Marston and Ruth were back from their honeymoon. They had enjoyed a month of almost unclouded happiness. The only trouble Ruth had was the discovery she had made that her husband was subject to occasional fits of despondency and abstraction.

Sometimes she would speak to him and he would not answer her. His thoughts were far away. She asked him, half-banteringly, once if he had anything very dreadful on his mind, that he looked so solemn.

He flushed scarlet, and then laughed.

‘No, little woman,’ he said; ‘I’ve got nothing on my mind, except the responsibility of being a married man.’

He stopped all further questioning with a kiss, and exercised more control over himself in the future. He took care not to drop the mask again in his wife’s presence.

The line on the news paper contents bills which had alarmed him so seriously on his wedding-day had been nothing after all. One of those rumours which are industriously circulated from time to time had been magnified into importance, and when he had the courage to read the paragraph he found that it was merely some drunken fellow who had gone to the police-station and pretended to be concerned in the affair.

But although he had argued himself almost into a sense of security with regard to this special event, he was continually haunted by the idea that many of his old companions in guilt were still about, and that he might always be liable to awkward visits and rencontres. He had not gone under any alias. He was known as Edward Marston in the old days, and he was Edward Marston now. The name was tainted, but he must bear it still. If he were ever to become famous or take a position in society it must be as Edward Marston, and then—— He hardly liked to think what a constant temptation he would offer to his unscrupulous acquaintances, if once he became a prominent person. It wasn’t pleasant to think that they would always be able to find him out and trade upon their knowledge of the past.

Mr. and Mrs. Adrian had welcomed the newly wedded pair to the new home, and a very pretty, comfortable home it was. The old couple had their own suite of apartments and their own servants, but Mrs. Adrian was not inclined to remain in her own territory.

She still considered that she had conferred an immense favour on Marston in allowing him to live with them, and she took care that he should understand it.

Ruth feared sometimes lest her mother’s brusquerie should annoy him, but it didn’t in the least; and when Mr. Adrian, painfully alive to Marston’s generosity in the matter, suggested that perhaps, after all, the good lady ought to learn the secret of their misfortunes, Marston wouldn’t hear of it.

‘Nonsense!’ he said; ‘it would break her heart. Let her enjoy herself here, and be mistress of everything if she likes. I don’t think she would stop a moment if she knew the real reason of the change: it would wound her to the quick.’

Mr. Adrian and Ruth were very grateful to Marston for his forbearance, and the old gentleman was never tired of singing his praises.

Lion and Gertie were as happy as the day was long in their new home, for there was a large garden where Gertie could watch the beautiful flowers, and a nice lawn on which the dog would roll over and over in the sun like a young donkey at play.

In fact everyone in the house was happy except the owner. He began to dread his own thoughts now. The new ties and the home life only served the more vividly to remind him of what his loss would be if the prophecy of the clergyman came true, and his sin found him out.

He had always intended to invest his capital in some business and employ his leisure and his talents in developing it. He wanted something to do more than ever now, and he set about to find a good opening. He perused the papers daily for partners wanted and businesses to be sold, and he put an advertisement in himself.

His advertisement: ‘A gentleman with capital would be glad to hear of a partnership in a going concern, or a business for sale,’ brought him hosts of answers. Several of them were of the usual description, and not worth troubling about. One, however, attracted his attention on account of its absurdity. The writer was anxious to meet with a gentleman of capital, as he had an idea which only needed capital to develop. This idea was to start an office and have a trained staff for the recovery of all offered rewards. The writer pointed out that in every day’s paper there were several hundreds of pounds offered for the recovery of lost or stolen property, for the detection of criminals, and for the addresses of missing friends. His letter concluded by pointing out an instance of a large reward still to be had, which, he was sure, with a little trouble and some outlay, might be gained. He alluded to the thousand-pound reward offered by the railway company for the discovery of the gold-robbers. No confederate dare come forward, he explained, but a couple of hundred pounds might induce a confederate to give a clue to private individuals which he dare not impart to the authorities.

Marston flung the letter from him with an expression of rage. Was this wretched business, which he would give the world to forget, always to be flaunted before his eyes in some form or other?

He had just risen from perusing his answers when the servant informed him that a gentleman wished to see him on most particular business.

‘What is the gentleman like?’ he asked, half fearing that his persecution had commenced.

The servant described him.

It was no one that Marston knew.

‘Show him into the library,’ he said. ‘I’ll come directly.’

It was not without some slight misgiving that Marston went to see his visitor.

He had always an undefined dread of something unpleasant.

The gentleman in the library was an ordinary individual with a professional cut about his clothes.

He rose as Mr. Marston entered, and bowed politely.

‘Mr. Edward Marston, I presume?’

Marston nodded, and motioned his visitor to resume his seat.

‘I come on professional business, sir. I am one of the firm of Doddle and Co., solicitors. The senior partner is from town, or he would have called upon you himself. We ascertained that Miss Ruth Adrian was no longer Miss Ruth Adrian (a professional smile), and—ah—we thought, perhaps, under the peculiar circumstances we had better call ourselves and see you.’

What did the man mean? What could solicitors have to do with Ruth and himself?’

‘You see,’ continued the gentleman, ‘a very large sum of money is concerned.’

‘Pray explain, sir,’ faltered Marston. ‘I really don’t understand you yet.’

‘Well, do you remember a daring burglary some time ago at the residence of Squire Heritage?’

‘Burglary—burglary!’ gasped Marston. ‘No; what should I know about burglaries?’

‘Of course not, my dear sir—of course not; but you might have read about it in the papers. Great sensation!—son suspected!—dreadful affair—dreadful!’

Marston remembered his own share in the subsequent fate of George Heritage. Was this coming home to him too?

‘Well,’ continued the solicitor, the father didn’t recover from the shock. He got worse and worse, and at last he was quite childish. Poor old gentleman!—poor old gentleman!’

‘I am very sorry, of course!’ exclaimed Marston; ‘but, upon my word, I can’t see what it all has to do with me.’

‘It has everything to do with you, sir. You are very closely concerned in the old gentleman’s death.’

‘What!’

Marston leapt from his chair as though he had been shot. The professional gentleman was astonished, but he didn’t show it. Professional gentlemen never do.

‘Yes, my dear sir, you are indeed concerned in his death, but pleasantly’ (rubbing his hands)—‘very pleasantly indeed. By a will dated some time previous to the painful affair the whole of his property is left to a lady, the daughter of Mr. John Adrian.’

Marston could hardly believe his ears. ‘Ruth an heiress!’ he exclaimed. ‘I really don’t understand. I never knew that she was even acquainted with Squire Heritage.’

‘That, sir, I know nothing about. My visit this morning is simply to make your acquaintance and ask you to make an appointment with us, when we can have the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Marston and yourself at our office, where all the papers are, and where the whole matter can be laid properly before you.’

On the following day, at the office of Messrs. Doddle and Co., Ruth learned how she had inherited a fortune, and how there was an extraordinary proviso in the will that she and her husband would have to adopt the name of Heritage.

When the first surprise was over, and Ruth recognised the fact that she was an heiress, she whispered to her husband:

‘Oh. Ned! You see I shan’t be Ruth Marston for long, after all.’

And he, without answering her, clasped her hand in his. His heart was too full for him to speak. Here, at last, was an escape from that he dreaded most. He need he Edward Marston no longer.

Lord of a splendid estate, and taking his place as a prosperous country gentleman, he would be completely isolated from the bitter past.

Who would recognize in Edward Heritage, Esq., of Heritage Hall, the penniless adventurer who met Dr. Birnie in Little Queer Street, started the eminent firm of Smith and Co., and was once the lending spirit in a desperate gang of rogues and vagabonds?

ENTR’ACTE.

Five years have to pass by ere we meet the characters in this story again. Five years, with their many changes and strange vicissitudes. Old Time rolls on like a river, that flows, heedless of what it bears on its bosom, to the great sea—heedless of the wreckage that strews its banks—heedless of all that lies lost in the depths of its weed-tangled bed. Old Time rolls on, and bears its human freight nearer and nearer to the last haven.

They are a strange and motley group, whose ends destiny shapes during the years that elapse ere the curtain rises again on the little life drama that you and I, gentle reader, are waiting to see played out. In one of Her Majesty’s prisons a young man—a felon, with the bearing of a gentleman and the garb of a convict—counts the years as they go by and wonders what justice there can be in heaven that a cruel fate should raise this bar of shame between him and the young wife he loves. Up in the great city a woman toils wearily night and day, for a scant wage, to keep the wolf at bay, toiling for bare subsistence, and weeping over her work, when she thinks of the past that was happy, and of the fearful blow that dashed the cup of joy from her lips for ever. Only in her sleep sometimes she looks up, and the skies are bright, and a loving arm encircles her waist, and a musical voice whispers in her ear. ‘Bess, my darling, ’tis I—George!’

Out in Australia a burly grey-haired man keeps a low drink store, and upholds the reputation of the old country for thoroughpaced blackguardism. ‘Bully Heckett’ his customers call him, and his customers are as nice and select a lot as he could possibly wish to have, and they find him remarkably useful in more ways than one. He talks about going back to England ‘some day,’ and his customers say, ‘When the coast’s a bit clearer, eh, Bully?’ and laugh.

Among the Surrey hills there is a beautiful mansion, and there the new Squire Heritage and his lady pass their days in peace and contentment. Nothing has come to mar their happiness. Ruth’s greatest trouble was the death of her father. He died thanking God that his Ruth had found so good a husband and his old wife so kind and gentle a son. No children have blessed the union yet, but there is a young lady who lives with them, and who is their adopted daughter And there isn’t a prettier little lady for miles round, or one more beloved by the people on the estate and the villagers than ‘Miss Gertie up at the hall,’ as they call her. Gertie and Ruth attended by a faithful mastiff dog, who follows closely at their heels, and is almost as great a favourite as Gertie, are to be seen out on all the fine days, going hither and thither among the people and spreading happiness wherever their two kind faces are seen.

The squire does not go about so much, but he gives liberally to charities, never lets a poor man on his estate want when times are hard, and has the reputation of being a kindly Christian gentleman, rather grave and studious, and not fond of too much society. He goes out occasionally though to the best houses, gives a dinner party or two, and now and then there is a ball at the hall. He is a justice of the peace, goes to the parish church and idolizes the ground his wife treads upon.

The firm of Grigg and Limpett flourishes, though it has lost the services of Mr. Jabez Duck. The firm receives from time to time letters from its absent client, Mr. Gurth Egerton, who seems inclined to settle in America, and whose house is now occupied by Dr. Oliver Birnie, whose brass plate is very large, and whose practice has increased wonderfully with a West-End address.

There is no Mrs. Turvey. She has become Mrs. Duck, and she and Jabez have a lodging-house, and take in and do for single gentlemen.

Miss Georgina, having raised a little capital through the kindness of her friend, Miss Jackson, has taken the house exactly opposite to them, and started an opposition establishment. Miss Duck’s lodgers and Mrs. Duck’s lodgers each support the lady under whose banner they pay their rent, and the amenities exchanged across the street are frequently highly edifying to the neighbourhood. Jabez has been disappointed. Having married his lady in the firm belief that he was marrying a snug thousand pounds, he was bitterly disillusioned a few days after the fatal knot had been tied. The money he has never discovered, and Mrs. Turvey stoutly denies that it was hers.

This is at once the mystery and the misfortune of Mr. Duck’s married life. He has other mysteries and misfortunes to attend to, for he has left the law and entered the service of a private inquiry agent. His taste he determined to gratify: if he couldn’t be a principal, he would be an employÉ. He likes it better than the law, and he is getting quite clever at poking his nose into other people’s business. His talents always lay in that direction.

Mr. Preene still flourishes and pursues the even tenor of his way, but Mr. Brooks has paid the debt of nature, dying respectably in his bed, and leaving his widow a nice little competency. She was shortly afterwards united to a middle-aged and very hard-up Scripture-reader, who fell in love with her while reading the prayers for the sick by the bedside of her first husband at Mrs. Brooks’s special request. Perhaps the people who assisted to make Mrs. Brooks independent would have been resigned to their loss had they known it would ultimately benefit so devout a man.

So time works its changes, alters the scene, redresses the characters, and clears the stage during the five years entr’acte that elapses ere our curtain rises again.