Yet all at once there happened something which revived much of his old zeal, and, in spite of everything, brought him once more prominently forward.  A calamity had visited the town.  By a great explosion in a neighbouring colliery, numbers of homes had been rendered destitute, and aid of every kind was imperatively called for on all sides.  In former times, Paul Enderby would have been just the man for this occasion, and even now he was not wanting.  Extensive subscriptions were raised, and he, as chief man in the committee which had been formed, had chief control of the funds.  People said afterwards that they had often remarked something singular in his manner as he went about in these duties.  Whether that was true or not, something more than singular happened when, some two months later, accounts were being investigated and cleared up.  Late one evening, Mr. Enderby left home,—­and never returned to it.  It was very soon known that he must have appropriated to his own use considerable sums which had reached his hands for charitable purposes, and the scandal was terrific.  Mrs. Enderby and her child disappeared in a day or two.  It was said that ladies from London had come and fetched her away, and she was no more heard of in that little town.

Miss Bygrave, an elder sister of Mrs. Enderby, had received a letter from Paul summoning her to the wife’s aid:  and this letter, dated from Liverpool, after disclosing in a few words the whole situation, went on to say that the writer, though he would never more be seen by those who knew him, would not fail to send his wife what money he could as often as he could.  And, after half a year, sums had begun to be remitted, in envelopes bearing a Californian postmark.  They were not much use, however, to Mrs. Enderby.  A few days after her arrival at her home in London, she had been discovered hanging, with a rope round her neck, from a nail behind her bedroom door.  Cut down in time, her life was saved, but reason had forsaken her.  She was taken away to an asylum, and remained there for five years.

By that time, she seemed to have quite recovered.  Her home was now to be with her sister, Theresa Bygrave.  Her child, Maud Enderby, was nearly seven years old.  Mrs. Enderby returned to the world not quite the same woman as when she left it.  She had never lacked character, and this now showed itself in one immutable resolution.  Having found that the child had learnt nothing of its parents, she determined that this ignorance should continue; or rather that it should be exchanged for the belief that those parents were both long dead.  She dwelt apart, supported by her sister.  Finally, after ten years’ absence, Paul Enderby returned to England, and lived again with his wife.  But Maud, their daughter, still believed herself alone in the world, save for her aunt, Miss Bygrave.

At the time when Waymark and Ida were together at Hastings, Mrs. Enderby called one evening at Miss Bygrave’s house—­the house of Maud’s childhood, still distinguished by the same coldness, bareness and gloom, the same silence echoing to a strange footfall.  Theresa Bygrave had not greatly altered; tall, upright, clad in the plainest black garment, she walked into the room with silent dignity, and listened to a suggestion made by her brother-in-law.