The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett

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      “Yer see,” Glad enlarged cheerfully, “yer look almost like a gentleman. P’raps yer can write a good ‘and an’ spell all right. Can yer?”

      “Yes.”

      “I think, perhaps,” the curate began reflectively, “particularly if you can write well, I might be able to get you some work.”

      “I do not want work,” Dart answered slowly. “At least I do not want the kind you would be likely to offer me.”

      The curate felt a shock, as if cold water had been dashed over him. Somehow it had not once occurred to him that the man could be one of the educated degenerate vicious for whom no power to help lay in any hands—yet he was not the common vagrant—and he was plainly on the point of producing an excuse for refusing work.

      The other man, seeing his start and his amazed, troubled flush, put out a hand and touched his arm apologetically.

      “I beg your pardon,” he said. “One of the things I was going to tell you—I had not finished—was that I am what is called a gentleman. I am also what the world knows as a rich man. I am Sir Oliver Holt.”

      Each member of the party gazed at him aghast. It was an enormous name to claim. Even the two female creatures knew what it stood for. It was the name which represented the greatest wealth and power in the world of finance and schemes of business. It stood for financial influence which could change the face of national fortunes and bring about crises. It was known throughout the world. Yesterday the newspaper rumor that its owner had mysteriously left England had caused men on ‘Change to discuss possibilities together with lowered voices.

      Glad stared at the curate. For the first time she looked disturbed and alarmed.

      “Blimme,” she ejaculated, “‘e’s gone off ‘is nut, pore chap!—‘e’s gone off it!”

      “No,” the man answered, “you shall come to me”—he hesitated a second while a shade passed over his eyes—“tomorrow. And you shall see.”

      He rose quietly to his feet and the curate rose also. Abnormal as the climax was, it was to be seen that there was no mistake about the revelation. The man was a creature of authority and used to carrying conviction by his unsupported word. That made itself, by some clear, unspoken method, plain.

      “You are Sir Oliver Holt! And a few hours ago you were on the point of—”

      “And a few hours ago you were on the point of—”

      “And a few hours ago you were on the point of—”

      “Ending it all—in an obscure lodging. Afterward the earth would have been shovelled on to a workhouse coffin. It was an awful thing.” He shook off a passionate shudder. “There was no wealth on earth that could give me a moment’s ease—sleep—hope—life. The whole world was full of things I loathed the sight and thought of. The doctors said my condition was physical. Perhaps it was—perhaps to-day has strangely given a healthful jolt to my nerves—perhaps I have been dragged away from the agony of morbidity and plunged into new intense emotions which have saved me from the last thing and the worst—saved me!”

      He stopped suddenly and his face flushed, and then quite slowly turned pale.

      “Saved me!” he repeated the words as the curate saw the awed blood creepingly recede. “Who knows, who knows! How many explanations one is ready to give before one thinks of what we say we believe. Perhaps it was—the Answer!”

      The curate bowed his head reverently.

      “Perhaps it was.”

      The girl Glad sat clinging to her knees, her eyes wide and awed and with a sudden gush of hysteric tears rushing down her cheeks.

      “That’s the wye! That’s the wye!” she gulped out. “No one won’t never believe—they won’t, never. That’s what she sees, Miss Montaubyn. You don’t, ‘e don’t,” with a jerk toward the curate. “I ain’t nothin’ but me, but blimme if I don’t—blimme!”

      Sir Oliver Holt grew paler still. He felt as he had done when Jinny Montaubyn’s poor dress swept against him. His voice shook when he spoke.

      “So do I,” he said with a sudden deep catch of the breath; “it was the Answer.”

      In a few moments more he went to the girl Polly and laid a hand on her shoulder.

      “I shall take you home to your mother,” he said. “I shall take you myself and care for you both. She shall know nothing you are afraid of her hearing. I shall ask her to bring up the child. You will help her.”

      Then he touched the thief, who got up white and shaking and with eyes moist with excitement.

      “You shall never see another man claim your thought because you have not time or money to work it out. You will go with me. There are tomorrows enough for you!”

      Glad still sat clinging to her knees and with tears running, but the ugliness of her sharp, small face was a thing an angel might have paused to see.

      “You don’t want to go away from here,” Sir Oliver said to her, and she shook her head.

      “No, not me. I told yer wot I wanted. Lemme do it.”

      “You shall,” he answered, “and I will help you.”

      The things which developed in Apple Blossom Court later, the things which came to each of those who had sat in the weird circle round the fire, the revelations of new existence which came to herself, aroused no amazement in Jinny Montaubyn’s mind. She had asked and believed all things—and all this was but another of the Answers.

      EMILY FOX-SETON

      BEING “THE MAKING OF A MARCHIONESS” AND

      “THE METHODS OF LADY WALDERHURST”

       Table of Contents

       PART ONE Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       PART TWO

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