se, and took to him at once. Roxdal's somewhat supercilious manner
had always jarred upon the unsophisticated corn merchant. With Tom the
old man got on much better. While evidently quite as well informed and
cultured as his whilom friend, Tom knew how to impart his superior
knowledge with the accent on the knowledge rather than on the
superiority, while he had the air of gaining much information in return.
Those who are most conscious of defects of early education are most
resentful of other people sharing their consciousness Moreover, Tom's
_bonhomie_ was far more to the old fellow's liking than the studied
politeness of his predecessor, so that on the whole Tom made more of a
conquest of the father than of the daughter. Nevertheless, Clara was by
no means unresponsive to Tom's affection, and when, after one of his
visits to the house, the old man kissed her fondly and spoke of the
happy turn things had taken, and how, for the second time in their
lives, things had mended when they seemed at their blackest, her heart
swelled with a gush of gratitude and joy and tenderness, and she fell
sobbing into her father's arms.

[Illustration: "WITH TOM THE OLD MAN GOT ON MUCH BETTER."]

Tom calculated that he made a clear five hundred a year by occasional
journalism, besides possessing some profitable investments which he had
inherited from his mother, so that there was no reason for delaying the
marriage. It was fixed for May-day, and the honeymoon was to be spent
in Italy.

CHAPTER VI

THE DREAM AND THE AWAKENING

But Clara was not destined to happiness. From the moment she had
promised herself to her first love's friend old memories began to rise
up and reproach her. Strange thoughts stirred in the depths of her soul,
and in the silent watches of the night she seemed to hear Everard's
accents, charged with grief and upbraiding. Her uneasiness increased as
her wedding-day drew near. One night, after a pleasant afternoon spent
in being rowed by Tom among the upper reaches of the Thames, she retired
to rest full of vague forebodings. And she dreamt a terrible dream. The
dripping form of Everard stood by her bedside, staring at her with
ghastly eyes. Had he been drowned on the passage to his land of exile?
Frozen with horror, she put the question.

"I have never left England!" the vision answered.

Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

"Never left England?" she repeated, in tones which did not seem to be
he