Through One Man's Sin

Chapter I Character Reading

The lecture was over. One by one the car riages rolled away, making a noisy rattle over the pebbles of the little, old-fashioned town. Crowds of busily talking people pushed their way into the open air, and the phrenologist, buttoning on his overcoat, prepared to follow. He was thoroughly out of temper, and the miserable chilliness of the atmosphere was not improving. He was seeing the loveliest of England's towns at a disadvantage, for there had been nothing but rain since he came. The drizzle still continued, so that a thin, white mist hid, even in the daylight, that beauty which has fallen in so large a share on certain parts of Yorkshire. He hurried on quickly, past the antiquated A shops, and gangs of idle men who were loung ing at the corners, and in a few minutes was in the dimly-lit room of his lodging.

He threw off his overcoat, drew up a chair to the fire, kicked off his boots in a way that endangered the glass of the fancy-work screen. He was heartily disgusted and tired of everything. Amongst the whole crowd of listeners to night, not one had stopped for a friendly handshake, from none had he received an appreciative comment upon his lecture ; and this is what a man always thirsts and longs for when he knows that his work has been unusually good. He had given offence ; and, as he sat thinking, he almost wished that he had left out those several sharp hits at the people before him. With three days in the town, he had got a good insight into the characters of its occupants, and, of course, in his lecture, how could he resist speaking strongly of what he had seen in that time ? Murmurs of disapproval, almost rising to a hiss, had urged him on.

It had amused him then ; it amused him still, and made the empty room echo with a long, sarcastic laugh. The Professor was in no mood for reading, so he idly toyed with the papers beside him, and cursed the damp weather that kept him indoors. The room was growing darker ; the rain had found its way down to the red, glowing coals. He sprang to his feet, and groped all around for the matches, hopelessly knocking down chair after chair. A hunt in the dark is try ing to patience. He pulled at the bell-rope and brought the old landlady post-haste up stairs. The light revealed secrets hidden be fore — an unopened letter lay on the table. He eagerly seized it, tore open the envelope. The contents brought all his good temper back in an instant. The trembling landlady was put quite at her ease when she murmured a dozen apologies for having forgotten to deliver the letter when it first arrived.

It was only an invitation to dinner, he told her ; but that invitation was more to him than he cared to acknowledge. He, who had lingered before the great gates of the Grammar School, watching with eager eyes the movements of the headmaster as he paced up and down the long gravel walk, could not look lightly on the opportunity of sitting at his table, of hearing him talk, and of getting an insight into a character which puzzled even a quick perception like his own. He performed a hasty toilet, and was soon on the road amidst wind and rain. The school stood opposite to the master's house — a great, grey stone building, terrifying in aspect as its owner. The blinds of the windows were up to the top, and the longing faces of night-robed schoolboys pressed close to the panes, their bright eyes peering forth into the darkness — enjoyment of the fun of watching being mixed with the terror of being caught out of bed, by the master on duty.

The Professor was late. He went up the broad staircase two steps at a time. The guests were at dinner ; their laughing voices reaehed him as he lingered, before entering the room. It was interesting to stand outside that door; by nature he was an eavesdropper ; as a child he had listened at the keyhole to his sisters' secrets, and then surprised them by either appearing suddenly on the scene, or afterwards bringing out in his conversation things of which they thought he had no idea. ' Really,' began Miss Radnor, who had at tended the lectures from the day they began, and prided herself on the flattering chart her wealth had procured, ' I cannot see why this phrenologist should be so much disliked. For my part, I admire a man who has the courage to speak out ; it has made him a universal favourite at other places.

In Dorset, where he lectured, the hall was always crowded.' ' Most likely,' replied her friend, wisely shak ing her head, ' but our townspeople, having got common sense, don't go mad on a travelling quack who pops upon the scene like a marion ette. They are not carried away by a pair of fine black eyes and an eloquent tongue. No ; we want a man to prove his worth before we accept him, and until he can do that we do not deem him worthy. I should like to see this fellow, however, before I could give a decided opinion.' 'You will soon have the chance of doing so; the Professor is to be one of Mr Darrington's guests to-night,' said a young man from the opposite side of the table. He had a thin, re fined face, a well-shaped, classical head, deep, lucid eyes, and a mouth which spoke of in domitable courage and will.

He was the great musician of the little town, whom the mis chievous boys nicknamed ' Long Bill,' on ac count of his height, his long legs and arms. The ladies looked up in surprise — William Monteith always seemed too much bored with dinner-party conversation to care to take part in it ; besides, he never could bring himself to talk for talking's sake. He knew his reserve was scarcely polite to the company; but, at the same time, he knew that not one before him could beat him in argument, that if they ap proached any interesting subject, it would be he who could silence opinions and triumphantly bear the colours away from the field. ' A character reader at the table ! ' cried Miss Radnor, who was the first to recover from sur prise. ' Now, Hilda, what do you think of that ? You refused to attend his lectures.

Now the man is going to be brought before you.' ' I don't like it,' replied her friend ; ' there's something uncanny about these men, who turn your faces into books, and read them with equal interest, too. It's not natural. It's like witch craft. If palmistry is stopped, why shouldn't it be?' ' Because it's an easy living for a fellow that's hard up,' replied a fat, old baron, who was on a visit to the school, and had been listening with the keenest interest to their conversation. ' All the chap has to do is to mount upon a plank, to get his audience before him and make them believe a lot of lies about themselves. I don't approve of character reading ; I never did. I agree with those who say it should be stopped.' ' Perhaps when you get into Parliament you'll cry out for a law to prevent it,' spoke a sudden voice, attractive and musical ; someone had stepped into the room, and before anyone knew it ; they were all looking at him — held as it were by the effects of magnetism from the depths of his strange, mesmeric eyes.

This was the Professor ! — this slim, slight figure with the overhanging brow, the masses of silky, black hair, the huge moustache which hid the character of the mouth ; and above all, the eyes ! Few could meet them without experienc ing that power which had astonished the guests to-night. ' Hanged ! I can't account for it,' whispered the Baron to William Monteith; 'but that fellow has got something terrifically fascinating about him ; he may be a penniless vagrant, aping the aristocracy, but there's something unusual, very unusual, in his appearance.' For a moment the young man made no reply, but his brow grew dark at the Baron's words. ' Is he not charming, Mr Monteith ? ' asked Miss Radnor, wondering at his silence. ' False charms go a long way in society,' answered cynical William Monteith, continuing his dinner.

Meanwhile, the schoolmaster had risen and extended his hand to his guest, his sharp, white teeth glittering in a smile — such a smile as he generally gave to a homesick boy, or before he commenced to cane from top to bottom of a class. ' Better late than never, I suppose,' said the Professor, taking the offered seat, and casting a swift, keen glance round the table. 'Your in vitation must have been mislaid ; I only received it half-an-hour ago, when I got back from my lecture.' ' Ah ! your lecture,' cried Miss Radnor, anxious to let him know of her presence ; ' our townspeople seldom have the benefit of these sort of things, and yet I believe there is nothing like a good speaker for rousing an audience. This town is asleep ; the intellect of many a scholar lies dormant for want of use.' ' But education is not behind,' vindictively spoke up one of the masters, feeling the remark an insult to the town he loved. ' Sedgemond is packed as full of schools as of — ' ' Old maids,' supplied the Professor. ' I heard there were over one hundred on the topmost shelf — fifty halfway up — and dozens that design ing manners were guarding from the shelves.' ' It's the right sort of place for an unmarried man like yourself,' said Mr Darrington, showing all his white teeth as he spoke. ' You'll have plenty of admirers among these old maids.

They scoff at the woman who does not get married — but what of the man ? ' 'With a man it is different,' laughed the Professor ; ' he has but to propose to the first girl he meets and he is sure of a wife. If a man does not marry, you know it's because he had not the intention ; if a woman does not, you know she had not the chance.' ' You are wrong,' cried William Monteith, with a sharpness of temper that startled them all ; 'a man has no right to make such a rough guess at the character of woman before he has first properly studied it.' ' Before he has studied it ! ' roared the old Baron, whose face had grown red with trying to keep back the laughter that threatened to choke him. ' Why, the Professor reads character like you do music.' ' To find music's harmony we must study it,' replied William Monteith. 'We don't get the beauty by making a guess.' ' But there are jars in music,' said the Pro fessor, fixing his keen eyes upon that interesting face. ' Certainly,' responded Monteith, ' but those are toned down by harmony ; we don't choose out the discord and strike it alone ; after long years of study it would pain us too much.

You have taken up character reading as a profession, but you have rested content with skimming the surface. You have neglected the scientific accuracy that such an important subject needs, and so your music is without harmony — your painting without lights and shadows.' The Professor was not one who cared to be put down in opinion, but he knew that to-night he had met with his match. The young man who spoke so boldly was as great a character reader as himself. His perception was acute, his conclusions correct and to the point ; he was one of those few men who could not be imposed upon. Seeing that further argument would only prove fatal — avoiding the appearance of it — the Professor backed from his ground by adroitly turning the subject. ' Who was that young man who so neatly put down the great Professor ? ' asked the Baron, as he walked the conservatory with Miss Radnor leaning on his arm. ' I'm not one to take a fancy easily, but that young fellow has completely won me ; there's something noble in his face.' Miss Radnor's green eyes squinted up at the Baron. ' What ! have you not heard of Long Bill ? ' she asked gaily. ' He is engaged to be married to Beatrice Darrington.

At last they have got her father's consent. I suppose he stormed and raved when he was first asked, for William Monteith, though a doctor in music, is, I should say, very poor ; such men always are. They met at a concert some years ago, and fell madly in love with each other at first sight. Mr Darrington knew nothing of this, however, but had the young man constantly up at the school teaching the boys, and this gave the two every opportunity of seeing each other. The lover was, however, wise enough to wait until he had passed his examinations ; then he came forward in all his smart colours and put forth his claim. Mr Darrington had to give in, though of course it was keen disappointment at the time ; and even yet people talk and say what a foolish thing she has done.' ' I'm surprised,' said the Baron, mopping his forehead ; ' the thing is unreasonable in the extreme.

Darrington must be a fool to give his consent. That young man impressed me strangely ; he is a genius, no doubt ; but is Beatrice the wife for a man who has genius and no money behind it? How will she do to settle down in a house of just moderate size, and without a long string of servants? Of course, they forget all these things in the hotness of love ; but a practical man should be wiser — he ought to consider the consequences. Imagine that girl, who has never done a hand's turn for herself, attempting to manage a house. If Darrington were rich, the thing would be different ; he could pay for the extras that he knew she would need. But from all I hear, he is not in the affluent circumstances he once was.

I suppose it's as much as he can do to keep his own affairs straight' ' But that is quite wrong,' said Miss Radnor, quickly. ' It is possible that he cannot afford to be foolishly generous, but I know for a fact that he has quite enough to keep up an appearance of wealth, though he has had many serious losses lately; then schools are so fluctuating ; but still he has money in prospect at the death of his brother.' ' I hope no one has money in prospect at my death,' chuckled the Baron, who always saw the humorous side of a thing. ' Why, his brother is ten years younger than himself!' ' Nine,' corrected Miss Radnor ; ' but then, you see, he's been delicate for years.' ' So have I,' laughed the Baron. ' But it's we delicate ones who last the longest ; still, if he has the money in prospect — the two are young enough yet — they had better wait a few years ; it will give a good chance of a better beginning.' Miss Radnor pursed up her lips in a way that very plainly told she was not too well pleased. ' Mr Darrington cannot marry with daughters at home,' she began ; ' they are preventing him doing what he has been looking forward to, and what he intends to do one day.' 'What!' shrieked the Baron. 'You don't mean to tell me — ' ' Oh, yes ; it's quite true,' replied Miss Rad nor, who saw there was no drawing back now that the step had been taken ; ' but it won't come to pass yet, for Muriel keeps such a child.

Many girls are quite grown up at six teen ; you see she lets her hair hang all about her face ; she won't have it coiled on the top of her head ; and it's such fluffy hair, it gives her a babyish look. She can't expect to marry like that ; no man would want such a doll of a wife.' ' One at a time, if you please,' said the Baron. ' It is enough to know that the elder's fate is decided before we begin to talk about the younger. Have you any idea who has thrown her spell over the man that he should want to get married himself? Why, we've been friends twenty years ! I knew his first wife, and wher ever he goes, he'll not get such another.' * How charmingly complimentary you are ! ' said the lady, laughing and blushing. ' Who could have expected so much at your hands ? ' ' Great Scot ! ' yelled the Baron, stopping abruptly and dropping her arm. ' You don't mean to tell me that you are that other ? ' Miss Radnor cast up a glance, which was meant to be coquettish and pretty, but it only disgusted the sensible man at her side.

Burn ing indignation filled his heart. What was Darrington thinking about to get this vain, frivolous thing for a wife ? How could he entertain the idea of giving up his daughters to make place for her ! The hopes of a dowry for the musician fell to the ground. He hated the injustice of it all, and he pitied the two motherless girls from the depths of his heart. ' I hope you'll be kind to that child, anyway,' he said, with an inclination of his head towards a slight, girlish figure leaning upon the Pro fessor's arm in the distance. ' I wonder at her father inviting that fellow here ; he's handsome enough to turn any girl's head, before she has got more common sense on her shoulders ; she needs someone's motherly care and protection. She will be lost when her sister goes and gets married ; they've always been so fond of each other, those two, although they're as different as apples from cheese.' ' Oh, really,' replied Miss Radnor, laughing to cover the vexation she felt, ' I'm not like the queen in the fairy book; I'll not send her out for the beasts to devour ; besides, I know that we can get on together.

I'd choose to have Muriel, though I like her the least. Beatrice has rather too much will of her own, but she is lively and bright and wins your affection. The other one seems to live in a dream.' ' Just like her poor mother,' said the Baron, who seemed to have suddenly caught cold in his head. ' She always was dreamy, and never alive to the things of this life. She wanted all the affection the cold world could give her. She wanted the shielding care of a loving hus band. She missed getting that — so much for marriage. Miss Radnor, don't you go forcing any child of Violet Darrington's into wedlock against her will — mind that. There will be a life-long repentance for you if you do.' ' Do you suppose that I should think of such a thing ? ' questioned the lady, with scorn in her voice. ' Was it my fault that Beatrice fell in love at nineteen with a doctor of music ?

Had I spoken against it, or at all interposed, they would have thought me as mean as you think me now for not doing so.' ' I am not thinking of her at all,' snapped the Baron. ' It's the one over there, she is so much of a child. She has had no experience ; she ought not to marry for long years to come. When you become her father's wife, then you can be like a mother to that poor child, who ought to find all she needs in her own home, instead of being driven to seek that love which should not come before its proper time. . . . There are more ways of being devoured than by beasts. Make her home happy, so that she can bless the day when you married her father. Let her get another eight years' sense, and then — why, at twenty-four we cannot object ; she will know more of the world, and not be taken in like she would at sixteen.' Miss Radnor shrugged her shoulders disdain fully and her eyes flashed like fire on the fair, pretty figure looking winningly towards them in answer to the Baron's smile. ' Eight years is a long time,' was all she replied.

By this time more of the guests had entered. Rippling laughter and merry voices came nearer. The serious conversation drifted into lighter things. Miss Radnor joined her friends, leaving the Baron to plan for the girl who had found such a warm corner in his sympathetic heart.

Chapter II In The Moonlight

The excitement had subsided. The house was as still as a tired child who had exhausted all its mirth, and now slept. Beatrice Darrington ran lightly up the softly carpeted stairs to her bedroom, humming the tune of ' After the Ball.' Her step was quick, her voice was gay. She would have thought it beneath her to walk slowly upstairs, even when she was tired. In a buoyant nature like hers there is always an inclination for the steps to keep pace with the spirits, and the spirits of Beatrice were always up to the brim. Hers had been a happy life. Born with a contented nature, she carried cheerfulness wherever she went, winning love on all sides. It was her step that the cottagers listened for, and it was at the sound of her voice that the languid eyes of the sufferer brightened, and the noisy school boys shouted aloud for joy. ' There was no one In the Moonlight 17 like Miss Darrington,' they all declared.

Fore most in their cricket matches, with them on the ice in winter and racing after them on the lawns, a game had only to be mentioned and she was always ready to play it. She was consulted in all their quarrels, and her word looked upon as law. She had had one great sorrow in her life, and that was when her mother died. It was shortly after this that she met William Monteith, and their natures soon became linked together in a wonderful love. In him she found the shielding power that she had lost. In her he found what he had craved for, and never seen in any other woman. ' Are you in bed, chick ? ' she asked, open ing her sister's bedroom door. The gas was out, the blinds were drawn to the top, for Muriel loved the moonlight, and the room was flooded with it now that the sky was clearer and the rain had ceased.

In the great, oval mirror Beatrice could see the reflection of her sister's face — so dreamy and beautiful, with its soft, wistful eyes, and surrounded by those masses of curls which the world talked against. ' Dreaming again ! ' laughed Beatrice, gaily, bending right over the back of the chair for a kiss. ' Oh, what a delightful time it has been ! Muriel, darling, are you awake ? Do let us have a talk. I'm not the least bit sleepy ; I hope B Crosby won't come and spoil all our fun. Willie and I have been together all evening. We got a secluded place in the conservatory, and oh ! the plans we have made for the future. Fancy, Muriel, he wants us to be married at the beginning of the new year ! That is only three months off. He has been getting the house all in order. Such a dear little place it is, and I'm going to try ever so hard to keep it nice ; I don't care a bit for having a servant.

I want to do all for him myself; I'm sure I should be jealous if anyone tried to prevent me. He says that I shall get tired of the everlasting music. But I could not do that; I don't mind if I hear his pupils strumming all day. Look at the long, delightful evenings we shall have together. And you will come, Muriel ; it shall be like your home, until you get one of your own.' Muriel smiled, but her eyes filled with wistful tears. ' I wish you were not going quite so soon, Beatrice,' she said ; ' it will be so lonely here without you. I'm glad for your sake, awfully glad, but I'm sorry for myself, because we have always lived here together ; and when you get a home of your own, it won't be the same — I know that it won't. There will always be William there when I come, and we can't get together like we have done here.' And as she spoke, she crossed over and knelt In the Moonlight 19 at her sister's feet, looking up into her face with an eager longing. ' How pretty you are, Beatrice ! ' she said after a pause. ' Your eyes always sparkle ; they never look dull.

You always seem happy. I don't wonder that people love you so much.' ' Oh, you small witch,' laughed Beatrice, gaily. ' You are fishing for compliments, and I sha'n't give you any; you have had enough for one night, for all your time has been spent with Professor Mackenzie, and I heard one or two remarks as you passed us.' A crimson flush, visible even in the cold moon light, dyed Muriel's cheek ; and her sister, seeing the effect her words had produced, continued her teasing. ' I should have thought it an honour to be chosen out of such a number by a character reader. I shall have to take care what I am about, or / may be the one to be left lonely at home, and jealous because I can't have you all to myself.' Was the moonlight deceiving her, or what was the matter with Muriel? The swift flush had died away from her cheeks, and the face that looked upwards was now pale as death ; there was, too, a strange expression on it — an expression of wild despair. ' I wish you did want me all to yourself,' she said sadly. ' There is no one who loves me so dearly as that.' ' Oh, foolish child ! ' laughed Beatrice ; ' what a lot of sentiment you have, to be sure.

These parties are not good for you — they tire you out and make you as white as a ghost. Come, little one, let us have the gas, like sensible people, and shut out that moonlight. I don't like it ; it gives you a scared look, as if you had just had a bad dream or a vision.' Down went the green Venetian blinds with a crash, up went the flaring gaslight, turning romance into reality, and banishing the strange, mysterious shadows from the walls. But even in that real and earthly light the face remained the same — white and tired. Beatrice saw now that it had been no moonbeam's trick which had deceived her. ' You must get to bed, Muriel,' she said, with anxiety ; ' here comes Crosby. Good-night, my darling ; you're awfully tired ; don't get up to your breakfast.' Within a few minutes Muriel was fast asleep. The moonlight, stealing in through the crevices of the blinds, played about the sweet, upturned face, now smiling so happily in the land of dreams.

Chapter III

dreams are realised There is always a miserable sense of depres sion the morning after a night of festivity. The hall looked particularly wretched as Muriel came slowly down in the murky light of an October day. It had rained heavily during the night. The cold, autumn wind had stripped the trees bare and made mad frolic with the spoil all along the walks and lawns. The hall door was open ; Mr Darrington stood on the steps, laying down the law to the masters in very peremptory tones concerning their doings for the day. ' I am so sorry we are going,' whispered Beatrice, softly. ' You will be all alone, too ; do take care of yourself.' The masters stood back and the two passed out together into the rain. The Baron was comfortably ensconced in the carriage, and he laughed as the dreamy-eyed girl came forward and very innocently and naturally kissed him for ' Good-bye ' like she used to do when a child. ' Be good, remember,' he warningly chuckled, 'and mind and have all that hair cropped out of your eyes by I come back again.' Muriel laughed, but there was little merriment in her laughter.

Her father sprang into the carriage. She heard the last sound of the wheels die away in the distance, then returned to the house with a heavy heart. The rooms looked so large, so dark, so dreary. The heavy rain splashed and washed down the window panes in tor rents. That wretched sound, and the dismal sigh of the wind, alone broke the silence. A distressing sense of loneliness overcame Muriel — agonising loneliness, which makes the heart grow sick, which makes the nature yearn, it cannot tell for what. She went to the piano, and found her favourite song ; her fingers wandered easily over the notes of the plaintive accompaniment. Then the sweet, treble voice went forth with passionate earnestness, — ' There are no eyes whose light has not been blinded By silent tears of pity or of pain, There is no heart that has not been reminded, By some chance word, of what comes not again.' The voice grew soft and trembled.