Eh?—stole from me! What do you say? Answer!"
Again there was something so threatening in his manner, that I half moved back, as if to defend myself.
"Oh, don't be afraid," he said; "we dare not do these things in this place. Here kellner, come here, will you! Bring some red wine here, strong and good, and don't be an hour, with your 'V'la, monsieur,' and all that humbug. Come, sit down, Mr. Austen; you may as well; I am not going to be violent, so you needn't be afraid. I want to let you know something which you ought to know."
"Grainger," I said, "when all that took place, you had your opportunity. I met you fairly and——"
"Met me fairly!" he repeated, his eyes dropping on me with a flash, "can you say that?" Then he laughed. "My good friend that is all so long ago. An old story like that must not be exhumed. Let it rot away in the ground. Dead leaves, my boy. If you don't rake 'em up, I promise you I shan't. There. Come! let us have something, as earnest. You shall pay for me, who was the loser, and I think the injured man."
Something in this phrase struck me, and I felt there was some truth in what he said. He was the defeated party; I was the victor, and ought to be generous. "What shall it be," I said, "champagne?" "Do you take me for an American?" he said, with a laugh. "No, sir; cognac. Now let us talk. I have forgiven and forgotten all that—though it ruined me. She had a sort of infatuation over me, that girl—I mean, Mrs. Austen. If she had come here I would have followed her. I'd have played my body and soul, that is if I had seen a chance. You had it all your own way. How does she look—does she hate me? Come! And yet a good deal is on her gentle head. This is my life now, poor me; a 'hell,' to many others. You saw what I was then, a gentleman, at least well off, respected—own that! Well, I had to leave the army; I did something I ought not to have done, from sheer desperation. Yes, I did, and sank lower and lower, and all this was your joint work; but I don't want to blame you. By Jove, it is I who am raking up the dead leaves after all! Ah! here's the cognac."
I felt a pity for him. There was truth in what he said. Since you, Dora, had been saved from him, all these troubles had come upon him. He had grown desperate; he was at least privileged to speak as he pleased, and have that slight consolation. I saw, too, that he was altered. At that time he was considered by the women a good-looking man, his face having a little of that rude gauntness which is not unpleasing. He had large eyes, and a black irregular beard and moustache. Now he had grown careless in his dress. I knew how much that portended, and felt a deep pity for him.
"Grainger," I said, "it was hard for you, for I know you loved her. But I declare solemnly here, that my loving her had nothing to do with it, and you know yourself, Grainger, the marriage with you could not have been for her happiness after that business——"
His brow contracted. "I know what you mean," he said. "That was false, false in everything. False, as I sit here, and hope to be—well I have not much hope of that."
"They said it was true," I said; "but even to have such a rumour, and a fair innocent young girl, admit yourself, Grainger, it could not be."
He answered in a low voice, "It was all false, a lie, an invention. There was the sting. Of course, I could not prove it; but suppose it untrue, what punishment would you say was enough for those who did me so horrid an injury—would a whole life be too long to devote to punishing the doer of such an injury?"
"I suppose you mean me?" I said.
"I did mean you then," he said. "I suppose, if there had been opportunity, of course I could have killed you. But that is all over, all past and gone. Nothing could make Roly Poly as he was before. The egg-shell is broken, and the yolk run out. So tell me about yourself, and about her. What brings you here?"
There was something so frank, so generous, so valorous in this way of taking the thing, that with an involuntary motion I put out my hand and grasped his. Shall I say, too, I felt a sudden twinge of conscience; and had all along a dim foreboding that the story might not have been true, or at least, have got its colouring of truth, from what might have been interested motives on my side? I was too much concerned, perhaps, to be impartial, and if he was innocent, then some share in this work might be laid to my account. What was plainly my duty was to try and compensate in some way, at least by kindness—for I had not much else at my command—for so cruel a wrong as this. I com-
