For a time, however, Mrs. Mortomley entertained no fear that their ship was sinking.

So far as she saw, beyond a certain gravity in her husband's face, a certain discontent in that of Miss Halling, and a retrenchment which she accepted as just and necessary in her own expenditure, there was no cause to anticipate danger. Things went on much as usual, the waters over which they floated seemed calm enough, and the winds fair and favourable.

She did not know, neither did her husband, neither did Rupert, that there was a leak in their vessel which it would have required very different hands from theirs to stop.

Had Mr. Werner stood in Mr. Mortomley's shoes, he could have done it, and would have made matters remarkably unpleasant for any one who tried to prevent his doing so.

When the evil day came, Mr. Werner said Mortomley was a fool, with an extremely strong adjective prefixed to this flattering appellation; but he did not call him a rogue.

Neither did any-body else for the matter of that, except Mr. Forde.

Which was of the less consequence, because as a wag remarked, speaking of his violent vituperations against the colour-maker,

"Poor Forde's experience has as yet been too one-sided to enable him to distinguish good from evil."

Indeed, after all, when a man is down it makes very little difference what the world thinks of him, unless in this way: the world always helps a rogue, because it has a justifiable faith in his helping himself, whereas a fool or a fool's equivalent in the opinion of society--an honest man--though weak may, if once thrown, lie for ever like a sheep on the broad of his back, unless some Samaritan help him to his feet again.

And Samaritans are scarce now-a-days; and when they do appear are generally as scarce of pennies as rich people are of inclination to give them.

One evening in the early summer time, Dolly, putting aside the muslin curtains which draped one of the French windows leading on the lawn, entered that cool and pleasant drawing-room of which, under her _regime_, many a man and woman had carried away happy memories.

As she stood with the light muslin parted above her head, she saw that her husband and Rupert sat with chairs close together, the latter talking earnestly; and she would have retreated by the way she came, for Dolly never cared to intrude on the _tete-a-tete_ of any two persons, but Mortomley said, "You had better stay, dear. It is only right you should hear what we are saying."

"What is the matter?" asked Dolly, stepping up to the pair and looking from one to the other with a quick apprehension of something being wrong.

Her husband rose, and walking to the hearth, stood leaning with his back against the mantel-piece. Rupert rose likewise and looked out of the window nearest to where he stood; his hands plunged deep in his pockets, his dress dusty as when he returned from town, his hair, worn long as was the artist fashion he affected; looking rough and unkempt, and an expression on his face no one probably had ever seen there before, not even when Mr. Gideon told him he must make a slight inventory of a few articles and leave behind him the first creature, gentle or simple, to whom the owners of Homewood grudged extending hospitality.

How the room, the flowers, the soft evening light, the figures of the two men were photographed into her mind at that moment Mrs. Mortomley never knew until the months had come and the months had gone, and Homewood, its shady walks, its smooth lawns, its banks of flowers, its wealth of foliage, its modest luxury of appointment, its utter comfort and sweet simplicity, were all part and parcel of a past which could return--ah! nevermore.

"What is the matter?" she repeated. "What has gone wrong?"

"I do not know that anything has gone wrong," Rupert answered. "It may be, for aught I can tell, the beginning of greater peace than we have had for some time past. I have been telling Archie I think he ought to stop."

"I have thought so often lately," said Mortomley with quiet resignation.

"Stop what--stop when!" his wife interrogated; then she suddenly paused, adding the instant after, "Do you mean fail?"

"Certainly not," replied the younger man. "I merely mean that he should go into liquidation."

"What on earth is liquidation?"

"It is nothing very dreadful," said Mr. Halling reassuringly. "Nothing, of course, will be changed here--the works will go on as usual--you can live just as we have been doing lately; we could not expect to entertain, of course, until every one to whom anything is owing is paid off, and then we can do what we like. That is about the English of it, is it not?" he said turning to Mr. Mortomley, who replied with a set face,

"I do not know. I have never been in liquidation."

"But you know plenty of fellows who have."

"I cannot say that I do," was the answer; and he turned a little aside and began toying absently with the articles on the chimney-piece.

"At all events, you see quite clearly we cannot go on as we have been doing," persisted Rupert.

"I wonder we have been able to go on so long--"

"It would not be such a hopeless fight if we were not daily and hourly getting involved more deeply with the General Chemical Company."

"Yes; that is the worst feature of the position; and I confess I cannot understand how it happens."

"But I have explained the whole thing to you fully," said Rupert, looking angry and excited.

"Yes, according to your idea; but I tell you such a system is impossible in any respectable business."

"Do you consider the General Chemical Company a respectable concern?"

"I have always supposed so; but whether respectable or not, the errors, to use a mild term, you speak of are simply impossible in an establishment where there are clerks employed, and checks kept, and experienced book-keepers always engaged on the accounts."

Having made which observation, in a much more decided manner than it was his custom usually to employ, Mr. Mortomley walked out of the room, leaving his wife and Rupert alone together.

Rupert, looking after him, shrugged his shoulders, and thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets and planting one shoulder well up against the window shutter, remarked to Dolly,

"He won't believe those people have been cheating him right and left, and I don't know that any good purpose would be served if I could make him believe it. Because, owing to my stupidity, we never can prove the fact. If you and Lenore are beggared," he added, with a poor attempt at mirth, "I give you full leave to blame me for the whole of it."

"Do not be absurd," answered Mrs. Mortomley uneasily. "Archie is quite right, of course. People could not cheat, and if they could they would not be so wicked."

Rupert laughed outright. "Would they not, Mrs. Mortomley? Much you know of the world and its ways--I say and shall say to the end of my life, that the General Chemical Company has, by a system of splendid book-keeping, been robbing us of I should be afraid to say how much; and I say further, no system of book-keeping we could devise would be of the slightest use in preventing it. But it might have been stopped ere this by our stoppage. Nothing else will do it now. Remember what I say to you, Dolly; and they are not my words alone--they are the words of men who know far more about business and City matters than I ever want to do. If Archie is to do any good for himself and you and Lenore" (Rupert kept his own name and that of his sister discreetly out of sight) "he must stop now. If he speaks to you about it, don't dissuade him, Dolly; for God's sake don't try to induce him to put off the evil day any longer."

Vehemence of manner or expression was unusual at Homewood, and, for a moment, Rupert's words and looks startled Mrs. Mortomley. After that moment she answered,

"I shall not dissuade or persuade him, for I know nothing really about the matter."

"Do you mind coming with me into the works?" asked Rupert in reply.

"No." Dolly said she would go with him if he wished; and accordingly the pair went out together on to the lawn and across the flower-garden and so to the laurel-walk which people averred was the crowning beauty of Homewood. Who had first planted it no one knew, but tradition ascribed that virtuous deed to a far-away dignitary of the Church of Rome, who had considered Homewood, then a mere cottage and lands on the borders of the forest, a sort of hermitage to which, from the din of party and the clamour of men's tongues, he might retire to pray and meditate in peace.

And this view is confirmed by the fact, that in another country I remember well seeing in grounds belonging to an old monastic institution similar arcades of greenery, thick hedges to right and left, and overarching branches inter-twining and overlapping, till the light of day was shut out and the paths made dark as night.

At Homewood this inconvenience had been obviated by cutting at intervals openings in one of the hedges in the form of pointed arches; and the effect produced was consequently somewhat akin to that left on the mind by walking along some cloister in an ancient cathedral.

Quiet as any monastic pavement was the laurel-path at Homewood; and the frequent glimpses of emerald green and bright-hued flowers afforded by the openings mentioned, in no way detracted from the solemn feeling produced by the stillness of that remarkable passage.

Of late many a bitter thought and wearying anxiety had kept Mortomley company as he paced along it to the postern gate giving admission to his works; and this, Dolly's quick instinct enabled her to realise as she tried with her short uneven steps to keep up with Rupert's long careless stride.

"Oh! I wish I had known sooner," she said mentally; "I wish--I wish--I wish I had."

"It is a sweet place, Dolly," remarked Rupert, who possessed a keen sense of the beautiful in nature, women, and children, though his artistic power of reproducing beauty on canvas was meagre.

"Ay," she answered with a little gasp, "that it is."

"We must not risk losing it."