and George set his teeth hard. It was difficult to go on after that. He felt as he had felt in old days, when Meg had sometimes snubbed him gently and even unconsciously, because he had ventured a little too far.

"Do you remember this?" he said; and, taking a small parcel from his breast pocket, he opened it, and disclosed Meg's locket. Mr. Deane held out his hand instinctively; he did not like to see that precious relic in Mr. Sauls' possession.

"Yes, it is—I mean it was—mine. I'll give you anything you like for it, Sauls."

"I remembered it too," said George. "Miss Deane once showed it to me. The diamonds are uncommonly fine. I found it at a pawnbroker's at N——. Mrs. Thorpe sold it to him. The old rascal made a good thing out of her, I suspect. He assured me that he saw her cross the road to the 'Pig and Whistle' with the money in her hand, and order a chaise to take her to Lupcombe parsonage."

"To Lupcombe!" said Mr. Deane; he started painfully.

"You didn't know?" said George. "It was not news to me. The gardener told us how a woman had come to the parsonage—it was while Mr. Bagshotte and I were looking at ancient monuments—and begged hard to see you, but was sent away; he said she seemed broken-hearted."

George's even voice—he spoke in as matter-of-fact a tone as if he were commenting on the weather—ceased for a moment. He knew that Mrs. Russelthorpe had turned white even to her lips; but he had no pity for her;—that other woman "broken-hearted" was too present with him.

"How do you know—it was my Meg?" said her father, with a catch of the breath in the middle of his sentence.

"I questioned the gardener again," said George. "When Mrs. Russelthorpe sent her away, the woman said, 'Tell father I know he was right'. Possibly Mrs. Russelthorpe forgot to give you that message?" He put up his eyeglass and looked at her, but she stood perfectly still and straight. An enemy's presence has a finely bracing effect on a woman's nerves; yet, perhaps, at that moment, Meg's wrongs were avenged, even better than the avenger knew.

Mrs. Russelthorpe's love for her brother might be selfish, but at least it was intense; and to lose his was like losing the very life of her soul, for it was the only love she knew. She could not look at Charles, though she felt him look eagerly and questioningly at her, or speak to him, though her silence was an admission. But she met Mr. Sauls' stare with haughty composure; if he must guess she suffered, at least he shouldn't see it.

Mr. Deane put his hand over his eyes; there was a minute's dead silence,—the longest minute that Mrs. Russelthorpe had ever known. Then: "Mr. Sauls, you have made a mistake," he said. "It—it was I who forgot; my memory is getting misty. You must not fancy that my sister did not tell me. Of course, I knew—but, no doubt, you meant well." And, for once in his life, George was taken aback. Then he turned on his heel, with a short laugh.

"Thank you; I am glad you credit me with good intentions," he said. "I am no more fond of interfering than you are of—shall I say, of telling lies? But there are circumstances—Mrs. Thorpe had no one else to speak for her. Family pride is a stronger influence than abstract justice, isn't it?" He walked to the door, then paused. Mr. Deane fancied that Mr. Sauls was going to make one last cutting remark; but he did not. After all, it was not for his own hand that he was fighting; and stinging speeches wouldn't help her much.

"I daresay I have 'interfered impertinently,'" he said; "but don't 'forget' again. I think if you had seen, as I have, how she looks when your name is mentioned, how she longs for any crumb of news of you, you might remember, and even let her in next time. Good-bye; I am sorry we don't part friends—I am very sorry." And he spoke the truth. Mr. Deane had befriended him years ago; and then he was Meg's father.

He was just leaving the room when Mr. Deane called him back.

"Sauls, come here!" he said. "I can't make you hear across the room; my voice isn't strong enough. Tell me, do you know where she is? Yes? Bring me paper and pencil, please." George handed him his own pocket-book, and took the pencil from his watch-chain. Mr. Deane's hand shook while he held it. His sister, who had stood still as a statue all through this interview, stepped forward now in genuine anxiety for him.

"You are not fit to write," she said. "Let me—or Mr. Sauls." But he shook his head. "No one else can do it. Meg will understand and come, when she gets this. Tell her, Sauls, that I will do my best to live till I have seen her, and give her my love."

He wrote one line in shaky characters; then folded the leaf in two, and put it in George's hand. "I can't trust it to the post. Will you take this to her, for the sake of—'abstract justice'? You understand that what happened before was my doing. I trust you with this."

"I understand, and you may trust me," said George. "Thank you." And there was a warm ring in the thanks that brought a smile to Mr. Deane's lips.

"You are very fond of abstract justice!" he murmured.

"Am I? the more fool I!" said George. "It's not a profitable taste, or likely to find much gratification. I will take your message safely. I am glad I reminded you, though you are very tired, I'm afraid." And their hands met for the last time.

"There will be time to rest when I have seen her," said Mr. Deane; "but tell her that she must make haste."

George went out, shutting the door behind him softly, not even caring to look again at his enemy. After all, he did not feel triumphant at that moment, though he was glad that he had won that victory for Meg.

When he was fairly gone, Mr. Deane turned and looked at his sister.

"You could not contradict him," he said, in a low voice. "A man can't see a woman put to shame before another man, but I wonder what injury I have ever done you that you could do this thing to me. You must hate us very much!"

"Not you! Not you!" she cried. And she threw herself at his side, hiding her face in the bedclothes. "Oh, Charles, I meant no harm to you. But what right had she to come? She has always been between us, always. She tried to take my place; she was her mother over again,—her mother, who robbed me once; whom I had thought buried! Even when she was a child it was so; and now, having done all the harm she can, having proved her worthlessness, she will still dare to come and——"

"God grant she will still come!" he said.

His thin face worked nervously. The generous, easy life, unstained by any gross sin, pure as a girl's, seemed to him, at that moment, more culpable than words could say.

"Even when she was a child!" he repeated to himself. "My poor little Meg, even when she was a child! I don't understand how you had the heart to send my daughter away, but it seems I have never understood. Go, please, and leave me to wait for her," he said aloud.

"Charles!" she cried again. And even in her own ears both words and voice sounded strange and unlike herself. "Oh, Charles, it was because I cared so much about you! I know that you can't understand; but forgive me, if you can."

"Because you cared!" he said. "I would rather you had hated me, then! It would have been better for us both." Then, seeing her wince as if he had struck her: "There! I should not have said that; but, for mercy's sake, do go, Augusta! I don't want to say anything more that I shall repent. I can't talk about it. Forgive you? If my child comes in time, I will. That is all I want,—if Meg only comes in time."

And Mrs. Russelthorpe rose from her knees, and went downstairs, with a face that seemed to have grown older and greyer.

"If Mrs. Thorpe comes in time to see Mr. Deane, let her in," she said to the butler, who nodded gravely.

"Things must be at a pretty pass when she gives that order," he declared downstairs; and the cook sat down and cried, for all the servants loved Mr. Deane.

That night he was worse, but in the morning there was again a slight rally. A kind of expectancy pervaded the whole house. The maids would steal constantly to the area gate, and look down the silent square; even the nurse, infected by her patient's anxiety, went often to the window, and peeped out to see whether the daughter was coming.

Mr. Deane himself did nothing but listen day and night.

Mrs. Russelthorpe, sitting alone in the big drawing-room, listened too. Her brother would not see her—he might die, still without seeing her. She made no sign of distress; but her head ached, and her brain reeled with listening. All through the weary day she heard every footfall that sounded on the flagstones, passed the house and died in the distance; and all through the weary night she wondered whether it would be worse that Meg should hold him in her arms at the last; or that he should die, leaving his sister unforgiven. It would be a careless forgiveness—given because, having his child again, he had "all he wanted". Mrs. Russelthorpe wondered at herself because she longed for that.

Well, if her love was selfish, she did not on that account suffer any the less—but rather more.

Even George Sauls, who thought she had got off easily, though it was just like Mr. Deane to interpose and screen her—even he might have been satisfied, if he had known how much.

And, indeed, the most vindictive, could they know everything, would probably have small desire left for the shooting of private arrows at any enemy.