on the evening of the following day a closed carriage was waiting at the door of the inn to convey dr. peterssen and gerald to the nearest railway station. the plot he and leonard had hatched had been cruelly successful. strangers in the little village, and living during their stay upon terms of affectionate intimacy, their movements and actions were absolutely untrammelled, and not a shadow of suspicion had been aroused. emilia, overwhelmed by the shock, was attacked with brain fever, and was lying in a dangerous condition. dr. peterssen declared it likely that she would never rise from her bed, and his opinion was shared by the village doctor. gerald's condition was not less perilous. dr. peterssen had devoted the greatest attention to him, and leonard learned from his partner in villainy that there was something more than a possibility that even if gerald recovered his health he might never recover his reason. their simulation of grief was perfect, and every person in the village spoke in praise of their devotion, and sympathized with them. leonard, of course, was to remain behind to attend to emilia, and to perform the last sad offices for his dearly beloved brother.

in a state of unconsciousness gerald was carried out of the inn and placed in the carriage, and dr. peterssen and leonard stood a little apart, conversing privately. the landlord and all the attendants quite believed that it was dr. peterssen's patient, and not gerald, who was about to be taken to england.

"up to this point," said dr. peterssen, "there has not been a hitch. we could not hope to have succeeded better, and should emilia recover, there is no chance of a mishap if you play your cards properly."

"i shall not fail to do that," said leonard, gazing at dr. peterssen with a certain mistrust. "i am in hopes that i shall be spared the awkwardness of an explanation."

"meaning that you are in hopes she will die. well, there is an even chance of that, but it is as well to be prepared. and now, friend of my soul, you and i must come to terms."

"we will leave all that till we meet in england," said leonard.

"there will be plenty to talk of there," said dr. peterssen. "we will settle preliminaries here, before we part."

"what do you want?" asked leonard, with a dark look.

"a clear understanding, and an undertaking in writing. you see, old comrade, i am doing your dirty work, not my own. i don't object to your enjoying the lion's share of the spoil, but i must have some guarantee of a sure and certain income."

"it is already agreed that you are to have three hundred a year, which with the three hundred you will receive from the father of your patient, makes you very comfortable."

"not as comfortable as i ought to be," said dr. peterssen, placidly.

"what the mischief do you want? you have got a check for two thousand out of me."

"a retainer, my dear leonard, merely a retainer. i should have stuck out for more, but i am always sacrificing myself for others. the three hundred must be six. don't look black; a heart-stricken expression is advisable, with strangers observing us. the eyes of half-a-dozen are fixed on us at the present moment, and there would be the devil to pay if they suspected there was the smallest difference of opinion between us. remember the stake you are playing for."

"you seem to hold the winning cards."

"i never play a game without them, dear old chum, but you must admit that my winnings are small in comparison with yours. notice the smile of sad resignation on my face, with which i cajole our friends the simple villagers. yes, leonard, the three hundred must be six."

"i carry your brother gerald from the carriage back to the inn. he is not in a fit state to travel, i say in reply to questions; i will not risk his life. i nurse him into health, i restore his senses--quite possible, i believe. i keep a watchful eye upon emilia also, in order that you shall play no tricks, and she, too, gets well. then i bring the two together, and leave you, noble captain, to your own devices. all very beautifully arranged, is it not, sweet child?"

"you shall have the six hundred, curse you," said leonard, careful to follow dr. peterssen's advice as to the play of expression on his features.

"a million million thanks. and now be kind enough to sign this paper binding you to the arrangement. go into the inn, and affix your signature in a bold, clear hand. no arguments, leonard, but do it. if you delay we shall miss the train, and i shall have to return with your brother to the enjoyments of your society."

leonard had no choice; he went into the inn and presently reappeared with the document, which he handed to dr. peterssen, who examined and pocketed it.

"farewell, old comrade, farewell," he said, with his handkerchief to his eyes. "this is a dramatic moment; deeply do i feel the parting. adieu, till we meet in england. by the way, i have informed father anselm, the good priest, that i have left five hundred francs in your hands which you will give him in my name for the relief of the poor. he blessed and thanked me. he will remind you of the benediction if you need reminding, but your best plan will be to give him the money soon, with a cheerful heart. once more, farewell. speak well of me when i am gone."

with profound sighs and melancholy looks he wrung leonard's hand and entered the carriage, bidding the driver to proceed gently. leonard and a few of the villagers watched the carriage till it was out of sight, and then the remaining actor in the vile plot entered the inn, enraged at the extortion--for so he inwardly declared it to be--that dr. peterssen had practised upon him. but he felt that he was in this man's power, and that it was advisable to submit with as good grace as possible. what was done could not be undone, nor would he have had it undone. the future was before him with all its possibilities of pleasure; a life of ease was his when the scheme was carried out to its bitter end. even were he willing to forego his ruthless design he had gone too far now to retract. in the event of emilia's recovery to health, his next move was to impose upon her and reduce her to silence, and he did not doubt his ability to achieve his purpose.

there were certain official formalities to go through with respect to the fictitious death of gerald. he testified that the body was that of his brother, and he was supported by the independent testimony of witnesses, who identified the clothes of the deceased. the official record of the death of gerald paget was duly made, and in a few days the funeral took place, leonard being the chief mourner. over the grave was placed a flat tombstone, with the inscription--"to the memory of my dear brother gerald." nothing more.

throughout the whole of these proceedings emilia lay between life and death, and consequently knew nothing of what was going on. but her ravings proved that she was at least conscious of the fatal blow her happiness had received. she called upon her dear gerald in heaven, and implored to be taken to him; and then, and then--stirred by the mysterious promptings of approaching maternity--she as earnestly implored to be spared for the sake of her child yet unborn. for six weeks she lay in a dangerous condition, and then youth and a sound, though delicate, constitution triumphed, and her health began to improve. another fortnight, and she was convalescent.

before this took place leonard, who was sedulously employed in earning a character for charity and kindness, had succeeded in blasting her good name. the simple priest of the village was shocked at the disclosure that emilia had no right to wear the wedding-ring on her finger.

"alas," he said, "that one so fair should be so frail!"

"unhappily," said leonard with a hypocritical sigh, "it is frequently so with the fairest of women. weak as they appear, they are strong in vice."

the priest nodded his head sadly. how could he disbelieve a man so charitable and sweet-mannered as leonard? how could he mistrust one who consecrated the memory of a beloved brother by donations to the little church and by constant benefactions to the poor and suffering among his flock? in the total it was not a large sum that leonard parted with, but it was magnificent in the eyes of the poverty-stricken priest, who had never experienced such free-handed generosity. leonard, was looked upon as a benefactor, and his false benevolence gave weight to every word that fell from his lips. he explained to the priest that the reason of his accompanying his brother gerald and the young woman who had led him into vice was his earnest desire to break the guilty tie which bound them. "death has done that for me," he said, covering his eyes. "a good man," thought the priest, "a good and noble man!" he inquired of leonard how he intended to act when emilia regained her health.

"i shall not desert her," replied leonard; "heaven forbid that i should do so! she has sinned, but the door of repentance shall not be closed upon her--she shall not lose the chance of leading a better life. i will insure her a small income, sufficient for any woman's wants, upon which she can live in comfort. she will be able to do so, will she not, upon two thousand francs a year?"

the priest raised his hands in astonishment. two thousand francs! it was affluence.

"may your kind intentions be fruitful," he said. "may the erring woman lead in the future a virtuous life."

his flock were distinguished by a singular morality, and he, a simple-minded man, regarded with horror any backsliding from the straight path. on the following sabbath he took the theme for his text, and without mentioning names, referred to two strangers in their midst, one distinguished for his noble deeds of charity, the other degraded by her vicious conduct. every one in the chapel knew to whom he referred, and were prepared to receive emilia with something more than coldness. the first knowledge of this state of feeling came to her on a day she was able to sit at her window to breathe the sweet air. the innkeeper's daughter had grown fond of her, and had performed many kindly offices for the hapless woman. the whole of this day the young girl had not made her appearance in emilia's room, and yearning for female companionship she rang the bell for her. it was answered by the innkeeper.

"i wish to see your daughter," said emilia.

"she will not come," said the innkeeper. "she shall not come."

"why?" asked emilia, in wonder at his rough tone.

"answer the question yourself," replied the innkeeper. "when you are strong enough to leave my house i must request you to seek a shelter elsewhere."

he left the room without another word.

there was a significance in his manner as well as in his words which brought a flush into emilia's face. "she will not come! she shall not come!" what fresh misery was in store for her? a terrible fear stole upon her. the undeserved shame she had passed through in her native town glided from the past and hovered like a spectre over her. she turned with a sob toward leonard, who a short time afterward made his appearance. he pretended not to notice her agitation, and did not afford her an opportunity of opening a conversation with him.

"would you like to come into the open air?" he asked.

"yes, leonard," she said, noting also the coldness of his voice. "will you assist me down?"

he nodded, and she took his arm; but she missed the gentle and considerate guidance which she had a right to expect.

he placed a chair for her in front of the inn, and stood a few paces from her. not a soul spoke to her. men and women whom she remembered, whose faces she recognized, and with whom she was upon friendly terms when gerald was with her, passed to and fro, and exchanged cordial words with leonard, but did not address a single word to her. if by chance their eyes met hers, which, after a little while, were turned appealingly toward them, they turned abruptly from her, with looks of displeasure and aversion which chilled her heart. even the innkeeper's daughter came near her, but did not approach close enough to speak to her. yet she spoke to leonard. emilia beckoned to him.

"i cannot remain here any longer," she said. "i must go to my room."

she did not ask for his arm, nor did he offer it. weak, and beset with torturing doubts, she clung to the wall as she ascended the stairs. in silence they entered the room. leonard stood mute by the door.

"have you nothing to say to me?" she asked presently.

"nothing," he replied, "until you are stronger."

"i have borne so much in the past," she said, "that i can bear anything you have to tell.

"i will wait," he said, and left the room.

long did she ponder over the strange conduct of those who were once her friends, but she could not account for it. she felt herself alone in a strange land. gerald was lost to her, and she was without a friend. she did not give way to despair; she nerved herself to strength and fortitude; another life would soon be dependent upon her; for the sake of her unborn child it was her duty to keep up her heart.

some days passed, and not a friendly word was spoken to her, not a friendly hand was held out. she suffered without remonstrance; dark as was the present there was a sweet light in the future. she would have her child in her arms before many weeks elapsed, gerald's child. spiritual baby eyes looked into hers; spiritual baby hands were stretched toward her. "for your sake, my darling, for your sake!" she murmured.

she was now able to walk alone, without assistance, and one day she walked to the village churchyard, to visit the grave of her beloved. she read the inscription, "to the memory of my dear brother gerald." should not her name have been there? she was nearer to him than any other human being. she resolved to seek without delay an explanation from leonard.

on her way to and from the churchyard she met with many persons, and was avoided by all. a woman and her young daughter, a girl of sixteen, passed close to her; the mother drew her child away from emilia so that their dresses should not come in contact. she met the village priest, who looked at her reprovingly, and then turned in an opposite direction. was she, then, a pariah? what crime had she committed?

once more in her room in the inn she forced herself to a practical examination into a matter which had surprised her. certain articles of jewellery had been given to her by gerald. they were gone. all that she possessed in remembrance of her dear husband were her wedding-ring and a ring set with diamonds, which had never left her fingers. possibly if these had been lying loose they would have shared the fate of her other mementos. quite as strange was the circumstance that everything belonging to gerald had been removed during her illness from the rooms she and her husband had occupied. her purse, too, was empty; there was not a coin in it. she could not remember whether she had any money before she received the terrible news of gerald's death; indeed, with reference to past events, her memory was in the same state as it had been after the good old wagoner had taken her to his home in england. during that period she was not in a condition to gain any knowledge of her surroundings, and she did not even know the name of the place in which she and gerald had been married. up to the morning of that day her mind had been a blank, and gerald, out of consideration for her, had made no attempt to revive memories which in their inception had brought so much suffering to his dear girl. the only thing that was clear to emilia was the memory of the shame into which she had been plunged by mrs. seaton's calumnies, and when her mind reverted to the experiences of those dark days she strove shudderingly to thrust them from her. but there was something in her present position which seemed, in some dread manner, to be connected with that shame and with the horror of the slanders which had ruined her good name, and strive as she would she could not banish the remembrance.

she sent for leonard and he came at her bidding.

"i have visited my husband's grave," she said.

"my dear brother gerald's grave," he said in correction. "i said my husband's grave," she repeated.

"and i replied, my dear brother gerald's grave."

there was a dark, stern look in his eyes, and she did not have the courage to come straight to the point.

"i believe you to be my friend," she said.

"i did not wish to distress my poor brother," he rejoined.

"then you deceived me by professing what you did not feel?"

"i have no explanation to give."

"yet you have remained here with me during my long illness."

"i had a duty to perform."

"was it not out of love that you have stayed with me?"

"it was not."

she strove to look at him steadily, but her eyes wavered; his were unflinching.

"on the last day i saw my dear husband--what is the meaning of that gesture?" for leonard had put up his hand with scornful motion.

"your assumption of innocence and indignation does not deceive me; it will deceive no one who knows you. go on. on the last day you saw my dear brother----"

"i had reason to believe," she continued, "that i had won the respect, if not the affection, of those around me, strangers though they were. i passed through a dangerous illness, and have been mercifully spared. i thank god humbly for it. recovering, i am met with coldness whichever way i turn. people avoid me. why?"

"search your own heart for the answer."

"i have questioned my heart, and find none. i have done no wrong."

"you have singular ideas of morality. is living with a man as his mistress a virtuous act?"

"great god! how dare you speak those words to me?"

"because they are true. people avoid you because the truth is known. spare hysterics; they will not help you. you are not fit to associate with virtuous women."

"how dare you, how dare you? gerald and i were man and wife."

"you never were. you and my dear, fond brother--dear to me, weak though he was--were never married. with his death ended your life of deceit. you were gerald's mistress, not his wife."