THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9154, 8 September 1888, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

BY WTXiKIE COLLINS, Author of "The Woman in White," "The Evil * Genius," &c., &c. [THE RIGHT of translation IS RESERVED.I CHAPTER LV. j did think of it, and scandalous confluences followed. Philip came to us, and lived in our house. Let- me hasten to add that the protest of propriety was duly entered, on the day before my promised husband arrived, Standing in the doorway—nothing would induce her to take a chair, or even to enter the room—Miss Jillgall delivered an harangue. Mrs. Tonbruggen reported it in her pocket-book, as if she was representing a newsjwper at a public meeting. Here it is, copied from her notes — "Miss Helena Gracedieu, my first impulse under the present disgusting circumstances, was to leave the house, and earn a bare crust in the cheapest garret I could find in the town. But my grateful heart remembers Mr. Gracedieu. My

poor atHicted cousin was good to me when I was helpless. I cannot forsake him when he is helpless. At whatever sacrifice of my own self-respect, I remain under this roof so dear to me for the Minister's sake. 1 notice, miss, that you smile. 1 see my once dear Elizabeth, the friend who has so bitterly disappointed me"— She stopped, and put her handkerchief to her eyes, and went on again— the friend who has so bitterly disappointed me, taking satirical notes of what I say. I am not ashamed of what I say. The virtue which will not stretch a little, where the motive is good, is feeble virtue indeed. 1 shall stay in the house, and witness horrors, and rise superior to them. Good-morning, Miss Gracedieu. Good - morning, Elizabeth." she {terfortned a magnificent, curtsey, and (as Mrs. Tenbruggen's experience of the sta!_ r e informed me) made a very creditable exit. A week has passed, and I have not opened civ diary. My days have glided away in one delicious fiow of happiness. Philip has been delightfully devoted to me. His fervent courtship, far exceeding any similar attentions which he may once have paid to Eunice, lias shown such variety and such steadfastness of worship, that I despair of describing it. My enjoyment of my new life is to be felt —not to be coldly considered, ami reduced to an imperfect statement in words.

For the first time I feel capable, if the I circumstances encouraged me, of acts of ! exalted virtue. For instance, I could save i r.iv country if my country was worth it. I | could die a martyr to religion if I had a ! re'iirion. In one word, lam exceedingly j vvrli satisfied with myself. The little disappointments of life pass j over me harmless. Ido not even regret the I failure of good Mrs. Tenbruiruen's efforts to i find an employment for Philip worthy of | his abilities and accomplishments. The ' member of Parliament to whom she had j applied has chosen a secretary possessed of ! political influence. That is the excuse put J i'urwirJ in his letter to Mrs. Tenbrug^en. | Wretched, corrupt creature ! If he was worth a thought I should pity him. He j has lost Philip's services. Three days more have slipped by. The j nsneet of my heaven on earth is beginningto \ alter. Perhaps the author of that wonder- ; ful French novel, " L'Ame Damnee," is j right when he tells us that human hap- ! piness is misery in masquerade. It would Ve wrong to say that lam miserable. But I may be on the way to it : I am anxious. To-day. when he did not know that I was observing him, I discovered a preoccupied look in Philip's eyes. He laughed when I asked if anything had happened to vex him. Wh< it. a natural laugh ? He put his arm around me and kissed me. Was it done me- ! chanically ? I dare say lam out of humour Eivself. I think I had a little headache, i Morbid, probably. I won't think of it any z.o?e.

It has occurred to me this morning that he may dislike being left by himself, while lam engaged in my household art airs. If j this is the case, intensely as I hate her, j utterly as I loathe the idea of putting her in | command over my domestic dominions, I ! •hall ask Miss Jill gall to take my place as j housekeeper. I was away to-day in the kitchen regions | rather longer than usual. When I had j done with my worries, Philip was not to be | found. Maria, looking out of one of the ! bedroom windows instead of doing her : work, had seen Mr. Dunboyne leave the ! house. It was possible that he had charged j Miss Jillgall with a message for me. I | asked if she was in her room. Xo ; she too i had gone out. It was a fine day, and > Philip had no doubt taken a little stroll— ! but he might have waited till I could join | him. There were some orders to be given ! to the butcher and the greengrocer. 1 too j left the house, hoping to get rid of some ; little discontent, caused by thinking of j what had happened. Returning by way of High-stretl de- j dare I can hardly believe it even now—l • did positively see Miss Jillgall coming out of a pawnbroker's shop. The direction in which she turned prevented her from seeing me. She was quite unaware that I had discovered her ; and I have sard nothing about it since. But I noticed something unusual in the manner in which her watch-chain was hanging, and i 1 asked what o'clock it was. She said, j "You have got your own watch. ' I told ) her my watch had stopped. "So has j mine." she said. There is no doubt about j it now : she has pawned her watch. What j for? She lives here for nothing, and she hiis not had a new dress since I have known her. Why does she want money? Philip had not returned when I got home. Another mysterious journey to London ? No. After'an absence of more than two hours. he came back.

Naturally enough, I asked what he had been about. He had been taking a long v.'alk. For his health's sake? No; to think. To think of what Well, I might be surprised to hear it, tut his idle life was beginning to weigh on his spirits; he Wanted employment. Had he thought of in employment ? Not yet. Which way had he walked ? Anyway ; he had not noticed ivL.-re he went. These replies were all made in a tone that offended me. Besides, I observed there was no dust on his boots (after ® week of dry weather), and his walk of two hours did not appear to have heated or tired him. I took an opportunity of consulting Mrs. Tenbruggen. She had anticipated that I should appeal to her opinion, as a woman of the world. I diall not set down in detail what she said. Some of it humiliated me ; and from some of it I recoiled. The expression of her opinion came to this. In the absence of experience, a certain fervour of temperament was essential to success in the art of fascinating men. Either my temperament '■'as deficient or my intellect overpowered if- It was natural" that I should suppose Myself to be as susceptible to the tender passion as the most excitable woman living. Delusion, my Helena, amiable delusion ! Had I ever observed, or had any friend told me, that my pretty hands were cold hands ? I had beautiful eyes, expressive of vivacity, of intelligence, of every feminine charm, except the one inviting charm that finds favour in the eyes w a man. She then entered into particulars, which 1 don't deny showed a true interest in helping me. I was ungrateful, sulky, 'eit ionated. Dating from that day's talk with Mrs. Tenbruggen, my new friendship began to show signs of having caught a chill.

. But I did my best to follow her instructions—and failed. . It is jwrhaps true that my temperament is overpowered by my intellect. Or it is possibly truer still that the fire in my "tart, when it warms to love, is a lire thut burns low. My belief is that I surprised Philip instead of charming him. He Responded to my advances, but I felt that was not done in earnest, not spontaneous. " ft d I any right to complain? Was lin earnest? Was I spontaneous? We were making love to each other under false pretences. Oh, what a fool I was to ask for Mrs. Tenbruggen's advice ! A humiliating doubt has come to me suddenly. Has his heart been inclining to Eunice again? After such a letter as le has written to him Impossible. Three events since yesterday, which I consider, trifling as they may be, intimations w Something wrong.

. The Proprietors of the New Zealand Herald j-&v? purchased the sole right to publish this story 10 'he •North Island of New Zealand.

First, Miss Jillgall, who at one time was eager to take my place, has refused to relieve me of my housekeeping duties. Secondly, Philip has been absent again, on another long walk. Thirdly, when Philip returned, depressed and sulky, I caught Miss Jillgall looking at him with interest and pity visible in her skinny face. What do these things mean? Not one of them, Philip included, cares for me ; but 1 can frighten them, at any rate. Yesterday evening, 1 dropped on the floor as suddenly as if I had been shot; a fit of some sort. The doctor honestly declared that he was at a loss to account for it. He would have laid me under an eternal obligation if he had failed to bring me back to life again. As it is, I am more clever than the doctor. What brought the fit on is well known to me. Ragefurious, overpoweringdeadly rage—was the cause. I am now in the cold-blooded state which can look back at the event as composedly as if it had happened to some other girl. Suppose that girl had let her sweetheart know how she loved him, as she had never let him know it before. Suppose she opened the door again the instant after she had left the room, eager, poor wretch, to say once more, for the fiftieth time, " My angel, I love you !" Suppose she found her angel standing with his back towards her, so that his face was reflected in the glass. And suppose she discovered in that face, so smiling and so sweet, when his head had rested on her bosom only the moment before, the most hideous expression of disgust that features can betray. What are he consequences which might, bo expected to follow Perhaps she might drop down dead under the outrage tiered to her. Perhaps it might only be a lit. And when she recovered from the tit, what next? Who knows ?

j lamin a fine humour. What I have just ' written has set me laughing at myself. j Helena Gracedieu has one merit at least— i she is a very amusing person. 1 slept last night. This morning, I am strong again, calm, wickedly capable ot deceiving Mr. Philip Dunboyne, as he has deceived me. He has not the faintest suspicion that I have discovered him. 1 wish he had courage enough to kill somebody. How I should enjoy hiring the nearest, window to the scaffold, and seeing him hanged ! Miss Jillgall is in better spirits than ever. She is going to take a little holiday ; and the cunning creature makes a mystery of it ! "Good-bye, Miss Helena. lam going to | stay for a day or two with a friend." What, i friend? Who cares?

Last night, I was wakeful. In the darkness a daring idea came to me. To-day, I have carried out the idea. Something lias followed which is well worth entering into my diary.

1 left the room at the usual hour for attending to my domestic affairs. The obstinate cook did me service ;she was insolent ; she wanted to have her own way. I gave her her own way. In loss than five minutes I was on the watch in the pantry, which has a view of the house door. My hat and my parasol were waiting for me on the table, in case of my going out, too. In a few minutes more, I heard the door opened. Mr. Philip Dunboyne stepped out. lie was going to take another of his long walks.

I followed him to the street in which the cabs stand. He hired the first one on the rank, an open chaise; while I kept myself hidden in a shop door. The moment he started on his drive, I hired a closed cab. "Double your fare," I said to the driver, " whatever it might be, if you follow that chaise cleverly, and do what I tell you." He nodded and winked at me. A wickedlooking old fellow ; just the man I wanted. We followed the chaise.

CHAPTER LVI.

Helena's iuakv resumed.

When we left the town behind us, the coachman began to drive more slowly. In my ignorance, I asked what this change in the pace meant, He pointed with his whip to the open road and to the chaise in the distance.

" If we keep too near the gentleman, miss, he has only got to look back, and he'll see we are following him. The safe thing to do is to let the chaise get on a bit. We can't lose sight of it out here." I had felt inclined to trust in the driver's experience, and he had already justified my confidence in him. This encouraged me to consult his opinion on a matter of some importance to my present interests. I could see the necessity of • o'din- discovery when we had followed $<-•- cuaise to its destination ; but i wa.-< totally at a loss to know how it could be done. My wily old man was ready with his advice the moment I asked for it.

"Wherever the chaise stops, miss, we must drive past it as if we were going somewhere else. I shall notice the place while we go by ; and you will please sit back in the corner of the cab so that the gentleman can't see you." " Well," I said, "and what next?" "Next, miss, I shall pull up, wherever it may be, out of sight of the driver of the chaise. He bears an excellent character, I don't deny it ; but I've known him for years—and we had better not trust him. I shall tell you where the gentleman stopped ; and you will go back to the place (on foot, of course), and see for yourself what's to be done, 'specially if there happens to be a lady in the case. "No offence, miss ; it's in my experience that there's generally a lady in the case. Anyhow, you can judge for yourself, and you'll know where to find me waiting when you want me again." "Suppose something happens," I suggested, " that we don't expect ?" " I shan't lose my head, miss, whatever happens." "Ail very well, coachman: but I have only your word for it." In the irritable state of my mind, the man's confident way of talking annoyed me. " Begging your pardon, my young lady, you've got (if I may say so) what they call a guarantee. When I was a young man, I drove a cab for ten years. Will that do ?"

"I suppose you mean," I answered, "that you have learned deceit in the wicked ways of the great city." He took this as a compliment. Thank you, miss. That's it exactly." After a long drive, or so it seemed to my impatience, we passed the chaise drawn up at a lonely house, separated by a front garden from the road. In two or three minutes more, we stopped where the road took a turn, and descended to lower ground. The farmhouse which we had left behind us was known to the driver. He led the way to a gate at the side of the road, and opened it for me. " In your place, miss, he said sli'iy, " the private way back is the way I should wish to take. Try it by the fields. Turn to the right when you have passed the barn, and you'll find yourself at the back of the house." He stopped and looked at his big silver watch. " Half-past twelve," he said ; "the chawbacons—l mean the farmhouse servants, miss—will be at their dinner. All in your favour, so far. If the dog happens to be loose, don't forget that his name's Grinder ; call him by his name, and pat him before he has time enough to think, and he'll let you be. When you want me, here you'll find me waiting for orders." 1 looked back as I crossed the field. The driver was sitting on the gate, smoking his pipe, and the horse was nibbling the grass at the roadside. Two happy animals, without a burden on their minds !

After passing the barn, I saw nothing of the dog. Far or near, no living creature appeared ; the servants must have been at dinner, as the coachman had foreseen. Arriving at a wooden fence, I opened a gate in it, and found myself on a bit of waste ground. On my left, there was a large duck pond. On my right, I saw the fowlhouse and the pigstys. Before me was a high impenetrable hedge ; and at some distance behind it— orchard or a garden, as I supposed, filling the intermediate spacerose the back of the house. I made for the shelter of the hedge, in the fear that someone might approach a window and see me. Once sheltered from observation, I might consider what I should do next. It was impossible to doubt that this was the house in which Eunice was living. Neither could I fail to conclude that Philip had tried to persuade her to see him, on those former occasions "when he told me he had taken a long walk. As I crouched behind the hedge I heard voices approaching on the other side of it. At last fortune had befriended me. The person speaking at the moment was Miss Jillgall; and the person who answered her was Philip. " J. am afraid, dear Mr. Philip, you don o quite understand my. set Funeece. Hon-

ourable, high-minded, delica.te in her feelings, and, oh, so unselfish ! I don't wan't to alarm you, but when she hears you have been deceiving Helena— "Upon my word, Miss Jillgall, you are too provoking ! I have not been deceiving Helena. Haven't I told you what discouraging answers 1 got, when I went to see the Governor? Haven't I shown you Eunice's reply to my letter? You can't have forgotten it already ?" " Oh, yes, I have. Why should I remember it? Don't I know poor Euneece was in your mind, all the time." " You're wrong again ! Eunice was not in my mind all the time. I was hurt—l was offended by the cruel manner in which she had treated me. And what was the consequence? So far was 1 from deceiving Helena—she rose in my estimation by comparison with her sister.' " Oh, come, come, Mr. Philip ! that won't do. Helena rising in anybody s estimation ? Ha ! ha ! ha !"

" Laugh as much as you like, Miss Jillgall, you won't laugh away the facts. Helena loved me ; Helena was true to me. Don't be hard on a poor fellow who is half distracted. What a man finds he can do in one day, he finds he can't do on another. Try to understand that a change does sometimes come over one's feelings. ' " Bless my soul, Mr. Philip, that's just what I have been understanding all the time. I know your mind as well as you know it yourself. You can't forget my sweet Euneece."

"I tried to forget her, Miss Jillgall. On my word of honour as a leman, I tried to forget her, in justice to Helena. Is it my fault that .1 failed ? Eunice was in my mind, as you said just now. Oh, my friend—for you are my friend, I am sure—persuade her to see me, if it's only for a minute." " Mr. Philip, you are hard and unreasonable. I have tried to persuade her, and I liave made my darling cry. Nothing you can say will induce me to distress her again. Go back to your Helena." " Too late." " Nonsense !"

"I say too late. If I could have married Helena when I first went to stay in the house, I might have faced the sacrifice. As it is, I can't endure her ; and (I tell you this in confidence) she has herself to thank for what has happened." " Is that really true?" " Quite true."

" Tell me what she did."

" Oh, don't talk of her ! Persuade Eunice to see me. I shall come buck again, and again, and again till you bring her to me." " Please don't talk nonsense. If she changes her mind, I will bring her with pleasure. If she still shrinks from it, i regard F.uneece's feelings as sacred. Take my advice; don't press her. Leave her time to think of you, and to pity youand that true heart may be yours again, if you are worthy of it." " Worthy of it ? What do you mean ?" "Are you quite sure, my young friend, that you won't go back to Helena?" "(Jo back to her? I would cut my throat if I thought myself capable of doing it. !" " How did she set you against her ? Did the wretch quarrel with you ?" "It might have been better for both of us if she had done that. Oh, her fulsome endearments ! What a contrast to tho charming modesty of Eunice. If I whs rich, 1 would make it worth the while of the first poor fellow I could find to rid me of Helena by marrying her. I don't like saying such a thing of a woman, but if you will have the truth—" " Well, Mr. Philip—and what is the truth 7" " Helena disgusts me !"

CHAPTER LVII.

So it was all settled between them. Philip is to throw me away, like one of his bad cigars, for this unanswerable reason : " Helena disgusts me." And he is to persuade Eunice to take my place, and be his wife. Yes !if I let him do it.

I heard no more of their talk. With that last, worst, outrage burning in my memory, I left the place. On my way back to the carriage, the dog met me. Truly, a grand creature. I called him by his name, and patted him. He licked my hand. Something made me speak to him. I said, "If I was to tell you to tear Mr. Philip Dunboyne to pieces, would you do it?" The great.good-natured brute held out his paw to shake hands. Well ! well ! I was not an object of disgust to the dog.

But the coachman was startled when he saw me again. He said something, 1 did not know what it was ; and he produced a pocket-flask, containing some spirits, I suppose. Perhaps he thought I was going to faint. He little knew me. I told him to drive back to the place at which I had hired the cab, and earn his money. He earned it.

On getting home, I found Mrs. Tenbruggen walking" up and down the dining-room, deep in thought. She was startled when we first confronted each other. " You look dreadfully ill," she said. I answered that I had been out for a little exercise, and had over-fatigued myself ; and then changed the subject. " Does my father seem to improve under your treatment ?" I asked.

" Very far from it, my dear. I promised that I would try what Massage would do for him, and I find myself compelled to give it up." " Why ?" " It excites him dreadfully." " In what way ?" " He has been talking wildly of events in his past life. His brain is in some condition which is beyond my powers of investigation. Did you ever hear him speak of his wife's brother ?" "No." " Or of a place called Low Lanes She waited for my reply to this last inquiry with an appearance of anxiety that stirprised me. I had never heard him speak of Low Lanes. " Have you any particular interest in the place ?" I asked. " None whatever." She went away to attend 011 a patient. I retired to my bedroom, and opened my diary. Again and again, I read that remarkable story of the intended poisoning, and of the manner in which it had ended. I sat thinking over this romance in real life, till I was interrupted by the announcement of dinner.

Mr. Philip Dunboyne had returned. In Miss Jillgall's absence we were alone at the table. My appetite was gone. I made a pretence of eating, and another pretence of being glad to see my devoted lover. I talked to him in the prettiest manner. As a hypocrite, he thoroughly matched me : he was gallant, he was amusing. If baseness like ours had been punishable by the law, a prison was the right place for both of us.

Mrs. Tenbruggen came in again, after dinner, still not quite easy about my health. "How flushed you are!" she said. "Let me feel your pulse." I laughed, and left her with Mr. Philip Dunboyne. Passing my father's door, I looked in, anxious to see if he was in the excitable state which Mrs. Tenbruggen had described. Yes ; he was still talking. The attendant told me it had gone on for hours together. On my approaching his chair, he called out: "Which are you? Eunice or Helena?" When I had answered him, he beckoned me to come nearer. "I'm getting stronger every minute," he said. "Wo will go travelling to-morrow, and see the place where you were born. Low Lanes. What an ugly village ! What a stupid name ! I dreamt of my brother-in-law, the rector, last night. Do you really think he is dead? Or is it a lie? Suppose we go and see. Don't tell anybody. I believe lam getting young again. Good-bye." Sad ! sad ! how will it end ?

I wonder whether there is such a place as Low Lanes, and whether I was really born there ? If he said to Mrs. Tenbruggen what he has said to me, why did she not mention that he had spoken of Low Lanes as my birthplace? Perhaps she thought it was needless to pay much attention to words spoken in a state of delirium. And no doubt she was right. I went back to my bedroom, and opened my diary, and read the story again. Was the poison of which that resolute young wife proposed to make us something that acted slowly, and told the doctors r othing if they looked for it after death ? Would it be running too great a risk to show the story to the doctor, -,nd try to get a little useful information in that way ? It would be useless. He would make some feeblp oke ; he would say girls and poisons are not fit company for each other. But I might discover what I want to know in another way. I might call on the doctor, after he has gone out on his afternoon round of visits, and might U the ser-

vanfc I would wait for his master's return. Nobody would be in my way ; I might get at the medical literature in theconsulting room, and find the information for myself. A knock at my door interrupted me in the midst of my plans. Mrs. Tenbruggen again !——still in a fidgetty state of feeling on the subject of my health. "Which is it?" she said. "Pain of body, my dear, or pain of mind? lam anxious about you." " My dear Elizabeth, your sympathy is thrown away on me. As I have told you already, I am over-tired—nothing more." She was relieved to hear that I had no mental troubles to complain of " Fatigue," she remarked, " sets itself right with rest. Did you take a very long walk ?" "Yes."

'' Beyond the limits of the town of course ? Philip has been taking a walk in the country, too. He doesn't say that he mot you." Those clever people sometimes overreach themselves. How she suggested it to mc, I cannot pretend to have discovered. But I did certainly suspect that sho had led Philip, while they were together downstairs, into saying to her what ha had already said to Miss Jillgall. I was so angry that I tried to pump my excellent friend as she had been trying to pump me—a vulgar expression, but vulgar writing is such a convenient way of writing sometimes. My first attempt to entrap the Masseuse failed completely. She coolly changed the subject. "Have I interrupted you in writing?" she asked, pointing to my diary. "No; I was idling over what I have written already—an extraordinary story which I copied from a book." " May I look at it ?"

I pushed the open diary across the table. If I was the object of any suspicions which she wanted to confirm, it would be curious to see if the poisoning story helped her. " It's a piece of family history," I said ; " I think you will agree with me that it is really interesting." She began to read. As she went, on, nob all her power of controlling herself could prevent her from turning pale. This change of colour (in such a woman) a little alarmed me. When a {jirl is devoured by deadly hatred of a man, does the feeling show itself to other persons in her face ? I must practice before the glass, and train my face into a trustworthy state of discipline.

" Coarse melodrama !" Mrs. Tenbruggan declared. " Mere sensation. No analysis of character. A made-up story !" " Well made-up, surely ?'' 1 answered. " I don't agree with you." Her voice was not quite so steady as usual. She asked suddenly if my clock was right—and declared that she should bo late for an appointment. On taking leave she pressed my hand strongly—eyed me with distrustful attention —and said very emphatically : "Take care of yourself, Helena; pray take care of yourself." I am afraid I did a very foolish thing when I showed her the poisoning story. Has it helped the wily old creature to look into my inmost thoughts? Impossible. To-day, Miss Jillgall returned, looking hideously healthy and spitefully cheerful. Although she tried to conceal it, while I was present, I could see that Philip has recovered his place in her favour. After what, he had said to her behind the hedge at. the farm, she would be relieved from all fear of my becoming his wife, and would joyfully anticipate his marriage to Eunice. There are thoughts in me which I don't set down in my book. I only say : We shall see. This afternoon, I decided on visiting the doctor.

The servant was quite sorry for me when he answered the door. His master had just left the house for a round of visits. I said I would wait. The servant was afraid [ should find waiting very tedious. I reminded him that I could go away if I found it tedious. At last, the polite old man left me.

I. went into the consulting-room and read the backs of the medical books ranged round the walls, and found a volume that interested me. There was such curious information in it that I amused myself by making extracts, using tho first sheets of paper that I could find. They had printed directions at the top, which showed that the doctor was accustomed to write his prescriptions on them. We had many, too many, of his prescriptions in our house. The servant's doubts of my patience proved to have been well founded. I got tired of waiting, and went home before the doctor returned.

From morning to night, nothing has been seen of Mrs. Tenbruggen to-day. Nor has any apology for her neglect of us been received, fond as she is of writing little notes. Has that story in my diary driven her away? Let me see what to-morrow may bring forth. To-day has brought forthnothing. Mrs. Tenbruggen still keeps away from us. Has the story in my diary anything to do with the mystery of her absence? I am not in good spirits to-day. My nerves—if I have such things, which is more than I know by my own experience— have been a little shaken by a horrid dream. The medical information, which my thirst for knowledge absorbed in the doctor's consulting-room, turned traitor—armed itself with tho grotesque horrors of nightmare—and so thoroughly frightened mc that I was on the point of being foolish enough to destroy my notes. I thought better of it, and my notes are safe under lock and key.

Mr. Philip Dunboyne is trying to pave the way for his (light from this house. He speaks of friends in London, whose interest will help him to find the employment which is the object of his ambition. "In a few days more," he said, " I shall ask for leave of absence.'

Instead of looking at me, his eyes wandered to the window ; his fingers played restlessly with his watch-chain while he spoke. I thought I would give him a chance, a last chance, of making the atonement that he owes to me. This shows shameful weakness, on my part. Does my own resolution startle me ? Or does the wretch appealto what? To my pity? It cannot be my love ; I am positively sure that I hate him. Well, I am not the first girl who has been an unanswerable riddle to herself.

"Is there any other motive for your departure ?" I asked. " What other motive can there be?" he replied. 1 put what I had to say to him in plainer words still. " Tell me, Philip, are you beginning to wish that you were a free man again ?" He still prevaricated. Was this because he is afraid of me, or because he is not quite brute enough to insult me to my face ? I tried again for the third and last time. I almost put the words into his mouth. " I fancy you have been out of temper lately," I said. " You have not been your own kinder and better self. Is this the right interpretation of the change that I think I see in you ? He answered: "I have not been very well lately." " And that is all ?' " Ye»—that is all." There was no more to bo said ; I turned away to leave the room. He followed me to the door. After a momentary hesitation, he made the attempt to kiss me. I only looked at him ; he drew back from me in silence. I left the new Judas, standing alone, while the shades of evening began to gather over the room. [To be continued.]