Little Novels | Page 8

a married
man; but my excellent housekeeper would have received Mrs. Zant
with the utmost kindness. She was resolved--obstinately resolved, poor

thing--to remain in London. It is needless to say that, in her melancholy
position, I am attentive to her slightest wishes. I took a lodging for her;
and, at her special request, I chose a house which was near Kensington
Gardens.
"Is there any association with the Gardens which led Mrs. Zant to make
that request?"
"Some association, I believe, with the memory of her husband. By the
way, I wish to be sure of finding her at home, when I call to-morrow.
Did you say (in the course of your interesting statement) that she
intended--as you supposed--to return to Kensington Gardens to-morrow?
Or has my memory deceived me?"
"Your memory is perfectly accurate."
"Thank you. I confess I am not only distressed by what you have told
me of Mrs. Zant--I am at a loss to know how to act for the best. My
only idea, at present, is to try change of air and scene. What do you
think yourself?"
"I think you are right."
Mr. Zant still hesitated.
"It would not be easy for me, just now," he said, "to leave my patients
and take her abroad."
The obvious reply to this occurred to Mr. Rayburn. A man of larger
worldly experience might have felt certain suspicions, and might have
remained silent. Mr. Rayburn spoke.
"Why not renew your invitation and take her to your house at the
seaside?" he said.
In the perplexed state of Mr. Zant's mind, this plain course of action
had apparently failed to present itself. His gloomy face brightened
directly.

"The very thing!" he said. "I will certainly take your advice. If the air of
St. Sallins does nothing else, it will improve her health and help her to
recover her good looks. Did she strike you as having been (in happier
days) a pretty woman?"
This was a strangely familiar question to ask--almost an indelicate
question, under the circumstances A certain furtive expression in Mr.
Zant's fine dark eyes seemed to imply that it had been put with a
purpose. Was it possible that he suspected Mr. Rayburn's interest in his
sister-in-law to be inspired by any motive which was not perfectly
unselfish and perfectly pure? To arrive at such a conclusion as this
might be to judge hastily and cruelly of a man who was perhaps only
guilty of a want of delicacy of feeling. Mr. Rayburn honestly did his
best to assume the charitable point of view. At the same time, it is not
to be denied that his words, when he answered, were carefully guarded,
and that he rose to take his leave.
Mr. John Zant hospitably protested.
"Why are you in such a hurry? Must you really go? I shall have the
honor of returning your visit to-morrow, when I have made
arrangements to profit by that excellent suggestion of yours. Good-by.
God bless you."
He held out his hand: a hand with a smooth s urface and a tawny color,
that fervently squeezed the fingers of a departing friend. "Is that man a
scoundrel?" was Mr. Rayburn's first thought, after he had left the hotel.
His moral sense set all hesitation at rest--and answered: "You're a fool
if you doubt it."
V.
DISTURBED by presentiments, Mr. Rayburn returned to his house on
foot, by way of trying what exercise would do toward composing his
mind.
The experiment failed. He went upstairs and played with Lucy; he
drank an extra glass of wine at dinner; he took the child and her

governess to a circus in the evening; he ate a little supper, fortified by
another glass of wine, before he went to bed--and still those vague
forebodings of evil persisted in torturing him. Looking back through
his past life, he asked himself if any woman (his late wife of course
excepted!) had ever taken the predominant place in his thoughts which
Mrs. Zant had assumed--without any discernible reason to account for
it? If he had ventured to answer his own question, the reply would have
been: Never!
All the next day he waited at home, in expectation of Mr. John Zant's
promised visit, and waited in vain.
Toward evening the parlor-maid appeared at the family tea-table, and
presented to her master an unusually large envelope sealed with black
wax, and addressed in a strange handwriting. The absence of stamp and
postmark showed that it had been left at the house by a messenger.
"Who brought this?" Mr. Rayburn asked.
"A lady, sir--in deep mourning."
"Did she leave any message?"
"No, sir."
Having drawn the inevitable conclusion, Mr. Rayburn shut himself up
in his library. He was afraid of Lucy's curiosity and Lucy's questions, if
he read Mrs. Zant's