“A most dangerous temperament,” he said to himself as he prepared to
receive another patient, “one that is sufficient to mar a man’s life,
if not to kill him entirely. I trust that she and Captain Pullen
may never meet again. It was evident that my remarks on marriage
disappointed the poor child! Ah! well, she will be much better without
it!”

And here the discreet Charles softly opened the door and ushered in
another lady. An hour later, Anthony Pennell, who had projected a visit to the Red
House that afternoon, received a note by a commissionaire instead,
containing a few, hurried lines. “Come to me as soon as you can,” it
said, “I have left Madame Gobelli. I am at the Langham Hotel, and very
unhappy!” Needless to say that ten minutes after the reception of this
news, her lover was rushing to her presence, as fast as hansom wheels
could take him. He was very desperately and truly in love with Harriet Brandt. Like
most men who use their brains in fiction, his work, whilst in course
of progression, occupied his energies to such an extent that he had
no time or thought for anything else. But the burden once lifted, the
romance written, the strain and anxiety removed, the pendulum swung
in the other direction, and Anthony Pennell devoted all his attention
to pleasure and amusement. He had been set down by his colleagues as
a reserved and cold-blooded man with regard to the other sex, but he
was only self-contained and thoughtful. He was as warm by nature, as
Harriet herself, and once sure of a response, could make love with
the best, and as he flew to her assistance now, he resolved that if
anything unpleasant had occurred to drive her from the Red House, and
launch her friendless on the world, he would persuade her to marry him
at once, and elect him her protector and defence. His fair face flushed with anticipation as he thought of the joy it
would be to make her his wife, and take her far away from everything
that could annoy or harass her. Having arrived at the Langham and flung a double fare to the
cab-driver, he ran up the high staircase with the light step of a
boy, and dashed into Harriet’s private room. The girl was sitting,
much as she had done since returning from her interview with the
doctor--silent, sullen, and alone, at war with Heaven and Destiny and
all that had conduced to blight the brightest hopes she had ever had. “Hally, my darling, why is this?” exclaimed Pennell, as he essayed to
fold her in his arms. But she pushed him off, not unkindly but with
considerable determination. “Don’t touch me, Tony!--don’t come near me. You had better not! I might
harm you!”

“What is the matter? Are you ill? If so, you know me too well to
imagine that I should fear infection.”

“No! no! you do not understand!” replied Harriet, as she rose from her
seat and edged further away from him, “but I am going to tell you all! It is for that I sent for you!”

Then, waving him from her with her hand, she related the whole story
to him--what the Baroness had accused her of, and what Doctor Phillips
had said in confirmation of it, only that morning. Pennell had heard
something of it before, through Margaret Pullen, but he had paid no
attention to it, and now, when Harriet repeated it in detail, with
swollen eyes and quivering lips, he laughed the idea to scorn. “Pooh! Nonsense! I don’t believe a word of it,” he exclaimed, “it is
a parcel of old woman’s tales. Phillips should be ashamed of himself
to place any credence in it, far more to repeat it to you! Hally, my
darling! you are surely not going to make yourself unhappy because of
such nonsense. If so, you are not the sensible girl I have taken you
for!”

“But, Tony,” said the girl, still backing from his advances, “listen to
me! It is not all nonsense, indeed. I know for myself that it is true! Having been shut up for so many years in the Convent dulled my memory
for what went before it, but it has all come back to me now! It seems
as if what Madame Gobelli and Doctor Phillips have said, had lifted a
veil from my eyes, and I can recall things that had quite escaped my
memory before. I can remember now hearing old Pete say, that when I
was born, I was given to a black wet nurse, and after a little while
she was taken so ill, they had to send her away, and get me another,
and the next one--_died_! Pete used to laugh and call me the puma’s
cub, but I didn’t know the meaning of it, then. And--Oh! stop a moment,
Tony, till I have done--there was a little white child, I can see her
so plainly now. They called her little Caroline, I think she must have
belonged to the planter who lived next to us, and I was very fond of
her. I was quite unhappy when we did not meet, and I used to creep
into her nursery door and lie down in the cot beside her. Poor little
Caroline! I can see her now! So pale and thin and wan she was! And one
night, I remember her mother came in and found me there and called
to her husband to send the ‘Brandt bastard’ back to Helvetia. I had
no idea what she meant, but I cried because she sent me home, and I
asked Pete what a bastard was, but he would not tell me. And,” went on
Harriet in a scared tone, “little Caroline _died_! Pete carried me on
his shoulder to see the funeral, and I would not believe that Caroline
could be in the narrow box, and I struck Pete on the face for saying
so!”

“Well! my darling! and if you did, are these childish reminiscences to
come between our happiness? Why should they distress you, Hally? Madame
Gobelli’s insolence must have been very hard to bear--I acknowledge
that, and I wish I had been by to prevent it, but you must make excuses
for her. I suppose the poor creature was so mad with grief that she did
not know what she was saying! But you need never see her again, so you
must try to forgive her!”

“But, Anthony, you do not understand me! What the Baroness said was
_true_! I see it now! _I killed Bobby!_”

“My dearest, you are raving! _You killed Bobby!_ What utter, utter
folly! How could you have killed Bobby?”

Harriet passed her hand wearily across her brow, as if she found it too
hard to make her meaning plain. “Oh! yes, I did! We were always together, in the garden or the house! And he used to sit with his head on my shoulder and his arm round my
waist, I should not have allowed it! I should have driven him away! But
he loved me, poor Bobby, and it will be the same, Doctor Phillips says,
with everybody I love! I shall only do them harm!”

“Hally! I shall begin to think in another moment that you are ill
yourself--that you have a fever or something, and that it is affecting
your brain!”

“There was a sister at the Convent, Sister Theodosia, who was very
good to me when I first went there,” continued the girl in a dreamy
voice, as if she had not heard his words; “and she used to sit with
me upon her lap for hours together, because I was sad. But she grew
ill and they had to send her away up to the hill, where they had their
sanatorium. That made the fourth in Jamaica!”

“Now!