o all reform--incapable
even of decent humanity. Very well! Was I to throw up?"

His eyes pierced into hers. Lydia could only murmur: "Go on."

"Suppose I had thrown up!--what would have happened? The estate would
have sunk, more and more lamentably, into the power of a certain low
attorney who has been Melrose's instrument in all his worst doings for
years--and of a pair of corrupt clerks in the local office. Who would
have gained? Not a soul! On the contrary, much would have been lost.
Heaven knows I have been able to do little enough. But I have done
something!--I have done _something_!--that is what people forget."

He looked at her passionately; a distress rising in his eyes, which he
could not hide. Was it her silence--the absence of any cheering,
approving sound from her?

She lifted her hand, and let it drop.

"Mainstairs!" she said. It was just breathed--a cry of pain.

"Yes--Mainstairs! I know--let us tackle Mainstairs. Mainstairs is a
horror--a tragedy. If I had been allowed, I should have set the whole
thing right a couple of months ago; I should have re-housed some of the
people, closed some of the cottages, repaired others. Mr. Melrose stopped
everything. There again--what good could I do by throwing up? I had
plenty of humdrum work elsewhere that was not being interfered with--work
that will tell in the long run. I left Mainstairs to Melrose; the
responsibility was his, not mine. I went on with what I was doing. He and
the police--thank heaven!--cleared the place."

"And in the clearing, Mr. Melrose, they say, never lifted a finger to
help--did not even give money," said Lydia in the same low, restrained
voice, as she looked away from her guest into the fire. "And one sits
thinking--of all the _dead_--that might have been saved!"

His frowning distress was evident.

"Do I not feel it as much as any one?" he said, with emotion. "I was
helpless!"

There was silence. Then Lydia turned sharply toward him.

"Mr. Faversham! Is it true that Mr. Melrose has made you his heir?"

His face changed.

"Yes--it is true."

"And he has refused to make any provision for his wife and daughter?"

"He has. And more than that"--he looked at her with a defiant
candour--"he has tried to bind me in his will to do nothing for them."

"And you have allowed it?"

"I shall soon get round that," he said, scornfully. "There are a thousand
ways. Such restrictions are not worth the paper they are written on."

"And