"Well, I have seen you pretty often together, and you must see there is nothing of that kind," said Arden.
"You speak quite frankly, do you? For Heaven's sake don't spare me!" urged Longcluse.
"I say exactly what I think. There can't be any such feeling," said Arden.
Longcluse sighed, looked down thoughtfully, and then, raising his eyes again, he said--
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"You must answer me another question, dear Arden, and I shall, for the present, task your kindness no more. If you think it a fair question, will you promise to answer me with unsparing frankness? Let me hear the worst."
"Certainly," answered his companion.
"Does your sister like anyone in particular--is she attached to anyone--are her affections quite disengaged?"
"So far as I am aware, certainly. She never cared for any one among all the people who admired her, and I am quite certain such a
thing could not be without my observing it," answered Richard Arden.
"I don't know; perhaps not," said Longcluse. "But there is a young friend of yours, who I thought was an admirer of Miss Arden's, and possibly a favoured one. You guess, I daresay, who it is I mean?"
"I give you my honour I have not the least idea."
"I mean an early friend of yours--a man about your own age--who has often been staying in Yorkshire and at Mortlake with you, and who was almost like a brother in your house--very intimate."
"Surely you can't mean Vivian Darnley?" exclaimed Richard Arden. "I do. I mean no other."
"Vivian Darnley? Why, he has hardly enough to live on, much less to marry on. He has not an idea of any such thing. If my father fancied such an absurdity possible, he would take measures to prevent his ever seeing her more. You could not have hit upon a more impossible man," he resumed, after a moment's examination of a theory which, notwithstanding, made him a little more uneasy than he would have cared to confess. "Darnley is no fool either, and I think he is a honourable fellow; and altogether, knowing him as I do, the thing is utterly incredible. And as for Alice, the idea of his imagining any such folly, I can undertake to say, positively never entered her mind."
Here was another pause. Longcluse was again thoughtful.
"May I ask one other question, which I think you will have no difficulty in answering?" said he.
"What you please, dear Longcluse; you may command me." "Only this, how do you think Sir Reginald would receive me?"
"A great deal better than he will ever receive me; with his best bow--no, not that, but with open arms and his brightest smile. I tell you, and you'll find it true, my father is a man of the world. Money won't, of course, do everything; but it can do a great deal. It can't make a vulgar man a gentleman, but it may make a gentleman anything. I really think you would find him a very fast friend. And now I must leave you, dear Longcluse. I have just time, and no more, to keep my appointment with old Mr. Blount, to whom my uncle commands me to go at twelve."
"Heaven keep us both, dear Arden, in this cheating world! Heaven keep us true in this false London world! And God punish the first
who breaks faith with the other!"
So spoke Longcluse, taking his hand again, and holding it hard for a moment, with his unfathomable dark eyes on Arden. Was there a faint and unconscious menace in his pale face, as he uttered these words, which a little stirred Arden's pride?
"That's a comfortable litany to part with--a form of blessing elevated so neatly, at the close, into a malediction. However, I don't
object. Amen, by all means," laughed Arden.
Longcluse smiled.
"A malediction? I really believe it was. Something very like it, and one that includes myself, doesn't it? But we are not likely to earn it. An arrow shot into the sea, it can hurt no one. But oh, dear Arden, what does such language mean but suffering? What is all bitterness but pain? Is any mind that deserves the name ever cruel, except from misery? We are good friends, Arden: and if ever I seem to
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you for a moment other than friendly, just say, 'It is his heart-ache and not he that speaks.' Good-bye! God bless you!"
At the door there was another parting.
"There's a long dull day before me--say, rather, night; weary eyes, sleepless brain," murmured Longcluse, in a rather dismal soliloquy, standing in his slippers and dressing-gown again at the window. "Suspense! What a hell is in that word! Chain a man across a rail, in a tunnel--pleasant situation! let him listen for the faint fifing and drumming of the engine, miles away, not knowing whether deliverance or death may come first. Bad enough, that suspense. What is it to mine! I shall see her to-night. I shall see her, and how will it all be? Richard Arden wishes it--yes, he does. 'Away, slight man!' It is Brutus who says that, I think. Good Heaven! Think of my life-- the giddy steps I go by. That dizzy walk by moonlight, when I lost my way in Switzerland--beautiful nightmare!--the two mile ledge of rock before me, narrow as a plank; up from my left, the sheer wall of rock; at my right so close that my glove might have dropped over it, the precipice; and curling vapour on the cliffs above, that seem about to break, and envelope all below in blinding mist. There is my life translated into landscape. It has been one long adventure--danger--fatigue. Nature is full of beauty--many a quiet nook
in life, where peace resides; many a man whose path is broad and smooth. Woe to the man who loses his way on Alpine tracks, and is benighted!"
Now Mr. Longcluse recollected himself. He had letters to read and note. He did this rapidly. He had business in town. He had fifty
things on his hands; and, the day over, he would see Alice Arden again.
CHAPTER VIII. CONCERNING A BOOT.
EVERAL pairs of boots were placed in Mr. Longcluse's dressing-room. "Where are the boots that I wore yesterday?" asked he.
"If you please, Sir," said Mr. Franklin, "the man called this morning for the right boot of that pair." "What man?" asked Mr. Longcluse, rather grimly.
"Mr. Armagnac's man, Sir."
"Did you desire him to call for it?" asked Mr. Longcluse.
"No, Sir. I thought you must have told some one else to order him to send for it," said Franklin.
"I? You ought to know I leave those things to you," said Mr. Longcluse, staring at him more aghast and fierce than the possible mis-laying of a boot would seem to warrant. "Did you see Armagnac's man?"
"No, Sir. It was Charles who came up, at eight o'clock, when you were still asleep, and said the shoemaker had called for the right boot of the pair you wore yesterday. I had placed them outside the door, and I gave it him, Sir, supposing it all right."
"Perhaps it was all right; but you know Charles has not been a week here. Call him up. I'll come to the bottom of this."
Franklin disappeared, and Mr. Longcluse, with a stern frown, was staring vaguely at the varnished boot, as if it could tell something about its missing companion. His brain was already at work. What the plague was the meaning of this manoeuvre about his boot? And why on earth, think I, should he make such a fuss and a tragedy about it? Charles followed Mr. Franklin up the stairs.
"What's all this about my boot?" demanded Mr. Longcluse, peremptorily. "Who has got it?" "A man called for it this morning, Sir."
"What man?"
"I think he said he came from Mr. Armagnac's, Sir."
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"You think. Say what you know, Sir. What did he say?" said Mr. Longcluse, looking dangerous.
"Well, Sir," said the man, mending his case, "he did say, Sir, he came from Mr.