Full download ebook at ebookmass.

com

Rebels of Rushmore: The Complete Series Michelle

Hercules

https://ebookmass.com/product/rebels-of-rushmore-the-
complete-series-michelle-hercules/

OR CLICK BUTTON

DOWLOAD EBOOK

Download more ebook from https://ebookmass.com

More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Chasing Leo Michelle Hercules

https://ebookmass.com/product/chasing-leo-michelle-hercules/

Break You Hard (Rebel Hearts, Book 1) Michelle Hercules

https://ebookmass.com/product/break-you-hard-rebel-hearts-
book-1-michelle-hercules/

Harlem: NOLA Rebels MC (Book 4) (NOLA Rebels MC (New

Orleans Series)) Mackenzy Fox

https://ebookmass.com/product/harlem-nola-rebels-mc-book-4-nola-
rebels-mc-new-orleans-series-mackenzy-fox/

Java: The Complete Reference (Complete Reference

Series) 13th Edition Schildt

https://ebookmass.com/product/java-the-complete-reference-
complete-reference-series-13th-edition-schildt/
Fae War Chronicles: The Complete Series Wayne

https://ebookmass.com/product/fae-war-chronicles-the-complete-
series-wayne/

Masters of Scotland: Complete Three Book Series Jane

Henry

https://ebookmass.com/product/masters-of-scotland-complete-three-
book-series-jane-henry/

THE LORDS OF CARNAGE MC Collection: The Complete Series

(Books 1-12) Loveling

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-lords-of-carnage-mc-collection-
the-complete-series-books-1-12-loveling/

Chooser of the Slain Complete Series Boxed Set: Books

1-9 Anderle

https://ebookmass.com/product/chooser-of-the-slain-complete-
series-boxed-set-books-1-9-anderle/

Moon Cursed Complete Series Alexis Calder

https://ebookmass.com/product/moon-cursed-complete-series-alexis-
calder/
REBELS OF RUSHMORE
THE COMPLETE SERIES
MICHELLE HERCULES
INFINITE SKY PUBLISHING
 Rebels of Rushmore series © 2023 by Michelle Hercules

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Photography: Michelle Lancaster

Models: Lochie Carey & Meika Woollard
 CONTENTS
Heart Stopper
HEART STOPPER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
 Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50

Heart Breaker
HEART BREAKER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
 Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46

Heart Starter
HEART STARTER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Heart Smasher
HEART SMASHER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32

Free novella
About the Author
 HEART STOPPER

Troy Alexander is sex on a stick and every girl’s dream at John Rushmore University. He’s also the
bane of my existence.

Our meet-cute wasn’t exactly cute. He called me a nerd, and I accused him of slacking off on the
field. Now, we have to live together.

I’m supposed to try to play nice to keep a roof over my head. Not in my nature. Our arrangement
could be a living hell, but slowly, I realize the worst thing he ever did wasn’t calling me names. It
was making me see there’s more to him under the surface. And now, I’m screwed.
ONE
CHARLIE

I ’m already on my second cup of coffee and still no sign of Troy Alexander, the star of the
Rushmore Rebels football team, who I have to interview for the school newspaper. I almost
strangled Blake when he gave me the last-minute assignment. It was only his promise to be my
bitch in next week’s LARP event that convinced me to step in for Ludwig, the dude who usually
covers the sports section of the paper.
Football and jocks are not in my orbit, so I spent the last twenty minutes learning as much as I
could about the Rushmore Rebels’ quarterback. People seem to regard him like a god, and honestly,
no one deserves to be treated as such. He has an okay average, winning more games than losing them.
This year is different though. He’s a senior, and most of the time, that’s when the players really try to
give their all. But Troy seems to have lost his steam, not really going the extra mile when he should.
That’s according to the notes I got from Ludwig, of course. I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if I
watched a game, which I haven’t.
Since the jerkface is late, I snoop his social media profiles. I can’t gather much from Facebook
unless I’m friends with him, and there’s no chance I’ll send a request, not when his Instagram feed has
plenty of photos that paint a picture of who Troy Alexander is. It’s clear the guy has acquired a taste
for high-adrenaline sports, from skydiving to mountain climbing. Some are quite intense and
dangerous, such as extreme snowboarding. I wonder what his coach has to say about his
quarterback’s new hobby.
I swallow the last drops of my coffee, already debating if I should go for a third cup, but when I
can’t stop bouncing my legs up and down, I have my answer. I’m already jittery as hell; inhaling more
caffeine is definitely a bad idea.
The coffee shop’s doorbell chimes, earning my attention. But it’s not Troy coming in, only a
couple of sorority girls wearing their matching pink hoodies with their house’s emblem embroidered
on them.
Clenching my teeth, I check the time. Fuck. He’s forty minutes late. It’s safe to assume he stood me
up. I lost track of time, or I wouldn’t have waited so long. Great.
I’m busy texting Blake, telling him he owes me big time, when someone drops onto the chair
opposite mine. It’s Troy, looking hotter than Hades in casual jeans and a T-shirt. Golden hair, golden
skin, and a face that belongs on the cover of a magazine. He’s sex on a stick, something I wasn’t
prepared for. His Instagram pictures don’t really do him justice.
“Hi, you must be Ludwig’s replacement. Have you been waiting long?” He smiles as if he didn’t
already know the answer to that.
I pick my jaw up from the floor, hoping he didn’t catch me drooling, and frown. “How did you
know who I was?”
“You look like the type who works for the paper.” He shrugs, then eyes the two girls who entered
the coffee shop earlier, giving them a wolfish grin. They were already ogling him, but Troy’s attention
sends them into a fit of giggles.
Really?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.
Troy faces me again, sporting an innocent expression. “Are you that unaware of the vibe you give
off?”
I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Enlighten me.”
His lips curl into a smirk while his eyes dance with glee. “Your T-shirt with the paper’s logo.
That’s how I knew.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I had completely forgotten I was wearing it.
“But you also have the nerd look about you,” he continues, renewing my irritation with him.
“Nerd look, huh? Could it be my glasses?” I push the frames back up my nose using my middle
finger.
Troy quirks an eyebrow. “Probably. Can we please make this a quickie? I have places to be.”
I scoff. “You have some nerve. You’re the one who was forty minutes late!”
He flinches as if my outburst surprised him. “Gee, I’m sorry, okay? I had to deal with a situation.
I’m here now, so fire away.”
Flaring my nostrils, I grab my phone. “Is it okay if I record this?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“So, Troy, when did you decide not to give a fuck about football anymore?”
He doesn’t answer for a couple of beats, narrowing his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, your performance in the last game was half-assed at best, and you only won because the
other team was awful.”
A humorless laugh escapes his lips. “So, this is how it’s going to be, huh? I’m late a few minutes,
and you’re going to pull the heinous bitch card.”
I try not to wince at his name-calling, but if I’m going to succeed in this profession, I can’t let
assholes get under my skin. “Oh, sweetie. It’s cute that you think I’m asking tough questions because
I’m mad at you. But we both know the truth. You messed up royally in the previous game. What was
your excuse? Did you also have to deal with a situation then?”
Troy’s face turns ashen, and his jaw clenches tight as he shoots daggers from his eyes. I notice his
balled fists on the table and how his breathing is shallow now. Boy, I got to him good. I feel kind of
guilty. You never know what issues people are dealing with.
He stands up suddenly, almost toppling his chair over. “We’re done.”
Shit. Maybe I went too far.
TROY
Fuck. I knew today was going to be hell. I can always count on everything going wrong whenever I
have to meet my mother. Sometimes I suspect she’s a witch because she sure as shit can hex my life.
We had our monthly lunch at an upscale private club, during which she spent the hour downing
martinis and picking on my sister, Jane, and me. Well, she mostly enjoys criticizing Jane. It’s her
feeble attempt to act motherly.
I can handle Mommy Dearest’s harsh words, but poor Jane takes everything to heart. The more
Mom talks, the more my sister shrinks into herself. It pisses me off. I was late for my interview with
that shrew from the paper because I’d had to undo all the damage Mom had done to Jane.
I can’t believe I let that Lois Lane wannabe get under my skin. To be fair, I had already been on
edge. I should have just rescheduled the damn meeting. What I shouldn’t have done is storm out of the
coffee shop like a coward. No wonder my blood is still boiling.
Who does she think she is to judge me like that? I doubt she knows anything about football or even
attended the last game. She’d have been with Ludwig, and I’d have remembered a face like hers. Too
fucking pretty and doesn’t even know it. Damn it. She had to go and be a bitch.
Coach Clarkson already gave me a tongue-lashing for sucking last Saturday. I had fucked up. My
head wasn’t in the game, but explaining why wasn’t an option. Sure, if the coach knew the truth, he
wouldn’t have given me such a hard time. Only I’d rather people believe I slacked off for no good
reason than them know it was the anniversary of Robbie’s death. No one knows, not even my closest
friends. What would they think if they knew I’d let my brother die?
I can’t go back to the mausoleum I call home in this state. I don’t want to be alone right now, and I
have too much pent-up aggression that needs to go somewhere, so I shoot a quick text to Andreas,
telling him I’m headed to the gym. He’s always game for a workout. The guy has an infinite supply of
energy. He’s like the Energizer Bunny, a comparison that suits him well in more ways than one. The
fucker is a damn Casanova and has probably banged his way to New Zealand and back.
When I park in front of the upscale warehouse-style gym, my anger has decreased by half. I spot
Andreas’s Bronco two spots to my left. No surprise he’s already here. He, unlike me, lives right on
campus in a shared apartment with Danny Hudson, a freshman who will probably take my place as the
new QB next year.
I grab my duffel bag from the trunk and head inside the building. It’s the middle of the afternoon,
and the place is pretty packed. It annoys me to work out in a full house, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I quickly change and then head to the gym’s main room. Andreas is spotting Danny at the bench
press when I find them.
“Dude, who stole your cookie?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. Everything out of the guy’s mouth is related to food or girls. “It’s one of those days.
I had lunch with my mother and Jane earlier. You know how those events usually go.”
“Like eating sawdust?” Danny chimes in.
“Pretty much.”
“How is Jane doing? I haven’t seen her in months,” Andreas asks casually, not even glancing in
my direction.
He knows he’s not allowed to get near my sister or entertain any ideas about her. She’s still in
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
‘No doubt, love. There is no saying how low a man may descend
when he once takes to travelling down-hill.’
‘If he had not been a gentleman my adopted father could never
have been his friend,’ mused Laura. ‘It would not have been possible
for Jasper Treverton to associate with anything base.’
‘No, love. And now tell me, when first your father presented himself
to you, was not his revelation a great surprise, a shock to your
feelings?’
‘It was indeed.’
‘Tell me, dear, how it happened. Tell me all the circumstances, if it
does not pain you.’
‘No, dear. It pained me for you to know that my father had fallen so
low, but now that you know the worst, I feel easier in my mind. It is
a relief to me to be able to speak of him freely. Remember, Jack, he
had bound me solemnly to secrecy. I would not break my promise,
even to you.’
‘I understand all, dear.’
‘The first time I saw my father,’ Laura began falteringly, as if even to
speak of him by that sacred name were painful to her, ‘it was
summer time, a lovely August evening, and I had strolled out after
dinner into the orchard. You know the gate that opens from the
orchard into the field. I saw a man standing outside it smoking, with
his arms resting on the top of the gate. Seeing a stranger there, I
turned away to avoid him, but before I had gone three steps he
stopped me. “Miss Malcolm, for God’s sake let me speak to you,” he
said. “I am an old friend whom you must remember.” I went up to
him and looked him full in the face; for there was such earnestness
in his manner that it never occurred to me that he might be an
impostor. “Indeed, I do not remember you,” I said. “When have I
ever seen you?” Then he called me by my Christian name. “Laura,”
he said, “you were six years old when Mr. Treverton brought you
here. Have you quite forgotten the life that went before that time?”’
She paused, and her husband drew her to the low chair by the fire,
and seated himself beside her, letting her head rest on his shoulder.
‘Go on, love,’ he said gently, ‘but not if these memories agitate you.’
‘No, dear. It is a relief to confide in you. I told him that I did
remember the time before I came to the Manor House. Some events
I could remember distinctly, others faintly, like the shadows in a
dream. I remembered being in France, by the sea, in a place where
the fisherwomen wore bright-coloured petticoats and high caps,
where I had children of my own age to play with, and where the sun
seemed always shining. And then that life had changed to dull gray
days in a place near a river, a place where there were narrow lanes,
and country roads and fields; and yet there was a town close by with
tall chimneys and busy streets. I remembered that here my mother
was ill, lying in a darkened room for many weeks; and then one day
my father took me to London in the omnibus, and left me in a large,
cold-looking house in a great square—a house where all the rooms
were big and lofty, and had an awful look after our little parlour at
home, and where I used to sit in a drawing-room all day with an old
lady in black satin, who let me amuse myself as best I could. My
father had told me that the old lady was his aunt, and that I was to
call her aunt, but I was too much afraid of her to call her anything. I
think I must have stayed there about a week, but it seemed ages,
for I was very unhappy, and used to cry myself to sleep every night,
when the maid had put me to bed in a large, bleak room at the top
of the house; and then my father came and took me home again in
the red omnibus. I could see that he was very unhappy, and while
we were walking in the lane that led to our house he told me that
my dear mamma had gone away, and that I should never see her
again in this world. I had loved her passionately, Jack, and the loss
almost broke my heart. I am telling you much more than I told the
stranger. I only said enough to him to prove that I remembered my
old life.’
‘And how did he reply?’
‘He took a morocco case from his pocket and gave it into my hand,
telling me to look at the portrait inside it. Oh, how well I
remembered that sweet face! The memory of it flashed upon me like
a dream one has forgotten and tried vainly to recall, till it comes
back suddenly in a breath. Yes, it was my mother’s face. I could
remember her looking just like that as she sat at work on the rocks
by the sands where I played with the other children, at that happy
place in France. I remembered her sitting by my cot every night
before I fell asleep. I asked the stranger how he came to possess
this picture. “I would give all the money I have in the world for it,” I
said. “You shall do nothing of the kind,” he answered. “I give it you
as a free gift, but I should not have done that if you had not
remembered your mother’s face. And now, Laura, look at me and tell
me if you have ever seen me before?”’
‘You looked and could not remember him,’ said John Treverton.
‘No. Yet there was something in the face that seemed familiar to me.
When he spoke I knew that I had heard the voice before. It seemed
kind and friendly, like the voice of some one I had known long ago.
He told me to try and realize what change ten years of evil fortune
would make in a man’s looks. It was not time only which had altered
him, he told me, but the world’s ill-usage, bad health, hard work,
corroding sorrow. “Make allowance for all this,” he said, “and look at
me with indulgent eyes, and then try to send your thoughts back to
that old life at Chiswick, and say what part I had in it.” I did look at
him very earnestly, and the more I looked the more familiar the face
grew. “I think you must be a friend of my father’s,” I said at last.
“Poverty has no friends,” he answered; “at the time you remember
your father was friendless. Oh, child, child, can ten years blot out a
father’s image? I am your father.”’
Laura paused, with quickened breathing, recalling the agitation of
that moment.
‘I cannot tell you how I felt when he said this,’ she continued,
presently. ‘I thought I was going to fall fainting at his feet. My brain
clouded over; I could understand nothing; and then, when my
senses came slowly back, I asked him how this could be true? Did
not my father die a few hours after I was taken away by Jasper
Treverton? My benefactor had told me that it was so. Then he—my
father—said that he had allowed Jasper Treverton to suppose him
dead, for my sake; in order that I might be the adopted child of a
rich man, and well placed in life, while he—my real father—was a
waif and stray, and a pauper. Mr. Treverton had received a letter
announcing his old friend’s death—a letter written in a feigned hand
by my father himself and had never taken the trouble to inquire into
the particulars of the death and burial. He felt that he had done
enough in leaving money for the sick man’s use, and in relieving him
of all care about his daughter. This is what my father told me. How
could I reproach him, Jack, or despise him for this deception, for a
falsehood which so degraded him? It was for my sake he had
sinned.’
‘And you had no doubt as to his identity? You were fully assured that
he was that very father whom you had supposed dead and buried
ten years before?’
‘How could I doubt? He showed me papers—letters—that could have
belonged to no one but my father. He gave me my mother’s portrait;
and then, through the mist of years, his face came back to me as a
face that had been very familiar; his voice had the sound of long
ago.’
‘Did you give him money on this first meeting?’
‘He told me that he was poor, a broken-down gentleman, without a
profession, with bad health, and no means of earning his living.
Could I, his daughter, living in luxury, refrain from offering him all
the help in my power? I begged him to reveal himself to Mr.
Treverton—papa, as you know I always called him—but he shrank,
not unnaturally, from acknowledging a deception that placed him in
such a false position. “No,” he said, “I told a lie for your sake, I must
stick to it for my own.” I could not urge him to alter his resolution
upon this point, for I felt how hard it would be for him to stand face
to face with his old friend under such degrading circumstances. I
promised to keep his secret, and I told him that I would send him all
the money I could possibly spare out of my income, if he would give
me an address to which I might send it.’
‘How often did you see him after this?’ asked John Treverton.
‘Before to-night, only three times. One of those occasions was the
night on which you saw me admit him at the garden-door.’
‘True,’ said Treverton, blushing as he remembered the cruel
suspicions that had been awakened in his mind by that secret
interview. ‘And you never told my cousin anything about your
father?’
‘Never. He made me promise to keep his existence a secret from all
the world; and even if I had not been so bound I should have
shrunk from telling Mr. Treverton the cheat that had been practised
upon him; for I felt that it was a cheat, however disinterested and
generous the motive.’
‘A purposeless cheat, I should imagine,’ said John musingly, ‘for once
having promised to take care of you, I should hardly think that my
cousin Jasper would have flung you back upon poverty and gloomy
days. No, love, once knowing your sweetness, your truthful, loving
nature, it would not have been human to give you up.’
‘My poor father thought otherwise, unhappily.’
‘Dearest love, do not let this error of your father’s cast a shadow
upon your life. I, who have known the shifts and straits to which
poverty may bring a man, can pity and in some measure understand
him. We will do all that liberality can do to make the remnant of his
days respectable and happy.’
 CHAPTER XXVII.
DESROLLES IS NOT COMMUNICATIVE.
Mr. Desrolles left the Manor House a new man. He held his head
erect, and bore himself with a lofty air even before the butler who
showed him out. He was respectabilised by a full purse. There was
nothing left in him of the shabby, downcast stranger who had
approached the house with an air of mingled mystery and
apprehension. Trimmer hardly knew him. The man’s seedy overcoat
hung with the reckless grace of artistic indifference to attire, and not
with the forlorn droop of beggary. His hat was set on with a
debonair slant. He looked a Bohemian, a painter, an actor, a popular
parson gone to the bad: anything rather than an undistinguished
pauper. He flung Trimmer half-a-crown with the lofty elegance of a
Lauzun or a Richelieu, nodded a condescending good-night, and
walked slowly along the gravel drive, humming La Donna e mobile,
with not an unskilful mimicry of him who, of all men that ever
walked the boards of Covent Garden, looked and moved like a prince
of the blood royal, and the thinnest thread of whose fading voice
sent a thrill through every heart in the vast opera-house.
The snow was no longer falling. It lay in patches here and there
upon the grass, and whitened the topmost edge of the moor, but
there was an end of the brief snowstorm. The stars were shining in
a deep blue sky, calm and clear as at midsummer. The moon was
rising behind the dark ridge of moor. It was a scene that might have
stirred the heart of a man fresh from the life of cities; but the
thoughts of Desrolles were occupied in considering the new aspect
given to affairs by his discovery of Jack Chicot in the young squire of
Hazlehurst, and in calculating how he might best turn the occasion
to his own peculiar profit.
‘A good, easy-going fellow,’ he reflected, ‘and he seems inclined to
be open-handed. But if the dancer was his legal wife, and if he
married Laura a year ago, that poor girl is no more his wife than I
am. Awkward for me to wink at such a position as that, in my
paternal character; yet it might be dangerous for me to interfere.’
‘Good evening, Mr. Desrolles,’ said a voice close behind him.
He had been so deeply absorbed in self-interested speculations that
he had not heard footsteps on the gravel. He turned sharply round,
surprised at the familiar mention of his name, and encountered
Edward Clare.
In that dim light he failed to recognise the man whom he had met in
Long Acre, and talked with for about ten minutes, nearly a year ago.
‘You seem to have forgotten me,’ said Clare pleasantly; ‘yet we have
met before. Do you remember meeting me in Long Acre one
afternoon and our talking together of your fellow-lodger, Mr. Chicot?’
‘Your face and voice are both familiar to me,’ said Desrolles
thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you are the gentleman with whom I conversed for
some minutes in the bar of the Rose Tavern. I remember your
speaking of Hazlehurst. You belong to this part of the world, I
presume?’
‘I do; but I am rather surprised to see you in such an out-of-the-way
nook and corner of the universe—on Christmas Eve, too——’
‘When I ought to be hanging up holly in my ancestral mansion, and
kissing my grandchildren under the mistletoe,’ interjected Desrolles,
with a harsh laugh. ‘Sir, I am a floating weed upon the river of life,
and you need never be surprised to see me anywhere. I have no
cable to moor me to any harbour, no dock but the hospital, no haven
but the grave.’
Desrolles uttered this dismal speech with positive relish. He had a
hundred pounds in his pocket, and the world before him where to
choose. What did he want with dock or haven? He was by nature a
rover.
‘I am very glad we have met,’ said Edward gravely; ‘I have
something serious to say to you—so serious that I would rather say
it within four walls. Can you come with me to my house for half-an-
hour, and let me talk to you over a tumbler of toddy?’
Toddy had but little temptation for the brandy drinker; it was almost
as if some one had offered him milk and water.
‘I want to get away by the mail,’ said Desrolles doubtfully; ‘and what
the deuce can you have to say to me?’
‘Something of the utmost importance. Something that may put
money in your purse.’
‘The suggestion provokes my curiosity. Suppose I forego the idea of
the mail? It’s a cold night, and I’ve had a good deal of travelling
since morning. Does your village boast an inn where a man can get
a decent bed?’
‘Yes, they will make you comfortable at the George. You had better
come home with me, and hear what I have to say. It’s a quarter past
nine, and the mail goes at ten thirty. You could hardly do it, if you
tried.’
‘Well, let the mail go without this Cæsar and his fortunes; I’ll hear
what you have to say.’
They walked together to the Vicarage. Mr. and Mrs. Clare and Celia
were still at the Manor House, where the Christmas-tree was being
stripped by the tumultuous infants, with shouts of rapture and shrill
screams of delight. Edward had slipped out directly he had finished
the ‘Jackdaw,’ under the pretence of smoking a cigar, and had gone
round to the front of the house to watch for the unknown visitor’s
departure.
The Vicarage was wrapped in darkness, save in the servants’
quarters, where some mild rejoicings were in progress. Edward let
himself in at the hall door, and went up to his den, followed by Mr.
Desrolles. The fire had burnt low, but there was a basket of wood by
the hearth. Edward flung on a log, and lighted the candles on the
table. Then he opened a cosy little corner cupboard in the panelling,
and took out a black bottle, a couple of tumblers, and a sugar basin.
‘If your whisky’s good, don’t trouble to mix it,’ said Desrolles; ‘I’d
rather taste it neat.’
He settled himself comfortably in the chair beside the hearth, the
poet’s own particular rocking-chair, in which he was wont to cradle
his fine fancies, and sometimes hush his genius to placid slumber.
‘A tidy little crib,’ said Desrolles, looking curiously round the room,
with all its masculine luxuries and feminine frivolities. ‘I wonder you
should speak so disparagingly of a village in which you’ve such snug
quarters.’
‘The grub is snug in his cocoon,’ retorted Edward, ‘but that isn’t life.’
‘No. Life is to be a butterfly, at the mercy of every wind that blows. I
think on the whole the grub has the best of it.’
‘Help yourself,’ said Edward, pushing the whisky bottle across the
table to his visitor.
Desrolles filled a glass and emptied it at a draught. ‘New and raw,’
he said, disapprovingly. ‘Well, Mr. ——. By the way, you did not
favour me with your card when last we met.’
‘My name is Clare.’
‘Well, Mr. Clare, here I am. I have gone out of my own way to put
myself at your disposal. What is this wondrous communication you
have to make to me?’
‘First, let us discuss your own position.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed Desrolles, rising and taking up his hat.
‘I did not come here to talk about that. If you’ve set a trap for me
you’ll find you’ve got the wrong customer. I belong to the ferret
tribe.’
‘My dear fellow, don’t be in such a hurry,’ said Edward, putting up his
white, womanish hand in languid entreaty; ‘as a prelude to what I
have got to say I am obliged to speak of your own position with
reference to Laura Treverton and her husband, John Treverton,
otherwise Jack Chicot.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply what I say. John Treverton, squire of Hazlehurst, and Jack
Chicot—Bohemian, adventurer, artist in black and white,
unsuccessful painter in oils, what you will—are one and the same. It
may suit Mr. Treverton to forget that he was ever Jack Chicot; but
the story of his past life is not blotted out because he is ashamed of
it. You know, and I know, that the present lord of Hazlehurst Manor
is Mrs. Evitt’s old lodger.’
‘You must be crazy to suggest such a thing,’ said Desrolles, looking
at the other with an air of half stupefied inquiry, as a man in whom
he did verily perceive indications of insanity. ‘The two men have not
one attribute in common.’
‘If the man I saw talking to you in Long Acre was Chicot, the
caricaturist, then Chicot and Treverton are one.’
‘My dear fellow, your eyes played you false. Possibly there may be a
kind of likeness, as far as height, figure, complexion, go.’
‘I saw the man’s face at the magazine office, and I’ll swear it was
Treverton’s face.’
Desrolles shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, ‘Here is a poor
half-cracked fellow labouring under a harmless delusion. I must
indulge him.’
‘Well, my dear sir,’ he said presently, stretching his well-worn boots
before the hearth, and luxuriating in the warmth of the blazing
wood, ‘if this is all you have to say, you might as well have let me
get away by the mail.’
‘You deny the identity of John Treverton and Chicot, the caricaturist?’
‘Most emphatically. I have the honour to know both men, and am in
a position to state that they are totally distinct individuals—bearing a
kind of resemblance to each other in certain broad characteristics—
height, figure, complexion—a resemblance that might mislead a man
seeing one of the two for a few moments, as you saw Chicot——’
‘How do you know how often I saw Chicot?’
‘I draw my inference from your own conduct. If you had seen him
often—if you had seen him more than once—you could not possibly
mistake him for Mr. Treverton, or Mr. Treverton for him.’
Edward Clare shrugged his shoulders, and sat looking frowningly at
the fire for some moments. Whatever this man Desrolles knew, or
whatever he thought, it was evident that there was very little to be
got out of him.
‘You are very positive,’ Edward said presently, ‘so I suppose you are
right. After all, I can have no desire to identify the husband of a
woman I highly esteem with such a fellow as this Chicot. I want only
to protect her interests. Married to a scoundrel, what might not be
her fate? Perhaps as terrible as that of the dancer.’
Desrolles answered nothing. He was lying back in the rocking chair,
resting, his eyes half closed.
‘Have you seen Chicot since his wife was murdered?’ asked Edward,
after a pause.
‘No one has seen him. It is my belief that he made straight for one
of the bridges, and drowned himself.’
‘In that case his body would have been found, and his death made
known to the police.’
‘You would not say that if you were a Londoner. How many nameless
corpses do you think are fished out of the Thames every week—how
many unrecognised corpses lie in the East-end dead-houses waiting
for some one to claim them, and are never claimed or identified, and
go to the paupers’ burial-ground without a name? The police did not
know Chicot. They had only his description to guide them in their
search for him. I am very clear in my mind that the poor devil put
himself out of their way in the most effectual manner.’
‘You think he murdered his wife?’
Desrolles shrugged his shoulders dubiously.
‘I think nothing,’ he answered. ‘Why should I think the very worst of
a man who was my friend? But I know he bolted. The inference is
against his innocence.’
‘If he is alive it shall be my business to find him,’ said Edward
savagely. ‘The crime was brutal—unprovoked—inexcusable—and if it
is in my power to bring it home to him he shall suffer for it.’
‘You speak as if you had a personal animosity,’ said Desrolles. ‘I
could understand the detectives being savage with him, for he has
led them a pretty dance, and they have been held up to ridicule for
their failure in catching him. But why you—a gentleman living at
ease here—should feel thus strongly——’
‘I have my reasons,’ said Edward.
‘Well, I’ll wish you good night. It’s getting late, and I suppose the
George is an early house. Au revoir, Mr. Clare. By the way, when you
told me your name just now I forgot to ask you how you came to be
so familiar with mine.’
‘I saw it in the newspapers, in the report of the inquest on Madame
Chicot.’
‘True. I had told you that I was Jack Chicot’s fellow-lodger. I had
forgotten that. Good night.’
‘You are still living in Cibber Street, I suppose?’
‘No, the house became hateful to me after that terrible event. Mrs.
Evitt lost both her lodgers. Mrs. Rawber, the tragédienne, moved two
doors off. My address is at the Poste Restante all over Europe. But
for the next week or so I may be found at Paris.’
‘Good night,’ said Edward. ‘I must come downstairs and let you out.
My people ought to be home by this time, and perhaps you may not
care to meet them.’
‘It is indifferent to me,’ Desrolles answered loftily.
They did not encounter the Vicar or his wife on the stairs. The
children’s party had been kept up till the desperate hour of half-past
ten, and Mr. and Mrs. Clare were now on their road home, leaving
Celia behind them to spend Christmas Day with the Trevertons.
 CHAPTER XXVIII.
EDWARD CLARE GOES ON A VOYAGE OF
DISCOVERY.
To sit beside a man’s hearth, drink his wine, shoot his pheasants and
ride his horses, would in a savage community be incompatible with
the endurance of a deadly hatred against that man. The
thoroughbred savage hates only his enemy and the intruding
stranger. Mr. Stanley tells us that if he could once get close enough
to a tribe to hold a parley with them, he and his followers were safe.
The difficulty was that they had to encounter a shower of arrows
before they could get within range for conversation. When the noble
African found that the explorer meant kindly, he no longer thirsted
for the white man’s blood. His savagery for the most part meant self-
defence.
The ways of civilization are not as the ways of the desert. There are
men and women whose animosity is not to be appeased by kindness
—who will take all they can get from a man, and go on detesting
him cordially to the end. Edward Clare, the sleek, white-handed
poet, possessed this constancy in hatred. John Treverton had done
him no direct injury; for the poet’s love for Laura had never been
strong enough to outweigh prudence. He had wanted Laura and
Hazlehurst Manor: not Laura with her modest income of two
hundred and fifty pounds a year. He was angry with fate and Jasper
Treverton for the will which had made Laura’s wealth dependent on
her marriage with the heir; he hated John Treverton for the good
fortune which had fallen into his lap. And this hatred wore such a
noble aspect in the man’s own mind. It was no base envy of
another’s prosperity; it was not even jealous anger against a rival,
Edward told himself. No, it was a chivalrous ardour in the defence of
the woman he had loved; it was a generous desire to serve her
which urged him to pluck the mask from this smooth hypocrite’s
face. If this man was indeed, as Edward believed, the husband of
Zaïre Chicot, the dancer, then his marriage with Laura was no
marriage, and the conditions of the will had not been fulfilled. The
estate, the possession of which could only be secured by a legal
marriage within the year following Jasper Treverton’s death, had
been obtained by an audacious fraud.
Was this great wrong to pass undetected and unpunished? Was
Laura, whose love had been so easily won by this scoundrel, to go
on blindly trusting him, until some day an accident should reveal his
infamy and her dishonour? No, Edward believed that it was his duty
to let in the light upon this iniquitous secret; and he determined to
leave no stone unturned in the fulfilment of his mission.
This fellow Desrolles was evidently a creature of John Treverton’s.
His denial of the identity between the two men went for nothing in
Edward’s mind. There must be plenty of people in the
neighbourhood of Cibber Street able to identify the missing Chicot, if
they could only be brought face to face with him.
‘I wonder you and Mrs. Treverton have not been photographed since
your marriage,’ Edward said one afternoon in the Christmas week,
when John Treverton was well enough to join the kettledrum party in
the book-room, and they four, Mr. and Mrs. Treverton, Celia, and
Edward, were sitting round a glorious fire.
He had been looking over a volume of photographs by the light of
the blazing wood, so the question seemed natural enough.
‘Ah, by-the-by, Jack, I really must have you photographed,’ said
Laura gaily. ‘Lady Barker was very particular in her request for our
photographs the other day. She has a very fine collection, she tells
me.’
‘About a hundred and fifty of her bosom friends, I suppose,’ retorted
John Treverton, ‘all simpering in the highest style of art, and trying
to look unconscious of the photographer’s iron collar gripping them
by the scruff of the neck. No, Laura, I am not going to let the sun
make a correct map of my wrinkles in order that I may join the
simperers in Lady Barker’s photograph album, that fashionable
refuge for the destitute in brains, after a dull dinner.’
‘Do you mean to say that you have never been photographed?’
asked Edward.
‘No, I do not. I had my photograph taken by Nadar a good many
years ago, when I was young and frivolous.’
‘Oh, Jack, how I should like to have a picture of what you were
years ago!’ exclaimed Laura. ‘What has become of all the
photographs?’
‘Heaven knows,’ answered John carelessly; ‘given to Tom, Dick, and
Harry—scattered to the four winds. I have not kept one of them.’
‘Nadar,’ repeated Edward musingly; ‘you are talking of the man in
Paris, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know Paris well?’
‘Every Englishman who has spent a fortnight there would say as
much as that,’ answered John Treverton carelessly. ‘I know my way
from the Louvre to the Palais Royal, and I know two or three famous
restaurants, where a man may get an excellent dinner if he likes to
pay for it with its weight in gold.’
Nothing more was said upon the subject of photographs. Edward
Clare left Hazlehurst next day for London. He was not going to be
long away, he told his father and mother, but he wanted to see a
manager who had made overtures to him for a legitimate historical
drama, in blank verse.
‘He was struck by a dramatic fragment I wrote for one of the
magazines,’ said Edward, ‘and he has taken it into his head that I
could write as good a play as the “Hunchback” or the “Lady of
Lyons.”’
‘Oh, do go and see him, Ted,’ cried Celia, with enthusiasm. ‘It would
be awfully jolly if you were to write a play. We should all have to go
up to town to see the first performance.’
‘Should we?’ interrupted the Vicar, without looking up from his John
Bull, ‘and pray who would find the money for our railway fare, and
our hotel bill?’
‘Why, you, of course,’ cried Celia. ‘That would be a mere bagatelle. If
Edward were to burst upon the world as a successful dramatic
author he would be on the high road to fortune, and we could all
afford a little extravagance. But who is your manager, Ted, and who
are the actors who are to act in your play?’ inquired Celia, anxious
for details.
‘I shall say nothing about that till my play is written and accepted,’
answered Edward. ‘The whole affair is in the clouds at present.’
Celia gave a short impatient sigh. So many of her brother’s literary
schemes had begun and ended in the clouds.
‘I suppose I am to take care of your den while you are away,’ she
said, presently, ‘and dust your books and papers?’
‘I shall be glad if you will preserve them from the profane hand of
my mother’s last domestic treasure in the shape of a new
housemaid,’ answered Edward.
Before any one could ask him any more questions the ’bus from the
‘George’ was at the Vicarage gate, waiting to take him to the station
at Beechampton, in company with two obese farmers, and a rosy-
cheeked girl going out to service, and carrying a nosegay of winter
flowers, a bandbox, and an umbrella.
How sweet and fresh the air was in the clear December morning,
almost the last of the year! How picturesque the winding lane, the
wide sweep of cultivated valley and distant belt of hill and moor.
Edward Clare’s eyes roamed across the familiar scene, and saw
nothing of its tranquil beauty. His mind was absorbed in the business
that lay before him. His heart was full of rancour. He was tormented
by that worst of all foes to a man’s peace—an envious mind. The
image of John Treverton’s good fortune haunted him like a wicked
conscience. He could not go his own way, and forget that his
neighbour was luckier than himself. Had Fate smiled upon his poetic
efforts, had some sudden and startling success whisked him up into
the seventh heaven of literary fame, at the same time filling his
pockets, he might possibly have forgiven John Treverton; but with
the sense of failure goading him, his angry feelings were perpetually
intensifying.
He was in the London streets just as dusk was falling, after a cold,
uncomfortable journey. He took his travelling bag in his hand, and
set out on foot to find a lodging, for his funds were scanty, as he
had not ventured to ask his father for money since his return to the
Vicarage. It was an understood thing that he was to have the run of
his teeth at Hazlehurst, and that his muse was to supply all other
wants.
He did not go to the street where he had lodged before—a narrow,
dismal street, between Holborn and the British Museum. He went to
the more crowded quarter, bounded on one side by Leicester
Square, on the other by St. Martin’s Lane, and betook himself
straight to Cibber Street. He had made up his mind to get a room in
that uninviting spot, if any decent shelter were available there.
Before seeking for this accommodation elsewhere, he went to look
at the house to which La Chicot’s murder had given such an awful
notoriety. He found it more reputable of aspect than when he had
last seen it, a few days after the murder. A new wire blind shaded
the lower part of the parlour window; new red curtains drooped
gracefully over the upper panes. The window itself looked cleaner
and brighter than it had ever looked during the stately Mrs. Rawber’s
occupation of the ground floor. A new brass plate on the door bore
the inscription, ‘Mr. Gerard, surgeon.’
Edward Clare contemplated this shining brass plate with the blank
gaze of disappointment. He concluded, not unnaturally, that the
whole house had passed into the possession of Mr. Gerard, surgeon,
and that Mrs. Evitt had gone forth into the wilderness of London,
where she would be more difficult to find than poor Hagar and her
son in the sandy wastes of the great desert. While he stood
ruminating upon this apparent change in the aspect of affairs, his
eye wandered to a window looking upon the area beneath the
parlour, from which there came a comfortable glow of light. The
occupant of the basement had not drawn down the illuminated blind
which generally shaded her domesticity from the vulgar eye; and,
seated by her kitchen fire, indulging in the inexpensive luxury of
slumber, Edward beheld that very Mrs. Evitt whom he had supposed
lost in the metropolitan labyrinth. He had no doubt as to those
corkscrew curls, that vinegar visage. This was the woman with
whom he had talked for half-an-hour one bleak March morning,
when he had inspected the scene of the murder, under the pretence
of looking for lodgings.
He went up the steps to the door. There were two bells, one labelled
‘Surgery,’ the other ‘House.’ Edward rang the latter, which was
answered after an interval by the landlady, looking cross and sleepy.
At the sight of Mr. Clare, with his travelling bag in his hand, she
scented a lodger, and brightened.
‘Have you a decent bedroom to let, on your second floor?’ he asked,
for although he was no believer in the influences of the spirit world,
he would have preferred spending the December night upon the
bleakest and windiest of the bridges to lying down to rest in the
room where La Chicot had been slain.
‘I’ve got my first floor empty,’ said Mrs. Evitt, ‘beautiful rooms, all
new papered and painted.’
‘I’d rather go higher up,’ answered Edward. ‘You had a lodger named
Desrolles. What has become of him?’
‘Gone to travel in foreign parts,’ replied the landlady. ‘I believe he
had money left him. He was quite a gentleman when he started—
everything new, from his portmanchew to his railway rug.’
‘Can I have his rooms for a few nights? I am only in town as a bird
of passage, but I don’t want to go to an hotel.’
‘Their charges are so ’igh, and there’s no privacy in ’em,’ said Mrs.
Evitt, with a sympathetic air, as if she divined his inmost feelings.
‘You can have Mr. Desrolles’ rooms, sir, and we shan’t quarrel about
the rent.’
‘The rooms are clean, I suppose?’ Edward hazarded.
‘Clean!’ exclaimed Mrs. Evitt, lifting up her eyebrows with the
indignation of outraged innocence. ‘Nobody that has ever lodged
with me would ask that question. Clean! No house of mine ever
’arboured dirt.’
‘I should like to see the bedroom,’ said Edward. ‘The sitting-room
matters very little. I shall be out all the day.’
‘If you’ll wait while I fetch a candle, I’ll show you both rooms,’
replied the landlady. ‘I suppose you want to come in at once?’
‘Yes. I have just come from the country, and have no more luggage
than this bag. I can pay you for the rooms in advance, if you like.’
‘Money comes uncommonly handy now that provisions have rose to
such a heighth,’ returned Mrs. Evitt, with an insinuating air. ‘Not that
I could ever feel an instant’s doubt respecting a young gent of your
appearance.’
‘Money down is the best reference,’ said Edward. ‘I’m a stranger in
London. Here’s a sovereign. I suppose that’ll square us if I only keep
the rooms a week?’
‘There’ll be a trifle for boot-cleaning,’ insinuated Mrs. Evitt.
‘Oh, very well.’
‘And half-a-crown for kitching fire.’
‘Oh, come now, I won’t stand kitchen fire. You don’t suppose I’m
going to dine here. If you bring me up a cup of tea of a morning it is
all I shall want, and the fire that boils your kettle will boil mine.’
‘A trifle for attendance, then.’
‘I’ll promise nothing. If you make me comfortable, I shall not forget
you at parting.’
‘Very well, sir,’ sighed the landlady. ‘I suppose it will come to the
same in the end, but I always think it best for all parties to put
things clear.’
She retired into the darkness at the end of the narrow passage, the
dark brown wainscot of which was dimly lighted by an old-fashioned
oil lamp, and returned in a minute or two with a tallow candle in a
capacious tin candlestick. With this light she preceded Mr. Clare up
the staircase, whose shallow, uneven steps and heavy balustrade
gave evidence of its age.
On the first-floor landing Mrs. Evitt paused to recover her breath,
and Edward felt an icy thrill of horror as he found himself opposite
the bedroom door.
‘Is that the room where that poor woman was murdered?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mrs. Evitt, with a deprecating sigh, ‘it is the room,
and I won’t deceive you. But it has been done up so nice that
nobody as ever knew it before would be able to recognise it. My
landlord acted very liberal; “anything that paint and paper can do to
set you right with your lodgers, Mrs. Evitt, shall be done,” says he.
“You’ve been a good tenant,” says he, “always punctual to the
minute with your rent,” he says, “and I should take it to heart if you
was to suffer.” Come in and look at the room, sir, and you’ll see that
there isn’t a more cheerful bedroom in this part of London.’
Mrs. Evitt flung open the door with a flourish of pride, and led the
way into the room with uplifted candlestick.
‘That’s a brand new bedstead,’ she said, ‘which cost me two pound
ten without the curtains. And there ain’t a inch of carpet or a bit of
bedding that was in the room when—when—what you mentioned
took place.’
Mrs. Evitt had pinned her faith upon vivid colour as a charm to
exorcise poor Zaïre’s ghost. A sixpenny chintz of all the colours in the
rainbow draped window and bed. A painted drugget of
corresponding violence hid the worm-eaten old boards, upon which
soap, sand, and soda had been vainly expended in the endeavour to
remove the dark traces of that awful stream which had travelled
from the bed to the threshold. The dressing-table was draped with
white muslin and rose-coloured calico. The chimney-piece was
resplendent with a pair of Bohemian glass vases, and a gilded clock.
Coloured lithographs in the vilest German art brightened the walls.
‘Don’t it look cheerful?’ asked Mrs. Evitt.
‘Is that the little room where the husband used to work?’ inquired
Edward, pointing to the door.
‘Yea, but that doesn’t go with the drawing-room floor. I’ve let it to
Mr. Gerard for a room to put his books in. He’s such a man for
books. They overrun the place.’
‘Who is Mr. Gerard? Oh, by the way, that is the surgeon downstairs.
How long has he been lodging with you?’
‘It was about a month after poor Madame Chicot’s death when he
come. “I’m going to set up in business for myself, Mrs. Evitt,” he
says. “I ain’t rich enough to buy a practice,” says he, “so I must try
and make one for myself, somehow,” he says. “Now yours is a
crowded neighbourhood, and I think I might do pretty well here, if
you let me your ground floor cheap. It would be for a permanency,”
says he, “so that ought to make a difference.” “I’ll do my best to
meet you,” says I, “but my rent is high, and I never was a hour
behind with it yet, and I never will be.” Well, sir, I let him have the
rooms very low, considering their value, for I was that depressed in
my sperrits it wasn’t in me to ’aggle. That ungrateful viper, Mrs.
Rawber—a woman I’d waited on hand and foot, and fried onions for
her until I’ve many a time turned faint over the frying pan—and
she’s gone and turned her back upon me in my trouble, and took a
first floor over a bootmaker’s, where the smell of the leather must be
enough to poison a female of any refinement!’
‘Has Mr. Gerard succeeded in getting a practice?’ asked Edward.
‘Well, he do have patients,’ answered the landlady, dubiously; ‘gratis
ones a many, between the hours of eight and nine every morning.
He’s very steady and quiet in his ’abits, and that moderate that he
could live where another would starve. He’s a wonderful clever
young man, too; it was him—much more than the grand doctor—
that pulled Madame Chicot through, after her accident.’
‘Indeed!’ said Edward, becoming suddenly interested; ‘then Mr.
Gerard knew the Chicots?’
‘Knew ’em! I should think he did, indeed, poor young man! He
attended Madame Chicot night and day for months, and if it hadn’t
been for him I believe she’d have died. There never was a doctor so
devoted, and all for love. He didn’t take a penny for his attendance.’
‘A most extraordinary young man,’ said Edward.
They went up to the second-floor, and Mr. Clare was introduced to
the apartments upon which Desrolles had turned his back for ever.
The furniture was of the shabbiest, but the rooms looked tolerably
clean, much cleaner than they had appeared during the occupation
of Mr. Desrolles. Edward flung down his travelling bag, and
expressed himself contented with the accommodation.
‘Don’t put me into damp sheets,’ he said, whereupon Mrs. Evitt
threw up her hands in horror, and almost wept as she protested
against so heartless an imputation.
‘There isn’t a carefuller woman than me about airing linen in all
London,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m over-particular. I’ve scorched many a
good piller-case in my carefulness; but I’m the only loser by that,
and I don’t mind.’
‘I must go and get some dinner,’ said Edward. ‘And then I think I’ll
drop in at a theatre. I suppose you can give me a latch-key?’
‘You can have the very key that Mr. Desrolles had,’ replied Mrs. Evitt
graciously, as if according a peculiar privilege.
‘I don’t care whose key it is as long as it will open the door,’
answered the unappreciative poet; and then he put the key in his
pocket, and went out to regale himself cheaply at a French
restaurant, and then to the pit of a popular theatre. He had come to
London on a particular errand, but he meant to get as much
pleasure out of his visit as he could.
From the moment that Edward Clare heard of George Gerard’s
attendance upon Madame Chicot he became desirous of making Mr.
Gerard’s acquaintance. Here was a man who could help him in the
business he had to carry through. Here was a man who must know
the dancer’s husband intimately—a man who could identify Jack
Chicot in the present Squire of Hazlehurst. This was the man of men
whom it was valuable for Edward Clare to know. Having once made
up his mind upon this point, Mr. Clare did not lose any time in
making use of his opportunities. He called upon Mr. Gerard on the
morning after his arrival in town. It was only half-past eight when he
presented himself at the surgeon’s door, so anxious was he to secure
an interview before Mr. Gerard left home.
He found George Gerard sitting at his modest breakfast of bread and
butter and coffee, an open book beside him as he ate. Edward’s eyes
marked the neatness of the surgeon’s attire, marked also that his
coat had been worn to the last stage of shabbiness at all compatible
with respectability. A month’s wear more and the wearer would be
out at elbows. He observed also the thick slices of bread and butter
—the doubtful-looking coffee, with an odour suggestive of horse-
beans. Here, evidently, was a man for whom the struggle of life was
hard. Such a man would naturally be easy to deal with.
George Gerard rose to receive his guest with a pleasant smile.
‘Mrs. Evitt told me that you wanted to see me,’ he said, waving his
hand to a chair beside his somewhat pinched fire.
A scientific arrangement of firebrick had been adapted to the roomy
old grate since Mrs. Rawber’s tenancy, and it now held a minimum of
fuel.
‘Yes, Mr. Gerard, I very much want half-an-hour’s talk with you.’
‘I can give you just half-an-hour before I start for my day’s work,’
answered Gerard, with a business-like air and a glance at the neat
little clock on the chimney-piece.
The room was curiously changed since Mrs. Rawber’s occupation. It
had then appeared the model of the vulgar lodging-house parlour. It
now looked the room of a student. George Gerard had been able to
spend very little money on the decoration of his apartments, but he
had lined the walls with deal shelves, and the shelves were filled
with books; such volumes as your genuine book-hunter collects with
loving toil in the lanes and by-ways of London. He had put a
substantial, old-fashioned writing table in the window, a pair of
comfortable arm-chairs by the hearth, a skeleton clock, and a couple
of bronze figures—picked up in one of the back slums of Covent
Garden for a song—on the mantelpiece. The general effect was of a
room which a gentleman might occupy without a blush.
Edward Clare saw all this, not without a sharp pang of envy. He
recognised, in the capacity to endure such an existence, the power
to climb the rugged hill of fame.
‘This is the kind of fellow to succeed in life,’ he thought. ‘But one
can’t expect this dogged endurance in a man of poetic
temperament.’
‘Do you wish to consult me professionally?’ asked Gerard.
‘No. What I have to say relates to a very serious matter, but it is
neither a professional question for you, nor a personal affair of mine.
You knew the Chicots.’
It was Gerard’s turn to be interested. He looked at the speaker with
sudden intensity, which brightened every feature in his face.
‘Yes. What of them? Did you know them? I never saw you here
when she was ill. You knew them in Paris, perhaps?’
‘No; I never saw Madame Chicot off the stage. But I am deeply
interested in the discovery of her murderer: not for my own sake,
but for the protection of some one I esteem. Have you seen John
Chicot since the murder?’
‘No. If I had——’
George Gerard stopped suddenly, and left his sentence unfinished.
‘If you had you would have given him up to the police, as his wife’s
murderer. Is that what you were going to say?’
‘Something very near it. I have strong reason to believe that he
killed her; and yet there is ground for doubt. If he were the
murderer, why should he alarm the house? He might have gone
quietly away, and the crime would not have been discovered for
hours afterwards.’
‘An excess of caution, no doubt. Murderers often over-act their parts.
Yet, if you look at the thing, you will see he was obliged to give the
alarm. Had he not done so, had he gone away and left his wife lying
dead, it would have been obvious that he, and he alone, was her
assassin. By rousing the household he put on at least the semblance
of innocence, however his flight might belie it afterwards.’
‘It is a profound mystery,’ said Gerard.
‘A mystery only to those who refuse to accept the natural solution of
the enigma. Here was a man with a drunken wife. It is an
acknowledged fact, I believe, that Madame Chicot was a drunkard?’
‘Yes, poor soul. He might have let her kill herself with a brandy
bottle. He would not have had long to wait.’
‘A man so fettered may get desperate. Suppose that I could prove to
you that this Chicot had the strongest possible temptation to rid
himself of his wife by any means, fair or foul. Suppose I could tell
you that his inheritance of a large estate was contingent upon his
marriage with another woman, that he had already, in order to
secure that estate, contracted a bigamous marriage with that other
woman—she innocent as an angel, poor girl, throughout the plot.
Suppose I could prove all this, what would you say of Jack Chicot
then?’
‘Most assuredly I would say that he did the deed. Only show me that
he had a motive strong enough to urge him to crime—I know of my
own experience that he was tired of his wife—and I will accept the
evidence that points to him as the murderer.’
‘Do you think that evidence strong enough to convict him?’
‘On that point I am doubtful. His flight is damning evidence against
him; and then there is the fact that at the bottom of his colour-box
there lay a dagger which corresponded in form to the gash upon
that poor creature’s throat. I found that dagger, and it is now in the
possession of the police. It bears the dark tarnished stain that blood
leaves upon steel, and I have no doubt in my own mind that it was
with that dagger La Chicot was killed. But these two points comprise
the whole evidence against the husband. They are strong enough to
afford a presumption against his innocence; but I doubt if they are
strong enough to hang him.’
‘Let it be so. I don’t want to hang him. But I do want to rescue the
woman I once fondly loved—for whom I still care more than for any
other woman on earth—from a marriage that may end in her misery
and untimely death. What must be the fate of such a man as this
Chicot, if he is, as you believe, and as I believe, guilty? Either
remorse will drive him mad, or he will go on from crime to crime,
sinking lower in the scale of humanity. Let me but strip the mask
from his face, separate him for ever from his innocent wife, and I am
content. To do this I want your aid. Jack Chicot has disappeared
from the ken of all who knew him. The man who bore that name is
now a gentleman of landed estate, respected and respectable. Will
you be disinterested enough to waste a couple of days, and travel
over three hundred miles, in order to help me to identify the late
adventurer in the present lord of the manor? Your journey shall not
cost you sixpence.’
‘If I go at all, I shall go at my own expense,’ answered Gerard curtly;
‘but you must first show me an adequate reason for doing what you
ask.’
‘To do that I must tell you a long story,’ answered Edward.
And then, without mentioning the names of people or of places, he
told the story of Jasper Treverton’s will, and of Laura Malcolm’s
marriage. The facts, as he stated them, went far to show John
Treverton a scheming scoundrel, capable of committing a crime of
the darkest kind to further his own interest.
‘The case against him looks black, I admit,’ said Gerard, when Clare
had finished. ‘But there is one difficult point in the story. You say
that in order to secure the fortune Chicot married the young lady in
the January before Madame Chicot’s death. Now if he had made up
his mind to get rid of his lawful wife by foul means, why did he not
do it before he contracted that marriage instead of afterwards? The
crime would have been the same, the danger of detection no
greater. The murder committed after the second marriage was an
anachronism.’
‘Who can fathom his motives? He may have had no design against
his wife’s life when he married the lady I know. He may have
believed it possible to so arrange his life that no one would ever
recognise Jack Chicot in the country squire. He may have thought
that he could buy his freedom from Madame Chicot. Perhaps it was
only when he found that her love, or her jealousy, was not to be
hoodwinked that he conceived the idea of murder! No man—
assuredly no man of decent antecedents—reaches the lowest depth
of iniquity all at once.’
‘Well,’ sighed Gerard, after a pause, ‘I will go with you and see this
man. I had a curious interest in that poor creature’s career. I would
have done much to save her from the consequence of her own folly,
had it been possible. Yes, I will go with you; I should like to know
the end of the story.’
It was agreed between the two young men that they were to go to
Devonshire together in the first week of the new year, Edward Clare
remaining only a week in London. Gerard was to accompany Clare as
his friend, and to stay at the Vicarage as his guest.
 CHAPTER XXIX.
GEORGE GERARD.
John Treverton was out of the doctor’s hands before Christmas was
over, and able to appear on his mare, Black Bess, with his wife,
mounted on the gentlest of gray Arabs, at the lawn meet which was
held at the Manor House on New Year’s Day. It was the first time the
hounds had met there since the death of old John Treverton,
Jasper’s father, who had been a hunting man. Jasper had never
cared for field sports, and had subscribed to the hounds as a duty.
But now, John Treverton, the younger, who loved horses and
hounds, as it is natural to an Englishman to love them, meant that
things should be as they had been in the days of his great-uncle,
generally known among the elder section of the community as ‘the
old Squire.’ He had bought a couple of hunters and a first-rate hack
for himself, an Arabian and a smart cob for his wife; and Laura and
he had ridden for many a mile over the moor in the mild afternoons
of early autumn, getting into good form for the work they were to
do in the winter.
Laura took kindly to the cob, and petted the Arab to a distracting
degree. After a month’s experience on the moors, and a good many
standing jumps over furze and water, she began to ride really well,
and her husband looked forward to the delight of piloting her across
the country in pursuit of the red deer before the hunting season was
over. But he meant, if he erred at all, to err on the side of caution,
and on this New Year’s Day he had declared that he should only take
Laura quietly through the lanes, and let her have a peep at the
hounds from a distance. Celia, in the shortest of habits, a mere
petticoat, and the most coquettish of hats, was mounted on her
father’s steady-going roadster, a stalwart animal of prodigious girth,
which contemplated the hounds with unvarying equanimity.