gathered from the insight I have given you into my character that I am not a man of sentiment, and you will probably consider it all the more strange that I should have entertained feelings toward Mary which caused me to consider whether she would not make me a creditable wife. Of these feelings I prefer not to speak in a warmer strain, but shall leave you to place your own construction upon them. While I was debating with myself as to the course I should pursue the matter was decided for me by the death of Mr. Charles. He died in disgrace and poverty, and Mary was left friendless and homeless.
"I stepped in to her rescue, and I made a proposal of marriage to her; at the same time I told her that I thought it advisable for her sake and mine that a little time should elapse before this proposal was carried into effect. I suggested that our marriage should take place in two years; meanwhile I would return to Australia, to build a suitable house and to prepare a home for her, and she would remain in England to fit herself for her new sphere of duties. She accepted me, and I arranged with a lady of refinement to receive her. To this lady both she and I were utter strangers, and it was settled between Mary and myself that she should enter her temporary home under an assumed name. It was my proposal that this pardonable deceit should be practiced; no person was wronged by it, and it would assist toward Mary's complete severance from old associations. Our future was in our own hands, and concerned nobody but ourselves.
"I returned to Australia and made my preparations. We corresponded once a month, and some few months ago I informed her of the date of my intended arrival in England. To that letter I received no reply, and when I landed and called at the lady's house I learned that she had fled. I set to work to discover the truth, and I have discovered it. I set to work to track her, and I have succeeded. Her story is a common story of betrayal and desertion, and I am not inclined to trouble you with it. She has not the remotest hope of assistance from the man who betrayed her; she has not the remotest hope of assistance from a person in the world with the exception of myself.
"Dr. Spenlove, notwithstanding what has occurred, I am here in Portsmouth this night with the intention of carrying out the engagement into which I entered with her. I am here, prepared to marry her, on express conditions. The adoption of assumed names, the obscurity she has courted, the absolute silence which is certain to be observed by her, by me, by you, by the man who betrayed her, render me safe. It is known that I have come to England to be married, and she will be accepted as I present her when I return with her as my wife. I will have no discussion as to my motives for taking what the world would consider an unwise step, but you will understand that my feelings for the woman who has played me false must be of a deep and sincere nature, or I should not dream of taking it.
"It now only remains for me to state the conditions under which I am prepared to save her from even a more shameful degradation than that into which she has already fallen. I speak plainly; you know as well as I the fate that is in store for her if my offer is rejected."
CHAPTER III.
DR. SPENLOVE UNDERTAKES A DELICATE MISSION
Mr. Gordon had spoken throughout in a cold, passionless tone, and with no accent of emotion in his voice. If anything could have been destructive of the idea that he loved the woman he wished to marry, it was his measured delivery of the story he had related; and yet there could be no question that there was some nobility in the nature of the sacrifice he was prepared to make for her sake. The contrast between the man and the woman struck Dr. Spenlove very forcibly; the man was hard and cold, the woman was sensitive and sympathetic. Had their circumstances been equal, and had Dr. Spenlove been an interested adviser, he would have had no hesitation in saying to her, "Do not marry this man; no touch of tenderness unites you; you can never kindle in his heart the fire which burns within your own; wedded to him a dull routine of years will be your portion." But he felt that he dared not encourage himself to pursue this line of argument. Although the most pregnant part of Mr. Gordon's errand had yet to be disclosed, it seemed to him that he would very likely presently be the arbiter of her destiny. "You will be able," Mr. Gordon had said, "to make clear to her the effect of her consent or refusal upon her destiny and the destiny of her child." Whatever the conditions, it would be his duty to urge her to accept the offer that would be made to her; otherwise he might be condemning her to a course of life he shuddered to contemplate. The responsibility would be too solemn for mere sentimental considerations. These were the thoughts that flashed through his mind in the momentary pause before Mr. Gordon spoke again.
"I believe," his visitor then said, "that I am in possession of the facts relating to Mrs. Turner's circumstances" – he reverted to the name by which she was generally known-"but you will corroborate them perhaps. She is in want."
"She is in the lowest depths of poverty."
"Unless she pays the arrears of rent she will be turned into the streets to-morrow."
"That is the landlord's determination."
"She would have been turned out to-day but for your intervention."
"You are well informed, I see," observed Dr. Spenlove, rather nettled.
"I have conversed with the landlord and with others concerning her. She lives among the poor, who have troubles enough of their own to grapple with, and are unable, even if they were inclined, to render her the assistance of which she stands in need. She seems to have kept herself aloof from them, for which I commend her. Now, Dr. Spenlove, I will have no specter of shame and degradation to haunt her life and mine. Her past must be buried, and the grave must never be opened. To that I am resolved, and no power on earth can turn me from it."
"But her child," faltered Dr. Spenlove.
"She will have no child. She must part with her, and the parting must be final and irrevocable. The steps that I shall take to this end shall be so effectual that if by chance in the future they should happen to meet she shall not recognize her. I propose to have the child placed with a family who will adopt her as a child of their own; there will be little difficulty in finding such a family, to the head of which a sum of one hundred pounds will be paid yearly for maintenance. I name no limit as to time. So long as the child lives so long will the payment be made through my lawyers. Should the child die before she reaches the age of twenty-one the sum of five hundred pounds will be paid to the people who undertake the charge; they will know nothing of me or of the mother; our names will not be divulged to them, and they will not be able to trace us. Should they evince a disposition to be troublesome in this respect the child will be taken from them by my lawyers, and another home provided for her. A hundred pounds a year is a liberal sum, and there will not be the least difficulty in carrying out the proposed arrangement. In proof that I desire the child to have every chance of leading a happy life I will engage to give her a marriage portion of five hundred pounds. Judge for yourself whether a woman in Mrs. Turner's circumstances would be acting wisely in rejecting my proposition."
"You have spoken in a most generous spirit," said Dr. Spenlove slowly, "so far as money goes, but you seem not to have taken into consideration a mother's feelings."
"I have not taken them into consideration; they are not part of my plan. I have looked at the matter only from two points of view-the worldly aspect of it, and my desire to carry out my personal wishes. I decline to regard it or to argue upon it from the point of view of a mother's feelings. I ask you to judge of it as a man of the world."
"Of which," said Dr. Spenlove, "as I have hinted to you, I am a poor example. Do you expect me to provide for the babe such a home as that you have described?"
"Not at all. It is my business to carry out my plan if she accepts the conditions."
"What, then, do you wish me to do?"
"To lay my proposition before her as nearly as possible in my own words; to impress upon her that it is her duty to agree to it for her own sake and for the sake of the child."
"Why not do so yourself?"
"I have not seen her. I will not see her while she holds in her arms her burden of shame. She shall come to me free and unencumbered, or she shall not come at all. I could not speak to her as I have spoken to you; I should not be able to command myself. She would plead to me, and I should answer her in bitterness and anger. Such a scene would set me so strongly against her that I should immediately relinquish my purpose. You can reason