the first confusion and alarm which had ensued on mr. guyon's sudden illness had subsided, and had been succeeded by the orderly hush of a house in which mortal sickness had assumed its irresistible sway. mr. guyon had been carried upstairs to the large bedroom formerly occupied by katharine, and which he had used since his daughter's marriage. the doctor who had been found and brought to his assistance upon the race-course, and his own physician, for whom the housekeeper had sent at once, before she had despatched the footman to carry the evil tidings to mrs. streightley, were busily but silently occupied with the insensible form. the servants, frightened and helpless as servants generally are, were standing about on the stairs and landing-place, ready to obey such orders as were transmitted to them from time to time from the grave gentleman in that awful room, through the medium of the housekeeper. they whispered together solemnly at intervals, and started when the door on which all their attention was fixed opened a little, and mrs. clarke beckoned one of the two women towards her. mr. stallbrass was in the dingy dining-room, awaiting the award of the solemn tribunal upstairs. he was a kind-hearted fellow enough; and having done so much, "having picked up the poor old boy," he thought, "i may as well see it out." mrs. clarke had entreated him to remain--her master's daughter, she said, would be here immediately, and she would want to hear how it happened. so this modern type of good samaritan, useful but not officious, and rather sheepish about his good nature, stayed. the rain, which had begun to fall just as they were getting mr. guyon away from the race-course, was now falling in cold, pitiless, ceaseless streams, and the early darkness of a winter's evening had added its gloom to the scene. the gas had been lighted in the dining-room of mr. guyon's house, but the window-shutters were unclosed, and stallbrass walked disconsolately up and down from the door to the window, stopping each time as he reached the latter boundary to look out into the damp dreariness of the street. his spirits were beginning to flag under the monotony of this occupation, and he was seeking relief by furtive snatches of reading--odd paragraphs in the field for last week, and little bits of the current punch--when mrs. clarke came in, looking very pale and scared.

"well," said stallbrass abruptly, but kindly, "what news is there? has the lady come? she can't have come, though, or i should have seen her."

"no, sir, she has not come; and i dread she won't while the breath is in her father, which it's all it is, as far as i can understand the doctors."

"really! i'm very sorry--poor old gentleman! has he not recovered consciousness at all, then?"

"no, sir, not a bit--he has groaned a few times, and then they thought he were coming to, but he didn't--but there, sir, there's a carriage--there's mrs. streightley----" and the housekeeper ran excitedly out, followed by mr. stallbrass, and threw open the door, through which a gust of wind and a cold dash of rain drove into the hall.

stallbrass saw a tall young lady, whose face, pale and agitated, struck him even then as being one of the most beautiful he had ever seen,---who passed into the room he had just left, followed by the housekeeper. he stood in the hall, the noise of wind and rain outside mingling with the stamping of the horses, the jingling of their harness, and the sound of the women's voices.

"what is all this, clarke? is it true?" asked katharine, as she hurriedly untied her bonnet and flung it down, and threw off her pelisse of velvet and fur.

"yes, ma'am, it's all true. but o, why did you not come sooner? james has been more than an hour gone to fetch you."

"i was out--they had to find me," she said, in the same hurried tone. "what do they say it is? let me see the doctor. let me go up stairs."

"yes, ma'am, directly," said mrs. clarke, down whose rosy and unrefined cheeks tears were beginning to flow. "but first you must see the gentleman that brought him home; he knows all about it; he breakfasted with master this morning. if you please, sir,--lord ha' mercy, if he hasn't been left out in the hall!"

katharine stepped hastily towards the door, as mrs. clarke, with many voluble apologies, brought mr. stallbrass in. she thanked him briefly, and entreated him to tell her all that had happened. she listened to his story with painful eagerness, turning paler and paler as he went on; and when she had heard it all, she thanked him again.

"and now i must go to him," she said, and held out her hand to the stranger.

"i will wait a little longer, if you will allow me, for the chance of a more favourable report," he said.

"do so," she returned. "my carriage is at your disposal. tell them to come back here, clarke, when they have taken this gentleman home." then she again bade him farewell and left him.

he walked up and down the room for half an hour, at the end of which time the housekeeper came downstairs again;--this time crying unrestrainedly.

"there's not a bit of hope, sir; but they think he will live for some hours; and they hope he will get his senses back, and speak to his daughter, or at least look at her before he dies."

"i hope so, i am sure," said mr. stallbrass solemnly.

"i was to ask your name, if you please, sir," said mrs. clarke with some hesitation.

"certainly; there is my card," and he laid one on the table. "i shall call in the morning." then he took up his hat and went away, having declined the offer of the carriage. mrs. clarke ordered the coachman to return to portland place, adding that his mistress would remain with her father. "i wonder your master hasn't been here afore this," said the housekeeper in conclusion.

"master's out of town; worse luck!" was the sympathetic answer of the footman, as he jumped up beside the coachman, and they drove off.

mrs. clarke went slowly up the long staircase to the room about which such awful suspense and interest gathered, unmindful of the card which lay upon the table in the dining-room, and was swept away with other rubbish afterwards and forgotten; and when she stood beside katharine by the dying man's bedside, all remembrance of the stranger had faded out of the minds of both.

the dying man! yes, the fiat had gone forth--he was dying. ned guyon, the ci-devant jeune homme par excellence, the trifler by vocation and profession, the man of all others with whom it was impossible to associate an idea of solemnity, the dandy in dress, the roué in morals, the persifleur in religion, the man in consideration of whom it would have been particularly pleasant to disembarrass the mind of belief in present and future accountability,--this man was dying. not slowly, with time and opportunity for reflection, for repentance, for "setting his house in order;" but quickly, dumbly, as a stricken animal might die--as men die in whom the brain is killed first, and the machine has but a little while to labour on afterwards. his daughter saw it all, realised it all in a minute, even as she crossed the threshold of the room she had never entered since her wedding-day; and there mingled with the horror and anguish of the moment a sudden sense of recognition, and yet of strangeness, as she saw, without looking at them, in the inexplicable vividness of perception which comes in moments of strong emotion, the "soulless things" she had lived amongst for so long in the old life gone for ever. and here was another life going away for ever. she did not doubt it for one instant; and when the physician, who had known her from her girlhood, gravely took her hand, and whispered to her that there was no hope, the dying man lying insensible to any sight or sound, she shuddered strongly from head to foot, but she did not weep, or shrink from the touch or the voice.

from the senseless figure upon the bed, over which the strange doctor was stooping, his fingers busy with hopeless investigations at the heart and the wrist--from the ghastly distorted face, so much more terrible, with its rouge and cosmetics, its wig and its pearl powder all removed, than any face of reverend old age, however worn and wasted, can ever be--from the limp, bluish hand lying upon the coverlet, with the heavy seal-ring and its pretentious blazon, with the showy golden buttons hanging from the loosened sleeve--katharine's haggard gaze roamed over the room almost unconsciously. it was in most respects the same as when she had inhabited it; but several of her father's special belongings had been brought from the den, and occupied the place of the feminine properties dispossessed. her dressing-table, none too large for mr. guyon's requirements, was in its accustomed place, and the long glass had not been moved. but the writing-table she had been accustomed to use was there no longer, and in its place, in the recess beside the fireplace, stood a large cabinet, whose heavy doors closed over a range of wide, shallow shelves, and also shut in a desk. a basket, half full of scraps of torn paper, stood between the burly carved legs of this old-fashioned piece of furniture; and in front of it was the well-worn red-leather arm-chair which katharine remembered from her babyhood. the clothes which had been taken off the insensible man were lying in a heap over the back of this chair--bright in colour, juvenile in cut, and painful to see, when one glanced from them to their wearer of a few hours ago. a bunch of keys had fallen from the gaping coat-pocket upon the ground, where it lay with a few crumpled papers, a card of the races being conspicuous among them.

"i believe i can do no more," said the strange doctor, as at length he relinquished his hopeless task. then the two left the room together, and after a little katharine's old friend returned. by this time she had drawn a chair to the bedside, and was seated there, gazing fixedly on the rigid face, which looked as though death itself, when it should come, would not seal it more utterly up from all impressions of the outer world. she was lost in thought, and was quite passive while the doctor gave his final directions to the housekeeper, who was to remain all night with the dying man. she understood him to say that he must go home now (he lived close by), but was to be summoned if any change took place. he gave a few simple directions, which the two women could carry out, and which were of a merely perfunctory character, and designed to relieve them by giving them occupation, rather than the patient, for whom there was nothing more to be done until the undertaker's turn should have arrived; and he went away, whispering to katharine that if he were not sent for sooner, he would be with her at seven on the following morning.

the night wore on, and katharine and mrs. clarke kept their terrible watch. they were for the most part quite silent; the one in the chair beside the bed, the other seated at the fireside, and coming from time to time to gaze disconsolately upon the dying man. no weariness came upon katharine as the hours crept on. the strong excitement kept her up; and as she administered the few cares of which her father's condition allowed, the enforced composure of her manner did not break down. the silence of the room was awful, as silence under such circumstances always is; the clock upon the chimneypiece ticked loudly, the showy gold watch, with its trumpery bunch of trinkets, which had been deposited upon the dressing-table, also ticked on, till late in the small hours, when it stopped. the fire burned low and dim, and flickered upon the housekeeper's weary figure in the deep arm-chair, and upon the ribbons of her cap, as her head nodded abruptly forward, in the uneasy snatches of broken slumber. sometimes a little flame sprung out and glimmered upon the silken folds of katharine's rich dress, upon the gold bracelet of the arm laid upon the bed, upon the pale stern face keeping its wakeful watch.

there were times during those dread hours when the dying man groaned heavily; and then the two women would bend eagerly over him, using the prescribed restoratives, and trying to discern some symptom of consciousness, even of pain; but it never came. ned guyon had spoken his last words--had experienced his last emotion in this world; and what they were has already been told.

it was about four in the morning; and the cold dismal chill peculiar to that ghastly hour had stolen over the room; and katharine had begun to shiver and yawn under its influence. mrs. clarke woke with a guilty start, softly raked the fire together and replenished it, and, in answer to katharine's beckoning finger, approached the bed.

"there's no change--no, no change," said mrs. clarke; and she shook her head gravely.

"are you sure?" said katharine; "i thought his face looked colder and grayer. don't you think the eyelids are heavier and more nearly shut?"

mrs. clarke took a candle, and held it close to the wan face. there was no change perceptible to her; and the "muffled-drum" beat of the heart told of life still lingering.

"no, my dear," said the old woman compassionately; "he is not gone yet, nor going; but lor' ha' mercy, how cold you are! why, you're shivering. i'll go and fetch a teapot and a kettle, and make some tea. no; the kitchen-fire is alight. if you don't mind being alone, i'll make it downstairs; it's quicker done; and i am sure you want it."

"i do want it, clarke," said katharine, shuddering. "the dawn is coming, i suppose; and the cold strikes into my blood. i shall be glad of the tea."

mrs. clarke went away on her errand. katharine, all her senses quickened, heard her step upon each stair until she reached the hall. a strange, lonely, nervous feeling came over her, and she rose from her seat by the bedside, and went over to the fireplace. as she stood idly by the chimneypiece, an unusually strong nicker of the flame shone upon something bright which lay upon the ground. katharine stooped, and picked up a bunch of keys and a handful of crumpled papers. she laid the keys upon the mantelshelf, and mechanically turned over the papers. the card of the races she threw into the fire, the others she smoothed out; and finding some memoranda apparently containing calculations among them, she thought it would be well to put them away safely. with the intention of doing so, she took up the keys again, and opened the heavy door of the oak cabinet.

mr. guyon, like many men devoted to the business of pleasure, was very orderly in his arrangements, and kept all his papers with an enviable degree of precision. the long shallow drawers of the cabinet had each its neat parchment label, indicating the contents; and the lowest of the range bore the superscription, "miscellaneous letters." katharine pulled the pendent brass ring attached to this drawer with a little more force than was necessary to open it. the drawer slid out easily, and the whole of its contents were exposed to her view. at the back, in the right-hand corner, lay a small packet, slipped into an elastic band, on which her quick eye caught her own name, written in a hand she knew well--her own name, as it had been--"miss guyon"--and a date scrawled in the corner. the blood rushed hotly into katharine's face as she took the packet out of the drawer and carried it to the fireplace, where she examined it by the light of a [xxx ?] lamp. it consisted of four letters: the uppermost that on which her name was written: the undermost was placed in the bands so that the address did not show; but a line was written on xxxx mr. guyon's hand--"shown to r.s."

katharine sat down in the chair vacated by the housekeeper and deliberated. in her hand she held a packet of papers, which she felt concerned her deeply. here was a letter in gordon frere's hand--a letter whose date was that of the very date which had begun her hopeless watching and waiting, in the time which, until this moment, had seemed so far, so illimitably past, but now in an instant was brought near again, and revived in all its pain and anger. here was a letter which must have been written that day when he had sent her the music and his card, as she had believed without a word. a vague sense of treachery, something which led her intuitively to an approximate suspicion of the truth, came into katharine's mind. she glanced at the bed, and turned away trembling. what was she about to learn? something, she felt instinctively, which must change all her life. then she drew out the note directed to "miss guyon," and read it. it was that which gordon frere had written to katharine, from cramer's, after he had left charles yeldham, with the intention of starting by the next train, on his pilgrimage of hope, to his father's rectory. it was a bright gay note, with a pleasant allusion to their talk about the music; a strong expression of disappointment about katharine's not being at the ball; an intimation that his absence would be as short as he could make it; and that he hoped to see her immediately on his return. katharine dropped the hand that held the note heavily into her lap; had she received it, what might she have been now? an undefined fear stole over her; this was foul play; this letter had been intercepted. what did it mean? she drew out the second in order, and opened it. again, a letter from gordon frere; again, a letter to her--a passionate, tender, pleading, frank, hopeful letter--such a letter as a girl might well be glad and proud to receive from the man she loved; such a letter as katharine had dreamed of, had hoped for, had longed for, in the days that were gone. it was that which gordon had written from his father's house in the full flush of his delight, and the perfect but not presumptuous assurance of her love. deadly cold and sickness crept over katharine as she read this letter; her limbs grew heavy, her sight grew dim, her head grew dizzy. "i must be near fainting," she thought; "and they are not all read." she forced herself to rise from her chair, and went to the dressing-table, where she found water and eau-de-cologne. she drank a glassful of the mixture, and then returned to her task. all this time--it was in reality only a few minutes--the insensible form upon the bed lay motionless and silent.

the third letter was a short one, also written by gordon frere, and addressed to mr. guyon. it was a straightforward, manly letter, in which the writer acknowledged his unworthiness of the blessing he asked with more sincerity than such matter-of-course acknowledgments usually convey, and set forth his modest confidence in miss guyon's consent to become his wife. gordon stated the prospects then opening upon him; and finally, in accordance with his father's wish, formally requested mr. guyon's permission to address his daughter. (the old-fashioned punctilio of the good rector had helped the unscrupulous schemer considerably, as the virtues of good men are not seldom found to aid the devices of knaves.)

the fourth letter, which was endorsed with the words "shown to r s.," and was the last contained in the packet, was in mr. guyon's handwriting. as his daughter read it, all the truth revealed itself to her; all the baseness of which she had been the victim stood in its revolting nakedness before her eyes. as she read the flowery sentences in which mr. guyon condoled with his "dear young friend," and pitied himself for being the medium of so painful a communication, a grasp seemed to tighten upon her throat and to press down her heart: still she read on,--read that her father had written, on her behalf, to the effect that, feeling she had been so unfortunate as to have conveyed a totally unfounded impression to mr. frere, she had shrunk from a personal explanation, and felt sure that, when mr. frere should know that she was engaged to mr. streightley, and their marriage was to take place very shortly, he would excuse her making a written one;--read that, though mr. guyon hoped their future friendship would be quite unaltered, he trusted mr. frere would abstain from any communication, either personal or by letter, for the present, as such would agitate miss guyon, and cause much unpleasantness; and that she and her father united in every good wish for mr. frere's future welfare.

katharine read this terrible letter over many times--not before she understood and believed the revelation it made, but before she got the reality of it into her mind, before it connected itself with her own self, and showed her the past and present laid utterly waste. it was her father who had done this,--her father! who had been kind to her, too, after a fashion--her father! ay, and her husband!

shown to r.s. shown to robert streightley--shown to the rich man who had bought her. well, she had often told herself, bitterly enough, that it was a bargain, a purchase; but now it was more--it was a theft! stolen from the man who loved her! made to believe him false, duped--wretchedly, ignominiously duped! good god! how was she to bear this knowledge? shown to r.s. there were the words, the fatal, damning proofs which convicted the two men who were her nearest friends, her only protectors, of the foulest conspiracy that ever two rascals concocted against an unhappy woman. she crushed the letters in her clenched hand, and rose to her feet. she had taken a step forward, her eyes flaming, her face white and fixed,--far more changed than by the earlier, weaker shock of this dreadful night,--when the door was softly opened, and the housekeeper came in, carrying a trayful of tea-things. at the sight of katharine's face she set the tray down, and said, in a hurried whisper:

"were you coming to call me? is he worse?"

"i--i don't know," stammered katharine; "i think so."

"poor dear!" said the woman compassionately; "no wonder you are frightened. i shouldn't have left you alone."

then she bent down to look closely at the patient. closer and closer still: she felt the hand, the heart; she touched the chill forehead. katharine stood still and watched her, quite silent, the papers in her clenched hand covered by the folds of her dress. the woman's touch suddenly became more reverent as she raised the chin and made the passive blue lips meet, as she pressed her fingers on the half-shut eyelids, and closed them over the sightless eyes. when she had drawn the sheet over the still, stiffening face, she turned to the dead man's daughter, and said,

"come away, my dear. it's all over. i must send for the doctor, as he told me."

* * * * *

the wintry sun had been up for many hours when mrs. streightley returned to her own house from that in which her father lay dead. she had sent for mr. guyon's solicitor, and had a long interview with him in the dingy dining-room. she had been wonderfully calm and collected, the servants said; but she had not reentered her father's room, though "the corpse is laid out beautiful, to be sure," said james to the coachman from portland place, while that functionary awaited his mistress, or her orders. she came out, looking pale and absent; and she took no notice of the sympathising looks of her maid when she reached home. she went at once to her room, declined all attendance, and directed that she was not to be disturbed.

the servants wondered whether their master had been sent for; had james been sent to the telegraph office, did coachman know? coachman knew nothing about it; but the lawyer was there,--perhaps he had sent for master. and then they discussed the death, and the dead man, with much freedom and candour.

at about two o'clock in the afternoon the footman, doing his turn of duty by looking out of window in the hall of mr. streightley's house, was surprised by seeing his mistress come downstairs in her bonnet and cloak, with her veil down, and carrying a square parcel in her hand, "which it looked like a box done up in paper," the man said afterwards, when questioned concerning the circumstance.

"open the door, william, if you please," said mrs. streightley.

the man obeyed, wondering.

"i am going to queen anne street. i don't require the carriage," said katharine. and she passed out of the door, and out of the footman's sight.