University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER V.

Claude went back to his hotel in a state of mind
bordering on distraction, but it had the effect to divert
him from the consideration of himself. It seemed that
a fatal duel on his account, in return for an insult
which he had declined to resent, was all that was necessary
to sink him to the lowest depths in the world's
esteem, if not in his own. But that was a less insupportable
reflection than the situation of Mrs. Denham
and the sweet little girl, who were, probably, yet locked
in peaceful slumber, unconscious of the thunderbolt
about to fall upon them. He would have gone
again to the police, but he had no precise information
to give, and he felt sure, too, that it was too late for
interference. There was, however, still a hope. It
was possible either that chance might interrupt the
meeting—or that Elkington might fall—or that, if Denham
should receive a wound, it might not be mortal.
But then the utter recklessness of Denham—his
knowledge of Elkington's affair with the cards—and
the unerring skill, as well as remorseless character of
the latter, recurred to him with an agonizing force.
As he entered the hotel he saw that there was an unusual
confusion. Several waiters were running to and
fro. One of them came up to him quickly as soon as
he saw him.

“You had better go to Madam Denham.”

“Has anything happened?”

“Mr. Denham has gone off.”

“And not yet returned?”

“No.”

He breathed again. He had felt an unutterable fear
on approaching the house.

“Thank God!” he said, “all may yet be well.”

“The lady is in a bad way, sir; she's very ill.”

At this moment a voice from a servant at the top of
the stairs called out,

“Has Mr. Wyndham come in yet?”

“You'd better go to her, sir,” said the landlord. “I
fear something very dreadful has—”

Claude recovered from a momentary faintness,
nerved his heart, and entered the room. All that he
had imagined of horrible was surpassed by Mrs. Denham.
She was pale as death itself. Her hair hung
in disorder about her beautiful and lightly clothed person.
Her eyes were distended with terror, and the
little Ellen clung to her bosom, weeping aloud, and
winding her arms around her neck affectionately, and
repeating,

“Dear sister, my dear, dear sister. He will come,
he will come. He will indeed, indeed he will!”

Mrs. Denham's eyes were perfectly dry and starting
from her head. She looked an image of tragedy
itself. The moment Claude entered she saw him,
for her wild eyes were fixed on the door; she sprang
up with an hysterical laugh, and, rushing upon him as
a lioness on one who had robbed her of her young, she
uttered, in tones that pierced his heart and froze his
blood, the dreadful words:

“Ah! and now then! where's Charles?”

“He is—he is—”

“Is he here? Is he here?”

“No—not here—not this instant.”

“Where is he, then? What have you done with
him?”

“My dearest madam—”

“Is he alive? Is he dead?”

“No, no—God grant — I hope—not—not dead,”
muttered Claude, trembling beneath the powerful agitation
of this scene.

“Is he safe? Will he come? What do you know?
Is there any hope?”

“I think—I believe—”

“What do you know? Speak—as before your God.
If you deceive me!”

Claude turned away, and, pressing his extended hand
against his forehead, shook as one by the bed of the
beloved and the dying.

She released her hold on him, and her hands fell
nerveless by her side.

“Then he is dead. Oh God — oh God—I have
often feared this.” She sank back into a chair.

“Charles—my husband—it is a dream—it is impossible.”

Claude approached her, and took her cold hand in
his.

“My dear friend, hear me. It is too late to deceive
you as to what has occurred. Your husband has gone
out to comply with a strange custom, but we have no
news of him, upon my honour. It is very possible he
he may return—alive—unhurt. Believe me, dearest
madam, there are many reasons to hope—indeed, indeed
there are.”

“I'm sure there are,” said Ellen, climbing up and
again winding her arms around her neck, and covering
her lips, forehead, and face with kisses.

“You do not know anything, then?”

“Nothing.”

“And he may return? His step may be heard—his
beloved image may once more bless my eyes? Hark
—hark”—her face lighted up with intense pleasure —
“it is—it is—ha, ha! ha, ha!” She screamed with
joy, and darted towards the door, which opened and admitted—a
stranger.

The shock was too much for the poor girl. She
would have fallen at full length upon the floor had not

Claude caught her on his arm. He lifted her to the
sofa, and, consigning her to the care of the maid, turned
to the new-comer.

“Who are you, sir—and what is your message?”

“Sir,” said the man, “I am a Commissioner of the
Hotel. I have been sent to the lodgings of Lord Elkington
with directions to let you know when he returned.”

“And he has returned?” said Claude, in a low tone,
and with a shudder of inexpressible horror.

“He has.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

There was a pause. The commissioner then added,

“He will leave town to-night.”

“Did you see him?”

“I did, sir.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was at breakfast, sir.”

“Breakfast?”

“Yes, sir; he said the eggs were boiled thirty seconds
too long.”

“The eggs?”

“And appeared in excellent spirits!”

“Oh, it is certain,” said Claude, “Charles and he
have settled it. I was sure—”

The man shook his head.

“What do you know?” said Claude.

“Nothing.”

Claude paused.

“I will go—I will see him myself. I cannot endure
this.” And he instantly set off for Elkington's
lodgings.