HIS WIFE'S JUDGMENT.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XVI, Issue 5490, 21 June 1879, Page 3

HIS WIFE'S JUDGMENT.

By the Author of "Thrown on the World," &c. CHAPTER XII. It was a curious sky, dark blue in most parts with a few white clouds scattered here and there ; but toward the west, where, in a short time, the sun must set, there was a great pile of clouds of the most peculiar colourpurple, with what seemed to be a lining of

red, and the light that fell from them was a lu'id red—the shadow they cast was of lurid red; every one noticed them, and Bpoke of them. Soothsayers of the olden time would have augured evil from these clouds—would have said a catastrophe was impending. Just as the bell rang for dinner, Mrs. Audley was watching tbem; she called Austin to the window to see them, and as he stood there the lurid light fell full upon him. A little cry escaped Mrs. Audleys lips as she looked at him—a nervous cry that she could not repress. " Come away, Austin," she said; "as the light falls it looks as though you had a great dash of blood on yonr face." He started, too, for a moment, then recovered himself with a laugh. " It is your turn to fanciful," he said. Yet she noticed how carefully he avoided the spot. " You feel better, Austin V she asked. " Yes ; your remedy was a correct one—a morning in the sunlight, with my darling by my side. I ahall always look back to it as one of the happiest moments in my life; we understood each other so much better, Lenore and I." Yet, even as he spoke, the shadow was i drawing nearer and nearer. Then they sat down to dinner, all four, talking of a future that was never to be. Austia was more cheerful than nsual. If disgust and unrest were to be read on any face, it was on Gladie'a. "lam going to see old Jane Thompson after dinner, Mrs. Audley," she said, "if you think I can be spared. Her son is with his regiment in India, and she wants a long letter written to him. I have promised to do it." " I am going to the Hall," said Austin, " so that onr errands will lie in opposite directions ; if you like, Gladie, I will walk with you to the Fir Cottage first." She thanked him, but declined, and Lenore, looking anxiously at her husband, asked him if he could not let the Hall business stand over that night. But Austin did not do so. He took his departure, and the weary hours went by, and he did not return. No man can stay the shining of the sun or the flowing of the tide; no man can rule the planets or disturb the stars. The beautiful young wife sitting in all the horror and agony of suspense, would have given much to have stayed for some time the rising of the sun, to have kept the little birds silent in their nests. It brought the horror home to her a thousand times more strongly when she saw the dawning of the day—the grey, fitful, pale dawn that always seems to come in so cold and so shimmeringly. Lenore shuddered, and Gladie drew the shawl more closely round her. " Every one agrees," she said, "that from three to four in the morning is the moat weird and uncanny hour in the whole twenty-four. I have heard that sick people always feel most ill then, that nervous people grow more frightened. There is something almost ghastly in the shimmer of dawn." The golden head was bent again, the hurried tones of her companion seemed to come from afar off. Soon afterwards she looked up and said : " Put the lamps out, Gladie ; they frighten me ; we cannot cheat ourselves, it is clear, broad day." As the clocks were striking four Gladie put out the lamps, and opened the long French window ; in came the gleam of sunshine, the odor of flowers, the song of birds, the soft, sweet summer air; in came the radiant beauty of the morning and Lenore looked up with a faint smile on her white face.

" There can be nothing the matter, Gladie," she said; "how could the world be all so bright if harm had happened to him ?" They sat for quite two hours longer ; then the summer morning was in its glory, and busy sounds were heard in the household. The dairymaid wont out to milk the cows, the gardeners began to work, the windows were opened thon; one by one, pale faced servants crept in to ask what was wrong. None of them will even forget the picture of the young wife with her beautiful, white face, and wild, imploring eyes. They were relieved te hear that it was no worse. " Master has not been homo all night." The cook declared that it vras not, really, such an uncommon thing, and went on to tell how, ia her last place, if the master were not at home by one, the mistress ordered the doors to be looked. Lenore's beautiful eyes looked at her without the least understanding what she meant. The cook saw it, and said : " God help her 1 she knows nothing." The tires were lighted, and woman's great consoler, strong hot tea, was brought up to the drawing-room. Some pitying woman said: " Would it not be better for tbe mistress to change her dress ; the evening dress, with its lace and flowers, looks so ghastly." Lenore looked up. "I cannot," she said, in a low, firm voice. " I must wait until I have heard." Then the hurried footsteps of one man were heard, and the women fell back, while Gladie met him. He had only come to say that they could find no trace of Mr. Chandos ; that from the time he had left the hall until now no creature had seen or heard anything of him ; it was as though he had vanished from the face of the earth. John had done all that was possible ; he had been to the police-station at Barton Leonard, and a whole band of policemen were on the alert. There would soon bo news of some kind or other. That was all he had to say. Lenore listened. " Where can he be, Gladie ?" she asked. "He has not run away —that we know ; no one could carry him away. What has become of him ?" And Gladie answered: "God only knows." It came at lasst, as every one had expected it would. The sound of hurried footsteps, the cries of men, the smothered sobs of women, then a great, solemn calm. Lenore rose from her seat and grasped Gladie's arm. " They have found him," she said ; "living or dead, they have found him I know by the sound." Then the weakness seemed all to die from her ; she stood pale and erect, but a new liijht shone in her eyes. " Whenever it may be," she said " I can bear it ; my father bore worse and never faltered. lam a soldier's daughter." So, in that supreme moment she was calm and self contained. To her came the chief con?table, who, bewildered ever so little by the white, beautiful face, bowed before her and hesitated. "Speak I" she said ; " have no fear." "I have bad news for you, madam," he began. "Then, in mercy to me, tell it quickly," she said. " Mr. Chandos has been found—not living, but dead." She could grow no whiter, but at tho word " dead," a terrible shudder passed over her, and Gladie gave a little cry. "Dead," continued tbe man, " and to all appearances has been so lor hours." " For hours ?" repeated Lenore, mechanically. " Ycp, for many hours ; but that is not the worst I have to tell you, madam ; the rest is far more horrible. Mr. Chandos has been most foully and cruelly murdered." Then, for a few minutes, they thought tho young wife must die. She fell forward on her face; the words seemed to have pierced her heart. She had not fainted ; insensibility would have been mercy. Then slowly she raised her white face, and looked at him. " Tell mo all about it," Bhe said, " every word." " My men found the body this morning at Thurston's Crag," he continued. "Evidently Mr. Chandos had sat down to rest for a few minutes on tho soat of rough-hewn wood placed under the trees; evidently, also, his murderer shot him from behind, for he must havo sprung up, and have fallen on his face dead." " Go on," the white lips whispered. "I have no more to tell, except that we have brought him home, and he lies here." "Is it true—all quito true ?" she asked, with the inaredulity of one who hears without belief." "True, unfortunately—true a3 heaven," answered the man. "But, who could murder him? Every ono loved him —men, women, and children ; all loved him ; ho had no enemy in the wido world. Who could havo slain him ?" "That, with Heaven's help, we will soon find out," said the man. Then Lenore cried out: " I must see him ; do not try to prevent me—let no one say me nay. I must see him !" "Isit wise, Lenore?" asked Gladie, who was weeping bitterly. " I cannot tell. Ido not know whether it is wise or not; perhaps not. I only know that I must see him—that I may know how he died. He loved me so well," she continued, " that it seems to me oven his dead lips must unlock and tell me how he died, Gladie, no man must say me nay."

They did not attempt it; they took her into the largo uuest-cbamber, where lay the body of the mau who had loved her with his whole heart. The room was a large one, well furnished, but seldom used. In the hurry of the morning they had not thought of drawing the blinds, so that it was now all dark, and dim; soft, gloomy light filled it, through which one could see the bedstead, with its rich crimson hangings, and on it the stiff, straight outlines always so terrible to see. Lenore went np to it alone. She turned down the white sheet which had been thrown so reverently over the face of the dead ; no cry, no sob escaped her lips ; Bhe stood there white as the dead—as cold and as still. The chief conetable came up to her, and pointed to the fair, clustering hair that was thick with gravel and soil; pointed to a black bruise on the white forehead. "That shews," he said gently, "that he fell on his face. The shot must have pierced his heart." She looked at the beautifal placid face— so calm, so still, so full of noble majesty— looked at it with a pain she would never have known had she not loved him with her whole heart; then) bending her head, she laid her living lips on his dead ones. "Austin," she said, " I would have died to save you !" The full realisation of the fact that he was dead came over her in its fullest sense, as she raised her head from his. She remembered his passionate delight if ever she carreosed him—how his face shone, and his eyes how bright they grew —how he had loved her, this man so foully slain. That very night oven, how tenderly he had bade her farewell. Then she looked at his neck, and cried out to the chief-constable — "He has been robbed as well as murdered !" she cried. "Last evening I fastened a silk scarf, with a pearl brooch, round his throat. Where is it ?" The chief constable turned the sheet still further down. " There is no scarf here," he Baid: "but there is every sign of one having been torn violently off." From the glossy pleats of the cambric a piece had been torn with great violence, the button had been wrenched off, one of the gold studs was missing, tho other two were there—studs that Lenore remembered well. She had given them to him herself. "It hardly looks like robbery," said the chief constable, "or why should these be left ?" He pointed as he spoke, to the gold studs, to the rings on the finger, to th* watch and chain. " I cannot understand it," he sai J "there can be no doubt of its being a foal and unnatural murder. But for the violent dragging off of the scarf one might imagine that he had had beeu shot by mistake." The very word seemed to pierce her heart. " Who would shoot him ?" she asked ; "he has not an enemy in the whole wide world—not one !" Again she bent her head over the white still face. '' If you could but once speak to me," she cried, " but once, and tell me the secret of your death." But those white, rigid lips were never more to unlock in this world, no laughter was to part them, no smile to play over them, no kiss to warm them, no words to leave them— they were locked in the silence of death. Suddenly she, his wife, looked up into the i pitying face of the head constable. i " I am quite sure of one thing," she said, " that the person who shot him has taken the scarf and brooch away ; and remember my words, although years may pass before they are verified, that brooch and scarf will be the means of bringing the murderer to i justice; remember my words when they ; come to pass. Now go, all of you, and leave me alone with my dead."

They went away and left here there. What passed in that darkened chamber only God knew. An hour afterward, Gladie, growing frightened for her, went into the room and found her lying white and senseless on her husband's breast. She roused her, and the blue eyes looked up iuto hers with a stupefied stare. "Gladie," she said, "I have seen the scarf and the brooch somewhere ; I cannot tell where—in a strange sleep—in a strange dream that has to come to me ; and on the scarf there is one drop of blood—only one ; it will bring the murderer to justice. You will remember what I say." Gladie looked at hor with pitying eyes. " I want you to come with me," she said. "Mrs. Audley is asking for you, and we cannot keep the truth from her any longer. Will you come J" CHAPTER XIII. There was a sensation all over the land ; a murder at any time fills the community with dread and awe ; but this was such a terrible murder ; done in the sweet, soft gloom of the summer night; done in the midst of sleeping flowers and restless leaves ; near where the deer lay resting, and the birds were asleep ; done, seemingly, without the least provocation. It was a murder that no oue could understand. The sweetest of singers was cruelly slain; a great poet, a teacher of the people, a writer of noble poems, had been most cruelly slain. There was not a paper in England that did not publish detail after detail ; that did not publish a life of the poet, with criticisms on his poetry, with lamentations for his death ; and they went a long way out of their road to prove that old England, with all her civilization, was but a barbarous country, where such a murder could be done. There had never been a greater excitement, never a greater sensation ; all England was roused, and the state of the neighbourhood baffled description. People came from far and near to the scene of the tragedy. No man was ever so lamented. Had he died quietly in his bed, holding his wife's hand in his own, still there would have been a general lamentation over him. People were just beginning to appreciate him ; to understand his poems ; to love him, and to be proud of him ; they were beginning to recognise the fact that they had among them a singer of sweet songs, a writer of noble poems, when the red hand of murder is raised, and the beautiful life is ended. There had been no greater sensation in the memory of man thau this — no more tragical or terrible incident. The horror of it was deepened by the knowledge of the fact that it seemed very unlikely Mrs. Audley would ever recover from the blow. She, like her daughter, had thought and spoken much of the brooch and scarf; both seemed firmly possessed with the same idea, that they would ultimately lead to the detection of the murderer. It was wonderful how that idea haunted them. The usual terrible routine was gone through with all possible state and solemnity; a coroner's inquest was held; witnesses were examined ; but not even tbe least trace of the crime could be found. The housekeeper and butlor gave their evidence as to how and when Mr. Chandos had quitted the hall. The housekeeper half-fancied she had heard him say that he would walk round by the head-keeper's cottage ; if so, that would take him to Thurston's Crag, but she could not be sure about it. Still, it disposed of one groat difficulty. The head keeper lived about half-a-mile farther on than Thurston's Crag ; it was just possible that going there ho had sat down to rest on the rough-hewn seat whore he had met his death. The hoad keeper, with two of his men, was away that night, on the other side of the woods; they had heard no shots iired, nor had any one else. Then came witnesses from the Dower House, to prove that ho had intended to return by ten ; and lastly, the men who had found him lying on his face, shot through the heart. No weapon was found near ; the scarf and brooch were gone, dragged off by a violent hand ; but although the most diligent search was mado, nothing was found near the scene of crimo which could offer the slightest clue. Love was foiled ; justice was foiled. The only thing to bo doue was done—a verdict was returned of " wilful murder against some person or persons unknown." Government offered a largo reward—so large that clever detectives considered it worth while to givo up what they called regular work and come down to Barton Leonard. For all the discoveries they made they might just as well have staid at homo ; there was absolutely nothing to discover ; ho had been a loyal husband, a loyal friend ; his life had been spotless ; they" could hear of no folly, no indiscretion, no stain ; they could hear of no enemy ; he had done good always—never harm ; no one had profited by his death ; on the contrary, it was a loss to everyone. As a last resoureo, they tried to find out if the hand of a jealous or injured woman were in it. But no one was jealous of him ; ho had injured no one; that pure, spotless life was open as a book ; it did not hold one secret in it, not ono intrigne, not one mystery; the life of a child or of a flower could not have been more open, more sweet. Then Lenore added another reward, and that made the whole so well worth winning, that more than one clever man, reading of it, resolved to give up his time to solving the mystery.

Bi't all efforts failed; even while th* dead : ma» lay in his room, with tho » coping bousei hold around him, every ono Baid that tho task of discovering the murderer was an impossible one. There were a few rumours. i Lenore herself declared that, on the night she spoke of it, she had been followed home, that she had heard the sound of footsteps, ond had seen the shining of eyes from between the trees. Then one of the farmservants told of a strange man whom he had seen standing on the lawn quite early one morning; he had intended to follow him, but he went away so quietly he could not think there was any harm in him. Then, Miss Beaton had some little story to tell. Qaite early one morning, looking out of her window, she saw a strange man standing near the garden gate, intently watching the windows of the bouse. She had never mentioned it, because she quite believed that he was some visitor for the servants or keepers, and had not thought of it. Again, Dolly Macadam, one of the dairymaids, told how she had noticed a stranger lingering about in the early morning, but so many people came, it had not struck her as beiog strange. From one or the other the same story always came—of a stranger having been seen lurking in the fields and grounds of the Dower House, so that there could be no other conclusion arrived at this, that some strange man had been seen lurking about the grounds, and that, in all probability, this man was the murderer. The next thing was to track this man. What the unfortunate tramps in that county suffered could never be. told. How mauy were apprehended on suspicion, how many were examined and remanded, and made to swear black was white from excess of nervousness, no one could tell; but the one proof searched for was never found—neither scarf nor brooch ; awkward-looking knives, rusty pistols, all kind of queer things were found, but no little pearl brooch, no scarf with beautiful tassels. The most commonly-received opinion was that some tramp passing by had murdered him in order to rob him ; then, had disturbed before his plunder was complete. The only difficulty in the way of this belief was that tramps do not, as a rule, carry pistols, nor if they intend to commit a robbery, do they leave it half done. So round the coffin of Austin Chandos all the rumours grew and died away : the mystery was one which it seemed would never be solved ; the only thing was to wait. "Murder never sleeps," the young wife would say with a strange fire on her white face; it never sleeps—some day or other it will all come out, some day we shall know who did this most cruel deed. When we know, Gladie, I will not spare. I have, perhaps, many years to live, but I would give them all, give my life itself, to bring my husband's murderer to justice. Wheu the time comes I shall strike and spare not." Bat the time did not seem near then. The day came when the young poet was to be carried through the scenes he had loved so well, to his last resting-place. It was a bright, warm summer day, the sun shining so warm and light, the birds singing in the trees, the flowers all blooming sweet and fair, the bees bumming in an ecstacy of delight over the wild thyme, the wood pigeons cooing—all the glory and brightness of the summer day in its full perfection —while they carried the poet, who had so often sung the beauties of flowers and sunlight, to his last resting-place. Half England did him honour; every great writer was there ; this writer of sweet songs, who had -been almost unnoticed in his life, was more than honoured in his death. They laid him to rest where the western sunbeams fell warm and sweet, where the green grass grew soft and thick, where the branches of a tall elm tree spread out "reen and wide. This was the poet's grave. He rested where the stars shone over him ; the dew and the green leaves fell on his grave ; and one might have written for his epitaph that he was true to one love, that he knew no other, and had died with his love pure and unsullied.

Then came a lull. Lenore felt hor trouble hard to bear. If his death had been a natural one, it would have been hard ; but this most foul and unnatural murder added such horror to it. That which made it worse was, Mrs. Audley never recovered the shock. Lenore took her back to the Dower House. She tried everything, but it was all in Tain. Three montha after the murder, the gentle, patient lady died, and her last words were : "Now, Lenore, I shall know who killed my son !" And the funeral of Lady Audley was a second epoch of sorrow. Gladie Beaton looked pretty in her mourning. In due course a posthumous child of Auston's was born. The dark clouds moved for a time and gathered some silver lining. Sir Cyril came home. He attended Lenore with assiduous homage. People began to see that his attentions had a happy omen, for Sir Cyril was popular as well as admired. Times changed with other folks, but at the Dower House one day was so like another that scarcely the alterations of weather were even noticable. Lenore's constant companion was Gladie Beaton, who still cherished the hope of interesting Sir Cyril. But he regarded her with tenderness without the slightest ray of affection. Sir Cyril visited the Dower House from day to day. At length the news was made public that the conventional period of mourning past, Lenore was to become Lady Vernon. This extinguished the hopes of Gladie Beaton. With her indignation did not turn to sorrow, but to revenge. She studied with deep penetration the means by which she would frustrate the happiness of the new marriage. This time the wedding was ordered by Sir Cyril upon a scale of magnificence. But one wedding is like another. There are the plate and the orange blossoms, and the farewells and the hopes, and the cupids on the wedding cake. All at every wedding, whether it be that of plebeian or patrician, looking so exactly alike. And, the honeymoon over, things speedily settled down into the routine of daily life. Where there is wealth and influence, there are political influences to direct or obey, and duties to the public imply new obligations. Sir Cyril was startled, by receiving a letter one day from Downing-street, offering him a high post in the public service, which again caused his absence from home. CHAPTER XIV. Lady Vernon's room was one o£ the most beautiful in tha hall, large, lofty, and beautifully furnished; a room that might have been the sleeping-chamber of a queen. It had been prepared for her.with loving hands ; there were pictures and statuettes, jardiniereß with costly flowers, books in superb binding, marquetry, low, luxurious chairs, couches covered with Utrecht volvet. The hangings were all of blue satin and white lace ; the three large windows opened on a long verandah that was filled with choicest flowers. It was one of the most gorgeous of rooms —a fitting shrine for a beautiful woman. Thinking that Lady Vernon was not well, her maid hud lighted a beautiful bright fire, and she lay back now in ono of the low lounging chairs near it. Her maid had taken off her evening dress, had removed the jewels from her neck and hair, had given her a dressing-gown of quilted blue satin, had left the wealth of golden hair falling like a veil over the matchless neck and shoulders. No woman ever looked more lovely, more graceful, more lovable. So Miss Beaton thought, as she opened the door and looked at her for one minute with the very spirit of hate and vengeance, looking at her out of these dark, Southern eyes. Lady Vernon looked up as she entered. "I am glad you have come, Gladie," she said ; "I was making pictures in the fire. Take a chair near it; the night's cold," and despite the quilted dressing-gown, Lady Vernon shivered. Gladie drew one of the luxurious chairs to the fire, and sat down opposite to her; in the heart of the crimson glare those two woman mado a beautiful picture, the fair one so blonde, so spiritual, the dark one with her Southern face and liquid eyes. Gladio sat quietly Bilent for some minutes, then she said, slowly : "If you were a wise woman, Lenoro, you would let the matter die here just where it is, and seek to know no further." " Then I am not a wiso woman and never [ shall be, Gladie. I have just as much curiosity as any other daughter of Eve, perhaps a little more. Now tell me, what is this you have learned ?" "I cannot tell," said Miss Beaton, '' whether the news will impress you as it did me—whether your thoughts will take the same dark turn as mine did ; if so, I am sorry for you." Involuntarily Lenore's thoughts flew to the little boy who was to take care of her and love her until he returned—who would have given his life for her. " Before I tell you," said Miss Beaton, " you mußt give me your promise, binding as an oath, that you will never betray me, that you will not ask ho w I have obtained my knowledge, and that you will swear never to mention that it was I who told you,"

"I need not swear," said Ignore; "my word is good as an oath. I promise yon, on my honour, a will never name yon, ncr will I ask you where you got the information. It is of Austin's death, is it not ?" "It grieves me that you should connect the two circumstances even in thought," she answered. " I cannot say for certain it is of Austin's death, nor can 1 say it is not—you must judge for yourself. This is it: I know that your present husband, Sir Cyril, was at Easluold when Austin was shot!" The beautiful face flushed crimson with hot passionate indignation, the bine eyes lost all their languid sweetness, and grew clear and bright like steel, the soft lips grew hard and stern. "I do not believe it," she cried; "1 would not believe it, Gladie Beaton, if you swore it with your dying breath !" " So mush the better," said Miss Beaton ; "I need not have been so frightened at telling you. I wish 1 could share your unbelief." "No, I do not believe it; my husband is the soul of truth, the sohl of honour, the perfection of justice. If he had been hare, he would have said so ; he is truth itself." " I do not deny it; he may be truth, honour, justice, and loyalty embodied, yet for all that, he was here, at Eastwold, the same day that that fatal shot was fired." " I will never believe it!" cried Lady Vernon; yet even as she spoke her heart turned sick with pain and fear ; there was the ring of truth in Gladia's voice. "I cannot believe it," she continued; "he would have told me had he been here. Why should he hide it ? Nothing shall ever make me believe that. It is a false, cowardly slander—a calumny—a lie !" ** Nevertheless he was here," repeated Gladie ; "it was be who followed you borne that night when yon where so startled ; it was his footsteps yon heard, his eyes you saw shining through the trees ; it was ho whom the servants saw by the garden gate ' and on the lawn—he and no other, so true as heaven is above us." "I do not believe it, Gladie." " I can go further—/ saw 7iim myself! Looking froni my window in the early dawn I saw him stand looking at yours." " Oh, Heaven, that I should not know how to deny such, things, yet should know they are false 1" " Nay, my darling, they are true ; do not hug that fake hope to yonr heart; do not say for one moment, that it is untrue. If it were so I would thank heaven for the lie. Leonore I saw Mm .'" "Then why have youneversaid so before? Why have you lived under our roof, eaten of our bread, been one of us, kept this secret in your breast like a poisoned asp, all these years—why, Gladie, why ?" "Hush, my dear; calm yourself. Ispoke the truth—nothing but the truth, before Heaven, I saw him ; but remember it was the earily dawn of morning and I had been thinking of him during the night. I really believed that he was a delusion. I knew a man stood there, but I said to myself that it was my fancy which hadgivenhim Sir Cyril's features. I should have thought it wicked to have told that which would most certainly have drawn suspicion on him—but, to my great horror, my fancy was truth. I know now a person to whom he spoke and who spoke to him, and yet kept his secret!"

Lenore's beautiful face had grown terribly pale; it seemed to. her, in some vague, terrible way, that these words of which Bhe listened were as the words of doom. '' I never can tell you who that person was," said Gladie; "and you, by virtue of the word you hare pledged me, must never ask me." "I never will," said a low voice, from which the music had all gone and into which it came no more. " I never will." " This person saw him, and spoke to him j he left Eastwold the same day Austin died, and reached Valparaiso only three days before the letter which recalled him." "I—l cannot believe it, Gladie; do not be angry with me, I cannot believe it." "Ask him," said Miss Beaton. "Hois, you say, the soul of truth—he will not lie to you ; if he be truthful, honourable, as you say, then he will tell you. Ask him. If he say no, I, with you, will believe him against the evidence of my own sense, rgainst the evidence of every creature who saw and spoke to him. Shall that be the test ?" " I will ask him," said Leuoro. "I am quite certain that his answer will be 'No.' 1 stake my life upon it that he laughs an 1 says ' No.' Then you will own that it was a delusion, a fancy—and that the one who fanciis Cyril spoke to him was mad. Oh, my God I What can it mean —what can it mean ?" She threw her white hands in the air, then buried her face in the cushions of the chair ; and Gladie watched her with the same keen delight with which in olden times the Roman emperors watched the writhing of their victims. "That 'a just how I suffered," she said to herself. "I used tolling my arms in the air and cry aloud. "Vengeance is sweet ; I am taking mine, and it is sweet—sweeter than love." Then Lady Vernon raised her head. "Suppose he says 'Yes,'what does that prove—tell me, Gladie, what doea it prove ?" " I do not know," replied Miss Beaton ; but though her words were few, the tone was full of suggestion. "He may —it is just possible," continued Lady Vernon, "he may have come over to England for some private business of his own."

"Yet his business all lay in Austin's hands, and at the Bame time he was by letter protesting that he would not come to England." " It may have been private business," per. stated Lenore. "He trusted Austin; still one man seldom tells to another every detail of his life. There may have been little trifles which he trusted to no man."

"A trifle would not have brought him from Valparaiso here," said Miss Beaton. "Again, granted that he had private business in England, what would bring him on the lawn at Eastwold ? What should make him watch you from behind the trees, vratch your room window ? What private business brought him to the doors of his own home, yet kept him from entering them? What brought him to Eastwold, yet kept him from speaking one word to its inhabitants? Do not think I am arguing against him ; I love him too much for that. lam trying to give you some idea of what others will think and will say if ever they should know it."

S »mething like a convulsion of pain parsed over the fair, troubled face.

" Why need any one know it? Ido not understand—really, Gladie, I cannot understand. I do not follow you ;is there any danger threatening my husband that you do not tell me 1"

"No, none that I know; still we can never tell what unexpected turns a secret can take. It is better to be forearmed. Now, I have been debating in myself for long past whether I should tell you. I have said to myself that you ought to know, that coming from any one else, the blow would be far heavier than coming from me, because I, you see, can help you to bear it," and. the false face bent over the sweet, troubled one, the false white arms were wound round the white neck, the false lips touched the true ones. " I can help you to bear it, no matter what you have to bear; and oh, my dear, my dear adopted sister, I am afraid there is trouble in store for you." The golden head sank on the false heart, and Lenore said : "If any harm comes to Cyril I shall die, Gladie—l shall most surely die." " If ever you were thankful for anything in your life," said Miss Beaton, "you ought to be thankful for that." " I cannot see why," said Lenore. She began to feel physically ill. It seemed to her that the coil of fate was infolding her. " I cannot see why," 3he continued. " But I can. You are so simple in many things. I can sec why. Suppose the world knew that Sir Cyril loved you, that he was beside himself with a mad passion for you, that you rejected him and married another ; then, after a time, he returns to England, disguised so that no one knows him ; and on the very day—" "Hush!" cried Lady Vernon; "I can , boar no more." " Hoar me. It is not I who speak, but the world. On the very day when your husband is shot he is seen in this disguise, then he marries you—" Sho stopped abruptly, for Lady Vernon, with a long, low cry, had fallen senseless at her feet. There was a smilo of truimph on Gladie's face as she raised the motionless figure and laid it upon a couch ; she stood over her, makiug no effort to restore her. People seldom die in fainting fits, she knew. "I have brought you low,' my enemy," she said—" low as I have been brought myself, beautiful Lady Vernon, the beautiful woman who married, both kinsmen; who, married the poet, and then stood between me and my love ; the beautiful Lady Vernon, mistress of Eastwold, my supplanter; tho woman wbo has taken from me my love— my love, "iou lie low, with all your proud loveliness, with your golden hair, and your

snowy skin, and the eyes that have been lamps to light men's hearts —you lie low 1_ Her truimph was indescribable, her joy intense; this was the first taßto of her truimph, the first realization of her vengeance. Then she found some fragrant essence, and with it bathed Lady Vernon's face and hands. She was her enemy who hated her, but the most cruel thing she ever did was bringing her to life again; the most merciful thing for her was oblivion and death. [To be continued.] NEW STORY. [A new story by Bertha SI. Clay, author of " A Thorn in Her Heart," " A Namelesss Sin,' "A Bitter Atonement, &c., will bo commenced next week.)