Tales and Sketches.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 995, 27 March 1891, Page 8

Tales and Sketches.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.]

By Mutual Consent

——— —♦- BY F. MARSDEN SUTCLIFFE. Author o£ ‘The Bella of St. Birnabaa,’ ‘ The Romance of an Insurance Office,’ * Bevealed by Fire,’ &c., &o. [All Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER XIX. * Have I not bad to wrestle with ray lot ? Have I njt suffered things to be forgiven ?’ The shadowing of Sir Reginald Denison was a perfect piece of work. Mr Yan de Weyer was an artist in his way. From the time that the duty of keeping the baronet under observation was intrusted to him his zeal was ■unremitting. So strictly was the watch kept that there was not a moment of Sir Reginald’s time that the detective could not give a good account of. In this task he was ably assisted by his wife, an astute and talented woman, who bore an important part in bringing the enterprise to a successful conclusion. She it was, who, when Sir Reginald left Charing Cross by the Paris mail, travelled by the same train, and clung to him like a burr until her husband took her post upon his arrival in Paris ; and it was to her careful manoeuvring in dogging his footsteps that Winifred’s retreat was discovered, which enabled Lady Falconridge to steal a march on Sir Reginald. Winifred started up with a look of confusion and astonishment when Lady Falconridge, after explaining her errand to Madame Favert, entered the apartment unannounced that served Winifred as sitting-room, bedroom, and studio. But the next moment the two women were locked in each otuer’s arms. For a brief while no word was spoken between them. Their hearts were full of emotion engendered by their meeting. At last the silence was broken by Lady Falconridge. ‘ Wliy did you not come to me at Glen-Orloeh ? she asked, caressing the pale and weary-looking face that lay nestling on her bosom. ‘ You would have kept the roses in your cheeks if you had come to me ? Did you think I should turn to be your accuser or your censor V It was the only word of reproach that Lady Falconridge uttered, and it was answered by a sob.”

‘ Could you give an old woman a cup of tea, dear ?’ she asked, without waiting for a reply. The abrupt request came to Winifred,, in the excited state of her feelings occasioned by Lady Falconridge’s visit, as an anti-climax to her overwrought emotions. But it pi'oduced the effect intended, since it served to take her out of herself, and throw a matter-of-fact air over their meeting. Lady Falconridge smiled at the success of her device, as Winifred laughingly apologised for neglecting hex- duties as a hostess, and busied herself making the necessary, preparations, replying simply and naturally to Lady Falconridge’s efforts at conversation.’ ‘And now come and sit near me,’ she said, after they had sat some time together. ‘ Tell me everything. Why did you eave your husband, dear ? ‘ Oh, Lady Falconridge, what have I done to deserve your goodness? Winifred cried as she placed herself at her feet, and found her hand clasped with a warm, re-assuring pressure. ‘ Do you remember asking me at Glen-Orloch to speak to you of my life during the three years after my father’s death ? How I wished to confide in you then ! But I could not. I was under a promise to to him not to speak of it, and I felt that I had no right to break it, though the burden was then too heavy for me. But now that he has broken the compact I may speak, may I not V And so Winifred began her story. She told of the circumstances under which she first met her husband in the galleries of the Louvre, of her father’s feeble health and his death, after confiding his only child to the guardiansliip of his old comrade-in-arms, and the manner in which her husband gained her confidence by his watchful care over her until he finally persuaded her into a hasty marriage, and of her life afterwards. When she approched the subject of Sir Reginald’s mode of life and how he* eyes were gradually opened to his character, her head sank, as though to hide the burning blush with which she

recalled her terrible experiences, and Lady Falconridge, who felt the little hand trembling in her own, threw her arm around her and gathered her nearer to herself. But when Winifred came to the story of her baby’s birth and his death, the fast dropping tears spoke foilier pathetically until the tears tosb to Lady Falconridge’s eyes, and both women wept together.

‘ When the little one was taken from me,’ she continued through her tears, ‘ X felt it was impossible to go back to the old life, the very meaning of which I was a long time before I came to understand. It was horrible to me ! How horrible words are too poor to describe; for though I was not an active participator I was compelled to countenance evil, and it was unendurable. I had to dress to please the eyes of his guests, as he called them, and to smile and look on as though I were happy, while my heart was slowly breaking. If I had gone back it must have killed me, and killed my soul too, as well as my body. 1 was stifled in the atmosphere we lived in. Do you understand me ? I felt that goodness could not live with us ; that it was useless trying to be good; and that, unless I submitted to be dragged deeper and deeper I must escape from it before it was too late. The baby’s death gave me courage to do that. I felt that I could do anything and brave anything for his sake; and it seemed as if he beckoned me away from it. I told him—you know who I mean ?—that I would not con tinue to live with him. He was very angry, but he consented that we should pait, after exacting a pledge that I should not bear his name, and that if ever we met we should meet as strangers. There is nothing more to tell. I never heard of him again, or saw him until he came with Lady Polehampton to see my picture—the picture that Lord Polehampton had bought. He returned a few hours after and threatened to compel me to return to him.’

* Is that why you ran away V asked Lady Falconridge. ‘ That was one reason,’ said Winifred, turning away her face lest Lady Falconridge should observe the crimson flush that dyed her cheeks. * There was another reason, was there not V said Lady Falconridge. ‘ Tell me all. Remember that if I am Claude’s mother I am your friend.’ The tenderness of Lady Falconridge’s manner broke down the last reserve, and Winifred told her that she had fie I from the danger of an intimacy that had grown perilously sweet to her. * You are a noble girl,’ cried Lady Falconridge, bending forward and kissing the fair brow that lay in her lap. ‘ And now, how soon can you be ready to leave for Glen-Orloch?’ Winifred started up in surprise. ‘ Oh, I could not go to Glen-Orloch,’ she cried. ‘ Think of it. I must not. It would be too ■’ ‘ I have thought of it,’ said Lady Falconridge, gravely. * Under ordinary circumstances I should feel it my duty to urge a runaway wife to return to her husband, but the circumstances are not ordinary. Somebody says—l think it is the “Sweet Swan of Avon”—that “ strong reasons make strong actions.” It was certainly a strong step when you divided yourself from your husband’s life, but you had “ strong reasons ” to justify the step you took, and unless you wish to recall it you must consider your future interests.’ ‘ But I could not go to Glen-Orloch, grateful though I am, dear Lady Falconridge, for your boundless goodness to a friendless girl.’ ‘ There, you have said it. It is because you are a friendless girl, if you refuse my petition to come and make an old woman’s life bright with your company, that you must not refuse the only friend that you have. You have literally nobody.’ ‘There is Madame Favert. She is very good to me,’ said Winifred, in a low musing tone. * Madame Favert is no doubt an excellent woman, but she cannot protect you,’ persisted Lady Falconridge. But I don’t require any protection. ‘I am quite safe here,’replied Winifred, with a soft, silvery laugh. ‘ Don’t you V asked Lady Falconridge, grimly. ‘ You are evidently not aware that Sir Reginald Denison is in Paris searching for you.' ‘ Sir Reginald here !’ cried Winifred, leaping to her feet in astonishment, and tui-ning to Lady Falconridge with a wild light of alarm in her eyes. ‘ Yes ; he is in Paris,’ repeated Lady Falconridge. ‘ He overtook you in the gardens of the Luxembourg this afternoon, and followed you within twenty

paces of your door. You look surprised. Confess that you were astonished to see me here. You have not asked how I came. It is very simple. A watch has been placed on Sir Reginald’s movements, and as soon as I knew lie had started for Paris I followed. Followed him, you understand, and when I knew that he had found you I came in time to protect you.’ Winifred stood motionless, her bosom wildly heaving with agitation and feai-, as she slowly took in the situation. ‘ You will come, will you not ?’ said Lady Falconridge. * You will not see Claude; so that need not trouble you. He leaves to-night for London. Be advised by me and accept Glen Orloch and safety, until we can see our way clear before us. The future will clear itsself—l do not know how—but after Sir Reginald’s pursuit has alaekened something can be done to. make him understand that your decision is irrevocable and that he must leave you in peace. When terms are arranged you can remain at Glen-Orloch or not, as you please. Thex-e is a home for you thei-e whilst I live, and an old woman to keep you company, who loves you dearly.’ What could Winifred do but embrace the generous offer of Lady Faiconridge’s hospitality. On one hand she saw before her a lonely life, cheered only by the hard work of her profession that was almost brought to a standstill, and subject to continual alax-ms from Sir Reginald’s pursuit. The alternative was peace and shelter at Glen-Orloch, and congenial surroundings favourable to the prosecution of her career as an artist, while she basked in a love that pi-ofoundly touched her by its sympathy with her ixx her forlorn situation aixd its magnanimous sacrifice. ‘I am not worthy,’ Winifred ciied, ‘ but I will indeed ti-y to be worthy of such love as yours.’ That night Winifred slept under the same x-oof as Lady Falconx-idge, and left Paris with her next nxox-ning early, accompanied by a courier and a lady’s maid. The courier was Mr Van de Weyer, and the lady’s maid was his wife.

Three days later Winifred arrived at Glen-Oxioch, where under the cai-e of Lady Falconx-idge the vanished roses soon bloomed in her face.

CHAPTER XX. ' la it your moral of life ? Such, a web, simple and subtle, Weave we on eanh here in impotent strife, Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle, Death ending all with a knife ?’ Thex-e was a dangex-ous light in the eyes of Sir Reginold Denison as he sat with the Coxxntess of Polehampton on their return to the Hotel Bristol after their bootless errand to Madame Fa vert’s. It was like the cruel light in the eyes of the famished wolf suddenly baulked of his prey. His keen disappointment over Winifred’s disappeai’ance seemed to have changed the whole mien of the man. Amourousness was now turned to fierce and pitiless hate, and he was seized with a desire to wreak vengeance on the woman who had twice escaped from him by timely flight, and to humble her to the dust for dax-ing to dispute his will. The malignity of his expi-ession was not noticed by the Countess, who sat with her back turned towards him, vacantly gazing into the stx-eet, her mind preoccupied with her brother’s conjugal difficulties and the fate of his young wife, until a fierce imprecation from behind smote on her ear and startled her out of her reverie. * Violence will ixot mend matters,’ she said, coldly. ‘Your disappointment is natural, but you cannot say that it is undeserved.’ ‘ Don’t preach, Selina,’ he retorted impatiently. ‘ I am not in the mood to be lectured.’ ‘ Ai-e you in a mood to hear reason ?’ asked the Countess, calmly. ‘Or shall we postpone the discussion until your excitement has worn off !’ ‘I will hear anything if you will help me to find Winifx-ed/ Sir Reginald i-eplied. ‘ Play the man, Reginald, and leave Winifred in peace/ cried Lady Polehampton. shrugging her fine shoulders contemptuously. ‘ You ax-e not a child, though you are acting like one. After the unmistakeable indication that Winifred has again given ns of her detei-mination not to return to you it is madness to pex-sist in seeking for her.’ ‘Very well then, I am mad. I will move heaven and earth to find her, and when I do, by heaven, I will— ’ ‘ Listen to me for a moment,’ said the Countess, raising her hand deprecatingly. 1 You have invited my help, and I have a right to be heard. So long

as there was a hope left that by mediation I could be of xxse in bx-inging you together again I was willing to do all that I coxxld to bring about that result. But it is impossible to labour longer xxnder any delusion on that point. Why should you wish for her return? What chance of happiness is thex-e for either of you if you could have your wish gratified ? You cannot foi-ce nature. You can neither compel your wife to love you nor compel youi'self to be satisfied with anything short of that. Be reasonable, I implore you, for your own sake no less than hei-s. You cannot alter the facts. Winifx-ed either fears you or dislikes you ; pei-haps both. In any case it is too late to think of altering that. I see nothing before you but to accept the position you have made for yourself. Do you owe her no i'e-pai-ation ?’ ‘I was px-epax-ed to do all that was possible to atone for the past,’ exclaimed Sir Reginald. ‘ I told her so when we met in her studio, and if she had given you an opportunity of making her acquaintance, and you had succeeded in bringing about a reconciliation, I should have stuck to that. There is nothing that she could have asked for that I would have refused hex-.’ ‘ There are some wrongs that we can never atone for,’ said Lady Polehampton, softly. ‘ It is the bitterest element in x-epentance that it seldom availeth anything. She appears to have lost all faith in you. You can never build that up again. Besides, what is it that you would not have l-efused her? You would have given her every material advantage within your power ; evei-y----thing, in short, that could administer to a woman’s vanity. That is what yoxx do mean, is it not ? You do not understand a woman's nature. Some women would be satisfied with that, but there are other women who would be wretched if you loaded them with wealth and all that wealth can procure as long as their hearts were left unsatisfied. I judge Winifred to be a woman of the latter type. Can you honestly say that you have anything in yourself that will satisfy the hunger of lier heart ?’ * You talk of hearts like a country milk-maid, as if you believed in that sort of rubbish,’ cried Sir Reginald, in another outburst of impatience. ‘I am.only placing the facts befoi*e you which you will do well to consider before deciding to pi-osecute this matter further-/'said the Countess. ‘ You were speaking of your willingness to make atonement for the past, and I say such an atonement as you meditate would fail to satisfy Winifred. You cannot give her back her lost faith in you. You cannot win again her l-espect. What chance is thei-e of your happiness V ‘ We must do without happiness, then,’ answered Sir Reginald. ‘ J mean to continue the hunt till I find her, and when she is found I will break her spirit.’ Lady Polehampton finding herself foiled in her endeavour to appeal to her brother’s x-eason took another tack. * Are you prepared to face the scandal that such a px-oceeding could not fail to provoke ?’ she asked. ‘ I will face anything rather than submit to be thwarted by a stubboi-n woman,’ answered Sir Reginald, hotly. ‘ Then, if you do not dread exposxxre, put the matter in the hands of your lawyers. Leave them to find out where your wife is, and let them proceed to institute a suit for the restitution of conjugal rights.’ Sir Reginald’s face was a study when the Countess made this proposal. The angry glitter died out of his eyes, and he wore an air of sage reflection that provoked a smile fi’om his sister. ‘ You have hit the nail on the head,’ he said, after a pause. ‘ Of coui’se I have,’ said the Countess with an amused smile. ‘ Your wife will appear by lxor counsel to show cause why your prayer should not be gr-anted, and throw herself on the protection of the coui’t V ‘Well, what then?’ asked Sir Reginald. ‘ I fancy she will get it/ returned Lady Polehampton, coolly. ‘Don’t you perceive, Reginald, that my advice is ii*onically meant? Youi- wife is a foolish woman to fly from you. She should place herself in the hands of a good lawyer and leave him to defend her against you. She can claim the protection of the law, and once she tells the stox-y in open court which you have told me, you will not be able to touch lier, and when her stoi-y is known there is not a man of honour who will touch you.’ Sir Reginald found this morsel difficult of digestion. Again the baleful

light of baffled longing and fierce hate shone in his eyes as he sat ruminating on the situation. His sister watched him with a curious interest for some time without speaking, unwilling to disturb his reflections. But his silence' continued so long. * Come, now, there is one hope for you, and if you will be l'easonable it may be realised/ she said in a persuasive tone.

‘ What is that V asked Sir Reginald gloomily.

* Fall back on your old plan. Put the task of seax-ehing for Winifred into capable hands. When her address is discovei-ed I will act as mediatox-. If I fail you must call up your courage to bear your disappointment manfully. Your present feelings of rancour do you no credit and must be laid aside. Think what men would say if they knew that you were bent on pei-secuting a woman because she was your wife. You have wronged her too much already to turn her pei-secutor now.’ The battle lasted, long, but at length reason prevailed over unreasoning madness, and Lady Polehampton quitted the field a victor, and carried Sir Reginald back with her to England. Sir Reginald’s mind, however, continued in a state of iri-itation against Winifx-ed, which the failure of his spies to discover her new hiding place did nothing to alleviate. He returned to his old gambling haunts, indulging in his propensities more freely than before. His favourite amusement was baccai-at, which he played nightly in a disreputable proprietary club, whenever he was not similai-ly engaged elsewhere. His old luck returned to him, fooling him to the top of his bent.; for though he was often the loser of considerable sums he generally contrived to rise the winner. One night, when play was at its height, the gamblers were struck dumb with amazed teri-or as one of the waiters burst into the salon with the news that the place was in the hands of the police. There was a wild rush for the door in the panic that ensued upon this announcement, only to find, however, that all chance of escape that way was cut off. The police entered the room in a considerable body, and told the members to consider themselves under arrest. At this instant, however-, the gas was turned off at the main, and the room was plunged into darkness. The police had no opportunity of using their lanterns in the scene of wild disoi'der that followed, as they found themselves engaged in a furious hand-to-hand contest. The fight was kept up for some minutes with great perseverance on both sides. The police, who had long had the club under observation and had cax-efully laid their plans, were resolved that not one of their prey should escape them, whilst many of the guests, who were the owners of histronic names, were equally resolved upon escaping the ‘ fierce light ’of publicity. In the hand-to-hand struggle that was kept up with gi-eat spirit mox-e than one man went down. One there was who was dashed violently against the marble mantel-piece, and then lay still. The police sixcceeded at length in bearing down all opposition. When the lights wei-e foi'tlicoiuing the atmosphere was filled with dust occasioned by the rn&ee, and the gambler’s and their captors confronted each other breathless and panting. Some ugly blows had been exchanged, but no serious physical injury appeared to have been l-eceived. Suddenly, however, the attention of the officer in charge was attracted by the figure of a man lying prone and motionless on the floo* near the mantel-piece. He had not stirx-ed since he fell, and lay there senseless and pallid, while the blood flowed from a deep wound in the temple. ‘ One of yon go for a surgeon, and look alive/ cried the officer peremptorily, addressing his order to one of the constables as he stooped down to observe the wounded man more closely ; whilst one of his men, who held the certificate of the St. John’s Ambulance Association, proceeded to render what aid he could. ‘ Who is this gentleman ?’ demanded the officer-, with a swift glance on his handcuffed prisoners. ‘ Sir Reginald Denison, ’was the reply, given by a dozen voices of men who crowded round the prostrate figure.’ ‘ Stand back and give him air/ cried the officer. ‘ The man is dying.’ At this moment the surgeon entered the room, and, after a brief examination of the wound, ordered Sir Reginald to be removed to the nearest [hospital,

* Is it very serious V asked the policeinspector, anxiously. ‘Fatal,’ was the laconic reply. ‘He may linger a day or two —I cannot tell —hut the poor fellow has got his billet. * Late that evening Claude Maclean was sitting in his studio, pondering over the events of the past few weeks, and dreaming of Winifred’s sweet face as he smoked his pipe, when his ear caught the sound of the rustling of a woman’s dress. He turned round quickly, and his eyes fell on the pale, agitated face of the Countess of Poleham p ton. The astonishment with which he beheld her was increased as Lady Polehampton threw aside her wrap and stood before him with her gleaming white shoulders, and the diamonds on her neck flashing their myriad fires as her bosom rose and fell convulsively with the agitation that possessed her. Claude hastened to offer her a chair, only wondering what mystery lay behind this unexpected visit, but the Countess refused with a gesture. ‘ Where is Lady Denison ? Can you tell me where she is to be found ?’ she asked, struggling to control her emotions. A dark look of anger swept over Claude’s face as he replied, ‘ Why do you ask me that question, Lady Poleham pton 1 If I knew, do you think it is probable that I would reveal Lady Denison’s secret to her husband’s sister V ‘ Wes, I think yon would if you knew all. I have just came from him. They tell me is fatally injured. It is impossible that he can recover. He lias asked for Winifred. He is a dying man, I repeat. Death ends all feuds. His wife ought to come to him.’ * Dying, do you say V exclaimed Claude Maclean, deeply shocked at the news Lady Polehampton had brought. Bitterly though he disliked Sir Reginald Denison as the obstacle that stood between him and the realisation of his dream of bliss, and burning though his hatred was for the wrongs he had inflicted on Winifred, Claude Maclean’s nature was intensely sympathetic, and he heard the account of Sir Reginald’s accident which Lady Polehampton rapidly poured into his ears with genuine sorrow. ‘This alters everything, of course,’ he said. ‘ Certainly you are right. Lady Denison must go to her husband at once. lam sure it would be her wish.’

‘ Where is she V asked the Countess, anxiously. ‘ She is staying with my mother at Glen-Orloch,’ answered Claude. •So far away V said the Countess, sadly. ‘ I fear she may not reach him in time.’

‘We must hope for the best,’ answered Claude encouragingly. ‘ T will go at once and telegraph.’ The tears stood in Lady Polehampton’s eyes and spoke the gratitude to which her voice could not give utterance. Oh, this love of women for the basest and most worthless of men. Strange mystery of the female heart. How men requite it! Three days later Sir Reginald Denison breathed his last, his pillow watched over to the end by two women who became bound to each other by subtle links of affection unconsciously forged as they kept vigil by the couch of the dying man.

Sir Reginald died without speaking. From the moment when in a returning gleam of consciousness he asked that Winifred might be sent for he lay motionless, recking nothing of what was passing around him. Whether in that one passing moment of consciousness he realised that his end was near, and yearned ere the passing of his spirit to make what poor atonement was possible to the wife who had suffered so deeply at his hands, must remain one of those unsolved problems out of which the faithful loving hearts of women contrive to extract comfort, and hope for the dead, whose lives have been one long war against goodness. It would be untrue to say that "Winifred mourned for her husband with the sorrow of a widowed heart. Her husband’s death was a release to her from a galling chain that had long been intolerable. Nevertheless, she was profoundly grieved for his fate. If Sir Reginald had died after an illness in which opportunity was given him to review his life in the light of the dread realities to which he was hastening, and at which he habitually scoffed. If a small space had been left him for repentance Winifred would have felt death less keenly. But to know that he was cut off in the pride of his manhood, and in the midst of his §ins

‘ TJnhousel’d, disappointed, uncnel’d No reckoning made,’ but gone to his account with all his imperfections on his head, seemed to her a fate so awful that she could only sit like one dazed, and think of it with sorrow. Later- on, when she had time to readjust her mental focus and to see her position more clearly her buoyancy of feeling returned, and the past, with all its pain, grew dim as she found a solace in her work. CHAPTER XXL * How say yon ? Let ns, O, my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above ! How is it under our control To love or not to love ? The old trick ! Only I discern — Infinite passion, and the paia Of finite hearts that yearn.’ ‘ It is a beautiful night, not a trace of mist to be seen. Will you come for a stroll in the terrace whilst I smoke my cigar V asked Claude, addressing Winifred, one evening six months later. Lady Falconridge looked at her son, and smiled significantly, whilst Winifred laid aside her fancy work, and signified her assent with a glad light in her beautiful shining eyes. ‘ See that she is warmly wrapped up, Claude,’ said Lady Falconridge, for Winifred was wearing a dress of black velvet, trimmed with costly lace, and cut low to the bust, leaving ber beautiful neck and arms bare. The peace and quiet of the last few months at Glen-Orloch had told greatly upon her health and appearance, adding new charms to her superb loveliness. Claude Maclean lieldj up for his mother’s inspection a thick Scotch plaid. Lady Falconridge having nodded her approval, Claude folded the plaid around Winifred’s glistening shoulders, and thus armed against the chilly evening air they sallied forth to the terrace. It was a bright moonlight night in October. The moonbeams with their silver radiance lighted up the scene of mountain and valley with wondrous beauty, kissing the bosom of the distant sea, where rose Kerrara and Morven like shadowy masses, whilst down the glen, where autumn still lingered in playful dalliance, the dying glories of the leaves stood revealed wherever the moonlight touched the trees. Claude (who had delayed coming to GlenOrloch whilst the memory of Sir Reginald Denison’s tragic end still remained fresh in Winifred’s mind) had only arrived at the Castle the day before, and this was the first time they had been together alone. But what a hollow pretence was this plea of smoking a cigar ! Claude, with his hands plunged deep in his trousers’ pockets, was occupied more to his mind in gazing upon the beautiful face that was raised to the star-studded sky, and which appeared more lovely in the soft pure silvery light that fell upon it. ‘ Where is your cigar V said Winifred, noticing for the first time the omission. ‘ I thought you were going to smoke.’ ‘So I will presently,’ said Claude, with peculiar emphasis. ‘lf you don’t object to having me without my cigar I will defer that satisfaction a few moments longer.’ ‘How do you think Lady Falconridge is looking V said Winifred, who feared lest the conversation should drift into a channel which she wished to shun. ‘ She was very disappointed when you aid not come in the summer. I was quite anxious about her health for some days. She seemed to feel it so much.’ ‘ We will not talk of Lady Falconridge just how, if you don’t mind,’ said Claude, with a low laugh. < No—what shall we talk of then !’ asked Winifred, innocently. ‘ Of you.’ ‘ Of me ! Please don’t,’ cried Winifred, in a low, distressed tone. ‘ But I must,’ persisted Claude, playfully. And then assuming a graver tone he went on, ‘ I have held silence for six long months, Winifred, and, if I thought it was your pleasure I would keep silence six months longer, but I think after all that has happened my silence might be misunderstood. You might think I had changed, or something else equally dreadful for me to imagine had happened, so that I must speak to you, and you must hear.’ And as he spoke Claude took one fair hand in his and held it, whilst his arm was placed round Winifred with an air of proprietorship that he knew so well how to assume. ‘ Oh, please don’t,’ she murmured gently. * Bor your own sake I ask it.

Put this thought from your mind, and do not speak of it again, for your own sake, Claude.’ But Claude was in one of lus masterful moods and not to be gainsaid. There were times when he could bear- down resistance and assert himself in a way which brooked no opposition to his will, and yet withal a knightly grace and playful courtesy that sat well upon him, and which women especially found irresistible. Such a mood was upon him now. He was tender, passionate, but there was none of the nervousness of the lover about him ; rather a sense of power which he knew he possessed and meant to exert to the utmost. ‘ For my sake,’ he replied. ‘Be it so if you will, be it so if you will, but I cannot have you setting up yourself as an infallible authority to decide what is for my good and what isn t. I will discuss this question m all its healings, if you compel me to do that, but we do not stir from this terrace until I have heard all your arguments and answered them.’ ‘ You cannot answer them,’ said Winifred, with a nervous pressure of her fingers on his arm as she walked by his side. ‘ VTe will see about that. If I have spoken too soon I will forbear. If you prefer that I should wait a few moments longer I shall do so. ‘ No, it is not that,’ cried Winifred, suddenly looking up. ‘ Believe me, it is not that. If there were not invincible reasons why what you ask for can never be, and you asked me to marry you next week I would say ‘ Yes. ‘ Yery well, I will make a note of that, and come back to it presently,’ said Claude, whilst Winifred’s face was covered with a maidenly blush as she saw, when it was too late, how deeply she had committed herself. ‘ I know all your secrets,’ Claude continued, playfully, * and it makes no difference, How should it V ‘ You cannot know all,’ returned Winifred. ‘ That is impossible. If you did you would cease to think of me even with respect.’ ‘Winifred, how can you say such strange, bitter things to me l Little do you know my heart. In this matter I must be the judge for myself. It concerns the happiness and all the hopes of a lifetime more deeply than you think. I love you too passionately —too hopelessly, dearest —to admit of any trifling with our happiness. J f something of your secret .remains untold which you think can kill love, put me to the proof. It is the only kindness that you can do to me.’ Winifred contended in vain against the force of Claude's passionate pleading, which swept everything before it, like one of the mountain torrents of his native land. With a beating heart she told him of herself, of her meeting with Reginald Denison, of her married life down to the day that she separated from her husband at York, which ended in her setting forth to meet her life alone.

‘You see,’ she. said in concluding her narrative, ‘lt is not only that I have been the wife of such a one as Reginald Denison that raises an insuperable bar between us, but that he coerced me into countenancing him in his devices, and made me the decoy to a gambling hell. Nor is that the worst, I am afraid that there is not a man who visited as at Portland Place ex cept Lord Algy Fitzherbert, who knew that I was really his wife. They must have thought of me as something lower still.’ And Winifred hung her blushing face with the recollection of the shame, remembering into whose ears she poured her confession. But from the moment she began her story Claude drew her more closely to him, and when her tale was told he gathered her tenderly to his breast. _ ° ‘ One thing more, Winifred,’ he cried. ‘ Tell me that you do not love me. Ah, you hang your head at that. You dare not so perjure yourself. Speak ! Answer me !’

‘ Oh, Claude, if I did not love you too well to permit you to unite yourself with one so tarnished, how should I have found courage to tell you my story ? You know I love you. I told you that dreadful day at Kensington that I loved you with all my heart and soul. For pity’s sake let me go now.’

‘lt would be treason to your conscience if I made light of all that you have passed through,’ exclaimed Claude, ‘ but long brooding upon it has distorted your view. The world will soon know that you were not what you were suspected of being, but the lawful wedded wife of Sir Reginald Denison, for when our marriage takes place the fact will be stated in the usual way in the marriage announcements. As for

the rest, there are women who follow their husbands willingly through deeper mire than you went through reluctantly and with a breaking heart, women who are without the courage and without the pure longings of your beautiful nature to strike a blow for their freedom from contamination. You have come through cleansing fires which have left you nobler, sweeter, purer, than you would have been if you had not passed through such an ordeal. Look up, my beautiful one, my love, my queen, and tell me that I do not sue in vain.’ Winifred looked up into his handsome face and met his eyes, burning like twin lamps, fixed on her with a glance of unutterable yearning and love. She owned herself conquered as she crept for shelter closer to his heart, and as he bent to kiss her sensitive Ups she returned his kiss. ‘lt is my heart, not my judgment consents, Claude,’ she softly murmured. ‘ So long as you do consent it is immaterial whether you listen to your heart or to your judgment,’ said Claude, craily. ‘ Your consent is the principal thing. Tell me you love me, and that you will give your whole self to me, my beautiful one,’ he cried, passionately. ‘ I promise you that if a woman’s love can make you forget the sacrifice you sire making my love shall do it. ‘ It is to be next week, of course,’ said Claude, playfully. ‘Remember what you said.’ ‘Don’t remind me of my hasty speech,’ said Winifred, with a laugh, and blushing with confusion. ‘ No; but really, Winifred, why should we delay our happiness V _ Winifred raised her eyes to his face with a questioning glance. * I am yours, Claude,’ she said, softly. ‘Let us go in to Lady Falconridge. It shall be as you and she decide.’ Lady Falconridge’s face was aglow with satisfaction as the betrothed lovers entered the room. One glance at Winifred was enough to assure her that her son was to be made happy, even if Claude’s proud bearing as he led Winifred to his mother to receive her blessing had not told the same story. For Winifred’s beauty was now transfigured by love loye that she no longer

required to suppress—and by hope : tonics ot priceless worth. ‘Glen-Orloch never held so fair a flower,’ said Lady Falconridge, as she kissed the blushing face. The marriage took place with the dawning of the New Year. Lord and Lady Polehampton were the only guests at the wedding. Between the Countess and the Honourable Mrs Maclean a strong affection exists which ripens with the passage of years. It is seldom that Claude Maclean is seen with his beautiful young wife in society. The world knew little of them save through their pictures, by which their fame in the world steadily grows, and Winifred is spoken of as the Scotch Rosa Bonheur. Claude has forsaken landscape finally since his wife has taught him to excel iu this branch of the art, which they pursue together at Glen-Orloch. No trace of wounded vanity is visible in the eager face that examines his wife’s work with a critical eye. He has returned to portrait painting and the ‘ counterfeit presentiment ’ of men famous in the Victorian era for their services to the State, and of women renowned for their beauty will be known to the generations following as the result of his genius. But he has painted no picture of female loveliness that surpasses his ‘ Helen of Troy.’ [The End.]