THE NOVELIST.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XVI, Issue 5490, 21 June 1879, Page 2

THE NOVELIST.

A THORN IN HER HEART. BY BERTHA M. CLAY. Authoress of "A Bitter Atonement,""" A V, m .i Sin." "Love Works .Vendors," 2™ mel <*> CHAPTER LV. THB CRISIS OF A WOMAN'S LITE. A year and aorne months had passed «•„ the death of the Duke of Nairn The h tiful smiling spring had come 'round and during all this time the younir dnoh « ' and Lady Hilda had resided at HofmdS It had not been an unpleasant time tj, -world spoke highly of the duchess • h* widowhood had beea a time of quiet ami retirement ; they had asked but few to see them-their time had beenX chiefly to Btudy ana reading. Both «•» now accomplished women, and Lady Hif i* often told Lurline a little wisdom sat grace* fully on her golden head. B'«.c They seldom spoke of the traeedv of «, past, or of the earl, but the duchess w»! more grateful to her friend than if B h e h,d saved her from a violent death. "I can never prove my gratitude to von " she Baud, one day; "it lies too deer, {L words. I would share my fortune with von if you would take it; I would cive v Holmdale if you would have it- but von £ni do neither of these two things • how th must I prove my gratitude ? I ' may ' ne ° tiie king Baid, "Ask of me what von «;ii evenshouldit.be the half smiled glVe yOU '" **d> Hilda '•The day may come,»she eaiui « whenl shall ask a grace from you--when it does remember what you have said."

I shall remember, "said Duchess Lurline Ah, ma mic, had you been Ave minutes later 1 would have started on that terrible journey—and there, would have been no return. But they spoke of it seldom, and tried to forget it. The beautiful, pure hair, the quiet, the rest, the early hours had given to each of them extra betuty. Lady Hilda had gained in her superb beauty, and the duchess had gained in loveliness. Then when the hedges were all white ind pink with hawthorn, when the fire of the laburnum gleamed, and the snow-white acacia was in flower, when the roses w«ro budding, and the fair, smiling earth lay in the golden light of the sun, Lord Dunhaven came to Uulmdale. "You must not bo angry with me," he said, as he bent over the fair hand of the duchess. "I have staid away from you as long as I could. I could not help myself— I waß compelled to come." She trembled very much when she saw him ; but be was full of hope. " My darling," he said, " I know we did wrong—at least I did. for I tempted you— bnt we havo repented. No harm came of it, thanks to one who was our guardian angel. Wo have repented very sincerely—you in silence and seclusion, I in trying to do good. May we not hope now that Heaven has pardoned us ?—after our hard suffering, may we not have some little happiness ? Let us begin by friendship—let me be your friend." So it was settled ; once more a compact of friendship was made between them. Lady Hilda was out when he arrived; she was startled on her return to find him seated in the drawing-room a? though he had been there for yeats. He spraDg to meet her with delight in his face ; he bad grown to think of her as the noblest and grandest woman in the world. He held out his hands to her in warmest greeting; but her face grew white as death, and all Bound of words died on her lips. "I have startled ycu," he said; "pray forgive me." He drew a chair and made her sit down. " How rash I am ! " he said, looking in wonder at that white face. " Say you forgive me, and are pleased to see me, Miss Dunn."

"I am much pleased to see you," she said, but her impulse was to cry out, "Oh, Leonard, lam Hilda, your wife ! Kiss me, take me in your arms—l am your wife !" She restrained the impulse, but the look that went from her eyes to his was so strange, it startled him.

"I am only here for a few hours," he said. " I leave for town to-night j biat if I can win an invitation from the duchess, and can win your help in the way I want it, I hope to come again. Will you fiud five minutes for me before I go to-night ?" And those five minutes she fuund for him, while the duchess went to dress for a drive with him. They stood on the lawn, close to a great laburnum tree, while he talked to her ; she held one of tho long golden tresses in her hands.

" Once," he said, " you played the part of a guardian angel to me. God bless you for that night's action ; you saved us from worse than death ; now again I want you to be my friend, to talk to her, to persuade her. Miss Dunn, I love her very dearly, and I want to marry her."

He saw tho colour die from bor face and lips ; she looked up at him with eyes that held an angel's pity and an angel's love. "Marry her!" she repeated; "but you cannot. She is free, but you " She paused. "But I—what?" he said. " You have a wife," she said, steadily. "A wife—a shadow you mean. I have no wife, my home ia desolate, my heart is empty—no man on earth has less a wife than I." Her noble, beautiful face drooped sadly; then he said : " Miss Dnnn, I have more faith in you than in any one living. Let me tell you my story. Nay, do not shrink from it, there is not one word in it which need thock you— let me tell you." She bowed her head in shy assent, and he went on. " I married a child. I cannot tell you what led to our mariiage, that is not my eecret. I manitd a child who3e very face was strange to me ; to my deep and bitter shame I married her because she had the money that was needful for me to keep np my state. She was a girl of noble mind, and had I been patient, we might, iu time, have been happy. She overheard me one day say to my mother that I wanted the money, and not the girl ; the words rankled in her mind ; they were cruel words, I admit, but I did not mean them as she thought. We were married, and started for Paris for our honeymoon. Mies Dunn, my wife, ran away from me on that journey, and I have not seen her since ; that is more than five years ago. Am I wrong in saying she is a shadow, hut no wife? She left a letter bidding me farewell, saying she should be dead to me for all time ; that 1 had the money, and should not be troubled with her. Five 3'ears ! During tlia* time I have sought her high and low, far and wide. My mother believes her dead. Surely yon, who are honour itself, can see no harm in my getting a divorce from what is hut a shadowy tie." She looked into his face. "But, if you knew her living and well. she said. „ " i.ven then she will never return to me, he said. "She was a romantic, warmhearted girl ; she would never care to see mo again." , "Suppose that she lives somewhere, ana loves you?" she said. "There is no possibility of it. If not dead, she is thoroughly alienated from me. Why should I live always dreary, desolate, lonely, without wife or child, btcause it was her whim to leave me ? Miss Dunn, you cannot picture my home, in which no woman's fair faco ever shines ; you cannot imaaine my life—a life without love to bless it. "Why should it be ? lam no advoc-sta for divorce—l do not approve of it; but, in tuch a case as this, it seems to me there is reallv no tie to bieak.'' "You married her," she said, after a

pause. , " Yes, I married her ; but Bhe chose herself to dissolve the contract that same day for ever." , "She could not dissolve it, even thougn. she did run away from you. It was no more in her power than it is in yours to dissolve it." "Be reasonable," ho said. "Do you think that either the laws of God or man command me to be true to a wife who letc me on my wedding-day, aud whom 1 h» v « never seen since? caDnot belie*a that." " I do believe it," she said, in a low voice, her face averted from his. • "You cannot—no sensible P er f? n , Think it over. I am wrong in ask - n^ t f or for an immediate answer—think oi me." -i (i ;*• "If I thought for ever," she saiO, k would make no difference. You cannot marry the duchess while you have ,a wite living." .. j " But when I have gained my smt—auu no judge in the land would refuse it— When I have gained that, I shall have no wife living j the law will have freed me trom her."

I "The law has no power ; nothing can free yo a bat her death." ' «You will think differently when you have thought; for some little time—quite differently. I will not preßS you now, but I leave my cause * a y° n r hands. I shall say nothing to the duchess now, but so soon as I c et away I shall write to her. I know beforehand that she will come to you for advice, that she will be influenced by you. H B« m y friend have had no happiness in p ,ny life hitherto; be my friend, and help i She could not answer, for, the next mof ment, the duchess, looking lovely as a fairy | <,aeen, came into the room. The carriage f i«s waiting ~, they were all going out for a | drive. The duchess and Lord Dunhaven I talked incessantly ; Lady Hilda spoke never i (word. ft Now, indeed, the crisis of her life was at | hand. It seemed to her that her silence was I a sin. Was she to stand by and see her fi husband marry Lurline ? She knew it conld % be no marriage. What was she to do ? ti Bitterly and from the depth of her heart she fc repented of her error in leaving him. One f thing was quite certain—harm enough had \ been done, there mu*t be no more. t What should she do ? Was ever fate so y cruel —was ever wife placed so strangely bell fore t She had but one hope, and it was that I the duchess herself would not be willing. She | had heard her speak very strongly against | divorce. That would save all trouble, if the I duchess herself would refuse to consent. i Bat would she ? I The earl went away that same evenine, t and three days afterward the letter cauie. 5 Duchess Lurline brought it to her. £ ** Vou must read this, ma mie," she said. J " I would not answer it until vou had seen 1 it." I Ah, such a letter ! —to be so loved was | more than life—sueh a letter. Lady Hilda's 3 eyes grew dim with tears as she read it, and I, the thorn in her heart grew sharper. | "There can be but one answer to such a •i letter, Lurline," she said gently. | The fair face brightened. I "I am so glad yon say so. I had decided I in my own mind, but I thought I would see | what you said." I "You cannot marry hira while he has a { wife living," said lady Hilda. | "I mistook you. I do not call that s shadow a wife, and I shall marry whenever I he wishes," said the duchess defiantly. "I | do not like divot ces, but this case differs 1 from all others. Nothing will change my | opinion, and lam ready to marry him now." I CHAPTER LVI. ? A REVELATIOX. A lovely summer's afternoon, warm, J bright, and fragrant—the suu, the flowers, | the birds, the great green trees, all at their | loveliest, —and Lady Hilda has taken out '% her book to sit under the shade and read. t The perplexities of her life are great—she j seeks a refuge in a book. The world i 3 ail f so fair, only in her own heart she rinds the | shadow of the bitterness of death. Lookiug * at the roses, she tries to think of their lives i-, in the sunshine—she trits to interest herI self in the written pages, but her thoughts I fly ever to the same thing—what was to be 3 done about tho marriage—how conld she 4 prevent it ? How she prayed that the 4 duchess herself might object, might refuse. | Suddenly she saw Duchess Lurline coming I up the garden path with an open letter in her | hand.

"You are there, ma mie," she said, "I hive been searching for you. I want to tell you the news first, I know yon will disapprove, but I do not care. I had a letter this morning from Lord Dunhaven, and he tells me he has taken the beat opinion in England, and that the lawyers are unanimous in saying that he will not have the least difficulty in getting a divorce —not the least. The only wonder, they say, is, that he has not tried for it before. He has asked me to settle a day for our marriage, that he may have somethiug to look forward to. I have written my answer : 1 have said the 20th of August, this is the 12th of June ; it does not give me much time I tell you this, ma mie ; I know you will not approve, but 1 shall never change my mind—nothing will alter me. I shall be married on the 20th of August, and you will then approve of what lam going to do long before then. I tell you, that any speaking to me is quite useless. Why do yon look so white and so bewildered ? What can it matter to you ?" Lady Hilda rose from her seat, laid her bands on Lnrline's shoulders, and looked in her face. "Lnrline," she said, "you told me once that to show your gratitude to me you would grant me any favour I asked ; I was to remind you of this promise. I claim it now. Give up this marriage ; you will learn to be happy in time. Give it up." " Why should I give it np t" said the fineness, startled by her intense earnestness.

"Ko blessing from heaven can rest on it. It will be no true mariiage, because his real wife is alive. You. so proud, duchess, can you stoop to take another woman's place while she lives ?" '•' That is all high-flown nonsense, ma mie : that shadow is no wife for him. I will be hi 3 true, loving, tender, devoted wife. I will make amends to him for his years of

loneliness and pain by my love and devotion. No, ma mie, you must a3k me some other favour, thi3 one I cannot grant. I hope to be Lord Duubaven's wife. Let us never mention the subject again ; we shall only quarrel ; my mind is quite made up." And without another word she turned away, with the letter in her hand, while Lady Hilda sat down with despair in her heart. It was quite useless to say more Her only hope had lain in the duchess's refusal, knowing her dislike to divorces. Now that hope was ended, and she stood face to face with the reality. The days and weeks were like one dream of pain to her. The earl came twice, and they talked quite freely of their future before her; they discu3eed it—where they ehould live, what place they preferred; there were no secrets. She had read of the extremity of human suffering ; she had read of men being broken on the wheel, torn on the rack, but it seemed to her no one had ever suffered as she did while she listened to them. It must not be. Her temptation was to go away and leave them, to let them marry, and hide herself from them for ever; but there was her conscience—she could not drown it, she could not deafen it. It spoke loudly, and she must listen ; her conscience told her there was bat one thing, only one plan, and it was to make herself known. Think, puzzle, plan, devise as she would, it was still the only plan, there was nothing for it but that. The divorce was so easy to obtain, the marriage would follow it, and how could ehe live with this double sin upon her soul. How she repented in the bitterness of her heart that she had done this, that Bhe had ever left him. "Noone can renounce her solemn duties and obligations without suffering," she said to herself. "I have brought all this pain on myself and others by refusing to bear patiently that which it was my duty to bear." Now she had to endure the consequences. It would have been easier for her to have died than to have taken her happiness from the fair young duchess. She was a coward at the bare thought of it, but then it was not bo easy to die, especially when death is the only way out of a difficulty. She suffered so much and so constantly that she grew thin and pale; there were whole nights when she never closed her eyes in sleep, whole days when every minute was a torture. No one else had ever had such a fate, she said to herself—no one in the wide world. That she should love her hnshand, and that he, not knowing it, should be trying to marry some one else ! "If it were a written romance," she cried ,to herself, impatiently, " no one would read it—it would seem so improbable." Eut, alas ! it was no romance —it was perfect truth. The duchess had given elaborate orders for her Irousseau ; June had passed ; it was the middle of July ; stiU Lady Hilda had not found courage to make her appeal. She must do it; she saw no possible way out of the difficulty—there was nothing but death or disclosure. She could not stand by and see Lord Dunhaven marry the duchess, ivhile she, hia wife, was still living—that she could not do. The only alternative was to tell the duchess all, and throw herself on her mercy—tell her the truth, and then she could tee herself that the marriage waß quite impossible. It was the end of July that a letter from the earl announced his coming. VI hope to be with you to-morrow," he wrote, "although my movements are very uncertain. I am going to Harendale. I think of asking you to spend our honeymoon there." The duchess read that sentence to Lady Hilda, who answered never a word; she was dunned by the near approach of the tragedy. Liter on in the day—it jfim afternoon, and -*he was in the small drawing-room that

opened into a beautiful green lawn ; it was a favourite room of Lady Hilda's—bright, cheerful, and picturesque. She had K« n ' there to think ; her brain was bewildered, her mind not clear. She wanted to collect her thoughts, for on that day she must tell her before he came. While she sat thero, buried in thought, the door opened, and the duohess entered, a happy smile on her bright faue. She took her favourite position, a seat at Lady Hilda's feet. "Do you know, ma mie," she said, "' that I should not be in the least degree surprised if Leonard came to-day, —he said his movements were uncertain. You look bewildered." "I am bewildered," said the unhappy wife. " God help me to do right." It would, have been easier to have died a hundred times over than to have revealed her long-treasured secret; she would not revealed it for anything but to save sin. " He likes to surprise me," said Duchess Lurline, "audi want to talk to you about my marriage. You must interest yourself, —you must listen. Although lam only just twenty, I cannot dress like a bride, I suppose ; there can be no pretty veil and wreath for me. I must have a bonnet —how old I shall feel in a bonnet." Then she looked up in utter wonder, for Lady Hilda had fallen ou her knees at her feet, with passionate tears and passionate cries. "I cannot bear it !" sho cried. " Oh, my God ! help me to tell her—l cannot hear it." The duchoss grew very pale and grave. " What is it ?" she cried. " You frinhten me. Has anything happened to—him ?" Such passionate cries, such bitter tears, such a white, woeful face. " Do not frighten me," said the duchess ; "tell mo what is wrong. Have I grieved you by speaking of my marriage ?" Then the white arms clung round her, and a hot rain of tears fell on her. "My darling, do not speak—do not think of your marriage—it never can be. Let me tell yon, and yet, oh, my God, it would be easier to die !" "You have something to tell me," said tho young girl, calmly ; " something that will prevent my marriage, you think." Her voice trembled as sho uttered the words. " Yes, it will prevent your marriago. Oh, my darling, can you not think? —can you not guess what it is ?" " No ; I have no thought—tell me ?" They looked each other in tho face, those two women, between whom there was so deadly a struggle. Then the white arms clasped her more tightly, and the white face drooped against her. " Lurline, if 1 could die I Would ; if I dare kill myself, I should not tell you. I would rather have suffered any death than have lived to tell you this. I must tell you. Lord Dunhaven spoke to you of his wife — did he not ?" ** That shadow," said the duchess, scornfully. " What is she to you that you should always think of her ?" " Can you not guess, Lurline ?'' "No, I cannot guess. What is she to you —this girl ? Why do you speak of her ? Do you not know anything of her ? Tell me. You must see that suspense tortures me. Do you know her ?" " Yes, I know her, Lurline. Ah, great Heaven I how well ! He told you who she was—Lady Hilda Dunhaven—the old earl's daughter. Oh, Lurline darling, do not hate me—do not turn from me. lam his wife !"

There was one minute of dead silence; then the duchess, all white and trembling, unclasped the arms from her neck and Hung them from her. She sank into the chair that stood near her. " You ! Your traitor !" she said. " You traitor ! I will not believe it. You are not his wife !" Nothing but passionate tears answered her —nothing but passionate cries. " You traitor !" she repeated. " You have lived under my roof, smiled in my face, called yourself my friend, knowing this ! But I do not believe it! I will not believe it—it is all false !" CHAPTER LVII. THE WELCOME HOME. " Listen to me, Lurline ; you have never found me false, treacherous, or untrue. Why should I have told you my secret ? When I went to live with yon in that gloomy Xorthern abbey, there was no thought then of your ever coming to London ; how should 1 know that you would meet my husband, or that he would love you ? Be juat; I have suffered enough, for I love him." " Then why did you leave him?" asked the dnches3. " Let me tell you my story," said Lady Hilda; " then you will understand." Kneeling at the young girl's feet, she told her all, every detail, what she had suffered through her love, her pain, her struggle— the most pitiful story that woman ever had to telL When she had finished she looked in Lnrline's face. " Are you angry with me now ?" she said, " I never meant to make myself known ; I meant to keep my word in all honesty, and be dead to him for all time. The only thing that could have forced my secret from me was the fear and horror of sin. I could not see yon marry him, because I knew there could be no such marriage while I lived." " Yon shonid have told me ; it was so cruel—it is so cruel—for I love him, too. I love him with all my heart, and now I have lost him—it was cruel." She wrung her hands with a cry of dispair that Lady Hilda never forgot. Then they both started and stood erect, for Leonard, Lord Dunhaven, had anticipated his journey by a day ; he had entered the room, and stood there silent and bewildered. " Larline—darling— what is it ?" he cried. He opened his arms, and she hid her face on his breast. " What is it, my darling ?" he repeated. Then she stood up, and, pointing to Lady Hilda, cried : "Leonard, she says that she is your wife —Hilda Dunhaven, and that you can never marry me; you must chose between us ; here is the woman who deserted you, and here the woman who loves you ; choose between us."

"My darling," he cried, clasping her in hiß arms, " I love you—l choose you. What absurd story is this ?" "You should have known her, Leonard, should yon not, if she were really your wife ?" But Lady Hilda, when she heard his words, turned away, and hid her face in her hands. "My wife," he repeated, in a bewildered tone. "My Lurline, you startled and frightened me so I hardly understood—my wife ?" " Yeß ; this lady, who has lived with me as my companion, says that she is Lady Hilda Dunhaven—your wife." "Am I going mad, or are you, Lurline? and is the whole world mad 1 My wife ?" He went up to her, the duchess watching him with jealous eyes ; he took her hands from her face and looked earnestly in it. "My wife," he said again. "Hilda, are yon indeed my wife ?" She raised her eyes to him. " Yes," she said sadly, " I am indeed your most unhappy wife, Hilda Dunhaven." He stood rooted to the ground with amazement. " My wife, and I have known you, seen yon all thi3 time, and yet did not recognise you." " It was not to be wondered at, since you had hardly seen my face, and you did not love me." . "My wife ! Ihavebeen searching through the land, and yon were here all the time— hidden here." " I am sorry," she said, and the sadness in her voice was so great, that it brought tears to his eyes. " I am very sorry," she said ; "I wish I conld have died. Death would have been the most welcome friend to hold out his hand to me, but I cannot die, and I dared not stand by in silence while this wrong was done. My life has been all pain, but this of bringing myself back to you, of telling you that I live, of standing between you and your marriage—this is the keenest pain of all." So younE;, so beautiful, so despairing, the pathos of it struck him keenly. She looked at him again with the same helpless sadness. . " If I could place Lurhoe s hand in yours, and bid you be happy, I would so gladly lay down my miserable life. But ala 3 ! I am strong, and far from death." "My dear Hilda," said Lord Dunhaven, "I am so bewildered —I am so utterly lost and confused I cannot speak. I came here to arrange for my marriage with Lurlino, and I find—my wife ? No wonder that lam confused ; but, believe me, I am happy and well pleased to find you living and well— I have spent many anxiouß hours over you." And then the three, so strangely brought together, Btood in silent pain.

Lord Dunhaven looked from one to the other—these two beautiful women, who both loved him, one of whom be loved; it was impossible to tell which was most beautiful—the queenly, royal woman whose exquisite face was bowed with shame, or the fair young duchess whose eyes were fall of love.

'•' May God blesß us all!" he said. "There was never so strange a fate. I I am lost, bewildered. Oh, Hilda, this seems all wrong. Lurline, I know not what to say." A new spirit came over the dnchess, a new light shone on her beautiful face— something of the grand spirit of a grand race stirred in her heart. "One of us must suffer," she said ; "it must be I. You, whom God joined together, no man shall put asunder. Leonard, Lady Hilda is yonr wife. I can be nothing to yon; she is true to you. Even if you would be divorced from her, yon cannot— there is no ground for it; neither would I have it so. You will learn to love her, and to forget me." " I shall never forget you, Lurline ! " he cried, in a passion of despair. "You must forget me now. Try to love your wife, Leonard; she is beautiful and good ; sho loves you. I will leave you now. Do not ask for me again. lam going to my own room to—to s»y my prayers—to ask God to help me forgot yon, and He will—l know He will." She went up to him, all the bravery and nobility of her race shining in her eyes. " We have loved each other very much, Leonard," she said, gently ; " but, you see, dear, it was not to be. Kiss me before I go, just as you should kiss me if you saw me lying dead." He took her in his arms, and the tears that fell from his oyes on her face were no disgrace to his manhood, he loved her so well. He laid his lips on hers for one-half minute. " God-by, my love," he said, "good-by." Her arms clung round him, her lips clung to his ; then she repeated the words. " Good-by, my love, good-by." The next moment sho had passed from his sight, and the name of Lurline, Duchess of Nairn, had become to him a memory and a dream. His wifo went up to him, pale, grave, collected. " I am very sorry," she said ; " no words cau tell you how sorry. You love her, she loves you. lam the curse of your life to come between you." Ho looked at her, so royally beautiful, so graceful, so queen-like, and he thought to himself how other men would value that beauty, how others would love and worship her; he remembered, too, how she had loved him. "Hilda," he said, gently, "lhave given you no warm words of welcome, but I am glad to see you. I have repented sincerely of my cruel words, and I have thought so much of you." "That did not prevent [you from falling in love with some one else," she said, with gentle reproach. " No, it did not. It has been a terrible mistake all of it, Hilda. But there must be no more mystery, I must tell Lady Darel at once." She looked like the very image of despair. " Do you really mean it —mnst Lady Darel know ? " "Yes, you must take your place in the world once more. The wisest thing will be for you to go at once to my mother's house and ask her to go with you to Havendale. I prefer that you should go to Havendale— it is quits as much your home as mine." "And you?" she said, softly, looking at him with tender, wistful eye. " I must go where I can cure myself," he said, " where I can bear my most bitter smart alone ; afterward I shall come to you —until then, Hilda, good-by." He bent down and kissed her forehead gently, gravely, not with the love he had shewn the duchess. "Time does much," he said, "it may bring us together again ; Hilda, we will trust to it."

Before sunset that evening, there was no one left at Holuidale but the duchess, and she kept her room. Worda are all weak to express Lady Darel's surprise when she saw her son's wife. Her welcomo was a kindly one. "You have grown tall, beautiful, and graceful," she said. " You gave promise of a magnificent womanhood and it is fulfilled." She kissed her. "I hope we shall be good friends, my dear; you suffered for us, but believe me, my sou and I have suffered oyer you ; you are welcome home." No one expressed any surprise that the youDg Countess of Dunhaven had returned. It was understood that she had remained abroad for her health, but now that she was well and strong she had returned. She went to Havendale with Lady Darel and in a short time was quite at home there. She had a great love for this grand old place where her mother's brief married life had been, spent, and where she had died. It was the first house that had aver been a home to her. She was horrified one day to read of the death of the beautiful Lidy Danchild of Uilde Manor House, who was drowned while bathing. She laid the paper down and prayed : " Who shall hide from Thy judgments. O God, or deceive Thee." CHAPTER LVIII. A GOOD WOMAN'S REWARD. The Countess of Dunhaven had spent a year at Havendale, and during that year she had made herself much beloved. Lady Darel remained with her; they were the beat of friends. Lady Hilda yielded to her, tended her, nursed her when she was sick, amused her when she was well, until her ladyship had grown so fond of her son's wife that she could not bear to be parted from her. ( i " How mistaken I was over you, Hilda," she said ; " I can never forgive myself." At last her gentle wisdom, her patiencp, her submission were rewarded. The day came—a bright June day—when Leonard, Earl of Dunhaven, once more sought his home. He had schooled himself—he had made the beat use of life's discipline ; he longed to be at home, and interest himself in his various duties once more. He had thought a great deal about his wife—perhaps one great charm lay in the words, "his wife." How well she had loved bim, how generous she had been in giving up her fortune that he might enjoy it, how self-sacrificing she had been in leaving him, how through all those years she had loved hfm. how she must have suffered when she saw his love given to another. She was beautiful—more queenly than the duchess : she was of a higher and nobler nature, yet he had loved the duchess well. She was not heartbroken—he had heard of her in Paris —it was said that a great Russian prince was in love with her, and would most probably marry her. He had heard that rumour, and though at first it had pained him, he had come to think that it was, after all, the best thing.

On this bright June day he went to Havendale, to seek a reconciliation with his wife. She had gone out, Laiy Darel said, to her favourite spot, the great willow, down by the lake, she liked to sit there and wateli the clear water. He went after her, and the first intimation that Lady Hilda had of his coming was that he was by her side.

She looked beautiful as a dream, in a long dress of soft, creamy Bilk, with blush roses in her hair and on her breast. She uttered no cry when she saw him ; his coming there was but the fulfillment of a dream. " Hilda," he said, takiDg both her hands in his, " my dear wife, I have come to seek a reconciliation with you. Will you forgive me all the pain and sorrow I have caused you ? " It was the hour she had foreseen in her dreams. '* Will you let me by the devotion of my whole life, atone to you for the misery of these pa«t years? I bring }'Ou a truo, honourable love, dear—l bring you a true heart. Will you try me, Hilda? I have learned to love you at last." Words sweeter in her ears than song of birds, words for which she had prayed and longed—the time had come at lasit, after all her suffering and all her pain. For answor, Bhe raised her white arms and laid them on his neck ; she raised her face and kissed his lips. " Heaven has been very good to me, she said ; " I am quite content." They went to Italy for their honeymoon ; while they were there, there came tbo wedding cards of the Duchess of Nairn, who after much persuasion had married the Russian prince. Hilda was happy all the rest of her life, for now in very truth and deed the thorn was taken from her heart. THE END.