“Harold,” she answered quickly. “I used to think I should never give anyone his place in my heart. But you have stolen the first place. He is only second now, poor dear—dead or living, only second.”
The tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke of him. A brother is not often loved so fondly; hardly ever, unless he is a scamp.
And would she marry him, Jack Vansittart, if she knew that he had killed her brother? Alas, no! That dark story would make an impassable gulf between them. Loving him with all her heart, dependent upon him for all the happiness and prosperity of her future life, she would sacrifice herself and him to the manes of that worthless youth, slain by the man his brutality had provoked to responsive violence.
“There was not much to choose between us,” Vansittart told himself; “ruffians both. And are two lives to be blighted because of those few moments of fury, in which the brute got the upper hand of the man? No, a thousand times no. I will marry her, and let Fate do the worst to us both. Fate can but part us. Why should I anticipate evil by taking the initiative? A man who has happiness in his hand and lets it go, for any question of conscience, may be a fine moral character, but he is not the less a fool. Life is not long enough for scruples that part faithful lovers.”
He looked the situation full in the face. He told himself that it was for Eve’s welfare as well as for his own that he should keep from her the knowledge of his wrongdoing. Would she be happier, would mankind be any the better off for his self-abnegation, if he should tell her the truth, and accept his dismissal? Knowing what he knew she could scarcely lay her hand in his and take him for her husband; but once the vow spoken, once his wife, he thought that she might forgive him even her brother’s blood.
She must never know! He had blustered and raged in that troubled scene with Sefton; but sober reflection taught him that if he were to be safe in the future he must conciliate the man he hated. A word from Sefton could spoil his happiness; and he could not afford to be ill friends with the man who had power to speak that word; nor could he afford to arouse that man’s suspicions by any eccentricity of conduct. He had refused to hear the story of Harold Marchant’s life from the courier’s lips, as Sefton suggested, had refused with scornful vehemence. But reflection told him that he ought to examine the courier’s chain of evidence, and to discover for himself if the links were strong enough to make Harold Marchant’s identity with Fiordelisa’s lover an absolute certainty. He wanted to know the worst, not to be deluded by the illogical imaginings of an amateur detective. Again, it was natural that a man in his position should look closely into this story, testing its accuracy by the severest scrutiny; and he wanted to act naturally, to act as Sefton would expect him to act.
Influenced by these considerations, he called in Tite Street on Monday afternoon, and found Sefton at home, in a room which occupied the entire first floor of a small house, but which could be made into two rooms by drawing a curtain.
It was the most luxurious room that Vansittart had seen for a long time, but there was a studied sobriety in its luxury which marked the man of sense as well as the sybarite. The colouring was subdued—dull olive—without relief save from a few pieces of old Italian ebony and ivory work, a writing-table, a coffer, a bookcase. Every inch of the floor was carpeted with dark-brown velvet pile. No slippery parquetry or sham oak here, no gaudy variety of Oriental prayer-rugs or furry trophies of the chase. Capacious armchairs tempted to idleness; a choice selection of the newest and oldest books invited to study; two large windows looking east and west flooded the room with light; and a fireplace wide enough for a baronial hall promised heat and cheerfulness when frosts and fogs combine to make London odious.
“You like my den,” said Sefton, when Vansittart murmured his surprise at finding so good a room in so small a house. “Comfortable, ain’t it? The house is small, but I’ve reduced the number of rooms to three. Below I have only a dining-room; above, only my bedroom. There is a rabbit-hutch at the back of the landing for my valet, and a garret in the roof for the women. Living in a colony of artists, I have taken pains to keep clear of everything artistic. I have neither stained glass nor tapestry, neither Raphael ware nor bronze idols; but I can offer my friends a comfortable chair and a decently cooked dinner. I hope you’ll put my professions to the test some evening, when I can get one or two of my clever neighbours to meet you.”
Vansittart professed himself ready to dine with Mr. Sefton on any occasion, and straightway proceeded to the business of his visit.
“You were good enough to suggest that I should see the courier, Ferrari,” he said, “and I was impolite enough to refuse—rather roughly, I fear.”
“You were certainly a little rough,” answered Sefton, with his suave smile, “but I could make allowances for a man in your position. I honour the warmth of your feelings; and I admire the chivalry which makes you indifferent to the belongings of the woman you love.”
“That which you are pleased to call chivalry, I take to be the natural conduct of any man in such circumstances. Honestly, now, Mr. Sefton, would you give up the girl you love if you found
