By Virtue of his Office, etc

Front matter

BY VIRTUE OF HIS OFFICE A THE "GREENBACK" SERIES POPULAR 3/6 NOVELS. By AUTHORS OF THE DAY. (Crown Svo, Cloth.) Uniform with " By Virtue of His Office." i. LOUIS DRAYCOTT. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 2nd Edition. 2. GEOFFREY STIRLING. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 5th Edition. 3. BONNIE KATE. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 2nd Edition. 4. A NEW OTHELLO. By Hon. Iza Duffuz Hardy. 2nd Ed. 5. THE MAID OF LONDON BRIDGE. By Somerville Gibney. 3rd Edition. 6. EVELINE WELLWOOD. By Major Norris Paul. 2nd Edition. 7. OLD LATTIMER'S LEGACY. By J. S. Fletcher. 2nd Edition. 8. THAT LITTLE GIRL. By Curtis Yorke. 5th Edition. 9. DUDLEY. By Curtis Yorke. 4th Edition. 10. THE WILD RUTHVENS. By Curtis Yorke. sth Edition. ji. THE BROWN PORTMANTEAU, and other Stories. By Curtis Yorke. 2nd Edition. 12. HUSH ! By Curtis Yorke. 4th Edition. 13.

ONCE ! By Curtis Yorke. 2nd Edition. 14. A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. By Curtis Yorke. 3rd Edition. 15. HIS HEART TO WIN. By Curtis Yorke. 2nd Edition. 16. DARRELL CHEVASNEY. By Curtis Yorke. 17. BETWEEN THE SILENCES. By Curtis Yorke. 18. THE PEYTON ROMANCE. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 3rd Ed. 19. THE GOLDEN MILESTONE. By Scott Graham. 3rd Ed. 20. A RECORD OF DISCORDS. By Curtis Yorke. 2nd Edition. 21. "CHERRY RIPE!" By Helen Mathers. 8th Edition. 22. STORY OF A SIN. By Helen Mathers. 5th Edition. 23. EYRE'S ACQUITTAL. (Sequel.) By Helen Mathers. 4th Ed. 24. JOCK O' HAZELGREEN. By Helen Mathers. 4th Edition. 25. MY LADY GREEN SLEEVES. By Helen Mathers. 6th Ed. 26. FOUND OUT. By Helen Mathers. 103rd Thousand. 27. THE MEDLICOTTS. By Curtis Yorke. 2nd Edition. 28. THE HEART OF A MYSTERY. By T. W. Speight. 29.

MAN PROPOSES. By Mrs. A. Phillips. 2nd Edition. 30. THE LAST OF THE HADDONS. By Mrs. E. Newman. 31. ALLANSON'S LITTLE WOMAN. By Eastwood Kidson. 32. LINDSAY'S GIRL. By Mrs. Herbert Martin. 2nd Edition. 33. WRONGLY CONDEMNED. By Mrs. Bagot Harte. 34. THE THIRTEENTH BRYDAIN. By Margaret Moule. 35. THROUGH ANOTHER MAN'S EYES. By Eleanor Holmes. 36. MRS. WYLDE. By Linda Gardiner. 37. A PRINCE OF COMO. By E. M. Davy. 2nd Edition. 38. RUTH FARMER. By Agnes Marchbank. 1 Thousand 39. THE LOVELY MALINCOURT. By Helen Mathers. Sixth. 40. A GARRISON ROMANCE. By Mrs. Leith Adams, yd Ed 41. HARUM SCARUM. By Esme Stuart. • 42. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE. By Scott Graham. Shortly 43. IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT. By T. W. Speight. Shortly 44. BY VIRTUE OF HIS OFFICE. By Rowland Grey "nor"y' 45. BRITOMART. By Mrs. Herbert Martin.

Chapter I

" SANS TACHE." "The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame." Tennyson. IT was a warm May morning, and the golden sunlight was pouring into a cheerful, luxurious library in one of the few really beautiful houses in London. Breakfast was laid for three upon the well-spread table, though the room had as yet but a single occupant — a short, spare man with a bald head, and a peculiar air of reticence and secrecy manifest in some inexplicable manner in the very cut of his respectable black clothes. Mr. Reid was the embodied ideal of the family lawyer, a type too familiar in fiction and on the stage to need further description or to merit it, and belonging to that order of cold-blooded, correct men of business who appear to have merged their individualities completely in those of their clients.

He looked out of character with the bright colour and comfort around him, and was, indeed, quite oblivious of his surroundings, being absorbed in the perusal of an old letter, and even deaf to the clear voices of two canaries, duetting shrilly in a large gilded cage. "Sir George is late," he thought. "He might have known that time is money to me, just now. Ah ! here he is." But when the door opened, it was only a little boy who ran in, shutting it gently behind him. Mr. Reid was one of those persons who are obviously ill at ease with children, so he merely said awkwardly, " Good morning, my little man." "Good morning," replied the child, in his high, fresh voice ; and then there was a pause. "What is your name?" continued the lawyer, who felt unable to read with those bright, dark eyes fixed inquiringly upon his face.

"Geoffry Pierrepoint Fane," answered the boy. And then, regardless of his unresponsive listener, he ran on gaily, "And I am eight years old to-day ; it is my birthday. I like birthdays." " Because then you have presents ? " suggested the lawyer, who had never given a toy to a child in his life. " Not for that alone, but because every year makes me older, and I shall soon be big enough to wear a sword and fight for the Queen. But papa did give me a nice present to-day. See ! " and he drew out a small silver hunting watch, which bore on the burnished surface of the case a shield, with the inscription, " Sans Tache." "Yes, the family motto," assented Mr. Reid, who was familiar enough with the words, turning his short sighted eyes and spectacles towards the boy's uplifted hand. "And I dare say you can tell me what it means ?

" "Without stain," answered the child quickly. "Papa told me all about it. He showed me the knights in their armour in the gallery at home, and told me they all had those words written on their swords, and how it meant that they only fought for the right. He said they were all honourable men, and that I must be one too. I don't quite know yet all that means, so I shall only try to be like papa. Don't you think he looks like a real knight when he goes to see the Queen ? " But Mr. Reid was silent, for he did not possess a lively imagination, and had probably not con sidered Sir George Fane in this light. The dialogue was here interrupted by the entrance of its subject, a tall, handsome man, with more lines in his face than forty years ought to have traced. He greeted Mr. Reid cordially, and then sat down to breakfast, Geoffry also taking his place at the table.

" I could hear that you were making friends with my son," he said to the lawyer. " He is getting quite a big fellow, and so strong that this year I could not resist bringing him to London. Previously I have always left him at the Court, thinking it healthier. He is such a companion to me that I felt I could not spare him, and his mother is never happy when he is out of her sight." " Is Lady Fane in London ? " asked his listener with some surprise. " Yes. She came up to consult a new doctor ; but she is going down to the Court to-morrow. She is by no means so strong as I could wish, and certainly not fit to run the gauntlet of the season." " Papa, you are not eating anything," interposed Geoffry, after an interval of disjointed conversation. " I am not hungry, my son. I want a ride with you to give me an appetite."

"You will take me in the Row this morning, won't you ? " petitioned Geoffry. " Not to-day, my boy ; I shall be away, very busy, until late." The child's face fell, but he only said in a tone of conviction, " I don't think you ought to be busy on my birthday ; but I don't mind about the pony if you will only take me with you to see the trial." " Trial ! " exclaimed Sir George. " Why, what do you know about trials ? " "All about them," retorted Geoffry confidently. " I heard nurse telling Graham about it one night after I was in bed. They send me to bed much too early, and I can't go to sleep ; so I listen to all they talk about in the day nursery. She said there was a wicked man who had stolen a lot of your money, and that the judge would hang him when he was tried in London. Do you think that is quite true, papa ? because, if so, I should like to go with you and see him.

You know you always let me choose my own treat on my birthday, and I should like best to go with you," His father smiled, and shook his head, saying, "No, Geoff; you would hardly understand, and you would get dreadfully tired of sitting still all day. Besides, I thought Stephen was coming to play with you." The boy's face flushed, and he did not answer for a minute. "Stephen's a muff!" he burst out at last. " Only think, he's three months older than I am, and I can knock him down easily. Besides, we don't care a bit for the same games." " Well, but if you ask him here, you ought to do as he likes. Don't you know, Geoff, that a true gentle man always tries to please his guests, not himself ? " This appeared an unanswerable argument to the boy, who ran out of the room without replying. His father looked at his companion, and said proudly, " Isn't he a fine fellow, Reid ?

" "Yes," replied the other absently, as he unfolded one of a bundle of papers. The careworn expression, which had left Sir George's eyes for a moment, returned instantly, as he asked, " I suppose you have not found any clue ? " " None. The man's guilt is clearly proved ; in fact, he confesses that during the winter he has forged your name repeatedly, and for large sums. But where he obtained specimens of your hand writing is indeed mysterious. Though not American by birth, he is completely naturalised, and has not left New York for many years. Dallas is not a common name, and you would remember any con nection with a man bearing it. It has been a difficult case, and his discovery was one of the cleverest pieces of bank detection I have met with through out my long experience. The strangest part of all is the complete indifference shown by the prisoner since his arrest ; and I believe that not even to his wife could he have divulged the secret of how he became possessed of your signature.

She is, I am told, a very handsome woman, and it would not surprise me if her presence in court excited strong interest and sympathy, and even affected the sentence. But excuse me, Sir George ; I see your carriage at the door." As they passed through the hall, they met little Geoffry, with his dark eyes fixed upon the spirited bays waiting restlessly at the entrance. " Good-bye," he said quite cheerfully. " Good-bye, my son. Where's Stephen ? " " He can't come." The pleading in the boy's expressive face was more than his father could resist, so he said, with a half-apologetic smile at the lawyer, "Well, Geoff, you are a good fellow not to tease. I think I must take you with me, after all ; only you must promise to be very quiet." And so five minutes afterwards they were roll ing rapidly through the sunny streets.

They stopped first at a law-stationer's in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Mr. Reid had some commission; and whilst they waited, a flower-girl came out of dingy Sardinia Street on her way from Covent Garden, carrying a great basket of odorous late white violets that brought with them a breath of spring. "Papa," exclaimed Geoffry, "do let me buy some of those flowers for mamma with my own money. She always likes flowers I bring her best of all when we are at home." The girl, who was loitering slowly along, came to the side of the carriage on hearing these words, and Geoff gave her sixpence, and grasped the fragrant, snowy bunches with both small hands. As Sir George sat idly watching the little scene, he noticed that the flower-seller was pretty ; pale and thin, but with a mass of yellow hair, and dark, starry eyes.

He watched her go down the street until she was out of sight, and when Mr. Reid joined them again, he answered him abstractedly. "That girl was something like her," he thought, and he let his mind slip back over fifteen years to another birthday — his own, "in the morning of life and of May," when he had stood under the fresh green-tasselled larches and white-robed wild cherry trees in the old shrubbery at Fane Court, and spoken passionate words to his first and last love. Yes, his last, though he had long been married to a blue-eyed lady whose image was not likely to be called before him by such a girl as the flower-seller. It was the old story. Since his earliest boyhood there had been a tacit understanding that in due time he should marry his cousin, Adelaide Lea, giving her a title in exchange for wealth which would do much to restore the fallen fortunes of the Fanes to some thing of their former grandeur.

He had never objected, feeling a warm affection for the gentle, delicate girl, who loved him as much as was possible in one of her quiet, equable temperament. Then Lady Fane had taken tall, beautiful Elizabeth Verity as governess for her younger daughters out of pity for a friendless orphan, and she had taught his little sisters contentedly enough. Adelaide had been wintering in Italy for her health when he returned after his first campaign. He remembered now, how, when his stately mother came out to greet him, and his sisters gathered round him with words of welcome, he had only been conscious of one sweet face, and of eloquent eyes which made him forget that he was in honour bound to his cousin. How they had loved each other ! Life was indeed worth living in those warm, golden evenings, when they used to meet, with the white cherry blossoms above them, and the violets clustering thickly at their feet.

It had seemed to George Fane as if no May had ever been like that short moon of forgetfulness, with its tender, mysterious twilights and cool dawns, when they had stood together upon the dewy grass, and he had vowed that she alone should be the queen of his life. Then came the parting, and next the stormy day when he returned to the Court to find his mother had discovered all, and that she had sternly told Elizabeth the truth about her lover ; so that she had gone away, and hidden herself so effectually as to elude even his search. He had been recalled to India on active service soon afterwards, and on his return had married the cousin who had loved him all her life, and who never knew what had taken place whilst she lay ill at Florence. They had been happy enough outwardly, but the ardent boy changed early to a quiet, serious man, never able to forget that he had done his wife an unconfessed wrong.

During the five years of his absence from England he had spared no effort to trace his lost Elizabeth, but in vain ; and when at last he came home, it was to find his mother dying, and his affairs in the utmost confusion. What could he do but make her death-bed peaceful by promising to marry patient Adelaide at once, and not to cloud her happiness by telling her of that bygone love-dream ? For Adelaide had been faithful, with a quiet tenacity that nothing would shake ; and, woman-like, she expected the same fidelity from her long-promised husband. Passion was to her an empty word, and she was perfectly contented with Sir George's quiet consideration for her comfort and happiness, and scarcely understood his enthusiastic devotion to their only child. He never saw Elizabeth Verity, but a letter reached him on his wedding morning, giving him free forgive ness, and conveying wishes for his future which made him understand how loving was the heart he had broken.

And he never forgot. Every spring, when the soft May breezes blew over the gardens of the Court, they brought back with them a memory of that brief golden time which year by year became invested with more of the "tender grace of a day that is dead," and which a busy life, spent in politics and in Society, could never thrust wholly aside. Whilst he was lost in his reverie, the carriage slackened its speed in order to divide the crowd gathered before the doors of the Old Bailey — the usual herd of the idle and curious, waiting to learn the result of a trial. Those who knew who the occupants of the carriage were, regarded it with interest, and Sir George's name was murmured audibly ; whilst many a rough woman's face softened as she looked at the beautiful boy, who sat in silence, with his eyes intently fixed on the crowd around him ; for it was characteristic of Geoffry Fane, then and all his life, that he was quietest when feeling most deeply.

There was, however, one tall lady, dressed in plain black, who made her way quickly towards the door of the court, without bestowing any attention on the bystanders. She wore a long, thick veil, completely hiding her face, and by her side a little girl, three or four years old, toddled along in unsteady baby fashion. Not a pretty child. There was not much childish freshness in the small, pale face, with its strongly marked features ; but, for all that, when the tiny creature smiled, and turned her great grey eyes in the direction of the carriage, Geoffry looked at his father. " Papa, do you see that nice little girl ? She is far younger than I am, and yet her mother brings her to see the trial. I wish she would come and sit by us ; I would take such care of her — just as if she were my sister.

I like her. Look ! she laughs at me." Sir George gave a preoccupied glance in her direction, and noticed as he did so how tenderly her mother clasped her in her arms ; but he could not see through the thick veil the sudden flush that brought back beauty and youth for a moment to a faded face, with deep-set, dark eyes beneath the abundant hair that, once all gold, was now streaked with lines of silver. Presently both mother and child were forgotten even by Geoffry, for in a few moments they were seated in the court, and the attention of the wonder ing boy was riveted first upon the judge and jury, then on the pale, imperturbable face of the man standing motionless in the dock, where the prisoner waited as if careless of his approaching fate, and indif ferent to the ignominy of his position.

But, cold and hardened as was his expression, there was some thing in the bearing of Robert Dallas that showed him to have been once a gentleman. The case was nearly at an end, and a learned counsel was now making the defence for the prisoner — a defence so skilful that most of the listeners were of opinion that it might even yet influence the verdict, in spite of the strong evidence against him. The eloquence of the speaker seemed to have fascinated the hearers, and the most absolute silence prevailed. Above, in a remote gallery, sat an unnoticed woman and child, whose fates were closely knitted with that of the forger on his trial ; yet they alone heard nothing at all of what was passing around them. The child had fallen peacefully asleep in her mother's lap, and tears, to which that mother's eyes had long been strangers, were falling heavily beneath her veil.

Old dreams and old remembrances came vividly before her as she looked on one unconscious man beneath her — the man who had B sworn to cherish and protect her for ever, and who now, in this hour of utmost need, passed her by as a stranger. She forgot, in the rush of bitter-sweet memories that surged through her excited brain, that her face was hidden ; she only wondered how George Fane could have lived to forget Elizabeth Verity. Her long life seemed but a narrow bridge connect ing that fair past with the miserable present. It is said that when people are drowning, their whole existence passes before them as in a vision ; and a similar experience came to Elizabeth, as she sat there with her child in her arms. Hers was an oft-told tale ; the silent renunciation of her lover had been but the momentary heroism of a weak nature, and after two or three years spent in the drudgery she hated, she had married Robert Dallas.

She had not even pretended to care for him ; but he loved her so intensely that at last he had won her to him with promises of happiness in a new country. He confessed that he had led a wild life, but he would reform if she would but accompany him to America ; and at last she had consented, sacrificing for him her only living relative — a brother, with whom her intercourse, even by letter, gradually died out. New York proved no El Dorado for them, and the wife discovered, all too soon, that her husband was hateful to her. His was the lower nature, and her cold indifference drove him to drink and worse. Money began to fail them, and her health broke down, until, in despair, Robert Dallas had forged the name of Sir George Fane to obtain for her the necessaries of life. So blind are we, that it was only now that it came across her where he could have obtained the signature he had so skilfully copied.

During the days she lay unconscious, he must have found the packet she had kept carefully locked away in an old writing-case, where she still treasured the only letters written her by her lover. " Robert must have found them, and replaced them," she thought ; and then, for the first time, she felt some pity mingling with her contempt for the man who had stained her name with his dishonour. " He was very faithful to me in the lies by which he managed to keep me out of this miserable affair. It would have been cruel for me to meet George here." And she looked down again on the grey head and worn face of the Baronet, so old for his years, like and yet unlike the one she remembered. The defence had meanwhile come to an end, and the judge, in clear, incisive tones, had summed up. The jury left the court to consider the verdict.

The prisoner, during these last moments of suspense, had been removed to the cells below the court, the spectators in which were already laughing and talking, oblivious or indifferent to the dreary tragedy being enacted before them. The very counsel, who, by his earnest pleading, had thrilled his listeners but a few moments before, was now chatting cheerfully with his opponents, and discussing the Academy pictures of the year. But little Geoffry Fane could not forget so easily. Child-like, he had been deeply impressed by what he only half understood, and he could not help feeling sorry for the " wicked man." And in truth Robert Dallas was deserving of some pity. He had tried honestly to keep to that straight path from which he had swerved for so many years before he had married ; but he appeared to be born unfortunate, and constant grinding poverty dragged him downwards.

To do him justice, he had worshipped his wife with an entire devotion that might have raised him had she reciprocated or even valued his affection. But he guessed too soon that it was only out of very weariness of her English life that she had consented to be his. All the passion in Elizabeth's nature had been exhausted when she found that George Fane had broken his troth with another before he plighted it to her ; and her heart seemed asleep, until it had been touched by the baby fingers of her little daughter. She never knew that in those unconscious days, when her life was hanging on a mere thread, her husband left his cards and boon companions to watch beside her bed ; and how, driven to extremity for money, he had opened the small desk in the hope of finding some hidden store. Then he had under stood the reason of his wife's coldness, and had used her lover's letters to supply the means of saving her.

He should not be condemned too pitilessly, for it was from no selfish motive that he fell. The jury returned in less than half an hour, and the judge resumed his seat. Elizabeth watched the proceedings as one dreaming, scarcely hearing the question, or the response, given in the single word which sealed the fate of the accused. The judge did not add to the pangs of the prisoner by one un necessary word, and she heard nothing before the terrible, sentence, "Twenty years' penal servitude." She forgot then that she had never loved him ; that he was a forger and a convict ; that he had soiled the whiteness of her darling's name. She only remembered that it was her husband who was thus disgraced, and with a cry that rang through the court she sank back almost fainting. The reporters, carefully noting the prisoner's every movement, were surprised to see that he only smiled at this interruption.

Even in this crisis it gave the man a brief thrill of happiness to realise that his beautiful, cold wife felt for him. And then he was taken out to pass from the old life to that strange, dreadful new one. Meanwhile there was a stir among the listeners, and several ladies had raised their opera-glasses in the direction of the gallery. "The prisoner's wife has fainted, poor thing," said one of them to Sir George. But he had turned very pale, for he recognised the tones of that voice, and needed no glass to show him that the woman slowly making her way from the gallery, supported by some kindly hand, was his old love, Elizabeth Verity. " May I ask you a favour, Mrs. Sinclair ? " he said hurriedly to a lady near him. "Would you be good enough to take Geoff home for me, as I shall be detained here on business of importance ?

" And then, scarcely waiting for her consent, he made his way with difficulty out of the court and down the crowded staircase, in the hope of reaching the gallery door before Elizabeth could pass out. But she had dreaded the chance of such a meeting, and had made haste to get into the street as soon as she recovered full consciousness. The prison authorities afterwards averred that she made no effort even to obtain a parting interview with her husband, and in a few moments she was lost amidst the throng surging round the dark precincts of Newgate. In vain did Sir George make police inquiry in every direction ; Elizabeth and her child were easily and effectually hidden in the heart of the great city. Not a year afterwards she died, by a strange coincidence on the very same day as Lady Fane.

Sir George gave up his seat in Parliament, and retired into the country, where he devoted himself entirely to his son. Society said that his wife's death had broken his heart ; but Society was wrong, as it generally is.

Chapter II. For Bessie's Sake

" Oh, mighty fate, that over us miserable mortals rulest supreme, with what small means are thy ends effected ! With what scornful ease and mean instruments does it please thee to act ! " — Thackeray. MORE than a year after the trial of Robert Dallas, a middle-aged man was sitting peacefully asleep in a large easy-chair, in a small study in an old fashioned house in a quiet provincial town. The room was so still that the purring of the sleek cat, curled comfortably before the glowing fire, seemed to keep time with the regular breathing of the sleeper, from whose hand an old book in a brown cover had slipped gradually down to the shabby carpet. The walls were well lined with books, chiefly scientific, whilst numerous cabinets and cases gave further indications of the tastes of their owner. It was not the habit of Mr. Cuthbert Verity to doze over his beloved studies, but to-day there was every excuse for his taking a little rest in the dull twilight of a sleety, slushy December afternoon.

He had been busy teaching hard, on this, the last day of the term. Boys are proverbially trying when holidays are impending ; and the sense that lessons are about to cease for a season, which to the eye of anticipation looks endless, renders them reckless and careless of a future that seems so very far away on the horizon. They never put out Cuthbert, however ; his temper was of the mildest, and his gentle equanimity caused him to be a general favourite in Stanton School. Had any one watched his calm face in the grey, gathering shadows, the most casual observer would have felt assured that it was that of a good man — one who lived uprightly before God, and even succeeded in gaining the more difficult approval of his neighbours. The aspect of a sleeper is a fair and true index to character, inasmuch as those deceivers, the eyes and mouth, are powerless to assume either of their multifarious disguises.