Nothing, as Mrs. Harwood herself said, is so bad as you expect; and the great shock which the sight of this stranger evidently gave her soon subsided in the extraordinary composure and self-command which she was able to bring to bear against every accident. By the time that it had been explained to her who the visitor was, and what was his errand, which he insisted at once upon telling, the conversation became what an uninitiated person would have thought quite cosy and pleasant. Mrs. Harwood drew her breath more quickly than usual. She looked at the door with some anxiety, and she even sent Julia with a message whispered in her ear.

“Don’t let Dolff come in here.”

“Why not?” said Julia, aloud.

It is inconvenient to have a daughter who has not the sense to obey. Mrs. Harwood made no answer, but pushed the girl away, and after a moment’s pause Julia went, though whether to fulfil the message in the manner intended, her mother could not say.

“Things have changed very much for us all,” she said, in her cheerful voice; “I have a daughter on the eve of marriage, like you, Dr. Harding—a man who does not marry keeps so much longer young. You may remember my Gussy as a child——”

“I remember my little wife that is to be as a child,” he said, heartily, “and she might well have despised an old fellow. Yes, things have changed. It was very good for me, as it turns out, that I could not go on in my old way. I’ve been a hard-working man, and kept very close to it for a long time, and now things are mending with me. I shall be able to give this little thing what they all like—a carriage and finery and all that. I am going back—to the old place, Mrs. Harwood——”

“To Liverpool?” she said with something like a repressed scream.

“Yes, to Liverpool; they had heard of me, it appears, and then some of the old folks remembered I was a townsman. You have not kept up much connection with the old place, Mrs. Harwood.”

“None at all; you may suppose it would not be very pleasant for me.”

“Perhaps not,” he answered, drumming a little with his finger on his knee; “and yet I don’t know why, for there was always a great deal of sympathy with you.”

“Dr. Harding,” said Mrs. Harwood, with some eagerness and a nervous thrill in her voice, “may I ask you a favor? It is, please, not to speak of me to any of my old friends. You may think it strange—there is nobody else in the room, is there, Janet?—but I would rather the children did not know more than is necessary about the past.”

“I understand: and I honor you, madam,” said Dr. Harding, in an old-fashioned, emphatic way.

A faint tint of color came over Mrs. Harwood’s face, which varied from red to white, no doubt with the agitation caused by the sight of her old acquaintance.

“I ask for no honor,” she said, hurriedly, “so long as it is thought that I have done my duty by the children.”

“I should think there could not be much doubt of that,” said Dr. Harding, who, in his own high content and satisfaction with himself saw every one round him in a rose-colored light. He would have sworn she was an example to the country, had anyone asked him. So she was, no doubt, for had she not given shelter and protection to Janet, and somehow led her by example or otherwise to see that there was nothing so good in this world as to trust yourself to the man that loved you, whatever his age or his appearance might be?

Janet listened to this conversation with a great deal of her old curiosity and desire to find everything out. She did not see why her doctor should be bound by a promise to Mrs. Harwood not to speak to her of Liverpool. Janet felt happy that it was not upon herself this injunction was laid, and that she was free to talk about the strange occurrences which had happened in St. John’s Wood, and perhaps get to understand them better. Janet, however, gave only a part of her mind to this. The rest was filled with her own affairs: her heart was beating still with the startling sensation of his arrival and the realization of all that must now follow. She had been a little afraid, when she brought him into the bright light, of the revelations it would make. But the Dr. Harding who was about to enter upon a ‘noble practise’ in Liverpool was not at all like the Dr. Harding of Clover. His clothes were new and well-made, his hair carefully brushed, his linen dazzling—oh, he was not at all like the man who rode over on a shaggy cob to see Miss Philipson, and was at everybody’s beck and call around the Green.

Looking at him again in this favorable new light, Janet decided that he was not so very old—older than herself, no doubt, older than Meredith or Dolff, but not so old—at the utmost no more than middle-aged—a man still in his prime. She did not do any talking herself, but let him talk, and she thought he talked well. All her thoughts had undergone such a revolution within the last half-hour. She had felt herself abandoned, a creature all alone, cast off from everything, scorned on all sides. And now all at once she had a defender in whose presence no one dared utter a jibe or make a scoff of Janet. She had wealth within her reach—a carriage (he said), all the prettinesses that life could bestow. No such prospect was before Gussy, though she thought herself so happy;—and the more Janet looked at him in these spruce clothes, the more her breast expanded with satisfaction. He was not merely Dr. Harding—he was something that belonged to herself. And so manly—not a person to be despised. Meredith himself—why did she keep thinking of Meredith?—Meredith was a weakly person, a man who had let himself be almost killed, not one who would stand against the world like John Harding. Pride and satisfaction swelled her breast. She too looked at the door as Mrs. Harwood did, but with a different meaning. She desired that they should all come in to see how much changed her position was, and that she had now someone belonging to her—someone who was better than them all.

Both these ladies accordingly sat and listened to Dr. Harding without taking much notice of what he said. He filled them with emotions of different kinds, neither of them entirely on his own account. They both listened for sounds without while he talked, intently, anxiously praying and hoping on one side and the other that some one would or would not come. Mrs. Harwood had perhaps never been so deeply moved before. To have made sure that no one would come—that this dangerous man might be got out of the house, without meeting Dolff at least, she would have given a year or two out of her life. There were sounds, several times repeated, of people coming and going, doors opening and shutting, the usual sounds of a house full of people, which brought the blood coursing to the mother’s heart. She put up her handkerchief to her face as if the fire scorched her. But it was her trouble that scorched her, the great anxiety in which she was consuming her very soul.

At last, in a moment, it was stilled, as our fears of an evil are stilled, either because it has become impossible, or because it has happened. The latter was the case in this instance.

Dolff came into the room, and behind him Julia, very curious, and after her Priscilla carrying the tea-tray. Priscilla and the tea-tray were things in which there was hope—but what Mrs. Harwood dreaded had happened. She had no resource, but to say:

“My son, Dr. Harding. Dolff, Dr. Harding is a friend of Janet’s and—and an old acquaintance of mine.”

“How do you do?” said Dr. Harding, rising up, formally giving the young man his hand. “I did not know your son was grown up. I thought he was the youngest.”

“No, it is Julia who is the youngest,” said the mother, breathlessly, indicating the girl, who came forward and shook hands with Dr. Harding too. Though she had been in the room at his first appearance, there had been no thought of introduction then.

“It is quite curious,” said the doctor, with his hearty voice, “to find myself among old friends. I expected to find only my little Janet, and here I am surrounded by people whom I knew in the old days in Liverpool before she was born.”

“But we have nothing to do with Liverpool,” said Dolff.

“Welsh,” said Mrs. Harwood, with breathless brevity.

“Ah, yes, by origin; the little property’s there, isn’t it? But Harwood has been a well-known name in Liverpool for longer than any of us can recollect. I remember when it was talked of like the Bank of England,” said the doctor, shaking his head a little and with a suppressed sigh.

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Harwood, “I am not fond of those old recollections; they always lead to something sad.”

She had made another tremendous effort of self-control, recovered her voice, recovered her composure. She sat bolt upright in her chair, her eyes shining out like watch-lights, and all her color concentrated in two red spots in her cheeks.

“This is very interesting to me, for I never heard of it before,” said Dolff. “My mother has told us very little, Dr. Harding; I should be very grateful for a little information.”

“My dear young fellow,” said Dr. Harding, “I daresay your mother’s very wise. Least said is soonest mended. That’s all over and done with. It all went to pieces, you know, when your father”—he paused a moment, visibly embarrassed, not knowing what word to use; then added softly, “when your father—died.”

Mrs. Harwood drew a long breath. She sank back a little in her chair. The dreadful tension was loosed.

“If you think that this is satisfactory to me,” said Dolff, “you are making an immense mistake. Why should least said be soonest mended? Is there any disgrace belonging to our name? Besides,” he said, himself a little breathless, with an instinctive sense that his words were words of fate, “my father—is not dead.”

“What?” said Dr. Harding. He jumped up from his chair as if he had been stung. “What? Adolphus Harwood not dead? My God! Adolphus Harwood? What does this mean?”

Mrs. Harwood was making convulsive efforts to speak, to rise from her chair, but nobody heeded her. Dolff stood confronting the stranger, in his ignorance, poor boy, fearing he knew not what, angry, beginning to awake to the fact that there might be need for defence, and that the danger was his own. He said:

“I don’t know why you speak in such a tone. There is no harm, I suppose, in my father—being alive. We never knew till the other day. Perhaps she can tell you why. Is there any harm in my father—not having died?”

His voice had grown hoarse with an alarm which he did not himself understand.

“Harm!” cried Dr. Harding. “Adolphus Harwood alive!—harm! Only this harm—that I can’t let old friendship stand in the way. I dare not do injustice; he must be given up to answer for his ill-doings. Harm! The fool! He never did but what was the worst for him! to live till now—with all the misery and ruin that he brought——”

Dolff frantically seized the doctor by the breast.

“Stop,” he said, “tell me what has he done? I knew—I knew there was more in it; what has he done?”

“Done!” cried the doctor, flinging the young man off from him, “done! ruined everybody that ever trusted in him! Don’t stop me, young man! Keep yourself clear of him! I cannot help it; I am sorry for your sake—but he must be given up.”

“To what?” cried Dolff, “to what?” He put himself in front of the doctor, who was buttoning his coat hastily and had seized his hat from the floor. “Look here! to what? You don’t stir a foot from here till you tell me.”

He had his arm up in mad excitement as if ready to strike, while Dr. Harding, a man of twice his strength, stood slightly drawn back prepared to defend himself. Then there suddenly came between them, with a cry, a moving, stumbling figure, white shawl and white cap showing doubly white between the dark-clothed men. She put one hand on Dr. Harding’s breast, and with the other pushed her son away.

“John Harding!” she cried, “John Harding! listen to me. He is mad—mad, do you hear? Mad! What is that but dead?”

“Mother, let this man answer to me!”

“Oh, go away, go away with your folly! He is mad, John Harding! He came back to me mad—could I turn my husband to the door? give him up to the police? Listen to me,” she cried, holding the doctor’s coat as if it had been a prop to support her; “you can see him yourself, if you doubt me—he is mad.” The poor woman burst into a shrill hysterical laugh. “Mad as a March hare—silly! Oh, John Harding, John Harding, hear what I have got to say!”

A sudden transformation came over Dr. Harding, such as may be seen in his profession in the most exciting moments. He became a doctor and not an ordinary man. He threw down his hat and took her by the elbows, while she still held fast by his coat.

“Wheel her chair forward,” he said. “Young Harwood, gently, send for her maid. Heavens, boy! be gentle; do you want to kill your mother? Janet, come round here and put the cushions straight, to support her head. There! quiet all of you. Let her rest; and you, Janet, give her air.”

“She has done it before,” said Dolff, with passion. “Oh, I am not taken in, mother! Let her alone, man, and answer me!”

“Go to the devil,” cried the doctor, pushing the young man away. “You confounded cub, be quiet, and let the poor woman come to herself?”

Had he forgotten all about the other, altogether, as if it had never been? He looked like it, bending over Mrs. Harwood in her chair, giving quick directions, taking the fan out of Janet’s hand to give her air, moistening her lips with the wine he asked for, absorbed in her looks as if there was nothing in his mind but the care of her. Janet, too, ran to get whatever he asked for, stood at hand to do what was wanted, inspired by the doctor’s devotion. As for Dolff, he turned away as if he took no interest in it. His mother to him was a deceiver, getting sympathy by an exhibition of weakness. Julia, half moved by her mother’s faint, half by her brother’s rebellion and excitement, wavered between the two, uncertain. Janet and her doctor alone gave themselves up to Mrs. Harwood as if there was nothing else in the world to think about.

“Such an effort as that to a woman in her state might be fatal,” said the doctor. “She must have the constitution of an elephant. Once before, did you say? Janet, my little darling, you’re made for a doctor’s wife! Hold this fast—and steady as a rock. Now, raise her head a little. There! Now I hope she’ll come to.”

“You make yourself busy about my mother,” said Dolff, coming up to him, striking him upon the shoulder. “There’s nothing the matter with my mother: but you’ve got to explain to me—What does it mean? What do you want with him? What has he done? I never knew he was there,” cried the lad, “till the other day. And then I never suspected he was my father. Oh, don’t you know when one never has had a father, what one thinks he must have been? And then to see—that! but I must have satisfaction,” cried Dolff. “What has he done? What are you going to do?”

At this moment the door was opened hastily, and Gussy came in, followed by Meredith. There had been so much excitement in the house that they all came together for every new incident.

“Is my mother ill?” she said, with a glance at Mrs. Harwood in her chair. “Something has gone wrong. Dolff, who is this gentleman? and for heaven’s sake tell me what is it now? What has gone wrong?”

Only a glance at her mother, who was still but half sensible, supported in Janet’s arms, and then Gussy came and stood by her brother’s side, and looked at the stranger. She had no doubt that he had something to do with the secret in the house. Everything clustered round that, and was drawing to it like flying things to the light.

Dr. Harding, on his side, looked at the little crowd round him, meeting their eager eyes with reluctance and embarrassment.

“I presume that you are Miss Harwood,” he said, “but I cannot explain this matter to you. The less you know of it the better, my dear young people. I have no ill-feeling to your poor father—not the least, not the least: though I was one of the victims, I hope I’ve forgiven him freely. But justice is justice. If Adolphus Harwood is in this house, he must be given up.”

“Dear Gussy,” said Meredith behind her, “will you take my advice and go away, and get Dolff to go? Let me speak to this gentleman. I know all about the business affairs. I am to appear for your mother, you know. Let me speak to him, and hear what he has to say.”

Gussy gave him a look and a faint smile, but did not move. They all stood still gathered round the doctor like a ring, more anxious than hostile, and yet hostile too, hemming him in with a sort of enclosure of pale faces. Dr. Harding was greatly moved; he put out his hands as if to put them away—to deliver himself.

“God knows,” he said, “how I feel for you, you poor children! You break my heart; but if Adolphus Harwood has been living quietly here, living in comfort and luxury here, after bringing so many to ruin——”

“He has been living,” said Meredith, “concealed in a couple of rooms, for fifteen years. I don’t know who you are, or what right you have to be here, or to inquire into the affairs of this family.”

“Oh, hush,” cried Gussy, “he will be a friend, he has a kind face!”

“His name is Dr. Harding,” said Julia, breaking in. “He came for Janet, but mamma said he was an old friend: and Dolff told him by chance that he—he, you know—was living, and not dead.”

“This is all mere madness,” said Dr. Harding. “I did not want to know anything about the affairs of the family, but I have my duty to do—I must do what is my duty.”

There came a faint voice from behind—from the chair in which the mother lay, only as it seemed half-conscious, propped by pillows.

“See him,” it said. “See him, see him; a doctor, he will know.”

They all turned round startled, but it was Meredith alone who caught up the meaning of this half-stifled utterance. He put his hand on the doctor’s arm.

“Come here,” he said, “and look at the man for yourself.”

He opened the door softly as he spoke. There had been sounds outside to which no one had paid any attention till now. The lamp had been lighted in the hall, and it threw a strong light upon a man in a wheeled chair with white hair and beard. He was speaking in a note of half-whispering complaint.

“Why do you bring me in, when I don’t want to come in, Vicars? Dark—I like it when it’s dark and nobody can see.”

“It don’t do you no good, sir,” said Vicars, “to be out in the dark.”

“Vicars, you’re a fool! A man with money about him, a lot of money like me—you want me to be robbed, you villain! And then how can I pay up? When you know it’s my pride to pay up, whenever I’m called upon. Whenever I’m called upon—everybody! There’s plenty for everybody. Ah! there’s an open door! I’m going to see them, Vicars. Their mother tells them lies, but when they know I have it all here to pay up——”

“No, sir,” said Vicars, “you can’t go in there to-night.”

“Why not to-night? Did she say so? She wants to get my money from me, that’s what it is! Swear, Vicars, you’ll never tell them where I keep my money! She got it and gave it to that fellow, but it came back, eh! Vicars? It knows its own master, and it always comes back.” Here the old man burst into a foolish laugh, but presently began to whisper again. “Where are you taking me? You are taking me upstairs. You want me to be murdered for my money in that dark hole upstairs.”

The two men stood at the door, hidden in the curtain that hung on it, and watched this scene. They stood still, listening while the wheels of the chair rumbled along, and the door of the wing closed upon it. Then Meredith spoke.

“Is this the man you are going to give up to punishment?” he said.

The doctor turned away and covered his face for a moment with his hands. When he turned round again to the audience, who watched him so intently, almost without seeming to draw breath, he met the gaze of Mrs. Harwood’s eyes, wide open, full of agonized meaning. She had come to herself and to a consciousness of all that depended upon the decision he would make.

“What does he mean about the money?” he asked in a low tone.

“He means,” she said, answering him before any one could speak, “what he thinks he has in his pocket-book—money to pay everybody. Oh, John Harding, that’s no dishonest meaning. He gives it to me, to pay up—and then he is restless till he has it back again. There’s nothing but old papers, old bills, worth nothing. He thinks,” she said, carried on by her eagerness, “that it is the money he took to Spain.”

“And where is the money he took to Spain?”

She had not meant to say that; but there was only one in the company who was aware that she had betrayed herself, or understood the look of bewilderment that for a moment came over her face. She paused, and that one who was in her confidence trembled. She raised herself up by the arms of her chair, and looked round upon them. Then she burst into a strange hysterical fit of laughter.

“He thinks that I know everything,” she said. “How can I tell? Where are the snows of last year?”