After Arabella’s unfortunate announcement, for two or three days John Derringham was too ill to know or care what occurred, and then other and further tormenting thoughts began to trouble his weary brain.

If Halcyone had a stepmother who had come and taken her away, there were then more persons than her ancient aunts to reckon with.  She could not now slip off into a secret marriage with himself with small chance of awkward questionings.  That phase of the dream was over, he felt.

No letters of any sort were given him by the doctor’s strict orders, and his private secretary had come down, an amiable and intelligent youth, and was dealing with the necessary official correspondence—­as best he could—­growing each day more infatuated with his fair hostess who felt that no pawn on the chessboard which contained John Derringham as king was worth neglecting.  The Professor was not enjoying his fortnight in London, and almost tugged his silver beard out while he smoked innumerable pipes.  He had come to some conclusions.

John Derringham having been unable to keep the tryst with Halcyone was plainly the working of the hand of Fate, which did not intend that his sweet girl should occupy the invidious and humiliating position of secret wife and apparent mistress to the ambitious young man.  Therefore he—­Arnold Carlyon—­had no right to assist her again into John Derringham’s arms.  They must both suffer and work out their destinies however cruel that might seem.

“If John really feels she is a necessity, he will brave everything and marry her openly as soon as he is well.  If he does not—­then I will not assist her into a life of misery and disillusion.”

He remembered a talk they had had long ago, when his old pupil had given his views about women and their place in the scheme of things.  Not one must expect a man to be faithful to her, were she wife or mistress, he had said.  So starting heavily handicapped in the role of his secret and unacknowledged wife, Halcyone would stand a very poor chance of happiness.  Cheiron pictured things—­John Derringham flattered and courted by the world and surrounded by adoring woman, while Halcyone sat at home in some quiet corner and received the scraps of his attentions that were left.

No! decidedly he would have no hand in aiding the sorry affair.

So he used his influence and even a little cunning in preventing Halcyone from writing to her lover.  He was too ill yet to be troubled, and she must wait until he should send some message to her.

“You do not want Mrs. Cricklander to read your letter, child,” he said, when she timidly suggested one day that it would seem kinder if she wrote to say she was concerned at the accident to her old friend.—­The sad comedy was still kept up between them.—­And Halcyone had stiffened.  No, indeed! not that!  She was woman enough in spite of the ennobling and broadening effects of her knowledge of nature, to feel