DOROTHY ARNOLD'S ESCAPE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXI, Issue 6996, 19 April 1884, Page 3 (Supplement)

DOROTHY ARNOLD'S ESCAPE.

BY MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON. Author of " Tho Forsaken- Bride," " Brownie's Triumph," CHAPTER X.—(Continued), fulfilling ITEB VOWS. : He looked up quickly, his face' involuntarily lighting. "JDot, my darling, how good of yoa to come, "he said, gratefully,- almost joyously, "Papa said you wanted me." His face fell. She had not come then, because she was anxious to see him, and wished to do so, but because he " wanted her," aud it was therefore her duty to do so. "Yes," he said, with a sigh, "I have wanted you—l have longed for you more than I can tell you ; but I. did not wißh you to come if you were not able."

"I am able, Roy. lam mrich better,"she said, seeing how disturbed he was.

" But you are very, vory pale. lam afraid you are far from being well. But do not stand—sit down here by me and let me look at you. Ah ! I did not think that day that I should ever live to sit here and talk like this to you."

Dot drew a chair as he requested, and sat down by his side, but she was strangely silent and constrained. Never before had she been so ill at ease with him ; never before had her lips been so mute and her tongue so dumb. Roy put out his arm and drew her gently to him.

" My darling—my'precious wife, you are glad that I am going to get well, are you not ? You do love me ?" he questioned, oh ! so pleadingly, whilehe eagerly searched her face. She tried to bear it bravely, but his quick eye could not fail to see how ahe involuntarily shrank at those words, "precious wife,'.' while a half-frightoned look shot into her eyes.

She felt like a hypocrite—felt that she had no right to bear that name, when she believed her heart was so cold and insensible to his love, and her fine sense of honour recoiled from bearing that relation to him.

Koy read something of this, and his own heart sank heavily in his bosom.

But Dorrie replied with , something of her old heartiness of manner, although sho steadily avoided his eye :

" ies, Roy, 1 am glad—so glad, that you are going to get well, and, you know that I love you." ,

"Yes, I know that is true ; but, Dorrie— oh ! darling, I want your whole heart."

Dot felt almost faint, but she answered with grave earnestness :

"lam sure, Roy, I mean to try and be just as good and true a wife to you-as I can."

Then -with an effort to be like hor own bright self, she continued :■

"Let me begin now—let me do something for you—comb your hair, bathe your head if it acljes, for you look very white and tired. Perhaps you woald like me to read to you, or I vrill do anything you wish." Very unexpected was the request that he made, and it fell upon her heart with a shock. "Kiss me, Dorrie." She had just told him that she would do anything he wished, and could she refuse his first petition? Obediently she bent forward and touched his lips with hers, and then was startled to hear a sob burst from him. "Ob, Dot! Dot I lam sorry ; forgive me for so selfishly driving you into bondage. I will not ask you to stay with me, if you do not wish. I will not require a single service or duty from you," he oried remorsefully, and looking so pained and haggard that: Dot was alarmed. " Hush, Roy; do not speak so," she said, soothingly; "they will not let me come to you at all if .you, got so excited, and that would be very hard fop both ot us. lam going to stay with you. I want to stay with you all the time now," she added, with a sincerity which he could not doubt, "and I want you to get strong and well just as fast as you can." tie regarded her aearchingly for a moment. He was wretched, for, he know that in spite of her clions to comfort him, and conceal her own feelings, she was not happy— that sho did not lovo him a3 he wished to be loved. "Dot, I was almost afraid that you would wish me dead—that you would be perfectly miserable when you lound that I was likely to get well, and that you were irrevocably bound to me. How you must hate and scorn me for taking such an unfair advantage of you," he said, deeply distressed. "Koy, I neither hate nor scorn you," Dot replied, while she loaned forward. and smoothed back his hair from his forehead with her soft hand. . The act, so gentlo and full of sympathy, almost unmanned him. He caught her hand and laid it against his thin cheek. "Are you sure—sure, Dot?" " Perfectly sure," she repeated, positively. "And down deep in your heart, Dorrie, is there no feeling of—of disappointment that I, as your husband,- will live ?" "How can you ask me such a question, Roy?" Dot said, in a voice that was full of tears. "If you were not ill, and weak, and nervous, I do not believe you would say anything so unlcind to me. I can never tell you how earnestly I have prayed that you might got well ; and now if you will lot me wait upon you, and do all I can to help you back to health, I will soon show you how little foundation you havo for supposing I could wi3h anything else for you. But if— if you begin by distrusting me, I am afraid we shall not get on very together." " I do not distrust you, and I had no right to make you unhappy by speaking so ; but, oh! my darling, 1 want your whole, whole heart," Roy cried, passionately.

Mrs. Davenport entered at this moment, thus saving Dorrie the necessity of replying, for which she was very thankful.

She could not tell him that her heart was wholly his, when she believed she had given it to another. Bat, as she had voluntarily become Boy Davenport's wife, she determined to do her utmost to fulfil her vows and cheerfully perform every duty which should be laid upon her in the future. . CHAPTER XI. : TORTUKE. Meantime, how fared it with Gilbert Fontaine ? It was somewhat singular that upon returning to his office, alter leaving Dot ard having consented to her marriage with jßoy, he found a telegram awaiting him, and demanding his immediate preaenee in a distant city upon important business. "I'm glad of it," ho muttered to himself, as he read it. " I shalll>o out'of the sight or sound of that disagreeable affair; the whole thing will be oyer before I return, and then, after a proper time, I can begin to pay my addresses to the rich and charming young widow, and after that"—with a' chuckle of. triumph— 1 ' Gilbert Pontaino, you may take your ease for the remainder of your life."

He took an, afternoon train, and, while a sad household watched around the bed of the man upon whose death he'was. building his hopes for the future, he was borne rapidly away from it all, nor dreamed of the bitter disappointment that would await.him on his return,

The business on which he was bound required his attention for several days, then having a little matter which hei wished to look after in New York, ho ran down there, where he remained two or three days longer. Thus a week passed before he returned to Rochester. -.

As he alighted from, the train, in the station, .wondering within himself if .it was all over, and nervously anxious to learn'.something of the particulars, a friend accosted him tiith :

" Holloa, Fontaine I I've missed you for more than a week. Been down to New York?"

"Yes; I went away a week ago yesterday." <

"Ah! Then you haven't heard the news ?" • " What news ?" .

" The marriage o£ Mis 3 Dorrie Arnold." \ "Indeed! When did that occur ?" Gilbert asked, with well assumed surprise, but getting a little pale notwithstanding. "The very day you left." , " The day I left Somehow he began to dread to hear anything more. There wa3 something in the man's manner which caused a presentiment of coming evil. : "Yes. You look surprised," said his friend, wondering why he should grow so pale at his communication. "Well, it is rather sudden, isn't it? Whom did she marry ?" • " Why the man whom everybody expected Bhe would marry—Koy Davenport." '' I thought Koy Davenport was in a dying condition. At least he was reported so when I went away." "Yes, I know; but Ue wanted to leave half his fortune to Miss Arnold, and so he begged her to. marry him before he died." - Gilbert Fontaine grew paler and paler ; the corners of his mouth twitched nervously, while the nails of his fingers were literally buried in the palms of his hands. Would the mau ever get through with his story ? It was absolute torture to hear it piecemeal thus. "I knew that young Davenport had always been very fond of Miss Arnold. And so she married him, did she ?" "Yes, Rather a sad wedding it must have been, though." " Very. Bat when was the funeral ?" " Whose funeral 2" demanded his friend, in surprise. " Roy Davenport's, of course,"Gilbert Fontaine said, with some impatience, and feeling as if he should go wild. "He isn't dead." •'What!" Dot's lover exclaimed, looking ao if he had suddenly been stabbed by an unßeen hand. " He is not dead, I say." "But I saw Dr. Southwick just before I left, and he told me that he could not possibly live longer than sundown on that day." The words sounded hollow and far off. " Can't help it. He's getting well now as fast as he can," was the confident reply of his companion. It was fortunate for Gilbert's secret that the street through which they were passing just at that moment was not very well lighted, for his face became perfectly ghastly, and so convulsed with mortification, disappointment, and passion, that it would surely have betrayed him could his companion have Eeen it. But he was a mau who possessed great control over himself, and after a iew moments ho recovered his composure sufficiently to say in quite a natural tone :

" Well, this is news indeed, for I fully expected to hear that he was dead and buried. And it's rather a .romantic affair, on the whole, isn't it ?"

" Decidedly so. Bat I expect he ha 3 been terribly sick. I was told that when the crisis came, and they informed him that ho could not live, he begged that Miss Arnold would marry him, so that he could dia knowing she bore his name and would have his money. Everybody supposed they would marry some time, for it has been a settled thing for years; so it did not seem quite so strauge as it might have done under other circumstances. However, as soon as the ceremony was over, and his will made, he turned over and went to sleep, the doctor and all his friends believing he would never wake again. But he did, and began to mend immediately. He will soon bo ablo to sit up, they say, though it has been pretty close work for him. But I- turn here. Glad to have had your company so far. Goodnight!" and the voluble goesip turned down another street, wholly unoonscious of the effect which his strange tale had produced.

Thus it was that Gilbert; Fontaine learned the truth. Lett alone, there being no longer any need of self-control, he groaned aloud, struck his hand fiercely across his forehead as if to break some spell under which he was labouring, and then went staggering toward bis office liko a drunken man, muttering curses and maledictions upon the author of his present misery, and upon himself for having been so stupid as to consent to the marriage of Dot with his hated rival, Hoy Davenport.

Every hope was blasted. Dot was lost to him for ever, and the gold which he ao coveted would never flow into his purso to enable him to live the life of easo to which he had aspired.

He locked himself within his' office, and there in the darkness spent the whole night pacing the floor like an angry caged lion, and raving over his defeated schemes.

Whilo Dot was bravely trying to bear her bitter portion, and to nerve herself to take up cheerfully every duty that lay before her in her . new position,' he was plotting to separate the newly-made husband and wife, vowing that his would not be baulked in his desires—that Dot and her money should yet be his, even at the sacrifice of his own and her reputation and honour.

" She is a weak-minded, silly little thing,' and I can wind her around my finger as easily as I could a tress of her curly hair," he mused, confidently. "I was a fool ever to consent to allow her to take such a silly step ; and if ever.that milk-and-water dandy crosses my track, I'll crush him as X would a worm J" and ho ground his heel into the floor as if poor Koy was already beneath it, aud he was fulfilling his cowardly threat.

His disappointment was so intense, and he gave the rein to his passions to such an extent that he was really ill for a week after this ; and when at length he began to go out among his friends again and about his business, people, remarking his wan and haggard looks, would aay, "Fontaine is growing old."

Four or five weeks went by, and Dot had not seen <ir heard anything of or from him. -She did not wish to see him, for sho felt that she,could not bear it, and she knew, too, that it would not berlght, although, in spite of all her resolutions not to think of him, her sore little heart ached sadly for him.

She hoped they, would never meet; she knew that it would be best that they should not, at least until she grew more sure of herself, or until she became more accustomed to be regarded as Roy's wife, and her burden was not quite so hard to bear.

She did try to be a "good, true wife," as she had told Koy she would; and though she could not quite be her old bright, choery self, sho yet succeeded in making him very comfortaDle, and in concealing her secret \from the keen perceptions of her father and mother, though Mr. Arnold told hia wife everyday "that something was wrong—he knew Dot wob not happy," for there was a look in her eyes that haunted him continually.

She spent the most of every day by Roy's side, going to him as soon as she had had her breakfast, and remaining with him, except when he slept, until it was time for him to retire for the night.

Sho read by the hour to him, played chess and chatted with him, exerting herself to the utmost to make the time pass as swiftly and agreeably as possible.

When evening came she would bid him "good-night" with smiling lips, and was so gentle and tender to him that he began to hops that in time he should win her wholly to himself.

But as soon as she was freed from her duties Bhe would hurry away to her own chamber, where, for half the long night, sho would fight with her faithless heart, as only a sensitive, pure-minded woman, who loved one man and was married to another, could fight. Thehe battles wore upon her fearfully.

She grew poor, and every bit of the brilliant colour of which her father used to be so proud, had faded from her face. Her cheeks lost their roundness, her eyes their merry, laughing light,' but as she seemed cheerful when sho was about her duties, they laid it to her anxiety for Roy, and the unaccustomed confinement in a sick-room. '

" You must get out into the air. Let me take you on a long drive," her father would urge day after day. ! But Dot invariably replied : "I do not want to go out, papa. 1 prefer to stay with Hoy." ■ . . And. every one admired her for her faithfulness and attention, never once mistrusting the true reason.

"But you->vill injure your own health, Dorrie, if you stay shut up 50,,-". Mr. Arnold would peraiat. - ... He could not- be reconciled to see her so changed. " When Boy is able tu go I will accompany him," she answered.

The thought of going out, and,-peroliance meeting her old lover,, was-so torturing-to, lier that she could not for a moment endure it.

She felt sure that, as yet, she had not sufficient control—that Bhe- should 'betray the misery that was eating her heart arid her life away, and she meant to stay in-—to see no one, if she could help it,- until she was confident she could ■ face the whole world calmly.

The ;thought of coming face, to face with Gilbert Fontaine, of hearing him speak in those low, alluring tones of his, -of allowing him to take her hand, set her shivering and trembling with a dread that was almost insupportable.

If, she reasoned; she could wait-until she and Roy could go out together, it would not be so difficult for her to encounter him, for her husband's presence would help her to be on her guard;-but a meeting,. under. any circumstances, was to be avoided if possible.

But she was reckoning only for herself. She did not take into consideration what Gilbert Fontaine's view of the matter might be.

She often wondered what hia feelings were regarding Roy's recovery, and if he Buffered as she did over their separation. She supposed he must if he loved her as he professed to do; hut she judged him after her own standard. She believed him to be as pure and honourable as. she herself was, and had not thought he would ever in any way take advantage of her love for him. CHAPTER XII. VENGEFUL CUBSES. "A caller for young Mrs. Davenport," a servant announced, opening the door of Roy's room, where 'Dot and her husband were sitting, one afternoon, about two months after their marriage. "Who is it?" Dorrie asked, looking around; but the girl was in a great hurry over something, and had shut the door again immediately after delivering Tier message. Dot frowned, both at. the girl's disrespectful haste and at the interruption. "I wonder who'it is?" sbe said, thoughtfully, and feeliDg very reluctant to receive any one. "Run down and see, dear,. You' have been shut up with me all day, and a little chat with some of your friends would do you good. Maybe it is Cora Eastabrooke. I would not mind seeing her myself," Roy said, feeling really anxious that she should begin to entertain her friends, for' ahe had refused herself to every one as yet. .

Dot coloured slightly, for ahe remembered the last time that she had seen Cora Eastabrooke, and she did not feel particularly desirous of recalling that occasion under exising circumstances. " Why don't you go, Dorrie ?". Koy asked, as she still lingered. "Don't you feel well to-day ?" " Ves, but—l would rather waif; until yon are able to see company, too," she said. -

" Never mind me. I shall do well enough for the little time that you are away, though of course I miss you if you are only absent ten minutes, and in a little while I shall be able to see my friends also."

So Dot went down, hoping nevertheless that her caller, whoever it might be, would not stay long. She did cot see any one as she entered the parlour, and began to think the girl 'had made a mistake ; but on going forward to a window to look out, she saw a tall form standing among the draperies, recognized it instantly, and uttered a low cry of pain and dismay. Gilbert Fontaine had not heard her light footstep upon the sof c carpet. While waiting for her he had turned to look out upon the street, for he was not in a very composed state of mind himself, being in considerable suspense regarding the result; of this meeting. But he turned quickly as he heard Dot's cry, and came forward with outstretched arms.

She put up her hands to keep him away, and shrank before him, her face so white and full of pain that he thought she was going to faint..

"No, no!" she gasped, actually panting for breath ; and retreating to the other side of the room, she sank weakly upon the sofa. "Oh ! why did you come here?—how could you?"

"Did you think I could stay long away from you?" ho asked, in a low, fond tone, and continuing to approach her. She beat the air wildly with her hands, all her self-possession forsaking her. "But you must—you must!" she wailed; "I cannot," he replied, sternly, his face olouding with sullen anger. " You have no right to seek me—l have no right to meet you. We must never see each other agaiD," Dot went on, disconnectedly. " Why not? You belong to me, Dot, by every law divine. You love,me; you gave yourself to me; and, at heart, you are as much mine to-day as ever."

"You know that cannot be. Oh! why will you torture me so ? lam Boy Davenport's wife. I must be true to him, and you are cruel—cruel to come here to tempt me from my duty."

Dot covered her face with her hands, and sat quivering with pain. The shadow of a smile flitted over Gilbert Fontaine's countenance at her last words— " to tempt me from my duty."

They promised him. much, for they told him that it was a temptation to her to-see him. They told him that Dorrie's heart was still tender toward him; that his power over her was still strong, and he took courage. "My darling," he said, softly, and drawing still nearer her, " you love me still. You have told me that you loved me, and I -know that you cannot have forgotten so soon ; and can you suppose that I do not rebel against the false position into which you have been drawn ? You are not Roy Davenport's wife, save in name. Every thought and affection of your heart belongs to me. I only lent you to him, as I supposed, in his dying hour, to gratify his last request." " Don't, don't!" Dot moaned.

" I must,"he returned, passionately. "Do you think I do not suffer because yon were trapped into this, and so lostto me ? Am I not to bo considered at all 1 Do you suppose," he went on, bending lower, and almost hissing out the words in his excitement, " that 1 would have consented to that mockery under any other' circumstances? Do you imagine that I would have given you to him had I thought—had I known that it and nothing eke would have been the means of saving his. life? No, Dot; no power on earth should have wrested you froui me, and I claim you even now. something must be done to break the chains that hold you, for I will not give you up."

Dot's hands dropped into her lap, and she looked up at him, fairly awed into calm .by his audaciouß words.

For the first time, as she gazed into his eyes, she saw there something ignoble and untrue —something that repelled her. .

" Gilbert Fontaine, you forget yourself— you do not realize that you are speaking to lioy Davenport's wife," she said, with a dignity which astonished him, though her lips were ashen.

His eye wavered as it met her pure ■ but indignant gaze. "Dot I love you—l cannot give you up," he pleaded.

"Hush! youhavenorighttosaysuchthings to me now," Bhe returned, authoritatively. " I have no right to listen to them. You do not consider how wildly aud unreasonably you are talking. What has transpired in the past between us must be as a sealed book for ever—we must never refer to it again—-never even think of it, if we can help it. I believe you to be an honourable maD, and that you did not mean some of the dreadful things which you have just said, for I could not respect you if I thought you did. It was cruel for you to come here to seek me; but, since you have done so, let us understand our position and settle our relations for all time. I did not suppose any more than you when I consented to Roy's request that he would live but a very few hours ; I believed that the same day would release me from the vows which, under any other conditions, I should' not have felt it right to take upon myself. But I did take them, although I did it merely to comfort him. lam his wife by my own free will and act, aud I will not swerve a hair's breadth, if I can help .it, from the duties which lie before me. God helping me, I will be a true and faithful wife to him. No, there is no way by which the tie that binds me can be broken, and I am riot sure," she.added, musingly, almost unconsciously, "thai I would break it if I could." .

"Dot, Dot, don't say that !"the man before her interrupted, passionatelythere is a way —it can be, it must be broken, and it would be no wrong, under the circumstances. "

" What do you mean ?" she . jked, rising .and standing pale and cold before him'. "" I do not understand you:" ; .

He, so eager to have his own way at any cost, mistook her calmness-for a willingness to be released, or he would have been warned by that latent flash in her.dark eyes,' "My love, you.can come away with me; we will goto some distant part,of -the world where no one will know us, and there we will be happy in each other as long as we live. My darl.i'.g, my darling, say that you will go : —I cannot, I will not give you up."

- He stretohed forth his arm 3 to draw her to him, determined to make her consent—to win . her to his purpose. But he had not counted on that lofty nature which, invested that small. form; ho, had said she was " weak-mined and silly that he could " wind her around his finger aa' easily as he could a tress of her curly hair." • "He'could'have done so, perhaps,'had he, been a good man, and striven to'lead'her np- • ward instead of downward; but he had yet' to learn that beside her, in strength o£ character and purity of purpose, he : was buti a pigmy. She waved him back from her as he ceaneS. speaking and approached her, her slight , form haughtily erect, her red lips curling, ; her nostrils dilating, her whole face flashing with scorn, though underneath her heart was almost breaking, and she was ; trembling from head to foot.

"Is it possible," she said, in accents of contempt, ".that I could ever imagine that T loved a man who is capable of suggesting Bach a measure to me, or, indeed, to any' one ? Gilbert "Fontaine, by those ■words yon have shattered my idol to atoms, and I ; do not believe I could marry you now if I were unfettered by a single tie." ■_ " Dot, forgive me, I am nearly wild at the thought of losing yon, and I am not responsible for what I say," he interposed/ shrinking beneath her scorn, and finding all too late what a mistake he had made/

"Yon are responsible," she asserted,'• vehemently; "you are selfish and cruel to come here at all; yon must have known thai? I could not bear such an interview, and -yon: were base enough to offer words of love tothe wife of another, and try to tempt her from her aUegiance to him, no matter what her relations may have been to you before. And now you have offered me an insult": which I shall never forgive; you could have had no real love for me if you would be willing I should saorifiea my honour in the way you propose." ... - • ■ ■ . "Bat, Dot, think how my every hope has been blighted." "How your every hope has been blighted!", she interrupted, with bitter sarcasm. "It is you who have suffered ; it is you who havebeen wronged, and it is you who would" tempt a woman to sin, to assuage your grief and humour your selfishness?" i

" You are hard upon me, Dorrie," he said,' lushing with, something oE shame, but more }S anger. ■ / "I am hard upon you," Dot repeated,: with quivering lips; "it would be more; correct if you reversed the case. I had. enough to beav before you came here to-day ; - you should never have come at aIL; you-* would not if you had considered any one ■ but yourself. I was trying to do my duty—J' trying to school my heart to something like! submission to the destiny that has been ■ allotted to me; I was trying to prove howi thankfnl I am for the life which God haa; spared, by striving to make it aa complete aa' it is in my power to do. But you havej tortured me as X was never tortured before."^

"Tortured ! how have I tortured you, my' darling?" Gilbert Fontaine interrupted in astonishment..

"Never call me that again,",. Dorrio. said, with an imperative stamp of her. foot. "I am nothing to you—r can never be anything to you, and you have tortured • me by the words you have uttered, and by revealing to me what you are. Do ■ you think it has been easy for me to listen to you ? Has it been a light thing to stand here ancl. find you, whom I believed to be all that a man should be, base, selfish, dishonorable? And now never come to mo again ; let this be oar last meeting, for 1 feel as if I never wish to see you again." " Never ! how can you say that when yon have professed to love me, when you have allowed me to hold you in my. arms, and. rested your head upon my bosom ?" Gilbert. Fontaine cried, driven almost desperate by her reproaches. " Oh, do not send me away; from yon utterly, do not cut off my everyhope ; promise me that if you are ever free— I will wait, and wait patiently—l may come. back to you—that I may claim you." Dorrie regarded him with a sort of horror in her great eyes. , _ What manner of man could this be ; to . beseech a married woman to plight her troth to him, and then build her hopes for future happiness upon the death of her husband? It was dreadful, and gave her such a shock that she involuntarily recoiled from him. It served to open her eyes more fully to: his real character—to the depravity of the man from whom she bad escaped ; yes, she. even began to regard it in that light now, and wondered how she could ever have been so deceived in any one. _ She was honourable in every fibre of her nature; she despised meanness and doubledealing of every sort, and, as we know, she had suffered greatly on that account whenshe had consented to marry Boy, fearing she' would be guilty of it herself, and she now shrank with loathing from the thought of Gilbert Fontaine's looking upon her as his promised wife, perhaps for long'years, while' he was waiting and wishing for Roy's death,' and she could have forgiven anything sooner than his proposal to sin, and thus degrade both himself and her.

"How dare you ask me anything like that?" she cried, flushing with indignation,' and facing him with something of angry defiance. " I hope my husband will live to be an old old man, and that I may live to grow ■ old with him so that I can prove to him and you how true—how faithful—his wife can be ' to him. Do you suppose that he would ever, have talked to the woman whom he professed to love as you have talked to me to-day?* No; had Bhe been twice lost to him, he> would never have offended her delicacy orher sense o£ honour by a word or look even ; he would have comforted her gently, kindly, and borne his own sorrow in silence and with patience, like the noble man that he is." Dot could not have spoken more loyally or • with more spirit if Roy had been her first and only love.

Bat this ardent eulogy upon his fortunate, rival was the last drop in Gilbert Fontaine's: bitter cup. " You appear to be very fond o£ your husband all of a sudden, Mrs. Davenport," he said, sarcastically. "Possibly you think you would have made a mistake if you had married me, and that you have had a for-: tunate escape." "Yes, I am tempted to think so," Dot answered ; sadly adding, "now I wish you would go—l cannot bear much more ; leave me, and let me at least have the comfort of respecting myself.". r 4 * I will make you-both suffer for this," Gilbert exclaimed, losing all control of himself.

Dot regarded him with eyes that told him she was wondering if he could be the same man whom, two months ago, she had thought she loved, and for whom she had grieTed as sho had not believed it possible for any one to grieve. His face was full of evil and malice, his eyes had a wicked, revengeful light in them, and he actually shook with repressed passion.

"The worst that I could possibly suffer on. your account is over," she said, with a heavy sigh. "I could at least'have respected you' if you had not come here to-day. If we should ever chance to meet in the future Ibeg you will never remind me in any way of: the past, and," with a little proud uplifting of her pretty head, "do not ever again forget that I Roy Davenport's wife." - She turned her back upon him as she ceased speaking, and went and stood by a window, while the angry and baffied man stalked from the room and the house, muttering vengeful; curses upon his ill luck and the innocent cause of it. [To be continued.]