TALES & SKETCHES.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 691, 29 May 1885, Page 6

TALES & SKETCHES.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] WYLLARD’S WEIRD.

A NOVEL

BY t M. E. BRADDON, Author of “ Lady Audley’s Secret, ’ “ Phantom Fortune,” &c.

CHAPTER XXXV. ( Concluded.J “HOW LIKE A WINTER HATH THY ABSENCE BEEN.” Perhaps, among all Valeria’s friends and admirers, Sir George Mildmay was the only man who had any inkling of the truth, who was keen enough to discover the real cause of that moral decay which in its results was obvious to everyone. He had enjoyed more of Lady Valeria’s confidence than anybody else, and he had watched her closely, both before and after her husband’s death. She had tried to keep him at a distance when they first met at Monaco, she had let him see that her resentment was as strong as ever—but at a race-meeting in the neighborhood he had contrived to make his peace with her. The gambler's common instinct drew them together. She was alone in a strange land, or rather she knew no one else whose counsel upon turf questions was worth sixpence, and she humiliated herself, and forgot that burning wrong of the past, tried to forget that for her sake her dead husband had beaten this man—and she allowed Sir George to call upon her one February afternoon, and tell her all about the Craven and the First Spring across the dainty Moorish tea-tray, with its little brazen tea-pot and eggshell cups and saucers. After that they -had become staunch allies, if not staunch friends. Valeria had now the command of ample funds, and could bet as much as she liked. When she took Sir George’s advice the was generally a winner. She invariably lost when she followed her own inspirations. He initiated her in the mysteries of the tables at Monte Carlo, expounded the whole theory of martingales, and showed her how she might beguile the tedium of her day with the occult science of chance, as exemplified by pricking figures on a card. They were a great deal together as the season wore on, and, as a natural consequence, they were talked about a great deal by that section of society whose chief conversation is of the follies and sins of its own particular set. Sir George felt that he was getting on, but in his heart of hearts he knew perfectly well that Valeria did not care a straw for him, and that she was never likely to care for him. He knew that she had passionately loved Bothwell Grahame, and that despair at his abandonment was the mainspring of all her conduct. She was reckless of herself and of her good name—spent her money like water —ruined her health—indulged every caprice of the moment—gave way to every fit of ill-temper—simply because, having lost Bothwell Grahame, she had nothing in life worth living for, except such things as could give her feverish excitement, and with that excitement forgetfulness. Knowing all this, knowing that the woman’s heart was like an empty sepulchre,

Georpe Mildmay was not the less determined to win her for his wife.

•We suit each other so well,’ ha said modestly, when his friends congratulated him, considerably in advance, after their manner. ‘ No, we are not engaged. I only wish we were. But I daresay, if lam good, it may run to that by and by. She is a very fine woman, and has a remarkable head for the turf, remarkable, by Jove. She s always wrong—but the mind is there, don t you know, a very remarkable mind. And she s a very fair judge of a horse, too, or would be if she would only look at his leg 3, which she never does.’

4 And she has olenty of lucre, eh, George, I think that's the main point in your case, isn’t it ?’

* Very sorry for myself, but can’t do without the filthy lucre. Couldn't afford to elope with Mrs. Menelaus, fif she was a pauper/ answered Sir George, with cheery frankness.’

4 Some idiot told me that her husband knocked you down at the last party they ever gave at Plymouth/ said his friend, with a half grin ; ‘ that was a lie, of course.’

‘No, there is some truth—we had a little passage of fisticuffs, and that’s why I mean to marry his widow/ answered Sir George savagely. * I meant to have the law on him ; but as he bilked the beak by dying before the "summons was out, I mean to have his money by way of damages. It will be a pleasanter remedy.’ * And the lady thrown in by way of tilly/ grinned his friend, The time came when Sir George thought he might venture to advance his claim, in a purely business like manner. Lady Valeria and he had made a splendid hook for the Derby, and the lady had won something over five thousand pounds, graphically described by her coadjutor as a pot of money. The money was of very little consequence to her nowadays, for she had not yet succeeded to live beyond her income ; but she was as eager to win as she had been in the old time at Simla, when losing meant difficulty, and might mean ruin. She loved the sensation of success, the knowledge that her horse had struggled to the front and kept there at the crucial moment.

Emboldened by this brilliant coup Sir George reminded Valeria of his patience and devotion, and asked her to accept him as her second husband.

‘ I don t expect you to marry me just yet,’ he said. ‘ It’s only six months since the General died—and I know women are sticklers for etiquette in these matters—though they are leaving off widow’s caps, and a good deal of humbug. But I should like to have your word for the future, t don't want another fellow to cut in and win the cup, after I’ve made all the running.’ Lady Valeria looked at him in a leisurely way, with that contemptuous smile of hers, a smile that had crushed so many a bold admirer.

‘ I thought we understood each other too well for this kind of thing to happen/ she said, with perfect good temper and placidity. 4 We have been getting on remarkably well together—and I have even taught myself to forget your impertinence that night at Fox Hill. As to the marriage, you may be almost sure of one thing, and quite sure of another—first that I shall never marry at all, secondly that I shall never marry you/ Sir George bowed, and said not another word. . The partnership on the turf and at baccarat was too profitable to be imperilled. But he meant the alliance to become closer and more binding, before he and Lady Valeria had done with each other.

And now in this lovely July weather, when the river and the woods were at their fairest, Sir George Mildmay felt himself several furlongs nearer the winning post than he had been at Monaco. Lady Valeria had become a more sensitive creaturq of late. The strings of the lyre were played upon easily. In other words, Valeria had taken to chloral. Sir George was on excellent terms with her maid, and had received information of a character which he himself called “the straight tip” from the astute damsel. Lady Valeria had her good days and her bad days ; and on the bad days she was sunk in an abyss of despair, frem which not even some great success in her racing speculations could rouse her. It was while the lady was suffering from one of these fits of despondency that Sir George Mildmay made his second proposal of marriage. But this time he did not sue her as a slave, nor did he adopt the calm and debonnaire tone of a business man advocating an advantageous alliance. He approached her with a brutal energy, a coarse plainness of speech, which shocked the shattered nerves and frightened her into submission. He told her the scandals that were rife about her—told her how, if she did not rehabilitate her character by becoming his wife, she would find herself cut by society as his mistress—laughed at her half indignant, half hysterial protest—told her that the world was much too wicked to believe in any innocent alliance between a beautiful woman and a man whose past life had not been stainless, talked to her as no man had ever dared to talked to her before, talked till she sat trembling before him, vanquished, subjugated by the strangeness of sheer brutality, she who a year ago had been sheltered and defended from slander and insult by the protecting love of a noble heart.

She sat cowering before him. Was the world so vile as to suspect her—and of caring for this man, whom she loathed ? She covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.

* There is not a man upon earth who would step out of his way to protect me from their vile slanders ; not one of my own kin who would stand up for me/ she sobbed. ‘How could you expect it?’ asked Sir George, ‘ when you have kept all your people at arm’s length. You may lay long odds not one of that lot will take your part. I would give some of your traducers a sound horsewhipping to-raorrow ; but my interference would do more harm than good unless you mean to marry me.’ 4 Horsewhip them and I will marry you/ cried Valeria, rising and rushing from the room, wild with rage. Sir George took an early opportunity of leading on a harmless youth to say some-

thing uncivil of Lady Valeria, and thereupon chastised him in his flannels before a select audience. The scapegoat writhed under the strong gut riding-whip, could not understand why he was so castigated, vowed vengeance, and sent a friend to Sir George that evening, proposing an early meeting on the sands outside Ostend, at which message Sir George openly laughed. 4 When hoys are rude they must be punished/ he said, 4 but I don’t shoot boys. Tell your young friend I am sorry I lost my temper; and that if he will write a nice little letter- apologising to my future wife for his rashness of speech, I shall consider we are quits.’ It was known next day along both banks of the river that Lady Valeria was to marry Sir George Mildmay immediately on the expiry of her mourning. The Daily Telegraph possessed itself of the fact before the Morning Post; and it was recorded in all the society papers of the following week. Bothwell Grahame read of it a week later in the United Service Gazette, read and was thankful; for now this restless spirit which had wrought him so much evil would be exercised and bound for ever in the thrall of matrimony.

4 1 am sorry she is to marry a scoundrel/ he said to himself, 4 otherwise my feeling would be unalloyed gladness.’ And now Bothwell dared hope that the wandering bird Hilda might be lured home to her nest—that now the doubting heart might have faith once more.

If he could but write to her, tell her of Valeria’s engagement, ask her if he had not proved himself faithful, whether she could not- trust him henceforward with perfect trustfulness. She had trusted him when his fellow-men pointed at him as a suspected murderer ; she had fled from him because an audacious woman claimed him for her lover. Strange inconsistency of woman's heart, so strong and yet so weak ! Heathcote was in Italy, and Heathcote was the only channel of communication between Bothwell and his lost love. He saddled Glencoe and rode over to the Spaniards, where he hoped to hear of the master’s speedy return, but the Fraulein was quite in the dark as to her employer’s movements. He wrote very seldom, he left everything in her hands. She had received a little note from Florence nearly a fortnight ago. He had written not one word as to the probable time of his return.

Bothwell talked about Hilda, and insidiously questioned the Fraulein, who might perchance know the girl’s whereabouts. But Miss Meyerstein was quite as dark upon the subject as Grecian society in general was about the adventures of Ariadne. All Miss Meyerstein could tell Bothwell was that Hilda had Glossop with her, which preference of Glossop the mild Fraulein evidently regarded as something in the way of a slight to herself.

4 If Glossop can be trusted to know where Hilda is, I think I might have been trusted/ she said.

4 1 wonder a frivolous person like Glossop has not told the secret to half the inhabitants of Bodmin before now/ said Bothwell. He wrote to Hilda that night, enclosing his letter to Mr Heathcote at Florence. It seemed a wearily round-about way of reaching Hilda, but it was his only way, and it was just possible that she might he with her brother, and receive his letter sooner than he thought. He wrote a few lines to Heathcote with the enclosure, telling him about the announcement of Lady Valeria’s engagement. 4 1 suppose when they two are married our banns may be put up in Bodmin Church,’ he wrote; ‘unless Hilda has any other objection to me.’ He counted the days, the hours almost, while he waited for a reply to his letter. He followed the letter in its journey, now over sea, and then over land, halted with it at Calais, went southward with it, pierced the Alps, skirted the Mediterranean, and then it was all darkness. Who could tell where the letter might have to go after it reached Florence ?

‘ She may be hiding herself somewhere in England, and that wretched letter may have to travel all the way back again/ he told himself ruefully. He waited, and waited, and waited ; bearing himself with a brave front before his pupils all the while ; teaching them, batanising with them, boating, riding, shooting with them, and never once losing temper with them on account of his own trouble. But he was suffering an agony of impatience and suspense all the same ; and one of the more thoughtful of his lads saw that he was paler than usual, and looked worn and haggard, and asked him if he were not ill.

4 You mustn’t work with us if you are ill, Mr Grahame/ he said, 4 we’ll get on with our work by ourselves for a bit.’ 4 No, my dear boy, I’m not ill. I have not been sleeping very well lately, that’s all.— 4 ''Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.” ’

4 Yes, we can’t get oh without that beggar/ answered the boy. 4 1 know what it is to be awake all night with the toothache. I’ve often wondered that'the nights should be so jolly short when one's asleep, and so jolly long when one's awake.’ One morning at breakfast one of the lads, the son of a brother-officer of Bothwell’s, looked up from the Evening Standard with an exclamation of surprise. 4 Here’s the widow of one of your friends gone and got married, Mr Grahame/ he said. “At Galbraith Church, N. 8., Sir George Mildmay, Bart., of the Hop-poles, Maidstone, to Lady Valeria Harborough, of Galbraith Castle, Perthshire, and Fox Hill, Plymouth/ You saved the old general’s life up at the hills, didn’t you ?’ asked the boy. 4 I’ve heard my father talk about it.’ ‘lt wasn’t worth talking about, Hector/ answered Bothwell. 4 The General was a good friend to me, and I honour his memory.’ 4 More than Lady Valeria does, or she wouldn’t marry such a cad as Mildmay ; I’ve heard my father say he is a cad.’ 4 It is safer not to repeat opinions of that kind/ said Bothwell. He tried to play the schoolmaster while his heart beat furiously for very joy. She was married, that viper who had so wellnigh spoiled his life; she was married to a man who would make her life miserable, and he, Bothwel', was his own man again, Hilda could have no further justification for distrust. He had held himself aloof from the syren, he had demonstrated by his conduct that he had no hankering ter her or her

fortune. And now that she was safely disposed of in second wedlock, Hilda could have no excuse for delaying his happiness. All things had gone well with him except this one thin/. He had built and furnished his house, and laid out his garden. People were full of praise for his taste and cleverness. He had been lucky with his p spils and he liked liis work. He was able to savemoney; and before the year was out he had; laid aside the first hundred pounds towards . the extinction of his debt to bis cousin. Bat; Dora did not want the debt extinguished, and; had written him an indignant letter when he offered to piy the money into her banking - account.

4 How dare you pinch and scrape in order to pay me off/ she wrote. 4 How do I know that you are not half-starving those poor lads, in your desire to get out of my debt. It • is your paltry pride which revolts at an obligation even to your adopted sister.’ To atone for the harshness of her letter she sent him a fine old Florentine cabinet of ebony and ivory, a gem which glorified his drawing-room, already enriched by her gifts * for she had sent him bronzes from one plaoe, pottery from another, and glass from a; third. s he had made up her mind that when the time came for Bothwell to lead his. young wife home, the home should be worthvof the wife. J

And now there was an end of all uncertainties about that first unhaopy love of Bothwell’s ; and nothing but caprice need keen - him and Hilda apart any longer. P A fortnight had gone since he’had written to Hilda, and there had been no sign. It was the fifth day after the announcement of Lady Valeria’s marriage in the London, papers, and Bothwell started once more upon that long ride by moorland and lane, across country from Trevenna toßodmin, and thence to the Spaniards. He expected the smallest comfort at the end of his journey, only alittle talk with the Fraulein, who might ' have had a recent letter from Mr Heathcote,. and might be able to tell him something* were it ever so little. She was always, friendly and compassionate; and she wasalways ready to talk to him about Hilda, andthat very much. On one occasion she had gone so far as to take him into Hilda’s private sitting-room, and let him gloat over the rows of prettily-bound books—Tennyson, and Browning, and Dickens, and Thackeray— and the little tables, and manifold knick-nacke, the mantlepiece border which those dearhands had worked. There stood his ownphotograph, curtained with plush, as if it were too sacred for the common eye. He; had given her a smaller copy of the same photograph, and he hoped that she had taken that with her, that she looked at it 1 sometimes, among strange faces. Miss Meyerstein expatiated on Hilda’s abrupt departure, and the little luggage which she had taken with her. ‘Only her dressing bag and a small portmanteau/said the Fraulein. ‘She left all : her pretty frocks hanging in the wardrobe ;; all her laces and ribbons and gloves and collars in her drawers. She must have had to buy everything new. And there is her wedding-gown, just as it came from the; dressmaker’s the day after she left home.’

And then, at Bothwell’s urgent, reiterated entreaty, Miss Meyerstein went into the adjoining room, and came back, after a rattling of keys, bringing with her a white object, which looked like the sheeted dead being carried away from a plague-stricken, house.

It was only Hilda’s wedding-gown, wrapped in voluminous coveting of white linen.

Miss Meyerstein flung off the coverings, and shook out the white satin gown, satin of so rich a fabric that it took all manner of" pearly and opal hues in the autumn light—a neat little frock, with a round skirt, and just one big puff at the back of the waist, like a carelessly-tied sash. 4 Short for dancing/ said Miss Meyerstein,, as she held out the frock at arm’s length,, dangling in the air. 4 But she didn’t expect to dance upon her wedding day,’ ejaculated Bothwell stupidly. 4 No, but afterwards. She would go to • dances, and she would be expected to appear as a bride.’

4 Of course,’ muttered Bothwell, wondering how many dances, save the dances of pixies in a moonlit glen, might be expected to occur within an easy drive of Trevenna. He knelt and kissed the hem of the white satin frock, and then turned away with a sign that was almost a sob. 4 Not a grain of dust has got to it,’ said Miss Meyerstein. 4 lt will be ready when it is wanted.’

4 Yes/ answered Bothwell. 4 The gojvnwill be ready when it is wanted ; but who can tell who the bridegroom will be ?’ 4 He will be nobody if he is not you/ said;. Miss Meyerstein. 4 That poor child positively adores you.’ 4 How do you know ? It is nearly a year - since you saw her.’ 4 Such love as that does not wear itself out in a year.’ To-day Bothwell felt that he wanted even such poor comfort as might be had fromfeminine twaddle of this kind. He felt that even a romp with the twins would do faimgood. They were of her race, and she had loved them, and they could prattle to himabout her. CHAPTER XXXVI. * My Lady, and My Love.’ It was a rainy aftarnoon late in September,a dreary day for that long ride over the hills. Sea and sky were of one universal gray, and even the land looked sere and dun, a sunless world. It would be dark before Bothwell could get back to Trevenna, and the ride was not the pleasantest after nightfall ; but a man who had ridden through Afghan passes in his time was not to be scared by dark hills and narrow lanes. Bothwell was in a mood to rido somewhere, were it only in the hope of riding away from his own impatient thoughts. He had delayed starting till after luncheon, having waited to giv«•< his boys the full benefit of a long morning’s work. It was between five and six when he - came to the great iron gates of the Spaniards, and the sun was setting behind the hills yonder above Penmorval, poor deserted Penmorval, where the pictured faces looked out upon empty rooms, and where the house--keeper sighed as she went from room to room, attending to- fires that warmed desolate hearths.

The Spaniards looked a little more cheer•ful than when Bothwell had seen it last, for 'there were lights in many of the lower windows, and those lamp-lit casements glowed ■brightly athwart the rainy dusk. He would be able to get a good cup oE tea from the Friiulein, and to put up his horse for an hour off two before he turned again. An empty carriage passed him in the drive, and turned towards au opening in the -shrubbery that led to the stable-yard. There were visitors at the'Spaniards, visitors upon that wet evening. Bothwell wondered who the guest, or guests, could be, in the absence of the master. Or was it the master himself who had come back ? His heart beat faster at the thought. He dismounted and rang the bell. The door was opened directly. There was,a couple of servants in the hall and some luggage. Yes, the master of the house had returned. < Take my horse to the stables, like a good ifellow,’ said Bothwell to the man who had ■opened the door. ‘ Your master has come orae, I see.’ ‘Yes, sir, ten minutes ago.’ Bothwell -waited to ask no further ques-

tions, did not waitto&be announced even, but walked straight to the library, Heathcote’s usual sitting-room, opened the door and went in. , . , There was no lamp. The room wasdighted only by the fire-glow which gleamed on bookshelves and old oak panelling, and on the massive timbers of the ceiling. There was a tea-table in front of the wide old fireplace—one of those vagabond tea-tables which can make themselves at home anywhere—and the tea was being poured out by a girl who wore a neat little black velvet toque and dark cloth jacket, a girl who looked as if she had just come off a journey, while Heathcote reposed in his armchair on the other side of the hearth. No one but Hilda could have been so much at her ease in that room, which was in somewise a sacred chamber, especially devoted to the master of the house. No one but Hilda bad such pretty hair, or such a graceful bend of the head. The girl in the velvet toque was sitting with her back to Bothwell; but be had not a moment’s doubt as to her identity. He went over to the hearth, gave his hand to Heathcote silently, and then seated himself by Hilda’s side, she looking up at him dumbly, half in fear. 1 What have you to say to me, Hilda, after having used me so ill ?’ he asked, taking feer hand in his. 1 Only that it was for your own sake I went away on the eve of our marriage,’ she answered gravely. ‘ I did not want to stand between you and happiness.’ ‘ Would it not have been wiser, and fairer to me, if you had taken my opinion upon the matter before you ran away.’ ‘ You would have been too generous to tell me the truth ; you would have sacrificed yourself to your sense of honour. How could I tell you did not love Lady Valeria better than me.’ ‘lf you had read ‘ Tom Jones’ you would have had a very easy way of solving that ■question. You would have had only to look in the glass, and there would have seen, a 3 Sophia Western saw, the reason for a lover’s ■devotion. You would have seen purity and Innocence, and fresh young beauty, and you would have known that your lover could not falter in his truth to you.’ ‘I don’t think Tom’s conduct was altogether blameless, in spite of the lookingglass, eh, Bothwell?’ said Heathcote, laughing at him. *ltis so hard to have to make love before a third person. You have to thank me for bringing home your sweetheart. I read the advertisement of Lady Valeria’s marriage at Genoa two days ago, as I was on sny way home —so I stopped in Paris and s .brought this young lady away from her musical studies at an hour’s notice. I suppose she was getting tired of the Conservatoire, for she seemed uncommonly glad to come.’ « And you were in Paris ?’ cried Bothwell. *.So near. If I had only known.’ * There would have been nothing gained by following her,’ said Heathcote. ‘ I never met with a more resolute young woman than thi3 sister of mine. When she was determined to have you there was not the least U3e in opposing her, and when she had made up her mind not to have you she was just as inflexible. But now that Lady Valeria has taken to herself a second husband, and that you seem to bear the blow pretty cheerfully, perhaps Hilda may be inclined to change her mind for the second time.’ ‘Her wedding gown is hanging in her wardrobe ready for her, said Bothwell, ■drawing a little closer to his truant sweetheart, in the sheltering dusk, that delicious hour for true and loving hearts, blind man’s holiday, betwixt dog and wolf. ‘ How did you know that ?’ asked Heath-

• The Friiulein told me. She had been taking care of your wedding gown, Hilda. ■She knew that it would be wanted. You ■had better wear it as soon as possible, dear--est. It is a year old already, and is going more and more out of fashion every day.’ ‘ She shall wear it before we are a month <#lder,’ said Heathcote. ‘ I have had too juiiuch trouble about this, marriage already, and I’ll stand no more shilly shallying. We’ll put up the banns next Sunday, and in Je33 than a month from ( to-day you two foolish people shall be one.’ ' Edward Heathcote kept his word, and the smart white satin frock was worn one bright morning in October, worn by the prettiest bride that had been seen in Bodmin Church for many a year, the townspeople said—those townspeople who had now only praises and friendlies t'greetings for that Bothwell Grahame who a year ago had seemed to them as a possible murderer. __ n - - A telegram had informed Mrs of ■the wedding-day, so soon as ever the date had been fixed ; but she had not responded as Hilda and her brother, had hopea she would respond to the invitation to be present at the wedding. She could not bear to see the Cornish hills, yet awhile, she told Hilda in her letter of congratulation. Years must pass in all probability before she could endure to look upon that familiar landscape again, or to see that roof-tree which had sheltered her when she was Julian Wyllard’s

■happy wife. ‘ I am rejoiced to know that you and Bothwell have come to a safe haven, at last,’ she wrote. ‘ I shall always be interested in hearing of your welfare, cheered and com-

forted by the thought of your bright home. I cannot blame you for having made Bothwell wait for his happiness, Hilda, for I feel that you have acted wisely in making sure of his free choice. There can now be no afterthought, no lurking suspicion to come between you and your wedded love. ‘ For my own part I am at peace here, and that is mneh. I read a great deal, paint a little every day, and my picture is a kind of companion to me, a thing that seems to live as it grows under my hand. My models interest me, and through them I have become acquainted with several human households in Florence, and find a great deal to interest me in this warm-hearted, hotheaded race. Best of all lam away from all scenes, old associations ; and sometimes, sitting dreaming in my sunny, balcony, with the blue waters of the Arno gliding by under my feet, I almost fancy that I am some new creature and not that Dora Wyllard who was once mistress of Penmorval. ‘I wish you and Bothwell would take your honeymoon holiday in the South, and spend a week or two here with me. There is plenty of accommodation for you in the grand old apartments of mine—a first floor, of a dozen rooms, all large and lofty, part of a medijeval palace. My old servants keep everything in exquisite order, and are devoted in their attention to me. «It was a pleasure to me to see your brother when he was staying in Florence, Teil him that I left Vallombrosa only a week ago, and was very sorry to come away even then.’ Hilda and her husband accepted this friendly invitation, and spent half their honeymoon on the road to Florence, and the other in that picturesque city. They found Dora the pale shadow of her former self. She had a gentle air of resignation, a pensive placidity which was inexpressibly touching. She never mentioned her dead husband. She was full of thoughtfulness for others, and had made herself the adored benefactress of a little colony of poor Florentines. She had furnished her rooms and established herself in a manner which indicated the intention to make a permanent home in the city ; and here Bothwell aud his wife left her with deep regret. ‘ Will you never come back to Cornwall, Dora?’ Hilda asked piteously, in the last moments at the railway station. ‘ Never is along word, dearest. I suppose I shall see the old places again some day ; but I must be a good deal older than I am now — a good deal further away from my own self.’ Dora spoke without reckoning upon that Providence which shapes our ends in spite of us ; and happily for the cause of true love Providence found a way of bringing her back to Cornwall sooner than she had intended. A little more than a year after Bothwell and his wife left Florence the happy home at Trevenna was darkened by the shadow of an awful fear. A son had been born to Bothwell Grahame, and before the. boy was a week old the young mother was in imminent danger of death. Edward Heathcote was in Italy, spending his autumn holiday, going over much of the same ground that he had visited before, and longer and later than the previous year. A telegram from Bothwell told him of his sister’s peril, and another telegram reached Mrs. Wyllard from the same source. Moved by the same impulse Dora and Heathcote met at the station, each on the same errand, bent on starting by the first train for Paris. They travelled together in silent and sad companionship, each oppressed by the fear of a great calamity. Heathcote had telegraphed before he started, asking for a message to meet him at the Paris station, and here the wires brought a ray of comfort. * A little better. Doctors more hopeful.’ Anxious days and nights followed Dora’s arrival at Trevenna. Poor Bothwell suffered a suppressed agony of grief which seemed to have aged him by ten years by the time the crisis was past, and the young mother was able to smile upon her firstborn. Happily these markings of care are soon erased from youthful faces ; and before Christmas Bothwell was himself again, and ready to receive anew batch of pupils, the old lot having been disposed of triumphantly in the summer before his son’s birth.

Dora stayed in Cornwall during that winter of ’B3 and ’B4, but not at Penmorval. She has established herself at her birthplace, the old Manor House, near the Land’s End ; and here old friends knew her mother, the friends of her childish days, of her happy childhood. They bring back sweet memories of the old time, and help to wean any from gloomy thoughts. One of her old companions, a spinster of thirty summers, is almost always with Mrs. Wyllard in the familiar house. They seem almost like the girl-friends of the past, painting together, playing, singing, working all the old occupations resumed as if the ten years intervening had hardly made any break in the two lives, * Sometimes 1 fancy it is all a dream, and that you have never been away from Tregony Manor,’ says Miss Beauchamp one morning, when they are sitting at work. ‘lf we had out your dear good mother sitting over there in her old chair by the fire-place, I should quite believe the last ten years to be only a dream —but she is gone and that makes a sad difference. Do you know yesterday when I looked out of the window and saw you aud Mr Heathcote walking ou the terrace, I rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was awake. You both looked exactly as you used to look ten years ago, when you were engaged.’ . Dora went on with her work m placid silence. * Dora, he is so good, so loyal, so devoted to you,’ cried Miss Beauchamp, in her impulsive way. ‘ You cannot be so cruel as to spoil his life for ever. Snrely you will reward him some day.’ ‘ Some day,’ sang Dora : softly, with her face bent over her work ; and her story ends thus, with the refrain of a favourite song. \ The End.