NEVER FORGOTTEN.

PART THE SECOND.
CHAPTER VII. THE HOUSE IN CLARGES-STREET.

CAPTAIN FERMOR, having now done with the
army, and failed in his Indian profession, had
been washed ashore on the great London
strand. How interminable that strand is;
how barren, how miserable, for all such new
waifs and strays, has been over and over again
proved. Fermor, a young man, and, as men go,
not by any means a dull man, met with a few
stray inhabitants on this lonely coast, running
down from their huts; that is to say, from a
club or two; but in London practically he had
only a few acquaintances, and scarcely any
friends.

He had come home with Sir Hopkins, had
passed up through the south of France, and had
made that dramatic morning call just as he had
promised. He had heard of Violet's death, and had
been affected, but that was long before. He was
not well off: he stopped with this family rather
longer than a mere morning call required, and,
before very long, the marriage was settled on, and
it was known that "Fermor had picked up an
heiress," and also "an old father." There was
some truth in this last odd expression, for Mr.
Carlay gave his daughter fifty thousand pounds,
after this fashion: It was conveyed to trustees
for "her use for life," and afterwards to Fermor
absolutely.

"I cannot live without my daughter," he said,
half piteously. " You might cut me off water,
or bread, or meat, or even air. I have lived with
her always; I cannot part with her now in my
old age. I will make it up to you. You shall
see I shall. I know how young married people
do. If it was settled on her, you would soon
come to think me in the way, and I should have
to go. Now I shall have a stake in the house.
No, no. I will do everything; you shall see."

Fermor smiled at this foolish eagerness. It
was an exceptional arrangement certainly, but
after all he was a quiet old man—clay in a
fashionable potter's hands—and the consideration
was abundant. Thus the house was furnished
and made splendid, and thus a little room at the
top of the first flight, leading to the drawing-room,
where there was a greenhouse, a study,

and a bedroom, became Mr. Carlay's home, where
he read French and Spanish books. It rolled on
very smoothly for some weeks. Then Fermor
began to weary a little.

Fermor alone, and Fermor doubled, were two
different things in fashionable life. He had
hung a millstone of disability about his own
neck. Young Mrs. Fermor could not show her
passports, or her papers were not "in rule."
A pleasant wandering man was always welcome:
he filled in gaps in the ranks. But when
it was given out that he had married " some low
creature," and the knowing him entailed knowing
the low creature, it was perceived that the game
was not altogether worth the candle. And thus
it was that in crowded London he began to find
himself in a sort of elegant desert.

This he did not at all relish. He loved the old
incense, the incense which in private drawing-
rooms ladies were accustomed to swing before
him from little feminine censers. There were
none now to swing; rather the censers were
busy before other high priests. He resented all
this bitterly, just as a reduced gentleman resents
the loss of luxuries, and came home of evenings
to domestic joys, very moody and silent.

He thought very often of the hapless Violet.
It seemed to him a very pretty romance, and it
became sweet to him to dwell on it. The whole
was a soft picture to look back to, and he felt
deeply and sorrowfully, as he thought of her sad
end. Yet the feeling was not ungrateful. It was
a sort of pet flower-garden, into which he retired
at times to walk. And he thought very, very
often of the splendid flashing sister, and their
dramatic night outside the café, and of the curious
strange impression he seemed to make upon
her. He felt a sort of restless wish to meet her
again, and know more of those soft details which
almost fell into the shape of a dream. He made
many inquiries, but could not find her out. He
had no clue. He asked those who might have
known, but without success.

Suddenly one evening, on the steps of his club,
he met Young Brett, whom he had not seen since
an Eastport day, ever so long ago, and the day of
an Eastport little party. But those times were
now rolled up and huddled away in a corner like
old canvas scenery.

Young Brett coloured up, gave him a blunt nod,
and was passing on. Fermor stopped him. He