“Aye, Diana! I deemed Fate itself had given her to me. The madness of the horror about me had turned my brain. Madness of my love for her, of my long self-denial! I would have wedded her, even that hour. But she, she had yielded her troth to thee … to thy father she gave her scorn! At that most cursed moment thy voice rose from the street, thou, my son whom I deemed far away, in the heart of the country! I would have killed her rather than yield her. Remember, I was mad. I thrust her from thy sight into an inner room. Ah, God, in that room!” “In that room?” “The plague lay in wait for her.” “The plague—” “Unknown to me one lay there, a woman who had crept in, sick—to die!” Harry gave a deep groan, covered his face with his hands, and fell upon the bench. “Whilst I lay raving, did she die of the plague, there, in your room? O my Diana!” “My son, I know not. When I sought for her she was gone, vanished. The window was opened into the garden. The woman lay dead upon the bed.” Harry sprang to his feet, clapped his hands together in a sudden agony of joy, more dreadful at that moment than all his sorrow to the father’s eyes. “She escaped? She may be living yet! There is mercy in heaven!” “No mercy for such as I—nor for thee, being my son. For my moment’s madness, what retribution! Harry, this whole long year I have looked for her, night and day. There is not a corner of the town we have not scoured, old Chitterley and myself. Aye, that was the mystery you fretted not to share!” Harry looked at his father speechlessly, with fierce dry eyes. “Alas!” Rockhurst went on stonily, “she must even be dead, stricken by the contagion—fallen at the street corner perchance, swept into the common pit as so many others! And yet, if she were not dead—There is not a burning house I pass but I fear she may be in the flames. Food is as ashes, drink as gall upon my tongue. And now, with the presage of death upon me, I lay the hideous burden upon thee, my son, my innocent son!” He stretched his hand. But, drawing back, the latter turned a red glance upon him. “And you let me believe her dead that morning—that morning! I could have saved her!” He flung his arms in the air and shook them; a terrible menace on his face. “God!” he called, “God—!” Rockhurst gave a loud cry:— “My son, do not curse your father!” The young man’s arms dropped by his side. He looked at the bent white head, at the countenance worn, wan, patient; then he cast himself upon his father’s breast, sobbing:— “God help us all!” [Illustration: Harry gave a deep groan, covered his face with his hands, and fell upon the bench.]