IN THE HEART OF THE STORM.

Evening Star, Issue 8730, 23 January 1892, Page 1 (Supplement)

IN THE HEART OF THE STORM.

A TALE OP MODERN CHIVALRY. By Maxwell Gray (Author of • The Silence of Dean Maitlanu.') PART HI. CHAPTER IX. FANNY. Tho desire of his eyes had been snatched from him, and tho joy of hia youth and the hope of hia age quenched. The heavens were black above him, and the earth below bleak and barren ; tho wealth that would havo made hia wedc'.td happiness possiblo was useless now ; ail hia possessions wore but as du3t that is brushed away by a pissing wind. Hia life lay blasted behind him, and all hia future stretched in blade desolation before him. So Claudo Modrsy mourned ic the bitterness) of a bereaval etiil fresh and acute. It wad his own doiug ; he could not complain cf the sternness of heavenly decreeh or accuse ar.y blind fat? (f cruelty; with hia own hand ho bad withtred and destroyed a life clearer than hia own and murdered his young happiueaa. it was as if, a consecrated crmlice bearing celestial wine having beta ollored to him, he h.sd taken it for an ordinary tap-room tankard, and, before he eculd degrade it to common uses, it had been saatchtd from hia sacrilegious hand, leaving him to bum with unquenchable thirst.

On hearing cf Jessie's disappearar.ee he had caused icquiries to be mads through his father, to whom the handkerchief atory Ivd been communicated ia confidence by Mr Piumner, and had at last accepted the theory of death in tho river, whether by accident or dcaign—by design, ho too surely fasred. If Jessie's passion and fl : ght i'lto the utorm had touched his conscience a:;d heart, the sharp stroke of bereaval had de-ne more. A sorrow at once so irretrievable and so eutwinod with all the finest fibres of human nature touches the spiritual part of man into keenly thrilling and active li:c ; it refines, softens, purifies like nothing e!sc-. What he had scea in Jessie's fuco outlined upon the lurid sky had swept away tho intricate maz j 3 of sophistry with which he had scuyht to deceive her and himsr-if. All lay then in its naked hideousneu b.fire him; he Raw himself the uamauly persecutor of an innocent, highminried girl, whose youth and defenceh'-v nens speculiy appealed to his chivalry, lie 89w toe true nature of the unequal duel, ia which he had used weapons so deadly s.nd so unfair against one whoso only armor v.*. a innocence—au armor bo easily pierced unless braced by strength of character and principle—auit kuew himielf utterly dcleatea. " Wjo tn tho wivik. Let women take cue of th mstlvcs," had been iii axiom in April, but not now. He knew that Jessie h-.d shown heroism far beyond that of tho d-adly, deathless rida at Bii *• clava, which had* so deeply impressed her imagination and so strongly kindled lur enthusiasm. Ho remembered his artud consciousness while ho rode down that aw 'I valley in tho tempest of death, that tho noble: t chord in hid nature was vibrating i-.s last; hi 3 not ignoble selfrevtr'uce, _springii)g from the thought that he &nu hio comrades could die for a word's eake.

Sometimes he had thought it would be poasibie to live up to the li.tlaclava level— j when Jessie left nim that day he was sure <;f i u. Whit bad pierced his conscience most deeply was the brutality of his assertion that her reputation was already gone. Love uud grifcf thowed him after Jsssiea tight what terriblo meaning the inexperienced girl, so ignorant of the world's evil, to sensitive to feelings of honor, might attach to these cruel words. In one so sensitive t'u-y might work despair, ar.d despair in one so young and friendless, of mental poise so nice, turns to madness—and then! He saw it all: the ruah of agony during the lonely fLld 'walk, the sudden less of mental balance in the ftver of suffering, the temptation of the swifc-fbrcr g river, wht.ro the tide was cun«iDg up and the channel v. «a deep. A plunge in the green water, a Lea of sunshine rttiaoted from the golden hair above, a total loss of suoshine to the blue eyes darkened below ; iheu silence; the broken ripple circlicg quietly bick to it 3 even flow, and the robin piping his autumn eong ia the oak grove on the bank. Or is might have baeu an aocident, a slip of the light foot on the timber's green ai.d slippery ''dge, as she stood to watch the tide running up. But it was moit improbable that she wouli have walked to the j odge of the Umbo; bulk ; there was r.o j motive for doing so. To know that it w-n j an accident seemed the ouly thing that j could ever bring him pi:at:e of mind now. j Philip had left him for more than an j hoar, the interrupted breakfast lay I untouched on the Üble, when hs roused himself from that unending circle tf egoaiaiag thought which sometimes overacts the a'rjog-'ac minds, rose, took a turn ia the room, unci locked out on the sunny pa:k, J whence the white rime was now melted. J Then hia eyes fell on some daily papers ; ha ! unfolded one, and was about to iry and divert the current of gloomy thought, when his attention was caught by a once familiar but long forgotten name—Fancy Woodnutt, aged twenty-six, What ia the good of reading those brief pitiful paragraphs that daily appear under the heading of inquests on our cosy breakfast tables ? Sensible people, who value j their cheer.'ulneaa, pass on to the record of gayer and larger doings, of parliamentary t-quabblea at home and political intrigueH acros3 the Channel, of theatres and concerts, of Lord and Lady iloseleaf's exit from town and the arrival of the Dake of Bunkum at Flummery Caßtle, of the progress of Lord Chicory's gout and the successful courtship of Miss Angela Billing by the Hon. Squander Cashless. But the name of this poor Fanny, whose brief life had contained no such pleasant doings as befall the rich and great, together with the name of a certain cavalry depot, riveted his attention and caused the hair to rise upon his fbsh as he read the everyday tale of misery. Poor Fanny—only twenty-six, and too truly described as unfortunate—had sought the piteous refuge of the river from a world ia which she was not allowed the chance of walking uprightly, having once gone wrong. But Gist she had written a letter, expluiui.tg why. " Dear mother," the letter ran, "I could not bear it no more, thinking it better for all I should go. Please forgive me, that have been a trouble and will troublo no one no more. It was trouble dil it. After that young (Micer went I had no heart for nothing; I couldn't look up to myself. There was no hope. I first took a glass to forget. I was forced to bad company ; others gave me the go-by. 16 was ODly in drink 1 could forget, and you was forced to turn ma away. Dear mother, there was no honest work, and me afraid to die. But Hell can't be much worse than this. When you get this ycu won't have a child tc*briug you disgrace. Please give my love to all that ever wus kind to your poor wicked Fanoy. God forgive Aim." Wicked indeed waa this frail, despairing Fanny, all sound moralists would juatly say. Had bhe been made of sterner stuff, with a heart leas trustful and loving, with a keener eye for her own interests, thtß poor little tragedy had never been enaoted ; or, with firmer faith and a feeling of Heavenjs infiuite pity, the might have faced man's acorn, and not died cf it. With all the springs of earthly joy dried for her, the might have sat contrite ia the dust, doing good works all the days of her life—a life which, at eighteen, seems an eternity of misery to the heart-atrioken. But all girls cf eighteen are sot saints or ascetics; yoang blood ia warm, and youth hungry for happiness. Perhaps Claude Medway waa not a sound moralist; for it seemed to him that the young officer who " went" waß the most to blame in the matter, as he perused this poor sinner's apology for her life with »throbbing brain and heart. It was nearly nine years ago since the hussar officers used to call Fanny «' the pretty Puritan," and louDgo away many idle boors in the confectioner's shop where she served ioes to theso long-limbed loungers, pennyworths of aweets to little boys and girls whose heads scarcely reached the oounter, buna to pinobed apinaters, and great plum cakes to sever* matrons, all with the same engaging smile

and cheerful alaority. She used to sing in the ohuroh choir on Sundays, and teaoh in the Sunday school. And though she was inclined to be smart in dress, the greater part of her wage went to the family exchequer, and she was a comfort to her parents. Then on summer evenings, when the bells were ringing, she used to stroll through pleasant field paths outside the town ; and one of those hussars, a light hearted cornet, thinking no harm, and at his wits' end for tome fresh diversion, joined in those healthful walks—and the end was sorrow for ono of them.

Nothing could alter what had happened and cause Fanny's misorable life to be unlived. That yoimg cornet might repent, might have repented long since; ho might bo admitted to the companionship of saints in everlasting bliss ; but, oven there, surely, he could not be happy, remembering to what a fate he had sent Fanny. Ciaudo Medway had not attained to thut wide hope of everlasting mercy cccordiog to which tho penitent's heaven may consist in beiug allowed to undo ocmo of the ill wrought on earth. He could only feel the black blank misery of having driven a fellow-creature to a despair which led to worso than death, to ono depth of degradation after another until "Hell cannot be much >vcrao than this."

To all light-hearted triflera one day in some world, as to Claude Medway in this, a voice of thunder will surely fay "Thy brother's or thy sister's blocd ciieth from tho ground." lie could see the pretty Puritan, with rose-red mouth and clear, guileless eyes, servirg the sweets and singing in the choir, hear her j'>youa laugh and icnocent prattle ai tho walked in the fialda—a sweet picture. And he could see a haggard, wild-eyed woman, stupefied by degradation, a source of wide-spreading moral poison, mad with drink and misery, flying from self and memory to the spectre-haunted silence of death—a ghastly spectacle.

How atone. Great Gal, for this which min has done ? At d for the body and soul which by Man's rhilesa dorm must now comply With life-lung noil, what lulaby of swot t forgetful second birth Remains? All dark -.

Then beforo him invagination thcit) rose Up that great and terrible army of whom sho was tut a feeblo unit—that army whose headquarters are capital cities, who infest the street* of every town and prey upon the vitals of society -an army in which no one ever grows old, or, having once entered, is ever young. Why, he asked, dees that ghastly host exist? Who maintains it? And his conscience replied : Vi hence is it recruited ? And conscience again told him : Mainly from tuch a-s Fanny—from the ranks of youth, innocence, helplessness. His heart sickened at the rnas3 of human misery and degradation. fie knew something of the impressment practised for this awful service; of tho traps and pitfalls laid for tho umurrpsctiQg and ignorant, the foreigner, the friendless—traps from which the purest virtue and firmest principle are not safe, ti'apsand decoys by which such as Jessie aro easily taken. Such as Jessie—

Hia daughter with bin mother's eyes. Until Jessie had taught h ; .n a now reverence for woxc-n he had not felt tho depth of this deg-adatic.il.

What might actually be Jessie's fate now, if. as Philip supposed, she was abneand homekss in London ? He would have given hi] life manytimta over to know tint she was indeed safe in the River Lynn, even if driven there by despair of his causing. Such thoughts dry up the very fountains cf youth and "scorch the brain into sereuees ; he dared not harbor them ; Tlvy make a goblin cf the sun ; but left the house, seeking by violent exercise to get rid of them for a time. Then he decided on seeing Silly Samson acd testing the story sho had told Philip. But he must not do this openly cow. In the meantime he and Philip were like duellists, each watchiDg and waiting for the other to approach. Claude thought that the threatened legal proceedings must fail for want of money. Philip consulted lawyers, with the result his brain completely bewildered by legal subtleties and hair-splittings. If he had to pay cons (which ho considered improbable) he decided to sell his c.-mmiaaion and realiie hia little fortune. It was a combat d outrance. When he left Claude Medway he was moro firmly convinced than ever that he had the key to this distressing mystery. Claude's extreme forbearance, his letting him call him a iiar and otherwise fusult him, seemed to bear witness against him. "The mean hound," he called h>m in his indignation.

Walking moodily thug that day, after an interview with a lawyer to whom he had been recommended, he met a melancholy procession of sandwich men trailing airnleusly along with pinched faces and haggard looks, and in oue of these rugged creatures ho recognised a discharged soldier and old comrade with whom he had served in the Crimea. Hailing this unlucky fellow, he gave him a shilling acd hia address, ar.d bid him crime and talk over old times. Then, fiudirtg him open to better employmerit, and knowing that his wita were keen and that he could keep sober for eomo time for a purpose, he engaged him nominally as his servant, and really to help him watch Claude Medway'a movements. About a week after their encounter Claude Medway went to Cleeve, dogged by Philip's spy. Oa tho following afternoon, about the grey dusk of a grey day, Philip waa walking in Hyde Park, when tho saund of his own name, issuing from the gloom beneath some trees near, reached his ear. " Then I tell Rindal," a man's voice said in harsh, threatening tonei. "Nonsense," Claude Mod way's voice replied. " Luckily he ia out of your reach." "He is in EDgland. He was at Marvvell a fortnight ago. I can easily lay hands on him if I try." "It will be tho worse for yon if you do, because in that case you will never get one farthing moro from me or my father, and he has but his pay for you to prey upon." "Give me fifty down and I'll be qaiet for the sake of the family, f>r the tine old Medway name," said the other sneeringly. And Philip lost the reply, for they were moving on, and their footsteps now ft 11 upon grave', and now they were in the open road, so that he could not be near them without himself being seen. Some further altercation followed, and then Claude put something into the hand of tho nun, who proved to be tho shabby fellow Philip had seen waiting in hia hall, and shook himself free of him.

Philip followed the shabby man into an omnibus, in which he contrived to sit opposite him with his own face in the shadow, so that he could watch him in the dim light of the quaking oil-lamp aa they clattered over the pavement. The man dozed a little with hii ch : n on hia breast and hia hands testing tightly clasped on the stick he held between his knees. Presently he roused himself with a low sound, half moan, half grunt, and looked uneasily round, like some Btartled wild animal, and Philip saw that his eyes glittered feverishly fromdeep-Bunkcnsockets, and that hia worn and wasted face was cf a peculiar yellowish hue. Having glanced round at the passengers, he lost the haunted look, and took from his pocket some kind of sweetmeat or drug, from which he cut pieces and ate, and dosed again. Thi3 was repeated several times, and each time hia hand became less tremulous, his dosing less heavy, and his eyea less keen. He get out in Oxford street, followed at a distance by Philip, and ate some more of the sweetmeat. Then he sauntered slowly along, often stopping to look vacantly for some minutes at the moving stream of vehicles and passengers, passing and repassing, jostling and hurrying in the gaslight. The haunted look recurred no more now, the eyes were quiet and hazy, the man's air waßthatof a half-conscious dreamer; there was a pleasant languor in his movements.

He turned the first corner he reached in the same aimless sauntering way, with many a pause, as if in reverie, though surely, Philip thought, Oxford and the adjoining streets were strange places to dream in. But the opium-eater saw, instead of London streets by gaslight, a series of magnificent pageants streaming by in ever-changing brilliants, in weird yet tranquil splendor, He saw tho Greek charioteer with wind? blown hair and tense muscleß, standing with a backward poise in bis light oar, and deftly guiding his flying coursers, anon giving a swift glance behind to see how far bis rivals had gained on him in the loud thunder of their course. Now it waa a

Roman triumph, glittering with golden apoil, now the advanoing surge of viotorioua battle, now a succession of danoing nymphs and satyrs, a whirl of flying mosaada, now a fair pageant, a radiant masque, a tournament, a battle of Titans, a route of Ceutaura and Lapithce, a procession of lovely laughing lute-players, Heaven knows what of fantastic spectacles, glowing colors and beautiful forms, developed on the foundation of a moving London crowd, Street after street was passed in thiß manner. Philip began to wonder if the battered, shabby object of bis chase were man or demon; if perchance he had lighted on the Wandering Jew, or some spirit compelled to revisit his old haunts. The thia bearded figure Btoppod at last, after a couple of hours' wandering, beforo a house in a moderately quiet street, rang tho bell, and went in without parley when the dcor opened. Philip soon followed, observed the number on the fanlight, and rang the bell himself. "Is Mr Johnson at home?" he asked the maid who answered the door.

"Some mistake. No Mr Johnson here," she replied. "No? But was not that Mr Johnson who went in a minute ago? Au elderly mm, thin and sickly looking ?'' "Why, you mean one of the lodgers— Mr Ashwin. I juet let him in." " I am afraid I have inado a mistake. So that was Mr Ashwin," he returned, carefully describing him again, and slipping a piece of silver into her hand. '' The number I thought was 55, and the landlady a Mrs Well, I forget her name." "Thia is Mrs Smithson'a, air, and she's only three sets : Mr Ashwin, the first floor front ; Mr Jenkins, first floor back ; and Mr Cramer, second floor baok; no Mr Johnson. Twas the first floor front jest stepped in." " A commercial traveller ?"

"No ; he lives independent. Sleeps all day, and is out all night sometimes. Drinky. Has horrors."

This was all Philip could learn of this gentleman, and ho turned away content with his information for the present.

CHAPTER X'PHILIP IS SUfc PRISED,

Ic was plainly lost labor to Beek information of a man iu an opium trancp, and as Philip drove back to hia own quarlers near Hyde Park another plan occurred to him ; he changed hi 3 destination, aud had himself act down at Claude Medway's house. Finding him at home ho sent in his card with the word " urgent" pencilled oa it, and was at onco admitted, late as it was. He was shown into a library lighted faintly with shaded lamps, and soon joined by Ciaudo Medway. "I hope, Randal," the Utter said, " that you havo thought better of th 9 intended lawsuit."

" I have thought that it will not be necessary," he replied. " You were with a man named Aahwin, thi3 evening." he added. Claude moved away from the lamp he had turned up on entering. "Is Mr Ash win a friend of yours ? " he asked. "I have uo doubt he would become one for a consideration. I heard my name this evening ia the Park by accident. I heard that I was to be told all unless a good round sum was forthcoming on the instant, Hollowed your agreeable friend and obtained his name, addr<s?, and occupation. He was not in a Btatc for examination when I left him. He will keep. In the meantime yon may as well tell me all yourself." "What do you suppose Aahwin threatened to tell you ?' Claude ashed. " What you have done with my sister." " You uio mistaken. This man has never bo much as heard her name/' ho replied. " He may know her by another name.' "In that ease, how would he know your name in connection with her? Randal, I swear to you on my honor, that I know no moro where Je»sio Meade is at this moment than you do. And I warn you against that man Ashwiu. If you make yourself known to him, you will repent it all your life " , , , "That ia my concern. I can look after myself aa well i- s after those who dep?nd upon me. It is very plain that you don't wish me to know him, since you bought bis silence a few hours since, and told him that he would repent finding mo out to the last <L.y of his Hfo. I have had enough of this, Medway ; I am sick of playing the spy. Y r ou have just been to Cleeve, whereyour movements have been watched and will be reported to me. I overheard your interview with this man on your return. What have yon clone with her? It may as well come out now as in cou t " "I have just sworn to you upon my honor "

" Your honor !" said Philip savagely,

Claude sprung toward* I in, and then suddenly drew back. ".Fo:>!!" ha crieJ, let it be on your own head ! Aehwin is your father.'" "That —that —drunken beast —my father!" stairmered Pnilip.

Clauds forgot h?3 nnyer in amassment. "Good heaven?, Philip!" he cried, "ia it possible that you dou't know who you are?" "I know nothing of my father," Philip said, ''except that he made my mother wretched. But It ia no aft'vir of yours; lam here only on hr.r business," he returned, recovering himself. "Itia my affair; we are cousins. If you had your birthright you would probably bo in my place, the heir of the baronetcy and property. I must tell you all in common justice now, having Bprung thia on you." So Philip had to hear from the man who had wronged him tho story of his own shame. He was the Eoa of Algernon Medway, the "Mr Algernon" of the last generation, a name too cotcrious to bo forgotten in this. Many a ta!o of this bad mm had Philip heard at AJarwel! aa a bay, not dreaming that he was hearing of his own father's misdeeds. Mr Algernon was never mentioned at the Court; his name was an offence to bis family and only whispered about with ciution. Philip had vsguely supposed him to be dead, and ypt he had some dim remembrance of a sentence having been passed on him in a criminal court.

Now he learned why Sir Arthur, obancing to Bee him a boy at the Grammar School on a pr'zß-gmng day, and struck by hie likoU9BB to the Medways and by the coincidence of his ago with that of his brother's eon, concealed by his mother, had wished, after identifying him by the help of Matthew Meade, till then ignorant himself of his origin, to adopt him. Further, why Sir Arthur had always manifested some interest in his welfare, and kept himself informed of his progress at school and afterwards; still fuither, that he was the giver of the mysterious little fortune which came to him after the Crimean War. Matthew's pathetic deeire to be all in all to Philip, and " make » gentleman of him," had bsen respected by Sir Arthur, who was ever ready to g\vo material aid towards that end in esse Matthew should fail. But some of this, together with his uncle's intention of buying him a ommission after a little wholesome discipline in the rinks, he heard later; there was no time to listen to all that night. Arthur and Algernon Medway were twins, whose identity had been confused by careless nurses in their infancy. The children were then weighed, and the heaviest henceforth distinguished as Arthur, the heir ; but their father, Sir Claude, was always troubled by fear that Algernon might have been wronged by the decision, and made up for the possible injustice by thoroughly spoiling Algernon, whom he made heir of the unentailed Marwell property, Both twins had commissions in the Army, but Algernon's was in the Guards, his allowance was larger than Arthur's, he was always in debt, hia ex* travagances drained the family purse and encumbered the estates, yet whatever he did was right in bis father's eyes, the steady Arthur, ia his less expensive and fashionable regiment, being considered as lacking in spirit and dash. Bat at last the fast and fashionable guardsman committed a serious error; he secretly married pretty Mary Ashwin,an infantry officer's daughter, a penniless orphan whom he had known as governess of a friend's ohildren. When this came to light, Sir Claude was very angry ; there was a period of storm and indignation and stopping of suppliep, highly inconvenient to a gentleman in Mr Algernon Medway's position. The offence was at last condoned, and Mrs Algernon Medway and her baby son were received by Lady Medway and yonng Lady Gertrude, Arthur's wife, with such cordiality as those ladies could muster for the ccoasion, which

perhaps was not sufficient to make it very pleasant for poor Mary Medway- to live omong them, a dowerless intruder, with nothing bat her beauty and goodness to recommend her.

Soon aftor this, the baby'son being about a year old, Algernon wa«i tried and oonvioted of a crime that inspired his young wife with especial horror, for which he was transported for a long peiiod.. Sir Claude, whose dotiog fondness quickly turned to extravagant hatred, then_ left :dl his property, with the exception of daughters' portions and such necessary provisions, to Arthur. He continued, however, to give a small allowance, dependent on his pleasure, to Algernon's unfortuiitte young wife. For Borne yeara after this scandal Arthur Medway lived with his wif.i and young children ohiefiy on the Continent, while Sir Claude shut himself up in Mar well Court, saw no one, and gradually declined in health till he died, whoa Philip have been about five years old and Ma ry Medway two years in her unknown grave, i Ai no one was permitted to mention Algernon, his wife, or child in the" :<!d baronet's presence, it was not until after his death, in winding up his affurs, that; Sir Arthur discovered that Mrs Algornon ceased for some years to claim her allowance. Tho lawyers, through whom tho pittance was pad, had had instructions from Sir Ciaudo to make no inquiries for her if she chose to slip out of sight, as she did. Thus the new head of the family had no clue to her whereabouts, and searched in for some traces of her, until he chancel, four yeara after S r Claude's death, to fir-d Philip at his very, gates. Then, being attracted by the boy's likeness to tho Malways, and by some rumor of his unknown origin, he made inquiries of Matthew Meade, which, being followed by both, left no reasonable doubt in the minds of either that Philip was the sr,n of Algernon Midway. Mary Medway'a handwriting alone, without the testimony of the entries in 1.-ir diary, would have revealed her to Sir Arthur.

" We thought that you were ttld of yrmr name and origin on coming of age," Claude said in conclusion. "Of course the thing made a great talk at the time. It i* forgotten now, but a little would soon stir up the old scandal. Men of cur generation know nothing, but our fathers contemporaries would remember." The trial of Algernon Medway Ii .d brought to litfht many base circumstanced in his life; the crime of which he was c avicted, appropriation of regimental monev*, was, no doubt, but the repetition ot a previous theft, for which the officer responsible for the money had been broken though not prosecuted; ho had vanished with ! is despair. This lust theft had been ace> '.iipanied by a well-planned attempt to fas' 'n the robbery on Algernon's wiie'a broth; r, obnoxious to him from being a private, arid who Bhot himself in consequence of what ha endured while under suspicion. " You need fear nothing from me," Philip replied, with some scorn. He _v. ■:* looking btraight before him, with a strain d gaz? that saw nothing visible, but pictured Ada Maynard's face as when he saw hor last beneath the moonlight - sprinkled orange trees, and saw a black gulf yawniog between thsrn. Ho had kept loyal to the farewell then spoken, and never allowed his fancy to stray back to those renoun > d hopes, and yet ho had never felt the patting in ice full pain till now. A thousand other thoughts surged into hia mind, his eyeß darkened, bin face grew sharp with pain, and he grasped the back of a ohair, as if by mechanical action ho could control the tumult within. Claude looked with a gravo compunction at the silent agony dimly shadowed in the face before him. "Better forgotten. Iktter you had never known," be said at last. "He has had the grace to take another name." " I ought to have known from the first," Philip replied at last. "And he wanted mo."

" Yes," replied Ciaude, " that ha might squetza every penny out of you and th-n fling you aside, ruined. His allowance is more than your whole income. He spen.l3 his timo between opium-dreaming aid gambling. That man would rob a child. Ha has no heart; he is scarcely human. Don't fall into hi* clutches ; ho will nev.-r leave yon till he has ruined you. Don't bo misled !y any sentiment in ti;at direction."

"My aftiirs," replied Philip, "are my own."

Then upon further inquiry he learnt that Algernon Medway'a term of transposition had expired some years since. Land had been atsigufd him, of which he made nothing. His brother had stnt him money until his patience was exhausted ; then he gwo him a settled allows n:e wi'h the* intimation that no more lump ewxrn would be forthcoming. Thereupon, the black sheep appeared one day, an unrecognisable wreck, at Mar well Court. He ha! seen Philip's name ia newspapers and tho army list, and learnt uil that was known of his origin from Cieevo people, drawing his own conclusions as to the identity of'this Philip Randal with the eon ha had named. Then, finding that tho Med'.vay3 were anxious to keep him apart from Philip, he demanded and received black-mail, especially from Claude, whose guilty conscience made him tender of Philip's welfare. Such waß the story Philip heard to his own most bitter chagrin, Euch was the father he found in searching for his lost sister. But he did not leave the house without pressing on his inquiries for Jessie, insisting upon knowing the object of Clande's visit to the ark on that day. "I went," Claude replied, "to see if Sally Samson's story was true. I believe that it iB tiuß. You see, Randal, I should not go to this old woman if I knew where to find Jesiiv" "Heaven knows."

" You still refuse to believe me. That is not the way to fiod her. If we act together with this clue we may find Jessie, If you go to law, you will only smirch her name."

Philip looked at him Bearchingly, and yet with some hesitation. "Yoa did not till the trath about your relations with her," he said at last. "I did not tell the whole truth. While I thought her dead——l thought it better. Can't you understand *" Philip thought he could understand, and his heart sank. " You did not love Jessie, and she did not love you. I loved her; I lost her. I would give my life to fiod her. When she is found she mußt be my wife." " Do you solemnly swear that ?" Philip asked.

" I do most solemnly swear it." "You should have sworn that before—before all this misery of your making—before it was too late !" "I think," ho snid slowly, "that yon should know all that ever passed between your sister and myaelf." Sa Philip thought, and he listened with a sort of savage forbearance to the story of this courtship and its olimax in the storm, when Jessie vanished. Restraining his indignation, he thought it all over, and considered the possibility • of her going to London without money. "She had sold some pictures," Claude explained. "Sold pictures!" echoed Philip; "bat what would a few shillings be ?" "That," said Claude, pointing to a framed water color of Marwell Court on the wall, " fetohed ten guineas." He examined it in a silent wonder, and his eyes grew moist, "poor Jessie," he murmured, turning away; "Poor ohild I" And something of the truth began to dawn upon him. Jessie alone, in cruel, wicked London, young, beautiful, and friendless as she was, for three weary winter months, hoping to live by selling drawings! What could the upshot of this be? The next day Philip burst into Claude's house in great excitement. " She did go to London," he oried; " and whatever harm comes to her is on your "You have seen her," faltered Claude with white lips. "I have two letters; they have been to India and followed me Home—one before her flight, and one dated Ootober, with no address, bearing the mark of the General Poßt Office. She speaks of flying from a temptation that she does not name. Of having been compromised by scandalous talk. Of hiding from her friends in consequenoe.

•'She hides from youV he asked, mnoh agitated by tho sight of Jessie's delicate handwriting on the travel-stained envelope. "I qnite understand that she would hide from that ooarse-tongued shrew of a cousin —but why from you ?" "Seaven knows," he returned sadly; "she is such a child at heart, so ignorant of life, She thinks herself —disgraced—by mere talk 1"

" What have I done ?" cried Claude. "Ob, Jessie, poor Jeßßie, whit have I done ?" Philip had no comfort for him ; ho read out such portions of Jessie's last letter as he thought it well for Claude to hear, with merciless emphasis on words that made him, wince. In the meantime he racked his brains, as he had been doirg all that night, in the effort to recall Jesaie'3 spring aud summer letters, thinking how much misery might have been spired if he had given mere earnest heed to them at the time, and considered her mure in the light of a reasonable and reasoning being. For the Jessie painted by Claudo M"dway, Mr Inglcby, and Sir Arthur, and shadowed forth by her last letters, was a ruveUtion to him. He hid but just received the letter Jessie last wrote before her disappearance. It had missed a mail and gone to an old Indian address, whence it hud travelled by a circuitous ronte to Myeerabad, and theaco back to England in company with her London letter. In this she tuld him it must be clear to him as it was to her that they did not love each other in a way to make marriage desirable; that her fattier, could he know all the circumstance*, would i.e the last person to urge their marriage ; thus he had not perhaps well considered it until Buddeuly called upon to leave her alono in the world. Experience had taught her, as j it would one day teach him, how different love was from the fraternal feeling that had bound them together and would bind them, sho know, all their lives. The London letter assured him of her well-being, and bid him Bet his heart at rest concerning her. She would write from time to tinif, and hear of him in the papers. She had aotcd foolibhly, not knowing what construction would be put upon her actions. Sho had acted wrongly in keeping thing*, which they ought to have known, from hor guardians, and now Gcd had punished Lor by taking aw<iy her good name. " Dtar j Philip," she satf, "do net think harshly of your little Jessie. I tried to do right, but it wua eo hard. My haad w;<a confused—wrong somttimes seemed right and right wrong. And no one told mo it wa3 wrong to see friende alone out: ofdoorF. Some day, perhaps, you will he able to forget thut I was foolish once and made people talk cruelly when yourg and quite alone. You said so link about the young lady who escaped to Luoknow wit'i you that I think yoa mu3t care for her. Now you are fres. " I si o aid a'vrays have been a deadweight on you : ' "We will ga to Scotland Yard. You must get ChcfS'-'inau to act with you," Claude said at last; "we may trace hor by her drawings. Sho was acquainted with one well-known artist. She will have been to him." He still had some hope of finding her, but his heart sank when he thought of her helpless inexperience. (To be continued.)