But next day the irony of fate fell upon him with heavy hand.  He received the news that Joseph Scroope, his maternal uncle, was dead, not having produced an heir, so he knew that he would inherit a comfortable fortune from him.

The noose had, indeed, tightened round his neck,—­he could not now release himself from his engagement to Cecilia Cricklander.  Some instincts of a gentleman still remained with him in full measure.  The hideous, hideous mockery of it all.  If he had waited, he would now have been free to seek his darling, his pure star, Halcyone, in all honor.  He could have taken her dear, tender hand, and led her proudly to the seat by his side—­and crowned her with whatever laurels her sweet spirit would have inspired him to gain.  And it was all too late! too late!

He reviewed the whole chain of events, and perceived how it had been his own doing—­what had happened in each step—­and this knowledge added to the bitterness of his pain.  It was from now onward that his nights were often agony.  Every movement, every word of Halcyone came back to him, from the old days of long ago when she had given him the oak leaf, to the moment of her looking into his eyes, with all her soul in hers, as she had answered his passionate question.  “Afraid?  How should I be afraid—­since you are my lord and I am your love?  Do not we belong to one another?”

And in spite of the peace Mrs. Cricklander’s absence caused in the atmosphere, John Derringham grew more unutterably wretched as time went on.

His cup seemed to be filling from all sides.  The Government was going out in disaster, and, instead of being able to stand by his colleagues and fight, and perhaps avert catastrophe by his brilliant speeches and biting wit, he was chained like a log to a sofa and was completely impotent.

It was no wonder his convalescence was slow, and that Arabella grew anxious about him.  She felt that some of Mrs. Cricklander’s wrath and disgust because of this state of things would fall upon her head.

His ankle was a great deal better now, it was five weeks since the accident, and in a day or two he hoped to leave for London.  Mrs. Cricklander would be obliged to take an after-cure at the highly situated castle of an Austrian Prince, an old friend of hers—­where the air was most bracing, she wrote.  For her strict instructions to Arabella before she left, after telling her she might have her mother to keep her company, and so earning the good creature’s deep gratitude, had been: 

“You must keep me informed of every slightest turn in Mr. Derringham—­because, until he is perfectly well and amusing again, I simply can’t come back to England.  His tragic face bores me to death.  Really, men are too tiresome when there is the slightest thing the matter with them.”

And Arabella had faithfully carried out her instructions.

In common honesty she could not inform her employer that John Derringham was perfectly well or amusing!