She was hurt. It was as though a new
feature in her character had come on him
by surprise.

"Well, then," he said, slowly, "what we
have reached is this: that there was some
one with her when she died. That some one
has not revealed herself. We are going to
be the Edgar Allan Poes of the mystery."

She was so scared by this announcement
that she let him leave the room. Had he
stayed a second longer, she had almost made
up her mind to tell him. But the opportunity
for grace was gone. He sat up some
hours that night over books and papers,
and the interval was as good as weeks.

CHAPTER VI. "FACILIS DESCENSUS."

THEY were now back in town again, but
they were changed in their relations.
Conway with disappointment, for he had
begun to perceive a want of firmness a sort
of fretfulness that belonged to a young
girl, and which might be no profit to him
in the great schemes that were before him.
She, with the old decision, which she really
possessed, had made up her mind calmly to
a distinct course. Dudley had gone his
way. This moody dream of his—for it
might be such—would lead him in some
other direction. It would all pass by.
She, too, was concerned at a faint
alteration in her husband's manner, which, faint
as it was, she had detected. This surprised
her. He, too, had avoided the subject.
In short, by little and little, and by a process
which the parties themselves can take
no heed of, so gradual and imperceptible is
its progress, is built up that fatal Blue
Chamber, to which both parties have a
key, but which both go round long
passages to avoid, and yet are always coming
face to face at its very door.

He had many things now to occupy him.
He was fast sliding into politics, which
often become the grave of love. There
was a political association where he was
asked to deliver a speech, and the
preparation took up a long time, but the delivery
was a success. The speech was talked of,
and there were leaders in the journals.
He was talked of for a seat, and had to
make journeys, and "interview" people of
all kinds. Thus, he was gradually being
drawn off from any interest in has calm
household; and if he felt a scruple, he
salved it over with the thought that Jessica
had not so strong a mind as he thought,
and would not take interest in his politics.

At last it became known that the seat
would be vacant, and one evening a
gentleman of the party, who "found" eligible
boroughs, as a house agent might find
houses, came to them mysteriously one
night. He was closeted with Conway a
long time, who then came up to his wife,
very grave indeed. "They have found me
a seat," he said. "A man is willing to
retire. But who do you suppose—or where
do you suppose?"

Again she knew there was something
coming—something with a dark shadow
to it.

"Bolton is the man, and St. Arthur's is
the place."

"But you will not accept?" she said.
"You could not! A place with such
associations for you—such associations for me!"

"Childish ones, dearest, as I have often
told you. Really, Jessica, this amounts to
a little folly—like a nightmare. My
associations may be painful or unpleasant, but
there is nothing, surely, to be ashamed of—
nothing, by reason of which I should
retreat from such an advantage."

Jessica answered with a flush. " I never
thought so, or dreamed of such a thing."

"Not surely because you had a quarrel
with that poor girl—kept up rather too
long—am I to decline this great opening?
No, Jessica, I cannot humour you so far;
unless you can tell me some good reason.
If, indeed, you tell me that you have
something to reproach yourself with in her
regard, if you will tell me now there is some
secret reason—"

"There is nothing to tell," she said.
"Only this—I cannot explain it. But I
have a miserable presentiment—that
ill-omened place—"

He smiled. "Which brought us together!
Is that ill-omened? And as for
the presentiment, it will do us no harm. I
have had too many presentiments; but they
never came out true. There, dear, we must
go on to where glory waits us; and, alas!
put our feelings in our pockets, or, at least,
seem to do so."

Conway was a sort of epicurean worldling.
That great oyster, the world, was the
chief delicacy he cared for at heart, and all
his life he had been striving hard to open it.
Now, it would seem he had got his knife well
in, and a little more leverage would open it.

Now came the writing an address—the
writing of many letters. A few
nights later Conway came up quite full
of spirits to report progress to his wife.
"All goes well. We have an unexpected
agent enrolled in our ranks, and who has
done me service already. He has saved