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.
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Whom God
Hath Joined: A Question of Marriage
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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Title: Whom God Hath Joined: A Question of Marriage

Author: Fergus Hume

Release date: September 17, 2017 [eBook #55571]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by

Google Books (University of Illinois Library)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHOM GOD

HATH JOINED: A QUESTION OF MARRIAGE ***
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books,
https://books.google.com/books/
about/whom_god_hath_joined.html?id=qaJBAQAAMAAJ.
[University of Illinois Library]

2. Lower left corner of page 144 (start of Chapter XVIII.) is

torn
off, partially affecting three lines of text. Lacunae indicated
by [* * *].

WHOM GOD HATH JOINED.

A Question of Marriage.
 BY

FERGUS HUME,

AUTHOR OF

"THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE MAN WITH A SECRET,"

"MONSIEUR JUDAS," etc., etc.

The saying that no one can serve two masters has its exception in
the case of a wife and mother, who is bound by her marriage vows
and maternal instincts to love in equal measure her husband and
children; but alas for the happiness of the family should she love one
to the exclusion of the other, for from such exclusion arise many
domestic heart burnings.

THIRD EDITION.

LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
 14, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1894.

PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, 182, 183 AND 184, HIGH HOLBORN. W.C.,
AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.

CONTENTS

I. Two Friends
II. An Incomplete Madonna
III. The Waning of the Honeymoon
IV. The Art of Conversation
V. An Australian Girl
VI. A Day's Shopping
VII. Lady Errington's Little Dinner
VIII. Eustace Examines His Mind
"Oh, Wilt Thou be my Bride,
IX.
Kathleen?"
X. Auf Wiedersehn
XI. A Maiden Lady
XII. Aunt Jelly's Opinion
XIII. Bringing Home The Bride
XIV. An Undesirable Acquaintance
XV. A Woman Scorned
XVI. The Events of Eighteen Months
XVII. Gossip
XVIII. From Foreign Parts
XIX. Aunt Jelly Discusses Family Affairs
XX. The Old House by the Sea
XXI. From The Husband's Point of View
XXII. From the Wife's Point of View
XXIII. Mrs. Veilsturm's "At Home"
"On Revient Tojours à ses
XXIV.
Premières Amours"
XXV. Fascination
XXVI. Aunt Jelly Interferes
XXVII. The Deity Called Fate
XXVIII. Husband and Wife
XXIX. The Question of Marriage
XXX. Cleopatra Victrix
XXXI. In the Coils of the Serpent
XXXII. What Made the Ball sae Fine?
XXXIII. Pallida Mors
XXXIV. The Assaults of the Evil One
XXXV. For my Child's Sake
XXXVI. The Death of the First-born
XXXVII. The Truth about Mrs. Veilsturm
XXXVIII. The Last Temptation
XXXIX. "And Kissed again with Tears"
XL. A Letter from Home

TO

MY CRITICS,
IN APPRECIATION
OF THE KIND MANNER
IN WHICH THEY HAVE REVIEWED
MY FORMER BOOKS,
I DEDICATE
THIS WORK.
 If marriages are made above,
They're oft unmade by man below,
There should be trust, and joy, and love,
If marriages are made above;
But should Heav'n mate a hawk and dove,
Such match unequal breeds but woe,
If marriages are made above,
They're oft unmade by man below.

WHOM GOD HATH JOINED.

CHAPTER I.

TWO FRIENDS.

"Like doth not always draw to like--in truth Old age is ever worshipful of youth,
Seeing in boyish dreams with daring rife, A reflex of the spring time of its life,
When sword in hand with Hope's brave flag unfurled, It sallied forth to fight the
blust'ring world."
It was about mid-day, and the train having emerged from the
darkness of the St. Gothard tunnel, was now steaming rapidly on its
winding line through the precipitous ravines of the Alps, under the
hot glare of an August sun. On either side towered the mountains,
their rugged sides of grey chaotic stone showing bare and bleak at
intervals amid the dense masses of dark green foliage.

Sometimes a red-roofed châlet would appear clinging swallow-like to

the steep hill-side--then the sudden flash of a waterfall tumbling in
sheets of shattered foam from craggy heights: high above, fantastic
peaks swathed in wreaths of pale mist, and now and then the
glimpse of a white Alpine summit, milky against the clear blue of the
sky.

On sped the engine with its long train of carriages, as though

anxious to leave the inhospitable mountain land for the fertile plains
of Italy--now crawling fly-like round the giant flank of a hill--anon
plunging into the cool gloom of a tunnel--once more panting into the
feverish heat--sweeping across slender viaducts hanging perilously
over foaming torrents--gliding like a snake under towering masses of
rock--and running dangerously along the verge of dizzy precipices,
while white-walled, red-roofed, green-shuttered villages, shapeless
rocks, delicately green forests, snow-clad peaks, and thread-like
waterfalls flashed past the tired eyes of the passengers in the train
with the rapidity of a kaleidoscope.

And it was hot--the insufferable radiance of the southern sun,

blazing down from a cloudless sky, beat pitilessly on the roofs of the
railway carriages, until the occupants were quite worn out with the
heat and glare from which they could not escape.

In one of the first-class carriages two men were endeavouring to

alleviate the discomfort in some measure, and had succeeded in
obtaining a partial twilight by drawing down the dark blue curtains,
but the attempt was hardly successful, as through every chink and
cranny left uncovered, shot the blinding white arrows of the sun-
god, telling of the intolerable brilliance without.

One of the individuals in question was lying full length on the

cushions, his head resting on a dressing-bag, and his eyes half
closed, while the other was curled up in a corner on the opposite
side, with his hands in his pockets, his head thrown back, and a
discontented look on his boyish face, as he stared upward. Both
gentlemen had their coats off, their waistcoats unbuttoned and their
collars loose, trying to make themselves as comfortable as possible
in the sweltering heat.

On the seats and floor of the carriage a litter of books and papers
showed how they had been striving to beguile the time, but human
nature had given in at last, and they were now reduced to a state of
exhaustion, to get through the next few hours as best they could
until their arrival at Chiasso, where they intended to leave the train
and drive over to their destination at Cernobbio, on Lake Como.

"Oh Jove!" groaned the lad in the corner, settling himself into a more
comfortable position, "what a devil of a day."

"The first oath," murmured the recumbent man lazily, with his eyes
still closed, "is apt, and smacks of classic culture suitable to the land
of Italy, but the latter is English and barbaric."

"Oh, bother," retorted his friend impatiently, "I can't do the subject
justice in the way of swearing."

"Then don't try; the tortures of Hades are bad enough without the
language thereof."

"You seem comfortable at all events, Gartney," said the boy crossly.

"St. Lawrence," observed Mr. Gartney, opening his eyes, "had a bed
of roses on his gridiron compared with this eider-down cushion on
which I lie--the saint roasted, I simmer--I'll be quite done by the
time we reach Chiasso."

"I'm done now," groaned his companion. "Do shut up, Gartney, and
I'll try and get some sleep."

Gartney laughed softly at the resigned manner in which the other

spoke, and once more closed his eyes while his friend, following his
example, fell into an uneasy slumber interrupted by frequent sighs
and groans.

He was a pleasant enough looking boy, but not what would be called
handsome, with his merry grey eyes, his rather wide mouth, his
well-cut nose with sensitive nostrils, and his wavy auburn hair
suiting his fair freckled skin; all these taken individually were by no
means faultless, yet altogether they made up a countenance which
most people liked. Then he had a tall, well-knit figure, and as he
dressed well, rode well, was an adept in all kinds of athletic sports,
with exuberant animal spirits and a title, Angus Macjean, Master of
Otterburn, was a general favourite with his own sex, and a particular
favourite with the other.

What wit and humour the lad possessed came from his Irish mother,
who died, poor soul, shortly after he was born, and was not sorry to
leave the world either, seeing it was rendered so unpleasant by her
stern Presbyterian husband. Why she married Lord Dunkeld when,
as a Dublin belle, she could have done so much better, was a
mystery to everyone, but at all events marry him she did with the
aforesaid results, death for herself after a year of unhappy married
life, and an heir to the Macjean title.

Lord Dunkeld was sincerely sorry in his own cold way when she died,
never dreaming, narrow-minded bigot as he was, that life in the
gloomy Border castle was unsuited to the brilliant, impulsive
Irishwoman, and after placing her remains in the family vault, he
proceeded to apply to his son's life the same rules that finished Lady
Dunkeld's existence. The boy, however, had Scotch grit in him as
well as Celtic brilliance, and as he grew up under his father's eye,
gave promise both intellectually and physically of future excellence,
so that when he reached the age of nineteen, he was the pride of
the old lord, and of the endless Macjean clan, who were very proud,
very poor, and very numerous.

But whatever pride Dunkeld felt in the perfections of his heir he took
care never to show it to the lad on the principle that it would make
him vain, and vanity, according to Mr. Mactab, the minister who
looked after the spiritual welfare of the family, "was a snare o' the
auld enemy wha gaes roaring up an' doon the warld." So Angus was
never pandered to in that way, but led a studious, joyless existence,
his only pleasures being shooting and fishing, while occasionally
Dunkeld entertained a few of his friends who were of the same way
of thinking as himself, and made merry in a decorous, dreary
fashion.

At the age of nineteen, however, the lad rebelled against the dismal
life to which his father condemned him, for as the princess in the
brazen castle, despite all precautions, found out about the prince
coming to release her, so Angus Macjean, from various sources,
learned facts about a pleasant life in the outside world, which made
him long to leave the cheerless castle and rainy northern skies for a
place more congenial to the Irish side of his character. With such
ideas, it is scarcely to be wondered at that he became more
unmanageable every day, until Lord Dunkeld with many misgivings
sent him to Oxford to finish his education, but as a safeguard placed
by his side as servant one Johnnie Armstrong, a middle-aged
Scotchman of severe tendencies, who was supposed to be "strong in
the spirit."

So to this seat of learning, Otterburn went, as his progenitors had

gone before him, and falling in by some trick of Fate with a
somewhat fast set, indulged his Irish love for pleasure to the utmost.
Not that he did anything wrong, or behaved worse than the general
run of young men, but his 'Varsity life was hardly one which would
have been approved of by his severe parent or the upright minister
who had nurtured his young intellect on the psalms of David.

Still Johnnie Armstrong!

Alas, for the frailty of human nature, Johnnie Armstrong, the strong
in spirit, the guardian of morality, the prop of a wavering faith,
yielded to the temptations of the world, and held only too readily
that tongue which should have warned Otterburn against the snares
of Belial, for, truth to tell, Johnnie made as complaisant a guardian
as the most dissipated rake could have desired. The world, the flesh,
and the devil was too strong a trinity for Johnnie to stand against, so
he surrendered himself to the temptations of this life in the most
pusillanimous manner, aiding and abetting his young master with
misdirected zeal. Behold then, Angus Macjean and his leal henchman
both fallen away from grace and having a good time of it at Oxford,
so much so, indeed, that Otterburn was quite sorry when his father,
after two years' absence, summoned him to Dunkeld Castle to grace
the ceremony of his coming of age.

That coming of age was a severe trial to Angus, as the guests were
mostly Free Kirk ministers and their spouses, the ministers in lengthy
speeches, exhorting him to follow in the footsteps of his father, i.e.,
support the Free Kirk, make large donations to the funds thereof,
and entertain ministers of that following on all possible occasions.
Otterburn having learnt considerable craft at Oxford, made suitable
replies, promising all kinds of things which he had not the slightest
idea of fulfilling, and altogether produced a favourable impression
both by such guile and by a display of those educational graces with
which Alma Mater had endowed him. It is needless to say that,
aided by the faithful Johnnie Angus did not tell either his father or
Mactab of his gay life at the University, and the result of this
reticence was that the old lord, bestowing on him a small income out
of the somewhat straitened finances of the Macjeans, bade him
enjoy himself in London for a year, and then return to marry.
To marry! Poor Angus was horror-struck at such a prospect, the
more so when his father introduced him to the lady selected to be
his bride, a certain Miss Cranstoun who had a good income, but
nothing else to recommend her to his fastidious taste.

However, being a somewhat philosophical youth, he accepted the

inevitable, for he knew it would be easier to move Ben Nevis than
his father, and trusting to the intervention of a kind Providence to
avert his matrimonial fate, he went up to London with Johnnie to
enjoy himself, which he did, but hardly in the way anticipated by
Lord Dunkeld.

Thinking his marriage with the plain-looking Miss Cranstoun was

unavoidable, he made up his mind to see as much of life as he could
during his days of freedom, and proceeded to do so to his own
detriment, morally, physically and pecuniarily, when he chanced to
meet with Eustace Gartney.

Eustace Gartney, whimsical in his fancies, took a liking to the lonely

lad, left to his own devices in such a dangerous place as London,
and persuaded him to come to Italy hoping to acquire an influence
over the young man and keep him on the right path until his return
to Dunkeld Castle.

There was certainly a spice of selfishness in this arrangement, as

Eustace was attracted by the exuberant animal spirits and Irish wit
of the lad, which formed a contrast to the general run of young men
of to-day, and to his own pessimistic views of life, so, much as he
disliked putting himself out in any way, he determined to stand by
the inexperienced youth, and save him from his impulsive good
nature and love of pleasure.

Lord Dunkeld, deeming it wise that Angus should see something of

Continental life, and having full confidence in the
straightforwardness of Johnnie Armstrong, agreed to the journey,
much to his son's surprise, and this was how The Hon. Angus
Macjean, in company with Eustace Gartney, was in a railway train
midway between St. Gothard and Chiasso.

And Eustace Gartney, poet, visionary, philosopher, pessimist--what of

him? Well, it is rather difficult to say. His friends called him mad, but
then one's friends always say that of anyone whose character they
find it difficult to understand. He was eminently a child of the latter
half of this curious century, the outcome of an over-refined
civilization, the last expression of an artificial existence, and a riddle
hard and unguessable to himself and everyone around him.

For one thing, he always spoke the truth, and that in itself was
sufficient to stamp him as an eccentric individual, who had no
motive for existence in a society where the friendship of its members
depends in a great measure on their dexterity in evading it. Again
Gartney was iconoclastic in his tendencies, and loved to knock down,
break up, and otherwise maltreat the idols which Society has set up
in high places for the purposes of daily worship. The Goddess of
Fashion, the Idol of Sport, the Deity of Conventionalism, all these
and their kind were abominations to this disrespectful young man,
who displayed a lack of reverence for such things which was truly
appalling.

It was not as though he had emerged from that unseen world of the
lower classes, of which the upper ten know nothing, to denounce
the follies and fashions of the hour; no, indeed, Eustace Gartney had
been born in the purple, inherited plenty of money, been brought up
in a conventional manner, and the astonishing ideas he possessed,
so destructive to the well-being of Society, were certainly not derived
from his parents. Both his father and mother had been of the most
orthodox type, and would doubtless have looked upon their son's
eccentricities with dismay had they lived, but as they both finished
with the things of this life shortly after he was born, they were
mercifully spared the misery of reflecting that they had produced
such a firebrand. Indeed they might have checked his radical-
iconoclastic-pessimistic follies at their birth had they lived, but Fate
willed it otherwise, and in addition to robbing Eustace of his parents
had given him careless guardians, who rarely troubled their heads
about him, so that he grew up without discipline or guidance, and
even at the age of thirty-eight years was still under the control of an
extremely ill-regulated mind.

Tall, heavily-built, loose-limbed, with a massive head, leonine masses

of dark hair, roughly-cut features, and keen grey eyes, he gave the
casual observer an idea that he possessed a fund of latent strength,
both intellectual and physical, but he rarely indulged the former, and
never by any chance displayed the latter. Clean-shaven, with a
peculiarly sensitive mouth, his smile--when he did smile, which was
seldom--was wonderfully fascinating, and completely changed the
somewhat sombre character of his face. He usually dressed in a
careless, shabby fashion, though particular about the spotlessness of
his linen, rolled in his gait as if he had been all his life at sea, looked
generally half asleep, and, despite the little trouble he took with his
outward appearance, was a very noticeable figure. When he chose,
he could talk admirably, played the piano in the most brilliant
fashion, wrote charming verses and fantastic essays, and altogether
was very much liked in London Society, when he chose to put in an
appearance at the few houses whose inmates did not bore him.

Without doubt a singularly loveable man; children adored him,

animals fawned on him, and friends, ah--that was the rub, seeing
that he denied the existence of such things, classing them in the
category of rocs, sea-serpents, hippogriffs, and such-like strange
beasts. Therefore dismissing the word friends, which only applies to
uncreated beings, and substituting the word acquaintances, which is
good enough to ticket one's fellow creatures with, the acquaintances
of Mr. Gartney liked him--or said they liked him--very much.

Absence in this case doubtless made their hearts grow fonder, as

Eustace was rarely in England, preferring to travel in the most
outlandish regions, his usual address being either Timbuctoo, the
Mountains of the Moon, or the dominions of Prester John. He had
explored most of this small planet of ours, and had written books in
the Arabian Nights vein about things which people said never
existed, and talked vaguely of yachting in the Polar seas, exploring
the buried cities of Central America, or doing something equally
original. At present, however, he had dismissed these whimsical
projects for an indefinite period, as the marriage of his cousin Guy
Errington and the friendship of Angus Macjean now occupied his
attention.

Then again his last book of paradoxical essays had been a great
success, as everybody of his acquaintance, both friends and foes,
abused it--and read it. The critics, who know everything, had
denounced the book as blasphemous, horrible, coarse, drivelling,
with the pleasing result that it had an exceptionally large sale; and
although most people, guided by the big dailies, said they were
shocked at the publication of such a book, yet they secretly liked the
brilliant incisive writing, and wanted to lionise the author, but
Eustace getting wind of the idea promptly betook himself to the
Continent in order to escape such an infliction.

It was impossible that such a peculiar personage could be happy,

and Eustace certainly was not, as his fame, his money and his
prosperity were all so much Dead Sea fruit to his discontented mind.
And why? Simply because he was one of those exacting men who
demand from the world more than the world, which is selfish in the
extreme, is prepared to give, and because he could not obtain the
moon sulked like a naughty child at his failure to attain the
impossible.

If he made a friend, he then and there demanded more than the

most complaisant friend could give, so his friendship always ended in
quarrels, and he would then inveigh against the heartlessness of
human nature simply because he could not make his friend a slave
to his whims and fancies.
He had been in love, or thought so, many times, but without any
definite result, as he had a disagreeable habit of analysing
womankind too closely; and as they never by any chance came up to
the impossible standard of perfection he desired, the result was
invariably the same, irritation on his side, pique on the woman's, and
ultimate partings in mutual disgust. Then he would retire from the
world for a time, nurse his disappointment in solitude, and emerge
at length with a series of bitter poems or a volume of cynical essays,
in which he summarised his opinions regarding his last failure in love
or friendship. A bitter man, a discontented man, absurdly exacting,
intolerant of all things that were not to his liking, yet withal--strange
contrast--a loveable character.

Angus Macjean therefore was his latest friend, but it was not
altogether a selfish feeling, as he was genuinely anxious to save the
friendless lad from the dangerous tendencies of an impulsive nature;
nevertheless, his liking was not entirely disinterested, seeing that he
enjoyed the bright boyish nature of Otterburn, with his impossible
longings, and his enthusiastic hero-worship of himself. So this spoilt
child, pleased with his new toy, saw the world and his fellow men in
a more kindly light than usual, and, provided the mood lasted, there
was a chance that the happy disposition of Macjean might
ameliorate to some extent the gloom of his own temperament.

On his part, Angus was flattered by the friendship of such a clever

man, and moreover secretly admired the cynicism of his companion,
though, truth to tell, he did not always understand the vague
utterances of his oracle, for Gartney was somewhat enigmatic at
times. Still on the whole Angus liked him, and his enthusiastic nature
led him to enuow his idol with many perfections which it certainly
did not possess.

Thus these two incongruous natures had come together, but how
long such an amicable state of things would last was questionable.
There was always the fatal rock of boredom ahead, upon which their
friendship might be wrecked, and if Gartney grew weary of
Otterburn or Otterburn of Gartney, the result would be--well the
result was still to come.

CHAPTER II.

AN INCOMPLETE MADONNA.

"She is a maid
Who hath a look prophetic in her eyes,
A longing for--she knows not what herself; Yet if by chance when kneeling
rapt in prayer, She raised her eyes to Mother Mary's face, Within her breast
a thought--till then unguessed, Amazing all her dreamings virginal, Would
show her, by that vision motherly, The something needed to complete her
life."

"Then what is she?"

"She is an Incomplete Madonna."

They were near the end of their journey when Gartney made this
reply, and having reduced the chaos of books and papers into
something like order, they were both sitting up with their garments
in a more presentable condition, smoking cigarettes, and talking
about the Erringtons.

This family, consisting of two people, male and female, bride and
bridegroom, were staying at the Villa Tagni on Lake Como, and Sir
Guy Errington, being a cousin of Gartney's, had asked his eccentric
relative to pay them a visit while in the vicinity, which he had
consented to do. This being the case, Otterburn, who, unacquainted
with the happy pair, except as to their name and relationship to his
friend, was cross-examining Eustace with a view to finding out as
much as he could about them before being introduced.

Sir Guy, according to his cynical cousin, was a handsome young

fellow, with three ideas of primitive simplicity in his head, namely,
shooting, hunting, and dining. Quite of the orthodox English type,
according to the Gallic "it's-a-fine-day-let-us-go-and-kill-something"
idea, so Otterburn, having met many such heroes of sporting
instincts, asked no more questions regarding the gentleman, but
being moved by the inevitable curiosity of man concerning woman,
put the three orthodox questions which form a social trinity of
perfection in masculine eyes.

"Is she pretty?"

Silence on the part of Mr. Eustace Gartney.

"Is she young?"

Still silence, but the ghost of a smile on the thin lips.

"Is she rich?"

Oracle again mute, whereupon the exasperated worshipper queries

more comprehensively:

"Then what is she?"

Vague, enigmatic answer of the oracle:

"She is an Incomplete Madonna."

Otterburn stared in puzzled surprise at this epigrammatic response

to his boyish cross-examination, and after a bewildered pause burst
out laughing.

"You're too deep for me, Gartney," he said at length, blowing a cloud
of thin blue smoke. "I don't understand that intellectual extract of
beef wherein the qualities of one's friends are boiled down into a
single witty phrase."

This reply pleased Eustace, especially as he was conscious of having

said rather a neat thing, so glancing out into the brilliant world of
sunshine to see how far they were from their destination, he lighted
another cigarette and explained himself gravely:

"I am very fond of ticketing my friends in that way, as it saves such

a lot of trouble in answering questions; if you asked me what I
should like in my tea, I should not answer 'the sweet juice of cane
crystallized into white grains.' No! I should simply say 'sugar,' which
includes all the foregoing; therefore when you ask me to describe
Lady Errington, I say she is an incomplete Madonna, which is an
admirable description of her in two words."

"This," remarked Otterburn, somewhat annoyed, "is a lecture on the

use and abuse of epigrams. I don't want to know about epigrams,
but I do want to know about Lady Errington. Your two-word
description is no doubt witty, but it doesn't answer any of my
questions."

"Pardon me, it answers the whole three."

"I don't see it."

"Listen then, oh groper in Cimmerian gloom. You ask if Lady

Errington is young--of course, the Madonna is always painted young.
Is she pretty? The Madonna, as you will see in Italian pictures, is
absolutely lovely. Is she rich? My dear lad, we well know Mary was
the wife of a carpenter, and therefore poor in worldly wealth. Ergo, I
have answered all your questions by the use of the phrase
incomplete Madonna."

"A very whimsical explanation at best, besides, you have answered

more than I asked by the use of the word incomplete--why is Lady
Errington incomplete?"
"Because she is not yet a mother."

"Oh, confound your mystic utterances," cried the Master, comically,

"do descend from your cloudy heights and tell me what you mean. I
gather from your extremely hazy explanation that Lady Errington is
young, pretty, and poor, also that she is not a mother. So far so
good. Proceed, but for heaven's sake no more epigrams."

"I'm afraid the beauty of an epigram is lost on you Macjean?"

"Entirely! I am neither a poet nor a student, so don't waste your

eloquence on me."

"Well, I won't," answered Gartney, smiling. "I'll have pity on your

limited understanding and tell you all about Alizon Errington's
marriage in plain English."

"Do, it will pass the time delightfully until we leave this infernal
train.'

"Lady Errington, my young friend," said Eustace leisurely, "is what

you, with your sinful misuse of the Queen's English, would call 'a
jolly pretty woman,' of the age of twenty-five, but I may as well say
that she looks much older than that--this is no doubt the peculiar
effect of the life she led before her marriage."

"On the racket," interposed Otterburn, scenting a scandal.

"Nothing of the sort," retorted Gartney, severely. "Lady Errington has

led the life of a Saint Elizabeth."

"Never heard of her. The worthy Mactab didn't approve of saints, as

they savoured too much of the Scarlet Woman."

"At present I will not enlighten your ignorance," said Eustace drily,
"it would take too long and I might subvert the training of the
excellent Mactab which has been such a signal success with you."
Otterburn grinned at this fine piece of irony, but offered no further
interruption, so Eustace went on with his story.

"I knew Lady Errington first--by the way, in saying I know her, I
don't mean personally. I have seen her, heard her speak and met her
at the houses of friends, but I have never been introduced to her."

"Why not?"

"I don't know if I can give any particular explanation; she didn't
attract me much as Alizon Mostyn, so I did not seek to know her, nor
did she ever show any desire to make my acquaintance, so beyond
knowing each other by sight we remained strangers, a trick of Fate,
I suppose--that deity is fond of irony."

"You're becoming epigrammatic again," said Otterburn, warningly,

"proceed with the narrative."

Eustace laughed, and took up the thread of his discourse without

further preamble.

"Lady Errington is the daughter of the late Gabriel Mostyn, who was
without doubt one of the biggest scoundrels who ever infested the
earth, that is saying a great deal considering what I know of my
friends, but I don't think it is exaggerated. He was a man of good
family, and being a younger son, was, in conformity with that
ridiculous law of English primogeniture, sent out into the world with
a younger son's portion to make his way, which he did, and a very
black way it was. Why a man with a handsome exterior, a clever
brain, and a consummate knowledge of human nature, should have
devoted all those advantages to leading a bad life I don't know, but
the wicked fairy who came to Gabriel Mostyn's cradle, had
neutralised all the gifts of her sisters by the bestowal of an evil soul,
for his career, from the time he left the family roof until the time he
died under it, was one long infamy.
"He was a diplomatist first, and was getting on capitally, being
attaché at the Embassy at Constantinople, when he was caught
selling State secrets to the Russian Government somewhere about
the time of the Crimean War, and as the affair was too glaring to be
hushed up, he was kicked out in disgrace. After this disagreeable
episode he led a desultory sort of existence, wandering about the
Continent. He was well known at the gambling hells, and his
compatriots generally gave him a pretty wide berth when they
chanced to meet him. In Germany he married a charming woman, a
daughter of a Baron Von Something, and settled down for a time.
However, to keep his hand in, he worried his poor wife into her
grave, and she died three years after the marriage, leaving him two
children--a son and the present Lady Errington.

"Mrs. Mostyn had some property of her own, which she left to her
son, and in the event of the son's death the husband was to inherit.
It was a foolish will to make, knowing as she must have done her
husband's disposition, and it was rather a heartless thing for the
mother to leave her daughter out in the cold. No doubt, however,
the astute Gabriel had something to do with it. At all events he did
not trouble much about his children, but leaving them to the care of
their German relatives, went off to Spain, where he was mixed up in
the Carlist war, much to the delight of everyone, for they thought he
might be killed.

"The devil looks after his own, however, and Mostyn turned up at the
conclusion of the war minus an arm, but as bad as ever. Then he
went off to South America, taking his son with him."

"There was nothing very bad in that, at all events," said Otterburn,
who was listening with keen interest.

"Shortly after he arrived at Lima the son disappeared."

"The devil!" interrupted Angus, sitting up quickly; "he surely didn't

kill the boy?"
"That is the question," said Eustace grimly, "nobody knows what he
did with him, but at all events the boy disappeared and was never
heard of again. There was some of that eternal fighting going on
between the South American Republics, and Mostyn said the lad had
been shot, but if he was," pursued Gartney slowly, "I believe his
father did it."

"Surely not--he had no reason."

"You forget," observed Eustace sardonically, "I told you the boy
inherited his mother's money, that was, no doubt, the reason, for
Mostyn came back to Europe alone, claimed the money, and after
obtaining it with some difficulty, soon squandered it on his own
vicious pleasures. Then, as a reward for such conduct, his elder
brother died without issue, and Mr. Gabriel Mostyn, blackguard,
Bohemian and suspected murderer, came in for the family estates."

"The wicked flourish like a green bay tree," observed Angus,

remembering the worthy Mactab's biblical readings in a hazy kind of
way, and misquoting Scripture.

"The wicked man didn't flourish in this case," retorted Eustace,

promptly. "Nemesis was on his track although he little knew it. He
took his daughter back with him to England, duly came into
possession of the estate, and tried to white-wash his character with
society. His reputation, however, was too unsavoury for anyone to
have anything to do with him, so in a rage he returned to his old
ways and outdid in infamy all his previous life. No one was cruel
enough to enlighten his daughter, whom he had left in seclusion at
the family seat, and she remained quite ignorant of her father's
conduct, which was a good thing for her peace of mind.

"For some years Mostyn, defying God and man, pursued his evil
career, but at length Nature, generous in lending but cruel in
exacting, demanded back all she had lent, and he was struck down
in the full tide of his evil prosperity by a stroke of paralysis."
"Served him jolly well right," observed Otterburn heartily.

"So everybody thought. Well, he was taken down to his country

house, and there for four terrible years Alizon Mostyn devoted
herself to nursing him. What that poor girl suffered during those four
years no one knows nor ever will know, for despite the blow which
had fallen on him, Gabriel Mostyn was as wicked as ever, and I
believe his curses and blasphemy against his punishment were
something awful. No one ever came to see him but the doctors,
although I was told a clergyman did attempt to make some enquiries
after his soul, but retreated in dismay before the foul language used
by the old reprobate. His daughter put up with all this, and in spite
of the persuasions of her friends, who tried to take her away from
that terrible bed-side, she attended him to the end with devoted
affection. She saw him die, and from all accounts his death-bed was
enough to have given her the horrors for the rest of her life, for only
his lower extremities being paralysed, they said he tore the
bedclothes to ribbons in his last paroxysm, cursing like a fiend the
whole time."

"And did she stay through it all?"

"Yes! till the breath was out of his wicked old body. I believe his last
breath was a curse, and just before he died it took two men to hold
him down by main force in the bed."

"Great heavens! how awful," ejaculated Otterburn in a shocked tone;

"what a terrible scene for that poor girl to witness--and afterwards?"

"Oh, afterwards she came up to London," replied Gartney, after a

pause; "the old man had got rid of all the property, and even the
Hall was so heavily mortgaged that it had to be sold. She stayed
with some relatives, and there was some talk of her becoming a
Sister of Mercy. I dare say she would have done so, her vocation
evidently being in the Florence Nightingale line, had she not met