“Ma’m’selle, didn’t you say we could go to the park again, if we were good?” said Tom, looking up from a smeary attempt to get a simple addition sum “to prove,” and sucking his pencil doubtfully as he surveyed the result.

“Don’t want to go to the park; want to go to the shops an’ spend my shilling,” exclaimed Floss, dropping a prodigious blot upon his copy of capital “B’s,” and instantly smearing it over the page with his arm.

“S’all go to the park, I s’all!  Wants to see the ducks, pour fings, an’ the nice man,” cried Maggie, as usual completing the trio, and screwing up her face over the mysteries of “a, b, ab.”

“Can’t we go, Ma’m’selle?” demanded Tom.

“Go where?” asked Alexia.  She had been leaning against the window-frame, staring out blankly.  Her face was paler than usual, the lines of the mouth more rigid, her hair even more coldly absent and abstracted.  Her pupils had spoken to her half a dozen times, and she had not heard them, would not have heard them now, had not Tom tugged impatiently at her gown.

“Why, to the park, as we did last week?  Can’t we go?”

“I don’t know; we will see.  Get on with your lessons now.  What is that?  Come in.”

A tap had sounded at the door, which was now opened, and the Doctor entered.  The children scrambled down from their seats and ran to him.  Miss Boucheafen, turning from the window, arched her straight brows with an expression of questioning surprise.  For Doctor Brudenell to appear in the school-room at that hour in the morning was an unprecedented event.

“Good-morning, Mademoiselle.”  He took the cold, carelessly-yielded hand into his own for a moment.  “Don’t let me disturb you.  I simply came up to express my hope that you were not alarmed last night.”

“Alarmed?” echoed Alexia.

“Then you did not hear it?” with a look of mingled relief and astonishment.  “Well, I am glad of it.  But you must sleep very soundly.  You were the only person in the house who was not aroused.”

“I sleep very soundly.”  She looked at him keenly, noting that his face was drawn and that his eyes were dull, showing that he had not slept.  “I did not know there was anything wrong.  Not here, I hope?”

“No, not here exactly; but it is a most horrible thing.”  He drew a pace nearer to her, dropping his voice so that the sharp little ears that were all eagerly listening should not catch the words.  “A most horrible thing.  A murder, Mademoiselle!”

“A murder?” repeated Alexia.

“Nothing less; and not a hundred yards away from this door.”

Miss Boucheafen had leaned back, almost fallen, against the window-frame.  She was so pale that he said hastily: 

“I beg your pardon I spoke too abruptly.  I have frightened you.”

“No, no; I am not frightened.  Go on, pray!  How was it?  Who was it?”

“As to who it was a man.  As to how it was, he was stabbed to the heart,” answered the Doctor shortly.

“And he was found dead, and brought here?”

“Yes, at three o’clock this morning, and brought here by the police.  But he was dead, and had been dead for at least half an hour.  I could do nothing.”

“How horrible how very horrible!” murmured Alexia.  “Did you say, sir, that he was an old man?”

“No; he is little more than a lad a mere boy nineteen or twenty at the most.  A handsome lad too; I should fancy he was not English.”

“Is there any clue as to who did it?” questioned the governess.

“Not that I know of yet.  The police have had no time to work, you see,” he reminded her gently.

“Ah, yes; I was forgetting, sir!  Have they taken it away?”

“From here?  Not yet.  It must be removed to the mortuary to await the inquest, of course.”  He hesitated, and then added, in a voice which, in spite of all his efforts, was almost tender, “You are not afraid of its being here, are you?”

“Afraid!” A smile, as curious as fleeting, parted the beautiful lips of Alexia Boucheafen.  “No, I am not afraid.  I asked, because Sir, may I see it?”

“See it?” George Brudenell was so startled and shocked that he doubted if he had heard aright.  “Surely, Mademoiselle, you do not mean what you say?”

“Yes if I may.”  She spoke quite steadily and coldly.  “I should like to see him this poor murdered boy, if I may.  I have never seen death, and I should like to know how it looks to be stabbed to the heart.”

Surely a strange uncanny fancy in this lovely young creature!  There was something morbid about it, which the Doctor did not like; it almost repelled him until he recollected how nearly this very fate had been hers.  He did not like assenting, but already he was so weak with regard to her that he could refuse her nothing.  So he said reluctantly: 

“Come now then, if you wish.”

Quite quietly, only bending her head by way of reply, she followed him out of the room and down-stairs to an apartment on a level with the hall, where the murdered man had been carried.  On the threshold he stopped, looking at her doubtfully.

“Mademoiselle, are you sure of yourself?  This is no sight for you.”

“Yes,” she answered steadily.  “Pray do not fear, sir; I shall not faint.  Let me see.”

He stood aside and let her enter the darkened room.  The blinds were drawn down, cooling liquids had been sprinkled about, there was nothing to horrify, nothing to disgust.  The rigid figure, covered with white drapery, lay stretched upon the table.  Without faltering, Alexia advanced, and, removing with a steady hand the cloth at the upper end, looked at the dead face thus revealed.

A boy’s face, indeed, beautiful even in death, smooth-cheeked, the dark down on the delicate upper lip hardly perceptible, the black hair clustering upon the white forehead almost like a child’s.  The governess looked at it long and steadily, and one hand went to her bosom as she raised her eyes to the Doctor’s.

“Tell me did he suffer much?”

“No impossible.  Death must have been almost instantaneous.  I doubt if he was able to cry out.  Pray come away, Mademoiselle you will faint.  I should not have let you see this.”

A voice in the hall called the Doctor.  He was wanted, had been sent for in haste, some one was dying.  He went quickly to the door to reply.  Alexia Boucheafen bent down, her hand gently swept the hair from the dead boy’s forehead, and for a moment her lips rested upon it.

“Poor boy,” she murmured “you were too young, too weak!  It was cruel.  I did my best to save you, but I could not.”

“Mademoiselle, pray come,” said the Doctor, turning from the door.

“I am coming, sir,” replied the governess; and with that she gently replaced the sheet, and followed him quietly from the room.

Doctor Brudenell had a busy day, a day so filled with work that, coming after his sleepless night, it exhausted him.  It was later than usual when he reached home, to find his dinner spoiled and Mrs. Jessop’s temper ruffled.  So tired was he that, when the meal was over, he fell asleep in his chair, entirely forgetting for once his regular visit to Miss Boucheafen’s sitting-room to bid the children good-night.  But his thoughts were all of her; and he dreamed of her as he sat dreamed that she was in some trouble, grief, danger, of which he did not know the nature, and was helpless to relieve.

Vague as it was, the dream was to him dreadful, and the struggle that he made to find her, to save her, was so intense that he awoke awoke to see her standing within a yard or two of his chair, a letter in her hand, the usual calmness of her face gone, her very lips unsteady.  He started to his feet, and seized her hand the dream still clung about him, and he did not realize her reality.  Then he exclaimed, seeing the change in her: 

“Mademoiselle, what is it?  What is the matter?  You are in trouble.”

“Yes,” she said faintly.  She was trembling, and he gently induced her to sit in the chair from which he had risen.  “Pray pardon me, sir,” she said; “but I am troubled.  I do not know what to do, and” she faltered, glancing at him “it seemed natural to come to you.”

Sensible, practical George Brudenell was far from sensible and practical when in the presence of those glorious eyes, which looked at him beseechingly.  He did not know it; but he had entirely bidden adieu to common-sense where Alexia Boucheafen was concerned.  He said gently: 

“What’s the matter?  Tell me?  Am I to read this?”

“If you will.”  She let him take the letter; and he saw that it was written in a boyish, wavering hand, and that it commenced affectionately with her name.  It was short, for the signature, to which his eyes turned instinctively, was upon the same page, and was, “Your brother, Gustave Boucheafen.”

The Doctor repeated it aloud.

“Your brother, Mademoiselle?”

“You have heard me speak of my brother, sir?”

“Certainly yes!  But I thought he was in Paris.”

“I thought so too.  He was there three months ago, when I last heard from him.  But the post he held was poor, miserable, he hated it; and he was threatening then to leave it and come to England, as I had one.  He did so a month ago, and has found that the bad could be worse, for he writes that he is penniless, sir, and starving.”

“And he writes to you for help, poor child!” exclaimed the Doctor pityingly.

“Yes.  But, ah, sir, he is so young a boy!  He is two years younger than I am only nineteen,” Alexia urged deprecatingly.  “And whom should he ask, poor Gustave?  We have no other kin who care for us.”

“Where is your brother?” inquired the Doctor.

“Close here, in London; but I forget the address.”  She pointed to the letter, which he still held.  “Sir, if you read you will understand better far than I can explain.”

Doctor Brudenell read the letter just such a letter as a foolish, impulsive, reckless boy might write, and certainly describing a condition that was desperate enough.  The Doctor returned it, and asked doubtfully: 

“Mademoiselle, what do you wish me to do?  You wish to help him?”

“Ah, sir yes!” she cried eagerly, and then stopped, faltering.  “But I have no money,” she said, her head drooping.

The Doctor walked to the end of the room, came back, and stood beside her.

“My poor child, I understand you; but it must not be.  Why should the little you earn go to your brother?  At the best it would help him only for a very little time, for I see that he says he has no present prospect of employment.  In a week or two he would be in his present state again.  Something else must be done.”

“Ah, sir, it is easy so easy to speak!” said the governess bitterly.  “What else can be done?  Who is there that will help him, poor Gustave?  He is even poorer, more helpless than I, for in all this England he has not even one friend.”

It needed only these words and the glance that accompanied them to turn the doubtful notion that was in the Doctor’s mind into a resolve.  But he had a sufficient sense of his own imprudence even now to hesitate a little before speaking again.

“Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “I know that a lad such as your brother must be often placed at a great disadvantage in his endeavors to get on if, as you say, he is alone and friendless.  Being a foreigner increases the difficulty, no doubt.  You must let me see if I cannot remedy it.”

“You will help him!” cried Alexia eagerly.  She rose, her face flushing, her eyes sparkling.  It was the first time he had seen them shine so, the first time that a crimson flush had dispelled that curious ivory pallor; her beauty dazzled him; he thought her grateful for the help offered to a brother whom she loved.  In her heart, with perfect coolness, she was thinking him a fool, and triumphing in the victory which she foresaw that she would win through his folly.  It was her first full knowledge of her power over him.  “Tell me what I must do?” she exclaimed.

“Write to your brother, and tell him to come here,” returned the Doctor.  He spoke quickly, refusing to doubt or falter.  “I have no doubt I shall be able to help him to a fitting situation before long.  Until then he must remain here.  You will have at least the satisfaction of knowing that he is safe then.  You you do not object to the suggestion?” he added with sudden humility, afraid that he might have spoken too coolly, too imperatively.  With a sudden movement she seized his hand and pressed it.

“Object I?  Ah, sir, how can I, when you are so good, so more than kind?” She stopped, faltering.  “My poor Gustave shall thank you I cannot.  For what can I say but, Thank you a hundred times!”

“Tut, tut!” said the Doctor lightly, recovering his self-possession as she released his hand.  “You make too much of it it is nothing.  I am only too pleased to be able to serve you.  You will write to your brother?”

“At once, sir.”  She was turning to the door, when a thought occurred to him a last lingering touch of prudence and caution made him say: 

“Mademoiselle, you have not told me.  How did your brother know where you were where to write to you?”

“By the papers, sir by what you call the reports of police,” she said, turning and replying without the least hesitation.  “It was the first thing that he saw, my poor boy, that account of me.  But he would not come here or let me know he was in England, lest I should be troubled about him, and he did not wish me to know, besides, that he was poor and distressed.  I am sure of that, although he does not tell me.”

She left the room, and ran fleetly up-stairs to her own sitting-room.  The children were in bed, and there was no one to see her as she drew her writing-case toward her, and wrote swiftly: 

“I have succeeded; my cause was won before I had time to plead it.  You are at liberty to come here.  If, once here, you will succeed in doing what you desire, I cannot tell.  It is your affair, not mine.  I have done my part.  Come then, and remember yours my brother.”

Doctor Brudenell, paying his visit to the governess’s sitting-room the next evening to bid his nephews and niece good-night, found there, not the children, but a stranger.  His momentary look of surprise vanished as he recollected; and, while he spoke a few rather embarrassed words of greeting and welcome, he keenly scanned Gustave Boucheafen.

He was a handsome young fellow, tall, slender, and dark, and looking very boyish, in spite of some deep lines on the white forehead and about the small, tightly-compressed lips.  His clothes were shabby, almost threadbare; there was an air of carelessness, even recklessness, about him, and yet there was something that was far more easy to feel than to describe which proclaimed him to be a gentlemen.  All this the Doctor noted as he took the soft slim hand, and answered as briefly as he could the voluble speech of thanks which the young man tendered him, speaking in English less correct than Alexia’s and with a certain extravagance of expression and manner which discomfited George Brudenell, and which he decided was wholly French.

But, although embarrassed, as he always was by anything fresh and new, he spoke very kindly and encouragingly to the brother, conscious always of the sister’s beautiful eyes resting gently upon him; and, after a few questions asked and answered, he left the two to themselves, and was called out shortly afterward to attend a very stout old gentleman whom he had warned six months before to take his choice between present port-wine and future apoplexy.  The old gentleman, being as obstinate as old people of both sexes occasionally are, had heroically chosen the port; and now, according to the account of a flushed messenger, he was enduring the punishment prophesied, and was purple already.  The weary Doctor took up his hat resignedly and went out.  Alexia Boucheafen, standing idly leaning against the window-frame, negligently listening to what her companion was saying, saw her employer hurrying down the steps and along the hot pavement, upon which the sun had been shining fiercely all day.

“He has gone out,” she said, looking round, with a curious inflection in her voice, as though that fact had a bearing upon the conversation that had gone before.

“Already?” cried the young man eagerly.  “Better than I hoped.  And does he leave his study, laboratory what does he call it? unlocked?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure?”

“Am I likely to be mistaken?”

“Of course not no!” He moved across to the door.  “Well, come, show me!  Come!”

“You are in a hurry,” said the governess, not stirring.

“What would you have me do?” he demanded impatiently.  “Can we let time and opportunity slip together, with what we have to do?”

“Have we not done enough for the present?” she asked slowly.  Calm and cold as she was, a slight irrepressible shudder shook her frame, and he eyed her incredulously.

“Your note used to be different,” he said, with a meaning glance.  “Enough?  What do you mean?”

“I saw it.”  She looked at him steadily, with unflinching eyes.  “I saw him!”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“You!  What possessed you?”

“I hardly know.  I could not help it.  I had a fancy that I must.”

“You with fancies, you with whims and caprices!” He laughed a laugh of fierce mockery, strode across the room, took her slender wrist in his hand and felt the pulse.  “Ah, you are ill, your nerves are out of order, or” in a different tone “you suffer from a lapse of memory, perhaps!”

“What do you mean?” wrestling herself free, and drawing her level brows together in a sudden threatening frown.

He went on as though he had not heard her: 

“I hoped that your one relapse would be your last, and pleaded for you, thinking so.  It was no easy matter to win you even you absolution.”

“Bah!” she retorted scoffingly.  “Think you I do not know why it was granted?  I am valuable, am I not?”

“You were.”

“Were!” she cried.  “Am I less now because, looking at that dead boy, I for once remembered that I was a woman?  You doubt me!  Who are you to dare do it?  What have you done for the Cause that will weigh in the scales against what I have done?  Show me the paltry pin-prick of suffering that you place against my agony?”

“Hush!” he said, in a low tone, and glancing round warningly, evidently taken aback by her sudden vehemence.  “You mistake me.  I wished merely to remind you.”

“Goad me, rather!” she retorted with unabated passion.  “I forget!  I forget either the blood of the dead or the tortures of the living!  I forget the oath I swore with this in my hand!”

Her fingers had been restlessly plucking at the bosom of her gown, and now she held out upon her open hand the tiny roll of red-marked paper.  She looked at it for a few moments with dilating eyes, while the color died out of her face and left it impassive marble again.  Then she slowly restored the little roll to her breast and turned to the door.

“Come,” she said.  “I will show you.”